From a series written for ABC Radio National’s Blueprint for Living. The Norwegian sweater first aired on 2nd September 2023. You can listen to the audio here.

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A national costume can seem overly quaint and folksy. But other clothes can reflect nationhood, too, like the Norwegian knitted sweater. The most famous and most popular is the Marius design, a superstar among sweaters. Which is not surprising because it’s named after the Norwegian filmstar, Marius Eriksen, who wore it in the 1954 comedy film Watch What You Say. As a champion skier and a war hero, Eriksen imbued the humble sweater with a dash of national pride. Richly coloured and with bands of geometric patterning encircling the chest and shoulders, it may speak of homespun comfort rather than high fashion. And yet it’s a design icon, blending tradition with a touch of glamour.

Knitting has always been an important part of Scandinavian life. The sweaters worn by Norwegian fishermen repelled water while retaining warmth, and there’s evidence that similarly stitched garments were fashioned by the Vikings over a thousand years ago. With increasing foreign influences in the twentieth century it was feared that many of Norway’s traditional crafts would disappear. One company in particular, known as Dale of Norway today, was key to maintaining interest in traditional sweater design. There were different patterns affiliated to specific areas. Such as the Selburose design, a stylised octagonal rose that was associated with the Selbu area near Trondheim from the 1850s. Similarly, knitwear from the Fana region near Bergen incorporated stripes with contrasting dots, known as lice, interspersed with bands of larger designs like snowflakes. These and other patterns were resurrected by knitting pattern designers in the 20^th century in an effort to keep them relevant. During the Second World War, when the country was invaded by the Nazis, wearing something as humdrum as a jumper now became a symbol of patriotism. With wartime shortages, home crafts were vital and now the sweater became an emblem of domestic doggedness.

There are conflicting claims for who created the Marius design. Bitten Eriksen had collected traditional sweater patterns for the Dale company since the 1920s and it was the sweater she knitted for her son Marius when he returned home from the war that was worn in the film in which he starred. And yet the Marius design is most often credited to another pattern designer, Unn Søiland, who also worked for the Dale company. She helped promote the updated patterns, which were outsourced by Dale to over a thousand women, knitting at home, rather as Tweed was produced in the crofts of the Hebrides in Scotland.

Whoever was responsible, the design found further fame as part of the national ski team’s uniform in the 1954 World Championships in Oslo, a slightly different version called Marius ll in the red, white and blue of the national flag. At this time in the 1950s, fashion in the western world was becoming more relaxed. Now the filmstars of the time were as likely to be seen in jeans and a sweater as in a frock or a suit. It helped entrench the particular look of the Norwegian sweater, reflecting interest in Scandinavian design, so influential on Mid-Century Modernism.

It’s remarkable that a simple sweater can weave together so many diverse elements, while highlighting the importance of knitting itself, which remains socially important for northern communities where daylight can disappear for months. The Marius sweater captured the zeitgeist, highlighting the image of Scandinavian quality and Nordic integrity, a symbol of strength laid out clearly in all its softness. And Norwegian to every last stitch.

From a series written for Radio National’s Blueprint for Living. The cog radio first aired on 9th September 2023. You can listen to the audio here.

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In 1811, British engineer John Blenkinsop couldn’t believe that a steam locomotive could haul heavy coal wagons without slipping on the metal rails. So he designed the Salamanca, which had a cog wheel on the side that engaged with teeth attached to one of the rails. And it worked beautifully, moving coal the short distance down the hill from the Middleton mine to the centre of Leeds in Yorkshire. But as railways were established around the country, it soon became clear that locomotives didn’t need any additional help to move forward: the weight of the train was enough to keep the wheels engaged.

Blenkinsop’s idea of assisted traction was a good one, though. Especially when people started thinking about laying railways in the mountains. Using a cog system enabled trains to move more directly up steeper inclines, incurring less cost than a conventional train which would require more track. The idea inspired the possibilities of bringing materials from mines or quarries in hilly areas and yet, it was the budding tourist industry that really pushed things forward. By the middle of the nineteenth century, the new middle classes were eager for the kind of adventures previously only available to the wealthy. The Americans were the first to exploit this, with the Washington Mountain Railway in New Hampshire taking fare-paying passengers up a steep track to a hotel at the top of the mountain in 1869. This train used a system designed by Sylvester Marsh with a third rail laid between the outer rails. It had rungs rather like a ladder and the cog wheel on the underside of the locomotive had deep teeth that engaged with the rungs, helping propel the whole train forward without any slippage. It runs still, just as designed.

The Swiss were captivated and Niklaus Riggenbach devised a similar system for their first cog railway in 1871. It climbed Rigi mountain, overlooking Lake Lucerne, quickly making it a must-see destination for British tourists on trips organised by the first mass tourist operator, Thomas Cook. Variations on the rack theme were devised according to the demands of particular terrain. Like that designed in 1889 by Eduard Locher which had teeth along each side of the central rail with which twin cogs, set horizontally, would engage. It enabled the train to ascend what remains the steepest cog railway in the world, Mount Pilatus, across the lake from Rigi, with gradients reaching a stomach-fluttering 48%. By then, though, most cog railways had adopted a system designed by Swiss inventor Carl Abt, using a central rail with a single row of teeth along its top. The Abt system was tweaked, though, for a new railway that climbed to a saddle between the Eiger and the Jungfrau mountains, known as the Jungfraujoch. This railway was a dazzling feat of engineering design, with the cog railway running in tunnels hewn deep into the Eiger mountain itself, with stopping-off points along the way, and windows giving views through the famed North Face. Here, the Abt cog system was given an additional safety measure devised by Emil Strub, adding safety jaws that gripped the underside of the central toothed rail, rather like the brakes on a bicycle wheel. Cog railways remain relevant throughout the world. While Switzerland is their spiritual home, with the greatest number of cog railways still in daily use, they’re vital infrastructure in other places, from India’s Nilgiri mountains to the Skitube in Australia’s Snowy Mountains that opened in 1987. While John Blenkinsop might have over-engineered the answer to a question only he thought to ask, he pioneered an idea that echoes still across the peaks of the world today, adding charm and convenience to the steepest ascents.

From a series written for Radio National’s Blueprint for Living. Thisicon first aired on 7th October 2023. You can listen to the audio here.

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According to Coco Chanel, a woman who doesn’t wear perfume has no future. Tom Ford noted that wearing cologne transforms a man into a gentleman. So gentlemanship and the future looked secure with the invention of the atomiser, or perfumiser, as it was sometimes called.

Although mechanical sprays appeared in the early nineteenth century and were used by gardeners and craftspeople, the atomiser as we know it was the invention of one man, a medical doctor in Ohio called Allen DeVilbiss. As a nose and throat specialist, he wanted a more hygienic way of coating the throat with medicated oil. His solution was a metal gadget that had a squeezable rubber bulb on one side, a long nozzle with an atomising spray head on the other, and a tube in-between  that went down into a container holding the oil. Squeezing the bulb pushed air out through the nozzle, drawing the fluid from the container in the process and thereby creating a fine spray. DeVilbiss took out a patent in 1887 and then opened a small factory to make them, and production continues. When the doctor’s son Thomas joined the company in 1905 he thought the atomiser could be adapted as a perfume spray.

It was a moment of perfect timing. Although perfume had been popular for centuries, especially in eras when personal hygiene was more a matter of masking unpleasant odours rather than washing them away, the thirst for scents burgeoned at the end of the nineteenth century with notable perfumiers in France and Russia creating aromas that everyone wanted. The usual way of applying them was with the glass stopper of the bottle they came in, or dabbing a handkerchief in the bottle and then applying it to the skin. How effortless and romantic it was instead to be enveloped within a cloud of scent. With the perfumiser, a manufacturer could create bottles of all types on which the atomising gadget could be fixed. It created the need for an object that reflected the beauty of its contents, and the designers of the Art Nouveau and Art Deco ages responded with glorious designs, some of the best by Emile Gallé.

Couturier Coco Chanel launched her own perfume in 1921, a mix of manmade compounds known as aldehydes and floral essences, calling it No 5 (because it was the fifth sample she tried, apparently). By then, the idea of fashion and perfume being one and the same was cemented. Scent was the essential finishing touch, something luxurious and almost magical. For a while, every dressing table had at least one bottle of perfume on it, the squeezable bulb of the atomiser often encased in woven silk like an elaborate tassel, adding mystique to the essence itself.

A further advance was made in 1947 when a Slovenian designer called Peter Florjančič designed the compact atomiser in which the whole spray mechanism was contained within the cap of the bottle. It was scooped up by American cosmetics giant Elizabeth Arden and rapidly became what we’re most familiar with today. But fashion is often contrary and the current trend is for something that appears to be handmade, with simple stoppered phials that look straight out of the perfumier’s workshop.  The popularity of perfume in whichever container remains, though, which means aspirations for a future and gentlemanship remain thoroughly intact.

From a series written for ABC Radio National’s Blueprint for Living. First aired on 4th November 2023 (you can listen to the audio here).

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The idea of planned cities is as old as cities themselves and there are many significant moments in their evolution. Like the moment when Ebenezer Howard came up with the concept of the garden city. Howard wasn’t an architect or even trained as an urban planner but his interest in social reform was deep and considered. In 1898 he published a slim volume titled ‘Tomorrow: A peaceful road to real reform’ which was revised in 1902 and called ‘Garden cities of tomorrow.’ Its impact was enormous, coming at a time when many felt the uncontrolled sprawl of industrial cities was not just ugly but socially catastrophic. This was, after all, the age of the slum. What Howard proposed is familiar to us today with zones separating housing from industry, and buildings that were appropriately scaled. There would be gardens and allotments, and the town would be encircled by agricultural land, fertilised by the waste of the town itself. What was more radical was how this town was for people of all classes, and everyone, from labourers to professionals, would have a hand in the running of it. A more equal society was a happier society, thought Howard.

His ideas came through experience. Born to a London baker, he left school at fifteen and worked in offices before an uncle suggested he try his hand at farming in America. The five years he spent there clearly showed that this wasn’t his vocation but it awakened an interest in planning. Chicago was being rebuilt after its devastating fire of 1871 and new towns were rising in other areas. Already interested in the work of British writer John Ruskin, now he fell under the influence of poets and philosophers like Ralph Waldo Emerson and Walt Whitman, who urged the importance of a democratic society. He returned to Britain in 1876 and became a stenographer for Hansard, recording the work of Parliament. His own convictions were deepened by witnessing the political discourse of the day, confirming in his mind that a social revolution was necessary and that improving living conditions was its best starting point.

Howard’s publication achieved widespread attention. It chimed with ideas already popular from the Arts and Crafts movement, like William Morris’s desire to create communities based on medieval villages. There had been schemes for housing communities built by the Quaker chocolate manufacturers Cadbury and Rowntree as well as by industrialist Lord Lever, with gardens and cottage-style housing so important but these were still ruled by a single industrial master. Key to Ebenezer Howard’s vision was the idea that the town was self-sufficient, not simply a means to put factory workers in better homes. In 1903, the first garden city was built at Letchworth, not far from London, with another at Welwyn starting in 1920. They were popular and affordable, at first. The idea was taken up in America, South Africa and Germany, and Canberra incorporated some of Howard’s principles. In the meantime others, like French architects Tony Garnier and Le Corbusier, came up with alternative ideas for new towns, which war and mass migration made increasingly important.

The blueprints changed but common to most is the idea of proximity. Just as Howard thought, easy access to everything from workshops and offices to schools and social life makes it a happier, easier place to be. Today, the idea of the 15 minute city is finding traction (except with those who see it as a means of government control) and is not far removed from Howard’s Garden City approach. The ideal city remains elusive but the conversation continues. Without Ebenezer Howard that conversation would definitely be a little less informed.

Japan is good for me. It has sublime architecture and breathtaking landscapes, it’s incredibly well-organised and it’s just a little bit bonkers. I can’t think of a single negative experience I’ve had there, and whether I’m in the heart of a city or walking in the mountains, there’s always something that fills my heart or makes me smile. And that includes cutesy cars trying to look like Range Rovers, scatter cushions left on public benches, and the occasional public loo filled with the sound of a babbling brook and tweeting birds. (And of course, while we’re on the subject, being goosed by a Japanese toilet every morning – it never fails to raise your eyebrows, let alone your spirits.)

This was our third trip there and our timing was perfect. Jetstar was about to stop direct flights to Tokyo from Gold Coast (now they go from Brisbane) and the cost of the Japan Rail Pass was about to rise by seventy per cent. You order the pass before you go and pick it up when you arrive (hint: there’s always a long queue at the JR agency at Narita airport so consider collecting it the next day at a station). The pass means you can use most JR trains as well as various buses and trams in some cities, and it’s exceptional value if you plan to travel a lot. Which is why we added the northern island of Hokkaido to our itinerary.

Mid-October was a tad early for full autumn colour but there was enough to keep us happy. We started with Nikko, exploring its various temples, including the very ornate Toshogu shrine, all gleaming gold. I loved the cool avenues of cedar trees. We picked our way around the temples again in the evening, wrapped in our yukatas and feeling rather theatrical. The next day we ventured higher, beyond Lake Chuzenji, which 20^th century bureaucrats enjoyed as summer respite from Tokyo’s heat, and winding upwards to tiny Yumoto Onsen, famous for its sulphurous hot springs (the lake steams in the cold morning air). Numerous walking trails start there, along steep tracks or boardwalks and all through beautiful forests or across heathland, and with stunning views to the surrounding mountains.

Most people hang a bell on their daypack to warn bears of their presence but I made do with a pebble inside an empty can of coffee (I’m a coffee snob in Australia but in Japan I love a shot of caffeine from cans of coffee bought from vending machines).

We didn’t see bears but we did find ourselves in a forest glade surrounded by a large group of macaque monkeys so I was relieved that they moved off when I rattled my little can, some of them screaming back at us like a bunch of schoolboys trying to save face.

There was heavy rain the day we left Yumoto. It was a short walk to the bus but the hotel owner insisted on giving us both an umbrella, saying they’d been left by guests even though it was obvious they were new and unused. It’s the sort of consideration you come across all the time in Japan and a mark of the old fashioned hospitality and delicious food we enjoyed in that particular hotel (the Yumoto Itaya).

The bus dropped us at Nikko station, which was supposedly designed by Frank Lloyd Wright but definitely wasn’t, although he visited Nikko in the 1900s and liked it immensely. And then it’s an hour-long journey in a little train, trundling through a landscape of rice paddies and stone barns that looked more Tuscan than Japanese, to the mainline station at Utsunomiya. It was lovely to board the Hayabusa shinkansen and be whooshed to Hakodate in the north. The bullet trains are always a thrill, with loads of legroom and hardly a wobble as you hurtle along at 300 kph. It’s sobering to pass Fukushima and Sendai and remember how they looked as the tsunami struck.

The island of Hokkaido feels very different from the rest of Japan. It’s remote, for a start, with wild mountains and lush farmland. After whizzing through one of the world’s longest tunnels, beneath the Tsugaru Strait, the shinkansen surfaces and stops outside Hakodate and from thereon it’s all slow trains.

Hakodate was a lovely surprise, one of the first Japanese ports to open up to the world in 1859, and there’s a great collection of buildings, including churches and consulates, in the hillside suburb of Motomachi overlooking the port. 

Sapporo, the capital of the island, is a three hour train ride away and felt rather anonymous, with large office buildings lining the grid of streets in the centre.

There were highlights, though, like the leafy campus of Hokkaido University in the centre which felt like an American Ivy-League university, and the Moerenuma Park on the outskirts, which was designed by Japanese-American designer Isamu Noguchi. It’s full of interesting structures, including manmade hills which are popular with tobogganists in Sapporo’s snowy winters.

The cold waters surrounding Hokkaido also provide it with abundant seafood. We had a remarkable meal in Sapporo at the Michelin-starred Hanakoji Sawada, where Chef Sawada took time to explain precisely where each ingredient was sourced, and even gave us a perfect potato slathered in butter, showing how Hokkaido’s volcanic soil makes it the dairy farm of Japan. Even a fairly basic meal in a seafood restaurant in Hakodate was memorable for its quality, with various types of crab taking the starring role. Four nights in Hokkaido was enough to scratch the surface but if there’s a next time then we’d hire a car to explore the more isolated areas.

I was happy to move on, especially as we were heading for Kanazawa, a city that is becoming better known with tourists and is often compared to Kyoto but without the crowds. It’s certainly dripping in history and has at its centre one of Japan’s great gardens, Kenroku-en, which is snipped and prodded to perfection. It felt odd to ascend a hill and find a lake.

More to my taste was the stunning D.T. Suzuki museum, dedicated to the life of the writer and philosopher who did much to promote Zen Buddhism to the West. The pared-back building reminded me of Mies van der Rohe’s pavilion in Barcelona and was beautifully set, surrounded by a large reflecting pool. I found myself blinking back tears as I walked around it. ‘I think this is the most perfect building I’ve ever been in,’ I said to Anthony. It was interesting to visit the Museum of Architecture the next day, designed by the same architect, Yoshio Taniguchi, and holding work by him and his father, Yoshiro Taniguchi, and to see the magic of similar elements at play again.

I liked rather than loved Kanazawa. It’s packed with fascinating places, including the characterful laneways of the geisha and samurai areas, but somehow it never really seduced me. The city that did was Tokyo.

Tokyo felt large and anonymous the first time I visited, which is hardly surprising given it’s a city with a population of fourteen million. This time, we stayed just a few steps from Kappabashi Street, famous for its numerous shops selling everything for the kitchen. You can easily lose a day pondering everything from hand-forged knives and exquisite ceramics to industrial-sized pans and platters of fake food. And yet, being in the centre of the city, I was surprised how peaceful it was, waking in the morning to the sound of birdsong and even tolling bells from the various temples squeezed into the narrow backstreets.

Senso-ji temple was nearby and is a huge draw but it’s worth going in the evening when it’s lit up and free from crowds. I kept thinking how I could happily have spent a week or more in Tokyo, there’s just so much to experience.

This time I sauntered through Le Corbusier’s National Gallery of Western Art (it was closed the last time I was there) and it was like visiting an old friend. Better, though, was strolling around the Yoyogi sports halls at the edge of Yoyogi Park. Kenzo Tange was inspired by Le Corbusier and his work from the 1960s is truly spectacular, so full of energy but practical, too. We sat for a while just soaking in their beauty. They really are two of the 20^th century’s most beautiful buildings.

A cold was sapping my energy otherwise I would have gone to the Edo-Tokyo Museum’s outdoor exhibition on the outskirts of Tokyo, filled with heritage buildings including old shops and a traditional bath house reconstructed in a park. But simply walking the streets of Tokyo, enjoying the open space of the lush Imperial Gardens or the squeezy byways of Asakusa, gave me plenty to look at. When Anthony went off to visit a famous rose garden, I ambled back to the hotel and happened across a paper company’s showroom, where the owner proudly showed me the beautiful prints and papers the company has been making since the 17^th century. They’re used in everything from swanky gift packaging to shimmering screens and lampshades. It reminded me how you often stumble across the best things when you allow yourself time to just dawdle.

I’ve never stayed in Japan for longer than a fortnight at a time but always I’ve left feeling full. There’s plenty to digest and so many moments of utter serenity, even in the dense, busy cities. It’s there in the little gestures and the warm smiles, and in architecture and gardens of all eras that highlight the Japanese appreciation for beauty. So when I was approached by a shiny white security robot at Narita airport, which gave me the once-over with its swivelling eye, I could only smile. Japan, bonkers and brilliant. I can’t wait to go back.

*How’s the serenity?

From a series written for ABC Radio National’s Blueprint for Living. This piece first aired on 18th November 2023. You can hear the audio here.

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For those of us of a certain age, a Mason jar was a constant, filled, in my childhood at least, with plums and pears and stored on a cool, dark shelf in the garage. And it’s remarkable how something designed for one purpose can become a symbol of so much else. While the Mason jar was designed to help store a glut of fruit or vegetables, it’s also a history of the modern world encapsulated in glass.

In the 1790s, French chef Nicolas Appert experimented with wax and cork stoppers to seal bottles and preserve their contents, an idea that would help in the development of canned foods. In 1858, American tinsmith John Mason came up with something similar, a glass jar with a moulded threaded collar on which a metal cap could be screwed, thereby creating an airtight and watertight seal. It showed an awareness that contact with air caused food to decay, and its simplicity made it a boon for those who grew their own food, now able to conserve their produce so that it could last into the leaner winter months.

Mason didn’t quite appreciate the impact his invention had. When he refined his own design with different lids and applied for a new patent, the Board refused, saying his claim had lapsed because so many others had developed their own versions in the ten years since his initial patent.  Mason might have lost his rights to the jar but his name remained, becoming the generic term for all jars of this type. A further refinement was made by Alexander Kerr in 1915 with better quality glass and enamelled caps that wouldn’t degrade when in contact with food or when heated, showing that the science of food hygiene and bacterial growth had evolved since Mason’s day. It’s this version that most of us are familiar with now, and they’re often referred to as Kerr Mason jars.

Today, the Mason jar is more likely to be used for simple storage than as part of the process of pickling and preserving. While its airtight quality is appreciated, it also expresses a link to other times. When the gourmet revolution was taking off in the late 1960s, building on the popularity of books by Elizabeth David and promoted in the new lifestyle shops of Terence Conran, the idea of displaying kitchen staples in a more charming way had taken hold. Where Tupperware and other plastics had stolen the show in the 1950s kitchen, the 1970s saw a yearning for something more romantic. The 1980s saw the rise in popularity of the Mediterranean diet, with sun-dried tomatoes and preserved lemons, and the Mason jar seemed to fit the mood. Glass was recyclable and honest, and had a wonky charm that also fed into the shabby chic trend of the 1990s. And so it continued, reaching its zenith in the 21^st century when the Mason jar became not only a storage container but a utensil, something to drink cocktails and fruit juices out of, or else a design accessory, with candles glowing within. All the time, it hinted at an idealised past, the country kitchen or the craft workshop with a dash of Bauhaus functionality. Perhaps it’s not surprising that something affiliated with the appetite should strike such a chord.

The elevation of ordinary objects to other purposes continues. When we decorate our homes with tin signs for engine oil and suspend factory lights above our kitchen counter, we’re demonstrating a resistance to bourgeois prettiness and convention, even though such items are now part of high street fashion. The Mason jar has become a cliché, perhaps, but it remains a symbol of comfort, providing a homespun element in our hard-edged, clinical kitchens. An emotional link to the past, no doubt, but also a salute to the adaptablity of simple design.

From a series written for ABC Radio National’s Blueprint for Living. This piece was first broadcast on 2nd December 2023. You can listen to the audio here.

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The Yoyogi National Gymnasium, built for the 1964 Tokyo Olympics, leaves no doubt that beauty and utility are intrinsically linked. Its glorious swooping form not only provides the perfect performance space but mirrors the energy of the athletes using it. It’s a building that swirls and swishes as though in constant movement, and it’s hard to believe it’s sixty years old, given today’s fashion for organically shaped buildings. Certainly it stunned the world at its opening. It was a lesson in the power of engineering, in much the same way as Sydney’s Opera House was, and gave pause to those who thought modernist architecture was blocky and boring. It was also, like the Opera House, a symbol of a country’s reinvention.

It’s the work of Kenzo Tange, who was inspired to study architecture by Le Corbusier. Indeed, Tange’s earliest work, the main buildings in the Peace Memorial Park in Hiroshima, which he also planned, shows a classic Corbusian simplicity with a flat-roofed concrete building hoisted on slender pillars. Ten years later, though, Tange concluded that beauty lay at the core of functionalism. ‘Architecture must have something that appeals to the human heart,’ he said.  What makes this sports hall, and the mini-me companion at its side, so remarkable is just how stunning that functionality is. The larger hall holds 15000 spectators and has two concrete pylons with two thick cables slung between them onto which a network of thinner cables was intended to be attached. This would support the steel roof plates but experiments showed it would sag and sway too much so a stiffer steel frame was used instead that was attached to the main cables at the top. The smaller hall, built to hold 4000 spectators, has only one pylon, with the roof coiling around it like a serpent. The suspended roof means there’s clear space below and made the main hall the largest of its sort in the world at that time. While it was a show of engineering audacity, the roof also had the gracefulness of a swagged curtain, giving the interior a theatricality that perfectly complemented the athletics it hosted. It was an evolution of an idea developed by Eero Saarinen for his much smaller hockey stadium at Yale University a few years earlier, as well as a nod to the tented pavilion Le Corbusier designed for Brussel’s Expo 58. Tange’s buildings go much further, having a monumental confidence that is almost other-worldly and which remain a breathtaking sight. The buildings came at a pivotal moment in Japan’s history. They showed that Japanese architecture could match or even surpass the best in the world, including the stunning pavilions Pier Luigi Nervi designed for the 1960 Rome Olympics. But Tange imbued the cutting-edge engineering with an inherently Japanese quality, evoking the tailored, woven, folded precision that accompanies much of Japanese craft. There’s even a hint of samurai armour in the steel plates of the roof. That same year Japan astonished the world with its first high-speed shinkansen trains, demonstrating its shift from competent manufacturer to startling innovator, where a Made In Japan stamp would become a mark of quality and design excellence. The sports halls at Yoyogi therefore stand as celebrations, not only of athletic ability but for the way a country can meet the contemporary world without losing its heritage. Tange is often seen as the father of Japanese modernism and these sports halls stand as perhaps his finest moment. A moment when beauty and functionalism became the same thing, taking architecture to a higher plane and changing our expectations forever.

From my series written for ABC Radio National’s Blueprint for Living. This end-of-year special was first broadcast on 16th December 2023. You can listen to the audio here.

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The birth of a baby in Bethlehem some two thousand years ago marked a pivotal moment in the design world. So let’s assemble twelve festive icons and also consider how some of the world’s great designers might improve them. Of course, we won’t ask architect Adolf Loos for help, given he linked ornament to crime, nor Robin Boyd, given his distaste for featurism. This is Christmas, after all.

1. First, the nativity scene itself. Saint Francis of Assisi created a living tableau in an Italian cave at Christmas in 1223 and sculptor Arnolfo di Cambio was commissioned to replicate that in stone for a display in Rome in 1291. The nativity scene, or presepio, has been popular ever since, in churches as well as front gardens. But given the tendency to gaudiness and sentimentality, let’s hand ours over to the Bauhaus to simplify everything which will surely allow our own imaginations to soar.
2. Pagan customs and Christmas have long been interwoven. The Christmas tree came from the Germanic tradition to celebrate winter before the harshest weather set in. Fir trees are still placed atop new buildings, a practice the Vikings took to Britain and to the world thereafter, which was meant to appease the gods. When Victoria and Albert showcased a Christmas tree at Windsor Castle in 1848 then the tradition became truly entrenched. Landscape designer Lancelot ‘Capability’ Brown planted thousands of deciduous trees in the 18th century but his use of new fir tree species from abroad marked the spread of global trade. Given his ability to capture the lyricism of landscape, let’s put him in charge of our Christmas tree, adding mistletoe perhaps but keeping the whole thing free from artifice.
3. Except that no Christmas tree should be undecorated. While fruit and nuts were first used, in the 1850s the glass blowers of Thuringia showed off their craft by blowing baubles in the shape of the real thing. In our minimal times, and given the cost of fruit and nuts, let’s have Mies van der Rohe and his love for transparency make our glass baubles. Clear and colourless, no doubt, but with probably the most perfect fixing hook you’ll ever see.
4. Tinsel’s the other favourite for the tree. First made in C17th Nuremburg from hammered slivers of silver, they’re the quickest way to add sparkle to yet another plate of mince pies. Who better to organise that shimmering quality than Frank Gehry whose buildings have added such architectural tinsel to our cities.
5. Candlelight symbolises everything from clarity to cosiness, but electricity made Christmas lighting so much safer. Joseph Swan may have invented the first lightbulb in 1860 but it was Thomas Edison who perfected the idea, creating strands of lights to brighten the Christmas ambiance in 1880. They were outrageously expensive but by the 1920s, cheaper strands of lights were widely available.  Lit at night, the Art Deco spire of William Van Alen’s Chrysler Building in Manhattan looks like the best Christmas tree in the world. So let’s see what he can do to szhush up our little number … once Capability Brown has left the room, of course.
6. A wreath on the front door welcomes Christmas into the home. It harks back to ancient times, too, where wreaths were worn by winners, like those at the first Olympic Games. Other cultures use symbols of nature on their doors to ward off malevolence, from strings of chillies to plaited palm fronds. The circular wreath also speaks of the eternal cycle of life. William Morris would create the best wreath, given most are woven like willow baskets in a medieval village, and are decorated by things that if not useful are certainly beautiful.
7. The commercialism of Christmas arrived in the jovial form of Father Christmas. The real Saint Nicolas was a Greek bishop in the 3rd century known for urging people to feast in preparation for winter and to treat children well. Gradually he morphed into the Santa we know today, with sleighs and reindeer added to the myth. The red colour of his clothing is less to do with the blood of Christ than with the corporate labelling of a certain cola drink. Given such incongruous blending of traditions, he would definitely benefit from a Vivienne Westwood makeover.
8. The sleigh is now an intrinsic part of Christmas, a version of a carriage better made for sliding over snow, like Catherine the Great’s luxurious sleigh of the 1760s, than soaring through the sky. It was the Night-before-Christmas poem that really put the sleigh into Christmas and it’s a seductive image. The fact that it’s usually pulled by reindeer with antlers needs revising, though, given that only female reindeer have them at that time of year, so Rudolph definitely needs a pronoun re-evaluation. The sleigh, too, could surely do with an update. Who finer to upgrade the look than Carlo Riva, the creator of the elegant Corsaro motorlaunch of 1946, honed from polished wood and drenched in other-worldly glamour. And, let’s face it, much more streamlined than a sleigh.
9. Of course Santa brings gifts, just as the Magi presented gold, frankincense and myrrh. While the Americans instilled the notion of gifts given only to well behaved children, surely in these tough times we all deserve a stocking, at least.  As presentation goes, it’s an odd one, given the lovely wrapping papers that evolved from Renaissance times. So let’s ask Coco Chanel to make us some better ones. She’s so good with detail and pioneered jersey material for smart clothing (and that stretchiness means you can stuff in a whole lot more).
10. Festive food is the mainstay of Christmas. Again, it harks back to traditional preparations for winter. The plum pudding is the Anglo Christmas staple: as Dickens described it in A Christmas Carol: like ‘a speckled cannon ball, so hard and firm… with Christmas holly stuck into the top.’ The plum pudding became a staple only in Victorian times, adding rituals such as taking turns to stir the mixture to remember the journey of those Magi visitors.  Combining dried fruit and nuts with honey has been a winter basic since medieval times, sometimes with beef or mutton added, making a thick, nutritious soup. So today, being able to buy Christmas dinner soup in a tin is obviously a tradition revived. Mrs Beeton’s pudding was heavy with suet: superstar chef Georges Escoffier created the idea of Christmas pudding ice cream. There are endless variants so perhaps it’s best to invoke Dieter Rams’s philosophy to guide us on our version: less but better.
11. Gift vouchers and cards are the gift that never fails. Which is terribly boring. They were made popular in the 1930s by department stores looking at ways to keep hold of indecisive customers’ money. Gift cards with their magnetic strip appeared in the 1990s, adding a clinical edge to the idea. So let’s get Leonardo da Vinci, who understood the power of modern inventions but loved a Christmas scene, to inject some beauty into those vouchers and cards.
12. Of course, the biggest gift of Christmas is its message of peace on earth. How do you design that? Perhaps listening to others is the best way to achieve it so an ear trumpet seems like an appropriate symbol. More tangible, though, is the soothing quality of great architecture. And perhaps Andrea Palladio’s San Giorgio Maggiore in Venice exemplifies that most beautifully. So let’s hand all our icons to Palladio and see how balance and proportion is vital not just to architecture but to the best way of living.

When you live in Australia, it’s hard to avoid the feeling that, one way or another, nature is going to get you. It’s why first-time tourists get so nervous, having heard stories of shark attacks, snakes in beds, and spiders the size of saucers. Living in this particular corner of New South Wales, I’ve never felt it quite so strongly.

It’s the middle of summer so everything is going ballistic. Weeds the size of bushes spring up where there had been none the week before. Tiny saplings seem suddenly to have become trees. I pick up a brush to sweep the veranda and a mud wasp has built its home on the handle. When it rains, tree frogs stick to the window panes and watch you with a wide grin. The grass grows almost before your eyes.

It’s a glorious time but hard to get through, sometimes. The air is thick with humidity and some days it’s like living in a Turkish bath. My clothes cling damply to my body and my glasses steam up when I leave an air-conditioned building. Mould blooms on undusted surfaces or on the collar of a shirt that was worn briefly and left to hang. The leaf litter alongside the lane is spread with white and gold fungi as pretty as flowers. You feel the whole place would simply devour itself if you didn’t keep an eye on it.

The abundance is jaw-dropping. There is life everywhere, in everything from the thrum of cicadas and crickets to the deafening frog chorus down by the creek. Gigantic webs are slung between trees at night and sparkle in the morning mist. When I drive along our little lanes, I have to be careful to avoid the water dragons sunbaking on the road, or an echidna or goanna crossing to the other side. We have hares in the garden, thankfully less destructive than rabbits as they seem to eat more grass and weeds than anything that troubles us, but which almost give you a heart attack when they leap away from under your feet.

It’s the full force of Australia, an Eden, thanks to its mix of rich soil, sunshine and plentiful rain. And so easy to remember that this area was once the dense rainforest known as the Big Scrub that covered a vast area and which was only cleared when the white man arrived. They tore down the trees, first the huge cedars for carpentry and then the rest, to create paddocks for cattle, the milk and cream taken by boat or train to Sydney. There was whaling at the coast. The abundance was tapped.

I thought of this many times when I was in Britain last year. It was June and everything was looking its best. The evenings were long, the dawn chorus full-throated, and gardens everywhere foamed with flowers. While it felt abundant, it also felt tame. Safe, too, because there’s little that will harm you, at least not seriously. In Britain nature feels almost incidental, at least in the busier parts, as though it’s surviving against the odds. You have to go to its outer edges to feel any sense that it’s the humans who are incidental. The nature you find is often curated, like the reintroduction of beavers to slow the flow of flooding rivers. Other species like red squirrels and kites have been carefully helped on their way to re-establishment. It’s a similar story across Europe. It’s the intervention of the humans that allows it.

Here, on the other hand, I sense nature is just waiting for us to get out of the way. Sure, there are plenty of species in danger, victims of human settlement, climate change, monoculture farming, and feral cats. Our latest scare is the impending arrival of fire ants which threatens to bring chaos to agricultural life. At Cloverdale, we have consciously adjusted our land to make it more bird attracting, and we’ve replaced plants like the tulip trees whose flowers are toxic to native bees. But we’ve also cleared areas to stop them becoming snake habitat, too, so it’s a biased kind of care we practice.

I wake to a dawn chorus that is rich and symphonic, each species heralding the day and somehow managing to hold themselves in some sort of balance. As I look from the veranda, my eye is caught by an endless display, from the birds criss-crossing the highway of the sky to the scrum of ants devouring a beetle near my feet. A stingless bee seems to catch its breath on my seat cushion. There is something wherever I look. It positively pulsates with life.

This area is a miracle. While the Big Scrub was cleared for cattle but is now green-leafed again with macadamia and fruit orchards, I like to think that this will pass, too. Many have already allowed areas to run wild again, where pioneer trees will encourage yet more trees and thereafter more birds, insects and animals. Despite the onslaught of new houses and spreading settlements, I imagine the rainforest quietly reclaiming its land, biding its time as it waits to ambush us in the most sumptuous way. In time it will smother and cover us, the temporary humans, mere passers-by on this planet.

Can you feel change in the air?

According to Chinese tradition, time is divided into twenty year periods, each with a dominant energy, and we’ve just shifted into a new one. It’s a Nine period, which is shorthand for the Fire element. The previous period, from 2004 to 2024, was an Eight, an Earth element. In 2004, Chinese businesses incorporated the number eight into as many things as possible, from business names to car registration plates. It was THE lucky number for wealth. But that’s changed so watch out for plenty of nines cropping up in Chinese businesses. It’s taken very seriously.

It might all sound a bit esoteric but a lot of Chinese philosophy makes a lot of sense. Like the understanding about different kinds of energy, and that we can do things to encourage a sense of flow in all aspects of our lives (thanks to practices like acupuncture, feng shui, tai chi, chi gong, and Traditional Chinese Medicine). I especially like the Five Elements (Water, Wood, Fire, Earth and Metal) which represent the type of energy in absolutely everything. According to Chinese astrology, for instance, I’m a strong Water person, which means I’m prone to overthink things – Water is about reflecting and depth. New ideas are affiliated with the Wood element (like new leaves and growing shoots) and Fire is their full expression, putting them in the spotlight.

So we’ve moved into a dominant Fire period and that influences everything. Fire is a volatile element, not a problem when contained but which can easily get out of control. It can also be quickly snuffed out. There’s a treacherous quality to it, flickering one moment, blazing the next, always changing. It’s the energy of fame and celebrity (the spotlight), of joy (the lightness of laughter), of intelligence (being bright), of fashion (that spotlight again), and of explosive brilliance (the lightbulb moment). So I’m sorry to tell you that the focus on the celeb culture will continue for the next twenty years.

I’ve been mulling over this Fire energy for a while. The impact of the coming change began months ago. There was something shocking (explosive) going on at a number of levels. Not just in events like the ‘sudden’ Hamas attack on Israel and the brutal response or the ‘sudden’ collapse of Chinese property giant Evergrande, which threatens to destabilise global finances, but also closer to home, in the ‘sudden’ breakdown of relationships, some I’d thought of as rock-solid. There was a burn-the-house-down quality to people splitting up. The suddenness was the shock, and I kept thinking of the way a flickering candle can fall and become an inferno in moments.

Few things are sudden, though. Things fester below the surface for a long time until they reach a stage when they can’t be concealed any longer. Fire energy brings them into the light, like the eruption of a volcano.

So I’m thinking the bright and sometimes volcanic energy is something we should be mindful of over these coming years. We have to be more intelligent, to understand where there are problems and deal with them before they become unmanageable, flaring out of control. While a Fire period might sound wonderful for a budding author seeking the spotlight, it’s also a great energy for narcissists, always clamouring for attention. So, Trump might just get what he wants. The clarity that Fire symbolises means things are brought out into the light, and that means all kinds of things, from awful secrets to fantastic inventions. Look at me, it screams (the flashing red light). But also, beware, beware, beware.

No one can predict the future. Not even Chinese astrology. But we can get a feeling for what kind of future it might be. As someone living in a timber house, I’m a little nervous about the literal meaning of prominent Fire energy as well as the continuing effect of the warming of the oceans on our climate. But I’m also a lover of laughter and seeker of joy, both of them Fire attributes, so here’s hoping it’s the dawning of a new age of enlightenment. With lots of laughs.

What changes have shocked you recently?