BROADACRE CITY


Project (unbuilt) by Frank Lloyd Wright
Following his innovative Prairie houses of the previous decades, Broadacre City
permitted Frank Lloyd Wright to pursue the subject of a new American urbanism. The
opportunity for this remarkable plan was provided initially by an invitation to present the
1930 Kahn Lectures at Princeton University. After a decade of personal trials and
professional inactivity and with the economic depression increasingly pressing, Wright
knew that these lectures could provide an opportunity for regeneration. In those sections
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devoted to the city, he presented no specific layout or architectural parts. Instead, he
negatively exposed the physical and social state of present cities; they were ugly,
congested, dirty, badly administered, and an economic disaster. Wright’s solutions were,
however, mired in emotion mixed by awkwardly unclear language. Yet the vision of
Broadacre City was described in all but name. His comments match those in his
autobiography, written at the same time and for the same reason.
For the autobiography, Wright wrote a concluding section about Broadacre, but the
publisher rejected it. Wright then had it produced as a pamphlet titled The Dis appearing City. The first half
contained philosophical reasons for change and an accounting of present ills, organized
under five headings: economic (drawn from the analytical and curative ideas of Henry
George); suppression of human individuality; urban concentrations and the inhuman
vertical city; the failure to embrace modern resources (for example, telecommunications,
mechanical systems, and new building materials); and chaotic automobile traffic.
The last half of Dis appearing City offered some rather inexact proposals for rectification, all to be
activated by adhering to George’s social and economic observations and promotion of the
individual as the dominant factor in opposition to collectivism and the dominating
authorities of government and church. If causes and effects were properly understood and
cures attended, a fresh morality and new urban and rural space would follow, joined by a
new aesthetic, Broadacre City.
An article in American Architect briefly outlined some of Wright’s thoughts from Dis appearing City. Illustrated with a
fuzzy aerial view sketched in charcoal (not by Wright), it showed roads, major highways,
and a few isolated buildings on a rather desolate landscape. The text indicated some
determinants for Broadacre, including “plane-stations” and the use of highways for “take
off.” Wright did not mention how his city might be physically laid out, but one detail to
reappear was that “farm units and factories that produce [?] are within a ten mile radius…
of each market and within walking distance of home and the workers.” That radius fit the
location of “plane-stations” every 20 miles.
The New York Ti mes Magazine published an article in 1932 about Le Corbusier’s architectonic
Ville Radieuse. Many readers were aware of Wright’s antagonism toward
what he saw as the growing hegemonic influence of Europe’s socialistic
modernism. Wright followed the Le Corbusier piece with an article titled
“Broadacre City: An Architect’s Vision,” in which he again attacked
centrally clustered skyscrapers (places of both work and home, he
reminded) as foolish and unnatural and said that villages harmoniously
close to the land were preferred: “Ruralism as distinguished from Urbanisme”
Broadacre City remained a verbal, nontectonic concept until November 1934, when Tom
Maloney in New York City arranged to exhibit a model of a possible city. Wright
prepared a plan in late 1934 intended to accommodate about 4,000 people, and this plan
was published the following year. This served as the basis of plans prepared in 1945 and
1958. It was a suggestive layout for an imaginary site, perhaps typical, realizing that each
actual city/village would respond to its unique physical environment. A 12-foot-square
model, large display panels with illustrations and text, and a number of models of
possible buildings were mounted at Rockefeller Center in April-May 1935 and then at
Madison, Wisconsin; in Pittsburgh; and at the Corcoran Gallery in Washington, D.C.
The organizational device of a cruciform derived from a square gave the plan an
obvious coherence. Defined by roads and functional zones, the cruciform was used as
spatial geometry. The smallest element was a rectangular acre, but the design itself was
organized by a square composed of 40 (8 by 5) acres, such as that for the circular
stadium, or two squares at area 2 or four squares at area 4.
Housing was the heart of Broadacre—“Minimum of one acre to the family”—and
constituted the large central square with schools at the center. Therefore, tall buildings
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(including apartments) were not clustered but rather were dispersed on the periphery.
Other major areas included arts, recreational facilities, and county administration located
at A; markets, other recreations, and little farms at B; orchards and “small” industry at C;
and housing and higher education (and a cemetery) at D. In the cruciform’s corners were
nonfarm (“luxurious”) housing at e and “games” and other administration at f. Juxtaposed
to regional rail lines and a raised four-lane highway (with storage underneath) were
distribution activities related to commerce, manufacturing, and industry, at g, C, and h,
respectively.
Generally, the Broadacre concept was one of self-sustaining communities surrounded
by nature preserves and rural agriculture, each linked regionally by transport systems.
Predecessors included Arturo Soria y Mata’s Linear City (1882 and later), Ebenezer
Howard’s Garden City (1898 and later), and William Drummond’s Neighborhood Unit
(1913). More in line with American sensibilities was Frederick Law Olmsted’s plan
(1868 and later, with Calvert Vaux) for Riverside, Illinois, a place known and admired by
Wright, as were Olmsted’s views about the city (it need not be synonymous with “an
unhealthy density of population”), about house and home (“the advantages of
‘civilization’ were perhaps best realized in suburban neighborhoods”), and on Nature
ideally typified by landscape and private gardens.
Although Wright had been influenced by writers, nonconformists, and philosophers
ranging from Ralph Waldo Emerson to Thorsten Veblen, the practical Henry Ford was
the immediate influence on Wright’s ideas for Broadacre. The two men agreed that such
innovations as the automobile, the airplane, and the radio were potent indicators of
freedom, capable of freeing up time from work and creating a new kind of social space.
To Wright, Ford epitomized a properly administered capitalism, American pragmatism,
gumption, verve, and a means to social change.
In 1918 Ford had said, “I am a farmer…. I want to see every acre of the earth’s surface
covered with little farms with happy, contented people living on them,” and close to little
markets. In 1919 he had said, “Plainly…the ultimate solution will be the abolition of the
City…. We shall solve the City problem by leaving the City.” Recognized as a
pragmatist, Ford always put theory into practice and weighed the results. He proposed
that regional car and tractor parts “manufacturing” plants be “within easy reach of
farming districts,” a series of village industries. One energetically pursued plan was the
construction of a large scheme at Muscle Shoals on the Tennessee River, but that private
enterprise was rejected by the federal government. In 1932 President Roosevelt
announced a tax-supported program for the multipurpose development of the Tennessee
Valley. It was similar to Ford’s proposal, only more comprehensive and considerably
larger. Ford’s idea of village industries was reiterated in May 1932, also in the New York Times Magazine; it
followed Wright’s article on Broadacre.
Wright was clear about Ford’s influence, noting that Muscle Shoals would have
decentralized industry and given “every man a few acres of ground.” When Wright
introduced Broadacre City in 1932 in American Architect, he titled it “Today…Tomorrow.” Ford’s book Today and Tomo rrow
(1926) described the integration of industry and agriculture. It reads as a primer for
Wright’s ideas on modern villages, the work ethic, unionism, effectiveness and
productivity, and much more, but not economics. Wright did not favor the plutocratic
impulse of American capitalism.
Inspired by Ford, Walter V.Davidson offered a practical application, commissioning
Wright in late 1931 to design prefabricated sheet-metal farm buildings composed of a
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house separated by an airlock from a composite farm facility to be called a“Little Farms
Unit.” Davidson also asked for the design of “Wayside Markets” where the produce of
little farms—and from elsewhere—would be available at roadside. Made possible by
inexpensive cars, the idea pre-dates the modern shopping center. A service, social, and
administrative center was to be a “Little-Farms” village, laid out by Wright to contain
many normal city functions. Nothing came of these commissions, but they preceded or
paralleled Wright’s comments later in 1932 and predicted aspects of the 1934–35 plan
and related text.
The Broadacre City concept was meant to reinforce, by reinterpretation, the
Jeffersonian tradition of a rural society sustained by Emersonian virtues and to encourage
returning to a democratically endowed village life in modern geometric form and
functional character. Broadacre was to be scattered about the landscape, integrated “along
the horizontal lines” of highway and rail, with people free of capital gains tax but owning
“utilities and government” and a right to “fair means of subsistence” from “their own
ground,” laboratory, or “common offices.” However, as historian George Collins
correctly observed, in the 1930s “the world was not electrified by Wright’s agrarianism.”
Broadacre City is not a theory. It does not contain a body of ideas or a set of terms that
can be rationally measured—a treatise, yes, but not a utopia, nor was it conceived as
such. Lyman Sargent’s reasonable specification (in British and American Utopian Literature, 1516–1985, 1988) is that a utopia must
describe “fairly completely an imaginary society,” a nowhere. Therefore, Broadacre is
not included in his compendium. As the last radical reaction to the horrors (as Wright saw
the situation) imposed on cities in the 19th century by a rapacious process of
centralization, Broadacre City is a provocative decentralist proposition that—if faintly—
still teases urbanists.

BRITISH LIBRARY, LONDON


Designed by Colin St. John Wilson; completed 1998 London, England
The British Library is arguably the most significant and controversial 20th-century
public building in London, equal in importance to Sir Williams Chambers’s Somerset
House in the 18th century and Charles Barry and A.W.N.Pugin’s Houses of Parliament in
the 19th century, and the largest public building commissioned in the 20th century. In
terms of its centrality as an institution, urbanistic visibility and impact, cost (£511
million, contrasted with £400 million for Norman Foster’s Stansted Airport Outside
London, and £35.5 million for the Sainsbury Wing of the National Gallery, London,
1990), size, length of gestation and realization, programmatic complexity, and
architectural uniqueness, the British Library has no contemporary rivals. Its designer, the
erudite Colin St. John Wilson (who earned a knighthood on its completion) enjoys a
professional history non-pareil in modern Britain, comparable only to those 19th-century
Beaux-Arts laureates who devoted entire careers to executing one or two major official
buildings, or to his noble forebear, Sir John Soane, who labored over the Bank of
England from 1788 to 1831 (although, unlike that vanished monument, destroyed in
1922, the British Library is likely to endure for several centuries).
Until 1998 the name of the British Library was synonymous with the British Museum,
where it had resided since 1785; first in Montague House and after 1826 in Robert
Smirke’s colonnaded Greek Revival stronghold. From 1857 scholars perused books in the
beloved round reading room surrounded by book stacks constructed by Sidney Smirke in
the open courtyard of the museum under a ferro-vitreous dome. Exponential growth of
the collection and readership led, in 1951, to a proposal for expansion. In 1962 Sir Leslie
Martin (1908–2000) and his younger colleague, Colin Wilson (who by 1964 was solely in
charge) were commissioned to design a new wing, adjacent to the existing museum
building, which would be part of a mixed development of commercial, residential, and
institutional uses.
Over the next 12 years, two different schemes were thoroughly worked out by Wilson
for the Bloomsbury site, but the developing Preservationist movement demanded a
different location. Furthermore, the merger in 1972 of the British Museum library with
the National Science library necessitated a larger site. In 1973 the government acquired
nine acres next to St. Pancras Station, for a completely independent structure. Over the
next 25 years, Wilson and his partners, including his wife, library expert M.J.Long
(1939–), grappled with shifting governments, altered requirements, surly bureaucrats,
inflation, tight budgets, fickle architectural fashion, transformations in information
technology, and fallible contractors, to bring to fruition a great library that, in the words
of its architect, “embodies and protects the freedom and diversity of the human spirit in a
way that borders on the sacred.”
The relocation of the British Library was advantageous for many reasons.
Not only did it allow for a more capacious building that would not be
crammed onto an inadequate site (integral to the design was the notion of
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expansion; only the first phase of a three-phase program has been erected),
but it represented a move to a part of London that, while more mercantile
and industrial than Bloomsbury, has a great future as an international
gateway, as it will provide a second terminus for cross-channel transit and
is the hub of several rail and underground lines. Fortunate too is its
proximity to St. Pancras Chambers (1878), now undergoing extensive
restoration. Sir George Gilbert, Scott’s Gothic Revival station and hotel,
completed in 1878 (also fiercely criticized in its time), is a more
sympathetic neighbor than the solemn stone museum, given Wilson’s
preference for the English Free style of the mid- and late 19th century over
the neoclassical movement that preceded it. Both ensembles are
multipurpose and contain very large spaces as well as more intimate
rooms; both draw passersby toward them by inflecting away from the
street; both have dramatic contrasts of vertical and horizontal volumes (a
slender clock tower on the library gestures to the bustling silhouette of St.
Pancras); and both are polychromatic (the pinkish-red brick used in the British Library comes from the same
Leicestershire source as that chosen by Scott), and in each case details are painted in
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contrasting hues. Further, the majestic train sheds behind the station, by engineers Ordish
and Barlow, anticipate the tremendous spans encountered in the library.
The library serves a diverse assortment of functions and audiences: it is an urban
stage, a forum, an art gallery, and a repository of knowledge. The generous plaza
provides an inviting oasis within a dense quarter of the city and caters to the casual
passerby as well as the bibliophile through impressive sculptures, generous seating, and
an outdoor coffee shop; it also gives access to a conference center with auditorium, which
can be entered independently when the main building is closed. Within the library, the
public is immediately welcomed; the information desk and cloakrooms on the ground and
lower levels and the cafeteria restaurants on the second and third floors are readily visible
and accessible. To the left are the bookshop and a two-story exhibition area, properly
protected from daylight, where rare manuscripts and educational materials are on display.
On the fourth floor, the Friends’ room leads to an ample landscaped terrace that
overlooks the urban scene to the northeast. Although the sections show a complicated
matrix of interlocking spaces, clear circulation patterns enable visitors to swiftly reach
different destinations.
The reading rooms are flooded with inspirational, carefully controlled natural light, as
is the main reception hall, which soars through the full height of the building and is the
hinge between the humanities wing on the northwest and the science wing to the east.
Those seeking information on technical subjects, where journals, ephemera, and
electronic media are the rule, frequent the five reading rooms devoted to science. Tables
are arranged around the perimeter and daylight enters through side windows; here, the
reference materials are immediately available to readers, as that is the way most such
researchers operate. The two humanities reading rooms, endowed with clerestories and
skylights that bounce natural light off curved reflector walls, vary in proportion as well,
allowing different temperaments to choose their preferred niches, open or intimate,
central or peripheral. There are smaller enclosures for maps, manuscripts, and rare books
and music. The books are stored in environmentally monitored levels below ground
(additional volumes are stored off-site); the automated catalog and mechanized delivery
make retrieval swift and efficient.
Wilson’s own scholarly habits have sensitized him to the comfort of the researchers.
The variety in the size, shape, and illumi-nation of the spaces counters potential reader
fatigue and contributes a sense of serenity and well-being that embraces both patrons and
staff. Custom-designed furniture of wood and leather and carefully placed, beautifully
detailed lamps and fittings provide a zone of concentration within the grander reaches of
the reading rooms.
Wilson’s credo that architectural form must derive from thoughtful attention to
program and that it must be humane and inclusive means that the British Library presents
no monolithic image to be captured in a single photograph. Rather, the building can be
appreciated only over time by a moving and involved observer/user. This is not to say
that Wilson overlooks the beauty inherent in the striking form or in materials that appeal
to touch and hearing as well as sight. Besides the typical concrete, brick, and glass, the
palette includes Purbeck stone, travertine, bronze, brass, leather, terra-cotta, glazed tile,
luscious carpeting, American oak, African teak, and steel painted red and green; as one
moves from public to private areas, the materials become softer and more sensual. The
aesthetic heart of the building, a literal tour de force, is the six-story glass and bronze box
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that houses the King’s Library, George III’s collection of rare books, donated to the
nation by George IV. The tower appears to arise from the watery depths beneath London,
thanks to the surrounding softly lighted and reflective “moat” of polished stone. A close
friend of many British artists, Wilson made certain that relevant art was included from
the start, such as the tapestry by R.B. Kitaj, the colossal sculptural transcription of
William Blake’s Newton by Eduardo Paolozzi, the bronze-cast typographic entrance
gates by David Kindersley, and the numerous busts, including, since 1999, one of the
architect himself, by Celia Scott.
Committed to “the other tradition” of modern architecture, Wilson pays subtle homage
in his masterwork to revered predecessors, especially Alvar Aalto and Hans Scharoun,
and there are discreet references to Frank Lloyd Wright, Sigurd Lewerentz, Le Corbusier,
Louis Kahn, James Stirling, H.P.Berlage, and Gunnar Asplund. However, this is no
Postmodern pastiche; rather, Wilson has assimilated the lessons of those masters to forge
an unmistakably personal synthesis that serves London urbanistically, aesthetically, and
programmatically in its own unique way, thoughtfully designed with its users’ comfort
and convenience in mind no less than producing an atmosphere conducive to scholarship,
contemplation, and general learning combined with sensual pleasure and intellectual
enjoyment.