Chris Rogers  |  Writer on architecture and visual culture

By Chris Rogers, May 8 2020 07:32AM

Seventy-five years ago today, 8 May 1945, it was Victory in Europe Day in Britain, western Europe and America. In London 50,000 people, some of whom had travelled hundreds of miles to be there, gathered in Whitehall for Churchill’s announcement. Made in Downing Street but relayed live by loudspeaker to the crowd outside, he proclaimed that the war in Europe would end at “one minute past midnight tonight”. An hour later Churchill appeared with the Royal family on the balcony of Buckingham Palace to great acclaim. Two hours after that, he emerged onto the balcony of 100 Parliament Street, opposite the building containing the underground cabinet war rooms, and said “This is your victory,” before beginning an impromptu rendition of Land of Hope and Glory that the crowd happily joined. Finally, at 9pm, King George VI broadcast to the nation, remembering “those who will not come back” and saluting “the great host of the living who have brought us to victory”.

Much later – after midnight in fact – in the Berlin suburb of Karlshorst German commanders were made to sign the surrender again for the Soviet Union, which to this day marks VE Day one day after the rest of the world in accordance with the Allies’ original plan. The resentment this caused in Russia would be one of many steps toward a new conflict that would overshadow the world in the coming decades. This war, though, was over, although it was not until 20 May that the German garrison on Texel, an island immediately north of Amsterdam, was defeated by Canadian forces in the last battle of the European war.

For my father and his mates, their job – to remove or destroy Luftwaffe aircraft, equipment and weapons – was just beginning. On VE Day the advance party left Ostend and drove 230 miles to Twente in Holland. They passed through Arnhem, which my father recalled was still burning and filled with starving citizens, and camped by the road that night. The rear party, meanwhile, sailed from England today. Ahead lay a link up, revised orders, a long drive to Germany, and the secret Luftwaffe test centre at Travemünde on the Baltic coast, at the northern-most point of what would soon become the Iron Curtain.

By Chris Rogers, May 7 2020 06:55AM

Seventy-five years ago today, 7 May 1945, the war in Europe was over by the time people woke up. In the early hours of this morning in a room at the technical college of Reims in France that served as his headquarters, Eisenhower took the formal surrender of all remaining German forces in Europe. The German delegation had arrived late on 6 May with the hope of a signing before midnight but negotiations had taken longer than intended. The surrender was to come into effect at 23:01 Central European Time on 8 May 1945 (one minute past midnight on 9 May, given the daylight-saving then in effect – Britain was in the same time zone for the duration). The delay was to allow Russia, whose own army was pushing forward from the east and which was not properly represented at Reims, to be informed and a simultaneous announcement and so news of the agreement was embargoed as a result. Posing for the press immediately afterwards, Eisenhower made a ‘V for Victory’ sign with the pens used in the ceremony. One journalist leaked the story, however, and by this afternoon the secret was out in much of the West. In Britain the public were anxious for confirmation and eventually the government, in hasty consultation with those of the other Western Allies, had to announce that Churchill would speak to the nation at 3pm tomorrow, 8 May. Just a few hours after the signing at Reims, and still an hour before sunrise, the advance party of the RAF’s No.8401 Air Disarmament Wing embarked at Tilbury for the crossing to Ostend in Belgium, including my father. The Wing’s war diary notes that “lifebelts were issued together with a paper vomit bag”, although fortunately the crossing was calm.

By Chris Rogers, May 6 2020 07:19AM

Seventy-five years ago today, 6 May 1945, more and more people, including soldiers, medics and journalists, were finding out exactly what the fighting had been for as aid started to arrive at the many prisoner-of-war, concentration and extermination camps Nazi Germany had created. Outside the camps, hundreds of thousands of German troops had to be disarmed, guarded and in some cases interrogated. There were also thousands more refugees, displaced persons and deserters to be fed, housed and managed; some of these wanted to return to where they came from, others wanted anything but. All of this awaited the RAF’s No.8401 Air Disarmament Wing, an advance party of which left RAF Kenley at 0730 in a convoy of 37 trucks heading for Tilbury Docks. My father was among them. Their route took them through Brixton, Vauxhall and Southwark, across the Thames via London Bridge, into the City of London and out past Aldgate. At Dagenham they were diverted to nearby RAF Hornchurch, where they spent the evening awaiting a ship.

By Chris Rogers, May 5 2020 07:24AM

Seventy-five years ago today, 5 May 1945, the surrender signed at Lüneburg yesterday came into effect. One of the German generals stayed with Montgomery overnight to assist with this. Fighting continued in those parts of Europe outside of the surrender’s scope. Montgomery was still under pressure to secure Demark for the Western Allies and sent a single senior officer and a company of elite British paratroopers in a dozen Dakotas to take Copenhagen. They landed at 5pm to huge acclaim; the Germans stayed in their barracks. In Holland the Canadians managed that country. In a telegram to his Foreign Secretary, Prime Minister Winston Churchill describes the situation as “quite a satisfactory incident in our military history.” At Rheims in France General Dwight D. Eisenhower, Supreme Allied Commander for the theatre, prepared for the total surrender to come. In England my father’s unit, the RAF’s No.8401 disarmament Wing, was ordered to move out tomorrow.

By Chris Rogers, May 4 2020 07:07AM

Seventy-five years ago today, 4 May 1945, von Friedeberg’s delegation returned to Montgomery’s tactical headquarters at Lüneburg with authorisation to accept the unconditional surrender of German forces in Holland, northern Germany and Denmark. Montgomery had invited a full press corps to the event, which took place that evening within his tented command caravan, lit by floodlights powered by a generator. The signing of the one-page surrender instrument by five German senior commanders was recorded by photographers but also newsreel cameramen using the new technology of synchronised sound. Montgomery relished the moment that, in the words of one Allied officer, he had been rehearsing all his life. Back in Kent the men of No.8401 AD Wing, including my father, conducted practice convoys to get use to the challenge of driving trucks and men hundreds of miles in perfect order.

By Chris Rogers, May 3 2020 08:40AM

Seventy-five years ago today, 3 May 1945, the first Allied troops arrived at Travemünde, just west of Wismar. A reconnaissance platoon from T-Force, whose sole aim was to locate and seize German technology, scientists and materiel, secured the area against a flow of refugees heading west and took surrender of the top secret Luftwaffe research station on the Priwall peninsular. At Lüneburg, west of the Elbe river, Admiral Hans von Friedeberg, head of the German navy after Karl Doenitz succeeded Hitler as Nazi leader, arrives to offer Montgomery terms; Germany will surrender to the Western Allies only. Montgomery refuses, requiring those Germans in the east to surrender to Russia. Von Friedeberg, horrified, protests, citing what might happen to German civilians and soldiers alike. “You should have thought of all this six years ago,” Montgomery retorts, and sends him back to his commanding officer to try again.

By Chris Rogers, May 2 2020 01:39PM

Seventy-five years ago today, 2 May 1945, Allied forces arrived at Lübeck on the Baltic coast of Germany, having fought their way east since June 1944. The town was supposed to be the limit of their advance, the Russians having also agreed to stop there, but fears of a Russian take-over of northern Germany and Denmark drove Field Marshal Montgomery to send a joint British and American unit 30 miles further east to Wismar to intercept the Red Army. They passed Russian tanks heading west as they did so and only after the threat of Allied-Allied conflict were things settled. Denmark remained in western Europe. In England my father, Cyril Rogers, waited at RAF Kenley with the rest of No.8401 Air Disarmament Wing; yesterday the Wing received orders to move to Germany within a few days, and Cyril was promoted.

By Chris Rogers, Apr 19 2020 08:52AM

The speed of our eventual recovery depends entirely on our collective ability to get on top of the virus now and that means we have to take the next steps on scientific advice

– Boris Johnson, 19 March 2020, press conference

There’s a ‘fire’, sir.

– Captain Morton, 5 February 1971, The Andromeda Strain (1971)

Whether anyone could or should have been more prepared for a pandemic originating amidst Earth’s six billion people is a moot point for now; instead, scientists are working hard on a vaccine and improved treatments. But fifty years ago, young doctor-turned-author Michael Crichton imagined elaborate plans to protect against the possibility of a lethal micro-organism arriving from space, in his novel The Andromeda Strain. It was an immediate success and the film version two years later, directed by Robert Wise, is unarguably the most grounded, intelligent and respectful portrayal of a similar scientific struggle.

Crichton’s story centres on four scientists battling to detect, characterise and suppress an unknown contagion that kills all but two residents of a small, isolated town after a space probe’s re-entry vehicle makes landfall. The scientists are summoned from around the US by military policemen, armed guards and tapped telephone lines and brought to a secure, state of the art biocontainment facility buried beneath the Nevada desert on land owned by the Atomic Energy Commission. Codenamed Wildfire, the complex is as classified as the intercontinental ballistic missile silos scattered across the American Mid-West, has its own nuclear device for emergency sanitisation and is further protected by a large, fenced-in agricultural research station sitting above it. The scientists – a surgeon, a bacteriologist, a pathologist and a microbiologist – must work together using the latest technology but also logic, methodology and experience to solve the mystery, not knowing what form of life they are battling and how it might mutate.

It can be seen already that the film weaves a rich mix of the real and the fictional. Indeed, both book and film are presented as documenting actuality – Crichton was inspired by his editor to consider what the novel “would look like, if the story were true. Where would I have gotten the information? How much would I know? And in what style would I write it, if it were true?” A specific influence was Len Deighton’s The IPCRESS File of 1962, not least for its inclusion of footnotes both factual and fictitious. For his book, then, Crichton drew on his own medical training and available technology like spy satellite film recovery capsules, although also included a lengthy bibliography of sources that is convincing but entirely false. Wise continued this approach by having authentic-looking documents created for the montage that underlays the opening titles. These comprise the security clearance for one of the team; a secure storage area allocation card for a nurse who supports one of the main characters; a foreign national visitor request for a Hungarian scientist who is later seen advocating the concept of bacteriological life on meteorites (the request is stamped DISAPPROVED); the summary court martial record of a Vandenberg Air Force Base sergeant who also appears in the film; and a sales receipt for barley seed delivered to the Wildfire cover site.

Under production designer Boris Neven the hardware used adopted the same principle. Multiple organisations and contractors assisted the production, as they did on Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey two years earlier. Telechirs or remote manipulators from the nuclear industry, a magnascanner or medical imager employing radiological material, industrial robots and a computer controlled by light pen were all provided. These and other devices, such as closed-circuit television, fingerprint scanners – which had barely been invented – and lasers, were real but cutting edge systems whose presence increased the credibility of elements that were entirely hypothetical, such as the Wildfire laboratory itself. Composed of five ring-shaped floors, each colour-coded, it was equipped with airlocks, tracking systems and a nutrient tablet-dispensing canteen.

The film thus displays the cinematic techno-fetishism of its era yet is clearly positioned between the Playboy-style architectural fantasies of Joseph Losey’s Modesty Blaise (1966) and Ken Adam’s sets for Bond adventure Diamonds are Forever (1969) and the more subdued technology of The Parallax View (1974) and Three Days of the Condor (1975). Visually Wise adopted deep-focus composition and the split-screen technique briefly popular in the wake of Christopher Chapman’s multi-image documentary short A Place to Stand, made for Expo 67. Aurally the film features a range of mechanical noises, effects and announcements and an early electronic score by jazz musician and composer Gil Mellé.

Just as Wildfire is hidden by a quotidian disguise, the principal characters gain significant credibility from the deliberate casting of lesser-known actors. Arthur Hill is particularly impressive as solid project leader Jeremy Stone, shouldering most of the dialogue – which itself is heavy with jargon and exposition – effortlessly and naturally. Kate Reid’s sardonic, entirely unglamorous Ruth Leavitt is a useful contrast, leaving David Wayne as the mature and laid-back Charles Dutton and James Olsen as eventual action man Mark Hall to complete the quartet.

Importantly, they are depicted as true professionals, neither heroic nor histrionic but determined and rational. Science as a discipline is shown to be superior to the other arms of crisis management on display – politicians and the military. In this respect The Andromeda Strain is influenced by Peter Yates’s Bullitt (1968), one of the first dramas to accurately depict medical and police procedures, and anticipates the thematically comparable Close Encounters of the Third Kind (1978) and Arrival (2016).

One final point is worthy of note. The story is told in flashback, from the point of view of Stone testifying before a Senate committee. Despite the near-cataclysm that forms the climax if the film, this subliminally comforting sleight of hand shows that disasters both atomic and biological were avoided. There is hope.

By Chris Rogers, Apr 4 2020 09:11AM

So, we’re all working from home where we can. Easy enough if you work in admin or a creative field and just need a laptop and broadband, and you might assume it was only ever possible when those things were invented. But that isn’t the case. Certain callings – artist, inventor, writer, architect – have always merged the office and the home, but starting as long ago as the late 19th century, repeated developments in technology, interior design and architecture have made WFH as easy as ABC…

Of course, people have been working from home for two thousand years. Roman merchants, mediaeval stewards and Georgian bankers recorded taxes paid, goods traded and sums owed from business premises that were also their homes, hence the expression ‘living over the shop’. But as commerce expanded and paper instruments of finance replaced the physical exchange of commodities, this process moved further away from the places of activity that it served whilst the space needed got larger. From the existing models of lawyers’ chambers and monks’ cells clustered together emerged a new building type: the office.

The Industrial Revolution brought factories and mechanisation. Trade started to centralise, served by canals and then railways. The very homes where business began were now pushed out by higher land values and an increase in noxious activity. At the same time, and as a direct result, the suburb was invented, an altogether more pleasant place for those clerks to live – the commuter was born.

In the last half of the 19th century the nib pen, ledger and box file started to be joined by a slew of advanced devices to aid, speed-up or even replace the basic tasks of writing, copying, organising and passing on data. They were designed for employment in the office but even at this early stage many had obvious and actual application outside.

The typewriter, by means of which clear, printed text could be produced, could be used anywhere, even on a train. The dictating machine, recording the intended content of a typed letter for later transcription, derived from Edison’s foil-coated rotary phonograph. The telegraph and then the telephone conveyed messages over hundreds of miles almost as fast as they could spoken or typed, whilst early facsimile machines could send signatures along wires to verify bank transactions. Mechanical calculators had been around for three hundred years but were radically improved in this period, and Hollerith patented the electromechanical collation of information recorded as patterns of holes on pieces of card, which was fast and error-free.

Simultaneously engineering and architecture were making both the home and the office more comfortable, with electric light and lifts, hot water, centralised heating and ventilation. Soon all of this would come together…

In 1898 Belgian architect Victor Horta bought adjacent plots on a street in Brussels and designed his home on one and his studio on the other. They interconnected at multiple levels though had separate entrances, and both were in his distinctive interpretation of Art Nouveau with stone, metal, wood and glass layered and twisted into organic forms. Iron was used structurally to permit wider openings in the façade where these were needed by the plan. His studio comprised various rooms – more than a dozen people worked there – and featured a waiting area, telephone box, electric light and radiators, both of these part of building-wide systems.

In the following decades the concept of an office that resembled a home exploded. The great Frank Lloyd Wright, whose own career spanned the turn of the century comfortably, designed both by the hundred. For Pennsylvanian retailer Edgar J. Kaufmann, the man for whom he had already built the dramatic forest home Fallingwater, Wright created an office in his department store in the mid-1930s. Lined entirely in cypress veneers, including the window louvres, featuring indirect lighting, matching chairs and stools and with an adjacent conference room, secretary’s office and private toilet and cloakroom, it had the feel of a restrained yet sumptuous home rather than a place of business.

In the same decade, a generation of European industrialists was commissioning lavish houses across the continent. All included extensive space for entertaining guests but also semi-private areas for the husband to work, receive friends and associates and conduct business.

On the outskirts of Lille, Paul and Lucie Cavroix commissioned a villa from Robert Mallet-Stevens that bears their name and overlooked their textile mills. Finished in 1932 its yellow brick exterior concealed state-of-the-art fixtures and fittings, including mechanical shutters, a network of speakers for broadcasting music or voice, a telephone switchboard and a lift. Cavroix’s office was part of a suite of rooms that included a waiting room and circular smoking room. His desk supported a box of switches controlling aspects of the house.

The Villa Necchi Campiglio in Milan was completed in 1935 to designs by Piero Portaluppi; after the war Tomaso Buzzi made alterations. The married client families owned and managed a successful foundry and iron works that also produced motors and their home, as crisply Modern as their products, relied on carefully considered planes of hardwood, plaster and metals for its decorative effects. As in Lille, Campiglio’s study and smoking room had integrated furniture and minimalist lines with a safe and personal archive concealed behind panels.

In England, meanwhile, Stephen Courtauld was part of that noted textile and chemical family but preferred the arts and philanthropy. He and his wife Virginia leased the derelict Great Hall built by Edward IV to the south east of London and in 1933 built a new house next door. Behind a traditional frontage, John Seely and Paul Paget placed a spectacular Art Deco entrance hall lined with marquetry murals and lit by glass discs in the ceiling. Boasting similar facilities to the Villa Cavroix as well as a centralised vacuum cleaning system, Stephen’s office-cum-library benefitted from an electric fire and

sliding screens on which to display watercolours. On the other side of London a few years later young architect Patrick Gwynne built the Homewood, an explicitly Internationalist house on piloti or stilts, for himself, his parents and his sister. Largely open plan with functions differentiated by furniture and finish and lit by floor to ceiling windows, it both housed and demonstrated his practice. Gwynne’s office thus featured elegantly concealed plan chests and a desk that incorporated a drawing board, whilst a living room writing table changed form as needed.

Three relevant technological advances originated in the years before and after the war that followed – television, the photocopier, which used a light beam, special powder and heat to duplicate an image, and the computer, which could calculate far faster than any human or mechanism and would ultimately enable information of many kinds to be stored, transmitted and recalled.

In peacetime America’s massive wealth and manufacturing power turned to the domestic economy and the new concept of consumerism. General Motors hired Finnish architect Eero Saarinen to plan a vast research and production campus in Warren, Michigan that opened in 1955. Within lay the office of legendary car design executive Harley Earl, firmly located ‘at work’ but owing much to residential interiors of the period. Serpentine walls are lined in vertical strips of cherrywood and flow into a continuous, projecting shelf of varying depth containing planters, a globe and several banquettes. The massive, sculptural desk is formed from laminated cherrywood planks, shaped and lacquered like the car mock-ups made on site. Built in were a telephone, retractable desk lamp, radio and controls for room lighting, blinds and temperature.

Within years, mainframe computers could be accessed remotely by users who bought time on them to have programmes run and problems solved – the terminal on which the data was input was joined to the processor by telephone lines, via modems. Just before the end of the 1960s, the first interconnected computers emerged when two and then three such systems, all belonging to universities or research institutes, were linked (the initial attempt to have them ‘talk’ crashed the system). This was the start of the internet, although the word itself was not used until 1974.

In 1971 all of the previous century’s achievements in information handling culminated in the Datapoint 2200, the world’s first full-function desktop computer, designed by the Computer Terminal Corporation’s Jack Frassanito, J.Phillip Ray and Gus Roche. It was developed from their earlier glass-screen replacement for the print-only teletype machines that were in common use at the time. Crucially, the new computer’s chip was the basis for the much better known IBM PC that followed, which makes the 2200 the progenitor of every such machine thereafter, including the laptop I’m typing this on. At home.

By Chris Rogers, Jan 19 2020 06:27PM

Arriving with considerable acclaim attached, Sam Mendes’s film tells a story of the intimate and the epic. During the Great War, two young British Army corporals are ordered to deliver a message across abandoned but still enemy territory that will save the lives of hundreds, but only if received by dawn. It is inspired by a story told to him by Mendes’s own grandfather and presented as though filmed in a single, two-hour shot. Two different questions are therefore prompted: does it work as a drama and does it work as a cinematic achievement?

The action begins within seconds of the film’s opening, as Blake and Schofield are awoken from a doze and sent to their commanding officer to be briefed. The Germans have retreated and a British advance begining in the early hours seeks to waylay them as they do so. But reconnaissance has revealed this retreat to be a feint and the two battalions of the British Army about to commit to the charge must be stopped – by hand, telephone wires having been plot-conveniently cut (there is no mention, despite one later playing a critical part in the narrative, of aerial delivery). As they set off through friendly trenches to their jumping-off point into No Man’s Land, the camera alternately follows and leads as it dances between the pair and those around them. Here the film scored highly. It is refreshing after a dozen years of too-tight framing and increasingly frenetic cutting to sit and allow one’s eyes to roam a big screen image almost at leisure, aided, admittedly, by an excellent screening environment in my case. As a result I was unexpectedly drawn to and fascinated by the texture and colour of the mud and especially the richness of the solder’s uniforms, with their belts and straps, pockets and pouches, bayonets and tools.

A memorable cameo from Andrew Scott as a resigned and somewhat louche officer sends the pair ‘over the top’; the camera moves with them, exposing us and the men alike to the sweep of green grass in the fields, but also the shell holes and barbed wire. As they continue, the sheer expanse of territory covered also impressed, neatly highlighted by subtle changes of camera angle and movement. The waist-high viewpoint for much of the time combined with crane-ups to reveal what is on the other side of berms and barriers reminded me strongly of Steven Spielberg’s Empire of the Sun and its exploration of another battlefield in another war, that through the wide eyes of a child. A particularly satisfying moment occurs when our viewpoint suddenly dips down into a vast crater, unexplained in the narrative but almost certainly from a mine, before skimming across the surface of the water filling its bottom as the two principals skirt round its perimeter. Pushing past a curtain (which appears to form one of the discreet edit points, since the film was, in fact, stitched together digitally from many separate shots) into an abandoned German bunker changes the atmosphere entirely for the duration of the tightly-done scene that follows.

In truth the (pseudo) single shot – not, please, a ‘take’, which is an attempt to achieve a shot – approach is a red herring. I’m actually a fan of such things and adept at detecting them when casually inserted in typical film and television productions (a three minute circling shot was deployed for a night-time crime scene analysis in the BBC’s Collateral, for example) but was hardly aware of it here after the first few minutes. And that at least makes me query the worth of such a move, because what is actually key here is time. Single shot is certainly not incompatible with the achieving that but neither is it necessary, as its rarity proves. And creating that illusion is as much a function of the way something moves into or out of the frame, the lighting, the lens choice and of course the editing – fully visible in most films – as it is the particular approach chosen by Mendes. That he indulges in some visual and narrative sleight-of-hand at the midpoint that actually interrupts the one-shot in plain sight tends to confirm this.

That break also introduces a compete change of atmosphere and lighting – to tell more would be a spoiler – that for me simply confirmed the redundancy of the single shot system for this film. It also begins a sequence which lacks entirely the clarity of the early material and shows a shakier grasp of those basic rules. The geography of this small corner of a foreign field, when read against the elapsed time of the narrative, seems equally uncertain, with its topography especially surely taking a giant leap into the unreal shortly afterward after one character does much the same.

The final act returns us to open-air trenches but the magic of those opening shots has gone. Mirroring – in storyline terms – that earlier advance added little, and crucially the urgency that supposedly informed all of what came before and indeed is emphasised in the publicity was very hard to feel despite the midpoint break that is meant to enhance it. The actual climax seemed pat and unconvincing, again for reasons hard to disclose without giving much away. I was not much moved by any of it, despite my paternal grandfather serving in the same regiment as Mendes’s and winning a medal for a broadly similar act.

George MacKay and Dean-Charles Chapman just about convince as Schofield and Blake though their unnatural, hybrid accents – RP endings added to everyday London beginnings, these their natural voices by all accounts – jar slightly. The dynamic between them is established at the start, with their separate motivations. Giving Blake a brother, and hence a personal stake in the mission is rather pedestrian and invariably reminiscent of Saving Private Ryan even if entirely reasonable in real life.

There is much to admire in this film, with a fresh look at tested techniques and subjects, but ultimately the former overwhelms the latter and neither is exceptional.

Chris's first book examines the career and works of British architect Michael Pearson, the third generation to head the practice founded by his grandfather in 1904. Pearson's presidency of the Architectural Association and his pioneering and prescient Burne House building are covered.


"Throws light on significant achievements" 


 Patrick Duerden, Practice Director, Donald Insall  



Black Dog Publishing, 2010  


ISBN  978 1 906155 73 5

PoP as pub - cr

Become an architectural detective with Chris's second book, investigating the styles of a thousand years of building in the world's most visited city from the middle ages to the present day. Illustrated and with photographs, maps and addresses, also included are a list of resources and a two-part introduction.


"A little gem"


Terry Philpot, Tablet


Ivy Press, 2016 with Larousse (French edition) and Akal (Spanish)


ISBN 978 1 78240 406 4  


cover apr 16

Chris's third book - a publisher's best-seller - reveals the hidden gems as well as the iconic landmarks of London's rich built history, from shops that survived the Great Fire to the 2012 Olympic village. Covering the West End, City and Docklands, the book follows the same format as How to Read Paris.


"Rather wonderful"


  – Don Brown, The London Society


Ivy Press, 2017  


ISBN 978 1 782404 52 1  

final cover L

Chris is one of more than a dozen specialists whose essays fill this fresh examination of the charms of Paris, which is edited by John Flower. Looking at the French capital's history, culture and districts, each item can be read in just half a minute and is illustrated with its own collage-style spread.


Ivy Press, 2018  


ISBN 978 1 782405 44 3  

Portfolio - cover BSMC

Commissioned from Chris by the Chief Magistrate for England & Wales to mark the closure of Bow Street Magistrates' Court, this pamphlet celebrates the world-famous institution and its final home. It was given exclusively to guests at a commemorative reception.


"I really like both the research behind it, and its clarity and accessibility"


Susan Acland-Hood, Chief Executive, Her  

   Majesty's Courts & Tribunals Service  


Private press, 2006        


The Twentieth Century Society’s new peer-reviewed Journal on commercial architecture in Britain since the 1920s includes Chris’s piece on Fitzroy Robinson's pioneering atrium buildings in the City of London. The piece is founded in original research including archive imagery, interviews and site visits.


Twentieth Century Society, 2020


ISBN 978 0 955668 76 0