The Barbican is Quite Brutal

How are you since the last time we spoke?

So much has happened on my end. So much. The drama queen talking again, I know.

Just imagine an exhausted, dishevelled me (but glam nonetheless), stretched out on a rococo chaise longue; a Bellini in one hand, an elegant cigarette holder in the other, blowing sidestream smoke of what looks like… let me think… ah, First World problems. Wouldn’t you just want to give me a slap? I would give me a slap.

But no, I’m not lounging on a rococo chaise longue. I am sitting on a very unsexy wooden chair with red padding stained by a student’s exasperation at meeting a dissertation deadline, and the quiet exhilaration of a pensioner scrutinising every painting in a Lee Krasner book. I am in a cold, stark, hideous, heavy concrete Brutalist block in the City of London — or what they call the Barbican Centre.

I’m really not a fan of Brutalism.

Nonetheless, there are a plethora of books around me. Books that smell of photography, travel, design, fashion, and film. There are also two Yamaha pianos in the corner on the other side of the room, and an impressive archive of music sheets ranging from classical to contemporary, for any instrument you could ever think of. How amazing is that?

Still not a fan of Brutalism.

In case you’re wondering what Brutalism is — well, darling, let me educate you.

This very unpolished, unassuming, unrefined, grey-beige, clunky and clumsy architectural style of the Barbican Centre — it is a style. The style is called Brutalism.

Last week, I handed my rented apartment back to the landlord (who else?) and I left my job.

Leaving a job that might actually pay for a rococo chaise longue, from a company that is the Mecca to a gazillion gamers (I was a lawyer at a gaming company — they are biiig), was not easy. But I grew up being taught that I should be brave. So I am being brave. I let go of something I saw no future in — something that made me deeply unhappy — whilst allowing another, more suitable candidate to take that place and spread their wings.

When Chamberlin, Powell and Bon designed the Barbican Centre, they knew it wasn’t about the look (either that, or they had a very unorthodox understanding of beauty…). The design was not well received. In fact, it was voted the ugliest building in London (though perhaps not if something like the Scottish Parliament had been here).

People were harsh. But none of those demoralising, doubtful voices drowned out or overshadowed the functionality and purpose of the architecture — not one bit.

At this point, I must admit that after doing some reading about Brutalism, I am intrigued. Rough and brute as it may be, it has opened my eyes.

It is a very much undersold and respectable architectural style that focuses on substance. The materials used to build these structures — the sandblasted walls, the solid steel, the massive pours of raw concrete — take away space and create space. It is a very practical, no-nonsense philosophy, emerging post-war in an economically depressed society where people had no choice but to be frugal and pragmatic. Brutalism has weight and stands tall. It doesn’t matter whether its shapes are liked or not.

At this point, you might be thinking: you have neither looks nor substance, and I still don’t like you. Fine. But at least let me tell you about the Barbican Centre. Read on.

It is the largest performing arts centre in Europe, funded by the City of London Corporation. They are a major force in the UK arts scene. In other words, they have a lot of money sitting in their coffers to fund the arts. A lot of money.

It is also home to the London Symphony Orchestra and the BBC Symphony Orchestra. The Barbican Centre houses some of the best resources and has delivered some of the most stunning performances I have ever seen. This April, the jet-lagged me sat through Khatia Buniatishvili’s solo piano performance with my best friend — a deeply touching and inspiring moment. Remarkable, because jet lag and solo piano performances do not usually go well together.

Last year, I saw the Gewandhausorchester from Leipzig (don’t make me say their name), conducted by 90-year-old Blomstedt without a score. I’m sorry, Alberto — grand as you may be — it was the Barbican that swept me off my feet.

So, yes — hideous aesthetics aside, this building does evoke admiration.

Last week, when I packed eight years’ worth of belongings into boxes and watched them being taken away to storage by two Romanian men, it was unsettling (seeing my things disappear, not knowing how I would live with less — not because of the two Romanian men).

I was suffocated by the obscene amount of stuff I had collected over the years. Things that either came with their own sentiment or were later coated with it, like the dust that settled upon them. Each item — made up of 30% nostalgia and 70% should-haves, would-haves, could-haves — whispered: why did I buy this, why am I still keeping this?

Looking at them, I realised that, at some point, I was trying to be someone I’m not. At some point, I shared special moments with people (a few, ahem) who are now the most familiar strangers I know.

Things that had outgrown me long ago. Things I hadn’t used for even longer. All that clutter — I didn’t want to let it go. (Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about, you hoarder. Perhaps it’s time you Marie Kondo all your clutter too.)

But I did. I let them go.

I spring-cleaned and discarded almost half of what filled my flat. So, if my two-bedroom flat previously resembled a warehouse, my next one must look like a monastery. And, FYI, Kim and Kanye’s house, as seen in Vogue, also looks like a monastery — so my next place will be quite Vogue.

Now I’m living out of two suitcases, one large bag of toiletries, and nine pairs of shoes. All necessities, no vanity. Sure.

And surprisingly, I am not worried. Or should I be? Why should I be? I’m not.

To let go of what wasn’t right, and to have all my treasured possessions neatly folded into two battered Samsonites, feels more powerful than I imagined. I have substance. And that substance is within me.

Very much a Brutalist, you see. And how good am I at connecting irrelevant things?

Anyhow, I think I’ve told you enough today — perhaps more than necessary.

Regardless of what happens, I am excited — genuinely, deeply excited — about this adventure I’m about to embark on. A place where I can spread my wings as an IP lawyer, working for sexy clients, and doing lots and lots (and lots) of writing.

Possibly transitioning from a blogger to a published author? What do you think — would you buy my book?

Once upon a time, a man called Johnnie Walker told me to “Keep Walking”.

So I will.

And you shall follow. All of you.

What do you think those nine pairs of shoes are for?