The Interweave building has Filipino weaving patterns reinterpreted into a geometric network of strong colors denoting the Filipino identity. (Photo from Buensalido + Architects)
Architect Jason Buensalido thinks out of the box—literally. His structures come with strong lines, odd angles, and unusual shapes—specifically, exaggerated slopes and curves. His works are steeped in Postmodern Architecture, a movement that focuses on buildings with personality and social references.
After topping the board exams in 2005, he set up his firm, Buensalido + Architects, which sought to design dynamic buildings, and refused to settle for cookie-cutter or conventional ideas. His wife, Marie Veronique or Nikki, is an associate architect and the firm’s vice president for human resources.
In 2008, the couple enrolled in a certificate course in urban geographics at the Architectural Association Global Schools in Singapore, where the teachings affirmed his viewpoint. He observes that architects tend to be set in their ways—in the aesthetics, values, problem-solving—which they impose on projects. The results are formulaic and boring. In contrast, the school reminded him that approaching a design problem by asking questions and experimenting with possibilities leads to innovation.
Over time, Buensalido’s boldness paid off.
This year, two projects have been shortlisted for the World Architecture Festival (WAF) Competition 2021. Attended by leading architects the world over, the prestigious event celebrates inspiring structures. The candidates will present their works in the finals set Dec. 1 to 3 in Lisbon, Portugal.
Buensalido’s entry to the Freedom Memorial Museum design competition, a commemoration of Martial Law victims, has been chosen for Future Projects, the category for new ideas, regardless of whether the structures will be built or not. Buensalido titled it From Fragmented to Free.
Another project, the Interweave, an arts and technology school in Quezon City, has been selected in Completed Buildings (Education), projects finished in 2019 and after. He shares credit with associate architect Emereauldine Eliseo for the entry to the Freedom Memorial Museum, and with Jerome Christian Bautista, lead architect for Interweave. “They spearheaded the team in the collaborative production of the ideas, design, drawings and the construction,” he says.
The From Fragmented to Free: Freedom Memorial Museum was originally his entry in a design competition in 2019, organized by the Human Rights Violations Victims’ Memorial Commission. The contest directive was to create a structure with aesthetic and symbolic significance that honored Martial Law victims. Out of 75,000 claimants of abuses under the military regime, 11,103 victims have been recognized. The winning project will be erected at the University of the Philippines, beside the College of the Fine Arts Gallery.
Although Buensalido’s design didn’t make it in the 2019 Freedom Memorial Museum design competition, he was pleasantly surprised that it was selected by the WAF jury.
In creating this design, Buensalido was often asked how he could relate to the era of authoritarian rule when he was born in 1981, the latter years of Martial Law. “That was the year Pope John Paul II visited Manila. That’s why my full name is John Patrick Anthony,” he says.
The deconstructed façade is symbolic of factions, be it in social classes or political beliefs
Like an actor preparing for a role, he interviewed sources about the hardships of the Marcos regime, studied videos, and created back stories to internalize the theme. “I imagined the faces of people I loved being taken away from me. The team and I put ourselves in the shoes of these victims. That got me motivated to create a design that would be significant to the people who lost someone, or those who themselves were abused during Martial Law.”
Buensalido’s version of Freedom Memorial Museum is a stack of fragmented cylinders, rising towards the sky. The building is distanced from the main road so that the public can enjoy a full view of the exterior’s dramatic curves, and be intrigued by the disjointed design.
The deconstructed façade is symbolic of factions, be it in social classes or political beliefs. “The massing of the building is like a series of chaotic cylinders. It recognizes our fragmented society,” he says. Buensalido cites the viewpoints of millennials and Gen Zs who are either oblivious to the Martial Law era, or were made to believe in the formidable leadership of then President Ferdinand Marcos. On the other end are the baby boomers and Gen X-ers who have been scarred by authoritarian rule.
Each cylinder, which houses either a gallery or a room, is also emblematic of the two round plates of the scales of justice. The asymmetrical composition of the circles suggests an imbalance of power.
Buensalido points out that the building’s recurring form is the circle, which doesn’t have sides. Its evenness symbolizes impartiality and the country’s work towards equality and peace. “The circle counters the notions of fragmentation and injustice in society,” he says.
The flow of space is a nod to Frank Lloyd Wright’s striking interiors in the Solomon Guggenheim Museum in New York. Wright takes visitors via elevator to the top floor, and makes them continue their gallery tour downward on a spiral ramp.
In Buensalido’s design, from the memorial’s lobby, visitors are whisked towards a large elevator lined with LED screens of images and sounds portraying the horrors of Martial Law. “This is just a transitional experience from reality to the past, and to where we want to take them,” says Buensalido.
The door opens to the first gallery— the display of the Aviation Security Command van which transported the body of Ninoy Aquino
On the topmost level, the door opens to the first gallery, with the display of the Aviation Security Command van which transported the body of the assassinated Ninoy Aquino, Jr. from the airport. The tour begins with the Martial Law tipping point: a dim room showing the videos of the assassination of Sen. Benigno Aquino, Jr. upon his arrival from the US in 1983, and of his crusade for freedom.
“The experience begins with a message of hope—the event that drove the country to come together to fight for democracy. From the top, visitors spiral down on a continuous ramp, compelling them to see everything on display,” says the architect. On each level, the circular galleries intermingle with the outdoors, creating a contrast of dark interiors and open spaces. These sky parks will exhibit installations imbued with messages of freedom, peace, societal imbalance, and injustice. The Martial Law narrative unfolds with the descent, and the spaces gradually lighten up.
The more holes there are on the Corten steel wall, the more light passes through. This gradual flow of light signifies the slow pace of justice
As the visitors reach midway, they see the atrium on one side and a truncated rusted steel wall on the other. The names of the victims are punched on the memorial wall, far apart from each other. On the second and third levels, more names are packed together. The more holes there are on the Corten steel wall, the more light passes through. This gradual flow of light signifies the slow pace of justice.
“At the end of the journey is light, symbolizing the hope of the future,” says Buensalido. A sculptural dome will show videos of individuals and groups who continue to campaign for justice. “This installation is a call to action. It poses the question: Now that you know the history, the essential truths to our existence, what will you do now to preserve it?”
The façade, clad in dark gray stones, pays homage to the victims who have yet to come forward. For every victim who has been identified by the commission, a stone will be mechanically flipped to its lighter side. “Eventually, the dark façade will lighten up. It’s a design that uses time as a fourth element. Architecture is normally fixed and static. For this one, we wanted the structure to move with the time,” he says.
Passers-by who frequent the area will notice the subtle shifts in the façade. “It was dark yesterday, and now it is slightly lighter. As years pass, the exterior will get lighter and lighter. It makes you curious about the building and drives you to discover more about it. In the process, the experience makes you realize essential truths about the past,” explains the architect.
Fronting the building are commemorative stone slabs arranged in a grid-like pattern. “These represent the people who were sacrificed during Martial Law, but it can also be an active park for kids to play in, and a hangout for students,” explains Buensalido.
The architect notes that the firm joined the competition not to win, but to push their ideas. “There are parameters when you work with a client. A competition is an exercise in creativity and problem-solving. Even if we didn’t win in 2019, we were happy to come up with something meaningful for us and for the country,” says Buensalido.
The Interweave is the creative re-use of an old building, its name derived from the stylized patterns of indigenous weaves
The Interweave is the creative re-use of an old building of the CIIT (Cosmopoint International Institute of Technology) Philippines College of Arts and Technology. The name is derived from the stylized patterns of indigenous weaves, which are repeated on the building’s exterior and in the interiors. The mid-rise building pops out along Kamuning Road in Quezon City, not only for its muraled wall and bold colors, but also for its height.
The project was a collaboration between Buensalido’s firm, which designed the exteriors and public areas, and Aecon Builders Co., the architect of record, whose name appears in documents, and who did the planning and technical drawings.
Acquiring a run-down, four-story building on a compact, 450-sq m lot, the owners envisioned a flagship school that would be fun and not snobbish, a showcase of local talent and a unique structure conducive to both work and study.
Instead of demolishing the building and using more construction materials, Buensalido’s design maintained the structural frames—the foundation, columns, beams, and slabs—and added four floors to the existing edifice. “To cut costs, we adopted the industrial aesthetic by exposing the guts of the building, which told its story,” he explains.
The design directive was to execute CIIT’s vision: “The school’s mission is cultural expression and the preservation of nature and identity,” says Buensalido. How does the design capture the school’s DNA of technology, sustainability, and identity without costing too much?
A second skin, made from perforated aluminum panels, was built over the main façade. (The building skin is the initial layer or surface that people see.) It likewise serves as a brise soleil, a shading system that protects the structure from heat and dust.
Buensalido uses the analogy of a tree to illustrate the idea of sustainability. “The trunk starts from the ground floor; the vibrant colors are only on the center portion of the façade. From the second floor, the patterns spread out towards the upper floors like the branches forming a canopy. The jaggedness of the top silhouette is an abstraction of the foliage,” he says.
To reflect the school’s pride in being Filipino, the panels are painted in stylized geometric patterns derived from indigenous fabrics.
The tech element is expressed through the circuit patterns of a microchip that are interspersed with the ethnic designs. “These lines are recessed on the façade. They are quite subtle in the daytime,” notes Buensalido.
Our being jovial stems from our desire to celebrate our small wins—the optimistic architecture we want to show
The humble firewall becomes a statement with Kris Abrio’s abstract mural of Jose Rizal’s profile and brain. The artist describes the brain as a collage of geometric images representing the rationality and logic of the left hemisphere and the creativity and emotions of the right hemisphere.
For visual continuity, the bold character of the exterior is carried into the interiors. Plywood strips painted with modernized tribal patterns perk up the ceiling. As in the second skin, the microchip circuit patterns have been integrated as light strips on the ethnic designs.
Before the pandemic, one of the main challenges was how to bring the students and the faculty up and down the eight floors, other than through the lifts. Buensalido designed extra wide staircases, lined with murals, some of which were painted by students, and decorative ceiling treatment. “You don’t feel the effort of climbing because you are visually entertained,” he says.
During the first school year in Interweave in 2019, the faculty said they were motivated to work and the students preferred to study there. They also enjoyed the collaborative spaces. “Because of the environment, everybody became more engaged,” says Buensalido.
Despite the long quarantine, the enrollment multiplied, with a student retention rate of 96 percent. Still, the owners believed in the importance of face-to-face interaction. Plans are afoot to build a second campus in the same area.
Ultimately, the building aims to show the upbeat and forward character of Post-Modern Filipino architecture. “We got stuck with this idea that Philippine architecture is the bahay kubo or the bahay na bato. Coming from a colonial past, we think that anything from abroad is better. It’s no different in architecture. Majority of our structures reveal no clue of their cultural roots. With this building, we hope to address that. Filipinos have this mentality that our voice is too small. It took us 20 years until the Edsa Revolution to assert ourselves. This architecture exists in a drab neighborhood, yet it stands out for its vibrancy. It is festive, which is what the Filipinos are. Our being jovial stems from our desire to celebrate our small wins. That is the optimistic architecture that we want to show.”
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