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Back when I was a child,
I believed in God.

At the time, I was preoccupied with
two problems:

My father was seriously ill
and I was bad at school.

I was convinced that daily prayer
would make my father recover

and me a good student.

But it didn't help.
My father died.

On the day of his funeral, I refused
to say goodbye to him in the church.

For nothing in the world
would I miss school.

I wanted to please my father
in heaven as a diligent student.

Much later,
churches started to attract me

more and more.

As if there were something to find
there

that I was missing.

Something that
can only be found in such places.

I set out to explore
the attraction of this architecture.

ARCHITECTURE OF INFINITY

by Christoph Schaub

There are places that give us
shelter from vast spaces,

and at the same time
create a feeling of space.

It seems to me as if only through limitation
can we get an idea of infinity.

The primary experience is that
this is actually great:

You can cut a small piece out
of an infinite space,

frame it and enclose it.

And that's what we do,
when we build our first hut.

Or what we already find
when we enter a cave.

This is where spatial experience
begins.

First, it was a cosy touching
feeling.

Because it had to do with my mother.

Brother Klaus was
her favourite saint.

That's why he accompanied me
throughout my childhood.

And that's why I went to see it.

The farmer couple
- especially the husband -

wanted a kind of
wayside shrine or chapel.

The Scheidtweilers live within walking distance
of the chapel.

Every morning at 10 o'clock
they come here to unlock it.

They replenish the stock of candles,

then they pray a little.

One can think of it

as a meditative space.

A place where one can be ...
well not exactly thrown back on oneself

but where in a confined space,
one enters a new world,

a spiritual, religious world.

Or whatever you want to call it.

In this building the threshold situation
is very pronounced.

It is very closed.

One "goes inside from outside"

in a narrow space
through a spiral entrance.

In the evenings
the Scheidtweilers come again.

They remove the wax drippings ...

and say a prayer.

Then they touch the bronze
Maria before leaving.

On Monday the Scheidtweilers
do not open their chapel.

It also needs its peace and quiet
every now and then, they say.

I want it to suit the initiators.

To correspond with what they wanted.

He wanted to thank the Lord,

as he told me in the end -
not at the beginning.

He with his weak heart had been
prophesied a short life.

And since he had lasted so long,

he wanted to thank the Lord
with a chapel on his field.

The Christian doctrine
did not touch me very much.

However, the church did.
The space within.

This is a very
emotional story for me,

as I realize.

Because it has to do with my family.

With growing up

and with a lot of things
that are no more.

It also has to do with ...

all the promises,

of being cradled in religion,

and of a loving God
who looks after one ...

Then I hear that from my youth.

And I think: "That would be nice..."

That would be really nice.

Looking at the procession,
you realize

that right from the beginning,
from the village, up the hill,

to the square, then into
the baroque church, then down again

into the rock chapel,
the chapel of grace...

you realize that the whole procession
is actually an architectural event.

Peter Märkli runs his own
architecture office in Zurich.

But he prefers working
alone in his studio.

We are going on a journey
into the depths of time.

And then we decided
to drive to the Atlantic.

From the depths of Burgundy
we drove directly to the Atlantic.

We went to a department store
and bought a thin little guidebook.

We looked around
and were totally impressed

by the buildings,

standing there.

The surprising thing was
that these buildings

had an incredibly expressive
character.

This character has arisen

through the ongoing building stages.

Or through reinforcements because of
unstable terrain over time.

They had to install buttresses, etc.
These are "impure" buildings.

There is the portal

then there are different ways
to hang the bell.

Sometimes the facade is heightened
because there are rarely towers.

And finally there is the nave.

Later on, building continued

on a rather different principle.

And then it usually got higher.
Never lower, but higher.

That is how these buildings
took their shape.

Today we think
we know the world.

In those days
religion explained the world.

Much was unknown
and that was scary.

Evil was omnipresent,
with dangers overwhelming,

and goodness
was unreachable without God.

On the other hand,
the promise of paradise.

The garden of Eden.

Imagined by the people
as a benignly illuminated world.

Surrounded by a protective wall.

Without dangers.

Peaceful and safe.

I can show you a map like that.
A world map.

And at the edges ...

At the edges it shows
numerous "unknowns".

Where the unknown begins.

There were ghosts
and mythical creatures,

that populated the edge of the world.

Unknown beings,
frightening.

Bad dreams.

The Alien.

All this must be kept outside.

At every moment - however short -
the present becomes the past.

In the beginning everything is ideal.

The fresh apple.

The smooth skin
of a young person.

But then the apple shrivels.

The skin gets wrinkled,
then furrowed.

The black hair
turns grey.

It is an uncontrollable process

that disrupts order,

and creates confusion.

Confusion as a measure of change.

And also as a measure of age.

A process that never stops
and never ends.

Even the churches will
disintegrate - one day.

First into a pile of stones,

which will finally turn to dust.

On the packs there are
awful pictures.

Pictures of scars,
of sick people...

Someone who grabs a packet in the
morning,

is immediately distressed and feels
sick.

That's why I do this every morning.

The secretary sticks paper over it,

and I draw
a nice picture instead.

So I don't get depressed
already at ten in the morning.

When the architect Alvaro Siza Vieira
got the order to build a church here,

he was convinced that it
had to be something unifying,

midst in all this urban chaos.

A generous space in front
of the church creates a place for being.

In this white world, space seems
to dissolve into a clear boundary.

Is Alvaro Siza trying
to make the infinite perceptible?

I feel like I am floating,

At the beginning of design process,

what greatly influenced

my approach,

was the memory
of my childhood.

Because like almost all
little Portuguese boys at that time,

I was brought up Catholic.

I had to learn the catechism,
celebrate the communion.

And on Sundays I went to mass
with my mother and siblings.

What fascinated me,
were these tall windows

with a balcony.

And I never saw anyone
at these windows.

Windows with ... verandah.

As if they were meant for someone
to get up and look down.

But I never saw anyone.
For me it was inexplicable.

I didn't even know
how to get up there.

For a child that was very impressive.

This was a secret
of that church in Matosinhos.

This freedom for example,

to just let a pillar break off.

In the middle of the wall,
without closure.

It is precisely this freedom that
this visit to Saintonge showed me.

Contrary to the classically formulated
characteristics of facade design,

it gave me a virtual impulse,
to look at everything again more freely.

That has triggered a lot.

But it could only be triggered
because I already had the training.

Education always arises
when what we already know

is broken through by something new.

Without the known as a prerequisite
it would never have had this effect.

Märkli already had the idea for this
building

before he discovered
the Romanesque churches in Saintonge.

But his experience there empowered him
to continue on his own path.

And - as he says - to find his own
grammar of architecture.

It's like I'm being told here
about earlier times,

of an archaic past.

From the inside of the world?

At the same time I am
here now,

in the modern world of today.

I move from one time to another.

Transcendent...

It's not a church.
It is a space where art is exhibited.

Peter Märkli says
it is not a museum either.

Simply a space for works of art
by Hans Josephsohn.

I think that music and architecture
are very related.

An architect in the traditional sense
is an architect of space.

A musician or drummer
is an architect of time.

We work with very similar rules.

With proportions, rhythm,
aesthetics,

stability, statics, dynamics.
They are very similar laws.

I feel Märkli's fascination
for lines and numbers.

For proportions.

The measure determines the rhythm
and creates the emotional effect.

The talent for measure, etc.
is a crafting thing

you have to bring,
otherwise you are lost in this profession.

The visible elements of a building,
the material things...

An opening,
a door, a vertical pillar,

Or a column,
if any are left ...

These are elements that everyone knows
and with which everyone builds.

But the relationship
between these elements...

Peter Zumthor's work is always
about staging the history of a place.

He wants to make the past visible,

liveable.

The connection between what was and
what is new is something I find most beautiful.

It doesn't have to be
within a single building.

It can be connecting a new building to a landscape
or part of town or village.

That's why it's nice that the things
left by people from the past,

can stay that way and be part of my
life.

I like to look at something and
think:

"Somebody made this. Not bad".

"Good thing it's still here".

History and present side by side.

Peter Zumthor's concept for the
Kolumba.

He calls his approach
"an emotional reconstruction of history".

The old church ground plan

is not Roman.

In the late Gothic church ground plan
is an early Gothic one,

and in that one a Romanic plan
and then an early Romanic, etc.

There are about 7 layers,
and finally there's even a Roman part.

It's kind of a time machine
this excavation.

So the passerelle makes room
for those who really want to look at it.

"Aha, that's Roman and that's early Gothic
and this is Romanic".

In the Gothic era
painting in churches stopped

and transcendence arose
through the abstraction of light.

Abstraction of walls and
construction.

Dissolution in a light medium.

That was huge, of course.

But this was a new era,
a different attitude to life.

God is light.
Light is divine.

A powerful formula if you make it
your leitmotif for a building.

In the Second World War
everything in Düren was razed to the ground.

Out of the rubble
arose the walls of a new church.

The thick walls remind me of the
Romanesque churches in Saintonge.

The dominance of light
of the Gothic architecture.

The bright areas point out
the vastness of heaven.

Like cutting out a piece of infinity.

A construction with light and stone -
here too.

Am I looking out from the inside,
or from the outside to the inside?

The high room,
which leads to the sky.

The compacted room as an expression
of earthly existence.

When we landed on the moon,
we humans said we are now in space.

But we are anyway in space...

I got that idea
from James Turrell.

There are no limits to thoughts,
we like to say,

unless one sets the limits oneself,
one should add.

I look up into the stars
and want to think infinity.

But I don't succeed, not at all,

in imagining an end without end.

All this makes me
nervous and irreconcilable.

And yet I cannot let go of infinity,

when my mind
wants to get an idea of it.

On the other hand
there was Nicholas von Kues,

in the 15th century, when America
hadn't yet been discovered...

He was a theologian and said...

You have to imagine:
that was before Galileo Galilei ...

He said that for him the universe

could be described this way:

that the centre is everywhere

and the boundaries nowhere.

His simple formulation,

is actually the state of the
universe.

The centre everywhere
and the limits nowhere.

James Turrell tries to remove
boundaries by setting limits.

Thereby clearing the view upward.

Turrell would probably correct me
because what's up is also down.

Here in Skyspace I'm on Earth,
I have no doubt about that.

Then I look to the sky
and get carried away

from my earthly existence.

This place brings me close to myself,
because it protects and liberates at the same time.

In the past, people thought
the world was a flat disk.

If you travelled to its edge,

you would be confronted there
by scary creatures and spirits.

But behind all that:
what is there?

Nothingness.
And that is scary too.

Today we know
that behind this horizontal line

we would see the city of Halifax in
Canada,

if the world were not a sphere...

This ball spins around the sun,
which is located in a galaxy.

Light needs a hundred thousand years,
to get from one end of it to the other.

But there are thousands,
maybe millions,

or billions of galaxies.

We just don't know.

And the space between the galaxies
is expanding every second.

Infinity keeps getting more infinite.

And yet the universe apparently
has a beginning and an end.

Somehow calming.

But that is...

The infinite has a lot to do
with today's world.

We think we can underline
everything twice.

That means, upwards
all questions are open - upwards.

If Josephsohn makes a sculpture
or you build a house,

it's a point on a scale that never
ends.

And that is the consolation.

The consolation is
that there is no certainty.

I think that's wonderful.

For a long time I was afraid that I too
would die young, like my father.

This fear came every time I looked
into the infinite vastness of the starry sky.

Does infinity also stand for death?

Both are radical and without end.

A place of fear
or a place of yearning.

In this forest cemetery near Stockholm
the trees determine the rhythm.

A pleasant disarray.

The tree trunks, vertical, and the meadow,
horizontal in between,

create a bright space.

The gravestones
as if they were furniture.

In this cemetery, I feel close to life
reconciled with the inevitable.

I am slowly departing from time
into a future beyond all stars.

And what I was, and am,
and always will be,

goes with me, without impatience and
haste.

As if I had never been.
Or hardly.

I'm such a tiny part

of a big and beautiful process,
that nobody understands.

Nature.
The principle of life.

That is for me
something comforting.

If I had to worry,
if there was a heavenly army

and I'd have to pass
3.5 exams yet, etc ...

As they say about Peter who stands at the entrance:
"In, out, down, back ..."

No, that is actually a comforting idea.

It's the same for all of us.

Sometimes, in rare moments,
the world slips away.

The journey goes inward,
into a space without limits.

A state that is lethargic,
gentle and pleasant.

To be a child again.

There is only the inner world,
and outside is nothing.

There is light that is extremely old,
billions of years old.

The sun that sent this light,
maybe went out long ago.

But its light is still underway,
somewhere in the universe,

although it hasn't reached us yet.

That's how the past only becomes
visible in the future.

Back when, as a child,
I refused to say goodbye to my father in church,

I did not know,
what that would mean for me.

That for a long time
I would miss a place of farewell.

Today I know: there are places
that are soothing.

Spaces that speak of eternity,

that help to fill the void
and to remember.

The centre is everywhere
and the boundaries are nowhere.

Does this describe infinity?

Yes.

The infinity within,
in the inner space, in the mind.

There is the art,

music, love.

I build this house myself.
I am my own architect of infinity.