The Visionary (with Hassan Fathy in Cairo)

Hassan Fathy, vernacular architect for the people of Egypt

THE CORD

A personal view by H. Masud Taj, 1980

The visionary flight of wide stone steps. Through the ages its centre has flattened into a ramp. By the side, an ancient structure, the colour of sand, and ahead in the hazy heights the citadel touching the sky.

Turning left into a short lane, dusty and unpaved — urchins playing about in the nine o’clock heat. A little further, a massive wooden door. There is no knocker or bell so I push and it opens rather smoothly.

It is dark and cool. My eyes adjust; I am in a courtyard a Thousand and One Arabian Nights in its details. I call out the name of Hassan Fathy; no one answers. There is an earthen pot in the centre and a low arch opposite. Through it, I emerge into another courtyard, cooler and less dark.

By a stairway sways a slim white cord. I pull. Somewhere above a tinkling sound. Bells. I had heard them all through my travels. In the remote islands of Yugoslavia at the stroke of every hour; the electrically-controlled bells in Ronchamp, France; low octave ones round the neck of Swiss cows, and the usually out-of-tune Big Ben.

I pull again, and again the delicious sound. Yesterday I was in Athens, in the library of Doxiadis leafing through magazines and papers. I came across an article on bricks. It was simple and refreshing. The author was Hassan Fathy. I got his address from the librarian, it was in Cairo. Although Egypt was not on my schedule, I decided on impulse to visit it.

I pull the cord again. Perhaps he isn’t at home, but I decide to linger awhile. There is a serenity about this courtyard which I want to soak in before facing the Cairo outside — chaotic, dusty, exuberant, abounding with life and people.

I pick up a piece of paper and address it to Fathy. I am a student in search of Architecture. I’m here for two days and will be leaving tomorrow evening. I am engrossed in writing and look up to find him next to me. I greet him in Arabic and spontaneously hand over the note. He smiles. Although nearing eighty there is a childlike innocence about him. Immaculately dressed in earthy browns, it is his eyes that impress – dreamy and very expressive. I was wrong about leaving the next evening. I stayed for a month.

THE MUSICALITY

The Garden City is a modern zone in Cairo. On the map, it appears like a tangled mass of rope that some town-planner forgot to pick up. Once inside you lose all sense of direction.

Garden city, Cairo, Egypt. Photo by: Nour Elmassry

Fathy and I are heading for the Arab League’s Headquarters. “What a mess,” he tells me. “These streets, like the car, are ambiguous — you can hardly tell the front from the rear. For town-planning, look at the trees. See how the main trunk flows into branches, twigs, stems, and veins of the leaf — there is hierarchy and you know where you are.”

He pauses. “Academic training is nonsense, schools turn out student machines with no imagination. It took me ten years to purge myself of it,” he says. Again the leaf, before it joins the twig there is the stem — the stem is the transition; like the musician who moves from the mode to the melody — there is a system of connection. In fact, I’m trying to introduce musicality in the teaching of town-planning in schools. A music composition has more to do with melodies than with scales; likewise, architecture is more to do with space than with shape — it is the space between the walls and not the walls themselves.

Music is important to Fathy; someone told me that he is an able violinist. In the first few days, he said he had difficulty getting accustomed to the musicality of my voice — I suppose he meant my accent. One night after dinner Fathy put a Brahms on the stereo. The western classical was not out of place in the Arab setting. He then sat down and continued to work on a township he was planning around the oasis of El Kharga. He worked late into the night. I watched. I began to understand through his drawing what I had been unable to grasp in his words.

Oasis of El Kharga, Hassan Fathy

THE GLASS BOWL

We speed towards the ancient city of Alexandria in a black six-seater. Fathy has designed a house there which I think he particularly likes. Perhaps that is why he wants me to see it. We pass a factory, a concrete box squatting uneasily in the desert sand. Fathy looks away — he does not like what he sees, and I understand.

There were certain areas, however, where I tended to disagree with his viewpoint. To give an instance, there are many structures in the West which I have seen and for which I have regard. I like Corbusier’s Ronchamp Chapel very much and he does not. Fathy also feels strongly about the car. The man behind the wheel, he says, is reduced to a mechanist being.

Corbusier’s Ronchamp Chapel

“But,” I interrupted, “were it not for the car it would have been impossible for us to go all the way to Alexandria to see a house you’ve designed, and return the same day.”

“Not so,” he smiles. “In that case, the house would never have been that far, it would be within a radius of half a day’s walk and then we would be strolling through breezy lanes and trees instead of being confined in a machine for three hours.”

The house; like all Fathy’s houses, is remarkably cool. The mud-brick dome is pierced with round holes that have colored glass panes. When I climb to the top of the dome I find them to be merely colored glass bowls that were fixed inverted, covering the holes. I had seen them being sold in plenty by the street side, in Cairo’s crowded bazaars. From dusty pavements to the top of the dome — such transformations are characteristic of Fathy’s style. The interior of the house is bare. Fathy is asking the caretaker what has happened to all the curtains, tapestries, and carpets. The man gives evasive answers — it is clear that he is behind it all. But Fathy does not accuse, only his eyes show his surprise. He is hurt. And so it has been throughout his life. If it is not the officialdom, it is the petty thief.

When we leave, Fathy asks me what I think of the house. I tell him, also saying that it needed looking after.

“And yet noble,” he adds. When we reach the road, a short distance away, I can no longer see the house. It is hidden by a dune.

THE NICHE

Fathy’s diet is ascetic but he dines like a king. The cutlery is a good example of Turkish silver craftsmanship. The translucent dishes and bowls, I think, are Alexandrian. Chicken broth with breadsticks. Followed by sweetened guavas. And a red sherbet from Sudan made of dried petals. We eat in silence, his cat Mish-mish at our feet. In the wall behind him is a niche with a lamp. The niche is covered by a hinged traditional wooden screen (mushrabeya) which diffuses the light. When he needs more light he simply opens the screen. Next to it is one of Fathy’s miniature paintings.

Red hibiscus sorbet from Sudan tea or karkade

My eyes are on it while I eat. I find it puzzling. It shows a dome and vaulted building as seen from the front, and yet the courtyard of the same building is as if viewed from the top. Both viewpoints in the same scene. “Is that building in plan or elevation?” I ask Fathy.

He does not like my question. “That is irrelevant,” he says. Through subsequent discussions, I began to understand. A perspective views the world from a particular standpoint and in doing so imposes its own order. Things appear big or small, important or trivial depending on the relative position of the viewer. It is subjective. The miniature painting, on the other hand, is ‘realist’ in the sense that it strives to capture the essence of things and not merely their appearances.

A week later Fathy gives me the keys to his house in Gourna, where I stay for some time before moving in deeper into the Valley of the Dead. There I come across the ramped Temple of Deir El Bahri with a backdrop of a sheer rise of limestone mountains and the intense blue sky above. In its colonnade, I notice a bas-relief. It shows Queen Hatshepsut’s ship as viewed from the side with a row of oarsmen dipping their oars in the water which with its variety of fish swimming in it all shown as if viewed from above. Both viewpoints in the same continuous scene.

THE TWILIGHT

Evenings with Fathy, and he is rather silent. The sun begins to set. “Come,” he says, “I shall show you my piece of sky.” The sight from his terrace is stunning. The house is at a height and we stand level with the top of the gigantic ancient mosques. The sun’s rays are bursting from behind a minaret.

“The Earth must meet the Sky,” he says, “the body with the soul. Look at the crestings running upon the length of the wall. The shape of their Earth-mass is a replica of the shape of the sky-void between them. The shape itself is that of a tri-foil lily (brides of the sky’ the Arabs call them). With the cresting, the contact is made on an individual level, with the minaret it is on a community level.”

The sky was now a spreading red, the silhouette of the mosques and minarets stood defined dark and powerful. “See how the minaret accelerates your vision upwards. It is divided into sections that rhythmically shorten the higher you go, like an accelerando in music. And the sections keep getting narrower and their shapes also change — from square to octagonal to cylindrical, adding to the acceleration.

Fathy talked on till twilight merged into darkness and the stars gathered their intensity.

H Masud Taj is an award winning adjunct professor at Azreili School of Architecture & Urbanism with both his studios and seminars being premised on the ethics of alterity. His lecture courses at Carleton’s Centre for Initiatives in Education are on topics of Muslim Civilizations.

A personal view by H. Masud Taj, 1980, Inside Outside Magazine. Reprinted with permission. 

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