Polykatoikia

What would a neo-Hellenistic Athens look like?

The City vs. The Architectural Project

The Greeks are a delightful people. Their charm was first introduced to me in their waiting service, which included sanitizer at every restaurant table, and a smile when placing the cheque on your table before the food arrives. Their happy attitude manifests the Mediterranean 'live and let live' mentality. This was felt when interacting with security guards, receptionists, taxi drivers, and shop owners. 

I came here to observe the phenomenon of 'Polykatoikia', which defines and shapes the entire Athenian basin. However, it was strolling around the narrow, car-centric streets that shaped my opinion on the apartment blocks. A desktop study can only give you so much.

From a physical standpoint, the Polykatoikia was exactly as expected: erratic, ten-plus-storey apartments, contrasting in materiality and form, prevailing throughout every neighbourhood. Some preserved, some ornate, and some showcase the wear and tear of everyday life since their creation in the late 1960s-70s.

Lycabettus Hill, located on the periphery of the city, offered a perfect panoramic view, allowing me to appreciate the sheer magnitude of this post-war, government-funded housing scheme. The backstory lies in the political ambitions of the then-governing bodies. Essentially, the 'antiparochi' system allowed contractors and owners to share resources and achieve shared interests. The owner, too poor to build, would sell off their land in return for an apartment unit, the rest of which the contractor would sell at assumed free-market rates.

The success of this system was based on an assumption for which I have yet to find an answer. More apartments call for a denser living environment. But what measures ensured the required population growth to match these new blocks?

Lycabettus Hill allows viewers to trace their routes via plots of greenery, ancient ruins and wide roads. The chaotic spread of  the 'Polykatoikia', defined only by long stretches of wide distributor roads, portrays a societal fragmentation that starkly contrasts with the homogeneous, megalithic-like structures of Ancient Greece that once defined the Athenian basin. 

What could a neo-Hellenistic Athens look like?

It is ironic to examine this somewhat dystopian, worn-down apartment typology, knowing that Athens is the birthplace of the concept 'polis'. In all the critique, the function of this 'dom-ino' type block worked. With the apartment resting on pilotis, the liberated and setback ground floor allowed for flexibility in transforming the space into commercial outlets, many of which became bars and eateries, still popular today. This not only activated the street, but also assumed ownership and investment by a planned workforce. Similarly, the entrances to the apartments were spacious, featuring marble tiles, wooden doorways, and detailed handrails alongside beautifully formed spiral staircases.

The strong dominance of the car, the narrowness of the plots and the erratic, individualistic building of apartments all draw similarities to the Maltese built environment. The situation in Athens is exacerbated by the buildings' age and the fact that many apartment buildings lack setbacks on higher floors. That said, a charm similar to that of the Greek people, which I initially struggled to explain, can be discerned. Whether it is the minimal ornamentation that divides the reinforced concrete column from the slab, the aluminium apertures, the homogeneous sunshades sliding down the entirety of a balcony, or the overgrown vegetation creeping along the building and into the apartments, the spaces around each apartment allow the neighbourhood to embody a soft, pleasant undertone.

Athens is divided by rigid, wide distributor roads running along the axis of this unplanned, frantic city. The Polykatoikia's Achilles heel is at the foot of the hills, where the topography is too steep to develop, and the challenge surpasses investment returns. The Acropolis overlooks all this development, situated on a plateau in the heart of the basin. Despite this, it is impossible to orient oneself around it, when walking through the underlying streets.

Visiting the Stavros Niarchos Foundation Cultural Centre on a Sunday was an unplanned visit to see this Renzo Piano building, because it perfectly exemplifies the joyous attitude of these Mediterranean people. However, getting to the Centre was far less pleasant, and gave me a feel for how difficult it is to commute through the city, and to the coast in this case, without a car. I assume that the extent of control over the planned growth of the Polykatoikia was achieved through the defined grid that divided the southern part of the city. Google Maps showed that, for every location I wanted to visit, travelling by car was by far the most favourable option, with a journey time of less than 30 minutes to the city's edges. I resorted to a series of trams and metros, allowing for an hour's commute to the coast. I got off the tram at the football stadium. The planned twenty-minute walk to the Centre, I assumed, would be a walk along a promenade, Polykatoikias to one side, the sea on the other. However, I found myself meandering through an elevated highway, dividing the coast from the city. Footpaths ended abruptly at a column supporting the highway or at a fenced-off area directing me to an underground walkway.

Upon entering the grounds of the Cultural Centre, it was as if the large boundary walls and sloped walkway invited me into a part of the city not belonging to Athens. The strips of low-vegetated garrigue directed me into one of the many pathways up the slope, atop which sat a large modernist structure. The vegetation increased in height and colour hues halfway up the hill, whereby the silhouette of the iconic rooftop gleamed against the afternoon sun backdrop, directly reflecting into my eyes. I ran my hand through the wheat field, as if I was in the opening scene of Gladiator. 

A beautiful urban intervention unfolded before me, with the merging of the sloped vegetative landscape, moveable outdoor chairs, and a stretch of empty grass. Children ran up and down the grass patches; some parents played with their children, while others rested on one of the chairs that lined the grass, watching their children play. Shifting my gaze and looking directly at the uncovered portions of the building proved difficult due to the sun directly facing the main, grandiose entrance. However, two-thirds of the way up the entrance, the landscape changed into large, uninterrupted stretches of purple and blue flower patches. Finally, the large, flat roof, resting on thin steel columns, cast a shadow over my eyes. I could finally examine the facade. 

The further I ascended the slope, the more detached I became from the original ground level. This is where the ground floor revealed itself. Framed by the extremities of the slopes' flooring, with vegetation pouring over the side, an open space provided access to the underlying national library and opera. A water feature ran parallel to the Centre, which had a pedestrianised bridge walkway on its other side.

The Polykatoikia works. It houses, it activates the street, it absorbs life. At the same time, it fragments the city, prioritises the car, and resists orientation. Standing there, it felt less like a failure than a system still running, long after the conditions that produced it had passed.