The text presented here is not precisely as published by OUP, but modifications are minor. Illustrations are another matter. Where images used in the original book were not my copyright, I have in most cases been able to substitute links to sources on the web. See Image Acknowledgements.
Note. When this text was submitted as part of a PhD thesis in 1996, the Notes were greatly extended. As the reader may prefer to ignore them, they have been collected into separate web pages. They are a mixture of: simple page references; additional examples or quotations to justify generalisations; and some afterthoughts. As there are so many, the existence of a Note is indicated discreetly in the text below in the form [4.x]. (These are not links.) [Notes to Chapter 4.]
An overview.
The content of this chapter touches on human psychology. Most of it is based on the speculations of art-critics and architects, and of psychologists whose interest in architecture is based on their studies of perception. [4.1] It fits most comfortably under the heading of appreciation of architecture, and should not be confused with the parallel line of enquiry labelled psychology of architecture. The latter is the work of psychologists who make statistical analyses of the observed behaviour and self-reported feelings of ordinary people concerning built form and its accompanying spaces. [4.2] There is yet another approach which applies the principles of psychoanalysis to the observer's reactions to art in general, much of it based on the work of Freud and Jung.
Some people involved in the production and appreciation of architecture resent the intrusion of professional psychologists into the field. Research in the 'psychology of architecture' is seen to be too pedestrian and too limited by its insistence on 'scientific' technique. Freudian analysis has been criticized as 'too introspective' and is condemned as iconoclasm. [4.3] It would be rash to join such people in dismissing these fields of enquiry completely. However the sort of analysis available in texts on the appreciation of architecture offers many valuable insights, is much more accessible, and is pitched at an appropriate level for the purposes of this book.
It is a commonplace that buildings have 'character'. A cottage may be seen as 'self-effacing'. A structure with a strong vertical emphasis may be seen as exuding pride, self-confidence, or arrogance (Fig.4.1, also Figs 3.21 and 4.17).
Fig. 4.1. Impression of the cathedral of Rheims (thirteenth century) as if completed in orderly fashion. Height and vertical projection held great significance for medieval patrons and builders. (Sketch by Eugène Viollet-le-Duc.)
Lighter constructions (Fig. 4.2) may have an air of ethereality.
Fig. 4.2. The ethereal lightness of an extensive space frame. Jacob K. Javits Convention Centre, New York. 1986. (Archt: James Freed of I.M.Pei and Ptnrs. Struct. Engrs: Weidlinger and Assocs.) [Photo: NYC Architecture.]
(Unfortunately, parts of the space frame don't look as ethereal in photographs as they did in the architect's impression used in the book!)]
Some buildings and machines convey an impression of power, generating reactions of awe and fear in observers who may feel that in these senses the building is 'speaking' to them. [4.4] The aim in this chapter is to discuss accounts of such impressions and theories of their origins.
The constant interplay between the rational and emotional facets of our nature makes it extremely difficult to distinguish their effects in our response to architecture, although the majority of commentators attempt to do so. It is true that a sensation of pure animal shock might result from a sudden confrontation with the building illustrated in Fig. 1.2, but this has much to do with the skill of the architect in playing on our preconceptions about the appropriate proportions and styles of buildings. The intellect seems to be in command when an engineer appreciates the skilful arrangement of a structure to resist load or when an architect admires the flair with which a colleague has satisfied the conflicting requirements of a multitude of functions. We obviously employ our intellect in analysing the facts of the situation; but why are we so happy about the result? The ultimate pleasure we derive from appreciating the smooth 'flow' of forces in a structure, or the elegance of an optimized solution is surely emotional.
The same may be said of the discernment and appreciation of order in architecture. Its perception is a matter of rational analysis, but the need for it varies greatly from one individual to another, as does the type of order which is desired. Some have a need for order defined in the terms of classical architecture, others for the order of the machine, and others for the organic order of nature. Some find order uncongenial and prefer messes. Such differences must be based on subconscious factors. Thus the processes of analysis and enjoyment seem inextricably interwoven, and the insistence in aesthetic theory on distinguishing between 'direct' and 'indirect' experience, and on 'immediacy' in perception must owe much to the desire to disentangle these two facets. The compromise adopted here is to accept that it is impossible to separate them fully, but to commence from those reactions which seem to have a lower intellectual component and work towards those in which it is stronger.
Emotional response to space.
The fact that we all in some degree experience feelings of claustrophobia and agoraphobia indicates the very real way in which architectural space may affect us. Someone with a strong personality, finding themselves suddenly in an open city square, may feel a sense of freedom and release. Others may feel forlorn and lost. [4.5] Those who have just parted from their loved ones at airport terminals may feel tiny. Such feelings are very often projected on to inanimate objects. We may feel that a fountain 'sitting' in the middle of the square is also lonely, forlorn, or free as the case may be.
Movement from one space to another of very different quality may produce similar effects. The entrance porches of old cathedrals enclose a small void, often gloomy, and rigidly defined by solid walls and a low, vaulted ceiling. On entering the body of the church and looking toward the central aisle we see, in contrast, a tall airy space whose sides are only partially defined and whose ends disappear out of the line of sight. At the lower level this space is bounded by the line of the arcades. Above, the clerestory windows provide a translucent screen which affords a glimpse of the outside world in the vague shapes of clouds and flying buttresses. It is of course difficult to separate the feelings engendered by the architecture from those due to a sense of anticipation or piety.
Spiral or triumphal staircases, balconies, and suspended walkways also provide opportunities for exciting progression through space and may heighten the sense of freedom or exposure (Fig. 3.19). Again, it is difficult to say where architecture leaves off and other factors take over, because a principal function of foyers in theatres is to allow patrons to see and be seen. It is likely that there is some form of interaction between these different forms of experience.
When people savour the quality of space by 'projecting' themselves into it, either mentally or physically, they tend to choose prominent features to provide goals. Geoffrey Scott considers that it is necessary also to provide some key feature which can form a climax to the progression. He maintains further, that features which impede movement, imagined or real, are liable to be seen as ugly. He thus considers it appropriate that at the end of a long nave there should be an altar which provides directional impetus, and feels that a blank wall in this situation would be ugly, even though in a square living-room he would have found it entirely appropriate. [4.6]
The experience of being in a confined tunnel, such as a narrow pedestrian subway, has it own special quality which is tinged with many sorts of reverberations, mental as well as physical. If the tunnel is long, one may, for comfort, imagine oneself surrounded by a zone of 'personal space' whose length is not much greater than the width of the tunnel. The maintenance of its boundaries requires mental effort because they conflict with the more real perception of endless continuity in the longitudinal direction. The need to resolve this results in a sense of urgency to complete the journey which is responsible for much of the unpleasantness of the experience. Similar feelings may occur in the tunnel-like corridors of large buildings, and Rudolph Arnheim writes of experiencing them in New York streets lined with oversize buildings. He argues that the mental distress adds to the physical effort required to make progress, and that designers should combat such monotony by providing sudden narrowing and enlargement of the path to cause surprise and a little tension. In tunnels it might be possible to create points of varying interest and so provide goals and markers by which users could measure their progress. [4.7]
The antithesis of this impulsion to movement is the restfulness found in broad, symmetrical spaces such as that under a dome, which are felt to pull gently and equally in all directions.
The architect is often seen as someone who 'models' space as the sculptor models clay, and the enjoyment of space itself is greatly affected by the complexity of the hollow form. Once more there seems to be a combination of intellectual and emotional factors at work, as some people prefer simple, austere spaces of Platonic proportions, while others delight in complexity of space.
The development this century of new types of long-span enclosure, such as concrete shells, space frames, suspended cable roofs, pneumatic structures, and tents has given rise to new shapes of internal space. With some notable exceptions, critics have not yet developed terms and concepts suitable for the appraisal of their architectural qualities, perhaps because conventional criticism concentrates on the rectilinear architecture of the Renaissance and the modern movement. [4.8] The domes and cylindrical vaults of classical architecture, and the doubly-curved vaults of the Gothic should provide a basis from which an approach to the more solid forms might be developed. However there is a need for the development of new approaches for tents and inflated structures.
Emotional response to form.
It is difficult to imagine a building whose form alone would inspire a really strong primitive emotion such as terror. Buildings are so obviously static, and the observer rarely comes upon them suddenly. Some structures do, however, suggest a creature of prey, like the launching gantry shown in Fig. 4.3 which loomed for a while over a major road in Melbourne, with its front 'legs' dangling above the traffic like a preying mantis about to strike. A supersonic airliner with its nose in the attitude for landing has similar connotations.
Fig. 4.3. This launching gantry, used in construction of a road flyover, is suggestive of a giant preying insect. c. 1986. (Engrs: Citra Constructions.)
A more common reaction is a feeling of general unease about anything which we cannot easily categorize: anything that appears bizarre, ungainly, unusual, or deformed. It includes the fear of what appears irrational, or what implies that somebody holds values, tastes or an approach to life that is radically opposed to our own. Roger Scruton (1979) expresses a strong distaste for the architecture of Rudolph Steiner which he sees as exemplifying great 'confusion of thought' and 'depravity of emotion'. [4.9] These are, of course, very personal responses, in which the intellect plays its part. Someone who was indifferent to Steiner's philosophy might interpret the free forms of his Goetheanum simply as a welcome change from the rectangular boxes of the modern movement. Many people find Frank Furness's buildings, and visual ugliness in general, amiable and quaint; and the romantics tried to make ugliness respectable in an attempt to free themselves from prevailing concepts of 'good taste'. [4.10]
Isler, the Swiss designer of shells, finds it necessary to defend his structures against the objection that they are fremdkörper: intruders, or strangers in the landscape. This is obviously how environmentalists would see them. But Isler, as an engineer, sees them as objects of beauty and feels that even when they are pristine white, they suit a green landscape better than a conventional building. [4.11] Many people find any strong primary form, such as inflated structures (Fig. 4.4), cylindrical silos, spherical tanks, and other shells objectionable in both the natural landscape and in the urban landscape of modified boxes to which we are accustomed. Objections are raised for similar reasons against the machine-like appearance of 'high-tech' buildings (Figs 4.5 and 7.7), even in the urban landscape.
Fig. 4.4. Distinct, regular form, and purity of line contrast strongly with the disordered complexity of nature and suburbia. Inflated roof for swimming pool, Mooroolbark, Shire of Lilydale, Victoria. 1989. White with red stripes. (Engrs: McWilliam Consulting Engineers and Spacetech Pty Ltd.)
Fig. 4.5. Lloyds of London Head Office. 1986. This building is intended to be 'read' with ease. Visual complexity and allusions to machinery contrast with the qualities of adjacent buildings. (Archt: Richard Rogers. Engrs: Ove Arup and Ptnrs.)
Properties such as sharpness and angularity, contrasted with roundness and fullness, have a strong influence on the way we feel about objects. Architects talk of 'hard' and 'soft' forms. These perceptions may be due to associations with pleasant or painful encounters in childhood. Hollows and cavities may arouse the instinct to shelter displayed in the child's fascination with 'cubby houses'.
The perception of 'visual weight' may be affected by the way we feel about forms, or the feelings we project on to them, as much as by the circuitry of our brains. To see certain inflatable buildings as 'sausage-like' is to project inappropriate associations on to them. To describe them as 'heavy' as a result is to project the observer's feelings about sausages on to them. The observer is evidently unable or unwilling to apprehend the lightness of the fabric and the supporting air.
Those with the ability to see 'movement' in static forms; to see domes 'bulging', suspended roofs 'sagging', and arches 'skipping' may go on to attribute to them moods such as confidence, depression, and liveliness which would cause our own forms to bulge, sag or skip. John Summerson (1980) somewhat diffidently attaches characters to colonnades, depending on their spacing, or rhythms, relative to column diameter D. In terms of movement, he identifies a 'lively' quick march (2D), an easy dignified walk (2.25D), and a slow leaping motion (4D). [4.12] The ascription of character to form will be further discussed in the Section on 'Empathy' [below].
Frei Otto (1983) discusses the fascination which many people experience with forms expressing power or deadliness. Examples are beasts of prey, such as the tiger, and machines of war, such as fighter aircraft. Some of our response is due to their simple formal beauty, but much is due to an emotional appreciation of their air of purposiveness, and of the way in which they are trimmed down to serve a limited range of objectives with maximum efficiency. [4.13] Strength, power, single-minded application to a limited objective, and parsimony are admirable in certain situations. However, it is difficult for most of us to forget the purposes of violence and destruction for which these forms are destined. The resulting tension between admiration and aversion produces a complex and unique sensation which is associated with the sublime.
Emotional responses to scale.
Geoffrey Scott states that a building has three kinds of size: the bigness it actually has (in terms of metres), the bigness it appears to have, and the feeling of bigness it gives (to the observer). [4.14] It is the third that concerns us here.
Jörg Schlaich (1986) provides a dramatic example of 'crushing' scale. A pier-and-beam bridge crosses a river at low level. It is very wide and, because of its large spans, the box cross-section is deep. A wide road runs along the river bank and the bridge is continued above this. However the clearance under the bridge is no greater than its depth, and much less than its width. The space under the side-span appears unattractive. It does not appeal to the 'cave instinct' which makes sheltering spaces so welcoming. The reason may be that it has no enclosing walls, and no single entrance. The low soffit is oppressive, yet someone standing under the span would be completely exposed in the horizontal direction. There is claustrophobia in one direction, and agoraphobia in the other. The observer is conscious of a weight which is barely comprehensible, while the unsupported length is made more striking by its presence so close to the ground. It is not necessary to be under the bridge to experience these perceptions, which may lead on to feelings of insignificance and alienation. [4.15]
Impressive scale is a feature of skyscrapers and long-span suspension bridges, but in many people they engender admiration or enthusiasm. Perhaps this is because bridges, unless they are in an environmentally sensitive location, are seen as having social benefit. Skyscrapers may also be seen in this light, though for some people they represent the alien power of large organizations. Such political reactions are the subject of Chapter 6.
Where there is a definite intention to overawe the observer, scale is consciously manipulated, usually by employing a rapid acceleration from human scale to building size, with doors and portals many times life-size (Fig. 4.6).
Fig. 4.6. The Viceroy's 'House' in New Dehli. 1924. An awesome leap in scale from human size to the massive portal. (Archt: Sir Edwin Lutyens.) [Photo: Rashtrapati Bhavan. (The building is now the residence of the President of India.)]
On the other hand, efforts may be made to present a friendly image to the users of buildings by keeping the scale more human, as in the Hillingdon Civic Centre, where scale (and form) are reminiscent of domestic housing (Fig. 4.7).
Fig. 4.7. Human scale and familiar associations in the Hillingdon Civic Centre. 1977. (Archt: Andrew Derbyshire of Mathew Marshall and Ptnrs.)
Photo: Looking at Buildings. (Click on "advanced search", enter "hillingdon", and clear all ticks except "Image Title".
Arnheim states that the apparent size of a large building, which is comprehensible only from a distance, may be controlled by composing it from a series of 'sub-wholes', whose individual formal composition may be comprehended and appreciated at close range. He claims that this type of 'ordering' or 'hierarchic subordination' assists us to gauge the size of a building, making it possible to design a commercial skyscraper so that, "although it covers much space, it does not appear too large" (Fig. 4.8). For the same reason, he asserts that Bramante's Tempietto (a small Renaissance church which is circular, surrounded by a colonnade, and surmounted by a dome) looks monumental even though its dimensions are relatively small. [4.16]
Fig. 4.8. Shaping of the post-modern multi-storey building and articulation of its facades reduce its apparent bulk. Park Avenue Tower, New York. (Archt: Helmut Jahn of Murphy/Jahn.) [Photo: Emporis.]
On the more intellectual side, size may be seen as a form of the sublime. Horden (1983) sees the gigantic corner columns of Ricardo Bofill's apartment blocks (Fig. 4.9) as comparable with the schemes of Ledoux which were "intended to engage the mind through their amplification". [4.17]
Fig. 4.9. The sublime columns of the Palace of Abraxas, Marne-la-Vallée "engage the mind". The building is rich in intellectual games. Form contrasts with 'not-form', positive with negative. (Archt: Ricardo Bofill and Taller d'Arquitectura. 1982.)
Response to texture, colour, and light.
Basic feelings about textures and colours have already been mentioned. Smooth finishes are often considered 'cold', while those which are textured or rough-cast may be seen as homely. Brick is generally described as 'warm', perhaps because of its colour, strong texture, and its association with concepts of 'house' and 'home'. Intellectually, a smooth texture may be associated with machine production and hence for some people with alienation, impersonality and the coldness of perfection. Others may associate it with the cool and elegant style of twentieth-century Scandinavian design. Roughness of finish and texture may remind some of the home-spun life-style, individual craftsmanship, and closeness to nature and reality, but for others it may signify hardship and discomfort.
Concrete suffers greatly from this sort of reaction, and its roughness does nothing to save it. The true off-form finish favoured by those seeking 'honesty' has been rejected by the general public. The French adjective 'brut', meaning simply "raw, natural, untreated, unrefined" [4.18] was applied to this type of finish following Corbusier's decision to accept it in his famous Unité d'Habitation apartment block in Marseilles. [4.19] In English, the similar adjective 'brutal' came to be associated with any sort of construction that made prominent use of materials not finished in accordance with convention: bare steelwork, unrendered concrete and masonry, unplastered brick, and unpainted wood. The term 'Brutalism' was coined to describe the philosophy that materials ought to be used in this condition and that the public would come to accept such usage once they became familiar with it. [4.20] However, the everyday meaning of 'brutal' in both languages is quite different from 'brut', and many people applied it in the former sense to the resulting buildings, in both concrete and steel (Figs 3.4 and 4.10). It is not the place here to discuss the merits of the approach.
Fig. 4.10. Brutalism in steel and brick. Hunstanton Secondary School, Norfolk. 1954. (Archts: Alison and Peter Smithson. Engrs: Ove Arup and Ptnrs.)
Photo: See the BBC and Open University site Modernity. Select "Buildings Gallery". The school is No.9.
It is difficult to explain the strength of the popular aversion to exposed off-form concrete, but one reason must be its lack of orderly texture, and its general air of having been constructed without due care and attention. Great care in detailing is necessary to avoid uneven weathering stains and frequent failure to achieve this may have conveyed an impression of dilapidation. Attempts to avoid the problem by introducing striations (Fig. 8.4) have sometimes resulted in complaints of 'aggressiveness'. [4.21]
However, traditional masonry buildings suffer from identical problems, despite claims that their detailing is vastly superior to that of modern buildings. This has become evident since many old buildings have been cleaned of the layer of grime which has mellowed or concealed such faults. [4.22] The suspicion is therefore increased that the hostility to concrete is based on subconscious prejudices, rather than disinterested appraisal of visual effects.
Rough texture was made a feature in much pre-twentieth century architecture, particularly in the Renaissance palazzo, where the entire bottom storey was often rusticated to simulate the strong, earthy, look of the country villa. The effect was originally obtained simply by raking back the mortar in the joints, but later the stones themselves were shaped to achieve a more bold 'texture' (Fig. 1.6). To most modern interpreters this conveys messages of strength, hostility, or aggressiveness. The rural overtones which it once possessed appear to have been lost.
There is a school of thought which objects to the use of colour in architecture on the grounds that it appeals to our baser instincts and to less-educated members of the public. True beauty is seen to exist only in pure, preferably white forms. [4.23] In the eighteenth century, neo-classicists were disconcerted when archaeological discoveries showed that ancient Greek temples had originally been covered in variegated colours. [4.24] In the twentieth century the modern movement adopted a pure 'white architecture', but recently post-modernism has paved the way for the bold use of colour in architecture.
Concrete has proved to be much more acceptable to the general public when it is painted. Steel, which may look cold and forbidding in the form of large girders, has recently taken on a new aesthetic of skeletal slenderness, and this has been coupled with the bold use of colour. The new 'friendliness' of steel structures is perhaps the main factor that has led to general acceptance by the public of exposed grids and trusses in shopping centres and other public places. Particularly in France 'coloristes consultants' have used colour to inject life and warmth into towns and more mundane surroundings such as chemical plants and dockyards. [4.25]
It is difficult to discuss the emotions aroused by individual colours because they vary from one culture to the next. This may be because they are arbitrarily connected by tradition with different aspects of experience varying from death and sorcery to nationalism. [4.26] The question will be touched on in a later section under the heading of 'Associationism'.
The effect of light on our moods and emotions is such a universal experience that there is no need to discuss it in detail here. The use of 'gloom' to describe an emotional state and of 'bright' to describe someone's personality is sufficient indication of the connection between the two.
Feelings about physical security and structural stability.
Our need for security is a basic component of our psychological response to structures. Occupants become alarmed if the deflection of beams and slabs in a building becomes evident, even when there is no actual danger of failure. Everyone unconsciously assesses the structural adequacy of built forms, using intuitive concepts of structural behaviour. These are based on a lifetime's experience of structure, starting in childhood with piling up building-blocks, climbing trees, and placing planks over streams. They are naturally somewhat simple.
People may become concerned if they interpret structural form in terms of these concepts. The designer of a small church in Canberra supported the ends of the roof beams on corbels. On one side of the nave these were evident to the congregation, but on the other they were concealed by a longitudinal partition wall which formed a corridor running parallel to the nave. Because the partition was cut closely around the beams, members of the congregation thought the partition marked the end of the beam, which thus appeared to have no means of support. Complaints to the priest were so frequent that false corbels were attached to the partition under the beams to create a sense of security. [4.27] A more renowned example is the colonnade which was added beneath the first floor of Wren's Library at Trinity College, Cambridge, to calm the dons' fears that the supports were insufficiently strong as originally constructed. [4.28] According to Paul Rudolph, Mies van der Rohe used a similar rationale for applying continuous I-section mullions to the faces of columns on the facade of his multi-storey buildings. Many people imagined his buildings to be supported by the mullions, so that the omission of a mullion on the column line was perceived as a disturbing lack of support at this point! [4.29]
On the other hand, members of the public may fail to notice a detail which one would expect to worry them. The Chapel Street Bridge in Melbourne (Fig. 4.11) has obvious gaps in its profile at springings and crown. An engineer immediately recognizes a three-hinged arch, but the presence of the hinges is not expressed on the surface except by a gaping slit. Given that the abutments and keystone of a masonry arch are widely held to be more important than any other element, it could be expected that people with no knowledge of bridge construction would find the presence of an apparent gap at these critical locations alarming. However an informal survey failed to find any lay person who had even noticed these gaps. The fact that the bridge has been standing for many years is perhaps more important than questions of apparent structural integrity.
Fig. 4.11. Apparent insecurity of structure. Gaps at the crown and springings of the Chapel Street Bridge, Melbourne. 1923. (Engr: J. A. Laing.) [4.29A]
Feelings of insecurity are more likely to be awakened by obviously 'daring' structures such as long cantilevers, large spans, slender towers, and by the apparent fragility of some fabric structures and space frames. They may also be inspired by advances in technology which leads to a significant change from traditional proportions. The latter effect occurred when prestressing reduced the depth to span ratio of concrete bridges and when welding made unnecessary the long lines of rivets and the reassuringly heavy bolted splices of earlier times.
Empathy.
Amongst our most interesting responses to architecture and structure are the adjectives we apply to them. The fact that these are clichés only serves to emphasize their popular appeal and usefulness. The concepts of heaviness and affliction have been related in language since ancient times. [4.30] Many commentators attribute these perceptions to our experience in infancy of struggling first to stand and then to walk. We develop a preoccupation with verticality and with what is often referred to as 'the conquest of gravity'.
To some extent people apply these terms to structures because they 'identify' with them. They may feel a sense of elation when they see a lighthouse in a storm standing tall and straight despite the buffeting of wind and waves. Although this is partly attributable to an intellectual appreciation of human ingenuity, people must also imagine how they themselves would feel if they were standing out on the rock. As each wave crashes down they may instinctively tense their muscles as though they also were withstanding the shock.
The process of identification may extend to individual members such as columns which, if stocky, may be seen as being squashed under the load from above. It is possible to try to comprehend a force of 500 N (1 cwt) by remembering what it feels like to pick up a bag of cement, and to imagine that a column which supports a load of 5 kN (10 cwts), is experiencing ten times this amount. Such empathy may be quite distressing if the observer is watching a steel tension specimen being ruptured, or a concrete cylinder crushed in a testing machine.
Modern interest in this explanation of our appreciation of art and architecture dates from the second half of the nineteenth century, when it was conceived and developed by German theorists. [4.31] (The German term Einfühlung is still sometimes used in English texts.) There is much controversy over the way in which such feelings arise. Geoffrey Scott considers two cases: a room fifty feet square and seven feet high which produces feelings of claustrophobia; and a granite facade above a glass shop-front which induces feelings of insecurity. He argues that they are able to do this because they reawaken a 'condition of spirit' which in the past belonged to "an actual experience of thwarted effort or incipient [personal] collapse". Thus in Scott's words we have "transcribed ourselves" into terms of architecture. He notes that the perceived 'states' need not bear any relationship to reality. The weight of a spire actually presses downwards, but we may 'soar' with it. No one speaks of a 'sinking' spire. [4.32]
In contrast, Rudolph Arnheim suggests that when we attribute to a building a quality of 'closedness' because it has no windows, we are not projecting 'closedness' from our own experience of a like sensation, but simply recognizing an external reality, and that thenceforward we can use the simile of the windowless building to describe what we feel within ourselves. [4.33] He thus sees the process as operating in the reverse direction. He sees impressions of 'soaring' spires and 'leaping' arches as entirely a matter of 'visual dynamics' produced by the scanning process. [4.34] A tower appears to 'soar' because our vision is first attracted to its base and then follows the gradual narrowing up to its pinnacle. As he points out, it is possible to look at a tower, which has parallel sides, in either direction. [4.35] The CBS building in New York (Fig. 3.29) was seen by its designer, Eero Saarinen, as starting at the pavement and soaring up to 491 feet, but Philip Johnson described it as crashing (visually) "right down into the ground". [4.36]
To some people a short, squat column appears to be more heavily stressed than a long thin one. Arnheim considers this is because the latter is sufficiently long to develop its own visual centre of gravity. [4.37] The eye may thus travel upwards, or downwards from this point and as a result, the observer obtains an impression of effortlessness, and a sense of freedom and victory over oppression. This sort of perception is perhaps only possible when the observer is more concerned with 'visual weight' than with evidence of real weight.
Engineers, with their knowledge of statics, might of course 'see' in all these cases a more static image of downward pressure counterbalanced by reaction from the foundations. The force in a column would be more a question of what lay above it, than of its own proportions.
Another explanation of empathy offered by Scott is that there is a connection between the way in which our eyes follow the curves of a building, and an equivalent bodily gesture, so that outlines come to be seen as bold or weak, tense or lax, powerful or flowing. [4.38] Vertical emphasis awakens a sense of upward direction while horizontality is equivalent to rest. In a similar vein, Scully (1974) writes of the way in which Aalto's Church at Imatra "wraps" its planes flexibly around the sound of the preacher's voice (Fig. 3.28). [4.39] Perhaps he was thinking of the flow of the architect's pencil as he sketched the plan and wrapped the lines around his concept of the spreading sound waves. Architecture has been described as "frozen music", but it appears to be for many people 'frozen movement'. [4.40]
It is possible that all these effects may be experienced simultaneously, but in differing proportions in different individuals, according to the extent to which they project their feelings on to inanimate objects; whether they take their pleasures actively or passively; whether they are interested in spectacles which involve movement or in the static scenes of architecture and painting; whether their preference is for the visual or the literary; or whether, like engineers, they are trained to assess the mechanics of built form.
Anthropomorphism and animalization.
A phenomenon related to empathy is the tendency of many observers to see buildings as creatures or people, and endow them with personalities. It is quite common for people to see 'faces' in buildings: features reminiscent of two eyes, a nose and a mouth. Some architects even design them with this intention. [4.41] In discussing the effects of perspective Arnheim states that when a building is
"viewed from close by, the walls lean backward, and the tall structure seems to address itself to concerns of its own size without regard to the small creatures at its feet." [4.42]
He maintains that the apparent 'character' of a building depends on the angle from which it is viewed. When it is seen obliquely rather than face on, he feels it is "turned away, dwelling in a world of its own, minding its own business". [4.43] He considers the frontal view, although it provides less three-dimensional information, to be much more inviting. [4.44]
Fig. 4.12. The walls of Aalto's Vuoksenniska Church follow the contours of sound of the preacher's voice.
See also AGRAM. Select "Alvar Aalto" then "Church of the three crosses".
He notes that such perceptions are particularly relevant to buildings "locked in by their neighbours". [4.45] The small building shown in Fig. 4.13, sandwiched between two taller buildings in a Melbourne street has evoked expressions of sympathy from sensitive observers. Peter Smith (1979) cites the case of an old building whose facade has been preserved in front of the multi-storey modern block which now occupies the site. The eighteenth-century facade now "stands blind, isolated and emasculated" and the "overhanging tower seems to be gloating over its lifeless victim". [4.46] Of course these perceptions depend greatly on the disposition of the observer. A colleague suggested that the Melbourne building could be seen as "merely a piece of grit between two things that should be joined", and to some people the old building facade could be a monument to misplaced nostalgia and a refusal to live in the present.
Fig. 4.13. A small building sandwiched between two others and encroached upon by one of them engages our empathy. No. 65 Swanston Street, Melbourne.
The classical orders have been seen by many commentators as epitomizing masculinity and femininity. Vitruvius saw the Doric as having "the proportion, strength and grace of a man's body", while the Ionic possessed "feminine slenderness". [4.47] In the nineteenth century Louis Sullivan described the bulky, masonry-clad Marshall Field Wholesale Store in Chicago as "a man that walks on two legs instead of four … lives and breathes … in a world of barren pettiness, a male …" [4.48]
The association of buildings and structures with insects, animals, and birds has already been mentioned. Dockyard cranes (Fig. 4.14) may be seen as reminiscent of dinosaurs or wading birds about to spear their prey.
Fig. 4.14. This crane evokes the image of a prehistoric beast stalking the London docklands.
[The image used in the book was a copyright photo of a crane working on the USS Tawara at Ingalls Shipbuilding, Litton Industries Inc.]
Arnheim refers to the way in which some of Frank Lloyd Wright's buildings "lie on the ground like an animal" (Fig. 4.15) [4.49] and this simile is reminiscent of Scully's statement that the Church at Imatra (Fig. 3.28) looks out at the world with "crocodile eyes". [4.50]
Fig. 4.15. The buildings of Frank Lloyd Wright have been seen to "lie on the ground like an animal", and to reflect in their "unbroken horizontals" the life of the earth. Robie House, Chicago. 1909. [Photo: Galinsky.]
Buildings are also identified with everyday objects in an apparent desire to 'cut them down to size'. Skyscrapers have been dubbed 'matchboxes', and cartoonists have sketched graphs on illustrations of the impersonal matrix-like facade of Wall Street skyscrapers. The circular Hirschhorn Museum in Washington has been likened by Jencks (1981) to a World War Two pillbox and a "marble doughnut". [4.51]
Sensuality.
Many commentators see certain types of surface as having a sensuous quality, particularly the smooth and yielding skins of inflated structures. Tzonis and Lefaivre (1986) find erotic potential in the forms and details of classical architecture
"… if one leans against a column on a summer afternoon, it can really make the heart quiver, the skin tighten, the cheeks flush, breathing quicken." [4.52]
A common perception is that the 'movement' in a building, or the ordering of its elements, progresses gradually to a visual climax, followed by relief of tension. This affords one of the many analogies between architecture and music. In defending Baroque architecture from critics who consider it to be slovenly or ostentatious, Geoffrey Scott refers to its "quality of exultation", to its "vigour … in action", its "vigour … at play" (Fig. 4.16). He states that "the parts … appear to flow together, merge into one another, spring from one another." This is " … movement, tossing and returning; movement unrestrained, yet not destructive of that essential repose which comes from composition …" He sees an impression of great power and strength, but controlled and thus not overflowing, of rhythm, direction, and stress. When the movement is tempestuous or bold, the controlling lines must be emphatic or strong. Sometimes there arises the necessity for "the triple pediment with its thrice-repeated lines, placed, like the chords in the last bars of a symphony, to close the tumult and to restore the eye to its calm". [4.53]
Fig. 4.16. Baroque exuberance: "exultation"; "vigour in action and at play". The Church of San Carlo alle Quattro Fontane, Rome. 1667. (Archt: Francesco Borromini.) [Photo: Sancarlino. Also Sullivan.]
A more modern example might be the tent structure in which the surface swoops between the tips of poles and the points of ground anchorage (Fig. 4.17). The simultaneously inward-and-outward-curving surfaces of a tent roof have an entirely different quality from that of a single curvature suspended roof which, in comparison, may seem heavy and ponderous.
Fig. 4.17. Confident verticality: powerful upthrust and high tension in the Myer Music Bowl, Melbourne. 1959. (Archts: Yuncken, Freeman Brothers, Griffiths and Simpson. Struct. Engr: Roy Johnston.)
Humour.
Architectural jokes may evoke both emotional and intellectual responses. The most basic are those which rely for their impact on simple nonsense, such as the twisted shafts supporting the cloister of San Pedro at Estella and the hanging 'columns' of Kevin Roche's John Deere building (Fig. 4.18). The effect of painted shadows on Roche's building, in mirror image of the real ones, is more complex. So are the apparently frivolous designs of Site Inc. which endow department stores with peeling brickwork, tilt-up walls, and moveable corners. These may be interpreted as innocent nonsense. [4.54] However, they also represent the impatience which the revolutionary, the idealist, and the dreamer feel for the constraints imposed by convention, common sense, and the laws of nature. Many observers share such feelings, at least to a small degree. Others find them particularly disturbing and see in such jokes a wilful attempt to confuse rather than to intrigue or amuse the observer. Some people maintain that all jokes must have a victim, and there is certainly a sharp edge to much architectural humour.
Fig. 4.18. Humour and contradiction in the John Deere Financial Services Building, Moline, Illinois. 1979. Painted shadows mirror the real ones. 'Columns' lending significance to the entrance hang almost to floor level. (Archt: Kevin Roche. Struct. Engrs: Weiskopf and Pickworth.) [Photo: Kevin Roche John Dinkeloo Associates LLC.]
Charles Jencks (1987) provides an account of Peter Eisenman's House 6 in which some members which would be expected to form part of a three-dimensional grid are omitted, and replaced by rectangular slits in adjacent surfaces.
"This absent column cuts through roof, wall and even floor, wreaking its ultimate havoc on domesticity (such is Eisenman's sardonic hatred of function). It divides the marital bed in two. A false step or leap and you'd land in the living room …" [4.55]
It obviously requires an exceptional client to appreciate this type of humour.
At certain times, the desire to break the 'rules' of an art-form develops into a special sort of reaction known as mannerism. The first period to be identified as 'mannerist' was that of the late Renaissance. We seem to be passing through a similar stage today of preoccupation with historical references and architectural jokes. Mannerist designers invert the rules and mock the conventions, without allowing their audience to forget that the rules exist. This may done with such brilliance of technique and composition that jaded appetites are revitalized. [4.56] A popular example is Giulio Romano's Palazzo del Tè (Fig. 4.19) in which one of the many jokes is that the triglyphs at the centre of each bay appear to have slipped a little. The 'broken pediment' was another departure from convention which itself soon became a convention, illustrating the limitations of this kind of exercise. Naturally it is essential for the observer to have had a thorough education in the rules and conventions of a style before such jokes can have any meaning.
Fig. 4.19. Mannerist humour. Slipped triglyphs, exaggerated rustication, and other jokes in the Palazzo del Tè, near Mantua. 1535. (Archt: Giulio Romano.) [Photos: Sullivan.]
The most esoteric form of joke is the 'witty reference' in which the architect uses a feature reminiscent of another architect's style or of another building. The steam emerging from the air-conditioning plant behind the pediment of Philip Johnson's AT&T Building in New York (Fig. 3.30) has been seen as a reference to the smoke which issued from the tops of many of the projects of the 'Revolutionary' architects Boullée and Ledoux. [4.57] In such cases much of the gratification comes from knowing that one is sufficiently educated to be aware that a joke has been made (although it is easy to read jokes into serious and even unintended 'quotations').
Unfortunately for engineers, it is difficult to flout the rules of structural mechanics and have anything left to show for it. However it is possible to play to some extent on people's elementary preconceptions about structure, as in the case of the twisted shafts at Estella.
Security versus stimulus - a tension.
Visual order and disorder.
We seem to have an innate need to discover visual order in what we see. This is related to our desire to understand and control our environment and may be a part of our primitive survival skills. It may also be driven by basic emotions such as insecurity and fear of the unknown. Sometimes the desire for order spills over into political attitudes and these may become enmeshed with the appreciation of architecture. Here we are concerned only with the basic need and the part it plays in the intellectual analysis of compositions. The discussion is limited to visual order, and does not include the type of order (or logic) which an engineer might appreciate in the disposition of components in a steam-engine.
What, then, is this (visual) order which so many commentators seek, and often demand, in architecture? It is generally agreed that its essence lies in proportion, if this is seen as a question of relationships between elements and the whole. However, many writers such as Francis Ching (1979) identify further 'ordering principles' including symmetry, hierarchy, rhythm or repetition, and the presence of a strong axis or of one dominant feature to which all others relate. [4.58] Peregrine Horden (1983) considers that "explicit proportional relationships" and "hierarchical ordering of features" greatly facilitate the comprehension of built form. [4.59] Several of these concepts overlap, and all relate to the concept of unity which is prominent in many prescriptions for order and beauty. A common perception is thus that rules for aesthetic design such as those of classical architecture impose visual unity, coherence, and comprehensibility on the products of the design process.
As we have seen, such conventions at the same time provide some resistance, some 'stiffness in the clay' which the designer must mould.
However, for Scott, order is a necessary, but not sufficient, condition for beauty. He cites a warehouse as a building which may have a high degree of order but nevertheless be ugly. Order of this sort does provide intelligibility but who, he asks, wishes to quickly perceive ugliness? [4.60] The idea that it should be possible to comprehend the form and nature of a building easily and quickly is a common theme in much writing on aesthetics. Symmetry is seen as a major aid to the comprehension of complex forms.
The perception of order, even in classical architecture, is highly subjective. Burckhardt considers that Michelangelo, in designing his Porta Pia, flouted convention, but imposed order through the sheer strength of his will. Burckhardt saw it as
"…an ill-famed building, seemingly a mere caprice; but an intrinsic law, which the master creates for himself, lives in the proportions and in the local effect of the particular shapes, totally arbitrary though they are in themselves. Those windows, that pediment with its strong shadows, etc., together with the main lines, form a whole that even at first glance one will attribute to none other than a great, though misguided artist. The arbitrariness is governed by a determination that appears almost as a necessity." [Trans. Arnheim 1982.] [4.61]
Rasmussen's account of the same building (1959) is rather different
"the spectator who tries to take in every detail of this gateway will feel no sense of harmony or balance. It is impossible to choose any one form and attempt to get a lucid picture of it without having its antithesis force its way into the picture demanding to be noticed." [4.62]
This brings us to the question of disorder. The objection of most commentators is more than a simple aversion to messes and a need to see things looking neat and tidy. Arnheim finds the modern mirror-glass building a prime source of perceptual disorientation, with the reflections of adjacent buildings creating "a surrealistic contradiction between incompatible images". He thus states that disorder is not "maximum absence of order". Distress is most acute when we have some expectation of comprehending a scene by discerning some underlying order, and then find that this is almost, but not quite, possible. Our natural reaction is to switch off our spontaneous effort to categorize and order the world around us, and to concentrate on the "isolated targets of our immediate purpose". [4.63]
Engineers frequently object to visual disorder in structures. Stefan Medwadowski (1983) has written of the disorientation which can be caused when large space-frames are viewed from certain angles. [4.64] Fritz Leonhardt (1982) notes that if a set of fan-shaped cables is provided on each side of a cable-stayed bridge the inclinations of the cables conflict when the bridge is viewed obliquely. He advocates that this be avoided by providing a single set only, or employing the parallel-cable system. [4.65]
Nevertheless, most of us become bored with an undiluted diet of harmony, repose, and balance. Too much excitement and confusion may be worrying but most of us welcome at least a pinch of disorder. Scott, in his chapter on the 'Romantic fallacy', speaks of our attraction to "what is unexpected, wild, fantastic, accidental". [4.66] Again, the conflicting needs are expressed on the emotional as well as the intellectual plane. The classicist, designing or appreciating architecture within a set of well-defined rules, finds a new way of applying them or relishes the way in which they can be manipulated without being quite transgressed. The modernist architect designing in the name of the organic, the functional, or the rational, finds it necessary to add a minimum of non-essential features in order to achieve the maximum of elegance or perhaps to 'express' the structure to the lay observer.
Peter Smith (1979) sees this tendency to shy away from absolute purity, absolute conformity, and absolute predictability as a form of 'rhyme'. [4.67] In poetry, words which rhyme are of similar but not identical sound. In music, perfect harmony is relieved by progressions and enlivened by the occasional slight discord. In architecture, similar effects may be achieved by subtle deviations from a set of established rules of composition (which may be either visual or functional). Scott's description of Baroque architecture implies a high degree of rhyme of this sort, with forms "jammed together" to give a sense of movement and energy. [4.68] Arnheim notes that the angles and curves of the Baroque facade deviate from the virtually present norm by just sufficient to leave the impression of a flat plane that has been pushed and pulled (Fig. 4.16). [4.69]
Harmony and contrast.
The duality between harmony and contrast reflects yet another aspect of our contradictory needs for stimulus and security. Geoffrey Scott lauds the authority, dignity, and poise of classic design, which he feels is achieved by conveying at every point a sense of equipoise, with the forms being so adjusted at every point to cancel all suggested movement. [4.70] An anonymous critic describing the effect of Alvar Aalto's student dormitory at MIT commented that
"The startling way in which Aalto's building plays sharp wall angles against curved walls has had the same disturbing and upsetting effect on critics as the dissonant passages in modern music." [4.71]
On the other hand Robert Venturi is amongst those who appreciate the 'dissonance' which arises when conflicting effects co-exist. [4.72] Recent architecture is full of such examples, where curving facades contrast with sharp edges and flat planes, circles with squares and triangles, and smooth surfaces with rough (Fig. 4.20). This is of course the opposite of the unity which so many people seek.
Fig. 4.20. Staatsgalerie Stuttgart. Dissonance of curves and planes, inclined and vertical lines. 1980. (Archt: James Stirling. Engrs: Ove Arup and Ptnrs.) [Photo: Pritzker Prize (see bottom photo).]
When engineering structures are introduced into rural, or even certain urban landscapes, the choice between harmony and contrast becomes a very important issue. A striking example of such 'dissonance' occurs when the smooth, sharp-edged concrete supports of a freeway overpass bridge contrast dramatically with the ragged rock-face of a cutting. Many designers feel that an effect of dramatic contrast is as acceptable as any attempt to make the structure 'blend' with its surroundings, and is more natural, appropriate, and honest. This is the point made by Isler (1983) in his argument mentioned above.
Many designers feel that the worst approach is to attempt some form of compromise and produce a result which is insipid. They feel that when a structure with a powerful form will inevitably clash with its environment, the only solution is to increase the contrast. This is presumably the reason why a surprising number of bridges in visually sensitive areas are painted a bright red. [4.73] Le Corbusier adopted a similar philosophy in his Villa Savoye, designed as a pristine white box surrounded by green lawns with a background of trees. [4.74]
Simplicity versus complexity.
Order may be simple or complex. To use more emotive terms, it may be elegant or rich. This dichotomy provides yet another source of emotional-intellectual tension. The Platonic qualities of simple, pure, and elegant forms are a recurring theme in architectural criticism. The Revolutionary architects, particularly Boullée, were fascinated by them. In this century Le Corbusier greatly admired the qualities of the cylindrical grain silo. The name of Mies van der Rohe is synonymous with simplicity and elegance in design. Isler (1983) commends the simplicity of shells because their interior is uncluttered by supporting beams, tension members, or columns, and because the enclosed space and the outer form are almost identical. [4.75]
There is of course a great difference between the plain simplicity of a blank wall or the characterless repetition of a curtain wall, and the elegant simplicity of a building in the style of Mies. Like the artist's sketch, which encapsulates an impression of an object in a few cleverly chosen lines, the elegant building conveys a strong character with a minimum of feature.
For others, however, the perception of pure form, and even of elegant simplicity, offers insufficient stimulus to the intellect. Thus at the other extreme we find those like Venturi (1966), who demand "complexity and contradiction" in architecture. With the advent of postmodernism, complexity is so much in vogue in architecture that it is not necessary to give examples. It should be noted, however, that there is a great difference between a complex composition and a mere mass of detail which, as it is devoid of visual order, is not under discussion here.
Appreciation of complexity is an intellectual exercise and has much to do with the search for order. According to Smith (1979) the analysis of complexity used in psychology is based on information theory. [4.76] We have a basic drive to comprehend the world around us. We are gratified when we can achieve this, and disturbed when we cannot. Complexity is experienced when a stimulus pattern does not relate to schemas already stored in the memory. The brain must then work to assimilate the new information in some way. If we are overwhelmed by its quantity or novelty, we may give up altogether and 'switch off'. There must thus be hope of a reasonably speedy resolution to provide the motivation. This may explain why many people demand that built form be quickly comprehensible. (There is some evidence from psychological research that creative people have a greater than average 'tolerance of ambiguity' and so are able to endure uncertainty for a longer period.) [4.77]
Of course the modernist and the engineer would argue that there is no point in introducing complexity into a composition unless this complexity is solidly based in the nature of the building as determined by the functions it is required to serve. The reaction to complexity is thus coloured by the observer's attitude to its raison d'être. Ornamentation is a form of arbitrarily applied complexity which arouses extreme emotions. Those in favour of it speak of its adding life and charm to a composition, while those opposed to it adopt a strong tone of moral disapprobation. Consideration of this topic has been left until Chapter 6.
Association and nostalgia.
Three separate types of association have been distinguished. [4.78]
- Those stimulated by natural forms and colours, leading to thoughts of fineness, delicacy, and ease.
- Relative associations leading to thoughts of skill, wisdom, utility, and propriety.
- Accidental (or personal) associations, leading to thoughts peculiar to the individual.
The emphasis on pleasant and positive associations in categories 1 and 2 occurs because the aesthetic experience is equated with the appreciation of beauty. The associations listed are evidently seen as common to all observers, although it is easy to imagine differences, especially regarding utility and propriety. Category 3 presumably covers all associations not listed in the other two, and it is too restrictive to describe all of these as 'personal'. Many must be shared by groups of people. Specialist groups such as historians and architects would share certain associations and these would mark them off from other groups. The same would apply to social classes and entire nations.
Some associations are very widely shared. Examples are the perception of medieval castles as the setting for ancient chivalry and pageantry; of cathedrals and monasteries as places of special piety and devotion; and of palaces such as Versailles as centres of elegance and refinement. Many people will insist that these buildings are beautiful simply because of these associations. Others, who are conscious of the less savory aspects of life in those times may find it impossible to appreciate their visual qualities. One of John Ruskin's main arguments against Renaissance architecture was that it was the product of corrupt and impious rulers of state and church. [4.79] In this case it is easy to see the point of the aesthete's argument that such impressions should not be allowed to intrude on the appreciation of the building as an aesthetic object.
A further difficulty with associations is that they have the power to endow absolutely anything with beauty or ugliness as long as the observer chooses the appropriate associations. It is pleasant, when we look at a castle, to conjure up images of courtly lute-songs, gallant knights and fair ladies, but we could just as easily think of pestilence, pillage, and fear of damnation. Geoffrey Scott points out, in attacking the 'Romantic fallacy', that many of the ideas we associate with buildings exist more in literature than in historical fact. At one time Gothic construction was seen as the work of "ignorant and monkist barbarians". [4.80] Later it was attributed to the idealized Goth "firm in his faith and noble in his aspirations". [4.81] Finally it came to be regarded as the expression of a rational, almost mathematical approach to optimized structure.
This is not to say that all attempts at intellectual understanding of the contemporary milieu and emotional reactions to it are irrelevant or misleading. A sound knowledge of the historical conditions in which a building was created and an understanding of the symbolism and the preoccupations of the time can prepare the way for a fuller appreciation of an architectural style as long as it is used to help us avoid inappropriate responses to the actual form of the building. While it is not necessary to know exactly who commissioned a building of overpowering scale and what their political or religious beliefs were, it is appropriate to take note of the extent to which its scale was chosen to impress or intimidate the visitor and thus correctly interpret the 'message' it conveys.
The current interest in old utilitarian structures such as mills and warehouses demonstrates that the political circumstances and hardship surrounding the construction and use of a building need not prevent us from appreciating its aesthetic charm. Some people find it difficult to appreciate the form of structures such as container gantries and dockyard cranes, because of their association with the dirt and sweat of industry and commerce. The large number of books which photographers have produced on these subjects prove that beauty and drama are to be found in these forms (pp. 000 and 000).
Even here the danger of misplaced associations is present. Early steam locomotives and cars, and the 'sticks-and-string' biplanes of the First-World War are now seen through a haze of nostalgia. Equivalents in the world of civil engineering are the canal and railway viaducts, the bridges of Stephenson and Brunel (Fig. 4.21), and the Eiffel tower. [4.82] All of these creations met with a great deal of hostility when they were first introduced, but are now for the most part viewed with affection and respect. Important related factors are the familiarity and sense of belonging which enables many people to feel affection for a grim colliery or a grimy terrace in the midst of their home town.
Fig. 4.21. The Royal Albert Bridge over the River Tamar at Saltash (1859) does not lend itself to formal analysis. Romance and nostalgia contribute to its appeal. (Struct. Engr: I.K.Brunel.)
Somewhat less potent and less universal associations are those listed by Charles Jencks (1987). [4.83] The more exotic include likening the roof of the Chapel at Ronchamp (Fig. 3.2) to a nun's hat or a mushroom, and the shells of the Sydney Opera House to a group of mating turtles. This is the stuff of which the language of architecture is made, and it will be discussed further in Chapter 5.
Whether these later associations are a valid part of the aesthetic experience is of less interest than the fact that they do occur to many people. It is important for designers who wish their structures to be taken seriously to avoid the more comic connotations, and for those who wish to suggest specific impressions to the observers to know how this difficult task might be attempted.
Literary allusion.
Geoffrey Scott attacked the metaphoric images employed in architectural criticism under the heading of 'literary allusion' within the 'Romantic fallacy'. He suggests that, as much as we appreciate the metaphoric images of arches 'springing' and 'leaping' and of spires 'soaring', they have no basis in our innate perceptions. We have simply learned such metaphors from literary sources and adopted the habit of using them. Literary allusion thus represents a distraction from the direct experience of visual pleasure. [4.84]
Scott condemns also the excessive use of poetic metaphor, such as the description of architecture as 'frozen music'. [4.85] A renowned example of such writing occurs in John Ruskin's celebrated book The stones of Venice (1851-53), where he describes the facade of St Mark's cathedral. He relates that the shadow of the morning sun steals back to reveal "line after line of azure undulation" and "capitals rich with interwoven tracery". Above these come the 'archivolts', and
"above these, another range of glittering pinnacles, mixed with white arches edged with scarlet flowers, - a confusion of delight, amidst which the breasts of the Greek horses are seen blazing in their breadth of golden strength, and the St Mark's lion, lifted on a blue field covered with stars, until at last, as if in ecstasy, the crests of the arches break into a marble foam, and toss themselves far into the blue sky in flashes and wreaths of sculptured spray, as if the breakers on the Lido shore had been frost-bound before they fell, and the sea-nymphs had inlaid them with coral and amethyst." [4.86]
Nevertheless, Scott was willing to admit some value, even a lasting one, in literary allusions. While these
"ought not to be the primary value of a material art, they are its ultimate value … The significance of architecture outlives, in the mind, the immediate sensuous perception. The literary values enrich our experience and thus are clear again … but we should derive aesthetic enjoyment first, then appraise the quality of style. It is secondary whether we enrich it with associations." [4.87]
Peter Collins (1965) sees a danger that architects might start trying to design buildings in terms of such flights of fancy or even in order to inspire them in critics. [4.88]
Sensitivity in the observer.
Despite the objections of critics such as Scott, literary allusion continues to flourish. The reason must be that it conveys the genuine experiences of commentators who are perhaps more sensitive than most of us, and that it strikes a chord in many readers.
Peter Blake (1976) wrote of the way in which Frank Lloyd Wright's "heavy, low-slung roof planes" offer protection against the "threatening sky" of the American prairie. [4.89] To see them in this way, one has first to consider the prairie sky as threatening. To many people, Mies van der Rohe's Farnsworth House (Fig. 3.17) gives the impression, at least in its photographs, of being emotionally cold. [4.90] However, Arthur Drexler described it in the following terms.
"The illusion of effortless organization is reinforced by the superb craftsmanship … Each detail and each material … is used to clarify an absolute - one could say a platonic - architectural space, serenely independent of the transient emotional values of light, location, and atmosphere. But, in its cumulative effect, the Farnsworth house generates emotional overtones as insistent as the hum of a dynamo." [4.91]
In an article in the Architectural Review (May, 1964) Paul Rudolph's Art and Architecture Building at Yale University was described as a building which, because of its uncompromising geometry and the deep striations of its concrete surfaces, repels touch.
"… it hurts you if you try. The sense is of bitter pride, acrid acerbity rising perhaps to a kind of tragic gloom, since the light falls across the gashed ridges in long dusky veils, all brightness eaten by broken surfaces, no reflections possible, instead sombre absorption everywhere." [4.92]
Jacobus (1966) described Le Corbusier's Villa Savoye (Fig. 4.22) as providing "a variety of stimuli, both architectural and non-architectural, providing a receptive viewer with almost bewildering allusions". [4.93]
Fig. 4.22. Le Corbusier's 'Villa Savoye', Poissy, France. 1931. Rich in stimulus and allusion, and an example of 'white architecture'. [Photo: Galinsky.]
To many people, these accounts may seem exaggerated. Technologists would certainly be less likely to see inert building materials and forms as actively aggressive, or to be overwhelmed by the richness of associations inspired by a building. Designers are thus faced with deciding whether to consider such possible reactions in everyday design, catering to the sensitivities of a small, if highly educated, minority.
Sense of place.
A sentiment which has a great deal to do with association is 'sense of place'. This is well known to novelists and travel writers as well as critics of architecture and is often related to the sites of ancient battles and the streets and squares of historic towns. It is felt particularly strongly in locations which have been venerated for centuries, such as the groves and promontories sacred to the ancient Greeks, and in the vicinity of prominent topographic features, such as the Tors of Dartmoor. [4.94] In folklore it is often believed that a creature from the spirit world inhabits and guards such locations, and the Romans knew this as the genius loci, a term which has captured the imagination of many modern writers on architecture. [4.95] Communities have produced their own equivalent of the dominating peak by building cathedrals on prominent ridges. Charles Moore's article on 'Hadrian's Villa' [4.96] describes the aura of a building which has caught the imagination of post-modern architects, and some charming impressions of 'place' in Oxford and Cambridge are provided by Browne (1977, 1978). In all these descriptions, the quality of the local light is an important factor.
Locations where a sense of place might be experienced in a more modern setting range from sites of what is now known as 'industrial archaeology' through to dockland areas (Banham 1969). Modern equivalents of the cathedral-on-a-hill are water towers and, in flat wheat farming regions, grain silos. The appearance of the latter seen from a distance may be very similar to that of a cathedral, and they fulfil a similar role in visual terms as monument and landmark.
In the engineering world a type of 'sense of place' is more common than we perhaps realize. The construction site is a source of strong impressions: the smell of cement dust, wet concrete, and diesel; the buzz of activity; the flash of the oxy-acetylene torch; the bursting rattle of heavy motors; and the hiss of compressed air. Although each experience is transitory, the engineer carries this sense of 'place' from one site to the next. The ambience of a large steel-making plant, with the rows of black furnaces looming over its roadways, the wisps of steam and smoke, and the rattle of locomotives and wagons is more permanent. Dockyards have a special feeling of their own, depending on whether or not they are in use. Silent, they appear forlorn and neglected. They are often cold and windy. With a large ship alongside they can be a scene of activity, but still of an apparently unhurried nature.
The experience of a sense of place is a highly complex phenomenon. Some theorists argue that the make-up of the human mind favours certain constructs which are thus universal. This ensures that certain localities have a special significance for all of us. Nevertheless, private memories and analogies and the observer's knowledge of local history and folklore must play a large part in a sense of place. Again the observer's predisposition is very important. To a stranger, a Welsh mining valley, might appear depressing, but a local inhabitant would feel at home. An Australian who has spent years studying the culture of classical Greece from a great distance may experience an immediate feeling of affinity for the sites on seeing them for the first time.
Experiences closely related to sense of place are those of 'path' and 'sequence'. The approach and entrance to built form may arouse strong emotions of expectancy, awe, or anxiety. Designers may consciously manipulate these emotions. The progression may be orchestrated so as to avoid boredom or to provide some form of climax. [4.97]
Intellectual games.
There are many sources of intellectual delight to be found in the appreciation of buildings. One of the chief of these is a purely academic interest in identifying a building as the work of a particular architect and recognizing its place in the development of a historical style. This may be intensified by a belief that styles in art and architecture undergo stages of birth, growth, ripeness, and decay. Geoffrey Scott described the latter as the 'biological fallacy' and attacked the whole 'academic tradition' because it obscures the more immediate visual delights of architecture. [4.98] His objection was that the links in the sequence come to have a greater interest for the researcher than the major events. Attention thus swings away from the aesthetic evaluation and recording of outstanding examples, to "a general interest in mediocrity". [4.99]
A preoccupation with geometrical proportion may be seen as a form of intellectual game, although it is often accompanied by a conviction that it has mystical significance. Other forms include mannerist inversion of classical rules, the use of historical 'references' in modern architecture, and the more intellectual jokes. Peter Eisenman has designed a series of homes (named House I, House II, etc) which offer intellectual pleasure in the play of abstract form. Two sets of orthogonal vertical and horizontal members define two independent three-dimensional grids which intersect at an oblique angle. Cladding, partitions, and living spaces are fitted into the matrix as considered necessary, leaving some members with no function other than to define a part of the 'clashing' grids. [4.100] Eisenman was concerned that the final form should include a record of the design process by means of which it was derived. Typical post-modern games are illustrated by Ricardo Bofill's 'Palace of Abraxas' (Fig. 4.9). Some of the large classical 'columns' contain staircases, but the front half of others is cut away to reveal the negatively curved inner surface as a contrast to the positive surface of the full cylinders. Similar games are played with the pediments and supporting columns. [4.101]
Intention.
If we know something about the intentions of the designer of a 'work of art', we are able to locate it within a certain tradition. We thus know under what set of conventions we are expected to appreciate it. This knowledge must affect the degree of pleasure obtained by any but the most committed purist, and is an essential part of that education which aesthetes agree is necessary to proper appreciation of art. The average visitor to the Holmesglen College in Melbourne might be annoyed by the fact that there is a column exactly in the centre of the entrance and that it is necessary to make a detour to approach the door at the side. This is not the unreserved welcome afforded by the traditional portico with its grand central doorway. Someone with a knowledge of 'aesthetics' might be disturbed by the duality resulting from the central placement of the column. However, another might recognize the feature as an instance of post-modern mannerism, realize that the designer had wilfully ignored the conventions in order to provide a welcome jolt to jaded appetites, and thus enjoy a richer aesthetic experience. [4.102]
Intention is a very important factor for those who prize highly a sense of sincerity, be it in load-bearing structure, in the architectural arrangement of internal space and envelope, or in ornamentation. Geoffrey Scott's spirited defence of the Baroque depends heavily on his opinion that the false construction, false perspectives, and false gold were part of a compact between the architect and a knowing public, and thus did not represent an intention to defraud. [4.103]
Although the intentions of the designer may be irrelevant to assessment of the direct visual effect of an engineering structure, most engineers would wish to include in their assessment the extent to which the designer had achieved the intended aims, the means adopted, and the elegance with which conflicts had been resolved. [4.104] These aspects of design could, however, be considered 'aesthetic objects' more or less distinct from the building itself. The debate as to whether intention is a valid part of the aesthetic object thus appears to be largely irrelevant. The main consideration is whether one wishes to derive aesthetic pleasure from its inclusion.
There does, however, remain one major difficulty. It is often hard to discover just what was the full intention of the designer. Theories of the subconscious indicate that designers and artists themselves may be the last people to understand their own motives. Some find it difficult to express their artistic objectives in words, and others fear that an attempt might rob them of their inspiration. On the other hand, critics often make assumptions about intentions or read into accidental features of an aesthetic object 'meanings' that were demonstrably not in the mind of its creator. [4.105] In engineering structures intentions may equally well be concealed by commercial or governmental secrecy, or because engineers in general are not articulate about the design principles (or 'philosophy') of their profession.
Feelings about logic in design.
Many engineers write of the intellectual delight of understanding structural action and appreciating the skill of the designer. Medwadowski (1971) provides a good example, and the books of Nervi (1956, 1965a) and Torroja (1958a) are classics in the field. Once again, this delight can be fully appreciated, and rational judgements made, only by those with a thorough education in the subject. Because the disposition of material must take into account so many other factors of a technical and non-technical nature, it is necessary for a full appreciation to have a sound knowledge of architecture, building, and engineering in general. Many authors have argued, along with Geoffrey Scott, that because few people have more than a crude knowledge of structural action, the designer and observer must communicate about structure at a very basic level which has more to do with impressions of structural action than with the real thing. [4.106] The post-modernists have attempted to solve a similar problem in architecture by trying to communicate with observers at several levels. A building will thus include historical references which can be understood only by those with a thorough training in art history, as well as references to familiar symbols which have meaning for the average person.
Another source of delight lies in the elegance with which the architect has handled the less artistic aspects of architecture. These include the 'structuring' of internal space, the resolution of the often conflicting demands of light and heat control, ventilation, and acoustics, and the way in which all these have been reconciled with the designer's philosophical and aesthetic approaches to architecture.
While the Farnsworth house (Fig. 3.17) and Philip Johnson's comparable Glass House are admirable for their elegance of line and their classic simplicity, it is difficult not to regret their lack of privacy, their air of cold austerity, and the problems they must present in heating and light control. In contrast, the pompous and over-exuberant nature of the decor in the foyer of the Paris Opéra is compensated for by the fact that its many flights of stairs, balconies, and nooks and crannies ensure that it functions well as a place to meet people and to see and be seen. [4.107]
Conclusion.
The above descriptions have done little more than introduce the psychological factors which contribute to the appreciation of built form. A better impression, from the viewpoint of critics and architects, may be obtained by reading the original the sources referenced in the text. It is not necessary to assess immediately the value of the authors' concepts or decide whether one agrees with their opinions. The best course is to enjoy the experience of discovering a variety of approaches to built form, and to let the general sense sink in, to be assimilated or rejected with the passage of time. [4.108]
Image Acknowledgements. Linked images, Chapter 4.
AGRAM (Rein Saariste). Link.
Emporis. Link.
Galinsky. Link.
Kevin Roche John Dinkeloo Associates LLC Link.
Looking at Buildings. Link.
NYC Architecture. Link.
Open University and BBC, UK. Link.
Padri Trinitari. Link.
President of India, Secretariat. Link.
Pritzker Prize. Link.
Sullivan, Mary Ann. Bluffton College. Link.
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