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The Great Pyramid of Giza is one of the most quintessential examples of ancient architecture.

Built with incredible geometric accuracy and impressive strength, this early work of Egyptian architecture is the last of the ancient Seven Wonders of the World.  About fourteen million people visit Egypt every year to experience and explore this unique structure.

Personally, I have never really found the Great Pyramid, or pyramids in general, to be all that interesting.  

Apart from their colossal size and seemingly supernatural construction, I viewed them as being rather plain and boring.  It also didn’t help that nearly every depiction of pyramids in the media was through the overused cursed Egyptian-mummy movie trope.

After learning about the reasons and purpose for their construction in my Art History course, however, I have gained a newfound appreciation for these ancient complexes.

Similar to other early civilizations, the Ancient Egyptian culture and way of life heavily focused on their polythesic religion, meaning they believed in and worshipped a pantheon of gods.  Their religion was also greatly concentrated on the afterlife and the significance of preserving the body upon death.  

It was widely believed that when a person died, their soul or life-force would travel the world and continue to live an eternal life.  In order for them to enjoy this everlasting paradise, the body, which was considered the “home” of the spirit, needed to remain intact.

This belief system led the construction of funeraries, buildings meant to act as an imperishable resting place for the body.  For pharaohs, especially, these buildings were very important in protecting the bodies and providing them with everything they will need in the afterlife.

The pyramids of Giza, as most people recognize them, consist of three separate mortuary complexes erected by pharaohs from the fourth dynasty.  These pyramids are surrounded by many other buildings, including cemeteries, valley temples, quarries, and smaller pyramids.  

The three main complexes are the Pyramid of Khufu, the Pyramid of Khafre, and the Pyramid of Menkaure.  Being the largest and oldest of the triad, Khufu’s Pyramid is commonly referred to as the Great Pyramid.

Although a lot of information about this pyramid remains unknown, excavations had provided archeologists with a means to understand the reasons for and symbolism behind certain design aspects. 

For example, the height of Khufu’s Pyramid was meant to connect the pharaoh with the sun god, Ra.  Ancient Egyptians believed that at death, the pharaoh would accompany the sun god on his daily journey across the sky.  Khufu’s Pyramid was built with an impressive height of 481 feet to lift the pharaoh skyward and allow him to partake in his posthumous duties.  

Khufu’s Pyramid was also almost perfectly aligned with the cardinal points on the compass. This orientation represented the similarities between the life and resurrection of the sun and that of the pharaoh.  

With each passing year, more information about the construction of these unique complexes is discovered.  In recent years, for instance, a large void space has been located within Khufu’s pyramid.  They have yet to find out what, if anything, inhabits this space.  

Before knowing the history and background of the Great Pyramid, I formed an opinion based solely on its aesthetic appearance.  This is a prime example of how architecture is much more than what is seen at surface level.  

 

Click here to watch a video about Khufu’s Pyramid.

While absentmindedly scrolling through Pinterest late one night, I came across a post that immediately caught my attention.

The photograph, although heavily overexposed and terribly color saturated, was quite scenic.  Framed by rolling mountains and perfectly placed trees, it showed a group of three or four quaint little farm-style houses embedded into the earth.

At first, I thought the photo was edited.  The tiny houses looked too picturesque to be real.  They appear to have just naturally sprouted from the ground.  Perhaps they were part of some fairytale and were inhabited by mythical creatures, like gnomes and elves.  I could not imagine that these small cottages were the work of humans.  

After doing a quick Google search and browsing a couple of articles, however, I found that these homes were, in fact, real and  actually extremely culturally significant to their native Icelandic region.  

Known as turf houses, these small dwellings were originally implemented in Iceland by the Vikings during the 9th century.  Around this time, these and similar structures were being used throughout many other Nordic areas, as they proved to be very successful in protecting occupants from the harsh tundra climate.

Turf houses were first constructed by building a wooden frame with imported timber.  The frame would then be covered in alternating layers of lava stone, or solidified molten lava, and compacted turf, the upper layer of soil held together by grass and plant roots.  This method of layered allowed the homes to be very well insulated.

Turf houses often existed in clusters with narrow passageways and corridors connecting them.  This functioned as an additional way to preserve heat.  

The grass covered roofs made the homes very stable, as the grass continued to grow and reinforce the structure as time passed.  For further stability, some turf houses were built into hillsides, leaving only the front entrance exposed to the elements.  These houses would usually last a generation.  At this time, the turf would be replaced and the home would undergo any other necessary renovations or repairs.  

Because the main building materials of lava stone and turf were abundantly located throughout the country, people from all economic and social classes were able to utilize the turf building technique.  This differs greatly from the housing stratification in medieval Europe, as the wealthy typically lived in extravagant castles and the lower class lived in simple wooden huts.

Another interesting feature of turf homes is that families often coexisted together in a single room for their entire lives.  Many people were born and died in the same room, sometimes even on the same bed.  

Turf houses were used and constructed for over a thousand years.  They have become a staple to Icelandic national identity.  In the effort to preserve their architectural heritage, many of the old turf houses have been turned into museums.  

 

Click here to watch a tour of an Icelandic turf house.

If I were to ask you to think about a work of architecture, what would be the first thing to cross your mind? 

Is it an intricately crafted ancient Greek building equipped with huge symmetrical granite columns?

Or is it a giant skyscraper that towers over the sidewalk, reflecting the sky off of its clear glass walls?

It is safe to assume that whatever building or structure you conjured up in your mind is an example of what you consider to be either “good” or “beautiful” architecture.  However, these terms are entirely subjective.  Although basic fundamental principles of architecture exist, there are no defined criteria that are placed against an architectural work to determine if it is inherently “good.”  

The typical person will determine whether or not they like a space based on how it looks and how it functions.  Unlike most buildings that are designed to fit the inhabitants or users aesthetic and functional needs, the building I would like to talk about was created with a slightly different idea in mind.

Partially designed by Daniel Libeskind, a Polish-American architect, the Jewish Museum Berlin is the largest Jewish museum in Europe.  Featuring both permanent installations and temporary exhibits, the Jewish Museum Berlin works to rebuild and preserve the Jewish history that was horrifically erased during the atrocities of the Holocaust.

Rather than designing the building in a way to aid in the museum visitors’ experience, Libeskind opted to use architecture as a means to fabricate feelings of invisibility, absence, and uncertainty; all of these being emotions associated with the Holocaust and the disappearance of Jewish culture.  

Starting with the outside, the titanium exterior of the building features sharp zigzagging windows that crisscross in no discernible pattern.  This facade inhibits onlookers from making out the individual floors in the building.  

Moving inside, the floor plan consists of two lines: a visible zigzagging line and an invisible straight line.  This, mixed with the harsh slivers of light coming through the windows, makes walking through the museum very disorienting.  In addition to dead ends, the unique setup of the building also creates empty spaces, known as voids, as they lack air conditioning, heating, and artificial lighting. 

After visiting the museum, many tourists claim to have felt frustrated, lost, and confused, much like how the Jewish people felt during Nazi occupation. 

Many of the aspects and features of the building are also up for interpretation.  Some see the crisscrossed window pattern as an abstracted Star of David, while others interpret the scarce streaks of light that scatter the museum to represent the glimmer of hope Holocaust victims had as they worked in concentration camps.

For these reasons, the Jewish Museum Berlin is often referred to as an “architectural metaphor.” 

Even though the building’s design does absolutely nothing for functionality in terms of allowing people to effortlessly peruse museum exhibits, it does successfully make visitors consider feelings related to the Jewish Holocaust experience firsthand.  Because of this, and the great amount of symbolism the building holds, I would consider it to be a “good” work of architecture.

Click here to learn more about the architecture at the Jewish Museum Berlin.