The ninth issue of INTRO magazine is devoted to one of the oldest and most traditional building materials: clay. As always, you can expect quality contents featuring a rich selection of photographs and detailed drawings of individual projects.
Print format 230 × 295 mm, 144 pages
Printed on uncoated, offset paper
Printed in Czech
I sometimes wonder what would happen if our globalised world fragmented once more into localised communities. You might ask, why would it do that? And I’d reply: what if they switched off the power, or if someone in Russia contaminated the oil or if a drought occurred? If the world did break down into localised communities, people would have to relearn all the things they used to know how to do, to bridge the gaps that have only emerged relatively recently. Who, for example, would mill the grain lovingly grown by eco-farmers? Is every woman (or man) able to bake bread for their family? Does anyone still know how to make wooden beer barrels? Where would I go to buy coal, if I need it to heat my house? I could ask so many questions like these.
I don’t speak of these things because I want to preach cheap wisdom with a credit card in my pocket. This train of thought is connected with the preparation of this issue of INTRO, which is devoted to clay. If I want to build a house of this material, where would I go for clay? If I want bricks, it's straightforward, I call the nearest brick supplier. If I want concrete, I call a supplier and go to look for a mixer. In the worst case scenario, I find a tub, get the ingredients and I mix it myself. For wood, while there's still enough of it, I can go to the lumber mill. I can even buy or plant a bit of forest.
But what if I’m looking for suitable clay? I decided to ask Petr Suske.
It seems that this material, which appears so simple and accessible at first glance, has, paradoxically, become something of a luxury good, akin to actual honey from real bees or actual milk from real cows. Access to building materials and experts in clay construction are so limited that it seems we must simply relearn how to build with it. I feel like the world often flicks the switch so subtly that we can't see it when we look back, not even through our nano-glasses.
By the way, do you have a bread oven at home? Or a granddad who fits stoves?
Martin Verner, Editor in Chief