Kababster

Architect Maroun el Daccache attempts to define the Lebanese style, not in the least through the incredible office building I was welcomed in. For me though, it’s all about Kababji.

What is your favorite place in Beirut?

I’m more a fan of the north, the seaside. My idea of relaxation is a nice, somewhat secluded rocky beach. Beirut is a confrontation of ideas. It’s a bit of a melting pot, a confrontation of cultures. Maybe a contamination of cultures.

I take it you don’t like city life?

I’m grateful for it, to be sure. I’m from the very urban Jounieh, and the city has always held a fascination for me. We would always head out to Hamra because Hamra nurtured all the social movements of its time. That is, perhaps, what moved me towards the arts to begin with.

Not architecture?

I had a passion for the arts, in general. I didn’t know if I wanted architecture or otherwise. When I finished school we had the war going on in ’75 and I wanted to join the Lebanese University. I liked music, but it’s too late for that now, and I liked painting. Slowly I found myself more attracted to building. I felt it was more concrete, if you’ll pardon the pun.

And then you left the country…

I’d started learning some Italian in the cultural center. I know you’re about to ask why Italian and not French.

I was about to, yes.

Well I heard that the masters of architecture were all Italian, so I took a year off to study their language. After that I applied to the University of Venice and got accepted. While I knew it was good, I really had no idea how big a deal it was. Turns out that all great architectural movements and debates of the time were right there and I was smack in the middle of it.

Sounds like a wonderful stroke of luck.

It was wonderful. I found support for my ideas and I got attached to the university and its people. It had a liberal education system; you decided what you liked, you picked your own teachers and you followed your heart. Aldo Rossi, Gregotti… these people set the level of the university. They were creating the ideas, adopting Le Corbusier’s and making their own.

I’m almost embarrassed to ask but do we even compare?

The local level of architecture is something of a question mark. Architecture is linked to politics and culture, its style is defined through the thoughts and feelings of the people. We don’t have the intellectual struggle necessary to create proper architectural systems. My generation of architects all carried back their education; we all studied abroad. Nadim Karam carried the Japanese style with him, for instance. We carried the outside influences with us and brought them here, back from America, France, Italy… on the one hand this is good: the differences in our styles create an interesting debate. On the other hand, whatever style we’ve managed might actually just be a bunch of imports.

So are you setting the trend?

We don’t really have pioneers of architecture. Our field is a new one, of course we now have an idea and it’s out there and being debated. It’s a merge of what we’ve brought with us over the years. I’m a bit against regionalizing architecture though.

So no signature Beiruti style in the making?

We’re trying to create that really, we all throw in new ideas. One of my first projects in ’92, you ought to know it, is the Zouk Kababji. How could I turn our history and background into contemporary architecture? That was my first approach. Kababji was one of the first projects to be called local; local in ideas and local in materials. We used mosaics, like the old houses here but with different colors and pastels to adapt to the Kababji idea. Kebab is street food, something someone walks up to a stall and eats. It’s a public space, a local Arabic space. So I asked myself: how could I create a public space and keep it approachable?

And not intimidating…

Exactly. We created architecture for those who are used to walking up to a shawarma stall. Architecture affects people. Had I gotten Kababji wrong then its main clientele would have been alienated. The idea has many facets you have to be on top of; for instance kebab should be on display so how should we display it?

Displays? You worked on the interiors of Kababji as well as the structure itself?

In places like this you have to. You can’t limit yourself with another designer’s ideas. Some residential buildings for instance require no interior work but with projects like Kababji, you can’t risk ruining the feeling you’re going for. It is all about feeling: the flute, the furnace, the circular fridge, these all became elements, each with its own feeling.

So maybe Kababji is the seed of Lebanese architecture?

I still don’t know if you can call it Lebanese, but it is certainly regional, Mediterranean. It belongs to a certain school of thought, a certain society. It was able to make changes to local architecture. It became a reference in a sense, yes, but certainly not the only one. But even as a reference, there are dangers. You have to go deep into an item and then build it; it’s not a simple copy and paste job. This is the danger in architecture. I always try to go back to the history, the foundation and see how I could develop it. This I do even in private houses, competitions and public buildings and will continue to strive for this in the future.

How does the future look from where you’re sitting?

For Lebanon? I think Lebanon is what it is. This is the way it’s built. This is its structure. You have to be convinced of it within this structure. You want institutions, with laws and rules? [Laughs] But the way it is now, it isn’t bad. It’s never stagnant, it creates dynamism – although we could do without the wars, and the dying part is something of a damper. But Lebanon’s beauty is exactly this. I love that each individual feels like a government. The government is there, sure, but so am I. I have my own power, benzene and water. No gas? No problem, I’ll tap into my own.