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ES: That’s interesting. I also studied music:
four years of theory, two years of piano. Then
I stopped, and forgot everything. I could read
notes, but not play them. Now, curiously, it
has all come back. This is not to say that I can
play again, but when you grow as an archi-
tect you start seeing connections and, as you
were saying before, they’re not metaphors, but
rhythms, spaces, tempos… Which brings me
back to Arvo Pärt. He was quiet, very quiet,
but his silences expressed so much.
FN: When we did his building – in the
middle of this Estonian forest, a wonderful
environment of huge pine trees – we wanted
to be very careful with nature, which forced
us to act with precision. I remember being
there with Arvo and others from the team,
drawing the building on the ground, and
as we worked, everyone would look at him,
searching for his approval. Then he came
to us and said, well, maybe we are too near
that house, I would prefer not to see it. We
said, okay, don’t worry, we’ll start anew. We
moved the building – maybe just five meters
– and he came back, I remember well, say-
ing: “Listen, now I understand that we are
exactly the same. I never finish my music. I
keep wanting to make it more exact. I think
it’s the same with your architecture, you’re
never finished.
ES: What a privilege! Nowadays there
aren’t many opportunities to visit a building
with the client and change things on the fly.
DL: Indeed a privilege. It’s fascinating how
in that part of the world, there is such sensi-
tivity toward nature and architecture. I lived
in Helsinki for some time and things are very
similar there. In a way, it’s very close to the
Japanese sensibility – silent, not too many
words said. But there’s a certain spirituality
in things that we tend to take for granted.
ES: I agree. How different from the Medi-
terranean way of seeing things.
FN: There’s something else we have in
common. In 1983, we were studying at Co-
lumbia and one day found ourselves at Coo-
per Union for a lecture by someone called
Daniel Libeskind, with John Hejduk. This
year we were invited to speak there and we
were reminded of you. And, talking about
memories, I remember the impression I had
of the auditorium that first time, including
how white it was. Returning there brought
me the same feelings.
DL: True. People think memories come
from the past, but they come from another
place, one not necessarily part of the past.
ES: Last year we published a monograph
titled Memory and Invention, and shortly
afterwards I came across a line by John Ban-
ville in his book Ancient Light. It goes: “I do
not know whether I am telling memories or
inventions, if indeed there is any difference
at all.” That’s exactly what happens. When
you remember something, it’s not just what
you experienced, but also what you have been
told and what you have read about it… so at
some point, memories become inventions.
DL: It’s complex, like the brain itself. And
there is also memory that’s involuntary, or
undesired, which just comes to you, against
your will. I think that real experiences are
not based on observation. In science, maybe.
But I don’t believe anything new comes from
observation. It’s there, but not yet molded.
The future doesn’t come from the past either,
or it wouldn’t be a future. The future has
to come from somewhere we know nothing
about. That’s why it’s the future.
ES: Which is why architecture has such
“Architects make
foundations, dig up
the earth, and this is a
truly violent act”
