Concrete is not as much formed as it is born. Its characteristics are shaped from the work of its shuttering, the material and constructed qualities of its formwork which shape and set its plasticity. Concrete can be as distinct and variable, one pour to the next, as the races of the human species: it is as alive as we choose it to be. Whenever I see concrete stripped of its formwork, it is with an excitement, an impatience to see the results of its carpentry. So long as its structural integrity has been maintained,
it is a wonder to observe the pitted texture of tiny air bubbles, the rawness of honeycombing, the pin relief of nail heads and the directional roughness of timber grain. Concrete left in its raw form as a finish, is a valued prize to be sought. Less by way of Ando's modelled surfaces or Corbusier's brute form lines than in the manner of less noble shuttering and form lines askew, the uneven textures, contusions and clipped edges born of roughnecks. The intrinsic beauty of concrete lies in the genes of its formwork, good, bad or simply awful, its biography of wear during construction and the simple trace of time on its surfaces when contrasted with the clean, machined and delicate finishes around it.
The expression of concrete lies on a single string coloured by two bloodlines.
Pedigree concrete has the even sharp surfaces you could take to a dog show, but I think the pure unfettered edges of dogconcrete would be more fun day to day. Any day. It's all about that special character only mongrels have.