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 [6.x]. (These are not links.) [Notes to Chapter 6.]
An overview.
There is a loose connection between the political environment in a nation, and the types of buildings that it constructs. Autocrats favour palaces and mausoleums, and "prestige" projects which in modern times have included freeways and stadiums. Socialist administrations have promoted vast housing projects. [6.1] Centralized planning, by government or business, has lead to the creation of vast high-rise complexes in the centre of cities. The composition of the built environment can thus be seen as a reflection, or symbol, of the fundamental outlook and political organization of a nation. However, many commentators claim that the political views of designers influence the nature of buildings much more directly than this. They feel able to state with confidence that a certain building was designed by a fascist, another by a communist, and another by a democratic-socialist. More specifically, they feel able to say "this is a fascist, etc … building".
Others disagree. It is extremely difficult to prove a causal relationship between the political beliefs of designers and the nature of their buildings. Simple association is a much more likely explanation for these perceptions. Personal memories of political or religious persecution under authoritarian regimes are strong, and those who have suffered will always associate certain styles with the ideologies which employed them. Regimes and political or religious movements often choose to associate a particular style with their beliefs so as to provide what is now called a "corporate identity". The arbitrary nature of choice and application is demonstrated by the confusion mentioned earlier over the religious affiliations of Gothic and Renaissance architecture. [6.2] However, once again, the pragmatic designer must accept that such associations do affect people's perception of built form, however transiently.
Many thinkers have been influenced in their approach to architecture by beliefs that are utopian, rather than political in the narrow sense of the word. Particularly influential for the modern movement were those who, in the late nineteenth century, envisaged a "better" society in which people would be more pious, more content, or more stable; more concerned with the well-being of their fellows; and less alienated from their work. In Thoreau's Walden of 1854 the idea was that
"beauty will be created unconsciously if people live beautiful lives and with their own hands fashion buildings according to their character and needs." [6.3]
There were calls for a return to the craftsmanship and individualized manual labour which had produced the cottage, the manor house, and, it was believed, the Gothic cathedral. Such developments would naturally have indirect effects upon the type of buildings produced and on their appearance, as well as on the associations they evoked in the observer. The machine was seen to have deprived the worker of the satisfaction of craftwork as well as being soulless and ugly in itself. An importance component of these beliefs, strongly promoted by John Ruskin, was the vision of Gothic cathedrals as produced by democratically organized teams working without the direction of an architect, and resulting in an architecture rich in idiosyncrasy. [6.4]
In direct contradiction, others saw the machine as offering the hope of a new, better society, freeing labourers and craftspeople from the drudgery of repetitive, boring, and alienating work. [6.5] The work of carving the highly repetitive details of neo-Classical and neo-Gothic buildings was seen as a brutal imposition of the will of the designer upon the craft worker.
These beliefs took on a more specific political direction when they were associated with concepts of class. Early in the twentieth century, Theo van Doesburg expected the machine to enforce "a certain equality amongst men" because it was impersonal and therefore had a "universalizing, abstract quality". He foresaw implications for art in "the realization, by a common effort and a common conception, of a single collective style". [6.6]
At another level, the organization of the design and construction of built form may be seen as a question of politics because it involves the allocation of power between the various parties concerned. In building design the architect is conventionally the leader and director of the team. The structural engineer usually provides a service, analysing schemes originated by the architect: offering support and advice, but contributing only infrequently to the initial design. The objective of the construction engineers is to produce a form in accordance with the specifications. The labour force on site and in the factory is expected to follow instructions and is completely divorced from the design process.
The relationship of the professional team to clients and users also has political implications. Often the latter groups have no input into the design process and have to make the best of whatever is delivered to them. Some modern attempts have been made to diminish the power of the professionals in this process, often by architects themselves. [6.7] Some have attempted to involve the future users of the buildings very closely in the initial planning stages as did Lucien Kroll at Louvain and Ralph Erskine at Newcastle (Fig. 6.1). [6.8] However, many designers and planners believe that they know more about the users' best interests than do the users themselves. They feel that even the most experienced clients need to be 'educated' by the professional before they can understand their own needs. [6.9] At the extreme are those artist-designers who insist that they must be left entirely to their own devices if they are to produce, in everyone's best interest, a work of architectural or structural art worthy of the name. [6.10]
Fig. 6.1. A step towards design democracy. Future occupants were involved in the design of the 'Byker Wall', Newcastle. 1974. (Archt: Ralph Erskine.) For a photograph, see e.g. nextroom (Under 'Indexlisten' select 'Personen'; select 'E'; select 'Erskine'; select 'Wohnmauer über dem Tyne'); or Kay's Geography.
Another form of 'politics' is the politics of art. It is argued that those who wish to rarefy the definition of 'art' for aesthetic reasons are joined by affluent people who wish to restrict it so as to create a commodity. This permits them to satisfy their acquisitiveness and to create a 'language' through which to display their wealth. [6.11] Others in the art world: artists, critics, dealers, gallery staff, and academics are seen to benefit in being able to make a living and acquire status through their roles in the creation, evaluation, recognition, pricing, and distribution of the commodity. A necessary part of such a process is that the majority of the population must be deemed too poor, too badly educated, or too insensitive to take part.
It is not surprising that taste in art often seems to fall into line with views on religion, politics, and society. In debate, those who prefer classical and neo-classical architecture are often labelled right-wing conservatives, while those who prefer functional or 'modern' architecture are labelled left-wingers or social-democrats. However, as we shall see, it is only the more articulate who lend themselves to categorization in this way, and their differences are not as clear-cut as they appear at first sight.
All these factors cloud the question of whether the politics of clients and designers may affect the intrinsic nature of the buildings they commission and create, but even when they have been peeled away, the remaining problem is still extremely complex. The only thing that is certain in this field is that when people say that a certain building 'causes' them to experience a political reaction or association, they are probably telling the truth. The pragmatic designer may wish to take measures to avoid or encourage specific reactions of this type.
Built form and national politics.
The list of authors who see a direct connection between the nature of regimes and their architecture is a long one. A selection of examples will suffice. In the eighteenth century Giovanni Piranesi was worried by irregularities in the overall planning of complexes of buildings in classical and Renaissance times. According to Tzonis and Lefaivre (1986) he noted that the mutual relationships between the buildings did not reflect the regularity, symmetry, and forethought that was displayed in each individual building. The complexes had grown at random, and buildings were not situated on axes governing the entire assemblage, as they are at Versailles for instance. This left "assemblages full of formal conflicts and unresolvable compositional ambiguities, spatial fragments and deformations, a disordered mass of orderly units". Piranesi saw in this an "allegorical image", if not a direct representation, of "the impotence, incompleteness, and cultural decline of the ancien regime". [6.12]
The appearance of the Renaissance palazzo, with its rugged and defensive lower storey, was influenced by the prevailing social conditions, and therefore could be seen as a reminder, or 'expression' of those troubled times. Providing a more modern example, David Billington (1983) suggests that as government became less aristocratic in the nineteenth century, the new emphasis on economic accountability (to shareholders, industrialists, and Parliament) gave rise to new and leaner forms. He sees a direct connection between political ideals and the philosophy of engineering design, noting that Thomas Telford's bold design for the Menai suspension bridge was contemporaneous with the 1832 Reform Bill which gave representation to the industrial cities. He points out that Thomas Paine was a designer of bridges as well as author of The rights of man. Thus at a time when risks were being taken in politics by abandoning traditional hereditary power structures, new ventures were being undertaken in bridge-building, abandoning the old, tried and trusted forms and materials. [6.13] Billington is here drawing parallels similar to those proposed in architecture by Norberg-Schultz and there is of course the same need for caution.
In an attack on the classicist's approach to architecture, Davey (1980) takes it for granted that there is a strong connection between politics and design.
"Classical architecture is, and has ever been, the architecture of order, authority, and imposition. Even that most urbane apologist for classical canons, Geoffrey Scott, admitted that 'Power … was the Renaissance ideal: and Greece and Rome, almost of necessity, became its image and its symbol …' "
Later, Davey continues
"classical architecture not only imposes the outward image of authority on society, it orders the life of its users according to the whim of its high-priest, the architect." [6.14]
Carl Condit (1974) deplored the influence of structure on the appearance of buildings such as the 343 m (1127 foot) John Hancock Tower in Chicago. Its lateral stiffness is increased by massive trusses built into each of the sides, and the structural engineer Fazlur Khan urged that these be expressed in the facades. The crossed diagonal members are a major feature of the building. Condit writes,
"Money and technology underlay these potent works of structural art … The rage to demolish and build anew reached a kind of frenzy, and no-one seemed to have the time … to mourn the passing of Mies van der Rohe [who] left a mark on the metropolitan area so profound that one would find a parallel only in imperial Rome, or Florence under the Medici, or Paris in the heyday of the monarchy." [6.15]
It may be that Condit merely regrets the passing of a certain type of artistry, but he evidently wishes that people could again "leave profound marks" on cities, and to wish this is to wish power and authority for patrons and architects. Of course, Mies' patrons were the businessmen and developers: the same who developed the Hancock centre, and perhaps Condit would have preferred these powerful people to entrust their buildings to a classicist rather than let them fall under the influence of an engineer.
Billington (1983) also sees the Hancock Tower as an expression of social factors, but of democratic and populist private enterprise.
"Khan asserted the freedom given to designers who accept the disciplines of efficiency and economy and who enjoy playing with forms. This freedom will frighten those whose values do not include the avoidance of waste … The John Hancock Centre … defies master plans and art juries. It expresses private investment and technology, and not the power of government or aristocracy …" [6.16]
René Jullian (1984), writing of the spread of modern architecture in France in the early decades of the twentieth century, lists isolated examples of private railway stations, offices, and financial buildings in the modernist style, but notes that official (public) buildings were little affected by this trend because government and bureaucracy maintained a closed-minded attitude to modern art. The sole exception was the Postal Department, whose director of buildings was a writer! [6.17] France provides today perhaps the most overt examples of political patronage. As François Chaslin (1986) puts it,
"Each head of state, or monarch as we might call them, wants to make his mark in stone, to build palaces and museums that will one day bear his name, and, if at all possible, to preclude the completion of what his predecessor dreamed of building." [6.18]
A good example is again provided by the Centre Pompidou (Fig. 5.7). Intense opposition came from the steel manufacturers and from the construction industry as well as from those who wanted to preserve the character of the neighbourhood. The concept would not have survived, had it not had the personal support of the President, backed by a strong, centralized bureaucracy. [6.19] It seems quite reasonable to suggest that in some ways it is therefore a symbol of personal and organizational power.
However, this was by no means the intention when the building was conceived. [6.20] The ideal was to provide a facility that would be attractive and easily accessible to the general public and would be flexible and responsive to changing needs. This is far removed from the elitist 'treasure-trove' or 'strongroom vault' concept of 'museum' in which the management allows the public the privilege of looking at the objects for which their taxes have paid. In view of the enormous popularity of the centre, Renzo Piano claims that the design team succeeded in destroying this conventional image. [6.21] They could thus argue that the Centre is more a symbol of public service and democratization than of power.
The very prominent structure and service ducts which give it its character have little in themselves to do with political power, but they are read by many people as an affront: to conventional formalist ideals of architecture; to the charm of the old buildings that surround the Centre, and thus to much that people associate with them; and to a general public which has little power to influence its built environment. [6.22] Thus, like the structuralist 'text', the building can be 'read' in many different ways and inevitably means something different to each individual.
A related phenomenon is the way in which meanings ascribed to styles of architecture change with time. Peter Collins (1965) contrasts the views of A.W.N.Pugin, "who urged the adoption of Gothic architecture on the grounds that it was the architecture of Catholicism" with those of John Ruskin, who hated Catholicism, and urged the adoption of the Gothic style "because it expressed for him the essence of Protestantism, and the ideal of a happy working-class society". Eugène Viollet-le-Duc, who was "a liberal and free-thinker", considered Gothic construction "the only rational system of masonry construction" whereas Ruskin thought it interfered with "the purity and simplicity of the reflective element". [6.23] For some time after the Renaissance, Gothic architecture was considered the work of "a barbarous and uncouth people who had lost touch with classical learning and been oppressed by superstition". Later, it came to be seen "in an idealized light as the product of a sincere and honest people, close to the earth and close to God, who had toiled together in harmony and brotherhood", needing little if any direction from authority figures. [6.24]
Tzonis and Lefaivre (1986) trace similar vagaries in the 'meaning' of classical architecture.
"Classical buildings have been mentioned as part of a movement of antiquization in the Renaissance and as supporters of a militant culture of the same period, legitimizing the new world order of science, the market, industry, and a kind of limited democracy. Up to the end of the eighteenth century, [the style] was used to give support to … the new way of bourgeois life." [6.25]
In this century Lewis Mumford claims to have shown a connection between the classical style and the financial establishment of the eastern United States, in the form of the classicized skyscraper. [6.26] Fascist and Soviet governments have shown a partiality for a kind of classicism, while in the 1920s others saw its "apparent detached diachronic impartiality" as guaranteeing "art-for-art's-sake" in a time of social and economic upheaval. Tzonis and Lefaivre conclude, "the shifts in meaning and use are not particular to classical architecture. The ambiguity of architectural form is the rule rather than the exception." [6.27]
Much of the resistance to this argument is based on the association of prewar authoritarian regimes with classical architecture. The 'stripped classicism' of the fascists dominates discussion in the West, perhaps because of its greater accessibility to us. While retaining basic classical proportions and symmetry of layout and facade, this style dispensed with traditional details such as carved capitals, fluting, and profiled bases. [6.28]
An examination of the architectural history of the era shows that adoption of the style was by no means a foregone conclusion. In Italy, the Futurist movement, which started just before the First World War, closely linked political and architectural ideas. Its members saw great beauty in cars, ships and locomotives, and had a sometimes morbid fascination with the danger of speed. They saw harshness and brutality in the machine and were excited by its potential to sweep away tradition. Their projects for 'science-fiction' cities had considerable influence on later theorists. Their writings have a somewhat 'fascist' nature in the everyday sense of the word. [6.29]
In the 1920s attention turned to a group of seven architects who called themselves Gruppo Sette. According to Bill Risebero (1982), they were committed to the ideas of the Novecento movement which sought to "combine the rich plasticity of Baroque with twentieth-century techniques". However, many of their pronouncements also indicate a strong interest in modern technology and in modernism. All seven were fascists, and wrote of their projects as symbolizing fascist ideals and the central position of the Duce (Ciucci 1987). [6.30]
Thus, strands of classicist and modernist thought co-existed in Italy, and there seemed a strong chance that modernism would be adopted as the correct architecture for the new era. It was only late in the pre-war period that classicism came to be seen as necessary for public buildings and monuments. It has been suggested that Mussolini abandoned futurism and modernism only because he wished to win over the bourgeoisie who had been worried by his original emphasis on change. [6.31]
Barbara Lane (1968) records the similar struggle which occurred in pre-war Germany. In this case, proponents and practitioners of the neo-classical style won in the sphere of major public architecture, while a sort of folk-style was adopted for buildings ranging from apartment blocks to barracks.
In the Soviet Union the philosophy of constructivism gained acceptance for a while in official circles. [6.32] The theory was that structure (of the load-bearing variety) should be the "starting point for architectural expression". [6.33] In practice, the form was treated in a highly sculptural fashion (Fig. 6.2) having little relationship to its load-bearing task. As communists, the constructivists 'celebrated' technology, but wished it to avoid the ill-effects of the industrial revolution. They emphasized its social rather than its commercial value. With Stalin's rise to power, the constructivists also fell from favour, and the idiosyncratic communist form of classicism became established.
|
Fig. 6.2. Constructivist sculpture in structure. Projected monument to the Third International. 1920. (Archt: Vladimir Tatlin.) Source for drawing: El Lissitzky. Russland: die Rekonstruktion der Architektur in der Sowjetunion, Schroll, Vienna, 1930, p.46. |
In spite of this, during the pre-war period, the 'international style' of modern architecture came to be seen in the West as a particularly socialist or communist style. [6.34] A contributing factor must have been the ideas of social visionaries of the late nineteenth century who supported the demand for a 'new architecture' from a political point of view. [6.35] In the 1920s Le Corbusier also saw modernism as a force for social change, although he was concerned to head off a potential revolution by providing the populace with a more pleasant and healthy life style. [6.36] Many of the supporters of modern architecture at this time freely quoted socialist and Marxist sources. These expressed a deterministic view of history, in which the individual was of little importance, and economic factors were seen to determine the nature of art and architecture. [6.37]
These factors, added to the transient success of constructivism in the Soviet Union, convinced many in the west that modernism was a dangerous philosophy. Nevertheless, the style made considerable progress before the war. Ironically, this was due to the support of rich individual patrons as much as that of socialist municipalities. [6.38] After the war it came to be the adopted style of both big business and 'big government'.
The history of these struggles suggests that the question of official style on each occasion hung in the balance and that the battle was won by the faction with the strongest personalities or the greatest political skill. The boundaries between ideologies were clouded by cross-fertilization of ideas. Gruppo Sette acknowledged borrowing some of their ideas from the constructivists, and as Spiro Kostof (1985) has pointed out, stripped classicism was used in public architecture throughout the world at that time. [6.39] Yet, the fact that in all three societies a sort of classicism was finally adopted must leave us wondering whether this was purely fortuitous, or whether there really is something about classicism which appeals to the minds of those who favour a highly ordered society.
It is appropriate here to discuss briefly the influence on built form of utopianism and what is now known as 'social engineering'. These imply a dissatisfaction with the existing nature of society. William Morris said in 1887,
"Free men, I am sure, must lead simple lives and have simple pleasures … we are not free men and have in consequence wrapped up our lives in such a complexity of dependence that we have grown feeble and helpless." [6.40]
The art Nouveau style was an outgrowth of this tendency to turn away from industrial society in search of a new community in which life would be more simple and the individual craftsperson would flourish. In 1918, Bruno Taut allied the new 'crystal architecture' with the new community spirit. The constructivists tried social experiments such "as communal housing, dis-urbanized cities and the workers' club, which was seen as the successor to the Renaissance Palace and the bourgeois church …". [6.41] The British architect Wells Coates wrote in 1932:
"As architects of the ultimate human and material scenes of the new order, we are not so much concerned with the formal problems of 'style' as with an architectural solution to the social and economic problems of today." [6.42]
The vision of a new society inspired by a new architecture continued through the workers' housing schemes of the twenties. Corbusier thought that the problems of the time were due to "a contradiction between the great potential of modern technology and the fact that too few people benefited from it" (Risebero 1982). He "tried to show how the introduction of new building forms would create new ways of living and how the standardization and mass-production of high-quality dwellings could iron out social differences. This way … revolution could be avoided". [6.43] Rather strangely, his housing schemes included accommodation for maids, and as Peter Collins (1965) has noted the apartments bore a strong resemblance to the Parisian artist's studios which Corbusier admired. [6.44] Thus, the Contemporary City had mixed political overtones and could be seen as communist or fascist according to the preconceptions of the observer. The theme of promoting social change through improvements in architecture has continued with the socialist megastructures of the post-war period, and Archigram's fantasies of the 1960s (Fig. 6.3). [6.45]
Fig. 6.3. A vision of the future. Walking City. Project 1964. (Archt: Ron Herron of Archigram.)
Drawings of this project may be found in archINFORM and Bohrer (7th image down).
The prevailing view amongst theorists is that built form cannot provide a mechanism for social change in the way assumed by the modern movement. [6.46] However, it is often the same critics who claim that apartment blocks like the notorious Pruitt-Igoe estate, do have significant effects on their occupants because corridors, stair wells, and lifts belong to no-one in particular, and the uniformity of the apartments robs people of their individuality and pride. [6.47]
The view that built form is socially neutral is probably the correct one. Although the multi-storey apartment block has become, for people at both ends of the political spectrum, a symbol of bad living conditions and social and economic disadvantage, tower blocks sold to middle-class professional people as prestige inner-city developments are well cared for. The architectural spaces are not very different. A similar argument applies to the traditional terrace house. The same architectural spaces and the same symbolic facades go from working-class respectability, through degeneration to slum conditions, and then with inner-city development become sought-after residences for professional people. Thus, it is not so much the architectonics of buildings that influences the behaviour of their occupants, as the attitudes that people bring with them.
A final concept of some relevance to politics in built form is that of the 'spirit of the times' or Zeitgeist. We have already seen something of this in Norberg-Schultz's book, in which the art and architecture of an epoch or a civilization is considered to reflect the spiritual and political beliefs, the social organization, and the technological capabilities of the time. This idea was derived from analyses of historical styles in art and architecture, but some people soon came to see things the other way round. The preoccupations of the epoch were seen to be the driving force behind creative endeavour, and the spirit of the times was something which must inexorably show itself in art and built form. To such people, the architecture of the nineteenth century, with its heavy dependence on historical styles was an aberration. Modern movement propaganda called on designers to acquaint themselves with the spirit of the times which was seen to lie in the efficiency and inhuman 'coldness' of the machine, in the replacement of craftwork by mass production, and in the increased destructive effect of mechanized warfare.
The concept has political ramifications because the Zeitgeist may be seen as an impersonal force robbing the individual designer of all significance. It has thus been a target for classicists intent on undermining the social and political positions of the modern movement. It is not difficult to identify others. David Watkin's Morality and architecture (1977) should be read by anyone interested in debating the question from either side. His arguments reinforce the view that there is little connection between belief and built form. Perhaps unintentionally, they also suggest that though there may be no such thing as a Zeitgeist, there are at least fashions in ways of looking at the world. Watkin cites in support of his theme Mies van der Rohe's statement that in the new order the individual artist will come to be of no consequence. However, in the 1930s this could have been a text of the extreme right, as much as the extreme left of politics. Watkin himself lumps together Fabian Socialists, National Socialists (Nazis), and Anarchist Socialists as "the collectivists of the 1930s". He criticizes Pevsner, a Jew with socialist leanings, for embracing a collectivist philosophy similar to those of the National Socialists and Bolshevists. Finally in describing the leading personalities he is careful, as a historian, to link their beliefs with those of their teachers and the intellectual environment in which they moved, implying that the individuals concerned were greatly influenced by the intellectual climate in which they moved.[6.48]
The shift to the right which has occurred over the past few decades in most democracies and even in communist countries suggests a world-wide correspondence of views. Although occurring on a much smaller wavelength than the rise and fall of entire cultures, such swings do perhaps confirm that there are fashions in thought, if not an authentic Zeitgeist.
The politics of art.
Another form of political activity in architecture is the tendency of certain people to see art and architecture as the preserve of the privileged. Hans Hollein, who would now be classified as a post-modernist, wrote in 1963:
"Architecture is not the satisfaction of the needs of the mediocre, is not an environment for the petty happiness of the masses … Architecture is an affair of the elite." [6.49]
When Geoffrey Scott attacked the practice of criticizing architecture on the basis of political and ethical considerations, he was concerned that the "new criticism" had the democratic aim of ensuring that architectural symbolism would be intelligible to all. It provided rules so that all could easily distinguish good things from bad. He claimed that training in the understanding and appreciation of architecture (such as learning the details of the orders) was now seen as pride, pedantry, and affectation. Thus, the new criticism
"offered the privileges of culture without demanding its patience … A new public had been called into being … Works on architecture could never again be addressed: 'To all Joiners, Masons, Plasterers etc, and their Noble Patrons'. A vast democracy was henceforth to exercise its veto upon taste." [6.50]
The wide variety of what are classed as aesthetic objects and experiences also suggests that the definition of art is strongly related to privilege. Most books on aesthetics discuss drama, literature, music, sculpture, painting, and architecture. As Dickie (1971) notes, the range includes watching Hamlet, looking at a Ming vase, and examining a painting by Rembrandt. [6.51] It is difficult to see what all these things have in common. The secret lies, perhaps, in what is excluded. A vast range of creative endeavour is omitted, the most obvious being engineering design. Even architecture is only grudgingly given a place by some commentators on account of its utility. [6.52] (Unfortunately this question is not merely one of semantics, because some people believe that what is excluded cannot be part of an aesthetic experience and therefore cannot be beautiful.)
Thus it seems that one of the strongest motives for limiting the definitions of art and aesthetics is a desire to restrict their enjoyment to the powerful, the leisured and the well-to-do and those who wish to emulate them. Bill Risebero notes that
"The post-war commercial exploitation of bourgeois art-forms, especially of classical music, popularized by gramophone and radio, and of visual arts by television and publishing, was reflected in the building of concert halls, galleries and art centres." [6.53]
However, these often consist of "a group of buildings forming an elaborate and specialised cultural 'ghetto' as if to emphasize the apartness of fine art from the everyday life of the city." [6.54] There have been many attacks on this concept of art. In Russia in 1918 a broadsheet Art in the commune carried the statement "Art of the proletariat is not a holy shrine where things are lazily regarded, but work, a factory which produces new artistic things". [6.55] The futurist-constructivist poet Vladimir Mayakovsky wrote "We do not need a dead mausoleum of art where dead works are worshipped". [6.56]
Many other left-wing commentators have wanted to do away with art altogether or have extolled the virtues of people's art, and particularly of the artistic merits of industry and the useful. The response of the elite was, in Risebero's opinion, to "rewrite the history of architecture so that it contained as little reference as possible to the likes of the Victorian engineers and William Morris". [6.57]
Thus, politics and architecture have become entangled in the perception that classical architecture is an art-form (rather than the construction of useful buildings) and is reserved for the rich, the powerful, the learned and sensitive, while modernism is seen as accessible directly to the general public through the logic of its alleged functionalism. The latter includes the way in which the exterior expresses the interior; the expression of structural action; and the 'appropriate' use of materials. The development of post-modernism is seen in some quarters as a return to the elitism of classicism. As always, the picture is more complex than this. Many post-modern architects make a sincere attempt to provide 'messages' for the lay person as well as the connoisseur, and many modernist architects practised a form of elitism in refusing to make concessions to the desire of ordinary people for cosiness and ornament, and their inability to cope with 'brut' concrete.
The politics of the design process.
The form of buildings is partially influenced by the power relationships that exist between clients, designers, and users during the design process. Again, the building may be said to 'express' this situation. The very existence and the location of major projects such as multi-storey buildings, prominent bridges, industrial plants, electricity supply pylons, and mass-housing estates may be seen as a symbol of the power of certain of the participators to impose their will on others. Response will be influenced by the observer's relationship to these power structures. Many engineers have some association with centres of decision-making concerning large projects. Their perception of these facilities is bound to differ from that of someone who plays no part or must try to influence decisions by unconventional means. People will naturally see a structure as 'good' if it is of immediate and obvious benefit to them, and this will affect their perception of its aesthetic value. The parents of small schoolchildren might be more easily satisfied than others with the aesthetics of a footbridge over a busy road. In the case of built forms such as dockyard cranes or even power stations the benefits to the individual are less obvious, and they are liable to engender the sort of alienation which results in graffiti (Fig. 6.4). One reaction to these problems has been to arrange for artists, or local inhabitants, to paint friendly scenes or flowers on bare walls. [6.58] A large suburban power station near Frankfurt is virtually camouflaged in free-flowing pastel colours. [6.59]
|
Fig. 6.4. Conscientious minimum-cost engineering defaced by graffiti. North Road Railway Overpass, Huntingdale, Victoria. |
There is a danger that cynics will see attempts by engineers to make industrial structures visually palatable as serving the interests of government and big business. A possible solution is David Billington's suggestion that popular control of design could be achieved by arranging design competitions for important projects, in which all entries would be published and subjected to full and open discussion. [6.60] He feels this would provide a better means of aesthetic control than the present process in which attempts at imposition are often followed by protest and obstruction.
The idea that designers of built form owe a responsibility to consult those who must live and work alongside their creations is in direct opposition to the concept of the artist as a free spirit. Yet another facet to the politics of creativity is thus the impatience, felt by some designers and their supporters, with the constraints imposed by popular taste, functional requirements, or budgets. This outlook played a large part in the politics surrounding the design and construction of the Sydney Opera House and the resignation of its architect, Jørn Utzon. A large proportion of engineers subscribe to the belief that architects are 'artists' and that the true role of the engineer is to ensure the structural integrity of whatever form the architect may propose. [6.61]
Although the idea often has elitist connotations there is a strand of thought which mixes it with left wing ideology extending at times almost to anarchism. As Charles Jencks (1973) puts it
"Perhaps the greatest reason for the critical independence of Expressionist architects is their ideology of individual creativity which is often mixed with a form of anarchism. The art Nouveau movement, and such architects as Gaudì and Van de Velde, all preached the autonomy of the artist's imagination and they combined this with a romantic socialism based on co-operation and fellowship. The medieval guild system was a model for the socialism of William Morris … the Bauhaus in its Expressionist phase … was loosely based on Mutual Aid ideas which go back to the Anarcho-Syndicalism of Proudhon." [6.62]
Phrases used by Walter Gropius carry similar connotations:
"Our time will throw aside respect for the dead mask of organization … The relationship of man to man, the spirit of small communities must conquer again … small fruitful communities … building guilds as in the golden age of the cathedrals." [6.63]
The painter Fritz Hundertwasser wrote "Everyone should be able to build … The planned architecture of today cannot be considered an art at all".
In an interesting example of symbolism, Hundertwasser shared the view that the straight line is a token of rationalism, efficiency, and rectitude (Jencks 1973) and proposed as an antidote that mould, microbes, and other disintegrating elements be fostered to reduce all linear architecture to a "mould architecture" of flowing, free-form curves. [6.64]
David Watkin (1977) sees the modernists' desire for an architecture based on rational principles as a "denial of the role of the architect to raise our spirits"
"this view that what he does is not the result of education, taste, and imagination but that he is merely a vehicle through which a material problem is resolved by what Pugin calls a 'natural' answer, is ultimately degrading in its 'lowest common denominator' conception of man and his needs."
Elsewhere, he refers to "the deliberate lowering of sights and elimination of all refined achievement". [6.65]
These concepts are directly relevant when engineers must work within a design team which contains, and is usually lead by, an architect. The internal politics of this situation have been discussed elsewhere. [6.66] It is sufficient perhaps to recall that Jencks has described engineers as self-effacing and orientated to the provision of service to others. [6.67] Some attempts have been made to alter the traditional relationships, with varying degrees of success. [6.68]
Ethics and built form.
The moralistic perspective.
Edward de Zurko summarizes the theme of moral and ethical criticism in architecture in the introduction to his Origins of functionalist theory (1957). Architecture should "reflect and contribute to" moral or ethical ideals.
"A building should be true, not dishonest … A building should be a true expression of its purpose and of its age. Materials and structural systems should be used with integrity and be honestly expressed … practicality is a virtue … useless forms of ornament are rejected … ornament appears to be a form of conspicuous consumption …"
Engineers naturally apply such moral criteria in judging the design of built form. Even Geoffrey Scott states that in general it is justifiable to give moral judgements precedence over aesthetic ones. He describes aesthetic values as "a luxury", which may take precedence when no "moral threat" to society is present. He concludes that moral "echoes" may enrich aesthetics although "moral perception is blind to formal qualities". [6.69]
Examples of moralistic statements on design are plentiful, and it will suffice here to quote just a few cases. In a treatise published about 1593, the theologian Richard Hooker wrote a description of moral beauty which provides a fascinating definition of the sort of 'elegance' in design that engineers appreciate, and of the essence of the functionalist philosophy which will be examined in Chapters 7 and 8.
"Goodness in actions is like unto straightness, therefore that which is done well we term right. For as the straight way is most acceptable to him that travelleth … that which doth lie the evenest between us and the end we desire must needs be fittest for our use. Besides which fitness for use, there is also in rectitude, beauty; as contrariwise in obliquity, deformity." [6.70]
A common theme in moralistic philosophy in architecture is that an architect must be virtuous in order to create good architecture. Friedrich Weinbrenner, the architect of Karlsruhe, writing at the start of the nineteenth century, believed that "it takes a lofty and moral purpose [public rather than private] to make a useful object beautiful in the highest sense of the word" (de Zurko 1957). [6.71]
A few decades later, the German architect Karl Friedrich Schinkel, renowned for his neo-classical buildings, criticized as "licentious" a disregard for the functional relationship between the facade of a building and its internal volume. He felt the creation of a new architecture would be a contribution to the social development and the general evolution of mankind. He saw art as a fundamentally virtuous activity because the artist strives so that all may share a high order of pleasure. However, he did make a clear distinction between beauty and morality. [6.72]
The strictures of Ruskin concerning Renaissance and neo-classical architecture are well known and have been quoted at length by both his supporters and his opponents. The best known of Ruskin's architectural works is The stones of Venice (1851-3), in which he wrote that while Renaissance construction was absurd in its irrationality
"It is not the form of this architecture against which I would plead … it is the moral nature of it which is corrupt … It is base, unnatural, unfruitful, unenjoyable and impious … Pagan in its origin, proud and unholy in its revival … [the] intellect is idle … all luxury is gratified and all insolence fortified …" [6.73]
Criticism on moral grounds has not been confined to historical architectural styles. Edward Lacy Garbett, writing in 1850, maintained that utilitarian buildings are ugly because they are selfish-looking, and therefore immoral. [6.74] He saw "politeness" as the lowest of the qualities which distinguish 'architecture' from 'building'. Politeness included respect for the environment and would presumably cover cosmetic treatment and 'aesthetic' design. Garbett considered deception as destructive to all the arts. He demanded integrity in construction, and thus saw load-bearing structure as a sound basis for style. He maintained that architecture should begin as courtesy, and should then try, progressively, to please our higher faculties; to convey definite emotions; and to exalt and improve the mind.
William Morris advocated a "moral art" to replace the "falsification of forms". Viollet-le-Duc warned against the neglect of "those invariable principles which are as it were the moral sentiment of art": principles which "may be summed up in one word, - absolute respect for truth". In the early decades of this century, Hendrikus Berlage denounced the prevailing architecture as "sham architecture; i.e., imitation; i.e., lying". Henri van de Velde described the revolt against the "lying forms" of the 1890s as a moral revolt. Frank Lloyd Wright also believed that good architecture required "integrity", "honesty", and "truth to itself" and that the architect "must build into his structure the good life as a new kind of Beauty". [6.75]
Charles Jencks (1973) cites a number of thinkers in the worlds of art and architecture of the 1920s and 1930s who saw moral rectitude in the qualities of the machine. He states that Paul Valéry, "like so many others, could see the spirituality and mental discipline underlying the machine". The Dutch painter and polemicist Theo van Doesburg wrote "the machine is, par excellence, a phenomenon of spiritual discipline". [6.76]
More recently, David Billington (1983), in discussing the construction of the Sydney Opera House, wrote:
"The making of ostentatious objects without regard to public cost or to the right use of material shatters the basis of democratic civilization by tempting us all to worship golden calfs in a desert of limited resources." [6.77]
In conclusion, it should be noted that, while moralistic arguments are generally seen as a characteristic of the modern movement and the functionalist approach, they may also be used by the opposing side. David Watkin quotes Théophile Gautier, who wrote in 1835 that
"Nothing is really beautiful unless it is useless; everything useful is ugly, for it expresses a need, and the needs of man are ignoble and disgusting, like his poor weak nature." [6.78]
Moral education.
If architecture is charged with moral values, it is possible that it could have a beneficial effect on the morals of those who experience it. Geoffrey Scott claims that
"without the architecture - together with the poetry and other arts - of the Greeks, we should have a poorer conception, even morally, of the possible scope and value of balance and restraint." [6.79]
The perception of built form as an ideal medium for the moral education of the populace was particularly strong in the middle of the nineteenth century. Ruskin (1877) wrote forcefully on the matter, and maintained that the principal functions of art are "the enforcing of the religious sentiments of men, the perfecting their ethical state, and the doing them material service", but ideal art must be founded in the "realistic art of bestowing health and happiness". He added that "the chief of our fair designs must be to keep the living creatures round us clean, and in human comfort", but, "primarily clean". [6.80]
Some people find it easy to mock Ruskin's concerns, but it must be remembered that British cities were then in the process of undergoing the 'health revolution' instituted by the municipal engineers. A tale told by Ruskin in his 1870 lectures suggests why, in subsequent decades, architects were preoccupied with 'sunlight and greenery'. He tells of a clergyman friend who, on entering London by train, would close his eyes, "lest the sight of the blocks of houses which the railroad intersected in the suburbs should unfit him, by the horror of it, for his day's work". [6.81]
In 1867, in his final report on the construction of the Cincinnati Bridge, John A. Roebling wrote
"Public works should educate public taste … In the erection of public edifices, therefore, some expense may and ought to be incurred in order to satisfy the artistic aspirations of a young and growing community." [6.82]
In summarizing these views Billington writes that
"for Roebling, the construction of expensive opera houses, palaces, banks and so on will never bring the 'higher culture of the masses' that the building of the railroad will. The [first] merely uses up materials to express wealth …" [6.83]
Truth and honesty.
Not surprisingly, the words 'truth' and 'honesty' appear frequently in the literature of morality in built form. Again, the moralists of the nineteenth century expressed themselves forcefully. [6.84] Ruskin stated that
"The violations of truth which dishonour poetry and painting, are for the most part confined to the treatment of their subjects. But in architecture another and a less subtle, more contemptible violation of truth is possible; a direct falsity of assertion respecting the nature of material, or the quantity of labour. We may not be able to command good, or beautiful, or inventive architecture; but we can command an honest architecture. The meagreness of poverty may be pardoned, the sternness of utility respected; but what is there but scorn for the meanness of deception?" [6.85]
As an example of dishonesty Pugin provided a figure of a church whose modest hall was concealed by a 'film-set' facade giving the impression that it was much larger and possessed side-aisles. [6.86]
However, it was not only the moralists of Gothic revivalism who saw a need for truth and honesty in construction. Peter Collins (1965) states that "French Classical doctrine … always equated truth with beauty, for as Boileau wrote in his Art Poétique: 'nothing is beautiful but what is true' ".[6.87]
In the middle of the eighteenth century, an Italian commentator, Carlo Lodoli, engaged in the seemingly eternal search for a new architecture, maintained that the Baroque style was immoral, and desired that the new architecture should be "true, honest, and reasonable". [6.88] It is interesting that Scott argues in defence of the Baroque that people at the time were well aware of the techniques employed, such as the skilful painting of plaster to resemble marble, and so were not actually being deceived. Like the artists and architects of the time they were more interested in the outward appearance of things than in the conjunction of appearance and 'reality', the more so as they often could not afford genuine marble. [6.89]
An earlier example is the false windows modelled in the facades of Renaissance buildings to maintain symmetry and balance. Again, it was obviously more important to the Renaissance mind that these effects should be maintained, than that what appeared to be a window should actually function as a window.
A current instance of popular taste is the plastic laminate veneers which simulate beautifully grained timber. Purists take offence at the use of such effects. However, it is possible to argue that, but if the only thing that attracts us to the timber panelling of a room is its appearance, then if there is some means of faithfully, or almost faithfully, reproducing this, how can we rationally complain that we have not got what we wanted? The answer is that most of us associate timber panelling with affluence and the aura of old libraries and studies; with craft skills; with a characteristic odour of wood and varnish; and with many more acquired impressions which plastic cannot awaken in us.
From an engineering point of view it should be remembered that when we speak of honesty we may be talking of one of at least two different types. There is honesty of structural form, and there is honest expression of economic constraints. Thus a steel I-beam specially fabricated with a parabolic profile to correspond to its bending-moment diagram might be mechanically honest, but a prismatic beam bought off the shelf would more honestly express the economic facts of life.
Sincerity.
Peter Collins makes an interesting point in distinguishing sincerity from truth even though the Concise Oxford Dictionary does not. According to Collins, "truth is what we owe to others, whereas sincerity is what we owe to ourselves". In architecture, truth "has usually implied an objective correspondence between what a structure is and what it appears to be". On the other hand, the sincere architect "designs a building the way he believes it should be designed, and not just the way his client or the public will most readily accept it". The sincere architect is thus, like the great masters of the modern movement, "an ardent personality overflowing with an urge to enshrine, in monumental form an experience he [deems] unique, and consumed with an urge to communicate a message of human redemption to mankind". Collins provides a number of quotations in support of this. Frank Lloyd Wright wrote that his primary driving force was a "hunger for reality, for sincerity". Marcel Breuer defined clarity in architecture as "the definite expression of the purpose of a building and a sincere expression of its structure" and continued: "one can regard this sincerity as a sort of moral duty". [6.90]
Sincerity is a virtue of which many designers would approve. It makes it possible to argue for the independence of the professions from the control of the uninformed. Professionals see themselves as acting sincerely and honestly, in the best interests of the community. However, sincerity has its dangers. As we saw above, it may be used to justify total control of the project by the artist-architect, and total freedom of expenditure.
Peter Collins also cautions against over-valuing sincerity, though for different reasons. [6.91] He sees this likely to encourage "spontaneity", of which the worst manifestation is "frankness". This may range from a "belief in the importance of being earnest,", through "indifference to other people's more sensitive feelings", to a "deliberate desire to hurt". He sees modernists as having a puritanical "fear of frivolity", and thinks they have a narcissistic preoccupation with their own feelings and their own projects which permits no consideration of the feelings or projects of others: particularly of existing buildings adjacent to the site. He thus considers the 'truth' achieved in modernist buildings is gained "at the expense of truths of a wider and more harmonious kind".
For Collins, as for classicists in general, Brutalism (Figs 3.4 and 4.10) is deliberately offensive to the sensitivities of others. Although he can conceive that it might be "justified by other motives than the desire to give pain" he sees it as having originated in extremism and exhibitionism, and in "the puritanical hatred of all that is coquetry and charm". The literary fashion of exposing one's soul in writing (which he calls "undressing in public") "is like the architectural fashion of not merely exposing what needs not be covered, but of deliberately seeking out complicated techniques for exposing the 'guts' of a building (Fig. 5.7), whether these be ventilation ducts or merely the knot-holes of the [formwork]". [6.92]
Ornament.
Many people see ornament as an expression of idleness and luxury, or as a means of concealing or distorting appearance. It is therefore immoral or untruthful. The best-known exposition of this viewpoint in the theory of architecture is Adolf Loos's polemical Ornament and crime, published in 1908, in which he claimed that the use of ornament was appropriate only to criminals and savages. The modern movement renounced ornament in reacting against the complex and ubiquitous decoration of the Victorian era.
The view shared by most engineers is probably that people are entitled to ornament personal property, but that ornament (as opposed to intrinsic aesthetic quality) is inappropriate and unjustifiable in engineering structures, particularly when these are public works. This position may be supported by arguments based on economic, moral, and perhaps aesthetic grounds. Many would agree with Medwadowski (1983) that 'simplicity' and 'honesty' are two characteristics which are common to all structures generally recognized as aesthetically successful. [6.93] Naturally, a great deal depends on what people mean when they talk of ornament. Engineers might feel comfortable with restrained ornament such as striations in concrete (Fig. 8.4), but balk at swags and cherubs.
Nevertheless, there is a strong general need for ornament of some sort. Even when modernist principles dominated in the design of public and commercial buildings, ornament continued to be a feature of domestic architecture. Within the movement itself there were constant attempts to find forms of ornament which could be adopted without violating the basic tenets. These were spurred on by a practical need because most attempts to produce the smooth, featureless 'machine-age' surfaces of the so-called 'white architecture' (Fig. 4.22) had ended in visual disaster due to staining and uneven weathering of plaster or concrete. Bare, unrelieved areas of wall attracted graffiti. The response was to encourage the use of artificially roughened surfaces and more elaborate detailing and to develop details which would avoid the concentration of rainwater. Architects exploited the need for sun-screening, often making the screens more elaborate than was really necessary. [6.94]
Amongst post-modernists, ornament is now restored to respectability. It provides the 'complexity and contradiction' demanded by the connoisseurs and the elementary visual interest and congeniality demanded by the majority. A number of books have appeared in praise of ornament, advancing intellectual as well as emotional arguments for its acceptance. Brent Brolin (1985) states that
"If there has been one constant in the history of the arts, it has been the lack of debate about the use of ornament - until our time. The nearly ornament-less, modern design of our century is an aberration … With rare exceptions, when ornament could be used, it was; and, in most cases, in proportion to wealth." [6.95]
There, for many people, is the rub. Ornament is often associated with lack of purpose, misdirection of effort, or the ostentatious display of wealth.
Inherent in such moral objections is the assumption that ornament has no intrinsic worth. Its defenders are therefore at pains to emphasize the contributions it makes to our lives at various levels. [6.96] They note that ornament is evidently necessary for the emotional well-being of many people. They argue that elaboration on a theme is not mere addition to a work of art but is an integral part of it. Rudolph Arnheim (1977) points out that Beethoven's Fifth Symphony commences with a simple four-note theme, but that the remainder of the work which develops from this cannot be dismissed as 'mere ornament'. In a similar fashion, he argues, the complex detail of building facades and three-dimensional forms are integral parts of the whole visual composition. [6.97] Ornament is also often justified in visual terms as fulfilling a role in 'expressing' load-bearing structure or the organizational 'structure' of a facade. [6.98]
Charles Jencks (1987) summarizes the position in the following passage.
"Ornament has not only symbolic functions, but aesthetic ones: to give scale, depth, and proportion to large, bureaucratic monoliths; to provide variation and themes stated elsewhere in the building and to highlight these; to 'hide faults in construction', something which modernism in its more Calvanistic moments wanted to show; to give enjoyment, complication and visual games to a boring surface, and finally to accent the mood of a space rather the way that spice and garlic accentuate taste." [6.99]
Arnheim sees yet another use for ornament, or intentional complexity of form, as a means of invoking tension in the observer by placing obstacles in the path "leading the visitor to the heart of the matter". As has been noted in earlier chapters, artificial heightening of tension is an established technique in art. Arnheim observes that it is used in Baroque buildings, in the paintings of Brueghel and Tintoretto, and in the plays of Shakespeare. [6.100]
Belief, perception, and personality.
Amongst commentators on architecture, there seem to be two conflicting camps. At the risk of caricature we may place in the first those who favour classical architecture, and place a high value on visual order, authority, precedent, style, and ornament. They may define aesthetics and architecture narrowly, giving precedence to the visual qualities of built form, and using the word 'design' to indicate the visual 'end product'. They may consider training and a special sensitivity necessary for the appreciation of architecture, which then becomes the privilege of an elite.
In the other camp we may place people who value an intellectual order of a less visual kind. They may be committed to questioning authority and precedent; have a desire for change, fluidity, and innovation; place great value on what they see as truth and honesty in built form; and value minimalism, parsimony, and optimization. They may see design as a process requiring research and application, whereby defined needs are satisfied by the application of technological skill.
The distinction is often sharply drawn. Collins, discussing romanticism and classicism in the nineteenth century, writes
"they corresponded to two aspects of human nature from which all problems of morality ultimately spring, and thus they meant not only the difference between Greek and Gothic, but the difference between emotional and rational, between sensual and intellectual, between sentiment and judgement, and between freedom and the rule of law …" [6.101]
(In this period there was evidently a clear alignment of personal qualities under the banners of the 'Greek' and 'Gothic' styles.)
Some commentators on art and architecture place engineers in the non-classical camp because they see aspects of their approach to design as involving a "rejection of convention" and the active "searching out of an original path". Unfortunately they then attribute to engineers beliefs held by others in the same camp for which they hold no brief. [6.102]
Brent Brolin (1985) traces the origin of the Romantic concept of the artist-genius to efforts made from the sixteenth to the eighteenth century to raise the status of painters and sculptors. He states that for most of history these had been seen as occupations fit only for slaves and the lower classes. The question of status was further complicated in the nineteenth century when there was an effort to do the same for the 'decorative artist', or artisan, in response to fears that national industries were losing ground against foreign competition. [6.103]
"The critics' demands for a certain degree of originality in the decorative arts were virtually identical in tone to the directives of Kant and Schiller to the fine artist: reject 'convention' and search out your own, original artistic path." [6.104]
For many commentators this further strengthens the perceived correspondence between the approach of the engineer and that of the opponents of classicism. The result is some confusion of argument.
The dispute is very much alive today, and the extent to which personality is still seen to be associated with allegiances in architectural theory is illustrated by a skirmish that took place in the Architectural Review between an editor, Peter Davey and Leon Krier, who is known for his projects in the classical mould. The former wrote
"Krier is a man of the left, but his architectural programme has a remarkable resemblance to that of Nazi Germany … He, like the Nazis, wants to impose an order on society … classical architecture is and has ever been, the architecture of order, authority and imposition …" [6.105]
Krier picked up the terms used by Davey and replied
"Mr. Davey is obviously afraid of 'richness', 'discipline', 'tradition', 'history', 'elegance', he is afraid of 'order' and 'authority', he is afraid of things which are 'grand' or 'stripped' which are 'ideal', 'monumental', 'symmetrical'. 'Classicism' for him epitomises all these anxieties and 'Gothicism' for him is the antidote for this all-engulfing malady. It is, however, the 'arcane games' that we play which unsettle him most. If in the Anglo-Saxon world a strong opinion or conviction is not rarely characterised as 'catholic', I can only describe Mr. Davey's prudery as 'protestant' … Mr. Davey is afraid of pleasure, beauty and order, he is afraid of being seduced …" [6.106]
David Watkin's Morality and architecture (1977) contains a similarly spirited defence of the classical approach, in which he attacks nineteenth and twentieth century attempts to establish a moral basis for the design and criticism of architecture. Both Brolin and Watkin provide an entertaining review of the intellectual antics of non-classicists in trying to find a rational under-pinning for their personal preferences. Naturally, they fail to mention the similar antics of the supporters of classicism. Both books, along with Scott (1924), expose many weaknesses in the conventional arguments for modernism and functionalism.
Of course, the attitudes described above lie at the extremes. As Collins has pointed out, the more controversial opinions receive the most publicity. [6.107] An interesting aspect of this clash of personalities and ideals is that, to someone uninvolved in the debate, the rhetoric of both groups sounds very similar. Classicists accuse modernists of seeking a mechanized, de-personalized society, and smothering the will and imagination of the architect and artist. At the same time they speak of a need for order, authority, and a respect for precedent. They overcome the apparent contradiction by claiming that it is only through the 'voluntary' acceptance of such discipline that the artist or designer can truly reach great heights. [6.108]
Nikolaus Pevsner, who is the main subject of Watkin's attack on modernism, is quoted by him as writing "the man of genius is not he who tries to shake off [the discipline of the spirit of the age], but he for whom it is given to express it in its most powerful form". This could easily be a classicist talking about the liberating constraints of the classical canons. A later quote from Pevsner reads "all reviving of styles is a sign of weakness, because in revivals independent thinking and feeling matters less than the choice of patterns". [6.109]
Thus both camps in their different ways seek freedom for the individual architect, and both see it as being attained through the acceptance of some form of discipline. Each accuses the other of fear of freedom and fear of life.
The battle between architectural theorists may seem irrelevant to engineers who are content to design functional forms with a near-optimum ratio of benefit to cost, in accordance with the laws of nature, and respecting the perceived constraints of economic factors. However, if they wish to defend their philosophy against those who advocate investment of resources in ornament, or 'artistic redundancy', it is advantageous to be acquainted with the established arguments of both sides. It is inappropriate to follow these battles further as they belong to a large extent to the field of architectural theory, while our main interest here is in the reaction of observers to built form.
Conclusion: the connection between politics and built form.
It is indisputable that an observer may choose to think of the power structures which permitted the construction of a pyramid or a nuclear power station, or the social condition of the labourers who erected a particular building, and feel moved by these thoughts. Whether this reaction should be classified as part of the aesthetic experience is of little consequence. What is important is the fact that people do experience strong emotions ranging from devotion to disgust on seeing certain types of built form, because of their political and moral connotations, and the pragmatic designer may need to take these into account. However, as far as the observer is concerned, it is important to remember that the emotion is more properly directed at the owners or designers, than at the object itself, and that it is possible, though sometimes difficult, to appreciate an object for its beauty despite an awareness of the conditions surrounding its creation.
As regards a direct connection between form and beliefs, it is harder to be specific. Social and political purposes are sometimes clearly expressed at a simple level in the architectural planning of buildings. Bill Risebero's comment that the Pavillon Suisse student hostel was "a clear symbol of communal living" provides a useful example for analysis. [6.110] The close, regular grouping of living accommodation is undoubtedly an indication that communal living has been envisaged by owner or designer. However this approach is not unique to designers with utopian visions, intent on providing a suitable environment for students. The tradition of communal living amongst scholars is descended from clerical practices in the middle ages. Closely-grouped sleeping quarters with shared facilities are found in municipal housing schemes, monasteries, and even in the Palace of Versailles. Thus it is not the planning, so much as its origin and purpose that arouses the emotions.
The proposition that certain habits of mind may be reflected in built form is perhaps more tenable, though Piranesi might have been going too far in seeing lack of orderly planning of building groups as an expression of moral decay. Untidiness in planning may be of two types, visual and intellectual, and may stem from a number of sources. At the personal level, people need order in their surroundings to varying degrees. To the extent that they have the power to influence the tidiness of their rooms, or the planning of additions to their houses, the result is rarely correlated with their morals, though it may tell us something about their financial constraints. At a community level, a lack of visual order, as is found in a medieval village or a shanty town stems from the fact that there is no central planning authority. Although this says something about the priorities of the people ruling the community, it does not tell us much about their political beliefs. Feudal societies can hardly be described as disordered, and their social conditions differed greatly from those which give rise to a South American barrida, or shanty town. [6.111]
Considering order at the level of the individual construction, such as a truss bridge or a chemical plant, the complex intersecting elements give an impression of visual disorder when viewed from most angles. The discipline governing their layout may be discerned only through a special effort in which the intellect filters out the 'noise' from the visual signal and constructs an ordered and relatively abstract image. Much 'aesthetic' design in engineering is a process of enhancing the visual unity, harmony, and balance of a construction, often to the detriment of the engineering and economic rationale. Visual disorder may thus tell us only what relative weighting the designer places on visual effects as compared to systematic planning and cost efficiency. There is in fact very little untidy construction which results purely from the designer's having an untidy mind. [6.112]
The use of embellishment on a building does tell us something about the priorities of a society, or of those who run it. Parsimony is not a characteristic of princes, at least when they are building for their own glory. It is more a characteristic of bureaucrats, technocrats, and other public 'servants'. In former times, warehouses and bridges were embellished to a considerable extent. In the case of the warehouses, this may have been done to impress clients, and to enhance the status and pride of the owner. Bridges were public works, and their embellishment perhaps provided satisfaction to those who commissioned them, and ensured the approval of the general public. In times of economic rigour, managers in both business and government find it difficult to justify expenditure on ornament, but again this factor operates regardless of their political persuasion.
It would seem that if there really is a connection between beliefs, morals, and built form, it is very subtle and not along the lines which have so far been proposed. Each individual case seems to need careful analysis to establish the manner and the extent to which a myriad possible factors could have operated. All measurement is relative and it is necessary to establish carefully what datum is being used. If we read a description of the political and economic characteristics of the architecture of the United States in the twentieth century, it is important to know whether they are described in comparison to those of ancient Egypt or nineteenth-century England.
Once again it seems that those who employ sweeping hypotheses in architectural philosophy should take steps to establish a firmer case. More effort could be made to postulate and examine theories describing the mechanisms which might operate. They could attempt to explain the exact mechanism by which religious and political beliefs and attitudes are designed into buildings. It is possible that administrators responsible for the erection of defensive public buildings choose architects who have a reputation for producing forbidding designs. [6.113] They may select the most forbidding alternative from several proposals or reject successive schemes until the architect produces the design they want. They may even tell the architect that they want a building like a fortress. Or do architects know what is expected as result of discussions with the client? Do they produce forbidding designs because that is their perception of government and bureaucracy?
If practical investigation could clear up some of these points, the debate concerning built form and belief might be placed on a sounder footing. There is a great need to increase the amount of intellectual analysis in such criticism, and lower the emotional content. There appear to be as many similarities between the opposing camps as there are differences, and a radical reappraisal of the controversy so far might result in a realignment of the adversaries and a shifting of the lines of argument onto a more productive plane altogether.
Image Acknowledgements. Linked images, Chapter 6.
nextroom (Austria). Link.
Kay Williams (Kaysgeography). Link.
archINFORM. Link.
Pierre Bohrer. Link.
[Top.]
Aesthetics of built form navigation:
[Contents]
[References]
[Chapter 5.]
[Notes to Chapter 6]
[Chapter 7.]
Site navigation:
[The art in structural design.]
[Papers.]
[Work of Jörg Schlaich.]
[John Monash's early engineering.]