This article appears as part of the Herald Arts newsletter.

It’s always been my suspicion that people who love brutalism – an architectural style involving copious amounts of dimpled concrete in colours ranging from chewing gum grey to puddle brown – probably did not grow up surrounded by examples of the form. And definitely didn’t grow up in one.

“Hang on a minute,” someone is probably already saying in response. “Look at London’s Barbican complex. People who live in that brutalist masterpiece absolutely love it.” True. But they’re probably architects, or work in one of those simpatico professions where they pay you enough to be able to afford a one bedroom apartment there (market value: around £1.2 million at the moment).

But I will admit there is a grim sort of beauty to brutalist architecture, in the same way that Soviet bus shelters or unloved 1970s ferry terminals have an odd kind of charm. Which is to say they exude the right degree of menace and brio. In the police line-up of municipal buildings and high street frontages, they’re the one with the ’tache, the mullet and the spider web face tattoo. Brutalism’s WTF factor is definitely high, which is a large part of the appeal.

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