Otaniemi Chapel

This article is part of the Hidden Architecture Series “Tentative d’Épuisement” , where we explore the practice of an architectural criticism without rhetoric and based mainly on the physical experience of the work itself. Este artículo forma parte de la serie “Tentativa de Agotamiento” , comisariada por Hidden Architecture, donde exploramos la práctica de una crítica arquitectónica ausente de retórica y fundamentada sobre todo en la experiencia física de la propia obra. I should have learned to recognise each of these trees, but I never paid enough attention to those classes. Pines, cedars, pines, cedars, pines… a spruce? At their feet, the earth is damp, almost waterlogged at one point. The grass does not grow in the areas that are always in the shade, revealing a bare earth, dark as coal. The day is hot, humid. It is still early, but the clothes stick to the sweat on our backs as we climb a path that crowns a wrecked hill in the middle of the urban fabric of the university campus. The air is a little cool, when it blows, and so reminds us that, despite this August sun, the waters of the Baltic oscillate, calm today, very close to here. The branches fan the bunches of thorns, producing a low hooting sound. No birds can be seen around the canopies, but the vigorous singing of a few individuals betrays their games of leaping and chasing. If I closed my eyes, I could smell your fresh presence, take refuge in your shadow and chase the musical din of your inhabitants; then doze off, rocked by your swaying in the air. I don't know your name but, tell me, does that detail quench my desire to lose myself in you? Debería haber aprendido a reconocer cada uno de estos árboles, pero nunca presté la atención suficiente a aquellas clases. Pinos, cedros, pinos, cedros, pinos… ¿un abeto? A sus pies, la tierra está húmeda, casi encharcada en algún punto.