I remember driving past one of those towers in Glarus years ago, not knowing what it was, just thinking it looked like a quiet monument to some forgotten industry.
It’s fascinating how Baechler’s project turns these towers into something both personal and collective. The way she layers autobiography with archive, fabric with wood, is so Swiss in spirit,precise, tactile, and full of quiet memory.
I love that the book isn’t just about buildings but about care. Care for process, materials, timing. Even the part about building the rollers with her father hit me. So much of vernacular architecture lives and dies with the people who remember how to use it. Books like this help stretch that memory just a bit further.
I remember driving past one of those towers in Glarus years ago, not knowing what it was, just thinking it looked like a quiet monument to some forgotten industry.
It’s fascinating how Baechler’s project turns these towers into something both personal and collective. The way she layers autobiography with archive, fabric with wood, is so Swiss in spirit,precise, tactile, and full of quiet memory.
I love that the book isn’t just about buildings but about care. Care for process, materials, timing. Even the part about building the rollers with her father hit me. So much of vernacular architecture lives and dies with the people who remember how to use it. Books like this help stretch that memory just a bit further.
Well said!