topos 133

no 133
2025
to po s.
urban icons

COVER
PHOTO: Ivan Wong on Unsplash
A guardian deity overlooks the neon pulse of a
Taiwanese street- ancient myth facing modern
velocity. The stillness of the icon anchors the
blur of the city, revealing how urban icons are
not built for spectacle, but for meaning:
reminders that every accelerated metropolis
rests on deeper cultural layers. Here, tradition
and movement form a single heartbeat- an
emblem of what cities truly are.
Every city has them. Some flaunt them. Others
deny them. A few manufacture them on demand.
Urban icons – those bold, brilliant, beloved
(and occasionally bewildering) objects
that capture the imagination, dominate the skyline,
and stubbornly appear in every second
PowerPoint on “placemaking”. But what exactly
makes an icon iconic?
In this issue of topos, we set out to explore that
very question – fully aware that, like most urban
phenomena worth discussing, the answer is
messier than the silhouette of the Sydney Opera
House at dusk. Yes, icons inspire. They mark
memory. They generate postcards, pilgrimages,
and Power Rankings. But they also deceive.
They distract. They cast long shadows over
things we’d rather not see: who was displaced,
who wasn’t consulted, and who now cleans the
viewing platform.
So no – this is not just an issue filled with glossy
praise songs to starchitect showpieces (though
some of them do deserve it). This is a global
deep dive into the double life of urban icons: as
symbols of collective aspiration, and as mirrors
of systemic contradiction.
We begin, naturally, with the icons themselves.
From the rational audacity of Brasília to the reclaimed
radicalism of Berlin’s Tempelhofer Feld,
from the layered sensuality of Burle Marx’s Copacabana
promenade to the reflective minimalism
of the Miroir d’eau in Bordeaux – we examine
what these places mean, what they do, and
what they’ve become in the age of algorithmic
tourism. And yes, there are a few surprises
along the way. Not all icons are tall. Some lie
flat, curve gently, invite play, or remember quietly
– like Maya Lin’s Vietnam Veterans Memorial
or the Ravines of Toronto.
But we also go further - take the gloves off.
What if the global obsession with icons is fuelling
the cultural homogenisation of cities? What
if we’re not building identity, but standardising
it – one elevated park at a time? And when the
global systems that sustain these icons begin to
fray – under pressure from climate, capital, or
collapse – what will remain? Which icons will
outlive us, and what will they say about us once
we’re gone?
It’s not all gloom. In fact, this issue is strangely
hopeful. Because looking at urban icons with
open eyes – eyes that can admire and question
in the same breath – is not an act of cynicism.
It’s an act of maturity. It’s what distinguishes iconography
from idolatry. And, let’s be honest, it’s
what the urban discourse desperately needs
right now.
So: read on. Be inspired. Be irritated. Be surprised.
Because in the end, the real icon is not
the tower, the bridge, or the beautifully overbudgeted
museum. It’s the question that refuses
to go away.
Of course, I look forward to hearing from you.
Contact me, let's get in touch and explore the future
of metropolitan areas together with topos.
TOPOS E-PAPER: AVAIL-
ABLE FOR YOUR DESKTOP
For more information visit:
www.toposmagazine.com/epaper
TOBIAS HAGER
Editor-in-Chief
t.hager@georg-media.de
topos 133 005

CONTENTS
OPINION
Page 8
CURATED PRODUCTS
Page 106
THE BIG PICTURE
Page 10
METROPOLIS EXPLAINED
Page 12
URBAN PIONEERS
Page 14
THE MIROIR D’EAU IN BORDEAUX
Page 24
FROM MONUMENTS TO MOMENTS
Page 18
THE MIROIR D’EAU IN BORDEAUX
Page 24
HAFENCITY HAMBURG
Page 28
ROBERTO BURLE MARX AND
THE COPACABANA
Page 32
CHEONGGYECHEON
Page 38
THE PROMENADE DU PAILLON
Page 42
"ICONIC STATUS
EMERGES OVER TIME"
Page 48
THE NARVA HÖFE BY GUSTAV LANGE
Page 52
THE GHENT MARKET HALL
Page 56
THE RAVINES OF TORONTO
Page 60
TEMPELHOFER FELD AS BERLIN’S
LIVING STAGE
Page 64
CATHERINE MOSBACH’S LOUVRE LENS
Page 68
“I’D RATHER TURN TO
THE LESS PRAISED PLACES”
Page 72
TAPIOLA
Page 78
THE CENTRO CULTURAL SÃO PAULO
Page 84
PARC DE LA VILLETTE
Page 88
“ICONS OFFER THE POSSIBILITY TO
IDENTIFY WITH THE CITY THROUGH A
BUILT FORM“
Page 92
MUNICH’S OLYMPIC PARK
Page 96
THE ENDURING POWER OF THE VIETNAM
VETERANS MEMORIAL
Page 100
CITY GAMECHANGERS
Page 112
EDGE CITY
Page 114
IMPRINT
Page 113
THE GHENT MARKET HALL
Page 56
Photos: Geralbe from Pixabay, Tim Van de Velde
006 topos 133

OPINION
THE DEATH
OF LOCAL
They promised uniqueness – we got repetition. Today’s urban icons, from rooftop gardens to
repackaged railways, parade as symbols of identity while quietly standardising our cities.
Bold civic gestures have become safe, copy–paste spectacles designed to impress tourists and
attract capital. In the race for visibility, cities risk losing their voice – if every city builds its
own High Line, who will build something that truly matters?
008 topos 133

Opinion
They arrive as statements of intent. A hovering
rooftop here, a garden bridge there, an adaptive
reuse project draped in LED sincerity. Urban
icons: those meticulously branded, endlessly
replicated images of progress, culture and capital
that cities now collect like architectural
Pokémon. Sydney has its sails. Bilbao has its
blob. New York has its High Line, and the rest of
the world seems determined to have a High
Line too – just with slightly different plants.
But what if the global obsession with urban
icons isn’t just aesthetically lazy or economically
risky, but culturally fatal? What if, in our wellmeaning
pursuit of landmark placemaking, we
are actively participating in the slow death of
urban identity?
Let’s be clear: this is not an argument against
beauty, ambition or architectural excellence. It
is an argument against formulaic symbolism
masquerading as uniqueness – a critique of the
increasingly algorithmic language of urban
branding, where “local character” is carefully
choreographed to appeal to the global gaze.
In theory, every city wants to be itself. In practice,
most cities want to be seen – and being
seen increasingly means looking like someone
else. The logic is seductive: install an artful stairway,
a skyline-defining volume or a curated
stretch of creative-class street furniture, and
investors, influencers and policymakers will follow.
The city, now graced with its own “icon”,
enters the ranks of the competitive metropole.
Never mind that the icon could just as well exist
in Dubai, Toronto or Shenzhen. The illusion of
uniqueness is easier to maintain when everyone
is copying from the same catalogue.
This homogenising effect is not limited to architecture.
It infects the urban economy. It bleeds
into tourism. It dictates which spaces are cared
for and which are neglected. Cultural districts
bloom, but only if they photograph well. Public
space is preserved, but only if it performs. Even
authenticity, that last bastion of the urban local,
is now a strategy deck: “curated spontaneity”,
“street-level vibrancy”, “instagrammable grit”.
The result? A world of cities that all feel eerily
similar. Not because they have nothing in common,
but because their difference has been flattened
into exportable experience. You can now
have a Vietnamese coffee in a shipping container
in Manchester, surrounded by plants modelled
after a Singaporean eco-park, beneath
lighting based on Copenhagen’s pedestrian
strategy. It is comforting. It is familiar. It is
everywhere. And it is nowhere.
Urban icons play a central role in this. Not
because they are inherently evil – but because
they are structurally designed to be recognised
rather than rooted. They are content, not context.
Their visual power often overrides their
social function. And once they become successful,
they spawn replications faster than zoning
boards can blink. Every city gets its starchitected
museum, its elevated park, its multi-use cultural
hub. Diversity, re-skinned in steel and glass.
And yet, we call it “placemaking”.
Perhaps the real tragedy is this: in our desperation
to become globally legible, we have forgotten
how to be locally fluent. The urban icon,
once an expression of civic self-understanding,
is now a placeholder – a billboard for borrowed
aspirations. If every city becomes iconic, then
none of them are.
This is more than an architectural trend; it is a
social and cultural shift with consequences for
how we live, interact, and belong. When cities
chase the same checklist of “iconic” markers,
they risk erasing the subtle, unglamorous details
that give them character: the small markets
where generations meet, the murals painted by
local artists, the alleyways and parks that are
loved precisely because they are ordinary. Urban
life thrives in these details, yet they rarely make
it into glossy brochures or Instagram feeds.
The challenge ahead is to reclaim local imagination
without rejecting progress – to design spaces
that are ambitious yet grounded, striking yet
familiar. Cities must remember that visibility
alone does not define value. True identity comes
from the layers of history, culture, and community
that cannot be copied or mass-produced.
Only then can an urban icon be more than a
symbol; it can be a story, a memory, and a place
that truly belongs to its people.
TOBIAS HAGER is a journalist and Chief Content
Officer and member of the management board at
GEORG Media. Responsible for all GEORG brands
such as topos magazine, BAUMEISTER and
Garten + Landschaft, his focus is on the areas of content,
digital, marketing and entrepreneurship.
topos 133 009

What Makes an
Urban Icon?
When you think of Sydney, the opera house inevitably springs to
mind. The thought of Tokyo immediately conjures up images of the
bustling Shibuya crossing. The Taj Mahal is symbolic of an entire
country in the public perception, just as the Eiffel Tower in Paris is
for France or the Statue of Liberty and Central Park are for New
York. For various reasons, all of these special places shape the external
and, to some extent, the internal perception of the cities they are
located in. In architecture and urban research, the term “urban icon”
has become established to describe this phenomenon.
JULIA TREICHEL
topos 133 019

urban icons
But what exactly does this term mean? The
icon—originally from the Greek eikṓn, which
means “image, likeness”—initially referred to
religious cult images, especially in Orthodox
Christianity: richly decorated, symbolic representations
of holy figures or events. Over time,
the term became detached from its religious
origins and came to be used to describe anything
that exemplifies an era, a movement, or a
cultural value. An icon embodies the spirit of
the times, becoming a symbol of an idea or attitude
and gaining social recognition, sometimes
even veneration, as a result.
The complexity of the term also explains its
widespread—one might almost say inflationary—use
in art and culture. Icons can be found
everywhere: in pop culture as well as in the civil
rights movement or feminism. The situation is
similar with objects that become icons. However,
this issue focuses on architectural, urban,
and architectural icons. The few examples mentioned
at the beginning already show how
diverse their manifestations can be: from symbolically
charged architecture to culturally
influenced public spaces, to outstanding infrastructure
or entire urban landscapes – many
things can obtain iconic status.
This passivity is an essential feature of the phenomenon:
nothing is an icon in itself. It is only
through attribution, perception, and social significance
that something is elevated to the status
of an icon. But who or what confers this status on
a place, a building, or a structure? Don't such
places have a special basic configuration—something
moving, sublime, or spiritual that has an
effect that moves people to revere them, as if they
were images of saints? And why are icons staged
as such from the outside in the first place?
City as a product?
In 2023, Italian architect and this year's curator
of the Venice Biennale, Carlo Ratti, commented
in Bauwelt that in the age of city marketing and
social media staging, cities are competing globally
for attention. Architectural icons function
as visual brands: they bundle cultural significance,
generate tourist appeal, and condense
urban identity into a symbolic image. Accordingly,
many cities are keen to produce such
icons. Architect and urban planner Dr. Christian
Salewski also describes this connection in a
2012 publication by the German Institute for
Urban Studies: “The basis of this new form of
spatial production is an understanding of the
city as a marketable commodity, which can be
observed in many places in a wide variety of
political and economic systems.”
The commercialisation of urban spaces and the
transformation of the city into a product are
thus central themes in the debate about urban
icons. Ratti goes on to criticise architecture's
often unsuccessful attempts to compete in this
race for “urban clickbait”, which rarely succeeds.
In the aforementioned publication by the German
Institute for Urban Studies, editors Dr.
Celina Kress, Dr. Marc Schalenberg, and Sandra
Schürmann also question the claim of so-called
icons to represent “the city as a whole”. At the
same time, they raise a series of even more fundamental
questions: "Who has (had) the power
to define the city and its ‘landmark buildings’?
Does the suggestive power of iconic architecture
result primarily from the genius of the
architects involved, from the design quality of
their works—or rather from the assertiveness
and desire for recognition of certain political
actors, from the interests of investors, or from
the expectations of the intended users?" write
Kress, Schalenberg, and Schürmann.
How to become an icon
These critical questions open up a new perspective
on how we deal with architectural icons. A
prime example of such a staging is Frank O.
Gehry's Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao. The
formerly inconspicuous shipbuilding and port
city, which had long suffered from the consequences
of industrial structural change, became
an international tourist destination attracting
visitors from all over the world thanks to the
spectacular museum. This development, which
has been described many times and has become
known as the “Bilbao effect”, represents a targeted,
externally planned staging of urban transformation.
When people think of Bilbao today,
they inevitably picture Gehry's curved titanium
facades. It is an image that has become deeply
engraved in the collective memory. But is this
enough to speak of an urban icon? Does a building
become iconic because it possesses extraordinary
creative power, or because a small circle
of actors decides that it should become an icon,
020 topos 133

urban icons
THE MIROIR D’EAU
IN BORDEAUX
MAX HANSEN (BHM PLANUNGSGESELLSCHAFT)
024 topos 133

Photo: Geralbe from Pixabay
Between sky, water, and
city life: visitors enjoy
the play of reflections
and mist at Bordeaux’s
Miroir d’eau.
topos 133 025

Between the Garonne River and the grand façade of the Place de la Bourse, Bordeaux’s
Miroir d’eau unfolds a poetic dialogue between water, architecture, and the
public realm. What at first appears as a minimalist surface, becomes a stage where
city, sky, and people merge. Conceived by landscape architect Michel Corajoud, the
world’s largest reflecting pool embodies a new urban philosophy – one that transforms
historic grandeur into a living, participatory experience.
At first glance, this urban icon appears almost inconspicuous – modest
and restrained. Yet those who engage with it soon realise the sophistication
of the place: a thin film of water extending over 3,450 square metres,
reflecting the clouds circling above and the surrounding architecture,
harmonising both and subtly mediating between water, space, time, and
society. This urban icon is far more than merely the largest reflecting pool
in the world (cf. Bordeaux Tourisme, 2022).
Stretching between the banks of the Garonne and the Place de la Bourse in
Bordeaux, the Miroir d’eau forms part of a broader urban design and planning
concept. Over time, it has become one of the city’s most photographed
and most beloved meeting places. Today, it is regarded as an international
model of contemporary urban and landscape design (cf. Gehl, 2011).
The water feature was designed in 2006 by the renowned French landscape
architect Michel Corajoud as part of the large-scale urban renewal
of Bordeaux’s riverfront. The construction seems simple: a vast surface of
anthracite-coloured natural stone dotted with an almost imperceptible
grid of water jets. The surface is slightly inclined and bordered by shallow
channels. Every fifteen minutes, a thin layer of water only a few centimetres
deep is released, accompanied by a fine mist. This transforms the
space into a setting of near-mystical, almost surreal quality. The contours
of the surroundings begin to blur, the boundaries between sky and earth
dissolve – a temporary dreamscape emerges in the heart of the city (cf.
Corajoud, 2007). In its minimalist way, it creates a visually striking and
sensuous experience.
A mirror between past and present
What stands out most is the reflection of the adjacent buildings on the
film of water—above all that of the imposing façade of the Place de la
Bourse, a masterpiece of 18th-century classical architecture. Built
between 1730 and 1775, the building long symbolised Bordeaux’s economic
ascent (cf. UNESCO, 2007). Through the broad expanse of water,
the monumental façade is doubled, mirrored, almost staged – and thus
presented anew in a unique way. This interplay between old and new is
not a rupture, but a dialogue across time – an architectural strategy also
emphasised in the UNESCO World Heritage framework (ibid.). Hence,
the Miroir d’eau is not merely an element of landscape design but a contemporary
reading of historical identity. It deftly reveals the fusion
between historical and modern urban imagery, thereby establishing itself
as an urban icon. Meanwhile, the sky, passers-by, the shifting light, and
movement itself all become part of the artwork, entering into a poetic dialogue
between architecture, nature, and humankind.
The Miroir d’eau as public space
The origins of the Miroir d’eau date back to the 1990s and form part of
026 topos 133

urban icons
Bordeaux’s profound structural transformation. The banks of the
Garonne, once dominated by traffic and industrial uses, were gradually
opened to pedestrians and cyclists. At the same time, a new tram system
was introduced and numerous public squares were redesigned (cf. Bordeaux
Métropole, 2020). A transformation took place in which the innovative
synthesis of history and modernity – embodied in the Miroir d’eau
– became far more than a project of urban aesthetics. Its realisation
marked the beginning of a new direction for the city: a shift from functionality-driven
to life-oriented urban planning. In 2007, Bordeaux was
designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site, partly for this very reason.
This transformation also involved a reorientation of open-space structures.
Unlike many urban prestige projects, where access is regulated by
consumption or social norms, the Miroir d’eau is freely accessible. It
serves as a stage, meeting place, playground, and haven of peace - for all
groups of society (cf. Gehl, 2011). Here, public space is not instrumentalised
but kept open – a principle reminiscent of Henri Lefebvre’s concept
of the “Right to the City”: cities belong not merely to their administrations,
investors, or planners, but above all to their users (cf. Lefebvre,
1968). The Miroir d’eau stands as a living example of this idea. As an
inclusive urban space, it remains open to all.
Icon of visual language and global urban identity
From the perspective of Ray Oldenburg’s “Third Place” theory – which
describes spaces between home and work as essential for social integration
– the Miroir d’eau represents a paradigmatic example: a space free
from commercial intent, open to appropriation (cf. Oldenburg, 1991). It
may thus be understood theoretically as an interdisciplinary work—at the
intersection of landscape architecture, sociology, art, and urbanism.
Michel Corajoud’s conviction that landscape must be understood as part
of urban everyday life is fully realised here (cf. Corajoud, 2007).
The design draws upon concepts of “urban minimalism”– a formal language
that achieves great impact with minimal means and finds broad
public resonance. Since its inauguration, the Miroir d’eau has become one
of the most photographed places in France. On Instagram, in architectural
journals, and on the covers of travel guides, it serves as an iconographic
symbol of a new kind of urban identity. In doing so, it meets the criteria
of a “signature public space”– a place that stands emblematic of the
city itself (cf. Carmona, 2010). In a world shaped by visual culture, Bordeaux
has, through the Miroir d’eau, acquired a new, modern, and globally
intelligible face – one that is aesthetic, playful, and accessible.
Conclusion: A mirror for the future of the city
The Miroir d’eau is far more than a spectacular water feature. It is a mirror
– not only for architecture, sky, and people, but for the very selfunderstanding
of a city that acknowledges its history while remaining
open to new forms of coexistence. As an urban icon, the Miroir d’eau
stands for a city that thinks aesthetically, socially, ecologically, and historically.
It demonstrates how public space can not only be organised, but
also staged, lived, and shared. In a time when cities around the world
must reinvent themselves, the Miroir d’eau is not merely a place – but a
vision, indeed a true “urban icon”.
REFERENCES
Bordeaux Tourisme (2022): Le Miroir d’eau – Le plus grand du monde.
www.bordeaux-tourisme.com
Corajoud, Michel (2007): Paysages en mouvement.
Essais sur l’art de faire la ville, Éditions Parenthèses.
UNESCO (2007): Bordeaux, Port de la Lune - Patrimoine mondial de l’UNESCO.
whc.unesco.org
Lefebvre, Henri (1968): Le Droit à la Ville. Paris: Anthropos.
Gehl, Jan (2011): Städte für Menschen. Jovis Verlag.
Oldenburg, Ray (1991): The Great Good Place: Cafés, Coffee Shops, Bookstores,
Bars, Hair Salons and Other Hangouts at the Heart of a Community.
Paragon House.
Carmona, Matthew (2010): Public Places, Urban Spaces:
The Dimensions of Urban Design. Routledge.
Bordeaux Métropole (2020): Réaménagement des quais et renouvellement urbain
à Bordeaux. bordeaux-metropole.fr
topos 133 027

Photo: jieun kim auf Unsplash
Cheonggyecheon in
Seoul: A reclaimed
urban stream weaving
nature back into the
dense city center –
showcasing how public
space, ecology, and
everyday life can thrive
together.
topos 133 039

What was once a bustling, concrete-covered highway in the heart of Seoul has been
transformed into a vibrant urban oasis. The Cheonggyecheon Stream Restoration
Project demonstrates how cities can reclaim space for nature, public life, and
community, turning infrastructure into a stage for ecological innovation, social
interaction, and civic pride.
Completed in 2005, the Cheonggyecheon Stream Restoration Project in
Seoul, Korea, is one of the most iconic urban transformations of the twenty-first
century. Extending nearly six kilometres through the city’s commercial
core, the linear park replaced a multi-level elevated highway that
covered a long-buried stream. Led by Mayor Lee Myung-bak and designed
by SeoAhn Total Landscape, with the “source point” plaza by Mikyoung
Kim Design, Cheonggyecheon is today a beautifully varied landscape of
water, stone, and vegetation - an urban corridor that redefines Seoul’s identity
through a synthesis of ecology, infrastructure, and public life.
As an urban icon, Cheonggyecheon operates on multiple levels - symbolic,
experiential, and economic. It embodies the city’s capacity for reinvention,
translating environmental reclamation into civic imagination. Its
significance lies not in the recovery of a lost nature, but in presenting a
new way of thinking about cities - one that sees landscape as a technical,
imaginative, and democratising force. The project gives material form to
a renewed idea of the city: not as an indifferent machine for modern life,
but as a living framework for connection and collective possibility.
Bold and imaginative: vivid nature in a dense city
Cheonggyecheon is an act of civic imagination. Rather than building outward,
the city looked inward and created a sense of immersive nature
within one of its most compact areas. Yet this “nature” is neither pristine
nor pastoral - it is thoroughly designed and distinctly urban. Its boldness
lies not only in its scale, but in its variation, mix, and surprising informality.
The park feels both composed and casual, carefully made yet unexpectedly
wild.
The stream’s sequence of bridges, terraces, and crossings gives cadence to its
range of experiences. Near Gwanghwamun, the spaces open wide into civic
plazas filled with people and light; farther downstream, they narrow into
quieter, more intimate stretches. This variety allows people to experience
the city differently - to pause during a commute, walk at lunch, jog along
planted trails, or simply stand by the water. In these moments, the stream’s
sensory qualities connect people to something elemental. Cheonggyecheon’s
power is not only spatial but emotional - it makes the restorative
qualities of nature tangible within the everyday routines of urban life.
In this sense, Cheonggyecheon exemplifies what James Corner calls the
projective imagination: the capacity of landscape to create new relationships
between the natural and the constructed, the sensory and the systemic.
Its aesthetic strength lies in its choreography of this spectrum and
in the integration of poetic settings with engineered systems. What
emerges is not romantic sentimentality, but urban poetics grounded in
form and logic.
The stream functions less as an escape from the city than as a reinterpretation
of it. It reveals that the urban condition is, at its core, ecological - dynamic,
adaptive, and open to renewal. By bringing water and life back into the
city’s centre, Cheonggyecheon reframes infrastructure as a medium for
imagination. It shows that cities, too, are living systems - places where environmental
performance and emotional meaning can reinforce one another.
040 topos 133

Photo: wikimedia - creative commons licence - Sinuhe20
Hidden yet remarkable,
each of the four
courtyards at Berlin’s
former NARVA site
features a monumental
tuff stone block.
Designed by Gustav
Lange, the Slovenian
stones are continuously
sprinkled with water,
allowing moss, patina,
and seasonal ice to
quietly transform them
over time into a subtle,
living urban icon.
topos 133 053

On the former Narva factory site in Berlin, Gustav Lange transforms massive tuff
stone blocks into a living, poetic clockwork. Water, stone, and time interact to create
a subtle yet powerful urban icon, one that continuously renews itself with the seasons.
Far from spectacle, the Narva Höfe evoke wonder, shape the identity of their
surroundings, and leave a lasting impression on the collective memory—showing
how true iconographic projects endure beyond trends and generations.
When I think of iconographic projects, I think of time. True iconography
transcends the moment. It amazes and moves us, and survives trends,
fashions and generations. Humanity is selective, retaining only partial
memories. Over time, these become irrefutable truths and serve as a cultural
mouthpiece for projects that disappear over time. The ability of
something to reach people of different origins, who have different cultural
and social perceptions, is what makes it iconographic.
Beyond spectacle: subtle urban icons
Indeed, it is very difficult to withstand the passage of time. It requires
both skill and luck. We tend to love either the very new or the very old.
We can usually do without everything in between and tend to get rid of it.
True urban iconographic projects, however, manage to survive the initial
amazement, captivate their surroundings and continuously evoke the
original, authentic enthusiasm over time.
I don't think an iconographic project has to be opulent by definition.
However, it should ignite hearts, surprise people, and leave a lasting
impression on the collective memory. Take, for example, the Oosterschelde
storm surge barrier project near Zeeland in the Netherlands, designed
by West8. Although it had only a short lifespan, it left a much greater
mark than countless other projects created during the same period. These
are the projects that we destroy or redesign without hesitation thirty years
later simply because they are neither new nor old enough.
All too often, urban iconography is reduced to spectacular buildings or
monuments that become a 'must-see' on the itineraries of globalised tourism.
Such projects can cast an entire neighbourhood, or even a whole city,
in a new light, triggering far-reaching transformation processes. This is
the Bilbao effect: iconography that quickly becomes a commercial and
media vehicle. However, it doesn't necessarily have to be buildings. While
it could be pyramids, towers, museums, markets or philharmonic halls,
for example, open spaces such as squares, parks, promenades and piers
can also become engines of transformation and wonder.
Shaping identity through experience
Such works shape the identity of a place. They make it unique and appealing
by breaking down complex systems and making them easier to understand.
Berlin, the city I love, is like many large metropolises an iconographic puff
pastry. Of course, one could break the city down into individual landmarks:
parks, gates, towers, walls and squares. Here, in particular, we have
thought a lot about iconography and the theme of memory after renovating
the former Sony Centre – now the Centre at Potsdamer Platz – for the
first time in 20 years.
However, reducing a complex system to a few elements seems to me to be
more of a media or commercial endeavour than a structural one. Perhaps
054 topos 133

Photo: mosbach paysagistes
The Louvre-Lens park
reveals its seasonal
richness. Its landscapes
are never finished,
constantly changing and
offering new impressions
with light,
weather, and the
passage of time.
topos 133 069

In northern France, a former coal mine has been transformed into a striking cultural
landscape. The Louvre Lens Museum and its surrounding park blend architecture,
history, and nature in ways that surprise, challenge, and invite visitors to explore.
Here, the layers of time, memory, and design coexist, offering a unique experience
where the museum is not only a building but part of a living, evolving environment.
The Louvre Lens Museum, a branch of the Louvre in Paris, is located in
an area of northern France with poor infrastructure, approximately 200
km north of the capital. It is situated on the site of the former No. 9 coal
mine, which was used for extracting hard coal. The surrounding area is
typical of the outskirts of French cities, characterised by housing estates
for workers. The former mining town is a UNESCO World Heritage Site.
The decision to build a museum here was motivated by a desire to help
one of the poorest regions in France flourish.
Blurring the boundaries: museum and landscape in harmony
The international architectural competition for the museum was won by
a team from the Japanese firm SANAA, comprising partners Kazuyo Sejima
and Ryue Nishizawa, and landscape architect Catherine Mosbach,
based in Paris. The strong landscape and less urban context resulted in the
building ensemble being placed in the centre of the site. This ensemble
consists of five single-storey structures. The brushed aluminium and glass
façades reflect the surrounding park, blurring the boundary between
architecture and landscape. This creates a symbiosis of house and park. In
an interview, Catherine Mosbach described her collaboration with the
architects as completely equal, attributing the perfect harmony between
the house and the landscape to this — a form of collaboration between
architecture and landscape architecture that she had never experienced
before.
A landscape that evolves with time
According to Catherine Mosbach, the park itself is not subject to fashion
trends, surprising visitors with images they have never seen before. The
diversity of perspectives is not immediately apparent, but becomes evident
as visitors explore the park. The park's fascination is further
enhanced by different weather conditions, making it independent of socalled
good weather. Additionally, changing light conditions throughout
the day and the seasons influence visitors' sensory impressions.
The ruderal conditions found on the former wasteland were incorporated
into the landscape and not removed. In this context, Catherine Mosbach
points out that landscapes are never finished and are always subject to
change, meaning they constantly alter their appearance.
The use of moss, and how terrain morphology develops from the growth
of different moss species, can be seen as a metaphor for the aforementioned
process of change. Along with lichens and ferns, moss is one of the
oldest living plant species on Earth. They influence the patina of materi-
070 topos 133

Visitors gather along the
banks of Parc de la
Villette, engaging with
the iconic red follies that
punctuate the park’s
dynamic grid, where
architecture, movement,
and social interaction
converge
Photo: Guilhem Vellut from Paris, France, CC BY 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0>, via Wikimedia Commons
topos 133 089

The Parc de la Villette in Paris turns park design into an experiment: architecture,
philosophy, and urban life merge into a space of encounter, movement, and active
participation. The striking red follies and dynamic grid structure invite visitors to
experience the cityscape for themselves.
The Parc de la Villette in Paris is widely regarded as a prime example of
the radical reinterpretation of public spaces. Developed by Bernard
Tschumi in close intellectual collaboration with Jacques Derrida, the park
is intended as a space of possibility that dissolves classical notions of landscape,
order and representation. Tschumi's design separates events, movement
and space into independent layers, which are then superimposed to
form a dynamic structure. The red follies function as operational markers
within this structure. The concept also opens up new perspectives on
landscape architecture as an artistic and philosophical practice.
Breaking away from tradition
In the early 1990s, landscape architecture in Germany was in the midst of a
peculiar transition phase. Caught between the ecological and social ideals of
the 1970s and the desire to be recognised as a scientifically-based discipline,
the field sought legitimacy. Social relevance and methodological rigour
replaced the artistic and philosophical origins of the discipline. The concept
of garden art, which was once an aesthetic and intellectual reflection on the
relationship between humans and nature, had by this time degenerated into
socio-educational practice and moralising landscape management.
Amidst this atmosphere of stagnation, the Parc de la Villette seemed like
a provocation. For me, a newly enrolled student of landscape architecture
with no insight into, let alone understanding of, the planning methods of
real existing socialism in the former GDR, it was also an overwhelming
artistic revelation. On the site of the former Parisian slaughterhouses,
which were demolished in 1974, Tschumi realised - from 1982 onwards –
a concept that radically dissolved classical notions of landscape. The park
was created as part of an international competition with 470 participants,
including Zaha Hadid, Rem Koolhaas, and Jean Nouvel. Tschumi, who
had not yet designed a single building, was awarded the contract – a circumstance
that seems almost like a fairy tale from today's perspective,
making one marvel at the opportunities that existed at the time as a recent
architecture or landscape architecture graduate. Contrary to expectations,
he reinterpreted the brief radically: not as a staging of nature in the city,
but as an open space for a diverse urban society.
Points, lines, and surfaces: the grid as a playground
The largest park in Paris in terms of area, it is based on a system of three basic
elements: point, line and surface. The 55-hectare site is covered by a regular
grid, with 26 bright red follies marking the intersections. These deconstructivist
structures, which are 10.8 metres high, serve as spatial markers and
house various facilities, including cafés, play areas, exhibition spaces and
viewing points. A network of paths and sightlines spanning the space choreographs
movement between them. Rather than forming a backdrop, the vegetation
creates a flexible texture that interacts constantly with the architecture.
Movement, freedom, and the architecture of difference
The Parc de la Villette enables visitors to experience the interplay of order
and disorder for themselves. While Versailles staged power and hierarchy
through symmetry and axes in the 17th century, Tschumi's Parc de la Villette
reverses this logic. The grid replaces the axis, the follies act as cata-
090 topos 133