Architecture Between Decay and Endurance

 Who knows these differences in certain parts of Europe, they don’t understand the architecture itself. Ordinary houses, almost anywhere, seem to decay — or already look decayed even when new. Construction often feels improvised: one wall made from old bricks, another from concrete blocks, covered with plaster that doesn’t last long and soon turns dirty. There’s a sense of fragility in materials that should represent stability.

Even construction companies profit well from the so-called green economy — the Central European version of it. There’s constant trade in polystyrene and external insulation, as if sustainability meant simply covering things up. Some new houses are designed to be “energy-efficient,” but often with strangely small windows, built more from fear of energy loss than from any sense of harmony.

In the Netherlands, the difference is striking. Architecture there is naturally durable — solid brick structures, without plaster, designed to last for generations. The Dutch live in a flat, open landscape shaped by wind and water, with air constantly moving from the North Sea. Buildings are made to resist the wind for generations, not to hide from it. Their strength is not accidental. A West surfaces remain clean not because West is repainted, but because the material itself endures. Large windows open to the world, and no one would ever think of covering such buildings with unsustainable polystyrene and a weak plaster layer that would crumble within years. I think Dutch architecture doesn’t pretend to be ecological; it is ecological by its very nature — through longevity, openness, and respect for material truth.

That is perhaps the quiet essence of difference: in Central Europe, “green” often means concealing weakness behind artificial layers; in the Netherlands, strength and sustainability begin with what is left uncovered.