Architects Building in the Garden

When I think of craft in architecture, my mind conjures images of traditional artisans: masons meticulously stacking stones, blacksmiths forging intricate details, and carpenters shaping wooden beams. Gottfried Semper’s The Four Elements of Architecture redefined the primitive hut’s architecture as an assembly of traditional craft-based disciplines—the hearth originating from metallurgy and ceramics, the roof from the craftwork of carpentry, enclosures through weaving, and mound-making through earthworks. Yet, when was the last time I truly considered architecture a craft? For a long time, architects have been distanced from the physical act of building, shifting instead toward design and computation alone. And then, by a stroke of serendipity, you encounter a modern-day architect with a philosophy that challenges this norm, who treats the construction phase as a critical part of the design process.

Architect and filmmaker Juan Benavides’s debut documentary film, At the Garden’s Pace, which premiered at the 2024 Architecture Film Festival Rotterdam (AFFR), is a meditation on this very idea. Filmed over four seasons and fifteen site visits, the observational documentary follows the construction of a garden pavilion at the Pinetum Blijdenstein botanical garden in Hilversum, Netherlands, chronicling architecture as a slow craft of making. An open competition in 2018 invited architects to design a new multifunctional pavilion to replace an aging stage that had long hosted concerts, weddings, open-air dinners, theater performances, and chess tournaments at Pinetum. The winning project, among around 135 entries, was awarded to Rotterdam architect Enzo Valerio for Grond (ground). He embarked on constructing this, his first self-built public building, in February 2023 with a team of young architects. For Valerio, design is inseparable from the act of building; only by being physically present on the job site can architects refine details, make real-time adjustments, and engage with the unpredictable realities of construction. “The forced split between idea and execution disappears,” he once said in an interview. The immersive experience of spending changing seasons on site challenges the passive office-based design process through experimentation. At the Garden’s Pace captures these blurred boundaries between design and realization, as Valerio and his team shed their black blazers for overalls, trade design software for construction boots, and swap the comforts of an office for the rainy Dutch outdoors. The film unfolds as a visual artistic odyssey, inviting us to reconsider the pleasures of craft in architecture. 

Benavides has carved out a distinct niche in filming contemporary architecture. While the pavilion itself is a testament to a meticulous design process, the filmmaker approaches its construction not as an imposing storyteller but as a silent observer, much like a passerby encountering the structure within the garden. Although an architect himself, he consciously refrains from commenting on the design or interpreting Valerio’s vision, instead allowing the act of building to unfold organically. The art of construction is employed almost as a naturalistic study, rendered through the language of slow cinema techniques—long takes, wide angles, static frames, and an original score—capturing the rhythm of construction as an extension of nature, or as the director prefers to say, “as a day-long walk through the garden.” The sounds of nature—birds chirping, trees swaying in the wind, rain spattering—intermingle with and, at times, distract from the sounds of construction: concrete being poured, stones being hammered, wooden formwork being tossed. With minimal dialogue, the film’s score heightens the emotional depth, enhancing the tone of each scene by intensifying during climaxes and slowing for contemplative shots. Benavides’s unhurried pacing and uninterrupted sequencing, combined with Andrés Lavalle’s immersive score and Jamie Neale’s aesthetically rich color grading, create an introspective atmosphere of visual exploration for the viewer.

Benavides ambushes viewers by dropping them into an ongoing conversation on material, excavation, and formwork at a sand and cement manufacturing factory. The subjects all seem to know something the rest of us do not. It’s a bold choice, opening with an audacious exhibitionism of industrial concrete production for a pavilion meant to coexist with nature. This unexpected contrast raises immediate questions about compatibility and sustainability, offering an early glimpse of the film’s underlying suspense. As curiosity about the pavilion’s design takes center stage, Benavides rewards attentive viewing. Then there are his Zen-like captures of trees and greenery juxtaposed with a few gently moving elements: wagons rolling, garden gators passing, pedestrians strolling, water sprinklers spinning, concrete hoses gurgling, and workers carefully measuring their next move. These moments introduce the site and its key players. The film captures the essence of public placemaking, accentuating the involvement of the architects and gardeners, but also the inquisitive passersby who pause to observe, ask questions, and engage with the process. It portrays the architects in their most natural state, building the pavilion, one wall at a time. With the knowledge of an architect, Benavides positions his camera at deliberate angles, offering close-up views of materials and construction techniques, and transforming otherwise ordinary processes into compelling visuals. This is especially evident in capturing Valerio’s intuitive, literally hands-on design approach, as he meticulously directs how much stone and sand to add manually between layers of concrete mix. These details become essential ingredients in Benavides’s cinematic composition, drawing viewers into the process. And just as a passerby in the film repeatedly remarks, “I find it all so nice,” we, too, are left with a sense of amazement at the unfolding craftsmanship.

It soon becomes clear that the pavilion’s design is anchored by three robust, monolithic walls, a floor nestled between them, and a cantilevered roof, all constructed using a custom concrete mixture infused with sand and stones gathered on-site. The film instills a sense of delicate softness in viewers, fostering empathy and patience for the labor of craft and the architects’ calculated precision: the careful stacking of formwork on wagons like a game of Jenga, the measured halt of concrete pouring, the tension of correcting a 2.5 cm (1 inch) misalignment, the manual hammering of stones into specific sizes, and the methodical removal of formwork. It’s almost paradoxical that the grittier realities and grungier atmospheres of construction work are rendered soothing. And then the moment viewers have been anticipating arrives: the unveiling of the walls. The sheer beauty of the materials is so striking that it dissolves the notion of concrete as nature’s antithesis, instead allowing it to merge effortlessly with the surroundings. The custom concrete mix carries a subtle warmth, its yellow hue drawn from the sand, punctuated by horizontal striations as cracks filled with garden sand and stones. As the sand is blown from these cracks with air pressure, clouds of dust rise, swirling back toward the very earth from which they came, giving the walls a depth through shadows. This weighty shot explores the relationship between the built and the natural, an interplay that is not just visual and physical but emotional, and even spiritual.

Beyond the almost ritualistic practice of construction, Benavides infuses moments of lightheartedness, capturing the camaraderie and quiet joys of the building process: workers wrapping a foot in plastic to shield against torn boots; Tim meticulously grinding his coffee beans with near-reverence; an upright wooden plank seemingly moving on its own between the trees; architects suiting up in full plastic overalls prompting laughter; the intentional one-minute wait for a machine to restart. Dialogue is sparse, yet these fleeting, playful moments speak volumes. 

Nearly three-quarters of the 68-minute film builds suspense around the creation of the three walls, while the final quarter, picking up in pace, traces the completion of the polished floor embedded with colorful stones and the cantilevered reflective roof, which organically folds into the surrounding trees. These final sequences deliver some of the film’s most arresting moments: architects standing at a distance, carefully tossing stones into the concrete as if playing a game of ring toss; Valerio, ankle-deep in concrete, dragging a straightedge for the floor’s screeding; reinforcement meshes being meticulously arranged under a tarp; and the roof formwork projecting outward, almost like a treehouse suspended in midair. Overseeing it all is Hans, the middle-aged gardener responsible for maintaining Pinetum. Aside from the architects, he remains the film’s quiet yet constant protagonist. Whether reminiscing about a wood market in his village, lending a hand with the formwork, or tending to plants in a scenic greenhouse while classical music plays, Hans is ever-present. In a beautifully poetic juxtaposition, we see Valerio, lost in his world, passionately polishing the concrete floor to the rhythm of Hans’s music. Two craftsmen, each devoted to their craft—one nurturing the earth, the other shaping stone—united in their quiet dedication. In the final scene, as the finished pavilion stands proudly in a snow-covered landscape, a shift occurs. The architect’s role fades, and the gardener assumes ownership, tending to the pavilion as he does the rest of his beloved garden: watching over it, caring for it, and embracing it as part of his world.

Benavides’s one-man documentary exudes creative independence. It does not seek to promote the project or glorify its engineering feats. Instead, it quietly observes the construction process, revealing how a modest public structure can transcend utility and become a work of art. The film finds its coherence in the presence of meaningful craft, where the act of building is inseparable from the space it ultimately inhabits. For me, the film is both wholesome and exhilarating. If there was one thing that was unsettling, it was the absence of female presence in the construction process. While the documentary beautifully captures the labor and craft of construction, it also inadvertently reflects a reality of the industry where women, though present in architecture and design, are still rare on job sites. It left me wondering how different the narrative might have been with a more diverse team. However, the film still transported me back to my student days, when the sheer curiosity of touching different building materials felt like an extension of my identity. Now, after watching this documentary, I have an urge to plan a trip to Hilversum, to run my fingers over that concrete and stone mix, to trace the depths of those crevices so painstakingly crafted. For the first time in a long while, this film made me feel upbeat about being an architect, quieting the noise of the profession and reminding me that, at its best, architecture can be attentive, honest, and gratifying.

Nishi Shah is an Indian architect, curator, and writer based in the Netherlands, known for her research-driven approach and over five years of contributions to design journalism. Her editorial practice, Studio Niche, engages with critical theory and cultivates meaningful dialogues within global architectural and urban discourse.