Translator: Ilze Garda Reviewer: Denise RQ
Cecilie, a mother of three,
lived with her 14-year-old, sick daughter for many months
in the brand new St. Olavs Hospital in Trondheim, Norway.
On June 7, in 2009, the doctors had to tell her
that there was no longer any hope of her daughter surviving cancer.
A devastating thing to be told,
which, of course, triggers an avalanche of emotions.
Cecilie was going through the toughest time of her life,
but she also wanted to protect her daughter from losing all hope.
She had to leave the hospital room to be alone,
but where could she go?
Where could she cry, shout, be angry,
or just be silent?
Everywhere she went, even in the hospital chapel,
she would be part of the public realm.
She ended up in the public toilet, and you can guess where she had to sit.
A practical solution, but without any dignity.
At NTNU Live Studio,
we support architect students working with real people and real problems.
We heard the story about Cecilie and her daughter
from a friend of ours, Mads Bøhle, a welfare nurse at the hospital.
This was the start
of a wonderful, tough, and emotional journey for all of us,
the making of "FRIrom."
FRIrom, which means "space of freedom,"
became the simple, yet challenging assignment
to create a safe enclosure for patients and relatives
to escape the exposed hospital environment.
The project started as a master's thesis in architecture
by the students Maren Storihle Ødegård and Sunniva Huus Nordbø,
and they approached FRIrom through a collaborative process.
In this approach, we involved users and other stakeholders
in all phases and decisions of the design.
Through this involvement, we got a deep insight in the real needs,
and we ultimately led users
to gain ownership over the process and the space.
In the early stages of the design,
Maren and Sunniva had many decisions to make.
For example, how large should FRIrom be
to host one, two, or three people in vulnerable situations?
How much space do you need to feel comfortable?
And how much space do these people need?
To explore this question,
they visited the hospital priest who has quite a lot of experience
in talking with people going through tough times.
They observed the setup
and measured how far away from a visitor he would typically sit.
This helped them to determine the size and the furniture of the space.
If you are not trained as an architect,
you might not speak the language of blueprints.
That is why it is very important for us to use alternative and good communication
to establish a real collaboration platform.
Among other tools, we built several forms in real size
and invited families of patients and staff to try them out and to explore them.
Based on their feedback,
it was quite clear to us that they preferred a circular space
because it is focused around a center,
it gives stillness,
and it stands in contrast to the 10,500 angular spaces in the hospital.
We designed a spiral-shaped pavilion
where the snail form gently leads you into the main enclosure,
without many doors or transitions needed.
Due to the commitment of the young architects
and many helping hands,
we finally could lift the prefabricated pavilion
on to the roof terrace of St. Olavs Hospital on June 7, 2013,
four years after Cecilie's sad experience initiated the project.
You reach the pavilion via a roof terrace with great views
over the city of Trondheim and the surrounding nature.
Being in Norway, it could be snowing, raining, or sunny, sometimes.
Whatever the weather, the interviewed families told us
that for them it is very important to get this distance and transition
from the sterile and controlled hospital environment.
Then you enter the space, sit down on the bench,
take off your shoes, hang up your jacket, and prepare for a relaxed stay,
and you show that the space is occupied, as well.
You lay down on the mattress which fills the main space
and watch the changing sky, the clouds, the stars.
Your focus is lifted up,
and the verticality in the room gives associations with sacred buildings,
without being linked to one religious expression.
We do know from research
that natural materials contribute to healing effects,
and we often connect the use of wood to familiar and comfortable environments.
That's why we wanted to produce the whole pavilion
completely out of local wood resources.
We combined
traditional log house techniques and modern digital production
and milled out 24,000 of these bricks, out of leftover pinewood,
and then we assembled the bricks like a large, large puzzle.
If you look closely, no two blocks look the same.
Maren and Sunniva aimed to create this feeling
so that those using the pavilion could look at the patterns,
get another focal point, and drift away.
The users told us that watching the wall
gave them the same experience as watching flames in a fireplace;
the tree rings start to vibrate, and the world gets vivid.
There is a swarm of origami cranes
circling around the skylight in the ceiling.
They are based on an old Japanese legend
and the story about Hiroshima bomb victim, Sadako Sasaki,
which tells that if you fold a thousand cranes,
you are granted a wish.
We folded cranes in several workshops with patients, relatives, and friends,
and even if there are not 1,000 cranes in FRIrom,
they still express hope and ownership.
Due to limited resources, as it is often the case in our projects,
we had to do the wiring ourselves.
We put small light bulbs in the cranes,
because we wanted to make them glow and twinkle.
And you can imagine
what happens when amateurs like me or my daughter do this kind of work:
quite a few of them broke.
Mads Bøhle, the welfare nurse, takes care of the FRIrom on a daily basis,
and he wanted to fix the fittings.
And the young patients asked him not to.
They told us that for them,
the extinguished lights had become symbols
for loved ones that have passed away.
So even without knowing the story of Sadako Sasaki,
the physical space of the FRIrom has become intertwined
with their stories, their hopes, and their feelings.
Through use,
the patients and their parents have established a feeling of ownership
and contribute to the evolving space.
There are many Cecilies out there -
mothers, brothers, sisters, friends, and strangers.
Let's listen to their needs.
Thank you.
(Applause)