corporeal narratives | an architecture of experience A thesis submitted to the Division of Research and Advanced Studies of the University of CIncinnati in partial fulfillment of the requirements of the degree of: Master of Architecture in the School of Architecture and Interior Design of the College of Design, Architecture, Art, and Planning by Benjamin S. Crabtree Bachelor of Science in Architecture University of Cincinnati, 2004

Commitee Chairs Michael McInturf Gordon Simmons abstract

Western culture has given predominance to the visual dimension over all other aspects of experience. It has evolved into a culture of speed and instantaneous imagery, freezing the whole of our world into a collection of convenient snapshots. This has resulted in architecture to be critiqued primarily as it appears in the printed media, designed to be viewed at arms length. Architecture’s inclination toward the purely visual serves to alienate the body from the design process and therefore confounds the designer’s consideration of the problem of the body. However, architecture is unavoidably sensual in nature and buildings cannot be reduced to vehicles for the scenographic conveyance of abstract architectural ideas. The intent of this study is to explore how the realism and tactility of architecture are understood not merely through a visual syntax but rather through situations and encounters of bodily experience. It is an examination of how buildings immerse their audiences in a sort of ‘corporeal narrative’ that leads them through a sequence of sensorial engagements in which they are involved not as static spectators but as dynamic participants who move through the space, interacting with it. This leads to a design process motivated as much by moments in the building as it is by the overriding concept and places particular emphasis on the points of contact where the building directly engages the user.

aknowledgements

I would like to thank my family for their love and support, my thesis commitee chairs Michael Mc- Inturf and Gordon Simmons for their guidance, and perhaps most of all my studio-mates who have always been my staunchest supporters and harshest critics throughout this process. table of contents

1.Introduction p.4

2.Background p.12

3.Multi-Sensory Experience p.20

4.The Active Dialogue p.30

5.Conclusion p.42

6. Design Methodology p.46

Bibiliography p.53

Appendix 7.Precedent Analysis: Sayanatsalo Town Hall p.62

1 list of illustrations

2.01 – Parthenon viewed from the east with visible doming of the stylobate and steps. 2.02 – Alberti’s Santa Maria Novella: Elevation Study 2.03 – Vanna Venturi House 2.04 – Michael Graves’ Portland Building

3.01 – Athens, Greece 3.02 – Stacked stone 3.03 – Doubting Thomas by Carravagio 3.04 – Hand on a rough surface 3.05 – Barn in winter 3.06 – Man in an empty corridor 3.07 – Narrow street in Italy 3.08 – Spice stand

4.01 – Villa Savoye Plan 4.02 – Villa Savoye Interior 4.03 – Held & Hein’s kitten experiment. 4.04 – MVDRV kiosk: cedar 4.05 – GucklHupf: opening 4.06 – Door handle at Alvar Aalto’s Mt Angel Library 4.07 – Sunlight through a screen 4.08 – Cyclopean construction. Treasury of Atreus, Mycenae

5.01 – Child playing with her shadow at OMA’s Seattle Public Library

6.01 – Sensuous dichotomies 6.02 – New wood and old wood 6.03 – The ear alerts the eyes 6.04 – Duck, duck, goose 6.05 – Saynatsalo door handle 2 6.06 – Barragan’s chapel at Tlalpan (screen wall in the entrance portico)

7.01 – View of Saynatsalo from the North 7.02 – North Entry to Courtyard 7.03 – Ground level and council chamber plans 7.04 – Ostberg’s Stockholm City Hall 7.05 – View from the East 7.06 – Landscaped terraces leading into the courtyard 7.07 – Trusses in the council chamber 7.08 – Brick as a textural material 7.09 – Main building entry 7.10 – Main Hallway 7.11 – Wrapped door handle 7.12 – Stair to council chamber 7.13 – Council chamber interior

3 1 introduction 1. Introduction We live in a culture that awards predominance to the visual dimension over all other aspects of our capacious sensory experience. We are bombarded with imagery everywhere we go, semblances of things and experiences presented to us as pictorial representations in art and media. We allow these images to flatten our world and distance us from it. Rather than going outside to check the temperature we turn to our twenty-four- hour weather channel where images explaining to us how it feels outside our door are presented to us in vivid high-definition color. Vision is privileged as the singular sense that informs our perception of the world. The fault in this visual bias does not lie simply in the value or preference it gives to sight; in fact medical evidence supports that the eyes’ ability to transmit information to the brain far exceeds that of the other sense organs. This gives vision a deserved importance that should be appreciated. The problem is the tendency of this ocularcentrism to subvert and eliminate the contribution of our other senses. This isolates our perception to the sphere of vision. In this way the visual distances us from the world in which we dwell because it suppresses the haptic engagement with our surroundings. It impoverishes the other senses and alienates us from our sensuous physical world. We begin to experience our surroundings in a way that may as well be flattened onto the pages of a magazine or a television screen. Architecture is no different. It often follows in the manner of the figurative arts of painting and sculpture, designed as if to be viewed from behind a velvet rope, an intellectual exercise, carefully surveyed by the eyes and dissected by the mind. This tendency toward design that is purely visual alienates the body from the realization of architectural meaning. A building engages its audience as an active participant immersed in the experience, unlike the distant spectators of other fine arts. Despite this, buildings are designed to translate well onto the printed page, to look good in the glossy magazines and history books. Institutions of architectural practice and education reinforce this hegemony of vision in the way that they design, represent, and critique buildings. As architects we reward the attractive, aesthetically pleasing 6 building but are not taught to give the same level of consideration to how it feels to actively inhabit the space. Architecture is traditionally designed in plan, section, and elevation; the building represented by these two-dimensional drawings is rarely experienced as they illustrate it. The bodies of built work critiqued and observed as precedent are presented to the architecture community in magazines and monographs primarily as hygienic, uninhabited exterior images. Architectural photographers hurry to document the compositional beauty of the building before it can be tainted by being lived in. This captures the building as a snapshot, locking it into a perpetual present, ignoring the effects of time and traces of use. The current architecture of photographs is problematic on multiple levels. It ignores the human element that the design is built to shelter; it prefers a detached, sterile observation that allows one to dissect formal aspects on an intellectual level uncontaminated by everyday engagement. Kenneth Frampton condemns this camera-hungry architecture, referring to photography as “…an insidious filter through which our tactile environment tends to lose it concrete responsiveness. When much of modern building is experienced actually, its photogenic, sculptural quality is denied by the poverty and brutality of its detailing.”1 The solely visual interpretation denies the more involved experience of how the building engages its audience on an intimate, active level. It is through this haptic, personal participation that the building is experienced as a real, everyday thing. Spaces, as we dwell in them, are experienced as a series of connected architectural events that engage all of our senses: the opening and entering of a door, ascending a staircase, traversing across a room, pausing to lean on a railing and glance around at our surroundings. These experiences cannot be communicated as convenient, flattened images laid out before us in a page spread. The beauty of these experiences lies in their temporal and sequential aspects; they are dynamic experiences that immerse us in an ever-changing corporeal engagement. The world is not a convenient series of snapshots for us to take in through our eyes; it is understood through simultaneous engagement of all of our senses. We feel, see, hear, smell, and taste our world. Steven Holl 7 describes this experiential movement through space:

When we move through space with a twist and turn of the head, mysteries gradually unfolding, fields of overlapping perspectives are charged with a range of light – from the steep shadows of the bright sun to the translucence of dusk. A range of smell, sound, and material – from hard stone and steel to the free billowing of silk – returns us to primordial experiences framing and penetrating our everyday lives.2

This sensuous understanding is in contrast to the rational, abstract understanding of architecture construed from imagery. Ashley Montague describes recent realizations regarding the overpowering primacy of vision as “…an overdue insurgency against the painful deprivation of sensory experience we have suffered in our technologized world.”3 The search for a more sensuous architecture forces us to critically examine our everyday interaction in a predominately visual culture, challenging the hegemony of vision. This action has the potential to create more haptic spaces that intimately engage the collaboration of the senses in their construction of a meaningful experience. The critique of the visual hegemony is prevalent in critical regionalist and phenomenological writings on architecture. It is one of Kenneth Frampton’s primary themes in his regionalist manifestos as well as his case for tectonic architecture, opposing the scenographic and calling for a more tactile architecture decoded through experience. Juhani Pallasmaa criticizes our design culture of “…instantaneous imagery and distant impact…,” stating, “The architecture of the eye detaches and controls, whereas haptic architecture engages and unites.”4 These arguments are supported by phenomenological philosophers such as Merleau-Ponty with his case for multi-sensory perception. This haptic, experiential approach to architecture leads to working from inside out, from the design of the details and moments in which the building directly engages its audience rather than beginning with building design as a formal construction. The results of this approach can be seen in 8 the mature work of Alvar Aalto. Pallasmaa describes it as “…an architecture that is not dictated by a dominant conceptual idea… it grows through separate architectural scenes, episodes, and detail elaborations.”5 Aalto’s approach sought to humanize the functionalist approach of Modernism. Contemporary architects such as Steven Holl, Rick Joy, and Williams & Tsien have adopted similar approaches to their architecture.

Kings never touch doors. They’re not familiar with this happiness: to push, gently or roughly before you one of these great friendly panels, to turn towards it to push it back in place – to hold a door in your arms. The happiness of seizing one of these tall barriers to a room by the porcelain knob of its bell; this quick hand-to-hand, during which your progress slows for a moment, your eye opens up and your whole body adapts to its new apartment. With a friendly hand you hold on a bit longer, before firmly pushing it back and shutting yourself in – of which you are agreeably assured by the click of the powerful, well-oiled latch. (Francis Ponge, “The Pleasures of the Door”)6

It is disconcerting to think that in a way modern architects are similar to the kings in Ponge’s poem. The architect dictates how the door will be constructed and treated without ever touching it, designing it with drawings and written specifications, but construction, the physical connection, is relegated to others. The architect selects the doors, their sizes, materials, finishes, and hardware but does so to create an appealing elevation or meet building code, rarely considering the pleasure of the experience of its use. Does he or she consider the satisfying sound of the latch? Does he care whether someone will want to linger a moment caressing the handle? Does she envision the door’s users as active bodies or does she see them as objects, images from a graphic standards book or Vitruvian men that fit within a circle and square? Architecture should acknowledge its role in the everyday, as an object made to be dwelled in and experienced by the human body. The aloofness of the contemporary, ocularcentric condition rejects this direct, 9 humanistic engagement. The space of architects is a representation, abstract space conceived graphically in contrast to the space of a building’s inhabitants for which it is a concrete thing, a lived space of everyday activity and interaction. Even when eager architects and students visit a building they do so with cameras ready, waiting for passersby to move out of the way so that they can replicate their image of the building as they have come to understand it through the printed media. While we should not be seeking to disavow the visual aspect of architecture, we should be critical of it and recognize it within its role of collaborating with the rest of our sensory perception. This study intends to explore how the realism and tactility of architecture are understood, not merely through a visual syntax but rather through situations and encounters of bodily experience. That is, buildings immerse their audiences in a sort of ‘corporeal narrative’ that leads them through a series of sensorial engagements in which they are involved not as static objects but as dynamic bodies that move through space, interacting with it.

notes 1Frampton, Kenneth. “Intimations of Tactility: Excerpts from a Fragmentary Polemic.” in ed. S. Marble, D. Smiley. Architecture and Body. (Rizzoli: New York,1988) 2 Holl, Steven. Intertwining. (Princeton Architectural Press: New York,1996) p.11 3 Montagu, Ashley. Touching: The Human Signifi cance of the Skin. (Harper&Row: New York,1971) p.XIII 4 Pallasmaa, Juhani. “Hapticity and Time” Architectural Review. May 2000 p. 85 5 Pallasmaa, p.87 6 Ponge, Francis. Selected Poems. (Wake Forest Press: 1994) p.28

10 2 background 2. Background The preference given to vision in Western culture can be traced historically back as far as the Greeks and has continued to evolve through time into the dilemma of today. The great Greek thinkers all generally agreed in their treatment of vision as the noblest and most important of the senses. Aristotle gave primacy to vision “because it approximates the intellect most closely by virtue of the immateriality of its knowing.”1; seeing became analogous with knowledge and truth. This conclusion denies the importance of the other senses and physical engagement with material structures, like architecture, in our understanding. The architecture of Greece, while it does take considerable measures to create a pleasurable image for the eyes, does not present the same visual dominance that is prevalent in the philosophy of the time. It has been theorized that refinements made to Greek temples, fig 2.01 | the parthenon: viewed from the east with visibal doming of the most prevalent at the Parthenon, like the entasis of columns and doming of stylobate and steps the stylobate may have been done to make one question their perception of the space or to give the structure a sense of life.2 At the very least these deviations from geometric perfection show an uncanny understanding of the optical illusions caused by the human point of view. The importance given to the human body is also visible in the detailing, ornamentation and proportion systems. This privileging of sight continued to develop in the Renaissance when the senses were understood as a hierarchical system with vision at the top equated to fire and light. The development of perspective in this period grew to not only represent but also to condition our perceptions, placing the eye in the center of the understanding of our world. Alberti described painting as “nothing but the intersection of the visual pyramid following a given distance, a fixed center and a certain lighting.”3 His approach to fig 2.02 | alberti’s santa maria novella: elevation study architecture did not stray far from this, focusing on the proportions and visual constructions of facades that encourage a distanced frontalist consideration. During the period of the International Style an even greater emphasis was placed on an intellectual and form based architecture that drew its inspiration from the realms of painting and sculpture as well as the machine 12 and its production capabilities. The abstraction of ideas into form and the universalization of space through mass-production within the framework of these other artistic areas of investigation led to a sterile, Cartesian approach to space-making, further distancing the human body from architecture. Georgio Grassi critiques this symbolic, rationalized approach to architecture during the Modern Movement in his essay “Avant-Garde and Continuity”: …Cubism, Suprematism, Neo-plasticism, etc., are all forms of investigation born and developed in the realm of the figurative arts, and only as a second thought carried over into architecture as well. It is actually pathetic to see the architects of that ‘heroic period’… experimenting in a perplexed manner with the new doctrines, measuring them, only later to realize their ineffectuality.4

Le Corbusier can be quoted as saying that: “I exist in life only on the condition that I see.”; “I am and I remain an impenitent visual – everything is in the visual”; and “One needs to see clearly in order to understand.”5 However there is still a tension between the conscious intentions of his writings and the unconscious production of his often rigorously sculptural and tactile buildings. His urban projects on the other hand make the reductive nature of the visual hegemony devastatingly clear. Also, at the same time the work and writing of Alvar Aalto presented a humanized approach to the modernist tenets that led to more interiorized, experiential buildings later in his career. Rather than taking Modernism’s shortcomings as a warning, our technologized culture has further distanced us from having a sensuous relationship with the physical world. We now experience the city as a collection of distant buildings on the other side of the glass as we pass by in the car. Our cities are produced for the car, buildings designed to be viewed in an instant from the window on the road rather than as experienced by the pedestrian on the sidewalk. If we do not even want to get into our cars then we can have the world outside brought to our eyes in the comfort of home through television and printed media. And why should we leave the house? The internet provides means for shopping, working, and even social interaction without ever stepping out the door. This has conditioned the way 13 we approach architecture. We reward buildings based on their appearance and applaud the visually innovative, encouraging buildings designed to be attractive in images on the pages of architectural publications. Too often it is these images that are critiqued to determine the success of the building rather than the experience of being in the building. The whole of architecture is flattened into a convenient series of pictures. The work of the architects labeled as the Post-Modernists best illustrates this near complete flattening of architecture. The architecture of this period exhibits a facadist approach, reducing buildings to billboards for the expression of their potential as vehicles for the signification of theoretical ideas. One of the staunchest proponents of this movement is Robert Venturi, whose buildings, even more than his writing, exhibit the reductive nature of fig 2.03 | vanna venturi house this method of design. His design of facades as canvases for the display of abstract signs ignores the material qualities of the building and often resorts to the use of tacked on imagery and super-graphics. These almost false fronts of building ignore their physical relationship with both the space it contains and the bodies that inhabit it, favoring a symbolic representation of a concept or function. Under the same umbrella of Post-Modernism there was an equally pictorial movement towards a sort of neo-traditionalism taken up by architects like Michael Graves. Graves designs focus on the composition of references to classical building elements in formal geometries, disregarding functional appropriateness in favor of sophistication of composition. This approach created nothing more than a simulacrum of tradition utilizing historical elements as a sort of kit of parts. Critics of this method of design linked it to the values of consumerism. This is appropriate as it seems to “…mirror a preoccupation with colorful packaging and bright commercial imagery.”6 that is so prevalent in American culture. The infusion of the computer into the design process has fig 2.04 | michael graves’ portland building revolutionized the way that architects turn buildings into vehicles for abstract formal manipulations and esoteric intellectual exercises. The work of ‘star architects’ like Frank Gehry utilize the computer to make fascinating forms comprised of complex curves. However these skins serve as little 14 more than a shiny new container for banal spaces whose lack of attention on the human, detail level makes them best experienced from a distance as an object in the landscape. Others like the celebrated Zaha Hadid, who made a name for herself doing paintings of ‘paper architecture’ before receiving building commissions, still draw heavily from the figurative arts, specifically the Russian Suprematists. The computer is then used to explore these abstract ideas in three dimensions, though still with a blatant disregard for direct experience and the human body. While the design of buildings has, for the most part, continued to distance itself from sensuous experience, architectural discourse has been questioning the visual dominance in practice. Nearly thirty years ago Kent C Bloomer and Charles W Moore authored one of the first books to approach the role of the body and sensory perception in the architectural experience in Body, Memory, and Architecture. They argue that the world is measured from our own bodies, how they interact with it. That this is lost in the precise but disconnected architecture of the modern city. They present architecture in its experiential nature rather than as a problem of construction, focusing on buildings’ effects on emotion, place and community as well as the importance of the body’s role in architectural experience. “The body image…is informed fundamentally from haptic and orienting experiences early in life. Our visual images are developed later on, and depend for their meaning on primal experiences that were acquired haptically.”7 In more recent architectural writing Bloomer and Moore’s stance has been picked up in discussions of the tectonics of building and critical regionalism. One of the most notable voices in both of these camps is Kenneth Frampton who argues that the intellectual, scenographic element of architecture subjugates the more ontological, tectonic aspects. However, perhaps the most polemic of the theorists in current conversation on the subject of experience and engagement of architecture is Juhani Pallasmaa. Pallasmaa has written a number of essays that focus on the refutation of the hegemony of vision in contemporary society, calling for haptic, experiential understanding of architecture. The discussions in the area of architectural experience are deeply 15 rooted in philosophy. While much of the reaction against Post-Modernism and its focus on semiotics and the immediacy of vision draws from the philosophy of the Post-Structuralists like Derrida, the discussions of architectural experience are deeply rooted in Phenomenology. Martin Heidegger’s writings speak of the importance of dwelling and everydayness in man’s being. Hegel speaks more directly of sensorial experience and the importance of tactility claiming that touch is the only sense that can truly perceive spatial depth because it “senses weight, resistance, and three- dimensional shape of material bodies and thus make us aware that things extend away from us in all directions.”8 However, the most prevalent writing referenced is Phenomenology of Perception the seminal work of French philosopher Maurice Merleau-Ponty. Merleau-Ponty was trying to trying to locate the idea of ‘pure perception’, separating himself from most models of sensory perception both psychological and physiological that follow a Gestalt concept of perception of an ‘object’ rather than its ‘qualities’.9 He discusses how we experience our world in this pure perception through synchronous sensorial communication: “My perception is [therefore] not a sum of visual, tactile, and audible givens: I perceive in a total way with my whole being: I grasp a unique structure of the thing, a unique way of being, which speaks to all my senses at once.”10 These phenomenological interpretations of the senses and their perceptions are mirrored in the realm of environmental psychology, most notably in the work of James Gibson. Gibson defined the senses as active seeking mechanisms rather than passive pathways or simple clusters of nerves. He argued that the senses can obtain information about the world without intellectual intervention because of the presence of ‘sensationless perception.’11 That being sensory information received without awareness of the visual, auditory or other quality of their input, perception that is sensationless but not informationless. This is akin to Merleau-Ponty’s pure perception that he describes as”…the experience of an undifferentiated, instantaneous, dotlike impact,”12 creating an experience of the qualities as rich and mysterious as the object. 16 Gibson also reorganized the traditional cataloguing of the five senses laid out by Aristotle into five perceptual systems: Basic-Orienting, Haptic, Auditory, Taste-Smell, and Visual.13 Besides grouping taste and smell together, due to their obvious similarities, the most noticeable differences are the inclusion of the basic-orienting system and the expansion of touch as the haptic system. The basic-orienting system senses direction of gravity with an apparatus of the inner ear that picks up forces of acceleration. It also senses starting and stopping of motion and provides a frame of reference for the other senses in relation to our bodies. The haptic system incorporates more than the conventional concept of the sense of touch. It involves not only the hands and skin but the whole body. It incorporates the usual understanding of experiencing objects through touching them with our skin as well as perceptions of warmth, cold, pressure, pain, and the kinesthetics of movement. Gibson also directly challenges vision not denying its ability to transmit profound amounts of information but citing its tendency to be deceived easily.14 Bloomer and Moore’s postulation that the body image and tactile memory precede and inform vision in our understanding of the world is supported by studies in the scientific fields as well. Numerous medical studies have been done proving the importance of touch in human development; we are physical beings who require physical interaction. Ashley Montagu argues for the importance of the tactile realm in a recent book based on the compounding of this medical evidence: “[the skin] is the oldest and the most sensitive of our organs, our first medium of communication… Touch is the parent of our eyes, ears, nose and mouth. It is the sense which became differentiated into the others…”15 This points out that the other senses are perceived by specialized skin being coming into contact with something, whether it be scent particles in the case of the olfactory system or reflected light in the case of the visual. They are all presented as unique types of touching. Despite academic efforts to understand the body’s role in experience and its interaction with architecture, it has continued to be ignored in the conception of built form. With the exception of the work of a select 17 few well know architects like Peter Zumthor, Steven Holl, Rick Joy, and Williams & Tsien, buildings continue to be designed with preference given to abstract, formal considerations over concerns for the sensuous experience that contributes to the pleasure of architecture.

notes 1 as quoted in Pallasmaa, 1996, p.6 2 Biers, William. The Archaeology of Greece. (Cornell Press: Ithaca, 1996) p.204 3 Quoted in Levin, David Michael. Modernity and the Hegemony of Vision. (Cal Press: Berkley, 1993) 4 Grassi, Georgio. “Avant Garde and Continuity” 1980 5 Quoted in Pallasmaa, 1996, p.17 6 Curtis, William. Modern Architecture Since 1900. (Prentice-Hall. Saddle River, 1996) p.604 7 Bloomer, K and Moore, C. Body, Memory, and Architecture. (Yale University Press: New Haven, 1977) p.44 8 Houlgate, Stephen, ‘Vision, Reflection, and Openness – The Hegemony of Vision from a Hegelian Point of View.” In ed Levin, David Michael. Modernity and the Hegemony of Vision. (Cal Press: Berkley, 1993) 9 Merleau-Ponty, Maurice. Phenomenology of Perception. (Routledge: London, 1962) p.3 10 quoted in: Pallasmaa, Juhani. “Hapticity and Time” Architectural Review. May 2000 p. 85 11 Gibson, James. The Senses Considered as Perceptual Sytems. (Allen & Uwin: London,1968) p.2 12 Merleau-Ponty, 1962, p.3 13 Gibson, 1968, p.23 14 Gibson, 1968, p.54 15Montagu, 1971, p.3

18 3 architecture as multi-sensory experience 3. Architecture as Multi-Sensory Experience Fire shares similar functions with architecture; it protects us from cold and serves as a place of gathering. Vitruvius said: “…it was the discovery of fire that originally gave rise to the coming together of men, to the deliberate assembly, and to social intercourse.”1 Fire has aesthetic qualities as well, but it is not purely visual, it excites all the senses. We take pleasure in the warmth it provides, the smoke tickling our noses, and the crackling and popping as the wood slowly burns down. The flicker of its light casts playful shadows across the darkened landscape as the flames appear almost alive. Try as we might, this experience cannot be reproduced on a television screen and have the same effect. If we can take so much sensuous pleasure sitting in front of a fire, why not with architecture? Representations of architecture are appreciated through visual and intellectual conception of ideas, whereas lived architectural experience is grasped through a more complete sensorial perception of the built environment. That is “…architectural comprehension or apprehension by direct stimulation of the senses, in contrast to abstract and rational perception. It is an architecture to look at, touch, listen to and explore, appealing more to the body than the mind.”2 Beyond the clearly understood senses of touch, smell, and hearing are a number of complementary sensory perceptions that the body uses to perceive spaces. Frampton lists “…the intensity of light, darkness, heat and cold; the feeling of humidity…the almost palpable presence of masonry as the body senses its own confinement; the momentum of an induced gait and the relative inertia of the body as it traverses the floor…”3 We register all of these as part of our corporeal encounter with places. Many of them are hard to catalogue or are considered intuitive and subconscious; however, this makes them no less important. A sensuous awareness of architecture is an inclusive, intimate mode of understanding buildings as concrete things. In his essay “Sentimental Topography” Dimitrius Pikionis describes an experience of the everyday (a walk through a seaside town) in terms of the full bodily experience. He illustrates the act of walking as it is felt kinesthetically: “We rejoice in the progress of our body across the uneven 20 surface of the earth Our spirit delights in the endless interplay of the three dimensions that we encounter at every step…”4 He continues to verbalize his experience: “…voices of children at play and the crowing rooster echo mysteriously through the rarified air…. The skin expands under the warm rays of the sun, and then contract under the cool touch of the shade.”5 Pikonis does describe the visual but as a part of the greater experience of engaging himself with a rock that he happens upon; he uses it as a tool to perceive the color, form, and texture of the rock. All the while he supplements his visual connection with a haptic evaluation of the rock and observes its reactions to the sun’s light as he shifts its location in space:

“I stoop and pick up a stone. I caress it with my eyes, with my fingers: it is a piece of gray limestone. Fire molded its divine shape, water sculpted it and endowed it with this fine integument of clay that has alternating bands of white and ferruginous reddish yellow. I turn it around in my hands. I study the harmony of its contours. I delight in the way indentations and protuberances, light and shadow balance each other on its surface.”6

Pikionis states that this engagement is how we connect with the objects that surround us and it is through these connections that we understand the rest of the world. “…Nature wishes to teach us: that nothing exists independently of the Universal Harmony…All things interpenetrate, affect, and change fig 3.01 Athens, Greece one another.”7 We cannot step back and examine things impartially, we are inevitably affected by that which we observe and it informs our conception of itself and our surroundings. It is through this intimate, interactive relationship that we sensuously understand our world.

21 Touch of Vision It is important that the writings calling for a more sensuous approach to architecture coincide in the nature of their critique of the visual dimension. They are condemning only its ability to detach the audience from the object to be experienced and the partiality shown towards this detachment; the importance of the visual in the full bodily experience of space is not questioned. In fact heavy emphasis is placed on the unconscious tactile qualities of visual perception. The eye is able to ‘touch’ things at a fig 3.02 stacked stone distance through its link to our memories of previous haptic experiences of objects with similar qualities. Merleau-Ponty writes: “Through vision, we touch the stars and the sun.”8 Bernard Berenson explains this idea of ‘ideated sensations’ and the application of imagined ‘tactile values’ in reference to painting.9 He discusses this in reference to the artist’s challenge of reproducing a three- dimensional reality on a flat canvas accomplished “…by giving tactile values to retinal impressions. His first business then is to rouse the tactile sense for I must first have the illusion of being able to touch a figure… before I shall take it for granted as real, and let it affect me lastingly.”10 Renowned art and architecture critic Adrian Stokes’ analyses identified similarly with objects on a direct physical level whether he was looking at a building, a sidewalk, or a painting. This subjective approach was taken from a “particularly intimate position held vis-à-vis the object; the distance required for ‘objective’ observation was effectively annihilated replaced by sensual, tactile engagement.”11 In a description of a wall by Stokes, he elucidates the ability of a visual assessment to construct an almost tactile experience of an object and the physical attraction of aspects of imagery: “…heaviness and lightness, sheerness and recession or projection, rectangularity and rotundity, lit surfaces and shadowed surfaces, a thematic contrast between two principle textures, that is to say, between smooth and rough. I take this last to symbolize all, because it best marks the ‘bite’ of architectural pleasure upon memory: the dichotomy that permeates our final impression.”12

22 Shadow is essential in this tactile engagement of the eyes. It is through shadow that we can perceive depth, and texture: without shadow we would not be able to perceive Stokes’ all-important smoothness and roughness without actually touching it. The powerful use of darkness and shadow gives depth and focus to the paintings of Baroque masters like Rembrandt and Caravaggio. In architecture the interplay of light and shadow is just as important. Ruskin wrote in his Seven Lamps of Architecture that:

…among the first habits an architect should learn, is that of thinking in shadow, not looking at a design in its miserable liny skeleton; but conceiving it as it will be when the dawn lights it, and the dusk leaves it; when its stones will be hot and its crannies cool… His paper lines and proportions have no value: all that he has to do must be done by spaces of lightness and darkness…”13

He speaks of the changing character of the shadows from dawn until dusk. This gives life to the building. The character of the shadows on its face is ever changing; a richly textured building always has a playful dance of light and dark across its surfaces. Shadow also provides mystery in our understanding of architecture. It dims the sharpness and clarity of vision, leaving the perception of qualities of that darkened, obscured material to our tactile imagination. Unlike the homogenous, evenly lit environment of so many modern buildings, architecture of texture and shadow invites liveliness and fantasy. fig 3.03 Doubting Thomas by Caravaggio

23 Hapticity The recognition of tactility as a primary element for the understanding of architecture as a corporeal engagement leads one to explore the ‘points of contact’ between the building and its audience. Frampton explains, “The tactile returns us literally to detail, to handrails and other anthropomorphic elements with which we have intimate contact; to the hypersensitivity of Alvar Aalto, to the coldness of metal and the warmth of wood…”14 The reevaluation of how architecture is to be perceived reveals detail as playing a critical role in the experience; you feel a stair rail, a door fig 3.04 hand on a rough surface knob, or a stair tread but you cannot feel the composition of a buildings front façade. The definition of detail, as described by Marco Frascari in his essay “The Tell-the-Tale Detail” is the joint. This encompasses not only material (actual) joints but also formal joints, for which Frascari cites the example of a porch (joint between inside and out).15 The latter of these two is of course the more important for the purposes of studying sensory experience, specifically the joints between user and building and building and environment. Frascari’s essay actually privileges the detail as a generator for the construction of meaning in architecture; an important aspect of this is generation of meaning is based on tactility and bodily engagement. He cites geometry as the primary way that we are able to understand the built world, and the visual and haptic examination of details is the primary way in which we decode the complex geometrical system set up by a building; this is because details are the smallest units of signification in building16 and also those which we come into direct contact with. He explains:

“The placing of details has a key role in the processes of inference. The visual sensations guided by the tactile sensations are the generator of geometrical propositions. In architecture, feeling a handrail, walking up steps or between walls, turning a corner, and noting the sitting of a beam on a wall, are coordinated elements of visual and tactile sensations. The location of those details gives birth to the conventions that tie meaning to a 17 24 perception.” Both of these evaluations (Frampton’s and Frascari’s) rely heavily on our tactile perceptions of the objects. This goes beyond a mere touching: “Just touching is not sufficient; we must also move our fingertips about in order to perceive all the tactile attributes.”18 The movement allows us to perceive all the primary sensuous dichotomies associated with tactile perception (hard/ soft, smooth/rough, elastic/plastic, warm/cold) as well as an impression of the haptic proportions of that which is being handled.19 The haptic sense is a sense of action. It perceives movement kinesthetically, and even when feeling static objects we move our skin across them to understand their tactile qualities. Through our haptic memory we find the fundamental knowledge of the hunter, the farmer, and the fisherman. These skills are “…learned through the incorporating the sequence of movements refined by tradition, not through words of theory.”20 This memory of habit and event is stronger than visual memory fig 3.05 barn in winter and academic knowledge. A recent psychological study concerning topistic memory supports this.21 A group of ranchers in Montana were interviewed and asked to describe the environment in which they live and work. Their answers all illustrated their ranches through the events of daily life and haptic experience. When asked about the barn they did not describe the visual image of the barn but told about the act of building and maintaining it. The sheep shed was described in terms of its warmth in winter during the graveyard shift for lambing season22. It was always the haptic experience of events that pervaded the memory of architecture and place. Tradition and habit are sensed hapticly not only through our memories but also in our perceptions of objects that have been affected by time and retain traces of use. “An old object, polished to perfection by the tool of the craftsman and the assiduous hands of it users, seduces the stroking of the hand.”23 We take pleasure in feeling the grooves and smoothness created by the thousands of hands that came before us. Stokes advocates the importance of touch as he describes the weathering of stone: “A single shape is made magnificent by perennial touching. For the hand explores, all unconsciously to reveal, to magnify an existent form. Perfect sculpture 25 needs your hand to… reveal subtleties unnoticed by the eye, needs your hand to enhance them.”24 This residual tactile quality of time also connects us to the environments effect on objects as Pallasmaa describes here: “A pebble polished by waves is pleasurable to the hand, not only because of its shape, but because it expresses the slow process of its formation; a perfect pebble on the palm materializes duration it is time turned into shape.”25

Intimacy of Sound Sound is a powerful aspect of spatial experience. We can hear architecture through the sound it reflects onto us, giving us impressions of the shape of space and the character of the materials that create it.26 Sound surrounds and fills us; it gives a sense of interiority and connection. We can comprehend the whole of a space through its acoustics as we hear fig 3.06 man in an empty corridor its reverberations in stereo. This immersive quality of sound gives life to experiences. Imagine the difference between going to a sporting event and watching it on television. Sitting in the stands, the roar of the crowd is felt as much as it is heard; it hits deep inside, enveloping and absorbing individuals into a forceful collective experience as the sound resonates through their bodies. Think of an old, empty cathedral. The harsh echo of lonely footsteps off the hard stone gives a comprehension of the immensity of the space. The same space is transformed as the sound of the organ fills it and its inhabitants, replacing the austere seclusion with a sense of solidarity. The acoustics of a space give us a sense of its occupation. An empty hall sounds quite different from the same space filled with bodies. Walking into a house blindfolded one could easily discern an empty room from one that is lived in, filled with the objects of everyday life baffling the sound. The harsh echo of uninhabited space makes it feel cold and hard; the acoustical absorbtion of lived space gives it a comforting softness and warmth. While it generally remains an unconscious segment of experience, sound plays a significant role in our emotional perception of space. fig 3.07 narrow street in Italy Sound can give us a sense of location. The crash of waves is heard at a greater distance than they can be seen, expanding the area claimed by the 26 seaside. The narrow winding streets of old cities each have their own unique echo and acoustical character. This intimacy and distinctiveness has been lost in the contemporary city. The broad car-filled streets do not return the sound of our footsteps.27 What little unique acoustical character the modern city might have is lost on the masses, who wander through with ears plugged by the music coming from their ipods or being pumped through the speakers of the shopping mall.

Space of Scent Active attempts to deodorize space in American culture has resulted in a “…land of olfactory blandness and sameness that would be hard to duplicate anywhere else in the world.”28 Traveling through the same narrow streets of an old European town that provides acoustical intimacy one takes notice of the scent space created by the smells emanating from the buildings that line the path. Without looking up we know we are nearing the bakery because it is morning and the aroma of fresh baked bread is pervading our olfactory system. The sphere of the shoemaker’s shop is defined by the thick scent of leather and polish. In a way these smells produce an extension of the space that is claimed by the building that produces them, spilling out fig 3.08 spice stand onto the street. At the very least it provides a trigger for inducing thoughts and memories associated with the odors. Smell has a powerful connection to memory and emotion. Scents are catalogued by our brain in reference to significant memories. Stimulation of specific smells can cause an involuntary recollection of the past experience it is associated with. These memories are stronger than those of visual and auditory perception and do not fade with time.29 Definition of space through scent has untapped potential for architecture, whether it is used to prompt a return to some emotional state elicited by memories, or simply to create an awareness of arrival or transition. As with the myriad olfactory sensations of a walk through an old town or open air market, spaces of scent “…can provide a sense of life; the shifts and the transitions not only help to locate one in space but add zest to daily life.”30

27 notes 1 as quoted in Heshcong, Lisa. “Thermal Delight in Architecture.” (MIT: Cambridge, 1979) p.12 2 Arango, Sylvia. “Sensorial Architecture and Contextuality.” in ed. S. Marble, D. Smiley. Architecture and Body. (Rizzoli: New York,1988) p.1 3 Ibid 4 Pikionis, Dimitrius. “Sentimental Topography.” In ed in ed. S. Marble, D. Smiley. Architecture and Body. (Rizzoli: New York,1988) p.1 5 Ibid, p.11 6 Ibid, p.4 7 Ibid, p.1 8 quoted in Levin, David. Modernity and the Hegemony of Vision. p.14 9 Montagu, 1986, p.308-9 10 Quoted in Deamer, P. 1988, p.12 11 Deamer, Peggy. “Inside/Out: Adrian Stokes and Corporeal Criticism.” in ed in ed. S. Marble, D. Smiley. Architecture and Body. (Rizzoli: New York,1988) p.3 12 Stokes, Adrian. The Critical Writings of Adrian Stokes. ed L. Growing. (Thames Hudson: London, 1978) vol II, p.242 quoted in: Deamer, 1988, p.6 13 Quoted in Deamer, P. 1988, p.10 14 Frampton, 1988, p.8 15 Frascari, Marco. “The Tell-the-Tale Detail.” in ed. K. Nesbitt. Theorizing a New Agenda For Architecture: An Anthology of Architectural Theory 1965-1995. (Princeton: New York, 1997) p. 501 16 Frascari, 1997, p.500 17 Frascari, 1997, p.505-6 18 Hesselgren, Sven. Man’s Perception of Man-Made Environment. (DHR: Stroudsburg, 1975) p.59 19 Hesselgren, 1975, p.60-1 20 Pallasmaa, 1996, p.43 21 As described in O’Neill, Maire. Corporeal Experience: A Haptic Way of Knowing. Journal of Architectural Education. September, 2001 pp.3-12 22 O’Neill, 2001, p.8 23 Pallasmaa, 1996, p.41 24 Stokes, Adrian. “The Stones of Remini.” in The Critical Writings of Adrian Stokes. ed L. Growing. (Thames Hudson: London, 1978) vol I1, p.242 quoted in: Frampton, 1995, p.10 25 Pallasmaa, 1996, p.41 26Rasmussen, S.E. Experiencing Architecture. (MIT: Cambridge,1962) p.224 27 Pallasma, 1996, p.35 28 Hall, Edward. The Hidden Dimension. (Anchor: 1969) p.45 29 Aamodt, Mette. ‘Architecture Smells’ in ed. Mori, T. Immaterial/Ultramaterial. (Braziller: New York, 2002) p.65 30 Hall, 1969, p.50

28 4 the active dialogue 4. The Active Dialogue

The experience of architecture cannot be equated to the appraisal of the arts of painting and sculpture or even cinema or theater. The building’s nature as a useful object that directly engages and involves its audience makes it peculiar from the visual arts. It is more like a dance in which both the inhabitant and building are not mere spectators but participants. They respond to each other’s actions and their role is understood in conjunction with the other. A person looks silly attempting the dance without a partner. Similarly, without the building the body is lacking, left exposed, cold and shivering; without a body to shelter, the building is merely a stack of construction materials stripped of its usefulness. This symbiotic relationship is illustrated by Tadao Ando through the Japanese concept of the shintai. Oversimplified in its direct translation as ‘body,’ Ando explains it as “…a union of spirit and the flesh. It takes cognizance of the self.”1 He portrays the connection between the shintai and its surroundings:

“The body articulates the world. At the same time, the body is articulated by the world. When ‘I’ perceive the concrete as something cold and hard, ‘I’ recognize the body as something warm and soft. In this way the body in its dynamic relationship with the world becomes the shintai. It is only the shintai in this sense that builds or understands architecture.”2

From Ando’s description we can extract three things as being crucial in man’s understanding of his self and his world: the body, the building, and the environment. All of these are active participants in the ‘dynamic relationship’ he speaks of. The body’s active role is the most apparent as it moves through space and place, interacting with and altering its surroundings. However, the building also changes to suit our bodies whether it is through climate control or the opening of a door. The building is in fact active anytime we are in contact with it, even when it appears static, as the support of the floor acts in response to our feet with every step and the wall holds us as we lean 30 against it. The environment is also ever-changing, with every shift in season, weather condition, and movement of the sun affecting the building and its inhabitants. It is this transformation of architecture perceived in reference to the bodies it shelters and the environment that surrounds it that is lost in the flattened imagery which is so often used to judge the success of its design. These convenient images capture architecture in a moment, a static subject of discussion. They present architecture as a noun. In reality buildings are approached, confronted, activated, and inhabited, all actions, all verbs.3 In the image we see a frozen façade, we recognize the door and all its parts but can only assume what it does, why it is there. As we approach the entry of a building, we see the door as a thing to open, revealing what is within. Once we cross the threshold, the building is acting to shelter us, providing us with a feeling of enclosure that cannot be conveyed in pictures or drawings.

Active Body Buildings serve as a stage for our actions. Our movements through space can be informed or at times controlled by the architecture that surrounds us. This choreography can be passive and even unintentional. Think of children making a game out of stepping on every joint in a sidewalk,4 creating a rhythm as they traverse the path, or breaking that rhythm by incorporating the chance cracks caused by the weathering of the concrete. This same idea could be utilized more intentionally through the use of a walk comprised of individual pavers spaced to require a precisely measured step while following on the path. The pavers could be arranged to maintain a rhythm or disrupt it; placed to be comfortable for the stride or to create awkwardly short or long steps. The pavers begin to control gait with the potential to speed or slow the pace and make one more aware of how the environment is relating to the body. In this situation it is still easy to stray from the path or choose to walk it in a way other than that which is intended. Even more prescriptive applications can require users to follow the route laid out without even the slightest deviation. The ancient Native 31 American cliff dwellings at Mesa Verde had no stairs or ladders to access their varying levels. Instead they carved holes into the cliff face in such a way as to force inhabitants to begin their ascent with each hand or foot beginning in a specific hole if they were to make it to the top.5 Similarly, artificial rock- climbing walls made up of varying hand and foot holds often have specified routes for climbers to follow. The path and technique required to complete these routes are not discernable looking up from the ground and require people to begin their ascent learning as they go. Climbers see and feel their way through the course reaching out for holds, running their hand or foot over them to find how they can grip them and move on; the whole time they are unable to stray from the intended course without becoming stranded on the wall. The participant is made aware of each awkward position and the limits of their own bodies by the strictly controlled pattern of movement the wall’s design imposes upon them. In the Villa Savoie Le Corbusier creates a space that makes the inhabitants aware of their own motility, not through control but rather through choice. The building presents two modes of circulation with contrasting character in their patterns of movement. A circular spiral stair offers a winding, incremental path up through the three floors. Oriented at 90 degrees and nearly tangential to the stairs, a ramp cuts through the middle of the house, providing a linear, continuous vertical progression. The visual openness of the building allows a person on one route to read his movements in relation to the movements of a person on the other6. Someone on the gradual ramped path can see their long stride and sustained movement in contrast to the directness and staccato rhythm of those on the steps punctuated by the pauses of open landings at each floor. Here the building is still a stage that allows us to perceive our movements, but rather than being read only against the building we are reading it against another body. fig 4.01 |villa savoie: floor plans This play of the body’s motility upon itself within the framework of simple vertical circulation systems stands in contrast to the other mode of transportation that Le Corbusier highlights in the same design. At Villa Savoie great emphasis is placed on the inhabitants’ arrival at the house in 32 fig 4.02 | villa savoie: interior view

their automobile. The car and other advancements in the technology of contemporary culture have created some awkward perceptual problems for the body in motion. For millions of years humans have moved in a series of rhythmic pushes, whether it be walking, running, swimming, or crawling, but innovations like automobiles and elevators now transport us at constant rates of speed while enclosed within their structure.7 They allow us to travel drastically greater distances during our typical day than our ancestors could have ever imagined, yet with these modes of transportation the body is essentially motionless and merely propelled. We are moving through space but our body’s internal sense of orientation is telling use that we are static. Anyone who has gotten up and walked within an airplane and feels the same as if they were walking down the hallway of a building, despite being moved hundreds of miles per hour, can attest to this. The human sense of orientation has simply not had time to evolve to comprehend movement within the framework of this new technology. These advancements deny us our perception of movement through space, creating sensory disorientation and illusions of passivity. Psychologists Richard Held and Alan Hein have studied this connection between action, movement and perception as it develops in the neurological system. In 1963 they conducted a noteworthy, but rather cruel, experiment in which two kittens were raised from birth in a circular 33 carousel. One kitten was allowed to move freely around a track while the other one was confined in a cart that restricted its movements and was pulled by the other cat. After a few weeks in the apparatus the kittens were released and observed. The free kitten behaved normally and was able to coordinate its movements with its surroundings. The other cat, however, was not able to link what it saw with its own movement. It ran into objects and stumbled around suffering from agnosia, a sort of neurological mental blindness.8 While extreme, the experiment demonstrated the importance of the correlation between action and perception. Our bodies can understand that which is acquired through active movement but as stimuli are imposed upon our bodies rather than obtained the sensory systems become confused. “Being raised and lowered can make one seasick, raising and lowering oneself does not.”9 Flying in an airplane our perception of ‘down’ is shifted due to the force of the movement so we feel as if there is a constant ascent even when flying horizontal. When stopping in a car our sense organs register a sort of ‘false start,’ much as they do if we were to be spun in a chair and stopped suddenly. This becomes pertinent in our culture of elevators, moving sidewalks, and virtual reality. These advancements, while convenient and wonderful, create a disconnect between our actions and perceptions of the world. fig 4.03 | held & hein’s kitten experi- ment.

34 Active Building “A baked clay vessel. Don’t put it in the glass display case full of rare objects. It would show up badly. Its beauty is allied with the liquid it contains and the thirst it quenches. Its beauty is corporeal: I see it, touch it, smell it, hear it. If it is empty it must be filled; if it is full it must be emptied. I take it by the turned handle as I would take a woman by the arm… It is not an object to contemplate, but one for pouring something to drink.”10

Octavio Paz’s critique of the mistreatment of the craft object as an artifact for display corresponds to architecture as well. These things are not best appreciated when viewed with a degree of separation and objectivity like fine art. Like Paz’s pitcher a building’s beauty is linked to its usefulness and its engagement of the body as it dwells in the space. In the words of Adolf Loos: “The work of art is brought in to the world without there being a need for it. The house satisfies a requirement…”11 Its audience experiences it by living in it, not by looking at it. Technology has begun to veil buildings’ activity and response to inhabitants’ needs. That is not to say that buildings have become less active; actually, technology allows buildings to do much more for the bodies it houses. Architecture has certainly not been denied its usefulness, but there has been a disconnect created in the dialogue between the building and its inhabitants. The modern ‘active systems’ of buildings are less apparent in their response to our needs than the ‘passive systems’ they are replacing. Buildings have been successfully engineered into the modern architect’s dream: “…objects that, like genies, are intangible servants.”12 We are blissfully ignorant of the building while sitting at our desk as the florescent lights buzz above our heads and the air-conditioning maintains a consistent temperature in the room without us lifting a finger. We are unlikely to be aware of how the building is working for us unless a poorly placed duct makes a disruptive noise every time air is forced through it. The design of modern building systems sets out with the goal of creating a consistent environment throughout the building. This is done under the assumption that this constancy is what is desired by the buildings’ 35 inhabitants. However, when properties of the environment produced by the building become continual conditions in space and time, they lose their ability to draw our attention. In turn they deny us the opportunity to take pleasure in those aspects of experience. Variability helps us to appreciate aspects of space and place. We are more aware of something’s presence if there are times when it is not there or if it is read in contrast to another. For example, we take delight in the interspersed moments of shade while walking a tree-lined street on a warm, sunny day. The draw of an inglenook as a warm, cozy place to read is contingent upon the rest of the house being somewhat cold by comparison. A breezy porch swing may seem equally inviting on a balmy day, but not if looked upon through the window of an air- conditioned house. While it would be ludicrous to think that people would be willing to give up these modern conveniences in favor of a less intelligent building, their inherent homogeneity denies potentially pleasurable aspects of spatial individuality. Building elements like the central hearth may be retained but they are reduced to little more than a symbol. It may signify a place to gather, but gathering does not happen because you have to start a fire to allow the building to keep you warm. The above examples of the fire and the porch swing share an interesting characteristic; both of these building features become passive or disappear without interaction from the users they are designed to aid. The swing cannot swing if it is not being pushed by those sitting in it and the fire will die if it is not fueled and stoked (or it will spread from the hearth and engulf the entire building). While these useful tools may not have as clearly designed passive and active states as something like a collapsible chair, they do have a markedly different character when in use and when not. This distinction seems natural, yet buildings exist as increasingly autonomous objects, appearing and operating the same whether they are in use or sitting empty. Again this constancy denies a dialogue about a building’s usefulness; why does it not deactivate and become passive when unoccupied? Deactivation need not be associated with a metal cage being pulled across a storefront. It can be used playfully and effectively, as can be seen in the GucklHupf

36 project by Hans Peter Worndl as well as a series of park lodges designed by MVRDV. The GucklHupf was designed as an alternative vacation cottage on a lake in Austria. Constructed of plywood panels, this small hut transforms itself to meet the desires of its occupants. It is a simple box when not in use but once inhabited its panels slide, fold, tilt and turn to provide or deny views of the surrounding landscape. The movement of the panels allows for a wide range of spatial configurations and views depending on users needs, or it can be completely closed up when vacant. The small cedar clad structure pictured is one building in a series of three similar park information kiosks designed by MVRDV. The exterior of each is comprised of one material (cedar, brick, or steel) and when closed they appear simply as sculptural objects in the landscape. Their distorted forms abstractly reference both traditional buildings and the site.13 It is only when the building skin is pulled up, to expose the information windows and create an awning, that the purpose of the kiosk is revealed. In both of these projects it is the variability that is their most important quality. By embracing the buildings’ passive state, attention is given to the useful, active state by way of difference and variation. Part of architecture’s beauty is in this useful action, its response to our needs. fig 4.04 | mvrdv kiosk: cedar

fig 4.05 | gucklhupf: opening

37 Active Environment This analysis uses entry and the door as an example repeatedly, not simply because it is convenient, but rather because it is one of the most significant architectural events in this dialogue between building, body, and environment. It is the event where the user first actively engages the building and it is also the transition between the surrounding environment and the space controlled by the building. The door is the buildings greeting, the doorhandle its handshake.14 It is only a moment but it is dense with activity and experience. We are moving from outside to inside, to experience fig 4.06 | door handle at alvar aalto’s controlled by the building from that which is not. mt. angel library Our environment conditions our perceptions leading into the experience of the building. We can only experience the building in reference to the outside environment, and that environment is always changing. The entering of a building can be as different as night and day, literally. How do we approach the building? Are we walking through a city on a tight street or are we walking a quiet path through dense forest. If we are in the forest, what season is it? How does that affect our approach? Are we surrounded by the lush green and comfortable warmth of spring listening to rustle of leaves overhead? Are we being engulfed in the reds, oranges, and yellows of fall watching the cool breeze catch the leaves that flutter down from the branches as they shed their foliage, leaving a thick carpet on the ground that we hear crunch underfoot? Or are we seeking refuge from the biting cold of winter surrounded by ranges of white and grey as the hollow whistle of the wind whips through the bare trees? Even once inside these environmental experiences do not disappear. Experiences are read in reference to our memories whether those memories are from seconds or years ago. The environment pervades our experience not only as it directly affects our bodies but also as it projects itself onto the building. Ever- changing environmental conditions, light in particular, play across the building’s walls and flow in through its openings. This gives variety and life to the face of architecture as the walls provide a canvas for light and shadow. Louis Kahn said, “The sun never knew how beautiful it was until it fell on 38 the wall of a building.”15 These same conditions act upon buildings over time through weathering, changing the qualities of its materials, aging them in ways specific to material, climate and orientation. In contemporary building design this issue of weathering is too often addressed as a problem of maintenance, or with denial. Materials like glass and stainless steel become a convenient answer as they show no effects of time and wear as long as they are subject to constant cleaning. Other materials are simply replaced on a regular schedule over the life of the building. A fresh coat of paint might be thrown on a building every few years, making a roofing system that touts itself as having a ten or twenty year life seem lasting by comparison. Yet it still has to be changed out after a mere fig 4.07 | sunlight through a screen decade or two of wear in an attempt to mitigate what is seen as a problem of environmental conditions. The longevity of these modern systems seems laughable when compared to most traditional methods of building. This evokes images of the cyclopean construction of the ancient citadel walls of Myceneaen palaces. The massive stones give a sense of permanence as any weathering of their face only reveals more stone underneath and after thousands of years they look much like they would have the day they were laid. The graceful aging of these heavy stones leads one to look at weathering not as a problem but as an opportunity, a question to be answered with durability and intentionality. Reminiscent of the Myceneaen stone, brick and other masonry construction also weathers slowly. They show the effects of time but without degrading into uselessness or losing their material qualities; instead they gain richness and texture. Knowledge of the specific qualities of materials as they age also fig 4.08 | Cyclopean construction. affords one the opportunity to use that weathering for aesthetic effect. This Treasury of Atreus, Mycenae brings to mind the work of artist Andy Goldsworthy, specifically his clay wall installations. A thick layer of clay applied to a wall surface is incised or dampened to create a sweeping, organic design that begins faint, almost imperceptible, but as parts of the clay dry and crack and others do not the image is slowly revealed over time. While Goldsworthy understands, and tries to predict, the response the material and environment will have to each other his work accepts it and highlights it rather than trying to hide it. 39 Similarly, the patination of metals like copper and the slow graying of woods like cypress use the weathering to create a desired change in the material. These approaches of durability and intentionality maintain the expression of the building’s sheltering nature without denying its interaction with the environment.

notes 1 Ando, Tadao. “Shintai and Space.” in ed. S. Marble, D. Smiley. Architecture and Body. (Rizzoli: New York,1988) p.3 2 Ando, 1988, p.3 3 Pallasmaa, 1996, p.40 4 Yudell, Robert. “Body Movement.” In ed. Bloomer,K. Moore,C. Body Memory Architecture. (Yale Press: New Haven, 1977) p.59 5 Ibid p.71 6 Ibid, p.68 7 Gibson, 1968, p.63 8 Spuybroek, Lars. “Textile Tectonic.” in ed. Tschumi, B. Cheng, I. The State of Architecture at the Beginning of the 21st Century. (Monacelli: New York, 2003) p.102 9 Gibson, 1968, p.65 10 Paz, Octavio. “Seeing & Using: Art & Craftsmanship.” in O. Paz, Convergences: Essays on Art and Literature. (HBJ: New York, 1987) pp. 50-51 11 Quoted in Heynen, Hilde. Modernity and Domesticity. Lecture (Cincinnati: November 14, 2005) 12 Paz, 1987, p.57 13 Dietrich, Lucas. XS: Big Ideas, Small Buildings. (Thames Hudson: London, 2001) p.42 14 Palasmaa, 1996, p.40 15 as quoted in Tanizaki, Junichiro. In Praise of Shadows

40 5 conclusion 5. Conclusion Architecture is for the body as well as the mind, not one or the other. As it is put by Bernard Tschumi, “Neither the pleasure of space nor the pleasure of geometry is (on its own) the pleasure of architecture.”1 The task of architecture is therefore not to rigorously pursue either a particularly sensuous or intellectual architecture at the expense of the other; Rather, it is to create a complementary experience that appeals to both the order of the mind and the sensual desires of the body. Therefore, the arguments in this study have not been attempting to demoralize and architects’ desires to create buildings with some higher theoretical meaning. However, it has called into question the tendency for that desire to supersede and render impotent the aspects of the building that play or our sensuous perception of space.

fig 5.08| a child plays with her shadow amongst those of the structural grid above in OMA’s seattle public library. if archi- tecture can’t be fun then its not worth it.

42 The challenge is not to reject the abstraction and theoretical drivers that have lead to a primarily formal contemporary architecture. It is to humanize them, to return architecture to the body without rejecting the ordered intellectual aspects of its design. The built environment communicates to our bodies through myriad sensory experiences, to many of which are ignored when left to the subconscious mind. Over fifty years ago Richard Neutra argued that: “We must guard against the notion that the only sense perceptions which really count are those which are easily and consciously perceived. On the contrary, one might say that an environmental influence does not correct it. We should therefore pay full attention – and future experimentation will undoubtedly do so - to all of the non-visual aspects of architectural environment and design.”2 With a few exceptions, architects have yet to step up to this challenge. The realms of philosophy, psychology and even the discourse of architecture have called for a more sensuous understanding of our environment, yet architecture remains aloof in built form. The demand for absolute rationality has presupposed an emotional distance from the direct tactile spatial experience of architecture. “Sensuality has been known to overcome even the most rational of buildings.”3 To embrace and take advantage of this inherently sensual nature of architecture provides the opportunity to transcend the constraints of a solely intellectual, visual architecture and involve the whole body as a participant in the understanding of architecture in its beauty as an object of our everyday experience. notes 1 Tschumi, Bernard. ‘The Pleasure of Architecture’ in ed. K. Nesbitt. Theorizing a New Agenda For Architecture: An Anthology of Architectural Theory 1965-1995. (Princeton: New York, 1997) p.534 2 As quoted in Aamodt, 2002, p.68. 3 Tschumi, 1997, p.535

43 6 design methodology 6. Design Methodology What is it to design for architecture of bodily experience and participation? I have already argued that all buildings have an intrinsically sensuous nature and both body and building are active participants, even when unaware of their interaction. It is the tendency to foreground only one aspect of that experience, the instantaneous frozen image, while diminishing the importance of the others that is being critiqued. So, the method of design is approached specifically as a response to that. It is intended as a way of designing to highlight and create awareness of the inherently active, multi- sensory relationship the building has with the body to enrich the experience of architecture. With this in mind a number of design principles can be extracted from the research.

Principles Designing for multi-sensory experience means just that, to design for all the senses. The purpose of the critique of the visual dimension is not to reject that in favor of other senses but to use them all in conjunction with each other. This involves using vision’s strengths and addressing its weaknesses while raising the neglected sensory perceptions out of the subconscious. Vision’s tendency to simplify and rationalize is perhaps its greatest flaw, as it often causes our eyes to lie to us. This can however be an advantage, as it can be used to draw focus to specific elements or cause one to question one’s perception upon further investigation, as one would when presented with the refinements of the Parthenon discussed earlier. This questioning of vision is one thing that could transfer attention to the other senses as we turn to them for confirmation of what we have seen. There are a number of other strategies that could be employed to a similar end, such as sensuous contrast, alerting one sense with another, and sensory surprises. Sensuous contrast refers to the fact that some of these more impalpable perceptions are only read, or at least strengthened, when experienced in its difference with another. For example, we take much more notice of the warmth of a building if we are coming in from a cold winter day. Also, the compression of a cramped hallway may be of little 46 fig 6.01 | sensuous dichotomies: soft- rough, light-heavy, hot-cold

consequence to our perception of the space if it is being experienced only in reference to other tight spaces that come before and after it. However, if we walk through a narrow canyon that then opens onto a broad vista, the dichotomy of compression and release is abundantly clear. One sense can also be used to draw our attention to another. This brings to mind a visit to the Cincinnati Art Museum. Walking through the museum one’s focus is directed to the art in front of them and little else. The hard surfaces of the building do however make one aware of the sharp clap of your foot against the hard wooden floor. This acoustic quality quickly falls into the back of the mind until when crossing a threshold the ears are alerted by a loud creak. Without even having to look down you are aware of a threshold between a new addition and an old building where the wood floor has not been replaced. This could be understood by the creak but now it is perceived just as much hapticly as you can feel the warping of the rough boards of the floor through the soles of your shoes, and by your fig 6.02 | new wood and old wood eyes which have also been alerted to look down and pay attention to what is underfoot. In this case, while likely an accident, one sense was used to draw attention to two others.

fig 6.03 | the ear alerts the eyes

47 fig 6.04 | surprise

Another way to draw attention to usually subconscious senses is through surprise and interruption of routine. As we inhabit and move through space we have certain expectations, and when those expectations are interrupted by something other than what we are accustomed, it creates an awareness of that event and the sensory effects it has. This could be applied in any number of ways, one being the creaking of the floor in the example above. The change in acoustical aspects of the floor draws attention to the sound as well as other senses. All of these strategies are essentially based on the same broader principle, variability. This variability can come about from our interaction fig 6.05 |aalto’s door handles at sanyat salo draw your attention by surprising with the building as it is altered to fit our needs or from our changing you when you have to cock your hand to grip them. perceptions of the building as we move through it. As we move in, around, and through the spaces of architecture our perceptions of those spaces can change drastically. This movement can be used as a driver for design as well as a method of controlling experience. The idea of the building as a stage for movement has been discussed at length. Even apparently static elements of the building can be used to control or reference our body’s movements. The simplest example not already described would be the effects of two different kinds of stairs. A gradual stair with long treads and landings interrupting the rhythm slows our movement, whereas a stair of a regular rise and run and few landings provides a continuous staccato rhythm that tells our body to keep moving and to do it quickly. The experience of architecture as we move through spaces cannot be summed up in a design parti and is not sufficiently expressed through a plan; they both attempt to explain the building in a manner that can be understood all at once. In actuality architecture is experienced as a sequence of individual but interconnected events that gradually unfold before the building’s audience. These instances are experience separately but our 48 perception of each one is informed by our memory of all those previous and the anticipation of what is to come, linking them together and allowing them to be understood not as one instant but as a journey. This leads to the designing of buildings as a series of moments that build to a cohesive whole rather than as a big idea that is slowly, and often sloppily, broken down into the necessary smaller elements. Within these moments the design focus turns more to details than big gestures, with special attention paid to the joint between the building and its audience. These points of contact refer not only to obviously tactile details such as hand rails and doors but also to any wall or floor one may come into contact with during their journey through the building. This leads to a focus on material and texture as well as an understanding of what surfaces are merely seen and what ones have a more direct engagement with the body and what the nature of that interaction is. Every surface, connection, and building element becomes a detail that has to be explored with the strategies above to find their purpose in the overall design. The Narrative What has preceded was essentially a listing of design strategies that can be used to produce some specific desired action or sensory response. They could each individually be proven to deliver the intended effect but still remain a collection of disparate instances of experience that are inadequate without some underlying reasoning. Alone the strategies lack a real methodology for their application to a design. To simply employ them in the traditional design process of thinking through the project in drawings and models would not yield a satisfactory result, as current design methods themselves are as much the problem as the ideas that drive them. One of the biggest critiques of the path of this study has always been that these sorts of things are easy to talk about after the fact but much harder to design for. Therefore, it seemed appropriate to turn to descriptions of built architecture to find the most appropriate tool for the organization of the different design strategies. I am not speaking of the blurbs of text explaining square footages, dimensions, and program that accompany the glossy photos in most architectural publications. Rather I am interested in the descriptive narrative that depicts the subjective experience of inhabiting a building. 49 The narrative offers insight into dimensions of architectural experience that cannot be construed from drawings and images. Written language has the potential to “…assume the silent intensities of architecture.”1 It can speak just as easily of the smell of fresh paint as it can the color it has applied to a surface. The narrative allows all the senses to begin on equal footing; as a medium for design and representation it does not have an intrinsic preference for any one aspect of sensory perception. Also in contrast to the instantaneous image, written language is read in an ordered sequence that communicates to its audience through a gradual unfolding, much like music or architecture. It could be argued that the subjective nature of a narrative has the potential to make it an ineffective vehicle for design. It not only expresses itself through the voice of the writer/designer in how they see the experience on a personal level, but it is again modified in the mind of the reader who has to imagine the physical character of the events described. I would argue that this is actually an advantage in comparison to the objectivity, clarity, and definiteness of drawings. It embraces the fact that the architect often draws on her own personal experiences in design and trusts her bias ‘going with their gut’ when it comes time to make aesthetic decisions. In a discussion of the architectural portrayals of built form Peter Zumthor writes, “If they lack ‘open patches’ where our imagination and curiosity about the reality of the drawing can penetrate the image, the portrayal itself becomes the object of our desire… It references only itself.”2 The narrative promises a certain experiential quality but does not provide a decisive image of it, it leaves something open to the individual imagination. While the use of the descriptive narrative in this instance was motivated by its use to effectively illustrate already built works, it is not unheard of as a design tool. Well known designers Luis Barragan and Maya Lin both begin their design process by putting into words what others might first try to sketch. Barragan often used what he called ‘oral portraits’ to design and describe to others a scenario that he set up as a series of spatial sequences. He would set a gradual path through the project and present it as a narrative to his clients and colleagues before beginning to draw. 50 We’ll enter that garden via a small, high walled patio, bare, of stone, where there’s only a wooden bench. The street door will be low, square covered in tinplate, in such a way that the people passing by and those who enter see only this humble little patio. Afterwards, one ascends by a narrow flight of steps, of stone, between two walls, which ends in another wall that closes off the view. In arriving at the end of the flight of steps one looks towards the right and a wide meadow appears, surrounded by high walls covered in lush climbing plants and with three sculptures of Baroque archangels. After crossing this meadow, one encounters a pool on two levels, quite large, which only leaves a narrow pathway to walk along; the upper part of the rectangular pool spills over into the lower pool… and gives the fig 6.06 | barragan’s chapel at tlalpan impression of a cistern pouring off its excess water.3 (screen wall in the entrance portico)

Barragan focuses primarily on spatial sequence rather than the physical sensations of the journey through the building. It still produces an evocative little tale that illustrates things that a drawing could not. It is effective in that it walks the audience through the series of spaces sequentially rather than putting them on a wall to be comprehended all at once. It is this sequential aspect that is the narrative’s greatest strength as a design tool, perhaps even more so than as a mode of representation. It gives order to the otherwise isolated moments of experience whose true strengths do not show through when viewed as one contiguous presentation of drawings on the wall. While the narrative could be cumbersome at times as a presentation medium, its value in the design process is undeniable. Applied within the construct of the narrative, the design principles laid out earlier in this chapter will not only produce their individual effects but do so in a way that allows the building to tell a story that can be read as a coherent whole. notes 1 Holl, Steven. “Questions of Perception: Phenomenology of Architecture.” in ed Holl, Pallasmaa, Perez-Gomez. Questions of Perception. p.40 2 Zumthor, Peter. Thinking Architecture. (Lars Muller: Baden, 1998) p.13 3 Pauly, Daniele. Barragan: Space and Shadow, Walls and Color. (Birkhauser: Basel, 2002) 51 bibliography

Aamodt, Mette. ‘Architecture Smells’ in ed. Mori, T. Immaterial/ Ultramaterial. (Braziller: New York, 2002

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Antonello A, Mielli G. Alvar Aalto: Architecture to Read. (Gangemi: Rome, 2003)

Arango, Sylvia. “Sensorial Architecture and Contextuality.” in ed. S. Marble, D. Smiley. Architecture and Body. (Rizzoli: New York,1988)1

Biers, William. The Archaeology of Greece. (Cornell Press: Ithaca, 1996)

Bloomer, K. Moore, C. Body, Memory, Architecture. (Yale Press: New Haven, 1977)

Curtis, William. Modern Architecture Since 1900. (Princeton: Saddle River, 1996)

Deamer, Peggy. “Inside/Out: Adrian Stokes and Corporeal Criticism.” in ed in ed. S. Marble, D. Smiley. Architecture and Body. (Rizzoli: New York,1988)

Dietrich, Lucas. XS: Big Ideas, Small Buildings. (Thames Hudson: London, 2001)

Frampton, Kenneth. “Intimations of Tactility: Excerpts from a Fragmentary Polemic.” in ed. S. Marble, D. Smiley. Architecture and Body. (Rizzoli: New York,1988)

Frampton, Kenneth. Studies in Tectonic Culture. (MIT Press: Cambridge, 1995)

Frampton, Kenneth. “Towards a Critical Regionalism” in ed. C. Jencks, K. Kopf. Theories and Manifestoes of Contemporary Architecture. (Academy Editions: West Sussex, 1997) pp.16-29

53 Franck, K. Lepori, R. Architecture Inside Out. (Wiley-Academy: West Sussex, 2000)

Frascari, Marco. “The Tell-the-Tale Detail.” in ed. K. Nesbitt. Theorizing a New Agenda For Architecture: An Anthology of Architectural Theory 1965-1995. (Princeton: New York, 1997) p. 501

Futagawa, Yukio. GA: Alvar Aalto: Town Hall in Sanyatsalo. (ADA: Tokyo, 1973)

Gibson, James. The Senses Considered as Perceptual Sytems. (Allen & Uwin: London,1968)

Hall, Edward. The Hidden Dimension. (Anchor: 1969)

Heshcong, Lisa. Thermal Delight in Architecture. (MIT: Cambridge, 1979)

Hesselgren, Sven. Man’s Perception of Man-Made Environment. (DHR: Stroudsburg, 1975)

Heynen, Hilde. Modernity and Domesticity. Lecture (Cincinnati: November 14, 2005)

Holl, Steven. Intertwining. (Princeton Architectural Press: New York,1996)

Holl, Steven. “Questions of Perception: Phenomenology of Architecture.” in ed Holl, Pallasmaa, Perez-Gomez. Questions of Perception.

Houlgate, Stephen, ‘Vision, Reflection, and Openness – The Hegemony of Vision from a Hegelian Point of View.” In ed Levin, David Michael. Modernity and the Hegemony of Vision. (Cal Press: Berkley, 1993)

Levin, David Michael. Modernity and the Hegemony of Vision. (University of California Press: Berkley, 1993)

Lin, Maya. Maya Lin Boundaries. (Simon & Schuster: New York, 2000)

Montagu, Ashley. Touching: The Human Signifi cance of the Skin. 54 (Harper&Row: New York,1971)

Pallasmaa, Juhani. The Eyes of the Skin. (Academy Editions: London, 1996) p.6

Pallasmaa, Juhani. “Hapticity and Time” Architectural Review. May 2000 p. 85

Pallasmaa, Juhani. “Alvar Aalto: Towards a Synthetic Functionalism” in ed. P. Reed. Alvar Aalto: Between Humanism and Materialism. (MOMA: New York, 1998) p.21-44

Pauly, Daniele. Barragan: Space and Shadow, Walls and Color. (Birkhauser: Basel, 2002)

Paz, Otavio. “Seeing & Using: Art & Craftsmanship.” in O. Paz, Convergences: Essays on Art and Literature. (HBJ: New York, 1987)

Pikionis, Dimitrius. “Sentimental Topography.” In ed in ed. S. Marble, D. Smiley. Architecture and Body. (Rizzoli: New York,1988)

Ponge, Francis. Selected Poems. (Wake Forest Press: 1994)

Porphyrios, Demetri. “The Retrival of Memory: Alvar Aalto’s Typological Conception of Design.” in Oppostions Fall 1980, no.22 pp.54-73

Merleau-Ponty, Maurice. Phenomenology of Perception. (Routledge: London, 1962)

Rasmussen, Steen. Experiencing Architecture. (MIT: Cambridge,1962)

Reed, Peter. Alvar Aalto: Between Humanism and Materialism. (MOMA: New York, 1998)

Reed, Peter. “Alvar Aalto and the Humanism of the Postwar Era” in ed. P. Reed. Alvar Aalto: Between Humanism and Materialism. (MOMA: New York, 1998) pp.94-115.

Stokes, Adrian. “The Stones of Remini.” in The Critical Writings of Adrian Stokes. ed L. Growing. (Thames Hudson: London, 1978) vol II

55 Spuybroek, Lars. “Textile Tectonic.” in ed. Tschumi, B. Cheng, I. The State of Architecture at the Beginning of the 21st Century. (Monacelli: New York, 2003) p.102

Schlidt, Goran. Alvar Aalto: Masterworks. (Rizzoli: New York, 1998)

Trieb, Marc. “Aalto’s Nature.” in ed. P. Reed. Alvar Aalto: Between Humanism and Materialism. (MOMA: New York, 1998) pp.46-67.

Tschumi, Bernard. “The Pleasure of Architecture.” in ed. K. Nesbitt. Theorizing a New Agenda For Architecture: An Anthology of Architectural Theory 1965-1995. (Princeton: New York, 1997) p. 534

Tuovien, Esteri. Alvar Aalto: Technology and Nature. Video (Films for the Humanities and Sciences: 1996) 59min.

Yudell, Robert. “Body Movement.” In ed. Bloomer, K. Moore, C. Body, Memory, Architecture. (Yale Press: New Haven, 1977)

Zumthor, Peter. Thinking Architecture. (Lars Muller: Baden, 1998) (Footnotes) 1 Architecture and Body has no page numbers. All page numbers given in footnotes are given from the beginning of the individual essay.

56 image credits

2.01 –Biers, William. The Archaeology of Greece. (Cornell Press: Ithaca, 1996) p.202 2.02 – Alberti’s Santa Maria Novella: Elevation Study 2.03 – Vanna Venturi House 2.04 – Michael Graves’ Portland Building

3.01 – www.gettyimages.com 3.02 – www.gettyimages.com 3.03 – Doubting Thomas by Carravagio 3.04 – www.gettyimages.com 3.05 – www.gettyimages.com 3.06 – www.gettyimages.com 3.07 – www.gettyimages.com 3.08 – www.gettyimages.com

4.01 –Curtis, William. Modern Architecture Since 1900. (Princeton: Saddle River, 1996) p.283 4.02 –Ibid, p.277 4.03 –Spuybroek, Lars. “Textile Tectonic.” in ed. Tschumi, B. Cheng, I. The State of Architecture at the Beginning of the 21st Century. (Monacelli: New York, 2003) p.102 4.04 – Dietrich, Lucas. XS: Big Ideas, Small Buildings. (Thames Hudson: London, 2001) p.55 4.05 – Ibid, p.44 4.06 – Photo by Author 4.07 – www.gettyimages.com 4.08 –Biers, William. The Archaeology of Greece. (Cornell Press: Ithaca, 1996) p.77

5.01 – Courtesy of Michael Wagner

57 6.01 - www.gettyimages.com (altered by author) 6.02 - www.gettyimages.com (altered by author) 6.03 - www.gettyimages.com (altered by author) 6.04 – By Author 6.05 – Ford, Edward. The Details of Modern Architecture: Volume 2: 1928-1988. (MIT: Cambridge, 1996) p.153 6.06 –Pauly, Daniele. Barragan: Space and Shadow, Walls and Color. (Birkhauser: Basel, 2002) p.142

58 appendix 4 precedent analysis: saynatsalo town hall alvar aalto Super-Rationality: Alvar Aalto’s Sanyatsalo Hall The mature work of Alvar Aalto is the preeminent example of the expression and application of an architecture comprised as a sequence of experiential events rather than the formal construction of an abstract idea that is to be perceived only visually. This phase of Aalto’s work arose in the mid-1930’s as he distanced himself from the purely functionalist tenets of the Modern Movement; he began to set aside the externally controlled architecture of formal geometry and idealism expressed as image in favor of a more intimate architecture of interiority, tactility, and realism experienced through a series of separate architectural moments.1 This late stage of his work is often described as romantic, organic, or irrational. Aalto however, would describe it more as super-rationality or, similarly, Pallasmaa describes it as synthetic functionalism. Both of these infer, not a break from his previous methods, but a transcendence of their accepted limitations leading to a more comprehensive, humanistic approach to building. Aalto explains this in his own words: “It is not the rationalization that was wrong… The wrongness lies in the fact that the rationalization has not gone deep enough…. Technical functionalism is correct only if enlarged to cover even the psychophysical field. That is the only way to humanize architecture.”2 This lead to a design methodology informed by humanism and sensory realism more than conceptual idealism and form. Conceived and built between 1949 and 1952 the Town Hall in Sanyatsalo, Finland stands as an exemplar of how this approach manifests itself physically. This is not to say that Sanyatsalo Hall is devoid of visual constructions, it remains a note-worthy building when studied for its formal aspects. However, it has a depth that cannot be recreated in the flattened images and drawings printed in the history books. This can only be experienced through a level of engagement that requires direct interaction between the building and its audience. Unfortunately, few people are able to make their way to a small town in central Finland to relate to the building on a tactile level. Therefore we are generally limited to the imagery presented to us in history books.

62 7.01 |View of Sanyatsalo from the North

7.02|North entry to courtyard

63 A logical, traditional point of departure for a solely visual understanding of the building is an observation of its plan. At first glance it appears somewhat fragmentary and even clumsy, a result of Aalto’s designing from inside out. It is quickly realized that despite its eccentricities it is following in the typology of the conventional town hall, with its asymmetrical, U-shaped composition surrounding an open court. This finds its inspiration in medieval town planning and more recent Scandinavian precedents in Eleil Saarinen’s Town Hall at Lahti and Ragnar Ostberg’s Stockholm City Hall.3 Sanyatsalo Hall’s other major formal element, the vertical protrusion containing the council chamber, also has striking similarities to Saarinen’s and Ostberg’s designs. Though less conspicuous than the ornamented spire in Stockholm it still serves as a focal point and strong vertical element giving hierarchy and order to a low, horizontal scheme. This move can be construed as giving clear symbolic prominence to the council chamber. This is described by Demitri Porphyrios in an essay on Aalto’s work as clearly being from a typological mindset challenging the Modernist disillusionment with history. “Aalto re-semanticized the classical/medieval prototype of the city-crown, 7.03 |Ground level and Council Chamber plans thus rendering visible the relative hierarchy of the council chamber… while assigning the whole composition the status of civic monument.”4 The chamber’s importance is also displayed in its roof form and placement within the composition. The sharply pitched, asymmetrical shed roof draws attention to itself in contrast to the shallow, low roofs of the surrounding structure. Approaching the building from the west the volume containing the chamber is conveniently framed by the flanking structures in a clear perspectival scene. The dramatic view is aided as the slight angle inward of the low buildings draws your eye into a forced perspective centered on the sharp prow of the chamber’s roof.

64 7.04 |Ostberg’s Stockholm City Hall

7.05 |View from the East

65 Studying this western façade we see evidence of one of Aalto’s modus operandi, a deliberate connection to, and cultivation of site. The two wings appear to be growing out of the site; the section confirms that they are partially dug in on the western side. These wings seem to serve as metaphorical dams containing an earthen grassy pool that is the courtyard.5 This pool spills out through an opening at the southwest corner in the form of terraced landscaping that serves as steps to access the court and at the same time creates architectonic, readable contours on the landscape. This provides some possible insight into Aalto’s use of brick in this project, which is a departure from the clean white faces of his previous works at Paimio and Viipuri. The squat, heavy brick buildings that emerge from the earth provide a strong stereotomic foundation upon which he places the council chamber with its soaring roof. This would be a powerful expression of the tectonic qualities of the building if only the tower were not treated with the same weighty material as its base. Why would he not difference the chamber’s exterior further from the surrounding earthwork buildings by finishing it in a contrasting material representative of the tower’s lightness? 7.06 |landscaped terraces leading into the courtyard

66 Here Aalto’s material choice comes into question. Through inspection of images of the Sanyatsalo Hall’s interior it becomes apparent that the mass and substance of the brick is further neglected in his detailing. The openings of the building are not arched or corbelled to express the bricks’ structural qualities; they are supported by concrete lintels that are clad in brick to hide them from view and deny any level of structural expression. This subversion of the structure of the building is visible again in the design of the much celebrated trusses of the council chamber. The entire top cord of each of the beautiful skeletal supports is completely hidden in the ceiling treatment. Aalto’s Modernist contemporaries, in their structuralist mindset, would likely argue that Sanyatsalo is living a lie, denying the fundamental nature of its structure and materials. It would be convenient to accept this as a good building with carefully constructed formal references to typological precedents and a weakness in its negligence of the buildings tectonic and structural essence. However, it is hard to accept that a master like Aalto would be so careless in his deployment of materials. This presents the necessity for a deeper understanding of the building that cannot be realized through a study limited by the constraints of the printed page.

7.07 |trusses in the council chamber

67 7.08|brick as a textural material

68 With the assessment of the building seemingly incomplete after rigorously going over the images it is realized that Aalto’s humanist, ‘super- rational’ approach to Sanyatsalo must be understood through a more intimate, experiential examination. Within this frame of mind we can begin to revisit the previous assessment of the brick. The fact that brick is not a dominant material in Aalto’s earlier work is telling of the deliberateness of the choice, it was not an unconscious fallback. It is the tactile surface characteristics that he is taking advantage of in this instance, replacing homogenous white facades with the roughness and variation created by the brick. Without even making contact with the brick its texture presents us with ‘ideated sensations’ of its tactile quality. The sunlight shining on the irregular surfaces creates pockets of light and shadow, . This can be visible in pictures, but the images lack the temporal aspect of the play between sunlight and the texture. As the sun moves and clouds pass it affects the character of the surfaces that reflect its light; it brings the textural surface to life, its appearance variable and unpredictable. The playfulness of the natural light carries into the hallways as one enters the building. The heavily glazed single-loaded corridors face onto the courtyard allowing the shadows of mullions and planters to constantly dance over the floors and walls. The brick follows us inside as well. It is not only on the walls but it also serves as an edging material on the floors, it creates a visual change but it is also sensed hapticly as its rough surface slows the step of any foot straying from the smooth floor surface of the walking path. The hall is punctuated by warm, honey colored wood doors. Reaching blindly for the handle one is surprised to have to cock their hand to the side to grip it properly. The handle is found to be designed for the hand in its anthropomorphic form as well as in its material as its metal structure is wrapped in leather to create a softer, more humane object to interact with. Turning back to the modest lobby and a brick lined stairwell we continue on the primary architectural sequence that Aalto has set up for us, the ascent to the council chamber.

69 70 (opposite) 7.09|main building entry

(above) 7.10|main hallway

(left) 7.11|wrapped door handle

71 Kenneth Frampton describes this process of ascent and arrival in a number of essays discussing tactility: “The main route leading to the second floor council chamber is ultimately orchestrated in terms which are as much tactile as they are visual. Not only is the principle access stair lined in raked brickwork, but the treads and risers are also finished in brick. The kinetic impetus of the body in climbing the stairs is thus checked by the friction of the steps, which are ‘read’ soon after in contrast to the timber floor of the council chamber itself. The chamber asserts its honorific status through sound, smell and texture, not to mention the springy deflection of the floor underfoot (and the noticeable tendency to loose one’s balance on its polished surface).”6 This sequence that culminates in the arrival at the council chamber works adds a layer of richness to the meanings construed from the formal construction of the building’s massing. It provides the factor that the exterior reading of the building was lacking, a contrast in the material treatment of the tower and the surrounding structures. As Frampton describes, the arrival is marked by the distinct difference in materiality. Equally dramatic is the compression and release in the emergence from the narrow passage surrounded by massive brick walls into a grand seventeen meter high open space with delicate wooden trusses above. It is clear that the depth of meaning that these instances add to the building cannot be decoded by anything other than the experience itself. After going through the full progression of events it seems as if the forms we saw from the outside came to be more from a need to contain the interior experience than to produce a figurative composition on the exterior.

72 7.12|stair to council chamber

7.13|council chamber interior

73 notes 1 Pallasmaa, 3 2 Aalto quoted in Pallasmaa, 1998, p.31 3 Reed, Peter. “Alvar Aalto and the Humanism of the Postwar Era” p.100 4 Porphyrios, Demetri. “The Retrival of Memory: Alvar Aalto’s Typological Conception of Design.” p.59 5 Trieb, Marc. “Aalto’s Nature.” p.60 6 Frampton, 1997, p.28

74