Über Jahre näherten sich Jörn Düwel und Niels Gutschow (Bild 1) immer mehr dem schillernden Leben des Architekten Rudolf Wolters (1903–1983). Beginnend 2015 mit der kommentierten Neuausgabe von Spezialist in Sibirien. »Dieses Buch veröffentlichte er mit 28 Jahren (Bild 2), es zeigt, wie weltoffen er da noch war«, sagt Architekturhistoriker Düwel. Aus dem interessierten Beobachter der jungen UdSSR wurde später die rechte Hand von Albert Speer. Rudolf Wolters’ Rolle in der NS-Zeit beleuchtete ein zweites Buch. Den Abschluss bildet nun eine Untersuchung des bisher kaum bekannten Wolters der Nachkriegszeit (Bild 3). »Damals erfand er sich als Architekt mit eigenem Büro neu – ohne sich gedanklich vom NS zu lösen.« Dem Autoren-Duo ging es vor allem um sein Lavieren zwischen alten Standpunkten und Zugeständnissen an die Moderne, wie hier beim Kunsthaus Conzen in Düsseldorf (Bild 4).

Photographer Bernhard Ludewig has been documenting German nuclear technology across the world for seven years. Here, he introduces four of his most captivating images.

Text & Photos: Bernhard Ludewig

Hier klicken für die deutsche Version.

HYPNOTIC. The TRIGA reactor in Mainz produces a ‘pulse’ for research purposes. In other words, the reactor triggers an uncontrolled chain reaction that takes place for a short time interval before naturally coming to an end. The reactor lies in a pool of water, which slows down the neutrons emitted during the reaction and acts as a cooling agent. The image shows pneumatic tubes descending into the reactor core, where they irradiate the samples. I was able to place my camera just over the surface of the water. The charged particles travelling through the water created a light effect: a hypnotic blue glow that left me spellbound.

SURREAL Germany’s last building project for a nuclear power plant is currently taking place in Angra, Brazil, between São Paulo and Rio. Construction began in the 1980s, but financial problems have led to several delays. Here, the first German facility went online in 2010. A second one has long been underway. The surroundings, along the Atlantic coast, are truly breathtaking. The completed reactor is painted white, while the neighbouring buildings, surrounded by palm trees, don pastel colours and look like an ensemble of Art Deco structures. In the early evenings, the tropical sunset is reflected on the dome.

GLEAMING Here we are at the Emsland nuclear ­power plant, not far from the Dutch border. The image offers a rare glimpse of what lies inside the containment building. When the reactor is in operation, it is covered by a thick concrete lid. But once a year, the reactor must be opened so that the spent fuel pins can be replaced with fresh ones. A crane lifts the heavy concrete lid, lying twelve metres deep, to reveal the gleaming stainless steel elements inside. The containment building is then flooded with water, which acts as a shield against the hazardous radiation from the fuel pins (see following image).

OPEN. The Gösgen nuclear power plant in Swizerland is also a German model. Here, we see the annual operation for replacing the fuel pins underway. The reactor lies open inside the containment building, which has been flooded with water. On the top left, a gripper extends downwards to collect the fuel pins from a depth of 16 metres. The spent fuel pins are subsequently placed in a neighbouring water tank, where they are cooled for five years before being transferred to a dry Castor container. This is what makes up the infamous ‘nuclear waste’, for which the German government is still seeking a final storage place.

Sieben Jahre dokumentierte der Fotograf Bernhard Ludewig deutsche Atomtechnik: in Deutschland selbst, aber auch im Ausland. Hier erklärt der DOM publishers-Autor vier seiner eindrucksvollsten Bilder.

Text & Fotos: Bernhard Ludewig

Click here for the English version.

HYPNOTISCH. Im Triga-Forschungsreaktor Mainz wird für wissenschaftliche Zwecke ein Puls ausgelöst: eine unkontrollierte Kettenreaktion, die sich selbst stoppt. Das Becken ist mit Wasser gefüllt, das die entstehenden Neutronen abbremst und zur Kühlung dient. Mehrere Rohrpostanlagen, die man im Zentrum des Bilds sieht, führen hinab zum Reaktorkern, um dort Proben bestrahlen zu können. Nach oben ist das Becken offen, meine Kamera konnte ich knapp über der Wasseroberfläche platzieren. Wenn unten geladene Teilchen durch das Wasser flitzen, entsteht ein Lichteffekt: das hypnotische blaue Leuchten. Es verzaubert auch mich.

SURREAL. Zwischen São Paulo und Rio befindet sich die letzte deutsche AKW-Baustelle. Seit den Achtzigerjahren wird hier im brasilianischen Angra gebaut, doch durch Finanzierungsprobleme kommt es immer wieder zu Verzögerungen. Im Jahr 2010 ging der erste deutsche Block ans Netz. Seither wird ein zweiter errichtet, dessen Technik seit 1984 eingelagert ist und wartet. Die Lage an der Atlantikküste ist traumhaft. Der schon fertige Reaktor ist weiß lackiert, seine Nebengebäude wirken wie ein pastellfarbenes Art-déco-Ensemble und sind von Palmen umstanden. Abends spiegelt sich der tropische Sonnenuntergang in der Kuppel.

FUNKELND. Hier erhaschen wir einen seltenen Blick in das Flutbecken des Kernkraftwerks Emsland unweit der niederländischen Grenze. Im Betrieb ist es mit dicken Betonriegeln bedeckt. Doch einmal im Jahr muss der Reaktor geöffnet werden, um verbrauchte Brennelemente austauschen zu können. Dazu wird zuerst der Beton entfernt. Für kurze Zeit ist nun der funkelnde Edelstahl zu sehen. Zwölf Meter unter uns befindet sich der schwere Reaktordeckel, der gleich mit dem Kran abgehoben werden soll. Anschließend wird das Becken mit Wasser geflutet, um die gefährliche Strahlung der Brennelemente abzuschirmen (siehe nächstes Bild ). 

GEÖFFNET: Auch das AKW Gösgen in der Schweiz ist ein deutsches Modell, hier beim jährlichen Austausch der Brennelemente. Das Bild zeigt das geflutete Becken mit dem offenen Reaktor. Der von links oben hin­abragende Greifarm holt die Brennelemente aus 16 Meter Tiefe und fährt sie ins benachbarte Abklingbecken. Einige sind abgebrannt und werden dort fünf Jahre gekühlt, bis sie in einem Castor-Behälter trocken gelagert werden können. Das ist der berüchtigte Atommüll, für den ein Endlager gesucht wird. Die anderen Elemente werden, zusammen mit einigen frischen, in neuer Anordnung wieder in den Reaktor gesteckt.

Der Berliner Schriftsteller ("Schneckenmühle", "Ein Auftrag für Otto Kwant") spricht in unserem Podcast über Diktatoren als Baumeister, den Begriff "Platte" und die Architekturführer von DOM publishers. Das Gespräch ist auch abrufbar auf soundcloud.com. 

Some words, no matter how trivial they may seem in the original language, do not lend themselves to direct translation. Kyung Hun Oh, our in-house translator, talks about some challenges of his daily work.

Text: Kyung Hun Oh

Photo: "Altbauten" in Berlin's Schöneberg area © DOM publishers

Altbau: The word Altbau, literally ‘old building’, is a perfectly common word in German, denoting a Gründerzeit-era building from the late 19th or early 20th century. The word carries several connotations, and the translation must reflect the sense being emphasised. A text might be highlighting the fact that an ‘Altbau’ is more fashionable to live in than a contemporary building; it might be exploring how building practices and aesthetics changed after the Second World War; or it might be describing how an old building is being expanded as part of a renovation project. Possible translations thus include ‘period building’, ‘pre-war building’, and ‘existing building’.

Sortenrein: In some building projects, the architect might choose to combine materials in a way that is sortenrein – literally ‘pure in kind’. This means the materials are kept in separate layers without the use of glue so they can be reused. The word has no direct equivalent in English and would warrant an explanation in a subordinate clause.

Vorzeigearchitektur vs. Gebrauchsarchitektur: These two terms came up in an essay I recently translated. Literally, the former means something like ‘showpiece architecture’; the latter something like ‘use architecture’. The former implies 'prestigious', 'iconic', 'recognisable', and 'unique'; the latter implies 'ordinary', 'functional', 'plain'. I chose to translate the two terms as ‘landmark architecture’ and ‘ordinary architecture’.

After studying literature in Cambridge, UK, Kyung Hun Oh  moved to Berlin four and a half years ago. He has now translated numerous books for DOM publishers. An advocate of clarity, he gently reminds architectural critics: sometimes, less is more.

Text: Björn Rosen

Photo: © DOM publishers

Good translators ask good questions. The ones Kyung Hun Oh asks his colleagues are sometimes met with bewilderment and often spark long discussions. Is there, for example, a difference between the words ‘Konstruktionsart’ (literally: type, style, manner, or method of construction) and ‘Bauweise’ (building ­method)? And how scathing does a critic mean to be with the phrase ‘geistige Kurzatmigkeit’ (literally: ­intellectual shortness of breath)? Such questions are difficult to answer, even for the German native speakers at the Berlin-based publishing house. And they reveal some of the challenges involved in Oh’s work – and the high standards and degree of precision he aims for.

Oh joined DOM publishers two years ago, where his main task is to translate manuscripts from German into English. They are always about architecture and urbanism, though some texts are very technical, ­others very theoretical. He has translated ten books for the publishers so far, including the last three editions of the German Architecture Annual for the German Architecture Museum and most recently Radikal Normal, a collection of essays by the architect and architectural theorist Vittorio Magnago Lampugnani. When he speaks, you hear his unmistakable British accent. As the son of Korean parents, he grew up just outside London, though he has also lived in the US and Spain. He first came into contact with the German language when he lived in Frankfurt am Main for a few years as a teenager: there, he attended an international school and learned German as a second language. Later, while studying English literature at the University of Cambridge, he also had the opportunity to read German poetry and plays.

Berlin has been his home for four and a half years. ‘To me, English feels quite linear, with a clearer sense of direction. German is more circular. A sentence leaves more room for detours and asides before the verb is finally revealed,’ he says. His discerning eye has also registered several over-used terms in German architectural jargon. The word ‘vermitteln’, in the sense of ‘mediate’ or ‘connect’, is just one example. ‘Once, an architecture practice euphemistically described a high fence around a gated community as a “mediating element” between the public streetscape and the private spaces inside,’ he says. ‘I get the feeling that some authors try a bit too hard to write beautifully – often at the cost of clarity. Sometimes, what you have is four walls and a roof, and it’s perfectly fine to just say that.’ When asked about examples of good architectural writing in English, he cites the works of Oliver Wainwright, Jane Jacobs, and Richard Sennett.

Oh is co-editor of the English edition of the DOM magazine. And he has also translated this (in his eyes very complimentary) profile, which you have now read to the end, from German.

Diesen Text auf Deutsch lesen.