They are the monumental concrete structures that rose from Scotland's postwar landscape, embodying a bold vision for a new society. A new photographic book is now casting a fresh light on these often-misunderstood buildings, arguing for their recognition as 'brutalist beauties'.
The Social Vision Cast in Concrete
From the mid-1950s to the late 1970s, Britain experienced a dramatic architectural movement known as Brutalism. In Scotland, this period produced some of the nation's most audacious and uncompromising buildings. Driven by ambitions of national reconstruction, these structures were designed to shape how people lived, worked, studied, and worshipped.
The impetus for this grand scale of building was the devastation of the Second World War, coupled with population growth and pre-war slum clearance. A new Britain, dedicated to tackling what politician William Beveridge called the 'five giants' – want, disease, ignorance, squalor, and idleness – was being built. The 1945 Labour government's creation of the NHS and investment in new towns were part of this same social project.
While Scotland suffered relatively light material damage compared to other UK regions, apart from the heavy bombing of Clydebank, the postwar spirit demanded urgent reconstruction through centralised planning. The chosen architectural language was unashamedly modern, yet it sought a resonance with the northern landscape and cultural sensibility.
Concrete: The Material of Modernity
Postwar shortages of traditional building materials and skilled labour forced authorities to seek quick, economical alternatives. Concrete became the ideal solution. Cheap fossil fuel energy facilitated its manufacture, and its ability to span large distances without columns allowed architects to create dramatic, open spaces for a vast range of building types.
A prime example is the Dollan Aqua Centre in East Kilbride. Designed by Alexander Buchanan Campbell and opened in 1968, it was Scotland's first competition-length pool. Its monumental vaulted hall, supported by splayed concrete ribs, is a sculptural showpiece for Scotland's first new town. Campbell drew inspiration from Japanese architect Kenzo Tange's gymnasia for the 1964 Tokyo Olympics.
The new book, Brutal Scotland, features photography by Simon Phipps with text by Catherine Slessor. It documents this legacy, from stadiums and homes to churches and libraries. Phipps began his journey in 1994, photographing the Fulton Building in Dundee, which became an unconscious reference point for a project that would take him across the nation.
A Legacy of Neglect and Rediscovery
Many of these socially motivated buildings have been repurposed, demolished, or left to decay. Yet, a current phase of rehabilitation is underway. Brutalism's brooding, photogenic quality, amplified by the internet, has catalysed a renewed appreciation, partly as a reaction against the 'insipid, market-driven neo-modernism' of the 1990s.
Phipps's images capture buildings in various states. The Lang Stracht Hotel in Aberdeen, designed by Baxter Clark & Paul and built between 1964 and 1965, now stands closed with a forbidding painted concrete facade. Yet, as Phipps notes, it retains a 'sculptural confidence that rose out of the ground like it belonged there'.
More poignant is the Bernat Klein Studio in High Sutherland. Designed by Peter Womersley in 1972 for the Serbian-born textile designer, this low-slung concrete and glass pavilion sits vacant and decaying on Scotland's Buildings at Risk Register, though it was acquired for restoration in July 2025 by the Bernat Klein Foundation.
Other notable structures featured include the McCance Building in Glasgow (1962-63), the Gordon Aikman lecture theatre in Edinburgh (1965-70), and the Kildrum Parish Church in Cumbernauld (1960-62). Phipps also documented the often-overlooked public art – the abstract concrete sculptures that accompanied these civic projects.
'These buildings were never just about concrete and form,' Phipps reflects, 'they were about ideas, about society, about a future that people believed they could shape.' Over seventy years on, this 'big sneeze in architecture', as historian John Summerson called it, continues to reverberate. Once deemed ugly and alienating, these structures of 'supreme heft and surprising beauty' now stand as a unique testament to a daring period of architectural and social ambition.
