Modernism In-Between

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Acknowledgments<br />

This book would not have been possible without the support from the ERSTE<br />

Foundation and the Austrian Federal Ministry for Education, Arts, and Culture.<br />

To them we owe thanks for their generosity and patience.<br />

This book also would not have been possible without its subject: the many<br />

architects who practiced throughout former Yugoslavia. Over the years, many of<br />

them shared their knowledge and memories with us; sadly, some of them are not<br />

with us any more. Our gratitude and admiration go to: Ivan Crnković, Georgi<br />

Konstantinovski, Dragomir Manojlović, Boris Magaš, Milenija and Darko Marušić,<br />

Mihajlo Mitrović, Vladimir Braco Mušič, Aleksandar Stjepanović, Ivan Štraus, and<br />

Zlatko Ugljen. Let this book keep the memory of the late Bogdan Bogdanović and<br />

Boris Čipan, as well as all other talented architects whom we did not know in<br />

person, but who made the region so interesting to study.<br />

A great number of people helped us with this book. Kai Vöckler brought the three of<br />

us together for the first time for the exhibition Balkanology; he was also Wolfgang’s<br />

travel companion on one of his first photographic expeditions through the region.<br />

Producing the photos would not have been possible without those who opened the<br />

many doors of the buildings to be photographed. Particularly helpful were Divna<br />

Penčić in Skopje, Visar Geci in Prishtina, and the Ćosić family in Ljubljana.<br />

While working on this book, we also collaborated with more than thirty colleagues<br />

from all over the region on a research project titled Unfinished Modernisations—<strong>Between</strong><br />

Utopia and Pragmatism: Architecture and Urban Planning in<br />

Former Yugoslavia and Successor States. The project slowed us down in finishing<br />

this book, but in return we gained so much more, as we all learned a great deal<br />

from each other. Some of the acquired knowledge informs this book. A big thank<br />

you to our UM crowd! Special thanks to Antun Sevšek, Matevž Čelik, Alenka di<br />

Battista, Jelena Grbić, Martina Malešič, Divna Penčić, Dubravka Sekulić, Elša<br />

Turkušić, and Nina Ugljen for helping us with the archival material. And last but<br />

not least, Jelica Jovanović has always been a most reliable collaborator and we<br />

owe her thanks for her tireless help.<br />

Various individuals and institutions also kindly shared their archives with us.<br />

There are too many to name individually, but to all of them we owe gratitude.<br />

Special thanks to the colleagues who read the various parts of the text and<br />

shared their insights and comments with us: Tanja Damljanović Conley, David<br />

Raizman, and Danilo Udovički, as well as Katharine Wheeler and other South<br />

Floridians from the History/Theory Faculty Workshop at the University of Miami.<br />

Ákos Moravánszky and Dietmar Steiner provided help and intellectual support.<br />

Finally, Christopher Long toiled through the early versions of most of the chapters<br />

and nevertheless remained kind and supportive, for which we are especially<br />

grateful.<br />

Michael Jung generously put up with our constant demands and changes while<br />

designing this book. Philipp Sperrle at Jovis Verlag has been a patient and efficient<br />

editor.<br />

Vladimir thanks Professor Deirdre Hardy, Director of the School of Architecture,<br />

and Dr Rosalyn Carter, Dean of the College for Design and Social <strong>In</strong>quiry at<br />

Florida Atlantic University, for allowing him to reshuffle his teaching schedule in<br />

the Spring and Summer of 2012 to make room for writing. Maroje thanks everyone<br />

at the Faculty of Architecture in Zagreb for academic collaboration and support.<br />

Special thanks to Professor Andrej Uchytil for stimulating discussions and access<br />

to the archives of the Atlas of Croatian Architecture, as well as to the editorial<br />

board and staff of Oris magazine for their kind assistance in image research.<br />

During the hectic final days of work on the book, Maroje and his life partner<br />

Maja welcomed their twins, Ivan and Eva; Maja, thank you for your patience and<br />

giving.<br />

Everyone mentioned, and those we forgot to mention: we owe you gratitude.<br />

Some credit for this book is yours; the errors are our own.<br />

Vladimir Kulić, Maroje Mrduljaš, and Wolfgang Thaler<br />

Fort Lauderdale, Zagreb, Vienna, July 2012.

Content<br />

Preface – Reassembling Yugoslav Architecture 4<br />

<strong>In</strong>troduction 16<br />

A History of <strong>Between</strong>ness 20<br />

<strong>Between</strong> Worlds 30<br />

<strong>Between</strong> Identities 74<br />

<strong>Between</strong> Continuity and Tabula Rasa 118<br />

<strong>Between</strong> <strong>In</strong>dividual and Collective 164<br />

<strong>Between</strong> Past and Future 214<br />

Selected Bibliography 266<br />

<strong>In</strong>dex 269<br />

Image Credits 272<br />

Imprint 272

4<br />

Preface – Reassembling<br />

Yugoslav architecture<br />

Did Yugoslavia ever exist? Jorge Luis Borges suggests in his stories that reality is<br />

shaped by percepts and ideas, not the other way around. The Despotate of Epirus, the<br />

Principality of the Morea, the Kingdom of Montenegro, Tlön and Uqbar—which of them<br />

existed at some point of history, which of them is fiction, a conspiracy of intellectuals<br />

to create a consistent world? We certainly think that the German Democratic Republic,<br />

Czechoslovakia, and Yugoslavia were not only real but are still very close to us—however,<br />

since we know that objects that we observe in the rear-view mirror are closer than<br />

they appear, the apparent closeness is probably a result of the correctional reflex of our<br />

historical consciousness. Yugoslavia is certainly the most miraculous of the “defunct<br />

countries” of the recent past: although it started to disintegrate more than twenty years<br />

ago, its past appears more modern than the present of many of its successor states, not<br />

only in an aesthetic but also in a more general, intellectual sense. Or is it a mere Fata<br />

Morgana of our senses, based on a selective perception? This book by Vladimir Kulić,<br />

Maroje Mrduljaš, and Wolfgang Thaler gives an answer that is supported by a careful<br />

analysis of a vast material, and not by an elegiac meditation on tempi passati.<br />

<strong>In</strong> my rear-view mirror, Yugoslavia certainly appears very close. As an architectural<br />

student of the Budapest Technical University during the early nineteen-seventies, research<br />

in architectural history proved to be a good escape from the tired functionalist doctrine in<br />

the design classes. I found myself embarking on a research project on medieval monastic<br />

architecture on the Balkans. It was my dream to visit Mount Athos, Hosios Loukas and<br />

the other famous orthodox monasteries, but Greece as a Western country was off-limits for<br />

Hungarian tourists—unlike Yugoslavia. So I decided to go there, heading to Ohrid in the<br />

south after a short visit at the Archaeological <strong>In</strong>stitute in Belgrade, visiting as many of the<br />

medieval churches and monasteries on my way as I could. What interested me was how<br />

church typologies reflected the changing political ties of the local rulers, mixing Byzantine,<br />

Romanesque, and Gothic forms. At that time, no KFOR was necessary to protect the<br />

sites; it was possible to spend the night in a small tent right at the marble façade of the<br />

monastery of Visoki Dečani, surrounded by high mountain peaks. As a hitch-hiker I met<br />

not only lorry drivers, but also backpackers from the United States and Western Europe,<br />

and we were all thrilled by the kaleidoscopic change of landscapes and languages, by<br />

the rich tapestry of cultures and tastes that Otto Bihalji-Merin—an important protagonist<br />

of regionalism avant la lettre—described in his popular books.<br />

I kept returning to Yugoslavia every summer, extending my itinerary continuously<br />

toward the West, and these journeys were accompanied by all sorts of music: starogradske<br />

pesme, gusle rhapsodies, and the strange harmonies and uneven rhythms heard on<br />

the buses on breathtaking hairpin highways. No other country I knew was as heavy in<br />

mythology. Talking in a generic “Slavic” to the drivers, I became increasingly familiar

5<br />

with a space that was small and enclosed, unlike the highway we were moving on. The<br />

nation-building process that started with a language renewal in the nineteenth century<br />

still seemed to determine the patriarchal culture of these enclosures. This was a general<br />

phenomenon, but the particular topography and history of Yugoslavia resulted in an<br />

extremely tight-knit structure, with mountain chains and rivers protecting tiny but treasured<br />

local cultures, where even the smallest traces of foreignness would endanger the<br />

purity of the organic traditions. This was the enclosed world of the “province,” where—<br />

according to the Serbian philosopher Radomir Konstantinović—an agonizing tribal culture<br />

attempts to forget time and history.<br />

But the freeway was a reality as well, connecting worlds behind mountains, opening<br />

space. The modern cities or the large tourist complexes on the Adriatic coast created<br />

a large periphery as a field open for experiments, less ideological than the centers<br />

from which the ideas were taken, and then questioned, tested, and modified. Therefore,<br />

the modernism of Yugoslavia appeared as not only a modernism in-between, but in an<br />

inseparable symbiotic relationship with its Other, allowing the freedom of the periphery<br />

in conjunction with the parochial spirit of the province. A spatial assemblage of sorts,<br />

echoing the dilemma of the medieval builders of Dečani or Gračanica: Byzantine and<br />

Western, the necessity of a permanent reinvention of the country and the necessary<br />

adjustments of newly received ideas and ideologies. The questions raised by my travels<br />

in Yugoslavia during the summers of the early nineteen-seventies led to more systematic<br />

investigations of the architecture of the Austro-Hungarian Empire and its successor<br />

states, as an attempt to overcome the limitations of nation-centered historiographies.<br />

The discussion of “in-betweenness” and “mediatory architecture” in Kulić and<br />

Mrduljaš’s text refutes the widely accepted notion of the Iron Curtain and the consequent<br />

East/West dichotomizations of cultural phenomena according to this dispositive. The<br />

authors explore new concepts to understand the changing urban conditions and architectural<br />

production in socialist Yugoslavia, and Wolfgang Thaler’s photographs present<br />

the persuasive power of this architecture, resisting any temptation to capture the melancholy<br />

of a bygone era.<br />

Yugoslavia was a state emerging out of the ruins of the Austro-Hungarian and Ottoman<br />

Empires, which had already broken up once at the beginning of World War II. Most<br />

political models and social visions—from liberal bourgeois capitalism to nationalism,<br />

communism, Stalinism, self-governing socialism, and transitional post-socialism—swept<br />

through a country that was in the process of permanent reinvention of itself. Despite constant<br />

transformations, Vladimir Kulić and Maroje Mrduljaš show a remarkable will of the<br />

architects to associate themselves with the program of modernism, but “floating” in an<br />

in-between, mediatory condition rather than fully embracing its ideology. This relationship<br />

to modernism meant broader horizons and the rejection of any concessions to the<br />

spirit of the province—while at the same time not shying away from its mythologies. Juraj<br />

Neidhart’s or Bogdan Bogdanović’s search in this direction, their interest in the archaic,<br />

surreal and monumental, are cases in point.<br />

By reassembling the architecture of socialist Yugoslavia, the authors escape the<br />

constraints of an architectural history that is withdrawing behind safe borders. This<br />

withdrawal generally favors a “postmodern” historiography, suspicious of any kind of<br />

“monolithic” representation of the past. What usually remains in such presentations are<br />

objets trouvés from a defunct land, decontextualized fragments of an irredeemable<br />

past that is a burden on the present rather than a legacy. But even if we accept that<br />

the past is not available to us in its immediacy, the texts and images in this book can<br />

conjure the power of the vision of a modern culture that was not monolithic, but open,<br />

generous, challenging, and inspiring; it had all the qualities that provincialism lacks,<br />

rejects, and wants to erase.<br />

Ákos Moravánszky


9<br />

Boris Magaš:<br />

Poljud Stadium,<br />

Split, 1976–79.

12<br />

Milorad Pantović (architecture) and<br />

Branko Žeželj (engineering):<br />

Hall 1, Belgrade Fair,<br />

Belgrade, 1957.


16<br />


Describing a region as in-between is a cliché. The label has been applied to places<br />

as varied as Austria, Turkey, Russia, Panama, various parts of the US, the Balkans, and<br />

all of Eastern Europe. Common toponyms are derived in such terms: from Mitteleuropa<br />

and Zwischeneuropa to the Middle East. Being in-between, in short, is a global state.<br />

Why, then, do we stick with a cliché in framing the topic of this book? We argue that the<br />

in-betweenness of socialist Yugoslavia was exceptional: the country condensed so many<br />

overlapping geopolitical and cultural in–between conditions that they became one of its<br />

defining features. Socialist Yugoslavia can hardly be described without mentioning at<br />

least some of the shifting reference points between which it was suspended: the superpowers<br />

of the Cold War, rival ideological systems, multiple ethnic identities of its own<br />

populations, varied versions of modernity and tradition, past and future. Such conditions<br />

necessarily affected architecture; and since existing in-between by definition requires<br />

simultaneously referencing multiple external standpoints, it is no wonder that Yugoslav<br />

architecture never developed an easily recognizable identity. Despite the occasional<br />

remarkable achievements, it could not be easily labeled and marketed, as was the case<br />

with the more successful “other modernisms,” such as those of Finland and Brazil. And<br />

even if all such identities are inevitably fabrications that edit a messy reality for easier<br />

consumption, the fact remains that no one even attempted to fabricate one for socialist<br />

Yugoslavia.<br />

So why even bother paying attention to a defunct country? The first reason has to do with<br />

the possibility that socialist Yugoslavia might teach us something useful for our current<br />

cultural moment. While peripheral to the world’s cultural and political centers, it “floated”<br />

between them, rather than clearly gravitating to any. The fragmented body of architecture<br />

that came out of that condition resulted from the need to mediate between a wide<br />

variety of contradictory demands and influences, pitching multifarious global forces and<br />

the diverse interconnected localities against each other. Such mediation should resonate<br />

with our times of “liquid modernity,” as Zygmunt Bauman has termed it, characteristic for<br />

its radical cultural pluralism and the related, increasingly ubiquitous and self-conscious<br />

practices of hybridization, recycling, sampling, and blending. 1 All of these practices function<br />

as mechanisms of mediation, understood as processes of reconciling different or conflicting<br />

forces, assumptions, concepts, or models. But mediation does not necessarily result<br />

in cultural syncretism; it assumes a much broader range of strategies, covering the full<br />

spectrum between outright resistance and wholesale appropriation, such as adaptation,<br />

reinterpretation, recombination, subversion, etc. <strong>In</strong> socialist Yugoslavia, such mediatory<br />

strategies were simultaneously employed both within the fields of politics and architecture—each<br />

with its own multiple ideologies and geopolitical constellations—as well as in<br />

the complex relationships between the two. It is these interconnected parallel mediations<br />

1 Bauman (2011).

17<br />

2 Nancy Condee, “From Emigration<br />

to E-migration: Contemporaneity<br />

and the Former Second World,”<br />

in Smith, Ewenzor, and Condee<br />

(2008), pp. 235–36.<br />

3 IRWIN (2006), Piotrowski (2009).<br />

4 On Bosnia and Herzegovina,<br />

see Štraus (1998). On Serbia, see<br />

Perović (2003). On Slovenia,<br />

see Bernik (2004).<br />

that we hope to sketch out here, also looking for those instances when architects were able<br />

to transcend their “floating periphery” and become their own centers.<br />

The second reason for this book comes from the fact that the architecture of the socialist<br />

“Second World”—“the distinct, if ultimately truncated limb of modernity’s tree,” as<br />

Nancy Condee has cogently described it 2 —is perhaps too slowly becoming recognized<br />

as part of the global modernist heritage. Yugoslavia was an important branch of that<br />

truncated limb; yet the extent to which its architecture was typical or exceptional is still<br />

to be determined, since the socialist world is far from being charted in that respect. Artists<br />

and art historians have been very active in producing such charts in their own field;<br />

in architecture, however, there are still no equivalents to books like IRWIN’s East Art<br />

Map and Piotr Piotrowski’s <strong>In</strong> the Shadow of Yalta: Art and the Avant-garde in Eastern<br />

Europe, 1945–1989. 3 <strong>In</strong>stead, photographers are taking the lead, with all the inherent<br />

strengths and dangers of such an approach. A recent wave of photographic monographs<br />

presents the buildings of the socialist East as if they were relics of some long-lost<br />

civilization: sad, dilapidated concrete mastodons, anonymous in their spectacular oddity,<br />

defying interpretation and lacking any meaning relevant for the present moment. These<br />

publications certainly have some merit, since they dispense with one entrenched stereotype<br />

that identified Eastern Europe with monumental figural socialist realism; but they<br />

fall into another trap by suggesting a certain uniformity of architecture across the region<br />

and across the period, offering far too simplistic interpretations. The socialist world and<br />

its concomitant architectural phenomena were in no way monolithic, either transnationally<br />

or within individual countries, not even within the same genre of architecture. Not<br />

all buildings from the socialist period are dilapidated; not all of them are enormous brutalist<br />

structures; and most are surely not stripped of meaning. Alleging a certain formal<br />

or visual essence of “socialist modernism” makes just as much sense as trying to identify<br />

inherent aesthetic features of a “capitalist modernism,” a label that no one but the most<br />

hardened socialist realist critic would take seriously, because it too broadly equates cultural<br />

and political categories.<br />

This book is, therefore, an attempt to contribute a piece to the puzzle charting postwar<br />

architecture in Eastern Europe. <strong>In</strong> part, it is itself a photographic monograph: photos possess<br />

the kind of persuasive power that words do not, which is important when introducing<br />

a generally unknown body of architecture. Wolfgang Thaler spent three years touring<br />

former Yugoslavia and recording the buildings produced during the socialist period.<br />

What emerges from his photos is not only a great variety of building types, technologies,<br />

and aesthetic approaches, but also the greatly varied destinies that the region’s structures<br />

and cities experienced since the collapse of the socialist federation. Many buildings<br />

are indeed dilapidated, some damaged beyond repair, and some even resurrected from<br />

scratch after total demolition during the wars of the nineteen-nineties. Most, however, still<br />

constitute functioning built environments, architecturally superior to the current commercial<br />

vernacular, not to mention the sea of unregulated construction or the attempts at retraditionalization<br />

that have swamped large parts of the region during the transition to<br />

capitalism. On the other hand, the recent stand-out achievements, some of which have<br />

attracted international attention—especially those from Slovenia and Croatia—have not<br />

emerged out of thin air, but instead continue the well-established modernist traditions<br />

that were decisively solidified during the socialist period.<br />

Complementing the photos, the essays in this book aim at providing a broad framework<br />

for understanding the built environments throughout the region. Treating the former<br />

country as a whole may fly in the face of the common assumption that socialist Yugoslavia’s<br />

constituent republics developed distinct, self-contained architectural cultures<br />

that did not share very much. <strong>In</strong>deed, several twentieth-century architectural histories of<br />

the individual successor states have already appeared in English since the collapse of<br />

the federation in 1991. 4 They are all valuable sources, but their particularistic perspectives<br />

preclude them from addressing some important phenomena that were common to

22<br />

Architecture’s Melting Pot<br />

Of all the Nazi-occupied countries, Yugoslavia is most in the news and least known as<br />

a place. When American troops land there many will wonder that geography books ever<br />

classed it as a European country. Veiled women, bearded priests, towering minarets contribute<br />

eastern flavor. But that isn’t all. <strong>In</strong> crumbling old towns held to the hillside by fortress-like<br />

retaining walls are some of the most modern schools and office buildings in<br />

Europe. No record could express more vividly Yugoslavia’s contradictory political, social<br />

and cultural currents than does its building pattern.<br />

Architectural Forum, November 1944<br />

European or “eastern?” Modern or stuck in the past? Such questions were long associated<br />

with the region that once comprised Yugoslavia, often falling in the category that<br />

Maria Todorova famously termed balkanism. 1 Architectural Forum’s romantic image<br />

restated such stereotypes, although it was not entirely incorrect in suggesting that large<br />

parts of the country had only recently embarked on the road to modernization. But on one<br />

account the magazine was dead wrong: American troops would never land in Yugoslavia.<br />

<strong>In</strong>stead, the country was liberated through joint efforts of local Communist-led partisans<br />

and the Red Army, a fact that would determine its fate for the decades to come. Thus, Yugoslavia’s<br />

road out of underdevelopment led not through the US-sponsored Marshall Plan,<br />

but through a unique model of socialist modernization, following a winding path of shifting<br />

international alliances and perpetual revisions of the political and economic system. As<br />

the Cold War settled in, Yugoslavia came to occupy a place halfway between the two ideological<br />

blocs, at the same time developing its own brand of socialism based on workers’<br />

self-management. <strong>In</strong> the process, all parts of the country, regardless of their varied levels<br />

of development, experienced the most intense period of industrialization and urbanization<br />

in their respective histories. The resulting cities and buildings still comprise the bulk of the<br />

region’s built environments even twenty years after the federation’s demise.<br />

Socialist Yugoslavia was “one of the most complicated countries in the world,” as two<br />

American scholars once observed. 2 It was popular to describe it (not entirely precisely) as<br />

one country with two alphabets, three languages, four religions, five nationalities, six constituent<br />

republics, and seven neighbors. 3 It emerged from World War II as the staunchest<br />

Soviet ally, only to stun the world by its sudden expulsion from the communist bloc just three<br />

years later. It then briefly allied with the West, before becoming one of the founding members<br />

of the Non-Aligned Movement. It was governed by a single party, but strove towards<br />

radical democratization. Its economy was planned, but included significant elements of the<br />

market. It promoted collective welfare, but also had a well-developed consumer culture. It<br />

developed distinct national cultures, yet was bound by a common state. It strove towards a<br />

bright future, but its utopian horizon always included perspectives to the past.<br />

<strong>In</strong> order to make any sense of such complexity, it is indispensable to start with distant<br />

history. Before the world was split by the Cold War, there were several other pairs of the<br />

East-West divide that defined the region, dating back to the division of the Roman Empire<br />

at the turn of the fourth century. The two emperors who instituted that division, Diocletian<br />

and Constantine the Great, were both born on the territory that would later become Yugoslavia.<br />

Both were also responsible for extensive architectural programs, as was another<br />

native son of the region, Emperor Justinian, the patron of the Hagia Sophia in Constantinople.<br />

Architectural remnants of the Roman times constitute the first important cultural<br />

layer ubiquitous throughout the region, Diocletian’s Palace in Split being its most famous<br />

example. After the collapse of the Western Roman Empire, Slavic tribes settled in the<br />

region around the seventh century. They were converted to Christianity in the ninth century,<br />

but were soon split by the Great Schism of 1054 between the Eastern Orthodox and<br />

Roman Catholic Church. The border again went right across the region, causing its own<br />

architectural ramifications. The area in the southeast came into the sphere of the Byzan-<br />

1 Todorova (1997).<br />

2 Hoffman and Neal (1962), p. ix.<br />

3 After 1968, Bosnian Muslims—today<br />

known as Bosniaks—were<br />

recognized as the sixth nationality.

23<br />

1 2<br />

1 The walled historical core of<br />

Dubrovnik. Fortifications dating<br />

mainly from 12th–17th centuries.<br />

2 Mimar Hayruddin: Old Bridge,<br />

Mostar, 1557–66. Demolished in<br />

1993, rebuilt in 2004.<br />

tine tradition, while the northwest embarked on the standard Western stylistic sequence of<br />

Romanesque-Gothic-Renaissance-Baroque. The division, however, was not clear-cut and<br />

was blurred by hybrids like some Serbian Orthodox monasteries, which combined the<br />

Byzantine domed typology with Romanesque and Gothic decoration. The situation was<br />

further complicated in the late Middle Ages by the rise of influential heresies, such as the<br />

independ ent Bosnian Church and the dualist Bogomilism. Persecuted by both Orthodox<br />

and Catholic churches, these heresies would be celebrated in the twentieth century as the<br />

harbingers of an authentic South Slavic identity and precursors to the modern resistance<br />

against outside oppression. Their most well-known remnants are the monumental carved<br />

tombstones called stećci, tens of thousands of which are scattered throughout Bosnia and<br />

Herzegovina, as well as Montenegro, Croatia, and Serbia.<br />

The Ottoman conquest swept through the region in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries,<br />

expanding further and further north, until it swallowed everything except for a narrow strip<br />

along the coast of the Adriatic, which was the domain of the Venetian Republic, and the corner<br />

north of Zagreb, which was under the Habsburgs. The Ottomans introduced a third major<br />

religious group by converting large segments of the native populations to Islam. A fourth one<br />

appeared at the end of the fifteenth century, after the expulsion from Spain of Sephardic<br />

Jews, who settled in urban centers, such as Sarajevo and Belgrade. The border between Habsburg<br />

and Ottoman Empires more or less stabilized after the failed Turkish Siege of Vienna of<br />

1683, dividing the region into three large spheres, which could be crudely described as<br />

Central European, Balkan, and Mediterranean. Centered in Vienna, Austria ruled north of<br />

the Sava and the Danube, replacing the physical traces of Turkish rule with new, regulated<br />

settlements and Baroque architecture. Centered in Istanbul, Turkey held power in the southeast<br />

with its characteristic organic cities and domed monumental buildings. Finally, Venice’s<br />

continued domination of the coast channeled the influence of Italian architecture. <strong>In</strong> a way,<br />

the whole region functioned at this time as a collection of frontier zones, setting up segments<br />

of native populations as “buffers” against the neighboring rival empires. But the borders did<br />

not coincide with the distribution of ethnic or religious groups, which was further complicated<br />

by numerous migrations within the region, as well as from without.<br />

What is striking about the resultant built environments is that they brought large architectural<br />

traditions into proximity that is rarely found elsewhere. Eighty kilometers divide

32<br />

East? West? Or Both?<br />

Hoffman and Neal, Yugoslavia and the New Communism, 1962. 1<br />

Scholars often use architectural metaphors to describe the Cold War world: walls,<br />

curtains, fences, and blocks. If its divisions physically coalesced in the Berlin Wall, in<br />

Yugoslavia they dissolved into an “open plan,” in which Europe’s two halves met not<br />

only metaphorically, but also physically. Yugoslavia was a rare place where the citizens<br />

of both Eastern and Western Europe could meet as they vacationed together on the Adriatic<br />

coast. At the same time, the country maintained equidistance from both blocs, while<br />

building its own alliances with the Third World through the Non-Aligned Movement, in<br />

an attempt to foster international relations based on partnership rather than neocolonial<br />

hegemony. That position, however, was only attained after a series of violent twists and<br />

turns in foreign policy, not unlike a pendulum swinging between the poles of the Cold<br />

War with decreasing amplitude to finally settle down in the middle. From the Soviet<br />

Union’s closest ally in the first postwar years, to the brink of joining NATO in the midnineteen-fifties,<br />

and then to one of the leaders of the Non-Aligned Movement in the early<br />

nineteen-sixties, Yugoslavia fluctuated between the so-called First, Second, and Third<br />

Worlds, before finally reaching a point of balance in which it was tied to all three, while<br />

effectively being a part of none.<br />

Such shifts inevitably affected architecture by engaging it in an increasingly globalized<br />

network of international exchange. If the modern architectural profession originally<br />

arrived in the region from the cultural centers of Central Europe—Vienna, Zurich,<br />

Prague, and Budapest—with time, reference points became increasingly distant,<br />

including at first Paris and Berlin, and after World War II Moscow, New York, Amsterdam,<br />

Brasilia, etc. The swings in the foreign policy also made them less stable. Yugoslav<br />

architectural journals in the late nineteen-forties focused almost exclusively on the news<br />

from the Soviet bloc, but by the early nineteen-fifties they completely shifted attention to<br />

Western Europe and the United States, and for some time also to the emerging centers<br />

of modernism outside of the traditional West, such as Brazil and Finland. After Stalin’s<br />

death and the subsequent “thaw” in the relations with the USSR in the mid-nineteen-fifties,<br />

architectural interactions with some East European countries, such as Poland, significantly<br />

strengthened as well. Soviet architecture was never again considered a model<br />

worth emulating, but Eastern Europe became an important market for Yugoslav construction<br />

companies and their in-house designers. At the same time, the involvement<br />

in the Non-Aligned Movement opened up an even more expansive new market in the<br />

Third World, providing Yugoslav architects with major urban, architectural, and infrastructural<br />

commission across four continents. The profession thus found itself at the intersection<br />

of an international network facilitating the exchange of architectural expertise<br />

between the First, Second, and Third Worlds, and thus effectively defied the seemingly<br />

insurmountable divides of the Cold War era.<br />

The changes in foreign policy also influenced architecture’s representational role as<br />

defined by the broader framework of the “cultural Cold War.” <strong>Between</strong> the end of World<br />

War II and the late nineteen-fifties, architectural style was an important signifier of political<br />

allegiance. The Soviets imposed socialist realism as the only acceptable aesthetic in<br />

their sphere of influence; it was generally identified with classical rules of composition,<br />

traditional ornament, and an overblown sense of monumentality, but in reality never<br />

unambiguously defined. <strong>In</strong> direct opposition to conservative Soviet aesthetics, the West<br />

appropriated high modernism as a signifier of liberal democracy, thus breaking architectural<br />

avant-garde’s historical linkage with revolutionary politics. Yugoslavia’s most<br />

extreme political fluctuations coincided precisely with the period when such aesthetic<br />

confrontations were at their height, creating a great deal of tension within the architec-<br />

1 Hoffmann and Neal (1962), p. 417.

33<br />

tural profession as it struggled to envision the new institutions of the socialist state. Prior<br />

to 1948, the short-lived political attempts to impose socialist realism caused friction with<br />

the already entrenched modernism; after the break with Stalin, the resultant flourishing<br />

of modernist culture became a signifier of cultural freedom and, consequently, of Yugoslavia’s<br />

“break with Russia” and its distinction from other socialist states. Such polarizing<br />

interpretations, however, eventually died out as modernism—more or less openly—<br />

again became widely acceptable in the Eastern bloc in the nineteen-sixties. By that time,<br />

however, the ambitions of Yugoslav foreign policy went far beyond simply maintaining<br />

national independence; instead, Tito was shaping the country into a global actor whose<br />

prominence greatly exceeded its size. 2 As a symbolic display of such position, Yugoslavia<br />

hosted a series of high-profile international events—including the 1984 Winter Olympics<br />

in Sarajevo—all of which required the construction of extensive new facilities,<br />

allowing architecture to further exercise its representational potential.<br />

2 For a detailed account, see<br />

Jakovina (2011).<br />

3 Kulić (2009), pp. 23–44.<br />

<strong>In</strong> Soviet Orbit<br />

<strong>In</strong> their infamous “percentages agreement” of 1944, Stalin and Churchill cynically<br />

concurred that their interests in postwar Yugoslavia would be shared fifty-fifty. But<br />

as the Communist Party took power, thanks to its leading role in the liberation war, it<br />

was already clear by May 1945 that Yugoslavia would side 100 percent with the Soviet<br />

Union. What ensued was a radical restructuring of the whole country, following the<br />

Soviet models in almost everything, from the constitution to cultural policy. At the same<br />

time, the wartime alliance with Western powers quickly deteriorated to open animosity<br />

and Yugoslavia found itself deeply immersed in the nascent Cold War as the Soviet<br />

Union’s most faithful satellite. Refusing to participate in the US Marshall Plan for the<br />

reconstruction of Europe, the country instead tied its economic fortunes to the USSR, and<br />

was selected as the seat of the Communist <strong>In</strong>formation Bureau (Cominform), the Sovietdominated<br />

international organization of communist parties.<br />

Following the Soviet example, the communist government immediately moved towards<br />

creating a highly centralized economy and culture. By 1948, the state took virtually complete<br />

control of all means of production; private architectural offices were abolished and<br />

the profession was reorganized into large state-owned design “institutes.” 3 These offices<br />

were also intended to play an important role in the wildly unrealistic Five-Year Plan, inaugurated<br />

in 1947 after the Soviet model, which was intended to fully modernize the country<br />

in that short period. Such ambition, however, amounted to little more than wishful thinking:<br />

besides the rampant material shortages and a lack of modern technology, the largely<br />

rural country also lacked the educated cadre—including architects—that would be able<br />

to realize such a plan. The bulk of architectural production thus amounted to utilitarian<br />

buildings of modest material standard and limited conceptual or aesthetic ambitions.<br />

At the same time, cultural production came under total control of the Communist Party’s<br />

propaganda department, Agitprop, which imposed the monopoly of socialist realism<br />

in visual arts and literature. The doctrine favored traditional methods of realistic representation<br />

and themes that celebrated socialism, at the same time condemning modernism<br />

in its many guises as “bourgeois formalism.” Architecture was to follow suit with<br />

other arts, but the imposition of the Soviet doctrine proved problematic. Although the<br />

pages of the only architectural journal of the period, Arhitektura, were flooded with the<br />

images of monumental Soviet structures, few of the published local projects resembled<br />

such models. What stood out from the sea of utilitarian buildings were not the Yugoslav<br />

versions of Moscow’s Stalinist skyscrapers, but self-consciously functionalist structures,<br />

like Marjan Haberle’s Zagreb Fair (later converted to Technical Museum), which testified<br />

to continuity with prewar modernism.<br />

pp. 50–51<br />

Such discrepancy resulted from the fact that Yugoslavia’s new architectural elite consisted<br />

predominantly of leading prewar modernists and their young disciples. Many of

38<br />

The political connotations of this aesthetic shift became obvious in the foreign and particularly<br />

American interpretations, which saw Yugoslav modern art and architecture—in<br />

the words of Aline Louchheim, The New York Times art critic and Eero Saarinen’s wife—as<br />

a tangible proof of “Tito’s break with Russia.” 11 No one put it more explicitly than Harrison<br />

Salisbury, the Pulitzer-Prize winning correspondent of the same paper. <strong>In</strong> a 1957 article<br />

illustrated with the yet unfinished building of the Federal Executive Council, he wrote:<br />

“To a visitor from eastern Europe a stroll in Belgrade is like walking out of a grim<br />

barracks of ferro-concrete into a light and imaginative world of pastel buildings, ‘flying<br />

saucers,’ and Italianate patios.<br />

Nowhere is Yugoslavia’s break with the drab monotony and tasteless gingerbread of<br />

‘socialist realism’ more dramatic than in the graceful office buildings, apartment houses<br />

and public structures that have replaced the rubble of World War II.<br />

Thanks in part to the break with Moscow and in part to the taste of some skilled architects<br />

no Stalin Allées, Gorky Streets or Warsaw skyscrapers mar the Belgrade landscape.” 12<br />

By the time Salisbury wrote these words, Yugoslavia was already a willing recipient<br />

of American cultural propaganda. Jazz musicians—such as Dizzy Gillespie, Ella<br />

Fitzgerald, and Louis Armstrong—were received with standing ovations. 13 “The Family<br />

of Man,” an ambitious photographic exhibition organized by the Museum of Modern<br />

1 2<br />

3 4<br />

1 Dušanka Menegelo, Sofija Paligorić-<br />

Nenadović, Nadežda Filipon-<br />

Trbojević, Vesna Matičević, and<br />

Vladislav Ivković: Belgrade Airport,<br />

Belgrade, 1961.<br />

2 Zdravko Bregovac:<br />

Ambasador Hotel, Opatija, 1964-66.<br />

3 Mihailo Janković: Project for the<br />

redesign of the Federal Executive<br />

Council Building, 1954. Sketch.<br />

4 Milivoje Peterčić: Feroelektro Office<br />

Building, Sarajevo, 1962.<br />

11 That is how Louchheim interpreted<br />

Yugoslav modernist art at the<br />

Biennial of Art in Sao Paulo in 1953,<br />

thus providing a precedent for<br />

many similar interpretations;<br />

Louchheim (1954).<br />

12 Salisbury (1957).<br />

13 Marković (1996), p. 471.

39<br />

1 Vojislav Midić and Milan Đokić:<br />

Workers’ University “Radivoj<br />

Ćirpanov,” Novi Sad, 1966.<br />

2|3 Mihailo Janković and Dušan<br />

Milenković: Building of Social<br />

and Political Organizations,<br />

New Belgrade, 1959–64.<br />

4 Mihailo Janković and Dušan<br />

Milenković: Project for the Building<br />

of Social and Political<br />

Organizations, New Belgrade,<br />

c. 1959. Perspective.<br />

1 2<br />

3 <br />

4<br />

14 “276,000 Yugoslavs See ‘Family of<br />

Man’ Photos,” The New York Times<br />

(February 26, 1957).<br />

15 Savremena umetnost u SAD (1956).<br />

Art in New York, attracted its largest audience not in Paris or London, but in Belgrade<br />

in 1957. 14 Another major MoMA exhibition, “Contemporary Art in the USA,” arrived in<br />

Belgrade in 1956 at a direct request of the Yugoslav side. 15 The exhibition was remembered<br />

for introducing Abstract Expressionism to Europe, but it also showcased the latest<br />

architectural achievements, especially the icons of the <strong>In</strong>ternational Style, including:<br />

SOM’s Lever House in New York, featured on the cover of the catalogue; Mies van der<br />

Rohe’s Lake Shore Drive towers in Chicago; and Philip Johnson’s Glass House. Soon after<br />

the exhibition, glass curtain walls replaced the recent Corbusian epidemic. By the end<br />

of the decade, buildings modeled on the Lever House, combining horizontal and vertical<br />

slabs encased in light curtain walls—at the time, significantly, known as “American<br />

façades”—appeared in every major Yugoslav city.<br />

p. 57<br />

After the unsuccessful competitions of the late nineteen-forties, the realized ver-


Dragoljub Filipović and<br />

Zoran Tasić:<br />

Belgrade Youth Center,<br />

Belgrade, 1961.<br />


70<br />

Ivan Štraus:<br />

Holiday <strong>In</strong>n Hotel,<br />

Sarajevo, 1983.

Marjan Hržić, Ivan Piteša,<br />

and Berislav Šerbetić:<br />

Cibona Center,<br />

Zagreb, 1985–87.<br />


76<br />

I know that I cannot speak about architecture in Slovenia without starting with Plečnik,<br />

because we have almost no question today that is not somehow related to him—Plečnik<br />

laid the foundation of recent Slovenian architecture.<br />

Dušan Grabrijan, Plečnik and his School, c. 1948 1<br />

From the first pre-Romanesque creations to Viktor Kovačić, building in Croatia<br />

followed the logic of mason-architect’s thought, which intervenes in the realities of<br />

life—space and its laws, real economic and social structure, utilitarian and aesthetic<br />

demands—rejecting all the “stylistic” canons and patterns.<br />

It is precisely this astylistic character, which our own art history … considered backward<br />

and which foreign art history considered barbaric, that we today find to be of supreme value,<br />

because it reveals a creative method that our time accepts as the most contemporary.<br />

Neven Šegvić, “Architectural modernism in Croatia,” 1952 2<br />

<strong>In</strong> Bosnia, it is about two poles of architecture, about two fields of influence—eastern<br />

and western—that in this ambiance seek reconciliation. Here we see the intertwining of the<br />

western rational influence with the eastern emotional.… Because the opposites attract, it is<br />

no coincidence that the Oriental so adores technology and that the Westerner is so attracted<br />

by eastern architectures. We want to forge a synthesis of the rational and emotional, we care<br />

about a harmonious contemporary architecture, which will match new needs, new materials<br />

and technologies and will be, in our own language, understandable to our people.<br />

Juraj Neidhardt and Dušan Grabrijan, Architecture of Bosnia and<br />

the Way to Modernity, 1957 3<br />

The question of regional differences in architecture is … similar to the question of language.<br />

If the language is the most authentic characteristic of a nation, then architecture is<br />

the most permanent one.… Some characteristics in the expression, like pitched roofs, bay<br />

windows, eaves, a rhythm of volumes closely connecting the building with its ambience and<br />

its site of existence, are only the indicators of the time when the idea originally emerged.<br />

Živko Popovski, in Macedonian Architecture, 1974 4<br />

<strong>In</strong> the Serbian architecture of the recent times, since the middle of the 19th century, one notices<br />

a constant presence of the romantic spirit.… There are many reasons to believe that the romantic<br />

spirit is immanent to domestic architecture, thus giving rise to the predominance of complex<br />

forms and a certain compositional disorder over the classical sense of order and simplicity.<br />

Zoran Manević, Romantic Architecture, 1990 5<br />

That Slovenian architecture was decisively marked by Plečnik, Croatian architecture<br />

“astylistic,” Bosnian architecture “a synthesis of the rational and emotional,” Macedonian<br />

architecture rooted in the vernacular, and Serbian architecture “romantic” are obvious<br />

simplifications aimed at identity-making. There were numerous Serbian architects who<br />

designed perfectly rationally, there were Croats who produced “stylistic” architecture, and<br />

there were Macedonians who were emphatically cosmopolitan. Yet, the quoted statements<br />

testify to the widespread assumption that Yugoslavia’s constituent nationalities possessed<br />

their own distinct architectural identities that reflected certain transhistorical continuity.<br />

<strong>In</strong>deed, architectural historiography of the period was based on that assumption; the key<br />

texts were organized according to republican borders, rather than any pan-Yugoslav criteria.<br />

6 Conversely, no one tried to formulate what would be specifically Yugoslav to architecture<br />

in Yugoslavia. If Yugoslavia as a whole was ever architecturally represented—for<br />

example, through Vjenceslav Richter’s pavilions—its defining features were the project of<br />

socialist self-management and its independent foreign policy, rather than any overarching<br />

identity based on a common cultural essence.<br />

1 Grabrijan (1968), pp. 175–176.<br />

2 Šegvić, (1952), pp. 179–185.<br />

3 Neidhardt and Grabrijan (1957),<br />

p. 14.<br />

4 Popovski (1974), p. 40.<br />

5 Manević (1990), p. 5.<br />

6 Manević et al. (1986), Štraus (1991).

77<br />

7 On the construction of Belgrade,<br />

Zagreb, and Ljubljana as the<br />

national capitals of Serbs, Croats,<br />

and Slovenes, see Damljanović<br />

(2003); on the construction of a<br />

Yugoslav architectural identity,<br />

see Ignjatović (2007).<br />

8 The Department of Architecture at<br />

the Faculty of Civil Engineering<br />

in Podgorica was founded in 2002<br />

and an independent Faculty of<br />

Architecture in 2006.<br />

This situation was largely a consequence of the federalist organization of the state,<br />

which in turn acknowledged the existence of the more or less formed identities of its constituent<br />

nationalities. <strong>In</strong> the interwar Kingdom of Yugoslavia, those identities were supposed<br />

to blend, culturally and architecturally, into a single one; but due to the flawed political<br />

dynamics of the monarchy, the project of cultural unification never took off. 7 The Communist<br />

Party owed its pan-Yugoslav success partly to its promise of allowing political and cultural<br />

autonomy to all constituent nationalities; the ones it recognized as such were not only<br />

Serbs, Croats, and Slovenes, as did the interwar monarchy, but also Macedonians and<br />

Montenegrins and, as of 1968, “Muslims by nationality”—today’s Bosniaks. The guarantors<br />

of such autonomies were the six constituent federated republics. Five were organized as<br />

nation-states and the sixth one, Bosnia and Herzegovina, was home to three nationalities<br />

(“narod”), Muslims, Serbs, and Croats. All six republics had sizable ethnic minorities (“narodnost”),<br />

most populous among them Albanians, Hungarians, and Italians. Serbia also had<br />

two autonomous provinces, Vojvodina and Kosovo, which recognized both their historical<br />

identities and the presence of non-Slavic populations.<br />

The fact that at the beginning of this chapter we could not quote a statement regarding<br />

Yugoslavia’s smallest republic, Montenegro, reveals something about the way in which<br />

architectural identities were constructed. During the socialist period, Montenegro was the<br />

only Yugoslav republic that did not have its own school of architecture; the relative lack<br />

of discourse about Montenegrin architecture thus seems to confirm the centrality of educational<br />

institutions in forging the corresponding national identities. 8 Belgrade, Zagreb,<br />

and Ljubljana all entered the socialist period with the previously established architecture<br />

departments at universities, and additional two were founded in Sarajevo and Skopje<br />

shortly after the war. (A sixth one, in Priština, was not founded until the nineteen-eighties,<br />

so its impact during the socialist period was limited.) Over time, these schools developed<br />

more or less distinct profiles, defined by the most prominent practitioners, who were often<br />

also the most influential professors. The professional and academic elites thus generally<br />

overlapped. The schools were the centers of architectural research. They had their charismatic<br />

personalities with devoted followings. They also included theorists, critics, and historians,<br />

who were able to articulate discourses. <strong>In</strong> short, they allowed for the construction<br />

and reproduction of the more or less coherent architectural cultures, and since the schools<br />

were national, the resulting cultures came to be perceived as national as well, whether or<br />

not there were any deliberate attempts at defining national identities. The fact that professional<br />

organizations were also organized according to the republican borders only<br />

strengthened such apparent coherence.<br />

Unsurprisingly, distinguishing between the different schools based purely on their products<br />

would be tricky, not only because much of architectural production unavoidably falls<br />

into the category of the generic, determined by the broad social and economic conditions,<br />

but also because certain global trends, like high modernism in the late nineteen-fifties, periodically<br />

swept through the entire country. Yet, certain phenomena were specific to individual<br />

schools, endowing them with a local character that may or may not have been related<br />

to any specific national content. These phenomena could manifest themselves on the representational<br />

level as stylistic preferences or as attempts to engage with the local vernacular<br />

architectures, but they also emerged as the result of mastering certain typological or technological<br />

themes in response to the specific problems of the region. One such instance was the<br />

extensive experimentation with the morphology of tourist facilities on the Croatian coast in<br />

the nineteen-sixties and -seventies; another was the so-called Belgrade apartment, a characteristic<br />

residential plan developed in response to the booming construction of mass housing.<br />

Nation-based architectural cultures were related to, but ultimately distinct from the<br />

question of the representation of national identities. That question was posed with particular<br />

force in conjunction with the establishment of Yugoslavia’s six constituent republics<br />

as states, with their own capitals, seats of political power, and national cultural institutions—all<br />

buildings with inherent representational potential. Despite their varied histories

86<br />

1 2<br />

3<br />

1 Stanko Kristl: Residential and<br />

Commercial Building, Velenje,<br />

1960–63.<br />

2 Milan Mihelič: Department Store,<br />

Osijek, 1963–67.<br />

3 Miloš Bonča: Department Store<br />

in Šiška, Ljubljana, 1960–64.<br />

Cankarjev dom. At the urban level, the project mediates between the local scale of the surrounding<br />

historical blocks and the scale of the whole city, as the two towers dominate Ljubljana’s<br />

skyline. Their cantilevered pointed tips, however, face each other at a close distance,<br />

forming a colossal “gate” and engaging—much like the rest of the complex—in an interplay<br />

between the monumental and the intimate. <strong>In</strong>stead of Le Corbusier, here one may trace references<br />

to Alvar Aalto’s late work, such as the Finlandia Hall in Helsinki, which are especially<br />

recognizable in the congress center: cladding in thin stone slabs arranged in long narrow<br />

strips, copper roofs covered with a green patina, and the complex, broken-up forms. Yet,<br />

Ravnikar’s Central European roots are still abundantly visible, particularly in the duality of<br />

the expressive structural “core” and the variety of claddings. The latter included not only the<br />

“woven” brickwork, known from his earlier projects, but also the exaggerated rivets used to<br />

attach stone slabs to the façade, directly evocative of Otto Wagner.<br />

Ravnikar’s explorations of tectonics evolved through the agency of his many students into<br />

an overall “taste for structure,” as the architectural historian Luka Skansi recently termed it,<br />

which became a running theme for Slovenian architects throughout the nineteen-sixties and<br />

-seventies. 17 <strong>In</strong>deed, both Ravnikar and his followers experimented in this period with a variety<br />

of materials and structural systems, predominantly reinforced concrete, but also steel, prestressed<br />

prefabricated concrete elements, and suspension cables, which they embraced not<br />

only for their utilitarian advantages, but also as the sources of expressive figures. Imaginative<br />

ways of articulating and exposing the structural core of a building, while remaining true to<br />

the logic of statics, were sought not only in building types that naturally called for such experiments,<br />

like industrial sheds or department stores, but also in residential and civic buildings.<br />

The development symbolically marked the transition from a craft-based, small-scale production<br />

of architecture to a modern industry, thus updating Plečnik’s attention to material expression<br />

and meticulous details for the late twentieth century. Yet even this trend had a precedent<br />

in Plečnik’s work: his 1911 Church of the Holy Spirit in Vienna, built in exposed reinforced concrete,<br />

with a slender “Cubist” skeleton in the crypt and the spectacular clerestory beams spanning<br />

the length of the nave. Remarkable transhistorical continuity was thus established, linking<br />

17 Luka Skansi, “A “Taste” for Structure:<br />

Architecture Figures in Slovenia<br />

1960-1975,” in Mrduljaš and Kulić<br />

(2012), pp. 424-35.

87<br />

practitioners into an unbroken chain of influences across a century of modern architecture.<br />

Slovenian architects—Ravnikar included—were exceptionally successful at architectural<br />

competitions around Yugoslavia, spreading their taste for expressive structural figures to other<br />

republics. Architects like Milan Mihelič, Marko Mušič, and Miloš Bonča worked all around the<br />

pp. 192–93, 196 (above), 244 (below)<br />

country on important civic and commercial commissions.<br />

More<br />

often than not, these projects replaced Ravnikar’s intricately patterned cladding and fine details<br />

with bold shapes in exposed concrete, closely uniting structure, form, and spatial envelope.<br />

18 Frampton (1983), p. 21.<br />

Balkan Regionalisms between Criticality and Representation<br />

During his famous Voyage d’Orient in 1911, the young Charles-Edouard Jeanneret passed<br />

through the Balkans in search of an authentic traditional culture uncorrupted by modernity.<br />

Taking the boat down the Danube, he arrived in Belgrade to find a city that was already<br />

beyond rescue, but then went on into the Serbian countryside, where he was enchanted by<br />

folk art and architecture. And while he did not venture much further into what would soon<br />

become Yugoslavia, in Bulgaria and Turkey he continued exploring the kind of vernacular<br />

architecture that was common to much of the Balkans. The lessons he learned on that trip<br />

provided a crucial formative experience for transforming Jeanneret into Le Corbusier.<br />

Even before World War II, Yugoslav modernists began retracing Le Corbusier’s steps,<br />

discovering their own vernacular both as a subject of academic study and as an inspiration<br />

for contemporary work. These efforts intensified after the war, boosted by socialism’s<br />

concerns for the cultures of the “people,” the developing ethnography, and the need to formulate<br />

the identities of the newly forged republics. At first, socialist realism—with its credo<br />

“socialist in content, national in form”—produced a few literal interpretations, but rural<br />

and urban vernacular ultimately became the raw material to be reinterpreted in modern<br />

terms. The methods ranged from direct citations of forms and motifs, to “critical” distillation<br />

of abstract principles or, as Kenneth Frampton has put it in his famous argument<br />

on critical regionalism, mediating the “impact of the universal civilization with elements<br />

derived indirectly from the peculiarities of a particular place.”18 The motivations similarly<br />

ranged from explicit representations aimed at identity-making to sensitive responses to<br />

natural or cultural contexts. But there was never a coherent regionalist “school”; any such<br />

attempts were overshadowed by the universalizing march of modernity even in the cities<br />

like Sarajevo and Skopje, where the traditions of urban vernacular still survived in the<br />

environments of strong local character. Yet, in the crevices of mass urbanization, regionalist<br />

efforts produced a handful of outstanding achievements that transcended the narrow<br />

requirements of both rapid modernization and explicit national representation.<br />

One of the pioneers of documenting and analyzing the Balkan vernacular heritage<br />

was yet another Plečnik’s student, Slovenian architect Dušan Grabrijan. He began his<br />

research in Bosnia in the nineteen-thirties and expanded it after the war to Macedonia,<br />

producing a series of exquisitely illustrated publications, many of which came out after<br />

his untimely death in 1952. Enchanted by the “Oriental” architecture he first encountered<br />

in Sarajevo, Grabrijan argued that it closely resonated with Le Corbusier’s own work<br />

through its “cubist” forms, open spatial arrangements, and close relationship with nature.<br />

<strong>In</strong> his efforts to update the local tradition for modern times, Grabrijan found an important<br />

ally in his friend Juraj Neidhardt, a Croatian architect with remarkable international experience,<br />

which included working for Peter Behrens and Le Corbusier and exhibiting with<br />

the avant-garde circles in Paris in the nineteen-thirties. Neidhardt applied the results of<br />

Grabrijan’s analysis in practice, producing a series of regionalist buildings around Bosnia<br />

in the late nineteen-thirties. The apex of collaboration was the book Architecture of Bosnia<br />

and the Way to Modernity (1957), prefaced by Le Corbusier himself.<br />

Architecture of Bosnia claimed that, with its unpretentious emphasis on comfort instead<br />

of monumentality, Bosnian “Oriental” house, was in its essence already modern, requiring<br />

only certain technological updates to become the basis for the region’s modern architecture. 19

100<br />

Miroslav Jovanović:<br />

Apartment Building<br />

in Pariska St.,<br />

Belgrade, 1956.

Mihajlo Mitrović:<br />

Apartment Building at the<br />

corner of Braće Jugovića St.<br />

and Dobračina St.,<br />

Belgrade, 1973–77.<br />



p. 116–17<br />

Zlatko Ugljen:<br />

Šerefudin White Mosque,<br />

Visoko, 1969–79.<br />


120<br />

After the war, the urban design we had in mind was not only something new and<br />

momentous, it was far more than that: a premonition of a knowledge of what could be,<br />

the expectation of a solution to all problems, be they social, technological or aesthetic in<br />

nature… All of a sudden these kinds of illusions and endeavors knew no more ideological<br />

or material obstacles. Or rather, we did not see them as there has never existed a society<br />

nor a man who, when in this kind of situation, would not freely let their mind wander<br />

through thoughts of a better future and its realization in an inviting, utopian vision.<br />

Edvard Ravnikar, 1984 1<br />

And if, with filial thoughts and feelings, you enthusiastically seize the opportunity of<br />

giving new life to certain accords of the past which may be found again in some common<br />

elements (as e.g. in a way of paving, a way of building, a special quality of mortar, a certain<br />

way of carving and working the wood, in a local and national human scale reflected<br />

in the selection of certain dimensions, etc.) you will build a bridge over the chasm of time<br />

and will, in an intelligent way, become the son of your father, a child of your country, a<br />

member of a society conditioned by history, climate, etc.—and yet remain a citizen of the<br />

world—which is more and more becoming the common fate of all mortals on earth.<br />

Le Corbusier in the Preface to Architecture of Bosnia and the Way to Modernity, 1952 2<br />

<strong>In</strong> order to build socialism, a country needs an urban working class. At the end of<br />

World War II, Yugoslavia was neither urbanized nor industrialized: just a tenth of its population<br />

lived in cities with over 20,000 residents, and only two cities, Belgrade and Zagreb,<br />

had more than 100,000 residents. More than two-thirds of Yugoslavs depended on agriculture<br />

and more than a quarter were illiterate. 3 To make it worse, much of the modern infrastructure—already<br />

modest by the standards of the developed world—was destroyed in<br />

the war, including almost one million buildings, a third of all industrial plants, and half of<br />

railway tracks. Major cities lay in ruin. As the sine qua non of socialism, fast urbanization<br />

thus became one of the primary goals of the new communist government.<br />

<strong>In</strong>deed, in the following quarter century Yugoslavia was thoroughly transformed. By<br />

1971, due to a massive migration from rural areas, the urban population rose to 40 percent<br />

and non-agricultural to over 60 percent. The illiteracy rate was reduced to less than<br />

a tenth, mostly accounted for by the elderly in the undeveloped rural areas in Kosovo<br />

and Bosnia. Republican capitals took the lion’s share of urban growth: Belgrade and<br />

Zagreb roughly doubled their populations, Sarajevo grew 2.5 times, and Skopje more<br />

than tripled in size. 4 The same trend continued steadily through the remainder of the<br />

socialist period. By the end of it, greater Belgrade had a population of over 1.5 million,<br />

Zagreb close to a million, Sarajevo over half a million, and Skopje 450,000. Urban living,<br />

before World War II reserved for a tiny minority, became everyday experience for at<br />

least a half of the population.<br />

Yugoslav cities thus became machines for remaking people. They forced massive segments<br />

of the population to leave their old ways behind and adapt to a new urban life.<br />

How were these “machines” conceptualized and realized? How was the socialist city<br />

imagined? How did the enormous historical break in the construction of cities unfold?<br />

Yugoslav modernist architects welcomed the arrival of socialism as a chance to<br />

redress the ills of life in capitalism. As Nikola Dobrović wrote in 1946, the old capitalist<br />

Yugoslavia, with its speculative urban economy and impotent politics, could only<br />

produce a “degenerate urban physiognomy” for the benefit of the “financially powerful.”<br />

5 Such statements certainly echoed the dominant political discourse of the period,<br />

but they also strongly resonated with the modernist theories of urbanism, dating back<br />

to the earliest days of CIAM (Congrès internationaux d’architecture moderne), which<br />

blamed capitalist speculation for the chaotic development of modern cities. Socialism,<br />

in turn, with its emphasis on comprehensive rational planning, promised a harmonious<br />

1 Edvard Ravnikar, “Nova Gorica<br />

after 35 Years,” quoted in Vodopivec<br />

and Žnidaršič (2010), p. 333.<br />

2 Le Corbusier’s Preface in Grabrijan<br />

and Neidhardt (1957), p. 6.<br />

3 Illiteracy rate ranged from a single<br />

digit in Slovenia to over 40 percent<br />

in Macedonia.<br />

4 The Population of Yugoslavia (1974),<br />

p. 53.

121<br />

5 Dobrović (January 1946); Dobrović<br />

(June 1946).<br />

6 The insistence on vehicular traffic<br />

was somewhat paradoxical,<br />

considering the minuscule number<br />

of private cars through the first<br />

half of the socialist period.<br />

7 Scott (1998), p. 4.<br />

8 Brigitte Le Normand offers a<br />

compelling account of these<br />

challenges in the case of Belgrade;<br />

Le Normand (2007).<br />

9 For the connection between the<br />

Black Wave and Yugoslav<br />

urbanization, see Kirn, Sekulić,<br />

Testen (2012).<br />

development of human settlements, in which the self-centered pursuit of minority interests<br />

at the expense of the whole would finally come to an end. <strong>In</strong> the mind of Dobrović<br />

and his colleagues, socialist politics and modernist architecture converged in the same<br />

goal: to harness the power of rational planning for the production of a new kind of harmonious<br />

and humane city.<br />

As a result, modernist principles of urban planning famously summarized in the Athens<br />

Charter—functional zoning, free-standing buildings in ample greenery, and the predominance<br />

of vehicular traffic—dominated city building during the formative years of<br />

the socialist period, as in much of postwar Europe. 6 These principles brought into existence<br />

whole new cities ex nihilo, subjecting the recently urbanized population to a new,<br />

rational, and healthy way of living, yet without much consideration of their habits, preferences,<br />

and social needs. City building in Yugoslavia was thus predestined to be a case<br />

of “seeing like a state,” to quote James C. Scott’s well-known definition of “high modernism”<br />

as the ultimate convergence of architectural and political goals: a “strong, one might<br />

even say muscle-bound, version of the self-confidence about scientific and technical<br />

progress… and, above all, the rational design of social order.” 7 But what if the said state<br />

is not a fixed entity, but a work in progress that fluctuates and constantly evolves? What<br />

happens with the ideal visions of urban planners if the state itself starts cutting corners,<br />

facing the inability to fulfill its own hubristic promise of a “good life” for all?<br />

Challenges to the visions of Yugoslav planners came from both the governing elites<br />

for pragmatic short-term gains, and from the newly urbanized population, whose booming<br />

influx outpaced the official capacities of city building. 8 As a result, even the most<br />

important urban endeavors were compromised and some of their critical components<br />

remained unfinished. At the same time, large unregulated settlements sprang up at the<br />

edges of major cities, directly countering the ideal of harmoniously planned growth. The<br />

combined effects of these challenges ultimately led to a demise of modernist “blueprint<br />

planning,” which also coincided with the increasing scientization of the planning profession<br />

in the nineteen-seventies, influenced in part by regular collaborations with foreign<br />

experts.<br />

Some planners and architects, however, showed early on a sensibility for the specificities<br />

of local cultures and inherited environments. <strong>In</strong> response to complex conditions<br />

they encountered, they explored alternative, more complex approaches, often independently<br />

of or parallel to the post-CIAM theory developed in the West. On the one hand, the<br />

extensive war damage, as well as the subsequent natural disasters, required the reconstruction<br />

and improvement of the already well-defined neighborhoods, which could<br />

be treated neither as clean slate projects nor as small-scale patch ups. On the other,<br />

the rich surviving traditions of urban life were too powerful to ignore; combined with<br />

the rise of historic preservation, they emerged as values to be maintained and reinterpreted,<br />

rather than mercilessly eradicated (which, however, did not always save them<br />

from eradication). Such an approach was at first not necessarily in opposition to modernist<br />

principles, but rather worked as their extension or an internal critique. By the<br />

late nineteen-sixties, however, criticism of the anomie of new modernist neighborhoods,<br />

mounted simultaneously by sociologists and the public, thoroughly challenged modernist<br />

ideals, shifting the accent to such intangible values as historical continuity and<br />

“ambiance.” The internal critique from within the profession then further undermined<br />

them, signaling the rise of postmodernism.<br />

By the late nineteen-sixties, the dark underbelly of socialist urbanization acquired<br />

considerable visibility in the public. Unregulated urban developments and social pathology<br />

continued their long tradition, contradicting the promise of a just socialist society.<br />

Some social groups were left on the margins of progress, while others prospered thanks<br />

to everyone’s collective efforts. Sociologists studied these contradictions, journalists sensationalized<br />

them, and filmmakers used them as the raw material for a full-fledged<br />

movie genre known as the “Black Wave.” 9 Yet, despite the unfulfilled promise of instan-

146<br />

p. 146–47<br />

Nikola Dobrović:<br />

Generalštab (Federal Ministry of Defense and<br />

Yugoslav People’s Army Headquarters),<br />

Belgrade, 1954–63. Damaged in 1999.


166<br />

The generation that is alive right now and that is building a new society with its<br />

efforts must enjoy the fruits of its labor, not just some distant, future generations.<br />

Josip Broz Tito, n.d. 1<br />

The relationship between the collective well-being and individual freedom is at the<br />

core of all great ideologies of modern times. The term socialism encompasses a wide variety<br />

of ideas about that relationship, but the most commonly known version was defined<br />

in the “first country of socialism,” the Soviet Union, by introducing a high level of vertical<br />

(hierarchical) collectivism. A centralized, planned, state-run economy and the socialized<br />

provision of housing, education, culture, leisure, and health services all resulted in<br />

relative uniformity in the everyday life; a long-term orientation towards heavy industry<br />

rather than consumer goods further added a sense of material scarcity. An extreme version<br />

of functionalism, applied in architecture under Nikita Khrushchev’s program to solve<br />

the housing crisis after Stalin’s death, hardly helped this image; it provided the first opportunity<br />

of modern housing for millions of Soviet citizens, but at the price of monotonous residential<br />

neighborhoods consisting of enormous numbers of identical prefabricated buildings,<br />

spread across the country with little variation. Despite the great strides in economic<br />

development after World War II, the stereotype of monotony and austerity plagued everyday<br />

life in the Soviet Union—and in varied degrees the countries under its domination—<br />

virtually until its very end, becoming one of the most vulnerable spots in its confrontation<br />

with the West. The famous 1959 Kitchen Debate in Moscow between Khrushchev and the<br />

American Vice President Richard Nixon demonstrated how domesticity could be mobilized<br />

in a propaganda war; as architectural historian Greg Castillo has shown, homes thus<br />

became a major front on which the Cold War was fought and household appliances and<br />

objects of modern design were some of its key weapons. 2<br />

Yugoslavia in many ways departed from the stereotype of socialist austerity. The<br />

Yugoslavs enjoyed greater affluence than their brethren in other socialist states, as<br />

well as the freedom to travel both East and West. Both were the products of a series of<br />

reforms that began after the break with Stalin in 1948, facilitating an experiment with<br />

the gradual liberalization and decentralization of economy, which included increasing<br />

levels of market competition, especially after the reforms of the mid-nineteen-sixties.<br />

The result was a well-developed consumer culture that in many ways resembled<br />

that found in the West—complete with a thriving advertising industry—sharing the same<br />

basic aspirations, only more modest and egalitarian. As the Yugoslavs eagerly learned<br />

to shop, spend, and travel, a new, large class of consumers came into being, generating,<br />

as historian Patrick Patterson argues, the first truly pan-Yugoslav identity, based<br />

on common consumer experiences. 3 At the same time, the state provided widespread<br />

social safety nets, as well as the first opportunities for education for the massive numbers<br />

of people, virtually eradicating the previously widespread illiteracy. For better or<br />

worse, much of the population was thus shielded from the direct effects of the fluctuating<br />

market and offered a chance of upward mobility and emancipation, even though socialism’s<br />

promise of guaranteed employment for all was far from fulfilled. 4 Those who could<br />

not find their place in the system were allowed to seek fortune abroad—typically in Germany,<br />

Austria, Switzerland, or France—further fueling the native thirst for consumerism<br />

by shipping Western goods back home.<br />

Daily life thus decisively shifted from radical, ascetic collectivization of the first postwar<br />

years towards a “Good Life” of greater individualism and affluence. Yet Yugoslavia<br />

was still a socialist state; on an imaginary scale between total collectivization and<br />

total individualism, it was somewhere in the middle, more collectivized than the West,<br />

but also more individualistic than the socialist East. A focused comparison not only with<br />

other socialist countries, but also with West European welfare states would, no doubt, be<br />

beneficial in determining Yugoslavia’s precise position of on that scale, since almost the<br />

1 Quoted in Patterson (2012), p. 207.<br />

2 Castillo (2010).<br />

3 For an exhaustive study of Yugoslav<br />

consumer culture, see Patterson<br />

(2012).<br />

4 On the problem of unemployment in<br />

Yugoslavia, see Woodward (1995).

167<br />

whole continent at the time went through massive state-sponsored social programs, yet<br />

realized in widely different political systems. 5 Similarly to many other European countries<br />

East and West, social collective housing in Yugoslavia was the most visible building<br />

type of the postwar urbanization, which took up much of architectural practice; but hundreds<br />

of thousands of individual family homes were also built with private funds, often<br />

aided by loans from banks and enterprises. Schools, hospitals, universities, and other<br />

institutions of “social standard”—as they used to be known—were all socially owned; yet<br />

collective workers’ or children’s resorts were increasingly replaced by hotels, which one<br />

chose according to individual preferences and financial means.<br />

The resulting “Yugoslav dream”—as historians have termed it after the fact—was a<br />

hybrid way of life that mixed collectivism and individualism in a characteristic blend:<br />

the systemic preference for socialized housing, but considerable consumerist freedom in<br />

equipping one’s home; free socialized health services, but individualized vacationing in<br />

a hotel on the Adriatic coast; free socialized education, but a thriving and diverse popular<br />

culture. Fulfilling that dream was not completely accessible to everyone; one of its<br />

paradoxes was that the more affluent classes —professionals and white-collar workers—<br />

were almost certain to acquire an affordable “social apartment,” and at the same time<br />

were able to spend their already higher disposable incomes on consumer goods and<br />

individual travel and entertainment. <strong>In</strong> contrast, the much more numerous blue-collar<br />

workers often had to expend their modest incomes on building their own houses, while<br />

spending their vacations in the more affordable collectivized resorts. Yet for broad segments<br />

of the population, regardless of their specific position in the system, the period<br />

between the late nineteen-fifties and the economic crisis of the nineteen-eighties is still<br />

remembered as a time of progress and upward mobility, which also created much of the<br />

existing architecture of everyday life.<br />

For all these reasons, one might argue, it is precisely in the sphere of everyday life<br />

that Yugoslavia was the most explicitly “socialist” and the most peculiarly “Yugoslav.”<br />

That was the context in which the largest body of architecture was built. Although building<br />

on a strong modernist tradition and limited by relatively strict material constraints,<br />

that architecture only briefly succumbed to the extreme utilitarianism stereotypically<br />

associated with socialism, and when it did, it was more due to poverty than for ideological<br />

reasons. Of course, most “everyday architecture” fell, at best, into the category of<br />

solid but unremarkable, repeating or adapting the models known from elsewhere; but<br />

certain clearly defined architectural cultures developed around the programs of everyday<br />

life—leisure, housing, the institutions of “social standard”—based on a considerable<br />

amount of research and innovation. These cultures took up an activist notion of design<br />

as a tool of social progress that mediates between collectivism and individual freedom,<br />

finding, for example, room for experiment in educational institutions and the spatial<br />

qualities of open plan in tight socialized apartments, or articulating the booming<br />

tourist industry to preserve the natural beauty and public access to the pristine Adriatic<br />

coast. Their particular success was in finding “Architecture” where one normally would<br />

not expect it—in mass housing or mass tourism—establishing a massive infrastructure of<br />

daily life that is still in use throughout the region.<br />

5 Sweden, as the most “socialized”<br />

among Western states, might be<br />

a good point of reference; see<br />

Mattson and Wallenstein (2010).<br />

Experiments in “Social Standard”<br />

The modernization of Yugoslavia included the construction of an extensive network of<br />

the institutions of “social standard,” predominantly educational, healthcare, culture, and<br />

pp. 164–65, 192–95<br />

sports facilities, from the local to the national level.<br />

Such programs were<br />

included in the plans of all large, new neighborhoods, as well as in the existing settlements<br />

that lacked them. With their predominantly modernist language, these new facilities<br />

became deeply ingrained in the collective memory of the region as one of the defining<br />

images of modern life, participating in the citizens’ socialization from an early age.

176<br />

in situ methods. The production ranged from utilitarian to inspired—Ivo Vitić’s Apartment<br />

building in Laginjina St. and Drago Galić’s reinterpretations of Le Corbusier’s<br />

Unité d’habitation, both in Zagreb, were significant examples of the latter—but it was<br />

pp. 52, 199<br />

predominantly limited to one-off solutions or very small series.<br />

The turning<br />

point occurred at the end of the decade, sparked in part by the push both in Belgrade<br />

and Zagreb to “cross the river Sava” and build new mass housing on virgin soil. <strong>In</strong><br />

Zagreb, the architect Bogdan Budimirov in collaboration with Željko Solar and Dragutin<br />

Stilinović developed prefabricated systems YU60 and YU61 for the construction firm<br />

Jugomont, and used the latter on Novi Zagreb’s “housing blocks” (the Yugoslav equivalent<br />

to the microrayon: a housing neighborhood equipped with basic public services). 23<br />

Based on large transversal concrete panels, YU61 featured elegant façades with<br />

orthogonal “neoplasticist” grids, filled in with reflective aluminum panels, which<br />

prompted the inhabitants to nickname the buildings “tins.” At the <strong>In</strong>stitute for the Testing<br />

of Materials of Serbia (IMS) in Belgrade, the engineer Branko Žeželj developed from<br />

1957 a prestressed skeletal system consisting of precast columns and slabs, which was<br />

widely used across Yugoslavia and also proved to be a successful export product, as it<br />

was used to build over 150,000 apartments across the world, from Hungary and Italy, to<br />

Cuba, Angola, and the Philippines. The major advantage of the IMS Žeželj system was<br />

its openness and a great deal of flexibility in designing both the building’s envelope<br />

and the interior partitions, thus practically allowing Le Corbusier’s “five points of<br />

architecture” to be put in practice in the context of collective social housing. The system’s<br />

freedom in organizing the façade is patently obvious in various neighboring blocks in<br />

central New Belgrade, all designed within less than fifteen years: from the smooth<br />

modernist chic of white mosaic tiles at Block 21, to the complex brutalist assembly at<br />

Block 23, to the exaggerated skeletal grid evoking traditional timber-frame construction<br />

pp. 138–39, 175, 200, 202<br />

at Block 19a.<br />

Besides the Jugomont and IMS systems, a host of other systems were used in Yugoslavia,<br />

either locally developed or imported from abroad, often involving some tinkering with<br />

the original technology in the process of its local application. 24 On top of that, the industrialized<br />

production was often hybridized with traditional labor-intensive technologies. <strong>In</strong><br />

such instances, the structural core of the building was typically prefabricated and the rest<br />

built conventionally, thus partly undermining the very raison d’être of industrialization.<br />

Although less efficient, such an approach, in combination with the multiplicity of systems<br />

in use, resulted in highly diverse appearances; one might argue that it was a failure—the<br />

lack of central coordination and the need to improvise due to lacking technology—that<br />

inadvertently saved the country from the extreme monotony resulting from the consistently<br />

pp. 98, 201–03<br />

applied standardization and industrialization.<br />

As an illustration, it is indicative<br />

that collective housing in Yugoslavia never became so closely identified with its structural<br />

nature that it derived a name from it, as was the case elsewhere; there is thus no colloquial<br />

equivalent in the Yugoslav languages for the Czechoslovak panelák, the German<br />

Plattenbau, or the Hungarian panelház. <strong>In</strong>stead, individual apartment buildings were<br />

often nicknamed after certain formal characteristic or for their sheer size, for example: televizorka<br />

(TV set), named for its rounded windows resembling TV-screens, in New Belgrade;<br />

mamutica (mammoth), over 200 meters long and twenty stories high in Zagreb; and krstarica<br />

(cruise-ship), a massive mega-structure in Split 3.<br />

Another reason for the relative diversity of Yugoslav collective housing were the uncertain<br />

and changing standards. There were never standard apartment types devised to be<br />

built across the whole country, as was the case elsewhere. 25 With few exceptions, the replication<br />

of plans occurred only within the same housing block and each block was designed<br />

anew, often using a different system of prefabrication. Moreover, for each new project, the<br />

selected prefabricated system was customized to fit the specifics of the architectural solution.<br />

Reasons were ultimately political: the lack of central power to impose one universal<br />

standard and the freedom of construction companies to act according to the requirements<br />

23 On Budimirov, see Mattioni (2007).<br />

24 We thank Jelica Jovanović, Jelena<br />

Grbić and Dragana Petrović for<br />

sharing some of their research;<br />

Jovanović, Grbić, Petrović (2011).<br />

25 Compare, for example, the case of<br />

Czechoslovakia, where the<br />

architectural profession built onto a<br />

stronger industrial tradition to<br />

successfully implement typification<br />

already in the nineteen-fifties; see<br />

Zarecor (2011), pp. 69–112, 224–94.

177<br />

1 Ilija Arnautović: Televizorka (TV set)<br />

apartment building, Block 28,<br />

New Belgrade, 1968–71.<br />

2 Frane Gotovac: Krstarica<br />

(cruise-ship) apartment building,<br />

Split 3, Split, 1971–73.<br />

1 2<br />

26 Jelica Jovanović and Tanja Conley,<br />

“Housing Architecture in Belgrade<br />

(1950-1980) and Its Expansion to the<br />

Left Bank of the River Sava,”<br />

in Mrduljaš and Kulić (2012),<br />

pp. 296-313<br />

27 I b i d .<br />

of the market. <strong>In</strong> an increasingly decentralized economy, a broad range of agents—investors<br />

and clients—entered into diverse partnerships, for example: state agencies in charge<br />

of coordinating the construction, socialist enterprises needing homes for their workers, or<br />

local communities financing the “classic” social housing for the underprivileged. No wonder,<br />

then, that it was the powerful federal organ ization like the Yugoslav People’s Army<br />

that developed its own consistent standards, since it was sufficiently large to have the<br />

financial means and interest for investing in research. The resulting standards were not<br />

only quantitative, defining the minimum and maximum sizes of apartments and rooms,<br />

but also qualitative, prescribing the minimum requirements in the layout and equipment,<br />

thus putting an end to the previously common problems such as pass-through bedrooms<br />

or hard to organize kitchens. As the recent research by Jelica Jovanović and Tanja Conley<br />

indicates, the Army’s privileged standards soon leaked into civilian use and became a<br />

widely adopted common good. 26<br />

It was under these unique conditions that an identifiable culture of residential design<br />

developed in Belgrade, resulting in the so-called Belgrade plan and a Belgrade school<br />

of residential architecture. The prime site for its emergence were at first the central<br />

blocks of New Belgrade, the design of which was determined at a series of public competitions,<br />

thus prompting the architects to follow and improve on each other’s solutions.<br />

These competitions brought to light a number of young architects and architectural<br />

teams specializing in residential design: Milenija and Darko Marušić; Božidar Janković,<br />

Branislav Karadžić i Aleksandar Stjepanović; Milan Lojanica, Borivoje Jovanović, and<br />

Predrag Cagić; Sofija Vujanac-Borovnica and Nedeljko Borovnica, and others. One of<br />

the key figures was Mihajlo Čanak, who founded the Center for Housing within the IMS<br />

<strong>In</strong>stitute, thus bringing together the research in technology and housing culture, conducted<br />

in close collaboration with sociologists and other experts. 27 The result was a fast<br />

evolution in the quality and complexity of design methodology, which soon moved from<br />

standard modernist towers and slabs, partitioned apartments, and a complete separation<br />

of urban and architectural design, towards an integral design of the whole block<br />

(from the master plan down to street furniture), new typologies and concepts of urban<br />

space, and flexible, open apartments.

192<br />

pp. 192–93<br />

Marko Mušič:<br />

Cyril and Methodius University Complex,<br />

Skopje, 1974.


206<br />

Josip Seissel (planning), Ivan Vitić (architecture),<br />

Zvonimir Fröchlich and Pavle Ungar (landscaping):<br />

Pioneers’ City (youth center),<br />

Zagreb, 1948.

Rikard Marasović:<br />

Children’s Health Resort, Krvavica near<br />

Makarska, 1961.<br />


216<br />

“How could we describe our reality if what is currently going on here happens nowhere<br />

else in the world, if everything here is infused with synchronous circles of six centuries:<br />

what emerges between the baroque, Morlachia, Turkish and Austrian small-towns—within<br />

the framework of a dramatic struggle with the Kremlin for internationalist principles of<br />

Leninism—are the contours of the twenty-second century!”<br />

Miroslav Krleža, 1952 1<br />

The relationship toward historical time is a crucial question of modernity and of its cultural<br />

manifestations. Communism was by definition a vanguard projection into the future;<br />

as such, it was supposed to be in natural alliance with cultural avant-gardes. But communist<br />

revolutions did not automatically lead to communism; instead, the resultant socialist<br />

states were understood as only transitional stages towards a future utopia. The relationship<br />

of their cultures to historical time was thus rendered far more ambiguous than a simple<br />

“flight into the future.” Such ambiguity was established well before World War II: as the<br />

Russian architectural historian Vladimir Paperny theorized, the post-revolutionary Soviet<br />

Union developed two distinct cultures with opposed attitudes in regard to history. 2 According<br />

to the avant-garde view, the revolution was a new beginning; everything existing was<br />

supposed to be “burned down” and the architects had the task of imagining a brand new<br />

world from scratch. But the shift to socialist realism in the nineteen-thirties imposed an<br />

eschatological view in the opposite direction, proposing the revolution as an ending, or a<br />

culmination of civilization. As Stalinism indefinitely postponed the final attainment of utopia,<br />

architects were expected to summarize all the “progressive” traditions of architectural<br />

history rather than to invent anything radically new. Socialism and its architecture thus<br />

by no means had to be aligned in their orientation to history; they could move at different<br />

speeds and even look in opposite directions.<br />

When Yugoslav architects encountered socialism in 1945, conflicting attitudes<br />

abounded. The state expected to impose the socialist realist “end of history,” but its<br />

efforts were compromised by the lack of official “gatekeepers” in the field of architecture.<br />

<strong>In</strong> contrast, modernists argued that, like every other epoch in history, socialism<br />

should strive to develop its own style; given the harsh material realities of the postwar<br />

situation, however, they could hardly afford to dream up any radical visions. <strong>In</strong>stead of<br />

emphasizing a complete reinvention of architecture, the profession argued for a moderately<br />

progressive approach, maintaining continuity with the socially engaged prewar<br />

modernism; as Sarajevo architect Mate Baylon wrote in 1946, “We are not starting from<br />

scratch—we are continuing with our work.” 3<br />

The break with the Soviet Union and the introduction of the system of self-management<br />

revived the status of Yugoslav socialism as a progressive project shaping the “contours<br />

of the twenty-second century.” Restating Marx’s call for a “ruthless critique of everything<br />

existing,” the conclusion of the 1958 Program of the League of Communists of Yugoslavia<br />

enthusiastically invited perpetual experimentation: “Nothing that has been created so<br />

far should be so sacred that it cannot be overcome, that it cannot be replaced with something<br />

more progressive, more liberated, and more humane.” 4 But the accumulated layers<br />

of history still weighed down the leap into utopia: not only the weight of “backwardness,”<br />

which demanded decades to be skipped in order to achieve development, but also the varied<br />

identities of Yugoslavia’s constituent nationalities, which critically depended on history.<br />

Even more importantly, there was the massive weight of the recent war, from which the<br />

socialist project sprang, combining the revolution with antifascist liberation and the struggle<br />

against nationalist fratricide and thus conflating the basic legitimizing statements of<br />

the new state into an inseparable whole. It was a history of epic suffering and redemption<br />

against all odds, pitching Davids against Goliaths and good against evil—the stuff myths<br />

are made of. And myths were indeed made through the careful editing of the past, and<br />

relentlessly perpetuated through all modes of cultural production.<br />

1 Krleža (1961), p. 189; translated<br />

by V.K.<br />

2 Paperny (2002), pp. 13–32.<br />

3 Baylon (1946).<br />

4 Program Saveza komunista<br />

Jugoslavije (1977), p. 259.

217<br />

Architects in socialist Yugoslavia thus found themselves in a complex ideological space<br />

between the past and the future, simultaneously trying to navigate a convoluted history<br />

and to steer in the direction of a brighter future. The realistic approach under such conditions<br />

was to stay anchored in the present. Simply “catching up” with the “developed” world<br />

was already an enormous challenge, which in itself contained a good dose of futurism.<br />

Most architects were thus akin to drivers in the middle lane, advancing at a realistic speed,<br />

glancing from time to time at the rear-view mirror, and occasionally finding inspired shortcuts<br />

forward. Such driving was perfectly in line with the general course of modernization<br />

and yet it could not lead to all the practical and symbolic destinations that had to be visited.<br />

Accelerating beyond the available technological limits was more easily imagined than<br />

done, although not entirely out of reach; but it was still possible to wander off the curb, into<br />

the unpaved terrains of the past. It was on these uncharted detours from the steady course<br />

of modernization that some of the most original achievements were made.<br />

5 Berman (1982), p. 173.<br />

6 Rosen (2011).<br />

Looking Ahead<br />

One might expect that in a country like Yugoslavia—which attracted worldwide attention<br />

for its experiment of reinventing social relations for the sake of a more just, equitable<br />

world—architects would plunge into experimentation or utopian thinking without reservations.<br />

But that was hardly the case; for the most part, architecture in Yugoslavia was realistic,<br />

driven by pragmatic concerns. <strong>In</strong>stead of radical visions, there were evolutionary steps<br />

of adapting and retooling the existing modernist strategies. That was by no means a small<br />

feat: it meant that modernism was ultimately transformed from a “modernism of underdevelopment,”<br />

as Marshall Berman famously called it, into an agent of modernization. 5 It stopped<br />

being a “statement of intent” and became a tool of progress. Even if it was not always on the<br />

technological or aesthetic cutting edge, even when it was “moderate” or derivative, modernism<br />

came to stand for the actual realization of the promise of a better future; in a sense, most<br />

of this book is about that kind of futurism. It is unsurprising that the typical manifestations of<br />

space-age futurism, found both in the West and the Soviet Union, were not common in Yugoslavia,<br />

considering that the country was nowhere near partaking in the space technology.<br />

Still, a more radical merger of social critique and technological promise, like the one that<br />

flourished in the post-revolutionary Soviet Union, should have been imaginable. <strong>In</strong>deed, it<br />

was local artists who were far more adventurous in those terms, as the Zagreb-based international<br />

movement of New Tendencies demonstrated by establishing one of the world’s first<br />

hotbeds of computer art. 6 Rather than just a symptom of lingering conservatism, the relative<br />

scarcity of radical ideas in Yugoslav architecture may have been a result of the fact that the<br />

architectural profession was too busy with the very real project of modernization to waste<br />

the time with utopian considerations. By the time it finally became clear that fast modernization<br />

came at a price, the age of techno-utopias had already passed internationally and<br />

the critique, like everywhere else, materialized in its postmodernist form.<br />

The question of technological development was of key importance, since it determined<br />

the framework of the architects’ imagination. Material conditions at the end of World War<br />

II were miserable, greatly limiting the practical possibilities of construction. Among the<br />

rare examples of consciously progressive thought at that time—as well as precedents for<br />

future achievements—were the sports facilities that the Croatian architect Vladimir Turina<br />

designed in the late nineteen-forties for cities around Yugoslavia. His Dinamo Stadium in<br />

Zagreb—the only one of these realized—featured straightforward yet elegant stands in<br />

reinforced concrete, whose exposed supports evoked the structural poetic of Constructivism.<br />

But it was one of his unrealized projects that represented a singular achievement for its<br />

visionary quality: an aquatic center in Rijeka, a radical exploration of the concept of flexibility.<br />

The project envisioned a system of stands sliding on rails between the outdoor and<br />

indoor pools, the latter enveloped in an enormous cylindrical concrete shell. The pools could<br />

also be covered to serve as courts for other kinds of sport, even as airplane hangars. It was

224<br />

1 Neven Šegvić: Project for the<br />

Museum of National Revolution,<br />

Rijeka, 1972–76 Sketch.<br />

1<br />

and maintains … a clear avant-garde character. At the root of his work is that very first<br />

avant-garde monument, created by Tatlin in 1921 for the Third <strong>In</strong>ternational.” 17 The same<br />

statement could be easily applied to the works of the sculptor Vojin Bakić, who indeed<br />

exhibited with the artists from the (neo-)avant-garde group EXAT 51 and the movement<br />

pp. 250–51<br />

New Tendencies.<br />

Finished in 1981, his memorial to a wartime partisan hospital<br />

atop Mt. Petrova Gora was the pinnacle of a systematic, decades-long search for<br />

monumental abstraction. It was one of the most architectural of the sculptor-designed<br />

memorials, enclosing a dramatic, fully inhabitable space with twelve interior levels that<br />

could be used as exhibition spaces. It was also among the last large-scale commemorative<br />

structures constructed before the collapse of the country, long after the “golden age”<br />

of commemoration had passed. Even in today’s seriously dilapidated state, the memorial’s<br />

“liquid” forms in stainless steel appear futuristic, despite the fact that in the meantime<br />

Frank Gehry made similar approach widely known.<br />

Besides monuments and memorials, which trailed between the disciplinary boundaries,<br />

sites of memory included certain properly architectural building types, such as the various<br />

memorial museums. A sizable subset of such institutions were the “museums of the revolution,”<br />

built in most large cities around the country.<br />

Suspended between<br />

pp. 248–49, 262–63<br />

functional demands and the need for symbolism, most of these buildings—such as those in<br />

Sarajevo, Novi Sad, and Rijeka—were the versions of white modernist volumes with a certain<br />

expressive element occasionally added into the formula; the gravity-defying white volume<br />

of the Sarajevo museum achieved one of the most ethereal statements of that kind. But<br />

outside of large cities and in instances where the program demanded explicit commemoration,<br />

it was possible to explore more evocative strategies. <strong>In</strong> small towns or in open landscapes,<br />

it was relatively common to abstract the local vernacular architecture—typically<br />

houses and cabins with steep roofs—thus tying the revolution to the “people” and at the<br />

p. 244<br />

same time regionalizing modernist tropes. On the other hand, buildings like the<br />

Memorial Museum Šumarice in Kragujevac, which commemorated a massive massacre<br />

of civilians by the German troops in 1941, aimed at empathy through an abstract spatial<br />

p. 246–47<br />

and tectonic configuration. Ivan Antić and Ivanka Raspopović designed it after<br />

their success with the Museum of Contemporary Art in New Belgrade, taking a step further<br />

in the exploration of group form by clustering brick shafts of varying heights. With no<br />

windows, lit only by the distant skylight at the top of each narrow shaft, the interior stirs the<br />

emotions by evoking a sense of claustrophobia and hopelessness, while still fulfilling the<br />

pragmatic requirements of the program.<br />

17 Argan (1981), pp. 7–8.

225<br />

1 Dušan Džamonja: Monument to the<br />

Revolution, Mrakovica, Mt. Kozara,<br />

1972.<br />

2 Vojin Bakić: Monument to the<br />

Revolution of the People of<br />

Slavonia, Kamenska, 1958–68.<br />

3 Vojin Bakić: Memorial to the<br />

Revolution, Mali Petrovac,<br />

Mt. Petrova Gora, 1980–81, model.<br />

The sites of memory had quite varied destinies after the collapse of the socialist state.<br />

Some suffered amidst the attempts to reimagine the states that succeeded Yugoslavia by<br />

erasing the predecessor’s traces. Vojin Bakić fared particularly badly under such circumstances:<br />

besides Petrova Gora, which is still undergoing slow dismantling, his memorial<br />

at Kamenska—another dramatic form in stainless steel—was blown to pieces. Many others<br />

sites were damaged in the multiple wars of the nineteen-nineties. Most memorials, however,<br />

never lost their symbolic meaning and still continue their commemorative function.<br />

Some have been meticulously repaired and some have been even celebrated as pinnacles<br />

of the respective national cultures: Ravnikar’s cemetery at Kampor, for example, was presented<br />

as Slovenia’s entry at the Biennale of Architecture in Venice in 2004. 18<br />

1 2 3<br />

18 Curtis, Krušec, Vodopivec (2004).<br />

19 Ljiljana Blagojević makes a case for<br />

Bogdanović as a postmodernist:<br />

Blagojević (2011).<br />

Bogdan Bogdanović and the Mediation of Universal Memory<br />

<strong>Between</strong> his first commission for the Monument to the Jewish Victims of Fascism in 1952<br />

and the collapse of Yugoslavia forty years later, Bogdan Bogdanović (1922–2010) became<br />

the preeminent builder of memorials, eighteen in total scattered through five of Yugoslavia’s<br />

six republics and in both autonomous provinces. Bogdanović’s significance, however,<br />

exceeded that of his built work; he was also a prolific author, an original architectural and<br />

urban theorist, a charismatic professor at the University of Belgrade with a cultish following,<br />

a master draughtsman, an active politician and one-time mayor of Belgrade, and a<br />

political dissident who went into exile because of his opposition to nationalism at the end<br />

of the socialist period. Bogdanović’s was also the most self-conscious attempt to mediate<br />

between past, present, and future and in many ways it anticipated and was closely affiliated<br />

with the rising post-modernism. 19 But if his work should be labeled postmodern at<br />

all, it was a strain of postmodernism all its own: populist, but not commercial; in search of<br />

archetypes, but not typology; embracing ornament, but not favoring any particular “language”;<br />

and ultimately based on avant-garde methods, those of surrealism, a movement<br />

that otherwise had limited impact on architecture.<br />

Bogdanović was introduced to surrealism from an early age, through his father, a literary<br />

critic who was in close contact with the circle of Belgrade surrealists. As a student, the<br />

young Bogdan dreamed of designing “surrealist architecture,” for which he had no prec-

238<br />

p. 238–39<br />

Bogdan Bogdanović:<br />

Jasenovac Memorial Complex,<br />

Jasenovac, 1959–66.


242<br />

p. 242–43<br />

Bogdan Bogdanović:<br />

Partisans’ Cemetery,<br />

Mostar, 1959–65.


250<br />

p. 250–51<br />

Vojin Bakić and Berislav Šerbetić:<br />

Monument to the Partisans,<br />

Petrova Gora, 1979.


iographies<br />

imprint<br />

Vladimir Kulić is an architectural historian and the<br />

co-editor of the forthcoming book Sanctioning <strong>Modernism</strong>:<br />

Architecture and the Making of Postwar Identities<br />

with Monica Penick and Timothy Parker. <strong>In</strong> 2009, he<br />

received the Bruno Zevi Prize for a Historical/Critical<br />

Essay in Architecture. He teaches at Florida Atlantic<br />

University.<br />

Maroje Mrduljaš is an architecture and design critic,<br />

curator, and author of several books, including Testing<br />

reality—Contemporary Croatian Architecture and<br />

Design and <strong>In</strong>dependent Culture. He is the editor<br />

of Oris magazine and Head of the Research Library at<br />

the Faculty of Architecture in Zagreb.<br />

Wolfgang Thaler is based in Vienna and specializes<br />

in architectural photography. He has exhibited and<br />

published widely, in his own publications (Aida – Mit<br />

reiner Butter, Mep‘Yuk), as well as in collaborative<br />

projects, such as Das Fürstenzimmer von Schloss<br />

Velthurns, The Looshaus, and Vito Acconci: Building<br />

an Island.<br />

Image Credits<br />

Archives<br />

Archive of Yugoslavia, Belgrade: 38/3, 41/1, 42/1–2, 43/1<br />

Atlas of Croatian Architecture of the 20th and 21st Centuries,<br />

Zagreb: 181/4<br />

CCN-Images, Zagreb: 38/2, 38/4, 47/1, 124/1-2, 126/3, 127/2,<br />

136/1, 181/2–3, 182/2<br />

IMS <strong>In</strong>stitute, Center for Housing, Belgrade: 175/2, 177/1<br />

Museum of Contemporary Art, Zagreb: 218/1 (Dunja<br />

Donassy-Bonačić), 220/3<br />

Museum of the City of Zagreb, Zagreb: 26/1, 218/2–3<br />

Oris: 23/1, 80/3, 81/1–2<br />

State Archive of Croatia: 126/1<br />

Ustanova France in Marta Ivanšek: 179/1–2<br />

Private Collections:<br />

Courtesy Bakić Family Archive: 225/2<br />

Courtesy Bogdan Bogdanović: 226/1–2<br />

Courtesy Zoran Bojović: 48/1–2<br />

Courtesy Robert Burghardt: 225/1 (photo Robert<br />

Burghardt)<br />

Courtesy Čičin Šain Family Archive: 181/1<br />

Courtesy Aleksandar Janković: 39/4<br />

Courtesy Miloš Jurišić: 26/2, 36/2, 38/1, 39/1–2, 82/1, 219/1<br />

Courtesy Višnja Kukoč: 136/2<br />

Courtesy Vladimir Mattioni: 175/1, 178/1<br />

Courtesy Dejan Milivojević: 82/3–4<br />

Courtesy Mihajlo Mitrović: 82/5<br />

Courtesy Vesna Perković-Jović: 177/2<br />

Courtesy private collection: 127/1<br />

Courtesy Aleksandar Stjepanović: 175/3<br />

Courtesy Elša Turkušić: 88/4, 132/2, 182/3<br />

Courtesy Zlatko Ugljen and Nina Ademović Ugljen: 91/1–3<br />

Photo Janez Kališnik: 86/3<br />

Photo Nino Vranić: 86/2<br />

Photo Vladimir Kulić: 24/3, 27/1–2, 36/1, 85/1, 222/1–2<br />

Periodicals<br />

Arhitekt (Ljubljana): 171/1, 222/3<br />

Arhitektura (Zagreb): 24/2, 34/1, 34/3, 34/4, 34/5, 43/2,<br />

80/1–2, 123/1, 125/2, 131/2, 168/1-4, 171/2–3, 228/1<br />

Arhitektura Urbanizam (Belgrade): 39/3, 82/2, 86/1, 125/1, 126/2<br />

Čovjek i prostor (Zagreb): 129/1, 170/1, 182/1<br />

Sinteza (Ljubljana): 170/2<br />

Tehnika (Belgrade): 34/2<br />

Other Publications<br />

Dubrović, Ervin: Ninoslav Kučan, exhibition catalog<br />

(Rijeka: Muzej grada Rijeke, 2006): 173/1<br />

Grabrijan, Dušan, and Juraj Neidhardt, Arhitektura<br />

Bosne i put u suvremeno / Architecture of Bosnia and<br />

the Way to Modernity (Ljubljana: Državna založba<br />

Slovenije, 1957): 88/1–3, 132/1<br />

Grimmer, Vera, ed., Neven Šegvić, special issue of<br />

Arhitektura (XLV, no. 211, 2002): 224/1<br />

Grupa Meč, exhibition catalogue<br />

(Belgrade: Studentski kulturni centar, 1981): 228/2<br />

Horvat-Pintarić, Vera, Vjenceslav Richter, (Zagreb:<br />

Grafički Zavod Hrvatske): 1970, 43/3, 220/1–2<br />

Katalog stanova JNA / 1 (Belgrade: Savezni sekretarijat<br />

za narodnu odbranu, 1988): 178/2<br />

Krippner, Monica, Yugoslavia <strong>In</strong>vites<br />

(London: Hutchinson, 1954): 23/2, 24/1<br />

Novi Beograd 1961 (Belgrade: Direkcija za izgradnju<br />

Novog Beograda, 1961): 123/2–3<br />

Projekt spomenika na Petrovoj gori. (Zagreb: Acta<br />

architectonica, Zavod za arhitekturu Arhitektonskog<br />

fakuleteta Sveučilišta u Zagrebu): 1981, 225/3<br />

Skopje Resurgent: The Story of a United Nations Special<br />

Fund Town Planning Project<br />

(New York: United Nations, 1970): 45/1, 135/1–2<br />

Supported by<br />

© 2012 by jovis Verlag GmbH and<br />

Vladimir Kulić, Maroje Mrduljaš, Wolfgang Thaler<br />

Texts by kind permission of the authors.<br />

Pictures by kind permission of the photographers/<br />

holders of the picture rights.<br />

All rights reserved.<br />

Cover<br />

Wolfgang Thaler<br />

Goce Delčev Student Dormitory, Skopje, 1969<br />

Map<br />

cartomedia (www.cartomedia-karlsruhe.de)<br />

Authors<br />

Vladimir Kulić, Maroje Mrduljaš, and Wolfgang Thaler<br />

All color photographs<br />

Wolfgang Thaler<br />

Graphic concept, layout and typesetting<br />

METAPHOR (www.metaphor.me)<br />

Type<br />

Memphis (Rudolf Wolf), Regular (Nik Thoenen)<br />

Printing and binding<br />

GRASPO CZ, a.s., Zlín<br />

Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche<br />

Nationalbibliothek<br />

The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication<br />

in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed<br />

bibliographic data are available on the <strong>In</strong>ternet at<br />

http://dnb.d-nb.de<br />

Publisher<br />

jovis Verlag GmbH<br />

Kurfürstenstraße 15/16<br />

10785 Berlin<br />

www.jovis.de<br />

ISBN 978-86859-147-7

iographies<br />

imprint<br />

Vladimir Kulić is an architectural historian and the<br />

co-editor of the forthcoming book Sanctioning <strong>Modernism</strong>:<br />

Architecture and the Making of Postwar Identities<br />

with Monica Penick and Timothy Parker. <strong>In</strong> 2009, he<br />

received the Bruno Zevi Prize for a Historical/Critical<br />

Essay in Architecture. He teaches at Florida Atlantic<br />

University.<br />

Maroje Mrduljaš is an architecture and design critic,<br />

curator, and author of several books, including Testing<br />

reality—Contemporary Croatian Architecture and<br />

Design and <strong>In</strong>dependent Culture. He is the editor<br />

of Oris magazine and Head of the Research Library at<br />

the Faculty of Architecture in Zagreb.<br />

Wolfgang Thaler is based in Vienna and specializes<br />

in architectural photography. He has exhibited and<br />

published widely, in his own publications (Aida – Mit<br />

reiner Butter, Mep‘Yuk), as well as in collaborative<br />

projects, such as Das Fürstenzimmer von Schloss<br />

Velthurns, The Looshaus, and Vito Acconci: Building<br />

an Island.<br />

Image Credits<br />

Archives<br />

Archive of Yugoslavia, Belgrade: 38/3, 41/1, 42/1–2, 43/1<br />

Atlas of Croatian Architecture of the 20th and 21st Centuries,<br />

Zagreb: 181/4<br />

CCN-Images, Zagreb: 38/2, 38/4, 47/1, 124/1-2, 126/3, 127/2,<br />

136/1, 181/2–3, 182/2<br />

IMS <strong>In</strong>stitute, Center for Housing, Belgrade: 175/2, 177/1<br />

Museum of Contemporary Art, Zagreb: 218/1 (Dunja<br />

Donassy-Bonačić), 220/3<br />

Museum of the City of Zagreb, Zagreb: 26/1, 218/2–3<br />

Oris: 23/1, 80/3, 81/1–2<br />

State Archive of Croatia: 126/1<br />

Ustanova France in Marta Ivanšek: 179/1–2<br />

Private Collections:<br />

Courtesy Bakić Family Archive: 225/2<br />

Courtesy Bogdan Bogdanović: 226/1–2<br />

Courtesy Zoran Bojović: 48/1–2<br />

Courtesy Robert Burghardt: 225/1 (photo Robert<br />

Burghardt)<br />

Courtesy Čičin Šain Family Archive: 181/1<br />

Courtesy Aleksandar Janković: 39/4<br />

Courtesy Miloš Jurišić: 26/2, 36/2, 38/1, 39/1–2, 82/1, 219/1<br />

Courtesy Višnja Kukoč: 136/2<br />

Courtesy Vladimir Mattioni: 175/1, 178/1<br />

Courtesy Dejan Milivojević: 82/3–4<br />

Courtesy Mihajlo Mitrović: 82/5<br />

Courtesy Vesna Perković-Jović: 177/2<br />

Courtesy private collection: 127/1<br />

Courtesy Aleksandar Stjepanović: 175/3<br />

Courtesy Elša Turkušić: 88/4, 132/2, 182/3<br />

Courtesy Zlatko Ugljen and Nina Ademović Ugljen: 91/1–3<br />

Photo Janez Kališnik: 86/3<br />

Photo Nino Vranić: 86/2<br />

Photo Vladimir Kulić: 24/3, 27/1–2, 36/1, 85/1, 222/1–2<br />

Periodicals<br />

Arhitekt (Ljubljana): 171/1, 222/3<br />

Arhitektura (Zagreb): 24/2, 34/1, 34/3, 34/4, 34/5, 43/2,<br />

80/1–2, 123/1, 125/2, 131/2, 168/1-4, 171/2–3, 228/1<br />

Arhitektura Urbanizam (Belgrade): 39/3, 82/2, 86/1, 125/1, 126/2<br />

Čovjek i prostor (Zagreb): 129/1, 170/1, 182/1<br />

Sinteza (Ljubljana): 170/2<br />

Tehnika (Belgrade): 34/2<br />

Other Publications<br />

Dubrović, Ervin: Ninoslav Kučan, exhibition catalog<br />

(Rijeka: Muzej grada Rijeke, 2006): 173/1<br />

Grabrijan, Dušan, and Juraj Neidhardt, Arhitektura<br />

Bosne i put u suvremeno / Architecture of Bosnia and<br />

the Way to Modernity (Ljubljana: Državna založba<br />

Slovenije, 1957): 88/1–3, 132/1<br />

Grimmer, Vera, ed., Neven Šegvić, special issue of<br />

Arhitektura (XLV, no. 211, 2002): 224/1<br />

Grupa Meč, exhibition catalogue<br />

(Belgrade: Studentski kulturni centar, 1981): 228/2<br />

Horvat-Pintarić, Vera, Vjenceslav Richter, (Zagreb:<br />

Grafički Zavod Hrvatske): 1970, 43/3, 220/1–2<br />

Katalog stanova JNA / 1 (Belgrade: Savezni sekretarijat<br />

za narodnu odbranu, 1988): 178/2<br />

Krippner, Monica, Yugoslavia <strong>In</strong>vites<br />

(London: Hutchinson, 1954): 23/2, 24/1<br />

Novi Beograd 1961 (Belgrade: Direkcija za izgradnju<br />

Novog Beograda, 1961): 123/2–3<br />

Projekt spomenika na Petrovoj gori. (Zagreb: Acta<br />

architectonica, Zavod za arhitekturu Arhitektonskog<br />

fakuleteta Sveučilišta u Zagrebu): 1981, 225/3<br />

Skopje Resurgent: The Story of a United Nations Special<br />

Fund Town Planning Project<br />

(New York: United Nations, 1970): 45/1, 135/1–2<br />

Supported by<br />

© 2012 by jovis Verlag GmbH and<br />

Vladimir Kulić, Maroje Mrduljaš, Wolfgang Thaler<br />

Texts by kind permission of the authors.<br />

Pictures by kind permission of the photographers/<br />

holders of the picture rights.<br />

All rights reserved.<br />

Cover<br />

Wolfgang Thaler<br />

Goce Delčev Student Dormitory, Skopje, 1969<br />

Map<br />

cartomedia (www.cartomedia-karlsruhe.de)<br />

Authors<br />

Vladimir Kulić, Maroje Mrduljaš, and Wolfgang Thaler<br />

All color photographs<br />

Wolfgang Thaler<br />

Graphic concept, layout and typesetting<br />

METAPHOR (www.metaphor.me)<br />

Type<br />

Memphis (Rudolf Wolf), Regular (Nik Thoenen)<br />

Printing and binding<br />

GRASPO CZ, a.s., Zlín<br />

Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche<br />

Nationalbibliothek<br />

The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication<br />

in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed<br />

bibliographic data are available on the <strong>In</strong>ternet at<br />

http://dnb.d-nb.de<br />

Publisher<br />

jovis Verlag GmbH<br />

Kurfürstenstraße 15/16<br />

10785 Berlin<br />

www.jovis.de<br />

ISBN 978-86859-147-7

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