Version 1.0.0 By Robert Jan van Pelt (Park Books, 2025) The largest artifact in the touring exhibition Auschwitz. Not Long Ago. Not Far Away., currently on display at the ROM in Toronto, is a wooden barracks building. It’s from the Auschwitz-Monowitz camp, a satellite to Auschwitz created to provide slave labour to the IG Farben corporation for the construction of a synthetic rubber factory.  The discovery of a sister building, back in 2012, led exhibition chief curator and architectural historian Robert Jan van Pelt, University Professor at the Waterloo School of Architecture, on a research journey to write a comprehensive history of the barracks—temporary buildings that have not only housed prisoners, but also provided shelter for military servicemen and women, refugees, and natural disaster survivors. “Many people have experienced, for shorter or longer time periods, life in a barrack, and for all of them it represented life on the edge, for better or worse,” writes Van Pelt. Worm’s eye axonometric of Renkioi Hospital Barrack, a prefabricated hospital designed by Ismabard Kingdom Brunel for a site in Turkey, 1857. Van Pelt’s book criss-crosses with ease through architectural history, military history, and the history of medicine—all of which played crucial roles in the evolving development of this seemingly simple building type. The book is arranged in a dozen episodes, with the barrack at the centre of each, serving as an anchor point for unfolding the rich intellectual and historical context shaping the way these structures were developed and deployed. The book is richly illustrated with archival materials—a feat in itself, given that the documentation for temporary buildings, particularly before 1900, is scarce. These drawings, photos, and paintings are supplemented with 20 worm’s eye views of key buildings, carefully composed by a team of Waterloo architecture school students and alumni.  Thomas Thomaszoon, View of the headquarters of the Spanish in the Huis tea Kleef during the siege of Haarlem, 1572-73. Collection of Noord-Hollands Archief, Haarlem; courtesy Robert Jan van Pelt Like many vernacular buildings, temporary structures larger than a tent, designed to house soldiers in the field, have existed at least since Ancient Rome. One of the first visual accounts of barracks came centuries later, in the winter of 1572, when the Spanish laid siege to the Dutch city of Haarlem, and cartographer Thomas Thomaszoon sketched the position of dozens of Spain’s wood-and-straw structures outside the city. The siege was successful, but only a few years later, the Dutch Republic gained the upper hand. As part of the creation of a standing army, they began to develop more precise instructions for the layout of camps, including the construction of temporary barracks. Antoine-François Omet des Foucaux, Barrack constructed in Hendaye, France, 1793. From Jean-Charles Krafft, Plans, coupes et élévations de diverses productions de l’art de la charpente, 1805. Collection of Bilbliothèque Nationale de France, Paris. Courtesy Robert Jan van Pelt The Napoleonic army made use of barracks in both military camps and training camps; by the mid-1800s, the construction of various barrack types was detailed in field construction manuals issued to officers in many European armies. During the Crimean War (1853-56), over 3,500 prefabricated barracks were manufactured in a Gloucester factory, as a solution to the appalling conditions at the front. But when the structures arrived at port, British forces were not able to unload and erect them—the materials for a single building weighed more than two tons, and each would require 60 horses (or 150 men) to transport to camp on the muddy roads.  The US (Union) Army’s Lincoln Hospital, Washington, DC, 1865. Collection of Library of Congress, Washington, DC. Courtesy Robert Jan van Pelt Prefabrication was also used, with somewhat more success, towards the end of the conflict to erect field hospitals designed by British engineer Isambard Kingdom Brunel with a priority on cross-ventilation to limit the spread of disease. Low mortality rates from similar structures led to a continued preference for “barrack hospitals” based on groupings of low-slung, well-ventilated pavilions, rather than conceived as single grand structures. The model was further refined with the addition of primitive underfloor heating and ridge ventilation by former surgeon William A. Hammond for the Union Army during the American Civil War (1861-65).  Barrack hospitals were constructed for civilian use, as well. Following the conclusion of the Franco-Prussian war (1870-71), such designs were built to house patients with infectious diseases in Berlin and proposed as a means to bring professional medical care to Germany’s rural areas. A barracks-inspired hospital was built in Saint Petersburg, Russia, in 1889, and continues to be operational.  If the barrack as an accommodation for the sick is a progressive tale, the 19th-century history of the barrack is equally checkered by the building type’s use for prisoner accommodation, including in the penal colonies of Australia and French Guiana. In North America, barracks were used in an internment camp for Native American Dakotas, and Civil War-era Union barracks at Camp Douglas were used to house Confederate prisoners. The oldest preserved barrack in the world may be in Canada, at Grosse Isle national park. Here, barrack-style quarantine sheds were used to detain thousands of Irish immigrant families during the typhoid fever epidemic of 1846-47, and their damp, fetid conditions contributed to many deaths—an episode Van Pelt describes as a “blot on the national consciousness of Canada.” A single Doecker Hut contains an operation room, pharmacy and hospital management office. The prefabricated, portable hospitals were developed in 1885, and used around the world, including in the First World War. In America, they were marketed for managing epidemics in the wake of the 1892 typhus fever outbreak in New York. Courtesy Berlin State Library and Robert Jan van Pelt   At the turn of the 19th century, the prefabricated portable barrack came to the fore with the manufacturing of the Doecker barracks, by Christoph & Unmack, a firm based in Copenhagen and Germany. Developed by a former military officer-turned-tentmaker, the technically sophisticated model used large rectangular frames that could be clipped together, and covered with “felt-cardboard”—dense felt pressed onto canvas and impregnated with linseed oil. The self-supporting structures proved easy to set up, dismount, and transport, making them suitable for both military applications—and, with little modification, for humanitarian aid. The Red Cross deployed Doecker barracks for use as field hospitals in Manchuria and Yokohama during the Russo-Japanese War (1904-05).  The Barrack, 1572-1914 wraps up in in the early 20th century, but with the note that in the ensuing decades until 1945, millions of barracks were produced by many of the world’s major nations—and that most of these were erected in barbed-wire-ringed compounds. “This is the period in which tens if not hundreds of millions of people, many of whom were civilians, were forced to live in barracks, as refugees, as expellees, as civilian internees, as forced laborers, as prisoners or war, as concentration camp prisoners, and as people made homeless by the destruction wrought by war,” writes Van Pelt. Up until 1914, he notes, this building type largely carried a sense of achievement—an image that would change sharply with the Age of the Camps. But although a WWII barrack was responsible for instigating Van Pelt’s initial investigation, that time period will need to await a second volume on this simple building type with a rich, complex, and complicated history.   As appeared in the June 2025 issue of Canadian Architect magazine  The post Book Review: The Barrack, 1572-1914—Chapters in the History of Emergency Architecture appeared first on Canadian Architect.

Were it not for his experience in North Dakota, Theodore Roosevelt said he never would have become president of the United States. After his first wife and mother died on the same day in 1884, the eventual 26th president retreated to modern-day North Dakota to mourn and reflect.  Next July, more than a century after Roosevelt’s death, a presidential library in his honor is slated to open in the state that held so much significance in his life. And the visionaries behind the Theodore Roosevelt Presidential Library hope a visit to the Medora, North Dakota-based library will prove as restorative to people in the modern era as this area once was for Roosevelt.  That may seem an ambitious goal, but this project offers an opportunity to expand the definition of what a presidential library can be, says Edward O’Keefe, chief executive officer of the Theodore Roosevelt Presidential Library Foundation. It was only fitting to take a land-first approach when celebrating a man who is synonymous with conservation and the national park system, he says. [Rendering: Snøhetta] “We wanted to build a place where you can learn about, and from, Theodore Roosevelt, where you can connect with friends and family and nature so you can decide what change you want to see in the world,” O’Keefe tells Fast Company. He wrote the book, The Loves of Theodore Roosevelt, which was released earlier this month. ‘SOMETHING DYNAMICALLY DIFFERENT’ Though there was talk of building a Roosevelt library for years, the idea started to take shape in March 2020 when the foundation launched a design competition. That COVID-era timing proved serendipitous, O’Keefe says, because it made the power of creating a place that would serve as a convening point all the more relevant. Later that year, Snøhetta, an Oslo-based architectural firm, was unanimously selected as design architect.  “This is not a museum with only artifacts under glass. It is meant to be an experience,” O’Keefe says. “There’s no point in building a presidential library to a president who has been gone for over 100 years unless you’re going to do something dynamically different and for the future.”  [Rendering: Snøhetta] Among the design elements that make this library different from others is its roof, featuring dozens of native plant species that will help the building blend seamlessly into the prairie landscape. The coming weeks will mark a milestone in the construction process—that’s when more than 28,000 plant plugs will be planted on the roof, which spans about three football fields in length, currently planned for June 6. The library’s architecture was inspired by a leaf atop two pebbles and is almost identical to the initial design, says Craig Dykers, lead architect for the project and co-founder of Snøhetta. Once completed, people can ascend to the top of the roof for a view of the surrounding Badlands, the nearby Theodore Roosevelt National Park, nighttime stargazing and, eventually, events. “I can tell you, it’s such a dramatic experience,” Dykers tells Fast Company, adding that it was important to foster a direct connection with nature that Roosevelt enjoyed. “It sort of purifies your soul and allows you to see things in a unique way.” Beyond the roof, the butte where the library is situated is being restored to how it might have looked when Roosevelt came west, with native grasses that are more resilient in what can be a harsh and windy environment. Local ranchers have also been consulted as part of the design process and will experiment with grazing cattle and bison on the 93-acre site. [Rendering: Snøhetta] A LIVING BUILDING The library is pursuing full certification from the International Living Future Institute as part of its Living Building Challenge, the most advanced measure of sustainability. The project will serve as a model of self-sufficiency, featuring zero energy, zero emissions, zero water, and zero waste sustainability aspects. Inside the library are walls made from rammed earth, or soil that’s been compressed. It’s the first time in modern times this ancient technique has been used in North Dakota, and a team based out of nearby Dickinson came together to learn how to make these walls, Dykers says. From the walls to the roof and beyond, the living building is intentionally tactile so that visitors feel a connection with nature that’s pervasive. In such ways, the design draws as much inspiration from the uniqueness of the land as it does the uniqueness of the man.  SLOWING DOWN In addition to pouring through a wealth of biographies, academic research, and Roosevelt’s speeches and writings, Dykers sought to better understand how that time in North Dakota helped break the president’s spell of mourning. So the architect embarked on a nearly two-week solo hike during COVID-era lockdowns in the national park and surrounding area.  “To be in that place was so powerful to me, and that’s exactly what happened to Teddy Roosevelt,” Dykers says.  [Rendering: Snøhetta] Even if many people aren’t inclined to do the same, a kidney-shaped cultural loop that surrounds the library will ensure visitors can appreciate the land from different perspectives, Dykers notes. That’s because the design is unusual in that it’s essentially flat, even though the land is not, which allows people to experience the rolling landscape in a unique way, he adds.  “We’re trying to slow people down, so they look down at their feet for a moment or look across the horizon for a moment, to get a different sense of time,” Dykers says. “North Dakota has an exceptional horizon.” INSPIRING VISITORS For O’Keefe, who grew up in North Dakota, leading the foundation after a 20-year stint as a media executive has been a coming home of sorts. The future library and surrounding land will be an opportunity to introduce more people to his beloved home state. Just as Mount Rushmore has become a landmark destination in South Dakota, O’Keefe envisions the Theodore Roosevelt Presidential Library someday becoming the same for North Dakota. And drawing people together in a place that held almost-spiritual significance for Roosevelt may have the same effect for those who embrace it, O’Keefe says.  “The design is evocative of this purpose in bringing people together and exposing them to nature and trying to inspire them to live more purposeful lives,” O’Keefe says. “The journey is the destination.”