The Internationales Congress Centrum (ICC) Berlin stands as a hulking testament to Brutalism’s raw ambition, a silver-clad monolith that looks like it landed from a 1970s sci-fi film. Designed by Ralf Schüler and Ursulina Schüler-Witte, it opened in 1979 after four years of construction, a Cold War-era flex of West Berlin’s modernity against the East’s Palace of the Republic. Costing over 924 million Deutschmarks—equivalent to 1.3 billion euros today—it was a jaw-dropping investment in a city eager to redefine itself. Its 313-meter-long frame, draped in anodized aluminum and rooted in concrete, houses two massive halls and dozens of rooms, a space built to host the world’s ideas and egos.
Inside, the ICC feels like a time capsule—geometric carpets and glowing fluorescent tubes scream retro-futurism, while its steel skeleton suspends the structure with an almost defiant swagger. It was a marvel of its day, equipped with interpretation systems for thousands and a layout that could handle sprawling congresses or intimate meetings. For decades, it buzzed with activity, a postcard star of West Berlin’s skyline that drew everyone from diplomats to disco stars (yes, it even hosted the 1980 flick The Apple). But its scale and tech-forward design couldn’t outrun time—by 2014, asbestos forced its closure, a problem that’s since spiraled into a costly headache.
Today, the ICC sits mostly silent, a listed building since 2019, its Brutalist bones too valuable to tear down yet too expensive to fully revive. The asbestos cleanup, initially pegged at 259 million euros, has ballooned beyond budget, leaving Berliners debating its fate. It’s briefly sheltered refugees, jabbed COVID vaccines, and even starred in an art installation (The Sun Machine Is Coming Down), but its future hangs in limbo—will it reclaim its congress crown or morph into something new? The city’s thrown around ideas: hotels, shops, a revamped venue. For now, it’s a concrete ghost, a reminder of when architecture dared to dream big and unpolished.
Love it or loathe it, the ICC’s story is Berlin’s in microcosm—a place of division, reinvention, and stubborn resilience. Its Brutalist heft and sci-fi sheen still draw eyes, sparking nostalgia for an era when buildings were statements, not just structures. As debates over its next chapter drag on, the ICC remains a polarizing relic, its aluminum skin glinting like a beacon of what could have been—and what might still be. It’s not just a building; it’s a Cold War artifact, a Brutalist riddle Berlin hasn’t quite solved.
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