make-'i want this to be the best studio in the world

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'I want this to be the best studioin the world'

How does a tiny architecture practice take on themight of Foster's? Leo Benedictus visits Make tofind out

Monday May 2, 2005The Guardian

Products of the rumpus room ... Make's designs for London's Elephant and Castlearea

Like a chef's breakfast or a barber's hair, one can read a lotfrom an architect's office. The workspace at Make, KenShuttleworth's boutique practice in central London, is part fishtank, part primary school. From the street, you see twoenormous plate-glass windows, behind which are a pair ofmedium-sized rooms filled with cardboard visions of the future.On the right is the workshop, where everybody sits high up at

elevated benches, an ingenious adjustment that makes itpossible to talk to seated colleagues face to face. On the left iswhat they call the rumpus room, although on the day I visit, itsurely contains too many models, tiny chairs and clientshaving meetings to leave much room for any actual rumpus.

Shuttleworth started Make, almost reluctantly, in January2004. He had been at the Foster's partnership for 30 years,where he came up with the voluptuous designs for the GreaterLondon Authority's new HQ and the Swiss Re tower. He beganto get noticed. Two articles - one in Building magazine, one inthe Guardian - got Shuttleworth thinking. Maybe he should getout and do something else? And maybe, in his mid-50s, this

was his last chance?

Even then, the idea of starting his own practice did not comeimmediately. At first Shuttleworth spoke to Robin Partington,

of 5Guardian Unlimited | Arts features | 'I want this to be the best studio in the world'

09/05/2005http://www.guardian.co.uk/arts/features/story/0,11710,1474739,00.html



another Foster's alumnus, about joining him at Hamilton Associates. But in the end, it was only the profusion of otheroptions that convinced him to turn everybody down. "I got lotsof calls from architects offering me a position," he says, in hisquiet, unassuming way. "So I thought, 'Well I might as well giveit a go on my own because if it all goes pear-shaped at least Ican get another job.'"

Having made his decision and resigned from Foster's,Shuttleworth's vision for the new company came together veryeasily. Over Christmas 2003, he spent two weeks writing downexactly what he wanted Make to be. In essence, it's a limitedcompany owned by its employees; Shuttleworth holds noshares himself, and there is no hierarchy of job titles: everyoneis a "partner". "John Lewis, in a way, is the model for it," hesays. "I wanted an office where it was very dynamic, whereyou share the profits with everybody around, you try and givecredit to people who do the work, you try and make sureeverybody is happy, you don't shout at anybody and you'renice to everybody. It was a very clear vision."

It is tempting to wonder if all this was a reaction to NormanFoster's way of doing things. Shuttleworth says it isn't, but heaccepts that there are a lot of frustrated architects out there."When people come here for interviews, you ask, 'Why do youwant to leave?' And they say, 'Well, you're not appreciated. Ican't stand being shouted at, I have to work all night and noone says thank you, I have to work all weekend and no onesays anything.' Some of them feel persecuted, in a way - theseare people from lots of offices."

As a result, as Make has taken on new business, its staff hasswollen, in 15 months, from one to 40 - half of whom have

come from Foster's. Soon they will be looking for a biggeroffice, he says. But not too big. The plan is to keep theheadcount at around 60 (Foster's has more than 600), whichShuttleworth reckons is the maximum size of a practice beforeit succumbs to corporate bureaucracy and departmentalbickering.

No matter how hard I probe, Shuttleworth insists he feels noanimosity towards Foster's practice, saying that he left on verygood terms with "a very nice letter from Norman", which henow shows to students at his lectures. Not everyone is sosanguine, however.

With a chuckle, John Prevec tells me about the sweet momentwhen he discovered that Make's building on the Edinburghwaterfront would be stealing the view from a neighbouringFoster's project. Prevec is in charge of Make's highest profileob: a complete overhaul of the Elephant and Castle district ofsouth London, on which he began working at Foster's beforemoving to Make, for whom he secured the next phase of work."I found it enormously satisfying to have won a project againstmy former employer," he says, enormously satisfied.

So many people have swapped sides that a real edge doesnow exist between some people within the two practices, saysPrevec. "One or two [of the Foster's people] are really bitter,"

he confides. "Some of the more senior guys are fine about it,but a few of the younger partners - people my age, around 40or 45 - have been really weird." He is quick to point out that hegreatly enjoyed his 10 years with Make's rival, but that the





decision to leave was not difficult. "This was a massive greatbig door and it was wide open," he says. "Foster's wasNorman's practice - 600 people, but it was his and only his.That's how he sees it."

Shuttleworth's intention with Make was to do only interestingwork, and as Sean Affleck, another former Foster's man, gives

me a guided tour of the perimeter of the workshop, I can seehe meant it. Affleck shows me a private house they havedesigned to go in the middle of a river, a giant carbon-fibrespike that turns out to be a quieter, more efficient wind turbine,and an ingenious remodelling of a knackered tower block onLondon's south bank, designed to make a feature of itspeculiarly patterned stress points. There is grand work, like theVortex tower (on which Affleck's lips are sealed), and budgetwork, like the Dartford dojo (of which more later), but everypiece revolutionises the way we think about something orother. It is the kind of architecture that makes people becomearchitects in the first place.

And Affleck is excited by all of it. He delivers a panegyric onthe heat-balancing powers of exposed concrete, beforeinterrupting himself to discuss the cleverness of makingbedroom windows from horizontal slits and then moves on tothe problems with building tetrahedrons on an ice shelf. Wediscover, on one of the charts along the way, that someone gottheir millimetres mixed up with their metres. Affleck corrects itwith his pencil. "Sorry if I'm rabbiting," he says, after 40minutes of unbroken enthusiasm.

This is the nice thing about Make. Architects are supposed tobe very cool, but in Make's office, as in their designs, nothingis distant or austere. The furniture looks expensive, and there

are a lot of tieless white shirts, but there is also a geekyintensity about the place, a simple enthusiasm for arrangingwalls and solving problems that is very endearing.

And with this enthusiasm goes great ambition. "I want it to bethe best studio in the world, producing the best architecture,"Shuttleworth says, suddenly puffed-up and forth right, when Iask about his goals for the company. His ambition will face itsnext great test in December, the tough deadline for thecomplete construction of Make's first new building, the Dartforddojo.

The new home for Dartford's highly successful judo club is a

relatively small project in the hands of one of Make's youngerarchitects, Matt White. His brief was to make it cheap andpractical, while reflecting the sport's high ideals of gentlecombat. I meet White in the rumpus room. He is 32, but looksyounger. Casually, he manhandles a well-loved model of hisbuilding on to the table and begins to explain. He points atnorth and south, sweeping an ink-stained hand around theedges to indicate the Bluewater shopping centre and the M25."At the moment there's a bowls club there full of old people,"he says, indicating the bottom of the model. "Very sweet.Packed with them."

The building is a simple, shallow cuboid, but it is cleverer than

it looks. Its flat roof is angled in such a way that all rainwaterwill be funneled towards a square spout, which also serves asa kind of awning over the entrance. At the tip of the awning is awire mesh, which gives shade to the foyer and guides the flow





of water down into a soakaway. At the bottom of the mesh is alarge piece of chalk, a nod to the chalk pit on which the areasits. "It's a gesture, but it's a relevant gesture," says White.

In fact, it is more than that. "Over the lifetime of the building,"says White, "the water coming down here is going to erodethat chalk, slowly, but it will erode it - thus demonstrating the

principle of softness overcoming hardness. It's a bithackneyed, and you wouldn't get it unless someone told you.But the idea is that Alan, the coach, can describe that to hisstudents and use it as an educational tool."

On entering the finished building, you will be able to see theudo mats through glass trophy cases in the wall, but you won'tbe able to get on to the mat without first going through achanging room - a reminder to take off your shoes. Mindful ofthe fact that finishing touches are the first thing to be droppedwhen the money is tight, White has also laid out the interior sothat you can't see any doors when you first walk inside. "It maysound like a small thing," he explains, "but what it means is

that your eye only sees simple things - a simple wood floor,simple white walls, that's it. All the noticeboards will be keptround the corner. All you'll see is light and shade: forms. Soeven if they put in a panel door from B&Q round there, it's notgoing to ruin it."

When the tour of the model is over, the club's coach, AlanRoberts, arrives for another consultation with White. Roberts, alate-middle-aged man in tracksuit and tinted glasses, is clearlyexcited by the project. "It's going to be the envy of everybodywhen it's built," he says. "I keep telling people about it, but untilit's there I don't think they realise how significant it's going tobe." Forty people, and counting, will hope it becomes very

significant indeed.

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