Henry van de Velde and his fight for the fourth tower

Henry van de Velde was born in 1863 in Antwerp, where he studied painting. He was fairly successful as a painter, but he wanted more. From the 1890s onwards, he began delving into the applied arts: goldsmithing, ceramics, textile design, architecture, etc., eventually becoming a self-made 'total designer'. Everything, literally everything, had to be in harmony with everything else. For Villa Bloemenwerf, his own residence in Brussels, Van de Velde designed not only the house but also the furniture, crockery and wallpaper, right down to a matching dress for his wife.  

Initially, his style was still in keeping with Art Nouveau, but everything gradually became sleeker and more functional. In any event, the common thread was that he rejected anything that seemed old-fashioned. Van de Velde was an ardent advocate of the modern style, and he wanted to share this passion. He first taught in Germany at a precursor to the Bauhaus, and from 1925 he was a professor of architecture at Ghent University. That is where the story of the Booktower begins. 

Ghent University, which had only just become Dutch-speaking, wanted a large new library — one that reflected its ambitions. By the time the commission came in 1933, Van de Velde was already 70 years old and therefore effectively at the end of his career. But he simply had to win this commission. He had already designed public buildings abroad, including the Kröller-Müller Museum in the Netherlands, but he had not yet been able to make his mark in Belgium.  

He saw the Booktower as his magnum opus, the crowning glory of his work. Something grandiose, a total design in which he could showcase every aspect of his art. And that is exactly what he did. The collected sketches and designs for the Booktower constitute an archive in their own right: he designed the tables, lamps, window frames, door handles, and even the light switches. Henry van de Velde's swan song was ready… but it turned out to be the nail in his coffin.

The difficulties started with the client: the university. Van de Velde wanted to build his library vertically, but Ghent was not yet ready for a fourth tower. At one point, a member of the board of directors asked if it could be a little lower. “Why not make the tower flat?” was the suggestion. Such a proposal must have been a slap in the face for a staunch modernist like Van de Velde. Fortunately, he was able to push his vision through. 

A sleek design in reinforced concrete was no longer a novelty in itself, but it certainly was in Ghent. The area around the university was still full of textile factories and dilapidated tenements. These were all demolished to make way for the Booktower. As the imposing structure rose floor by floor, it came as a shock to the people of Ghent. They had never seen anything like it before — and as the saying goes: unknown, unloved. 

The top floor was not yet finished when the Second World War broke out. And during the war, the Germans positioned their anti-aircraft guns on top of it. The library was already open at the time, but the staff were not keen on suddenly having to work in what was a military target. Things were therefore not going as planned. Moreover, there was no money for the finishing touches, and a lot of the planned furniture never materialised — even after the war. Disillusioned by the absurd ‘bureaucratic machine’, Van de Velde passed the torch to his pupil Eugène Delatte in 1954. He no longer wanted anything to do with it. 

Fortunately, the Booktower was largely completed according to the plans, but the ordeal was not over yet. The concrete started to crumble due to water damage, and in the 1960s an epoxy coating was applied to the entire building. The light-grey tower was suddenly beige. Inside, the space was furnished to suit those who worked there. A librarian turned a museum room into his personal office, complete with a fake Persian carpet. Elsewhere, brown curtains with a rose motif were hung up. Furniture and clunky filing cabinets concealed the original design. Everyone adapted the building as they saw fit.  

Architecture enthusiast André Singer paid a visit in 2003. He had purchased the archive containing the designs for the Booktower in Brussels, and was aghast at seeing the sad state of affairs. Shafts of light illuminated swirling dust in every room. When he asked if there was a single dust-free room where he could store the archive, the then chief librarian, Sylvia Van Peteghem, admitted that there wasn’t. They then threw everything into saving the Booktower from ruin. 

And it paid off. It took 10 years and cost over €50 million, but the Booktower is probably more beautiful today than at any time Van de Velde saw it. Beneath the pond in the inner Stiltetuin (Quiet garden), a massive four-storey underground extension was built to house a further 20 kilometres of books — on top of the 40 kilometres that were already there — including valuable manuscripts. The entire façade was refurbished and the original light-grey colour was restored. The interior was restored to its former glory as much as possible.  

Nowhere is the restoration more obvious than on the 21st floor, the only floor without any trace of a book or journal. Van de Velde had conceived this ‘belvédère’ as a public space, but it had actually long served as a sort of clubhouse for professors. They held private parties there, playing billiards and smoking cigars, completely ensconced in their own penthouse. After a few decades, the space was almost unrecognisable. Fluorescent lights hung from a suspended ceiling, and the oak floor had a vinyl coating: it was a sorry sight. 

The belvédère is now once again the highlight, both literally and figuratively. You can look out over the whole city: nowhere else offers such a magnificent 360° panorama. But Van de Velde's genius meant that he didn't design this area as a typical viewing point. The windows are actually quite high up. In other words, as soon as you sit down, you mainly see the sky through the windows, and the room itself. The cadence of the columns, the balance between light and dark wood, the gently rounded corners... You are overcome by an incredible sense of purity, which would not be lost on anyone. Thank you, Henry. 

 The library’s reading rooms are open to the public. You don’t need to be a member to read or study there. You can only visit the belvédère with a guide.