How to Cite: Bergera, Iñaki. "Siza in Panticosa. Poetics of Abandonment". Dearq no. 37 (2023): 116-136. DOI: https://doi.org/10.18389/dearq37.2023.10
How to Cite: Bergera, Iñaki. "Siza in Panticosa. Poetics of Abandonment". Dearq no. 37 (2023): 116-136. DOI: https://doi.org/10.18389/dearq37.2023.10
Iñaki Bergera
Photographer and curator
Escuela de Ingeniería y Arquitectura.
Universidad de Zaragoza, España
It is no simple task to come across an enclave where the relationship —particularly edgy in this case— between architecture and territory is reflected with such intensity. In fact, Panticosa is more than a territory or a place: it is a landscape constructed from the hybridisation between sublime nature and human construction and intervention. The spa resort in Panticosa is situated in a granite basin at an altitude of 1630 meters in the heart of the Aragonese Pyrenees (Spain). This geological and morphologically carved environment has been shaped by the forces of glaciers over centuries, now serving as a sanctuary for mineral-medicinal hot springs, springs, ibones [mountain lakes], and mighty torrents.
Se tiene noticia de la existencia de los baños desde mediados del siglo XVII, y durante más de cuatro siglos el devenir de esta instalación balnearia ha terminado por construir la memoria de una aventura apasionante, narrada por sus cronistas —turistas, enfermos de tuberculosis, fotógrafos y artistas— que viajaban hasta allí —incluso hasta hace poco menos de un siglo el largo desplazamiento y el complicado acceso en caballería o diligencia era el comienzo mismo de la aventura— en busca de la salud, el ocio o el glamur. Pero la historia del balneario es un drama sublime, lleno de riqueza y vitalidad en sus etapas de máximo esplendor a comienzos del siglo XX y lastrado, a su vez, por los fracasos y desastres derivados en ocasiones por la fuerza de la naturaleza —los aludes de nieve han barrido en no pocas ocasiones parte de sus instalaciones—, los incendios, el declive de la actividad turística debido a una mala gestión o, recientemente, por un desproporcionado intento de transformación que lo ha convertido parcialmente a un espacio de ruina y abandono.
The memory of Panticosa is, fortunately, an illustrated memory, preserved in photographs within institutional collections such as the National Library, the Ramón y Cajal Institute, and the Diputación de Huesca, as well as in various private collections.1 The earliest photographic report, along with the initial architectural plan of the complex, dates back to 1865. Since then, many national and international photographers have journeyed to this destination to capture the essence of its architecture, waterfalls, and mountains. Through albums, postcards, or stereoscopic views, they have documented the vibrant life and activities of those who frequented its premises, from the sacred temples of the medicinal springs and the bathhouses, to the hotels and villas catering to tourists and employees, and even encompassing the casino, church, shops, and even a slaughterhouse.
The photographs from the 1950s vividly capture the spa resort's final moments of vibrancy, as a well-equipped summer retreat for families, offering relaxation and sporting activities, then easily accessible. However, the economic downturn of the 1960s and the challenges of maintaining the ageing infrastructure resulted in the spa resort's closure in 1979. Since then, it has become a melancholic setting frequented by "domingueros" [Sunday visitors], hikers, and mountaineers. In 2000, the real estate company Nozar, owned by the Nozaleda family, intervened to put an end to this situation. They acquired the dilapidated establishment to transform it into a luxurious international tourist centre —a resort that required the demolition of most of the old hotels, the restoration of the original spa resort buildings, and the construction of new accommodations. The investment exceeded sixty million euros and was expected to create direct employment opportunities for over four hundred individuals.
In the aftermath of the so-called Guggenheim effect (inaugurated in Bilbao in 1997), the Spanish real estate sector experienced an economic boom, instilling unwavering confidence among investors, developers, and politicians in iconic architecture and architects of the star system.2 The spa resort presented a favourable opportunity in this context, so they called two distinguished Pritzker Prize winners: Rafael Moneo, entrusted with the expansion and restoration of the Casino and the Grand Hotel, and Portuguese architect Álvaro Siza, commissioned to design the visually striking High-Performance Sports Center (CAR) —the visual protagonist of this story— and an aparthotel. The construction of a new thermal building and a large parking lot was assigned to Belén Moneo alongside Jeff Brock, and Jesús Manzanares, respectively.
However, the story —a fairy tale viewed from a contemporary perspective— did not have a happy ending. The severe international economic crisis, compounded by the bursting of the real estate bubble in Spain, shattered this chimerical project. In 2008, virtually overnight, Nozar went bankrupt due to a lack of credit, resulting in the suspension of all spa resort-related construction works, each meeting a different fate. Some facilities, such as the Grand Hotel or the thermal building, were already operational but had to close temporarily. Others, like the aparthotel and a section of the car park situated at the entrance of the complex, were left incomplete in the midst of their construction phases. The works on the Siza building came to a complete standstill, with only finishing touches, painting, auctions, and equipment delivery remaining. This formidable and refined project, meticulously constructed with a double concrete shell, was subsequently abandoned to its fate, left at the mercy of a nature eager to reclaim what was rightfully its own.
Siza envisaged the CAR with careful consideration to minimise its visual impact on the surrounding area, achieved through the placement of a significant portion of its extensive programme at the basement level and landscaped flat roofs. The 3400 square metres of land were utilised across three levels: the entrance level, housing the reception, restaurant, and lounge area; the first level, accommodating over twenty rooms; and an underground level featuring the spa resort, sports court, gym, and changing rooms. The resulting composition showcases a robust and fragmented volumetric design, with the upper sections of the introverted structure folding inward and creating enclosed spaces. This design dialogue harmoniously with the sleekness and dynamic nature of the interior spaces, which gradually ascend towards the outdoor terrace through ramps, always infused with natural light streaming through openings and skylights.3
In December 2011, I obtained the necessary permits to access the interior of the CAR, marking the beginning of the Standstill Architecture series. This personal photographic project spanned over a decade, dedicated to visually capturing the reality of this spa resort in Panticosa. The spa resort became a unique landscape of abandonment and decay, embodying a systemic conflict between architecture and the surrounding territory. From an artistic perspective, I aimed to visually map this conflict, without resorting to explicit criticism or melancholy. Instead, my photographic work sought to explore and depict the suspended nature of these unfinished architectural structures,4 allowing time to transform their potential into wounds and their anticipation into deterioration.5
With the perspective of being both an architect and a photographer, this project captures, in an objective and respectful narrative, the contradictions and tensions between the intended formal, constructional, and material aspirations of Siza's architecture and its dialectical conflicts with an exaggerated landscape, imbued with the inherent poetics that accompany processes of decay and abandonment. The goal was to revisit and explore both the exterior and interior spaces, presenting poignant documentation of the inevitable scars and remnants left by the passage of time, like layers upon layers, on the essence of the building: crumbling false ceilings, shattered glass and joinery, stripped vertical surfaces, raised floors, and materiality transformed by moisture and decay processes.
The relentless action of nature and climate in these abandoned spaces, once meticulously crafted, provide the argument for a different, off the radar, visual narrative of architectural space. Resembling a captivating wreck submerged in the sea, contemplating these evocative images encourages us —once we overcome the initial sense of sorrow— to critically reconsider the processes that trigger and oversee the project's execution and the ethics that should guide the transformation of the environment through architecture. Furthermore, it reconciles us with the value of good architecture, which maintains its elegant essence, even when concealed within decay.
1 The most comprehensive collection of historical photographs depicting the spa resort, alongside photographs of Iñaki Bergera's project Standstill Architecture, can be found within the exhibition catalogue showcased in Tudelilla (2022).
2 A comprehensive journalistic synthesis of this stage of Spanish architecture can be found in Moix's book (2010), Arquitectura milagrosa. Hazañas de los arquitectos estrella en la España del Guggenheim [Miraculous Architecture. Exploits of the star architects in Guggenheim-era Spain].
3 Complete information and planimetry of the building can be found in Álvaro Siza 2001-2008 (2008a, 256-269) and Álvaro Siza (2008b, 72-89).
4 Part of the Standstill Architecture project was included in the collective exhibition Unfinished, of the Spanish Pavilion of the Venice Biennale 2016. For more information, refer to Unfinished: Ideas, images and projects from the Spanish Pavilion at the 15th Venice Architecture Biennale (2018) and Unfinished. XV Muestra Internacional de Arquitectura [Unfinished: XV International Architecture Exhibition] (2016).
5 Another project that exemplifies my interest in abandoned architecture is the series Twentysix (Abandoned) Gasoline Stations, an implicit tribute to the referential work of Ed Ruscha. Refer to Bergera (2018).