Ashley Lillie is a professional heritage practitioner based in Cape Town, South Africa. He spends his life assessing the significance, or lack thereof, of buildings. His reports carry influence on whether a building stays or goes. Large companies and wealthy individuals ask him to conduct assessments in hopes of getting the go ahead to demolish buildings and replace them with more viable developments. Lillie often gives a go ahead on demolitions against his own personal attachment to historical works of architecture.
When the owners of the Werdmuller Centre approached Ashley to assess the building for demolition, he was the second consultant to be tasked with deciding the fate of what some consider a piece of South Africa’s architectural history. The first demolition proposal was in 2007. Outcry from a number of local architects helped the building survive, but only for so long, and when I meet Ashley in mid-2012, the building was once again waiting to hear its fate.
“It’s an unusual situation,” he muses, “I’m not aware of any other similar one. There is no proposal to put anything up. All that is on the table is demolition.”
Having just completed an architecture degree that I wasn’t sure I wanted to use, I chose to explore writing and enrolled in a media degree programme. When an enthusiastic lecturer instructed the Narrative Literary Journalism class to find intriguing topics for our final paper, my mind wandered back to history of architecture lessons and debates on the building that was a monument to some, and an eyesore to others.
The Werdmuller Centre is visible from the Claremont train station, taxi rank, and bus terminal, and it comes in and out of view from the main road that cuts through the Northern Suburbs. It’s hard to miss the giant concrete building, and the news of its possible destruction didn’t go unnoticed.
“People have very strong opinions on both sides,” states Ashley. “I get regular phone calls, people saying ‘we hear you’re working on the Werdmuller, how soon, please, tell us how soon is it going to be demolished?’ And then, of course, there are those who want to lie down in front of the bulldozers.”
The first question that springs to mind when hearing this is, “Why does the Werdmuller inspire such impassioned reactions?” A large part of Ashley’s report involved answering that question.
“I always start with asking, ‘where does this thing come from?’, before I can get to what it is now”, he explains. “Who commissioned it, and what did they want? Who designed it, and what did they seek to achieve? And what has the history of the building been over time?”
COLOURFUL HOPES THAT FADED TO GREY
“One of the best things to happen to Claremont for a long time”, this was the description in an article published in The Cape Times on November 21st, 1975. To the left of the headline, “Fine architecture graces Claremont”, was a photograph of the architect, Roelof Uytenbogaardt, looking straight into the camera, and in front of him, a carefully crafted timber model of his building. A collection of curves, ramps, columns and levels arranged to form an object that seemed both a building and a sculpture. The structure emulated French architect, Le Corbusier’s modernist ideals, whose influence was at its height at the time.
On another page, an advertisement conveyed the same excitement as the article, “Werdmuller Centre — the place for people. You won’t want to go home when you do your shopping at Werdmuller Centre”, it stated.
Along with the newspaper clipping, the Uytenbogaardt papers in the manuscripts and archives collection at the University of Cape Town, the architect’s alma mater, also contain a set of photographs depicting the then newly completed building. As my gloved hands sift through the glossy black and white prints, I take in the grey concrete structure. In its freshly built state, the building’s modernist forms are clearer, more striking, than in the model.
When I visit the building, it is immediately evident that the Werdmuller has not lived up to its grand expectations. The colourful promises never materialised and the life in the building seems to have adopted the cracked and faded grey tint of the concrete. Walking along Main Road in Claremont, I almost miss the entrance, a sloping ramp leading from the corner of the building to an unseen destination.
The Werdmuller shares its front with a few makeshift stalls, selling everything from scarves and bags, to cigarettes and sweets. The vendors peddle their goods to the continuous flow of pedestrians: schoolchildren in transit, commuters rushing to and from work, and the odd idler here and there. Beyond the vendors, taxis move back and forth between Claremont and the Cape Flats. The conductors’ familiar call trailing behind them. They stop often and abruptly to drop off passengers, some of whom ascend the ramp — a routine part of their day. Following these passengers, I am taken into the Werdmuller only to see them continue right through the building and out into the adjacent station where buses and more taxis wait.
Instead of customers weaving in and out of shops, I am confronted with a dark and abandoned space. The once immaculate grey concrete surfaces are now cracked and aged. The shops are empty, the windows display signage for tenants long gone, and a sign indicates the way to some office spaces, while two curious security guards look on. The muffled sound of activity can be heard in the building, but it belongs to the vendors, taxis, buses and commuters on the outside. It filters into the otherwise silent Werdmuller, and then out again, like the pedestrians who use the building as a thoroughfare, allowing it fleeting moments of life and colour.
THE POLITICS OF GEOGRAPHY AND DESIGN
In a building on UCT’s main campus, students are gathered in a lecture room, eyes staring ahead. At the front, Ilze Wolff, an architect and lecturer, addresses them, her animated hand movements frequently illustrating her speech. She presents the gathered students with a brief history on modernist conservation and explains their assignment to document various modernist buildings in Cape Town. Their reports might then be submitted to DOCOMOMO; the international committee for documentation and conservation of buildings, sites and neighbourhoods of the modernist movement, of which Ilze Wolff is a member.
Of the buildings she says, “You need to find their stories”. Throughout the lecture, she repeatedly uses the Werdmuller as an example — a building she describes as being “under extreme threat of demolition”.
Leaving the students to discuss their task, myself and Ilze, have a brief conversation on the building that’s seemingly been rejected by its would-be patrons.
“Any community would reject a building that looks like that,” she tells me.
The cracked concrete, dark corners and now the outdated signage on windows come to mind.
“People loved the building when it was opened, Ilze says, they said it was the best building Claremont had ever seen.” Ilze wrote a paper on the Werdmuller Centre, titled “An Artefact of an Ephemeral Context”. A fitting title, as the Werdmuller found itself in an environment which changed considerably after its arrival, rendering its specifically thought out design, irrelevant.
Claremont in the 1960’s was a working-class suburb, Ilze explains, “it was mixed on every level: race, culture and economy.” This was to be the context of Roelof Uytenbogaardt’s Werdmuller Centre. Pressed for time, Ilze arranges to meet me another day, and shares the details of two men with close ties to the building.
In Cape Town’s CBD, a long way away from the Werdmuller’s semi-suburban home, Dave Dewar and Piet Louw sit down to share their collective knowledge of the Werdmuller. Dave is a regional planner, retired lecturer and former colleague of Uytenbogaardt. Piet, a practicing architect, was once a young student working for Uytenbogaardt. “I built that timber model for him in 1970 before varsity,” he tells me proudly, “and then I worked in his office in my fourth year.” Both these men, friends and colleagues of the late modernist witnessed first-hand the design process that went into creating the building.
“It was never designed as a shopping centre,” Piet confirms, “It was designed as a souk”. Seated across from him, Dave continues, “The idea was that it would be literally a very intense souk — a market which would give very small vendors a place to trade.
These small vendors, the intended tenants of Uytenbogaardt’s building, would have been the working-class residents of Claremont, most of whom were “non-white”, because although the area was “mixed”, under apartheid that concept could only be taken so far. Main Road signified a line of separation, splitting Claremont’s commercial activity in two. The working-class lived on the eastern side, depending on the taxi rank and train station to make their daily connection between work and home. The west was the domain of private cars and their mostly privileged, mostly white owners. Unsurprisingly, this meant that the two sides where distinguished by a sense of being either the “wrong” or the “right” side, and where the latter saw increased development, the former fell into a state of dilapidation.
The site given to Uytenbogaardt was located on the wrong side of Main Road.
Key to the design, and true to the socio-political agenda of the modernist movement, the project was intended to address this perceived undesirability of the east side of Claremont. However, shortly after the idea was successfully sold, the diversity of the area was, in Ilze Wolff’s words, “sanitised” by the Group Areas Act which declared it a “whites only zone”, forcing about 19 000 residents to leave.
The building was already under construction, and in an attempt to cater for the new, wealthier clientele, the developers requested a different design from the architect. “The density of tenants was, I think, too low to do justice to the original idea,” Piet shares, “it dealt with that pedestrian world, hence small shops, hence no basement parking”.
The forced removals were a significant blow to the intentions of the design, but there were other factors against it. For one, the site kept on changing. “Just when the design was complete, the owners bought another piece behind it,” explains Dave. The architect was expected to incorporate his client’s newly acquired land without the financial burden of a complete redesign. “So, there was a constant process of trying to adjust the design to make it work.” It did not end there, the Werdmuller was subjected to more unanticipated, and uncontrollable changes. At the time, Claremont was undergoing an urban transformation and Uytenbogaardt had used the planned developments to inform his design, drawing inspiration from an elevated bypass that was proposed.
In the archives centre, the papers dedicated to the architect’s work contain his original sketches. The Werdmuller, in black, freehand lines, on one side of Main Road, and on the other side the planned “Claremont Boulevard”. Uytenbogaardt envisioned a ‘dramatic architectural moment’ between the bypass and his modernist creation, but this moment, like the colour and bustle, never arrived. A year after the Werdmuller’s completion, the city would decide to construct the bypass at ground level, not elevated, as Uytenbogaardt had so enthusiastically planned for. Together with the disappointing bypass, the city also constructed a library in a space that had been public parking, located so conveniently that the architect did not see the need to provide more parking within the Werdmuller.
Back in the office of Piet Louw Architects, Piet reflects on the unfortunate building and its creator, a man he calls an incredible philosopher, teacher, practitioner and urban thinker. “You have to respect the architect for reading context and coming up with an idea which was almost ahead of its time.”
“I think things could have been different if the building was looked after properly,” he adds, “they sort of let it go right from the beginning.”
“It was too much trouble for them to administer,” Dave quietly says.
On the western side of Main Road, opposite the decaying Werdmuller, another building stands. Its front pavement accommodates far fewer vendors, the pedestrian traffic is noticeably lower and its glass shop fronts glow with light. This is only a small section of the much larger Cavendish Square, a conventional shopping mall that preceded the Werdmuller by only a couple of years.
Going through the mall, the difference between the two buildings is staggering. Where one is cold, cracked and grey, the other is clinically lit, bright lights reflecting off glass displays and tiled floors. Where one contains a couple of security guards seated sleepily in a bare office, the other has countless guards visible at every corner, and information desks complete with made-up assistants. While “visitors” to the Werdmuller quickly make their way in and out of the building, Cavendish’s patrons stay for hours on end, browsing, admiring, purchasing, eating or simply lingering.
In the study of her Mowbray home, Ilze Wolff explains the relationship of the two buildings. The unusual and experimental Werdmuller, located on the wrong side of the road fell out of favour with the public when compared to the conventional and highly commercial Cavendish Square. “The American model landed”, Ilze elaborates, “People were drawn to that. It was the 70’s and they were scared, they didn’t want to be in the city, they wanted to be protected in a sanitised environment. The Werdmuller didn’t offer that, it’s connected in every way to its context. You can’t get away from the hawkers, from the poor people coming from work.”
Cavendish Square was preferred by the residents and owners alike. Despite some alterations intended to “fix” the Werdmuller and turn it into something commercially viable, the building never really took off. A fact that, understandably, upset the architect, who had moved his practice into the building. Piet explains that at some point, Uytenbogaardt vacated the building and started working from his home. “I think he started getting sad about the building when he noticed this neglect. It hurt him. He didn’t enjoy going there afterwards.”
FINDING FUNCTION IN UNEXPECTED FORMS
In 2007, nine years after Uytenbogaardt’s passing, the owners submitted a proposal to demolish the Werdmuller. This was contested by members of the architectural community, who saw it as the work of a great South African architect, and part of an international architectural movement. But the argument put forward by many, and which presented a dilemma for Ashley Lillie’s report, is the question of the building’s function and use.
If you wander into the Werdmuller on a weekday afternoon, you’re met with a space, occupied only by those briskly walking through, eyeing you, the lone straggler, suspiciously. There are apparently offices down the unassuming hallway manned by the two security guards, but their word and a sign in red are all there is to go by.
“Everybody says the Werdmuller centre isn’t working,” laughs Ilze, “but it is — it’s a church! The congregation use it for break dancing, yoga, there’s even a crèche.”
Along with any other tenants that the Werdmuller Centre had, Church on Main was asked to vacate the building while its future was being decided. Their exodus led them to a temporary venue — a short walk away in Warwick Square, on the right side of the road.
Visiting their evening service, I found the congregation in what used to be a large Boardmans home and furniture store. All the stock, displays and sale points removed, and in their place, white plastic chairs cover the carpeted floor, bordered by walls painted red, green, yellow and blue. At one end of the room, a glowing screen projecting song lyrics for the evening, while the band, on a raised stage, plays to an entranced audience. Through what used to be a window display, I watched slow changing traffic lights and the streaks of headlights. A preacher in a grey collared t-shirt and jeans leads the service. His voice booms through the speakers, and the crowd is energised and eager, raising their hands in moments of passion and taking notes of the sermon. With my notebook, I fit right in.
It’s hard to imagine this happening in the Werdmuller; the music, prayers and sermons echoing off the grey walls, a children’s crèche on a former restaurant terrace, the column supported levels used simultaneously for youth services, a café, even an area for nursing mothers. The anticipated colour and bustle, in the most unexpected form.
Warwick Square, Church on Main’s new home, is a small shopping centre with a collection of quaint businesses: a florist, a bakery, a haberdashery, a women’s only gym, all housed in a modern but relatively modest building, across the road from Cavendish Square. When I visit, Warwick Square has recently obtained two other new tenants; CAFDA, a second-hand book store, and Smart Shoe Repairs. Like the church, they were forced to relocate from the Werdmuller.
Annesley Narshi, owner of Smart Shoe Repairs, stays behind the scenes in the workshop while his mother, June, sits at the front counter. The clients who come and go are familiar faces, and she speaks to them like old friends. Moving just across the road has kept them within reach of their regulars, but the mother and son team miss the Werdmuller.
“We were happy” says June, “the tenants used to be like family.” The pair enjoyed their time in the Werdmuller, their clients, fellow tenants and also the visitors that the building attracted. “The university used to send students to come and sketch the building,” June shares, “foreigners were fascinated by it and used to come and take photos.”
The business moved into the Werdmuller in 1999, and according to Annesley, the building served them well. “We were very busy, there was a constant flow of people and they used to come and enquire about renting space”. But he also explains that a lot of tenants came, and quickly left. When asked about why he thinks the building hasn’t fared so well, he gives a familiar response… “I think they neglected the building, they didn’t maintain it, like they do Cavendish.”
“It was very sad,” June adds, “they should have tried to make it work.”
Smart Shoe Repairs and the other tenants were given notice to leave the building in December 2011, before the final heritage report or an official decision. “I don’t know why they put us out before they got a demolition certificate” says Annesley. It seems the owners had already made up their minds.
“The minute you simply focus on making money, the thing doesn’t work” says Piet back in his offices. And for a few minutes he and Dave speculate jokingly about taking the Werdmuller into their own hands. “Maybe you and I, and a few others could chip in and buy it,” he says to Dave, who laughs before responding, “I think it’s a bit out of my league”. Even though their quickly abandoned business venture is in jest, it’s clear to see that the idea of the Werdmuller vanishing is a sad one.
“The poetry of space and light, the cleanness and the crispness of the design” Piet laments, “you cannot just throw that away.”
“What happens if you vacate everybody and you make it available for housing? And you allow natural processes to happen?” he wonders out loud. “Yes, you could do that” replies Dave. “Today it’d be very friendly in terms of climate change and all that. It would be efficient in terms of energy”.
For these two, the building still has the potential to work, not immediately, but in the long run surely, given enough attention. “You have to give certain buildings time,” Piet emphasises.
THE FINAL VERDICT
Ashley Lillie completed his Heritage Impact Assessment report in 2013, with the help of a colleague, heritage architect and academic Professor Andre van Graan. The report supported the complete demolition of the Werdmuller Centre, bluntly stating that it was impractical to use the National Heritage Resources Act to “oblige an owner to retain a building that has consistently failed to perform financially and which doesn’t lend itself to being meaningfully adapted.” This report was made available for public comment and, of course, the architectural community had their say. Their protests were significant enough to stop the building’s owners from submitting the report to Heritage Western Cape. Instead, a new impact assessment process was initiated, one consisting of two phases of reports.
The first phase report was tasked to Ashley in 2015 with the recommendation that an expert on modernist architecture assist him. This expert was Walter Peters, a professor of architecture. While the pair were compiling their report, DOCOMOMO South Africa submitted a nomination for the Werdmuller to be declared a provincial heritage site — one more attempt at preserving the building. The response to this was that claims of the Werdmuller’s importance, architectural or otherwise, couldn’t be applied to the entire building. Instead, the Werdmuller was declared a “Grade II site” — a status acknowledging its significant qualities without formally protecting the building in its entirety. Redevelopments could take place, as long as they left the notable features intact. Not quite the result that DOCOMOMO was after, but one that would do.
When Ashley and Professor Peters’ report was finally submitted, it agreed with the nomination feedback, pointing out that only parts of the building could be considered outstanding, and that it had failed to fulfil its function for forty years. The authorities supported the idea of reviving the site in different ways and considering possible lifelines for the Werdmuller in the form of partial retention, alterations and additions. This was to be the task of the second report, authored by Professor Peters and Cindy Postlethwayt, a heritage practitioner.
“To architects beyond the south-western Cape,” the 2017 report stated, “the name of the building is associated more with controversy than as a work of architecture.”
The eighty-page document went into elaborate detail on the various reasons why the building is considered a failure, from not fulfilling its function, to the maze-like design described as “a haven for criminal activity, anti-social behaviour and public nuisance.” The report wasn’t entirely negative, and highlighted the parts of the building that the authors considered architecturally significant — its north façade where “like soldiers of giant order, angled concrete fins march down the street protecting pedestrians”, the interstitial space comprising of a curved ramp and double-curved wall, and the eastern section of the building dubbed “LHC2”, which features the brises-soleil that were characteristic of Le Corbusier’s modernist aesthetic.
It is these features that influenced the final verdict; a compromise — a partial yet substantial demolition, and a rebuild that transforms the Werdmuller into a modern retail and residential complex, complete with coveted parking space, while preserving the outstanding architectural elements. Also part of the proposal, and unusual for a commercial project like this, is a permanent exhibition of the building’s history, including the site’s forced removals during Apartheid.
True to the Werdmuller’s history, accepting the proposal, however accommodating, was a drawn out process.
First came a rejection of the redesign by Heritage Western Cape’s Impact Assessment Committee, then a successful appeal by the building’s owners, followed by yet another appeal by DOCOMOMO. The latter went to a tribunal in September 2018, which upheld the owner’s application under the condition that the coming redevelopment is monitored closely to ensure that the parts of Uytenbogaardt’s design that have been deemed worthy aren’t sent crumbling to the ground.
Eleven years after the building’s existence was officially questioned, a win, of sorts.
