Where Brutalism Feels Right

Marquette — People hate brutalism. I think that if you were to poll Americans, they’d probably say that they loathe brutalist structures and architecture more than any other kind.

It’s understandable. Brutalism is decidedly inhuman. It’s imposing, severe, immovable, and everything that’s opposite from quaint and welcoming. I have long held, however, that all brutalism isn’t bad and in fact, when done right, it can be evocative and even spiritually correct or at least complementary to the scene.

The proper place for a brutalist structure—and this is of utmost importance—is not a quaint village or an urban downtown. It’s not the suburbs or college campuses. It’s the desert, the craggy mountain side, the barren tundra, and the distant coast. The plain severity of the structure must complement the plain severity and spirit of the land on which it sits.

I know you probably aren’t sold, yet. You probably think it all sounds fine in theory and that I’m dressing this up in a series of convoluted explanations without any proof of concept or concrete example. Well, if we are looking for an example I suggest we consider the Lower Harbor Ore Dock in Marquette as pre-eminent example of good brutalism and the kind people actually want to see.

While the Lower Harbor Ore Dock might not technically be considered brutalist architecture according to the most strict definition, it certainly feels brutal to the average viewer and is a good testament to the idea that it isn’t all bad.

The long spine of concrete and steel jabs violently out into the cold water of Lake Superior. It’s dark, brooding, skeletal, and a foundational piece of Marquette. From the top of the Landmark Inn, from the corner of Spring St. and Front St., from the playground in lower harbor park, the Ore Dock is unavoidable and looms in almost every view.

In summer, when you stand at just the right spot in front of the dock by Lakeshore Blvd and look out toward the lake through the symmetrical pillars, the sun and the shadows are pleasing to the eye and it looks as if ancient columns have resurrected. In the depths of the winter, when the sky is a violent cobalt and the lake is frozen solid the dock appears like some kind of dead mechanical arm breaking out of the earth. Dystopian, nearly terrifying, and incredible.

When I see the ore dock I don’t want to look away. It’s evocative. It’s extreme. It’s powerful. It’s merciless. It’s extremely correct here in this northernmost city. When I watch it on a stark February afternoon I feel like I am seeing something which encapsulates the spirit necessary to survive in this brutal region. In the summer, when sailboats float out to lake beyond, it feels nearly stoic with its heavy face lying flat on blue water.

I’m not alone. These aren’t merely the ramblings of one mentally unwell individual obsessed with obscure docking structures. People love taking photos of the dark maroon steel on their iPhones and then posting it to Instagram. Professional photographers shoot the dock with long lenses every season. There are countless drone videos all over YouTube. People visit Marquette and while they are there they make a point to go see this massive foreboding structure up close and personal. It isn’t a shame for the city, but rather something to see.

Yes, people visit Marquette just to see this brutalism, though of course they aren’t only visiting for the aesthetic of the thing but rather for the history as well.

The U.P. was home to a massive iron industry during the early part of the 20th century and the Lower Harbor Ore Dock in Marquette was a part of that history. Built between the years of 1931-1932 and decommissioned in the 1970s, the nearly 1,000-foot steel dock helped facilitate the movement of iron ore from the U.P. to the world beyond its shores.

Would the Ore Dock be as beloved or appreciated if there was no purpose it originally fulfilled? If it wasn’t a part of the industrial history of Marquette? Perhaps not. And I am absolutely sure that if someone endeavored to build something like it today, people would not be happy with the imposing addition to the shoreline.

Things that serve, or served, a necessary purpose are different. They are grandfathered in somewhere in our collective subconscious. We grant some extra points and a little leeway to the things which are needed for the sake of the modern world. They are at first necessary evils which then become beloved or at least appreciated for the historical context they provide. So I am sure the Lower Harbor Ore Dock is enjoyed partly because of its history and not its brutal aesthetic alone.

But if it were truly and absolutely hideous, then the city would have removed it. If it were actually an eyesore the people would have petitioned and eventually it would have come down piece by piece and the downtown harbor would be free of any reminder of the iron that once left the harbor.

But it isn’t truly and absolutely hideous and it hasn’t been removed. It’s still there and people go to see it, take photos in front of it, and send them off on Instagram for others to see. People hate brutalism, but not all brutalism, because not all brutalism is bad. There are rare cases—like the one at the lower harbor in Marquette—in which brutalism feels exactly right.