Building Meanings: Memory and Place Attachment in Architecture 101
by Tito R. Quiling, Jr.
In Asian cinemas, there is an abundance of illustrations of dwelling spaces and their significance, whether as another (silent) character as in Tokyo Sonata (Kurosawa Kiyoshi, 2008), seeing homes as bridges to close domestic gaps as seen in Ramen Teh (Eric Khoo, 2018), or to extract sensorial experiences in a limited space such as The Scent of Green Papaya (Tran Anh Hung, 1993), to note a few examples. Even with fragments, one can imagine and build an experience of visiting a house that needs to be refurbished, maybe even one’s home.
Of the many films that have rendered dwelling spaces strikingly, Architecture 101 (Lee Yong-ju, 2012) opens up a nostalgic dialogue that centers on one’s connection to home, people, and other places that hold significance. A breeze caressing the crowns of trees. An overcast sky. A corroded gate. The front yard overgrown with weeds. Glass windows thick with stains. The corrugated roof intact, seemingly undisturbed by the weather changes. Faded crimson bricks. The opening sequence begins a series of depictions of how landscapes, structures, and materials evoke memories as well as experiences that contribute to a person’s identity and worldview. As inhabitants, there is an intrinsic need to occupy a space in which we can be at ease and able to move freely. In Seoul, Lee Seung-min (Uhm Tae-woong) works as an architect who is approached by Yang Seo-yeon (Han Ga-in) for a restoration project on their 30-year-old family home on Jeju Island.
Concrete interpretations of homes differ according to traditions and styles; however, it is essential to recall that “home” is also a sentiment encompassing a myriad of emotions anchored in corners and surfaces. As Seung-min and Seo-yeon refine the structural procedures for the house, their combative approach towards each other is revealed to stem from shared memories of their university years—15 years earlier, when a younger Seung-min (Lee Je-hoon) from the school of architecture and Seo-yeon (Suzy) from the music academy meet at an introductory course on architecture. Over the semester, they are assigned to observe their neighborhood and map out their routes to and from the campus to engage with places. In cinema, images of architectural spaces become experientially authentic when they are recognizable for viewers. Similarly, cinema and architecture articulate our lived spaces. With familiar structures acting as anchors, connections may be formed between the filmic space, the narrative, and the audience, whose recollections are then concretized by their attachment to spaces. “Place attachment” is described as “the emotional or affective bond between a place and an individual”[1] that is primarily built on significance through one’s experiences and reinforced by memories. This concept develops from the necessity to find a place that provides security and a semblance of stability. However, security and stability may be compromised with disturbances caused by varying physical conditions and domestic issues.
Seung-min and Seo-yeon take notes and move around their neighborhood of Jeongnung, complemented by an exchange of stories. They look out into the city from a roof deck of a building, and even take over an abandoned house as their refuge. Whenever we relay stories, the locale is laid out first before noting the people, the atmosphere, and the narrative itself. Through this process, memory is strengthened. Place attachment is determined by the value of a memory as our recollections and experiences are tied to places, where one’s personal history may weave into a shared one. While we hold fragments of knowledge, spaces have the capacity to keep individual and collective signs to stimulate reminiscences. For instance, in Seo-yeon’s island home, a section of the brick walls near the entrance are inscribed with exact measurements as her father keeps track of her growth throughout her childhood, while the concrete tub in the garden bears her footprint as a six-year-old. While these are fond recollections for her, a stark contrast is similarly shown in Seung-min’s home, where an imprint of an experience can be seen in the dent on the corner of their gate because of an outburst from arguing with his mother as a temperamental teenager.
What becomes a captivating reminder for inhabitants is that the space becomes more notable than its original function of habitation with the meanings ascribed to them, some of which endure the times. How many instances have we marked areas within our homes using letters, colors, images? In what ways did we orient our houses in line with our preferences? Was it by rearranging the furniture, a new item to stand as an indicator of a corner, or something to mentally divide spaces? As recurring moments, leaving traces through forging memories and practices consequently transforms the space into a more poignant setting for occupants.
Like some of us, Seo-yeon and Seung-min left their homes at some point. But what happens when dwelling spaces are left empty by their occupants? What remains beneath the creaky floorboards, the damp spots, the grime wedged on its exterior and interior walls? Perhaps we tend to have an admiration for seemingly abandoned houses because they provide a chance for renovation, regardless of the effort that needs to be exerted. It appears as if they remind us of ourselves—vessels carrying memories of events, people, mementos, even the prospect of reinvention.
Instinctively, we leave fragments of ourselves on furniture, surfaces, and corners. And whoever occupies the spaces that we have left may be reminded that where they tread now, previously held a life. From looking at a patch of the sky from the window, to hearing the familiar footsteps of a family member, to catching the scent of rice and garlic being fried in the morning, seeing stains from a spilled drink on the living room rug, touching the smooth surface of the dining table, and waiting for doors to be shut or opened, Architecture 101 illustrates how filmic spaces conjure memories that tread on personal histories which reinforce our sense of self, and at times, remind us of unfinished narratives that are sometimes rendered on celluloid.
[1] Marc Fried, “Continuities and Discontinuities of Place,” Journal of Environmental Psychology 20, no. 3 (2000): 193–205.
Tito R. Quiling, Jr. holds a MA in Media Studies (Film) from the University of the Philippines Diliman and is a member of the Film Desk of the Young Critics’ Circle (YCC Film Desk). His research and writing interests center on the intersections of cinema, literature, architecture, and the city.