Västergatan 16
in Malmö

“Malmö’s first postmodernist building,” that’s what Lars Asklund’s house on Västergatan has been called. For me, it stands above all as an act of supreme resistance.

Malmö is, culturally, an unusual city. For decades it has favored the ordinary and conformist. When something is deemed fine, it is more likely to be conventional than brilliant. Here, there’s a pervasive fear of radical, talented innovation.

“Malmö’s first postmodernist building,” that’s what Lars Asklund’s house on Västergatan has been called. For me, it stands as a supreme act of resistance.

   Malmö is, culturally, a peculiar city. For decades, it has favored the ordinary and the conformist. If it’s considered fine, it’s more likely to be plain than brilliant. There’s a deep-seated fear here of radically creative innovation. In terms of architecture, Malmö also exhibits a neurotic distancing from its Öresund heritage.

   On the Danish side, craftsmanship and attention to scale and detail are still valued. Malmö’s indifference to such values was recently enshrined in a grand monument—a “Ceausescu build” called the Sheraton—at Triangeln.

   So, Asklund builds a house that doesn’t conform to Malmö’s unwritten norms or the building industry’s standards, but rather suits his own convictions about what makes a good home. The walls are massive, with no insulation. He won’t touch plastic paint. The floor plan, as far as I can tell, defies most regulations.

But it works better than many other new builds. It doesn’t mold.

   Heating costs are remarkably low. Aesthetically, it’s a beautiful example of how tradition and innovation can be combined without feeling manufactured.

There’s no need for fake timber or pasted-on bay windows to evoke historical continuity. It’s present in the colors, the proportions, in the adaptation to the street scene, and the craftsmanship. Even though this house is in no way a pastiche but rather a clear vision from the 1980s, it feels as though it’s always been here—or perhaps, as if this house truly belongs here.

   Wearing two hats is dubious, but perhaps instructive. Had I known then what I know now, I’m not sure I’d have embarked on the adventure. I’d never designed such large buildings before, and I was amazed by the harsh reality I encountered—first through discouraging contacts with officials, then in tough negotiations with the contractor. For a private individual without much capital, starting a project like this takes nerves and a degree of naive self-confidence.

   The whole project probably would have collapsed if it hadn’t coincided with BO86. Suddenly the city was interested—I got included in the housing quota and received help with my loan application, and so on.

   I imagine that choosing to live in the city center means, despite norms and requirements, having different wishes and needs than if you live in a suburban villa. Much can be shared: laundry room, hobby and fitness room, guest room, etc. You’re close to restaurants and shops, so there’s less need to store and cook food at home.

   I found that the greatest demand was for one- and two-room apartments, so I decided to make all the units two-room: half at 75 sqm, half at 120 sqm. This didn’t fit the norms either. The authorities warned that the large two-room flats wouldn’t rent, and without BO86 I doubt financing would have been approved.

   I always wanted to build as simply as possible, with tried and tested materials of high quality. I sought mold-free, massive walls that “breathe,” so I chose to build with 35 cm Siporex blocks. I deliberately avoided fussiness—partly to save costs, partly because in my view, volumes, the shaping of rooms, and the quality of light far outweigh complicated details. The windows are custom-made, but standard, well-stocked windows would probably not have been cheaper, especially in the long run.

   The windows are a story in themselves. I wanted them painted with linseed oil paint, but it turned out to be impossible to get them primed with linseed oil and turpentine at either the factory or the construction site. So I had to do it myself, evenings and weekends.

   The south façade is glazed and acts as a giant solar collector, receiving as much radiant energy as if it were covered in complex solar panels. The challenge, as always, is to capture the energy. Here it’s stored in walls and floors, which are designed with high thermal inertia and treated to allow easy movement of heat and moisture. Vapor barriers and dense plastic paints were strictly avoided.

   The walls are plastered with hygroscopic lime render and painted in various colors. For maximum heat absorption, the process must be swift, or the operating temperature inside the glass becomes so high you open the windows and vent excess heat.

   The walls were painted twice with limewash and a hint of glue, then glazed with limewater mixed with pigments: iron oxide, Terra di Siena, yellow ochre, zinc oxide, cobalt blue, and English red. The residents were invited to choose their own colors.

   I see the architecture as romantic and full of associations. The frontispiece has a dominant, central motif, emphasizing verticality. Most houses along Västergatan feature tall bay window sections or prominent staircases expressed in the facades.

   I borrowed liberally from neighboring houses. The street-facing windows are more or less copies of the ones pt-30 door. Meanwhile, those beautiful old triple sash windows have been swapped for ugly standard units...

   The courtyard wing has unmistakable functionalist touches. This rising modernism collides proudly with the modernist glass facade—almost straight from the late 1960s.

   The garden has two sections: first, a classic paved backyard. Pass through a portal in the outbuilding and you’ll enter a different world—a lush garden with spring water and blossoming trees.

   I vaguely recall reaching my childhood schoolyard via a similar passage through a red-painted Småland outbuilding, which also housed the craft room. The Skåne version is rendered, and includes bike racks and garden storage.