A population urbanising at a rate never seen before on the planet, an ostensibly open attitude to foreign influence, and a glut of new projects from interior fit outs to entire new cities... Like nineteenth century Chicago and New York, mid twentieth century California, Brasilia, Japan - even Renaissance Italy - China presents a new frontier, a place where one's dreams of the future can be realised. It is no surprise to find architects in the thick of it all - one can understand why. To build on a grand scale you need authority and a lot of money. And architects with a utopian bent, who dream of transforming not just skylines but the way people live, are natural suckers for totalitarianism. And, indeed, suckers for capitalist excess. It all depends on the client, and China wholeheartedly ticks both boxes. No place captures the zeitgeist of the early 21 st century better, and nowhere can you get more bang for your architectural buck.

The built environment in China dates back over 2000 years. Over that period a highly prescribed and regulated urban fabric built up within its cities, defined by social hierarchies and values that determined every aspect of construction. The horizontal aesthetic, the conscious preference for a uniform range of heights that shifted the environmental burden of social distinction to the placement of buildings in the general scheme of the city, the level of terraces on which they stood, the area they covered and their degree of ornamentation were all officially prescribed. It is within the historical backdrop of these highly codified spatial settings that many new buildings including significant projects by 'superstar' western architects are currently being constructed. I sought to investigate the approach used by these architects in particular in terms of the existing urban fabric, but also how these architects, arguably the best in the world, are forging a new architecture in China.

There are certain features common to all traditional Chinese architecture, regardless of specific region or use. The most important is the emphasis on the horizontal aesthetic, in particular the construction of a heavy platform and a large roof that floats over this base, with the vertical walls not as well emphasized. This contrasts Western architecture, which tends to grow in height and depth. Chinese architecture stresses the visual impact of the width of the buildings. For example, the halls and palaces in the Forbidden City, have lower ceilings in comparison to equivalent buildings in the West, but their external appearances suggest the all-embracing nature of imperial China. This of course does not apply to pagodas, which, in any case, are relatively rare. Many of these ideas have found their way into modern Western architecture, particularly through the work of Jørn Utzon and Frank Lloyd Wright.

Another defining feature is the emphasis on symmetry, which connotes a sense of grandeur; this applies to everything from palaces to farmhouses. A notable exception is in the design of gardens, which tends to be as asymmetrical as possible. The use of the north-south axis in particular can be found in every aspect of the built environment. The most important part of the composition, whether it is a house or a city, faces south and turns its back to the cold winds of the north. The next level of importance belongs to buildings on the north-south axis, with the least important on the east-west axis.  

Traditional Chinese buildings may be built with either red or gray bricks, but timber structures are far more common; for these are more capable of withstanding earthquakes but are vulnerable to fire. The roof of a typical Chinese building is curved and there are strict classifications of gable types which are comparable with the Western classical orders.

Although the Western tradition gradually developed a body of architectural literature, little was written on the subject in China, and the earliest text, the Kaogongji , was never disputed. However, ideas about cosmic harmony and the order of the city were usually interpreted at their most basic level, so a reproduction of the "ideal" city never existed. Beijing and in particular the Forbidden City as reconstructed throughout the 15th and 16th century remains the best example of traditional Chinese town planning.

This body of traditional architecture is still in practice in rural areas but practically non-existent in the major eastern cities where the huge demographic shift from the country to the cities has been felt keenest. Following the collapse of dynastic rule and the establishment of the People's Republic new architecture tended to follow Soviet examples, mainly variations on the ubiquitous concrete block. With the exception of the Forbidden City and selected temples, traditional urban fabric is rapidly becoming extinct, along with those building traditions. The labyrinthine alleyways of the old towns and the thousands who live there are impossible for the government to monitor and control, unlike the soulless suburban high rises. To speak of the existing urban fabric is in reality to speak of a modernist dystopia of apartment blocks and freeways as far as the eye can see. It is not improbable to surmise that existing contemporary architecture in China could be written off as a poor collection of attempted modernist (style) structures - at worst no more than an arbitrary selection of international trends (not unlike much of central Auckland).

The roll call of architects presently getting their feet wet on major projects in this environment reads like a who's who of contemporary architecture - Zaha Hadid, Rem Koolhass, Herzog & De Meuron, and Steven Holl amongst others. In the frenzy of this building boom, it is easy to forget that 12 years ago, no private architectural firms even existed the country. The National Stadium in Beijing, currently under construction, perhaps best exemplifies the nature of western designed Chinese architecture. After Beijing was awarded the Olympic Games, the city authorities, with national encouragement, set out to display the material progress of their society. A euphoric wave of architectural commissions ensued, the Olympic stadium amongst them. When conceiving the stadium, Herzog & de Meuron developed a scheme for practical, not symbolic, reasons. In any project, one or two design issues seem to dominate. For the stadium, a key issue was finding a way to incorporate the retractable roof inconspicuously. To mask the two large parallel beams that were necessary to support the heavy roof, the architects enmeshed them in random crisscrossed steel. Aesthetically, they compared the interwoven steel to the crackled glaze of a Song ceramic vase or the wooden lattices in a Ming window. To explain how the structural steel would compose the visible facade, however, the competition document used the analogy of a bird's nest, in which the twigs that support the shape are right on the surface, devoid of any ornament. Where covering was needed, as in the roof area over the seats, translucent plastic membranes would be stuffed like the grass and leaves in a nest. The public loved it. The stadium looked like a bird's nest! Even though they had come up with the metaphor to describe the building's construction concept, not its visible appearance, the architects saw no need to correct the happy misunderstanding.

Pierre Herzog describes the building as having "such a structure you couldn't have anywhere else...The Chinese don't have such a barrier between good and bad taste, between minimal and expressive. The Beijing stadium tells me that nothing will shock them. Everyone is encouraged to do their most stupid and extravagant designs there."

The Commune by the Great Wall

In the shadow on China's great wall, this private collection of contemporary architecture brings together 12 well known Asian architects. Exhibited at the 2002 la Biennale, di Venezia, it operates as a luxury hotel containing 21 villas, each with a $1 million budget.

Despite it's exclusivity it was remarkably accessible to architectural uber-geeks - NZ$10 and a booking the day before allowed access to the grounds and unoccupied villas for an entire day. Which made a pleasant change from the months of negotiation, a blood sample and 12 references necessary to get within photographic range of other more well publicised buildings in Beijing?

Gary Chang's "Suitcase house" is located at the head of the Nangou Valley in Shui Guan. Accommodating 11 visitors, the architect describes it as "a simple demonstration of the desire for ultimate adaptability, in pursuit of a proscenium for infinite scenarios, a plane for sensual (p)leisure". The dwelling sits at the head of the valley on a plinth containing service with the reincarnated piano nobile for habitation above. Adopting a non-hierarchical layout with the help of mobile elements provided by the envelope, it transforms itself readily according to the nature of the activities, number of occupants and personal inclinations for privacy and enclosure. This encourages a communal approach to living, whereby all the mechanics of life happen alongside each other - a scenario not uncommon in the alleyways of the hutongs but unusual in the west, with multiple entrances each with equal status. The stratified elevation and defined base clad in local timber was weathering to the colour of the surrounding hills.

The Commune Club by Seung H-Sang of South Korea is at the centre of the complex in terms of location and program. The club operates as the primary facility for guests, containing two restaurants, a swimming pool, gallery, shop, management centre and employee accommodation. Backed by mountains to the South, it commands arguably the best position on the site, with impressive views to the great wall in the west and east down the valley. With such a spectacular setting the architect sought to merge the building into it's surroundings, keeping as many of the existing trees and rocks as possible.   The bulk of the building was broken down and articulated as a number of smaller pieces linked with corresponding voids, reducing its scale to match the surrounding houses. All the functions are linked along a corridor spine with fingers of landscape, some natural and some configured using the same formal language as the building helping the boundaries bleed into the site. Materiality also reinforces this philosophy of respectful blending in, using a palette of materials including wood, corten steel plate, local stone and concrete. The brown-oranges in particular pick up the autumnal colours of the surrounding mountains, whilst the stone in the same as the great wall distant.

Whilst the Suitcase house was defined by its programme the Club building focussed its energies on locating itself in its place. It intentionally did not seek to align itself with a particular culture, noting that as the meeting point for guests from many cultures much of the local social hierarchies did not apply. It does not look Chinese, but it is nevertheless good. The whole place is. It has a level of sophistication and respect for its surroundings the vast majority of new buildings in China simply do not have.

The Shanghai Grand Theatre / The Shanghai Opera

Once a muddy fishing village, Shanghai (literally "above the sea") has undergone a breathless transformation in the past decade. Where there were once traditional neighbourhoods of small houses there are now high-rises, while colonial-era buildings stand alongside multinational hotels. In the late 1990s construction boom, Shanghai required so many cranes that there was a shortage in the rest of Asia. Almost overnight it has become a city of high rise buildings, girdled by spaghetti freeways, attracting huge national and international investment. The intent of all this urban revamping is nothing less than to make Shanghai a world class regional centre of banking and finance.

Shanghai has been an important urban centre for over 1000 years. It was the opium wars of the 1840s which, among other things, opened Shanghai up to Westerners. Foreign concession areas occupied most of what is now central Shanghai, save the old walled Chinese part of the city. Shanghai rapidly became the place to be - a city with the liveliest culture, the most opulent dance halls, the largest volume of business, the tallest buildings. The Bund developed as a veritable pick and mix of turn of the century Western revivalist architecture. The history of European architecture could, and still can, be observed in a 10 minute walk. New ideas also allowed for radicalism - a Shanghai tradition. The communist party was founded in the city in 1921, and the cultural revolution of the 1960s not only began in Shanghai, but had its headquarters here. Despite the enthusiasm of the red guards to demolish everything not defined as socialist realism - and that included anything foreign, Buddhist, or simply old - a surprising number of buildings have survived in the city. Many do not seem to be surviving China's modernising zeal.

This zeal is best captured in the Pudong area, which contains such immodestly named buildings as Tomorrow Square, resembling some sort of missile fired into the city. Its neighbour is topped by a massive golden crown. Yet this hardly raises an eyebrow in this PoMo playground, where it is not difficult to imagine a mad scientist, clipboard in hand, checking each one off: "skyrocket topped with giant ball; check. Space needle with satellite dish; yep. Giant bank of green glass with weird geometrical cutout; everywhere."

Winner of an international competition upon invitation, French architect Jean Marie Charpentier designed the Shanghai Opera House inaugurated on August 25, 1998. The complex occupies an area of 2.1 hectares and is located at the intersection of The People's Boulevard and Huangpi Beilu in northern part of the People's square; once part of the racecourse of the powerful Tiapan before 1949, now the largest, but most unremarkable park in the city. Often cited as a successful merger between western and Chinese principles, the building places significant emphasis on form and symbolism over functionality and utility. The buildings large terraced roof was constructed using steel weighing 6,500 tonnes. The main façades form a clear glass box that allows people on the street to observe the audience moving from lobby to auditorium - a performance in itself - perhaps for those who cannot afford to attend the main event. This glass box allows the façade to recede and the building to read as a roof and a base, connected with a visible system of supporting pillars, which alludes to the pavilion typology common throughout Chinese history. And as in buildings of the past, the Shanghai Opera house strives upwards toward the heavens, a strong symbol of spirituality and refinement of composition. Its sectional semi-circle form [representative of heaven] on top of a square, a figure considered perfect in Chinese symbolism as it represents the earth.  

Interestingly, what differentiated it most from the surrounding buildings was not the educated use form but its height, or lack thereof. The decision to not build as high as was physically or financially possible, to not integrate it with an underground mall and 11,000 apartments somehow endows this space with a sense of privilege. The absence of height offsets the grey-white-brown palette, which merges with the paving, the sky, the dirt, and the nearby towers in an impressive exhibition of urban camouflage. Which is not necessarily a bad thing, the colour palette links it to the city in the same way the browns and ochres link the commune club to the countryside.

Whilst this particular building may not be imitated in many studio projects, in a city where previous attempts at forging a modern local architecture have been spectacularly literal - if you've seen one pagoda topped skyscraper, you've seen them all - this at least a step in the right direction. It didn't look like it was designed by a western architect, or like it could belong in any other city. It applied a number of easily recognisable traditional tools which would have merged into an existing fabric, except there wasn't any - however it (maybe intentionally, maybe not) fitted in happily with its contemporary context. The strategies used here adhered closest to the traditional techniques outlined earlier, whereas the Stadium took the "lets-design-the-craziest-thing-we-can" approach with an emphasis on programme, and the Commune by the Great Wall dealing with the difficulties of a particularly sensitive and unique site. These projects are barely a drop in the ocean in the nation wide construction frenzy, but all are held up as examples of the "new China". Whether any of these will have any influence within the country itself will probably be the measure of their success.