an accidentally violent introduction to the father of tropical modernism
The noise mirrored our shared silent reaction—this horrible, slow, scratching screeeeching scream—as we watched the sculptures tip over. I saw the wedding party four floors below and imagined the headlines: Fake Journalist Destroys Priceless Artwork, Killing Three. And even worse than that—upon what was to be a thorough criminal —the expired press pass I was using to get a tour of this famous hotel would soon be exposed; meaning not only were innocent lives at stake, but also my pride and reputation.
At first glance, one might not be smitten with the Sri Lankan architect Geoffrey Bawa as they are with other architects. Hadid and her curves. Wright and his right angles. But with Bawa, nothing really stands out... at least, at first. That only lasts a few seconds, though, as it doesn’t take long for his unique approach—blending the nature the of tropics with European influence—to make itself known.
This is exactly what happened to me on May 20th, 2023. Lying, perhaps dying, underneath both a fan and AC on high (plus a mosquito net), in the town of Dambulla, my dear friend Heather V.—one of Jimmy Choo’s standouts back in the day and owner of the first couch I slept on after moving to Brooklyn—sent me a list of her favorite to-do’s in Sri Lanka. On it: a hike, a cave, some batik tips and a name followed by an AMAZING! Heather doesn’t write in caps, so I was immediately drawn to the name that preceded them: some guy named Geoffrey.
I Google’d him and scanned the few photos that popped up: An old man with dark glasses and a balding head appeared, along with a few photos of his work, all involving open spaces, trees in every shot (including interior) and wooden furniture. As mentioned, you’d be forgiven if his works didn’t immediately impress, but as soon as you click on Images, his message quickly begins to unfold. Simple. Neutral. Open. I didn't know what it was about Geoffrey Bawa, maybe it was just me being the guy who so desperately wanted people to think he knew about architecture, but he, Bawa, quickly became someone I wanted to learn about, as well as his Tropical Modernism movement, in my tuktuk trip around Sri Lanka.
As luck, or perhaps, Heather's plan would have it, I soon found out that his hidden behemoth of a hotel, the Heritance Kandalama, was just a few miles away. I took this as a sign, and a day later—thanks to an expired media pass and an email to the hotel’s PR team—had myself an official appointment.
Much akin to my inital introduction, the entrance to the hotel was interesting, sure, but hardly spectacular. Low to the ground. Neutral colors. Lots of rocks lying around.
But what it lacked in initial impressions quickly announced its importance with the concierge’s desk—this gorgeous long concrete and teak design, backed by yellow tiles with maroon accents.
I gave my name and am introduced to my guide Suri (not her real name, nor will anyone else's be, for reasons you'll soon read), who walked me from the desk and through the labyrinth tunnel, built around a giant boulder.
“How much do you know about Sir Bawa?” she asked.
“It’s more fun if you tell me what you know”, I responded—hopefully hiding the fact that I had just learned about him less than 24 hours ago.
“Well, the first thing you need to understand is that he moved nothing”, Suri began, as she motioned to the boulder to our right, “meaning that if a tree or rock was there, it stayed. This was one of the most important things to Geoffrey; working around nature, and not with or against it.”
Suri led me into the reception hall. Room to breathe. Light. White. Zero clutter. And it’s the lack of clutter that first got me into architecture in the first place, having spent a few months driving around the Midwest in search of as many Frank Lloyd Wright’s as I could find, quickly learning of how Frank detested attics and basements, as they were nothing but rooms for storing "stuff”. Same with Bawa. Nothing that didn't need to be there was there. And it was vast. Nothing but space. Space and low ceilings—often cantilevered in design, turning an ordinary open-aired floor into this elongated framed view of the clouds.
We continued our tour, down a hexagonal staircase and continued on into some a foyer or meeting room or whatever. A huge wall of batik, carpet, tapestries and carved stone on one wall—popping against the otherwise neutral color scheme of the room.
“This is a façade from Bali” said Suri, “do you notice anything... strange about it?”
I did not. But that didn’t keep me from sounding like I did.
“Bali isn't Sri Lanka."
Outstanding insight, Aric. You should be leading this tour.
“Well... yes, but this is more about the stone carving," said Suri, patiently, "You can see they’re broken?”
I did.
“Well, they arrived intact, but Mr. Bawa, as soon as he had hung them here, picked up a hammer and smashed them all.
“Was he angry?” I asked.
“Not at all. He just thought it needed something extra.”
Our tour continued up a few flights of stairs and out onto an elevated walkway.
“Elephants come here often,” said Suri. “Mr Bawa never got to see them, but it’s what he wanted.”
I was then led down two flights of stairs and out onto the back lawn. It was nearly 1pm and the sun was vicious. We rounded a corner and Suri asked me to look up.
In front of me, the jungle had eaten away at nearly every inch of the hotel, climbing up and up, nearly covering the entire hotel. So high in some parts that the vines and branches began to meet. Monkeys darted back and forth, jumping from limb to limb as if this were their playground. And, in a sense, it was. It was designed to be. In the tiny bit I had read about Bawa before arriving, I had noticed one recurring theme: His obsession with allowing the elements to take back over:
Each project is a very particular response to a culture it’s in—particularly in respect to the materials…. Design encompasses a cultural sensitivity. I respond to it through the site. Any other response is bogus to me.” — Geoffrey Bawa
Impressive as it was, the heat had become unbearable. We both commented on it and went back inside. I had to be going, and said as much, so Suri led me back up the stairs, through a sitting room of low couches and another gorgeous hanging batik.
"Before you go, though, I have to explain two artists that you'll see a lot of in your research on Mr. Bawa.
"The first is Laki Senanayake—perhaps Sri Lanka's most famous artist—he did a few things for this hotel, but you'll be seeing a lot more as your Bawa Tour around the country continues. My favorite is the staircase in Galle. Whatever you do, spend some time walking up and down, as it's a story too."
I made a point of it. Unfortunately. "And the second is Ena de Silva," Suri continued, unaware that her request would lead to destruction, "Mrs. de Silva helped bring batik production back to Sri Lanka (traditionally an Indonesian craft), and became friends with Mr. Bawa after she approached him to design she and her husband's house in the 1960s. Some say she was the one who introduced Bawa to Laki, but I'm not sure. The important thing is to know that in nearly every Bawa, there will be a Laki and de Silva somewhere." And there was—right there in front of us, an elephant batik taking up nearly the entire wall of a sitting area.
Back down another hall we went, a sharp right turn, respectfully making its way around another huge boulder. Of all the things I saw that day, and would continue to see, I think these random rocks lying around unbothered was my favorite.
I thanked Suri and headed out to my tuktuk. Happy. I had lucked out. Arguably his largest work and Suri being full of insightful information and a grand tour. This was an excellent addition to the trip.
I went home that night and started looking up all of his spots that I’d be passing along the way, taking the coast slowly up north to Negombo, and decided on these:
The Last House
Pradeep Jayewardene House
Jetwing Lighthouse
Bentota Beach Hotel
The Blue Water Hotel and Spa
Parliament of Sri Lanka
The Gallery Cafe
Geoffrey Bawa’s Residence
A few days later, I headed to the first on the list, The Last House—named as much as it was Bawa’s final true design—built in 1997. A long, tiny path, barely a road, led me from the main streets of Tangelle and back to the beach, only to see a large locked door. I could stand on my tippy toes and see hints of that famous wraparound veranda that everyone mentions, but my attempts at knocking, ringing the bell and even calling went unanswered. And so, I threw on said badge and walked around to the front, hoping for an easy walk in. That door was also locked, but I at least got a view of the house.
A painter saw me taking photos and so I waved, flashing the badge and hoping it’d make for another private tour, but upon his approach, he told me that they were renovating and that no one would be allowed in. That’s alright, I told him, and headed back to the tuktuk, en route to the Pradeep Jayewardene House, only 15 miles away.
Admittedly, I was most excited to see this home—built low to the ground, windows for walls on three sides, parts of it looking like some open-air pavilion. It also seemed to be the one that all of those in the know know, namely Architectural Digest which had done a massive article on it, even making the cover.
Now, the temptation here would be to cherry pick a few tasty morsels of information, rework it into my own words and write it down here, but that's not what this book or whatever it's turning into is about. We learn together. And if I don't know, I'm not going to include it. Plenty of articles on this house, so Google away.
But the gate was locked and a quick search told me it was permanently closed. Why, I don’t know. But that’s ok. We had the Jetwing Lighthouse up next… and I knew that was open, as I had checked the prices online. (Surprise: We can't afford it so you just get the photos.)
Jetwing didn’t look like much at first glance—especially when you consider what the previous spots we visited (or tried) to—a raised stone wall, holding a beige building with one open veranda. But once you walked in, Bawa seemed to use that old architectural trick of making you walk through something low and narrow before a large room reveals itself, called “compress and release”. A long white undecorated hallway forced your eyes to the ocean.
My guide was waiting on me—a young man of about 22. His name was Padri, and this was his first job out of university. A dream job, he told me, as he idolized Bawa growing up.
He led me to the dining room, a canopy of Ena de Silva splitting the room in two.
And, up top, his obligatory inclusion of water, with a wraparound veranda.
Padri took me out and through a courtyard that belonged in a film by Tarsem—vertically striped yellow buildings, miniature rolling hills, tiny windows with burnt orange shutters and more rocks left to their own.
Padri would have gladly continued the tour for another hour, but, once again, the midday sun and touring was exhausting, so I told him I needed to head back soon.
“But I haven’t shown you the best part” he nearly pleaded, “come, it won’t take long.”
We headed back into the main building, up the stairs and out to a large winding staircase, wrapped with metallic sculptures of a mighty battle. Ah! This was what Suri was talking about. I made a mental note to send her a picture.
“This is Laki’s story of how Sri Lanka fought for themselves," Padri explained, pointing out the locals with spears vs. the Portuguese (and others) with more advanced weaponry, “and every Sri Lankan who comes here always takes the picture, because we’re very proud.”
I moved closer to a scene, what looked like a soldier spearing a would-be invader and moved in for a photo, stepping back with arms outreached to get the entire scene into frame.
I didn’t touch the sculpture. I need you to believe that. I would have felt it on my arm or something. I didn’t touch it. I’m pretty sure I didn’t touch it. Maybe my leg touched the banister but I’m almost certain I didn’t touch it. But whether I didn’t touch it or not, five seconds after I took the photo, the sculpture so many Sri Lankans took such pride in had now been disfigured. Two previously brave soldiers hung off of the banister like grotesque icicles.
Padri looked at me and I looked at him. We were both white as ghosts, wide-eyed with our mouths covered by our hands.
“I didn’t touch it” I probably lied.
“I know” he probably lied back.
We continued standing there. People were now running into the foyer to look up at the damage. I heard the static of walkie-talkies bounce off of the naked walls. A list of possible punishments rattled off in my head like some Wall Street ticker tape from the 1950s: A fine (I just told you we couldn't even afford to stay a night here, much less whatever fixing a priceless piece of art would run). An investigation (it would be a national story, starting with Suri who might relay my "Sri Lanka isn't Bali" insight as her first red flag. Jail time. Sri Lanka was laid back, but that's probably for people who don't break shit. Deportation, even? I mean, look, it wasn't completely out of the realm of possibilities.
Thinking quickly, I dramatically scanned my legs for cuts—an inherent American gift just in case there was the slightest of injury one could sue for—while Padri called everyone he knew on his phone. I wanted to say “I’m sorry”, but said Americanism also reminds you that you never say “sorry” during something like this as it denotes responsibility. Should I fall down? grab my back or neck? Ask for a medic? Loudly say "I think I'm hurt!"? No. That wouldn't work, as they soon see I wasn't. I just needed to go. Like... now. I let out a long exhale as if to say "I barely escaped with my life" and nodded to Padri, hoping he read my cue.
He did.
“We should go” he said, probably re-thinking his career... or what was left of it.
He quickly led me down the stairs—smartly walking between myself and what remained of the previously-priceless sculpture—and out the doors and to the main welcoming hall, decorated with wooden chairs and backed by another Silva batik. I made a point of stopping calmly and taking a few photos. Guilty don't stick around for a nice shot, I told myself. I could use this as an excuse should the military get involved.
I shook Padri's hand, walked calmly to my tuktuk and drove away. I hope he still has his job, but honestly, I’m not too sure. What I was sure about, though, is that my old media pass would be packed in the deepest pocket of my backpack and never used again in this country. Any further tours would be done anonymously.
I’d stay in Galle for a few more days, splitting my time between my pool and the stick fisherman, and then drove further up the coast and to the local favorite beachside town of Bentota. It was here in the late 1960s that Geoffrey Bawa designed Sri Lanka’s first “national holiday resort”, the Bentota Beach Hotel.
No longer able to lean on would-be fired employees to take me around, I now had to go in by myself—my real myself—which meant simply walking in and hoping to not be asked for my room number. Or maybe I could have a coffee. In fact, along with that coffee, I’d take myself to breakfast. Breakfast with a nice hat. I'd make myself seen and then conduct a little self-guided tour. I walked inside to the building, now known as the Cinnamon Beach Hotel, and was immediately struck by yet another stunning display of batik on the ceilings–much larger and, admittedly, more impressive than the ones at Jetwing, and, fortunately for me, far from reach.
As with the name change, the hotel had since undergone a massive facelift back in 2019, but it still had the bones of Bawa and I was excited to explore.
“Can I not just get a croissant and coffee?” I pleaded, having just been told that breakfast was $28—more than my daily budget for food.
“Unfortunately, we don’t have the system to accommodate that” said hostess, quiet and embarrassed for me.
As much as I wanted to walk around and really get to know the place, I simply couldn’t afford $28 for any meal, so probably just muttered something like “It’s okay, I’ll just call my driver and have him take me to Starbucks” to save face and sulked away, stopping on my way out for a quick photo of the bar—another stunning setting with more batik overhead.
(Armed now with the curse of hindsight, I have to admit to having then being ignorant to having been just down the road from Bawa’s former country home, the drop-dead gorgeous Lunuganga Estate. For whatever reason, I didn’t have it on my list and am absolutely sick to have missed it.)
A half-day’s drive up the coast brought me to Bawa’s last hotel project of his life, the Blue Water Hotel—located on a coconut plantation, and famous for it being the most minimal of all his works. But the gate was closed, and with my identity still somewhat in jeopardy (am assuming all the Bawa hotels had a chat group where my photo and counterfeit credentials were being passed around) and my pride still a bit tattered over not being able to afford breakfast, I didn’t push it.
My luck was about to change, though, but hardly in the way I could have guessed. With monsoon season fully in swing, I gave up trying to find a beachfront bungalow and decided to start looking inland for a place to stay. It would be later that evening when I’d learn about the irony of Sri Lanka’s property value—the rich preferring to be set far from the beach and the poor being left to content with the destruction the ocean can so often bring.
In my search for something different, I stumbled upon a listing that caught me eye; A “riverside retreat”, designed (at one point) by an architect named C. Anjalendran. I had no idea who said architect was, but anyone who can go by a single letter for a first name had to have been someone. The photos showed an open split-level home, with gorgeous wood accents all around, so I booked it.
Within the first 15 minutes of walking in, sitting down in that stunning living room and meeting owner Aftab, his partner Anja and their caretaker Mr. Yoganathan, I immediately paid for two more days. My time spent there—and with each of them—would end up ranking highly on my list of favorite experiences, but that’s for another story, as this one is already humongous. So why even include it in a story about Bawa? Well, as it turned out, C. Anjalendran was a student of Geoffrey Bawa, and himself went on to become one of Sri Lanka’s most celebrated architects.
It was on the second day, however, when I began asking questions about the home. What year it was built. Was this tropical modernism. Why do Sri Lankan chairs rival those of the Danish, etc. Aftab patiently took me around the home, explaining what he could, when we came to the pillar on one side of the house. I didn't notice it at first, but after stepping back and taking the photo above, it stood out as odd.
"Interesting story" said Aftab, straightening the decorative red fabric hanging off of it, "Mr. Anjalendran was friends with one of Sri Lanka's most famous artists who stopped by once while it was being renovated and suggested a support beam be put in temporarily. But when it came time to remove it, my family decided to keep it, seeing how he was who he was."
I didn't even have to ask, but Aftab beat me to it.
"Have you heard of him? Laki Senanayake?"
I probably said I hadn't, but definitely moved to the other side of the room and changed the subject.
My few days there were, as mentioned, book worthy, but with with my rental quickly coming to a close, I tuktuk’d away and headed to Negombo to return it, attempting to stop at Bawa’s perhaps most well-known design, the Sri Lankan Parliament, but was politely, although strongly told by the soldiers guarding it that I wouldn’t be allowed in. I didn't press the matter, although it's stunning and well worth a few minutes of your time.
A few days later, having (sadly) returned the tuktuk and arrived in the capital of Colombo (by bus, sadly x2), I, once again, found myself in the presence with yet another Bawa understudy, the artist/architect Tilak Samarawickrema, of whom I’d befriend and became a daily fixture in my stay there—our morning coffee, sweets and chat about his impressive career. He gladly reminisced on his time working for Geoffrey and even took a pause when he attempted to explain Bawa’s vision and impact on the world.
“I was taken with his love of everything ancient” said Tilak, ending his sentence almost with an audible ellipses, trailing off into his own impression. And while it wasn't a phrase that immediately would come to mind, it so perfectly encapsulated what I'd seen of Bawa. Save for the concrete, it could have been from any era, so synonymous with its surroundings that yeah, it did have an ancient vibe to it.
Armed with an adjective from a Bawa student, I walked just down the road to Bawa’s old office—where Tilak himself worked—to what is now known as the Gallery Cafe. It was large and impressive (with admittedly excellent food), but was so full of waiters, tourists and trinkets that its appeal was lost on me. One of those tale-tell covered verandas with a small pond below was the highlight, but other than that, it placed last on my tour.
On my final day in Colombo, though, I planned a tour of Bawa’s old home—also walking distance from both the cafe and Tilak’s home. The entryway taking the visitor past a garage of vintage cars and down a long white halfway with polished concrete, what would then be told to me used to be a lane, until Bawa bought the home next door, covered it and simply made a walkway…
And into his home; much of which unphotographable, as it’s still a living place for his staff who manage his trust.
The tour was insightful, but, again, distracting, as the Australian couple spoke loudly the entire time, punctuating their annoying features by leaving the “click” sound on their iPhones, driving me near murderous. I’d slink to the back of our small group and tried to drown them out by taking in old staircases…
Another perfect example of Bawa’s “nature stays put”...
More of those dreamy batiks from De Silva…
And even an ingenious use of a mortar as legs for a cupboard.
The tour ended and I walked around the exterior once more snapping photos. Our guide, himself hired by Geoffrey 22 years ago to help around the house, came up to me to ask how the tour was. I told him it was great.
“Mr. Bawa would have liked your being here” he said, an odd, probably rehearsed compliment.
“What do you mean?”
“He was quiet. He demanded quiet. He liked quiet people.”
Again, he was a good guide and maybe even had a pocket full of compliments for all sorts of visitors. However it wasn’t the fantasy of the architect I had come to love that stayed with me as I wrote this story—going back through hundreds of photos, hopefully finding similarities in style as to pass on to you—that, perhaps, the genius of Geoffrey Bawa made itself known.
His work was quiet. Not some loud look at me! like you get with Frank Ghery, it was subtle. Meant to blend in. Adapt.
But once you see him, you see him everywhere, in nearly every celebrated design from the 1970s-1990s in/around Asia and beyond.
A nature-first, strong-but-subtle celebration of what happens when European design heads to the tropics. As humid and immense as the jungle in Sigiriya, as soft-spoken and strong as the man himself.
