A conversation with architect Heike Hanada
A building designed to provoke

Like all things in life, it has two sides. On the one hand, it’s fantastic. I sometimes wish other projects would receive even a fraction of this kind of attention. On the other hand, I see a risk that the Bauhaus might be perceived in a rather superficial way—perhaps even overly commercialized. That kind of dilution would actually be anti-Bauhaus.

At the same time, I believe this renewed attention is very important for the people of Weimar. Until now, the Bauhaus hasn’t really been a major topic there. But with the centenary, awareness that the Bauhaus originated in Weimar is growing rapidly. After all, it’s not just about the classic Bauhaus in Dessau. The school went through a diverse evolution, and it’s undoubtedly more of an idea than a formal style.

That was very palpable at the topping-out ceremony. But there are also critical voices, as our building is deliberately provocative. We don’t conform to the classic image of the Bauhaus; instead, we aim to highlight the transitional state between Classicism, Art Nouveau, and the emergence of Modernism.

This in-between phase was actually crucial for Walter Gropius—he came to Weimar as the successor to Henry van de Velde, joining a school still heavily influenced by Art Nouveau. At first, he brought in teachers who worked in the spirit of Expressionism. Then, within a relatively short time, he developed an entirely new perspective—a fascinating period.

First and foremost, it’s expressed through the exterior—through a contemporary use of concrete and prefabrication. The façade is very restrained, a juxtaposition of contemporary and classical elements. I’ve deliberately included features like a base and an attic story; even the portals and windows are framed in concrete.

These are classical motifs, rooted in antiquity. This approach also inspired Mies van der Rohe when he designed the Neue Nationalgalerie—he incorporated classical elements and simultaneously reinterpreted them. In our case, the building’s lack of scale conveys a certain monumentality and sense of grandeur.

Yes, that’s exactly the goal—to make the building recognizable as a museum, so that people can perceive it as such. At the client’s request, we also integrated a continuous text band into the façade, with the words “bauhaus museum” cast in relief.

Even during my studies, I was drawn to teachers who still embodied the spirit of the Bauhaus—like John Hejduk at the Cooper Union in New York.

That’s where I began approaching things from two perspectives—regularly shifting between architecture and art. That mindset stems directly from the Bauhaus idea.

What preoccupies me most is the concept of flowing space. With Mies van der Rohe, it’s conceived purely in the horizontal; with Loos, the idea of the Raumplan introduces a vertical dimension. Le Corbusier explored similar ideas with his double-height spaces. This is a particularly important theme in museum architecture.

That’s why the Bauhaus Museum in Weimar features double-height voids connected by cascading staircases. The path through the building rises diagonally upward. These cascading staircases are, in fact, a classical architectural element—but the way they interact with the open voids follows a modern, asymmetrical, and thus organic movement. Combined with staggered wall planes in the floor plan, this creates a sense of flowing space.

Because most museum professionals and curators today no longer want to work within strictly defined, traditional spaces.

In a flowing spatial layout, they can translate conceptual connections between different areas into actual spatial relationships.

The museum is meant to evoke the character of a workshop or industrial hall. The materials are intentionally left unrefined and non-museum-like, allowing both curators and visitors to feel a greater sense of freedom within the space. One inspiration was museums housed in former industrial buildings—such as the Tate Modern in London.

In the Bauhaus Museum, the walls are white but not plastered. We’ve simply coated the concrete with a lime wash. The ceilings are made of exposed concrete ribs, and the door and window profiles are crafted from simple, silvery-grey, powder-coated steel. The main entrance, elevators, and counters are clad in Galvalume—a galvanized steel sheet.

Exactly—we’re presenting the aluminum in its raw form. Years ago, I visited the FSB factory and was fascinated by the freshly cast, unfinished blank. The special edition is based on the state the handles are in when they come out of the vibratory finishing drum—where they’re polished with countless ceramic cones. The irregular surface has the feel of a handle that’s already been in use for some time. What’s beautiful is that the surface will continue to change over time.

Part of the museum’s design concept was to engage with the formats and proportions of the Wittgenstein House in Vienna—I’m thinking, for instance, of the incredibly elegant, over-height doors. I’ve always found the handle from that house very beautiful, which is why I chose the FSB 1147 model—the Wittgenstein handle.

For the large, three-meter-high museum doors, however, I had the handle extended by about two and a half centimeters to maintain the right proportions.

FSB was very open to my requests. The team understood what I was aiming for and supported the process with great patience. Besides, I don’t think you need to reinvent every element for each new project. Especially within the intentionally industrial, workshop-like character of this building, that would have felt out of place. In this context, the Wittgenstein handle—with its radical simplicity—was simply the best fit for the Bauhaus theme.