Bursting with a melange of grey and green, Brutalist Plants by Olivia Broome is a photo book centred on the somber yet distinct aesthetic sensibilities of eco-brutalism as told through over 150 images captured by a multitude of photographers. Published by Hoxton Mini Press with a foreword by Alice Finney, the book compiles shots of housing, institutional buildings, hotels, urban infrastructure, sculptures, and abandoned structures forming an engaging visual archive that depicts how nature and brutalist architecture complement one another in varied contexts and scales.

Recounting the story behind her online community and its relation to this publication, Broome shares, “Back in 2018, I was still using Tumblr and curating my blog with images, and after some photos of abandoned buildings and former Yugoslavian war monuments started appearing on my feed, I liked them so much that I decided to move over to Instagram and post them there instead. I've been reposting images onto my page since then, and have created a small but strong community of followers and contributors.” She elaborates, “Publishing a book wasn't actually on my cards, it was only after I was contacted by Sarah-Louise Deazley who worked at Hoxton Mini Press that I was presented with the opportunity to do so. It was lovely that the publishers saw value in what I was doing and were interested in turning my Instagram feed into a coffee table book. Once we kickstarted the process, my goal was to depict a real global view of brutalism and showcase as many photographers in my community as possible. I'm pleased that 41 countries have been featured in the final book, with photos taken by 58 people.”

Featuring social housing complexes such as the Alexandra & Ainsworth Estate in the UK, institutional buildings such as the famed Mill Owners’ Association Building in India, or the Geisel Library at UC San Diego in the United States, private studios like Agustín Hernández Navarro’s Praxis House in Mexico, and memorial sculptures like the Monument to the Revolution in Bosnia and Herzegovina, Brutalist Plants paints a compelling and inclusive picture of eco-brutalism across the planet. For Broome, some images also hold special significance: “La Tulipe in Geneva (p. 84) is a two-minute walk from where my family is based. I have a few images from Australia in the book too, where most of the rest of my family lives. And there are a couple which blew me away and made me start my account in the first place: the reinforced hillside in Tokyo (p. 16) and the Monument to the Fallen Soldiers of the Kosmaj Partisan Detachment in Serbia (p. 35).”

Some of the buildings presented in the book—such as Stefano Boeri’s Bosco Verticale in Italy, or WOHA’s PARKROYAL on Pickering in Singapore—might align better with contemporary biophilic architecture than brutalism, but it would be remiss to say that they could have been realised without standing on the shoulders of the béton brut monoliths of the past. Broome states, “I hope that within the book, there's something for everyone. Even people who aren't fans of brutalism can appreciate nature blooming in an unusual space. There is something about a plant in a corner or a room which draws your attention. We all live in a world filled with nature, so we inherently resonate with greenery and gain a sense of peace from it. When we leave buildings to the grasp of nature, it does what it does best: thrive and survive.”

While its place within the pantheon of modern architecture is vague, eco-brutalism is currently a trending topic on digital platforms that repositions brutalism and its relationship with nature, generally through the lens of photography. In this sphere, the rise to prominence of this fusion of exposed concrete and viridescent vegetation is an intriguing phenomenon, given the criticism that has been levied at brutalism from several sources and angles. Despite its original intention to create egalitarian utopias for a new modern age, brutalist architecture has had a polarising standing among architects and the general public, with its severe, uncompromising devotion to concrete having produced a swarm of buildings that are often regarded as lifeless, totalitarian, or symbols of urban decay. Interestingly, these descriptions are in direct opposition to the principles that first birthed the movement.

A product of the postwar era, brutalism surfaced in Europe in response to the nostalgic revivalist styles that preceded it. Its emphasis on discarding tradition to build faster while looking towards the future to seek new ideals of aesthetic purity led to the style being readily adopted by new independent democracies and older nation-states. Coined by British architects Alison and Peter Smithson, the term “brutalism” has its roots in the béton brut (raw concrete) of Le Corbusier’s proto-brutalist designs — particularly the Unité d'Habitation housing typology.

Concrete’s capacity to be cast into myriad shapes fueled brutalism’s structural and spatial experimentation, including innovative free plans, gigantic exposed forms, and modest façade designs relying on textures and well-proportioned fenestrations that merged practicality with aesthetics. Unfortunately, the style was also weighed down by concrete’s tendency to age poorly, the limits of its performance as a building material, as well as the shortcomings of structural design and planning at the time. This led to many brutalist buildings turning into dour, decrepit spaces due to neglect, which negatively affected the mental and physical well-being of their users.

Since brutalism’s heyday in the mid-20th century, quite a few of its most famous exports have been torn down due to a combination of commercial interests, citizen action, and structural degradation, including landmark projects such as Robin Hood Gardens in London by Alison and Peter Smithson, or Miguel Fisac’s Laboratorios Jorba in Madrid. Conversely, certain brutalist buildings have also become landmarks or heritage structures, such as the Yale Art and Architecture Building in New Haven by Paul Rudolph, or London’s Barbican Estate by Chamberlin, Powell, and Bon.

All this speaks volumes of the divergent opinions that have greeted brutalist architecture for decades. Over time, however, brutalism has slowly experienced a resurgence in popularity through retrospective evaluations of the style in academia, architectural practice, and image-sharing platforms. Cue the pandemic, and an explosion of interest in eco-brutalist aesthetics turned the derelict concrete monoliths of the past into objects of fantasy, emerging as digital mirages of verdant paradises that viewers yearned to experience while confined within their homes. “I saw a real uptick in followers over the pandemic when people would repost spaces they dreamed about visiting once we left lockdown. Even afterwards, they were still being shared on stories by creatives, architects, or fans who found them inspiring. So I think social media is a huge help for inspiration and carving out niches. I believe that fusion is the future and image-sharing platforms help to foster shared interests, creativity, and community,” says Broome.

Layouts for images within Brutalist Plants are generally grid-like and unembellished (in true brutalist fashion), with full-page spreads for some of the more dramatic structures and photographs on show. Upon observing the curation of images within the book, it is easy to spot two divergent perspectives on eco-brutalism: one where nature and concrete architecture have been harmoniously unified through deliberate human intervention, and the other involving scenarios where nature has reclaimed built forms after they were discarded by humans. In the latter case, the images paint possible pictures of a post-apocalyptic world that has been liberated from human environmental degradation, allowing nature to take back what it had lost. By contrast, the instances depicting an intentional melding of nature and architecture posit a more optimistic sermon on how the built environment can coexist with the biosphere. The convergence of these two arms of eco-brutalism also mirrors the dichotomy between the utopian ideals that gave rise to brutalism, as well as the somewhat dystopian identities now associated with some structures designed in this style.

Interestingly, Broome took a more pragmatic approach to the process of curation, as she attests: “I audited my whole account back from when it started and contacted all the architectural photographers whose work I had reposted. That informed me what I could work with. The main criteria I looked for when selecting images for Brutalist Plants were that there is no human presence, the primary colours are grey and green, and that it fits within the remit of nature versus concrete. I like to use some artistic licence with my account, to widen the net beyond what people might consider classic brutalism — whether that's showcasing an abandoned space which an urban explorer has conquered or a new build covered in ivy.”

The relative absence of humans during the entire length of Brutalist Plants allows foliage to dominate—for once—and can be viewed as a poignant reversal of the self-importance our species assigns to its place in the biosphere at large. When it comes to her own objective with this curatorial constraint, Broome reveals: “I intentionally try to remove any human presence from my images where possible. It's impossible to delete it completely in some shots, but I do my best to minimise it. This started as a subconscious choice, but quickly became a must-have criterion as I wanted the focus to be on the plants, the buildings, or the angles at which they have been captured. Humans seem too messy and colourful in spaces where they shouldn't be.”

In a way, the images within Brutalist Plants also illuminate the fantastical manner in which eco-brutalist structures are sometimes portrayed in digital spaces today - as found objects from an otherworldly solar punk utopia rather than structures grounded in the tense reality of the present. Simultaneously, the photo book’s diverse collection of built projects showcases the merits of brutalism in a fresh light, representing the beauty of this architectural style in a manner that can be soothing and challenging at once. Even for the most fervent critics of the style, there is a lot to appreciate about brutalist architecture within this book, and the constant mediating influence of plant life certainly helps this argument.

From a contemporary standpoint, there has been a renewed interest in the adaptive reuse of brutalist buildings as well, which is quite feasible in several cases due to the flexibility of open floor plans and free façades associated with brutalist structures. The recent conversion and renovation of Marcel Breuer’s Pirelli Tire Building in the United States into the Hotel Marcel attest to the possibilities of preserving brutalist heritage instead of condemning it to the wrecking ball which has razed so many béton brut icons of the past. Presently, brutalism might be enjoying a renaissance of sorts, and one can only hope that initiatives such as Broome’s Brutalist Plants will help shift public perception of the movement in a more favourable direction going forward.

Concerning her plans for the future, Broome notes, “It's only been a little over two months since the book was released in stores. So the excitement is still quite fresh for me. In the immediate future, I plan to have a proper book launch with friends and contributors, and I will continue to keep my content going. Later down the line, I might consider creating merchandise like t-shirts or prints, so that could still be on the cards. Until then, I intend to keep doing what my channel does best — bring together a community of people and their incredible photography into one place for the world to see, and make some friends along the way.”