ARCHITECTURAL WORLD

The Blue Planet, Kastrup

2011-07-31T03:37:00.000-07:00

The Blue Planet

Location : Kastrup

Client : The Blue Planet Building foundation

( Realdonia , Knud HΦjgaards Fond , Tarnby Kommune )

Architect : 3XN

Project Date : 2008

Status : Ongoing

Completion Date : 2013

Project Floor space : 9000 Sq.M.

Cost : 85,000,000 Euros.

Function : Aquirium.

The blue planet, the new aquarium designed by 3XN, will be akey attraction in Φresund . Its shape is inspired by a 3D-whirlpool. Walls androof form a continuum creating a wave-like profile. Its sinuous convexityfollows the undulating landscape, tailing off to disappear underground. The designdeliberately intends to build visitors expectations about whats inside. They willhave the sensation of being swept up bya vortex and transported to anunderwater world. The feeling of being in a different universe starts rightfrom the entrance hall for the glazed roof is also the bottom of an enormousfish tank.

The sky and sunrays filter through the water and onto thefoyer walls and floor. This is the Round Room, pivotal point of the aquariumand the start of an adventure of discovery.

Externally , the low =level volume rising only a few metersabove the ground blends effortless less into the low-laying landscape near thesea. The blue planet has been designed to accommodate possible futureextensions without jeopardizing its original sculptural structure.

Japan Earthquake and Tsunami situation summary - 5

2011-04-09T12:20:00.001-07:00

Japanese Psyche

Throughout this ordeal, foreign media have pointed out how civil Japanese people are even when faced with a great difficulty. In Tokyo that evening, people, deprived of the usual commuter transportation, walked home helping each other. Stores and restaurants offered free food and beverages. In shelters, people would line up to receive food, they respect the rules established by the self-organized governing body, and share chores and duties to run the place smoothly. Stores and gas stations offer whatever they have in stock at regular prices, never attempting to take advantage of shortage. When an octogenarian was rescued with her grandson after having been trapped in the tsunami destroyed and debris covered house for 9 days, she said to the rescuer “thank you and I am sorry for taking up your time.” There have been some petty thefts in stores vacated by storekeepers as reported in Sendai. But there has been no wide-spread plunder or violence in any part of the affected areas. Everybody in the entire country seems to be nice, kind, sincere, and exhibiting exemplary citizenship. I wonder if the crime rate in Japan went down in the weeks following the disaster as everybody was preoccupied with the unfolding events in Tohoku and Fukushima in particular, and if even criminals have lost the “evil” in them.
Probably people are truly in shock so much that they suppress the individual selfishness and greed; and subconsciously hoping to have a sense of belongingness to feel secure. Or, they know instinctively that they cannot have a disgraceful conduct because they would still have to live in and with the same community of people after all this has passed. Or, simply it is their nature to be kind and sympathetic to and respectful of others.
I am personally amazed to observe that the entire country seems to be aligned in the “help Tohoku” mode. The collective will power will definitely be needed to help those affected and rebuild the society and economy, while correcting the general course of this country. This emotional focusing is undoubtedly a result of the genuine love everybody feels for the suffering of the humanity. It is in fact heart-warming to see fund-raising drives everywhere inside Japan as well as in some remote countries.
But I feel a tinge of fear in the way the mass is turning in one particular direction, or feeling obliged to turn in one direction. The Japanese tend to align themselves to the perceived majority, without expressing own values. No societal issue is as simple as good or bad; but eventually, I am afraid, that the big voice will determine which way is good for the mass, and dissenting voices will never be heard in this mass hypnosis, which can be rather blind when controlled through deft maneuvering of information and public moods.
For example, there is an on-going mood that dictates that because people of Tohoku are suffering, the rest of the country should not be engaged in festivities. For a certain period of time, this may hold true, because many in other regions are indeed feeling sad, depressed, and in a sense mourning the loss of lives and all the misfortune falling on those who survived. People are in general still feeling the shock and will take some time to get back to normal. Along this logic, however, many events have been cancelled, be they sporting events, commercial events for children at shopping malls, release of popular music titles, or even wedding banquets. People would go straight home after work, drying up the businesses of restaurants and drinking holes in town. If you insist on doing business as usual, you would be criticized as insensitive and/or disrespectful. I suspect that this must be quite similar to the mind-control (self-imposed or not) of the general public, which on surface supported the starting of war in 1920’s, that it was a necessary and god-given right to invade China. A dangerous demagogue could represent the voice of the time, leading the mass to an unwanted course that nobody could reverse.
Japan will soon need constructive debates in figuring out in which way to take our country; what to do with nuclear energy, how to spend our finite resources in rebuilding economy while supporting unprecedented increase of elderly population, etc. Having a united front is not always good, and I hope the Japanese people have enough wisdom to know the difference between the feel-good patriotism under one banner and the responsibility in evaluating options and expressing opinions in a democratic way when the time comes.
In any case, we will have to resume our normal lives so that Japan becomes productive again.

What Is To Come

An enormous number of lives were lost. There are as many people still missing two weeks after the devastation had occurred and are presumed dead. Several coastal communities were literally wiped off the map. Hundreds of thousands of people lost their homes and some lead nomadic lives between shelters, not even knowing where they are going next. However, the people of the region and of the rest of the country have already shown the resolve to overcome all the difficulty and somehow find meanings in this tragic turn of events in the history. To pay tribute to the victims, and to find the right path for the rest of the population of Japan, we need to get to work and do many things right. No more wasteful petty skirmishes between political parties. No more indecisions about what to do to deal with the dwindling pension reserves and snowballing healthcare costs. No more turf wars between ministries sacrificing the quality of services to the populace. This series of events and the hardships Japan is experiencing in the aftermath should be a blessing in disguise, a warning against further procrastination, or the ultimatum telling us that we have no more luxury in dillydallying in addressing the problems we face.
On the ground, the recovery of corpse still continues along with the removal of debris and mechanical drainage of sea water remaining in areas that sank lower than the surrounding areas. In Miyagi Prefecture, the estimated volume of debris is said to be as much as 23 times the typical annual amount of waste disposal of the region. The cost as well as what to do with all that debris is a big issue. (They still try to separate materials manually for possible recycling, but inclusion of sea water complicates the process, and as to radiation tainted materials, there is not even a guideline for handling.)
Also hampering the process is the issue of ownership. Thousands of cars tossed around by tsunamis can be traced back to the owners at least on paper, but there are so many of them, and finding the ownership does not mean being able to contact the owners. Even house debris has shifted around; in most cases the owner of the structure and whatever found inside is different from the owner of the land on which they were found. The government finally issued a decree allowing for removal and disposal of vehicles and structures that are obviously non-functional. (Workers are still trying to safe-keep personal items, such as photo albums, in case the owners come back to retrieve them.)
Fishing boats pose an issue one notch more complicated. While the ownership can be identified sooner than cars, their bulk is much bigger. They require much bigger equipment, and in many cases they could not be removed without damaging or taking down a building or two nearby. The national government decided to pay for removal of house and car debris, but somehow the removal of ships is said to be the responsibility of individual insurers.
In terms of architecture and urban planning, this could be a great opportunity to rebuild communities in the most desirable fashion; in a sense, a utopian opportunity. An optimum built environment suitable for new lifestyles that are ecologically sound, symbiotic with the natural forces, based on a new paradigm in economic growth represented by knowledge based industries in addition to the traditional piscatorial, agricultural, and manufacturing industries.
These will all depend on the vision of the leadership, whoever might take that role at all levels in all fields. It remains to be seen whether there will be a centrally concerted efforts to produce a grand master plan for the Tohoku Region, or each township will employ architects and planners and hurry to implement a hodgepodge of rebuilding projects.
Japan Institute of Architects, of which I am a member of the international committee without being a JIA member, has mobilized some members in the region to help municipalities in the initial assessment of building damages; i.e., safe, repair needed, unfit for occupancy, etc. While the Japan Society of Civil Engineers, The Japanese Geotechnical Society, and the City Planning Institute of Japan have issued a joint communiqué, JIA has not made any public announcement.
I have been using all my imagination to figure out what an architect can do in an emergency situation like this. For example, we see in news coverage how selflessly some people are working as rescue workers, doctors, nurses, mental health counselors, truck drivers, city hall employees, journalists, construction workers, police and military. Unfortunately, what we do as architects does not seem to be so urgently needed in the confusing reality of affected areas.
However, when the rebuilding starts in a few months time, architects should provide leadership and creativity in master planning of old and new communities; propose extra safety measures in buildings of different types, and promote economical and eco-friendly solutions. This may indeed be a good opportunity to really promote green architecture.
Even for temporary housing projects, for which the economy and speed tend to take precedence over all other issues, architects can intervene in the planning process to give something extra for the comfort of future residents, such as a plaza to foster neighborhood communication, small spaces for meetings, thoughtful site planning for maximum privacy between units and separation of pedestrian and vehicular accesses, etc.
Architects have to work with professional groups like JIA and AIA to have our presence noticed and our expertise appreciated. Our profession, at least in industrialized countries, is there to give an added value to the built environment. It is important to remain concerned and actively engaged in order to offer our expertise especially when the harsh reality of the conditions of the affected tends to highlight the bare minimum hardware, and overshadow that little extra, which would make their lives much more livable in a long run.
AIA Japan Chapter is a very small chapter with very little resources. We may not be able to do much as a group vis-à-vis the disaster. But at least we can try to identify and convey the issues we are facing, and provide opportunities for discussions for professional awareness of and possible solutions to such problems through our upcoming Northwest Pacific Region / COD conference in Japan in November.

Japan Earthquake and Tsunami situation summary - 4

2011-04-09T12:19:00.000-07:00

Logistics and Impact on Economy

The initial shocks destroyed some bridges, roadways, and railways, halting the distribution network of the Tohoku Region including Sendai, a city of one million people. The coastal communities north of Sendai are separated from the population centers along the spine of flat land in the middle of Honshu Island with mountains, and, thus, were rather difficult to reach even before March 11th. Then the destruction of accesses made the logistics an acute problem in the coastal region, where relief materials were needed the most.
The quakes and tsunamis also put more than a handful of oil refineries along the Pacific coast out of business, at least initially. This threw the fuel (heating oil as well as gasoline) distribution off balance in the eastern half of Japan including the Tokyo region.
These compounded problems made the logistics of rescue and relief activities very difficult. (See more on this below.)
The Tohoku Region also has many advanced technology manufacturing plants. With the physical damage and/or the disruption of transportation, many plants were forced to close down. Since many manufacturers had adopted Toyota’s just-in-time delivery tactics for parts and half-products, once a plant stops production in upstream of the supply chain, the whole line of factories, even if they were located outside the earthquake affected region, had to be shut down with very few parts in stock. There is already a report of temporary workers laid off at a factory in Shimane, at the western end of Honshu, because of the stoppage of their suppliers in Tohoku.
Many fishermen lost their boats and nets in tsunamis. The Pacific Coast of Tohoku boasted numerous large fishing bases. We will have to wait and see how much impact this will have on our dietary needs.
The nuclear scare has prompted many foreign businesses to at least temporarily flee Tokyo or the country altogether. They seem to be coming back to Tokyo as they realize that it had been an overreaction. However, as the problems at Fukushima Daiichi linger, there will be a serious economic consequence in the region. At least the communities within the 30km (19 miles) radius are vacated with no end in sight. There will be thousands of jobless people from those communities at least. As they relocate to other communities, they become competition for jobs when already the recession has squeezed the job market throughout the country.
The shortage of electric power is worrisome because it disrupts manufacturing activities in many ways. The planned blackouts are marginally necessary now, but when the summer heat arrives, the power demand will soar with air conditioning. Industries are already talking about ways to reduce the peak demand by shifting the operation to night time, assigning specific days off to individual businesses instead of everyone taking the weekend off, etc. Japan adopted the policy called “Cool Biz” a while ago to encourage business people to take the tie and jacket off during the summer months and set the air conditioning at a higher temperature. I can imagine that Japanese businesses will become even more casual this summer.
The amount of damage in both private and public sectors will be enormous. At the time of Kobe Earthquake, the damage was estimated to be approximately 2.5% of GDP. This time, it will certainly be more. So, for a year or so, the overall economic output may be down. But the rebuilding work will eventually push the economy up a little. And since this emergency will likely convince the current government to give up on some notorious campaign promises, such as child subsidy, free high-school tuition, and rice buy-up for farmers, all designed to please local constituencies in support of the Democrats, but little economic stimulus value, the governing principal may shift to more pro-business, which we need to pay for the rebuilding as well as to compensate for the shrinking and aging demography. Some intellectuals have already started speaking up about this disaster being a wake-up call, a great opportunity to put an end to the doldrums, and push reform in our societal problems such as the pension system, healthcare, centralized control by bureaucracy, high corporate taxes, rigid employment practices, uncompetitive education, etc. (See more in “What is to Come” below.)

Life in Tokyo and Elsewhere

1) Dress rehearsal for the Big One for Tokyo
In a sense Tokyo is arguably better prepared for a large earthquake than any other regions in Japan for an obvious reason. It is on flat terrain; no landslide. It is somewhat protected by the closed geometry of Tokyo Bay against onslaught of tsunami; some coastal inundation may occur, but the destructive force may be reduced. Recently built large buildings follow strict seismic building code; we really, really, do not believe that they could collapse. All nuclear power plants are located far from the city. Only issues I personally worry about are the raised highways, which were built quickly for the Tokyo Olympic Games in 1964, which may collapse in sections, and envelopes of smaller buildings that might fall off due to differential movement.
Government agencies had predicted that in case of a big earthquake on a weekday, the central districts of Tokyo would be paralyzed with people hurrying home, streets filled with people as if they were in rush-hour trains, while all the public transportation network would be suspended. Agencies recommend that workers remain at work and delay their attempt to get home as much as they can. Here is a collection of anecdotes of what happened in Tokyo on March 11th.
• Most businesses closed and let workers out. Some people walked hours to get home.
• Supermarkets and convenient stores (convinis for short) quickly sold out beverages, snacks, bento boxes (take-out meals). Fast food restaurants were all crowded until dawn; some ran out of food items, but let people stay.
• Sports equipment stores had brisk sales as people bought up sneakers and bicycles.
• Japan Railway train network (JR – formerly of national train system) was down from the time of the first earthquake on till next day. The subway systems came back up towards early evening, but, in order to maintain safety of passengers within the stations, they had to limit the number of people entering stations at a time.
• Government facilities (municipal offices, auditoria, schools) were open to those who needed shelters for the evening.
• Private schools, temples and shrines also opened their buildings, and some provided free water and food.
• Private homes also helped passers-by by giving access to well water, and distributing rice balls.
• Most people wanted to go home because they could not confirm the safety of their family members. Others were worried about old parents or young children at home.
• Mobile phone communication was restricted by providers. Land lines were difficult to get through. Twitter and SNS services through internet provided many with live information (subway line status, shelter information, etc.)
2) Mood in the Streets / Anxiety at Home
After one week or so, Tokyo was still quieter than usual; weekdays looked like weekend. As the magnitude of the casualty in Tohoku Region became clear, people were in a sober mood. Even if they did not have any family members or acquaintances directly affected by the earthquakes and tsunamis, they were and are still in a collective mourning period, it seems. My wife and I were basically glued to TV all day long, which had, for a week or so, continuous coverage of all things related to March 11th. We would be jolted by occasional emergency earthquake warnings on TV, which warn the arrival of an aftershock within 10-15 seconds. Most festivities were cancelled, including, unfortunately many commencement exercises of schools and universities. (Japanese school year is from April to March.) (In fact, the first reported death in Tokyo was at an old government-owned auditorium in downtown Tokyo where the ceiling panels fell onto a group of teachers and students attending their graduation ceremony.)
3) Foreigners and Kids Exodus – The Panic Stricken Left the Town
This is quite unfortunate, but understandable; many foreign nationals left Japan or Tokyo in panic and/or by instructions of their consulates or companies. There was a rush in the first week of foreigners getting out. Most were scared of radiation; though some had an excuse of business interruption by power blackouts, or unpredictability thereof. Some European airlines diverted Narita (Tokyo) routes to Kansai (Osaka). Most of them have come back to Narita this week, but they still stop in Seoul or Taipei or Shanghai so that their crew does not have to stay over in Tokyo, nor their planes reload drinking water at Narita. I suppose the Japanese would do and probably did the same when, for example, SARS scare kept people away from Hong Kong and some other Southeast Asian countries a few years ago. But Japanese consumers may have a little negative impression of companies like some luxury as well as fast fashion brands who closed their stores and moved the headquarters to Osaka.
Mothers of young kids were also scared of radiation – especially of radioisotope of iodine (iodine 131), which tends to accumulate in the thyroid gland causing cancer in young children under ten. So far, the amount of iodine-131 found in atmosphere, water, and some food products in Tokyo is so miniscule it cannot have any lasting effect. Its half-life of 8 days also makes it relatively safe as long as one is not exposed to it for a prolonged period of time. However, mothers who “do not want to take risk”, or who do not believe in the government releases of daily iodine-131 levels took their children to western parts of the country or even farther away. Of my son’s grade school class, about one third of the pupils have been missing since Monday after the earthquakes. I would question the validity of this action considering the risk of traffic accidents, stress of living out of suitcase for a prolonged period of time, and detrimental effects of being out of school and out of touch with friends from school.　　（The thyroid gland cancer epidemic in pre-teens around Chernobyl was due to their internal radiation exposure through prolonged intake of contaminated milk, which kept constant replenishment of iodine 131 to unsuspecting children.）
In any case, the government is not doing enough to educate the public, nor convey accurate information daily to foreign media. The way they are handling the communication and public relations is so unprofessional that it only augments the mistrust of the authorities and suspicion that they are hiding something. In a case like this, quick, timely, and apt announcements must be released by authorities in order to avoid panic, sensationalistic public speculation, and eventually, unnecessary costs in lost businesses, in addition to preventing secondary loss of life and physical, monetary, and social damage to public and private properties.
4) Planned Power Blackouts
Because of power shortage as a result of several power plants, fuel-burning as well as nuclear, going off line, TEPCO instituted planned blackouts, which initially caused much confusion especially for train services. TEPCO did not coordinate with the train lines so train companies did not really know when to operate which lines and the “planned” part is not that well planned, making it more unpredictable. Now people are somewhat used to it, but problems do happen;
• Traffic accidents at crossing with traffic lights not working, and the victims not being able to receive necessary CT scan, for example.
• Fire and carbon monoxide death resulting from the use of barbecue grills for heating within residences.
• Blood drives not being able to accept good wills of those who want to help.
• Hospitals not being able to plan major surgeries, as small hospitals may have emergency power generators, which would last only a few hours, and now they face diesel fuel shortage, too.
• Some factories and shops require a continuous line operation. Disruption of such lines may mean a lower product quality. In many cases, a planned blackout of 3 hours does not mean 3/24 reduction in output quantity because it takes time to stop and restart the line. Some say a 3-hour blackout means 10 hours of production stoppage. Some factories are shifting to night time operation; others do not have this option if located in a residential neighborhood.
TEPCO says they are restarting old and decommissioned fuel-burning plants and installing extra gas turbines in existing plants to increase the power generation capacity; but are afraid that they may not be able to meet the peak demand during the summer months. Government is trying to figure out how to handle the peak situation.
5) Save Electric Power Campaign
Government is also asking the general public and businesses to reduce power consumption. It is in general a good thing, but the streets look darker, businesses look less active. This has a negative psychological effect. For example, in subway stations, the fluorescent lighting may be turned off about 30%; many escalators are not running; backlit advertisement panels and directionals are turned off, etc. (However, the ambient lighting is still brighter then NYC subway.) Train and subway services are now running at about 70-80% of normal in terms of frequency. Restaurants are shortening their operation hours so you have to go home at a decent hour.
There has been a big scandal with the Central League of Professional Baseball, who once decided to open the season this week and start night games in their domed fields right away. It would use so much electricity for lighting and HVAC, of course, and it brought a government intervention. Now they gave up on the initial idea and will start the season later and do more day games.
6) Disruption of Heating Oil and Gasoline Distribution
The quakes and tsunamis destroyed some oil refineries along the shore line. A shortage of heating oil as well as gasoline was a big problem for these weeks. The Tohoku Region at the end of March is still cold with the temperature dipping below freezing often.
As the distribution is disrupted because of the confusion on the network, reduced production, or even in case of Fukushima prefecture, refusal of truck drivers to drive into the area near Fukushima Daiichi Plants, heating oil is not reaching those who need it most, and most shelters lack heat. In case they want to evacuate the region to stay with their friends and relatives, they cannot pump gas to their cars. And because there is no guarantee that one can get gas for the return trip, truck drivers are even more hesitant to take aid supplies to the region. The recovery and identification of corpse is taking so long partially because they do not have enough gas to operate available equipment to remove and clear debris.
Even in Tokyo, the city bus services are still reduced. There used to be long lines at gas pumps for a while. The gas situation is much better this week, at least in Tokyo, though.
7) Disruption of General Distribution Network
Because the logistics centers were destroyed in some cases, everyday goods and food items became scarce in Tokyo supermarkets and convinis for a while. The first to go was rice, pastas, pasta sources, potato chips and chocolates (!). Milk and dairy products are also gone from the store shelves. As the facilities were repaired, there was a natural shift to rush materials to the Tohoku Region to help the evacuees. The situation is much better in Tokyo today, most restaurants are open, MacDonald’s and Starbucks are business as usual; but we still see shortages of milk, for example, and bottled water.
In the Tohoku Region where they need much matériel to support the displaced people and start the temporary housing building work as well as the work of community rebuilding, the distribution network is still not back to the full capacity due to the combined effects of fuel shortage, physically severed roadways and bridges, radiation scare, destruction of distribution and manufacturing centers, etc.
8) Business as Usual
In Akihabara last weekend, girls in maid costumes distributed discount coupons for their infamous maid cafés in the street as if nothing had happened. Yodobashi Camera (one of the major electronics gadget retailers) was just as crowded as usual, and its TV section was booming with customers buying new TV sets to prepare for the upcoming switch-over from the analog to digital broadcasting systems. For a while, everybody was stunned and shocked and stopped. But for those who were not directly affected, life must go on, and the economy has to keep moving.
Because of the power shortage and blackouts, some disruption and reduced productivity are expected; but for those who do not appear on the news are basically back to normal and back to work. We seem to be, however, in a somewhat different zeitgeist from three weeks ago.

Japan Earthquake and Tsunami situation summary - 3

2011-04-09T12:17:00.000-07:00

Life in Shelters and Isolated Communities

As of today, there are still 170,000 people living in shelters, and countless more in communities that escaped the tsunamis or radiation contamination, but still in physically damaged areas within Tohoku.
Right after the earthquakes and tsunamis, people spent the night in temples, government offices, etc., but eventually they were received at designated shelters, which, in many cases were school buildings and gymnasiums, housing anywhere from 50 to 1,000 evacuees. Some simple provisions requiring only small added costs can make them more functional and comfortable for emergency uses.
1) Heat:
Because the shelters are not built for residential use, heat source is often inadequate or non-existent. Compounded with the fuel distribution blockage, many shelters lack heat in the sub-zero weather. There was a story of a bio-fuel venture company offering a special boiler, which provides hot water that may be circulated through hoses placed around the main space. It is a quick make-shift radiant heating solution, but of course it requires a boiler, hoses, and fuel.
For a future school gymnasium, it will make sense to incorporate such heating hoses (tubes under floor) and good insulation all around the building envelope so that it can reduce the suffering of people when and if it is used as a shelter for a minimal increase of the initial construction cost.
2) Sanitation
The shelter is only a shelter, barely better than sleeping outdoors. The space inside tends to be cold, and becomes crowded with people whose hygiene is not necessarily at the desirable level. There is a tendency to see cases of influenza spreading fast among the evacuees. Many wear a surgical mask, but it can prevent the germs flying around only so much.
Toilets are always a big problem. Those make-shift shelters do not usually have much sewerage capacity. Without running water supply and/or damaged sewer lines, they quickly overflow. People try digging holes in the ground outside, but of course they are not so comfortable, often soiled, smelly, and cold. As a result, people tend to take less liquid in an attempt to reduce the number of times they have to go to the bathroom, which can cause medical complications including what is so called the economy class syndrome.
Again, future gymnasiums and school buildings and public parks should have extra toilet capacity. Systems that are slowly adopted in public facilities include one where holes in the ground, at normal times concealed with steel plates flush on the ground level, are connected directly to sewer lines. A nearby storage shack would have quick-and-easy tents to provide privacy over each of them.
Gray water systems can provide for flushing toilets, shower/bathing possibility, and above-mentioned radiant heating systems, when the water supply lines are severed. They are a good investment in normal times, and can be precious resources in emergency, offering self-sustained water usage.
One thing to remember is that there is always a need for handicap accessible toilets. In TV news pictures I saw many “comfort castles” or portable toilets deployed to evacuation shelters. But none were accessible. Accessible toilets were only recently incorporated in the Building Code in Japan; I suppose there are very few accessible portable toilets here.
3) Bedding
The gymnasium floor is hard and cold with little insulation. In an emergency like this time when people barely escaped the onslaught of tsunamis, they have literally have nothing with them. Minimum bedding must be provided for somehow. Even a thin sleeping mat for camping would help isolating the cold coming up from the floor. Sleeping bags can be added to the list of relief supplies to be stored by municipalities. Blankets can be of very light weight, high-tech material that we see in sporting events. Is there any way of incorporating light-weight insulating materials with the finishes of walls and/or ceilings in these public buildings so that they can be dismantled and placed on the floor?
As the magnitude of devastation goes up, the length of stay in these shelters inevitably becomes longer. The stress of spending two, or three, or four weeks in a crowded room and sleeping on hard floor can weaken the already weak. When we plan for a shelter, we tend to think about the immediate relieve of water and food; but equally important is the consideration for how to sustain the lives of those who survived for some prolonged period of time, as the temporary housing projects will take time (6-12 months) to accommodate everybody.
4) Privacy
Tens and hundreds of people cramped into a large space would inevitably suffer from a lack of privacy. This condition would exasperate the stress level of those who are already experiencing the sense of loss, displacement, and fear of uncertainties.
In some cases, elderly with mobility impairment and/or excretory difficulty would hesitate to move into a shelter lest their bodily odor might bother others or their conditions in general would make themselves “unpresentable” to strangers. So would parents of children with mental problems, who might panic in an unfamiliar environment and cry or shriek or run around, etc.
Shigeru Ban has proposed a light-weight system of paper tubes and fabric to erect temporary partitions. This system would work well under certain circumstances. Is there not something that can be incorporated into the building itself that would help? Maybe something as simple as extra rope rings along the upper portion of walls of such spaces, where ropes can be tied to hang whatever fabric or panels people can find when the time comes? Architects have to use their imagination.
5) Governance
In many shelters in Tohoku, it is reported that spontaneous, self-governing bodies have been established. This reminds me of the Chilean minors trapped underground for so many days. There would be rules all are expected to abide by, routines and responsibilities assigned to sub-groups, such as cooking, distribution of rationed supplies, overseeing small children in the designated play areas, tending whatever few kerosene heaters they have, cleaning toilets, and so on. In large shelters, you may find clinics with doctors and nurses, and mental care therapists, who themselves are evacuees. Sometimes city hall employees take up a role, but they say it is better to leave matters to the hands of residents because in any given shelter, the evacuees are likely from the same or nearby neighborhoods and know each other. There are often leadership figures and the order is rather naturally restored.
6) Information
Many evacuees are separated from their family members and still do not know if they are safe. Cell phones and land line phone system were restored only sporadically after a week or so. Those who cannot get reconnected are still searching with a hope that their loved ones are alive in a different shelter or hospitalized somewhere. At the same time, some municipalities provide daily bus rides to the morgues so one can visit the dead in order to identify them.
Many evacuees do not have access to TV or internet. So they cannot watch the non-stop coverage of TV and news media. Especially in Fukushima, the nuclear plant accident followed the earthquakes, but the evacuees are not well informed of the ever changing situation there.
Right after March 11th, with all the phone systems out, internet was the only means of communication. Twitter and Facebook are said to have been very useful to spread real-life information to cell phones. However, there are many who do not use such systems, and after the cell phone batteries die, the information stops flowing, too.
Coastal communities typically have a loud-speaker communication system installed. But it was knocked down by the earthquake or tsunami. It is therefore desirable to come up with a stable public information infrastructure taking advantage of today’s technology.
7) Food Supply and Preparation
Those who escaped the tsunamis in stranded buildings and rooftops literally had to wait for rescue for a whole day, if not longer, without food or water. Even after having been admitted to the shelters, the delivery of rations was delayed so that the conditions did not improve for more than a few days. People shared what little food they had, and eventually relief supplies started to arrive.
Most shelters lack cooking facilities. Even if people had access to a kitchen, there may not be power or gas available. Therefore in early days, food items that can be served without any preparation were important.
As soon as the cooking becomes possible, Japanese shelters tend to serve rice balls and miso soup. This would help a great majority of evacuees, but there was a story of children with food allergy. Those special needs people have to be accounted for by the community and/or local government.
8) Other Supplies
After the initial rescue efforts are over, the reality of everyday life comes back. People who have food allergy or rely on daily doses of medications have lost their stock in the confusion. Local hospitals would run out of their stock very quickly without replenishment. For people with such needs, the ordeal in shelters becomes much harder than others. Those who require regular dialysis procedures had to be evacuated to hospitals in different parts of the country, which worked this time, only thanks to a network of hospitals established by a handful of private doctors who had prepared procedures for just such situations. Babies and pregnant women have their own needs, so do people with handicap in their mobility or intellectual capabilities. This reminds me of the fact that we all depend on the modern day networks of everything from food to medication to information to energy sources to banking to municipal services to everything else. Disasters hit not when everybody is able to cope with the ensuing hardships; the preparation must be planned and designed to address needs of people with special needs while trying to help the maximum possible number of general public.
Some groups had to move several times in the past two weeks. From the administrative point of view, it makes sense to consolidate smaller shelters so that the delivery routes can be rationalized, and fewer locations would have to be taken care of. Authorities say that they learned after the Kobe Earthquake of 1995 that it would be better to relocate, if necessary, neighborhood groups together so that evacuees would maintain the community bonds, leading to a better chance of supporting each other in the hardships they are to experience.
Regional governments have started the construction of temporary housing. However, some estimate says they will need 20,000 units. So far only a few thousands have been planned or started.
Some tragic issues;
1) There are many children whose lives were saved because they were still in school, which tends to be built on a higher ground behind the coastal fishing communities. Many, however, lost their parents. Children as young as 8 years old are wondering through the destruction of the city looking for their parents and siblings. If they are taken in by their relatives, they are lucky. In many cases, the whole clan perished in the sweeping force of tsunamis. Who will care for them as time goes on? Can governments establish any effective system to support them till they grow up? It is truly heart-wrenching.
2) There have already been close to 100 deaths of elderly after they had been admitted to shelters because of the cold, lack of medicine or medical equipment, shock of changing environment, or loss of care-giver in the family, etc. In some shelters, they have seen two to three such deaths per day for the past weeks. The dead are placed in a separate room because municipal cremation facilities are either destroyed or running at full capacity, and sometimes because their families cannot be found.
Community Based Migration;
A few communities literally lost their towns, town halls, and town hall employees. Whoever is remaining decided to move together to a shelter in a distant location. For example, the residents of the town of Otsuchi have been accepted to Saitama Arena, a multipurpose sports stadium only half hour north of Tokyo with a courtesy of Prefecture of Saitama. The town hall also moved here, and opened the town councilors’’ meeting yesterday. It is unprecedented, but today we all have to improvise. Communities especially close to the Fukushima Daiichi Power Plants are planning for mass migration, at least for a few years, before their home towns become habitable again.
However, while the residents are in a new community, they would have to find work. Once they are successful in starting new lives, they will have less reason to go back. Either way, their lives are greatly affected.
Many prefectures and municipalities in the western Japan have offered acceptance with provisions for travelling, housing rent waiver, and even start-up money. But emotionally, those who were affected still hesitate, naturally.

Japan Earthquake and Tsunami situation summary - 2

2011-04-09T12:16:00.000-07:00

Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Plants – Restoration Efforts

After the building envelope of units 1 and 3 were breached, they realized that the spent-fuel pools were problematic; white steam-like clouds hovered above these units. In order to counter the possible situation where the water may be evaporating and the fuel rods exposed to environment, they (TEPCO and government) attempted first to use helicopters to pour sea water from above. Self Defense Forces (SDF) helicopters did this job a few times, but the radiation level was so high above these units that they could not come too low and the water was dispersed in the wind. TEPCO’s own fire-fighting squad tried to use their equipment to shoot water from ground with some success. Eventually the US military offered their fire engines, too. Then Tokyo Municipal Gov’t’s fire department with fire engines for tall buildings joined the group. They have not only the water shooting capability for tall buildings, but also some equipment to extend the hoses for 1.5 miles or so with a pump vehicle in between. This greatly extended the amount of time during which the water jets may be applied. The workers still had to count their overall cumulative exposure to radiation, and after having reached the allowed maximum, had to be replaced. Eventually the fire squads from Osaka, then Yokohama, then Kawasaki took over the positions and kept pouring water to those troubled units throughout the week. Along the way, two private companies offered German-built pressurized cement pouring equipment, which can shoot water from even a higher (52m) elevation. There are only four such equipment in Japan, and they are all there taking turns.
Because of the earlier explosion, the radioactive debris form units 1 and 3 were on the ground, which limited the activities there. SDF introduced two NBC (nuclear, biological and chemical warfare) tanks to clear the ground for easier access. These tanks are said to have thicker armor plates which reduce the radiation exposure level of those operating them inside.
In the meantime, TEPCO hurried to restore the electrical power supply. In the past few days, they were successful in installing a few miles worth of power cables from inland grid to several locations in the compound, rebuilt switchboards, and brought new power lines into the control rooms. They have also prepared replacement pumps and motors in case these mechanical elements have been damaged by tsunami. Their work has been hampered by occasional smoke coming off the reactor units and rising radiation levels, which cause them to retrench for a while. However, as of last Tuesday, the power has been restored in most of the control rooms, and they are testing the equipment and circuits to restart the cooling systems. Once the cooling systems go back up, and the measurement sensors are restored, the situation will improve dramatically. It would also provide lighting within these spaces, and HVAC would reduce radioactive particles in the indoor air, further facilitating the work of restoration. We are all hoping for success in the heroic work of the people on the ground in Fukushima Daiichi including 500 or so workers from SDF, US troops, police, fire departments of a few large cities, Hitachi and Toshiba (manufacturers of the reactors there) and their subcontractors, as well as TEPCO, many of whose locally stationed employees have lost their houses and loved ones themselves.

Rescue and Relief Efforts Offered by International Community

When the news of the devastation went around the globe, the international community did not wait to offer help to Japan. 133 countries and regions and 39 international organizations offered some form of assistance. Many countries sent teams of rescue experts who arrived quickly to search for the survivors of the earthquakes and tsunamis. China’s humanitarian gesture surely turned around the escalation of animosity between them and Japan. So did Russian rescue team and the offer for extra LNG shipment.
The US continues to be active in providing logistical supports such as clearing of Sendai Airport, and providing fresh water to pour into the reactor cores at Fukushima Daiichi; and relief supplies to many isolated communities hard to reach on land. While many started to doubt the effectiveness of Japanese government, it was a big relief to see the image of USS Ronal Reagan off the coast of Fukushima. I hope this will also realign Japan’s outlook on US presence in the Far East, which has been awkward ever since the Democrats took over the government a year and a half ago. Israel’s team of doctors came in last night to care for the evacuees whose living conditions are detrimental to their health, while the local doctors are totally overworked. The US and France have sent experts on nuclear energy and radiology as well as miscellaneous equipment, protective gears, etc.
We have heard news of communities throughout the world raising money to help those affected and the rebuilding efforts to come, and are enormously moved. Some say they are returning the favor, which Japan had extended to them when they had a difficult time, such as earthquake, mudslides, and flood damages in the past. I think this will be a humbling experience to many Japanese who had thought Japan was a technologically advanced and materialistically wealthy country. The magnitude of these events was too big even for Japan to handle alone and we need these supports. At the same time, I feel happy to see that, while we all have differences, the humanity can at the very core of things still work to help one another. And I hope that because of this shock, the world will be a little more peaceful place to live in after this confusion has been sorted out in one way or another.

Japan Earthquake and Tsunami situation summary - 1

2011-04-09T12:13:00.000-07:00

Mechanics of Earthquakes

On March 11th, at 2:46PM, three giant earthquakes occurred along the edges of the tectonic plates at the ocean bottom on the Pacific coast off the Tohoku (literally meaning “northeast”) Region. Initially it was assumed that there was one big earthquake, but with the analysis of seismic movements, scientists confirmed that there were indeed three gigantic earthquakes occurring in tandem within six minutes of each other, destroying the earth crust in the length of approximately 500 km (310 miles) in length and 200 km in width, similar to the earthquakes off Sumatra in December 2004. The monstrous tremor continued for more than 5 minutes in many locations, which was unprecedented, with a combined magnitude of 9.0. It moved, for example, Oshika Peninsula to the east of Sendai by 5.3m (17’4”) to east-southeast and sank it by 1.2m (47”); and the shift in the land mass increased the oscillation of the earth’s rotational axis by 17cm (6.7 inches) and made the day 1.8 microseconds shorter. It was also accompanied by horizontal sheer displacement of 20m (65’7”) or so, and more deadly, 3-4m (10-13’) of vertical displacement of the ocean bottom, which produced tsunami waves, which reached all the pacific coasts of Japan and as far away as Hawaii and Chile, and other countries.

Casualty

As of today (March 30th), we have counted 11,232 people confirmed dead, of which 8,799 were identified (and 8,412 were taken back by the families), and 16,361 people reported missing. (This figure of course does not include those who are not “reported” missing; i.e., if the entire family / household is wiped out, there is nobody reporting the missing.) There are still 174,367 people living in 2,065 temporary shelters.
Japanese law requires that the dead be cremated in principal, but the gov’t has declared an emergency measure allowing for regional gov’ts to have them interred if consented by the next of kin. The process has started in the coastal communities where the municipal cremation facilities were damaged by tsunami or are inoperable due to a lack of fuel.
As the debris are cleared away, they are sure to find many more bodies in hundreds and thousands in the tsunami hit regions. And still, there will be many whose bodies will never be found as they are carried out to sea, which will pose a significant emotional stress to the survivors

Tsunami

As you may know, the great majority of those who died or are missing were victims of giant tsunami waves that came about 15-30 minutes after the initial shock of earthquakes. In most locations, the government had predicted the maximum possible tsunamis to be 4-6m (13-20’) tall. In reality, the waves reached and destroyed 10m tall levees and washed over the rooftops of school buildings that were 3 to 4 floors high. There are water marks at 14-20m (46’ – 65’7”) above ground on structures still standing. When a wall of water hit, its destructive force was enormous; all the wooden structures were washed away and only concrete structures remained standing, but their windows and doors smashed. Even parts of anti-tsunami levees were destroyed and pieces were “carried” in-land by the force of water. A tsunami wave, when rushing on shore, is not just a volume of water; it carries debris, cars, trains, fishing boats and what not, which become a massive group of projectiles that flow around destroying everything on their way, and take victims far out to sea when it recedes. The only way to survive a tsunami is to get up to a higher ground before it reaches you.
In tsunami hit communities, there are reports that many people in the coastal community did not rush to high grounds after the tremor because they had been accustomed to the “crying wolf” of tsunami alarms, and had a false sense of security with massive “state of the art” anti-tsunami levees built along the shorelines, which were in a sense proud symbols of technological progress and political maneuvering (in pork barrel project budget). On the other hand, many of the victims had put on layers of clothing, and had backpacks on full of underwear, food items, cash and bank books, and the official seal (which the Japanese use for transactions instead of signature), indicating tsunamis caught up with even those who were fully aware of the urgency of leaving the coastal areas.
Depending on how far the epicenter is, tsunamis take time to reach the shore, anywhere from 10 minutes to 2 hours to an entire day. If you have felt a strong earthquake and if you are close to the sea, you should drop everything and go for a higher ground. (The tragedy around the Indian Ocean in December 2004 was caused by the distance; no one felt the earthquake, and without a warning system along the sea side communities, people did not suspect anything unusual until tsunamis arrived the day after the earthquake that triggered the massive movement of water on the other side of the ocean. The only premonition they should have noticed was that, oftentimes before a massive tsunami reaches the shore, the water recedes first far out off the coast. Unfortunately in those resorts, people thought it was a great opportunity to go out to see fish stranded on the sea bottom.) In reality, however, there were elderly, who had mobility problems. There were people who wanted to go back home to see if their family members were alright after the big shaking. Those who were driving may have gotten stuck in traffic in narrow streets. Those people wasted the precious 15 to 30 minutes they had after the initial earthquakes.
In schools after the earthquakes, children were sometimes evacuated to a higher ground behind them; sometimes led up to the roof of their own buildings. One reported story has it that, even after having evacuated to the rooftop, a teacher was listening to the radio report of the height of tsunamis coming to a nearby fishing village, and noticed that it was much higher than the height engineers had told the town people to be the highest possible. He then alerted the children to go further out, away and higher, which saved many lives.
In some cases, people were witnessed literally riding over the torrent on tatami mats, floating cars, or even inside their own houses. But in the end, most of them perished as they were pulled into the water, tossed upside down, or hit hard at standing structures. Survivors say the pull of the water current was so strong that they clung to whatever they could reach to literally for dear life. Some survived like a James Bond movie, but most simply drowned quickly. We still do not know how many bodies were carried out to sea that day.
We hear news of towns of population 10,000 to 15,000 people being able to account for only 5,000 or 7,000. The rest is presumed dead either buried under the debris or lost to the bottom of the sea. In fact an account of a woman rescued by a helicopter has it that she saw hundreds of bodies and fragments thereof floating around her as she was lifted up. It must have been a hellish scene. Japanese TV and magazines show only sanitized pictures; i.e., never a corpse appears in a published picture out of respect for the victims. I wonder about the traumatic effect on small children.
Japan has built so many “tsunami evacuation centers” along the coast. However, with tsunamis of this magnitude, all of these centers look too small, too short, and too weak. The ubiquitous concrete levees destroyed the beautiful seashore sceneries, cut-off the fishing community from the sea, and still did not protect the communities as planned. Many of the communities hard hit this time have a history of tsunami damages in the past so many centuries; yet the government as well as the local people believed in the power of engineering over the power of nature; causing devastation again. The only way not to repeat the mistake seems to rebuild the community on a higher ground, somewhat away from the waterfront, and have only the fishing industry related structures and park spaces (and the tsunami warning system) near the water. A 1000-year tsunami may not come again next year, but the decision they make this year could bring great sorrow to the descendants of the next generation or one after that.
Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Plants – What Happened and What Is Happening

Of the six reactors at Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Plants, approx. 230km (143 miles) north-northeast of central Tokyo, the units 4-6 were under regular maintenance, and the reactors were not running at the time of the earthquakes. The units 1-3 were running, but the automatic shut-down mechanism worked to insert the control rods into the nuclear fuel to shut off the fission reaction within the reactors. However, the temperature of the fuel rods must be under constant control by way of circulating coolant water, which rely on electric pumps. When tsunamis hit the area sometime afterwards, which were at 14m tall while the facility was designed with the maximum tsunami design height of 5.7m, the compound received physical damages as well as water damages on the electrical systems. The emergency back-up generators as well as the reactor buildings were installed with the grade level at around 10-13m above sea level.
The supposedly “fail-safe” back-up cooling systems, thus, all failed, and, while the nuclear reaction itself was somewhat controlled, the fuels kept releasing what is called decay heat. Tokyo Electric Power Company (TEPCO) immediately connected fire-fighting pumps to directly introduce sea water into the reactor vessels (the inner-most casing of the reactor fuel rods where steam is generated) to keep fuel rods from overheating. But they suspect that in some reactors, the water level within went so low that much of fuel rods were above the water level, causing overheating, damaging the fuel rod casing (zirconium alloy tubes), and raising the radioactive water vapor pressure inside.
Another menace was the spent-fuel pools, which are built above the reactors. Spent fuel rods must be taken out of the reactor, and be submerged in water in these pools for 4-5 years to really cool them down before they can be stored in “casks” for permanent disposal. This requires again moving coolant water. These pools are less well protected than the reactors; the only shield above the pools is only one layer of the building walls. As the electrical system failed, the water circulation stopped, raising the water temperature, and eventually evaporating it to expose the, though spent still radioactive, fuel rods to air.
There were hydrogen explosions in units 1 and 3. When zirconium gets very hot, it reacts with oxygen, releasing hydrogen. As the pressure within the containment (two-meter thick concrete structure housing the reactor vessel) rose to a dangerous level, TEPCO opened valves to release some steam inside. Hydrogen was released with it to the space above the containment but inside the building envelope. At some point, the hydrogen concentration was at such point that some electrical spark or something ignited it and caused explosion.
These explosions provided sensational TV pictures of mushroom clouds raising above, which sent alarm to the entire world. Very important facts here are that the explosion was not nuclear explosions, but hydrogen explosions, and that they occurred above the concrete containment, and it is unlikely (well, at least TEPCO and some scientists say) that they damaged the containment or the reactor vessels. Though a critical state continues, these explosions themselves were not catastrophic events.

Antonio da Sangallo

2010-04-11T02:58:00.000-07:00

Antonio da Sangallo, born in Florence in 1485, was the nephew of two da Sangallo architects, Giuliano and Antonio the Elder. He trained under their tutelage before arriving in Rome in approximately 1503. Although obviously influenced by his uncles, his architecture proved to adhere to the classicism of the High Renaissance. da Sangallo designed numerous architectural projects throughout his life, such as the interior of
Capella Paolina in the Vatican, Palazzo Palma-Baldassini, Rome, in 1520, Palazzo Sacchetti, Rome, begun in 1542, and Palazzo Baldassini, which evokes the architecture of ancient Rome with its massive masonry. After a period as Raphael’s assistant, in 1539 he became the chief architect for St. Peter’s and supplied designs for the alteration of Bramante’s plan (Musgrove, 1987). Although not executed, his plan advocated altering the Greek plan into a more traditional cathedral plan, considering liturgical requirements. For many years he was employed as a military engineer working on fortifications around Rome. Antonio da Sangallo died in 1546 in Rome, having spent much of his life working on St. Peter’s.

With this page of sketches (Figure 1.4) da Sangallo appears to have been employing diagrams to calculate visually. The diagrams may have worked to serve his memory for difficult items such as numerous dimensions and proportions, or as simple outlines to frame his concentration of a specific subject. They may not have acted as an imitation, but instead were used to convey basic spatial relationships.Diagrams may be defined in mathematical terms as assisting to present a definition or ‘to aid in the proof of a proposition.’ Additionally, they can be outlines or abstractions that provide the basic scheme of something to reveal ‘the shape and relations of its various parts’ (OED, 1985). Similar to a definition of sketches, diagrams may help to isolate the essence of a concept or proposition.

On the right side of the page stands a column, giving just enough information to recognize it as such. A simple outline, the column has been overlaid with a grid and is accompanied by a series of numbers, possibly escribing dimensions or calculations pertaining to the construction of the column. The left side of this page reveals an inverted column where the capital and base have been dimensioned but the shaft, having been foreshortened, reveals its relative unimportance. Around the periphery, as partial musings, are pen testing marks, capital carvings, small column elevations, and unfinished details of moldings and stairs. It is possible to view two tones of the brown ink used for this sketch, conveying a sense of the passage of time. This is especially visible where he crosses out particular numbers. It might be assumed that either the sketch was drawn at one time and altered later with a different mix of ink, or that da Sangallo freshly dipped his pen before crossing out the inappropriate numbers after reconsideration.

The ‘look’ of the column was obviously unimportant, as he avoided shadows or details. Slightly skewed to the right, vertical fluting extends beyond the capital top, suggesting that he began calculating the sections from the base. The section numbers can be equated with the long list of numbers viewed horizontally while they vary in individual dimensions. The horizontal section markings may represent the pieces intended for assembly in construction of the column or a key for the changes in the diameter or entasis. Most importantly, it was unnecessary for da Sangallo to carefully render the column because the brief outline acted to visually reference the spatial relationships. The left column also has been dimensioned, and here the details are small parts of the planned carving. These limited suggestions of ornament were enough for him to remember what had been lanned for each portion.

Baldassare Peruzzi

2010-04-11T02:53:00.000-07:00

A prominent architect of the high Renaissance in Rome, Baldassare Peruzzi’s approach was influenced by the work of Bramante and Raphael. His peers respected him for his revival of the art of stage

design, and for his expertise in the art of perspective drawing. Peruzzi arrived in Rome in 1503 from Siena. He began as a painter under Pinturicchio, and was commissioned in 1509 by the Sienese banker Agostino Chigi to design the Palace Farnesina. The palazzo reflects his strong sense of proportion and his interest in the principles of mathematics as set down by Alberti. Different in plan than other Roman palaces of the time, Villa Farnesina has two wings flanking a central loggia, containing frescos by Raphael.

Much of Peruzzi’s experience was obtained in the Vatican Workshop assisting Donato Bramante, and, later, collaborating with Raphael until 1527 when he fled to Siena precipitated by the Sack of Rome. Bramante had envisioned a rebuilding of St. Peter’s based on a Greek cross plan, and Peruzzi’s plan suggested a variation (Allsopp, 1959). Other projects designed by Peruzzi individually or in collaboration, in addition to St. Peter’s, include: fortifications near Porta Laterina and Porta S. Viene, Palazzo Pollini, San Nicolò in Carpi, and the Palazzo Massimo alle Colonne in Rome. He died in Rome in 1536, and Serlio, who included Peruzzi’s rawings prominently in his treatise, heralded his influence on architecture.

This ink and wash sketch demonstrates a three-dimensional study of what seems to be a sepulcher, or tomb chest, with an apsidiole form. This small projecting chapel structure consists of a self-contained entity, possibly planned for an interior wall of a cathedral side aisle. Drawn freehand in perspective, or a version of an elevation oblique, the sketch appears somewhat distorted, obviously not calculated or measured. Because this view employs washes for shadows and a completed composition, Peruzzi was able to interpret and evaluate the proposed solution. The sketch, then, suggests the importance for Peruzzi to quickly comprehend three-dimensional relationships. The sketch acted as a method of evaluation to represent either an image from his mind’s eye or an emerging design solution. Although the ink techniques are minimal and scratchy, the sketch contains enough information to visualize the form as a whole.

Peruzzi must have understood the sketch as part of a process. Although showing the aedicule as a whole, the technique of the lines are quick and loosely constructed, suggesting not a solution, but a momentary snapshot of a thought in the process. The columns are straightened by additional lines in a method of ‘making and matching,’ numbers are sprinkled over the top and other façades, and pentesting lines appear in the background (Gombrich, 1969, p. 29). These elements, which appear on and around the sketch, suggest the little value given the image by Peruzzi after the information was conveyed in a dialogue of the design process. Even though the columns are not straight and the distances between the columns are irregular, the sketch conveys a compositional whole, displaying proportions, relationships and symmetry. The ink wash provides depth that enhances the three-dimensional illusion, helping to judge the final effects of the whole. Being both a definitive view and a design in process, the sarcophagus/tomb-chest stand has been drawn and redrawn in a search for its relationship to the columns and figures. This reveals how the design was still fluid and could be reevaluated when seen in conjunction with other elements.

This sketch gave a quick proportional and compositional view to Peruzzi, allowing him to see the whole at a decision point in his thinking.

Leonardo da Vinci

2010-04-11T02:46:00.000-07:00

It is impossible to discuss a history of architectural sketches without an example from Leonardo da Vinci, whose numerous sketchbooks reveal the genius of an architect, painter, sculptor, and inventor.
Although he built or finished very little architectural work, he proposed designs for domed, centrally planned churches, fortifications, numerous mechanical inventions, and buildings in various scales from chapels to palaces to cities. At an early age he started in the workshop of painter Andrea del Verrochio. Throughout his career, Leonardo worked as a military engineer in Milan, in his own studio in Florence, and later in his life, on projects for King Louis XII in France. It was in Amboise, France, where he died in 1519. His works that remain include extensive sketchbooks, some sculpture, and paintings such as the Mona Lisa, Virgin of the Rocks and the fresco The Last Supper in San Maria delle Grazie, Milan.

A consummate observer, Leonardo took an empirical approach to satisfy his curiosity about the nature of the world, giving him the ability of ‘sight and insight’ ( Janson, 1970). He felt that experience is acquired by the senses and, subsequently, that seeing involved an active process. Feeling a need to represent nature as he viewed it, his approach was opposed to that of universal beauty as discussed by Alberti. He viewed vision as the source of scientific truth (Barasch, 1999).
In 1487 Leonardo produced a model for the design of the dome of the Milan Cathedral. This page from his ketchbook, Codex Atlanticus (Figure 1.2), presents some of the design process for the tiburio of this cathedral. It shows the stacking of bricks or blocks to structure the light arches and buttresses. Typical of Leonardo’s sketches, it is possible to view details of construction and connection, as the blocks are rendered with interlocking notches. As a design study, the sketch also displays
rough beginnings and alterations, showing a centerline and horizontals to guide proportions. Only half of the construction has been detailed; Leonardo understood enough to move on to another drawing or a model. Perhaps he rejected how the proposal was progressing, or the sketch had simply served its purpose and ould be set aside.
This page has numerous identical stippling marks as the recto. These marks were resumably used as guidelines and also acted as identical templates to explore multiple variations for assembly and construction. The marks are in fact pinpricks that resemble the pounced guidelines of a cartoon used to transfer a design onto a fresco. Leonardo was well aware of the transfer techniques of cartoons using bilateral symmetry. It is evident that on other sheets from the Codex Atlanticus, he folded the paper to prick guidelines through both sides of the paper to perceive a symmetrical whole (Bambach, 1999). Evidence of a similar technique can be viewed on this page; a prominent crease down the center. The irregular spacing of the marks coincides exactly, strongly suggesting that at least part of each sketch was pricked simultaneously, or possibly, the pages were first folded and then pricked through all layers.1 This points to an economy, in that Leonardo would not need to recalculate the tiburio, but make minor alterations to the structural form or the stacking of the blocks on identical sheets. In this way, one can view the architect/builder concerned with the solidity of the structure as well as the artist, utilizing known transfer techniques.

Donato Bramante (1444–1514)

2010-04-10T23:08:00.000-07:00

Bramante was one of the first of the great High Renaissance architects, influencing numerous
prominent architects of Rome such as Peruzzi and Sangallo. He is best known for reviving the architecture
of classical antiquity, which had begun with the works of Alberti (Allsopp, 1959). Vasari
reported that Bramante spent much of his time studying and sketching the buildings in Rome (Vasari, 1907).

Born Donato di Angelo di Anthonio da Urbino/Pascuccio, it is speculated that he studied with
Piero della Francesca and/or Andrea Mantegna. His first notable building was S. Maria Presso S.
Satiro in Milan. In Rome, some of Bramante’s most celebrated and influential projects were for
Pope Julius at the Vatican, where he designed the Cortile di S. Damaso and the Cortile del
Belvedere. With an interest in centrally planned churches similar to Leonardo, he also designed a
Greek cross plan for St. Peter’s with a vast central dome. His expressive building of the classical tradition
was the Tempietto of S. Pietro in Montorio, 1502.

Bramante’s design for the Tempietto was sited in the courtyard of the Church and Monastery of
San Pietro in Montorio. It constitutes a diminutive temple acting as a Martyria, standing on the place
presumed to be St. Peter’s Martyrdom. Small and circular, it revisits antique forms appealing to contemporary Christians’ preferences, crowned with a hemispherical dome resembling the Pantheon.
This small monument displays simple proportions where the width of the dome is equal to the height
of the interior cylinder (Allsopp, 1959).

The sketch above exhibits a small shrine-like structure, representing an example of a centrally planned building. The sketch reads as an elevation of an octagon-shaped dome on a raised foundation. In plan, the building presented appears to be shaped in the form of a cross with small projections containing porches; it is vaguely reminiscent of Palladio’s Villa Rotunda.

Bramante’s concern with the reference to a shrine led him to draw this sketch demonstrating its volume
from the exterior, rather than interior space. Here, he used the porch to accent the central
domed space, stressing the qualities of a monument, a temple from antiquity.
The building’s organization describes an octagon within a Greek cross imposed within a square,
but the sketch presents an image somewhere between a perspective and an elevation, as the face of
the porch has been drawn slightly taller than the side porches. To stress the central altar and promote
a three-dimensional effect, Bramante employs shading on the side of the octagon, further confusing
the flat façade of the elevation. The sculptural figures on the roof have been drawn with the same lack
of complexity as the scale figures standing on the stairs. Although the sketch does not appear to be
hurried, Bramante describes the stairs with minimal detail. The set on the left display some definition,
while the other set of stairs have been represented simply by double diagonal lines. This technique
concentrates the focus to the center, and emphasizes the fact that the building was designed to
be viewed equally well from all angles.

The sketch suggests a self-reflexivity, as it refers to the many centrally planned structures designed
by Bramante. It also recalls the three-dimensional/volumetric qualities of Bramante’s concern for a
building’s mass. The architectural historian James Ackerman wrote about the volume of Bramante’s
walls: ‘[W]e sense that where the earlier architect drew buildings, Bramante modelled them’ (1961,
p. 27). Although this design for a small building may not be directly related to the Tempietto, it is representative of a theme, one that Bram ante explored throughout his career.

Honeycomb in a Garden

2010-04-03T07:57:00.000-07:00

This is a wooden pavilion in a botanical garden in Medellin , Colombia .
South America takes inspiration from nature itselt .
'Plan B' Architects and JPRCR Architects created an organically expanding wooden meshwork structure to house orchid exhibition units , butterfly reserves and event halls.

Each modular 'Flower Tree' form is composed of a steel -reinforced trunk and six hexagonal petals that form an intricatly laticed patio.

Symbol of Fatimid Architecture : Raudat Tahera , Mumbai.

2010-04-02T08:21:00.000-07:00

Raudat Tahera is a mausoleum dedicated to Holiness Dr. Syedna Taher Saifuddin (AQ), 51st Dai-al-
Mutlaq.This magnificent marble structure is situated in the very heart of the Mumbai City ,in Bhendi Bazaar.
It is constructed by His Holiness Dr. Syedna Mohammed Burhanuddin TUS, 52nd Dai-al-Mutlaq in
memory of his father.

Beautiful scandelier inside Raudat Tahera

Raudat Tahera From Outside

Gold motifs on cornices and turrets

Design of the door using Fatimid design elements.

Huge rossete on the Dome. It has dia around 12'.

Well maintained garden in front of RaudatTahera.

Typical Fatimid Architecture

Golden Inscriptions from Quran on all the four walls

close up of scandelier .

Design Clinic Scheme

2010-03-28T02:25:00.000-07:00

The Office of the development commissioner ( MSME),ministry of Micro ,small and medium enterprises ,Government of India ,and National Institute of Design recently launched the Design Clinic Scheme for design expertise to Micro ,small and medium enterprises (MSME)
The objective of the scheme is to enhance industry understanding and application of design and innovation to promote design as a value add and integrate it into the mainstream and the industrial processes of MSMEs . The goal is to help MSME manufacturing industries move up the value chain,by switching the production mode,the emphasis will be on enriching design and marketing the end products ,besides giving importance to technology.
The scheme is divided in two major parts -design awareness and Design Project funding .Awareness and sensitization will be created about the value and power of design for businesses ,through seminars ,talks ,workshops and other interactive methods.
The MSMes will receive financial help ,should they require assistance ,from design consultants and professionals.The scheme will be implemented through NID .
Ahmedabad,who will act as a single co-ordination body .there will be regional centres set up ,as well.
Tie-ups with engineering ,management and design institutes of the country will help felicitate the scheme.

MODERN ARCHITECTURE

2010-03-19T23:42:00.000-07:00

“The basics of modern architecture were derived from pathbreaking revolutions,
Inspiring minds to evolve techniques & materials to ensure different solutions.”

INTRODUCTION
The period from late 1800’s to the present has been described as one of the most creative & productive times in the history of architecture. Architects have used new materials & new building methods to develop the first completely new styles in centuries.
The remarkable changes in architecture since the late 1800’s have emerged from the theories & works of some great architects.
Many masterpieces of modern architecture were designed or influenced by some major architects. These include Frank Lloyd Wright of the U.S.A, Walter Gropius & Ludwig Mies Van Der Rohe of Germany, Le Corbusier of France, Charles R Mackintosh of Great Britain, Louis-i-Kahn of U.S.A.

ORIGIN & SOURCES OF MODERN ARCHITECTURE
The various sources & factors that are responsible for the development of completely distinct & creative architectural styles are:-
1.A need among the architects of the mid & late 1800’s to develop an architectural style that would reflect their time.
2.Architects wanted to break free from the ornamentation & highly decorative revival structures & instead stressed on building’s simple & spare designs.
3.Industrial revolution was also a major factor that led to the idea of modern architecture. It generated new problems, supplied new materials & suggested new forms.
4.Industrialization proved that architecture was more than just ornamentation, grandness & decoration. It had to cater to the basic requirements of the masses.
5.Industrialization transformed lifestyle in cities, led to the fulfillment of new building tasks- railway stations, suburban houses, skyscrapers.
6.With new building materials like R.C.C., steel & glass the construction became faster & was ideal for the buildings to be constructed.
7.Industrialization also triggered collapse of vernacular buildings. It also created new centre of economy & power.
8.It also implied the rejection of superficial imitations of past forms, & a more direct & honest portrayal of the contemporary world.
Architecture was purely based on practical utilities & the technical, structural & creative advances of modern era.

THE PHILOSOPHIES & DEVELOPMENTS OF MODERN ARCHITECTURE
There were many developments in modern architecture with the passage of time. These were based on various philosophies promoted by the leading architects from time to time.
One of the first major architects to work the modern philosophy were Hedrick Petrus Berlage used an unusual red brick masterpiece, the Amsterdam Stock Exchange (1903). Otto Wagner founded modern arch. In Austria in 1890’s. He designed structures with little ornamentation, flat roofs that projected beyond the walls. Josef Hoffmann designed a house called Palais Stoclet(1911) in Brussels, Belgium. The plain white walls, cubelike geometric outlines of the house made it one of the most advanced architectural works of the early 1900’s.

The major philosophies that define modern architecture are:
1)Arts & Crafts movement.
2)Skyscraper as symbol.
3)Futurism.
4)Cubism.
5)Expressionism.
6)Idealism.
7)Functionalism.
8)Transformation.
9) Rationalism.

ARTS & CRAFTS MOVEMENT

*Founded in mid-1860 in England by William Morris.
*Creation of high quality designs for furniture, stained glass, textiles, & wall paper.
*Movement encouraged a new artistic freedom & spirit experimentation that played an important role in modern arch. In Europe.
*Indigenous materials & usages were to be translated to good use by the modern practitioner.
*Fusion of houses with gardens, use of pergolas, pathways, sunken gardens were main features of houses of this period.
*There was sharp interplay of wall planes & openings, silhouettes & surfaces as well as direct use of functional elements like chimneys, etc.
*Frank Lloyd Wright was the most influential architect of this period.
*Arts & Crafts movement had an important function by stressing the values of simplicity, honesty & necessity.

SKY SCRAPPERS AS SYMBOLS
*Skyscraper was a part of a system which included railroads, & the closer suburbs.
*Chicago of the late 19th century demonstrated the fundamental forces & the typical components of the capitalist city in the age of steel & steam.
* A shift from the notion of mechanism to the idea of a tall building as a living organism whose weight, pressure, tension, resistance could be experienced physically.
*It was a white-collar building type, a direct expression of the division of labour between management & manufacturing.
*kyscrapers were derived out of the need of private buildings for trade & business such as warehouses, factories, & stock buildings etc.
*Due to the revolution & modernization American cities were divided into rectangular grids & blocks. This led to the structures that would relate to the geometry of the city as well as solve the residential problems.

RATIONALISM

*Ideas that required a practical justification for formal effects.
*Opened up a new language of abstraction & implied new ways in which nature’s lessons could be incorporated in architecture.
*Rationalism & R.C.C were two elements that triggered the heroic period of modern architecture.
*Main focus was on structure & function.
*Concrete was widely used as it was cheap, standard, fire proof, flexible, could be moulded to any shape.
*Grid plans & simple rectangular elevations of pleasing proportions were main features.
*There were repetition of elements & forms, rectangular cubic forms were greatly used.
*Le Corbusier evolved his idea of “Dom-ino” system that led the basis for future architectural & urban systems.

FUTURISM
*Stressed on the design of “type forms” that included industrial design, building elements, or components of urban structure.
*In this ideology an artist had to function as a mediator between invention & standardization.
*The main features included recessing of wall piers, glazing, brick mouldings, etc.
*Walter Groupius was one of the chief architects. He accomadated the symbols of the mod. World .
*Futurism was a poetic movement that attacked traditionalism, championed an expression nourished by contemporary forces released by new industrial developments.
*It was in the favour of revolutionary change, dynamism, speed of all sorts and the exploitation of the machine.
*It pulled together a collection of progressivist attitudes, anti-traditional positions, & tendencies towards an abstract form.

CUBISM
*Visual & philosophical concerns with mechanization, moral yearnings for honesty, integrity, & simplicity; interpretations of new institutions & building types in industrial cities.
*It stressed on the fusion of the entire 3-d structure with a geometrical & spatial character discovered on the picture plane.
*Blending abstraction with fragments of observed reality, allowing space & form to merge with each other.
*Le Corbusier was the chief architect to work in this style.
*Main features were flat-roofed, simple rectangular structures made of R.C.C.
*Geometrical forms, rectilinear grids, & intersecting planes were also the part of this style.
*This style seemed to have a universal application from painting to typography.
*Cantilevered conc. Construction was effectively blended with shimmering & transparent effects of glazing.
*Schroder House a very good example pf this movement.

EXPRESSIONISM
**Germany between 1910 & 1925.
*It includes works that are complex, jagged, & have a free flowing form.
*It also includes qualities like simplicity, rectangularity, & stasis.
*The chief architects of this movement were Michel de Klerk & Walter Groupius.
*The properties of steel & concrete were exploited effectively.
*The sharp forms, romantic silhouettes, a rich play of reflecting & transparent surfaces define this movement.
*Interlocking, interplay between density, weight & shadow, etc also define this period.
*Le Corbusier developed his “Five Points in New Architecture”.

FUNCTIONALISM

*It consisted of buildings in which function was given priority & importance.
*It includes strip windows, flat roofs, grids of supports, cantilevered horizontal projections, metal railings & curved partitions.
*Le Corbusier’s “Five Points in New Architecture “ helped in the production of some masterpieces like Villa Savoye, Poisse.
*The functions could only be translated into the forms & spaces of arch. through the screen of the style.
*This was a style of symbolic forms that referred to the notions of functionalism.
*White plaster walls, plane surfaces were employed to convey a non-material quality, to suggest the abstraction of machine.
*This style provides a set of conventions, which in the compelling & profound work of art, come together in such a way that the conventionality is forgotten.
*The cruciform chrome columns, supply vertical accents of light, the polished marble & onyx surfaces, the glass planes etc also define this style.

Besides these philosophies, the leading architects like Frank Lloyd Wright, Le Corbusier, Walter Groupius, Ludwig Mies van der Rohe, Louis Sullivan, Alvar Aalto, Michel de Klerk etc. produced some of the finest works that have remained as symbols of Modernism.

Blog rebirth

2010-03-03T22:54:00.000-08:00

I'm too much happy today..
I can login to my blogger account now..
I was enable to log in due to some reasons but now I can post !!!
hurrey...!!!!
thanks google...

Architects are sexiest professionals

2008-05-29T23:23:00.000-07:00

Characteristics of smart materials and systems

2008-05-20T04:53:00.001-07:00

DEFINITIONS
We have been liberally using the term ‘smart materials’
without precisely defining what we mean. Creating a precise
definition, however, is surprisingly difficult. The term is
already in wide use, but there is no general agreement
about what it actually means. A quick review of the literature
indicates that terms like ‘smart’ and ‘intelligent’ are used
almost interchangeably by many in relation to materials and
systems, while others draw sharp distinctions about which
qualities or capabilities are implied. NASA defines smart
materials as ‘materials that ‘‘remember’’ configurations and
can conform to them when given a specific stimulus’,3 a
definition that clearly gives an indication as to how NASA
intends to investigate and apply them. A more sweeping
definition comes from the Encyclopedia of Chemical Technology: ‘smart materials and structures are those objects that sense environmental events, process that sensory information,
and then act on the environment’.4 Even though
these two definitions seem to be referring to the same type of
behavior, they are poles apart. The first definition refers to
materials as substances, and as such, we would think of
elements, alloys or even compounds, but all would be
identifiable and quantifiable by their molecular structure.
The second definition refers to materials as a series of actions.
Are they then composite as well as singular, or assemblies of
many materials, or, even further removed from an identifiable
molecular structure, an assembly of many systems?
If we step back and look at the words ‘smart’ and
‘intelligent’ by themselves we may find some cues to help
us begin to conceptualize a working definition of ‘smart
materials’ that would be relevant for designers. ‘Smart’
implies notions of an informed or knowledgeable response,
with associated qualities of alertness and quickness. In
common usage, there is also frequently an association with
shrewdness, connoting an intuitive or intrinsic response.
Intelligent is the ability to acquire knowledge, demonstrate
good judgment and possess quickness in understanding.
Interestingly, these descriptions are fairly suggestive of the
qualities of many of the smart materials that are of interest to
us. Common uses of the term ‘smart materials’ do indeed
suggest materials that have intrinsic or embedded quick
response capabilities, and, while one would not commonly
think about a material as shrewd, the implied notions of
cleverness and discernment in response are not without
interest. The idea of discernment, for example, leads one to
thinking about the inherent power of using smart materials
selectively and strategically. Indeed, this idea of a strategic use
is quite new to architecture, as materials in our field are rarely
thought of as performing in a direct or local role.
Furthermore, selective use hints at a discrete response – a
singular action but not necessarily a singular material.
Underlying, then, the concept of the intelligent and designed
response is a seamless quickness – immediate action for a
specific and transient stimulus.
Does ‘smartness’, then, require special materials and
advanced technologies? Most probably no, as there is nothing
a smart material can do that a conventional system can’t. A
photochromic window that changes its transparency in
relation to the amount of incident solar radiation could be
replaced by a globe thermometer in a feedback control loop
sending signals to a motor that through mechanical linkages
repositions louvers on the surface of the glazing, thus changing the net transparency. Unwieldy, yes, but nevertheless feasible and possible to achieve with commonly used
technology and materials. (Indeed, many buildings currently
use such a system.) So perhaps the most unique aspects of
these materials and technologies are the underlying concepts
that can be gleaned from their behavior.

Whether a molecule, a material, a composite, an assembly, or a system, ‘smart materials and technologies’ will exhibit the following characteristics:

* Immediacy – they respond in real-time.
* Transiency – they respond to more than one environmental state.
* Self-actuation – intelligence is internal to rather than external to the ‘material’.
* Selectivity – their response is discrete and predictable.
* Directness – the response is local to the ‘activating’ event.

It may be this last characteristic, directness, that poses the
greatest challenge to architects. Our building systems are
neither discrete nor direct. Something as apparently simple as
changing the temperature in a room by a few degrees will set
off a Rube Goldberg cascade of processes in the HVAC system,
affecting the operation of equipment throughout the building.
The concept of directness, however, goes beyond making
the HVAC equipment more streamlined and local; we must
also ask fundamental questions about the intended behavior
of the system. The current focus on high-performance
buildings is directed toward improving the operation and
control of these systems. But why do we need these particular
systems to begin with?
The majority of our building systems, whether HVAC,
lighting, or structural, are designed to service the building
and hence are often referred to as ‘building services’.
Excepting laboratories and industrial uses, though, buildings
exist to serve their occupants. Only the human body requires
management of its thermal environment, the building does
not, yet we heat and cool the entire volume. The human eye
perceives a tiny fraction of the light provided in a building,
but lighting standards require constant light levels throughout
the building. If we could begin to think of these
environments at the small scale – what the body needs –
and not at the large scale – the building space – we could
dramatically reduce the energy and material investment of
the large systems while providing better conditions for the
human occupants. When these systems were conceived over
a century ago, there was neither the technology nor the knowledge to address human needs in any manner other than through large indirect systems that provided homogeneous
building conditions. The advent of smart materials now enables the design of direct and discrete environments
for the body, but we have no road map for their application in this important arena.

The phenomenological boundary

2008-05-20T04:52:00.000-07:00

Missing from many of these efforts is the understanding of how boundaries physically behave. The definition of boundary that people typically accept is one similar to that offered by the Oxford English Dictionary: a real or notional line marking the limits of an area. As such, the boundary is static and defined, and its requirement for legibility (marking) prescribes that it is a tangible barrier – thus a visual artifact.

For physicists, however, the boundary is not a thing, but an action. Environments are understood as energy fields, and the boundary operates as the transitional zone between different states of an energy field. As such, it is a place of change as an environment’s energy field transitions from a high-energy to
low-energy state or from one form of energy to another.

Boundaries are therefore, by definition, active zones of mediation rather than of delineation. We can’t see them, nor can we draw them as known objects fixed to a location. Breaking the paradigm of the hegemonic ‘material as visual artifact’ requires that we invert our thinking; rather than simply visualizing the end result, we need to imagine the transformative actions and interactions.

What was once a blue wall could be simulated by a web of tiny color-changing points that respond to the position of the viewer as well as to the location of the sun. Large HVAC (heating, ventilating and air conditioning) systems could be replaced with discretely located micro-machines that respond directly to the heat exchange of a human body. In addition, by investigating the transient behavior of the material, we challenge the privileging of the static planar surface.
The ‘boundary’ is no longer delimited by the material surface, instead it may be reconfigured as the zone in which change occurs. The image of the building boundary as the demarcation between two different environments defined as single states – a homogeneous
interior and an ambient exterior – could possibly be replaced by the idea of multiple energy environments fluidly interacting with the moving body. Smart materials, with their transient behavior and ability to respond to energy stimuli, may eventually enable the selective creation and design of an individual’s sensory experiences.Are architects in a position or state of development to implement and exploit this alternative paradigm, or, at the very least, to rigorously explore it? At this point, the answer is most probably no, but there are seeds of opportunity from on-going physical research and glimpses of the future use of
the technology from other design fields. Advances in physics have led to a new understanding of physical phenomena, advances in biology and neurology have led to new discoveries regarding the human sensory system. Furthermore, smart materials have been comprehensively experimented with and rapidly adopted in many other fields – finding their way into products and uses as diverse as toys and automotive components.

Our charge is to examine the knowledge gained in other disciplines, but develop a framework for its application that is suited to the unique needs and possibilities of architecture.

The contemporary design context

2008-05-20T04:51:00.000-07:00

Orthographic projection in architectural representation inherently privileges the surface. When the three-dimensional world is sliced to fit into a two-dimensional representation, the physical objects of a building appear as flatplanes. Regardless of the third dimension of these planes, we recognize that the eventual occupant will rarely see anything other than the surface planes behind which the structure and systems are hidden.

While the common mantra is that architects design space the reality is that architects make (draw) surfaces. This privileging of the surface drives the use of materials in two profound ways. First is that the material is
identified as the surface: the visual understanding of architecture is determined by the visual qualities of the
material.
Second is that because architecture is synonymous with surface – and materials are that surface – we essentially think of materials as planar. The result is that we tend to consider materials in large two-dimensional swaths: exterior cladding, interior sheathing. Many of the materials that we do not see, such as insulation or vapor barriers, are still imagined and configured as sheet products. Even materials
that form the three-dimensional infrastructure of the building, such as structural steel or concrete, can easily be
represented through a two-dimensional picture plane as we tend to imagine them as continuous or monolithic
entities.
Most current attempts to implement smart materials in architectural design maintain the vocabulary of the twodimensional surface or continuous entity and simply propose smart materials as replacements or substitutes for more conventional materials. For example, there have been many proposals to replace standard curtain wall glazing with an electrochromic glass that would completely wrap the building facade. The reconsideration of smart material implementation through another paradigm of material deployment has yet to fall under scrutiny. One major constraint that limits our current thinking about materials is the accepted belief that the spatial envelope behaves like a boundary.

We conceive of a room as a container of ambient air and light that is bounded or differentiated by its surfaces; we consider the building envelope to demarcate and separate the exterior environment from the interior environment. The presumption that the physical boundaries are one and the same as the spatial boundaries has led to a focus on highly integrated, multifunctional systems for fac¸ades as well as for many interior partitions such as ceilings and floors.

In 1981, Mike Davies popularized the term ‘polyvalent wall’, which described a fac¸ade that could protect from the sun, wind and rain, as well as provide insulation, ventilation and daylight.2 His image of a wall section sandwiching photovoltaic grids, sensor layers, radiating sheets, micropore membranes and weather skins has influenced many architects and engineers into pursuing the ‘super fac¸ade’ as evidenced by the burgeoning use of double skin systems. This pursuit has also led to a quest for a ‘supermaterial’ that can integrate together the many diverse functions required by the newly complex fac¸ade. Aerogel has emerged as one of these new dream materials for architects: it insulates well yet still transmits light, it is extremely lightweight yet can maintain its shape.

Many national energy agencies are counting on aerogel to be a linchpin for their future building energy conservation strategies, notwithstanding its prohibitive cost, micro-structural brittleness and the problematic of its high insulating value, which is only advantageous for part of the year and can be quite detrimental at other times.

Materials and architecture

2008-05-20T04:48:00.001-07:00

The relationship between architecture and materials had been fairly straightforward until the Industrial Revolution. Materials were chosen either pragmatically – for their utility and availability – or they were chosen formally – for their appearance and ornamental qualities.
Locally available stone formed foundations and walls, and high-quality marbles often appeared as thin veneers covering the rough construction. Decisions about building and architecture determined the material choice, and as such, we can consider the pre-19th century use of materials in design to have been subordinate to issues in function and form. Furthermore, materials were not standardized, so builders and architects were forced to rely on an extrinsic understanding of their properties and performance.

In essence, knowledge of materials was gained through experience and observation. Master builders were those who had acquired that knowledge and the skills necessary for working with available materials, often through disastrous trial and error.
The role of materials changed dramatically with the advent of the Industrial Revolution. Rather than depending on an intuitive and empirical understanding of material properties and performance, architects began to be confronted with engineered materials. Indeed, the history of modern architecture can almost be viewed through the lens of the history of architectural materials.

Beginning in the 19th century with the widespread introduction of steel, leading to the emergence
of long-span and high-rise building forms, materials transitioned from their pre-modern role of being subordinate to architectural needs into a means to expand functional performance and open up new formal responses. The industrialization of glass-making coupled with developments in environmental systems enabled the ‘international style’ in which a transparent architecture could be sited in any climate and in any context. The broad proliferation of curtain wall systems allowed the disconnection of the fac¸ade material from
the building’s structure and infrastructure, freeing the material choice from utilitarian functions so that the facade could become a purely formal element. Through advancements in CAD/CAM (Computer Aided Design/Computer Aided Manufacturing) technologies, engineering materials such as aluminum and titanium can now be efficiently and easily employed as building skins, allowing an unprecedented range of building fac¸ades and forms. Materials have progressively emerged as providing the most immediately visible and thus
most appropriable manifestation of a building’s representation, both interior and exterior. As a result, today’s architects often think of materials as part of a design palette from which materials can be chosen and applied as compositional and visual surfaces.

It is in this spirit that many have approached the use of smart materials. Smart materials are often considered to be a logical extension of the trajectory in materials development toward more selective and specialized performance. For many centuries one had to accept and work with the properties of a standard material such as wood or stone, designing to accommodate the material’s limitations, whereas during the 20th century one could begin to select or engineer the properties of a high performance material to meet a specifically defined need. Smart materials allow even a further specificity – their properties are changeable and thus responsive
to transient needs. For example, photochromic materials change their color (the property of spectral transmissivity) when exposed to light: the more intense the incident light, the darker the surface. This ability to respond to multiple states rather than being optimized for a single state has rendered smart materials a seductive addition to the design palette since buildings are always confronted with changing conditions. As a result, we are beginning to see many proposals speculating on how smart materials could begin
to replace more conventional building materials.

Cost and availability have, on the whole, restricted widespread replacement of conventional building materials with smart materials, but the stages of implementation are tending to follow the model by which ‘new’ materials have traditionally been introduced into architecture: initially through highly visible showpieces (such as thermochromic chair backs and electrochromic toilet stall doors) and later through high profile ‘demonstration’ projects such as Diller and Scofidio’s Brasserie Restaurant on the ground floor of Mies van der Rohe’s seminal Seagram’s Building. Many architects further imagine building surfaces, walls and fac¸ades composed entirely of smart materials, perhaps automatically enhancing their design from a pedestrian box to an interactive arcade.
Indeed, terms like interactivity and transform ability have already become standard parts of the architect’s vocabulary even insofar as the necessary materials and technologies are far beyond the economic and practical reality of most building projects.

Rather than waiting for the cost to come down and for the material production to shift from lots weighing pounds to those weighing tons, we should step back and ask if we are ignoring some of the most important characteristics of these materials. Architects have conceptually been trying to fit smart materials into their normative practice alongside conventional building materials. Smart materials, however, represent a radical departure from the more normative building materials. Whereas standard building materials are
static in that they are intended to withstand building forces,smart materials are dynamic in that they behave in response to energy fields. This is an important distinction as our normal means of representation in architectural design privileges the static material: the plan, section and elevation drawings of orthographic projection fix in location and in view the physical components of a building. One often designs with
the intention of establishing an image or multiple sequential images. With a smart material, however, we should be focusing on what we want it do, not on how we want it to look.

The understanding of smart materials must then reach back further than simply the understanding of material properties; one must also be cognizant of the fundamental physics and chemistry of the material’s interactions with its surrounding environment. The purpose of this book is thus two-fold: the development of a basic familiarity with the characteristics that distinguish smart materials from the more commonly used architectural materials, and speculation into
the potential of these characteristics when deployed in architectural design.

Materials in architecture and design

2008-05-20T04:47:00.000-07:00

Smart planes – Intelligent houses – Shape memory textiles – Micro machines – self-assembling structures – Color-changing paint – Nano systems.

The vocabulary of the material world has changed dramatically since 1992, when the first ‘smart material’ emerged commercially in, of all things, snow skis.
Defined as ‘highly engineered materials that respond intelligently to their environment’, smart materials have become the ‘go-to’ answer for the 21st century’s technological needs.

Use of Nano materials in Architecture

NASA is counting on smart materials to spearhead the first major change in aeronautic technology since the development of hypersonic flight, and the US Defense Department envisions smart materials as the linchpin technology behind the ‘soldier of the future’, who will be equipped with everything from smart tourniquets to chameleon-like clothing. At the other end of the application spectrum, toys as basic as ‘Play-Doh’ and equipment as ubiquitous as laser printers and automobile airbag controls have already incorporated numerous examples of this technology during the past decade. It is the stuff of our future even as it has already percolated into many aspects of our daily lives. In the sweeping ‘glamorization’ of smart materials, we
often forget the legacy from which these materials sprouted seemingly so recently and suddenly. Texts from as early as 300 BC were the first to document the ‘science’ of alchemy.1 Metallurgy was by then a well-developed technology practiced by the Greeks and Egyptians, but many philosophers were concerned that this empirical practice was not governed by a satisfactory scientific theory. Alchemy emerged as that
theory, even though today we routinely think of alchemy as having been practiced by late medieval mystics and charlatans.

Throughout most of its lifetime, alchemy was associated with the transmutation of metals, but was also substantially concerned with the ability to change the appearance, in particular the color, of given substances. While we often hear about the quest for gold, there was an equal amount of attention devoted to trying to change the colors of various metals into purple, the color of royalty. Nineteenth-century magic was similarly founded on the desire for something to be other than it is, and one of the most remarkable predecessors
to today’s color-changing materials was represented by an ingenious assembly known as a ‘blow book’. The magician would flip through the pages of the book, demonstrating to the audience that all the pages were blank. He would then blow on the pages with his warm breath, and reflip through the book, thrilling the audience with the sudden appearance of images on every page. That the book was composed of pages alternating between image and blank with carefully placed indentions to control which page flipped in relation to the others makes it no less a conceptual twin to the modern ‘thermochromic’ material.

What, then, distinguishes ‘smart materials’?
This book sets out to answer that question in the next eight chapters and, furthermore, to lay the groundwork for the assimilation and exploitation of this technological advancement within the design professions. Unlike science-driven professions in which technologies are constantly in flux, many of the design professions, and particularly architecture, have seen relatively little technological and material change since the 19th century. Automobiles are substantially unchanged from their forebear a century ago, and we still use the building framing systems developed during the Industrial Revolution. In our forthcoming exploration of smart materials and new technologies we must be ever-mindful of the unique challenges presented by our field, and cognizant of the fundamental roots of the barriers to implementation. Architecture heightens the issues brought about by the adoption of new technologies, for in contrast to many other fields in which the material choice ‘serves’ the problem at hand, materials and architecture have been inextricably linked throughout their history.

Difference between Architecture student and other fields student??

2008-05-19T22:36:00.000-07:00

Seating infront of my drafting table i was just thinking of my past architecure studies and life...submissions,those late night studies , elevanth our model making , runnig for plotting , xeroxing the jurnals , computer failure befor the day of submissions....list will go on.. that was amazing..but whats the different between us and the other students like medical or enggi students? what do u think?? is there an difference??

FUTURISM

2008-05-14T04:03:00.000-07:00

Italian in origin and concept, futurism was first theorized by Filippo Tomaso Marinetti in
a manifesto published on 20 February 1909 in the French daily Le Figaro. Futurism soon became
a movement central to the process of radical artistic renovation carried out by the
European avant-garde. It dealt both with cultural debates specific to Italian art of the first
two decades of the 20th century and with crucial discourses of the European artistic
Encyclopedia of 20th-century architecture 904
revival in general. While affecting primarily the arts in the more restrictive sense of the
term—under the influence of Umberto Boccioni, Carlo Carrà, Gino Severini, and Mario
Chiattone—its most notable representatives in Italian architecture were Giacomo Balla
and Antonio Sant’Elia but also, in various degrees, such architects as Adalberto Libera
and Angiolo Mazzoni, among others. The close collaboration between futurist artists and
architects is evidenced by the fact that the first and only exhibition of futurist architecture
held in Italy of the period was curated by a painter, Fillia, who also edited journals on
topics such as “The Futurist City” and in 1932 wrote a book, La Nuova Architettu ra, in which he gave a
comprehensive view of the significance of the movement.
Most sensitive to the challenges of the new “machinist society” (Le Corbusier) among
the avant-garde artists and architects, the promoters of futurism were concerned primarily
with expressing movement and mechanical speed, which they saw as essential
determinants of modernity. The futurists extended their artistic vision to the study of the
latest conquest of modern science with an undivided enthusiasm for all of what they
perceived to be radical facts of the contemporary civilization. They rejected emphatically
the old canons of static prespectival representation and invoked instead the redemptive
force of the universal dynamism brought about by the machine, itself central to the new
forms of visualization.
Such a proposition was translated in architecture first through visionary
representations of cities shaped by speedy automotive vehicles and later through the
redefinition of the Modern movement’s functionalist themes in terms of extreme
flexibility and mobility (Libera’s imaginary villas, Mazzoni’s control tower for the
Florentine train station, and Le Corbusier’s inhabited high-ways).
The best-known early projects of futurist architecture are Sant’Elia’s and Mario
Chiatone’s urban experiments exhibited in Milan in 1914. The spatial relationships of the
city fabric were determined in the first place by an elaborate system of monumental
arteries distributed hierarchically through and underneath huge “streamlined”
skyscrapers, anticipating the post-Art Deco aesthetics of the 1930s, including Libera’s
entrance to the commemorative Mos tra della Rivoluzione Fas cis ta (1932) or his analogous Italian Pavilion of the 1933
Century of Progress Exposition, Chicago. Sant’Elia’s pre-World War I “città nuova”
projects informed significantly Marinetti himself, who published Manifes t of Futuris t Architecture, commonly regarded
as one of the most important documents of modern Italian architecture.
The thrust that futurism put on solving problems of motorized transportation and its
diversification according to speed and purpose—including strict segregation of pedestrian
circulation—had a significant influence on Le Corbusier’s 1922 speculative
Contemporary City for Three Million Inhabitants, the touchstone of pre-Chandigarh Le
Corbusian urbanism. This influence can be seen as well in the Amsterdam Rokin project
by Mart Stam and that of other European architects, Le Corbusier’s Plan Obus in
particular. Whereas at the eve of World War II the early Russian artistic and literary
avant-garde evolved a genre with a similar name—the Cubo-Futurism of Kasimir
Malevich, Khruchenikh, and Khlebnikov—with little significant connection with the
Italian movement proper, the postrevolutionary Soviet Constructivism (Chernikhov’s
mechanical architecture, Melnikov’s dynamic garages and exploded theaters,
Mayakovsky’s “urban poetry,” or Dziga Vertov’s cinematic constructions) played a
significant role in the development of futurism in Italy (Libera’s and Giuseppe Terragni’s
rooms at the 1932 Mos tra).
Entries A–F 905
After Düsseldorf, where he designed the interior of the Lowenstein house, Balla
conceived the interior of the via Milano Bal-Tic-Tac ballroom (1921) in Rome, often
seen as the first experiment in avant-garde architectural aesthetic in Rome. Vit-torio
Marchi, who wrote two books on futurist architecture in 1924 and 1928, designed the
Pirandello Theater in Rome.
In Italy, where modern and experimental architecture was never banished under
Fascism—and indeed was favored by Mussolini—the futurists emphatically tied their fate
to the new regime and imploded with it in time. Still, the extraordinary mass development
of automobile circulation after the country recovered from the disasters of both war and
Fascism and the increased need, under the circumstances, for pedestrian segregation
along with the desire to emphasize the particular urban character of mechanized
transportation have led urban planners since the early 1960s in Italy to search back for the
still-valid aspects of the futurist credo.

Richard Buckminster Fuller

2008-05-14T04:02:00.002-07:00

Architect and philosopher, United States

The American Richard Buckminster Fuller has been variously labeled architect, engineer, author, designer-inventor, educator, poet, cartographer, ecologist, philosopher, teacher, and mathematician throughout his career. Although not trained professionally as an architect, Fuller has been accepted within the architectural profession, receiving numerous awards and honorary degrees. He thought of himself as a comprehensive human in the universe, implementing research for the good of humanity. Born in Milton, Massachusetts, on 12 July 1895, he was the son of Richard Buckminster Fuller, Sr., and Caroline Wolcott (Andrews) Fuller. His father, who worked as a leather and tea merchant with offices in Boston, died when Fuller was 15 years of age. Fuller’s first design revelation came to him when, in kindergarten in 1899, he built his first flat-space frame, an octet truss constructed of dried peas and toothpicks. As a boy, vacationing at his family’s summerhouse on Bear Island, Maine, he became an adequate seaman and developed an appreciation of nature’s provision of principles of efficient design. He followed the philosophy of Pythagoras and Newton, that the universe comprises signs, or patterns of energy relationships, that have an order to them. Fuller used the term “valving” for the transformation of these patterns into usable forms. According to Fuller, these patterns in nature were comprehensive and universal. “Syn-ergy” was the name that Fuller gave to the integrated behavior patterns discovered in nature.

Fuller attended the Milton Academy (1904–06) and Harvard University (1913–15) and was expelled twice while at Harvard. He worked in a few industries and then enlisted for two years of service in the U.S. Navy (1917–19). This experience in industry and with the Navy helped him gain knowledge of technical engineering processes, materials, and methods of manufacturing, which he would apply this knowledge to future inventions.
When one of his two daughters, Alexandra, died of influenza at age four (1922), Fuller became obsessed with her death. Five years later, on the brink of suicide, he decided instead to devote the rest of his life to helping humanity by converting ideas and technology designed for weaponry into ideas for “livingry.” At the age of 32, he started an experiment, Guinea Pig B (the “B” stood for “Bucky,” his nickname), to discover how an individual with a moral commitment and limited financial means could apply his knowledge to improve humanity’s living conditions by technological determinism. This experiment continued until his death at age 88. Thus, his technological and economical resources belonged to society. He believed in the same moralistic drive to develop better housing for the masses through mass production that many of the European modernists
did, but Fuller’s forms and design principles were quite different.

Among the proliferation of books that Fuller published during his life, the first, 4D Time Lock (1928), propagated his lifetime philosophy. The term “4D” meant “fourth-dimensional” thinking, adding time to the dimensions of space to Encyclopedia of 20th-century architecture 900 ensure gains for humanity instead of personal gains only. The first patent of the 4D designs was a mass-production house, first known as 4D and
later as the Dymaxion House (1927 model; 1928 patent). A hexagonal structure supported on a mast, the house was to be air deliverable and based on his strategy of “design science,” which sought to obtain
maximum human advantage from minimum use of energy and materials.

Using the analogy of airplane technology, he chose materials such as steel alloy cables and the Duralumin mast. After developing the Dymaxion House, Fuller was to engage in developing prototypes of the Dymaxion
Vehicles (1937) and the Dymaxion Bathroom (1940). Later he developed the Dymaxion Deployment Unit (1944), a lightweight corrugated-steel shelter made from modified grain bins. Thousands of these units were
bought by the U.S. Army Air Corps for use as flight crew quarters. The Dymaxion Deployment Unit became the basis for Fuller’s Wichita House (1946). These houses were built to be used as full-size family dwellings, weighing four tons each, and were to be assembled on aircraft production lines built during the war. Another of Fuller’s Dymaxion inventions was the Dymaxion Airocean World Map (1946). This map transferred the spherical data of a globe onto a twodimensional surface.

Fuller, however, is best known for inventing the geodesic dome (1954), a triangulated space-enclosing technology. According to Fuller, this type of structure encloses the maximum internal volume with the least surface area. Designs such as the domes were based on synergy and its connection with mathematics, using such forms as the tetrahedron, octahedron, and icosahedron. Fuller brought into the dome structure ideas
concerning the dome’s tensile ability by introducing a new structural geometry and advancing mechanics into the dome form. He tried to emulate in this structure the atom’s form, including the compound curvature trussing of its dynamic structure. Although this domical design was not new in its elementary form, it was new in its manner of employing these principles in a human-made structure. Numerous domes have appeared all over the world for domestic as well as large-scale industrial use, including the Union Tank Car Company (1958), Baton Rouge, Louisiana; the Climatron Botanical Garden (1961), St. Louis, Missouri; the U.S. Pavilion (1967) at Expo ‘67, the World’s Fair, Montreal, Canada; and the Spruce Goose Hangar (1982), Long Beach, California.

As noted by architectural historian Kenneth Frampton in his book, Modern Architecture: A Critical His tory (1980), Fuller has influenced future generations of architects, most notably the Japanese group the Metabolists, the British group Archigram, Moshe Safdie, Alfred Neuman, Cedric Price, and Norman Foster. A few semiotician scholars liken him to Joyce, but whereas Joyce sought to obscure language intentionally, Fuller sought to emphasize a precise meaning.

Often he would invent words for this purpose, as displayed in his numerous writings and lectures. Later in life, he entered into partnership with Shoji Sadao in New York and Sadao and Zung Architects in Cleveland, Ohio (1979–83). Fuller died on 1 July 1983 in Los Angeles, California, from a massive heart attack; his wife died three days later.

Albert Frey

2008-05-14T04:02:00.001-07:00

Architect, United States
Albert Frey holds a unique place in the history of 20th century Californian architecture
as an uncompromising modernist of the European school, a pupil of Le Corbusier, and an
exponent of high-tech and rationalist architecture who lived out his long life in the hills
above Palm Springs, California.
Frey spent the early part of his career working for Belgian modernist architects Jules
Eggericx and Raphael Verwilghen in Brussels, where he was involved with rebuilding
housing following the Great War. He returned to Switzerland in 1927 to work for the firm
of Leuenberger, Fluckiger before moving to Paris in 1928 to work for Le Corbusier and
Pierre Jeanneret for nine months. In Le Corbusier’s atelier he sat between Charlotte
Perriand and Jose Louis Sert, working on the Centrosoyus Administration Building in
Moscow (1933) and the Villa Savoye (1931) at Poissy. Here he was introduced to Sweet’s Catalogue and,
Entries A–F 897
like Richard Neutra before him, found himself drawn to the American dream of a
technological future.
Upon his arrival in New York in September of 1930, Frey began working with A.
Lawrence Kocher, architect and editor of Arch itectural Record, in a partnership that would last until 1935.
The most significant building of Frey’s early career was the exhibition house designed
for the 1931 Allied Arts and Building Products exhibition at the Grand Central Palace in
New York. Called the “Aluminaire House” because of its ribbed aluminum cladding and
its qualities of lightness and airiness, it was strongly influenced by Le Corbusier’s
Maison Citrohan (1920) projects and Maison Cook at Boulonge-sur-Seine (1926–27), as
well as Frey’s own investigations of mass housing, as evidenced in schemes published in
Architectural Record in April 1931. The aluminum- and steel-framed house, with its innovative floor and
wall construction, was subsidized by subscriptions Frey raised from manufacturers and
erected in ten days. Following the exhibition it was bought by the architect Wallace
Harrison, disassembled in six hours and moved to his estate on Long Island. It has now
been rebuilt at the New York Institute of Technology, at Islip, Long Island.
In 1934 Frey traveled to Palm Springs, California, to supervise the building of the
Kocher-Samson office building for Kocher’s brother, a medical doctor. While there he
met John Porter Clark and, terminating his partnership with Kocher, began working with
Clark in a partnership that continued almost uninterrupted until 1957. A brief interlude in
New York in 1938–39, where he worked on the Museum of Modern Art for Philip L
Goodwin, and on a design for the Swiss Pavilion for the World’s Fair with Kocher that is
reproduced most memorably in his book, In Search of a Liv ing Architectu re.
Frey’s philosophy was evinced in the first house he built for himself in 1940.
Assembled out of industrial-type materials, Frey House 1 (Palm Springs, 1940) was a
simple cubic cabin with extending wall planes and an over-reaching, flat roof probing the
landscaped desert around it. These ideas were further explored in the Hatton House and
Guest House (1945) and the Loewy House (1947), all in Palm Springs. The extension of
Frey House 1 in 1947 and again in 1953, with the introduction of bright, electric colors
and profiled metal and ribbed fiberglass cladding, gave it a noticeably futuristic quality
while at the same time incorporating it within the planting and water pools of its natural
site. Although an experimental house, its idiosyncrasies were a direct responses to the
particularities of its desert condition.
With Clark he built a number of crisp, more conventionally modernist buildings,
including elementary and secondary schools in Palm Springs and Needles, and hospitals
at Banning and Palm Springs. These long, low, planar buildings spread out against the
desert landscape, external circulation, play or convalescing areas taking advantage of the
climate. Joined in partnership in 1952 by Robson Chambers, Clark and Frey built the
Palm Springs City Hall (1957) using a palette of traditional and industrial materials. The
design was sensitive to both function and climate, the administrative offices forming a
low, steelscreened T-shaped building with the council chamber expressed as a jagged,
masonry block at one end. Concrete and steel portes cochère, one circular and the other square, marked
the respective entrances to the council chamber and the city hall, the circular form of the
former corresponding to the void within the latter.
Frey House 2 (1965) was built on a mountainside on axis with and overlooking the
centre of Palm Springs, the City Hall visible in the distance. Raised on a concrete-block
podium which incorporated the car port below and the swimming pool above, the house
Encyclopedia of 20th-century architecture 898
appeared to be no more than a glass and steel lean-to cabin, carelessly decaying in the
desert landscape. The architecture is literally subsumed in Nature as a giant rock pushes
through a glass wall, separating the sleeping from the living area and providing, by way
of its mass, a thermal regulator.

FRANKFURT, GERMANY

2008-05-14T04:01:00.001-07:00

Frankfurt am Main was, next to Berlin, perhaps Germany’s most important center of
20th-century architectural developments. Its attempts to initiate an era of “New Building”
with innovative social housing programs and extensive public works construction in the
1920s and its impressive post-World War II rebuilding program that culminated with the
creation of a publicly funded “Museum Mile” in the 1980s have given Frankfurt an
architectural prominence that far outweighs its modest size. The building of dozens of
Europe’s tallest skyscrapers has made Frankfurt’s skyline similarly distinctive.
Located on the Main River at the edge of western Germany’s densely populated
Rhein-Main industrial area, Frankfurt is the capital of the German state of Hesse and one
of Europe’s most important banking, commercial, industrial, and transportation centers. It
began the 20th century as a province of Prussia under the guidance of Mayor Franz
Adickes (1846–1915), who initiated a series of reform-minded urban-planning policies.
Before World War I, visitors and professionals from the nascent field of urban planning
flocked to admire Frankfurt’s new streets, boulevards, parks, housing projects, public
transit system, sanitation, and land development schemes. The unique brand of municipal
socialism created by Adickes gave the city government broad powers to create a beautiful
and well-ordered city that planning officials throughout Germany, England, and the
United States envied and sought to copy.
Despite these reforms, Frankfurt, like most other German (indeed European) cities,
suffered a tremendous housing shortage at the end of World War I in 1918. Although
some remedial reforms were implemented immediately after the war, major
improvements did not come until the enactment of the Dawes Plan and the infusion of
American money and loans in 1923 and the election of Social Democrat Ludwig
Landmann as mayor in 1924. Landmann further reorganized the city government and the
tax laws to allow for more efficient planning and construction of housing and public
works and hired the young architect Ernst May from Breslau in Silesia to take control of
Entries A–F 893
all building and construction departments in the city. Although May did not solve the
housing crisis he inherited, he initiated an unprecedented program of innovative research,
planning, and construction that once again drew the attention and participation of many
of the Europe’s leading architects and planners.
May’s program called for the greater part of the population to live in a series of new
decentralized satellite cities clustered around the old city core, to which they would be
connected with high-speed roads and public transit. Based on older ideas of the Garden
City movement that May had learned as a student of Raymond Unwin in England, the
new housing estates provided high-density low-rise housing for middle-income workers
both in large blocks and in long row houses. Whereas early satellites developments such
as Bruchfeldstrasse (1926–27, E. May), Römerstadt (1927–28, E. May), and Praunheim
(1927–29, E. May) were often laid out with more traditional curved streets and
courtyards, the latter ones, such as Westhausen (1929–30, E. May), Hellerhof (1929, M.
Stam), and Am Lindenbaum (1930, W. Gropius), were laid out in rigid, uniform rows
oriented north to south to maximize the solar orientation of each apartment and allow for
greater standardization of building components.
To realize his ambitious plans, May reorganized the municipal construction industry,
making the process faster, cheaper, and better. Through the help of some national
building research grants (RFG), he rationalized the municipal production of materials and
standardized building components, including the lightweight, prefabricated-concrete
panels that were assembled into cubic, flat-roofed housing. May and his team, including
Grete Schütte-Lihotsky, Martin Elsässer, Adolf Meyer, Emil Kaufmann, and Ferdinand
Kramer, worked hard to define an “existence minimum”—the optimal and most efficient
apartment layout for a given family size. The floor plans, the furnishings, and especially
the “Frankfurt Kitchens” were completely redesigned and mass produced according to
the latest American efficiency theories of C.Frederick, Frederick Taylor, and Henry Ford
in order to minimize costs and work for the housewife. The resulting “New Building”
was, like engineering, striving to be completely objective, rational, and efficient not only
in its construction system but also in its aesthetic and social organization.
The housing program was complemented by an ambitious school-building
program, new libraries, parks and recreation areas, new wholesale markets
and electrical substations, and the implementation of a whole series of
social and cultural reforms to help transform Frankfurt into a more modern
home of the proverbial “New Man.” May publicized Frankfurt’s reforms
in the avant-garde magazine Das neue Frankfur t (The New Frankfurt), which circulated the
innovative ideas to Europe, the United States, Japan, and the rest of the
world. Frankfurt’s successes led the Congrès Internationaux
d’Architecture Moderne (CIAM) holding its second congress in Frankfurt
to inspect, admire, and share May’s achievement of building over 10,000
new apartments in five years. Le Corbusier, Mies van der Rohe, Walter
Gropius, and many other avant-garde architects of the Modern movement
marveled at the new housing, infrastructure,advertising graphics, and schools in the “New Frankfurt” and modeled many new
standards on the Frankfurt prototypes.
In 1930, May and his team of architects left Frankfurt because of increasing pressure
from Germany’s radical right, who labeled May’s modern brand of architecture
“Bolshevik” and unGerman. They went to the Soviet Union, where they had even greater
experimental planning projects. Construction on the “New Frankfurt” continued until
1933, when Hitler’s Nazi regime took over political power of Germany and championed
a more traditional, handcrafted, pitched-roof architecture. Although architectural
development slowed, Frankfurt’s banking, transport, and industrial base made it an
important center for Nazi wartime production. Two of the world’s largest chemical
companies, Hoechst and the former I.G.Farben, makers of the gas used in Nazi
concentration camps, had their headquarters in new buildings in Frankfurt, the former in
a brick Expressionist building by Peter Behrens (1924), the latter in a monumental, stoneclad,
10-story curved building by Hans Poelzig (1931). After World War II, Poelzig’s
office building was used as headquarters for the U.S. Army, and after 1995, it was slowly
converted into university facilities.
Entries A–F 895
From the fall of 1943 to September 1944 and especially on the night of 22 March
1944, the historic center of Frankfurt was almost completely destroyed by Allied
bombings: of 47,500 buildings, fewer than 8000 survived at least in part. After the war,
expecting to become the headquarters of Allied occupation forces, Frankfurt’s planners
elected to reconstruct their city based primarily on considerations of efficient traffic
arteries and large building lots rather than restoring the original medieval city fabric.
After rubble removal in the late 1940s, rebuilding started in the 1950s alongside West
Germany’s economic recovery. The modern, International Style buildings designed by
May’s colleague Ferdinand Kramer as well as well-known younger architects, such as
Egon Eiermann, Sep Ruf, and Gottfried Böhm, still dominate downtown Frankfurt. With
the relocation of the West German Central Bank to Frankfurt in 1957, the city grew
rapidly into the largest banking and stock exchange center of Germany, the home of one
of Europe’s largest and architecturally significant convention centers, with exhibit halls
by F.V.Thiersch (1907), O.M.Ungers (1984), and Helmut Jahn (1989), and home to
Europe’s largest and busiest train station, one of the busiest airports in the world, and
some of Germany’s busiest Autobahn crossings.
In the late 1970s, citizens began to demand more spending on cultural affairs and the
creation of a more humane cityscape. They voted to restore and reconstruct their war-torn
central Römer Square with its surrounding 16th-century merchants’ houses, using
traditional half-timber framing techniques. The city also began the creation and
construction of a series of worldclass museums, most of which were located on a short
stretch of riverbank across from the downtown in the more traditional Sachsenhausen
neighborhood. Unger’s German Architecture Museum (1984) and Richard Meier’s
Museum of Applied Arts (1985) added on to early 20th-century villas, whereas the
German Postal Museum (1990, G.Behnisch), the Museum of Modern Art (1991,
H.Hollein), and the Schirn Kunsthalle (1985, D.Bangert, B.Jansen, S.Scholz, and
A.Schultes) are completely new structures.
Although the tall banking towers had already earned the city the nicknames
“Bankfurt,” “Mainhattan,” and “Chicago on the Main,” during the final decade of the
century Frankfurt added a whole series of Europe’s tallest and most innovative new
skyscrapers. The trend started with Ungers’ Torhaus (1984) and Jahn’s Messeturm (1991)
at the convention center. On the skyline, the blue-glass twin towers of the Deutsche Bank
(1984) downtown were soon joined by the DG Bank “Crown” tower (1993) by Kohn
Pederson Fox and the Commerzbank Tower (1997) by Sir Norman Foster, which
contains large multistory atriums every eight floors with trees to help condition the
building’s air. Frankfurt’s recent designation as the home of the European Union’s new
central bank has only fueled the construction boom—the Landesbank Hessen is planning
a tower by Peter Schweiger, and German Telekom is planning a skyscraper by Richard
Rogers. The second “New Frankfurt,” created alongside the new museums and banks, has
once again become a fertile ground for architectural innovation and admiration.

Josef Frank

2008-05-14T04:00:00.001-07:00

Architect, Austria
Josef Frank was among the leading Austrian representatives of the Modern movement.
He was a founding member of the Congrès Internationaux d’Architecture Moderne
(CIAM), and, as vice president of the Austrian Werkbund, he oversaw the planning and
construction of the 1932 Vienna Werkbundsiedlung. In the early 1930s, however, Frank
emerged as one of the most important and vocal critics of what he saw as the totalitarian
orthodoxy within the various strands of modernism. For the remainder of his life, until he
stopped practicing in the early 1960s, he sought alternatives to what he perceived as the
banality and uniformity of much of the building of his time.
Frank studied architecture with Carl König, Max Fabiani, and others at the Vienna
Technische Hochschule, graduating in 1910 with a dissertation on the churches of Leon
Battista Alberti. While still a student, he flirted briefly with the Art Nouveau (Jugendstil),
but he soon abandoned the style in favor of the renewed historical eclecticism that
dominated much of Central European design in the period after 1905. Around 1909 Frank
formed a partnership with two of his former classmates from the Technische Hochschule,
Oskar Strnad and Oskar Wlach. Together, the three young architects specialized in
houses and interiors for the city’s haute bourgeois ie. In the period just prior to 1914, Frank realized
several houses, mostly notably the Scholl House (1913–14), which, despite its lingering
neoclassicism, showed marked parallels with Adolf Loos’s stark pre war villas. Frank,
however, was much more radical in the composition of his facades and furnishings,
which often relied on complex and asymmetrical arrangements.
After World War I, Frank devoted himself to finding solutions to Vienna’s severe
housing shortage. In the early 1920s he designed a series of housing projects in and
around Vienna that were based on the ideas of reduction and repetition. Frank’s early
postwar works continued to draw on historical precedents, but by 1921 he began to
develop a simplified form language, one that reflected the growing development of s achlich
Encyclopedia of 20th-century architecture 890
(objective) architecture throughout Central Europe. This was especially evident in
Frank’s designs for several apartment buildings for the Vienna municipality, including
the Wiedenhofer-Hof (1924—25) and the Winarsky-Hof (1924–26). The housing blocks,
which were published in many of the leading international architectural journals of the
time, brought Frank increasing notoriety and led to an invitation from Ludwig Mies van
der Rohe to participate in the 1927 Weissenhofsiedlung in Stuttgart.
Frank’s contribution to the Weissenhof exhibition, a double house, was widely lauded
for its straightforward appearance and innovative constructional ideas. Frank’s colorful
and florid interiors, however, which included furnishings and textiles from his shop Haus
and Garten (House and Garden; founded in 1925 with Wlach), drew strong criticism from
many of the other participants and observers who condemned them for being
“conservative,” “feminine,” “obtrusive,” and “middle class.” Frank responded to the
charges in an article titled “Der Gschnas fürs G’mut und der Gschnas als Problem”
(“Frippery for the Soul and Frippery as a Problem”), in which he argued that the strippeddown,
functionalist style of the radical modernists simply did not respond to most
people’s psychological needs. He repeated these criticisms in his book Archi tektur als Symbol: Elemente deuts chen Neuen Bauens (1931;
[Architecture as Symbol: Elements of German Modern Architecture]). Many of Frank’s
subsequent designs similarly constituted immanent responses to the modernist vanguard.
Because of the poor state of the Austrian economy in the postwar period, Frank was
able to realize only a handful of residences for private clients, the most import of which
was the Villa Beer (1928–30) in Vienna. Like Loos’s famed Raumplan (space plan) houses of the
1920s and early 1930s, the three-and-a half-story residence consisted of intricate
arrangement of inter-locking volumes on different levels, and it stands, along with Loos’s
Müller House and Mies’ Tugendhat House, as one of the most significant modernist
explorations of the possibilities of a new spatial ordering.
In 1933, in response to the Nazi seizure of power in Germany and the growth of anti-
Semitism in Austria, Frank immigrated to Sweden and settled in Stockholm, where he
became the chief designer for the interior design firm Svenskt Tenn. He continued to
produce designs for houses into the early 1960s, but increasingly after 1937 he devoted
himself to furniture design, churning out hundreds of ideas for chairs, tables, and cabinets
as well as textiles, rugs, and other objects for the home. The softened, cozy eclecticism
that Frank developed in his designs for Svenskt Tenn was widely admired and imitated
throughout Scandinavia and contributed to the rise of what later became known as
Swedish or Scandinavian modern design.
From 1941 to 1946, Frank lived in New York City, but he was unable to establish
himself in the United States, and he returned to Sweden and resumed his work for
Svenskt Tenn. Frank continued to reflect on the problems of modern architecture,
however, and in the late 1940s and early 1950s he produced a series of designs for houses
based on the principles of nonorthogonal geometry and chance ordering. He spelled out
these ideas in a manifesto titled “Accidentism,” which was published in the Swedish
design review Fo rm in 1958. By that time, Frank was largely a forgotten figure, and his bold
proposals attracted little attention. Many of his ideas for an architecture of complexity
and contradiction, however, presaged the rise of Postmodernism in the 1960s.

Kenneth Frampton

2008-05-14T03:58:00.000-07:00

Architect, historian and critic, United States
Kenneth Frampton is an architect, historian, and theorist based in New York. As an
architect with Douglas Stephen and Partners from 1961 to 1966, when he designed an
eight-story (48-unit) apartment block, Craven Hill Gardens (1964), in Bayswater,
London. It received a Ministry of Housing award and is now a Grade Four historic
monument.
In 1962, Frampton also became a technical editor for Architectural Des ign and improved the depth and
quality of the magazine’s coverage of new work, such as the Smithsons’ Economist
Building in London. In 1965, he accepted a teaching position at Princeton University
through the efforts of Peter Eisenman, then a young professor there who had studied at
Cambridge University with Colin Rowe. While at Princeton, he became a member of the
Institute for Architecture and Advanced Studies (IAUS) in New York and eventually one
of the editors of its influential historical and theoretical journal, Oppositions (1972—82). While a
professor at Columbia University (1972–73), with Theodore Liebman and others, he was
involved in the design of an innovative low-rise, high-density, low-income housing
project, Marcus Garvey Village, in Brownsville, Brooklyn, for the New York State Urban
Development Corporation.
Frampton is perhaps best known for the concept of “critical regionalism,” which he
first advanced in two articles in 1983. Influenced by the writings of the philosopher
Martin Heidegger, Frampton argued that local building culture and climactic influences
could provide a form of resistance to what he saw as the homogenizing and
environmentally destructive forces of worldwide capitalist development. A vehement
critic of the ironic manipulation of formal imagery characteristic of Postmodernism, since
the 1980s he has asserted the importance of the tectonics of building, a position reflected
in his Studies in Tectonic Culture (1995). In addition to his position at Columbia, he has taught in recent years at
the University of Virginia, the Berlage Institute in Amsterdam, the ETH (Swiss Federal
Institute of Technology) in Zurich, the EPFL (Swiss Federal Institute of Technology) in
Lausanne, and the Accademia di architettura in Mendrisio, Switzerland.
Frampton’s international advocacy for an environmentally and culturally appropriate
modern architecture has gained him considerable respect around the world, although in
the 1990s some have charged him with being too naively idealistic about the role of
architecture in contemporary society in light of the immense changes being wrought by
computing and the spread of a global consumer economy. His response is that our mode
of building has an important role to play in addressing issues of sustainability and global
warming, and he continues to insist that the “architectural profession has an ethical
responsibility for projecting works which have a critically creative character.”

Norman Foster

2008-05-14T03:56:00.000-07:00

Architect, England
Together with architects Richard Rogers, Nicholas Grimshaw, and Michael Hopkins,
Norman Foster is credited with pioneering the design style known as High-Tech in
Britain in the early 1970s. Although in the United States the term refers principally to an
architectural style, in Britain High-Tech points to a more rigorous approach in which
advanced technology is acknowledged as representing the “spirit of the age.” The
aesthetics of industrial production and machine technology are celebrated and embodied
Entries A–F 883
in the methodology of design production. Industry is a source for both technology and
imagery.
After working in the city treasurer’s office in Manchester Town Hall and
serving for two years in the Royal Air Force, Foster studied at the
University of Manchester (1956–61) and at Yale University (1961–62). In
1963, he formed Team 4 in London, collaborating with his wife, Wendy,
and Su and Richard Rogers, whom he had met at Yale. An early commission was for a house in Cornwall
for Richard Rogers’s parents-in-law, the Brumwells, and their art collection. Marcus
Brumwell had been a founder of Misha Black’s design consultancy, DRU, and this
connection was to lead to further commissions. The house is half buried in the contours
of the site and takes full advantage of the dramatic coastal position; the bridge spanning
the steep gully between road and turfed roof presages some of Foster and Roger’s later
Encyclopedia of 20th-century architecture 884
preoccupations. Another significant early work was the controversial Reliance Controls
Factory (1967) at Swindon. Here, Foster’s interest in tense metal skins for buildings and
Roger’s predilection for expressing structural bracing externally are anticipated. There
was also a concern for civilizing working conditions, which was to become a hallmark of
Foster’s commercial buildings.
Foster Associates was founded in London in 1967 and includes eight partners in
addition to Norman and Wendy Foster (Loren Butt, Chubby S.Chhabra, Spencer de Gray,
Roy Fleetwood, Birkin Haward, James Meller, Graham Phillips, and Mark Robertson). It
has become an immensely successful practice with an international profile. Their first
significant commission was the Olsen line passenger terminal and administration building
(1971) in London’s Dockland. Here, Foster declared his concern of breaking down the
“distinction between us and them, posh and scruffy, front office and workers’ entrance.”
Throughout the early 1970s, Foster brought his commitment to a patrician elegance to a
whole range of modestly scaled buildings, offices, schools, shops, and some factories.
The celebrated headquarters of the Willis Faber Dumas offices (1975) in Ipswich
boasts a curved glass facade that reinforces the street boundaries and harmonizes with the
urban environment. Two floors of office accommodation for 1300 people are elevated
and placed between amenity and support areas above and below, including a swimming
pool and gymnasium on the ground floor and a restaurant pavilion set in the landscaped
garden roof. The Sainsbury Centre for the Visual Arts (1978), built to house the Sir
Robert and Lady Sainsbury Collection, comprises an ingeniously adaptable structure that
allows any part of the external walls and roof to be changed quickly to provide different
combinations of glazed, solid, or grilled aluminum panels. A single, large, span roof
covers two exhibition galleries, the School of Fine Arts, a large reception area, the
university faculty club, a public restaurant, and storage facilities. The latter requiring
more space, Foster designed the fan-shaped Crescent Wing, completed in 1991. This
addition is introduced discretely into the landscape and does not destroy the integrity of
the main building. The Renault Distribution Centre (1983) at Swindon is based on a
structural module—a masted, lightweight suspended roof that repeats itself. Stansted
Airport Terminal (1991) followed, with its dramatic roof structure surmounting the vast
open space of the main building. Such great “neutral space envelopes,” capable of
accommodating differentiated functions, are a feature of Foster’s work. While being
committed to the HighTech movement, which celebrates the aesthetic of industrial
production, Foster is also concerned with what he describes as design “development,”
evinced in the Hong Kong and Shanghai Banking Corporation Headquarters (1985),
described as the most expensive office building ever constructed. Here, all the main
elements of the building, often prefabricated off-site, result from the close collaboration
of architect and manufacturers, ensuring high levels of craftsmanship and quality of
detail. Stansted witnesses a similar concern for detail, with the architect designing
carpets, seating, checkout desks, and retail outlets. More recent works include a
contribution to Stockley Park (1984), Heathrow, Middlesex, a business park attracting
international companies; the ITN Headquarters (1991); Riverside Offices and Apartments
(1990), including Foster’s own apartment, both in London; and the Library (1992) at
Cranfield Institute of Technology, Bedfordshire, England.

FLATIRON BUILDING

2008-05-14T03:53:00.000-07:00

Designed by D.H.Burnham and Company; completed 1903
New York, New York
With its striking shape, prominent location, and exceptional height, the Flatiron
Building was one of New York’s most discussed and distinctive skyscrapers at the
beginning of the 20th century. It was originally named the Fuller Building after the
George A.Fuller Company, which had served as the building’s developer and builder and
was one of its original occupants until moving to a new building in 1929. From its lofty
quarters, the New York office of the Fuller Company oversaw as general contractors the
construction of several of the city’s most prominent buildings. However, few called this
skyscraper the Fuller Building; the triangular lot from which this tower rises quickly led
to the building’s popular moniker, the Flatiron.
The architect of the building was D.H.Burnham and Company of Chicago. Daniel
H.Burnham (1846–1912) had established himself as one of America’s most prominent
architects and planners. By the time the Flatiron was being designed and built (1901–03),
Burnham was devoting much of his time to big plans. Among other things, he played an
important role in the development of the Senate Park Commission Plan (1901–02) for
Washington, D.C. Concurrently, his large architectural office was designing numerous
buildings across the country. Burnham oversaw the operation but left much of the
creative work to several talented designers in the firm, including Frederick P.Dinkelberg,
who appears to have had an important hand in the architectural design of the Flatiron.
At 21 stories or 307 feet tall, the Flatiron Building was one of the taller skyscrapers in
New York when it was built. The building’s structural steel frame, with extensive wind
bracing, reflected the recent acceptance of the all-steel skeleton for skyscrapers in New
York, after the pioneering efforts of the Chicago School (in which Burnham and his
former partner John W. Root had played a key role). The limestone and terra cotta that
Encyclopedia of 20th-century architecture 880
cover the building are of the same light monochrome. The rustication and heavily
ornamented patterns of these walls, as well as the conservatively sized windows, give the
façades a heavy appearance, even though these are not load-bearing walls. The multistory
oriels in the midsection, which are prominent in many of Burnham’s Chicago buildings,
are just barely perceptible on the busy, more enclosed skin of the Flatiron. This greater
visual weight becomes especially evident in comparison with Burnham’s earlier and even
his contemporary work in Chicago. It is as if this Midwest-bred approach to skyscraper
design became more formal when it came east to New York.
Stylistically, the design of the Flatiron draws from the classical tradition, with French
Renaissance motifs. Ever since Burnham played a pivotal role in the staging of the 1893
World’s Columbian Exposition in Chicago, he became increasingly enamored with
Beaux-Arts classicism, an attraction that found its broadest expression in his involvement
in the City Beautiful movement. The Flatiron is a vertical extension of a Renaissance
palazzo: the tripartition of the overall design into a distinct base, a repetitive midsection,
and a crowning cornice is now extended over 20 stories, making the whole appear
column-like. If the Flatiron had been a building of a more traditional height, it could have
fit comfortably in a contemporary City Beautiful plan with radial avenues carving
triangular lots in a Parisian manner. But the Flatiron is not of a traditional scale. Its
enormous height stretches its classical garb uneasily. It is not a part of a larger
choreographed urban ensemble; in fact, it stands isolated as a freestanding tower on its
own small urban island bound by 22nd Street, Broadway, and Fifth Avenue. The diagonal
slice that Broadway makes through Manhattan’s grid as it skirts past Madison Square
creates the site’s right triangle. The long, thin triangular footprint of the Flatiron extrudes
up through all its stories. With all three façades facing streets, this tall, thin building was
designed to always have very well-lit office spaces.
The most acute angle of the Flatiron points north. Early 20th-century commentators
often likened this sharply curved corner of the building to a ship’s prow. When seen at an
angle from Madison Square, the building can appear to have little depth, like a wall
leaned precariously against the sky. The gravity-defying illusion of the building is further
enhanced by the enormous cornice projecting aggressively from the top of the building,
giving the whole affair a top-heavy appearance. Although the building is in the flattopped
tradition of the Chicago School, its arrow-like north angle can make the Flatiron
appear as if its horizontal cornice is pointing skyward in photographs. The striking visual
presence of this uncommon vertical mass is what made the building instantly famous
both with tourists and those in the arts grappling with the nature of New York’s
modernity. Did D.H.Burnham and Company intend all of this drama in the Flatiron?
Perhaps not; the elements of the design fit in comfortably with the general development
of the firm. It was the unconventional triangular lot, coupled with exceptional height, that
transformed architectural conventions into something unique.
In the first years after completion, the Flatiron Building received
considerable attention from various sources. In 1903 the reported that strong, swirling winds were congregating at the building’s base and
playing havoc with pedestrians. One writer for Munsey’s Magazine in 1905 contemplated the ironies of
contemporary civilization in New York from a godlike vantage point high up in the
Flatiron. A 1903 essay in Camera Work discussed whether the Flatiron would lead to a rethinking of
aesthetics. Photographers responded most profoundly to the visual challenge of the
Flatiron. Photographs by Alfred Stieglitz and Edward Steichen taken soon after the
building’s completion established the Flatiron’s iconic presence upon the modern
imagination. However, these early photographs typically veil the Flatiron in the
atmospheric effects of nature; the building’s stylistic pretensions erode as the sublime
vertical mass becomes dominant.
In 1903 the Flatiron stood in relative isolation near Madison Square, since the city’s
other early skyscrapers were clustered further south on Manhattan. However, ever-taller
skyscrapers soon dwarfed the Flatiron: the 700-foot Metropolitan Life Tower (1909)
arose on the other side of Madison Square, and the Empire State Building (1931) was
built several blocks to the north on Fifth Avenue. From the tops of both of these buildings
Encyclopedia of 20th-century architecture 882
one had new yet belittling views of the Flatiron. Today, the Flatiron is one of New York’s
oldest extant skyscrapers and re tains its theatrical and unsettling presence amid the evergrowing
concentration of Manhattan’s skyscrapers.

Kay Fisker

2008-05-14T03:52:00.000-07:00

Architect, Denmark
Kay Fisker was one of the early proponents of functionalism in Danish architecture.
Taking his point of departure from the early 20th-century Danish Neoclassicism so
prevalent in the 1910s and 1920s, he developed a type of functional building design
specific to the Danish language of materials. In this way, Fisker took his inspiration first
from functional theorist and practitioner Louis Sullivan and only later from his
contemporaries among the European architects, such as Mies van der Rohe, Walter
Gropius, and Le Corbusier. Fisker’s successful bridging of these two styles in his practice
Encyclopedia of 20th-century architecture 876
(with partner C.F.Møller from 1930 to 1941), along with his steadfast promotion of
functionalist ideals in his teaching at the Academy of Fine Arts in Copenhagen and
abroad and as a writer for architectural publications (including the Danish journal Arkitekten),
proves his place as one of the most influential figures in modern architecture in Denmark
is justified.
Fisker first melded regional expression with functionalist principles in a student
project, with Aage Rafn, for a small railroad station (1915) on the island of Bornholm. A
study in form, the end-gabled station, with little architectural detail other than patterning
of the brick exterior, set the stage for Fisker’s drawing on traditional Danish building
types for his simplified structures. Fisker was able to expand on his application of
functionalist principles to large-scale architecture beginning in the 1920s, specifically, on
new forms of housing called for after the world wars. It is for his work in this area that
Fisker is best known today.
The housing shortage in Denmark, particularly in Copenhagen, after World War I led
to substantial government funds allotted to large-scale housing projects. Fisker’s early
housing block Hornbækhus (1922) helped define a new type of structure meeting the
needs of modern Danes. The architect conceived of this rectangular apartment block,
which enclosed a large central garden, as a series of identical apartment modules, both
modern ideas at the time. This early solution, however, expressed functionalism through
the lingering vocabulary of Neoclassicism. The symmetrical brick exterior is broken only
by marching rows of uniform windows running across the entire facade of the building.
Fisker’s early publication with F.R.Yerbury, Modern Danish Arch itecture (1927), championed the neoclassical as
the most appropriate style of the day. It is this sense of regularity, of preoccupation with
massing and form, that remained the hallmark of Fisker’s architecture even after he
abandoned the neoclassical style in the 1930s.
The introduction of international functionalism, introduced through exhibitions in
Berlin and Stockholm in 1930, provided Denmark with a break from Neoclassicism. This
new practical vocabulary had a decisive effect on the direction of Fisker’s later apartment
houses and other structures. After some experimentation, Fisker applied a more attractive
and humanistic solution to the blocks of flats while still retaining their regional qualities.
His Vestersøhus housing project (1935, 1938) features brick facades broken up with
rectangular projecting balconies paired with windows, giving the structure a pleasing
proportion and appearance. This was no mean task with such an inherently long and
monotonous building type, although by this time the enclosed street block, seen in
Hornbækhus, had been abandoned. Fisker, in his 1948 article “The History of Domestic
Architecture in Denmark,” described this new functional aspect of balconies as helping to
“accentuate facades in the rhythm of the new architectural style, facades which…were to
give honest expression to the plan behind them” (Fisker, 1948). This break from
classicism also led to siting becoming a more important aspect of Danish modern
architecture, especially on the newly developed outskirts of Copenhagen. Vestersøhus, by
example, is picturesquely placed with its main facade facing a Copenhagen lake. In
addition, the state’s involvement with these residential estates meant that it exercised
aesthetic control, employing the same architects for later additions to ensure visual unity.
In the period following World War II, Fisker made significant contributions to the new
trend of terraced apartment houses of smaller separate units set about in a parklike area.
The grouping of several smaller housing blocks together throughout such massive estates
Entries A–F 877
became a typical way of breaking up the monotony of large-scale residential projects
while providing more light and a neighborhood feel. Buildings in these complex
developments related to the natural site and to one another in a way that the long housing
blocks could not. Fisker’s Voldparken estate (Husum, 1949–51) is a celebrated example
of this type of housing block evolution in which the previously mentioned solutions are
applied. Fisker again concentrated on overall form and massing, keeping in mind native
qualities. Each house, for example, is constructed of warm indigenous brick with a hip
roof. The long facades are again relieved through Fisker’s use of balconies that
ingeniously project from the building at an angle. Fisker also designed a school (1951–
57) at Voldparken.
Many of the qualities of Fisker’s large-scale housing projects were appropriate for his
most well known project. In 1931, Fisker, along with partner C.F.Møller and Povl
Stegmann, won the competition for the new Århus University campus (1932–68) in
Århus, Denmark. It was only the country’s second university, and the state broke with the
classical, formal situation of an urban campus in favor of a modern one. The setting was
undeveloped land marked by rolling hills, existing groves of trees, and glacial streams
that were dammed to create two small lakes. The university buildings were to be
informally nestled into this park setting while respecting the natural terrain. The
architects strove for uniformity in the architectural vocabulary of the structures, and this
program was adhered to in later additions (Stegmann left the project in 1937 and Fisker
in 1945, after which C.F.Møller was the sole architect). Fisker’s university buildings
again recall traditional Danish structures, with their cubist forms, pitched roofs of yellow
tiles, and unbroken yellow-brick exteriors, but on a much larger scale. Therefore, the
buildings, beginning with the strong, unornamented Institute for Chemistry, Physics, and
Anatomy (1932–33), although clearly expressing the new functionalism, still project the
monumental qualities typical of Fisker’s work.
The transition between Neoclassicism and Danish functionalism in Fisker’s
architecture can also be traced in his silver designs for A.Michelsen in the 1920s, whereas
his domestic and ship interiors display a more modern progressivism. This influence can
be seen in the work of his students, such as Jørn Utzon, who went on to international
fame.

FINLAND

2008-05-14T03:51:00.000-07:00

Twentieth-century Finnish architecture, with few exceptions, has moved within the flow
of contemporaneous international developments. Within this larger construct, Finnish
architects have simultaneously developed qualities that are particular to the cultural and
natural condition of the country. Over the past half-century, the Finns have not forsaken
modernism but have continued to examine and inspect its potential, creating a legacy of
superb works in architecture and planning.
Toward the end of the 19th century, a growth in national self-awareness occurred in
Finland as well as in other European countries. Although this nationalism was partially
based on an interest in seeking national cultural origins, it was also fostered by the
establishment and growth of democratic institutions that accompanied industrial
development. In response to the repression of the regime of Czar Nicholas II during the
1890s, Finland sought political independence through national self-assertion. Within the
Finnish arts, the search for a national cultural identity resulted in a movement known as
National Romanticism.
With the 1849 edition of the Kalevala, the Finnish national folk epic, the arts were provided
with powerful poetic imagery that led to the development of a national form of artistic
expression that moved from painting to music and eventually to architecture. The music
of Jan Sibelius and the paintings of Akseli Gallén-Kallela express this urge toward
national identity. For architects, the question of the period was, What qualities were
required for a national architecture? The Finnish Pavilion for the 1900 Paris World’s Fair,
by the firm Gesellius Lindgren and Saarinen, was the first occasion for a public
expression of National Romanticism. The work contained many of the formal features
that would characterize National Romantic architecture: picturesque compositions with
Entries A–F 867
irregular asymmetrical plans and masses employing tactile and rough materials. Ragged
and irregular building volumes and profiles are complemented through the use of heavily
rusticated masonry surfaces, protruding log ends, and numerous textural variations in
materials. Often, the ornamentation featured motifs derived from Finnish nature and
folklore: bears, squirrels, and other animals, along with pinecones, tree boughs, and the
occasional character from folklore were sculpted decorative motifs.
The work of Gesellius, Lindgren and Saarinen and of individuals such as Lars Sonck,
Selim Lindqvist, Usko Nyström, and the architect Vivi Lönn exemplified the very best of
Finnish National Romanticism. Hvitträsk (1902), the home and studio of Gesellius,
Lindgren, and Saarinen, combines the organizational pattern of a Finnish vernacular farm
complex with massing elements from medieval stone churches. The interiors continue
these direct references and include an interlocking log living space and a sitting room
decorated like medieval church vaults. The Pohja Insurance Building (1901) and several
apartment complexes in Helsinki are of rough masonry construction that references the
work of American architect Henry Hobson Richardson. Among the most powerful works
of the period was the firm’s National Museum (designed 1901, completed 1915), which
incorporates direct references to Finnish medieval churches and fortresses. Lars Sonck’s
best work of the period includes the Eira Hospital (1905), a bank interior (1904), and the
Richardson-influenced Telephone Building (1905), all located in Helsinki. However, his
Tampere Cathedral (1907) is a true masterpiece: it is a fully integrated work of art and
architecture, assimilating a variety of references into a bold, assertive building. Other
important works of the period include Usko Nyström’s evocative Valtion Hotel in Imatra
(1903) and Onni Tarjanne’s National Theater (1902). Many of the works of this period
were important cultural buildings symbolizing Finland as an emerging nation with a
sophisticated population.
Finland had several women architects practicing during this period, all of whom
attended the Polytechnic Institute in Helsinki. Although Signe Hornborg and Signe
Lagerborg-Stenius engaged in major commissions during the National Romantic period,
it was Vivi Lönn who was a major force during the first two decades of the 20th century.
Her best National Romantic work, all located in Tampere, included the Finnish Girl’s
School (1902), the Alexander School (1904), and the Central Fire Station (1908), along
with other educational and domestic projects.
Two buildings, although appearing National Romantic, signal the movement toward a
more classical approach to design among Finland’s architectural leaders: Eliel Saarinen’s
(the partnership was dissolved by 1907) Helsinki Railroad Station (1914) and Lars
Sonck’s Helsinki Stock Exchange (1911). Both works have a classical restraint and
control and eschew the compositional excesses of National Romanticism. Although
National Romanticism had provided Finland with an international reputation, the style
seemed regressive and heavy. The younger architects desired to generate a purer and
more rational form of expression. The exaggerations of National Romanticism gave way
to a classicizing tendency emergent throughout Scandinavia before World War I.
Finnish classicism of the 1920s is exemplified by the use of simply proportioned
geometric volumes with sparsely decorated stucco surfaces. The flat, stuccoed surfaces
with crisply modeled classical appointments recall the neoclassicism of early 18thcentury
Finnish architects Carl Ludwig Engel and Carlo Bassi and the simple classically
inspired architecture found in the towns and villages throughout Italy. Despite their
Encyclopedia of 20th-century architecture 868
classical uniforms, the buildings of the 1920s contain a number of nonclassical
characteristics. The plan orders are often distorted, making use of asymmetrical
compositions rather than axial or symmetrical ones. A freer disposition of plan elements
occurs to accommodate both functional necessities and the exigencies of context. The
work of Hilding Ekelund, J.S.Siren, Erik Bryggman, Sigurd Frosterus, and Alvar and
Aino Aalto embrace this direction.
Two major works, J.S.Siren’s Finnish Parliament House (1931) and Sigurd Frosterus’s
Stockmann’s department store (1930), both in Helsinki, are serious realizations of Nordic
classicism. The Parliament House, with its columned front surmounting a monumental
flight of stairs, is an essay in restraint and repose. The interiors are well resolved and
expertly detailed, creating an integrated work of form, space, and decoration. The
Stockmann’s department store is more muscular in bearing because of its use of masonry.
The massive vertical brick facade, clear profiles, and culminating copper roof are
balanced by the large, skylit interior central space.
Four women architects made major contributions during this period: Eva Kuhlefet-
Ekelund, Kerttu Rytkönen, Elsa Arokallio, and Elsi Borg. Kuhlefelt-Ekelund designed
one of the exceptional buildings of the era, the Private Swedish Girl’s School (1929) in
Töölö. Rytkönen executed the exciting, more idiosyncratic Salus hospital (1929) in
Helsinki. Arokallio’s work for the Ministry of Defense as well as in private practice and
her Kauhava barracks (1928) are marked by a strict and elegant classicism. A crowning
work is Elsi Borg’s Jyväskylä Rural Parish Church (1928), with its clear geometric
shapes, arresting details, and expressive use of color.
Commercial buildings in addition to housing complexes were executed in
this form of classicism. This was a period of growth and urban expansion
in Finland’s major cities—Turku, Helsinki, Tampere, and Jyväskylä—and
the simplicity of the forms and their responsiveness as urban design
elements made classicism a suitable style for these developments.
Buildings in the 1920s by Alvar and Aino Aalto in Jyväskylä and Turku
and by Erik Bryggman in Turku exemplify these characteristics, especially the Aaltos’s Defense
Corps building (1926) in Jyväskylä and Southwestern Agricultural Cooperative (1929) in
Turk and Bryggman’s two blocks of flats (mid-1920s) in Turku.
Hilding Ekelund’s “Art Hall” (1929) and Töölö Church (1930), both in Helsinki, and
the Aaltos’s Worker’s Club (1925) in Jyväskylä represent, in contrast, the free play of
expression found in this form of classicism. These works, while using elements of the
classical language, often exhibit exaggerated, even mannered, qualities in the overall
composition or the detailing.
Many of Helsinki’s suburban developments date from this period and are
composed of apartment blocks executed in this form of classicism to
achieve a harmonious cityscape. The streetscapes along Mäkelänkatu and
Museokatu in Helsinki are examples of this unified intention. Martti
Välikangas’s Käpylä Garden Suburb (1925) in Helsinki combines classical
motifs and decoration with a simple vernacular-inspired building while
demonstrating an understanding of the most up-to-date town-planning
principles.
Encyclopedia of 20th-century architecture 870
Finnish Functionalism
Finnish awareness of the new ideas emerging from continental Europe began in the
1920s, as Scandinavian journals began publishing the work of the French, German,
Dutch, and Russian avant-garde. At this time, Finnish architects were especially open to
currents from the outside and willing to participate in theoretical and polemical
discussions. Architects such as Alvar and Aalto and Erik Bryggman, among others,
traveled throughout Europe to visit the seminal works of the new architecture and to
attend meetings of CIAM (Congrès Internationaux d’Architecture Moderne). In
particular, Aalto’s firsthand knowledge of avant-garde developments not only was
instrumental in the promulgation of Finnish functionalism but quickly established him as
among its leaders.
Accepting both the formal canons and the social programs of modernism, Finnish
functionalism was characterized by use of the “free” plan; the separation of structure
from building envelope, with the structure (usually of concrete) being detached from the
“free” facade; and a machine imagery created by tautskinned, white cubic volumes with
minimalistic industrial detailing. The architects further accepted the modern bias for
buildings sited in open, park-like settings. In built works as well as in proposals, portions
of extant urban fabric were opened to automobile access and the perceived health-giving
qualities of sun, air, and greenery.
Although a number of Finns directly experienced the major new works on the
Continent—which led to extremely sophisti-cated buildings being executed in this small
country—Aalto’s knowledge of his peers’ work and his quick assimilation of
modernism’s industrial detailing techniques were wryly commented on by Hilding
Ekelund in 1930: “With the same enthusiasm as the academics of the 1880s drew Roman
baroque portals, Gothic pinnacles, etc. in their sketchbooks for use in their architectural
practice, Alvar Aalto noses out new, rational-technical details from all over Europe which
he then makes use of and transforms with considerable skill” (Mikkola 1980, 75).
The Aaltos’s Turun Sanomat Newspaper Building (1929) in Turku and Tuberculosis Sanatorium
(1933) in Paimio are seminal pieces of Finnish functionalism, as they have fully
incorporated Le Corbusier’s “Five Points of a New Architecture.” However, Aalto was
by no means the lone practitioner, and by the early 1930s, a number of especially fine
examples of modernism existed throughout Finland. Exemplary works, embracing both
modernism’s formal canons and social programs, were also produced by Erik Bryggman,
Viljo Revell, Erkki Huttunen, Oiva Kallio, and P.E.Blomstedt.
P.E.Blomstedt, who worked with his architect wife Märta, completed two small but
excellent works: the Kannonkoski Church (1933) and the Kotka Savings Bank (1935).
After his death in 1935, Märta Blomstedt, with Matti Lampén, completed the Pohjanhovi
Hotel (1936) in Rovaniemi, one of the most important works of the period. The “Glass
Palace” (1935) in Helsinki by Viljo Revell embraces modernism through expression of its
program of restaurants, shops, and a cinema, all part of the central bus station, as well as
for its machine aesthetics. Bryggman’s library tower (1935) for the Åbo Akademi in
Turku, the exceptional Helsinki Olympic Stadium (1940) by Yrjö Lindegren, and a series
of works by Erkki Huttunen—the Cooperative Shop (1933) in Sauvo, the Kotka Town
Entries A–F 871
Hall (1934), and the SOK warehouse and office building (1938) in Oulu—are all
examples of the acceptance of functionalism in Finland.
Although many architects continued to actively embrace functionalism, criticism of its
propositions began to emerge during the mid- to late 1930s. This criticism initially
concerned tectonics and materiality. As modernist works appeared in Finland and the
forces of nature and the effect of climate began to act on them, architects questioned the
advisability of using Mediterranean-inspired building forms in the harsh northern
environment. To modify functionalism’s astringent forms and material palette, Finnish
architects incorporated traditional pitched-roof forms; brick, tile, and stone cladding; and
punched window openings. Traditional norms modified functionalist “ethics,” providing
more corporeal substance and regional character to the work.
In the Aaltos’s work, this change can be seen initially in the evolution of
the design for the Viipuri Library (1935) and their residence (1936) in
Munkkiniemi. However, the Finnish Pavilion at the 1936 Paris World’s
Fair and the Villa Mairea (1939) are the pivotal works that reveal and
codify the directions that Aalto took over the next three decades of his
production (Aino Aalto died of cancer in 1949). Erik Bryggman’s elegant
Resurrection Chapel (1940) in Turku is another example of this movement
toward a more experiential and tactile architecture. In both the Villa
Mairea and the Resurrection Chapel, the interplay between nature and the
architecture is an essential characteristic of the design. A number of
housing complexes and service facilities for factory complexes by Aalto,
Aarne Ervi, and Viljo Revell exploit this play between built form and the
natural setting.
Postwar Developments
At one level, Aalto’s work dominated Finnish developments in the post-World War II
era. The Säynätsalo Town Hall (1952), Rautatalo office building (1955), National
Pensions Institute (1956), House of Culture (1958), and Vouksenniska Church (1959) all
reinforced his international standing and independent direction. However, Finland during
the 1950s and 1960s was more than Aalto.
Whereas Aalto went his own way, the majority of Finnish architects continued to
practice an evolved form of modernism influenced by Mies van der Rohe and others.
Their buildings are characterized by their direct approach in the use of reinforced
concrete and steel along with brick and wood, coupled with rational planning and
organizational techniques. Examples include Viljo Revell’s Palace Hotel (1952, with
Keijo Petäjä) in Helsinki and Vatiala Cemetery Chapel (1962); the numerous housing
complexes by Arne Ervi; Yrjö Lindegren’s Serpent house (1951), Kaija and Heikki
Siren’s National Theater addition (1954) and Otaniemi Chapel (1957); and Aarno
Ruusuvuori’s Hyvinkää Church (1961) and Huutoniemi Church (1964). Less Romantic in
conception than Aalto’s contemporaneous works, these buildings expanded the rationalist
Encyclopedia of 20th-century architecture 872
aspect of modernism while incorporating more expressive spatial exploration with a
richer material vocabulary.
Often, this period in Finnish architectural development is viewed as the quiet, golden
age of the century, a result of Aalto’s code of not discussing his architecture, coupled
with the general preference of a material palette relying on brick and wood. However,
this was not necessarily the norm, and in fact much influence should be accorded the
work and theoretical writings of Aulis Blomstedt. Blomstedt aimed to develop an
objective theory of architecture that was verified through practice, with simplicity,
austerity, and abstraction becoming essentials in his designs. His terrace housing complex
(1954) in Tapiola and Worker’s Institute (1959) in Helsinki are essays in his rigorous
process of thinking and doing, as are a series of abstract graphic and installation pieces
that he did to study proportion. In addition to practicing, Blomstedt was a professor at the
Helsinki University of Technology, and his influence is seen in the works of his
students—Kristian Gullichsen, Juhani Pallasmaa, Erkki Kairamo, and Kirmo Mikkola,
among others—executed during the 1970s and 1980s.
New towns were also a feature of Finnish postwar development, especially around
Helsinki. Because of the city’s growth in the 1950s, a series of planned garden suburban
developments was created. The most famous was Tapiola Garden City, begun in 1952,
which embraced the Finn’s particular enthusiasm for living close to nature. The plan for
Tapiola comprised three neighborhoods grouped around a city center and separated by
green zones. The shopping and administrative center (1961) was designed by Aarne Ervi.
The housing complexes were done by the best of Finland’s architects: Aulis Blomstedt
designed flats (1961), terrace houses (1964), and studio housing (1965); Viljo Revell
executed flats (1958) and a complex of tower blocks (1960); Aarno Ruusuvuori designed
the Weilin and Göös print-ing works (1964) and the parish church (1965); and H. and K.
Siren contributed a complex of terrace houses (1959).
By the late 1960s, Finnish architects were either exploring a more expressive
modernist language or working toward a more rationalist, abstract form of expression.
The first can be seen in the Helsinki City Theater (1967) by Tima Penttilä; the Taivallahti
Church, or famous “church in the rock” (1969), by Timo and Tuomo Suomalainen; the
Sibelius Museum in Turku (1968) by Woldemar Baeckman; and the Kouvola City Hall
(1969) by Saarnio and Leiviskä. The second, influenced by Blomstedt, can be seen in the
more purist architecture of the Villa Relander in Muurame (1966) by Kirmo Mikkola and
Juhani Pallasmaa, the Moduli 225 system of construction (1970) by Kristian Gullichsen
and Pallasmaa, and the Liinasaarentie multifamily housing (1971) and semidetached
housing (1980), both in Espoo, by Erikki Kairamo. Aarno Ruusuvuori’s sauna (1968),
designed for industrial manufacture and commissioned by Marimekko, is a true essay of
architectural purity achieved with the most minimal gestures.
While a duality was established between Aalto and Blomstedt, another
design force emerged in Finland during the late 1950s that appeared to
bridge the two: Reima Pietilä and his architect wife Raili Paatelainen.
Their early work—beginning with the Finnish Pavilion at the 1958
Brussels World’s Fair and including the Kaleva Church (1960) in
Tampere, the “Dipoli” student union (1964) at Otaniemi, and the
Suvikumpu housing (1969) in Tapiola—is both distinctive and
Entries A–F 873
Expressionistic yet rational. Although their work often seems to emerge
from the site, somewhat akin to Aalto’s, there is still a controlled abstract
quality to their architectural conceptions, as Pietilä learned much from
Blomstedt and was influenced by his writings and thinking. After the
critical success of these projects, Pietilä had a decade-long hiatus in his
work and did not receive a significant building project in Finland until the
commission for the Hervanta Community Complex in suburban Tampere
in 1975. Although Hervanta was not of the quality of their earlier work,
the Pietilä’s last works—the Lieksa Church (1982), the Tampere City
Library (1983), and most especially the Finnish President’s Official
Residence (1993)—regain an intense and expressive architectural power.
The Past Quarter-Century
Contemporary Finnish architects carry forward both the rational and the expressive
threads present in the past half-century of architectural production. The best work
combines both threads into a rich experiential architecture that also builds on a deep
understanding of program and site. Architects such as Ruusuvuori, Pallasmaa,
Gullichsen, and Kairamo are joined by Käpy and Simo Paavilainen; Juha Leiviskä; Pekka
Helin and Tuomo Siitonen; Mikko Heikkinen and Markku Komonen; the three-some of
Matti Nurmela, Kari Raimoranta, and Jyrki Tasa; and the group MONARK, among
others, in creating some of the very best work recently done in Finland.
The Olari Church and Parish Center (1981) in Espoo, the new Parish Center (1989) in
Paimio by Käpy and Simo Paavilainen, and the numerous churches by Juha Leiviskä—
the Church of St. Thomas (1975) in Oulu, the Myyrmäki Church and Parrish Center
(1984) in Vantaa, the Kirkkonummi Parish Center (1984), and the Männistö Church
(1992)—are true instruments for manipulating natural light. Leiviskä in particular, whose
churches are organized as series of parallel white planes, creates through a combination
of baroque exuberance and Nordic coolness wonderfully engaging settings for light to
play in. In his other works, as exemplified by the German Embassy (1992) in Helsinki
and the art museum (1988) in Kajanni, Leiviskä demonstrates his mastery of the use of
the wall as the primary organizing element in his architecture.
Juhani Pallasmaa took a breather from architecture for about a decade. He was director
of the Museum of Finnish Architecture for five years and spent much time writing on the
theory and philosophy of architecture and doing graphic design and artistic projects.
When he returned to architecture, his work, as best witnessed in his Rovaniemi Art
Museum (1986) and Finnish Institute (1991) in Paris, extends his earlier rationalism
toward a more considered, thoughtful experiential expressiveness. Like many of his
colleagues, Pallasmaa designs furniture and art objects and does graphic design: however,
more in keeping with Aalto, these endeavors seem to more directly influence his
architecture.
The work of Arkkitehdit Ky runs a range of expressive techniques, depending on
which of the design principals—Kristian Gullichsen, Erikki Kairamo, or Timo
Encyclopedia of 20th-century architecture 874
Vormala—is in charge of the project. Gullichsen’s work, best seen in his Parish Center
(1983) in Kauniainen and Pieksämäki Cultural Center (1989), is a demonstration of the
concept of “building as wall,” which structures the entire site and overall spatial order.
Kairamo’s work is more “Constructivist” in expression, as demonstrated in his
semidetached houses (1990) in Espoo and the much celebrated Itäkeskus Tower and
Commercial Center (1987) in Helsinki. Vormala’s architecture is more vernacular and
traditional in expression, yet it is grounded in modernism, as seen in the apartment
complex (1980) in Varisto, Ventaa, and the block of flats (1984) in the Näkinpuisto
section of Helsinki. The firm also produced the highly visible and significant extension to
the Stockmann’s department store (1989) in central Helsinki.
The range and scope of work executed by Pekka Helin and Tuomo Siitonen is
impressive for its conceptual strength as well as detail execution. Their UKK Institute for
the Study of Health and Fitness (1983) in Tampere; the Swimming Hall and
Multipurpose Hall (1986) in Hollola; the UNIC Ltd. headquarters (1991) in Helsinki;
their exquisite Sibelius Quarters housing complex (1993) in Boräs, Sweden; and the
North Karelian Provincial Library (1992) in Joensuu, among other works, demonstrate
the diversity of their projects.
A series of very interesting building complexes have been executed by
Matti Nurmela, Kari Raimoranta, and Jyrki Tasa. These include the
Lippajärvi Daycare Center (1983), the Post Office (1984) in Malmi, the
Library (1984) in Kuhmo, and the Commercial Center (1989) in Pori. The
Cultural Center (1989) for Tapiola by Arto Sipinen and the unique Finnish
Pavilion for the 1992 Seville World’s Fair by MONARK are additional
examples of the range of architectural thinking occurring in Finland today.
And then there is the expressive and excellently executed work of Mikko
Heikkinen and Markku Komonen: Their Finnish Science Center
“Heureka” (1988) in Helsinki, the Rovaniemi Airport (1992), and the
Finnish Chancery (1993) in Washington, D.C., all bespeak an elegant
clarity in organization as well as detail quality.
Over the course of the 20th century, Finnish architects have desired to create an
architecture of both place and time. In doing so, they have created a tradition of executing
strong architectural ideas and conceptions and developing them toward a rich and
expressive result. The architecture of 20th-century Finland is not one of overly complex
ideas executed in a simple-minded fashion but, rather, that of substantive concepts that
are worked and elaborated into a palpable, meaningful, and fully experiential
architecture.

FIAT WORKS (LINGOTTO), TURIN, ITALY

2008-05-14T03:50:00.000-07:00

Designed by Giacomo Matté Trucco completed 1916–1926
In 1916 the Italian automobile company Fiat, with Giovanni Agnelli at its helm, began
the construction of a modern factory that would take ten years to build and that
epitomized the American multistory concrete factory as established by architect Albert
Kahn for Henry Ford in the Highland Park Plant outside of Detroit in 1912, but with its
own innovations. Fiat’s earlier factories, typical of the time, were traditional multistoried
brick structures in the center of cities. With Lingotto Fiat Works, Fiat moved out of
Encyclopedia of 20th-century architecture 864
Turin, south of the center, to the west of the Po River on the via Nizza. There they could
improve their production methods and built a production space at an unprecedented scale
for European industries.
In 1912, Agnelli, Fiat’s founder, impressed with Ford’s automobile plants which he
had seen in Detroit, returned to Italy with the desire to build a factory similar both in
construction and production techniques. By hiring an engineer, Giacomo Matté Trucco,
to head the development, Agnelli immediately signaled the direction of the project.
Construction began in 1916 as a way to promote work and labor instead of war. It also
established his dynasty and the company’s growth; similar to the patriarchal attitude of
Ford, he wanted to help the working class.
Matté Trucco, trained at the Politecnico (Polytechnic Institute) of Turin as an
industrial engineer, spearheaded the production engineering and building planning. Based
on Taylor’s scientific theory of efficency for productive work and constant
mechanization of labor force, the production line was a continuous flow from the entering
of the raw materials to the assembly of the parts, and to the completion of a car and was
exemplary in factory design at the time.
The factory complex consisted of a main production building with smaller buildings
for preassembly work, and a separate office building, called the Palazzina (little palace),
completed in 1921. The design of the management offices was more traditional than the
plant itself, with a doric portico at its entrance. The main production building was often
compared to a skyscraper lying on its side and was without cellars or basements. It
comprises two long workshops that run parallel for a third of a mile and connected at the
ends, creating an elongated ring. At regular intervals, the long sides are linked by
towers—two inside and one at each end—to create the four interior courtyards. At the
south end is a square press-shop; on the north, a five-story building is part of the
assembly workshop.
The building composition exemplified efficient auto production of the time: Assembly
was begun on the ground floor, then cars were then taken up spiral ramps to consecutive
upper floors for further assembly and, finally, to the roof for a test drive on the track. This
was actually opposite to the Ford system, where the auto parts were taken up to the top
floor and then the car was assembled as it descended to lower floors and finally out to the
street. However, by the time Fiat Works was built, it was out-of-date, as Ford had begun
his single-volume one-story factories.
Fiat Works is significant as one of the first modular concrete buildings in Europe.
Matté Trucco was influenced by the work of the French engineer François Hennébique,
whose structures Matté Trucco had seen with his engineer father. Matté Trucco repeated
a square reinforced concrete module, 19 feet 8 inches by 19 feet 8 inches by 16 feet 5
inches high, to construct a 1664-foot-long (1/3 mile) by 264-foot-wide and 88-foot-high
building with four interior courtyards.
Within the modular concrete grid there are over 2000 steel sash-awning multiplepaned
windows that admit plenty of daylight to the interior spaces. Square concrete
columns with chamfered edges that, architectural critic and historian Reyner Banham
noted, were like those in the factories in the United States, are spaced six meters apart to
create as open an interior as possible. More innovative were the perforated horizontal
beams with regular rectangular holes for pipes and conduits.
Entries A–F 865
The two major engineering accomplishments include the one-kilometer-long rooftop
test track and the two poured-inplace spiral ramps at the north and south ends of the
factory. The truck-size ramps are outstanding sculptural constructions that move cars to
the roof track for testing without eliminating valued manufacturing space. The ramps
were also used for hand trucks and for pulling car parts floor to floor. The ovular rooftop
test track with banked curves at each end allowed cars to be tested at speeds up to 60
miles an hour, exceeding normal highway speeds at the time.
Renowned architects praised Fiat Works when it was completed. Le
Corbusier described the factory after his visit there in the 1920s as where
“the windows in a grille-like pattern are too numerous to count. The top is like that of a taffrail of a ship, with decks, chimneys,
courtyard and catwalks. Surely one of industry’s most impressive sights…. It is the Esprit
Nouveau factory, useful in its precision and with the greatest clarity, elegance and
economy” (Banham, 1986).
Edoardo Persico wrote of it in 1927 as the “ultimate metaphysic of form” and said of
the track, “so here the car and its speed are celebrated in a form that presides over the
work of the factory below, not only in terms of unity but also following a secret standard
that governs the ends of things.”
The building is significant not only in architectural history but in social history as
well. After it was built, it had to be part of emergency plans for post-World War I
assistance. During the Depression, the company had the normal internal troubles. In
1943, it was bombed, but the structure resisted destruction as Turin workers faced
Encyclopedia of 20th-century architecture 866
Mussolini. Then in the 1980s, when the plant closed, demolition was considered. Instead,
Fiat held an ideas competition for reuse, which architect Renzo Piano won, and
subsequently transformed the building complex into a conference center that opened in
1995.

Hugh Ferriss

2008-05-14T03:49:00.002-07:00

Urban designer, United States
Best known for his dramatic depictions of the monumental architecture of a futuristic,
urban utopia, Hugh Ferriss contributed significantly in the 1920s and 1930s to an
appreciation for urban design within academic and professional circles, but more so
among a lay audience. Although he was a licensed architect, he chose not to build. He
dedicated his career to drawing, writing, and urban planning, becoming the preferred
renderer and consultant to some of the most notable practitioners of his day. Although
Ferriss shared with his modernist peers a belief in architecture’s agency in improving
urban society, he rejected the industrial references assumed in many of their proposals.
He sought to invest his designs with a spirituality that he felt absent both in international
style modernism and in an America dominated by corporate activity; the skyscraper—the
new icon of that activity—became his fundamental subject. His writings remained less
polemical and ultimately less influential than those of his modernist contemporaries,
whereas his widely circulated images became more influential. Although the last decades
of Ferriss’s career paled in comparison to his earlier notoriety, in the 1940s he could still
be lauded by such populist magazines as Time as “U.S. architecture’s most grandiose seer.”
Ferriss’s fame as an urban-design visionary proceeded from a pragmatic issue. After
New York City passed its zoning ordinance in 1916, which was intended to improve the
access of light and air into cavernous streets, new buildings were required to reduce their
massing as they rose in height. Ferriss’s “four stages” zoning envelope studies, published
in 1922 in collaboration with the architect Harvey Wiley Corbett, show the gradual
erosion of a tall block into a series of variously sized, adjacent, parallel slabs and were
the first studies to make architectural sense of this zoning legislation. He championed his
zoning solution, stating that the “efficiency and health of city life must be accepted as
mandatory requirements,” and he reinforced his brand of modernistic architectural
moralism and determinism, saying, “We are not contemplating the new architecture of a
city…we are contemplating the new architecture of a civilization.” In 1930, the historian
and critic Sheldon Cheney wrote, “More than any other architect… Ferriss influenced the
imagination of designers, students, and public. Many a building of 1928–29 looks like a
fulfillment of a Ferriss idealistic sketch of four or five years earlier.” Indeed, his zoning
study became a model for tall structures throughout the United States.
Entries A–F 861
Most of Ferriss’s renderings stemmed from commercial commissions for clients who
wished to join, for their benefit, 1920s economic optimism with the progressive spirit that
his drawings invoked. He also collaborated frequently with architects of the caliber of
Raymond Hood and Wallace Harrison and became the public-image-giver to projects
such as Rockefeller Center, the United Nations, Lincoln Center, and the New York
World’s Fair. Despite the fact that Ferriss had an aesthetic penchant for the architecture
of modern capitalism, he recognized the skyscraper as “a symbol of an age in which there
is no spiritual-ity.” Yet he believed that capitalism’s power might be used to reform the
city. His commercial work became intellectual and formal fodder for his theoretical
explorations, which strove to reinvest architecture with humanistic dimension. Unlike
most of his modernist peers, who may also be called “visionary,” Ferriss maintained that
modern technology was stifling the human spirit and chose to regard the city as an
extension of nature rather than the machine. He emphasized organic, geological, and
metaphysical analogies in reference to the “crystalline” properties of his architecture.
Ultimately, Ferriss’s intentions rarely transcended symbolic gesture.
Ferriss’s best-known publication, The Metropolis of Tomo rrow (1929), was a testament to his rendering talents,
his idealism, and his commitment to fashioning structures whose effect would restore
architecture’s lost emotional content. The book was divided into three parts. The first
part, “The City of Today,” features many of the tower renderings that established his
career. The second part, “Projected Trends,” depicts work ranging from his realistic
zoning studies to such fantastic proposals as multitiered streets clinging to the 20th story
of a building facade. Ferriss recognized the far-fetched nature of his proposals, yet he
surmised that they were nonetheless inevitable. The final part of the book, “An Imaginary
Metropolis,” summarizes his design theories for a Utopian city. In his Metropolis, vast
boulevards slide through a midrise urban fabric and link mile-high towers with gardens
arranged on the ledges of their stepped-back massings. For all its visionary appearance, it
was formally little more than a City Beautiful scheme; with no provision for industrial
sectors or housing, it addressed only a bourgeois citizenry. The city’s core, comprised of
a triangulated business, art, and science zone punctuated by a soaring “tower of
philosophy,” underscored Ferriss’s desires for a humanistic city yet proffered no
plausible social, political, or economic theory by which to implement the new society.
Ironically, the publication of his urban scheme coincided exactly with the financial
collapse of 1929, sobering his faith in architecture’s reach.
Ferriss’s second book, Powe r in Buildin gs: An Artis t’s View of Con temporar y Architectu re (1953), was far less ambitious in scope. Produced
following a journey across the country, the book portrays what he considered to be
America’s most inspirational structures, ranging from recently completed hydroelectric
dams to pre-Columbian pyramids. Almost embarrassed by his earlier naïveté, he began to
dedicate his drawing skills to built and pending designs rather than imaginary
architecture; his rejection of capitalism’s ability to work for social change is signaled by
the book’s near absence of high-rise towers.
Although Ferriss was alternately considered an architectural theorist and a delineator
of remarkable talent, history has established him only as the latter. Ferriss rejected the
Beaux-Arts representational tenets that he was taught at Washington University in St.
Louis; he felt that emphasis on two-dimensional drawing—plans, sections, and
elevation—was foreign to human experience. Likewise, he rejected the isometric
representations used by his staunchly modernist peers, stating that such techniques
Encyclopedia of 20th-century architecture 862
yielded passionless images and, by extension, passionless architecture. Ferriss conveyed
his ideas nearly exclusively through perspective. The drawings for which he ultimately
became renowned were noteworthy not for their accuracy (he took technical liberties in
order to show multiple vantage points in one view) but for their emotive capacity.
Ferriss-conceived architecture revealed through a subtractive process, leaving ultimately
finely chiseled masses where historical ornament was subjugated to smoothly massed
surfaces. After building up layers of carbon, he would begin to reveal the form of his
subject through erasure, yielding scenes whereby his architecture would appear as a
brilliant beacon. If the purpose of the setback ordinance was to suffuse the city of
darkness with light, then his system of erasure and the dark-to-light techniques of his
drawings were an appropriate parallel to this transformation. Although Ferriss’s work
continued to be well received by the general public, professional and academic
communities tended to be less generous. In 1954, six years before Ferriss’s death in New
York City, the architectural historian Vincent Scully dismissed Ferriss as “the last in a
line of romantic-classic architectural artists which began with Piranesi and Boullee.”

FENG SHUI

2008-05-14T03:49:00.001-07:00

Feng Shui dates from before the earliest dynasty in China, when its principles were first
used to locate family graves to ensure good luck for all future descendants. Loosely
translated as “wind and water,” the term Feng Shui refers to the practice of discerning the
Encyclopedia of 20th-century architecture 858
harmonic arrangements of natural elements so as to enhance the flow of the life force, or
Chi; for Western audiences, the term is most directly defined as “geomancy” or
“divination.” In the context of design, Feng Shui encourages a healthy and ecological
approach to the built environment, such that humans and nature live together in the best
possible relationship. In creating a sensitive environment, Feng Shui not only balances
the natural forces of the universe but also cares for the psychic well-being of humankind.
Feng Shui does not deny the cyclical forces of nature, which ultimately ensure that good
and bad luck ebb and flow at different times; rather, its primary goal is to achieve the
optimum balance between contrasting opposites to the benefit of human existence.
Feng Shui’s principles center on the idea that the Chi must flow freely in and around
the human environment. A positive flow of Chi will have a positive influence on
humankind, allowing one’s labors to reach their highest level of success. According to
Feng Shui masters, the Chi can radiate with lesser and greater force up from the earth.
The strength of the Chi can be read from the natural elements and the physical
appearance of a location. For example, mountains and volcanoes show where the Chi has
risen above the earth, whereas arid deserts demonstrate a lack of Chi. Feng Shui masters
can measure the quantity of Chi present in an area by observing the soil and vegetation
and noting the position of natural elements, such as mountains and waterways, relative to
a particular site. Humankind is also an element in determining the relationship between
the earth and the Chi, and the human body can, like the earth, demonstrate a good or bad
flow of Chi. Healthy bodies are seen as a reflection of a good and positive flow of Chi,
whereas sickness indicates an unhealthy element. Because there is no end and no
beginning to Chi, humans can be both the cause and the solution to the negative flow,
such that the person influences the flow of the Chi in the environment or the environment
affects the level of Chi in the person. In either case, the problem can usually be corrected
by following the guidance of a Feng Shui master.
In observing the flow of the Chi, Feng Shui requires that the contrasting forces of
nature be balanced in harmonic arrangements. This principle is explained through the
concepts of Yin and Yang, which are identified by a half-white, half-black circle. Yin and
Yang represent dualities, or opposites, within the Chi, such that together they balance into
a whole. For example, Yin is dark, passive, and female, whereas Yang is light, active, and
male. Generally, these primordial forces are seen as complementary, and they symbolize
the harmony of the universe, for without the one, there cannot be the other. Feng Shui
seeks to balance the two by matching the Yin elements with the Yang. In terms of
landscape, an area that is rich in Yin might lack Yang and thus will not bring good
fortune to the owner. In many cases, however, a deficiency of either Yin or Yang can be
corrected by the placement of certain objects—mirrors, fishbowls, or plants—to reflect
and enhance the flow of the missing element.
Feng Shui masters can further discern the flow of Chi through the use of trigrams.
Like coins, trigrams have two outcomes, whole or broken, which are represented by one
long straight line or two short ones, respectively. Trigrams usually come in sets of three,
thus making eight individual arrangements of long and short lines. Each of these patterns
represents a quality (nature, heaven, earth, thunder, mountain, fire, wind, lake, and
water), and they may also represent family relationships, directions, time, and change.
When properly aligned with a compass, trigrams can ensure that the proper placement of
furniture, doorways, windows, and rooms occurs under the most favorable conditions.
Entries A–F 859
Trigrams can been seen as types of omens, but they also ensure that the cycles of humans
and nature are respected and remind humanity that the universe is never static.
The principles of Feng Shui encourage buildings to be placed, designed, and arranged
with reference to particularly lucky attributes within the landscape. Feng Shui masters
recommend that houses and offices be sheltered on their north side by a mountain or hill
and that a source of water be placed to the south. Houses should always face south to
appreciate the sun and the fresh winds from that direction, and they should be set up on
the land rather than down in a hollow. In plan, houses should not have windows or doors
opposite each other and should not have sharp angles or tight proportions. Particular
rooms should be located farther from others; for example, the kitchen should not open
directly onto the living room, and the stove should be in the southeast corner. For interior
decor, beds should be elevated from the ground and should not face the west, unless the
resident’s astrology says otherwise. Beds should also not be positioned opposite open
doors or too near the windows, as this will affect sleeping patterns. Other furniture may
be placed according to a Feng Shui compass that directs which sections of the room will
be lucky, thus encouraging the prosperity of the family.
Feng Shui is still practiced today not only the East but in the West as well. In China,
Feng Shui masters are routinely consulted for readings on projects that range from houses
to skyscrapers. Most recently, I.M.Pei’s Hong Kong Bank was positioned according to
Feng Shui principles, with a hill behind it and a gentle slope leading to the harbor in
front. Once completed, the Hong Kong Bank was regarded as having favorably respected
the principles of Feng Shui, unlike its neighbor, the Bank of China, whose sharp corners,
domineering scale, and shiny facade negatively affected the surrounding neighborhood.
Residents complained that the Bank of China’s mirrorlike facade reflected bad elements
back to the neighborhood and that the sharp angles cut into the local businesses like
knives. Since its completion, the Bank of China has not been well regarded by the
population and has had some trouble finding tenants. In the West, Feng Shui has become
popular among designers who respect the principles of harmony and balance with nature,
and Feng Shui experts are routinely consulted for interior decorating and even for
architectural design. Despite their age, the principles of Feng Shui resonate with a
modern society that still strives for a healthy, balanced lifestyle.

FEMINIST THEORY

2008-05-14T03:48:00.000-07:00

Feminist theory in 20th-century architecture encompasses identification of gendered
power relations in architectural and urban form and discourse, critique of masculine
dominance in the design professions, and creation of “feminist” and “feminine”
architectural practices. Influenced by feminism in philosophy, literature, cultural studies,
and the social sciences, feminist architectural theory has embraced histories of women in
architecture, new types of architectural practice, and the reconceptualization of the
“feminine” itself. In architecture, feminist theory has three main tendencies, all of which
address gendered power relations and the injustice of masculine domination in
architecture. Some theorists celebrate the differences between men and women and take
an overtly feminist approach to the critique and reconstruction of architectural practice
and history. Others emphasize the struggle for equal access to training and jobs in
architecture and for recognition of women’s competence in the profession. Another group
focuses on theories of gender difference and representation in the built environment,
architectural discourse, and cultural value systems.
Feminist architectural theory has its sources in 19th-century feminist thought and the
revival of feminism in the 1960s. Betty Friedan’s book The Femi nine Mys tique (1963) marked the emergence
of a second wave feminism in the United States and, later, around the world. This
feminism emerged from the civil rights and anti-Vietnam War movements of the 1950s
and 1960s, just as 19th-century feminism developed from abolitionism. “Women’s
liberation” focused on the pursuit of civil rights and equality. During the 1960s and
1970s, this strategy evolved into the analysis and challenge of gendered power relations.
Feminists recognized that while the struggle for equality is ongoing, it left intact the
epistemological and representational sources of inequality. They turned their critique to
Encyclopedia of 20th-century architecture 854
language, social relations, spatial hierarchies, education, history, art, and other means for
preserving gender-based relations of power.
In light of the new emphasis on representation and language among feminists, the
work of Simone de Beauvoir became central to feminist theory; her book The Second Sex is considered
one of the greatest works of 20th-century feminist theory (published in France in 1949,
translated into English in 1952). Its importance lies in the clarity with which Beauvoir
summarized women’s condition; in The Second Sex, she traced the history of women’s reduction to
objects for men, their status as man’s Other without control over their actions or
subjectivity. Beauvoir demonstrated that this assumption dominates social, political, and
cultural life. Further, she noted that women internalize this objectified vision as normal
and enact their prescribed roles within patriarchy.
Feminist theorists and architects have created alternative practices and histories of
architecture. In liberal feminism, there has been a conscious continuity between feminist
history, theory, and practice, on the premise that changes to representation of the past
contribute to the struggles of living producers. Doris Cole, Dolores Hayden, and Susanna
Torre, for example, produced explicitly feminist histories of women in architecture and
design. Others, such as Doreen Massey and Leslie Kanes Weisman, authored critiques of
the sexism and discrimination against women embedded in and enforced by the built
environment. Prominent women practitioners, such as Denise Scott Brown and Patricia
Conway, have been advocates for women in professional institutions and critics of
masculinism in architecture culture.
Gender theories have been produced by specialists in many disciplines as well as
architecture, such as philosophy, anthropology, geography, film studies, and cultural
studies, the result of increased interest in theory among architects and in architecture
among theorists of other discourses. French philosophy and psychoanalytic theorists,
including Hélène Cixous, Jacques Derrida, Luce Irigaray, Julia Kristeva, and Jacques
Lacan, have had a particularly strong impact on feminist theory in architecture. The range
of gender theory in architecture encompasses textual analysis and philosophical inquiry
(Bergren, Grosz, and Ingraham); architectural history read through feminist, postcolonial,
psychoanalytic, and poststructural theory (Çelik, Colomina, and Friedman); critical
interpretations of gender and identity in architecture culture and the built environment
(McLeod and Sanders); and complex work that interrogates gender construction and blurs
the boundaries between theory and practice (Bloomer and Diller). This work can be
created by men and women since women’s equality is not the central, political aim of
gender theory; it analyzes and ultimately rejects the dichotomy between masculinity and
femininity.
According to early feminist theorists, the sexual binary male/ female constructs a
series of negative values that define the female as passivity, powerlessness, death, the
natural, irrationality, and the Other, whereas the male connotes activity, power, life, the
cultural, rationality, and the Self. This hierarchical value system is imbedded with
oppositions relating to sexual difference. It generates meaning by placing terms such as
“nature” and “culture” in opposition; meaning is acquired only by acknowledging the
other term. A crude model for understanding sex and architecture might define the
masculine as the alienating, technological outsides of buildings and the feminine as their
nurturing, comfortable insides. In this formula, the phallus/exterior stands alone, projects,
occupies space as an object, and is coupled with technology and logic. The
Entries A–F 855
womb/interior, in this account, protects, creates space, shelters humans, and is affiliated
with sensuality and materialism. The problem with such a theory is that it reduces
architecture to a series of biologically-based metaphors without interrogating the social
and cultural constitution of the linked terms. That is, it attributes fundamentally
“feminine” or “masculine,” universal essences to female and male biology (their sex),
which are represented in cultural and social phenomena such as buildings.
In the 1970s, feminists made a crucial distinction between biological sex (their sexual
organs and their biological functions as women) and gender (their social identity and the
cultural associations of the feminine). The term “sex” seemed, to many feminists, to
consign men and women to fixed roles, and they seized on “gender” as a more fluid,
socially constituted category. Beauvoir’s famous assertion “One is not born a woman,
but, rather, becomes one” summarizes the split between sex and gender. Sex implied that
being a woman was an innate, biological state, whereas gender connoted the process by
which female humans became “women.” Beauvoir noted that “the individuals that
compose society are never abandoned to the dictates of their nature; they are subject
rather to that second nature which is custom.… It is not merely as a body, but rather as a
body subject to taboos, to laws, that the subject is conscious of him-self.” Gender is,
therefore, a culturally and socially constructed category of difference, not fixed or stable;
according to feminist theorists, it has no “natural” basis.
The idea that there is an “essential” women’s nature or experience was further
challenged during the 1980s; feminist theorists rejected “essentialism” because it reduced
women to a homogeneous image based on their bodies (their biology) and a universal
“woman’s experience” that was the same for all women regardless of their age, race, or
class. Women of color criticized white feminists for creating an exclusively white,
middle-class image of women. Informed by critiques of essentialism, feminists have
scrutinized dominant, stereotypical images of women and assumptions about gender
roles, often through a parody of the pervasive mechanisms of the media. Writers and
critics such as bell hooks and Adrian Piper have investigated the ways racial difference is
interconnected with sexual difference in dominant regimes of power.
Recent feminist theory has challenged the sex/gender dichotomy itself as an
ideological construct. Judith Butler has defined gender as more than the imposition of
meaning on “sex”; gender is the very cultural and discursive processes by which the
sexes are established, according to Butler. Lesbian critics, such as Monique Wittig, have
challenged the heterosexual bias of straight feminism and the inadequacy of the
male/female binary, positing a transgressive character of lesbian identity, neither
stereotypically “feminine” nor “masculine.” The essays collected by Joel Sanders in Stud
explore such reconceptualizations of gender, sexuality, and identity in architectural
discourse and design.
Feminist theorists in architecture have turned to a critique of the masculinist
underpinnings of architectural discourse, both written and formal. A central concern of
feminist theory has been the definition of the architect as a masterful, socially isolated
individual whose genius and vision are imprinted on his designs. The conflation of the
male body, illustrated by Vitruvius’s famous diagram of a male circumscribed by a circle
and a square, exemplifies the dominance of a masculine norm in architecture. It is
precisely this model that feminist theorists reject, seeking new models of identity and
practice. The interrogation of the architect’s position in society informs feminist practices
Encyclopedia of 20th-century architecture 856
such as Matrix and Liquid Incorporated founded on collaboration rather than individual,
competitive action. Diana Agrest has critiqued the history the Vitruvian model and
provided an alternative based on the theory of écriture femi nine (feminine writing). According to Agrest,
women can place themselves outside the system of architecture by reconfiguring their
marginal position and creating an architecture of the repressed, denied, excluded, and
hidden.
More recently, feminist theory in architecture has returned to the themes of the body
and the everyday experience of women. Feminists have used fashion, the home, and
domesticity as a central theme in their work and have produced commentaries, parodies,
historical critiques, performances, and alternative practices to critique architecture
culture. Jennifer Bloomer’s work, for example, plays with language to create new forms
of thought and expression in both writing and design. Her essay and project “Abodes of
Theory and Flesh: Tabbles of Bower” reads the foundational texts of architecture, from
the Renaissance to the present in order to analyze the relationships between the feminine
and ornamentation, the masculine and structure. In a series of important essays (see the
works by Agrest, Coleman, and Fausch), Mary McLeod has dissected gender, fashion,
modernity, “otherness,” and the everyday in relation to the feminine in architecture
culture.
The simultaneous appearance in 1996 of three major anthologies of feminist writing
on architecture signaled the significance of feminist architectural theory. These
collections joined a growing body of work (see, for instance the works by Bergren,
Colomina, and Fausch) that interrogates the social construction of sexual difference in
architectural history, theory, and practice. In their introduction to The Sex of Architectu re, Diana Agrest,
Patricia Conway, and Leslie Kanes Weisman claim that “women writing on architecture
today are exploring history, the uses of public space, consumerism, and the role of
domesticity in search of ‘ways into’ architecture, often through alternative forms of
practice and education.” Francesca Hughes, in The Architect: Recons tructing Her Practice, contends that “the absence of women
from the profession of architecture remains, despite the various theories, very difficult to
explain and very slow to change…. One simple and obvious reason for [the lack of
feminist criticism in architecture] is the very small number of architects who might
choose to apply feminist criticism to architecture: a constituency most easily identifiable
as women architects.” By contrast, Debra Coleman, Elizabeth Danze, and Carol
Henderson, editors of Architectu re and Feminism, propose a strategic relationship between architecture and
feminism that would be forged “out of the desire to produce intertextual work that
contests an unjust social order.”

Sverre Fehn

2008-05-14T03:47:00.000-07:00

Architect, Norway
Sverre Fehn began his career after graduating from the Oslo School of Architecture in
1949. He is one of a number of post-World War II Norwegian architects who believed in
bestowing universal modernism with both regional and site-specific values, espousing an
architecture that, while always rational, recognized local crafts and culture, mythology,
and folklore. His concerns with the topography of the site, climate, local identity, and
tectonics are central to issues of both regionalism and phenomenology in architecture.
In 1950, Fehn joined the Progressive Architect’s Group of Oslo, Norway (PAGON), a
division of the Congrès Internationaux d’Architecture Moderne (CIAM), along with his
former teacher Arne Korsmo, architectural theorist Christian NorbergSchulz, and design
collaborators Grung and Ostbye, among others. CIAM was a network concerned with
how ideas of modern architecture and town planning were communicated internationally.
Although CIAM had no direct influence on his own work, he would have been
acquainted with many leading contemporary architects and artists through his association
with the Congress.
Between 1952 and 1953, on the advice of Jørn Utzon, Fehn made a journey to study
the so-called primitive architecture of Morocco. This journey was seminal to his
recognition of eternal themes in architecture, values that existed long before being
embraced by the functionalist doctrine of modernist theory. Fehn remarked on the mutual
harmony between the structure of natural and man-made place and the relationship
between the ground and constructed form, as well as the clarity, simplicity, and common
sense of regional architecture regarding systems of environmental control, planning, and
construction and how these systems characterized rituals of habitation. It was a journey of
recognition rather than discovery that helped Fehn see clearly the character of his native
Norway as well as the qualities in the works of earlier modernist masters, such as Le
Corbusier, Louis Kahn, Ludwig Mies van der Rohe, and Frank Lloyd Wright.
Entries A–F 849
The poetic modernism of Fehn’s architecture derives from a unified and formal
relationship between the site and the physical and psychological dimensions of the
program and of the people who inhabit his buildings—reduced to a conceptual clarity and
expressed through material construction. He describes architecture as a necessary
interference with nature, in opposition to it yet also revealing the character of the
landscape. His buildings articulate a relationship between earth, sky, and horizon, a
recurring theme that is developed through his writings and drawings.
Fehn’s buildings are generally constructed of concrete or brick and wood used in a
modern rather than traditional way: mass construction to anchor the building to the
ground and timber construction to articulate openings in walls or the connection between
roof and wall. His timber detailing is reminiscent of the traditions of Nordic boat building
and of Japanese architecture. Modular repetition and geometric configuration of structure
give spatial definition to both interior volume and exterior surface. The ground plane of
his interiors often relates to the natural topography of the site and to external views.
The works of Fehn date back to 1949, when he, with G. Grung, won an international
competition for the design of the Craft Museum at Lillehammer. The winning project was
never built. Subsequent works and projects typically have been for houses and museums
but also include designs for religious, community, education, and recreational buildings.
During the late 1950s and early 1960s Fehn’s designs for the Norwegian Pavilion at
the Universal Exposition in Brussels (1958), now demolished, and his Pavilion of the
Nordic Nations in the Gardens of the Biennale (1962) in Venice, Italy, garnered
recognition. Both buildings employed Miesian qualities of a regular grid with a free plan
and featured roofs that masterfully controlled the natural light within the exhibition
spaces. The Schreiner House (1963) in Oslo, named “Hommage au Japon” by Fehn for its
references to spatial relationships and construction in Japanese architecture, consisted of
a structural timber fame around a brick central service core—a device developed from his
time in the 1950s with Jean Prouvé, an architect noted for his industrialized fabrication
and servicing systems. Planning and volumetric geometry developed with the designs of
the houses for Arne Bodtker (1965) and his brother Carl (1967, extension 1985).
The masterpiece of his work in the late 1960s and 1970s, however, is the
Archbishopric Museum (1979) in Hamar. The site is a ruined medieval
fort over which a 19th-century U-shaped barn was built. Space, light, time,
and the programmatic requirements of the museum are brought together
by a series of concrete ramps and walkways that pass through the barn
structure, hover over the medieval excavations, and lead into the
courtyard. Parallels with this project can be made to the Castelvecchio
Museum by Carlo Scarpa, whom Fehn met while working on the Pavilion
of the Nordic Nations in Venice. Fehn’s ability to develop a clear dialogue among client, site, structure, and form is further
exemplified by the Villa Busk (1990) in Bamble. A rocky outcrop chosen by Fehn
dictates the physical dimensions and orientation of the house, the linear form of which is
broken by a cross axis from the entrance of the main house to a timber tower that in turn
provides visual and physical links to the fjord. As with the Hamar museum, a modulated
timber structure distinguishes between roof and wall and allows for views out and light
in. Fehn’s approach set out in Villa Busk is continued in different contexts with the
Glacier Museum (1991) in Fjærland and the Aukrust Museum (1996) in Alvdal.
Much of Fehn’s work has been in suburban or rural locations, some inaccessible for
long periods because of the harsh winter climate. Certain competition projects, notably
his design for the Royal Theatre of Copenhagen in Denmark, confirm his capability for
both large and urban projects.

FEDERAL CAPITAL COMPLEX,BRASÍLIA

2008-05-14T03:46:00.000-07:00

Designed by Oscar Niemeyer, completed 1960 Brazil
The free and vigorous forms of Oscar Niemeyer’s works, such as Pampulha (1943)
and Canoas House (1954), were already internationally recognized when he visited
Europe in 1954. Niemeyer was impressed by classical buildings he saw there—their
monumentality and their sense of permanence. This led him to introduce new concepts in
his architecture. Niemeyer started to emphasize pure and concise forms as well as single
volumes die-tated by structure in order to achieve monumentality. The opportunity for
Niemeyer to concretize this new vision came when he was commissioned to design the
buildings of Brasilia, the new planned capital of Brazil, built between 1957 and 1960.
Adopting the main principles of modern urbanism, Lucio Costa’s plan for Brasilia
achieved an appropriate expression of a capital with two axes crossing each other in right
angles. The composition, resembling a plane, is very simple, unified, clear, and elegant.
In the curved wings of the north-south axis (road axis), Costa placed the residential areas.
The east-west axis (monumental axis) is a sort of dorsal spine that organizes the entire
plan. At the east end of the monumental axis, Costa located the governmental center,
Three Powers Square, as a focus of the composition.
The Three Powers Square is a great esplanade for public ceremonies and provides an
aesthetic and symbolic space for all the city houses. Following Costa’s triangular scheme,
Niemeyer placed in each vertex a building representing the three main powers: Planalto
Palace (executive), National Congress (legislative), and Supreme Court (judiciary).
Niemeyer concentrated his major efforts on the creation of this ensemble.
Niemeyer conceived these palaces as an entity, conferring formal unity and a general
classical monumentality on them. He created three poles of visual attraction with many
perspectives. The buildings are self-contained objects in the vast landscape, separated by
Entries A–F 845
large surfaces of stone paving that provides a free space to admire them and creates a
scenic civic place. The ensemble of the Three Powers is a unique architectural complex
in which classicism is joined with lightness.
From far away, the powerful National Congress (1958–60) appears,
announcing the termination of the axis. Niemeyer placed two domes on a
vast platform that emphasizes the horizontality of the complex. Based on a
play of volumes, the complex was intended to express formally the duality
of the two assemblies. According to Bruand, the inverted dome, the
Chamber of Deputies, symbolizes the more democratic facet of this
assembly, whereas the smaller dome, the Senate, appears to be more
reclusive (see Bruand, 1971). Between the domes, two high thin slabs are
placed, housing the secretariat. The balance of the final composition is
also achieved by contrasts between vertical and horizontal lines, between
curves and straight lines, and between the pure forms of platform, twin
towers, and domes. It was designed in order to preserve the openness of the mall while maintaining
its symbolical importance.
In the other vertices of the triangle are the Planalto Palace and the Supreme Court
(1960). Both buildings are rectangular glass boxes encased in a peristyle with
magnificent colonnades. Niemeyer, in order to enhance the whole, reduced the number of
formal elements and emphasized the single motif of the curving colonnade as the
strongest facet of the composition. The delicate and curving colonnades, barely touching
the ground, endow the buildings with lightness and grace. The widely projecting roof
slabs supported by thin columns create many opportunities to frame the vast landscape.
As they are inscribed in a larger composition, they have similar features, differentiated by
disposition and size that confer unity upon the esplanade as imagined by Costa. Whereas
the Planalto Palace is taller and more delicate, the Supreme Court is closer to the ground,
communicating stolidity and stability. Whereas Planalto’s long side is facing the square,
the Court has its narrow side facing it. This arrangement creates different perspectives but
maintains axiality and unity, which provide the classical character required by
institutions.
The innovative motif of colonnades is a variation of that of Alvorada Palace (1958),
the official residency of the president, located near the ensemble although not part of it.
One of his most acclaimed works, Alvorada Palace had its image widely diffused and
became a symbol of the country. The curving and slender columns, delicately touching
the ground, graciously support the shaded veranda. As David Underwood noted, the airy
structure “synthesizes Brazilian charm with European decorum, classical nobility with
baroque plasticity.” Niemeyer’s ethereal and fluid suspended palaces are meaningful
freestanding objects in the vastness of the square.
Entries A–F 847
The mall also includes two rows of ministry buildings. These discrete and anonymous
blocks are aligned consecutively in order to create a sort of scenic and ceremonial space,
directing the attention to the Three Powers Square. Closer to this square are the
Ministries of Justice (1960) and Foreign Affairs (1965–67), designed differently from the
others. In these buildings, Niemeyer adopted a Brutalist aesthetic; at same time, however,
they are refined and sophisticated. Instead of delicate colonnades, Niemeyer opted for
heavy concrete porticoes as expressive ele-ments. At the end of the mall is located the
Metropolitan Cathedral (1958–70), one of Niemeyer’s masterpieces. The volume is
formed by a structure of 16 boomerang-like ribs, expressing the essence of the cathedral.
The entrance through an underground passage leads the spectator to experience a
dramatic contrast from the shadows to an intensely illuminated and mystical space. The
most recent contribution by Niemeyer is the Pantheon of Democracy (1985), a poetic,
fluid, and dynamic structure that closes the open side of the Three Powers Square.
As soon as Brasilia was completed, it was both praised and criticized. In the
architectural field, it was celebrated by many critics. However, others pointed out the
failure of the climatic adaptation of the buildings and its rupture with traditional Brazilian
living. Siegfried Giedion criticized the lack of coherence of the monumental axis, as it
fails to reproduce a theatrical perspective. Although the capital was conceived as a
coherent whole, it is not felt by the pedestrian, who feels powerless in such a vastness.
Sybil Mohóly-Nagy pointed out the autoritarianism and the monumentalism of the new
city. James Holston shows how Brasilia failed regarding its social purposes (Holston,
1989). In a moment in which the principles of modern urbanism were under fire, Brasilia
seems to have been born already old.
Nevertheless, the attacks on modern urbanism and the fact that Brasilia was a social
failure eclipsed some positive aspects of its architecture. First was Brasília’s role in the
discussion of modern architecture and monumentality. Niemeyer’s delicate and lighter
classicism proved that modern architecture could also be monumental and symbolic
without regressing to the massive authoritarianess of 1930s government buildings.
Second was Brasília’s unique image. Niemeyer sucessfully created an image for the city
based on a repetition of some patterns, fostering formal unity although admitting
variations in textures and materials that contributed to the city’s inclusion in the World
Heritage List of UNESCO. Third was Brasília’s role as a symbol for the country. Brasilia
was planned to foster a new Brazilian man, a proof of the capacity of a country to build
its future. Much more than housing institutions, the main achievement of Niemeyer was
the creation of a cultural image for a modern state, providing poetic and symbolic forms.

FAVELA

2008-05-14T03:45:00.002-07:00

the term that identifies shantytowns in Brazil, originates from poverty settlements in Rio
de Janeiro and is derived from a type of bush that is abundant in the semiarid Canudos
Entries A–F 841
area in the northern state of Bahia. Rio’s favelas coincide with the occupation of the
Santo Antônio and Providência hills (morros ) in the city center. In 1897, soldiers who returned
from the Canudos War—a military campaign in the northeastern region of Brazil—
received permission to temporarily settle on these sites, where they built shacks of
cardboard and wood. Morro da Providência received the name Morro da Favela (favela
hill) in reference to the previously mentioned bush. In 1904, 100 houses existed, and by
1933 the number had grown to 1500.
By the 1920s, favelas had spread to other hills of the city: Morro dos Telégrafos,
Mangueira; Morro de São Carlos, Vila Rica (Copacabana area); Pasmado (Botafogo); and
Babilônia (Leme). This expansion even reached the city suburbs. The growth of favelas
was driven by the lack of a government policy to address the housing problems of the
poorest members of society. In 1888, Brazil proclaimed a law of freedom for slaves; it
was the last country to do so in Latin America. The urban reforms of the early part of the
20th century almost eliminated tenement houses (cortiços ) in the city center; such houses
sheltered approximately 100,000 people in 1890.
The peasants’ migration from the northeastern rural areas to the capital intensified the
settlement in the hills wherever vacant land was available near workplaces. The same
development took place in areas near primary transportation lines that connected the city
center to the northern zone of the city where industries were located: railroads and, later,
wide avenues. By the 1920s, one of the main suburban favelas had emerged near the
Madureira railroad station, right in front of the Imperial Palace (Quinta da Boa Vista).
The favela, throughout its history in Rio de Janeiro, was considered mainly an
undesired component of the urban structure. This vision was present at the beginning of
the 20th century in the programs of Mayor Pereira Passos (1903–06) and with the Agache
Plan in the 1930s.
The importance of the favela and its presence in the city context were recognized and
taken into consideration only to control public hygiene and epidemics. From the 1940s to
the 1960s, the slums were considered to be an urban-order disruption, and their
population was seen as alien to the urban society, so the government policy for favelas
was simply to remove them from areas near the “formal” city. The Alliance Progress, a
U.S. government aid program, was created to resettle the favela dos, who rejected the program,
which foresaw single apartment blocks located far in the periphery. At the same time,
religious organizations, municipal initiatives, and sensitive architects (such as Carlos
Nelson Ferreira dos Santos) helped several communities transform precarious shacks into
houses of bricks and concrete and to furnish technical infrastructures, such as stairs,
electricity, water supply, sewage, and garbage systems. Most of the favelas are still
concentrated along the railroad system in the northern area of Rio; others are old,
traditional settlements near the “noble” southern neighborhoods, such as Botafogo,
Copacabana, Ipanema, Leblon, and São Conrado, with a privileged view over the
marvelous natural environment. Rocinha, one of the largest and steadiest favelas of the
city, has almost 100,000 inhabitants; Vidigal has 10,000, and Santa Marta 5000. The
latest report shows that in 1999, one million people were living in 600 favelas in Rio de
Janeiro.
One could define as romantic the claim that there are some positive social, cultural,
and urban components in those settle-ments, denying the negative opposition between
“formal” and “informal” city. The free articulation of volumes and colors of housing
units along the hills was admired by Le Corbusier during his visit to Rio in 1929. Bernard
Rudofsky, who lived for several years in Brazil, recognized the spatial and formal quality
of irregular urban structures and its vernacular huts before writing his book Arch itecture without Architects. The
relationship between medieval cities and modern metropolises as defined by the French
historian Jacques Le Goff is present in the favelas’ urban structure. However, this free
composition is related to individual and social appropriation of space that creates for
inhabitants a sense of community and solidarity. This is reaffirmed by religious activities
that make up the syncretism of Afro-Brazilian rituals and by the meaning of popular
music (samba) and carnival shows, icons of carioca culture around the world. Some of the most
important and oldest escolas de samba of Rio’s carnival belong to traditional favelas: Salgueiro,
Mangueira (Estação Primeira de Mangueira); Serrinha (Império Serrano); Formiga; and
Borel (Unidos da Tijuca). Writers, poets, singers, and film directors used favelas as the
main subject of their creative work. In Brazil, several films assumed this popular
Entries A–F 843
environment: in the 1950s, Frenchman Marcel Camus directed the film Orfeo Negro, which diffused
the life and music of Rio’s favelas, as did Favela dos meus amores (Humberto Mauro, 1935), Rio 40 graus (Nelson Pereira
dos Santos, 1955), Como nascem os anjos (Murilo Salles, 1990), and Orfeu (Caca Diegues, 1998). However, there
is a dark side of favelas: In the last two decades, lottery managers and drug dealers have
taken over control of the population.
In the 1990s, the municipal government of Rio de Janeiro, with the initiative of the
former secretary of urbanism, architect Luiz Paulo Conde (city mayor in 1997), and the
secretary of housing, architect Sergio Magalhães, decided to develop a longterm plan to
integrate the “informal” city (favelas) into the “formal” urban structure. The key change
in the municipal government’s programs is the replacement of the idea of dealing only
with the deficit of adequate housing for a policy that focuses on “producing the city”
through readdressing the urban deficit.
The new program, Favela-Bairro, started serving 90 favelas with a population of
300,000 inhabitants and counted on an investment of U.S. $300 million, of which 40
percent came from the City of Rio and 60 percent from the Inter-American Development
Bank (BID). To integrate the favela into the urban fabric of the formal city, the program
includes the following key actions: (1) completing or constructing main urban
infrastructures; (2) providing environmental changes that ensure that favelas look like
standard neighborhoods; (3) introducing visual symbols of the formal city as a way to
identify favelas as neighborhoods (paved streets, parks, urban furnishings, and public
services); (4) consolidating and inserting favelas into the planning process of the city; (5)
implementing social types of activities, such as setting up day care centers for children,
income generation processes, training programs, and sporting, cultural, and leisure
activities; and (6) promoting the legalization of land subdivision and providing individual
land titles.
In 1994, the housing secretariat organized, in cooperation with the Brazilian Institute
of Architects (IAB, Institute de Arquitetos do Brasil), a competition for designing a
methodology to develop improvements, beginning with 18 medium-size favelas (between
500 and 2500 dwellings). An important innovation was the organization of 15 teams, led
by architects who partici pated in the competition that presented new ideas and
methodological approaches. The competition included firms of young architects, such as
Planejamento and Arquitetura, Fábrica Arquitetura, Arquitraço Cooperativa, and Archi 5
studios, as well as those of older, prestigious works, such as Paulo Casé, Luis Aciolli, and
Maurício Roberto, who for the first time would undertake design for the poorest members
of Rio’s population. This initiative promoted a new relationship between technical
expertise and the degraded areas of Rio de Janeiro to attempt to improve the quality of
life of people living in favelas.

Hassan Fathy

2008-05-14T03:45:00.001-07:00

Architect and teacher, Egypt
More than any other 20th-century architect, Hassan Fathy raised the status of earth
building among architects worldwide. Building in earth—adobe or pis é—has a long and
honorable history, and in those parts of the world where stone and timber are scarce and
expensive, earth has remained the most economical and widely used building material.
Encyclopedia of 20th-century architecture 838
This is certainly true in Egypt and most Arab countries. But even there, as in most of
Europe, earth, at the turn of the 20th century, had come to be identified with poverty and
backwardness, and earthen building materials were increasingly perceived by architects
and the professional middle classes in general to be old fashioned and impermanent. A
handful of architectural devotees of earth building advocated and promoted its use, but by
and large, commercial vested interests in the brick, cement, steel, and asbestos industries
almost completely sidelined earthen building materials.
Fathy, in common with many Egyptian architects of his generation, studied in France,
at the Ecolé dex Beaux Arts in Paris, and like them he acquired a love for the historic
architecture of his homeland, and for the Mameluke and Ottoman architecture of his
native city, Cairo, in particular. But unlike most of them, he acquired also a love for the
traditional vernacular architecture of the Egyptian countryside, and chiefly for the Nubian
architecture of Upper Egypt. Soon after his return from Egypt to France, he was
appointed to the staff of the Department of Architecture at the School of Fine Arts in
Cairo, of which he became Head in 1938. Under his direction, annual field study visits to
the various regions of Egypt were introduced into the curriculum.
Fathy’s growing reputation in this field brought him the commission, in 1946 from the
Egyptian government, to design and build a new village, on flat fertile land closer to the
Nile, for the inhabitants of Old Gourna, an ancient village close to the Valley of the
Kings at Thebes, who had made a living for genera-tions by robbing historic artifacts
from the Pharaonic tombs and selling them to tourists and dealers. Before this
commission, his architectural practice had consisted, in the main, of private houses for
affluent middle-class clients: the New Gourna commission transformed his practice and
almost broke him, financially and psychologically. His plan for the new settlement, his
designs for each one of the buildings in it, housing and public buildings, incorporating as
far as possible the architectural traditions of the Upper Nile valley and the building skills
of the Nubians, and his direction of the building process, were based on long and close
observation of, and consultation with, the community for which he designing.
Unfortunately, on completion of the main phase of building in 1953, the people of Old
Gourna refused to move form their old homes and to forfeit their traditional illegal source
of income. The buildings of New Gourna were not occupied, and they remained empty
for decades.
However, Fathy persevered—he remained faithful to his vision of an architecture
deriving from and drawing its inspiration from the building traditions of the Egyptian
people. His own architectural practice continued, in its modest way, until the publication
in 1969 of his account of the genesis of the New Gourna project by the Egyptian Ministry
of Culture became a turning point in his career. The Archaeology Department of the
University of Chicago had been actively engaged in the exploration, interpretation, and
conservation of the Pharaonic remains in Thebes for decades and had come to rely on,
and admire, Fathy’s profound knowledge of the building traditions of the area. Therefore,
the department sponsored the re-publication of his account of New Gourna under a new
title, Architecture for the Poor : An Expe riment in Ru ral Egy pt, in 1973.
The reissue of the New Gourna story coincided with the worldwide fuel crisis,
following the Arab-Israeli war of 1973, and in the use of locally available building
materials and building craft skills and the application of traditional principles of climatic
comfort was seen the recipe for the affordable and locally sustainable rural development
Entries A–F 839
of which the developing countries of the world, in all continents, were in desperate need.
Architects and architectural students from all continents in increasing numbers made the
pilgrimage to New Gourna, or to Fathy’s home in Cairo, on the top floor of the ancient
house in Dar Al-Gabbani at the foot of the Citadel, where Fathy was to spend the last
years of his life.
This historic house, acquired by the Aga Khan and over a period of years restored
under Fathy’s direction, came to serve as a demonstration of the design principles that
Fathy advocated. Here he established the International Institute of Appropriate
Technology, of which he served as director for several years.
In the final decade of his life, Fathy undertook a vast range of commissions including
Dar Al-Islam, the Moslem arts and crafts community in New Mexico, and the Desert
Research Centre for the American University of Cairo, at Sadat City, the vast new city in
the desert overlooking the oasis of Wadi Natrun. The execution of these latter projects
would have been impossible without the support and assistance of the young architects,
Egyptians and others, who were attracted by his philosophy and personality, and whose
assistance he so generously acknowledged. Notable among these architects was Abdel
Wahid ElWakil.

FASCIST ARCHITECTURE

2008-05-14T03:44:00.001-07:00

Fascist architecture denotes the spectrum of architectural projects that were built,
theorized, ritualized, and polemically debated by Fascist political regimes of World War
II. Extreme right-wing totalitarian dictatorships were forcibly installed in Italy (1922–43),
Germany (1933–45), and Spain (1939–75). The Italian Fascist Party under the leadership
of Benito Mussolini, the National Socialism Party headed by Adolf Hitler, and the
Falange Espanola Party led by General Francisco Franco formed coercive governments
whose absolute power abolished all forms of political opposition. Public utilities,
commercial exchanges, processes of industrialization, as well as the production of art and
architecture were controlled and regulated by the state; and it was in Italy and Germany
that architecture played a seminal role in the advancement of Fascist ideologies.
The very term Fas cism (or fas cismo in Italian) was derived from the Latin word fasces , denoting an
ornamental object of political and military authority carried by ancient Roman lictors
during public ceremonies. As early as 1919, Mussolini adopted the fasces as the emblem
of the Fascist Party, intent as he was on associating the glories of ancient Rome with the
future triumphs of his Fascist state.
Throughout the Fascist era in Italy architecture was used as a rhetorical device; it
became the preferred vehicle for launching Fascist propaganda. It most forcefully
portrayed, in the solidity of its materials and the vastness of its measures, the sublimity of
imperial power. Buildings, piazzas, and ruins were privileged backdrops for public
demonstrations, ritual reenactments, and oratorical theatrics; spectacles aimed at
Entries A–F 835
cultivating a Fascist body politic. Italian architects Giuseppe Terragni, Marcello
Piacentini, Adalberto Libera, Giovanni Michelucci, and Giuseppe Pagano participated in
the design of new building types, the inauguration of new colonies, the restoration of
ancient monuments, the staging of political rallies, the mounting of exhibits, and the
publication of polemical journals; activities that contributed to the construction of the
new Roman Empire.
From the outset, Mussolini launched a massive building campaign. The modernization
and nationalization of transportation and communication networks necessitated the
design and construction of building types new to Italian soil. Modern and efficient
railway stations and post offices were built throughout Italy. Florence’s Santa Maria
Novella train station (1932–34), designed by Gruppo Toscano (a six-member group of
Florentine rationalists), and Rome’s Palace of Postal and Telegraphic Services, designed
by BBPR (Banfi, Belgiojoso, Peresutti, and Rogers), were only two of the many building
projects sponsored by the state. It was the invention of the Casa del Fascio (House of the
Fascist Party), however, that most captivated the Italian imagination. Used primarily as
the local headquarters of the Fascist Party, versions of this new building type were
erected throughout the Italian peninsula. Typically sited in the center of town, the
structure rivaled the church’s dominance and evidenced the ceaseless presence of Il
Duce. The most celebrated Casa del Fascio was built in Como (1932–36) and designed
by Giuseppe Terragni. Its monumental austerity, abstract formalism, and frontal
transparency made it the building most representative of both Italian Fascism and
modernism.
Mussolini also commissioned the construction of entirely new towns in the southern
regions of the Roman Campania, in Sardinia, in the Greek Dodecanese, and in the
colonies of northern Africa. The towns of Littoria, Carbonia, and Guidonia were built on
reclaimed swampland, whereas the occupied cities of Tripoli, Bengazi, Kos, and Rhodes
were resettled with Italian farmers. Predappio (1925), Mussolini’s hometown, was the
first to be built with wide avenues, monumental civic buildings, and a vast civic piazza.
Littoria (1932), named after the lictor who had carried the ceremonial fasces during
antiquity, was built with the knowledge of ancient Roman foundation rites.
Antiquity was equally of issue in the Fascist policy of “isolamento”: the valorization
and preservation of rhetorically significant buildings. In an attempt to make visible select
architectural masterpieces from imperial Rome, monuments from the first century BC
were liberated from thousands of years of historical and material growth. With the
demolition of entire city blocks, the Mausoleum of Caesar Augustus (63–14 BC) became
one such site. Symbolic of the burial ground of Rome’s founding emperor, the unearthing
of its sublime circular structure was completed in 1937, the 2,000th anniversary of his
birth. With a similar intent, Mussolini effected vast transformations to the via delI’Impero
(present-day via dei Fori Imperial!) by physically connecting the ruins of the Colosseum
with the administrative center of Fascist Rome—Piazza Venezia. In an effort to valorize
the Roman Forum and the Forum of Augustus, the via dell’ Impero was designed as a
monumental avenue for ceremonial and military parades.
Alongside the building of large-scale architectural interventions, architects also
participated in the design and construction of exhibits. Throughout the Fascist era, the
mounting of statesponsored public exhibitions was a significant vehicle for the promotion
of both architectural ideas and Fascist polemics. In March 1931, the International
Encyclopedia of 20th-century architecture 836
Movement for Rational Architecture (MIAR) opened its second exhibition with a critique
of contemporary Italian architecture. The likes of Pietro Maria Bardi, Edoardo Persico,
and Alberto Sartoris called for the radical alliance of Fascist doctrine with modern
architecture, for only in this way could a true renewal of the country take place. In 1932,
to mark the tenth anniversary of the Fascist takeover of power, the Mos tra delta Rivoluzione Fas cis ta (Exhibit of the
Fascist Revolution) featured the work of architects Libera, Mario Renzi, and Terragni, its
pavilions manifesting the allegiance of modernism to Fascist doctrine. However, it was
the Universal Exposition of 1942 (EUR’42) that placed the Italian Fascist state on display
through its vast complex of monumental pavilions, designed under the leadership of
Piacentini. Although the events of the war halted its completion, the polemics
surrounding the construction of EUR’42 forcefully pitted the modern rationalists against
the more conservative neoclassicists.
Journals, periodicals, and newspapers were also significant venues for the
dissemination of both architectural theory and Fascist propaganda. The printed word and
image had become highly effective means of communication, and as a former journalist
Mussolini was well aware of this truth. Marcello Piacentini served as editor for Architettura, and Quadrante
was edited by Pietro Maria Bardi. Cas abella was founded in 1928, and in 1933 Giuseppe Pagano
had become its editor. Along with Quadrante, Casabella had been a vocal supporter of the Italian rationalists,
and in the final years of the Fascist regime, with increasing criticism levied against the
state, the magazine was ordered to cease production. As a result, architects Pagano and
Banfi were deported to German death camps.
In Germany, the totalitarian regime of National Socialism, led by the Fuhrer Adolf
Hitler, also privileged architecture in the communication of its ideologically charged
political agenda. In Nazi Germany architecture, of all the visual arts, was materi-ally,
spatially and structurally most representative of the dictatorial power of the III Reich, a
state intent on the political and military conquest of the Western world.
In this venture was implicated architect Albert Speer, who in 1937 was named by
Hitler Inspector General of Buildings (GBI, Generalbauinspektor). The title attributed to
Speer expansive decision-making powers and the mandate to make of Berlin a capital
embodying the tenets of National Socialism. Guided by Hitler’s own artistic imagination,
Speer embarked on the conceptualization and design of the largest building project
initiated by any totalitarian regime, the construction of a new urban plan for the city of
Berlin. The enormous project envisioned the rezoning of a vast territory of the city
through which the destruction of tens of thousands of homes would have been assured.
If actualized, the plan would have forcibly introduced a monumental north/south axis
five kilometers long, originating at the southern limit of the Tempelhof and Schoeneberg
districts and terminating at the city’s northern limit, the Spree. Lined with granite-clad
buildings, the axis would have housed the most politically significant buildings
representative of the III Reich’s major ministries and centers of power. At its northern
end, the axis was designed to incorporate the colossal Pantheonlike shaped building
called the Great Hall, conceived to gather nearly 200,000 spectators in mass celebrations
of National Socialism. But steps from the Brandenburg gate, the Great Square
immediately to the south of the Great Hall would have been surrounded by Hitler’s
Palace, the High Command of the Armed Forces, the New Chancellery, and the Old
Reichstag. And although the New Chancellery was inaugurated in January 1937, Speer
would have designed all of the square’s new buildings.
Entries A–F 837
Completed as planned, the monumental scale of the north/ south axis would have
engendered a sense of domination never before achieved by human artifice. And
notwithstanding Hitler’s defeat that ensured the demise of the Berlin project, Speer
incorporated many of its architectural strategies in earlier projects for another German
city, Nuremberg. In 1936, Speer completed the redesign and extension of its Zeppelin
Field, a parade ground for the mass gathering of 100,000 citizens. In the austerity of its
neoclassical colonnade and in the massive extension of its 1,000-foot reviewing stand
was achieved a rhetorical and ideological backdrop for the orchestration of party rallies
and for gatherings of the Hitler Youth movement.
Thus, in both Fascist Italy and Nazi Germany, architecture was used as a highly
articulated tool of political propaganda. That architects were directly involved in the
production and communication of such beliefs should not be overlooked but rather the
source of continued study.

FARNSWORTH HOUSE

2008-05-14T03:41:00.000-07:00

Designed by Ludwig Mies van der Rohe, completed 1951
Piano, Illinois
Commissioned in 1945 and finished in 1951, the Farnsworth House is generally
regarded as one of Ludwig Mies van der Rohe’s most elegantly conceived and precisely
constructed buildings, easily the finest residence he put up in his later, American career.
Among his completed house designs, only the Tugendhat House (1930) in Brno, which
dates from his years in Germany, is considered comparable in quality.
The most striking feature of the Farnsworth House is its outer aspect. The walls
consist of floor-to-ceiling glass mounted behind a simple frame made up of eight steel
wide-flange piers, four to a side, that support a roof slab and a floor slab, the latter raised
some five feet above the ground. The plan is rectangular, with the axis running east and
Entries A–F 831
west and the interior giving on to a deck on the west. Symmetry is qualified by a terrace
located next to the main structure along the western edge of the south, or front, elevation.
The house surveys a lawn that extends 50 yards to the north bank of the Fox River. A
short flight of cantilevered steps provides access from the ground to the terrace, whereon
a second flight, parallel to the first, rises to the deck. At that point, the visitor turns right
to enter the double-door portal. All steel components of the house have been sandblasted
and painted white.
Much of this description seems a reasonable confirmation of Mies’ reputation as a
classicist, although his inclination to deviate from that classification is apparent in the
asymmetrical position of the terrace and in the subtlety—which has escaped the attention
of many—of locating the portal closer to the south wall than to the north.
Mies’ reason for the latter device stems from his layout of the unpartitioned interior.
The single volumetric element is a core that contains two bathrooms, the kitchen
facilities, and a tightly packed space through which all utilities descend via a cylindrical
tube to the ground. Since the core has been deflected slightly to the northeast, the
surrounding space is implicitly divided by varying sizes: the largest, a parlorlike area,
with a fireplace, to the south (overlooking the river); a smaller, dining area to the west; a
long, narrow kitchen to the north; and a sleeping area to the east. By placing the portal
slightly closer to the south, the visitor on entry is likely to concentrate his attention on the
living area, while the dining area appears to gain more space for itself. The principal
articles of furniture now in place were designed by Mies, although with the exception of a
large teak storage cabinet done specifically for the house, they are reproductions dating
from his German years. The floor is heated by radiation facilitated by a small forced-air
furnace in the utility space. The house is now air conditioned, although originally the
only ventilation was provided by opening the entry door and/ or a pair of hopper
windows on the opposite, or east, elevation.
Such a summary should suffice to suggest the reductivist simplicity of the design.
Words, however, do not convey the certainty of the proportions and the excellence of the
materials, most notably the travertine floors and the prima-vera wood cladding the core.
One of Mies’ most impressive effects is gained by his decision to raise the structure
above the ground. While the functional purpose of that move was to protect the house
from the floods that occur regularly along the river, the elevated height simultaneously
and indivisibly accomplishes an aesthetic end, leaving the house—especially in view of
the transparency of its window walls and the whiteness of its framing members—in a
seeming state of levitation.
The house exerted an impact on Mies’ later work and on the larger,
American architectural scene as well. It was one of the first examples of a building type, the clear-span pavilion, that, perhaps more than any
other, preoccupied Mies throughout his post-World War II career. In addition, it attracted
a huge amount of attention from critics and designers alike, some of it negative—
especially from observers who found the very idea of a steel-framed glass house a
grievous departure from traditional concepts of domesticity—but most of it
enthusiastically affirmative. Philip Johnson, long an admirer of Mies, offered up the
ultimate compliment by fashioning his own house in a manner perceptibly indebted to the
Farnsworth House. The Johnson design diverged from Mies’ in several respects: it was
built on a symmetrical plan, with neither a terrace nor a deck nor even a substantial core,
but its very form (not to mention its excellence) rested in large part on Johnson’s
imitation of the Farnsworth model.
The Farnsworth House cannot be fairly discussed without some consideration given its
client and its subsequent owner. In requesting Mies to design the house in 1945, Dr. Edith
Farnsworth, a distinguished Chicago nephrologist with a substantial knowledge of the
arts, knew full well the merits of the architect whom she had chosen to produce a
weekend retreat for herself just south of the town of Piano, about 60 miles from Chicago.
Mies in turn appreciated the fact that Farnsworth, as a single woman using the house only
intermittently, would impose relatively few complicated domestic requirements on him.
Client and designer worked easily and cordially together in the early stages of the project.
It was Farnsworth, in fact, who voted to employ travertine, one of Mies’ favorite stones,
for the floor surfaces, and the quality of the house profited further from her willingness to
increase the budget, thus enabling Mies to use not only finer materials but also more
Entries A–F 833
expensive construction devices than had been anticipated in his first sketches (piers
welded rather than bolted to the floor and roof slabs, among other things).
Nonetheless, a relationship that began on a warm footing grew chilly as the 1940s
wore on, and eventually a degree of hostility was reached that ended in a legal battle. The
reasons have never been made completely clear, but to all appearances Farnsworth at one
point decided that Mies not only had gone too far in overspending the means she
provided him with but, in her view, also had disregarded some of her more pressing
requests in the process. Mies had his own opinion about both charges, and when he sued
her for underpayment, she countersued him for professional incompetence, and the matter
ended only when the court ruled in his favor.
Despite the rupture of their friendship, Farnsworth kept the house until
1968, when she sold it to a man who turned out to be its ideal owner. Lord
Peter Palumbo, a wealthy British real estate developer, had known and admired the house and its architect since his schoolboy
years. In 1968, having commissioned Mies to design an office building on a site he
owned in London, Palumbo learned that Farnsworth had put her Fox River house up for
sale. He approached her directly, and by 1972 he had taken full command of the property.
He made all the changes necessary to put the house in premium condition and to keep it
that way. It was he who elected to outfit it with Mies’ furniture, to install air
conditioning, and to hire the landscape architect Lanning Roper to improve the grounds.
Encyclopedia of 20th-century architecture 834
Hardly least, Palumbo bore the enormous cost of repairing the house following a
disastrous flood in 1996 that rose unexpectedly well above the five-foot level, ruining all
the prima-vera wood of the core, breaking two of the window walls, and destroying all
the furniture.
After a half century of existence, the Farnsworth House has assured itself a lofty place
in the annals of modern architecture, testimony both to the gifts of Mies van der Rohe
and to his ultimate good fortune in having had a client as knowing (notwithstanding her
eventual displeasure) as Edith Farnsworth and as sensitive, conscientious, and generous
as Peter Palumbo.

FALLOUT SHELTER

2008-05-14T03:40:00.000-07:00

The fallout shelter was a highly specialized building type developed in the 1950s in
response to the escalating Cold War tensions between the United States and the Soviet
Union. Faced with the realization that conventional structures would provide little or no
protection from an atomic blast, civil defense officials in the United States undertook a
concerted campaign to convince the American public of the necessity of building fallout
shelters in their houses and backyards. In addition to these personal shelters constructed
of brick, concrete block, or corrugated metal, efforts were undertaken to identify
sufficiently reinforced and structurally sound areas of existing buildings to designate as
larger-scale public fallout shelters. Construction of personal fallout shelters peaked
between 1958 and 1962, when a series of international crises pushed the world ever
closer to the brink of nuclear annihilation. During this period the fallout shelter became
an integral part of U.S. nuclear policy and was extensively promoted in the popular media
as a viable solution to surviving and even winning a nuclear war. Although relatively few
people actually built the structure, the fallout shelter was emblematic of the way
Americans chose to confront the atomic bomb and nuclear policy.
The first attempts to develop reinforced structures to protect inhabitants from an
atomic blast grew out of air raid shelter design from the World War II era. Although
these shelters offered a degree of security against conventional weaponry, the atomic
detonations over Hiroshima and Nagasaki underscored their futility in an age of atomic
weaponry. In the early 1950s, the knowledge that the USSR possessed atomic weapons,
combined with the American intervention in Korea, led many architects, engineers, and
civil defense officials to contemplate the design of atomic bomb-resistant structures.
Encyclopedia of 20th-century architecture 828
These early studies concentrated primarily on the obvious physical effects of an atomic
explosion, which could extend several miles from ground zero, and underscored the
expense of designing sufficiently reinforced structures. However, it was the discovery of
radioactive fallout in the mid-1950s that provided the impetus for effective shelter design.
Far more lethal than the physical destruction accompanying a blast, fallout consisted of
irradiated particles of dust and debris carried aloft by the explosion and dispersed
hundreds and even thousands of miles downwind. With the realization that vast areas of
the country could be covered under a blanket of radioactive particles, civil defense
officials acknowledged that although those nearest a blast would be vaporized,
sufficiently prepared citizens could safely wait out the decay of fallout in cozy backyard
shelters.
As early as 1955 at least one company marketed a prefabricated shelter,
the imaginatively named Kiddie Kakoon, which consisted of a large metal
storage tank retrofitted with shelves and bunk beds. Although these early attempts met with limited sales, following the
USSR’s launch of Sputnik in 1957 Americans were increasingly ready to accept the idea of a
fallout shelter. Throughout the 1950s and early 1960s, a number of companies offered a
variety of prefabricated shelter designs. With the publication of The Family Fallout Shelter by the Office of Civil
Defense and Mobilization (OCDM) in 1959, the U.S. government articulated a
Entries A–F 829
comprehensive plan for civil defense based on the construction of small-scale singlefamily
fallout shelters. The plans presented in the brochure were frequently republished
in the popular media, outlining the essential components of a successful shelter design
while providing relatively inexpensive plans for shelter construction.
The fallout shelter plans provided by the OCDM fell into two main categories: those
that could be constructed within an existing basement and those separate from the main
house. Suitable shelter materials ranged from brick and concrete block to large sections
of corrugated metal buried under several feet of earth. Regardless of its intended location,
a shelter had to be designed to fulfill the following three criteria: it had to be constructed
of dense enough materials or buried deep enough to block out as much radiation as
possible; it had to provide some means of filtered ventilation to avoid the intake of
radioactive particles; and it had to be comfortable and well stocked enough for a family
to remain inside for several days or weeks. Architecturally, these criteria were met by
solid materials, airtight construction, a baffle entrance with a tight-sealing door, and
multiuse interior space that was comfortable enough for a family to eat, sleep, and
entertain one another.
Beyond the accommodation of these basic concerns, the actual design of fallout
shelters was relatively unremarkable. Besides the telltale hump in the otherwise flat
Bermuda grass of suburbia, most shelters did not have a distinct exterior presence. The
interior of the shelter focused on fulfilling its unique functional considerations as
efficiently as possible. Several popular magazines did present images of shelters
converted into clubhouses and playrooms or painted with imaginative scenes in an
attempt to make the idea of building a shelter more palatable to the general public.
Although the single-family fallout shelter remained the most visible part of the civil
defense initiatives of the 1950s and 1960s, some policymakers argued unsuccessfully for
the construction of massive community-based shelters. However, more successful was
the program initiated in the early 1960s that was designed to identify and designate
sufficiently protected spaces as public fallout shelters. Despite persistent attempts by civil
defense officials to convince large segments of the population to construct their own
fallout shelters, scarcely 200,000 shelters were built or purchased by 1963. Even as the
interest in shelter building peaked during the Cuban Missile Crisis of 1962, a public
debate began to rage over the efficacy and moral implications of shelter building. New
discoveries suggested that people would have to remain in shelters for years before
radioactivity would drop to safe levels, and many debated the morality of what they saw
as the vigilante mentality of shelter builders. The final blow to fallout shelter design came
with the Nuclear Test Ban Treaty of 1963, which effectively pushed nuclear testing
underground and out of sight.
Although most family fallout shelters now lie neglected in suburban backyards, others
have found life as storm shelters, storage rooms, and even wine cellars. The late 1990s
saw a limited resurgence of interest in fallout shelter design as some attempted to prepare
for the possibility of civil unrest accompanying the year-2000 computer bug.

FALLINGWATER

2008-05-14T03:39:00.000-07:00

Designed by Frank Lloyd Wright; completed 1937 Bear Run, Pennsylvania
Fallingwater, as the architect Frank Lloyd Wright named the house that he
designed for Edgar and Lillian Kaufmann, was commissioned shortly after
the Kaufmanns’ son, Edgar, Jr., joined Wright’s newly formed Taliesin
Fellowship in Spring Green, Wisconsin. Founded following the Great
Depression, the Taliesin Fellowship was instrumental in Wright’s
emergence at the age of 70 from 15 years of obscurity, signaled by the
construction of the Johnson Wax Building (1939, Racine, Wisconsin),
Taliesin West (1940, Scottsdale, Arizona), the first “Usonian House” for
Herbert Jacobs (1937, Madison, Wiscon-sin), and Fallingwater. After visiting the site for the Kaufmann house in 1934, a full nine
months passed without any drawings or other evidence that Wright was working on the
design of the house. In a famous story told by his Fellowship apprentices, Wright drew
up the design in the two hours that it took Kaufmann to drive from Milwaukee to Spring
Green on a Sunday morning in September 1935.
Wright’s design is first and foremost a brilliant piece of site planning. Kaufmann had
expected the house to be built to the south of the stream, looking north to the waterfall.
However, Wright sited the house to the north of the stream, above the waterfall, so that
the house opens to the south sun. As a result, it is the sound of the waterfall, not the view
of it, that permeates the experience of Fallingwater. Fallingwater is also the greatest
example of Wright’s capacity to draw the spaces and forms of his architecture out of the
very ground on which it is built. The house is anchored to the earth by vertical piers of
sandstone quarried 500 feet from the waterfall, the stones set to resemble the natural
strata of the rock exposed along the streambed. The floors of the house are constructed of
broad horizontal cantilevered reinforced concrete slabs that appear to float effortlessly
over the stream, for the structural beams are hidden between the flagstone floors and
plastered ceilings. As a result of these two complementary systems of construction,
Fallingwater is anchored to the ground by the stone piers even as its spaces float along
with the motion of the stream.
The spaces within Fallingwater are at once surprisingly small, with only 2,885 square
feet of enclosed space, and incredibly generous, opening in three directions to the east,
south, and west onto large exterior terraces that almost double the floor area of the house.
Encyclopedia of 20th-century architecture 826
Glazing, set in red-painted steel frames, runs in continuous bands around three sides of
the main living and dining room, opening at the corners in celebration of the spatial
freedom given by the cantilevered structure. Wright detailed the house so as to reinforce
the integration of interior and exterior space, creating delightful moments such as the
glass that runs right into the stone wall without any vertical framing at the kitchen and
small bedrooms and the flagstones that are set into the floor of the living room so that
they appear to continue unbroken beneath the glass doors and out onto the terrace
overlooking the waterfall.
Perhaps the most poetic moment in this most natural house is the “hatch” that Wright
designed at the east side of the living room, whose glass doors may be opened to give
access to a suspended concrete stair leading down to the stream below. Descending these
stairs, we pass through the stone floor to find light stairs floating over water, in which is
reflected the sky, the roar of the waterfall behind us reverberating off the enormous
concrete slab overhead. In the living room, the dark gray color of the bedrock ledge under
the shallow water and the way in which the light is reflected from the rippling surface of
the stream are matched exactly by the waxed gray flagstone floor on which we stand. The
fireplace in the opposite corner, a half-cylinder stone cavity running from floor to ceiling,
built directly into the sandstone wall, has as its hearth the original boulder of the site, on
which the Kaufmann family formerly took picnic meals. This boulder, left unwaxed, rises
above the waxed flagstone floor like the dry top of a stone emerging above the water of
the stream.
In Fallingwater, Wright captured the perfect essence of our desire to commune with
nature, to dwell in a forested place, and to be at home in the natural world. Fallingwater is
often considered Wright’s greatest work, for he was first and foremost an architect of the
American house. In its startling integration of ancient stone walls anchored to the bedrock
and modern reinforced concrete terraces hovering among the leaves of the trees,
Fallingwater is both an organic, site-specific critique of the placeless products of the
International style and one of the greatest masterpieces of the modern movement. At the
time of its construction, Fallingwater was an instant success, the famous perspective view
from below the waterfall serving as the background when Wright’s photograph appeared
on the cover of the 17 January 1938 issue of Time magazine, in which he was profiled and the
house introduced to the world. More than any other single work, Fallingwater signaled
Wright’s return to preeminence in American architecture and initiated his final two
decades of incredibly prolific practice.
In its 60 years of existence, Fallingwater has proven to be one of the most influential
designs of 20th-century architecture, inspiring architects both near and far. This last is
exemplified by Alvar Aalto, whose Villa Mairea (1939, Noormarkku, Finland) is
indebted to Wright’s design both in its overall form and in its numerous natural details.
Fallingwater is also, and perhaps more important, ever more popular with the general
public, as demonstrated by the fact that nearly 150,000 people visit the house every year,
this despite its remote site. In recognition of the unique and unmatched importance of this
design, Fallingwater was named the best American building of the last 125 years by the
American Institute of Architects. Fallingwater is today, without question, the most
famous modern house in the world, reflecting its inspired embodiment of humanity’s
fundamental and timeless desire to be at home in nature.

FAGUS WERK

2008-05-14T03:37:00.000-07:00

Designed by Walter Gropius and Adolf Meyer; completed 1911, with subsequent
expansions Alfeld-an-der-Leine, Germany
In 1910 spurred on by a dare from his former employer, Behrens Hannoverian Carl
Benscheidt had visions of opening a competing shoe factory. After he secured a site just
across the road from his former workplace in Alfeld, Germany (but with better rail access
and three hectares to build on), Benscheidt founded Fagus GmbH in March 1911 and
approached the Hannover architect Eduard Werner (1847–1923) to design his new
factory. Not only had Werner designed the plans for the Behrens factory in 1897 (which
was three times larger than Fagus would be), but he had the invaluable experience of
knowing the calculations and work involved in building a shoe last factory. In Werner’s
plan, the Fagus complex would amount to a row of brick buildings (or half timbered in
the case of the warehouses), all with different functions along the production line. With
the exception of the administrative rooms, the production houses were fairly utilitarian in
Encyclopedia of 20th-century architecture 822
nature. Benscheidt had already expressed his dissatisfaction with this aspect of Werner’s
slightly Gothic design, and in 1911, he commissioned Walter Gropius (1883–1969) and
Adolf Meyer (1881–1929) to redesign the facades of the entire complex. Gropius had
done some exemplary work for the AEG Motor Company years before in Berlin while
under the tutelage of architect Peter Behrens, and the buildings there had not only set new
standards in factory design—practically making them works of art—but, in keeping with
the time, had also created architecture as advertisement. It was decided that Werner
would remain in charge of the project as a whole and in charge of the interior spaces and
“outfitting of the buildings.” However, it is the influence of Gropius and Meyer that gives
meaning to a contemporary understanding of the Fagus Werk. Gropius viewed this
opportunity in Alfeld as the perfect collaboration between industry and the arts—the
primary aim of the Deutscher Werkbund—and it would turn into a long-term project that
would occupy Gropius and Meyer until the end of their partnership in 1925. Because of
Gropius’s media presence during the building of Fagus, his adopted leadership of the
building program, and his frequent writings within the Werkbund on the Fagus Werk, he
is often credited solely with the design of the factory; indeed, it has been difficult to trace
exactly what Meyer’s contributions were. However, Meyer considered the
conceptualization of the factory a truly collaborative effort and kept a personal archive of
drawings throughout the life of the project.
In the spring of 1911, Gropius and Meyer submitted their plans for the complex; these
deviated from Werner’s in the positioning of the different buildings, creating courtyard
space rather than the static row of structures proposed in the Werner plan. Their plan
gave the building a much broader exposure toward Hannover and, thus, to the trains that
frequently passed the factory’s property. Benscheidt never agreed to this plan, and the
building was executed with its facade in a competitive stance toward Behrens’s, as
originally conceived. The pair ended up making few changes to the original Werner plan
and retained the overall layout of the factory complex.
However, they succeeded in carrying out a more unified scheme through their use of
materials and color. All Fagus buildings, for example, have a 40-centimeter-high purpleblack
brick base that projects from the facade by four centimeters and seems to allow the
yellow-bricked rising walls of the building to float; windows in all the buildings appear to
be cutouts from the cubical structures that contain them, although the window shapes and
sizes differ from building to building. Perhaps the most daring design feature of the
Fagus Werk—and the one that makes the building so significant and recognizable—is the
vertical bands of windows that wrap around the main building, creating the illusion of a
floating curtain wall. It was presumed that to accomplish this, the architects would have
to employ some new construction technology, when in fact the frame construction was
based entirely on Werner’s original projections of a brickwork building with an iron
ceiling beam. A staircase on the clear-span side of the building acts like a stabilizing
column to the glass-clad structure. Buildings in the Fagus complex—other than the
famous, often photographed main office building—included the production hall, sawmill,
warehouse, and punch-knife department. All these buildings were visually unified with
their yellow brick, terra-cotta roof tiles, gray-slate roofs and glazing, and black bases.
The interiors of the public spaces of the office structure and the production hall were
planned by Gropius and Meyer down to the smallest details. The waiting room exuded
order, lightness, and success; glass panes offered views of the main offices from the
Entries A–F 823
waiting rooms, which were friendly and informal. The architects designed dust-free work
conditions and placed the machines in sequence with the production process in a lightfilled
work environment. The design offered employees a commissary, washrooms,
lockers, and later, housing.
An expansion to the Fagus Werk, led by Gropius and Meyer, began in 1913. Additions
were attached to existing structures, and the main building and production hall were
enlarged, the latter to three times its original size. Although hardly a challenging job for
the architects, the expansion allowed them to suggest the application of a glazed facade to
the production hall and the punch-knife department. This permitted them to provide a
unified appearance to the entire complex. During World War I, the work progressed
slowly as Gropius enlisted and Meyer took a job with a steel company. However,
Benscheidt continued to make plans for the expansion, and drawings continued to be
made. In 1915 some construction was allowed to commence, and the dominant
characteristic of all Fagus buildings emerged: the floor-to-ceiling glazed and enclosed
building corner.

FACTORY AND INDUSTRIAL TOWN PLANNING

2008-05-14T03:34:00.000-07:00

The 20th century witnessed the sublevation of industrial town planning, the culmination
of nearly 200 years of experimentation by employers in mining, lumber milling, and
manufacture. Examples of purpose-built settlements can be found in antiquity, but it was
the industrial revolution that propelled modern planning and development, creating a
distinctive and easily recognized type. Where a single enterprise owned the site and
employed an architect or landscape architect to design the factories and housing, there
was real opportunity to advance the science of planning and reduce environmental
despoliation.
Before Parker and Unwin planned the garden city of Letchworth, England, for
Ebenezer Howard and his benefactors, they planned the factory town of New Earswick
(1902) for Benjamin Rowntree. Rowntree was a manufacturer who developed New
Earswick as a single-enterprise town, following Lever and Cadbury, who earlier had
founded Port Sunlight (1887) and Bourneville (1895), model industrial villages. The use
of contour planning and the generous allotment of parkland in the design of industrial
villages was well known in the 19th century and would be employed in the first garden
cities. The principal difference between the two is that the industrial village or factory
Encyclopedia of 20th-century architecture 820
town owed its existence to the business enterprise, whether extractive or manufacturing,
and was subordinate to the mine, mill, or factory, which could occupy a prominent site—
sometimes the center of town. The garden city, on the other hand, put community first
and then hoped to attract industry, and that industry was usually relegated to a peripheral
site. True garden cities were tenant associations of joint stockholders who were
prohibited from engaging in property speculation. In the factory town, the business
enterprise was the landlord, and where housing was sold it usually was financed by the
enterprise or one of its subsidiaries. In most instances, however, the housing was
maintained by the company and available only to employees and their families through
rental agreements.
The better factory towns of the 20th century offered a variety of houses in
construction, size, and style and made them available for purchase through a companybacked
building-and-loan association. Two- and four-family houses, as well as terraces or
row houses, eventually gave place to single-family residences in North America. The use
of contour planning as opposed to orthogonal blocks not only produced more interesting
and less repetitive layouts but also reduced street paving and utility lines. Public space in
the form of parks was sometimes incorporated into the plan. Schools and community
facilities symbolized the employer’s commitment to the community, and the architecture
could be exceptional. Unity in plan with variety in architecture could be obtained through
the selection employment of recognized design firms, such as McKim, Mead, and White
(Roanoke Rapids, North Carolina, 1900) or George B.Post and Sons (Eclipse Park,
Wisconsin, 1915). In Europe and North America, many of the more prominent architects
and landscape architects received commissions to design industrial housing estates and
factory towns.
Stand-alone single-enterprise developments included Neponsit Garden Village (1907)
and Indian Hill (1912), Massachusetts; Kistler (1918) and Kohler (1915), Wisconsin;
Kincaid (1914), Illinois; Goodyear Heights (1913) and Firestone Park (1916), Ohio;
Alcoa (1919), Erwin (1914), and Kingsport (1915), Tennessee; Corey (Fairfield, 1909)
and Kaulton (1912), Alabama; and Torrance (1912), California, in the United States and
Temiscaming (1917) and Arvida (1926) in Canada. In later years, several were
incorporated into larger, neighboring communities. This early group favored the planning
principles employed in the garden cities, although in the case of landscape architects such
as Warren Henry Manning, John Nolen, Ossian C.Simonds, and Earle Draper, their
indebtedness was to the Olmsted firm far more than to Parker and Unwin.
In the interwar and post-World War II period, it is not North America but rather
Scandinavia and Europe that offer the better examples of industrial town planning.
The work of Alvar Aalto in Finland, especially at Sunila (1937–39), the lumber town,
combines creative planning and contemporary housing in a majestic setting. Aalto,
always the independent, managed to separate the mill from the housing and communal
buildings through careful site analysis. The architectural forms are contrasted in a most
interesting way with the natural setting. In Germany and Hungary, following the
reconstruction, there were several important new industrial towns. Sennestadt and
Wulfen, two German new towns of the 1960s, associated with extractive industries,
experimented with mid- and high-rise housing in the Zeilenbau, or parallel row, arrangement
celebrated by the Congrès Internationaux d’Architecture Moderne (CIAM). Dunaujvaros,
Kazincbarcika, Tiszaszederkeny, and Komlo, Hungary, built in the 1960s and 1970s, are
Entries A–F 821
mining and chemical towns that, like the German towns, combine contemporary
architecture in carefully zoned land uses that separate the industrial activities from the
residential and recreational areas.
Most new towns are mixed economy, and the singleenterprise industrial town is no
longer a sought-after or viable type in North America and Western Europe. However,
secondand third-tier countries, whose economies are based on extracting and processing
raw materials for export, will continue to build industrial towns in locations where
existing towns and lack of transportation are inadequate to meet demands for industrial
growth. These new communities will benefit from the example of the previously
mentioned towns.

FACTORY

2008-05-14T03:23:00.002-07:00

The history of the factory as a building type in the 20th century parallels that of
architecture in general. However, as a new typology, it has had a fluctuating status in the
profession between that of “building” and that of “architecture.” For early modern
architects, the factory became the epitome of modernism both as a building type that
signified the modern era and in the technological innovations that were necessary to
create these buildings for the production of goods. This was the building type in which
form truly necessitated following function because the buildings are directed by the
manufacturing processes inside, from automobiles to wartime machinery and computers.
The increasing dominance and changes in methodologies for mass production influenced
the spatial and structural needs of the factories. These developments were translated into
innovations in building technologies with new uses for reinforced concrete, steel, large
glass and metal curtain walls, open floor space, lightweight suspension systems, tent
structures, and prefabricated kits of parts.
In terms of form, early 20th-century factories sustained the look of the previous
century’s multistory buildings as a result of the high cost of land that was often near the
water’s edge for easy shipping of products. In addition, before the advent of the conveyor
belt, moving goods vertically by cranes and gravity was still easier than pulling them
horizontally. This is seen in the multistory factory that Albert Kahn designed for Henry
Ford in Highland Park near Detroit in 1909, a factory that then influenced Giaccomo
Matte-Trucco’s design of the Lingotto Fiat Factory in Turin, Italy, in 1913.
Advances in the strength of concrete influenced factory design, such as in the Larkin
Plant (1907) in Buffalo, New York, built over 10 years by R.J.Reidpath & Son. This
factory could withstand larger window spans to increase natural light in the building
compared with 19th-century brick-pier construction with small windows. Concrete
improved fireproofing and allowed for faster construction, especially when it could be
prefabricated in pieces. Engineers played extremely important roles in the development
of new building systems for factories, such as Ernest Ransome’s reinforced-concrete
system, the Ransome Bar. Ransome simplified the systems of the French engineer
Francois Hennebique so that the floor slab continued to the face of the building and
became a stringcourse, with vertical pieces forming lintels and sills. Precast structural
wall units could be set in place and then cast as the floor in an early prefabricated system
with in-fill in brick. Later, prefabricated systems were developed in concrete, metals, and
glass curtain wall systems, emphasizing the use of the factory building as a testing
ground for new technologies.
Encyclopedia of 20th-century architecture 818
In Berlin Peter Behrens designed the AEG Turbine Factory (1908–09) with Mies van
der Rohe and developed a new curtain wall system of glass and steel that allowed light
into the vast open space. Unusual at the time, the steel pier is exposed and the skeleton
revealed, creating a monumentality and a heroic metaphor for industry. The recessed
glass facade influenced the later curtain wall systems.
Factories were experimental not only in terms of structure and form but also in terms
of the management of the workers inside. Ford, who adopted the ideas of Frederick
Taylor on employee performance, believed that by providing a decent workplace,
workers would be more productive. Paternalistic in his attitude, Ford desired light and air
in the factories, encouraging Albert Kahn to use skylight monitors for daylighting.
Throughout the Great Depression, Ford influenced other factory owners to consider the
well-being of the workers because it affected their morale. Ford eventually paid workers
well enough for them to be able to afford his own product, which gave rise to a working
class with expendable income.
These American industrial buildings and the work of Behrens influenced the designs
of numerous European modern architects of the early 1920s and 1930s, such as Le
Corbusier, Gropius, and Mendelsohn. Walter Gropius, with Hannes Meyer, designed a
new building in 1913 for the Fagus Shoe Last company in Alfeld an-der-Liene, Germany.
The primary feature, the glazed workshop block, was a departure from the heavier, piered
structures and was based on the Bauhaus ideology in its lightness and transparency.
During World War II, Kahn and others designed primarily factories with one story,
which had many advantages. They were faster to build, distributed power horizontally,
and allowed more light into the building. The one-story shed-type building allowed for
larger machines and more flexible and open floor plans for the new horizontal assemblyline
production, which could then be shifted easily to the truck- and train-based
transportation systems, with train lines running close to or even through a manufacturing
plant.
The placement of the administration buildings was also a focus in the layout of a
factory complex. Early in the century, the administration buildings were usually in a
separate head house away from the plant. Alvar Aalto designed two paper mills in
Finland; one, the Toppila Pulp Mill (1930–33) in Oulu, was a design primarily for the
director’s buildings and outbuildings, whereas the Sunila Pulp Mill (1936–38) at Lotka
also included housing. Aalto also influenced the placement of the mill on the existing
bedrock and incorporated the forms of technology in his design.
In the 1950s postwar era, steel was still in high demand, so factories had to be built in
concrete. One of these was the Brynmawr Rubber Ltd. South Wales, Architects’ Co-
Partnership, which achieved the largest shell dome structure at its time in order to have
huge open floor. The increasing automation and mass production dictated open floors,
wide bays, and daylighting to reach the inner factory. The single story continued to solve
this problem best. Both Richard Rogers’ factory for Inmos in England and Nicholas
Grimshaw’s factory for Igus in Germany exemplify the high-tech prefabricated kit of
parts and repetitive modules that became widely used in the 1980s. The Financial Times
Printing Plant in London, designed by Grimshaw, with large windows into the processing
area, brought printing into the public view.
In the 1950s workers’ satisfaction and their motivation became a focus of corporate
executives, so that architects improved the quality of places for socialization, such as
Entries A–F 819
workers’ lounges, cafeterias, and athletic facilities, and the Japanese influenced the
concept of teamwork, leading to different spatial arrangements. The head offices became
a part of the main building structure, so that the entire factory was under one roof for easy
communication between research teams and the production-line workers. With the advent
of computer-directed manufacturing, the need for flexible, adaptable, and expandable
spaces became increasingly dominant. Factory buildings throughout the 20th century
have become an innovative system in which architects to explore new aesthetic issues,
combined with practical building function, technological systems, and rapid construction,
that are profitable for the client while attending to the worker.

Wilson Eyre

2008-05-14T03:23:00.001-07:00

Architect, United States
In 1901, Wilson Eyre’s interest in domestic architecture and interior furnishings led
him to help found the magazine House and Garden, a journal that was the mouthpiece for the Arts and
Crafts movement in Philadelphia. Espousing the beauty of well-integrated gardens and
homes, the magazine was coedited and illustrated by Eyre until the magazine changed
hands in 1905. By then, Eyre was a noted specialist in the design of country houses in
Encyclopedia of 20th-century architecture 814
Pennsylvania, and his commissions took him as far afield as New Hampshire, Louisiana,
Delaware, and Michigan, leading him to establish a second office in New York City.
In 1912 he joined the firm of Gilbert McIlvaine (1880–1939) as a principal designer.
However, his architectural practice waned during the 1920s and 1930s, ultimately
collapsing with McIlvaine’s death in 1939. By the time of Eyre’s own death five years
later, he had designed nearly 350 buildings, most of them domestic and suburban in
nature but also including a pair of hospitals, a museum, several churches and college
buildings, one office building, and a miscellany of lesser-scaled commercial and retail
establishments.
Although Eyre’s work primarily reflected his English-inspired eclectic taste, he
mastered an architectural expression that would be eclipsed by modernism, which might
explain his relative obscurity at the end of the century. In retrospect, his unwillingness to
embrace the latest modern style is not surprising, as its proponents made problematic just
the sort of vague historicity that typified Eyre’s architectural vocabulary.
Eyre sought to forge a truly American or, in many of his Philadelphia projects, a truly
Pennsylvanian architectural expression out of an architectural tradition dominated by
Europe and England. In this regard, he can be compared with contemporary California
architects, such as Bernard Maybeck (1862–1957), Irving Gill (1870–1936), and Charles
(1868–1957) and Henry (1870–1954) Greene, who sought regional styles of building.
Eyre’s country houses often featured asymmetrical massing in picturesque arrangements
with a blend of traditional and original forms and details. Large buildings allowed Eyre to
fully exercise his architectural eye, although he decried the excessive use of ornament as
well as the slavish copying of period styles. In rural or suburban settings, Eyre strove to
recall a rusticated protoEnglish aesthetic without resorting to re-creating outright Tudor,
Jacobean, or Elizabethan houses.
Eyre’s typically designed his houses based on a system of zones: one that comprised
of dining room, parlor(s), bedrooms of the homeowners, and a servants’ zone consisting
of kitchen, pantry, servants’ quarters, and other functions of utility. Eyre often
manipulated form to visually distinguish one function from the other, pushing out or
pulling in walls in an effort to articulate zones as wings or multistory masses. Consistent
window head and/or sill heights, as well as a continuous eave height, were elements used
to horizontally wrap both zones together in an integrated composition. This approach to
design was more evident in his suburban commissions than in his urban houses, as the
former afforded the opportunity to conceive buildings as freestanding objects surrounded
by and shaping an equally malleable garden space.
The Charles Lang Freer House (Detroit, 1890), a major commission, comprised a
three-story mass capped by a dominating hip roof with gables and two prominent ashlar
chimneys protruding above. This overall form abutted a two-story wing of spaces that
included the kitchen, servants’ dining room, shed, and stable, a lesser form also
punctuated by gables, chimneys, and the rounded masonry arch of the shed. The “served”
wing was organized in plan around a stand-alone fireplace located within the central
stairway hall, a space at the culmination of a carefully designed arrival sequence. The
fireplace with its woodcarved mantle was situated as a freestanding object in the center of
the great hall (an unusual design move for Eyre, who usually articulated such elements as
part of the wall plane), partly obscuring the stairway wrapping around the hall. Eyre was
a careful designer of furnishings as well as of the larger planning and articulation of
Entries A–F 815
building forms, and his clients looked to their architect for exquisite detailing and a
commitment to highquality materials and craftsmanship.
In the Conklin House (Huntington, Long Island, 1905–10) the three-story central mass
was flanked symmetrically by two lesser wings, one containing servant spaces and the
other a study and a music room; the upper floors were dedicated to bedroom spaces and a
playroom. The central space is a double-height living room with a stair gallery, with
quartered white oakpaneled walls and ceiling stained a dark greenish brown. Five
carefully placed paintings taken from a European monastery were intended by architect
and owner to accompany the heavy timber aesthetic of the box beams overhead and their
accompanying knee braces. However, the focal point of this central space was a pipeorgan
panel arranged in a triptych-like composition at the far end of the space. The
intended effect was to impart a refined sense of the antique.
Eyre’s attempts to create fine details within nostalgic and tastefully proportioned
masses has placed him in the company of other contemporary Philadelphia architects,
such as Walter Cope (1860–1902), John Stewardson (1858–96), and Frank Miles Day
(1861–1918). High standards of construction remained a hallmark of Eyre’s work, and
this extended well beyond his own drawing board and onto those of the artists and
artisans whom he enlisted in many of his commissions. He associated closely with a
number of American artists, including Maxfield Parrish (1870–1966) and Alexander
S.Calder (1898–1976), and he took great effort to meld an artist’s work or a collected art
object into his own so that the overall aesthetic effect was perceived harmoniously.

Aldo van Eyck

2008-05-14T03:21:00.000-07:00

Architect, the Netherlands
Advocating a new set of architectural concerns for postwar society, Aldo van Eyck
belonged to the long tradition of Northern European experimentalism characterized by an
attention to detail and craftsmanship coupled with a profound social commitment. His
oeuvre comprises a vast array of tectonic ideas worked out within the programs of
socially relevant structures, contributing greatly to modern architectures moral core.
Van Eyck was born in Driebergen, the Netherlands, on 16 March 1918; spent his
primary and secondary school years in England; and took his architectural training at the
Eidgenössische Technische Hochschule in Zürich. After a stint in the Dutch army, he
returned to the Netherlands and found employment in the Public Works Office (then
under the direction of Cornelius van Eesteren), charged with the task of refabricating the
war-ravaged city of Amsterdam. In 1952, he began private practice in The Hague and
Amsterdam, in partnership first with Theo Bosch and later with his wife, Hannie van
Eyck-van Roojen.
Encyclopedia of 20th-century architecture 810
Aldo van Eyck’s introduction to the architectural community at large came during the
eighth meeting of CIAM (Congrès Internationaux d’Architecture Moderne) at Hoddeston,
England, where his playground projects in Amsterdam caught the attention of Siegfried
Giedion, the organization’s secretarygeneral and one of its founding fathers. Giedion
reacted enthusiastically, writing, “These simple elements are grouped so subtly—with a
background of the De Stijl movement and modern art which injects some kind of vitamin
into the whole thing… (they also) fulfill another function. A formerly useless piece of
waste ground has been transformed by an extremely careful layout into an active urban
element. One need only provide the opportunity and we—the public, who are also maybe
children of a kind—will know how to use it” (see Giedion 1952).
Giedion’s comments confirmed the duality of van Eyck’s architectural paradigm;
namely, the coalescence of avant-garde form and a humanistic concern for the ethos of
environment, a combination that van Eyck called “labyrinthine clarity.” Not incidentally,
van Eyck’s interest in the fine arts was cultivated throughout a long friendship with
Giedion’s wife, Carola Giedion-Welcker, a prominent art historian and a champion of
Klee, Miro, Mondrian, and others. Through her tutelage, van Eyck maintained a lifelong
attachment to aesthetic ideals that would continue to inform his work. His Sonsbeek
Pavilion (1966–) in Arnhem, a temporary space for an exhibition of modern sculpture,
was a successful use of orthogonal and curved planes used to create a small city within
which to literally traverse the presented artistic landscape. Putting architecture in the
service of art, van Eyck drew attention to the interrelatedness of the two practices, using
contextuality and contiguity to point to the potential enrichment of life through aesthetic
means.
The years immediately following World War II saw a radical shift in the direction
charted for contemporary architecture. Taking action against the devastation and
destruction delivered on European nations necessitated a move away from Utopian
functionalism and toward a revitalization of associative perspective and a sense of
belonging, and a younger generation of architects, known as Team X, were charged with
reorienting CIAM toward these goals. However, whereas key members such as Alison
and Peter Smithson maintained strong ties to the formalism of Le Corbusier and Mies van
der Rohe, van Eyck advocated an approach to architecture that sought to underscore the
eternal and immutable realities of humanity’s relationship to built form. By reconciling
“twin phenomena,” such as inside and outside, that denied the possibility of easy
dialectics, van Eyck sought to identify an “in-between” realm that would, in the
architect’s own words, “reconcile conflicting polarities.”
The property of “in-between” was best exemplified by his most celebrated
building, the Children’s Home (1957–60) in Amsterdam: what van Eyck
called “a home for children in the context of architecture.” Playing with
the notion of the module, the orphanage dispenses with traditional
organization of space by creating a set of pavilions pinwheeling around a
central axis; the resulting plan borrows heavily from De Stijl’s modularity
while providing strong diagonals that challenge orthogonal ordering.
Surprising occurrences of semiprivate spaces within the confines of the
building bring a sense of the outside indoors,

van Eyck, Aldo (Netherlands)
Hubertus House, Amsterdam (ca.
1959), designed by Aldo van Eyck
and the privacy of living quarters is ensured by their location at the periphery of the
building, away from heavily trafficked areas. The result is a series of intimate spaces that
adhere through a nonhierarchical yet clearly articulated modular program.
Although the school of Dutch structuralism, to which van Eyck’s name is often
attached, never really resolved its relationship to the larger conditions of structuralism as
obtained in literary criticism and anthropology, van Eyck’s own career drew from both of
these disciplines in a more coherent fashion. Throughout his life, he maintained a vital
attention to writing (especially during his stint as editor of the Dutch journal Forum from 1959
to 1963), his ideas developing within the fundamental framework of his notion of
“relativity,” or the belief that human history unfolds in a way not subordinated to
preordained principles but rather through the multivalency of reciprocal relations among
people, things, and ideas. In 1959, van Eyck and his wife traveled to Sudan to study the
habitats of the Dogon, having already visited the Sahara earlier in the decade. It was there
that his notions of the perpetuity of humanity’s customs of existence found their
inspiration and justification. Many of the themes arising from his ethnographic research
recurred in later projects, such as the Hubertus House (1975–79) in Amsterdam, a home
for single mothers and their children that underscores van Eyck’s responsiveness to social
needs. A functionalist glass-and-steel recessed entryway ties the new polychromatic
structure to an adjacent older building, maintaining the sense of historical order while
insisting on the need for growth. Within the structure, lodgings presented as a set of
scaled-down row houses provide a sense of familiarity as well as reinforcing the
Encyclopedia of 20th-century architecture 812
architect’s conviction that functionalism is not the enemy of history but rather has the
capacity to expand and enrich one’s understanding of time and place.
In 1990, van Eyck was awarded the Gold Medal of the Royal Institute of British
Architects, an award fitting his significant contributions to 20th-century architecture.

EXPRESSIONISM

2008-05-14T03:20:00.000-07:00

The postimpressionist revolution in late 19th-century painting eventually brought the
opposite of figurative representation, namely, Expressionism. If representation was no
longer the main goal of art, the expression of one’s inner spiritual self offered itself as an
alternative. In the first decade of the 20th century, this direction was taken primarily by
Encyclopedia of 20th-century architecture 804
German artists, most successfully by the two movements Der Blaue Reiter and Die
Brücke. Painters such as Wassily Kandinsky and Ernst Ludwig Kirchner used art to
express the soul and their emotional reactions to the modern era. Their paintings
introduced a cryptic, abbreviated style to art. The origin of a design in the creator’s self
and a drawing technique that was not concerned with exact figural representation were
among the main impulses for Expressionist architecture.
Centered primarily in Germany and the Netherlands, Expressionist architects, just like
their mainstream International Style colleagues, tried above all to cope with the industrial
age. However, like their namesakes in painting, they attempted to express this age instead
of representing it. Apart from this artistic goal, Expressionist architecture also dealt with
communal concepts. Immediately after World War I, the massive physical and human
destruction that had been caused by the first large-scale mechanical warfare engendered
an anti-industrial feeling. Industry had excelled in manufacturing death machines that
resulted in utter destruction. Such a common enemy brought forth thoughts about
fraternization, community, and democracy. Especially in Germany, the postwar reality
was difficult to bear. The shock of having lost the war brought with it the feeling that an
era had passed and that it was time to orchestrate the rebirth of communal life and the
arts. With its propagation of exactly such goals, Expressionism offered a feasible way to
cope with the problems of the early 1920s in Europe. Expressionism rejected the machine
age as the foundation of artistic creation. In architecture, this came out as the opposition
to design as conditioned only by utility, materials, construction, and economics. Instead,
Expressionism advocated that political and artistic revolution were the same by
transposing the social uprising into artistic activity.
Apart from the origin in painting, immediate stylistic sources of Expressionism in
architecture are found in Art Nouveau and other late 19th-century attempts at renewal,
especially in the work of Hendrik Petrus Berlage, Frank Lloyd Wright, and Otto Wagner.
Art Nouveau (Jugendstil) was particularly favored because it had rejected industrial
construction methods and displayed a rather romantic longing in its naturalistic
decorative structures. However, Expressionist architects had quite an open attitude
toward the past. The styles in which all the arts had combined to produce decorated forms
were preferred sources for inspiration. From Egypt came the concepts of cave and tower.
Gothic architecture provided examples for the social and communal purposes of
architecture and showed the triumph of expression over function. Far Eastern architecture
was an important source because it combined architectural and sculptural forms and
because of the mystical doctrines that informed this architecture.
The particular mind-set of Expressionist architects was also influenced by literary and
philosophical sources, found primarily in Nietzsche and Kierkegaard. From Nietzsche
came the admonition to let primitive instincts, not conscious self-control, determine
artistic creations, whereas Kierkegaard emphasized the psychological background for this
style in the spiritual searching and feeling of despair that were produced through the
material instability.
The most significant heritage of Expressionism is that it attempted to solve the
problems of the world through mainly symbolic architecture. Architects felt that they had
to act on behalf of society and believed that they had to force people to realize their
happiness through building. In those years, the spiritual realm was very far removed from
reality. Expressionist architecture had a strong Utopian urge. It was the search for a new
Entries A–F 805
reality, a new sense of life, and a new ethics of humanity. Many of the projects are indeed
on a cosmic scale. This stemmed primarily from architects aiming to create their designs
directly from their own visions. They let their hands draw the designs automatically and
tried to exclude the mind from participating in the sketching. Their designs came out of
an uncontrollable inner necessity and an inner spiritual life. The architects felt themselves
to be the instruments of an absolute, metaphysical will and saw their task as transforming
this spirit into reality. They wanted to achieve the direct transformation of consciousness
into pure activity and did not pay much consideration to the objects that resulted from
this. Theirs was an architecture that appealed to the intellect through feeling. With such
practices, Expressionist architects found their modernity independently, unlike the
International Style, which found its modernity through representation. Like the
International Style, Expressionism avoided the literal imitation of traditional styles, but it
also focused on expressing ideas. The Expressionist conception of the building was that
of a total work of art that would present an aesthetic unity and thus become communal
art. In this sense, architecture was spiritual.
In terms of form, Expressionist architects had a preference for cavelike interiors and
towerlike exteriors. Inside their buildings, one felt enveloped not by walls and ceiling but
by an encompassing membrane. Interiors felt physically oppressing on the inhabitant,
who had to use sight, touch, and other synesthetic senses to understand his or her
whereabouts. The theme of the cave was articulated in the exterior through a tectonic
treatment of the building surfaces. The tower shape was articulated mostly by fashioning
buildings as crowns, be they in the city or on the top of mountains.
In Germany, Paul Scheerbart instigated the preference for glass and crystals among
Expressionist architects. Scheerbart can best be described as one of the fathers of science
fiction in Germany. Apart from providing technical information in his book Glasarchitekt ur (1914),
Scheerbart also promoted glass building for its generation of a new morality. Glass stood
for brighter awareness, clearer determination, and utter gentleness. It represented the
search for light and higher truth—the clarification of the soul—and can generally serve as
a social catalyst. Glass buildings can function as shelter as well as extend garden
architecture. This transparent material forces the users to continually relate to their
environment, both the natural and the cosmic one. Glass buildings resemble states of
emotion and suggest infinite space. In its mineral form, as crystal, glass became a symbol
for the new life. Thus, glass and crystal forms presented the milieu that would give birth
to the new culture.
Many Expressionist architects gave glass a special role in their designs. Bruno Taut,
the organizer and indefatigable theoretician of Expressionism, was particularly taken with
Scheerbart’s ideas. He accepted the purifying potential of glass and crystal in his designs.
These were especially notable in the Glass Pavilion he designed in 1914 for the glass
industry at the Cologne Werkbund exhibition. There, Taut added a cosmological
component. Glass was used as the material that enabled the reconciliation of mind and
matter. The Glass Pavilion created primarily an experience for the user in the form of a
purification ritual. It was intended to introduce a lighter building method and high-light
the effects of glass to architecture. It is assembled from a centralized building with an
addition at the back. The pavilion consists of a geodesic dome on a concrete base. Prism
glass in reinforced-concrete frames was used for both the walls and the stair treads
leading up to the glass hall. This is covered by a crystal-shaped dome assembled from
Encyclopedia of 20th-century architecture 806
reinforced-concrete ribs and colored-glass panels resting on prism glass. Visitors took a
predetermined path that ultimately led them to the cascade room on the lower level.
Water flowed down glass steps and terminated in a recess in which pictures from a
kaleidoscope were projected. The procession through this pavilion was characterized by
seductive anticipation and an increasingly intense experience of space. In Taut’s later Alpine Architecture
(1919), glass was used on an increased scale by designing glass pavilions on
mountaintops.
As such endeavors suggest, Expressionism was a romantic movement. It can rightfully
be criticized for not having been able to resist the seduction from formal aspects of
architecture at the expense of all other concerns. Many Expressionist designs look like
they are ready to depart. This notion of mobile architecture was aimed to symbolize
metamorphosis and transcendence. Taut’s early apartment buildings of the 1910s
exemplify these goals. In these large structures, he attempted to engender a communal
impression through color and facade articulation. Similarly, Erich Mendelsohn’s early
sketches express a dynamic feeling. These designs show forms that are derived from
structure and the expression of the purpose of the building. They are rather abstract
renderings of these intentions. The essence of the projects is artistic, not architectural, as
they are not primarily meant to be realized. Mendelsohn wanted to formulate a new style
based on industrial forms and materials. The gesture of drawing coincides with
aerodynamic lines, producing a formal expression of “industrial” energy. Following the
contour of a form with one’s eyes is the only thing needed to understand the design. In
his Einstein Tower (1924) in Potsdam, Germany he attempted to represent energy
through mass. The form of the tower wants to show the movement that is immanent in
the building mass. Thus, there is a melding of technical function and monumentality. The
building implies the potential to leap forward, as if it contained energy.
Concerns with materials and meaning produced other variations. Fritz Höger’s Chile
House (1923) in Hamburg, for example, was a speculative office building in the tradition
of the Hamburg Kontorhaus (commercial office building). The structure is a frame built
entirely of brick. Thus, it became a counterpart to the other Expressionist material: glass.
Brick alluded to a craft tradition and was better suited to Hamburg’s damp climate. The
bricks were vitrified. In its form, the Chile House evokes the image of a ship. Its sharp
corners parallel the crystalline forms of other Expressionist architects. In general, the
form alludes to many images, such as a fish or a flag.
A group of younger architects formed the Crystal Chain under Taut’s leadership. This
was mostly a group of solitary criers in the wilderness of the industrial world who formed
a magic circle of mystery among themselves. Most of the members shared the wish for
large-scale buildings that would bring all the arts together. The letters they wrote to one
another document their attempts to go back to the roots, the origins, of creative
architectural activity. Among the most charismatic members was Hermann Finsterlin,
who had studied natural sciences and considered himself to be the Darwin of architecture.
His conception of architecture was almost biological, dealing primarily with form and
showing an evolution that dealt with biological urges and species, not with style.
Similarly, he considered his visionary designs to be natural living organisms assembled
from basic shapes. His sketches show strong anthropomorphic similarities.
In Dutch Expressionism, designing was seen primarily as an individual struggle of the
architect’s vision against materials and the construction reality. Unlike the ideological
Entries A–F 807
emphasis of German Expressionism, the Dutch School’s buildings are characterized by a
tendency toward composition and construction. Their architecture is distinguished by an
emphasis on the plastic force of the building form. Buildings were designed and
constructed according to the principles of organic growth found in nature. This was an
architecture that looked like sculpture, in which materials were molded to enclose space.
The architects used hand-formed bricks and tiles in various colors and shaped chimneys,
balconies, towers, and ornamentation as sculptural additions to the building form. In this
manner, purely functional parts were transfigured into symbolic aspects expressing the
joy of everyday life. This merger between architecture and sculpture successfully
expressed the inner aspirations of the architect and his clients. Building outlines are
simple and firm and articulated in sinuous rhythms. This allowed architects to display
emotion in their designs by endowing the building materials with their spirit and gave
their buildings a unique character that allowed the inhabitants to identify with their
homes. Architecture as art could be created only through an inward struggle. Through all
of this, the architects expressed the essential character of society as a communal whole.
In their buildings, architects tried to anticipate a better future, which also reflected a
nostalgic longing for the social fabric symbolized in medieval architecture.
Consequently, most Dutch Expressionist work is found in the area of communal, lowincome
workers’ housing. Michel de Klerk and Piet Kramer attempted to renew the
existing Dutch communal housing traditions rather than inventing something completely
novel. They generally used traditional materials and construction systems rather than the
new industrial materials and structures. De Klerk’s buildings excel at making
conventional forms more piquant, primarily by presenting truncated shapes. He linked the
individual elements and units of his forms in a dynamic manner. Masses rise and fall
rhythmically, and large wall expanses are broken by terraces. His Eigen Haard Housing
Estate (1913–21) in Amsterdam is a masterpiece in sculptural modeling. De Klerk
wanted to make people happy through forms. Here, he created a fantastic environment.
The overall forms follow closely the requirements of urban architecture—namely, those
of articulating the traffic flow of the street—whereas individual details and facade
articulations are Expressionist. There are many references to the sea and the nautical
world in the forms and facades. Tile work and polychromatic brickwork are used to
provide these impressions. Cylindrical forms further emphasize the corners of the
buildings and are used to articulate communal entrances. Tower forms are also meant to
express the village nature of this estate. The entire building complex and its details allude
hypothetically to remnants from past, medieval cultures.
Rudolf Steiner represents the theosophical wing of Expressionism. His work may also
serve as an example for the innovative use of new materials of this movement. In his
Goetheanum (1927) in Dornach, he exploited reinforced concrete to achieve an
imaginative shape. This produced a unique design that has no sources or progeny. Its
form and details repeat a basic motif that Steiner had determined at the outset of the
design. Nothing in the building exists in isolation: every part and detail strives toward the
next one. Steiner’s purpose was simply to find the way to the spirit through architecture.
In this, he also showcases the mood of ideological and religious awakening of
Expressionism. He was above all interested in alluding to the spiritual states that loom
behind physical reality. For him, architecture was the medium that stimulates forms of
thought that lead to spiritual rejuvenation.
Encyclopedia of 20th-century architecture 808
With the German economic recovery of 1923, Expressionism ceded to a more sober,
pragmatic approach to architecture. Constructing cheaply and abundantly became more
pressing needs than spiritual rejuvenation. In Amsterdam, for example, architects were
forced to use prefabricated building elements to reduce construction costs. A craftoriented
look was replaced by industrial forms, and individualistic designs lost out
against the representation of a sober objectivity. Ultimately, the International Style
mainstream prevailed. Expressionist architecture was given a bad reputation as the
scapegoat for the adverse political reality in Germany after 1933. Siegfried Giedion
denigrated its designs as “Faustian outbursts against an inimical world,” “fairy castles to
stand on the peak of Monte Rosa,” or “concrete towers as flaccid as jellyfish.” The early
chroniclers of the International Style accused it of having reversed the push for a new
architecture that the signs of the year 1914 announced. These evaluations continued the
denunciation of Expressionism at the 1937 “Degenerate Art” exhibition in Munich,
organized by the National Socialists. It was this event that prompted Marxist critics to
proclaim that the same forces that had led to Expressionism also had led to Fascism.
Expressionism was not even accepted as a style; it was accorded value only as the
manifestation of the revolutionary fervor that existed in Germany after World War I.
Although the movement was credited with tearing down the cultural heritage of the 19th
century, it was accepted only as a synonym for opposition and lost out against the
International Style.
The view of Expressionism as simply a revolt has in the meantime ceded to one that
appreciates it as a style favoring personal creative liberty over the scientific rationality of
the International Style. Beginning in the 1950s with the Englishman Reyner Banham,
architectural critics began to reevaluate functionalism. Ultimately, this development
resulted in the postmodern dismissal of the International Style. It was also felt that
Expressionism could not satisfactorily be dealt with from only a purely formal, stylistic
perspective. Expressionism is instead seen as a broad cultural phenomenon that
encompassed a variety of artistic methods. Concurrent with this scholarly reevaluation
came a resurgence of typically Expressionist forms in architecture. Acclaimed
modernists, such as Le Corbusier and Alvar Aalto, created designs in which human
activity and existence were seen as the central architectural metaphors. Architects such as
Eero Saarinen and Jørn Utzon spearheaded the neo-Expressionist movement. The
material innovations that were produced in the American war industry finally allowed
architects to build expressive formal fantasies. Eero Saarinen’s TWA Terminal (1962) at
Kennedy Airport in New York and Utzon’s Opera House (1973) in Sydney testify to this
situation. Original Expressionists, such as Hans Scharoun and Mendelsohn, realized their
earlier visions in such designs as the Philharmonic Hall (1963) in Berlin and Park
Synagogue (1953) in Cleveland. Another significant part of neo-Expressionism is
centered around the Waldorf Schools, which had been founded by Rudolf Steiner and
which continue to imbue its school buildings, especially in England, with values identical
to those that informed Steiner’s Goetheanum.