MARK GOULTHORPE 

Reykjavik High Court Iceland 

This project is the competition entry for the Supreme Court of 
Iceland in Reykjavik. It focusses on a 'public' architecture, 
but one which is still seemingly shrouded in privacy, for the 
courthouse (the chamber where the law of the land - the 
foundation-stone of democracy - is established) is in Iceland, 
certainly one of the most important public institutions, second 
only, perhaps, to Parliament itself. 

Yet, when I went to Iceland (to this most democratic and 
egalitarian of societies), I was astonished to read the brief 
which specified (quite literally) that the building be of 
concrete construction, and divided completely in two with the 
judiciary entirely separated from the public who I had 
supposed they were to represent. 

This was not to be a courthouse where people are tried (which 
one might imagine still needs such distinction, such 
reinforcement of power), but a debating chamber, open to all, 
where the public might come to witness and comprehend the 
process by which the law evolves and which gives shape to 
their liberty. 

We might speculate, with Nietzsche, that every advance in 
society, every heightening of its morality, is marked by an 
opening of its systems of justice, as it resists, to an ever 
greater degree, the ethic of revenge . The law, and 
transgressions of the law, come to be seen in this movement 
increasingly at a social rather than an individual level. 
Notions of 'guilt' (and even punishment) are dissipated into 
social debate and society reflects upon itself 

This, as I see it, is the very substance of the supreme court. It is 
not a place of division and privilege, but of open and just 
social commentary; the courthouse as a quite public 
sanatorium of the conscience. 

Our proposal, then, is a High Court for the 21st Century. It 
anticipates this continuing desire for refinement, this 
straining towards an ideal of open justice, and it does so in 
quite marked opposition to the constraints of the brief. 

The building is simple. It is open and transparent in both its 
organisation and its materials as it looks for an increased 
openness and clarity, as justice brought to light. It is envisaged 
as an open public forum, a great moot hall filled with filtered 
natural light within which are placed the various elements of 
the courthouse. 

Discrete scupltural forms float in open space, shrouding the 
judicial functions within, but clearly open to view. Such 
conceptual clarity extends even to the separation of judges 
and public. This is achieved simply and effectively by a series 
of walkways in space which allow one to glimpse the judges 
as they circulate such that the public can witness and 
comprehend the full functioning of the court, a theatre of justce. 

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The courtrooms themselves, the point of union between lawyers, judges and public, continue this 
ideal of openness. Elevated boxes are flooded with daylight from skylights which pierce up through 
the plane of the roof. They are calm, neutral spaces, folded combinations of concrete, plaster and 
wood, stripped of all symbolism or hierarchy. They are simple and elegant (both conceptually and 
physically), and they impart a dignity and equality to this highest court of the people. 

Externally the building is a simple crystalline cube, a translucent and fragile envelope enclosing more 
solid and elemental forms (perceived as shadowy forms) within. Its glass skin is sheathed with a 
delicately perforated metallic surface, a filter which plays continuously with the subtle and changing 
light of Iceland - a solid luminous form, in the dark winter, glowing from within, and in the surreal 
summer light, an ambiguous and reflective surface. 

The courthouse compliments the delicacy and lightness of the adjacent library with a contemporary 
aesthetic and finesse . The form of the building duplicates that of the existing library. The rhythmic 
pattern of its metallic skin is generated from the library's geometry and is incised with the abstracted 
forms of ancient runes (the primordial root of all writing and law). 

The two buildings read as twin pavilions of light - one white, the other metallic, set against the dark 
and powerful form of the art deco theatre behind. Set on a hill overlooking the harbour, the two 
buildings begin to define a civic presence, the library already destined to house the President's offices. 

The courthouse draws inspiration from the generic simplicity and the utilitarian and lightweight 
construction of contemporary Icelandic architecture. Fragile but pure forms are placed delicately into 
the savage expanse of the volcanic landscape. They draw from the almost mystical qualities of this 
strange land: the subtle ambiguity of the northern light, the eerily illumination of the vast Atlantic 
skies, and the harsh rawness of natural materials - the rough concrete shrouded by a cold and brittle 
metallic veil. 

There were two architects on the jury, and three members of the judiciary, and what, for me, was 
interesting, was that it was the architects who liked the project and apparently staked their claim on 
it. The lawyers hated it to the point where they threatened to dissolve the jury. 

This was completely the reverse of what I had expected since I had blithely assumed that the lawyers 
would appreciate this search for a form that mirrored, as it were, this opening of the judicial system 
which championed the Supreme Court as the haven of democratic law. 

This leads me to question our potential to effect change through architecture, to open the way, as it 
were, to an increasing liberty. It is a question succinctly posed, and effectively answered, I think, by 
Michel Foucault: 

"Men have dreamed of liberating machines. But there are no machines of freedom, by definition. 
This is not to say that the exercise of freedom is completely indifferent to spatial distribution, but it 
can only function when there is a certain convergence . ... 
Where liberty is effectively exercised, one finds ... that this is not owing to the order of objects, 
but, (once again), owing to the practice of liberty .. . " 

So there may, in fact, always be, a certain number of projects whose aim is to modify some 
constraints, to loosen, or even break them. But none of these projects can, simply by their nature, 
assure that people will have liberty automatically: 

"I think it [architecture] can and does produce positive effects when the liberating intentions of the 
architect coincide with real practice of people in the exercise of their freedom." 

In Reykjavik, it became apparent that our liberating intentions simply did not coincide with such 
practice (or at least did not correspond with the perception of such practice). It scarcely matters if, in 
our opinion, that resulted from a certain blindness. The fact of the matter was, that there was not a 
'convergence'. That is not to say that we shouldn't have attempted to 'modify some constraints, to 
loosen or even break them', for I think the aspiration to an increased openness in the judicial system 
was a good one. 

One does not hesitate to have the courage of one's convictions (that, I am afraid, is our inheritance) 
which means that one must be willing to have one's ideas rejected, in the hope that, if nothing else, 
they might begin to shift perception. 



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