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 [5.x]. (These are not links.) [Notes to Chapter 5.]
Introduction.
Since ancient times it has been believed that structures carry discernible meanings which are consciously or unconsciously built into them by their designers. The idea that some form of 'language' is involved in this is centuries old and the high current level of interest in the subject is indicated by the frequency with which the words 'meaning' and 'language' appear in titles and contents pages. [5.1] It is fairly evident that non-verbal communication does take place in architecture on an everyday level. If we see a house set well back from the street, surrounded by a high brick wall and with a guard dog roaming the garden, we feel, rightly or wrongly, that we can 'read' something of the owner's personality, and deduce the sort of welcome we might get if we attempted to knock on the front door. We might even say that the owner is 'trying to tell us something'.
Meanings can be read in a similar way into industrial buildings and heavy engineering structures. [5.2] Thus all structural engineers, not only those who deal with architects, should know something about the way in which meanings are perceived by both the 'person in the street' and the critic of architecture, and to what extent it is possible to think of a 'language' of built form.
The various forms of association.
Direct simile.
Association seems to be the primary mechanism by which meaning is conveyed, although it is difficult to decide where one ends and the other begins. An example of pure 'association' is the realization that the top of the AT&T building (Fig. 3.30) looks like the top of some pieces of furniture. The term 'meaning' is applicable when the observer asks 'why?', or follows the train of associations into more complex levels, especially when these have emotional connotations. [5.3]
The most direct form of association is the simile. We have already seen how some people liken monolithic circular buildings such as the Hirschhorn Museum to wartime pill-boxes. Jencks suggests that the more unfamiliar a building is, the more likely it is to be the subject of this type of uncomplimentary comparison. [5.4] When buildings were first clad in precast concrete grills, people compared them to cheesegraters and beehives. People also like to attach 'epithets' to buildings. Stirling lists amongst these: 'The Waterworks' for his Engineering Faculty building at the University of Leicester (Fig. 5.1), and 'The Battleship' for his turreted Student Residence at the University of St Andrews. [5.5] These 'inadvertent' similes may cause confusion as well as diversion for the public.
Fig. 5.1. Engineering Faculty Building, University of Leicester. 1963. Factory aesthetic and the lecture theatre symbol. (Archts: James Stirling and James Gowan. Struct. Engr: Samuely and Ptnrs.) [Photo: Pritzker.]
Occasionally, an architect will intentionally exploit simile. Wendell Rossman (1975) was conscious that the shells he designed for a church roof looked like hands in prayer. Fumihiko Maki fashioned his Municipal Gymnasium at Akibadai in the likeness of a Japanese warrior's helmet (Fig. 5.2).
Fig. 5.2. Fujisawa Municipal Gymnasium, Kanagawa Prefecture, Japan. 1984. Reminiscent of a warrior's helmet. (Archt: Fumihiko Maki. Struct. Engr. Kimura Structural Engineers.) [Photo: Pritzker. Try also Arcspace. (Scroll down.)]
On a less serious note, Kenzo Tange gave his airport terminal at Kuwait the plan-form of an aircraft, and a tourist resort in Australia has the plan-form of a crocodile. [5.6] References to parts of the human body in plan or elevation are common. [5.7] Less explicit similes in this regard include the perception that multi-storey buildings are phallic symbols (Fig. 5.3), and that caves and similar internal spaces are 'womb-like'.
Fig. 5.3. The Rialto Building, Melbourne. A slender obelisk whose mirror glass reflects extreme changes in the mood and colour of incident light. 1986. (Archts: Gerard de Preu and Ptnrs, Perrott Lyon Mathieson. Struct. Engrs: Meinhardt and Ptnrs and Bonacci Winward.)
Meaning as indication of use.
Important mental associations are naturally established between the appearance of built forms and the purposes they fulfil. In utilitarian structures there is often a direct causal link derived from technical and economic considerations and this may be evident to the casual observer, as in the case of cable-stayed bridges, gantries, and hoppers. In buildings where enveloping is a prime consideration, especially when they are habitable, the external appearance is less directly related to purpose, and architects may feel it necessary to draw out whatever rationale there might be. In Walter Gropius's Bauhaus complex (Fig. 5.4), the students' dormitory is furnished with balconies; the workshop and studios have large windows; and the administration building looks much like a modern low-rise office block. Since the 1920s, lecture theatres have often been 'expressed' by having them cantilever from the bulk of a building to reveal a sloping underside (as in Fig. 5.1) related to the rake of the seating. [5.8] The corresponding 'wedge' form has now become almost a cliché for 'lecture theatre'. In other cases, the relationship may be largely conventional, such as the use of black mullions and dark glass for office buildings and chunky exposed-aggregate precast concrete for hostels and apartments.
Fig. 5.4. The Bauhaus complex, Dessau, Germany. 1926. Visually differentiated blocks contain classrooms, workshop, and student accomodation. (Archt: Walter Gropius.) [Photos: archINFORM. (Use triangular buttons to scan thumbnails.)]
People, like other animals, constantly and instinctively appraise their environment. They thus like to be able to 'read' the purpose of a building from its external appearance, and so identify and categorize it. They feel aggrieved when conventional clues have been omitted and especially when inappropriate ones have been included, suspecting that the designer has 'deceived' them or been 'impolite'. [5.9] In many cases, such as the modernist's refusal to conform to tradition, or the mannerist's desire to amuse or shock, there has indeed been a conscious decision to step outside convention.
Rudolph Arnheim states unequivocally that "a motel or a hospital cannot look like a fire-station, or a public library and should not try to". [5.10] Jencks provides telling examples of confusion for the observer amongst Mies van der Rohe's buildings at the Illinois Institute of Technology. All are in the same "universal grammar of steel I-beams along with an infill of beige brick and glass". [5.11] The classroom block is suggestive of a factory churning out students. In contrast, the boiler house is a high, long, nave-like building whose end elevation is divided vertically into three parts reminiscent of the aisles of a cathedral. Its tall brick chimney evokes the faint image of a campanile or a spire. The chapel is a featureless brick-and-glass box, while the School of Architecture is the most striking building on campus. Thus, in Jencks's words,
"the factory is a classroom, the cathedral is the boiler house, the boiler house is a chapel, and the President's temple is the School of Architecture. Thus Mies is saying that the boiler house is more important than the chapel and that the architects rule over the lot."
As always, it is possible for observers to read more complex, and more idiosyncratic interpretations into such a 'message'. A classicist might claim that a designer has been 'confused' in not conforming to conventional detailing, and that the observer has read the message: 'I am a confused designer' or 'this building was built by a confused designer'. To the extent that people actually become confused when looking at such architecture, it could be said that the confusion of the designer had been transmitted to the observer through the building.
Arnheim has suggested that
"As a useful contribution to the semantics of architecture one could investigate the range of variation among particular types of buildings. What are the invariables that cannot be neglected with impunity? How is a hotel or a bank recognized as such, and what features might mislead the user?" [5.12]
Although this sort of information might be useful to the pragmatic designer who wished to avoid causing confusion or offence, experience suggests that analysis is much more difficult than would appear at first sight. It is inappropriate to attempt a detailed identification and analysis in this book, and the conventions seem to be acquired intuitively by most people.
Historical reference.
The messages conveyed by historical reference are even less clearly defined, depending greatly on the knowledge and preconceptions of the observer. The simplest form of reference is the direct 'quotation' where the aim is merely to remind the observer of local historical context, or to play arcane games without any attempt to evoke strong emotions. [5.13] Despite their apparent directness, such references may be interpreted as confused or ambivalent 'messages' even by the knowledgeable. Features borrowed from Hadrian's villa have been employed by many post-modern architects. As Jencks points out, the reproduction of its arcaded pool in a villa designed for a modern businessman might imply the message "this man is a modern Hadrian". [5.14] The architect might wish to convey this message in all seriousness, but it could just as easily be interpreted as a satirical comment. It is also possible that, in quoting this currently fashionable source, the architect might be poking fun at post-modernism itself. For a correct interpretation, context and intention would both be relevant.
Stronger passions are attached by some people to certain historical styles. Heated debates have raged in London in the past decade over proposals to insert modern or high-tech buildings into the city fabric alongside existing classical architecture. Equally strong contrary emotions have been aroused by Quinlan Terry's application of the Georgian style to modern office buildings. [5.15] However these responses have as much to do with the politics and world-view of the people concerned as with their historical imagery, and they will be considered in the following chapter.
Direct association of forms with abstract concepts.
Building elements and building types have direct associations for many people with more abstract concepts. Jencks suggests that in the nineteenth century the Doric style was used for banks because its heavier, 'no-nonsense' proportions carried overtones of sobriety, impersonality, masculinity, and rationality. [5.16] The ancient Egyptian style was used for banks, tombs, and prisons because it conveyed a sense of heaviness, massiveness, impenetrability, and durability. For those with some knowledge of popular Egyptology it also carried overtones of ancient healers and of buried treasure.
It is a commonplace in architectural symbolism that 'roof' stands for 'shelter' and 'security'. The architect of the Hillingdon Civic Centre (Fig. 4.7), Andrew Derbyshire, explained
"we set out … to design a building that spoke a language of form intelligible to its users … and used it to say something that they wanted to hear. Pitched roofs cover the steps of the wall section almost to ground level so that more roof - the protective, welcoming element - is seen than wall - the defensive, hostile element." [5.17]
This approach to meaning in architecture has been condemned as simplistic because it does not allow for the fact that interpretations vary from one individual to another, and change with the passage of time. [5.18] However, there does seem to be merit in such a direct approach. Several police forces have found their public relations improved by adopting the post-modern style for their stations. [5.19] At the other end of the scale, the Sheffield Town Hall, with its heavy precast cladding chamfered like armour-plating around small windows, has been likened to a defensive bunker. [5.20] Museums are also commonly designed in a monolithic windowless style which suggests comparisons with fortresses and strongholds (Fig. 5.5). In contrast, tent structures carry associations of impermanence, despite the fact that their fabric is now guaranteed for more than twenty years, which is sometimes the life-span of a modern office building. [5.21] As a result, governments find it difficult to accept this form of construction for public buildings.
Fig. 5.5. The museum as fortress. The National Gallery of Victoria, Melbourne. 1967. (Archt: Sir Roy Grounds of Grounds Romberg and Boyd).
The bridge is another widely shared symbol. People speak of 'building bridges' between antagonists and of placing 'bridges over troubled waters'. Michael Graves's design for the Fargo-Moorehead Cultural Centre expresses this image (Fig. 5.6) as a link between two municipalities. [5.22] The list of associations which architectural elements might hold for different people is endless. The column is a particular favourite, carrying with it direct historical associations from classical times and from later revivals, as well as abstract ideas of stability and support. [5.23]
Fig. 5.6. The Fargo-Moorhead Cultural Center Bridge, Fargo, North Dakota and Moorhead, Minnesota. Project 1978. Multiple symbolism includes that of the bridge. (Archt: Michael Graves.)
[For a (black and white) image go to North Dakota State University Library Manuscripts. In the Topical List, select "Architecture & Historic Preservation". Then under "Architecture" select "Fargo-Moorhead Heritage and Cultural Bridge Task Force".]
Codes.
The 'messages' or inferences read from such associations also vary from one person to another. [5.24] Most would agree that the blank-walled museum conveys the basic message 'this is a fortress: a stronghold'. [5.25] Some observers infer from this that the management is saying 'we are here to protect the treasures owned by the public', but others interpret the message as 'stay out unless you are a middle-class intellectual'. The Pompidou (or Beaubourg) Centre in Paris (Fig. 5.7) was conceived as a completely new sort of museum: open, modern, and adaptable. Its appearance is in keeping with this aim. In the first sense it has been a success, having attracted great numbers of people. Its supporters see it as symbol of hope, a message that the twentieth century has arrived at last. However for many others, the Centre represents an attack not only on the bourgeois elite who patronize conventional museums, but on the old, mellow, and much-loved Paris. They see it as a symbol of inhuman technology, and a foretaste of progressive and unwelcome change. David Watkin (1986) sees the brightly-coloured ducts not as an earnest expression of functionalism, but as a huge joke. [5.26]
Fig. 5.7. Pompidou Centre, Beaubourg Quarter, Paris. 1977. Popular, adaptable, unpretentious; or cold, destructive, and mechanistic? Earnestly functional or facetious? Frank or indecent? (Archts: Piano and Rogers. Engrs: Ove Arup and Ptnrs.) [Photo: Galinsky.]
In a more esoteric example, Jencks recalls the difference of opinion between two prominent scholars concerning Mies' solution to what architects know as 'the problem of turning the corner' (Fig. 5.8). [5.27]
Fig. 5.8. Mies van der Rohe's solution to 'the problem of turning the corner'. Siegel Building, Illinois Institute of Technology, Chicago. 1947. [Photo: Charles Jencks.]
"These two schoolmen disputed … whether the corner symbolized 'endlessness' or 'closedness' like a Renaissance pilaster. The fact that it could symbolize both or neither, depending on the code of the viewer … [was] never raised."
The term 'code' is applied to the set of associations and interpretations built up by individuals, social groups, professions, and nations. The "harmonious, well proportioned pure volume of the Architect" is the "glorified shoe box" or "filing cabinet" of the person in the street. [5.28] Jencks sees the structural forms of the engineer as a code, praising "the new language of lattice structures, the open girders of Eiffel, the pin-jointed parabolas of industrial sheds, the translucent and geometric domes of Buckminster Fuller, and the soaring tents of Frei Otto." [5.29] He criticizes those who are currently pressing for a classical revival, for their insensitive assumption that their own language is universally applicable. As an example, he cites Quinlan Terry's recent use of classical Roman grammar and British colonial styles in the Middle-East. [5.30] It is certainly intriguing to see in Isozaki's Civic Centre at Tsukuba in Japan (Fig. 5.9) rusticated columns recalling those of Ledoux's buildings for the eighteenth-century Ville de Chaux, and in its grounds, a sculpture in the form of a metal tree which is a reference to the western classical myth of Daphnis and Chloë. [5.31]
Fig. 5.9. Ledoux in Japan. Rusticated columns at the Tsukuba Civic Centre, Ibaragi, Japan. 1983. (Archt: Arata Isozaki.) [Image not yet found online.]
On the other hand, Jencks criticizes modern architects for their refusal to respect the more widely-shared codes of a particular culture.
"We learn from the beginning the cultural signs which make any urban place particular to a social group, an economic class and the real, historical people; whereas modern architects spend their time unlearning all these particular signs in an attempt to design for universal man or Mythic Modern Man." [5.32]
He sees popular codes as "slow-changing, traditional, full of clichés, and liable to lapse into kitsch". Professional codes are "modern, quick-changing, full of neologisms, and are rooted in technology, art, fashion, and avant-garde ideas". The danger here is, perhaps, of a lapse into mystification. [5.33]
Nevertheless, professionals will continue to try to force the pace of change. Renzo Piano is confident that "experimentation" will make cultural what is not now considered cultural, and will make it a part of the common language. [5.34] This is, of course, what the modern movement architects hoped to do, particularly in 'educating' the public to accept off-form concrete surfaces. While it is understood in many quarters that they failed, definite shifts have occurred, one example being the acceptance of interior unrendered brickwork.
Meaning as the manifestation of culture.
The concept of 'meaning' in architecture is often applied to the way in which the built forms of a particular society reflect its relationship with the land, its technology, its economy, its social order, its world-view, and its religious beliefs. One of the most well-known and influential texts in this area is Christian Norberg-Schultz's Meaning in western architecture (1980) which is studied by large numbers of students of architecture and the visual arts. It therefore provides an excellent example of the type.
Norberg-Schultz analyses 'meaning' in a number of epochs, and his treatment of ancient Egypt may be taken as representative. He sees the architecture of this period as reflecting an Egyptian world-view greatly influenced by the following factors:
- the topography of the country;
- the regularity of the flooding of the Nile, around which all life revolved;
- the high degree of order and discipline required of society in order to exploit this resource at the appropriate times;
- a desire to maintain and consolidate the social order which had proved so successful in achieving these ends;
- the Egyptian view of life as the path of the soul on its journey from birth to the after-life, and the overwhelming importance in Egyptian thought of this after-life.
He sees these factors reflected in the use of linear progression in Egyptian funerary complexes, in the "rational" organization and articulation of the layout and fabric of buildings, and in a desire for palpable stability of form and exceptional durability.
In upper Egypt, the country consists of a narrow river valley bounded by parallel ranges of mountains where tombs were cut into the natural cliffs. In lower Egypt the escarpment is less evident; but the Egyptians retained the same habits, building their temples and pyramids in rows bordering the river. Thus, their planning in the lower regions is thought to have been influenced by the world they knew upstream. The fields either side of the river were divided by an orthogonal grid, and Norberg-Schultz sees this reflected in the division and articulation of the fabric of the buildings. The layout of individual funerary and temple complexes is basically axial, reflecting the strip-like nature of the country.
The sun transits directly across the Nile, and the hieroglyph for "world" represents a cross-section of the valley, with the sun passing overhead. The gap between the pylons over the entrances to the temples is reminiscent of this. The desire for stability is manifest in the "balanced form" of the pyramid "appearing as a synthesis of vertical and horizontal forces" and its "incomparably massive and solid construction" which "seem to embody a constant, eternal order". The natural character of stone
"is enhanced through the contrasts of smooth surfaces and sharp edges. Mass and weight are thereby abstracted so as to become part of a general system of symbolic organization in which the vertical and horizontal are unified to form an orthogonal space which is basically the same throughout."
Thus, he concludes, "Egypt's simple geographical structure provided a basis for symbolizing basic existential meanings" and later: "the Egyptians had a preference for highly ordered and formalized relationships, due partially to geography and partially to the rhythm of the seasons". The nature of Egyptian space is seen as related to their view of the universe, and in one sense of the word, may be considered to "mean" it. [5.35]
Discerning meanings in this fashion is a two-way process in which scholars start out from both the building and their knowledge of the culture, and attempt to see the connections between the two; rather than a one-way process in which they start with the building and intuit 'meanings' which they expect to be shared by others.
Analogies with language.
Grammar in the design of built form.
For many people the most important parallel between language and architecture occurs at the level of 'grammar'. Architecture is considered to be like a language primarily because buildings are comprised of standard elements which must be assembled according to certain rules. Some of these are 'natural' rules, such as the fact that a doorway must be surmounted by a lintel or arch, while some are established by convention and general approbation. It is claimed that only through established sets of rules can expression be achieved. [5.36]
The parallel is most easily drawn in the classical tradition. The 'words' of the 'classical language' are seen to be the columns, pediments, modillions, and so on. The complete 'orders', and other assemblages of these 'words', such as aedicules, porticos, and the 'Serlian motif' (Fig. 5.10) may be seen as the equivalent of phrases or sentences. Not only is the set of elements defined, but so are their proportions in relation to each other and to the spaces between them. In this way the reputed 'repose' and 'harmony' of classical architecture is seen to have been "built in" as John Summerson puts it. Harmony is achieved by "the use of one or more of the orders as dominant components or else simply by the use of dimensions involving the repetition of simple ratios". At the level of communication, the architect may, in selecting an order, establish a particular mood, and then shift and define it by enrichments and slight modifications to the proportions. [5.37]
Fig. 5.10. The 'Serlian motif': a 'phrase' in the grammar of architecture. (Archt: Sebastiano Serlio (1475-1554).)
The orders were developed by the Greeks for trabeated temple architecture, and were not appropriate to the Roman techniques of mass concrete and masonry construction employing the vault and the arch. Summerson suggests the Romans incorporated them partly to carry over the prestige of temple architecture but, more importantly, to make the buildings 'speak'. The orders
"conduct the building, with sense and ceremony and often with great elegance, into the mind of the beholder. Visually, they dominate and control the buildings to which they are attached."
Taking the Colosseum (Figs 2.5 and 5.11) as an example he shows how tightly the proportions of the arches of the second level are integrated with those of the Ionic order so that even slight adjustments in the shape of the bay would require disproportionate and awkward modifications in the minor dimensions. [5.38] The classical rules thus constrain and guide the designer as closely as the (unconscious) rules of grammar guide a speaker.
Fig. 5.11. Typical bay of the Colosseum, Rome. Integration of trabeated accessories with arched construction. Rules governing the proportions of the orders leave little room for manoeuvre.
The similarity of the architectural design process to the use of grammar is described succinctly by Paul Marsh (1974).
"It is the stringing together of architectural thought, similar to the marshalling of words into a sentence. As the words used depend on the language of the author, so the designer (if he is skilful) expresses himself through the language of his material - and each material, because of its own particular characteristics, has a distinctive vocabulary."
Marsh also notes that "it is possible for a material to have more than one dialect". [5.39] Thus, stone can be used in the dialect of a Greek temple or a Gothic cathedral. A crisis always occurs when new materials or techniques are introduced, because designers are no longer working within familiar constraints and have to discover the 'grammar' of the new situation by trial and error. Old and inappropriate habits persist as illustrated by the inclusion of metopes (simulating the ends of timber beams) in Greek temples or, to take a very recent example, the PVC rainwater gutter fashioned exactly like its cast-iron predecessor.
Buildings may also convey messages about the way in which they were put together in the architectural sense. [5.40] The simplest of these are about the way in which the loads are carried, or the circulation patterns and internal spaces organized. Other examples are the separation of structure and cladding in the curtain-wall system of modern architecture, and the very obvious separation of services and envelope in the High-Tech style. Richard Rogers designs his buildings to be "legible" in this way (Fig. 4.5). [5.41] A more complex communication is to build into the final form a record of the process by which it evolved [see Chapter 4, Section on 'Intellectual Games'].
'Style' is closely related to language in the sense that it is a set of constraints imposed not only by technical and economic factors, but also by arbitrary conventions whereby individuals or groups place limits on what they will do and how they will do it, as a means of coping with the infinite complexity of their tasks. Thus individual designers and 'schools' acquire a characteristic vocabulary.
The concept of 'grammar' is reasonably well-known in engineering design. The physical properties and economics of the various materials, combined with the establishment of conventional approaches to design, impose their own discipline, and give rise to characteristic forms. This makes it possible for even the lay observer to guess with reasonable accuracy whether a structure is made of steel, timber, concrete, or masonry. In a sense, the structure may 'tell' the observer something about its nature, and about the process of its design. The correspondence between design and language is increased when there is a desire to convey to the observer something of the structural action of the building and to use load-bearing structure in articulating its form. It is commonly believed that the flying buttress of the Gothic cathedral developed from sloping wall-buttresses at first located under the aisle roofs, and that the ribs of the vaults were initially used simply to articulate the outlines of the vault webs, but were later exploited as structural elements. As Erwin Panofsky (1951) put it, "… the flying buttress learned to talk, the rib learned to work, and both learned to proclaim what they were doing…" [5.42]
Messages of virtuosity and rebellion.
As we saw earlier, certain special forms of expression are encouraged by the discipline of formal rules in architectural design. It is possible to communicate one's skill and mastery in manipulating the rules and, in Jencks's words, to "call attention to the language itself by misuse, exaggeration, repetition, and all the devices of rhetorical skill". [5.43] More importantly it is possible to express impatience with, or rebellion against the rules. Summerson cites the example of the Palazzo del Tè (Fig. 4.19), with its "exaggerated rustication" and "affected dilapidation". The observer recognizes the familiar classical elements "but … everything is a bit uneasy, a bit wrong". This
"represents a flight from everything Bramante stood for … it is irrational, impressionistic … it recalls ruins … ancient buildings left half-finished … the [rusticated] stones seem to be quarrelling all the time with the highly finished architectural detail. The rough keystones in the two side recesses are forcing a cornice up into the stones above. The keystones of the two round headed niches are grotesquely too big, that of the centre arch is absurdly small. In patches, here and there, there is no rustication at all and suddenly the wall looks embarrassingly naked."
He sees this as an "arrogant protest against the rules … and … a poetry which has something to do with grottos and with the cult of giants and dwarfs which seems to have haunted the court of Federigo Gonzaga". [5.44]
A further message, like a combination of the previous ones, is achieved when a designer has the genius to surmount both the conventional technique and the rules. Summerson refers in this case to Michelangelo whose "power of seeing through the dead, accepted forms to something intensely alive enabled him to transcend, with absolute assurance, the Vitruvian grammar". [5.45] He thus sees Mannerism as having "coloured the language and enriched its vocabulary". [5.46]
Thus the language of classical architecture provided the designers of a certain period with the opportunity of expressing a number of quite explicit 'messages'. As classicists will hurriedly point out, they were able to convey this message only because there was a prior system of rules and expectations. Further, it was necessary for all except the geniuses to avoid straying too far from the rules. Otherwise, the message of bravado, humour, or rebellion becomes unintelligible or, worse, suggests incompetence or madness.
Built form and rhetoric.
The parallels between architecture and language may be extended to the terminology of rhetoric. Jencks has been the major exponent of this approach in recent times, using word/concepts such as 'oxymoron' in his analyses of buildings with considerable effect. Oxymoron is defined in the dictionary as a condensed paradox, and Jencks uses this term to refer to the "hard softness" of the "Slick-Tech" look (Fig. 5.12) and to other strong contrasts of the Post-Modern style (Fig. 4.20).
Fig. 5.12. The paradox of 'hard-softness' in a 'Slick-Tech' building. A machine aesthetic referring to modern coach-building and business machines. Olivetti Training School, Haslemere, Yorks. 1972. (Archt: James Stirling.) [Photo: Arcaid (select 'Olivetti Training Centre').]
Elsewhere, he describes the clash of different styles, and the 'personalities' of different buildings in London in the following terms.
"To look at the environment … we see a babble of tongues, a free-for-all of personal idiolects … Where once there were rules of architectural grammar, we now have a mutual diatribe between speculative builders; where once there was a gentle discourse between the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Abbey, there is now across the Thames, the Shell Building shouting at the Hayward Gallery, which grunts back at a stammering and giggling Festival Hall." [5.47]
Jencks is referring here to the fact that the Houses of Parliament are in the neo-Gothic style, so that they reflect the visual qualities of Westminster Abbey, applied to the nineteenth century symbolism and practical functions of a parliament building. It is necessary to know a little about the history and ideals of modern architecture to know why the Shell Building should be seen as tough and aggressive, the uncompromising brut concrete forms of the Hayward Gallery should be surly, and the 1950s earnest functionalism and self-effacing architecture of the Festival Hall should be seen as stammering and giggling.
Linguistics and architecture.
Saussure.
In recent decades much of the debate concerning the relationship between language and the appreciation of built form has centred around the ideas of the Swiss linguist Ferdinand de Saussure (1857-1913). [5.48] Saussure rejected the common idea that words are simple labels which we attach to self-evident categories of objects and to pre-existing concepts. He noted that when we break up reality into reasonably discrete elements to permit rational thought, the boundaries between these concepts are arbitrary and, in varying degrees fuzzy. This fact is evident even in science and engineering. We also find that the word/concepts of one language do not map directly on to those of another. A simple example of this is the different ways in which the colour spectrum is divided and labelled in different languages. [5.49]
Saussure emphasized two characteristics of language which flow from these facts. [5.50] In the short term, there can be no divergence from the conventionally agreed mapping of words on to concepts. If we do not conform to the system currently in use, others will not understand us. In the long term, however, gradual shifts do occur. The boundaries of a concept may drift, so that the meaning of a word changes. Two concepts may merge and one of the associated words may be discarded. A single concept may split into two, particularly if a spare word is floating around which might be applicable to a part of it.
As a result Saussure maintained that the boundaries between concepts; the differences between them; are more important than whatever positive characteristics we can confidently ascribe to them. We thus arrive at a picture of a language as a multi-dimensional matrix in which each concept is linked, by relationships of similarity and contrast, potentially to all other concepts. For practical purposes we may say that each concept is linked to many others. Saussure stated that within this structure, as it exists at any moment, the elements "keep one another in a state of equilibrium in accordance with fixed rules", and "a language is a system in which all the elements fit together, and in which the value of any one element depends on the simultaneous co-existence of all the others". [5.51] Occupying the same space as the matrix of concepts is a similar matrix of words.
However, language possesses a second form of structure: syntax, or the way in which words are organized into larger units such as phrases and sentences. Words may take much of their meaning from their context. The meaning of 'bright' depends on whether we are talking about a 'bright child' or a 'bright light'. [5.52] Thus it is not quite true to say that one word equals one concept as in the simple static model described above. However, the simple version is adequate for this discussion.
Saussure actually employed an analogy with architecture to illustrate the difference between these two sorts of structure. [5.53] He likened the structure of phrases to the prescribed relationship between the classical column and its architrave. The significance of each element is affected by the presence of the other and by the arrangement of the ensemble: in other words, by the syntax. At the same time, we may interpret the designer's choice of a particular style, say a Doric column, in terms of the other possible types which could have been chosen instead and thus in terms of the matrix of associations which connects all elements: Corinthian and Ionic or, in modern times, rectangular or circular reinforced concrete columns, steel I-sections, and so on.
It is of course impossible to do justice to Saussure's contribution in such a brief summary, but a final point relevant to the appreciation of built form is worth mentioning. Saussure noted that the history of a language is a closed book for the vast majority of its users. When most people use a word in modern English they hear no echoes of the slightly different meanings its predecessors may have held in Latin, medieval French, or Elizabethan English. Therefore he insisted that the study of how a language has changed over time should be rigidly separated from the study of its structure at any 'instant' of time. [5.54]
Structuralism.
A number of thinkers took Saussure's ideas on the structure of language and applied them to other areas such as anthropology, psychology, the media, and criticism in the visual arts and literature. This approach came to be known as 'structuralism'. Some of its insights concerning the appreciation of art and architecture offered controversial alternatives to existing attitudes. [5.55]
Structuralism is founded on the belief that the 'structure' of an artefact, be it the work of a writer, a painter, or an architect, is in many ways more important to its meaning than the nature of its individual elements or 'content'. This idea was founded on observations like those of Claude Lévi-Strauss who, in his studies of tribal lore, noted that the same symbolic element (such as a characteristic personality) appeared in several myths, but carried different meanings in each according to its different relationships to the other characters. [5.56] Thus the myth could be understood fully only by letting its system or structure define the meaning of each symbolic element in terms of its 'context'.
The structuralists also de-emphasized the importance of creator and content in noting that an artefact often seems to take on a 'life of its own' even while it is still in the hands of its creator. This is a common experience, known to designers of built form, as well as to writers and artists. The architect Louis Kahn spoke of design as a process of finding out "what the building wants to be…" [5.57] Thus, structuralist critics maintained that a book should not be seen as evidence of a theme which pre-existed in the mind of its author before it was set down on paper. Roland Barthes maintained that people who know beforehand exactly what they want to say, and then work out a way of saying it, are carrying out a mundane task at a very low level of creativity. They are working "merely" as clerks or technicians. A true artist first decides "how to say", and only then discovers what "it" is! [5.58]
An artefact takes on a life of its own in another sense when it becomes 'public property' and is subjected to the contrasting interpretations of different individuals, different societies, and different ages. Structuralism thus reaffirms that in the interpretation of meaning in any artefact the input of the observer is as important as the object itself and especially the intentions of its creator. Any object has an indefinite number of features, and only a few of these ever attract our attention, especially when we have some special aim in mind. Barthes concluded that "a work carries several meanings simultaneously by virtue of its structure and not through the deficiencies of those who read it." He also stated that "a work is 'everlasting' not because it imposes a univocal meaning upon different individuals, but because it suggests different meanings to a unique man … the work proposes, man disposes". [5.59]
The ramifications of the structuralist viewpoint are far-reaching. If observers are thus granted the right to interpret works in whatever way corresponds to their own experience and perceptions, creators can no longer complain that someone has 'mis-interpreted' their work. All interpretations are equally valid. Further, the interpretation of a truly artistic text (or building) requires that its readers (or observers) cease to be passive 'consumers' and become active 'producers' in the process of imputing meanings to the work. [5.60] The author, or designer, having launched a work on to the world, must sit back and let others make of it what they will. [5.61] Structuralism thus offers some comfort to those who have always felt that one interpretation of a work of art is as valid as any other, and that it is this factor which most distinguishes art from science. Yet, while technologists tend to see this as a weakness in art, structuralism emphasizes the value of multiple interpretation, and of the personal interpretation of the individual, something which is conventionally undervalued.
Unfortunately many people, both supporters and opponents, began to see political implications in structuralism. Many felt that it denied, rather than emphasized, the importance of the individual and it was attacked from many sides. Currently it appears to have lost its impetus and to have been overshadowed by the reaction which it engendered. Nevertheless, it achieved valuable insights which will continue to affect the appreciation of the arts.
Insights into the appreciation of built form.
The 'linguistic approach' to meaning in architecture has focused attention on aspects which would otherwise have been overlooked. The first is the fact, so often neglected by those who claim to be applying Saussure's principles, that there are indeed degrees of arbitrariness and fuzziness in the definition of all architectural signs. We can be reasonably certain that a hole in a wall, whose shape and size are vaguely related to those of the people, vehicles, or goods which might be expected to pass through it, signifies 'entrance'. There may, however, be great variation in its form. With modern building materials, a rectangular opening is normal. Doors in aircraft may be oval. Doorways in ships may not extend down to floor level. Doorways may be permanently open, covered by beads or curtains, or closed by surfaces which swing vertically or horizontally, slide, or roll up and down. Small doors may be let into larger doors. The surface may be made of numerous materials including glass. Some doors function both as doors and windows.
We are helped to recognize 'door' in all these guises by various clues concerning the purpose and importance of the aperture. These contain varying degrees of logic and intentionality. Circular arches and pediments, though no longer justified by functional or economic reasoning, are still powerful symbols of 'entrance'. The outline of an architrave is a strong conventional symbol, as are panelling of the door surface and prominent hinges. A path or a flight of stairs leading to an aperture has obvious logical significance. If an external opening occurs well above ground level in a building, we may need the clue of a cantilevered monorail jutting from the wall above it, to help us identify it as a door rather than a window.
To the extent that such clues are established by convention rather than logic, the communicator must, as with the spoken word, accept the conventional interpretations of a given audience. The designer cannot ignore them, as the modernists did, or apply them in a new way and still expect to be 'understood'. The logic of functional and economic design is not readily apparent to the lay observer and the designer cannot communicate it to anyone except other designers. Equally, the highly developed conventional codes of professional practitioners, such as the historical references of the post-modernists, may not be interpreted by the person in the street. The post-modernists have at least recognized this in frequently providing clues aimed at several audiences. We can only use symbols, and only usefully study them, in so far as they have closely similar meanings to a reasonable-sized group of people. There is thus a need to distinguish degrees of generality of individual signs and identify the populations for whom they have significance.
The linguistic insight that the 'meaning' of a particular element is dependent on its context has been a particular source of fascination in architecture. Rudolph Arnheim sees an example in the basic form of the cylinder which may serve as a utilitarian concrete grain silo, or acquire a very different significance as the clock tower of a Renaissance church. [5.62] Ernst Gombrich notes that the common perception of the Corinthian Order as 'feminine' applies only within the closed set of the classical Orders, where it is contrasted with the Doric. [5.63]
The linguistic concept of 'contextualism' is applied to the relationship of a new building to its neighbours. A major concern of the post-modernists has been to move away from the modernists' idea that a new building should be designed as an isolated artefact having its own internal logic appropriate to the modern era. It is now considered important to recognize the appearance of neighbouring buildings and the general 'code' of the local culture. [5.64]
The theory of signs and linguistics points the way to separating the 'natural' associations of an architectural style (those that are shared by many people and will remain reasonably constant) from those that are purely conventional, and will inevitably change with time. An example of the former is Charles Jencks's description of the "natural overtones" of neo-baroque buildings, as "massive, over-articulated, splendiforous, muscular, angst-ridden, tempestuous, bombastic, playful, exuberant, pretentious, and very expensive". The changeability of conventional meanings is illustrated by the fact that 'state power' was symbolized in the nineteenth century by a succession of styles: Roman Revival, Greek neo-classical, Gothic (in the Houses of Parliament), Italian high renaissance, Rundbogenstil, high Victorian Gothic, and, in 1870, Second Empire. This trend towards increasing bombast was followed by a sudden switch to neo-classical and the International Style. Jencks sees today's architects as guided by aesthetic and technical issues (rather than meaning), because the steel and glass curtain wall, cold and impersonal, precise and ordered, is still used in office buildings to convey the desired overtones of methodical business, rational planning, and commercial transactions. [5.65]
As in the world of fashion, yesterday's "creative metaphor" becomes today's "tired usage": a conventional "word". Symbols accumulate more and more meanings for the cognoscenti. The column, which has an ample supply of meanings in its role in buildings, takes on new significance as a monument in forms such as Nelson's column in Trafalgar Square. Its outward appearance developed further significance as a cloak for the chimneys of Battersea Power Station. These contain references to the base, capital, and fluting of the classical column. A renowned entry in the design competition for the headquarters building of the Chicago Tribune newspaper applied a similar theme to a multi-storey office block, adding yet another association for those with a knowledge of the history of twentieth-century architecture. As Jencks puts it: "the word has become a phrase, a sentence and finally a whole novel". [5.66]
A further lesson, related to what we have learned of mannerism in terms of its preoccupation with the language, has been identified by Jonathan Culler (1976) who points out that such artistic codes seem to have a life of their own: a need to change. Arts such as literature, painting, and music have codes which are
"difficult to establish and highly ambiguous or open-ended … aesthetic expression aims to communicate notions, subtleties, complexities which have not yet been formulated and therefore, as soon as an aesthetic code comes to be generally perceived as a code (as a way of expressing notions which have already been articulated) then works of art tend to move beyond this code."
It is worth noting the close parallel with the dynamic which exists between fashion designers and their clientèles. Culler continues
"[Works of art] question, parody and generally undermine the code while exploring its possible mutations and extensions. One might even say that much of the interest of works of art lies in the ways in which they explore and modify the codes which they seem to be using; and this makes semiological investigation of these systems both highly relevant and extremely difficult." [5.67]
It would seem that the designer of built form must also accept that fashions in thought, as well as in superficial physical features, will have a strong influence on public response, and that it is necessary to design with this in mind.
We have seen that observers commonly read unsympathetic meanings into built form. This is most likely to occur when the designer gives no thought to symbolism and meaning during design, so that a 'communication vacuum' exists. Therefore, one way of avoiding the problem may be to adopt a powerful symbolism which research shows will spark associations shared by a majority of observers and which is likely to retain its effect over a long period. A crude version of this is the fast food shop shaped in the form of a duck which has become a cliché in the literature of post-modernism and semiology. [5.68] Its message is clear, but it is banal and unlikely to retain interest. A further effect of the recent preoccupation with signs and symbols in architecture is a recognition that it is necessary to convey messages with subtlety. As Jencks puts it
"the more the metaphors [the richer the suggestions], the greater the drama and the more they are slightly suggestive, the greater the mystery … A mixed metaphor is strong, but a suggested one is powerful. In architecture, to name a metaphor is to kill it, like analysing jokes." [5.69]
As Rudolph Arnheim points out, the use of clearly identifiable subject matter may actually interfere with symbolism. He maintains that the TWA terminal building at Kennedy Airport (Fig. 5.13) might "soar more purely" if it were not so much like a bird. [5.70]
Fig. 5.13. The bird-symbolism of this building might work better if it were less evident. TWA Terminal Building, Kennedy International Airport, New York. 1961. (Archt: Eero Saarinen. Struct. Engrs: Amman and Whitney.)
Photo: Galinsky. (2nd photo down.)
Discussion.
Problems in developing and applying the theory of signs.
It is not surprising that many commentators question the validity of the more complex interpretations of meaning in built form, or assert that nothing is gained by perceiving built form in this way. Geoffrey Scott felt that to regard architecture as symbolic is "the first fallacy of Romanticism … and the gravest". [5.71] Ironically, he felt that a preoccupation with meaning and language leads to a shallowness in the appreciation of architecture: a concentration on the idea suggested by the elements and characteristics of a style, rather than on the innate visual beauty of their form and combination. Rudolph Arnheim maintains that much of the "spontaneous symbolism" discussed by critics is not due to mental association, but to the 'visual dynamics' described in Chapter 3. [5.72]
Commentators of all persuasions, such as Scott, Jencks, and Broadbent, agree that architectural signs are by no means as universally shared or as static as linguistic signs. [5.73] Different 'messages' are read from (or into) the same building at different periods of time by different individuals, different social groups, and different cultures.
Few critics have applied the theories of linguistics and signs to architecture in the way that an engineer would use the theory of structures to analyse the behaviour of a building frame. The few who have attempted a rigorous approach have found it hard to define the nature of the architectural sign: the 'unit' or element of expression and meaning. [5.74] This is not surprising. Saussure himself noted the difficulty of isolating such elements even in spoken language, asking "…in what other science is it so difficult to define one's concrete units?" [5.75] He stressed that only arbitrarily chosen signs, such as the sound-signs of spoken language, are the true province of semiology. In architecture, as in many other fields, there is a high degree of causation between the nature of symbols and what they symbolize. As we have seen, the portal which symbolizes 'entrance' derives its form from requirements for access, closure, and mechanical strength. A further difference is that auditory signals are transmitted singly in a one-dimensional sequence. In the case of visual signals the entire message may be presented (though not necessarily read) instantaneously. Saussure cited as an example the flag signals sent by ships. [5.76] Many architectural messages are thus semi-permanent and visible in their entirety. We may also see around us examples of half-understood 'messages' from previous centuries. It is as if in England we still met the occasional person speaking Latin, Middle English, or Norman French, and could still form conclusions about the messages intended.
The spate of interest in applying the theory of signs to the appreciation of architecture now appears to have passed. In retrospect, much of the literature appears superficial. There was a great deal of borrowing from the work of Saussure and the theory of 'semiotic' developed by the American philosopher Charles Sanders Peirce. [5.77] However, many of the parallels which could have been drawn between architecture and Saussure's schema seem to have been neglected. As a result, the analysis of meaning in architecture has continued mainly in the traditional manner. The real effect of the rhetoric has been to engender a new attitude to design. This has had a profound effect on the practice and appearance of architecture. It has provided new sources of inspiration to practising architects and perhaps more importantly it has provided them with a means of justifying their new styles to their clients.
Personal and cultural interpretations of meaning.
As we saw in the sections on literary allusion personal accounts of meaning often read like poetry. Another example is Vincent Scully's description of the "pure and unbroken horizontals" of Frank Lloyd Wright's Robie House (Fig. 4.14). [5.78]
"The meaning embodied in them would seem … to be double: first it is of the earth, with its clefts, hollows and climatic masses, felt as full of life, always moving and lifting itself like some great beast, as Cezanne saw it. The second meaning grows out of the first. As the earth and objects upon the earth are pulled into the rhythm of flux and change, it and they fragment into their components, which then oscillate around each other in an 'eternal becoming'. This is the world as the cubists saw it." (Scully 1960).
Such descriptions offer particular problems. All of us expect our word/concepts to serve us in contradictory ways. At times our aim is to maximize their precision and clarity by paring away any associations with other concepts which are not strictly applicable to the task in hand. This is the case with the scientist seeking to describe a phenomenon precisely, and the poet seeking a faithful expression of experience. At other times we may wish to work in the opposite direction, exploiting the associations of a word to the full. An architect or engineer searching for an original solution to a problem, and the poet seeking to convey a maximum of overtones, will work in this direction. Fuzziness of concepts and richness of association may be of great value to an engineer in the creative stages of the design process, while in the analytical and evaluative phases it may be fatal. It is probably fair to say that engineers spend most of their time working in the former mode and that they tend to be distrustful of the latter, finding that it requires a conscious effort to switch into it when creativity is called for. [5.79]
The whole concept of symbolism offers parallel problems for the technologist, because it is often connected with superstition and irrationality. The list of symbols of all types from colours through animals to numbers, which have had special meanings for many ages and cultures (see for example Achen (1978)) gives the impression that meanings must have been attached to them in an entirely arbitrary manner in order to achieve a maximum of obfuscation. Should the designer take seriously the fact that thirteen is an unlucky number (or is it lucky?), or that what in Europe is a pleasant blue might mean death in China or sorcery in the West Indies? It is natural that the engineer should feel impatience with such irrational symbolism. However, it is possible to distinguish between superstitious symbolism at one extreme, and architectural symbols which carry a useful message at the other. Furthermore, there is little point in choosing details or colours which have unfavourable meanings for an appreciable section of a community. [5.80]
When we come to the sort of analysis proposed by Norberg-Schultz there are further difficulties for critics as well as engineers. In the interpretation of meaning, coincidences between the observer's preoccupations and the nature of the building seem to be too readily accepted as significant. Possible alternative explanations are rarely discussed. Erwin Panofsky (1939) while endorsing the use of "synthetic intuition" in the analysis of meaning in art, warns that "the more subjective and irrational this source of interpretation … the more necessary [is] the application of … correctives and controls". He also points out (Panofsky 1951) that the historian, in trying to divide history into periods each of which has internal coherence, "must needs try to discover intrinsic analogies between … overtly disparate phenomena … [and] every man has to rely on incomplete and often secondary information". [5.81]
In looking at a work such as Meaning in western architecture the following questions could be asked.
- What alternative factors might have led to these particular characteristics of buildings?
- When the same characteristics are found in the architecture of other eras or cultures, does one find the same causative factors?
- When the same causative factors are found, have they resulted in similar characteristics?
These are not simple questions. It is quite possible that factors which resulted in a certain architectural characteristic in Culture A did not have the same effect in Culture B because of differences in the entire matrix of that culture. Identical features in the architecture of the two cultures might have been produced by quite different combinations of factors. It would require great learning to provide a comprehensive response to these questions, and a great deal of time and space to set out the supporting facts and the arguments for each point of view. Nevertheless, it could be at least attempted much more frequently than it is, and those who put forward such theories can hardly complain if many are sceptical about their conclusions. [5.82]
In response to question (1) engineers will have considered it more likely that the placement of pyramids in rows along the river bank was governed by convenience of access for building materials and funeral parties, than by a mind-set derived from the restricted conditions upstream. We would assume the principal reason for the close spacing of columns in Egyptian temples to be the fact that stone beams cannot span large gaps. We could imagine the more adventurous spirits amongst the ancient Egyptians wishing heartily that they knew of a better way to cover space, while the less adventurous made a virtue out of necessity by learning to love their confined spaces.
When the same feature turns up in Greek architecture, Norberg-Schultz considers that the densely-packed columns of the Ionic order "…appear as holy groves, symbolized by a forest of columns…" [5.83] It might be simpler to believe that, as both the Greeks and the Egyptians were unwilling to use the arch and the barrel vault in monumental architecture, they both suffered from the same mechanical limitations. Their unwillingness to use the arch and vault might seem more significant from a cultural point of view.
In discussing Gothic architecture, Norberg-Schultz states that this was a manifestation of the ordered Christian cosmos. [5.84] He refers us to Panofsky (1951) who explains that in the thirteenth century texts were divided into sections and sub-sections according to the overall plan of their treatment of a subject, and shows how this scheme is closely paralleled by the articulation of the fabric of Gothic cathedrals. He therefore suggests that the Gothic cathedral is also an expression of the "mind-set" of its creators. [5.85] The theory seems at first sight plausible. It is supported by structuralist research into language and myth. Preziosi (1979) has identified consistencies in the schematic layout of ancient Cretan residences. March and Steadman (1971) have found an underlying pattern in the layout of houses designed by Frank Lloyd Wright. [5.86] Thus it could be that thinking about structure in all senses of the word, in all eras, has indeed been guided by the "deep structure" of the mind. Perhaps we are condemned to think in partes and divisiones by the way in which our brains are organized. We can discern the same type of articulation in the fabric of the Crystal Palace, in a multi-storey building (although the predominant axis is vertical), and even in the structural frame of a modern airliner. [5.87] "Unstructured design" and "unorganized construction" belong only to certain societies, or sections of society, and must be consciously sought in our own.
However, it is easy to remain sceptical. Articulated construction would seem to be fundamental to solving the problem of load-bearing structure where this involves the support of a skin subject to air pressure, and to the efficient organization of the processes of construction. It arises as much from the properties of materials, the 'laws' of mechanics, and the benefits of repetitive manufacture than from a mind-set of the researcher and designer. The process is affected by our perception of the world only to the extent that we are capable of organizing ourselves most efficiently in certain ways. However this has applied to societies in all ages, and is not specific to the Gothic era.
Norberg-Schultz's analysis of the Crystal Palace offers a further opportunity to examine his theories. In this case we have extensive written comment on architecture from the period and a much more detailed knowledge of cultural and technological conditions in general.
Is symbolism inevitable?
The pragmatist might be tempted to respond to the variability and elusiveness of meaning, by trying to eliminate all symbolism, and produce buildings whose forms would be determined solely by rational design processes. These would have no meaning other than the obvious facts that could be read about the way they functioned as buildings and structures. However the history of architecture and the considerations discussed in this chapter, indicate that this is an impossible goal.
Many people in the mid-twentieth century saw the modern movement as meaning-free and functional, and the Beaux-Arts style as the antithesis of this. [5.88] However the latter itself stemmed from a desire to replace the irrationality of the Romantic movement by a supposedly rational and value-free classicism. [5.89] Jencks notes that modern Italian rationalists have made a similar attempt to design neutral buildings which have a "zero degree" of historical association, but that their work is related by many people to the Fascist architecture of the 1930s. The rationalists object to this perception, but it persists nevertheless. The black-steel-and-glass style pioneered by Mies van der Rohe was at first commonly seen as elegant, functional, and "meaning-free". Those who did read meaning into it saw only the coldness of machine production. Now, for many in the western world, it stands for the power of "big business" or "big government". [5.90] Bonta sees another unsuccessful attempt to produce a 'value-free' architecture in the 'design methods' movement during the 1960s. This advocated a rational analysis of clearly identified needs and possible solutions, akin to the engineer's approach to design (Jones 1981). He cites as an example Cedric Price's 'Potteries Thinkbelt' project (Fig. 5.14), which was an attempt to abandon traditional images and values of 'university' and produce a sort of 'machine for learning'. However, as Bonta points out, the Thinkbelt project is loaded with its own values of a different kind concerning what is desirable in the supply of education. [5.91]
Fig. 5.14. The 'Potteries Thinkbelt': a project for breaking free of the traditional perceptions of 'university'. 1964. (Archt: Cedric Price.)
Drawing: see the MoMA Collection. Search for 'Potteries Thinkbelt' and select the 'axonometric projection of Madeley Transfer Area'. (This is not the drawing I used in the book.)
It therefore appears that all forms must have meanings for most people and, despite the difficulty of designing for such meanings and the variability of individual interpretations, it is impossible for the designer to avoid the phenomenon.
Image Acknowledgements. Linked images, Chapter 5.
Arcaid. Link.
Arcspace. Link.
archINFORM. Link.
Galinsky. Link.
Museum of Modern Art (MoMA). Link.
North Dakota State University. Link.
Pritzker Prize. Link.
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