Paris, France. In a typical Parisian street in the fifteenth arrondissement there is a house that people enter knowing that this is the last place they will live in. The hospice is located in an old, but slightly run down building. Behind it is a small garden with some old trees. The foundation that runs the hospice planned to extend the services in a new, larger facility on the same plot, and invited a handful of famous architects to carry out a design competition.
When working in Toyo Ito’s office this task happened to be the first project that I was involved in. Since I was the only team member speaking French the competition brief landed on my table for the preliminary studies. I had expected Ito to stress on the topics he is famous for: futuristic designs, ephemeral spaces, but it turned out that he stressed on the most humane issues: Can the patient in lying in bed see who is entering through the door to his room? Are the relatives and friend arriving by taxi dropped off in such a way that they can enter the building directly?
When it finally came to writing the design descriptions for the presentation panels of the competition there were three versions, one in English, in French, and one in Japanese. Even though they described the same project, they revealed completely different approaches to the task. My version was the beginner’s version that was playing it safe by neatly referring to the conditions on site and the requirements of the programme. Clean, but not catching. The French partner architect’s version was all big words about the grandeur of the task of building a house for the dying. Philosophical, but too monumental. Toyo Ito’s version was different. It was about how he strolled around the old hospice’s garden, the dignified presence of a tree in front of the window, the worn out, but cosy armchair. It was all about the place, and the people there. Personal, and to the point. He had grasped the essence of what this place and the task of building there was all about.