[Pilgrimage to Peter Zumthor]

"Searching for the architecture of Peter Zumthor.

Reading the comedies and tragedies of history, 

revering the grammar of a master, and reflecting upon oneself."

 Nietzsche’s greatest insight into tragedy lies not in Apollonian redemption, but in his revelation of Dionysian awareness. He taught us that life is not a static entity flowing ethically and solemnly, but rather something dynamic—at times irregular and unpredictable. When I first encountered Nietzsche as a student, his penetrating insight compelled me to reinterpret the familiar routines of everyday life from an entirely different perspective. It may sound unrelated, but whenever I wander through unfamiliar places, I am reminded of the virtues of Greek tragedy that Nietzsche described. Every city reveals both the comedy and tragedy of its history, and from our present vantage point as observers, we must learn to read their Dionysian essence. Architecture and cities are therefore direct records of unfamiliar histories, and at the same time, the foundation upon which future histories will unfold. To become an architect requires long years of practical discipline and experience, as well as an original interpretation and perspective toward cities and architecture. It is not merely about mastering technical details such as waterproofing joints or roof connections. Rather, it requires insight into what constitutes the present within the flow of history—and an awareness of the era in which we stand.

 In this sense, architecture is a profoundly valuable field of study, even for the general public. For those whose intellectual curiosity can only be satisfied by engaging with the comedies and tragedies of history, it is not enough to experience food or admire famous paintings in museums while traveling. One must also seek to understand the city and architecture itself. Architectural pilgrimage is, in essence, the act of estranging oneself from the familiar in order to objectify one’s existence within new spatial and temporal contexts. I have always embraced the peculiar unfamiliarity such journeys offer. Since my student years abroad, field trips were never merely academic exercises in architecture. They were processes of self-discovery—moments of reflection in which I projected myself and the present into vast historical landscapes. When seeking out the masterpieces of great architects, I often felt like a monk approaching a legendary monastery, filled with reverence. Each encounter brought immense emotional resonance, yet at the same time, I struggled to reconcile my own diminished sense of self in the presence of such greatness. It was a form of awe—a deeply spiritual experience. Without those moments, the architecture I pursue today might never have existed.

 Peter Zumthor is undoubtedly one of the few living architects capable of creating such objects of reverence. I first encountered his work in a special issue of A+U during my final year of university. Without grand explanations, a single dark architectural section drawing carried an overwhelming presence that remained etched in my memory. Later, while briefly auditing courses at an architecture school in Grenoble during my language studies in southern France, I had the opportunity to read his essay “Architecture and Materials.” What struck me most was his recollection of childhood architectural experiences—of the time embedded in the grooves of wood, and the sensory qualities of material, along with the images of memory they held. This was not a grand philosophical discourse but a reflection on the primordial human sensibility itself. As a child, I too would insert objects into the grooves of my grandmother’s wooden floor, imagining infinite pasts within them. The scent of spring sunlight, the air, and the smoothness of materials worn by time remain vivid within my tactile memory. It was later in Paris, through a Pompidou-produced DVD featuring an interview about his masterpiece, Therme Vals, that I finally saw this stubborn Swiss architect for the first time. Curiously, he looked exactly as one might imagine Zumthor would look. His rough white beard shimmered faintly through cigar smoke, and throughout the interview he spoke slowly in coarse German, occasionally punctuated by brief English phrases. At moments, he would place his cigar-holding hand upon the desk and utter a few words. Each time, an indescribable shiver ran through me. He was simply a craftsman. Grand rhetoric and philosophical ornamentation seemed trivial in his presence. He was not a rhetorician of words, but a maker.

 To reach his masterpiece, Therme Vals, one must travel deep into Switzerland—one hour by train from Chur, followed by another hour by bus into a remote alpine valley. The surrounding landscape is breathtaking, long known for its stone mountains and healing thermal waters. Yet Zumthor’s architecture heals people in ways entirely different from the thermal baths themselves. His building returns visitors to a primordial state, dissolving human vanity and ego. The tactile and even olfactory orchestration of materials—impossible to capture fully in photographs—creates a profound spatial essence where material, light, and space converge. In that moment, words fail. Zumthor infused the site with its own emotional essence, creating a place unlike any other. The blue granite slabs were deliberately cut into elongated proportions, revealing their inherent nature. When combined with water, they transformed into something altogether new, their surfaces smooth and luminous. The interior spaces were carved deeply, like newly discovered caves of primitive dwellings, admitting light while concealing themselves within layers of water at varying temperatures. In that place, I became a primitive being immersed in water and nature. And yet, perhaps it is more accurate to say that the space received us with a modern, restrained silence.

 Every Thursday evening, Therme Vals hosts what is known as “Silence Bathing.” The scene evokes something akin to a secret ritual from Stanley Kubrick’s Eyes Wide Shut. Steam rises softly as visitors remain silent, aware of each other’s presence. The smell of earth, grass, and animals permeates the air. Sitting at the threshold where stone meets water, one experiences the seamless encounter between humanity and nature. The warmth of the thermal water envelops the body, awakening a primal happiness. Light emerges faintly from beneath the pools, and sound is reduced to droplets and the gentle movement of water. Emotion emerges at the surface where material meets the human body. In that place, I did not simply see architecture—I felt the happiness that architecture can create.

 If Therme Vals reveals the point where nature and humanity meet, the Kolumba Museum in Cologne demonstrates how contemporary architecture can engage with historical context to create new history. Built upon the ruins of a church destroyed during World War II, the museum expresses the temporal dimension of architecture through material, light, and spatial sequence. It reveals both the Apollonian order and the unsettling Dionysian reality of war. Zumthor’s use of specially produced charcoal-fired bricks from Petersen Tegl reinterprets the historical context through material itself. Their elongated proportions differ radically from conventional bricks, forming massive horizontal assemblies resembling cut stone. Individual elements accumulate into texture, and texture into volume, reconstructing interior space through light. Light filtering through these bricks evokes not narrative, but temporal emotion—the silent voice of history itself.

 His mastery of material reaches its most poetic expression in the Bruder Klaus Field Chapel in Wachendorf, Germany. Constructed by arranging 112 tree trunks, pouring concrete around them, and then burning the wood away, the interior reveals a charred cavity marked by the memory of its making. Light enters from above, illuminating the blackened surfaces. The exterior retains the layered traces of concrete poured day by day by farmers, preserving the process of construction itself. This radical technique exists nowhere else in the world. Only Peter Zumthor could have created it. Through this small chapel, an ordinary field becomes a poem, and the sky becomes a canvas connecting humanity and the divine.

 For me, architectural pilgrimage is sacred. It is more than the admiration and study of great works. It is a process of reflection a cleansing of preconceptions. Through such journeys, we realize the profound significance of everyday life within the vast continuum of history. Beautiful architecture reminds us of the meaning of time and space. It affirms our existence. To travel through cities and architecture is to engage in a sacred act—one that gives meaning to life and liberates us from the ordinary. Peter Zumthor’s architecture ultimately poses a fundamental question: what should architecture be within time and nature? His work reminds us of the essential qualities we have forgotten. To visit his architecture and experience the essence of space he reveals—this is, without question, a pilgrimage every architect must undertake at least once in their lifetime.

2018.10

Jeonghoon Lee

[This article was commissioned by Leul]