In 1973, concrete monstrosities materialized on the Foggy Bottom Campus.
At least that’s how an unnamed Hatchet writer described the newly constructed University library and School of Medicine & Health Sciences’ Ross Hall in an article published on Sept. 10, 1973. As a part of GW’s expansion of the Foggy Bottom Campus during the 1970s, the architecture firm Mills, Petticord & Mills designed Gelman Library and Ross Hall in the Brutalist style that swept across the District in the mid-20th century — and some students were not pleased.
Brutalism, derived from the French phrase for raw concrete, “béton brut,” is an architectural style that originated in post-World War II Europe and is known for its use of raw concrete and simple geometric forms — think the foreboding concrete behemoth that is the FBI’s J. Edgar Hoover Building.
The style remained popular in the architectural world for a few decades, serving as a cost-effective method for public construction projects in D.C. during the mid-20th century urban renewal movement that displaced thousands of predominantly Black and immigrant residents. Brutalism eventually declined in popularity as some members of the public found it “austere and imposing.”
“We must debate the choice to destroy all the character of this urban campus and replace it with sterile blocks devoid of all imagination,” another unnamed Hatchet writer wrote a week later in the Sept. 17, 1973, edition. “We cannot believe there are no available architects capable of designing an attractive building.”
Crowded shelves, narrow staircases and limited study space in Lisner Library — now Lisner Hall — spurred the three-year construction of the new library — later named the Melvin Gelman Library in 1980 and renamed the Estelle and Melvin Gelman Library in 2010.
On the day of the library’s dedication, former University President Lloyd Elliott, whose top priority as president was the construction of a new library, said, “A happier day in the life of this University would be hard to find.”
The construction of SMHS’s Ross Hall and the adjoining Himmelfarb Library marked the first time since 1912 that the entirety of GW was located in one area. After its 1973 opening, one research associate told a Hatchet reporter that “The old place was a garbage can, this is like heaven.”
But an unnamed Hatchet writer didn’t mince their words in the Sept. 17, 1973 edition of The Hatchet, writing that, “The new Medical Building has all the grace and charm of a federal penitentiary. Why does it look like someone bricked-up all the windows?”
The writer also criticized GW’s “Master Plan” for the expansion of the Foggy Bottom Campus throughout the 1970s and how the construction of new buildings could damage GW’s relationship with the Foggy Bottom community.
“If the present plan continues, our relationship with the Foggy Bottom community will end,” the Hatchet writer wrote. “What community appreciates a small city ever-expanding over their homes?”
More than 50 years later, students remain unchanged in their distaste for the Brutalist structures that define the campus landscape — especially Gelman. They say the library’s concrete facade is “depressing,” and the vertical slabs that score every window — a key marker of its Brutalist influence — make it difficult for enough sunlight to reach many of the library’s study rooms.
“The sun doesn’t really get a chance to come into the room, so it’s just kind of hostile,” Madison Spencer, a junior majoring in political science, said.
“When I have friends visiting from other schools, they always say, ‘Why does your library look like that,’” Gaby Tesi, a junior majoring in theater and political science, said.
Beyond GW’s campus, Brutalism and the polarization the style evokes has made its way back into the cultural zeitgeist and political discourse.
The epic period drama “The Brutalist” picked up three awards from 10 nominations at the 97th Academy Awards earlier this month. The film follows a fictionalized Hungarian-Jewish architect and Holocaust survivor who becomes a pioneer of the architectural style after immigrating to the United States, using Brutalism as a “visual allegory” to explore the central character’s postwar trauma, according to Director Brady Corbet.
Beyond Hollywood and amidst the piles of executive orders, President Donald Trump also issued a memorandum on his first day in office titled, “Promoting Beautiful Federal Civic Architecture,” requesting that federal public buildings adhere to “classical architectural heritage.”
Trump is historically not a fan of Brutalist architecture, having issued an executive order criticizing the style during his first term and calling the FBI’s J. Edgar Hoover Building “one of the ugliest” in D.C.
Earlier this month, the Trump administration briefly published a list of 443 federal properties designated for potential offloading and labeled them as “not core to government operations.” Several D.C. federal buildings made it on the list, including Brutalist buildings, like the Department of Housing and Urban Development and the Hoover Building.
The administration scrubbed the D.C. buildings from the list after a few hours, and the entire list was gone the next day. Mayor Muriel Bowser called the list “outrageous” during a press conference that same week.
But experts in architecture say understanding the full history of Brutalism may help members of the public appreciate the often-lambasted architectural style and consider ways these structures can evolve sustainably for the future.
For college campuses, Angela Person, the co-curator of the National Building Museum’s “Capital Brutalism” exhibit and an associate professor of architecture at the University of Oklahoma, said Brutalist architecture can create distinct landmarks that stand out from traditional collegiate architecture.
She said as the large scale and concrete facades of Brutalism can make buildings feel “uninviting” and “difficult to adapt,” universities can consider ways to renovate these buildings, like improving lighting and reconfiguring interior designs.
“Rather than viewing them as fixed relics of mid-century design, universities have an opportunity to creatively reinterpret them as forward-thinking academic and social spaces,” Person said in an email.
Julia Klineberg, an adjunct professorial lecturer in the Interior Architecture Program at the Corcoran School of the Arts & Design, said educating the public on the history of Brutalism, specifically how the inexpensive and versatile nature of concrete allowed architects to pioneer revolutionary designs, could help them appreciate Brutalist buildings more — even if it’s not their preferred architectural style.
“How do you improve a space? How do you make positive change? I think you need to involve the users in that discussion,” Klineberg said.
Alex Anderson, an associate professor of architecture at the University of Washington who has written about Brutalism for the University of Washington and Harvard Design News, said universities in the United States first aimed to mimic the Gothic and Neoclassical styles of the British and French university systems in their campus architecture.
He said American universities’ adoption of Brutalist architecture in the mid-20th century deviated from the traditional styles that the public associated with academia.
“There’s hardly any emotional connection you can form with a Brutalist building because they’re not meant to form emotional connections,” Anderson said. “They’re not ornamental. They’re meant to be driven by practicalities and truth, which isn’t something necessarily people identify with in an emotional way.”
Anderson said the Trump administration’s criticism of Brutalism as representing “faceless bureaucracy” is not entirely inaccurate. He said while the federal government’s neoclassical buildings, like the U.S. Capitol, evoke a “clear face” through their symmetry, Brutalist buildings are often asymmetrical and lack a discernible front and back.
Anderson said the term “faceless bureaucracy” is “such a political term,” reflecting public discontent for bureaucracy and the fact that many Brutalist buildings do house bureaucratic institutions. He said Brutalist architecture originated from a pursuit of “architectural truth-telling,” exposing raw materials and prioritizing the structure of a building over its traditional aesthetic appeal.
“Those associations, I think, they’re deep-seated,” Anderson said. “They’re real, but they do come from what I think is a lack of complete understanding about what Brutalist buildings set out to do.”
