The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
Gilbert Herbert and Mark Donchin The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process Ashgate Studies in Architecture Series
series editor: eamonn canniffe, manchester school of architecture, manchester metropolitan university, uk
The discipline of Architecture is undergoing subtle transformation as design awareness permeates our visually dominated culture. Technological change, the search for sustainability and debates around the value of place and meaning of the architectural gesture are aspects which will affect the cities we inhabit. This series seeks to address such topics, both theoretically and in practice, through the publication of high quality original research, written and visual.
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Architect Knows Best Environmental Determinism in Architecture Culture from 1956 to the Present Simon Richards ISBN 978 1 4094 3922 6
Nationalism and Architecture Edited by Raymond Quek and Darren Deane, with Sarah Butler ISBN 978 1 4094 3385 9
The Political Unconscious of Architecture Re-opening Jameson’s Narrative Nadir Lahiji ISBN 978 1 4094 2639 4
Forthcoming titles in this series
The Dissolution of Place Architecture, Identity, and the Body Shelton Waldrep ISBN 978 1 4094 1768 2
Building Apartheid On Architecture and Order in Imperial Cape Town Nicholas Coetzer ISBN 978 1 4094 4604 0 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
Gilbert Herbert Emeritus Professor of Architecture and Town Planning, Technion, Israel Institute of Technology, Haifa, Israel and Mark Donchin Architect and City Planner, Los Angeles, California, USA © Gilbert Herbert and Mark Donchin 2013
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the publisher.
Gilbert Herbert and Mark Donchin have asserted their right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the authors of this work.
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British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data Herbert, Gilbert. The collaborators : interactions in the architectural design process. -- (Ashgate studies in architecture) 1. Architectural design--Case studies. 2. Group work in architecture. 3. Architects and engineers. 4. Interprofessional relations. I. Title II. Series III. Donchin, Mark. 720.6’8-dc23
ISBN-13: 9781409455042
The Library of Congress has catalogued this printed edition as follows: The collaborators : interactions in the architectural design process / by Gilbert Herbert and Mark Donchin. pages cm. -- (Ashgate studies in architecture) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-1-4094-5504-2 (hardback) -- ISBN 978-1-4094-5505-9 (ebook) 1. Communication in architectural design. I. Herbert, Gilbert. II. Donchin, Mark. NA2750.C653 2013 720--dc23 2012035707
V
Printed and bound in Great Britain by MPG PRINTGROUP Contents
List of Figures vii Acknowledgements xiii Foreword xvii
Introduction: Players in the Design Process—Three Essays 1
1 St. Pancras Reconsidered: A Case Study in the Interface of Architecture and Engineering 27 Gilbert Herbert
2 Speculations on a Black Hole: Adler & Sullivan and the Planning of the Chicago Auditorium Building 61 Gilbert Herbert and Mark Donchin
3 Clash of the Titans: Rutenberg, Mendelsohn, and the Problem of Client-Architect Relationships 117 Gilbert Herbert
4 Working as a Team: From the Transvaal Group to the John Moffat Building 147 Gilbert Herbert
5 Kahn, Komendant, and The Kimbell Art Museum: Cooperation, Competition, and Conflict 205 Mark Donchin
Index 237 This page has been left blank intentionally List of Figures
Chapter 1 Frontispiece. Photo: Bryn Hughes (www.brynhughes.com.uk) 27 Fig. 1.1 Barlow: Midland Railway train shed. Photo: Wikimedia Commons 32 Fig. 1.2 Scott: Midland Hotel. Photo: Gilbert Herbert 33 Fig. 1.3 Barlow: structural details, train shed. Photo: Institution of Civil Engineers 35 Fig. 1.4 Plans of St. Pancras Station: above, street plan; below, platform level. Photo: Railway Magazine (1968) 36 Fig. 1.5 St. Pancras: interior perspective of train shed. Photo: Wikimedia Commons 37 Fig. 1.6 St. Pancras: structural grid, street level. Photo: Gilbert Herbert 39 Fig. 1.7 Comparative plans: Euston, King’s Cross, Paddington and St. Pancras Stations. Photo: Gilbert Herbert 41 Fig. 1.8 Scott: Midland Hotel, south façade, original version. Photo: British Architectural Library (RIBA) Drawing Collection 42 Fig. 1.9 Scott: Midland Hotel, original version, platform level. Photo: British Architectural Library (RIBA) Drawing Collection 43 Fig. 1.10 Scott: Midland Hotel, original version, 1st floor plan. Photo: British Architectural Library (RIBA) Drawing Collection 43 Fig. 1.11 Midland Hotel, view from the Euston Road. Photo: Gilbert Herbert 44 Fig. 1.12 Ramped approach to St. Pancras Station. Photo: Gilbert Herbert 45 Fig. 1.13 Owen Jones: proposal for St. Pancras Station and the Midland Hotel. Photo: Ironbridge Gorge Museum Trust (Sir Arthur Elton Collection) 48 Fig. 1.14 Barlow and Scott: St. Pancras Station and the Midland Hotel as built. Photo: John Gay © English Heritage 48 Fig. 1.15 Scott: ground floor plan, Midland Hotel, early sketch. Photo: British Architectural Library (RIBA) Drawing Collection 49 Fig. 1.16a Progression: the entrance archway. Photo: Gilbert Herbert 50 Fig. 1.16b Progression: the booking office. Photo: Gilbert Herbert 51 viii The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
Fig. 1.16c Progression: the station platform. Photo: Gilbert Herbert 52 Fig. 1.17 Barlow and Scott: longitudinal section through train shed and hotel. Photo: The Engineer (1867) 53 Fig. 1.18 The articulated link separating the hotel and the train shed, and the southern screen. Photo: Left: British Architectural Library (RIBA) Drawing Collection; Right: Gilbert Herbert 55 Fig. 1.19 Side walls of the train shed, St. Pancras. Photo: Gilbert Herbert 56 Fig. 1.20 The interlocking of Barlow’s and Scott’s designs of the Railway Station and the Midland Hotel. Photo: Adapted from The Engineer (1867) by Gilbert Herbert 57 Chapter 2 Frontispiece. Photo: Mary Ann Sullivan 61 Fig. 2.1 The Chicago Auditorium Building: interior view; section. Photo: Ryerson and Burnham Libraries Book Collection, The Art Institute of Chicago. Digital File #1A1108_0196-0197 © The Art Institute of Chicago. Historic Architecture and Landscape Image Collection, Ryerson and Burnham Archives. The Art Institute of Chicago. Digital File #49666 © The Art Institue of Chicago 63 Fig. 2.2 Auditorium Building: functional zones and access points. Photo: Gilbert Herbert 71 Fig. 2.3 Auditorium Building: analysis of functional zones. Photo: Gilbert Herbert 72 Fig. 2.4 Auditorium Building 7th floor. A. Offices; B. Tower; C. Hotel rooms; D. Suites; E. Recital Hall; F. Banqueting Hall; G. Kitchen. Photo: Ryerson and Burnham Archives, The Art Institute of Chicago. Courtesy of the Art Institute of Chicago 76 Fig. 2.5 George C. Izenour’s reconstruction of the Auditorium on grand opening night, with stage arranged in concert mode, suspended ceiling open. Photo: Reproduced with the permission of Rare Books and Manuscripts, Special Collections Library, Pennsylvania State University Libraries 78 Fig. 2.6 Dankmar Adler: Central Music Hall, Chicago; section and floor plans. Photo: Illustrations from Louis Henry Sullivan by Mario Maniera Elia, Electa editore, Milano 84 Fig. 2.7 Dankmar Adler: McVickers Theatre, Chicago, longitudinal section after remodelling. Photo: Illustrations from Louis Henry Sullivan by Mario Maniera Elia, Electa editore, Milano 87 Fig. 2.8a Sullivan: Guaranty Building, Buffalo, New York—general view. Photo: Illustration from Louis Henry Sullivan by Mario Maniera Elia, Electa editore, Milano 96 Fig. 2.8b Sullivan: Guaranty Building, Buffalo, New York—floor plan. Photo: Illustration from Louis Henry Sullivan by Mario Maniera Elia, Electa editore, Milano 97 Fig. 2.9 Louis Sullivan: Carson-Pirie-Scott Store—illumination of typical floor. Photo: Richard Nickel Archive, Ryerson and Burnham Archives, The Art Institute of Chicago. Digital File #201006_110516-023 © The Art Institute of Chicago 99 list of figures ix
Fig. 2.10 Louis Sullivan: Wainwright Building—façade detail. Photo: Illustration from Louis Henry Sullivan by Mario Maniera Elia, Electa editore, Milano 101 Chapter 3 Frontispiece. Photo: Left: Israel Electric Corp. Archives; Right: Reproduced from Akademie der Künste Berlin catalogue (1968) 117 Fig. 3.1 Herzl’s delegation to Kaiser Wilhelm, 1898 (l-r) Bodenheimer, Wolffsohn, Herzl, Moses Schnirer, Joseph Seidener. Photo: Israel National Photo Collection 120 Fig. 3.2 The Rutenberg Concession—proposed power grid. Photo: Manchester Guardian, 1933, courtesy the Guardian Newspaper 122 Fig. 3.3 Haifa Power House 1934–35—proposals by Orell/Zohar, Rosoff, unknown. Photo: Israel Electric Corp. Archives 125 Fig. 3.4 Mendelsohn sketches: Industry, 1914; Einstein Tower, 1920. Photo: Reproduced from Akademie der Künste Berlin catalogue (1968) 128 Fig. 3.5 Erich Mendelsohn: Haifa Power House, perspective sketches, March 1923. Photo: Israel Electric Corp. Archives 134 Fig. 3.6 Mendelsohn/Wijdeveld: Haifa Power House, March 1923. Photo: Israel Electric Corp. Archives 135 Fig. 3.7 Mendelsohn: Haifa Power House, perspective, Nov. 1923. Photo: © bpk-Berlin/Mendelsohn Collection, Kunstbibliothek Berlin 136 Fig. 3.8 Richard Kauffmann: Haifa Power House, perspective, 1924. Photo: Central Zionist Archives 136 Fig. 3.9 PEC Design Office: Haifa Power House, 1925. Photo: Israel Electric Corp. Archives 137 Fig. 3.10 Benjamin Orell: The White House, Naharaim. Photo: Israel Electric Corp. Archives 139 Chapter 4 Frontispiece. Photo: William Martinson 147 Fig. 4.1 Professor G.E. Pearse. Photo: Published with the kind permission of the University of the Witwatersrand, Johannesburg 149 Fig. 4.2 Students preparing exhibition. Photo: Collection Gilbert Herbert 152 Fig. 4.3 Gas Warfare drill: Capt. Fassler, Lt. Howie, University students. Photo: Gilbert Herbert 154 Fig. 4.4 Practical building exercise: staff and students working side by side. Photo: Collection Gilbert Herbert 154 Fig. 4.5 Staff Party for Richard and Dione Neutra. Left-right: Bette (Spence) Pinfold (seated), Carl Pinfold, Duncan Howie, Valerie Herbert, Sheila Fassler, Gilbert Herbert, Ugo Tomaselli. At back: Graham de Gruchy, [unidentified], Wilfred Mallows, [unidentified], Lesley Gruzd, John Fassler. Photo: Collection Gilbert Herbert 155 Fig. 4.6a Escom House: plans. Photo: S.A. Architectural Record, (June 1937), courtesy S.A. Institute of Architects 158 Fig. 4.6b/c Escom House: interior of Hall of Achievement. Photo: S.A. Architectural Record, (June 1937), courtesy S.A. Institute of Architects 159 x The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
Fig. 4.7 university of the Witwatersrand, 1930. Photo: The Star Newspaper 161 Fig. 4.8 The University Library (later Cullen Library). Photo: Published with the kind permission of the University of the Witwatersrand, Johannesburg 162 Fig. 4.9 Main Reading Room (perspective: John Fassler) and ground floor plan, Cullen Library. Photo: S.A. Architectural Record (August 1934), courtesy S.A. Institute of Architects 163 Fig. 4.10 Central Block, 1940s, and Foyer after restoration. Photo: Left: Postcard, photo Arthur English; Right: Published with the kind permission of the University of the Witwatersrand, Johannesburg 166 Fig. 4.11 Central Block: original plan and plan after restoration. Photo: S.A. Architectural Record (26:1941), courtesy S.A. Institute of Architects 167 Fig. 4.12 The Bernard Price Institute for Geophysical Research. Photo: S.A. Architectural Record (March 1938), courtesy S.A. Institute of Architects 169 Fig. 4.13 The Hillman Building, view and ground floor plan. Photo: S.A. Architectural Record, 1941, courtesy S.A. Institute of Architects 170 Fig. 4.14 The Dental School and Hospital, Bok Street. Photo: S.A. Architectural Record, courtesy S.A. Institute of Architects 173 Fig. 4.15 The palazzo plan: the Dental Hospital and Palazzo Farnese, Rome. Photo: Left: S.A. Architectural Record, courtesy S.A. Institute of Architects; Right: Banister Fletcher 174 Fig. 4.16 East Campus, University of the Witwatersrand: location of buildings discussed. Photo: Published with the kind permission of the University of the Witwatersrand, Johannesburg, adapted by G. Herbert 176 Fig. 4.17 new Dental Hospital, Witwatersrand University, 1947–51. Photo: Public Works of South Africa (August 1951) 178 Fig. 4.18 Alternative conceptual diagrams, John Moffat Building. Photo: Drawing, Gilbert Herbert 187 Fig. 4.19 John Moffat Building: early version (perspective John Fassler). Photo: Published with the kind permission of the University of the Witwatersrand, Johannesburg, holdings of the School of Architecture 189 Fig. 4.20 John Moffat Building: north façade and west façade. Photo: S.A. Architectural Record (November 1959), courtesy S.A. Institute of Architects 191 Fig. 4.21 Dorothy Susskind Auditorium. Photo: S.A .Architectural Record (November 1959) 192 Fig. 4.22 John Moffat Building: cross-section and ground floor plan. Photo: S.A. Architectural Record (November 1959), courtesy S.A. Institute of Architects 193 Fig. 4.23 John Moffat Building: architectural design and fine arts studios. Photo: S.A. Architectural Record (November 1959), courtesy S.A. Institute of Architects 194 list of figures xi
Fig. 4.24 John Moffat Building: library and foyer-exhibition area. Photo: S.A. Architectural Record (November 1959), courtesy S.A. Institute of Architects 195 Fig. 4.25 John Moffat Building: east courtyard, original and final version. Photo: Above: Published with the kind permission of the University of the Witwatersrand, Johannesburg; Below: Collection Gilbert Herbert 196 Chapter 5 Frontispiece. Photo: Mark Donchin 205 Fig. 5.1 Louis I. Kahn. Photo: Louis Kahn Collection, The University of Pennsylvania and the Pennsylvania Historical Commission 206 Fig. 5.2 August E. Komendant. Photo: August Komendant Collection, The Architectural Archives, University of Pennsylvania 206 Fig. 5.3 Cycloid and Channel. Photo: Mark Donchin 207 Fig. 5.4 C-Plan. Photo: Marshall D. Meyers Collection, The Architectural Archives, University of Pennsylvania 209 Fig. 5.5 Quality of Light. Photo: Marshall D. Meyers Collection, The Architectural Archives, University of Pennsylvania 212 Fig. 5.6 Aerial view of the Kimbell under construction. Photo: Marshall D. Meyers Collection, The Architectural Archives, University of Pennsylvania 218 Fig. 5.7 Cycloid and Reflector. Photo: Marshall D. Meyers Collection, The Architectural Archives, University of Pennsylvania 219 Fig. 5.8 Sense of Timelessness and Grandeur. Photo: Mark Donchin 221 Fig. 5.9a Sheet 2 of Komendant’s calculations for the Kimbell. Photo: August Komendant Collection, The Architectural Archives, University of Pennsylvania 223 Fig. 5.9b Sheet 3 of Komendant’s calculations for the Kimbell. Photo: August Komendant Collection, The Architectural Archives, University of Pennsylvania 224 Fig. 5.10 Column and vault connection. Photo: Mark Donchin 228 Fig. 5.11 Aerial view of the Kimbell Art Museum. Photo: Marshall D. Meyers Collection, The Architectural Archives, University of Pennsylvania 231 This page has been left blank intentionally Acknowledgements
Chapter 1: Gilbert Herbert
The research for this study was undertaken in England in 1992 while on sabbatical leave from the Technion: Israel Institute of Technology. It was made possible with the aid of a research grant deriving from the Mary Hill Swope Chair in Architecture, of which I was then the incumbent. The first draft of a paper was written in 1993, when I was Visiting Professor at the University of Natal, Durban, and revised in 1994/1995. The assistance of both these Universities is gratefully acknowledged. The paper appeared in the Journal of Architectural and Planning Research, 15:3, 1998, Locke Science Publishing Company, Inc., Chicago, and we thank the publishers of that journal for permission to reprint the article here. In our account, I make reference to the lack of primary sources in connection to both Barlow’s design of St. Pancras Station and the architectural competition for the Midland Hotel. My search for relevant information was comprehensive, and was conducted in the following libraries and archives: the Barrie Biermann Architectural Library and the History of Technology Library, both of the University of Natal; the Elyachar Library, Technion, Haifa; British Rail Archives, York; Institution of Civil Engineers Library and Archives, London; Ironbridge Gorge Museum; Marylebone Library Local History section, London; Ove Arup Partners Library (courtesy Sir Jack Zunz); Public Record Office, Kew; Raistrick Collection, University College, London; Royal Institute of British Architects Library and Drawings Collection, London; Westminster Public Library, London.
Chapter 2: Gilbert Herbert and Mark Donchin
The substantive basis of this chapter appeared, under the same name, as Working Paper 1998/1 of the Architectural Heritage Research Centre, Technion, but has subsequently been amended in several respects, and includes additional illustrations. Research was carried out both individually and jointly by the authors, xiv The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process most significantly in a period spent together in Chicago. We owe our gratitude to the archives and libraries which facilitated our research, notably the Roosevelt University Archives, Chicago; Burnham Architectural Library, Art Institute of Chicago; Newberry Library, Chicago; and the Azrieli Architectural Library, Technion, Haifa. In the course of our research we consulted many helpful individuals, including Timothy Samuelson of the Commission on Chicago Landmarks and Bart Swindall of the Auditorium, who helped us contact James Scott, author of the dissertation Auditorium: The Story of the Construction of Adler & Sullivan’s Great Chicago Auditorium. We also had useful exchanges with Charles Gregersen, author of the report on the Auditorium in the Historic American Buildings Survey, and Thomas Vreeland.
Chapter 3: Gilbert Herbert
The research on which this chapter is based was carried out over a long period of time together with my valued research associates: Architect Silvina Sosnovsky (the history of Haifa, the later buildings of the Palestine Electric Corporation—PEC); Dr. Ita Heinze-Greenberg (Mendelsohn, the early buildings of the PEC); and Dr. Liliane Richter (the relationship of Mendelsohn and Wijdeveld). The publications resulting from that collaboration include Herbert and Sosnovsky, 1993; Herbert and Heinze- Greenberg, 1996; Herbert, Heinze-Greenberg and Sosnovsky, 2003; and Herbert and Richter, 2008 (for details see bibliography). Some of the present text derives from passages written by me in those books. The concept of this chapter comes from two conference papers: ‘The Power Struggle’, which I presented at the American Society of Architectural Historians 48th Annual General Meeting, Seattle, in April 1995, and ‘The Clash of the Titans’, at a seminar held at the Technion in April 2009. The research was carried out in many libraries and archives, and I thank these organizations for their cooperation. They include the Elyachar Library, Technion; Azrieli Architectural Library, Technion; Architectural Heritage Research Centre, Technion; Central Zionist Archives, Jerusalem; Kunstbibliothek Berlin; Getty Research Institute, Los Angeles; Bouwcentrum, Rotterdam; and Nederlands Architectural Institute, Rotterdam.
Chapter 4: Gilbert Herbert
I am the sole survivor of the team which designed the John Moffat Building, and I have no corroborating voices to back up my selective and possibly faulty memory of events long past. In support of my narrative of what happened fifty years ago I have relied on contemporary published accounts, unpublished reminiscences, later publications, the Minutes of the Building Committee, and selected correspondence in the University archives. Despite strenuous efforts I was unable to find any sketches or more formal drawings to help in reconstructing the design history acknowledgements xv of the building. In my search for sources, I received valued advice and logistical assistance from the University of the Witwatersrand, and I would like to express my thanks to Professors Randall Bird, Katherine Munro and Paul Kotze, the librarian Janie Johnson and staff of the Martienssen Library, and the staff of the University Archives. For biographical material I am indebted to the Artefacts website, with extracts from electronic documents lodged by Joanna Walker, in the Department of Architecture, University of Pretoria. My thanks also go to my former colleague and old friend Herbert Prins, and to Mira Kamstra Fassler. Finally, my gratitude goes to my wife Valerie, not only for her constant support and encouragement during the preparation of this manuscript, but especially for the research she carried out in Johannesburg on my behalf, during my recent illness.
Chapter 5: Mark Donchin
I wish to thank Dr. G. Juri Komendant and the colleagues, employees, and students of Louis I. Kahn for sharing with me their time, memories, and observations, which have so greatly enriched the content of this chapter. William Whitaker and Nancy Thorne of the Kahn Archive at the University of Pennsylvania welcomed me and helped in the assemblage of documents and illustrations. I greatly benefited from the constructive comments of Dr. Patricia Cummings Loud, Thomas Vreeland, Anthony Harris, Emile Spira, and Carlo Ferretti, and I wish to express my special gratitude to my dear teacher, friend, and nonpareil collaborator Professor Gilbert Herbert for his initiative, diligence, and leadership. This page has been left blank intentionally Foreword
‘Firmitas’, ‘utilitas’, ‘venustas’, those three seminal precepts proposed by Vitruvius, later more colloquially articulated by Wotton as ‘Commodity’, ‘Firmness’ and ‘Delight’, have been the underpinning principles whereby the designers of our built environment have, or at least should have, created the world in which we now live. We know of course that while striving to achieve excellence in these lofty aims, it is not always easy to give each equal consideration. And therein lies the rub! In former days, certainly until the eighteenth century, the designer, whether mason, carpenter, architect, engineer, supported by skilled and experienced craftsmen, could design and control construction. This meant that the three precepts were, in general in the hands and within the expertise of one individual. With the advent of the Industrial Revolution the knowledge base widened inexorably and with it the birth and growth of learned societies which fostered the development and sharing of knowledge of its members as well as their welfare and interests. In Britain the Institution of Civil Engineers, founded in 1818, was probably the first. It counted architects as well as engineers of all disciplines among its membership. But soon after the architects went their own way with the founding of the Royal Institute of British Architects in 1834, while Stephenson’s exclusion from the Institution of Civil Engineers resulted in the origins of The Institution of Mechanical Engineers in 1847, The Institution of Electrical Engineers was founded in 1871 followed by many others, so that by the mid twentieth century there was a plethora of professional and allied institutions and societies participating and involved with matters concerning the built environment and more particularly with architecture. Practitioners in each discipline developed, researched and widened their knowledge base, not always in harmony with, or for that matter communicating with, those practicing allied professions. By the middle of the twentieth century overlaps in expertise between those who specialised in one or a combination of all or part of ‘Commodity or Firmness and Delight’ began to be obvious, yet not particularly well articulated or confronted. xviii The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
It can be argued that by the middle of the twentieth century trends in architecture, generally described as the Modern Movement, were the dominant generators which resulted first in engaging with, then positively involving, the creators of contemporary technology in its genesis and execution. There was, and is, logic and hence an element of inevitability about this process but it would be wrong to argue that the process was, or for that matter is, an easy one. Entrenched professional attitudes and procedures run deep. In reality, historical, educational and above all human factors continue to make seamless integration of ‘Commodity, Firmness and Delight’ challenging. Arguably Ove Arup, although an engineer by training and practice, articulated the process of integrating art and architecture with the realities of technology and construction more effectively than most, probably because he practiced what he preached. A recent publication ‘Ove Arup, Philosophy of Design’1 lists a series of essays and speeches he made between 1942 and 1981 some of which go to the heart of the issues examined in the five essays of this book. The five case studies examined in ‘The Collaborators’ span a century and bring to life the challenges, the problems and above all the human dimension and dynamics extant in the creation of architecture, used here in the widest sense of the word. But, before the trained professionals can exercise their skills, the role of the client, the promoter, the patron, whether an individual or a corporate body, is the ultimate generator of good design. Unless there is a client-based desire for excellence, everything that follows is at best a result of altruistic endeavour on the part of the designer, or more likely mediocrity or worse. Gilbert Herbert’s essay on the Haifa Power Station is interesting in that it exposes the problem, if not the solution. The challenging thread running through these five essays is on ‘means’, not ‘ends’. Is there a place for the ‘Gropian’ collective approach or is a firm singular hand on the tiller the only way to build well? There will probably never be a definitive answer. While there are many variables—including the size and nature of the project and its complexity, the overarching driver is ‘people’. ‘People’, person or persons charged with the commission are the determining factors in the design and execution of the project. Some of us want to be alone and are uncomfortable with company when we are doing our work. Others thrive on the dynamics and interaction when in constant communication with kindred spirits. There can be little argument that at the stages when concept and creative ideas become firm and real and have to be turned into bricks and mortar, that direction with a capital ‘D’ is necessary. But the creative, the conceptual process is much more fragile and requires sensitive leadership whether singular or multi-headed. There is the worthy contemporary penchant for efficiency and economy and which often harnesses our ever more pervasive electronic gadgetry as generator, to impose ‘systems’ into our lives and its problems. Systems have their place and are very necessary, but like all engines, they should be regulated or driven by people and it is the people who control them who eventually determine the quality of the outcome. And nowhere is this more appropriate than in the design of our built environment. The production of working drawings and of course construction acknowledgements xix itself demands a seamless economy of means. We have made great progress in managing these processes logically and efficiently. But ultimately the quality of the outcome is dependent on the calibre of the designers. The five essays in this book paint a series of canvases which are instructive to students and practitioners alike. In the context of our twenty-first century world with its burgeoning population, reduction in natural resources, climate change, the challenges facing designers of the built environment are greater than ever. The need for collaboration of all of the designers who create the world around us, and the integration of all the complex issues which go with our ever widening knowledge base, while obvious, still presents a formidable challenge. Above all we need to understand, manage and control the nature of the human interactions taking part in creating ‘Commodity, Firmness and Delight’. The five case studies here provide snapshots of the problems we face. It is only by comprehending past triumphs, trials and tribulations and learning from them that we can begin to understand, let alone solve some of our current and future challenges with confidence. Sir Jack Zunz
Note
1 ove Arup, Philosophy of Design Essays 1942–1981, edited by Nigel Tonks (2012). This page has been left blank intentionally Introduction: Players in the Design Process—Three Essays
In this book we deal with five case studies of collaboration in the architectural design process, over a period ranging from the mid-19th century to the mid- 20th century. The examples chosen, located in England, the United States, Israel and South Africa, are of international scope. They have intrinsic interest as works of architecture, and illustrate all facets of collaboration, involving architects, engineers and clients. The individuals involved include such iconic architects as Adler and Sullivan, Erich Mendelsohn and Louis Kahn. In order to set the theoretical stage for these case studies we present three introductory essays which discuss in general terms some significant modalities of collaboration in the design process. They deal with the organizational implications of partnerships, associations and teams; the nature of interactions between architect and engineer; and cooperation and confrontation in the relationship between architect and client.
Partnerships, Associations and Teams Mark Donchin
Because only the smallest commissions can be designed and supervised by a single architect, professional cooperation, which brings together different specialties and expertise, enables two or more individuals to create buildings of greater size and complexity. In this book we look at two very different cooperative professional structures. In studying the design of the John Moffat Building in Johannesburg (Chapter 4), we scrutinize the establishment and operations of an ad hoc team of independent architects for a specific and unique project. On the other hand, in dealing with Adler and Sullivan’s role in the design of the Auditorium Building in Chicago (Chapter 2) we confront the problem of an established partnership of two partners with very different skills, design interests and talents. Architects can interact as employer or employee in a sole proprietorship, or as partners with divided responsibilities in design, planning, production of working 2 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process drawings, office administration, construction, marketing, and other functions. The corporate practice of large firms, which relies on bureaucratic features and the segmentation of professional knowledge, can comprise multiple teams of designers, engineers, and production specialists under the aegis of both a chief designer and project administrator. The mode of organization usually encompasses departments, project teams, studios, or a combination of these methods. Senior designers oversee the work of subordinates who are often assigned to provide alternative proposals and more detailed schemes, and job captains supervise the more technical professional work such as detailing and the writing of specifications. Associations of firms are also common when the location or size of a project, the specialization of firm capabilities, or other circumstances suggest a joint venture. Teamwork, which demands a range of talent and expertise, conjoins individual capabilities with the requirements of the task at hand and necessitates close coordination with fellow architects, engineers, and consultants. Leadership and management capability are prerequisites for effective teamwork. Because the approach of many of the consultants arises from a dissimilar education and professional culture the patina of unity that overlays the joint work of a team may sometimes conceal a disappointment with the ideology, working methods, presumed superior status, and even remuneration of other members. Despite the possibility of misunderstanding, the joint efforts of a team are essential to the completion of the work, and the assemblage of members who share a common enthusiasm and desire for involvement contribute greatly to the success of the enterprise. The scale and prominence of the large firms have transformed architectural practice by increasing the fragmentation of job roles, instituting the rites and routines of bureaucratic organization, and reducing the architect’s sphere of independence within a division of labour defined by the organization chart. Although the benefits of a career as a self-employed practitioner are still attainable, the new mode of dealing with the increased scale of corporate and public commissions by means of large firms composed of a hierarchy of partners, associate partners, and salaried employees has for several decades constituted an increasingly large segment of architectural practice. Chief among its detractors was Walter Gropius (1883–1969), the eminent German-born architect and educator at the Bauhaus and Harvard, who opposed this mode of organization with several lines of argumentation (Gropius 1955). Emphasizing individual freedom of initiative and exhibiting an unusual degree of insight and sympathy he describes the ‘plight of young architects as they leave school and enter into practice. I have seen them make valiant attempts to establish themselves independently, and I have seen them more often resign themselves to work indefinitely as draftsmen in large offices which offer little or no chance of exercising individual initiative. It is sad to see so much youthful energy and talent dry up by the slow attrition of our more and more centralized working system.’ One principal cause of the prevalence of autocratic direction is the ideology of the ‘individual genius as the only embodiment of true and pure art’ and the ‘work of the egocentric prima donna architect who forces his personal fancy on an intimidated client, creating solitary monuments of individual introduction 3 esthetic significance.’ In addition, Gropius (1966) declares that ‘The conception of the architect as a self-sufficient operator who, with the help of a good staff and competent engineers, can solve any problem is isolationist in character and will be unable to stem the tide of uncontrolled disorder engulfing our living spaces.’ The concern for a wholesome and productive work environment for the individual architect suggests a philosophy of architectural education that emphasizes training in teams in order for the student to learn methods of collaboration. Such training, Gropius (1955) writes, enables students to engage in their future work with ‘active collaborators whose cooperation symbolizes the cooperative organism of what we call society’ and to become ‘coordinators of the many individuals involved in the conception and execution of planning and building projects.’ Experience has taught Gropius that successful methods of collaboration and continuous mutual interchange curb the natural vanity of the individual and displace personal ambitions. Other benefits for the individual include the exposure of his ideas to the stimulating and challenging critique of members of his collaborative team and the consequent maturation of his own work. The team keeps him ‘resilient and flexible and develops his stature and performance under the cross-fertilization of different minds.’ G( ropius, 1966) Gropius believes that individual talent will assert itself quickly in such a group and that leadership depends not only on innate talent but on one’s intensity of conviction and devotion to serve. In 1945 Gropius and seven young Harvard and Yale graduates founded The Architects Collaborative, a firm with a stated purpose of instituting the collaborative process to achieve a design consensus of team members without sacrificing the individual identity of the architects involved in the conception and execution of the firm’s varied projects. In consonance with its social ethos the firm indeed incorporated democratic procedures and an egalitarian mode of compensation and profit sharing, but the partners found that not all of their idealistic tenets were possible of implementation within the constraints imposed by their desire to maintain the firm’s viability in the context of American architectural practice. They found, for example, that in order to safeguard design integrity the right of making final decisions, after taking the ideas and criticisms of other team members into consideration, had to remain in the hands of the individual partner responsible for a specific project. Moreover, even though the work was to be executed by generalist architects who possessed a similar panoply of skills a need for a more narrow concentration of areas of expertise gradually introduced specialization among the associates. In retrospect, the partners were gratified by the success of their collaborative process even when compromised, for they felt that the security engendered by group acceptance enabled team members to devote their entire energy to the production of the best possible work instead of on pointless competition. As partner Louis A. McMillan wrote twenty years after the firm’s founding, ‘The members of the group realize that the welfare of one is the welfare of all, and this discourages jealousy, competition, and feelings of inadequacy and insecurity’ (Gropius, 1966). Sarah P. Harkness, another founding partner, pointed out as well that ‘rivalry may lead to irrational design; it may put aside a direct solution in favor of a more sensational one’ (Gropius, 1966). 4 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
After team members with comparable skill levels are selected for a particular project it is apparent that among the prerequisites for a successful collaborative effort are such attributes as persuasive capability, willingness to listen to and accept alternative viewpoints, ability to anticipate possible problems, desire to search for fresh solutions, and respect for the virtues of others and toleration of their fallibilities. In architectural collaborations, common assumptions, values, and admiration for prototypes reinforce group norms, but a correct balance is still required between uniformity and diversity for the steps in the collaborative process to lead to the most productive outcome. In the best of collaborative endeavors, the tension inherent in a variety of perspectives can generate a chain reaction of ideas and an innovative solution that affirm Gropius’s claim that the whole of the contributions of individual members can indeed be greater than the sum of the parts. The unfamiliarity of generating a shared design through collaborative efforts often necessitates learning what, for many, is a novel process of problem solving. Management of the actual process, thoughtful planning, and organization help to create the appropriate conditions for success. It is important that agreement be reached about roles and responsibilities and the time frame for completion. Ideas and decisions must be recorded accurately. Team size, which typically correlates with the size and phase of a project, is a significant concern with respect to personal relationships and project coordination. Members benefit from working alone before meetings to reduce the distraction of the multitude of ideas espoused by others. The definition, analysis, and consensus of the problems to be solved precede the generation of alternative solutions although they too can evolve during the collaborative process. An innovative solution demands the identification of a previously undiscovered problem or a new way of framing an old problem, and the widest possible exploration of ideas assures that the final design benefits from the variety of perspectives that team members can contribute. Because participants have different methods of working and criteria of evaluation the leadership of the collaborative process must contend with the challenge of optimizing their relationships and eliciting a collaborative response. Some members may attempt to dominate; others may be submissive. Some may insist on a radical design; others may be more agreeable to a conventional solution. However, being collaborative still requires the gathering of each member’s input and the building of consensus step by step. If no member of a team believes that his or her basic conception of the design has been seriously compromised, the final decision can be supported even though one believes that certain aspects are problematical. Each member may in addition be especially desirous of reaching consensus because failure entails the realization of wasted efforts and resources, the disappointment of clients, and the possible takeover of the project by another team or firm. A change in the model of leadership also parallels the change in the process of reaching decisions. Whereas the traditional leader assigned tasks to underlings, issued orders, and assumed authority for making decisions, the new collaborative culture demands leaders with a range of techniques to inspire a team with a lofty challenge, elicit maximum participation and the highest level of individual contributions, impose a direction when necessary, and assist the team introduction 5 members to achieve the most successful design. In a role that resembles somewhat that of a mediator a leader can promote collaborative success by skillfully directing member interactions and asking members to challenge proposals and offer alternative solutions. When members feel that the team has generated ideas collectively Gropius’s vision of a collaborative working community will have been both validated and vindicated. In accordance with their philosophy of collaboration Gropius and his partners were determined to give architects opportunities for diverse work and a greater involvement in making decisions. With the successful execution of demanding and creative tasks more architects can claim credit for a design and obtain a greater feeling of pride. The more satisfying and rewarding collaborative workplace thus generates a higher degree of loyalty and employee morale. Gropius also argues that collaboration can enable architects to generate better solutions collaboratively than they can by themselves, for they benefit from the insights, questions, ideas, perspectives, and challenges of others, which enrich the repertoire of potential solutions. The attempt to incorporate the views of all members can thus engender a synergy and synthesis superior to the more limited proposal of a single architect. However, the proffered image of a harmonious collaborative process is belied by its often frustrating aspects. Different problem solving techniques and ideological differences can disrupt the effective functioning of a team. Some members may become more critical or passive. Conversely, avoidance of conflict may be the norm for other teams, a tendency that can hinder problem-solving effectiveness. Some members may feel that participation in a team diminishes their artistic individuality; and no guarantee exists that individual ambition and self-interest will disappear even despite the well understood advantages of the collaborative relationship. In addition, group norms are established sometimes only with difficulty especially if conflicts arise when individuals attempt to aggressively impose their views on others. Factions may coalesce and aggravate dissension. Shared assumptions may be potent enough to foreclose the generation of alternatives and suppress innovation. Moreover, especially talented and assertive members may be ineffective when working within the constraints of a group. Their divergent but valuable views may be modified if not rejected in a collaborative environment; and they may find themselves both alone and alienated from the team. In his advocacy of the benefits of the collaborative process Gropius fails to discuss the differences in architects’ aptitudes and personalities that might make one rather than another more suitable for participation in a team endeavor. Those who prefer to create within the boundaries of accepted principles and precedents may, for example, be most comfortable with the collaborative process because of attentiveness to others’ viewpoints, reluctance to challenge a governing paradigm, or desire to maintain group cohesion. Such members may view proponents of innovative ideas and their implied criticism of incremental change with suspicion and aversion. However, architects with a more independent stance may wish to break free from convention, re-conceptualize problems, question the design values of other team participants, and propose all-embracing alternative solutions. The more willing 6 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process clients are to accept these innovators’ designs, the greater the opportunities for the realization of the inventive use and combination of new elements. Studies of innovative people have shown that their traits comprise flexibility and inventiveness, independence of judgment and action, dedication, enthusiasm, perseverance, and tolerance of uncertainty.1 Self-confidence originating from one’s self-perception as an agent capable of generating significant new ideas is conjoined with tenacity, ambition, the courage of one’s convictions, and a sense of strength from one’s accomplishments. Sometimes viewed by others as abrasive and intransigent they can resist opposition without succumbing to self-doubt. In disputing the proposals of others and in attempting to correct otherwise unsatisfactory situations innovators apply their skill and energy to questioning conventions they consider obsolete and to examining areas with unresolved issues. Besides solving problems and helping to engender radical change their intellectual drive and curiosity thus uncover problems heretofore unrecognized or dismissed by others. Let us return now to the subject of career disappointments, a major problem demanding rectification in Gropius’s view of the culture of architectural practice. His awareness of the experience of former students awakened his sensitivity to the degree of disappointment and alienation of employees who work in offices that grant them few opportunities for participation in project design. The inability to exercise their imaginative capability subverts the expectations of these once idealistic students, helps to destroy hope and ambition, and generates mourning for the failure of career aspirations. Specialization, routine procedures, and the assignment of tasks considered menial replace the once general competence of the individual practitioner. The firm’s hierarchical structure and the fragmentation of work create problems of maintaining enthusiasm and allegiance. The exalted positions of a few embody freedom and authority. Everyone else plays a supporting role. However, the solution proposed by Gropius clashes with the existing system of architectural education and its cultivation of a design meritocracy in which students are encouraged and pushed to strive for individual success. Grades are difficult to assign to students collaborating in a group assignment. Competition in school reinforces the presumption that ideas, like jewels, are precious artifacts to be jealously guarded and displayed for public admiration only at times of quasi-ceremonial presentation. Achievement leads to prizes, scholarships, and employment with prominent architects. In their subsequent careers architects relish their autonomy and opportunity to demonstrate their design talent. As the anthropologist Edward T. Hall has written: ‘As a culture, we’re ambivalent about turning anything over to anyone else. We’re highly individualistic; there’s positive reinforcement for not collaborating. Where talent is centered on making a personal reputation, collaboration will get the back of the hand.’2 Biographies of individual architects reinforce the tendency to assign credit to a single architect and help to explain the difficulties in convincing both clients and architects of the benefits of collective design. As a result of their education, individualistic ethos, temperament, and desire for freedom of creative expression not all architects are pleased with the prospect of introduction 7 participation in a collaborative group. Some are fortunate to become the leaders of firms whose work is centered around their convictions, talent, and drive. The autonomous architect enjoys an elevated status and delegates subsidiary tasks to a staff dedicated to his or her vision. A 1973 overview of architectural practice (Winkelmann, 1973) finds that ‘Traditionally, architectural design leadership has been autocratic. The concept of the prima donna designer has been reinforced by the great modern masters—Wright, Mies, and Corbusier—and more recently by architects such as Paul Rudolph, Philip Johnson, and Louis Kahn. Indeed, architectural journals, critics, writers and historians continue to discuss these autocratic design leaders.’ A presumption underlying the content of such books as Siegfried Giedion’s Space, Time and Architecture, Peter Blake’s The Master Builders, and Paul Heyer’s Architects on Architecture is that major improvements in the character of the built environment depend largely on the contributions of outstanding architects. The mystique of charismatic design leadership and the felt need to construct an aura of design brilliance are so powerful that architects whose work has elevated them into the enviable elite often fear that their designs might be considered the result instead of the work of their employees and consultants. Even some of Gropius’s students have voiced their disagreement with his insistence on the benefits of collaboration. Victor Lundy, for example, comments, ‘In my case, I think Harvard almost ruined me. I want my buildings to be exuberant, not safe, lovely, cubular things. Creative architecture comes out of the individual, not out of group design.’3 Paul Rudolph, another former student, asserts in Architecture Today and Tomorrow (Jones, 1961) that ‘Gropius may be wrong in believing that architecture is a cooperative art. Architects were not meant to design together. It’s either all his work or mine.’ Rudolph’s insistence on design autonomy is well known. Jones (1961) reports that ‘Rudolph wanted to design a building that would be “mine, down to the last detail”,’ while another source (De Alba, 2003) records Rudolph’s comment: ‘Let’s face it, architects were never meant to design together. Architecture is a personal effort, and the fewer people coming between you and your work, the better. If an architect cares enough and practices architecture as an art, then he must initiate design, he must create, rather than make judgements.’ Charles Gwathmey, a student in Yale’s graduate programme during Rudolph’s chairmanship, remarks ‘the creative process is as gratifying and rewarding as the manifestation and the moments of recognition’4 and ‘Rudolph was like a sort of principal in an office full of talented people, himself a strong, a major architectural force who was aggressively building buildings. I could never work for anybody. I always had the idea I would have to work by myself, and I was a victim of Rudolph’s “you-got-to-build-immediately” ethic.’ Still another attack on the value of the collaborative approach was launched by the Dutch architect J.J.P. Oud (1890–1963), a pioneer, like Gropius, in the creation of the Modern Movement, who is quoted in Bucci (2002) as having said in 1952:
Look around you; you will see immediately that the truly significant monuments of world architecture have always been produced by one spirit only, and are attributed to only one man . My colleague Walter Gropius can detest the work of an architectural prima donna, but I doubt that a world 8 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
entirely conforming to his architectural canons (whose products I would call choral architecture) would end up so attractive. A building that has the power to move us within cannot result from a collective work. The individual is necessary, with his creative force, with his energy, with his passion.
Contrary voices, however, supported Gropius, whose critique of the single- minded prima donna tapped into a wellspring of ambivalence if not antagonism over the idealization and idolization of the great masters. (Ironically, much of the inspiration and precedents for the work of Gropius’s firm came from the reviled prima donnas.) Many felt that the prima donnas were heedless of client and user needs in their desire to create artistic monuments to their brilliance. Subordinates enjoyed few opportunities to utilize their own creative talents when working for a dominating and egotistic master, whose perceived arrogance, disdain for lesser mortals, and indifference to considerations not linked to their own goals and interests often magnified their acolytes feelings of inadequacy. Still another source of hostility was the reluctance of the innovative, self-confident, and ego-driven prima donnas to grant recognition and credit to staff members whose contributions were so instrumental in obtaining celebrity status for their employers. Questions have also been raised about the mode of operation and success of The Architects Collaborative, criticized by Saint (1983) as ‘a firm which has never ventured far beyond the orthodoxy of modern big-time architectural practice in the west.’ The same critic also wrote that ‘Collaboration was constantly promulgated but in practice enjoyed only limited success.’ Lastly, one wonders about the implementation of a more egalitarian distribution of design opportunities in the collaborative process when reading Kliment’s (1996) comment about CRS-Sirrine, the firm co-founded by William Caudill, who castigated the prima donnas in his book Architecture by Team:
When I was at CRSS in the early 1970s, I investigated how many of the 310 employees actually did design. The answer was eleven! The others did project management, specification writing, cost estimating, marketing, overall business management, computer development, and various other functions. What is the value of going through architecture school and having the whole reward system organized around design, when the chances of doing design in a fairly typical architectural firm are eleven out of three hundred?
Most outstanding buildings contain the imprint of a single designer; and some critics believe that the ‘quality of a work of art decreases in proportion to the number of people involved in its creation.’ (Cuff, 1991) Still, although some challenges are best encountered and resolved by the unilateral vision of a single designer, the stimulation and richness of points of view offered by other participants can also engender design excellence. The work of such firms as The Architects Collaborative demonstrates that collaborative practice is indeed capable of achieving a result greater than the sum of its parts when executed with understanding, skill, and the successful integration of all aspects of the collaborative process: personnel, organization, planning, leadership, support, and rewards. Although a question remains about the potential of collaboration to introduction 9 produce truly transformative rather than incremental change, yet, as Ancelevicius is quoted as saying (Pressman, 2006), ‘not all buildings need to dazzle; in many cases reticence may be appropriate.’ Innovation is required in some circumstances to resolve a problem, but sometimes even derivative solutions are effective and acceptable. An era that rewards originality welcomes innovations, but clients and the public accept them only when deemed beneficial. One need only review the great eras in architectural history to be convinced that the skilful and creative application of designs derived from precedents can successfully advance, refine, and improve an already valued paradigm. We have seen that admired buildings can result from different choices of options on the spectrum between individual and collaborative design. Circumstances vary, and firms may find it most feasible to choose an autocratic or democratic leadership option or some combination of each depending on the nature of the commission and the composition of the office staff. A common choice is to establish a team with ultimate decision-making authority granted to an assigned leader. Cesar Pelli (1999) describes his preferred model of such a team: ‘All the members of my team are free to propose alternative solutions, make suggestions, correct my assumptions, or question my goals. From the very beginning the designers working with me are my collaborators. In our discussions we try to expose and clarify any hidden or mysterious aspects of the design.’ The old autocratic system still dominates, for it provides clarity about the hierarchy of roles and enables the fastest decisions and implementation. However, there are many levels of involvement between unilateral and collaborative decision-making, and the choice of the degree of collaboration also depends on the amount of time available, the size of the commission, the firm’s structure, and the staff’s expertise, capability, and experience. Establishing the best balance between individually generated design solutions and team participation is an important choice in a firm that recognizes that collaboration may be an important tool in the struggle for success. We may conclude from the persistence and ubiquity of the conventional hierarchical structure that collaboration is only a highly special approach within the scope of architectural practice. It is thus the task of management to raise the level of a firm’s performance, if it so believes, by taking advantage of the benefits offered by teams while concomitantly resolving the problems that collaboration may entail.
Interactions Between Architect and Engineer Gilbert Herbert
Foreword
In 1999 Professor Henry J. Cowan, founder and recently retired editor of the Architectural Science Review, celebrated his eightieth birthday. The then editor of that prestigious journal, aware of my long-standing association with Professor Cowan, asked me to contribute to an issue of the journal dedicated to his predecessor. I was at that time working on an essay entitled “Architect-Engineer Relationships: Overlappings and Interactions,” intended as an introduction to my contemplated 10 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process book on collaboration in the design process. As Cowan’s broad view encompassed both architecture and engineering, I thought my essay an appropriate contribution to the festive issue. This paper, now in modified form, finds its originally intended place, here in the introduction to this book.
Working Couples: Architect and Engineer
The authors have for some time been concerned with the problem of the complementary roles of architects and engineers in the design process of innovative and complex buildings. My interest in Victorian building led me to study St. Pancras Station in London, by Barlow and Scott (Chapter 1), and my colleague Mark Donchin examined the problematic relationship of Louis Kahn and August Komendant in the design of the Kimbell Museum in Fort Worth, Texas (Chapter 5). Together we have analyzed the design process of Adler and Sullivan’s Auditorium Building in Chicago (Chapter 2), but came to the conclusion that this was a case of collaboration not between architect and engineer, as has often been asserted, but between two architects, in the full sense of the term. Concerned with the same theme, but in a more contemporary vein, the engineer Sir Jack Zunz, of Ove Arup and Partners, posed the problem in terms of the question: “Architect or Engineer: what’s in a name?”5 Whether presented from the perspective of an architectural historian, or as seen by an eminent engineering practitioner, there is a consensus that both architect and engineer are involved in the design process of buildings in an interactive way. The scope and nature of this interaction is a topic which generates interest, and needs discussion. This present short essay can do no more than set the parameters for that debate. As a framework for discussion, we would like to pose two questions:
a. What are the functional activities which normally define the scope of the professional work of the architect and the engineer, in relation to complex buildings; and what are the skills required to perform their respective roles? b. In the design of a complex building, to what extent are the functional definitions of architect and engineer clear-cut: in other words, are there circumstances in which the architect acts as engineer, or the engineer as architect, or even when both act together?
The architect’s professional role, once simply defined as ‘the art and science of building,’6 is to design a physical environment as an appropriate setting for specified human behaviours. This environment, in order to facilitate and support these behaviours, must satisfy the primary needs of survival (the categorical imperative), security, physical and emotional health, and accepted norms of comfort and convenience. However, while a work of architecture, in providing a context for a circumscribed set of human activities, is thus inwardly focused upon its own specific purposes and unique functions, it is not self-contained, but is part of a hierarchical environmental system. All architecture is therefore an intervention introduction 11 in, and adaptation of, that larger environment, be it natural or man-made, in which it is located. Architecture is thus simultaneously a private act, inward looking and specific, and a public act, context-related and general. The form without, set in its environmental context, and the spaces within, deriving from the innate needs— functional and emotional—of the user, together constitute an enduring artifact, at once a social utility and a work of art. What are the skills and talents required to design such artifacts? We would suggest that the specific skills demanded of an architect are fourfold. Firstly, there are the conceptual and creative skills: the conception, realization and modulation of space, form and surface, aiming at the enhancement and enrichment of the human experience, in terms of meanings and values deriving from individual, social and cultural frames of reference, both of the user and the external observer. Then there are planning skills: the ability to envisage patterns of human behaviour in various circumstances, and to plan appropriate functional spaces (in terms of shapes, dimensions and desired environmental conditions), and their inter-connections. Next come the technological skills: the knowledge and techniques required to devise a stable and durable building fabric which will provide a protective screen against undesirable intrusions on the one hand, and on the other, a two-way controllable filter (in terms of heat, light and sound, privacy and view, ingress and egress) between interior and exterior. Finally, there are the social and management skills: understanding the architect’s obligations both to the client and to the social, cultural and environmental context, working within given legal, site and budgetary constraints, instituting efficient and harmonious office and site management procedures, including coordinating in a creative synthesis all participants in the design and construction process. These are the skills which, to a greater or lesser degree, reputable architectural schools aim to provide to their students, with the object of giving them the basis, after a period of practical experience, of creating architecture, which, as summed up succinctly more than three-quarters of a century ago by my late professor—to whom I shall return in Chapter 4—‘is solving the practical problem handsomely.’ The nineteenth-century definition of the role of the civil engineer, ‘the art of directing the great sources of power in Nature for the use and convenience of man’,7 is of an awesome and all-embracing task of moulding the macro-environment to the needs of man. This was in practical terms interpreted to mean the design of major urban and regional projects such as bridges and aqueducts, roads and highways, canals and railways, harbours and dams, infrastructure schemes for drainage and sewerage, and the supply of water and power. During the nineteenth century, and continuing to the present day, a new factor emerged. The ambitious scope which had traditionally defined the engineer’s field of activity was significantly expanded to include the design and construction of large-scale buildings, generally of a utilitarian nature, where innovative structural design or complex mechanical installations were the dominant factors: railway stations, factories, exhibition halls, or sports stadiums. It was this development which brought the engineer into the traditional realm of the architect, the making of buildings. In this emergence of a potential overlapping of professions, the choice lay between competition and 12 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process cooperation. Competition existed when the nature of the building was such that it was arguable whether it was predominantly an engineering or architectural task: we note, for instance, the debate in the nineteenth century whether the design of railway stations was within the legitimate purview of the architect or the engineer.8 In the case of buildings with complex programmatic requirements, there was no such ambiguity. It was generally accepted that this was the architect’s task; it was equally clear that there were many aspects of this task that lay outside the architect’s traditional areas of competence. In the modern world, where building construction involved an ever-increasing complexity of technology, cooperation between architect and engineer had become a necessity. In order to facilitate this cooperation effectively, and play a creative role in the making of architecture, the engineer developed a series of highly specialized services, as consultant structural, mechanical and electrical engineers, providing expert, indeed essential, professional input into a collaborative design process. This meant that the engineer, the czar of comprehensive design in his own domain, now assumed, in the realm of buildings with complex programmatic requirements, a new and more focused role, that of the designer of sub-systems in projects directed by another controlling professional hand, that of the architect. The specialized programmes of engineering education, and the specialized nature of engineering practice, have generally been directed towards the provision of this more focused service. In fulfilling this role, some skills and talents required by the engineer overlap with that of the architect. The skills of organization and management are no less the prerequisite of the engineer than the architect. Moreover, engineering, no less than architecture, demands conceptual and creative skills. It was Nervi who said of the creative engineer’s design process, ‘first I make a hypothesis of form,’ and it is here that the imaginative, creative power of the designer is evinced. However, intuitive design is not enough, even for an engineering genius, so Nervi qualified this statement with an essential rider, adding the engineering imperative: ‘and then I check my hypothesis with my calculations.’9 This specificity brings us to a range of technological and scientific skills demanded of the engineer which go far beyond those required of the conventional architect. Our intention here is to point to that far more profound essential knowledge of the physical sciences, the behaviour of materials and structures, or the laws of thermodynamics, which legitimately lies in the domain of the engineer, and upon which engineering theories are based. Then the engineer must possess the theories and tools of rational analysis. Coupled with this basic scientific and theoretical knowledge, and this control of analytic processes, lies a manipulative skill, the power to handle numbers and computations, that comfortable acceptance of mathematics as an everyday tool, which is inherent in engineering, and exceptional in architectural design—although in the age of the computer, and in specific areas of science- based architectural research, this is less evident than in the immediate past. To generalize, perhaps recklessly, we might say that as the humanist finds meanings and expresses himself best in language, so the architect resorts to visual images, and the engineer to graphs and tables. In posing these dialectic oppositions we need not go as far as Duby who (in a thesis strongly contested by Billington and introduction 13
Mark) claimed that in engineering ‘problems of statics replaced passion.’10 However, it would seem reasonable to suggest that on the whole architects and engineers approach their work from different intellectual and emotional starting points. Put in more general terms, the engineer operates in a field which is technologically oriented, and his analyses tend to be rational, based on quantifiable data. The architect’s mode of thought and behaviour develops in a world very different from that of the ‘scientifically-trained mind’. The proposition of opposed mind-sets of architect and engineer was put forward by Peters (1993) when he wrote: ‘Building is unusual in that it has two modes of technological thought: the engineering and the architectural.’ Technological thought, he explained, was a mixture of deductive and empirical modes of thinking, with architects and engineers using ‘different mixes of the objective-deductive and the subjective-creative forms of thought.’ This proposition, if we regard it as a statement of general but far from universal applicability, explains both the difficulties of architect-engineer collaboration in the design process and, paradoxically, the imperative need to foster it. Given this difference in the function of architect and engineer, the difference in the skills and abilities which are developed in their training and experience, and the difference in their modes of thinking, what patterns of interaction may we expect to find in practice? We ask this question in respect of the engineer’s work, not as the virtuoso designer of wide-span bridges, all-embracing space-structures, or sports stadiums, but as the provider of a spectrum of services ranging from the generation of structural form to the configuration of calculated solutions to structural or environmental control problems, in the realm of architect-designed buildings. It is in this context that we are concerned with the interface between architect and engineer. In most buildings of a complex nature, where the activities housed, the movement patterns, the spaces to be provided and environmental conditions demanded are diverse in nature, and where the symbolic and aesthetic connotations have especial importance, it is the architect who is the overall designer. In this context the engineer is the designer of specific and defined sub- systems within the whole: the structural engineer concerned primarily with the structural fabric of the building, in terms of its stability, durability, and economy of means, and the mechanical and electrical engineers with the proper environmental controls of ventilation, heating, lighting and acoustics, and with mechanical transportation systems. Put simplistically, in its most generalized form, we may state that this division of labour has evolved, naturally and logically, because most engineers do not have the training, skills or temperament to undertake the planning of a complex building, in the sense of the design and organization of the functional spaces required to enable the desired patterns of behavioural activities to take place conveniently, effectively, and meaningfully. Nor do they have the training, skills or temperament to concern themselves with the generation of internal spaces which are enriching and life- enhancing, and with evocative external forms which are charged with meaning and emotional significance. In making this latter claim we are well aware of the significant exceptions—the Nervis, Candelas and Calatravas—who confound the rule. It should be stated, however, that these great engineers are masters of plastic 14 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process form, or masters of the single, dramatic unitary space, but their genius does not extend to the planning of complex, multi-functional buildings. On the other hand, if the professional competence of the average engineer is thus constrained, so is that of the architect. The initial hypothesis of structural form of which Nervi spoke, to which we referred earlier, is a creative act based on professional knowledge and experience. In our age of rapid technological change there are very few architects who have the fundamental scientific knowledge, the mastery of theory and the accumulated experience of practice, or the intuitive understanding of structural behaviour (though of course, once again, there are the exceptions: Gaudi at the Sagrada Familia, or Wright in the Johnson Wax Building) to enable them to make a well-founded hypothesis which goes beyond conventional structural form. The troubled history of the Sydney Opera House should confirm that. Beyond that, there are few architects who possess the ability or temperament, or indeed the intellectual discipline, to undertake those rigorous analyses and detailed calculations and configurations which ultimately enable their complex buildings to rise and stand firm, or permit the multiplicity of occupants to see, hear and breathe. The design of a building in the normal run of architectural practice dealing with the general spectrum of building types—residential buildings and offices, hospitals and schools, shopping malls and convention centres, laboratories and industrial parks—is a component of a larger system at another level of organization, perhaps pre-ordained or pre-empted by the politician and legislator, the urban planner, or the economists and accountants controlling the budget. When the brief for this project reaches the architect’s desk, the roles of architect and engineer involved in its realization are different in scope and nature, but of necessity are complementary. Moreover, the hierarchy of decision-making is clear: the professional responsibility of the architect is the overall design of the entire project, and the coordination of all the designers of the sub-systems which comprise it. The professional responsibility for the design of these sub-systems lies severally with the structural engineer, the mechanical and lighting engineers, the engineer handling lifts and escalators, the landscape architect, the sculptors and mural artists, or the manufacturers of prefabricated components. But it is not quite as straightforward as a simple diagram of responsibilities may suggest. The design process is an organic whole, not a mechanical assemblage of inputs. In any successful organic system, there is always a reciprocal relationship between the whole and its parts, the whole informing the parts, and the parts generating the whole. The architect’s conception of the whole is inextricably entwined with and affected by the insights of the engineer, and the engineer in turn cannot deal with his partial role without an understanding of and empathy for the architect’s total vision. For a competent work of architecture to become a great work of architecture, a symbiosis of talent, and a synergy of effort, is needed on the part of architect and engineer. This comes most easily into play when there is an integrated team of architects and engineers in one design office, as in the case of Ove Arup; or where a long-standing relationship between engineer and architect, as in the case of Louis Kahn and August Komendant, engenders mutual understanding and respect; or where two architects in partnership have complementary talents and temperaments, as with Dankmar Adler and Louis introduction 15
Sullivan. Adler was an especially interesting case, to which we shall return: was he an architect—as by profession he was—or was he an engineer, as he was often described? The paradox of Adler brings us full circle to the question raised by Jack Zunz: ‘Architect or Engineer: what’s in a name?’ In the final analysis it is perhaps not the professional categorization that matters, but the talent and ability of the man who does the job. Isambard Kingdom Brunel, the great engineer, acted as architect when he designed the Renkioi Hospital during the Crimea War. While Sir George Gilbert Scott was undoubtedly the architect who designed the hotel attached to St. Pancras Station, it was Arthur Barlow, the engineer of the station, who provided many of the seminal inputs into the design of the hotel, those fundamental planning decisions which eventually determined its basic form, if not its architectural detailing. The architect Dankmar Adler handled the complex structural and acoustic problems of the Chicago Auditorium Building, and all the building services, with such professional skill that he was often referred to as the engineering partner of the firm of Adler and Sullivan; but it was as an architect that he coordinated the entire project, zoned the functions of the building, planned the detailed layout, and organized the horizontal and vertical circulation paths. The architect Jorn Utzon conceived an evocative three-dimensional envelope for the functions of the Sydney Opera House, but it would not have been realized in structural form without the professional skill and dedication of Ove Arup, the engineers. And finally, an anecdote of a personal nature: when I designed the unprecedented Cinerama Theatre in Johannesburg, in 1959–60, I proposed that the roof be supported longitudinally by a hollow structural beam, which could also be used as the main distribution duct for the air-conditioning system. This was clearly an engineering input, made by the architect, which had major structural and environmental implications, as well as considerable architectural relevance both to the external form and the interior design of the building. However, this concept had of necessity to be accepted by the engineers concerned, in terms of their own professional expertise, which I the architect lacked. During the construction, I overheard the following conversation between the mechanical and structural consultants, discussing the air vents in the v-shaped undersurface of the beam. The mechanical engineer made his categorical claim: ‘If we don’t increase the size of the vents, cold air will come down on the heads of the patrons’, to which the structural engineer rationally responded: ‘If we do increase the size of the vents, the roof will come down on the heads of the patrons.’ The resolution of this dilemma demanded all the conceptual power, technological know-how and management skills the architect and engineers could summon up; but it also demonstrated the necessity for the creative interaction of all participants in the design process.
Architect-Client Relationships Mark Donchin
In this volume, in our study of the relationship of Erich Mendelsohn and the industrialist Pinhas Rutenberg (Chapter 3), we have focused on one specific case 16 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process study of the interactive role of the architect and his client. However, this relationship runs, as a sub-theme, through several other chapters, where the clients—be they individual, institutional or corporate—have their role to play in the design process. This role may be positive—as the aphorism ‘it takes a great client to make a great work of architecture’ asserts—or negative and obstructive, but it is undeniably definitive. Clients initiate an architectural project when they decide to allocate funds to improve existing facilities or to construct a new structure that will shelter its occupants and objects for an intended purpose. In consultation with the client the architect analyzes the programme, identifies the problems, and contributes the necessary skills, experience, and aesthetic judgment to create a building that responds to the client’s needs and budget. Because the client lacks the appropriate training in design and construction he or she is unable to translate fully the programme into a realized vision without the architect’s assistance. In this division of labour the competence of architects makes them most qualified to initiate and develop a final design solution. Other participants in the design and construction process, such as engineers, lack the primary components of the trained architect’s repertoire of professional skills. The architectural profession must therefore demonstrate that the architect is the sole professional trained and skilled in providing aesthetic leadership and coordinating the construction process. The architect’s education and qualifications demand a major investment of time and training and a high level of commitment. Required subjects include site analysis, architectural design and detailing, planning, materials and construction, computer applications, structural and mechanical engineering, building services, architectural history and theory, and drawing and presentation techniques. This multidisciplinary field demands spatial and artistic abilities, breadth of imagination, the solution of complicated problems, and the verbal and graphic communication of ideas. Among the gratifications of the design process is the opportunity to embody artistic, social, and cultural convictions in a built object and to realize one’s aspirations for a more aesthetically pleasing environment. Architectural education encourages students to think for themselves, question conventional solutions, and assert personal design values and vision. This approach engenders a desire for autonomy as a stimulus to and requisite for creative work in the students’ subsequent careers. As Thomas A. Dutton (1991) comments, ‘The structure of most design studios, for example, is that the project is given and students work individually in pursuit of the almighty grade. The professor walks around and gives personal desk crits ... in the critical moments of creativity, students often do not share ideas with each other because of the competitive, individualistic atmosphere; because if you steal my idea you might get the A instead of me.’ In order to obtain commissions architects must first have opportunities to become recognized by demonstrations of their skills, commitment, experience, and professionalism. When considered advantageous to one’s career an architect may attempt to maintain an image of uniqueness and consistency in his or her designs. The rejection of precedent and the presentation of novel solutions is associated with conceptual innovation, improvement, and progress. The history of architecture in the 20th century has been led by still acclaimed pioneers and rule introduction 17 breakers who spurned the Establishment and leaped out in front of their peers. A unique work gives an architect status and the role of a possible or actual member of the professional elite. Fame derives from a respected artistic direction and the prominence of one’s convictions in the marketplace of ideas. Those who have the ambition, talent, and tenacity to elevate their reputations to the lofty status of the design elite promote their work constantly through publications, lectures, press conferences, etc. As one observer (Levinson, 2005) notes, ‘Certainly Wright and Corbu understood that the work itself was not enough, not enough to secure fame anyway. The work had to be published frequently and promoted ceaselessly. The reputation had to be constructed along with the architecture.’ Although we generally think of the client as an individual, couple, or perhaps corporate body whose agreement to initiate a project is sealed with a handshake or the signature on a contract other actual influential actors in the final outcome include lenders, tenants, users, donors, design review boards, builders, other design professionals, critics, and government officials. Before a proposal is submitted for approval to a civic body or governmental agency the dialogue between architect and client can comprise decisions made in conversations with such entities as a committee or even members of an entire community assembled in a participatory design workshop. If multiple voices are clamouring to be heard when a policy of decentralization delegates authority within the client’s institution it is sometimes not apparent to the architect which individual or group is empowered to make final decisions. In dealing with a corporate bureaucracy obsessed with roles and regulations the architect may also confront a fear of innovation and a reluctance to take responsibility for any possible problem. Just as the architect encounters different degrees of client expertise the client unfamiliar with the architect’s modus operandi may have to endeavour to find his or her optimal role vis-à-vis the architect. Some architects may not appreciate a client’s efforts to make more of a conceptual and critical contribution to the generating idea, overall form, or details of a design, but others acknowledge that they can learn much from their clients. Robert Venturi is quoted as commenting ’We think that architecture has to derive from collaboration and we learn a lot from the client . . . we get some of our best ideas from clients, we love collaborating with them’ (Lawson, 1997). Indeed, the self-confidence of many prominent architects spurs them to re-conceptualize without defensiveness a design when challenged by a valid client critique. The contractual agreement between architect and client defines the scope of provided services, the fee, and the schedule of payments. Although the stipulation of the legal responsibilities of each party may seem to diminish the carefully established and cultivated rapport between architect and client at the level of smaller projects the architect is on safer ground if he subscribes to the more formalized procedure of contractual obligations. The unambiguous text of the contract spells out the duties of each party, and a standardized agreement in common use enables a uniform and accepted understanding of the meaning of the various clauses in the contract already established by precedents and legal judgments. In addition, billing and the receipt of payments are basic components of architectural practice, and if the architect is reluctant to request payment because 18 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process of fear of commingling a financial relationship with a personal relationship, the consequences are disastrous for the continuation of the architect’s practice. Although many clients believe that the primary qualification for the design of a particular project depends on previous experience with this building type and the size and complexity of the commission, different clients give different weights to the criteria they use in selecting an architect. It was previously thought that architects received commissions almost solely on the basis of referrals and family connections, but many businesses and government agencies have instituted standard application and selection procedures. During the preliminary review of qualifications and the subsequent interview the architect must convince the potential client that his or her talent, skills, experience, competence, and understanding of practical considerations and financial constraints will enable a successful working relationship. Self-presentation, brochure quality, reputation, awards, fee schedule, and publications of previous work can all improve an architect’s chances for obtaining commissions. In addition, insofar as contemporary architecture is characterized by pluralism in values and styles, a lack of consensus persists in the profession on the criteria for the evaluation of design. Because architects have different ways of approaching problems, the discussion of priorities and guiding principles can disclose to the client a possible new direction towards the as-yet-unknown final destination. A specialization of skills and expertise has followed the original splintering of the design and construction field into architecture, the various branches of engineering, interior design, landscape design, master planning, space programming, and the like. Clients generally award large-scale commissions to the bigger firms, whose supply of a wide range of services and intellectual and artistic capital provides the client with the assurance that the project will be undertaken and completed expeditiously and competently. Its multi-disciplinary staff and array of professional services even permits its involvement in such areas as feasibility studies, market research, and forensic issues. Reputations for reliability and efficiency also help to diminish the client’s trepidations over the possibility of an obstinate architect’s liberties with time, budget, and artistic licence. Institutional and corporate clients with multiple projects may even select different firms depending on the type and size of the buildings to be designed. In order to reduce risk commissions whose realization the clients deem adequate if based on adaptations or incremental modifications of precedents may be given to established firms with a reputation for competent but not innovative design. In selecting one architect over others for a project requiring an innovative solution the client can provide a major boost to the architect’s profile and reputation, which in turn improves the chances of consideration for more commissions. Corporate clients are also cognizant of the potential of a striking design for its advertising value in accentuating their company name and products. However, the client frequently encounters a dilemma, insofar as ‘the more famous and celebrated the designer, the greater the client risk, for such designers live in the glare of publicity and are unlikely to wish to compromise their stance’ (Lawson, 1997). introduction 19
In order to obtain name recognition and obtain work, architects, if they want their design proposals to be more than refinements of already accepted work, may try to rise above convention and highlight the singularity of their designs. The reward system from academia, the media, and the profession itself all tend to reinforce the desirability of uniqueness. A small band of ‘starchitects’ receive the most public attention and prestigious commissions because of their highly imageable and saleable architectural imprint. Architectural journals and mass market magazines strive to be first in presenting the most innovative work. Architectural critics writing for the media bring to professional and public attention promising new talent; and the promotion of new names and work helps to attract and stimulate readership. As one commentator (Rybcynski, 2001) describes the consequences of this attempt to achieve renown:
Anything that could be imagined before the Great Recession was built. Architecture is highly competitive, and it was common practice for clients to invite several leading architects to submit designs before awarding the commission. The pressure to outdo one’s rivals pushed designers to propose increasingly outlandish buildings. Because originality was rewarded by media coverage, clients encouraged this tendency.
In addition, efforts in this struggle for fame and commissions are directed frequently toward the judgment of fellow practitioners, for many of whom the work is an object of admiration and often a model for imitation. Architects are aware that recognition from peers in the form of awards, honours and publications can also be helpful in convincing potential clients. However, a danger exists that an architect’s attempted exploitation of a client’s programme and budget for reasons of publicity will arouse the client’s suspicions, resistance, and animosity. Furthermore, the publication of an architect’s work in the professional journals may ironically promote the kind of imitation and trend-setting fashion that impels the architect to create even more radical designs in order to maintain a leadership role. It seems undeniable that the primary factor in the success of the architect- client relationship is the compatibility between the two parties. A good beginning based on trust, confidence and mutual respect foretells a good outcome. The demonstration of an understanding of the client’s goals helps to develop an initial rapport; and an architect’s subsequent effective explanation of his intentions can spur the client’s acceptance of a design proposal with the help of sketches, perspective drawings, computer-generated images and models. Negotiation and persuasion often entail compromises, which the skilful architect will not allow to affect the primary elements of a proposal. An arrogant dismissal of the client’s knowledge and wishes will only antagonize the client and possibly initiate the dissolution of the relationship. Confidence that the architect will not subject the client to contempt and that the client will be protected from the consequences of his or her ignorance is a prerequisite for a relationship characterized by trust in the architect’s ability, integrity, and willingness to be patient, forthcoming and sympathetic to the client’s goals. Although the architect’s knowledge can be used 20 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process to influence and manipulate the client’s view of planning and design issues and acceptance of the architect’s proposals, the client still retains an ultimate power of decision to continue or terminate the relationship. Both a principled architectural concept and a willingness to reconsider one’s preconceptions contribute to the success of a design. In the design process assumptions can be questioned, new possibilities revealed, the client’s programme and constraints revised, other problems discovered and explored, and unexpected benefits engendered. The client may decide to revise priorities when the architect provides hitherto-as-yet-unimagined options as the design implications of various proposals become apparent. At the end of the process the client may thus find much to his surprise and delight that the architectural quality of his new building has been substantially enhanced. The artistic component of their work is a paramount value to architects, and the goal of creating aesthetically satisfying buildings is often challenged by the goal of satisfying what certain clients demand. The tenet that the art of architecture transcends construction and function undergirds the aspiration of architects to create outstanding spatial and sensory experiences. A frequent conflict of values and principles erupts when a client refuses to be convinced of the greater eventual profitability of a better but more expensive design. If the client is victorious in his insistence on the overriding importance of the building’s cost, rentability and ease of maintenance over the architect’s priority of aesthetic quality, the consequences can be destructive of the architect’s self-image and ideals. Architects have no intention of subordinating their own wishes, and the desire for the gratification of the realization of their designs and the enhancement of their professional identity engender many struggles with clients and instigate the attempts of some architects to pursue less financially driven types of commissions. Because of the sometimes antagonistic relationship between architect and client, the profession’s insistence on its higher calling, and the difficulties of establishing a reputation, achieving peer recognition, and obtaining work, architects sometimes view clients only as a necessary evil. The desired autonomy of the architect conflicts with his or her dependence on the client and creates a contradiction within architectural practice. A hidden agenda thus insinuates itself into the architect’s modus operandi in order to satisfy the architect’s desires as well as the client’s. Without the required degree of independence architects would be unable to produce individual and identifiable styles. Architects who follow clients’ orders are thus often relinquishing their own professionalism. On the other hand, an attitude of opposition can also lead to a dangerous dismissal of others’ viewpoints that engenders a public perception of architects’ arrogance, which is abetted by the architect’s preconception that clients’ conservatism and ignorance prevent their understanding and acceptance of innovation and quality. The conclusion is thus inescapable of the need for architects to negotiate to the best of their ability and persuasiveness a balance between the concerns of clients and the public and their own demands for the realization of their design intentions. Because the emphasis on design innovation rather than on the use of appropriate and accepted prototypes is encouraged by design education, the introduction 21 culture of architectural practice, and the systems of professional awards, ‘the built environment has become an anarchic assemblage of ego-driven foreground structures against a background that has been left to the less skilled architects.’ (Quigley, in Saunders 1996) Insofar as many citizens and members of such public entities as regulatory agencies, planning boards, city councils, and neighborhood organizations believe that architects cannot be trusted to create a satisfactory environment they take upon themselves the role of protectors of the public interest. The public’s lack of confidence in architects has engendered the establishment of review boards to defend the common good from the esoteric and self-serving obsessions of architects and the wanton urban and environmental depredations of their profit-hungry clients. In addition to limiting as well the influence of other professions, the pressure, lobbying and legal actions of public groups have affected the autonomy and scope of authority of the architectural profession. The more egalitarian ethos of citizen participation now forces architects to adjust to a new role. Because of the consequences for their design authority resulting from the arousal of the public’s distrust architects have had to examine their assumptions and actions as the barriers set up by community groups controlling the levers of the approval process have become institutionalized. The time once saved when work was most quickly expedited by fewer people involved in the decision making process is now expended in the lengthy deliberations of pressure groups formerly excluded from the process. However, obstructionist behavior is less likely if those affected by a decision believe that their questions have been answered and that their concerns have been addressed. The conflict between the architect’s vision and the client’s wishes is manifest in the danger felt by some that the emphasis on the artistic component of architecture contributes to possible cost overruns, defective construction details, inefficient spatial layouts, delays, deficient coordination with engineering drawings, and the like. In addition, in an effort to assert their authority and demonstrate their allegiance with the client’s pragmatic considerations engineers and contractors sometimes gleefully point out to the dismayed client evidence of the architect’s incompetence. Clients have therefore begun to select and hire so-called project managers to undertake such traditional responsibilities of the architect as the choice of consultants, administration of the bidding process, and the supervision of the contractor’s work. If they do not wish to tolerate the interposition and interference of these new intermediaries architects must therefore establish a greater confidence in the client’s assessment of the architect’s knowledge, skills, and professionalism. The above description implicates deficiencies in the performance of architects’ responsibilities, but we must also be cognizant of the architect’s problems of creating a well-designed and executed building in an economic and cultural context that values profit and expediency above all. Architects have spoken of their dismay in having to work under these constraints. Bruce Graham, for example, remarks that ‘In the United States you have to do something so fast you don’t have time to really think out a problem—Saarinen used to complain about the lack of design time, and he used a lot of tricks to stretch the design period’. (Quigley, in 22 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
Saunders 1996) Helmut Jahn remarks similarly that ‘The awful thing—and I hear this a great deal from my colleagues—is that you get going and you don’t have time to make decisions. You have to shoot from the hip, and you wish you could be a lot more contemplative about isolating a problem before you jump into solving it. You never have enough time.’ (Quigley, in Saunders 1996) Joan Goody (Quigley, in Saunders 1996) also asserts that:
Time means even more than budget. As long as we’re working with a reasonable budget, I don’t find costs as constraining as the deadlines that we face, particularly with developers, when something has to be submitted to a planning board in a hurry ... I would love to do a project that has a reasonable schedule, allowing you to work on each piece lovingly and refine each detail and put the whole together in proper order. To be able to make changes during construction, to make the most of possibilities I hadn’t envisioned when the building was on paper—these are luxuries that architects don’t have any more. I often feel that what we do best is what the people who pay us appreciate least. We have to sneak in the aesthetic qualities on the sideline while we’re satisfying the functional needs, the budget, and so forth.
Finally, a bi-national comparison highlights cultural differences that affect architect-client relationships. ‘Chinese developers and even government agencies are proving to be better clients than their American counterparts. They say the Chinese are more ambitious, more adventurous, and even more willing to spend the money necessary to realize the designs. This thrills the architects, who have artistic undercurrents that often struggle to find an outlet. the American mentality is “if it hasn’t been done before, then you shouldn’t do it.” It’s all about risk, risk, risk. The Chinese have a kind of fearlessness to build things” (Cheek, 2011). In this survey of the architect-client relationship we have seen that the architect must first of all pass the test of the potential client’s assessment of his or her previous work and such indicators of compatibility and competence as dress, poise, manners, articulateness and self-confidence. Excellent writing and graphic communication skills are critical as well to convince clients and regulatory bodies, be they individuals, government agencies, interest groups, institutions, community associations, or city planners of an architect’s expertise and proposed design solutions. The client’s often unspoken but underlying determination that the completed project have a suitable correspondence to the image of a built symbol that will impress family, friends, business associates, customers, tenants, and competitors is often another implicit but significant criterion in the choice of an architect. Fortunate thus is the architect whom clients view as a gifted and trustworthy professional with a fertile imagination, infallible judgment, and sympathetic understanding of a client’s desires and whose joint work with the client enables the client’s identification with and gratification from the architect’s creative act. On the other hand, a demanding, distrustful, and imperious client can define the relationship as one in which a licensed but servile proprietor of a drafting service has no choice other than obeying the orders of his or her superior. Opportunities for those entering the arena are dependent as well on such factors as introduction 23 the number, prominence and proximity of competitors, the timing of the bubbles and bursts in the business cycle, the degree of success in assembling a supportive team, and the congruence of one’s design orientation with contemporaneous aesthetic doctrines, technology, and fashion. In a building environment rife with the challenges heretofore described an architect must be nimble and skilful indeed to seize a significant competitive advantage that will further and sustain a professional career. The example of those who have achieved the desired commissions and eminence may therefore act as a spur to those seeking to establish their role and their future in a creative and idealistic profession that one hopes will continue to attract generations of dedicated aspirants and satisfy their desire for active and gratifying careers that will contribute to the creation of a more wholesome and appealing physical environment.
Bibliography
Partnerships, Associations and Teams
Blau, J.R. 1984. Architecture and Firms. Cambridge: MIT Press. Bucci, F. 2002. Albert Kahn: Architect of Ford. New York: Princeton Architectural Press. Caudill, W. 1971. Architecture by Team. New York: Van Nostrand Reinhold. Cuff, D. 1991. Architecture: The Story of Practice. Cambridge: MIT Press. De Alba, R. 2003. Paul Rudolph: the Late Work. New York: Princeton Architectural Press. Dutton, T.A. 1991. Voices in Architectural Education. New York: Bergin & Garvey. Gropius, W. 1955. Scope of Total Architecture. New York: Collier Books. Gropius, W. 1996. The Architects Collaborative 1945–1965. London: Alex Tiranti. Gutman, R. 1988. Architectural Practice: A Critical View. New York: Princeton Architectural Press. Holm, I. 2006. Ideas and Beliefs in Architecture and Industrial Design. Oslo: Oslo School of Architecture and Design. Jones, C. 1961. Architecture Today and Tomorrow. New York: McGraw-Hill. Kennon, K. 2006. “Does Collaboration Work?, Architectural Design, 76(5), 50–53. Kirton, M. 1994. Adaptors and Innovators, revised ed. London: Routledge. Kostof, S. 1977. The Architect: Chapters in the History of the Profession. New York: Oxford University Press. Larson, M.S. 1993. Behind the Postmodern Façade. Berkeley: University of California Press. Lawson, B.1997. How Designers Think. rev. 3rd ed. Oxford: Architectural Press. Lawson, B. 2006. How Designers Think, 4th ed. Oxford: Architectural Press. Lee, B.M. et al, (eds). 2005. Perspecta 37. Cambridge: MIT Press. Lewis, R. 1998. Architect?: A Candid Guide to the Profession. rev. ed. Cambridge: MIT Press. 24 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
Nystrom, H. 1979. Creativity and Innovation. Chichester: John Wiley & Sons. Pelli, C. 1999. Observations for Young Architects. New York: Monacelli Press. Pressman, A. 1995. The Fountainheadache. New York: John Wiley & Sons. Pressman, A. 2006. Professional Practice 101, 2nd ed. Hoboken: John Wiley & Sons. Saint, A. 1983. The Image of the Architect. New Haven: Yale University Press. Salomon, D. 2006. “Strength in Numbers,” Architectural Design, 76(5), 55–57. Saunders, W.S. (ed.). 1996. Reflections on Architectural Practices in the Nineties. New York: Princeton Architectural Press. Sawyer, R.K. 2006. Explaining Creativity: The Science of Human Innovation. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Sawyer, R.K. 2007. Group Genius. New York: Basic Books. Schrage, M. 1989. No More Teams. New York: Doubleday. Sternberg, R.J. and Davidson J.E. 1986. Conceptions of Giftedness, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Straus, D. 2002. How to Make Collaboration Work. San Francisco: Berrett-Koehler. Winkelmann, D. 1973. “Trends in the Design Process,” AIA Journal, February, 13–20.
Interactions Between Architect and Engineer
Billington, D.P. and Mark, R. 1984. “The Cathedral and the Bridge: Structure and Symbol,” Technology and Culture, 5 (January), 37–52. Ben-Haim, Y. 1998. “Why the Best Engineers Should Study Humanities,” International Journal for Mechanical Engineering Education, 28, 195–200. Duby, G. 1981. The Age of Cathedrals, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Herbert, G. 1993. “St. Pancras Station/Hotel, London,” in Van Vynckt R.J (ed.). 1993. International Dictionary of Architecture. Chicago: St. James Press. Peters, T.F. 1993. “The Repercussions of Estrangement: Architecture and Engineering in the Nineteenth Century,” Design Book Review, 28.
Architect-Client Relationships
Blau, J.R. 1984. Architecture and Firms. Cambridge: MIT Press. Cheek, L.W. 2001. Architects Find Their Dream Client, in China, New York Times, 15 January. Cuff, D. 1991. Architecture: The Story of Practice. Cambridge: MIT Press. Diamonstein, B. 1983. American Architecture Now II. New York: Rizzoli. Dutton, T.A. 1991. Voices in Architectural Education. New York: Bergin & Garvey. Franck, K.A. and Von Sommaruga, Howard T. 2010. Design through Dialogue. Hoboken: John Wiley & Sons. Greenstreet, R. 1986. “Law: The Architect-Client Relationship,” Progressive Architecture, July, 63–68, 70, 72. introduction 25
Gutman, R. 1988. Architectural Practice: A Critical View. New York: Princeton Architectural Press. Holm, I. 2006. Ideas and Beliefs in Architecture and Industrial Design. Oslo: Oslo School of Architecture and Design. Johnson, P-A. 1994. The Theory of Architecture. New York: Van Nostrand Reinhold. Larson, M.S.1993: Behind the Postmodern Façade. Berkeley: University of California Press. Lawson, B. 1997. How Designers Think, rev. 3rd ed. Oxford: Architectural Press. Lawson, B. 2006. How Designers Think, 4th ed. Oxford: Architectural Press. Levinson, N. 2005. “Notes on fame,” in Lee, B.M. et al (eds). 2005. Perspecta 37. Cambridge: MIT Press. Lewis, R. 1998. Architect?: A Candid Guide to the Profession, rev. ed. Cambridge: MIT Press. Pelli, C. 1999. Observations for Young Architects. New York: Monacelli Press. Pressman, A. 1995. The Fountainheadache. New York: John Wiley & Sons. Pressman, A. 2006a. Curing the Fountainheadache. 2nd ed. New York: Stanley. Pressman, A. 2006b. Professional Practice 101. 2nd ed. Hoboken: John Wiley & Sons. Saunders, W.S. (ed.). 1996. Reflections on Architectural Practices in the Nineties. New York: Princeton Architectural Press. Steele, F.I. 1968. “Interpersonal Aspects of the Architect-Client Relationship,” Progressive Architecture, March, 132–33.
Notes
1 Feldhusen, J.F.: “A conception of giftedness” in Sternberg, R.J. and Davidson, J.E., Conceptions of Giftedness, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1966, p. 118, and R.K. Sawyer: Explaining Creativity: The Science of Human Innovation, Oxford, Oxford University Press, 2006. 2 Quoted in Schrage, M.: No More Teams, New York, Doubleday, 1995, p. 51. 3 Jones, C.: Architecture Today and Tomorrow, New York, Mc-Graw-Hill, 1961, p. 173. 4 gwathmey, C.: “The importance of design,” in Pressman, A., Professional Practice 101, 2nd ed., Hoboken, John Wiley & Sons, 2006, pp. 11–12. 5 In the keynote address at the Jubilee Celebrations for Professor Gilbert Herbert, Haifa, 1997. 6 This a phrase found, generations apart, in both the Websters Dictionary of 1947, and the Collins Dictionary of 1991. 7 From the definition of an engineer in the Charter of the Institution of Civil Engineers, in 1821. 8 See the discussion in Herbert, In Search of Synthesis, Haifa, 1997, pp. 350–351. 9 Pier Luigi Nervi, in a conversation with the architect Harry Seidler, as reported by Seidler to the author. 26 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
10 Billington, D.P., and Mark, R: “The Cathedral and the Bridge: Structure and Symbol,” Technology and Culture, January 1984, pp. 37–52, referring to Duby, G.: The Age of Cathedrals, Chicago, 1981, p. 182. 1
St. Pancras Reconsidered: A Case Study in the Interface of Architecture and Engineering
Gilbert Herbert
Bridging the Gap Between Architect and Engineer
Most modern commentators agree that by the nineteenth century the professional split between architect and engineer had become institutionalized, and the problem of integration of their diverse skills in the design process and their ultimate synthesis in a unified creation had become acute. The objective historical reasons for this estrangement may have been variously interpreted, but the conclusion almost universally arrived at was that in complex Victorian buildings dependent on large-scale structures, the final divorce of rationality and artistic creation had taken place. Hence Giedion (1941) wrote of ‘the schism between architecture and technology;’ Collins (1965) noted ‘the division between the two professions’ of architecture and engineering which had taken place as early as 1750; and Gans and her colleagues (1991) still perceived the need to ‘bridge the gap’ between architect and engineer. 28 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
It is our contention that these strictures are too severe, and that, in the nineteenth century, there was always a potential degree of overlap between architect and engineer, even in the age of complex problems and innovative technology. To stress the schism between the professions in the nineteenth century is to fail to see the relationships, interactions and overlappings—what Peters (1993) calls ‘border crossing’—when they do occur. While not denying the reality of the division of the professions in Victorian building, it is, we believe, far more instructive to look for the areas, if not of active cooperation, then at least of congruence. In order to do this, we should be looking not at today’s understanding of the nature of engineering and architecture, but rather at the perceptions of the professions prevalent in the nineteenth century itself. Preparatory to the charter of the Institution of Civil Engineers, incorporated in 1828, engineering was defined as ‘the art of directing the great sources of power in Nature for the use and convenience of man.’1 This broad definition, virtually unchanged,2 later became the basis for the interpretation of the role of the civil engineer as one ‘whose field is that of structures’ (Encyclopaedia Britannica, 1929/1939). These structures included bridges, highways, dams, harbours, canals and aqueducts. They were interventions by calculation, design and construction, aimed at ‘directing the great sources of power in Nature’, and they constituted the engineer’s traditional areas of competence. With the advent of new unprecedented building types the term ‘structures’ began also to embrace the design and supervision of the construction of great buildings. This inclusion of great buildings in the engineer’s brief, reflecting nineteenth- century realities, inevitably brought engineering into the time-honoured territory of the architect who, according to Gwilt’s definition (1867), was ‘a person competent to design and superintend the execution of any building.’ This definition, incidentally, has not changed significantly to the present day, except to emphasize the ‘art and science’ of such design.3 It was in the design of non-traditional buildings such as factories, warehouses and railway stations that a grey area emerged, where the roles of the engineer and architect of the mid-nineteenth century overlapped, and the boundaries of their professional competence and responsibility became blurred. Surprisingly, there appears to have been no serious debate, at an institutional level, on the interaction of the two professions, either in the Transactions of the Royal Institute of British Architects, or in the Proceedings of the Institution of Civil Engineers.4 There were three facets of the design of buildings where rival claims of engineer and architect could possibly collide: the areas of planning, beauty of form and decoration, and structure. While the dependence of architecture on structure still remained a central tenet in architectural theory, the nineteenth-century architect— lacking the specialized knowledge, training, computational skills, and, perhaps, the temperament of the engineer—was forced in practice to concede the design of large-scale structures, especially those employing non-traditional materials and techniques (first in iron, then steel and reinforced concrete) to the civil engineer. However, while ‘cheerfully obeying structural necessities,’ the architect regarded questions of beauty, ‘adapting the forms suggested by construction into beautiful and harmonious constructions’ as his special prerogative (Jackson, 1885). On the st. pancras reconsidered 29 whole, the engineer allowed this claim, sometimes openly acknowledging the architect’s expertise in matters of beauty, more often by default, regarding beauty perhaps as a possible outcome of the engineer’s work, but not its prime aim. As to planning—the shaping, disposition, zoning and connection of the internal spaces of the building—this was undoubtedly the monopoly of the architect, and since the nineteenth century a major determinant of his work. The propriety of this claim to exclusiveness was (but for one significant exception) not seriously challenged by the engineer. The one exception in which the question of planning was discussed in the engineering literature was the case of the railway station. This was raised in a paper, given to the Institution of Civil Engineers on 27 April 1858 by Robert Jacomb Hood, entitled: ‘On the Arrangement and Construction of Railway Stations.’ Hood considered ‘the correct and judicious arrangement of the terminal and other stations’ to be one of the most important branches of the Railway Engineer’s practice, regretting ‘how limited is the number of stations which can fall to the share of any but a few leading members of the profession, and how much this class of work is usually divided with directors, managers, and architects.’ Despite an acknowledged lack of architectural training from which the British engineer, as compared with his continental counterpart, suffered, Hood (1858) believed the design of the station should nevertheless be the professional responsibility of the engineer.
Many difficulties arise from the practice of employing architects to design and execute the station works. If, therefore, the Engineer desires to do full credit to his employers, and to himself, he should in all cases design the station works, either engaging assistants, or working conjointly with an architect, to furnish the necessary amount of architectural decoration, a talent for which is not always combined with constructive ability, or the faculty of judicious arrangement.
The phrase ‘judicious arrangement’ was the innovation of Hood’s paper, for it raised the question of the proper planning of the railway station as a major thrust of the engineer’s work. The planning requirements of a terminal station were examined in great detail by Hood. These included site planning and access; typologies of layout, concerning ‘the position of the main buildings, relative to the direction of the lines of the rails’; facilities for passenger access and processing, including ‘the most convenient arrangement of the several offices and waiting rooms, with all their accessories’; the movement of trains and the design and construction of the platforms, turntables, traverses, etc.; and the proper provision for ingress and exit, waiting space, and circulation of all categories of vehicular traffic. This analysis of spatial requirements, design of fittings, pedestrian and vehicular circulation, even heating and ventilation, is exceptional in an engineering publication of that time. It is directly analogous with contemporary papers in architectural journals, which did deal with the planning of complex buildings, such as hospitals.5 The claim made by Hood, that planning (or judicious arrangement) should be in the domain of engineering design, is unique, and is not extended by his colleagues to other building types. There was no direct reaction in the 30 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process official architectural press to this proposed usurpation of the architect’s role. An indirect response, however, to the activities of the engineer in the design of railway stations, may be found in Alexander J. B. Beresford-Hope’s presidential address to the Royal Institute of British Architects, on 6 November 1865. He questioned the use of the term ‘engineer’ to describe those, not professional architects by training, but architects by their actions, responsible for the design and construction of some of the greatest buildings of the day.
These are the architects who, because the buildings they construct are pre- eminently massive, because they are mainly devoted to the grand material interests of the nation, because their measurements may be by the furlong and not the yard, therefore abjure the name of the architect to borrow the incongruous appellation of engineer. But it is surely just as incorrect to designate everything that Stephenson or Brunel accomplished engineering, as it would be to call all the works of Michael Angelo [sic] architecture, or painting, or sculpture. The patriarchs of modern engineering have mapped the roadways, invented the rolling stock, and designed the buildings, all of which in different ways go to make up a working railroad, just as an old architect may have built, painted, and carved a cathedral or public hall. The old architect thus showed himself to be architect, painter, and sculptor. So the civil engineer proved himself to be a surveyor, in laying out the line; an engineer, properly so called, in constructing the engines; and an architect, in designing viaducts and stations.
It is interesting to note that Beresford-Hope, as his example of the ‘architectural’ work of the great engineers, chose the railway station, nor did he deny their architectural quality. In the ambitious pre-emptive claims of Hood, and the generous, if somewhat condescending, praise of Beresford-Hope, we see the seeds of possible congruities in the work of architect and engineer on major construction projects of the nineteenth century. Such congruities are sometimes the result of the innate sensibilities of the designer, be he engineer or architect. On the other hand, as Billington and Mark (1984) have argued, talented engineers such as Roebling or Eiffel ‘did not derive their designs from positivistic science or any belief that efficiency and economy alone would lead them to appropriate forms ... but ... designed by combining passion with discipline’; and conversely, architects such as Dankmar Adler or Henri Labrouste took architectural decisions shaped to no small extent by the rational imperatives of materials, construction, or the environmental sciences. More typically, when a degree of congruence between architecture and engineering was achieved, it was a result of necessity as well as mutual understanding. We believe that such creative interaction did occur, even when it was not always visible to the eye. Three major works in Victorian London, each in its own way, demonstrate this thesis. The Palace of Westminster, although it was heavily dependent on elaborate systems of heating and ventilation which made possible the internal location of the debating chambers and which generated some of the vertical emphases of the building, nevertheless maintained the integrity of the architecture as Barry and Pugin conceived it. In the Crystal Palace, it was the ingenious meshing of the 24–foot structural module, the resultant of the st. pancras reconsidered 31 engineer’s design of the iron frame, with the 8-foot planning module generated by Paxton’s concept of prefabricated wall panels and glazed roofing system, which gave the building its unified, and unique, architectural character. The third example constitutes our case study, and it is one generally regarded as an extreme example of the perceived conflict of architect and engineer: the design of St. Pancras Station in London, its train shed, and its associated Midland Hotel. In view of the centrality of the railway station in nineteenth-century perception of the role of engineer and architect, it is perhaps the most appropriate example of all.
Case Study: The Railway Station
It is generally acknowledged that the complex building known as St. Pancras Station, London, actually comprises two discrete functional units: the train shed for the Midland railway designed by the engineer William Henry Barlow, and the Midland Hotel designed by the architect George Gilbert Scott. Traditional criticism, moreover, holds that these two conjoined elements stand in direct contrast to each other, in terms of their design approach, their use of technology, and their expressive intent. As Hitchcock (1958) put it, in discussing the two components of St. Pancras: ‘Such a drastic divorce of engineering and architecture could hardly be expected to produce a coordinated edifice.’ Summerson (1970) sees this as a general condition, asserting that ‘after Paddington, the divorce between architect and engineer was complete’, and in the specific case of St. Pancras, he describes this divorce in even more categoric terms, as ‘the disintegration of architecture and engineering: the total separation of functional and ‘artistic’ criteria, in separate heads and hands.’ This assertion, that the two components of St. Pancras co-exist unhappily, has as Curl (1973) once remarked, ‘has been repeated ad nauseum.’ Now, of course, there is a certain amount of truth in this conventional wisdom. Barlow’s great train shed is indeed a triumph of rational design, exploiting to the full the most advanced technology of the day, and expressing the new structural means in a dramatic and lyrical enclosure of space; a space, however, which in its own time was hardly expressive of ruling tastes but could be seen rather as a somewhat stark anticipation of an unpalatable ‘non-artistic’ future. Scott’s neo- Gothic hotel, on the other hand, seems to exemplify a design approach nostalgically reminiscent of a former time and age, where associational, formal, and decorative goals predominate, and whose architectural expression belies any constructive means other than the traditional building crafts. While not disputing that there is some truth in these generalizations, we argue here that they are greatly over-simplified, and if accepted at face value could lead to false conclusions. It is our intention, therefore, to return to a proposition originally put forward by D. T. Timmins (1902) that the hotel ‘is an integral part of the station itself, and therefore cannot be treated of separately.’ Consequently, we propose to examine each of the components of St. Pancras Station, not just seeing the train shed and the hotel as two separate units confronting each other, two independent 32 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
Fig. 1.1 barlow: works in uneasy juxtaposition, as it were, but rather in terms of two functionally Midland Railway and architecturally related elements, with problems and opportunities of interface train shed between architecture and engineering. Firstly, we shall look at the train shed, not only as a work of engineering—that is, simply as a feat of construction—but as architecture in a much broader sense. By architecture, we mean not only that it deals with the creation of monumental form or perceptual space, but that it involves the organization of that space in pragmatic terms of function and circulation, that is to say, in terms of architectural planning proper. Secondly, we shall examine the hotel not only in aesthetic terms, but also in terms of its solutions of complex functional, structural and environmental problems, aspects sometimes regarded as more in the sphere of engineering than architecture, at least in the perception of Victorian professional concerns and role limitations. In other words, we shall look at both components of St. Pancras Station as syntheses of engineering and architecture. Finally, we shall have to deal with the interesting and perhaps most significant question of all: whether these two components really stand in confrontation with each other as two antagonistic elements, or whether they actually represent a tense but ultimately successful symbiosis of two different talents in one integrated composition. To do this, we must look into, but also go far beyond, the usual rather superficial analogies drawn between the pointed arches of the train shed and the neo-Gothic character of the hotel. We must determine to what extent Barlow’s design of the station predetermined significant aspects of the design of the hotel st. pancras reconsidered 33
Fig. 1.2 scott: Midland Hotel
and conversely, to what extent Scott’s design of the hotel contributed not only to the formal external expression of the station, as its principal façade, but to its architectural character as a whole, seen from the flanking side streets, and most important of all, to its internal ambience.
The Midland Rail Train Shed (designed c.1864–1865; built 1866–1868)
The decision to build a terminal station in London for the Midland Railway stemmed from two decades of development, resulting in a change in the character of that company from a purely local line to a great system linking the industrial 34 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process and commercial north to the capital city of England. For the purpose of building this passenger station, the Midland Railway acquired, in the London parish of St. Pancras, a large tract of land (not far from its existing goods station) fronting the Euston Road on the south and flanked by the old St. Pancras Road on the east and Brewer Street (later Midland Road) on the west. To adapt the site to the needs of the station, the Midland Railway Co. undertook a radical transformation of the existing urban layout. ‘For its passenger station alone’, wrote Williams (1876), ‘it swept away seven streets of three thousand houses, and a church; Old St. Pancras Churchyard was invaded; and Agar Town was almost demolished.’ What Mumford called the obdurate facts of site proved, in this instance, to be amenable to drastic surgery. More difficult, but in the end not intractable, were other site factors, including the Regent’s Canal, obstructing the approach from the north, the existence of the Fleet Sewer at the southern end of the site, and the Metropolitan Railway below ground level, to which connections had to be made. Finally, in close proximity, stood St. Pancras’s neighbour, the Great Northern’s station, King’s Cross (1851–1852). The design of the station was entrusted to William Henry Barlow (1812–1902), who from 1844 to 1857 had been Chief Engineer to the company, and subsequently was retained as its Consulting Engineer. Barlow, who had trained under the renowned Robert Stephenson, was a talented and experienced engineer. Among many projects, other than his ongoing work for the Midland Railway, he had been responsible to Joseph Paxton for the initial calculations of the structure of the Crystal Palace (1850), and later rebuilt the Tay Bridge (1887). The history of the construction of the train shed was recounted by Barlow himself (Barlow, 1869/1870), at the Institution of Civil Engineers, in a paper which remains our only first-hand authoritative account. It was later discussed by his contemporaries (Williams, 1876) as well as by later writers (Simmons, 1968). However, its proper documentation is lacking in several serious respects. There appears to be no extant original drawings by Barlow, other than those reproductions of cross-sections, two bays of the longitudinal section, and various structural details (signed W. H. Barlow delt) which appeared in the publication of his paper. The most important omission in the extant Barlow drawings is that of plans showing the layout of the station; nor are there any indications of the treatment, internally and externally, of the brickwork enclosing the lower floor of the train shed. In fact, the earliest original drawings in the published record which indicate (at least in part) the plans, and the internal and external elevations of the train shed, come not from Barlow, but as part of the later working drawings of the adjacent hotel by George Gilbert Scott. This is of some significance, as we shall see from our subsequent account. For the extent of Barlow’s plan, and the degree to which it predetermined the design of the hotel, we shall have to rely on verbal accounts published at the time. The only full plans we have seen reproduced (Jackson, 1971) date from the 20th century, and presumably are based on later site surveys. This distortion in the availability of illustrations is one of the causes in debates on the train shed of the over-emphasis on its structural aspects, and the comparative neglect of the architectural qualities, and the efficiency of the planning and layout, st. pancras reconsidered 35
Fig. 1.3 barlow: structural details, train shed
of Barlow’s station. Finally, we have been unable to discover any systematic sets of documents, such as contracts and files of correspondence, upon which an authoritative account of the design history of the train shed can be based. We thus have no detailed design history of the train shed itself: no precise dates, no preliminary plans or exploration of possible alternatives, and no definitive statement of Barlow’s original brief or, for that matter, the design brief of the hotel. Acknowledging these serious gaps in our knowledge, we shall nevertheless attempt a coherent reconstruction of the design history of the station, at least in so far as it affects our thesis, basing ourselves on the fragmentary, but often critical, bits of evidence which do exist, buried in contemporary accounts. As we shall see, we shall learn of at least one vital decision made by the clients, the Directors of the Midland Company. We also have reference to some collaborators in the design process. Simmons (1968) tells us that Barlow consulted with the engineer John Hawkshaw, designer of the just-completed Charing Cross Station (1859–1864), and with the assistant resident engineer, J.W. Barry, the son of Sir Charles Barry. More significantly, he also consulted with R.M. Ordish (1824–1886), to whom he acknowledged a considerable debt, over details of the roof. Rowland Mawson Ordish was an experienced engineer, who at the time was busy with the design of the Winter Palace in Dublin (1865) and the Winter Garden in Leeds (1868); other 36 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
Fig. 1.4 Plans work for which he was accredited included the sophisticated space-structure of of St. Pancras the dome of the Albert Hall (1867–1871, in association with J. W. Grover) and the Station: above, Gothicized Albert Bridge over the Thames (1873). Ordish had been the Resident street plan; below, platform level Engineer on the site of the Crystal Palace, and had probably come into contact with Barlow on that project. In some references (Hitchcock, 1958) the structure of the train shed is credited jointly to both Barlow and Ordish, but this would seem to over-emphasize Ordish’s role, important though it was. The train shed was located at an upper level on an elevated platform. The elevation of this floor, 12 to 17 feet above the adjacent streets, resulted from a decision to bring the approach tracks leading to the station above, rather than under, the Regent’s Canal which, as we have noted, formed a barrier to the north st. pancras reconsidered 37
of the site. This was an early decision, intended by the railway engineers to obviate Fig. 1.5 st. excessively steep gradients for the incoming trains, but it was a decision with critical Pancras: interior implications for the design of the station and the train shed which enclosed it. This perspective of train shed was to be a building approximately 240 feet wide and 700 feet long, roofed with an iron-framed arched roof covered with slates on boarding on the lower slopes, and a Paxton-type ridge-and-furrow glazed section—ventilated along the full length of each ridge—extending to a width of about 120 feet at the apex. Although this roof is the outstanding feature of the design, it is not our present purpose to analyze its structure in any detail. It has been adequately discussed, initially by Barlow himself in his paper to the Institute of Civil Engineers and in the comments it generated there amongst his colleagues, and by later authors, such as Simmons (1968). Its most notable feature, from a structural point of view, was that it was a single arch with a clear span of 240 feet, which was to remain for a long time the largest single-span enclosed structure to be attempted. Briefly described, it was a bowstring truss consisting of a series of curved iron ribs set approximately 30 feet apart in the shape of an arch pointed at the apex and with the bowstring truss tied at the base by the gridded structure of the elevated floor of the train shed. Barlow, in his presentation, went into great detail about three aspects of his design: its conceptual basis as an engineering structure, criteria for the calculations of its components, and the economic consequences of his solution. He argued that, in comparison with other large spans of the time—Cannon Street Station (190 feet), Charing Cross Station (166 feet), or New Lime Street Station (212 feet)—his was a rational and competitive solution. 38 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
In his paper, however, Barlow conceded that, despite the special mitigating conditions of the case—the possibility of using the elevated station floor structure as the tie-beam of the trusses—it might have been cheaper to have divided the roof into two spans, with an intermediate row of columns, as had been done at King’s Cross. The possible saving on the main structure could have amounted to as much as £6,000. It is of great interest, therefore, to understand the motivation for the single span. It was obviously not based on economic reasons, but neither was its origin to be found in purely structural considerations. Safety factors, resulting from the problematic use of obstructive internal columns, were possibly a contributory motivation, but Barlow does not refer to this aspect at all. Then, of course, there was also the ‘hubris factor,’ the natural pride of an engineer, in a competitive age where bigger was always better, in creating the largest span ever. Barlow, however, gave as the principal motivation for the single span another— and unique—factor. As he explained it, a row of columns in the centre supporting a divided span would have resulted in ’the sacrifice of a width of 5 feet or 6 feet, for the entire length of the most valuable working space of the station.’ He went on: ‘As the station has been built, the whole working area is free of obstruction of any kind, and the Company may make any alterations in the arrangements of the lines and platforms which may from time to time best suit their large and growing traffic.’ The allocation of space in a built structure for specific uses, from the point of view of functional effectiveness, we would argue, is primarily an architectural consideration. From this we may suggest, with some confidence that the prime generator of the single-span St. Pancras train shed roof was the architectural consideration of the functional planning of enclosed space, and that the engineering decisions as to the appropriate structural form of that enclosure were a consequence, not a cause, of that critical decision. This decision, we are told by Barlow, was made by the Company itself: ‘The importance attached by the Directors and the General Manager to obtain perfect freedom in the use of the whole area of the station for traffic purposes, unembarrassed by columns or other impediments, was such, that instructions were given for an arch in one clear span.’ The motivator of this decision was J.J. Allport, general manager of the Midland Railway, who had discussed the idea with both Barlow and the Directors of the company.6 This question of freedom of use, that is, of flexibility in the face of possible future developments, was a user-requirement of some sophistication which, we may add, was only to become embodied in general architectural thinking at a much later date. Two basic decisions thus set the framework for the subsequent design of the station. Both came out of consideration for the proper functioning of the railway system, the raison d’etre of the station. The first was a purely engineering decision,7 related to the gradients of the approach lines, which led to a two-level solution. We do not know if Barlow, as Consulting Engineer to the Company, and its former Chief Engineer, was the prime mover here, or even if he had agreed with it, but he certainly accepted it. The second was what we have termed an architectural decision (albeit an architectural decision which, as we have seen, engineers such as Hood and Allport had pre-empted as their prerogative) about the flexible use st. pancras reconsidered 39
of space, which led to the single-span roof.8 These two decisions, however, were Fig. 1.6 st. linked. The two-level solution allowed direct access to the lower area from the Pancras: structural adjacent roads. The utilization of this space, the Directors decided, should be viable grid, street level as a commercial proposition. Consequently, very early in the planning process, this lower level was allocated as a storage area for the Burton Breweries. An important consequence of this decision was the need to design a grid of supporting columns which would fit the modular requirements of the beer containers. This grid, and the beams it supported, enabled the floor-structure/roof-tie syndrome which facilitated the one-span solution and provided the technical basis for the decision, eventually taken on functional grounds, to go for the ambitious single-arch structure. With these two basic and inter-linked decisions, namely the two-level solution and the single-span roof, the parameters were set within which the detailed planning of St. Pancras Station could now take place. ‘The main features of the work being thus determined,’ said Barlow, ‘the plans and arrangements of the station were immediately proceeded with.’ One aspect of ‘the plans and arrangements’ with which Barlow had now to concern himself deserves special comment. This is the skilful handling of the complex circulation patterns of the station at both levels. Railway wagons bringing the beer were brought down to the lower level from the upper-level tracks by a hydraulic wagon lift. Then there was a need to devise a system of tracks and turntables for the distribution of the beer barrels to the storage areas between the columns and to the loading areas where the heavy drays waited to take out the deliveries. These tracks, turntables and lifts, were problems directly within an 40 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process up-to-date railway engineer’s sphere of professional responsibility, as Hood had earlier claimed.9 At the upper level the problem was one which demanded other skills¸ those normally associated with the architect. The problem was the planning of convenient movement patterns for large numbers of people (arriving on foot or by cab) who needed to purchase tickets, get information, deal with baggage, wait for trains, talk to accompanying friends, take refreshment, and eventually embark safely on the train at the departure platform; to provide a parallel process in reverse for arriving passengers; and of course to deal with the multitude of management and staff who serviced the entire process. There was also a need to provide access to the underground station of the Metropolitan Railway, opened in 1863, with which the mainline station connected. The general layout of tracks and platforms followed what had by then become accepted practice. Arrivals and departures were naturally to be separated, but in addition, as in Cannon Street, Charing Cross and Victoria, the arrivals came in on either side of a broad platform which included a carriageway for cabs. In St. Pancras, however, the main booking hall, waiting rooms and parcel office were located at the side, adjacent to the departure platform, and not at the head of the rails. This was a system already employed at King’s Cross, an arrangement which permitted a driveway for cabs to enter the station alongside the booking hall, there to discharge the intending travellers. The problem confronting Barlow, however, was more complex than at King’s Cross, for the level of the tracks and the adjacent services at St. Pancras was at some considerable height above street level. Barlow’s solution to this problem was ingenious. Cabs entering the station to collect incoming passengers approached the north end of the arrivals platform by way of an up-ramp from Old St. Pancras Road to the east, while the cabs that had deposited their passengers at the booking hall then departed from the station by a descending ramp to Brewer Street on the west. The problem remained, however, how the cabs approaching the booking hall and those leaving the central carriageway were to connect with the main street, Euston Road. Barlow’s bold solution was that these main vehicular thoroughfares, together with the necessary pedestrian ways, would penetrate through the main façade of the building. From the outset, in Barlow’s conception (and in this he probably expressed the wishes of the Directors) this main façade was to be a grand hotel. From Euston Station to Paddington, this had become accepted procedure. The penetration of a hotel fronting the train shed by the main entrances to the station, however, ran contrary to accepted practice. To take but three examples: at Euston the paired hotels were separate blocks, and the entrance to the station was through the Propylaeum, or Euston Arch, a feature independent of both hotels and train shed; at Cubitt’s King’s Cross, where the entrances penetrated the main façade, this façade was but a screen, and the associated Great Northern Hotel was set to the side, as an independent building; at Paddington, where Hardwick’s Great Western Hotel fronted the station, the main entrance to Brunel and Wyatt’s train shed was located at the side, leading to the departure platform only, while access to the head of all the lines was gained in somewhat surreptitious fashion, at the junction of the two main elements, the hotel and the station. st. pancras reconsidered 41
Fig. 1.7 Comparative plans: Euston, King’s Cross, Paddington and St. Pancras Stations
Both the location and the monumental scale of the St. Pancras entrances, and the fact that they were situated a complete storey above ground level, were unique. They were among the a priori facts established by Barlow, which were to play such a significant role in determining the subsequent design of the hotel. It is to the conception and design of the Midland Hotel that we now turn. 42 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
Fig. 1.8 scott: The Midland Hotel (designed c.1865–1867; built 1868–1873, 1876) Midland Hotel, south façade, The building is well known, and for our purposes a brief description of its general original version form will suffice. The hotel sits in an irregular wedge-shaped site between the train shed and the Euston Road on the south and extends for the full width of the site. In its built form (reduced by one floor from the original design) the building is four storeys in height above platform level, with an additional two storeys lit by dormers in the steep roof, the highest floor accommodating passengers’ servants and hotel staff. Seen from the Euston Road the principal element of this façade is a massive four-square tower, with a steep truncated pyramidal roof, and turrets and slender spires on each corner. This tower surmounts the monumental arch of the principal carriageway entrance to the station, flanked by pedestrian passages on either side. To the east of the tower the façade runs straight for nearly five hundred feet, articulated by two gable-topped oriel bays and a projecting feature marking the arched exit from the arrival platform. The fenestration is grouped vertically, in decreasing storey heights. The termination of this extremely long façade is a tall clock-tower evocative of the Palace of Westminster’s ‘Big Ben.’ To the west the façade swings round and forward for another hundred feet in a vigorous arc, with its short return side now aligned along Euston Road, that is, not exactly parallel with the main façade. On this short side the entrance to the hotel is located, with its projecting portico and its accented and turreted roof line. Behind this main block the building recedes at an angle along Brewer Street (later the Midland Road) on the west. There is also a lower wing projecting alongside the train shed, to house the booking hall, waiting rooms and other service areas of the station proper. The details are ‘eclectic 14th-century Gothic’ (Cole, 1980), and the ornamentation exuberant; the materials are ‘throughout magnificent: Gripper bricks from Nottingham, Kelton stone and terracotta’ (Stamp, 1980). st. pancras reconsidered 43
Fig. 1.9 scott: Midland Hotel, original version, platform level
Fig. 1.10 scott: Midland Hotel, original version, 1st floor plan 44 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
Fig. 1.11 Midland From the very beginning, the brio of Scott’s hotel evoked controversy. The building Hotel, view from is in the Gothic style, but it is a Gothic which defies easy classification, being perhaps the Euston Road more French than English. It has at various times, in the flux of changing criteria of criticism, been admired for its vitality and sweep, derided as fussy and over-ornate, condemned as inappropriate for a railway building, and praised for its originality and ingenuity. Summerson (1970), in commenting on the curved west wing rushing forward to meet the hotel entrance, thought it too ‘ambitious an exercise, an exercise Neoclassical rather than Gothic in spirit’, and dismissed it as ‘the disintegration of architecture itself due to the compulsive obtrusion of the question of style.’ We do not at this stage intend to enter into a debate on stylistic issues, or its aesthetic qualities. We do, however, wish to comment on certain aspects of the plan. Behind the Gothic façade, the hotel as designed by Scott was a modern building in many senses. Approaches were carefully planned: from the road by means of a porte cochere, from the arrivals platform by staircase and open gallery within the train shed itself. Technologically, it was advanced, and what David Cole (1980) called ‘the marriage with mechanical services’ was extensive. Cast iron was used in many parts of the construction, including the Grand Staircase. Hydraulic lifts called ‘ascending rooms’ gave access to the upper floors; most of the hundreds of guest rooms were large, comfortable, and heated by an installation designed by ‘Mr. Haden, an eminent warming engineer’, and bathrooms were plentiful (Simmons, 1968). Scott himself was proud of the practical efficiency of his design, noting that ‘apparatus for the prevention and extraction of fires is provided in all st. pancras reconsidered 45
parts of the hotel, speaking tubes and electric bells run in all necessary directions Fig. 1.12 ramped giving the maximum accommodation with the minimum of noise’ (Cole, 1980). An approach to St. examination of Scott’s plans shows the attention he gave to the service aspects Pancras Station of the hotel: the kitchen and sculleries (with their independent ventilation shafts), the confectionery and pastry-cook’s room, the vast range of specialized stores— glass and china, wine, beer, groceries, meat, fish, flour, vegetables, coal—the lifts to the serveries, the baggage lifts to the upper floors. Scott’s understanding of the responsibilities of the architect was obviously much wider than the perception of the critics: the grand staircase and luxurious curved coffee lounge are those aspects of the interior usually featured in published illustrations of the hotel. It was John Betjeman (1972) who praised the traffic arrangements of the hotel and station, calling the complex ‘the most practically designed station for ambulances and certainly the most considerate and humane to mobile passengers.’ The facilitating devices to which he referred were the approach ramps, described in the Builder (1866) in these terms: ‘The approach to the station is by an incline from the side of the hotel entrance along the concave side and the straight frontage of the building.’ It is the frank and direct expression of these ramps on the otherwise traditionalist front which is the hotel’s most unique feature. There is a curved up-ramp leading to the monumental entrance, then flattening to continue to the cab exit, there to pivot through 180 degrees and descend back to street level at Euston Road. While the external expression of monumental staircases is a time-honoured device in architecture, what we have here is entirely unprecedented: a major architectural 46 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process feature, dominant at the lower levels of the façade, designed for wheeled traffic. This ramp, moreover, coordinates remarkably well with the architecture of the hotel front, sweeping as it does to the great archway of the principal entrance, there modulating its gradient, and then hinging to begin its return at the secondary arch of the cab exit. The detailed interface between the inclined plane of the ramp and the vertical elements of the façade is also skillfully handled by means of an articulating gap between the two. Most remarkable of all is the relationship of the curved west wing of the hotel to the turning circle of the approach ramp. Perhaps for the first time in architectural history we have a monumental building whose plan profile is determined not by purely aesthetic or stylistic considerations, but in direct concordance with the imperatives of traffic flow. But if this is a case of functional determinism, the propriety of the symbolism should not be lost upon us. The use of the ramp in conjunction with the vigorously-curved façade imparts a dynamic quality to the design; it becomes an architecture of movement, and what could be more appropriate as the entrance façade to a railway station. In an entirely Victorian idiom, it almost becomes a prevision of the Futurists’ concern with movement.
Barlow and Scott: The Delineation of Responsibility
From a distance, especially in its silhouette, and close-up, in its detailing, there is no doubt that the design of the hotel comes from the hand of Gilbert Scott. In these aspects, the design carries his imprimatur just as convincingly as the drawings which bear his signature. But when we consider the characteristics of his architecture, not only in this building, but in terms of his whole ouevre, we must question whether the striking curved front and the dynamic ramps are the fruits of his design initiative. It was not only uncharacteristic of Scott, but an unlikely solution for any conservative Victorian architect, engrossed with stylistic matters, to conceive. To suggest an answer to this question, we must look at the design history of the station and the hotel, as far as it is known to us. A competition for the design of the hotel was conducted in the period May- December 1865, by which time the design of the train shed had been finalized, and construction about to commence. According to the Builder (1866), a printed programme was issued to eleven competitors: G.G. Scott, G.S. Clarke, E.M. Barry, T.C. Sorby, C.P. Cockerell, A. Darbishire, Lockwood & Mawson, Hine & Evans, Walter & Co., Lloyd, and Owen Jones. The RIBA has no record of this competition, and we have no information about the composition of the jury. We have also been unable to trace any surviving copies of this programme, but we have Barlow’s account, in his presentation to the Institution of Civil Engineers. He reported that:
Competitive designs had been invited from several of the most eminent architects for the station buildings, booking-offices, and hotel, the architects being furnished with the plans of the several buildings showing the position of the booking-offices, waiting-rooms, and hotel, and with the design of the station roof to which the interior walls were to be adapted. In the end, st. pancras reconsidered 47
the design of Mr. Gilbert Scott, R.A., was adopted, and the services of that eminent architect were secured to carry out the station buildings and hotel, above the level of the foundations.
Several points of significance emerge from this brief statement. It is evident that the train shed, the auxiliary station buildings, and the hotel, were considered as one integral complex; that the architect was to be responsible for the design not only of the hotel, but also the auxiliary buildings—booking-offices, waiting- rooms—and the interior of the train shed itself. It was also clear that many of the design decisions had been pre-empted, before the competition was launched. The roof of the train shed—and that included the modular structure which supported it—was an obdurate factor to which the architect’s designs for the interior walls had to adapt. Not only were the competitors given plans showing the location of the station buildings and the hotel, but their brief was limited to structures above foundation level. Other than the early proposals of Scott’s, including some drawings which are presumed to be his winning competition entry, we have found no alternative designs (with one exception) submitted by the other competitors. That exception is a single perspective by Owen Jones, viewing the hotel from the north behind an accurate representation of the train shed. A comparison of the Scott and Jones proposals is revealing. From Jones’s perspective we receive confirmation that the competitors were given full details of the design of the structure of the train shed. However, the flanking walls enclosing the shed are treated differently by the two architects, showing that those elements fell within their jurisdiction, and they were free to impose their own imprint upon them. From the viewpoint chosen, tantalizingly little is revealed of the main façade of Owen Jones’s design, but careful scrutiny nevertheless gives some interesting information. Firstly, we see that here the hotel occupies a position analogous to that in Scott’s design. Both schemes have towers, one marking the main entrance to the station, the other at the south- east end of the hotel façade (just visible as a dome above the train shed roof in the Jones perspective). It is apparent that the entrance to the station in Jones’s scheme penetrates the hotel, and deep within the train shed we can just detect the arched exit for the cabs of the arriving passengers. In other words, despite the stylistic differences, the basic configuration in the two schemes is the same. Did Jones’s scheme also have a curved front and access ramps? We cannot tell from this drawing, but we have evidence from another source that the curved front was a competition requirement. An article on the station published in the Engineer (1865) before the competition was launched gives us two vital pieces of information. The first tells us that there will be entrance and exit passages in Euston Road ’for carriages.’ The second item is even more revealing: ’The front of the station will stand back about as far as the present buildings do from the road, but the end of the hotel will project from them, and will be crescented for the approach to the station.’ This crescent is the curved form which was already a feature of Scott’s first sketch plan. Fig. 1.13 owen Jones: proposal for St. Pancras Station and the Midland Hotel
Fig. 1.14 barlow and Scott: St. Pancras Station and the Midland Hotel as built st. pancras reconsidered 49
Let us sum up what we have learned. The design of the train shed roof was a given Fig. 1.15 scott: factor. The design of the interior and exterior walls of the train shed was required, ground floor plan, and they were to be integrated with the structure. The programmatic requirements Midland Hotel, early sketch were presumably set in principle by the Directors and in detail by Barlow. They embraced not only the hotel, but also the booking halls, waiting rooms, and other station offices. Not only were the positions of these buildings fixed in advance, but plans (presumably outline plans) were actually provided. It was predetermined that the west end of the hotel would be curved, as a means of access to the station from Euston Road. The size and location of the main vehicular and pedestrian entrance ways and exits were fixed and that these were to be at a level elevated above the street. Finally, the architect’s responsibility would be limited to buildings above foundation level. The implication of these factors seems indisputable: the design of the Midland Hotel was predetermined, in its major configurations, by the decisions of made by Barlow, as the Company’s chosen engineer. A key question is to what extent Barlow was responsible for those aspects of the architectural design which we have noted as unprecedented and exceptional: the dynamic curve of the façade and the carriage ways ramping up against the main elevation. Barlow specified the curve of the façade, the position of the vehicular entrances and exits, and their elevation above street level. We have no evidence that he specifically prescribed approach ramps from Euston Road. However, it is difficult to conceive of any other feasible solution, given the prescribed parameters; the site is too restricted to permit the only other alternative, modifying the landform by banking up the ground. If Barlow did not actually specify the ramps (devices 50 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
Fig. 1.16a Progression: the entrance archway
which he had consistently employed elsewhere in the station), he nevertheless made their incorporation by Scott inevitable. Scott’s responsibility remained great: his decisions related to the architectural treatment of these given elements and forms, the articulation and detailing of surfaces, the handling of roof and tower silhouettes, the planning of interior spaces, their functional efficiency, the choice of materials, and the structural soundness of the fabric. In the final analysis, then, the architecture of the Midland Hotel is a synthesis of major design parameters and directives set by Barlow, and creative architectural decisions taken by Scott, in their interpretation and implementation. But there is another side of the coin of this symbiotic professional relationship. If Barlow, as we have contended, made an important contribution to the design Fig. 1.16b Progression: the booking office 52 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
Fig. 1.16c of the hotel, then we must consider whether Scott had a reciprocal impact on the Progression: the architectural totality of the train shed. We shall argue that this is indeed the case. The station platform starting point of our discussion is the passenger entering the station. His cab has driven up the ramp and (if the excitement of his impending journey permits him) he may be aware, at close quarters, of the rich architectonic surfaces he can almost touch. The cab turns to sweep through the grand arched entrance way, comes out from under the hotel and draws up under the glass-covered porte cochere, and our passenger alights to approach the neo-Gothic façade of the booking office. He enters the lofty hall, is duly processed, and goes through further Gothic portals to enter the station proper. Throughout this entire progression, planned initially by Barlow, the passenger is in an architectural environment created by Scott. He is now in the train shed, and is encompassed by Barlow’s great roof, but his sense of enclosure derives not only from that structure, but more immediately, at critical eye-level and well above it, from the brick perimeter walls, ‘impenetrably solid, though given polychrome richness by the red and white of the almost Moorish arches’ (Binney, 1984), which rise to at least a third of the total height of the shed. These walls, we will now recall, were part of the architect’s design brief. They are there at Barlow’s invitation, as it were, but they were designed by Scott. The bays are defined by the regular spacing of the iron supports of the roof; the panels, with their tall pointed-arch windows, above eye level, are in the language and idiom of the hotel façade. Scott worked out the details as an intrinsic part of his st. pancras reconsidered 53
design for the hotel. In other words, Scott’s architecture pervades the entire station: Fig. 1.17 barlow the architectural language of the hotel recurs as the inner façade of the station, the and Scott: interior is evocative of the exterior, and creates the ambience of the train shed to a longitudinal section through no lesser degree than its soaring iron arches and glazed roof. This interweaving of train shed two languages of architecture is not accidental or unplanned. Scott has not forced and hotel his architecture into the station precinct against Barlow’s will, but it is there as a result of Barlow’s own direction. How Barlow regarded the neo-Gothic style we do not know, for the published record contains no hint of architectural criticism. Ordish, on the other hand, has been described as ‘a civil engineer who was obviously influenced by the Gothic taste’ (Gloag, 1973). The train shed, as has often been remarked, does have a Gothic feeling to it, deriving as much from the insistent rhythm of the modular structural bays, the cathedral-like quality and top lighting (true, through the roof rather than a clerestory) of the nave-like space, as from the well-known analogy of the pointed apex of the iron arches. Summerson (1970) decried ‘the non-artistic design of the St. Pancras roof ... based on the sole criteria of performance’ and dismissed it as having been designed not by eye, but by calculation. He may have been correct, but other great engineers more articulate about their design processes, such as Nervi, have always stressed the interplay of calculation and intuition (‘the intuition of form’, as he once put it) in their work. Certainly, contemporary commentators on Barlow’s roof were not unaware of its architectural qualities: it was in an engineering journal, the Engineer (1867), that attention was drawn to ‘the Gothic character’ of Barlow’s arches. The roof of the train shed is a domain of design regarded as exclusively Barlow’s, the immutable given factor, the fons et origo of all else. Of course this is correct as a 54 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process general statement, but there is one point where Scott’s intervention is meaningful. As Barlow explained his concept of the roof:
The southern end was intended to terminate against the walls, in the same way as the roofs of the Cannon Street and Charing Cross Stations. But the acceptance of Mr. Gilbert Scott’s design for the station offices and hotel led to this arrangement being departed from. In the original design the hotel was carried over the upper portion of the southern range of station offices; but as it was feared the steam and smoke of the engines would find entrance into the hotel windows, Mr. Scott planned a second gable and screen for the southern end, so as to separate the passenger station from the hotel buildings.
This provision of a second gable was motivated by considerations of acoustics and pollution, but it had interesting architectural repercussions. The train shed now became an articulated entity, similarly enclosed at either end. In so doing, it avoided the uncomfortable and architecturally unresolved junction with the north façade of the hotel, whose partial form, thus so rudely delineated, would have constituted the southern internal face of the train shed. The original abutment was perhaps technically feasible, if aesthetically undesirable, when the hotel was planned to be higher than the apex of train shed roof. However, when the hotel’s height was reduced by the elimination of a floor (bringing the ridge lines of the train shed and hotel roofs to the same level) an impossible situation was created. Scott’s insistence on a proper articulation saved the day, architecturally speaking. It was handled with great finesse by the insertion of a low linking element, covered with a glass roof, as effective externally in the massing of the building as it is internally in the definition of space. And of course it defines a south façade to the interior of the station which is of the same height and character as the long flanking walls. The external face of these walls forms the last chapter in our discussion. Just as the hotel is the effective façade of St. Pancras as seen from Euston Road on the south, so from the side, particularly on the east, the real façade of the station is the long, arcuated brick wall which encloses the basement and lower portions of the train shed. How much these walls are from Scott’s hand we must try to determine. The lower floor, enclosing Burton’s beer storage cellar, is massive and somewhat crude, and probably represents those ‘foundations’ which were presented in the brief as a given factor. Barlow in fact discusses ‘the frontage of the lower floor abutting on the adjacent roads ... fitted up for shops as part of his original station, not Scott’s later design. We see these walls in Owen Jones’s perspective. The construction of this portion was undertaken in a separate contract in the autumn of 1867, using Gripper’s patent bricks (Simmons, 1968). The perimeter walls, with two floors of offices above the basement floor, are more than thirty feet high, and correspond at the upper level with the internal brick facades of the station. Their design is probably of different provenance. Scott’s original drawings, and his revisions of 1867, show the fully-detailed design of part of the east elevation of the station extending for five structural bays as an integral part of his design of the hotel, and in conjunction with the clock-tower Fig. 1.18 The articulated link separating the hotel and the train shed, and the southern screen 56 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
Fig. 1.19 side which terminates the main façade. This façade, whether entirely by Scott, as the walls of the train drawings suggest, or as the result of some collaboration between Scott and Barlow, shed, St. Pancras is conceived as a continuation of the architecture of the hotel, albeit in a far more subdued tone: more industrial in character, less evocative of a mediaeval cathedral. It is, in fact, a clever transmutation of the architectural language, a modulation of the main theme into a more appropriate key. According to early photographs of 1868 (Dyos, 1973; Stamp, 1984), the eastern wall was well under way when only the first three arches of the roof had been erected, and was completed when the station was opened in late 1868, just as the construction of the hotel commenced. The traditionalist lateral façade, then, was the first evidence on the ground of the new St. Pancras Station. We believe that we have disposed of the canard that Barlow’s train shed and Scott’s hotel are two disjointed halves of a schizophrenic whole. Engineer and architect do not stand in hostile confrontation, eyeball to eyeball, as it were, but both in plan and elevation, their work interlocks. There is much architecture in the train shed, deriving from both Barlow and Scott. Conversely, there is evidence of both structural and mechanical engineering in the hotel. The basic concept of Barlow’s station, and his brief to the architect, did much to determine the fundamental form of the hotel and its radical embodiment of the curved ramp. The architecture of Scott followed the passenger in his every movement and penetrated to the very interior of the station. The ambience of the interior was a synthesis of the poetry of a mighty structure and the reassuring human scale of a familiar architectural language. Externally, the façade of the hotel, capturing in its st. pancras reconsidered 57
very form the dynamism of vehicular movement, aptly symbolized the new age of Fig. 1.20 The transport, of which Barlow’s train shed was the temple. If we read it in this way, then interlocking of St. Pancras represents a complex, richly diverse, but ultimately congruent whole. Barlow’s and Scott’s designs of the Railway Station and the Bibliography Midland Hotel
Aldwinkle, T.W. 1895. ‘Fever Hospitals’. Journal of the Royal Institute of British Architects, II: 265. Barlow, W.H. 1869/1870. Description of the St. Pancras Station and roof, Midland Railway. Proceedings of the Institution of Civil Engineers, 30(11): 78. Beresford-Hope, A.J.B. 1865/1866. Opening address by the President, Transactions of the Royal Institute of British Architects, 16: 1. Betjeman, J. 1972. London’s Historic Railway Stations. London: John Murray. Billington, D.P. and Mark, R. 1984. The Cathedral and the Bridge: Structure and Symbol. Technology and Culture, January: 37–42 Binney, M., Hammk M. and Foehlk A. 1984. Great Railway Stations of Europe. London: Thames and Hudson. Builder 1866. XXIV: 67, 33,105. Cole, D. 1980. The Works of Gilbert Scott. London: Architectural Press. Collins, P. 1965. Changing Ideals in Modern Architecture, 1750–1950. London: Faber and Faber. Curl, J.S. 1973. Victorian Architecture: Its Practical Aspects. Newton Abbot: David and Charles. 58 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
Dyos, H.J. and Wolff, M. 1973. The Victorian City. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Encyclopaedia Britannica. 1929; updated 1939. London: Encyc .Brit. Co., Ltd. Engineer. 1865. XX: 230. Engineer. 1867. XXIII: 484. Gans, D., et al. 1991. Bridging the Gap: Rethinking the relationship of architect and engineer. New York: Van Nostrand Reinhold. Giedion, S. 1941. Space, Time and Architecture, 5th ed. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Gloag, J. 1973. Victorian Taste: Some social aspects of architecture and industrial design, 1820– 1900. Newton Abbot: David and Charles. Gwilt, J. 1867. The Encyclopaedia of Architecture. London, Longman, Brown, Green, and Longman: 1121. Herbert, G. 1998. St. Pancras Reconsidered: A case study in the interface of architecture and engineering. Journal of Architectural and Planning Research, 15(3): 197–223. Hitchcock, H-R. 1958. Architecture: Nineteenth and twentieth century. Harmondsworth: Penguin Books. Hood, R.J. 1858. On the Arrangement and Construction of Railway Stations. Minutes of the Proceedings of the Institute of Civil Engineers, xvii: 449. Jackson, A. 1971. London’s Termini. Newton Abbot: David and Charles. Jackson, T.G. 1895. Some Thoughts on the Training of Architects. Journal of the Royal Institute of British Architects, 11: 636. Meeks, C.L.V. 1957. The Railway Station. London: Architectural Press. Peters, T.F. 1993. The Repercussions of Estrangement: Architecture and Engineering in the 19th century. Design Book Review, 28: 25. Simmons, J. 1968. St. Pancras Station. London: George Allen and Unwin. Stamp, G. 1984. The Changing Metropolis: Earliest photographs of London, 1839–1879. Harmondsworth: Penguin Books. Stamp, G. and Avery, C. 1980. Victorian Buildings of London 1837–1887. London: Architectural Press. Summerson, J. 1970. Victorian Architecture. Four studies in evaluation. New York: Columbia University Press. Timmins, D.T. 1902. Railway Magazine, June. Cited in Curl J.S. 1973. Tyler, H.W. 1867. Steep Gradients and Sharp Curves on Railways, Proceedings of the Institute of Civil Engineers, xxvi: 310. Williams, F.S. 1876. The Midland Railway: Its Rise and Progress. London: Strachan.
Notes
1 Cited in Encyclopaedia Britannica, v:734 (1929/1939). 2 “The engineer’s principal work is to discover and conserve natural resources... and to create means for utilizing these resources...” Encyclopaedia Britannica viii: 443 (1929/1939). st. pancras reconsidered 59
3 Compare these later definitions with that of Gwilt: Architecture: The art or science of building (Consolidated Webster Encyclopedic Dictionary, Chicago, 1947); Architecture: the art and science of designing and superintending the erection of buildings and similar structures (Collins English Dictionary, Glasgow, 1991). 4 The Library of the RIBA kindly examined the index of the Transactions of the RIBA from 1835–1884 for us; we personally checked the Minutes of the Proceedings of the Institution of Civil Engineers from 1854–1884, and in addition received valuable information from the Institution’s Library. 5 see, for example, the extensive discussion on planning principles and details in Aldwinkle (1895). 6 This was claimed by Allport in the discussion which followed the presentation by Barlow (1868/1870). Sir James Joseph Allport (1811–1892), an eminent engineer, was General Manager of the Midland Railway for twenty years, from 1853 to 1873. 7 see, for example, the discussion on gradients in Tyler (1867); also Hood (1858) who wrote: ‘The question of gradients, in connection with a station, is also an important one. For a terminus, a slightly ascending incline is important.’ 8 We should insert a caveat here. Allport was indeed an engineer, but his concern for flexibility was that of the client, rather than the engineer. 9 Hood (1858) discussed the engineer’s use of turntables and other devices, connected with the layout of lines. This page has been left blank intentionally 2
Speculations on a Black Hole: Adler & Sullivan and the Planning of the Chicago Auditorium Building
Gilbert Herbert and Mark Donchin
The Chicago Auditorium Building
The history of the Auditorium Building, one of the undisputed masterpieces of the Chicago School, has been extensively documented (Samuelson 1989; Gregersen 1990; Scott, n.d.) and we need do no more here than recapitulate some of the key stages in the chronology of its design. In July 1886 Ferdinand W. Peck, the initiator of the Auditorium project, and his associates, having gained control of the larger portion of a site close to the lake front on Michigan Avenue, applied for a corporate charter, and set the formal process of its design in motion. The architectural firm of Adler and Sullivan, at the prospect of getting the commission, subscribed to $25,000 of Auditorium stock, and even undertook the preparation of preliminary plans on the strength of Peck’s personal assurance only. According to Gregersen (1990) ‘the earliest design of which any record exists was not prepared until September of 1886. This was a perspective rendering of a ‘stone and brick structure carried on a cast iron and steel frame, with ornate turrets, gables, and oriels.’ 62 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
On 22 December 1886, after Dankmar Adler had presented his position to the Board of Directors, a proposal by Martin Ryerson, a friend of Adler’s, that Adler & Sullivan be commissioned as architects, was formerly approved. This appointment, however, was linked to a recommendation that a ‘consulting expert’ approve the designs. The expert nominated was Professor William Ware, a New York architect, and former teacher of Sullivan at MIT; and he came to Chicago on 17 January 1887 for a special meeting of the board convened to discuss his supervision of the drawings of the proposed building. On 12 February 1887 Sullivan was in New York to present the revised plans to Ware,1 and for the next couple of months the architects were busy incorporating his suggestions in their designs. These revisions were apparently to everybody’s satisfaction. Ware told the Chicago Evening Journal ‘that it was his opinion that the new Auditorium would command more of a national attention and reputation than any building built in this country;’ Sullivan was said to have been elated; and Adler reported: ‘The changes which have been made in the last two months will have the effect of making the building sober, dignified and impressive. Some changes have been made in the distribution of the masses, the proportions of openings and the avoidance of any profuse use of applied ornamentation.’2 The final façades gave evidence of Sullivan’s admiration for Richardson’s Marshall Field Warehouse, then being erected in Chicago. Many further revisions of the plan were to be made before construction began in March 1887; and further development of the design took place during the construction process. In fact, the architects continued to be involved, even after the completion of the building. As Samuelson and Scott (1989) reported, Adler ‘was called upon to rearrange rooms or solve mechanical and structural problems until his death in 1900.’ On 6 July 1888 Adler ‘was instructed to arrange the building so that the Dining Room and kitchen of the hotel be on the tenth floor of the building’,3 a radical alteration which seriously complicated his design of the building. During August and September 1888 Adler was in Europe on Auditorium business, visiting Britain, France Germany, Austria and Hungary, for the purpose of studying theatre design and inspecting the latest stage machinery; this was a learning experience which Adler described in a series of delightful letters to his wife back home, as later recorded by his granddaughter Joan Weil Saltzstein (1983). On 9 December 1889, with the offices and the theatre ready for use, and the remainder of the public rooms almost completed, the building was formally opened in a splendid ceremony attended by the President and Vice-President of the United States. In all the flowery tributes that were uttered that night, and the universal praise accorded the building and its promoters, the architects featured twice, each time only briefly, and without their names being mentioned. Before we focus on the contribution of the architects let us quote these tributes to our unsung heroes. In the speech of Mr. Peck: ‘The architects of the building are entitled to a large share of credit [applause]. These men have faced successfully unprecedented problems. These men should never be forgotten;’ and in his address the Mayor of Chicago paid this anonymous tribute: ‘I desire to extend congratulations to the architects and engineer [applause] by whose skill and ability this grand edifice has received majestic proportion, and has arisen successfully from foundation to cope-stone’(Inter-ocean, 1889). speculations on a black hole 63
Two Architects, One Masterwork, and the Problem of the ‘Black HolE’
Fig. 2.1 The Chicago Auditorium Building: interior view; section
The architects of the Auditorium Building in Chicago, as we all know, were the firm of Adler & Sullivan, then only recently established. The records of this firm no longer exist, and there is little to help the architectural historian establish the design process of this famous building. To the best of our knowledge there are no sketch plans of the building as a whole, no development plans for selected portions, no office memos, no logbooks or diaries, no files of correspondence; indeed, we 64 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process have found precious little other material which might unequivocally document the evolution of the design, or point to the specific contributions of each of the partners. The two architects were poles apart in experience, knowledge, attitudes and abilities; and it is widely accepted that each played a different role in the final design of what is widely acclaimed as an architectural masterwork. These different inputs have been the subject of numerous, sometimes conflicting, assessments, but there is consensus on two points: that Dankmar Adler concerned himself with such technical aspects as the construction of the complex, and the acoustics of the auditorium itself, and that Louis Sullivan was responsible for the design of the façades, and the ornamentation of the interiors of the public spaces of the building. This consensus is based on a very limited amount of comment by contemporaries in the lay and professional press; on what is known of the strengths and interests of each of the partners; and on what Adler and Sullivan themselves had to say about their work. Both Adler and Sullivan in retrospect stressed their separate contributions to the work of the firm. First we have this statement, probably of 1895, attributed by Saltzstein (1983) to Adler: ‘Of late years, owing to the preeminence in the artistic field of my partner Mr. Sullivan, I have devoted my efforts to the study and solution of the engineering problems which are so important an incident in the design of modern building.’ This professed concentration by Adler on ‘engineering problems’ may have been the reality of his career at the end of the partnership, but we have to ask whether this one-sidedness was true at the time of the Auditorium Building. In this respect there is significance in the rider ‘of late years’ inserted by Adler. We must also enquire whether this late focus on the engineering aspects reflected the full range of Adler’s talents and interests in architecture. John Wellborn Root, a leading figure in the Chicago School, certainly thought otherwise. In an assessment, quoted by Morrison (1935), Root refers to Adler as standing ‘among the highest of all the profession.’ He concedes that ‘of late Mr. Adler has passed the artistic crayon to Mr. Sullivan,’ but goes on to say ‘work designed by him in earlier days, shows a strength, simplicity and straightforwardness, together with a certain refinement, which reveals the true architect.’ Sullivan’s retrospective assessment of the division of labour within the office comes from his The Autobiography of an Idea (1924/1936):
Adler was essentially a technician, an engineer, a conscientious administrator, a large progressive judicial and judicious mind. Between the two [himself and Adler] there existed a fine confidence. And the handling of the work was divided and adjusted on a temperamental basis—each to have initiative and authority in his own field, without a sharp arbitrary line being drawn which might lead to dissension.
While his description of Adler’s ‘field’ was clear, Sullivan, concerned (at the time of writing the Autobiography) with his failing professional fortunes, was less than anxious to reveal the limited role he himself had played in the partnership. Sullivan therefore cast his role in the firm as that of the passionate, imaginative dreamer, speculations on a black hole 65 as against the courageous but unimaginative Adler, ‘the sturdy wheel-horse of a tandem team in which Louis did the prancing.’ There are two problems which arise from this facile acceptance of the division of labour between engineering and art. The acceptance of this dichotomy as the essence of the design process in the Adler & Sullivan office almost inevitably leads to the allocation of credit to the two partners on partisan lines, depending on the critic’s understanding of the meaning of ‘design.’ Hence, James Marston Fitch (1973), writing on the Auditorium Building, states: ‘Adler, the engineer and older partner, turned the job over to Sullivan, who showed in his final design of the ‘great and complex building’ that he ‘was without peer’ and ‘the most competent architect of his period’;’ and a survey of American art (Abbate, 1972) goes as far as to say: ‘The Auditorium was part of a vast scheme, including a hotel and office blocks, and was built by Sullivan in collaboration with the engineer Adler, who became his partner in 1881.’ Menocal (1981), who believed that ‘Sullivan’s main contribution to the firm was the design of ornamentation and facades,’ took the opposite stance, when he wrote: ‘I endorse the current view that it was Sullivan’s partner, Dankmar Adler, who almost exclusively designed the commissions for which the firm is rightly famous. Sullivan is seen in this work as an ornamentalist favoring decoration and façade composition as a means of expressing very rich and intellectual conceptions which, on the other hand, were not the result of systematic thinking.’ Paul Sprague (1965), in discussing the Schiller Building, expressed a view close to that of Menocal’s: ‘It is not likely that Adler needed much of any advice from Sullivan ... Sullivan generally had to conform his design with Adler’s structure rather than vice versa.’ Seventeen years later, writing in the post-modernist era with its different architectural values, Sprague (1982) conditionally modified this judgement: ‘There is no question, however, that after the formation of Adler and Sullivan, Adler left matters of design substantially in Sullivan’s hands, while he concentrated on the business and engineering aspects of architecture.’ This sentiment was echoed by Gregersen (1990), who wrote that Adler, from his early association with John Edelman, ‘established the practice characteristic of most of his later works—he defined the program, developed the general concept of the building and then left the naked form, as it were, in the hands of another to clothe.’ As William Jordy (1961) points out, the problem was explicitly raised by the influential architectural critic, Montgomery Schuyler, a contemporary of Adler and Sullivan. Schuyler first states a general thesis, that of the need for a single controlling hand in the creation of architecture. ‘It is the essence of every work of art,’ he contended, ‘that it should be done by an individual and embody an individual conception. This does not prevent the taking of counsel in an architectural work, and the modification of it accordingly. But it is always necessary that there should be a single mind behind the work.’ He explains why, not only in his judgement but also (as he understood it) in that of Adler, it was Sullivan who was this single dominant mind. ‘In the biographical notes with which he favored me, Mr. Adler writes that since “the preeminence in the artistic field of Mr. Sullivan” has relieved the senior partner from that branch of professional work, and left him free to devote 66 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process himself to the engineering problems involved in the modern office building.’4 From this Schuyler draws the conclusion that ‘the very marked artistic individuality in the work of Adler & Sullivan’ derived from Sullivan. Hugh Morrison (1935/1962), the author of the first definitive biography of Sullivan, paraphrases Schuyler’s term ‘the artistic individuality in the work of Adler & Sullivan’ as ‘the artistic achievement of the firm of Adler & Sullivan,’ and concludes that in discussing this achievement one’s concern is with the architecture of Louis Sullivan alone. Schuyler’s interpretation of design is that architectural design is concerned only with the art of architecture, that is, with its formal qualities, and he who gives a work its ‘artistic individuality’ is the architect of the building. This is an interpretation accepted not only by Morrison, but by a host of later writers. Typical of this approach is that of Rochelle Elstein, an historian particularly sympathetic to Adler, and concerned with giving him his rightful due. Despite this, she writes: ‘The view of Adler as engineer is supported, in a sense, by Adler himself. Even when he addresses himself to subjects which are inherently more architectural in nature such as the auditorium, he spends more time discussing the dimensions of the rooms than on their appearance and more on the method of construction than the design of the ornament. In the ‘Autobiography’ he turns over the design pencil to Sullivan.’5 The whole thrust of Elstein’s advocacy of Adler’s competency in architectural design is in fact based on this understanding of the term design, which is restricted to stylistic analysis of his work. For her, dealing with the appearance of rooms is design, while dealing with their dimensions is not! She is not alone in this, and we find this limited view of the term design implicit in the writings of the most eminent of critics.6 We do not need to adjudicate between these opposing views, for they all— in the failure to examine whether there is any significant area of design activity between the ‘fields’ of engineering and art, or between the ‘naked form’ of the general concept and its final realization as a work of architecture—misstate the problem. The implied dichotomy simply begs the question. What Schuyler and other critics failed to realize was that there was a missing factor in their understanding of the set of creative activities which constituted the architectural design process. The contradictory nature of the critical assessments of the roles of Adler and Sullivan in the design of the Auditorium Building stems partly from the value systems of the critics, but more vitally, from a fundamental simplification— in fact, distortion—of the design process. There is more to architecture than engineering and art, for the task of the architect demands not only the solving of technical problems or the creation of a work of art. There is also a protracted and intensive phase of development, an essential design activity in the design process, by which a programme and an initial concept are wedded and transformed into a usable network of environmental spaces as well as architectural reality. Accepting the contention that the simplistic identification of architectural design with art is as patently one-sided as the opposing view, that design is applied technology, a critical aspect of our discussion will be to identify within the design process this critical phase, a missing factor in any analysis which limits itself to the bipolar talents of Adler and Sullivan. speculations on a black hole 67
Our case study is the Chicago Auditorium Building, and our hypothesis is that neither ‘engineering’ nor ‘art’, considered individually, were sufficient to generate the design of this great building. A detailed examination of the complexities of this masterwork should make it obvious to the modern critic that neither Adler’s engineering input nor Sullivan’s art, by itself, made the Auditorium Building what it was. However, our argument goes much further, for we shall maintain that the nature of the building cannot be explained by the summation, or even interaction, of these two areas of creative intervention. We are looking for a more embracing definition of architectural design, which contains within it, but is larger than, the aesthetic impulse and the technological means. A synthetic force may find its source in the genius of an individual designer; a unifying factor may be his strong controlling hand. Adler, despite his emphasis on engineering—a misguided emphasis, which we believe did much to generate a too narrow perception of his contribution to the joint work of the partners— nevertheless had his own understanding of the need for a single controlling hand, which is similar in essence to Schuyler’s demand for a ‘single mind.’ A year after the completion of the Auditorium Building he wrote:
All parts of a building, if it is to be successful, must be designed together; all phases and features of the design are dependent on each other. You cannot leave the designs of the plan of a building to one person, the devising of its structural features to another and its artistic development to still another. To produce even an approximately fine building, there must be throughout from foundation to roof, an arrangement of all the Parts, in the design of every line the imprint and all-pervading influence of one master mind.7
However, the achievement of a cohesive work of architecture here envisaged requires more than the force of a master mind. If we do not assume a controlling framework or overall design discipline, this philosophy of the interdependence of all phases of design would stand in complete contradiction to the assumed division of labour in the office, implicit in Adler’s and Sullivan’s own pronouncements. The consummation of a unified vision in a complex work of architecture requires a consistent integrative process of design. Let us sum up the argument so far. Those few historians who concern themselves with technology give Adler his due credit for his contribution to the making of the Auditorium Building. On the other hand, those architectural historians—especially, but not only, those who come from the field of art history—who tend to look at architecture in terms of form and style, decoration and symbolic expression, regard the design of the Auditorium Building as Sullivan’s. Historians and critics almost invariably reason backwards when discussing the Auditorium Building. The inescapable fact with which they start is the end product: the powerful image of a monumental rusticated masonry block, with its complex articulation, layerings, order, and modulations; or alternatively, the auditorium hall, with its sweeping lines and glorious decoration. Indeed, this is a general phenomenon, for it is by their famous exteriors (or occasionally their memorable interior spaces) that we identify most architectural icons: Chambord, Palazzo Farnese, the Taj Mahal, the Palace of 68 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
Westminster, Marshall Field Warehouse, the Bauhaus Building, or Niemeyer’s Palace of the Dawn. The architectural process, however, is different to the critical process. In producing a work of architecture an architect usually goes through a long period of travail, before he sees a tangible result.8 He, of all people, should be aware of the creative crucible out of which his architecture emerges; however, when the building finally stands complete, and in his eyes it looks good, he is so enamoured with his creation that, like a mother with her new-born child, he tends to erase from his consciousness the realities of the long gestation period and the labour pains of birth. If a minority of analysts of the Auditorium Building are concerned with how technical problems are solved, and how the building is made, then the great majority start with the completed artifact, that is, how the building looks. Neither of these schools really deals with the process by which a building is designed. In relation to the Auditorium Building they approach the problem of ascribing design responsibility and awarding design credit to the partners from two polar extremes, but between these extremes, Adler’s technological mastery and Sullivan’s artistic genius, lies an area of architectural design rarely touched by architectural criticism and comment.9 This is what Adler termed ‘the design of the plan of the building;’ this is the essential formative and integrative ingredient of the design process which architects call ‘planning;’ this is what Le Corbusier meant when he said ‘the plan is the generator.’ It is this unexplored area which we have labelled the black hole, a phenomenon whose effects are apparent, but which is seemingly invisible to the observer. It is the purpose of this paper to raise this issue for debate. We are not sure that we can provide conclusive answers with respect to the Auditorium Building, but we believe it is important to pose the question, define the problem, and speculate about possible conclusions to be drawn.
The Place of Planning in the Design Process
The operational interaction between Adler and Sullivan, despite their separate statements, remains somewhat opaque. In addressing the problem of the relationship between the partners we must go beyond the question of personal compatibility, although this is important,10 and the synergy of equal but different talents, to the comprehensive act of planning, which possibly helped synthesize their individual contributions in a final unified solution. The question we ask is: who in the Adler & Sullivan partnership was primarily responsible for the planning of the Auditorium Building? The term ‘planning’ here relates to very specific actions and design decisions: who translated the brief from the clients into a coherent programme of requirements and priorities, and a schedule of accommodation; who planned the main lines of the building, locating the auditorium, hotel and office blocks in their relative positions; who decided on the overall form of the building, the number of storeys, the massing, and the incorporation and location of the tower; who located and planned the entrances, both service and public, vehicular and pedestrian, to the three functional components; who planned the main circulation systems, public and service stairways and elevators, to the speculations on a black hole 69 three facilities; who fixed the detailed programmes of the hotel, office block and auditorium, and determined the shapes, sizes, and arrangement of the internal spaces of these three units; who planned for the integration of mechanical and environmental control systems, and who coordinated the internal planning with the structure and the modular facades? We are using the term ‘planning’ in a three- dimensional sense, concerned with the integration of the horizontal ‘plan’ and vertical ‘section.’ We shall argue that these are no banal questions, but points of considerable significance, for over and above the need to get the historical record right, the question of planning is in a sense a vehicle for exploring some aspects of the architectural design process which rarely if ever intrude into the critical literature. The historians who discuss the design of the Auditorium Building and other major architectural monuments focus almost exclusively on conceptual aspects, and their associated formal, stylistic and symbolic manifestations. The act of planning for human use is either totally ignored, or contemptuously dismissed as crass utilitarianism, or put aside as a trivial technical exercise not worthy of attention. We, on the other hand, shall argue that this is a basic function of the architect, intimately related to questions of structure and form, and we shall be probing the challenges confronted by the architects in the planning of the Chicago Auditorium Building, and speculating what part Adler and Sullivan each might have had in the undertaking of this professional responsibility. If this question is to make any sense, we must consider the architectural design process—using a formulation originally proposed by Herbert (1966)—as it attempts to transmute concepts, dreams and programmes into concrete reality. In this process there are several stages. These stages, as we call them, are not self-contained, for while their central activities are clearly defined, the borders between them are imprecise: stages may overlap, or run concurrently; and while it is convenient to consider them in linear fashion, the design process should more properly be thought of as cyclic, because the idea of feed-back is inherent both between and within all stages. Following the posing in general terms of the problem, the cultural, social and economic goals of the sponsors, comes the establishment of an architectural programme, the initiating step in the creative process. The programme, deriving from the goals of the project, determines the hierarchy of uses to which the proposed building is to be put. The higher levels of the hierarchy of uses are usually determined by the clients, the initiators of the project, while establishing the lower, or more specific and detailed, levels of the hierarchy usually become the prerogative (and professional responsibility) of the architect. The formulation of the programme, which in a sense is the clarification and further definition of the problem, may at this stage give rise to a conception, or preconception, of the expressive form and character desired for the intended building. This conception derives not only from the wishes of the initiators but, as the first substantive act in the process of design, from the creative insight of the architect. Responding to the challenges of the programme, and following the creative thrust of the insight, an initial hypothesis evolves, a prediction of a possible solution of the problem posed. This hypothesis is of course subject to verification, as it is successively re-evaluated and revised in an on-going process 70 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process which will eventually lead to, and possibly overlap with, its consummation in the actual construction of the building. Now we are in the most intensive and active stage of the design process for the architect, where his insights and hypotheses are synthesized in preliminary sketches, formal presentations, working drawings and details on the drawing board or (today) the computer. The determination of the spaces required for the various activities to be housed in the building, and their proper relationships, is now tackled in detail, together with the generation of the three-dimensional forms of the building and its surface treatment. In fulfilling this function the architect takes the first committed steps in the process of design, by which conceptions are concretized in evocative, symbolic forms; technical calculations are translated into generative forces of great material power; materials and structure, form and space, beauty and utility. Secondly, we should not delude ourselves that it is a simple, mechanical process. The planning of any building, but especially a multi-functional complex building, is a task for experts, and planning the functional spaces of buildings is the special professional skill which characterizes the architect. The Chicago Auditorium Building was a complex physical system whose planning demanded the highest levels of talent, skill, and expertise. We contend that planning a complex building of this nature—for which neither of the partners claimed credit—could not have taken place by default. It was not a trivial matter to be left in the hands of a junior draughtsman, or the resultant of informal discussions in the office, but probably the most important determinant of the success of the eventual building. While the details could possibly have been undertaken as a group effort, the overall planning needed a single directing hand. Control of the planning process was a task demanding all the professional skill, knowledge and focused attention of an experienced architect. In the absence of direct evidence, we shall try to identify that architect by first analyzing the nature of the problem confronting him, and then examining the characteristics and experience required to undertake and cope with that formidable task.
The Auditorium Building as a Planning Problem
The Auditorium Building was one of extraordinary complexity, involving three separate functions: an office block, a large hotel, and a great auditorium. This unusual combination of functions was the resultant of the desire of the sponsors for the project to be self-supporting and not dependent on state subsidies. The office block and hotel were conceived as income-generating units, to supply what was hoped would be a sound financial basis for the expensive primary cultural function of the complex and its raison d’être, the auditorium. Each of these functions, considered separately, was a major design problem, and their integration into one unified complex, sharing many common services, structurally interacting, and interpenetrating in their spaces, was a daunting challenge. When one considers the compressed timetable available for designing the building, and the degree to which the design process ran in parallel with the construction, the achievement is all the more remarkable. Adler (1891c), usually such a restrained man, expressed speculations on a black hole 71
some satisfaction in overcoming the difficulties imposed upon the designers, while Fig. 2.2 at the same time acknowledging the severity of the constraints of the unusual Auditorium Building: circumstances governing the building’s design and construction. functional zones and access points The form in which we find this building is, therefore, the resultant of many conflicting causes and influences. After months of arduous toil the many conflicting conditions of the various problems have been harmonized and adjusted to each other, and the many thoughts brought forward in their study crystallized into a complete and well-rounded design and expressed in nearly two hundred plans and diagrams. Presto! The conditions change!! All that has been so laboriously thought out and so carefully adjusted must be retraversed and readjusted not once, but a score of times.
Let us take a closer look at the Auditorium Building, in order to assess its complexity. The site was bounded by streets on three sides: Michigan Avenue, on the east, looking towards the lake, with a frontage of about 170 feet; Congress Street, the longest side of the plot, some 360 feet, to the south; and Wabash Avenue, with a frontage of about 160 feet, to the west. The three main functional components were zoned so that the office building faced west, the hotel south and Fig. 2.3 Auditorium Building: analysis of functional zones speculations on a black hole 73 east, while the auditorium was located in the internal portion of the site, its access to the street dependent on penetrations through the outward-facing blocks. Visually, these three functions, with the auditorium concealed from view, were resolved into two three-dimensional forms, as seen from the surrounding streets: a massive ten-storey block, as the dominant form, contrasted with a slender 240– foot, seventeen-storey tower. These simple prismatic forms were punctuated by three major entrances on a diminishing scale of grandeur: an imposing triple-arched entrance to the hotel on the Michigan Avenue side; the main entrance to the auditorium on Congress Street, under the tower, and the entrance to the offices (and an exit from the auditorium) on the north-west corner of the site. According to Gregersen (1990):
The disposition of these various elements was determined by Adler entirely on the basis of real estate and market conditions, light and ventilation requirements, and the configuration of the site. The result was that the office portion fronted on Wabash Avenue, then a commercial street, and the hotel fronted on both Michigan Avenue and Congress Street, then primarily residential. The theater, where natural light and ventilation would only have been a nuisance, was accordingly placed at the rear. The tower, which contained the tanks for the hydraulic elevator equipment, was placed on the Congress Street side to mark the entrance to the theatre and provide a visual (if not always functional) separation between the hotel and office sections.
We shall examine the planning of each of these elements in turn.11 Before doing so, however, the tower merits a brief discussion. As Gregersen noted, it was functionally problematic. Adler (1891c) deals with this ambiguity with commendable frankness. The tower, he tells us, which was ‘primarily conceived without thought of its commercial utilization, as a means of indicating the main entrance of the Auditorium and giving it accent and emphasis in an expanse of utilitarian frontage, is now filled from cellar to roof with hotel rooms and with offices.’ Above the lower two floors, allocated to the auditorium, the hotel occupied the next eight storeys of the tower, offices the seven floors above, all topped by the large water storage tanks. The elevators serving the upper free-standing floors of offices penetrated—but did not serve—the hotel rooms. The contradiction between the expressive verticality of the tower and the discontinuity of its uses evidently caused Adler some unease, but Sullivan (whose motto was ‘Form follows function’) apparently let it pass without comment. The office wing of the Auditorium Building was far from a routine commercial office building, because of the constraints imposed by the complex as a whole. Its vestibule served both as the main entrance to the office block, with its stack of three elevators, and an exit linked by a staircase to all levels of the auditorium. For most of its height the wing backed onto the auditorium, giving it only one frontage, and the offices were strung out along one side only of the corridor, not the most economic form of layout. As we have noted, there were also offices in the upper seven floors of the free-standing tower, necessitating an ingenious link to the elevators and stairs serving the tower. Altogether, there was provision for 74 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process some 136 well-proportioned and well-lit offices, adequately equipped with service facilities. Adler himself (1891c) gave little attention to the office building, other than to state that the interior ‘presents no feature worthy of special remark.’ The planning of most office buildings of that time, such as those upon which Sullivan’s reputation principally rested (the Wainwright Building or the Guarantee Building), presented little challenge to the architect. Consisting of a floor divided into a series of rectangular cells adequately lit, and a repetition of that floor vertically, the whole suitably served by corridors and elevators, the demand for skill in planning was minimal. The challenge of designing the office block lay elsewhere, in the elegance of its foyer, the details of its external appearance—entrance, façade, and terminal features—and mostly (at least for Sullivan) in finding an appropriate language to express the aspiring verticality enabled by the new technology. The design of the hotel provided a far greater challenge to the architects, and Dankmar Adler (1891c), not usually given to hyperbole, could not restrain his satisfaction at the outcome.
The hotel is in one sense a marvel of planning. It is only a fringe, showing a street frontage of 587 feet with an average depth of but 45 feet skirting two sides of the auditorium, the predominant claims of which for space absorb the area usually devoted to the ‘working departments’ of hotels. The difficulties arising therefrom appear to have been overcome, for space has been found for kitchen, laundry, bakery, store-rooms and the other adjuncts of the hotel. All appear to be conveniently located and to communication [sic] with each other and with the parts of the hotel which they are intended to serve. Despite the limitations of space incident to the peculiar formation of the site, the hotel contains a number of public rooms of decided architectural pretensions and character.
He drew attention in particular to the tenth floor dining room, and the banquet hall, ‘an unusually interesting room, not only because of its construction and location, which is over the auditorium, between trusses 118 feet span, but because of its peculiar artistic conception and treatment, at once aggressively unconventional and original and still extremely delicate and refined.’ In his discussion of the hotel, Adler dealt with its decoration and structure in a way that integrated both with planning considerations, for these were in his eyes inseparable issues. Consider, for instance, the use of 140 rivetted girders of 36 feet clear span which carried the hotel floors above the first floor. These were structural devices for which Adler received due credit, but it is the planning motivation which merits our attention. ‘The absence of interior columns resulting from the use of the girder construction,’ he explained, ‘permitted a degree of freedom in the handling of partitions and the division into rooms that was found to be quite useful.’ Although both the structural features and the decoration of the hotel have always received due recognition in the literature, its planning has rarely been given the attention it merits. For an appreciation of its complexity, we have to look at the publications of another, perhaps less blasé, age, when the achievement of planning a luxury hotel with over 400 guest rooms and suites, and in difficult speculations on a black hole 75 circumstances, was not taken for granted.12 From contemporary accounts, such as the volume published to commemorate the opening of the building (Garczynski, 1890), and from an examination of the plans, we can construct an inventory of accommodation provided by the hotel. Firstly, we have a catalogue of its generous public amenities: the main lobby, with its reception areas and offices (including a telegraph office and a broker’s office), and its grand staircase leading to the upper lobby (or parlour, as Adler called it) with its open loggia facing the lake shore view; the lounge, reading room, and smoking room; a Turkish bath for the enjoyment of the patrons; and a restaurant, café-bar, and barber shop, all having access not only from the hotel lobby but also directly from Congress Street. Two major facilities were the famed tenth-floor vaulted dining room, flanked on each side by private dining rooms; and the grand banqueting hall (an afterthought, after the number of hotel rooms was increased at a late stage in the process), with its associated smoking room and parlour, located above the theatre, and having access from the seventh floor of the hotel. A complicating factor in the planning of the hotel, one unknown in these more liberated days, was the need to provide separate facilities for those unaccompanied members of the fairer sex, for whose sensibilities proximity to the male guests was unseemly. These facilities included a separate vestibule and reception area for ladies adjacent to the main lobby on Michigan Avenue, with its own elevators, direct access to the restaurant, and a ladies entrance on Congress Street, which linked to the auditorium foyer. There are also reminders of segregation of a less voluntary sort, with separate dining halls for white and coloured staff. The heart of the hotel, of course, was its guest accommodation. Most sources speak of about 400 rooms, but the number was increased during construction, and Garczinski (1890) in his final account puts the figure as high as 450. It is this contemporary account which gives us a detailed description of a corner suite, with its two bedrooms, parlour, and bathroom, its ‘annunciator’ (speaking tube?), and its central heating; a suite so adapted to the climate of Chicago that it received both the warm touch of winter’s sunshine and the cooling breezes of summer. From the point of efficiency, the plan form of the main accommodation was of course far from ideal. Constrained by the necessity to ‘wrap’ the rooms around the core of the auditorium, the corridors (for a considerable part single-loaded) were excessive in relation to the number of rooms served. On the other hand, because of this layout, most of the rooms faced outward to the street, with the concomitant advantages of view, natural light and ventilation. Many of the rooms had bathrooms attached, and some of these faced the street, reducing recourse to internal air shafts. We should note the correlation between the room layout and the modular nature of the façade. The system consisted of broad structural piers, with the window space in between bisected by a slender mullion. Generally speaking the partitions between the rooms were aligned on the centres of the piers, the structural module coordinating precisely with the planning module of the rooms. However, where bathrooms had to be accommodated on the street façade, the width of the pier allowed the room partition to be offset, and the central mullion received the wall of the bathroom. Except for the two corner suites, where bathroom walls are awkwardly splayed to fit the system, 76 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
Fig. 2.4 the coordination of internal planning and external articulation was felicitous. The Auditorium alternating rhythm of pier and mullion had of course been previously used in office Building 7th floor buildings, notably by Adler himself in the Borden Block of 1880; and became a well- A. Offices; B. Tower; established feature of the Chicago School in later years. In office buildings, however, the C. Hotel rooms; D. Suites; E. Recital internal layout tends to be organized in standard modules, whereas here, in the hotel, Hall; F. Banqueting the problem is more complex, and the adjustment of the unequal widths of bathrooms Hall; G. Kitchen and bedrooms to the system is ingenious. Nor were the more mundane, utilitarian functions (an impressive battery of behind- the-scenes services) neglected. The dining room on the top floor was served by the main kitchen, bakery, storage and refrigeration rooms, and staff quarters, all housed in a service area extending through four floors, carried on trusses above the stage of the auditorium. These facilities bridged not only to the dining room, but to the freight elevators which serviced the rooms of the guests. The banquet hall, a last-minute addition to the programme, was served by its own kitchen on the ground floor (drawing supplies from extensive basement stores) by a special elevator. Communications in this vast multi-storey complex were maintained not only through an array of public and service stairs, corridors and bridges, but by an elaborate system of passenger and freight elevators, dumb waiters, pneumatic tubes for sending messages, and speaking tubes. This most intricate network of planning requirements was subject to the inexorable discipline of vertically-continuous structural elements, plumbing runs, concealed smoke-stacks, and air shafts. Of all the components of the Auditorium Building the main auditorium (or opera house, or auditorium-theatre, as it was sometimes called) is the best known. It has been described, by George Izenour (1977), one of the most authoritative commentators on theatre design, as ‘probably the most famous of all existing American theater buildings,’ ranking with the Bayreuth Festspielhaus as highlights speculations on a black hole 77 of nineteenth century theatre design. It is not our intention at this point to expand upon this evaluation, nor to enter into a discussion of the acoustic and sightline theories upon which its design was predicated, although we shall have to return to these theories later. We shall not discuss the merits of its structural system, except as its structure is a facilitating device for determining its form; nor shall we describe the beauty of its ornament. Its structure, its ‘peerless acoustical reputation’ as Izenour termed it, and its artistic qualities are dealt with in nearly every publication on Adler and Sullivan as individuals, or on the Adler & Sullivan partnership. These are the attributes of the auditorium which are always stressed, and they form the outer margins of that black hole, the absent debate on the planning of the building, which is our present concern. Our purpose is to describe the auditorium in order to illuminate some of its design problems and the complexity of its planning. Adler (1891c) provided a first-hand and objective description of the building, discussing its deficiencies as well as its merits, and most modern accounts derive from this primary source. On the rear portion of a constricted site open to the street on three sides only, and entirely enclosed on those sides (and for the most part also above) by other parts of the complex (the hotel and office blocks), a large multi- purpose auditorium was planned and constructed, to provide for operas and other dramatic presentations, choral concerts by large choirs, conventions, lectures and other uses. This auditorium, in order to respond to these variable functions, was flexible in size; normally it seated 4,200 people, but by an ingenious system of mechanically-operated hinged ceiling panels closing off the galleries, it could be reduced to 3,200 seats, without disturbing the decorative scheme of the interior, or its functional efficiency; and with seats upon the stage, when in its stepped form, an audience of some 7,000 people could be accommodated. Access from the street was gained by the main vestibule, with its booking offices, penetrating the hotel on Congress Street, with exits, as we have pointed out, under the office wing on Wabash Avenue. The vestibule led to lower and upper lobbies reasonably spacious in size from a functional point of view, but, because of the site restrictions, unable to emulate the grandeur of European opera houses. Ease of circulation of the large crowds demanded the provision of various staircases strategically distributed, and wide aisles. Cloakrooms, washroom facilities, rest rooms (including a ladies’ retiring room, complete with toilets and cloakroom), a smoking room, and other amenities were provided for the convenience of the patrons. In the auditorium itself, a guiding principle was that its internal shape and the nature of its surface materials should be such as to provide good acoustics and clear sight-lines for the great majority of the audience; and the structural system ensured that there were no columns, except under the galleries, to obstruct vision. Artificially ventilated, heated and cooled, and brilliantly lit by 4,000 incandescent lamps, it was designed to control the internal climate, and for this purpose plant rooms and distribution ducts made their own considerable spatial demands. A stage, 70 by 110 feet, with a fly tower about 100 feet high, was provide, together with the usual ancillaries, including several floors of dressing rooms. It was acknowledged by Adler that the stage was not particularly large, but every effort 78 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
Fig. 2.5 George was made to enhance its effectiveness by incorporating the most up-to-date C. Izenour’s hydraulically-operated stage machinery and other stage facilities, including a reconstruction of moveable cyclorama and a variable proscenium arch opening. Access to the actors’ the Auditorium on grand opening entrance was from a side lane, approached under the north-east end of the hotel night, with stage block; this approach also led to the inner service court and stage entrance, adjacent arranged in to a large scenery storage dock. For acoustic reasons there was a suspended ceiling concert mode, above the auditorium, independent of the structure, and the space above this was suspended ingeniously used for additional storage of scenery. ceiling open In our description of the auditorium, we have stressed those aspects which directly relate to its planning. Our focus is on planning, in the sense that we have used the term so far: that is, as a process of determining and allocating spaces for specific uses, in this case, for entries, lobbies, circulation, seating, performing, services, and so on. In all cases, the determining of spaces is a three-dimensional problem, where the architect is dealing with interactive spatial delineations both in the horizontal plan and the vertical section. In the case of repetitive units, such as offices or hotel bedrooms, once a standard height is fixed, considerations of plan organization are usually dominant. In unique spaces, such as the lobbies, lounges or dining rooms of a hotel, determination of the internal volume becomes ever more important, and sectional considerations demand equal time, as it were, with those of the plan. In the case of the auditorium, the shaping of internal volumes through the creative interaction of plan and section becomes the critical planning speculations on a black hole 79 factor. The importance of the acoustic and sight-line principles underpinning the auditorium’s design lies in the fact that they are not only major factors in its functional performance, but also major determinants of its internal volume—in other words, of its architectural design. We shall return to this point when we discuss the allocation of responsibility for the design of the Auditorium Building as a whole. In trying to understand the nature of the planning problem confronted by the architects of the Auditorium Building, we have looked separately at the office block, the hotel, and the auditorium, and found each component to be challenging in its complexity. However, we have also learned that these components are not independent entities, but rather interacting elements in a complex union of functions. Take the tower on Congress Street, for example: the main access to the auditorium was at the bottom of that tower, whose soaring height was intended as a visual marker of this important feature. Above the entrance was the smoking room of the auditorium, then came several floors of hotel accommodation; then, in the free-standing portion of the tower, the floors of offices (including Adler & Sullivan’s own premises, occupying the upper two floors), the whole topped off by the water tanks for the hydraulically-operated elevators of the entire complex. The exit staircase from the galleries of the auditorium ran down in parallel to the main staircase of the office section, and was contained within that unit. The 500– hundred seat recital hall, located on top of the gallery of the auditorium, and its ante-room, were functionally linked, both in access (through the seventh floor) and later in use (they were rented out as part of the Conservatoire of Music) to the office wing. However, the raked floor of the recital hall coincided with the reverse slope of the ceiling of the auditorium gallery, in a neat three-dimensional fit. We have already remarked on the location of the banqueting hall of the hotel over the main auditorium; and the four floors of kitchens and service rooms (linked by bridges to the hotel they serve) located above the stage. Penetrating vertically through these interlocking functional elements are the passenger and freight elevators, the public and service stairs, the forced-air ventilation ducts, and the air shafts. This is not only two-dimensional planning, but the integration of plans and sections in the most intricate of three-dimensional jigsaw puzzles. As Adler (1891c) himself put it, in describing how auxiliary spaces to the auditorium impinged at various levels upon the hotel and office buildings, and conversely how the stairs and elevators of the commercial buildings encroached upon the auditorium: ‘These overlappings and interpenetrations form a Chinese puzzle which cannot be understood unless illustrated by a complete set of plans and sections.’ It is a sad but necessary commentary on current critical priorities to note the absence of anything approaching such a complete set of drawings in the literature purporting to describe the Auditorium Building. For Sullivan, the Auditorium Building was one integrated whole, considered from the artistic point of view, both in the unity of its façade treatment, and the consistency of its decorative schemes. For Adler, it was an integrated whole, considered from the functional point of view, both in its structure and its planning, so much so that he coined the portmanteau word ‘Audi-Hotelium’ to describe it.13 80 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
Both partners sought unity of design, but defined it in different terms. The success of the Auditorium Building is a tribute to the union of their divergent talents; but we argue that the unity of vision which informs this building is to a large measure a product of the planning process itself, and the manner of its implementation.
The Making of a Planner
Does the solution of planning problems demand from the architect a package of very specific skills and aptitudes? David Andrew (1985), in discussing the planning of offices and judicial chambers in a court building, wrote:O ‘ f course this particular problem is neither very weighty nor very difficult. It is conceivable that the justices themselves, having no architectural training at all, might arrive at an interior disposition of rooms that would allow them to pursue their duties quite satisfactorily.’ Critics who follow this line of thought concede that creating beauty, and endowing a monumental building with symbolic significance, demand the special skills of the trained architect. Planning a building, especially a commercial building, is on the other hand of marginal significance and difficulty. While perhaps not going so far as to assert that anyone can do it, there are many who think that judges can plan their chambers, or—as we shall see in later chapters—librarians can design libraries and professors their laboratories. We do not accept the implication that the designing of commercial buildings is a relatively trivial architectural problem. Such buildings—offices, factories, warehouses, department stores—are the places where people spend most of their working hours, and constitute an environment significant not only for its utility but its affect upon the quality of life. The point we shall be making here is that successful planning, far from being easy, depends upon a specific problem-solving ability of the architect, one demanding training and experience, knowledge and skill, as well as an appropriate attitude: a functionalist approach which recognizes utility as an important architectural value. There is, however, another—and rare—attribute of a really accomplished planner: that he achieves a plan which is stamped with that sense of inevitability which is a work of art in itself. To plan a large multi-functional complex such as the Auditorium Building requires a competent, experienced professional. The planner must have the ability to solve a three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle whose boundaries are fixed by economics, property lines, zoning restrictions and building codes, but whose pieces are yet to be defined, and the ultimate picture to be achieved as yet unknown. It is the planner’s task to define and give shape to the pieces of the puzzle to be assembled, and the rules which govern their relationships, a task which entails the simultaneous solution of a variety of interacting problems, while prejudicing neither the integrity of each component nor the coherence and unity of the whole. The planner must be aware that there may be more than one answer to the yet undefined puzzle, and he must be inventive enough to generate alternative total or partial solutions, and be able to evaluate them on a comparative basis. The skilful planner needs imagination and empathy, in order to envisage patterns of human speculations on a black hole 81 behaviour, and the capability to visualize and define the spatial and environmental requirements required to facilitate those behavioural patterns, and the networks of connections between the functional zones. Finally, the planner must take into consideration that he is planning for a world in flux, and that his solutions must be flexible, to allow for future adaptation and change. The experienced planner has generally acquired an extensive vocabulary of appropriate parameters for rooms designed for everyday activities: appropriate architectural character, sizes, proportions, environmental requirements, equipment, and interconnections. He has built up this repertoire over his years of practice, an extended period of trial and error in which he has put to test his acquired knowledge (gained from formal and informal studies; from his more informed colleagues at work; and perhaps, most importantly, from his own life experiences). From all this he has drawn his own conclusions and established his own standards. When he is faced with the problem of accommodating unfamiliar activities, he has no accumulated knowledge to draw upon, and is forced to make special studies of his own, looking at successful precedents, familiarizing himself with the requisite theories, undertaking his own rigorous analyses, and consulting those specialists (if any) who have the required expertise. If he repeats this process several times in his practice, and puts his newly-acquired knowledge to the test of real-life situations, he himself may become the recognized expert, speaking with an authoritative voice. Experience generates the memory traces and patterns of action which are the basis of that self-confidence which so readily communicates itself to fellow workers and to clients. It produces an awareness of future problems, and an accessible personal data-bank of techniques and information with which to solve them. This accumulated fund of knowledge is the sine qua non for successfully planning any complex building. Experience is a prerequisite, but in itself it is not sufficient to facilitate effective planning. It is not given to every architect to handle these matters with skill and dedication, for they require certain attitudes to design, and certain personality traits. Consummate planning skill calls for patience, attention to detail, a power of logical analysis, and an inherent sense of order and relationships; it also requires one to be numerate as well as literate, and to have developed powers of visual perception. First and foremost, however, good planning is based on a functionalist approach which recognizes utility as an architectural value; certainly not the only value, in many cases not the highest in the hierarchy of values, but one not to be set aside lightly. Utility as a value does not imply a mechanistic approach to design. The opposite is true: the motivation of the planner comes from an understanding of human behaviour, insight into human needs, and empathy with human desires.
The Careers of Dankmar Adler and Louis Sullivan, Prior to the Auditorium Commission
If our catalogue of skills, knowledge, and attitude is an abstract profile of one who may be called upon to plan a building such as the Auditorium Building, we 82 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process should now look at Adler and Sullivan individually, and scrutinize their professional careers, interests and characteristics, in an attempt to match man and profile. Our cut-off time is the commencement date of the Auditorium commission, towards the end of 1886. Dankmar Adler was born in Germany in 1844. Most accounts of Adler stress his Jewish origins, for his father was an eminent rabbi and cantor. This ethnic background is relevant to his architectural career, for—as with Erich Mendelsohn at a later stage in history—nearly all his clientele was to come from his family connections and his circle of Jewish acquaintances. An enduring identification with his origins was an essential part of his character.14 His family emigrated to the United States in 1854, and settled first in Detroit, where Adler’s architectural career began. He described the stages in his Autobiographical Notes, as edited and published by his granddaughter Joan Weil Saltzstein (1981). In Detroit Adler, who he said ‘had shown much inclination and much aptitude for architectural work during a course of instruction in freehand drawing,’ first trained in the office of John Schaefer, who gave him ‘a thorough training in “the Orders” and in architectural ornament chiefly Romanesque and Byzantine in tendency.’ Adler disapproved of Schaefer’s professional attitude, the ‘glorification of self, and a general and indiscriminate denunciation and vituperation of every claimant for professional honor or position.’ Leaving Schaefer, he entered the office of Mr. E. Willard Smith, whom he ‘found an architect who would have been an honor to the profession in its palmiest days.’ Adler owed much to the tutelage he received in Smith’s office. ‘By him and his able assistant, Mr. John M. Bancroft.’ he wrote, ‘I was introduced to a systematic study of architectural history and the philosophy of architectural design, as also to neatness and finish of renderings of drawings and watercolors. Under their guidance I worked indefatigably, often twelve and sixteen hours a day, and laid the foundations of whatever actual knowledge of my profession I may have acquired.’ Adler moved with his family to Chicago in 1861. He went to work for Augustus Bauer in that year, where he learnt ‘to appreciate directness of method in design and thoroughness in construction.’ After the outbreak of the Civil War, Adler enlisted in the army in July 1862, serving in the artillery. During the last nine months of his military career he served as a draughtsman in the Topographical Engineers’ Office of the Military Division of Tennessee. He regarded his military experience in a positive light: ‘I considered myself justified in stating that when discharged from the army in August 1865, I had made good use of my time, and was nearly as well equipped for my life work as if my studies had been pursued at home.’ After his discharge, Adler spent a brief period with Bauer, and then went to work for O. S. Kinney, quite a busy practitioner. This was to be a most valuable period in Adler’s career.
Here I felt the good effect of the studies I had pursued in the field and at Chattanooga [where he had been on special duty with Milo D. Burke, later an eminent civil engineer] as well as the value of the knowledge of men which my army life had given me, and also the influence of Mr. Bauer’s hard-headed, practical way of looking at things. Although there were in Mr. Kinney’s office several draughtsmen who have since risen to very good speculations on a black hole 83
standing in the professions of architecture and engineering, I soon became foreman of the office, and when Mr. Kinney died in 1869, his son and I finished his incompleted buildings and held the good will of many of his clients.
After the elder Kinney’s death, Adler was a partner in the firm of Kinney and Adler. During his association with the Kinneys, Adler modestly conceded that he had ‘designed nothing worthy of note or remembrance.’ However, in addition to commercial work, Adler was associated with the design or construction of several auditoriums, an experience which was to stand him in good stead in the future. In 1872 Adler married Dila Cohen, the daughter of a Chicago pioneer. The previous year he had left Kinney and ‘formed a partnership with Mr. Edward Burling, then an architect of very high standing in Chicago. This connection continued until 1879 under the firm names of E. Burling & Co., Burling & Adler, and for a short time Burling, Adler & Co., the third member of our firm being Mr. W.H. Willcox. We were soon to take part in the reconstruction of Chicago after the great fire.’ Adler lists the tremendous quantity of work, amounting to miles of street frontage, done by the office.15 It would appear that Adler was deeply involved in the on-site supervision of this work, which gave him unparalleled practical experience, but restricted his direct involvement at the drawing board, although he bore responsibility for the design work of the office. ‘I was in charge of the drawing room during this busy period but was so much involved with outdoor work that only the Methodist Church Block, Greenebaum Building, First National Bank, Wrenn & Meeker Building, the Mercantile Building, the Lunt & Kean Building, Sinai Temple, and a few others were actually drawn by me.’ Adler appreciated the responsibilities of the office which Burling had transferred to him, acknowledging that they ‘afforded new experiences and developed a degree of self-reliance and fertility of resource which I would have been many years in acquiring.’ We have seen that throughout his varied career Adler had always seen each stage in a positive light, as a new learning experience, and was generous in acknowledging his debt to his mentors. In this he was the embodiment of the phrase in the Pirkei Avot (the Jewish Ethics of the Fathers): ‘I have learnt from all my teachers.’ This new self-confidence encouraged Adler in 1879 to sever his connection with Burling, and open his own independent office, Dankmar Adler, Architect; and then, in 1881, he set up as D. Adler & Co. ‘During the succeeding two years,’ he wrote, ‘I devoted myself to the design and erection of the Central Music Hall Block, which has proved in many respects one of the most successful buildings ever erected in Chicago, and which I always consider the foundation of whatever professional standing I may have acquired.’ The Central Music Hall, Chicago (1879–1881), Adler’s first independent project, comprised an office block with seventy-five offices, a multi-purpose auditorium seating 1,900 people, a recital hall, and a dozen shops. This building was the first of several multi-purpose buildings by Adler, forerunners in many ways to the Auditorium Building. These early projects included the Methodist Church Block, a multi-purpose building which, according to Elstein (1963) was ‘one hundred and thirty by eighty by fifty-five feet and contained seven stores, sixteen offices, a hall with a stage, gallery and organ,’ and the Crilly & Blair 84 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
complex, a $150,000 mixed-use project comprising 28 stores, a residential block with 46 apartments, and a hotel for a hundred guests. It was the firm of Adler & Co., headed by an architect already rich in experience, that young Louis Sullivan joined as an associate, in a loose informal partnership, in 1881. Louis Henry Sullivan, of Irish and French extraction, was born in Boston in 1856, and was thus Adler’s junior by twelve years. For the nature of his early architectural education and training we have Sullivan’s own story in his autobiography, but for an objective account which places Sullivan’s student years in its historical perspective there is no better source than David van Zanten.16 Briefly, this is the Sullivan story: for a year, in 1872–1873, the young Sullivan studied as a ‘special student’ at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, which at that time used the Ėcole des Beaux- Arts, Paris, as its model. The director was William Robert Ware, whom we have already encountered as the outside expert evaluating the Auditorium design, but Van Zanten stresses the teaching influence of the Frenchman Eugène Letang, and his system of volumetric composition. In 1873 Sullivan was in Philadelphia for a short time, working for the architect Frank Furness, and later that year, joining his family in Chicago, for perhaps half a year he worked in the office of William le Baron Jenney. He sailed to Europe in mid- 1874, and in October enrolled as a second-year student at the Ėcole des Beaux-Arts. His stay there was short, as at the end of the academic year he was off once more, travelling through Europe, but while at the Ėcole he encountered the teaching and work of Ruprich-Robert, and made many tracings from Ruprich-Robert’s Flore ornamentale. As Van Zanten (1986) pointed out, Sullivan’s ‘decorative inclinations had emerged and had been given form by the examples of Furness and Ruprich-Robert.’ That we have records preserved by Sullivan of his decorative work, but not of the architectural designs he must have carried out in the school’s atelier, is a significant pointer to his priorities. Sullivan returned to Chicago in the middle of 1875. His activities in the following years are far from clear. It would appear that he worked as a free-lance draughtsman in this period, possibly for John Edelman, with whom he had struck up a friendship in Jenney’s office. Edelman, who had Fig. 2.6 Dankmar worked as a draughtsman for Adler & Co., became the foreman of Jenney’s office in Adler: Central Music Hall, 1873, and then went into practice on his own account, in partnership with Joseph Chicago; section S. Johnston. For that firm Sullivan designed some interior friezes for the Sinai and floor plans Synagogue in 1876, and in this way came into professional contact with Burling & speculations on a black hole 85
Adler, who were the associate architects for the project. As a consequence of this serendipitous contact, Sullivan, in the period from 1879 to 1881, did occasional work for Adler, mostly of a decorative nature; it is suggested, for instance, that this included designing the organ screens on either side of the stage of the Central Music Hall. There followed some form of association or informal partnership in the period 1881–1883. Adler, who was always more than generous in acknowledging Sullivan’s participation in his work, gives a brief list in his Autobiographical Notes (Saltzstein, 1983) of projects in which Sullivan had a hand in the pre-partnership period. These include the Borden Block and Grand Opera House, both of 1880– 1881 (in the free-lance period), and Hooley’s Theatre and the Hammond Library, of 1882. There is general agreement that Sullivan’s role in these projects was that of ‘designer’, in the limited sense of working on the facades (as in the incised floral decoration of the spandrel panels or the detailing of the cast-iron mullions of the Borden Block), or the detailing the interior decoration (as possibly in the Central Music hall, or in the remodelling of the interior of the Grand Opera House, itself an extension of an existing building.) The formal partnership between Adler and Sullivan was established in 1883. This date has been the subject of some obfuscation. Sullivan, in his Autobiography of an Idea (1924), states that Adler had made an offer of a junior partnership in 1880, and ‘on the first day of May, 1881, the firm of Adler & Sullivan, Architects, had its name on the entrance door’ of offices in the newly-built Borden Block. This statement, we should remember, was made some forty years after the event, in a document in which Sullivan, at the nadir of his career, sought desperately to restore his eroded reputation and self-esteem. Adler, closer to the event, put the matter thus: ‘Soon after the completion of the Central Music Hall [in 1881, according to Adler] I found myself so overcrowded with work as to be unable to discharge my duties to my clients alone. Then began my business connection with Mr. Louis H. Sullivan, who, entering my office as chief draughtsman, has been for the last twelve years my partner, and in conjunction with whom I have had professional charge of [much] work.’ 17 This confusion has been carefully scrutinized by Van Zanten (1986), and his conclusions bear out our own understanding that in such matters Adler’s account was the more reliable. Hugh Morrison (1935), researching his biography of Sullivan, was fortunate enough to be able to consult with many surviving colleagues and associates of Adler & Sullivan. His description has the authenticity which comes from first-hand evidence.
The office of Adler & Sullivan occupied most of the top floor of the Borden Block. There were about twenty men on the staff. Chief among these was Paul Mueller, faithful, competent, German. Mueller had been in the office for a short time in 1883; then he had gone to Silsbee’s office as an engineer for three years. In 1886 Adler needed an intelligent and resourceful assistant in engineering and construction to study through the Auditorium, and Mueller came back as office foreman. On a Tuesday late in 1887, Frank Lloyd Wright, then eighteen years of age, appeared in the office with some drawings. Wright very soon caught on to Sullivan’s style of ornament, and he detailed 86 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
most of the ornament of the Auditorium, although the pencil sketches and essential conception were Sullivan’s.18
De Wit (1986) lists the projects on which the firm of Adler & Sullivan was engaged in the period 1 May 1883 to 30 June 1895, when the partnership was dissolved. From this list we can extract those works undertaken prior to the Auditorium commission: they included residential, industrial and commercial buildings, a synagogue, and some remodelling of theatres. On the whole these were routine ‘bread and butter’ projects, of which Adler himself (in the notes edited by Saltzstein, 1983) pointed out only the McVicker’s Theater project of 1883 (the remodelling of the theatre was carried out in 1885), the Ryerson Building of 1884, the Zion Synagogue of 1885, and the Ryerson Charities Trust Building of 1886, all in Chicago. Other buildings, surprisingly omitted by Adler, included the Troescher Building of 1884, and the Chicago Opera Festival Auditorium, created within the existing Interstate Exposition Building in 1885. Of these, the two projects most relevant to our concern are the McVicker’s Theater and the Festival Auditorium. According to Twombly (1988), Sullivan claimed that his contribution to the design of McVicker’s was the ‘first decorative use of the electric lamp. It was a little innovation of my own, that of placing the lamps in a decoration instead of clustering them in fixtures. Adler’s role in the planning of this theatre (in addition, of course, to dealing with the acoustics and with problems of construction) appeared to be more substantial. ‘Mr. Adler wanted to have some offices put in when the theater was rebuilt. He had the notion that some offices might be carried over the theater, and, as far as I know, that is the first time that thing was done. Two stories of offices were carried by trusses over the theater.’ Of the Chicago Opera Festival Auditorium, Sullivan had this to say:
In 1885, Ferdinand W. Peck got the idea of getting a great operatic festival here and he came to us because of Mr. Adler’s reputation in handling structures of that sort. In the meanwhile we had handled several political conventions, of which Mr. Adler had taken personal charge and which were very successful. Mr. Peck had the opinion that Mr. Adler was the only man who could handle that, and it was to be done, in a considerable measure, as an experiment. We took the old Exposition Building [in which Adler had organized the conventions] and fixed it up with an addition, according to a plan by Mr. Adler, so that 6,200 people on the floor were accommodated for the season.
Sullivan’s description is misleading: there was no ‘addition’, but rather a complete wooden shell planned by Adler inside the existing structure to provide the necessary acoustic qualities and to ensure the proper sight lines; and the seating was not ‘on the floor’ but accommodated on three levels, the ‘parquet’ (what today would be called the ‘stalls’) at the lowest level, a dress circle, and a great projecting balcony above. Together with the large and full-equipped stage, complete with fly-tower, dressing rooms, orchestra pit, and provision for the choir, projecting into the auditorium and topped off by a large sounding board, Adler’s design of the speculations on a black hole 87
opera house was an impressive technical feat. It was furthermore transformed into Fig. 2.7 Dankmar a work of splendour by Sullivan’s ingenious temporary decorations. According to Adler: McVickers all accounts, cited by Lowe (1988), the Festival Auditorium was a great success. Theatre, Chicago, longitudinal ‘Adler’s acoustics were unstintingly praised. “The slightest sound”, said one reporter, section after “could be heard in every part of the house.” Sullivan’s decorations were no less remodelling magnificent. With papier-mâché and ornamental panels he created a space which struck the Chicago Tribune’s critic “as elegant and attractive to the eye as if it were a permanent structure”.’ There appears to have been a clear differentiation of the role of the two partners, stemming from their different talents, interests and experience, in designing these forerunners of the Auditorium Building. This comes as no surprise, because it tallies with conventional wisdom. However, we must now look deeper, in order to assess the potential of each as the possible principal planner of the Auditorium Building. At the end of 1886, faced with undertaking this challenging new commission, who in the firm of Adler & Sullivan, we shall ask, had the appropriate skills, experience and knowledge to plan the building, and who the appropriate attitude to architecture to give this pragmatic but formative task the full measure of his creative attention?
Confronting the Challenge: A Comparison of Profiles
The Auditorium Building was both large and complex, and its design presented a challenge to the architect chosen to undertake it. The commission had come to Adler & Sullivan because its sponsors believed that Adler was the professional best equipped to confront this challenge. As we have seen, he had considerable 88 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process experience in architectural practice, from the first days of his apprenticeship, as a trusted draughtsman, through his various partnerships, until the four years in which he ran a firm on his own account. It was in this established practice that Sullivan came to work, and in which, in 1883, he was made a partner. In the Adler & Sullivan partnership Adler was the undisputed head of the firm, as Frank Lloyd Wright (cited in Morrison, 1935), recalled. ‘It may be remarked that all the office staff—from Sullivan, Wright, Elmslie, and Mueller down to the lowest office cub— always referred to Adler with respect and affection as the “Big Chief”.’ For a period of twenty-five years (except for his service in the army, which he found professionally useful) Adler had thus been actively involved in practice, and had worked on, and then later took complete responsibility for, a large number of projects, handling both the design and supervision in the field. This was an impressive curriculum vitae. But it was not only the scope of his experience but its relevance to the Auditorium project which merits our attention. As we have noted, this design experience included a large multi-use building containing a hotel (the Crilly & Blair complex), and at least three multi-function buildings (the Methodist Church Block, the Central Music Hall Block, and the McVicker’s Theater), each incorporating an auditorium with other classes of accommodation. In this corpus of work he demonstrated imagination and skill in handling large public spaces—whether for worship or entertainment, these entailed acoustic problems—the integration of units of different scales and environmental requirements, and complex circulation patterns. In addition, he was certainly responsible for the overall design, including the structural system, circulation patterns, the acoustics and the seating plan, of the giant Festival Auditorium. As against this, Sullivan’s practical experience was minimal: part of a year as a junior draughtsman with Furness, half a year with Jenney, a desultory career as a free-lance draughtsman working mainly on the decorative aspects of other architects’ buildings for some four years, until he entered into his association with Adler in 1881, probably first as a draughtsman, then an informal junior partner. Adler took him into the firm because his talent was obvious, and he filled a gap, capably dealing with those aspects of design on which Adler preferred not to spend his valuable time: the treatment of the elevations and the decoration of the main interior spaces. This remained Sullivan’s primary role when he became a full partner in 1883, although undoubtedly he took over other, more substantial duties, as the association with Adler evolved. Whether Sullivan undertook site supervision of the firm’s buildings prior to the Auditorium Building commission is unlikely, but he probably did so later in the practice. In 1895, at the end of their association, Adler summed up the division of labour thus: ‘While conducting our business as architects I have attended to the mechanical part while Mr. Sullivan looked after the artistic and supervised the construction.’19 It is our thesis that the division of the design task into two components, mechanical and artistic, omits one essential activity, that of planning, the determination of the characteristics and organization of the functional spaces of the building. Before we turn our attention to this central issue, let us briefly consider whether Adler’s division of tasks was overly simplistic, or whether there was nevertheless a degree of overlapping. speculations on a black hole 89
As far as what Adler termed the ‘artistic’ aspect of design, Sullivan’s input by mutual agreement was the major determinant. However, this did not preclude consultation between the partners on these issues, for Adler certainly had the competence—at least as a critic and sounding board, possibly even as an initiator—to make a positive contribution to a debate on the aesthetic aspects of an architectural design. After all, he had carried the responsibility for these aspects throughout the earlier phases of his career with some success. On the other hand, the technological basis of architectural design was at all times the undisputable territory of Adler. We do not know, at the time of the building of the Auditorium, if Sullivan had either the interest or the requisite knowledge to participate in the discussions on technical matters. If Adler needed another opinion, he could always turn to his trusted assistant Mueller. In 1916, looking back to the golden age of his professional association with Adler, Sullivan credited his partner with full knowledge pertaining to such matters as construction and acoustics, while of his own limited expertise he said ‘Meanwhile, I was developing a little technical knowledge myself.’ Technology spoke to Sullivan in ways other than to the pragmatic Adler. In the words of Carl Condit (1959), there was ‘a distinct strain of romanticism ... perhaps even a Nietzschean quality in the worship of creative power. For Sullivan came to see in science and technology the triumphant assertion of man’s will expressing itself in a wholly new way.’ We return to the crucial issue, Sullivan’s experience, or lack of it, in the planning of large complex buildings. Prior to joining Adler he had no such experience, and we have no information of his participation in the planning of projects undertaken by the partnership. More than that, while he may have been consulted on planning problems, there is no evidence in the writings of his partner, his contemporaries, or of later commentators, to suggest that Sullivan had been responsible for the planning of any of the major projects in the office prior to, or immediately following, the commission for the Auditorium Building. Significantly, Sullivan himself nowhere claims to have fulfilled this critical function in the design process. In the light of Sullivan’s effort, in his later independent career, to paint a picture of himself not just as a decorator but a competent all-round professional, this omission must be given its due weight.20 In order successfully to plan a complex building in practice, we have argued, learning experience is an essential; this experience Adler had gained in plentiful measure, but Sullivan lacked. What Sullivan eventually knew of planning, Frank Lloyd Wright (1949) asserted, came over time from his association with Adler. When the ‘grand chief’ (as Wright called Adler) took the young man in as a partner ‘the Sullivan schooling in practical planning of buildings actually built began then and there under ideal auspices: ideal because the chief was not only an experienced engineer but was a splendid planner himself.’ In addition to experience, moreover, there is also the question of theoretical knowledge, knowledge acquired through study and analysis. Sullivan’s research was never directed towards pragmatic issues relevant to planning. He concerned himself with the broader speculations of the transcendental philosophers and organic theory. Not unconnected to this, but more directly relevant to architecture, both during his student days and subsequently, 90 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process he made extensive investigations into the nature of architectural ornament, and mainly through the originality of his creations in this field gained a substantial reputation as a designer.21 He also gave considerable thought to the problem of finding symbolic expression for new technological means, and especially the problem of creating appropriate form for the tall office building, which the new technology had made structurally feasible.22 While Adler could not, and in fact never did, claim eminence in the field of architectural design (in the limited, artistic, sense that Schuyler, for instance, understood the term), he nevertheless valued the search for beauty in building as an essential component of architecture. Affirming the necessity to ‘consider as practical those things whose sole function is aesthetical, and whose sole result is to make the public more sensitive to beauty,’23 he valued Sullivan’s contribution to their work, and never missed an opportunity to praise his accomplishments, the talents which enabled his young partner to generate architectural forms of strength and beauty, and modulate and decorate surfaces of shining splendour. However, these great poetic gifts, enhanced by his diligent enquiries into the language and meaning of ornament, did not necessarily equip Sullivan with the skills of the planner of buildings, nor were they a compensation for his lack of experience in this essential attribute of an architect, at the time of the designing of the Auditorium Building. Adler’s approach to the task of preparing himself to undertake the design of a building was both comprehensive and systematic. He studied in depth those aspects of design which he considered fundamental; organized his acquired knowledge logically and systematically; and constructed a theoretical framework for the planning of specific building types. In other words, synthesizing his direct experience, his observations and his studies, Adler was able to propose planning guidelines for generic categories of problems. Two building types in which he had specific interest were theatres and commercial buildings; each of these types had figured prominently in his past practical experience, and each area had direct relevance to the planning of a building such as the Chicago Auditorium Building. Although his publications on theatres24 and commercial buildings25 appeared after the designing of that complex, it seems reasonable to suggest that they were the fruits of a long cumulative period of learning, and as such were part of the input into the design of the Auditorium Building, as well as lessons derived specifically from that unique experience. In addition to the published papers on theatre design we have Adler’s partially completed manuscript and fragmentary notes, which were edited and published sixty-five years after his death under the title ‘The Theater’ (Baron, !965). Two aspects of this publication are of especial relevance to our present enquiry. There is a statement in general terms of the functional requirements of a theatre, and there is a detailed account of the theory upon which the acoustic design and sightlines of a theatre should be based. First, to Adler’s ‘summary of the essential features underlying theater design’:
Without a play to be produced upon the stage there will not be a theater. When there is nothing which excites a desire to see and hear a performance, there will be no spectators and no audience. If the actors are hampered in speculations on a black hole 91
their work by faults and imperfections of stage construction and equipment, they may be unable to render the play in a manner which attracts the public and stimulates attendance. Therefore, no theater design can be considered as fulfilling legitimate requirements unless there has been provision for everything which furthers scenic illusions, facilitates movement upon the stage, and makes for comfort and convenience of actors and all others employed upon the stage. Yet after all this has been done, if each spectator cannot see every actor in the play and all the minutiae of scenic setting, if every member of the audience is not able to hear distinctly and effortlessly every word spoken upon the stage, no matter how perfect the stage and its consideration and appointments, and how consummate the art of the performers, the structure will not have fulfilled its purpose.
The audience, according to Adler, comes to see and hear. This is a truism, but these basic conditions are rarely adequately fulfilled. Adler discusses at length his understanding of the basics of good acoustics, how sound is propagated on the stage, how it is transmitted, absorbed or reflected, and how it is received. Each factor has its implications upon the shape of the stage, the size of the proscenium opening, the placing of reflectors, and disposition of walls and ceiling of the theatre; and determines the choice of surface materials appropriate to each acoustic function. The layout of the seats in the auditorium is determined by the imperatives of seeing and hearing. To achieve the desired acoustic performance he adopts the ‘acoustic curve’ of John Scott Russell,26 which determines the stepped rake of the floor; and by transposing the isacoustic curve into ‘isoptic’ lines, he determines the sightlines of the audience. The shape of the auditorium, in both plan and section, and the materials in which its enclosing surfaces are finished derive from the requirements of performers and audience. Adler’s operative conclusion is that ‘these practical considerations’ should become the basis of the ‘artistic design and decorative treatment.’ The date of this manuscript is uncertain, but one interesting feature of it, unusual for Adler, is that it is entirely theoretical in nature, and makes no reference to any specific example of his work. He does however refer to ‘the few tentative efforts recently made towards adaption [sic] of acoustic requirements for proscenium opening and ceiling height of theaters.’ This would indicate that this account precedes the design of Adler’s own major auditoriums, the Central Music hall, McVicker’s Theater, and the Festival Opera House, whose use of acoustic theory can in no way be described as ‘tentative’. Consequently, we can state with confidence that by the time Adler came to design the Chicago Auditorium he had not only mastered the most up-to-date theory of his day, but had tested it in practice. We know that in making this assertion we are stating the obvious, for it is indeed conventional wisdom that Adler was an authority on theatre design. What is important for us, however, is to appreciate not only the extent of his theoretical knowledge, but that he understood that his theory of theatre design, based as it was on the technical aspects of acoustics and sightlines, nevertheless determined—in plan, section, and the nature of surface materials—the overall design of the auditorium, as used by the performers and audience. It follows as a corollary that for Adler, ‘artistic design and decorative treatment’ did not create the 92 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process design but proceeded from it, as a moderator, perhaps, but never the generator of the final form and space. To understand this critical distinction is to understand the significance of the very different roles played by Adler and by Sullivan in the design of the Chicago Auditorium—the one the planner and generator of form, the other its decorator and enricher. This distinction went much further than the auditorium itself. On 20 October 1887, with the designing of the Auditorium Building still in progress, Adler read a paper, entitled ‘The Paramount Requirements of a Large Opera House’, at the Twenty-first Annual Convention of the American Institute of Architects. This presentation dealt with general principles, and incorporated wisdom distilled from his practical experience, which now included the current Auditorium Building. He stressed his modifications of Scott Russell’s theories as a basis, but discusses them only briefly, taking his previous expositions on acoustics and sight-lines as known, commenting laconically ‘as I have said before.’ On the other hand he dealt much more extensively with other planning requirements. An important aspect, he said, was the allocation of space for specific functions: lobby space sufficient to hold the entire audience, the relationship between the size of the stage and its auxiliaries (mechanical equipment, fly galleries, dressing rooms, and so on), and with the body of the auditorium, a proportional relationship which would enable the mounting and presentation of performances on a grand scale, while ensuring a seating capacity large enough to make grand opera financially feasible. Ample means of ingress and egress should be provided, allowing at least three feet width for doors, aisles and stairways for every two hundred persons, and separating the paths of those seeking tickets and those already so equipped. Ease of movement was a prime consideration: ‘aisles should lead directly to doors, corridors and lobbies should be ample, and stairways should have frequent landings and the exits should be so disposed as to tend to disperse the audience as rapidly as possible.’ Lighting was also to be considered, both artificial lighting and the admission of natural light where it was deemed desirable, and its exclusion where necessary. This for Adler was not only a technical question of quantity, but qualitative considerations of some subtlety, allowing good vision, obviating glare, and avoiding shadows on the performers’ faces. All these factors, together with considerations of artificial heating, cooling and ventilation, soundness of construction, and proper fire protection, play a determining role in the designing of a theatre. Having said all this, Adler concluded: ‘The general proportions and materials of construction of such a building as this justify a general simplicity and demand the utmost dignity of treatment. This simplicity should, however, not become baldness, nor should the poetic element be excluded from the design.’ (Adler, 1887). About a year after the presentation of this seminal paper, Adler embarked upon a tour of inspection of theatre design in Europe, which enabled him to study examples of theatres and opera houses at first hand: five theatres under construction in London which impressed him; the Hofburg in Vienna, ‘the most magnificent in the world,’ but with faulty acoustics; and Garnier’s Paris Opera House, whose lavish provision of ‘the enormous number of lobbies, the width of speculations on a black hole 93 the grand staircase and the size of the stage,’ limited the capacity to only 3,200 people, as against the Auditorium’s 4,200. Finally, the recently completed Opera House in Budapest, where ‘the most marvelous and rapid transformations were produced by the use of 124 hydraulic jacks,’ proved to be the highlight of his trip. It was this mechanical system which was eventually used in the Chicago Auditorium stage. To his own empirical experience and his theoretic studies we must thus add Adler’s direct learning experience in Europe, as a priori evidence of his potential capability to design the theatre of the Auditorium Building.27 While the theatre was the core of the Auditorium Building, it was not the only component, as it was buttressed, for economic reasons, by the commercial elements of the hotel and office block. Adler’s papers on the problems of designing commercial buildings, as we noted earlier, came later than the Auditorium Building. His generalizations (Adler, 1892) obviously derive from the cumulative experience gained in the planning of commercial buildings, culminating in the recently- completed Wainwright and Schiller Buildings, as well as an understanding of the work of contemporaries such as Burnham and Root, or Holabird and Roche, whose output of significant office buildings exceeded that of Adler and Sullivan. Adler discusses the office block, and particularly the tall office block, in terms of its urban, sociological and economic context; but he also deals with the functional aspects of its planning. One of his principal concerns is the question of adequate daylighting, which not only dictates the exterior form of the building, with the provision of light courts and set-backs where necessary, but also determines the depth of office space, and consequently the planning of the interior. ‘Experience has shown that only under quite unusual conditions is it possible to carry a sufficient volume of daylight for purposes of reading and writing—as found necessary in the transaction of ordinary office business—to a greater distance than twenty-five feet from the source of light.’ In the Auditorium Building the offices generally comply with this stringent depth limitation. Although he does not elaborate on other planning issues, Adler is clearly aware of them. At the conclusion of the paper quoted above, he says: ‘While I have here treated of the proper lighting of buildings as of the first importance, I do not mean to have it understood that I consider the proper placing and proportioning of elevators, halls, corridors, and stairs, as of no importance. These items alone might well form the subject of an independent paper.’ This was not idle talk: Adler’s expertise in the ‘proper placing and proportioning of elevators’ was such that the Crane Elevator Company in 1895 appointed him consulting architect at a reported salary of $25,000 a year, leading to the dissolution of the firm of Adler & Sullivan.28 It is only in 1897, in his third paper on office buildings, that Adler goes into detail about that aspect of planning which deals with regular units of design, that is, with the modules which relate both to the structure and ‘the disposition and subdivision of the enclosed space,’ which he regarded as the foremost problem of office design. While these theoretical discussions of generic planning problems post-date the design of the Auditorium Building, a relationship between structural modules and internal subdivision is already evident in that building, in the more complex hotel wing as well as the offices. 94 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
Attitudes to Design: The Meaning of Functionalism
We have set out above the profiles of Adler and Sullivan, it terms of experience, interests and knowledge, as a basis for assessing the ability of each to undertake the planning of the Auditorium Building. Before we draw conclusions, there is one additional factor to consider, the question of attitude and approach. We have previously contended that an approach to design in which utility is recognized as an architectural value is a necessary prerequisite to a successful planner. In the face of the complexities inherent in the multi-functional Auditorium Building, and the imperatives of efficient performance in such components as the theatre and the hotel, we would strengthen this contention, and claim that an ability to satisfy utilitarian demands was a primary requirement of its designer. In other words, to plan such a building so that it ‘worked’, the architect of necessity had first and foremost to be a functionalist. How does the term ‘functionalism’29 apply in the case of Adler and of Sullivan? Louis Sullivan is often regarded as the father of modern functionalism, because of his famous aphorism: form follows function. This concise slogan appears in Sullivan’s ‘The Tall Office Building Artistically Considered’ (1896) as ‘the pervading law of all things organic and inorganic, of all things physical and metaphysical, of all things human and superhuman, of all true manifestations of the head, of the heart, of the soul, that the life is recognizable in its expression, that form ever follows function. This is the law.’ This short formulation, form follows function, in present-day parlance no more than a pithy sound-bite, has nevertheless generated discussion, controversy, and almost Talmudic analysis for over a century. D.S. Andrew (1985), in a critique of Sullivan’s ‘form follows function’, wrote that ‘thanks to Greenough and Sullivan, function is today a loaded term and is burdened with a host of meanings (utilitarian, structural and symbolic) one does not ordinarily associate with it in any context but an architectural one.’ Usually when we say someone or something functions in a certain capacity, we mean he or it acts according to some pattern in pursuit of a specific goal. Something that has a function has a use. But we usually select other words when we mean to communicate notions about institutional ideas or aspirations. Sullivan’s ‘function’ is used symbolically, communicating notions, not use; it does not have the specific connotation of actions in pursuit of a defined goal. In his Kindergarten Chats, Sullivan’s disciple explains his understanding of the master’s intent in this spirit: ‘The building, to be good architecture, must, first of all, clearly correspond with its function, must be its image, as you would say. This is in the dialogue on ‘Function and Form.’ Then, in the following chat, on ‘Growth and Decay,’ Sullivan makes clear what he means by ‘form follows function,’ in terms of his understanding of the organic concept.
In seeking now a reasonably solid grasp on the value of the word, organic, we should at the beginning fix in mind the value of the correlated words, organism, structure, function, growth, development, form. All these words imply an initiating pressure of a living force, and a resultant structure or mechanism whereby such invisible force is made manifest and operative. Hence the law of function and form discernable throughout nature. speculations on a black hole 95
The meaning of ‘function’ in organic theory is polyvalent and ambiguous. As Weingarden (1987) has pointed out, Sullivan’s understanding of evolution, which underlies his organic theory, stems from Spencer’s philosophical writings and the transcendentalists, and not from Darwin’s more mechanistic, deterministic, approach. Failure to realize this distinction has led modern historians, in Weingarden’s judgement, to the error of associating Sullivan’s ‘form follows function’ with the ‘mechanistic-rationalist’ school of thought. We accept with Weingarden, and with Sprague (whom he cites), an alternative direction: that Sullivan’s metaphysical idea of function is a ‘vitalistic,’ immaterial creative force. If ‘function’ is cause, and ‘form’ effect, then it can only be so if we regard function as an abstract generative force, and not as an imperative deriving from the pragmatic demands of programme, and their interpretation in planning decisions. In philosophic terms, Sullivan’s mentors were Greenough, Emerson and Whitman, rather than the professors of the Ėcole des Beaux-Arts. It is true, as Twombly (1986) pointed out, that Sullivan ‘praised the Ėcole’s insistence on the primacy of plan, that is, on determining the ground plan of the building before working out its elevation, section, or façade features;’ but the Ėcole’s understanding of planning, as Banham (1960) noted, concentrated more on formal, compositional considerations and on symbolic connotations generating ‘patterns of abstract, but unfunctional elegance,’ than on the purposeful organization of usable functional spaces. The rationalism espoused by the Ėcole des Beaux-Arts was encapsulated in Charles Garnier’s essential moral and philosophical ‘law’ of architecture ‘that the exterior masses, the composition of the outside, indicate the interior plane, the composition of the inside.’30 It should be noted that Garnier himself, in his book Le Théâtre (1871) saw no conflict between these abstract compositional principles and practical planning concerned with the way people use and move through built spaces. On the other hand, Frank Lloyd Wright’s Guggenheim Museum in New York exemplifies the inherent problem: the exterior of the museum, following Garnier’s law, is a faithful indication of the circular ramped interior, but that interior—forcing the viewer to stand on a sloping surface while studying a flat rectangular painting on the curving segment of the ramp’s wall—is a classic example of a non-functional approach to a practical problem. Sullivan’s aphorism ‘form follows function’ does not lead him to a utilitarian approach to architectural design. This is true in not only in theory, but also in practice. We suggest that function, in its pragmatic sense, is not a deterministic factor in Sullivan’s design process, neither in the Auditorium Building, nor in the masterworks of his later career. To give substance to this affirmation we shall look at two examples, two buildings for which he is given exclusive credit, the Prudential (later Guaranty) Building (1894–1895), and the Schlesinger-Mayer (later Carson-Pirie-Scott) Store, (1898–1902). In Sullivan’s own account of the tall office building (1896), and in later analyses of the Guaranty Building, the layout of offices, the question of environmental performance, the location of service cores, stairs, elevators, toilets—these determinants of form, if indeed form follows function—are factors not discussed but taken as given, probably derived from Adler’s generalized parameters. He brushes aside detailed considerations. Light courts ‘are not germane to the Fig. 2.8a Sullivan: Guaranty Building, Buffalo, New York—general view speculations on a black hole 97
Fig. 2.8b Sullivan: Guaranty Building, Buffalo, New York—floor plan
problem,’ and other things, ‘the arrangements of elevators, for example have to do strictly with the economics of the building, and I assume them to have been fully considered and disposed of to the satisfaction of purely utilitarian and pecuniary demands.’ There are two ways of thinking about the plan of an office building. One is to focus on the people who are using it, those waiting for the elevator, or those sitting at their desks. The other is to dismiss these criteria as utilitarian or economic, and to concentrate on the more philosophical, artistic aspects of the problem. This is Sullivan’s way. ‘Only in rare instances,’ he goes on dismissively, ‘does the plan or floor arrangement of the tall office building take on an aesthetic value.’ It is difficult to know what Sullivan means by aesthetic value in relation to the plan. Does he mean the inherent beauty of an orderly plan, in the Beaux-Arts sense? The plan of the floor we illustrated, which is not a standard floor, shows a lack of cohesion and order; standard floors of uniform offices reveal order, but present no particular challenge to the designer. Compare the loving care given by Sullivan to the design of the façade with his cavalier treatment of the plan. He apparently does not consider the plan as the generator of spaces, yet the spatial qualities of an interior—its proportions, lighting—are essential architectural values, for there are aesthetics of space as well as of surface. The plan is also the generator of external form, despite the assertion that irregularities in the external surface, 98 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process such as light courts, are not germane to the problem. Finally, there are other aesthetic implications of the plan, as we have seen in the Auditorium Building, for the modular nature of office layout relates to the structural module, and that in turn impinges on the treatment of the façade. Sullivan does deal with the zoning of the tall building, in the vertical organization of its main functions: a basement for mechanical equipment, two floors of major commercial space, an ‘indefinite number of offices piled tier upon tier,’ and finally the attic, a service space ‘purely physiological in its nature,’ for this correlates with his view of function in terms of an expressive organic analogy. In the Schlesinger-Mayer [Carson-Pirie-Scott] Store, Sullivan’s major independent commission, the extant drawings31 reveal little attention to functional details, although there are several rendered perspectives dealing with alternative façade treatment. As we recounted earlier, Sullivan protested his professional competence in producing documents and administering the contract for this building, and there is no reason to contest this. He was considered a hard task-master in the office, and demanded the utmost accuracy from his assistants, who first converted his rough sketches into firm pencil drawings on manilla paper, then traced them on linen, in preparation for the final working drawings.32 According to Gebhard (1960), Sullivan’s dependence on his assistant George Grant Elmslie was first limited to detailing of decoration, but in the later stages of his career expanded, even to the design of a building itself. As far as contractual procedures were concerned he would certainly have learned much from his association with Adler over the years. The question, however, is not whether Sullivan was a competent professional, but whether he had the skill, knowledge and temperament to deal with the detailed planning of a complex project. The planning of the Schlesinger-Mayer Store does not present a particularly challenging problem, but Sullivan’s response to this relatively straightforward task was minimal, and without finesse. It is instructive to compare Sullivan’s approach to that of Erich Mendelsohn, in the designing of the Schocken Store in Stuttgart, a department store of a later generation. Their exteriors, with the horizontal expression of the superimposed floors, and the rounded corner, are similar in principle, although characteristically different in detail. But once inside, one is ‘confronted with Mendelsohn’s ineffable skill as an architect: his functional planning of space, his mastery of interior design, his passionate care for detail, and his total control of the entire ensemble from the design of furniture and fittings, to the lighting and graphics.’33 On the other hand, Sullivan’s attention is devoted to the detailing of the façade, and the luxuriant decoration of the entrance pavilion, and the lower two floors. The lofty ground floor has three entrances from the street, banks of elevators and staircases on the rear wall facing the service alley and the party wall of the adjoining building, and a loading platform and freight elevator somewhat awkwardly injected into the internal corner. The upper merchandising areas are a series of low-ceilinged column-cluttered spaces stacked one upon the other. Behind two of the large windows facing Madison Street one surprisingly finds the toilets, whose anteroom pre-empts the semi-circular window of the bay that is such a dominant feature of the façade. One can hardly argue that form follows function here. speculations on a black hole 99
Fig. 2.9 louis Sullivan: Carson- Pirie-Scott Store— illumination of typical floor
The rationale for the large windows which characterize the façades is that they provide good natural lighting to the interior selling spaces. This however is part of Sullivan ‘functionalist’ mythology, perpetuated by later misinterpretation, rather than fact, considering the low ratio of window size to floor area on the upper floors, and the restricted ceiling heights. Let us use the question of lighting as a vehicle for demonstrating the inherent contradictions in Sullivan’s functionalist credo. In ‘The Tall Office Building’ Sullivan asks the rhetorical question: ‘What is the chief characteristic of the tall office building?’ and responds with a tautology: ‘it is lofty.’ Later, in his Autobiography (1924/1956), having just reiterated his ‘form follows function’ slogan, he returns to his approach to the design of the office building, and states: ‘The immediate problem was increased daylight, the maximum of daylight. This led him [Sullivan is referring to himself] to use slender piers, tending towards a masonry combination, the beginning of a vertical system. This method upset all precedent.’ Setting aside the preposterous claim to precedence (which flies in the face of the factual history of the Chicago School), we have other difficulties with these two statements about office design. On the face of it, they seem reasonable, and mutually supportive. The uninterrupted piers of a vertical system certainly express the loftiness of tall buildings (whether offices or other functions), and if they are slender they maximize the admission of daylight. All this is fine, except for one problem: to achieve the feeling of height, Sullivan in his office façades (the Wainwright and Guaranty Buildings) needs the insistent rhythm of closely-spaced piers, and therefore makes the intermediate mullion equal in width to the structural column. Now not only does this expressive form conceal the structure (thus violating the metaphysical concept of functionalism) but the increased width of the non-structural pier actually decreases the amount of daylight admitted to the 100 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process offices (in contradiction to the utilitarian concept of functionalism). An examination of the plans of the Guaranty and Wainwright Buildings shows that the division into offices relates only to the structural module, and that the central pier in each bay serves only an expressive purpose. The façade detail shows the care Sullivan lavished on the decoration of the spandrel panels, exquisite decoration hardly visible from the street down below. It also shows how the central piers significantly reduce the size of the windows, and consequently the natural lighting to the offices. Note, in particular, that in this daytime photograph, the electric lights in the office are switched on. William Jordy (1972) says of Sullivan that ‘he was no commonsense functionalist; or rather, not merely such. The prosaic aspects of his functionalist convictions, those of utility and technology, inform the poetic, the expressive aspects.’ We are among those critics who admire the poetic and expressive aspects of Sullivan’s work, but we would argue that while they enrich the buildings he designs, they take precedence over concerns of ‘commonsense’ functionalism, to which he is not dedicated; and where such concerns are central, as in the Auditorium Building, they are addressed by Adler, and not Sullivan. Sullivan (1924/1956) claimed that he took charge of the work in Adler’s office with the combined efficiency of Moses Woolson (his much admired high school botany teacher) and Beaux-Arts training. Adler had his own critical view of the kind of education provided by schools such as MIT and the Ėcole, where the architectural student, isolated from the real world, ‘consorts only with his own kind, where he is estranged from the business of everyday mankind.’ He was also critical of architects who had trained, as he himself had trained, in architectural offices, the so-called ‘self-made men,’ whose day he believed was soon to be over. He looked forward rather to an architectural education based on a broad understanding of the humanities, on man and his needs, on evolving technology, and the social and economic context in which the architect must perform his professional functions.34 His attitude to architecture, implicit in his approach to education, was that it was a functional, practical profession, grounded in everyday realities, but practised by one who was, to use more modern terminology, a bridge between the two cultures. Some years later, in response to Sullivan’s formulation, Dankmar Adler (1896) felt the need to set out his views on form and function. He interpolated his own philosophical statement in a paper ostensibly dealing with a more technical topic, the influence of new materials on architectural style.H e first dealt with the direct implications of Sullivan’s aphorism, where ‘function’ means the inherent purpose of a generic building type or institution, and ‘form’ its appropriate physical expression. ‘Every architectural work has a ‘function,’ a purpose which has called it into being, and its success is measured by the degree of approximation to fulfilment of ‘function’ which characterizes its ‘form.’ From this,’ Adler continues, ‘one might infer that it is only necessary to divide into a few classes the functions to be served by architectural structures and to determine the form best adapted to each, and thus to develop an infallibly correct system of architectural design.’ Adler, who had given so much thought to the study of specific classes of functions such as the office building and the auditorium, would—one would have thought—have found this simplistic formulation congenial. However, fearing, as Sullivan feared, an architecture speculations on a black hole 101
‘somewhat more scientific and vastly more practical, but trite and devoid of the Fig. 2.10 louis interest imparted by the creative impulse,’ he probed for deeper meaning: Sullivan: Wainwright Building— Returning to Mr. Sullivan’s aphorism, we find that he bases it upon studies façade detail and conversations of nature which, carried a little farther, show that although the common function of all organic creation is maintenance and propagation of the various species, yet an ever varying environment has produced an infinite number of species and innumerable differences in individuals of each species. If the lines of development and growth of vegetable and animal organisms are infinitely differentiated, the process of untrammeled thought and human emotions are even more subtile [sic] in the differences and shadings of their manifestations, while the natural variations in conditions of human environment are as great as those which influence the development of form of the lower organisms; and human work is further modified by necessary artificial conditions and circumstances.
The conclusion Adler draws from this is that Sullivan’s ‘law of design’ should be amended, preferring his own formulation, function and environment determine form, where these terms are used ‘in their broadest sense.’ By environment, Adler meant context, and this context he interpreted as the ‘functions and wants created by the greater intensity of modern life and by improved means of communication 102 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process between places and men;’ and the new technological means at the disposal of the architect, ‘the steel pillar, the steel beam, the clear sheet of plate-glass, electric light and mechanical ventilation.’ Architectural form, as here defined, is not the resultant of metaphysical abstraction, but the creative response to human needs, physical and spiritual, within the crucible of a real environment, with all its constraints and potentialities. With this broader understanding of the ‘law of design’ Adler could hand over the design crayon to Sullivan, in the narrow sense of the term ‘design,’ while retaining control of the overall process, in buildings for which he was professionally responsible. If Adler stressed the pragmatic aspects of design, it was because he believed that this was the real originating force of a humane, logical architecture appropriate to its purpose and to its environment. For him, if we understand his purposes correctly—and we deduce these not only from his words (for he was not the most articulate of men) but principally from his actions—his architecture centred upon planning, that is, the process of organizing spaces for human activities. Hence his concern with dimensions, hearing and seeing, lighting and ventilation, ease of movement, which provided him with the criteria and parameters for planning. But in practice he went further: architecture was something not only designed but made. If it was a process which began on paper, it nevertheless found its consummation in construction on the building site. The satisfaction of human needs, both symbolic and pragmatic, could only be realized through technical means: hence his stress on construction, materials, mechanical services, etc.: and hence his revision of Sullivan’s slogan to include the concept of ‘environment,’ by which he meant not only the natural and man-made context, but the enabling environment of the technical and economic resources of the modern world. In this sense Adler was a real pioneer of modern architecture, a prognosticator of the central philosophic thrust of the modern movement. Sullivan, labelled by Morrison (1935) ‘a prophet of modern architecture,’ gave the twentieth century a prevision (but only in a few selected buildings, and then far from unambiguously) of the forms of the architecture to come. Adler, on the other hand, gave the twentieth century an essential prevision of its design methods and procedures.
The Auditorium Building: Taking the Design Decisions
We set out in this chapter to answer the question: who planned the Auditorium Building? This question was based on two assumptions: that in planning the building the major design decisions, spatial and formal, were predetermined; and, while the partners may have consulted about aspects of the planning of the building, it was essentially a process directed by a single guiding hand. We have noted that there is no firm documentary evidence to base a clear-cut, unambiguous answer, but have argued that a comparison of the two partners, their experience, knowledge, aptitude and temperament, should give us a framework in which to reach a reliable conclusion. We also have occasional informed comments from first- hand witnesses. speculations on a black hole 103
What do the people directly involved in the planning of the Auditorium Building have to tell us about this aspect of the design process? Neither of the two partners cast light directly upon the decision-making procedure in the Adler & Sullivan firm, nor do they claim, or allocate, responsibility for planning the building. Of the principal assistants in the office who reminisced about their experiences, both Frank Lloyd Wright (who joined the office in 1887) and George Grant Elmslie (who commenced work in 1889) not only joined the team of the Auditorium project after the critical initial planning stage, but they were engaged exclusively on its decoration, working under Sullivan. Despite his close affiliation to Sullivan, Wright (1947) nevertheless had this to say: ‘The Auditorium Building is largely what it is, physically, owing to Dankmar Adler’s good judgment and restraining influence. It was Louis Sullivan who made it sing.’ In this, Wright echoes conventional wisdom; but he not only gives Adler credit for the functional aspects of the building, when he comments on the façade treatment, traditionally regarded as Sullivan’s territory: ‘The first studies were brick and efflorescent terra cotta—a pointed tile roof on the tower—but under the Adler influence the design had become more the severe fenestration crowned by the nobly frowning tower we now see.’ Paul Mueller, who was Adler’s right-hand man, was mainly involved with matters of construction, both in the office and on site. He did, however, in one brief statement, point to Adler’s responsibility in planning the building. ‘The layout of the kitchen arrangement for the hotel, when that was to be made, Mr. Southgate [the lessee of the hotel] sent his chief steward from New York, and that was laid out according to their plans. In all these matters Mr. Adler usually consulted the people who wanted to use it, and made an effort to make it the most satisfactory that could be done.’35 We must also draw attention to the one unequivocal statement about the planning of the Auditorium Building, which comes from someone who was a contemporary of Adler and Sullivan, and moved in their circle. This was Arthur Woltersdorf, who in about 1941 wrote the following editorial comment in the monthly bulletin of the Illinois Society of Architects:
Announcement early in June of the last curtain in the Chicago Auditorium Building on June 30 brought into the public press articles on the history of this famous building, reciting the names of renowned men and women who had been seen and heard in its great theater. The architectural glories were all accredited to Louis Sullivan. A day or two later, newspapers coupled the name of Dankmar Adler to that of Sullivan but placed Adler second. It is not the purpose of the Bulletin to withhold from Sullivan, who has become a legend, one iota of the credit due to his architectural genius. Truth, however, demands the statement that Dankmar Adler was the man to whom this commission was entrusted, and that Adler remained the dominant and commanding architect of this great structure to the end. The Auditorium Building as built was Adler’s plan [our emphasis], the great theater in its form, disposition of parts, sight lines, selection of materials, and acoustical treatment were all Adler’s. The determination of mechanical equipment was Adler’s. To Sullivan goes the credit for design of street facades, of interior decoration, and color. Young men in the profession who never knew either of the two men are apt to perpetuate the legend that Sullivan did it all. 104 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
Sullivan was a young man taken into Adler’s office but a few years before the Auditorium job came. It is the duty of the Bulletin to protect the name and fame of Dankmar Adler as a national figure in architecture.
How much credit can be given to this categorical statement? Arthur Fred Woltersdorf (1870–1948), born in Chicago of German parentage, was a productive and highly respected architect in Chicago. A Fellow of the American Institute of Architects and a Past President of the Chicago Chapter, he was also a past President of the Illinois Society of Architects.36 He was of a younger generation than Adler and Sullivan, but at the time of the design and construction of the Auditorium Building, moved, albeit in a junior capacity, in similar architectural circles. Before going east in 1889 to study at MIT, he had worked for a brief period as a draughtsman for Burnham and Root, and had received on-the-spot training in the office of Bauer & Hill. It was from Bauer, it will be recalled, that Adler had earlier learned ‘hard-headed practical ways.’ A fellow draughtsman in Bauer’s office was George Maher, who later worked for Silsbie, together with Elmslie and Wright, prior to their joining the Adler & Sullivan office. On his return from two years in Europe, after his formal studies, Woltersdorf entered into association with Henry Hill, Bauer’s former partner, and practised as Hill & Woltersdorf from 1894–1914. While he was not at the heart of matters, and did not work in the Adler & Sullivan office, young Woltersdorf’s orbit of architectural associates was sufficiently close to the epicentre for him to know what was going on. He must have known Sullivan personally, for both were members of the ‘Cliff Dwellers,’ a club dominated by Sullivan whenever he attended their gatherings. Woltersdorf had a special interest in Adler, and in theatre design, and he featured Adler in a three-part biographical series entitled A Portrait Gallery of Chicago Architects (1924). This short biography is important in that it bears the imprint of first-hand information. It depends not only on existing material in print, but also on Adler’s unpublished memoirs. It is based on Woltersdorf’s intimate knowledge of the Chicago scene—he gives much more information about the work of Burling and Adler than did Adler himself—and details Adler’s output after the break-up with Sullivan. Even more significantly, his account derives from the reminiscences of those associated with Adler, such as the building contractors. Finally, he comments on Adler’s character, with insights that could only have come from personal acquaintance. We believe that Woltersdorf is a reliable source, and his assessment must be taken seriously: ‘Mr. Adler always had his hand on the lever, and every intricacy of plan he was entirely familiar with and gave his approval of before the work was executed.’ Let us sum up what we know of the responsibilities undertaken by the three major protagonists—the clients, and the two architects—in the design process of the Auditorium Building. As initiators of the project, Peck and his associates (including Adler’s client, Martin Ryerson, who had extensive experience in sponsoring building projects) took the initial decisions about the projected building’s cultural and economic purpose, its budget, site, and choice of Adler as their architect. They made the strategic decision that the project would incorporate three functions: auditorium, hotel and office block, and were probably actively involved, together with the architect, in formulating at a tactical level those aspects of the programme speculations on a black hole 105 which affected revenue. The client’s instructions were formulated by the Executive Committee of the Chicago Auditorium Association,37 and their decisions continued even at an advanced stage of the design process, overlapping into the construction phase. Some decisions were generalized; others were specific interventions into the design process. For instance, on 6 July 1886 Adler received instructions ‘to arrange the building so that the Dining Room and kitchen of the hotel shall be on the tenth floor of the building.’ Even the treatment of the façades, the traditional prerogative of the architect, was subject the approval of the Executive Committee, as the appointment of the consultant, Professor Ware, indicates. Throughout the entire process the clients maintained hands-on control, in approving the letting of all sub-contracts, budget allocations, and other day-to-day decisions. Many of the operative decisions made by the Executive Committee were taken in consultation with the architects, and the representative of Adler & Sullivan participating in these meetings, with very few exceptions, was Dankmar Adler himself. It was confidence in Adler personally, both in the light of his past successful experience, and the appreciation of his professional integrity, that had brought the commission to the firm of Adler & Sullivan in the first place, and the clients turned to Adler as the channel of communication and command. In addition to his liaison role, this is what we know of Adler’s personal contribution to the design and construction of the Auditorium Building: he was responsible for the design of the structure, from the special foundations to the wide-span roofs; for the mechanical services, heating and ventilation, and the electrical and plumbing installations; and for the various freight and passenger elevators. The technical design of the auditorium was entirely his: the acoustics, sight-lines, seating plan, materials, shape of proscenium, width of aisles, entrances and exits, the movable ceiling panel limiting the size of the auditorium, the stage, fly-tower, and back-stage areas, the cyclorama, the selection of stage machinery, and the adaptation of its European plans and specifications to American standards. In relation to the hotel Adler was responsible for consultations with the lessees, and together with their technical officers drew up the detailed programme of requirements; and solved the difficult technical and planning problems of locating the banquet hall above the auditorium. When the process moved to its more advanced stages, it was Adler who was responsible for calling for tenders, for the administration of contracts and sub-contracts for the main fabric of the building, and for consultations with specialists and suppliers. It was he who travelled out of town to the quarries and steel mills, to inspect and select the structural materials. When he needed help with the site supervision, it was generally to his right-hand man Paul Mueller that he turned. Finally, from Frank Lloyd Wright’s testimony, we know that he consulted with Sullivan, whose main task it was, about the elevations, leading to their modification and simplification. What do we know of Sullivan’s contribution? It is probable that Adler kept him informed of major decisions, especially those that impinged upon Sullivan’s special areas of concern, and sought his advice. There is no doubt that Sullivan designed the elevations of the building, in all its permutations, and when there was need for consultations with Professor Ware on revisions, it was Sullivan who was sent to New York to negotiate the issue. It was he who was responsible for the interior design, presumably of predetermined spaces, creating overall schemes of surface 106 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process ornamentation and decorative details—such as the foliated iron balustrades of the staircases, and the decorative lighting—for the more significant spaces of the complex, in the hotel lobbies, the roof-top dining room, the banqueting hall, the theatre foyers, and the auditorium itself. The work—designing the mosaics, stencils, ironwork—was considerable, and by its nature time consuming. Sullivan initiated the design of all the ornamentation, and supervised the work of his principal assistants, first Wright, thenE lmslie, in translating his pencil sketches into working drawings. He consulted with the various suppliers of materials and sub-contractors (each of whom had his own craftsmen, and sometimes even provided his own working drawings) and supervised their work on site. He very rarely attended Executive Committee meetings, and then only when Adler was overseas, and only on matters related to the interior design. The allocation of responsibilities which we have summarized above is based not only on the consensus of the architects’ contemporaries and later commentators, but also on hard information culled from the architects themselves, and what records still exist of the undertaking. The sum of these activities, however, does not account for the whole task of designing the building. What is missing is what we have termed the ‘black hole,’ the planning of the Auditorium Building as a whole ensemble, and the details of its constituent parts. Somebody had to undertake this vital task, but surprisingly neither Adler nor Sullivan claimed responsibility.
Who Planned the Chicago Auditorium Building?
Conventional wisdom has it that in designing the Auditorium Building, Sullivan was the artist and Adler the engineer. Accepting this as true, but not the whole truth, we have argued that neither Sullivan’s mastery of the art of architecture (articulation of the façades, decoration of interior and exterior surfaces), nor Adler’s expertise in solving the technical problems (the technologies of construction and environmental control)—and not even their conjunction, given a degree of consultation between the partners—can account for the design of a complex multi-function building. In our detailed analysis, we have shown to what extent the Auditorium Building was just such a complicated and most difficult design problem. We have looked for an integrative act of design which creates the overall framework and the detailed spatial organization of the building, and have called this the act of planning. From our discussion so far we submit that the weight of argument leads convincingly to the supposition that Dankmar Adler must have been the partner substantially responsible for the planning of the Chicago Auditorium Building. Let us summarize the factors that lead us to this conclusion. Contemporary evidence on the planning of the Auditorium Building is slight, but what we have (Woltersdorf, Mueller, Wright) speaks only of Adler’s role. Where latter-day critics touch upon the issue of planning (and we have pointed out that this has been, at best, only a marginal consideration) the credit, indefinite and general as it might be, also tends to go to Adler. Gregersen (1990), as we have speculations on a black hole 107 seen, allocates responsibility for the zoning of the three main functional elements to Adler; Menocal (1961) asserts that Adler ‘almost exclusively designed the commissions for which the firm was justly famous;’ and Sprague (1975) argues that ‘Sullivan generally had to conform his design with Adler’s structure.’ It is significant that while the literature dealing with the work of Adler & Sullivan is extensive, and predominantly focuses on the more glamorous partner, Sullivan (who is often loosely given credit as the architect, with Adler, if mentioned, as an afterthought), yet no serious counter-argument has been put forward that it was Sullivan who planned the buildings. If there is agreement that Adler designed the auditorium, it derives from his knowledge of the technical requirements, without drawing the conclusion that in fact every aspect of the auditorium and its ancillary spaces, apart from the decoration, derived from Adler. For this wider interpretation of his role in designing the auditorium, we have Adler’s own detailed account. As for the design of the hotel, we have Adler’s detailed discussion of its problems, and his conclusion that the hotel was ‘in one sense a marvel of planning’ (Adler, 1891c). It is also only from Adler that there is informed discussion of the integration of the three functions, their interlocking elements, and their complex infrastructure of elevators, stairways, services and ducts. On all of these aspects Sullivan is silent, nor does Adler (always more than generous in giving his partner credit) even hint at Sullivan’s possible participation. We have argued further, that the planning of the Auditorium Building demanded of the architect a set of specific qualities, in terms of experience, knowledge, and approach to architecture, which we have termed the profile of a planner. Our conclusion is that Adler conformed to this profile, whereas Sullivan did not. We noted that Adler had benefited from nearly a quarter-century of architectural experience, much of which involved his taking professional responsibility for the design—in all its aspects, including planning—and construction of major projects. These projects included many multi-purpose buildings, embracing the very functions (auditorium, hotel, offices) which were later to comprise the Chicago Auditorium complex. In comparison, Sullivan was a veritable novice, a free-lance draughtsman before joining Adler, whose role had been limited to the decorative aspects of architectural design. In terms of expertise and specialized knowledge, we saw that Sullivan had indeed studied the art of decoration, and had immersed himself in philosophical speculations about the nature of man and art, but little else in depth. Adler, on the other hand, had made extensive theoretical and first- hand investigations into generic problems of design relating to theatres and office buildings. In his writings we see that Adler, synthesizing experience and study, had the ability to determine the essential parameters of a problem, and set down criteria for planning in general terms. Where he considered his own knowledge to be insufficient, he had no hesitation in consulting those he considered authorities in the field. Finally, there is the question of a planner’s approach to architecture. We have stressed the planner’s need to accept utility as an architectural value. Sullivan’s aphorism form follows function we saw to be an embodiment of his transcendentalist evolutionary approach rather than an expression of simple pragmatism. As such, it 108 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process paid no tribute to utility, but sought the higher values of the human spirit. Based on this special understanding of his slogan, Sullivan’s genius expressed itself, both in writing and in creative form, in ways that influenced and transcended his time. The aphorism was the basis for creating poetry in visual and tactile form, but not for solving the intricacies of planning predicated on an intimate observation of everyday human behaviour patterns. On the other hand, it was precisely these activity patterns which formed the basis of Adler’s approach. It was he who asked the seemingly mundane questions: could the audience see and hear the performers; could the crowd move with comfort through the aisles and lobbies; could ladies have discreet access to the hotel without the infringement of their modesty; were guests’ rooms warm in winter and cool in summer; and was there sufficient daylight on an office desk by which to work? When Adler transformed Sullivan’s form follows function sound-bite into the more complex function and environment determine form, he sought to re-establish the Vitruvian triangular relationship of utility, strength and beauty in contemporary terms of an architecture of aesthetic value, enabled by technological means, and responsive to human needs, within the context of late nineteenth-century socio- economic and cultural realities. One last question needs to be dealt with. Adler saw the design process as an integrated process, with planning as an integrative mechanism. We recall Adler’s credo, which we quoted earlier: ‘All parts of a building, if it is to be successful, must be designed together, all phases and features of the design are dependent on each other. You cannot leave the designs of the plans of a building to one person, the devising of its structural features to another and its artistic development to still another.’ (Adler, 1891) Is this a prescription for an ideal state, or does it describe the actual design procedure followed in the Adler & Sullivan office? With two architects designing one masterwork, was there after all that ‘imprint and all- pervading influence of one master mind’ that Adler insisted was the prerequisite for producing a good building? This was after the completion of the Auditorium Building, which was indeed judged to be a fine work of architecture, of which Adler was justifiably proud; and it was before he turned over ‘the artistic field’ to Sullivan. It is obvious that Adler saw himself as this ‘one master mind.’ In what sense can we understand this, and to what degree did he control the process? This is an enigma to which there is no definitive answer, but we will hazard a suggestion: that he who undertook the planning was in effect, if not exactly the master mind, then at least the major player in the game, and the major determinant of the building’s form. Adler was responsible for the structure of the complex and all its mechanical services, that infrastructure which was inextricably tied into the planning of the building. The integration of the spatial planning and the technical infrastructure had a reciprocal relationship with overall form of the building, both determining the form and responding to it. The zoning of the building determined its massing and its outer appearance, suppressing the volumetric form of the auditorium as a visible design element, and generating the long flat façades of the hotel and offices along the street alignments, thus creating a rectilinear prism. With the auditorium hidden, there was a need to mark the entrance, leading to the decision to have a tower erected over the entrance portal. The decision as to the number of hotel speculations on a black hole 109 rooms and offices, taken by the clients and based on commercial considerations, fixed the height and length, and consequently the proportions of the façades of the basic building block. The possible alternative articulations of the façades were limited by the modular fenestration pattern, which itself was a function of the planned sub-division of the hotel rooms, the location of en-suite bathrooms, and the structural system. These were decisions by Adler, and they limited the options open to Sullivan, who is generally believed to have been responsible for the design of the elevations. In all the permutations of the façade treatment, the basic form— rectilinear prism and tower—and the surface treatment - the complex vertical subdivision into various zones from the base to the attic floor, the basic rhythm of solid and void, and the regular beat of the structural piers - remained unaltered, although the roof-line changed considerably. The process of simplification from the Historicist to the Richardsonian, was prompted by the client and supported by Adler, who wrote: ‘The change which has been made in the last two months will have the effect of making the building sober, dignified and impressive. Some changes have been made in the distribution of masses, the proportion of openings and the avoidance of any profuse use of applied ornamentation.’38 Moreover, the location of the principal entrances to the hotel and auditorium predetermined the major emphases on the elevations. Adler, who in his own architecture had handled the design of the elevations with a firm hand and no little sensitivity, if not with inventiveness, was aware of the interactive relations of façade and plan, for when in referring to the buildings ‘internal and external treatment’ he mentally bridged from Sullivan’s elevations to the planning of the rooms of the hotel.39 The planning, together with the structure and services, naturally also generated the major internal volumes. The most obvious instance is that of the auditorium itself. As we have already pointed out, Adler determined its size and shape, in plan, longitudinal and cross section. Acoustic considerations also created the parameters for the choice of the interior’s materials. When it is acknowledged that Adler designed the auditorium, what is usually implied is that he solved the technical problems. However, by so doing so, he shaped the interior volume, that is the architectural space, in every aspect. What was left to Sullivan was to decorate the surfaces generated by Adler; this he did brilliantly, so that his decorative scheme reinforced and complemented the spatial intentions of Adler. The same may be said of many other notable public spaces in the building, generated by Adler’s plan, and made feasible by his structural ingenuity: the foyers of the auditorium, the hotel lobby with its majestic staircase, the handsome vaulted tenth-floor dining room, and the great banqueting hall, all graced by Sullivan’s creative ornamentation. Morrison (1935) pointed out that Montgomery Schuyler, while crediting Sullivan with that ‘individual conception’ which was the essence of architectural creativity in the work of Adler & Sullivan, nevertheless conceded ‘this does not prevent the taking of counsel in an architectural work, and the modification of it accordingly.’ The implication is that Sullivan, in fulfilling his individual artistic conception, naturally consulted with Adler, the senior partner. It is also likely that Adler, in turn, took counsel with Sullivan on matters of planning, and especially on those aspects which had strong aesthetic consequences. Having said that, the unity of the design attests 110 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process not only to close cooperation, but to a strong hand controlling an integrative force. We called the integrative process of planning the Chicago Auditorium Building a ‘black hole,’ an intense zone of design activity seemingly so inherent a part of the design process as to be taken for granted by the architect; and seemingly invisible to the eye of the critic and historian alike, concerned as they were with the daring engineering and dazzling art of two stars in the architectural firmament in an symbiotic relationship. Our attempt to penetrate and illuminate this area of darkness has been in a sense a voyage into the unknown, launched from a firm base of proven knowledge, but dependent on intuitive reasoning and logical extrapolation from known facts to reasonable supposition: the primacy of planning in the design process of a complex undertaking such as the Chicago Auditorium Building.
Conclusions
Adler & Sullivan’s Chicago Auditorium Building, because of its impressive urban presence, its gorgeous interiors, and the efficiency of its functioning, is an architectural masterpiece. Without Sullivan’s creative contribution, the memorable interiors of the auditorium and the hotel would have lacked richness and grace, and the façades in all likelihood would have been less evocative, more pedestrian. However, in the partnership, it was Adler the administrator who received, interpreted and where necessary modulated the client’s instructions; it was Adler the engineer who designed the structure and environmental-control systems; and eventually it was Adler the experienced practitioner who saw the process through, in all its phases from the drawing studio to the building site, from preliminary design to final construction. Most important of all, it was Adler the architect who planned the Auditorium Building, and was ultimately responsible for the integration of all aspects of the design into one unified work of architecture. This work of architecture came into being to realize the dreams and the goals of the initiators of the Auditorium complex: the creation of a major cultural centre for Chicago, supported by the revenue-generating facilities of a grand hotel and a commercially-efficient office block. Sullivan’s lauded contribution to the success of the project is visible to every eye. However, without Adler, there would have been no first-night audiences to thrill to the voice of Adelina Patti, no hotel guests dining luxuriously up on the tenth floor, and no clerks working at their well-lit office desks. There are two faces to a great work of architecture: architecture as icon, and architecture as a use-friendly environment. The Chicago Auditorium admirably fulfils both these requirements.
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Scott, J.A. (n.d): Auditorium: the Story of the Construction of Adler and Sullivan’s Great Chicago Auditorium Building, unpublished mss. Siry, J. 1988. Carson-Pirie-Scott: Louis Sullivan and the Chicago Department Store. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Siry, J. 1996. Adler and Sullivan’s Guaranty Building in Buffalo, Society of Architectural Historians Journal, 55, March. Sprague, P.E. 1982. Adler and Sullivan, in Placzek, Adolf, ed. Macmillan Encyclopedia of Architects, New York: Macmillan USA. Sullivan, L.H. 1892. Ornament in Architecture, Engineering Magazine, August, 633–644. Sullivan, L.H. 1896. The Tall Building Artistically Considered, Lippincott’s, March, 403–409 Sullivan, L.H. 1924. A System of Architectural Ornament According to a Philosophy of Man’s Powers. Washington: Press of the American Institute of Architects. Sullivan, L.H. 1924, 1956 ed. The Autobiography of an Idea, New York: Dover Publications. Sullivan, L.H. 1934, 1947 ed. Kindergarten Chats and Other Writings, New York: Wittenborn, Schultz. Tigerman, S. 1993. Chicago Genealogy and Exegesis, in Zukowsky (1993). Twombly, R. 1986. Louis Sullivan: His Life and Works. New York: Viking/Allen Lane. Twombly, R. ed. 1988 Louis Sullivan: The Public Papers. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Van Zanten, D. 1977. Architectural Composition at the Ėcole des Beaux-Arts from Charles Percier to Charles Garnier, in Drexler (1977). Van Zanten, D. 1986. Sullivan to 1890, in De Wit (1986). Weingarden, L.S. 1987. Louis H. Sullivan and the Poetics of Architecture, in Zukowsky (1987). Weisman, W. 1972. The Chicago School Issue, The Prairie School Review, IX:1, 6–30. Woltersdorf, A.F. 1924. Dankmar Adler, The Western Architect, 33, 76–79. Woltersdorf, A.F. c.1941. Editorial, Illinois Society of Architects Monthly Bulletin. Wright, F.L. 1932, 1943 ed. An Autobiography, New York and London: Duell, Sloan and Pearce. Wright, F.L. 1940. Louis Sullivan and the Chicago Auditorium: Frank Lloyd Wright’s Reminiscences, The Builder, December, 617. Wright, F.L. 1947. Genius and the Mobocracy, New York: Duell, Sloan and Pearce. Zukowsky, J. ed. 1993. Chicago Architecture 1923–1993: Reconfiguration of an American Metropolis, Munich: Prestel Publishers.
Notes
1 letter Dankmar Adler to Albert Sullivan, 12.02.1887 [Art Institute of Chicago]. 2 ‘The New Auditorium,’ The Tribune, 13.04.1887. 3 Minutes, Executive Committee Chicago Auditorium Association [Roosevelt University Archives]. We were not able to locate this particular item in the Minutes, as some files 114 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
are missing from the record, but depend instead on the account in Scott, unpublished mss., p. 170. 4 Montgomery Schuyler, cited in Morrison (1935/1962). 5 rochelle S. Elstein (1963): The Architectural Style of Dankmar Adler, MA Diss., University of Chicago. In this work, and her later publication: ‘The Architecture of Dankmar Adler,’ SAH Journal, 26:1967, she equates the architecture of Adler with stylistic treatment and the handling of facades. 6 Philip Johnson (1956) praised Sullivan’s tall buildings, regarding them as ‘a model of the importance of design [our emphasis], by which he ‘made the tall office building into art.’ Thirty years later, Jordy (in de Wit,1986), when illustrating the formal attributes of the work of Adler & Sullivan (figs 80a-80t) gives the following caption: ‘Skeletal office and commercial by Sullivan grouped according to various design approaches,’ but when he makes a comparison of plans (figs 102,104) the word ‘design’ does not appear. 7 Adler (1891b), cited in Baron (1964). 8 An architect like Erich Mendelsohn, who starts the design process with a sketch perspective of the whole building, is an exception to the rule. 9 A rare instance is the treatise entitled ‘The Principles of Planning’ by Percy J. Marks (1901), which deals inter alia with the following issues: Accommodation, aspect (in relation to climate), privacy, internal organization of rooms, grouping [zoning] of functions, special features such as staircases, economy, and design. In relation to the latter he adds this rider: ‘The word ‘design’ throughout this book is used to signify the treatment of the elevations.’ 10 Carl Condit, in a letter of 4 September 1968 to Joan Saltzstein, wrote: ‘What historians would love to know was precisely how the two men worked together to achieve the ultimate synthesis when the creative personalities were very nearly polar opposites.’ (Saltzstein Archives, Newberry Library). 11 our account of the Auditorium Building is based upon our inspection on site, and the following contemporary sources: The American Architect and Building News (1889); Globe (1889); Chicago Inter-Ocean (1889); Garczynski (1889); Adler (1891c). For modern sources see bibliography. We have also consulted the plans of the Auditorium Building in the Burnham Architectural Library, Art Institute of Chicago. 12 nikolaus Pevsner (1976) is one of the few historians to evaluate the hotel comparatively, in terms of the context of its times. He regarded the Auditorium Hotel as ‘architecturally the most valuable hotel of the late nineteenth century.’ From Pevsner we understand that while it could not compare in size with the great New York hotels, such as its near-contemporary the Waldorf-Astoria, with its 1,000 rooms, and was not a pioneer in the use of elevators or the provision of bathrooms en-suite, the Auditorium Hotel was certainly abreast of state-of-the-art developments in hotel design. 13 In a letter to Albert Sullivan, 12 February 1887 [Burnham Library, Art Institute of Chicago]. Adler’s handwriting is not easy to decipher, and Saltzstein (1983), who reprinted the letter, gives the word as Audi-Hotelmum, which seems an unlikely transcription. 14 Arthur Woltersdorf (1983), also of German origin but not Jewish, saw the character of Adler, whom he greatly admired, from another point of view: ‘He was a Martin Luther type of man – unafraid, ready to battle for what he believed to be right... The Luther tradition is alive in Eisenach, and Adler spent the first ten years of his life in that neighbourhood. I wonder if that had not an influence on his character!’ speculations on a black hole 115
15 For a full list of early buildings designed by Adler see Elstein (1963) and Elstein (1967). 16 In addition to Sullivan’s own Autobiography of an Idea (1924) there are innumerable books dealing with Sullivan’s life, commencing with the basic study by Hugh Morrison (1935, with additions and expanded bibliography 1952), and extending to Van Zanten (1986). A later work on Sullivan by Mario Manieri Elia (1995) has a comprehensive bibliography. 17 Cited by Saltzstein (1983). 18 Among Morrison’s principal sources were Paul Mueller and George Grant Elmslie, who joined the firm as an assistant to Sullivan in 1888, and remained with him until 1909. Wright (1932/1943) recounted the uneasy relationship he had with several fellow draughtsmen in the office, and took pains to point out in each case that they were Jewish. 19 ‘Yields to Big Salary: Adler goes to a Corporation,’ Chicago Times Herald, (16 July 1895). p. 3. 20 letter Sullivan/Henderson, of Carson-Pirie-Scott, 25.03.1903 (cited in Siry, 1988) Sullivan stresses his ‘general ability’ and the perfection of his architectural drawings, specifications, and his anticipation of every contingency. 21 See for example these writings by Louis Sullivan: ‘Ornament in Architecture,’ Engineering Magazine (August 1892) pp. 636–644) and A System of Architectural Ornament According to a Philosophy of Man’s Powers, (Washington, 1924). 22 For Sullivan on the design of tall buildings see ‘The Tall Building Artistically Considered,’ Lippincott’s (March 1896), pp. 403–409. 23 Adler’s affirmation came in rebutting a statement by John W. Root, at a meeting of the Illinois State Association of Architects. [Reported in Inland Architect and News Record, ix:3, (March 1887) pp. 23–24]. 24 Publications by Adler on generalized problems of theatre design include: ‘The Paramount Requirements of a Large Opera House,’ Inland Architect, 10 (October 1887) pp. 45–46 [also published as ‘Theaters,’ American Architect and Building News, 22 (October 1887) pp. 206–208)], and ‘Theater Buildings for American Cities,’ Engineering Magazine, 7 (August 1894) pp. 717–730, (September 1894) pp. 815–820. 25 Adler’s writings on commercial buildings include: ‘Tall Office Buildings – Past and Present,’ Engineering Magazine, 3 (September 1892) pp. 766–767; ‘Light in Tall Office Buildings,’ Engineering Magazine, 4 (November 1892) pp. 176ff; ‘The Influence of Steel Construction and Plate Glass on Style,’ American Architect and Building News, 54 (31 October 1896) pp. 57–59; and ‘The Tall Office Building: Some of its Engineering Problems,’ Cassier’s Magazine, 12 (November 1897) pp. 197ff. 26 According to Izenour (1977) p. 71, the ‘Treatise on Sightlines and Seating’ by the Scottish engineer John Scott Russell (1808–1882) ‘was the most important treatise on sightlines and seating systems for auditoria since Vitruvius.’ 27 For an account of Adler’s study tour in Europe, which took place in August-September 1888, and on which he was accompanied by his assistant Paul Mueller, see Saltzstein (1983). 28 Adler himself had this to say about his change of career: ‘In the elevator business the architect frequently designs the elevator shaft and quite frequently has something to say as to the class of elevator that will be put in.’ See report: ‘Yields to big salary; Adler goes to Corporation,’ Chicago Times Herald (16 July 1895) p. 3. After six months, Adler gave up this position, with its limited scope, and returned to practice. 116 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
29 For a discussion of the various meanings of the term ‘functionalism’, and an extensive bibliography on the topic, see de Zurko (1957), also Collins (1965), chs. 14–17. 30 Cited by Van Zantan in Drexler (1977); see also Collins (1965), for the Ecole’s non- functional, pictorial approach to planning. 31 Plans originally published in Prominent Buildings erected by the George A. Fuller Co. (Chicago, 1904), reproduced in Siry (1988). 32 See the account of Sullivan’s office procedures in Connely (1954). 33 herbert, ‘The Schocken Department Store,’ in The International Dictionary of Architecture (1993). 34 Adler set out his views on architectural education in ‘Proposed Technological School from the Standpoint of an Architect,’ Inland Architect and News Record, xix (April 1892) pp. 36–37. 35 ‘Testimony of Paul F.P. Mueller,’ 44, Record, Chicago Auditorium Association, [Roosevelt University Archives]. 36 Biographical details of Woltersdorf come principally from Who’s Who in Chicago and Illinois (Chicago, 1948), and Biographical Dictionary of American Architects (Los Angeles, 1970). 37 The extant Minutes of this Committee, of which some files were missing, were examined by the authors. [Roosevelt University Archives]. 38 Adler, ‘The New Auditorium Building,’ The Tribune, 13 April 1887. 39 letter Adler/Albert Sullivan, 12 February 1887 [Burnham Library, Art Institute of Chicago]. See also Scott (no date), who comments: ‘The direction Sullivan’s design [of the facade] would eventually take was decided by the board. It was also determined by the arrangement of the interior space, and Adler had control over this.’ 3
Clash of the Titans: Rutenberg, Mendelsohn, and the Problem of Client-Architect Relationships
Gilbert Herbert
Introduction
This study focuses on the troubled relationship of two eminent and strong-minded figures, the engineer and industrialist Pinhas Rutenberg and the architect Erich Mendelsohn. We present the story of their professional interaction as client and architect in Palestine [Eretz Israel] as an illustration of a more general phenomenon, the characteristic way in which Rutenberg, founder and head of the Palestine Electric Corporation, both used, but also misused and manipulated, the various architects he commissioned to undertake the projects of his corporation. The most influential patrons of architecture in Palestine in the period of the Mandate were the official bodies. The Mandatory Government, working principally but not exclusively through the Public Works Department under the direction of the British architect Austen St.-Barbe Harrison, was responsible for the design and construction of all major government buildings (Fuchs and Herbert, 2000). These included such architectural landmarks as the Residence of the High Commissioner and the Rockefeller Museum in Jerusalem, and the Law Courts in Haifa, in addition to those routine buildings such as the schools and the protected police stations (known as the Tegart Forts) which were necessary for the proper administration of the country. An exception to the PWD dominance was the Government Hospital (later the Rambam Hospital) in Haifa, designed for the government by 118 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
Erich Mendelsohn. For the Jewish population the central executive instrument of the Zionist Movement, the Jewish Agency, and various associated organizations were the principal sponsors of the institutional buildings (administration, health, education) of the ‘State in the Making,’ and the urban and rural settlements.1 In the field of private enterprise, as against these official bodies, the Palestine Electric Corporation [PEC], with Rutenberg at its head, was undoubtedly the major initiator of significant architectural and engineering works in Palestine in the years between the wars. In just two decades, before Rutenberg’s premature death in 1942, these buildings and projects included three small diesel power houses in Tel- Aviv, Haifa and Tiberias, and an unbuilt proposal for a power station in Amman, Transjordan; two major power stations which long dominated the skylines of the cities of Haifa and Tel-Aviv (twentieth century physical equivalents of the cathedrals of mediaeval Europe); an imposing hydro-electric complex on the Jordan River at Naharaim, including a dam, railway station, a bridge and a monument; various prototypes for a series of transformer stations; office buildings in Haifa and Tel- Aviv; an unrealized but ambitious plan for the development of Caesarea as a resort town, complete with casino and spa; and housing schemes in Haifa, Tel-Aviv and Naharaim for the workers and senior staff of the Corporation, including the ‘White House’, Rutenberg’s own residence. Miscellaneous projects ranged from a symbolic exhibition tower for the Tel-Aviv Levant Fair to armoured cars and aeroplane hangars, in the troubled days of the Arab Revolt of 1936–1939 (Herbert et al, 2003). In the history of early twentieth century architecture there are few parallels to the extensive patronage which Rutenberg exerted in his role as initiator and informed client. The obvious comparison must be the Allgemeine Elektricitäts-Gesellschaft [AEG] in Germany, and the range of industrial buildings, housing schemes and product design it commissioned prior to the Great War.2 However, while the AEG was loyal to one architect, the German electricity giant depending largely upon the in- house but largely autonomous office headed by Peter Behrens, this was not the way Rutenberg was to work. Like AEG, he set up his own in-house design office, but it was headed by an engineer on his staff, not an established architect such as Behrens with his own office. Rutenberg’s Technical (Civil Engineering) Design Office was not the prime creative force, but rather a back-up unit, as Rutenberg made extensive use of independent architectural firms for his principal design input. However, although he turned to some of the most eminent practitioners, some of international standing, he was—as we shall see—loyal to none, but skilfully played one off against the other. We shall of course need to examine this pattern of patronage, and its architectural consequences, in much greater detail in the course of this study.
The Client: Pinhas Rutenberg
Pinhas [Pyotr Moiseiwitch] Rutenberg was born on 5 February 1879 to Jewish parents in the town of Romny, north of Poltova, in the Ukraine.3 At the age of eleven he went to the Reali Gymnasium in his home town, excelling in science and mathematics. His academic brilliance gained him entry into the prestigious St. Petersburg Technological Institute, notwithstanding the barrier against entry by clash of the titans 119
Jews presented by the notorious numerus clausus then in effect. On graduating as a mechanical engineer summa cum laude, he went to work as a junior engineer at the Putilov plant in St. Petersburg.4 This giant industrial complex, established in the 19th century as a cannon-ball foundry, had by the turn of the century become one of Russia’s major factories, producing railway carriages and locomotives, industrial machinery, and eventually armaments on a massive scale. By 1900 it employed more than 12,000 workers, and was the centre of an organized labour force known as the Assembly of Russian Factory and Plant Workers. In his mid-twenties Rutenberg, by virtue of his leadership capabilities and organizational skills, was promoted to the rank of Superintendent of Workshops. Through his contacts with the Putilov workers, his friendship with their leader the legendary Father George Gapon, and his growing understanding of the hardships of the proletariat, Rutenberg became deeply involved in the revolutionary politics of the day, and was an active member of the Socialist Revolutionary Party. He was a central figure in the abortive march on the Winter Palace and its bloody repression, on 22 January 1905, the day which came to be known as ‘Red Sunday’. Gapon and Rutenberg were forced to flee the country, and remained in Europe until things settled down a year later, when first Rutenberg and then Gapon returned to Russia. When it became known that Father Gapon was a Czarist informer to the Police Department (the Okhranka) he was assassinated by his former associates, and Rutenberg was implicated in his execution. Again in danger, Rutenberg once more left Russia, spending more than a decade abroad, some of this time in Italy, where he studied hydraulics engineering. These new skills were of direct relevance to his later career in Palestine. By this time the Russian revolutionary had become once more aware of his Jewish roots, and found new outlets for his reformist fervour in the Zionist cause, working at times with the ardent Zionist nationalist Ze’ev Jabotinski. However, he had not entirely abandoned the Socialist dream. A few months after the February Revolution of 1917 he returned to his native land, where for a short time he played a prominent role in the Kerensky government in Petrograd (formerly St. Petersburg). However, his position became untenable when Bolshevik hegemony eventually prevailed. He played a part in the defence of the Winter Palace, was imprisoned for a time in the Peter and Paul Fortress, fled south from Petrograd, and eventually once again went into exile. This time, however, as a new-found Zionist, his destination was the Land of Israel. While Rutenberg was to play a role in Zionist politics, serving three times—twice at its head - on the Vaad Leumi [The National Council], it was the electrification of the Land of Israel, a project he conceived and successfully carried out, which was his most significant contribution to the industrial and architectural history of Palestine under the British Mandate.
The Palestine Electric Corporation
Prior to the Mandate period isolated attempts had been made to introduce electricity into the Holy Land. The first probably was the battery-generated power system of the winery at Rishon Lezion, about 1890, initiated by Baron Edmond de 120 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
Rothschild. When Kaiser Wilhelm II visited Palestine in 1898, he brought with him an electrical generator, hoping to impress the locals with German technological inventiveness, and even installed a generator in the building which was later to become Jerusalem’s Augusta Victoria Hospital (Avitzur, 2002). Theodor Herzl, the founding father of modern Zionism, had mentioned the electrification of Palestine in his diary as early as 1895. When he brought a delegation to Jerusalem in 1898 to meet the Kaiser, he included in his party the engineer Josef Seidener, and it was this engineer, a German Zionist leader knowledgeable of the Holy Land,5 whose ideas on the generation and applications of electricity in Fig. 3.1 Herzl’s Palestine formed the basis of his presentation to the German Emperor. ‘I pointed delegation to out what one could do with the water power of the Jordan and drew Seidener into Kaiser Wilhelm, the conversation as the engineer,’ Herzl noted in his diary. ‘Seidener spoke of dams, 1898 (l-r) 6 Bodenheimer, etc. The Kaiser listened eagerly and carried the idea further.’ This optimism was Wolffsohn, Herzl, premature, for due largely to the German Foreign Minister’s negative influence the Moses Schnirer, meeting with the Kaiser was in fact unproductive. Joseph Seidener In 1919, Pinhas Rutenberg, following a long indirect route from Russia, eventually reached Palestine. The political situation in the Middle East was by then vastly different to that prevailing when Herzl penned his visionary words in fin-de- siecle Vienna. By the end of the Great War, several critical events pertinent to our story had transformed Palestine. By 1918, British forces under General Allenby had taken control of the Holy Land, and Turkish rule was replaced by a British Military Administration, to be followed in 1922 by a League of Nations Mandate to Britain to establish a National Home for the Jews in Palestine. The defeated Kaiser Wilhelm was no longer an influential factor in Palestine, one whose patronage had to be sought. The engineer Josef Seidener, who had come with Herzl to meet the Kaiser, put out a detailed and well-argued memorandum in 1919 on the electrification of Palestine, but this of course was addressed to the British authorities.7 Utilizing the waters of the Litani and Yarmuk rivers, and the melting snows of Mount Hermon, he proposed the development of three hydro-electric installations in the Jordan valley, both above and below the Sea of Galilee (Lake Tiberias), largely for agricultural and irrigation purposes. He also proposed the construction of three coal-fired steam- powered generating stations, mainly for urban and industrial purposes: a 6,000– 8,000 kW station at Jaffa (Tel-Aviv), a 3,000–5,000 kW station at Haifa, and later a further installation at Gaza and/or Tyre. The electric network envisaged in this bold plan would thus be a regional system extending beyond the limits of Palestine itself. The intrinsic link between water utilization, electric power, and irrigation understood by Herzl and elaborated in the Seidener memorandum of 1919, was clash of the titans 121 fully appreciated by Rutenberg, who saw in it the key to the development of the Jewish homeland in Palestine. The germ of the plan which Rutenberg was then to develop for the electrification of Palestine lay in Herzl’s vision of the linking of electric power to the fructifying power of water, and in Seidener’s technical know- how. Rutenberg, this colourful, enterprising and decisive man of action, gifted with tremendous foresight, drive, technical and organizational ability, and no little political adroitness, had all the qualities necessary to undertake this monumental task. He was a mechanical engineer with expertise also in hydraulic engineering; from his experience in the Putilov Works he had developed the skills of directing a large industrial labour force; moreover, he was a Zionist dedicated to the building up of the Jewish homeland. He met with Winston Churchill, the Colonial Secretary, when the British statesman visited Palestine, accompanying him on his tour of the country and acting as his interpreter, and it was reported that ‘Churchill was much taken with his ambitious scheme of hydroelectric power based on the flow of the Yarmuk and the Jordan and the related irrigation benefits for the whole region.’ (Hurwitz, 1995) So strong was his positive reaction, it is recalled, that ‘the corridors of Government House were decorated by Winston’s canvases on one side, and the drawings of Rutenberg’s power station and irrigation works on the other.’8 On 21 September 1921, after lengthy negotiations and helped by Churchill’s intervention on his behalf—in his first decision as Colonial Secretary Churchill had approved Rutenberg’s request one day after it was submitted in February 19219—the British Government awarded Rutenberg a 70-year concession granting ‘exclusive rights’ to develop the electrification of the whole of Mandatory Palestine (including the area east of the river in what was later to become Trans-Jordan). The only exception was the Jerusalem area, where a separate company had been granted a concession by the Turkish government in 1914. Rutenberg’s concession was for three purposes: utilisation of the waters of the basin of the River Jordan including all its affluents, and of the Auja River basin for the generation of electric energy including also the right to produce electric energy by means other than water; distribution and sale of energy for all purposes in this territory; and irrigation in the Jaffa district from the River Auja.10 The Rutenberg concession aroused great controversy in Britain, where an acrimonious public debate raged, fueled by considerable opposition from British financial and political interests, and resonant with xenophobic overtones.11 In Palestine itself, the opposition came from other sources, the combined force of conservative Briton and Arab. Charles Ashbee (1923), a central figure in the Arts and Crafts movement, and then an influential architectural adviser to Jerusalem, had an innate dislike—for a combination of reasons—of Jewish industrial and commercial initiative in Palestine. Although he believed that Rutenberg, this ‘Russian Jew . with the cynicism of Mephisto,’ no doubt had the capacity to carry out his great scheme for the electrification of Palestine, he nevertheless suspected his motives. What would Rutenberg do with this venture, he asked, and answered ironically: ‘Create power, of course.’ His Arab partner in this contrived dialogue of entrenched conservatism, Shaikh Isma’il, later reinforced Ashbee’s reluctance to Fig. 3.2 The Rutenberg Concession —proposed power grid clash of the titans 123 accept the new industrial age. ‘The future of the West may lie with the machines, but it will not be the future of Palestine,’ he confidently asserted. Despite this opposition, Rutenberg’s determination, his vision, and his formidable negotiating skills, together with the vigorous support of the Zionist Organization, eventually won the day. Rutenberg now proceeded to realize the potential of his concession, by operating in parallel on three different planes. First, he had to raise the necessary development capital, which he did to such effect that by June 1922, over $1,000,000 had been contributed by American Jewry, followed by a contribution, it was reported, of $5,000,000 in 1923 from Baron Edmond de Rothschild. On the organizational front, he mobilized the assistance of the most powerful economic and political institutions of the Zionist movement, which met in conference in 1922, on the initiative of Sir Alfred Mond, chairman of the Palestine Economic Council of Great Britain, to discuss the setting up of a ‘Holding Company for the Rutenberg Electrification Project in Palestine.’ These efforts culminated in the establishment of the Palestine Electric Corporation, in March 1923. 12 However, even prior to this formal act, Rutenberg was concerned with the third level of the operation, that is, the technical level, and began the process of laying the technological infrastructure for the entire project. This involved a vast range of problems, embracing the determination of a master plan for development, the investigation of options for the eventual purchase of the necessary machinery, and initiating the design of the first generation of power stations envisaged in the overall scheme. While the proposed hydro-electric power house on the Jordan was conceived as the heart of the project, linked by high-tension transmission lines to the other centres, the stand-by diesel-fuel stations at Jaffa, Haifa and Tiberias were ‘erected first in order to satisfy the existing urgent requirements for electric energy and to develop and stimulate the demand for electricity for the time when Jordan energy will be available.’13
Rutenberg and his Architects
While the motivation for the construction of power stations was undoubtedly pragmatic, Rutenberg was by no means indifferent to the aesthetic and symbolic character of his building ventures. He never lost sight of the broad picture, but at the same time was always concerned with the minutest details. He was a visionary in his goals, a hard-headed pragmatist in his methods, and he cared about architecture. As Harry Sacher (1959) was to write about Rutenberg, ‘He had one gift, which, it must be confessed, is not too common in Palestine - a feeling for beauty. His works in Tel-Aviv, in Haifa and on the Jordan, were cases of beauty and refreshment. Not everybody might accept his architectural taste, but his buildings were functional and yet not stark; the landscape received them willingly.’ The architectural quality of the Electric Corporation’s projects, by both local and international standards, was remarkably high. Rutenberg demanded quality design, and he sought out the finest architects—both local and overseas—to work with. At the same 124 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process time he insisted on playing a defining role in the shaping of the buildings he commissioned. An incisive and ruthless decision-maker, a shrewd politician, and a master manipulator, he was not an easy client, as the many architects who worked for him were to discover. As we shall see, he played one architect against another, showing no loyalty other than to his own staff. In all matters, he insisted on hands-on control. He laid down a clear line of authority, but stipulated that there should be no changes in plans without his previous approval, and maintained ‘his right to make the final decision in all critical (and often minor) situations.’14 He asserted this absolute authority even in respect to his deputy, his brother Avraham, who was to consult with him, even in his absence overseas. In relation to architectural decisions he wielded his influence, and asserted his will, directly through personal intervention—sometimes even producing his own sketches of desired details (the placing of light brackets, the spacing of balusters on a stair-rail)—and indirectly through the company’s Design Office which he set up as an instrument, always responsive to his directions, to control the development of all the building projects of the firm. This Technical (Civil Engineering) Design Office, under the direction of the Liverpool University-trained engineer Samuel David Sorsky, was responsible for all technical decisions, structural calculations, preparation of working drawings and other documentation, and supervision of building procedures. Sorsky was widely recognized as Rutenberg’s right-hand man. It should be said that the functions of this Design Office in practice went beyond the technical engineering parameters implied by its name. Its senior staff included talented architects, such as Russian-born but British-educated Shmuel Rosoff—much trusted by Rutenberg—and, later, Alexander Stern, and these professionals often produced alternative designs to those of the appointed architects, and even initiated significant projects of their own. In his dealings with his chosen architects, Rutenberg employed several different tactics, but his guiding strategy was constant. This strategy was aimed at giving him a range of options from which he could glean promising insights, leading to the generation of a final—in his eyes, optimal—solution. One such tactic was to commission designs from several architects, one after the other. For his very first venture, the Jaffa/Tel-Aviv Power Station (1923), there are successive designs by Richard Kauffmann (in 1921, for the Auja site), and Alexander Baerwald, who in 1922 produced three rather exotic variants. Later the same year Josef Berlin, an architect then working for the ‘Office of Public Works and Buildings’ designed the final project—but then the extensions of 1925 were designed by Sorsky’s Design Office, with three-dimensional massing derivative of one of Baerwald’s rejected proposals. Another example is the individual dwellings and staff housing schemes for the Jordan Hydroelectric Power House at Naharaim, of 1932. Here we have proposals by Baerwald, Sorsky, Rosoff, and Orell and Zohar, the architects of the overall scheme. Another tactic used by Rutenberg was to organize an unofficial limited competition, as it were, in which several architects submitted proposals for a tentatively defined building block. This was the case for the Electric Corporation’s two major projects, the Haifa Power House of 1933–35, and the Reading Power clash of the titans 125
Fig. 3.3 Haifa Power House 1934–35— proposals by Orell/ Zohar, Rosoff, unknown 126 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
Station of 1934–37. Let us take the Haifa project as a case study, exemplifying the convoluted path—involving the use of both tactics—by which Rutenberg hoped to achieve his design aims. Preliminary plans for Haifa were completed by the end of 1934, presumably by the Design Office. In parallel, starting in 1933, Benjamin Orell produced conceptual sketches for the Power House and Office Block, followed later by more detailed drawings based on an entirely different layout. Then, between 1933 and 1934, we have a whole series of alternate designs from other architects, all except those by Orell and Rosoff being unsigned. These rendered perspectives were presented in a uniform format, obviously predetermined by the Design Office, and were variants of the façade treatment of a given three-dimensional form. We have found no document indicating by whom, and according to what criteria, these proposals were assessed. What we have here is a visual brain-storming process, providing Rutenberg with a wide spectrum of architectural ideas. Ironically, the Power House as finally built depended on none of these preliminary avant- garde proposals, but on the more refined and conservative design of the English architects Clifford Holliday and Pearce Hubbard, presented to Rutenberg in three alternatives. To complete the saga, Holliday himself was eventually phased out as the architect for the associated Office Block, firstly by Sorsky and Stern, and then by a new architect, S. Ed. Rosenheck. By these manouevres the scheme was adapted in accordance with specific instructions of Rutenberg, instructions unacceptable to Holliday. Employing these tactics, Rutenberg was accused by Baerwald (the doyen of Jewish architects in Palestine and the first professor of architecture at the Technion) of establishing a stable of ‘many horses,’15 who he treated with regrettable lack of consideration. In more ways than one he proved to be an awkward client. His own design staff, totally dedicated to his service, accomplished a prodigious output of documents, ranging from structural calculations to comprehensive working drawings and details. With this as his yardstick he consistently underestimated and undervalued the work and expertise that outside architects contributed to his ventures, and in addition was difficult about fees.16 Why the long list of willing horses were eager to work for Rutenberg, and why they accepted his failure to reciprocate their loyalty, are questions we shall have to examine when we come to consider the relationship between Rutenberg and Erich Mendelsohn, the most eminent of his architects.
The architect: Erich Mendelsohn
Erich Mendelsohn17 was a younger son of David Mendelsohn and Emma Esther Jaruslawsky, a middle-class German-Jewish family, his father dealing with gentlemen’s clothing and leather-goods in the ground floor of their house in the market square of Allenstein, his mother a milliner, and a talented musician. After completing his studies at the Gymnasium in Allenstein (where his main interests were Greek cultural history, politics, art and music) Erich studied law for clash of the titans 127 two semesters at the University of Munich, then switched to architecture at the Technische Hochschule, Berlin-Charlottenburg during 1908–10, finally completing his studies under Theodor Fischer at the Technische Hochschule, Munich, 1910–12. By 1914 he had established contacts with the more progressive artists of the day. He was in touch with the expressionist group ‘Der Blaue Reiter’, and was involved in ‘The Expressionist Theatre’ project with the leading avant-garde artists of the day: the dramatist Hugo Ball, the artists Wassily Kandinsky, Franz Marc and Paul Klee, and the composer Arnold Schönberg. In 1914, through Luise Maas, a beautiful young girl and talented musician whom he was to marry the following year, he met Dr. Erwin Finlay-Freundlich, the astrophysicist who was later to play such a significant role in Mendelsohn’s commission to design the Einstein Tower in Potsdam, the project which brought him fame and recognition. In August 1914 the war broke out, but at first he was kept out of the conflict because of his very poor eyesight. In 1915, he served for a while as a volunteer instructor in the Red Cross, but eventually underwent training in the Pioneer Corps at Spandau. Inducted into a reserve battalion stationed in Berlin he was able throughout this troubled period to maintain contact with Luise. Their relationship grew in intensity, and in October 1915 they were married. Their only child, their daughter Esther Luise, was born in May 1916. The next year found Erich serving west of Jacobstadt [Jekobspils] in Latvia, on the Russian front, and for many months in 1917 there were letters from him to Luise headed ’On guard duty, Ilipau [Libau?].’ His duties were obviously not onerous, and he found ample time to sketch, and the peace of mind to write about art, architecture, religion and philosophy. On the capitulation of the Russians following the revolution he was transferred in 1918 to the West, and according to Luise underwent an officers’ course at Spandau. Finally, for some time in the first half of 1918 he was back in Latvia, at the port city of Libau [Liepaja]. Mendelsohn’s war-time experience was primarily one of discomfort and tedium, which he was later to recall with wry humour. ‘War is not always the harbinger of heroic deeds and self-oblivion,’ he reminisced in a letter to William Brink, a former assistant living in Jerusalem in 1944, and involved in another war. ‘It is only too often the unwarranted opportunity for muscular frogs which thrive even in shell holes, the better the deeper they are. You were indeed lucky,’ he went on, ‘in having had to waste but 4 nights a week playing cards with your inferiors. In the Russian winter of 1917/18 I had to treat my superior with “skat every day” from 2 to 10 P.M. in order to free my night-time for sketches that made—so they say—architectural history and, after the war was over, a good show.’18 At the end of the war he opened his architectural office in Berlin. Once again, he became involved with the political and artistic avant-garde, as one of the founders of the ‘Novembergruppe’, and an associate member of the ‘Arbeitsrat für Kunst’. The visionary sketches he did during quieter periods at the front were displayed to the public in an exhibition entitled ‘Erich Mendelsohn: Architekturen in Eisen und Beton’, mounted at the Paul Cassirer Gallery in Berlin in 1919, which brought him instant international recognition.19 128 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
Fig. 3.4 Mendelsohn sketches: Industry, 1914; Einstein Tower, 1920
Mendelsohn’s burgeoning international reputation as an up-and-coming visionary architect was given further impetus by the publication of his work in the October 1920 issue of the Amsterdam journal Wendingen. This journal was the organ of Architectura et Amicitia, an Amsterdam association of architects and artists, established in 1855. Between 1911 and 1917 there was a take-over of this venerable organization by a coterie of highly motivated architects and artists centred on Michel de Klerk, Piet Kramer and Jan van der Mey. This group, now including Staal and Wijdeveld, was by 1916 known as ‘The Amsterdam School’. The organ of the Association, the weekly journal Architectura, was supplemented at the beginning of 1918 by a stunning new monthly publication, Wendingen [‘Turnings’], with Hendricus Wijdeveld as its editor and driving force. The special issue of Wendingen with its focus on Mendelsohn was initiated by Wijdeveld, who in 1918 had visited Berlin, where he met the critic Alfred Behne and Erich Mendelsohn, and ‘was impressed by his exhibition at the Paul Cassirer Gallery in Berlin.’20 Art historian Oskar Beyer, who had also been greatly impressed by Mendelsohn’s Cassirer exhibition, wrote a long, copiously illustrated article discussing Mendelsohn’s projects, which appeared together with an introductory essay on Mendelsohn by Jan Frederik Staal.21 In contrast to the abundance of his imaginary sketches and unrealized projects, Mendelsohn’s buildings actually in process of design or construction at this time were few in number. Apart from a pre-war building, the Chapel of the Jewish clash of the titans 129
Cemetery in Allenstein (1911–1913), by 1920 he had commenced the extensive works for Gustav Herrmann and the Steinberg, Herrmann & Co. Hat Factory in Luckenwalde (completed 1921–1923), and his renowned Einstein Tower in Potsdam (conceptual sketches 1918–1919, construction 1920–1921). This was a professional portfolio notable for the originality of the work—it reflected Mendelsohn in the full flood of his expressionist phase—but limited in the extent of actual achievement on the ground, a fact which made the attention given to him in Holland even more remarkable.
Mendelsohn: The Man and the Architect
Erich, one of six children, confessed that his childhood had not been a felicitous one. ‘I have never known the happiness of motherly love and of a harmonious family life,’ he reflected sadly.22 He grew up with a sense of isolation, never quite at home, solitary and self-reliant. His marriage to a beautiful and talented wife, who sacrificed her own musical career to give him constant moral and practical support, provided him with that close environment of affection he had lacked, and reinforced his own not inconsiderable self-esteem. He related well to a limited group of people who he considered culturally compatible: artists, architects, musicians, and his most meaningful friendships were with fellow architects: Charles du Vinage, his childhood friend, Hendricus Wijdeveld, and—for a short time, until the latter’s premature death—Michel de Klerk. Whether by choice or by force of circumstances, the principal contacts in his professional life—his clients and his assistants—were predominantly Jewish. As a Jewish architect in Germany he was respected as a professional, but not readily accepted into the inner circle of the Gentile elite. In the years of his later exile from his native land, he was not always comfortable within a social milieu alien to him, be it the predominantly East-European Jews of the Yishuv in Palestine, or London’s Anglo-Jewish aristocracy, in whose circle his wife apparently moved with ease. In many ways his was a divided personality, torn between irreconcilable goals: culturally German, emotionally and atavistically Jewish, both a Zionist and a cosmopolitan, practising a sophisticated and urbane life-style while yearning for the solitary balm of the natural landscape, uncertain of his social standing but absolutely certain—to the point of arrogance—about his own path of creativity. His relation to people close to him evoked ambivalent responses. His only child, Esther Mendelsohn-Joseph (1999), was to comment: ‘As a daughter, I found him intimidating, and yet I was full of admiration for him,’ while in the judgement of architectural historian Julius Posener, who had worked as Mendelsohn’s assistant, he was ‘one of the most loveable people and at the same time one of the most unpleasant.’ (cited in Stephan, 1999). Mendelsohn’s complex character naturally impacted upon his career as an architect. An ambitious and commercially successful architect, he was the consummate professional, running a highly organized and efficient practice. As a creative designer he was the ultimate intuitive artist, visionary and inspired, and his creative work was done not in the office, but in the privacy of his own study/ 130 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process workspace. His design process almost invariably followed a set procedure. First he visited the site, and for a long period contemplated it, absorbing its natural features, its physical characteristics, and its ambience. He then produced a series of conceptual sketches, usually small three-dimensional studies of the overall form, presenting the totality of his proposal in worm’s-eye or bird’s-eye perspectives, only rarely accompanied by plans. By this process he generated a preliminary concept of the final form, which was then tested and refined through the examination of a series of models, first in the flexible and readily manipulated medium of plasticine, then in the more definitive materials of plaster or wood. The final concept, often very close to the initial sketches, governed the final working out of the design. Formal presentation drawings, then working drawings and details, were always prepared by his assistants. This might have been normal procedure in large offices with multiple projects being simultaneously processed, but with Mendelsohn this was standard practice even when dealing with a single modest proposal. There were two reasons for this. Mendelsohn’s defective eyesight—he had lost an eye to cancer—rendered him incapable of precise draughtsmanship, and limited his drawing to small impressionistic sketches; and his lack of technical expertise made him dependent on others. When it came to technological details, he knew what he wanted, but not how to achieve it. However, while he delegated work he gave direction to and supervised every stage of the process, and maintained complete control at all time. He was a perfectionist in all things, and sometimes a demanding taskmaster. Posener, working for him first in Berlin and later in Jerusalem, commented: ‘On both occasions I found him authoritarian.’ Mendelsohn was not the only great architect unable to function at the drawing board. Because of a hand-tremor, Walter Gropius too delegated precision draughting to others. Gropius, however, was a team worker and worked comfortably with associates, considering himself first among equals.23 Mendelsohn was made of other stuff; he was the supreme decision-maker, and assistants with ideas of their own were seen as a challenge and a threat to his autonomy as a designer. Gropius could establish the Architects’ Cooperative, but Mendelsohn rejected even taking an independent-minded and talented assistant such as Richard Neutra or Arthur Korn into partnership. This eventually was a factor in the break-up of his short-lived London partnership with Serge Chermayeff. His insistence on being the final arbiter of design decisions contributed significantly to the artistic integrity of Mendelsohn’s oeuvre, but did not always smooth the way in his dealing with clients. In his German period most of his output was commercial or industrial, and his clients were hard-headed businessmen. They came to him because of the quality of his work, the efficiency of his office, and the advertising value deriving from the uniqueness of his designs. This did not mean that they always enjoyed the relationship. His most loyal and enduring patron was Salman Schocken, for whom he produced a series of department stores in Nuremberg, Stuttgart and Chemnitz, and later Schocken’s magnificent house in Jerusalem, and the exquisite Schocken Library. Even in relation to something as personal as Schocken’s own home he sought to control every small detail, even down the furnishings and the garden. He saw fit to advise his client about some clash of the titans 131 minor decorative item placed in the entrance hall, thinking it not appropriate in relation to the architecture, and later in a letter to Schocken’s secretary asked him to rebuke the gardener for not watering the garden, and neglecting to put water in the birdbath, which was ‘intended not only to nourish the birds, but above all draw them and make them feel at home.’24 In his tribute on Mendelsohn’s 50th birthday, Schocken summed up the love-hate relationship with his architect: ‘I do not know anybody with whom I have battled as much as I have with Erich Mendelsohn since 1925’ (Herbert and Richter, 2008). This was an emotion apparently shared with Vera Weizmann, in dealing with Mendelsohn, the architect of the Weizmann House in Rehovot. Chaim Weizmann, later to become first President of the State of Israel, busy with weightier matters, ‘scarcely interfered in the planning and furnishing of the house’ (Rose, 1986). Indeed, if memory does not fail us, the only references to Mendelsohn in the Weizmann Letters, during the building of the house, related to questions of fees and costs (Weisgal, 1993). Perhaps wisely, he left it to his wife Vera to deal with Mendelsohn. This strong-willed, autocratic and snobbish woman apparently did not have an easy time of it. ‘For the next two-and-a-half years she waged a war of attrition with Mendelsohn on practically every aspect of the house, from indirect lighting to the size of the rooms, and usually prevailed.’ (Rose, 1986) One gets the impression that the distress was mutual.
Case Study: The Haifa Diesel Power Station
Having introduced our two protagonists, Pinhas Rutenberg and Erich Mendelsohn, it is time to set the stage for their confrontation. The date is 1923, and the place is Haifa, in British Mandated Palestine, destined to become a major port and a pivotal transportation nexus in the Eastern Mediterranean. The wheels of fate move in mysterious ways. Richard Kauffmann, a German- Jewish architect, had come to Palestine in 1920, and three months later joined the Palestine Land Development Corporation as its architect and planner. He understood that his mission was to continue the work of Patrick Geddes, who had been engaged on the planning of various neighbourhoods of Haifa.25 He made an excellent impression, and came to the attention of Rutenberg, who used his services for the first [Auja] scheme for Tel Aviv. When Kauffmann realized that Rutenberg was experimenting with various architects (first Baerwald, then Berlin) he brought Mendelsohn’s work to Rutenberg’s notice. Kauffmann knew Mendelsohn from their university days, when they were fellow students at the Munich Technische Hochschule (1909–1912). As Kauffmann obviously still had hopes of getting work from Rutenberg, this was an altruistic act, showing great generosity of spirit. In late 1922, Rutenberg and his brother Avraham came from London to Berlin. Whether this was a purchasing mission is not clear. Rutenberg’s original intention had been to acquire German equipment for his power stations, and indeed AEG had supplied technical drawings for some of the early Tel-Aviv proposals.26 However, Churchill—mindful of the difficult economic situation in post-war Britain, and the endemic British hostility to the Zionist venture in Palestine—took issue with this 132 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process policy, and asked his Political Secretary on 21 March 1922 to ‘make it clear to Mr. Rutenberg and the Zionists generally’ that it was not advisable to place orders with German firms.27 Rutenberg had seen the Cassirer catalogue,28 and was intrigued by the bravura of Mendelsohn’s sketches, which included perspectives of imaginary power stations labelled AEG I, II, and III, intended no doubt to catch the attention of Emil Rathenau, head of the Allgemeine Elektricitäts-Gesellschaft, a known sponsor of advanced architectural and industrial design. On this Berlin visit, whatever its motivation, Rutenberg took the opportunity of visiting Mendelsohn’s office. Mendelsohn showed him his latest work, including the power house of the Meyer- Kauffmann Textile factory then nearing completion. It was a successful encounter, and Rutenberg was obviously impressed with the fervour of Mendelsohn, and the quality of the work he was engaged upon. The consequences were significant, and they were spelled out in an excited letter from Mendelsohn to his Dutch friend Hendricus Wijdeveld:
The engineer, Mr. Ruthenberg, who obtained the concession and money from the English government to exploit the hydraulic energy of the Jordan River has by chance learned about my work. Actually it was indirectly through Mr. Kauffmann who, also following my recommendation, has visited you. Ruthenberg informed me immediately that he had been most impressed by the work he had seen and that he would soon visit me in Berlin. Last Tuesday … Mr. Ruthenberg showed up in my office. After we had discussed details of the project and I had shown him a number of works under construction, he asked me to work with him on the whole project. I then suggested to Mr. Ruthenberg to travel with him to Palestine since I could not possibly design projects for a foreign country without knowledge of the land and the climate. On these grounds Mr. Ruthenberg readily approved my journey. We agreed to meet on the 15.2.23 in Jaffo or in Jerusalem. The plan concerns the construction of a large power plant next to a flood-control dam and a settlement, along the Jordan River, and regional power stations in Haifa, Jaffo and Jerusalem, and anything else that might evolve from these plans. It is an extensive project which as a matter of course touches the whole range of problems the fledgling Jewish State has to deal with. Ruthenberg approached me as an architect and Zionist. Mr. Ruthenberg struck me as a very fine humane person and I accepted with great pleasure. Yesterday I was notified that I would probably begin my trip on the 21.2.23. 29
The following week he wrote again to Wijdeveld. Before finally ending the letter with greetings to the family and ‘comrades’ he casually dropped a bombshell, asking: ‘Don’t you have a desire to come with us?’30 Wijdeveld replied in some confusion, seeking clarification of the seriousness of the invitation, and when reassured of its sincerity immediately sent a telegram of acceptance: ‘Freunde ich reise mit Euch Brief folgt.’31 The enigmatic circumstances leading to this unexpected invitation, and its implications for the long-enduring but troubled friendship between the two architects, have been dealt with extensively elsewhere, and need not be reiterated here.32 However, an account of their visit to Palestine is germane to our present concern. clash of the titans 133
In the era before air-travel became common, the journey was something of a saga. Erich and Luise Mendelsohn and Wijdeveld left Berlin for Trieste,33 and continued to Brindisi by ship. From Brindisi they embarked for the Egyptian port of Alexandria, and finally continued by train to Jaffa,34 arriving on 28 February. Travel within Palestine was not easy. The roads were not good, and while there were bus links between major towns, the frequency of service left much to be desired, and private cars were rare. Nevertheless, with Kauffmann as their guide and mentor, the visitors managed to cover a lot of ground, usually travelling together. As Wijdeveld wrote to his wife, he, Erich and Luise had become very close. ‘We are always together, the three of us, everywhere, from breakfast till we say goodnight.’35 Wijdeveld described their travels in letters home to his wife—left behind in Amsterdam and looking after his affairs—telling of his visits to Jaffa, Tel Aviv, Jerusalem, Tiberias, Nazareth and Haifa. While the itinerary was work- oriented, relating to possible sites for power stations Erich hoped to design, it was not exclusively so, and they revelled in the sights and sounds of the Middle East, just like any other tourists. However, Mendelsohn’s raison d’être for traversing the country remained the project for Rutenberg.
Designing the Haifa Power Station
The first meeting between these two men of destiny, the great entrepreneur and the great architect, took place in Tel Aviv, in the modest lodging house of a Mrs. Moscovitz, where Rutenberg was then living. In a long letter to his wife Ellen, dated 8 March 1923, Wijdeveld wrote of Mendelsohn’s brief: ‘There was already an electric power station in Jaffa under construction, but that he [Mendelsohn] would execute the following projects: first a power station in Haifa, followed by one at the Jordan River (near Tiberias) and probably at a later stage an additional one higher up the Jordan River. All in all, a project which will certainly take up a period of 3 to 6 years.’ As presented to Mendelsohn, this grandiose project was the stuff that dreams are made of. In reality the immediate task was cut from more modest cloth: to design a small diesel power station for Haifa, on the lower slopes of Mount Carmel, overlooking the Bay. He set about it in his usual manner, by producing some small freehand sketches, of which two signed originals are in the archives of the Electric Corporation. They are typical Mendelsohn: small in scale, bold in concept, expressive in character, but non-committal as to detail. These sketches bear a resemblance to the recently-completed power house for the Meyer-Kauffmann textile works at Woestergiersdorf, but the towering palm trees which grace the drawing pay tribute to the local scene. It was Mendelsohn’s understanding that with these sketches he had fulfilled his immediate obligation to Rutenberg, presumably intending to develop the scheme in his office later, on his return to Berlin. Unfortunately, Rutenberg did not see matters in this light. In a letter home dated 13 March 1923 Wijdeveld reported an argument which Mendelsohn had with Rutenberg, who wanted him to prepare plans for the Haifa power station right away, while he was still in Palestine. ‘He was 134 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
Fig. 3.5 Erich in great trouble,’ Wijdeveld reported to his wife, ‘because it turned out that travel Mendelsohn: Haifa expenses also included the design of one or two projects. This causes considerable Power House, tension …’. Rutenberg compromised, by offering Mendelsohn £50; Mendelsohn, perspective 36 sketches, deeply offended, refused to accept ‘the tip’ and asked for a fee of £100. ‘There March 1923 has been a problem between Mendelsohn and Rutenberg about financial matters,’ Wijdeveld reported. ‘It went even so far that Rutenberg wrote quite a sharp letter and handed the matter to Mr. van Vriesland, the legal advisor of the Zionist Executive (a Dutchman).’37 Money was a point of contention, but not the only one. Wijdeveld sent his wife a postcard explaining the real nature of the problem. While Mendelsohn could still produce his evocative small sketches, because of his defective eyesight he could no longer undertake the production of accurate scale drawings without assistance. (Achenbach, 1987) Wijdeveld offered to step into the breech. On 15 March Wijdeveld continued his letter home with a description of the project, including a small perspective sketch (similar to Mendelsohn’s) plus a plan. He intimates that he is collaborating with Mendelsohn on the project, with such phrases as ‘Now I am working with pleasure and already the first morning we defined the idea …’, .and—referring to the sketch—‘. here you have, very quickly, quite incomplete and with references to all the main points, the design we will prepare today … on a large scale.’38 clash of the titans 135
The drawings prepared by Wijdeveld comprise precisely-drawn, partially- Fig. 3.6 dimensioned, plans, sections and four elevations, all to a scale of 1:100, and a Mendelsohn/ 1:1000 site plan. They were finished off in the Electric Corporation Design Office, Wijdeveld: Haifa Power House, carry the in-house numbering system of the Design Office, and were titled in March 1923 English, Hebrew and Arabic.39 After Mendelsohn’s visit to Palestine, where the first design was produced in an atmosphere of great urgency, there occurred an uncharacteristic break in the development of the Haifa project.40 In the latter part of 1923, in letters to Kauffmann, Mendelsohn indicated his sense of unease. In July he mentioned that he had heard that Rutenberg was in London to obtain approval for the final version of the Haifa plan, and that substantial changes had been made. In September Rutenberg was in Berlin, but did not make an opportunity to meet Mendelsohn, who reported his growing concern to Kauffmann. In October, possibly on his own initiative, Mendelsohn had a final set of drawings prepared, which on 27 November he sent to Rutenberg, with a short explanatory report.41 The drawings, prepared in the Charlottenburg office and signed by Mendelsohn, nevertheless bear the traditional trilingual titles, added presumably in the Design Office of the Electric Corporation. Fig. 3.7 Mendelsohn: Haifa Power House, perspective, Nov. 1923
Fig. 3.8 Richard Kauffmann: Haifa Power House, perspective, 1924 clash of the titans 137
In the meantime, a situation typical of Rutenberg’s disloyalty to his architects Fig. 3.9 PEC was developing back in Palestine. Kauffmann, who had acted as Mendelsohn’s go- Design Office: between and confidant, accepted a commission from Rutenberg to act as ‘artistic Haifa Power House, 1925 supervisor of the exterior and interior of the power station’. On 22 July 1924, at the end of a design process extending over three months and involving the preparation of six variants, Kauffmann had the unenviable task of informing his friend Mendelsohn (who he himself had initially recommended for the job, and the merits of whose scheme he continued to advocate) that he had replaced him as architect.42 In fact, his ultimate scheme had many elements reminiscent of the Mendelsohn prototype. In a final ironic twist, the stress which this sorry situation imposed on the friendship of these two old colleagues proved unnecessary. The work was taken away from Kauffmann in turn, and the power station as eventually built in Haifa, and opened in 1925, was designed in the Design Office of the Electric Corporation, with the drawings signed by Rutenberg himself. It is a building which shows traces of its various transmutations from the original Mendelsohn design through the Kauffmann variants, and it was probably the first modern building to have been constructed in Palestine. 138 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
The Dismissal of Mendelsohn
It is now time to consider the circumstances of Mendelsohn’s exclusion from Rutenberg’s service. Late in January 1924 Rutenberg informed Mendelsohn that while his plan would be submitted to the Board of Directors, it was unlikely that it would be accepted. When pressed for a reason, Rutenberg wrote, in a confidential letter to the disappointed architect, ‘It is that certain high placed persons in the Palestine Administration are strongly opposed to the introduction of such modern architecture into the country.’43 This criticism obviously stung Mendelsohn, who referred to it on at least two later occasions. In 1934 he wrote ‘The power station I designed then [in 1923] was rejected by the High Commissioner as being “too European”.’ Mendelsohn for some reason replaces Rutenberg’s terms ‘Modern’ with the appellation ‘European’. For him they were obviously synonymous, for he goes on: ‘certainly, it was not Queen Anne, but, in my opinion, appropriate to the architectural characteristics and subtropical climate of the country.’ 44 He reiterated these arguments in 1948, retaining the term ‘European’, correcting the title of the villain of the piece to Acting High Commissioner, and stepping up the reaction to his building from ‘opposed’ to ‘shocked.’ This reason for the rejection of Mendelsohn’s scheme has generally been taken at face value. Certainly it was an expression of that conservative British attitude to architecture epitomised by Ashbee’s hostility towards Rutenberg, cited earlier. However, we believe that this may be too facile an explanation. We suggest that the two protagonists in this drama found this a convenient face-saving formula for what had become an untenable situation. For Rutenberg this was an expedient basis for suspending his dealings with an architect who by this stage was an international figure of some repute, and whose summary dismissal would have been an embarrassment to them both. Rutenberg after all had brought Mendelsohn out to Palestine at some considerable expense, on the basis of some extravagant overtures, which he now had no intention of pursuing. It is an indisputable fact that he never again offered a commission to Mendelsohn, even when the by now renowned architect was practising in Jerusalem. The truth is that this brief encounter promised to be one of conflict rather than cooperation. The parameters of future contention were already in place, and apparent to both parties: Rutenberg, accustomed to dominating all who worked for him and having the final word on every issue confronting an architect whose will was as great as his. The businessman was accustomed to demanding the maximum, both in output and value for money, from every architect he commissioned, as we have seen in his clashes with both Kauffmann and Mendelsohn, while Mendelsohn was an architect who put a high value on his services, and expected a commensurate reward. This was perhaps a secondary issue. The heart of the matter was if there was potential in the relationship for great architecture to emerge. Mendelsohn was adamant in having his own way when it came to design matters, and was certainly not an architect who was easy to deal with. ‘His letters’, wrote Oskar Beyer, ‘make clear that he was an architect for whom there were no compromises.’45 He resisted changes imposed upon him, and always struggled to preserve the integrity of his initial clash of the titans 139
Fig. 3.10 Benjamin Orell: The White House, Naharaim
concept. For clients powerful and authoritative in their own spheres this approach had all the potential for conflict. As we have noted, Schocken, his most consistent client and loyal admirer, constantly fought with him, as did the formidable Vera Weizmann. For Mendelsohn, acknowledging defeat was inconceivable, and he vigorously rejected the implication that his design was inappropriate in its Haifa environment. However, for the proud and intractable artist, acknowledging the accusation of being too modern was a convenient way of accepting what would otherwise have been a humiliating dismissal. Ascribing it to the short-sighted conservatism of the British Administration moreover cast him in the more heroic role of the pioneer ahead of his time. Rutenberg’s explanation is simply not plausible. It seems most unlikely that the British officials would have made a cause célèbre out of the design of a very small building on the inconspicuous lower slopes of Mt. Carmel. After all, it was not outrageously avant garde, or incongruous in its local environment. There had been many comments on the parallels between the cubic forms of the modern movement and the vernacular of the Middle East. There was that notorious photomontage of the Weissenhofsiedlung, complete with Beduins and their camels, labelled Arabische stadt; and Mendelsohn himself noted that in Berlin his Sternefeld House, stylistically similar to the Haifa Power House, was criticised as being too Oriental. Nor—had the British officials indeed insisted—is it conceivable that the strong-minded Rutenberg would so tamely have acquiesced to their diktat on questions of style, had he really wished to go ahead with Mendelsohn’s project. He himself championed modern architecture on many occasions, most notably in the iconic White House, his own residence at Naharaim. Rutenberg turned again and again to architects such as Richard Kauffmann (at Tel-Aviv, Tiberias, Haifa), Benjamin Orell (Haifa Power House, Haifa housing 140 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process schemes, and the hydroelectric plant at Naharaim) and Shmuel Rosoff (after leaving the Design Office, as the architect of the Kiryat Hashmal housing scheme at Kiryat Haim, and the private houses of both Pinhas and Avraham Rutenberg), all architects whose work fell squarely within the modern movement. Even Baerwald, whose natural affinity was a regional eclectic style, produced uncharacteristically modern buildings (derivative of Mendelsohn) in his design of the Tiberias Power Station of 1925, and the later Superintendent’s House at Naharaim. The many private architects Rutenberg used and misused, the willing horses in his stable whom he so often treated cavalierly, were surprisingly submissive. Many of these architects were not minor figures, but distinguished members of the profession, all of whom not only had a string of significant buildings to their credit, but made a notable contribution to the development of architecture and planning in Palestine. For example, Alexander Baerwald (1877–1930), after a distinguished career in his native Germany, in 1924 became the first Professor of Architecture of the Haifa Technion, the building he himself had designed prior to the war; Richard Kauffmann (1887–1958) was the planner and architect of the Palestine Land Development Corporation, the designer of major residential neighbourhoods in Haifa, and pioneer planner of many communal settlements; and Clifford Holliday (1897–1960), after graduating from Liverpool University, in 1922 took up the post of Civic Adviser to the City of Jerusalem, as C.S. Ashbee’s successor, designed several significant buildings—his St. Andrew’s Church of Scotland in Jerusalem was described as ‘one of the most striking edifices erected by the British’ (Levin, 1980)— and planned and designed the buildings of the Kingsway urban development in Haifa.46 Despite their status in the profession these architects apparently were prepared to play the game according to Rutenberg’s one-sided rules. The extent of his patronage was considerable, substantial commissions were not easily come by, and the high-profile opportunities he offered could only enhance their prestige in a highly competitive world. Professional ethics were not yet entrenched, the architectural profession was in its infancy, the architects—all immigrants47— came from different cultures with different norms of behaviour, and they adapted to life in Israel in different ways.48 They therefore swallowed their pride, suppressed their creative egos, and went along with their demanding client. Mendelsohn it seems was cut from a different cloth. While the others working for Rutenberg considered themselves as big fish, they were nevertheless big fish in a small pond. Mendelsohn came to Rutenberg with something of an international reputation. His exhibition at the Cassirer Gallery, and the resultant widely-publicized catalogue, his contacts with the leading architects and artists of the European avant garde, the prestigious Wendingen publication, and his famous Einstein Tower (who could ask for a more renowned client?), had given him wider exposure than the limited output of work actually built perhaps merited. His belief in his own creative powers was so unshakeable—perhaps to the point of hubris— that he did not accept criticism willingly, and he was not given to compromise. He was, as his friend Dr. Yassky was later to reprove him, a prima donna.49 In his dealings with a client it was not a case of employer and employed, of master and clash of the titans 141 servant, it was a confrontation between equals. Rutenberg was emerging as a giant among industrialists, Mendelsohn was approaching great eminence as an architect. Their conflict in Haifa, small scale and provincial as it was, could be considered, in hindsight and in microcosm, as a virtual Clash of the Titans. The rift between them was deep, much deeper than could have been caused by the loss of a small commission, or the implied criticism of his work as ‘too modern.’ This appellation would have been a badge of honour for Mendelsohn, who regarded himself as a pioneer of the avant-garde. What was an unforgivable affront to Mendelsohn was that Rutenberg failed to treat him with the respect that was the artist’s due, but dealt with him cavalierly, as just another of his ‘stable of architects.’ We have no indication of how Rutenberg reacted to the estrangement which ensued, but for Mendelsohn the hurt was deep, and long-enduring. It took some fifteen years before a mellower Mendelsohn—now at the peak of his renewed career in Palestine, self-assured, and more mature—would reach out and attempt to heal the breach between them. In May 1939, Mendelsohn wrote to Rutenberg: ‘I shall be very pleased to have the possibility of showing you round the Medical Centre Buildings on Mount Scopus, assuming that time enough has passed to make both of us forget what has unnecessarily has separated us for so long.’50 We do not, alas, have Rutenberg’s response, but there is no record of any reconciliation. The times conspired to put the affair into its proper perspective, as the clouds of war gathered over Europe, the Middle East became a cockpit of conflict, and the Jewish people were engulfed in the flames of the Holocaust. In September 1940 Rutenberg, the ‘strong man’, resigned from his post as President of the Vaad Leumi, because of ill-health. His condition worsened, and he died in January 1942. In February 1941, as war raged in North Africa, Mendelsohn wrote to his old friend Kauffmann, with whom he was frequently in contact, that he had been offered, and had accepted, an appointment as Professor of Architecture at the New School for Social Research in New York.51 After a hazardous war-time journey via the Indian subcontinent, South Africa and the Caribbean, he eventually reached the United States, where he was to spend his last years.52
Bibliography
Achenbach, S. ed. 1987. Biographie mit Verzeichnis derwichterin werke. Mendelsohn Exhibition catalogue. Berlin. Ashbee, C. 1923. A Palestine Notebook 1918–1923. London. W. Heinemann Avitzur, S. 2002. The Power Plant on Two Rivers, Ariel: The Israel Review of Arts and Letters, Israel Ministry of Foreign Affairs, 114. Bentwich, N. 1961. My 77 Years, an Account of my Life and Times. Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America. Beyer, O. 1920. Architectuur in ijzen en beton, Wendingen, 3, October. Beyer, O. 1961. Briefe eines Architekten, Munich: Prestel-Verlag. Beyer, O. 1967. Eric Mendelsohn: Letters of an Architect. New York/London: Abelard, Schuman. Buddensieg, T. 1984. Industriekultur: Peter Behrens and the AEG. Cambridge MA: MIT Press. 142 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
Fuchs, R. and Herbert, G. 2000. Representing Mandate Palestine: Austen St. Barbe Harrison and the Representational Buildings in Mandatory Palestine, 1922–1937, Architectural History, 43, 281–333. Gatrell, P. 1994. Government, Industry and Rearmament in Russia, 1900–1914: The Last Argument of Tsarism. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Gilbert, M. 2007. Churchill and the Jews. London: Pocket Books. Heinze-Mühleib, I. 1986. Erich Mendelsohn. Bauten und Projekte in Palästina (1934–1941). Munich: Scaneg. Herbert, G. 1959. The Synthetic Vision of Walter Gropius. Johannesburg: Witwatersrand University Press Herbert, G. 1987. The Divided Heart: Erich Mendelsohn and the Zionist Dream, Erich Mendelsohn in Palastine, exhibition catalogue, Haifa. Herbert, G. and Sosnovsky, S. 1993. Bauhaus-on-the-Carmel and the Crossroads of Empire. Jerusalem: Yad Itzhak Ben-Zvi. Herbert, G. and Heinze-Greenberg, I. 1995. The Anatomy of a Profession: Architects in Palestine during the British Mandate, Architectura: Zeitschrift für Geschichte der Baukunst, 22(2), 149–162 Herbert, G. and Heinze-Greenberg, I. 1996. The beginnings of Modern Architecture in Israel: The First Power Stations, 1919–1932, Haifa: Architectural Research Centre/PEC. Herbert, G., Heinze-Greenberg, I. and Sosnovsky, S. 2003. In Search of Excellence: The Architecture and Building Projects of the Electric Industry in the Land of Israel 1921– 1942, Haifa: Architectural Research Centre/PEC. Herbert, G. and Richter, L. 2008. Through a Clouded Glass: Mendelsohn, Wijdeveld and the Jewish Connection. Tübingen-Berlin: Wasmuth-Verlag. Hurwitz, D.L. 1995 Churchill and Palestine, Judaism: A Quarterly Journal of Jewish Life and Thought, 44(1), 3–33 James, K. 1997. Erich Mendelsohn and the Architecture of German Modernism. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Levin, M. 1980. ‘Jerusalem Architecture during the British Mandate’, in Ahimeir and Levin, eds. Modern Architecture in Jerusalem, Jerusalem [Hebrew]. Orell, A. and Orell, D. 2008. ‘Benjamin Orell: Architect without a Diploma’, Haifa [Hebrew]. Posener, J. 1999, in Stephan (1999). Richter, L. 2003. Different Patterns of the Adaptation as Architects of two Jewish Immigrants: Alexander Baerwald and Benjamin Chaikin in Eretz IsraeI, PhD dissertation, Technion, Haifa. Rose, N. 1986. Chaim Weizmann: A Biography, New York: Viking. Sacher, H. 1959. Zionist Portraits and other Essays, [ed. H. Blond], London (originally published in New Judaea, January 1942). Shaltiel, E. 1990. Pinhas Rutenberg 1879–1942: Life and Times, Tel-Aviv: Am Oved Publishers [2 vols, Hebrew]. Staal, J.F. 1920. Naar Anleiding, Wendingen 3(10), 15–20. Stephan, R. ed. 1999. Erich Mendelsohn: Dynamics and Function, Ostfilden-Ruit: Hatje-Cantz Publishers. clash of the titans 143
Weisgal, M. ed. 1993: The Letters and Papers of Chaim Weizmann. (Full set 23 volumes: series A—letters). Transaction Publishers.
Notes
1 These institutions included the Jewish National Fund [Keren Kayemet] and the Palestine Land Development Corp., concerned with the acquisition of land; the Foundation Fund [Keren Hayesod], the financial arm; and the General Federation of Labour [Histadrut], together with its giant contruction subsidiary, Solel Boneh. Public service organizations such as Hadassah were responsible for major projects such as the hospital complex on Mt. Scopus in Jerusalem. 2 Tilmann Buddensieg et al (1984). 3 These notes on Rutenberg derive in part from Gilbert Herbert and Liliane Richter (2008), and are an update on material in Herbert, Heinze-Greenberg and Sosnovsky (2003). For a comprehensive biography of Rutenberg see Eli Shaltiel (1990). There is an excellent condensed English-language biography on the Wikipedia website. 4 For an account of the Putilov factory see Peter Gatrell (1994). 5 Seidener’s connection with the Holy Land was both political and personal. As early as 1893 he was corresponding with the Hovevei Zion organization in Austria about the acquisition of land across the Jordan, and he was a shareholder in the Jewish Colonial Trust. He eventually settled in Palestine, and was listed in the 1937 Palestine Directory as having an engineering practice in Tel Aviv’s Rothschild Boulevard. 6 Herzl’s diaries were translated into English by H. Zohn (5 vols., 1960; an abridged vol. ed. by M. Lowenthal, 1962). 7 For the Seidener memorandum see Herbert and Heinze-Greenberg (1996) p. E5. 8 norman Bentwich (1961) p. 72. 9 Martin Gilbert (2007) p. 47. 10 For details of the concession see the report ‘Palestine Electric Corporation Limited,’ 27.5.1925 (Doc. 30, Dec. 1925, PEC). 11 For a full account see Shaltiel (1990) esp. pt.2 pp. 108ff. 12 The New Palestine, 30 June 1922, pp. 14–15, 45, 117. 13 Report ‘Palestine Electric Corporation Limited,’ 27.5.1925 (Doc.30, Dec.1925, PEC). 14 For a discussion of Rutenberg’s decision-making progress see Herbert et. al. (2003), p. 17. 15 Herbert et. al. (2003) p. 29 16 For example, we have protracted correspondence indicating tension between Rutenberg and Kauffmann about fees for the First Tel-Aviv (Auja) Power Station. Although the amounts were modest (one cheque was for £E16.65) Rutenberg still grumbled that the architect was overpaid for the work he had done. 17 The notes on Mendelsohn in this text are derived in part from Gilbert Herbert and Liliane Richter, (2008). This book contains an extensive bibliography on Mendelsohn, referring especially to the writings of Ita Heinze-Mühlheib (later Heinze-Greenberg), Gilbert Herbert, Hans Rudolf Morgenthaler, Kathleen James, Regina Stephan, and 144 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
Oskar Beyer. The archives of Erich Mendelsohn are in the Kunstbibliothek, Berlin, and of Luise Mendelsohn in the Getty Research Institute, Los Angeles. 18 Letter Mendelsohn/Brink, 26 May 1944 (Getty Research Inst. Series 1:3/6). 19 The Cassirer exhibition later travelled widely, and was seen in major cities throughout Germany. 20 Kathleen James (1997) fn.6, p.265. See also Oskar Beyer (1967), Mendelsohn to J.J.P. Oud, 25.8.,1923, Nederlands Documentatiecentrum voor de Bouwkunst, Amsterdam (today probably at the NAi), Erich Mendelsohn, letters to H.C. Wijdeveld, March 7 and April 2, 1921 (same location). 21 J.F. Staal: ‘Naar Anleiding,’ and O.Beyer: ‘Architectuur in ijzen en beton,’ Wendingen 3, (October 1920), pp. 4–14. Staal built the first skyscraper in Amsterdam at a central point in the Berlage expansion plan for Amsterdam. With one exception all the illustrations were of sketches and models, the only completed building being the ‘Hausleben’ office building in Berlin. 22 Letter Mendelsohn/Luise Maas, 18 September 1914, in Oskar Beyer (1961) pp. 31–32. 23 See the section on ‘unity in action’ in Gilbert Herbert: The Synthetic Vision of Walter Gropius, Johannesburg, 1959, p.9ff. 24 See letter Mendelsohn/Schocken 14.10.1937, and Mendelsohn/Secretary 2.10.1938. For the text of the ‘bird bath’ letter see Heinze-Greenberg in Stephan (1999) p. 218. 25 For Kauffmann in Haifa see Gilbert Herbert and Silvina Sosnovsky, Bauhaus-on-the- Carmel and the Crossroads of Empire (1993) p. 85ff. 26 AEG-Bauburo Berlin, construction drawings, 15.3.1922, amended 2.4.1922 (AHRC)]. 27 Martin Gilbert (2007) p. 276. 28 There are conflicting reports whether Kauffmann showed Rutenberg the Cassirer catalogue, or whether he saw it later in London. 29 Excerpt from a letter Mendelsohn/Wijdeveld, 22.1.1923. (Original, KB B IV7, excerpt in the Mendelsohn files in the AHRC). Mendelsohn writes Ruthenberg instead of the usual Rutenberg, and Jaffo, which is a hybrid between the English Jaffa and the Hebrew Yafo. [Original in German]. 30 ‘Haben Sie nicht lust mitzukommen?’ Letter Mendelsohn/Wijdeveld, 30 January 1923 (NAi, Wijdeveld B4.6) [original in German]. 31 Telegram, Wijdeveld/Mendelsohn, 14 February 1923 (KB EM Archive IV 7–2).See Heinze-Greenberg in Stephan (1999) p. 60, and note 16 on p. 265. 32 The relationship of these two architects is the theme of the book by Gilbert Herbert and Liliane Richter (2008) 33 See letter Ellen Wijdeveld of 28.2.23, Luise Mendelsohn p. 121. 34 Telegraaf , 24.4.1923 and 12.5.1923. 35 ‘We zijn altijd tesamen. Overal met z’n drieen, van-af het ontbijt tot we elkaar goeden Nacht wenschen….’ Letter Wijdeveld/Ellen Wijdeveld, 14.3.1923 (NAi Wijdeveld B38.3). 36 See letter from Wijdeveld to his wife Ellen, Jerusalem, 13.3.1923 (NAi Wijdeveld B38.3). [Original in Dutch]. 37 Wijdeveld writes ‘v. Friesland,’ like the Dutch province of Friesland. He is however referring to Siegfried van Vriesland (1886–1939), who had lived in Palestine since 1918. clash of the titans 145
Van Vriesland was a member of the Zionist Committee for Palestine and treasurer of the General Zionist Council between 1923–1925. He was Director of the Palestine Potash Works between 1929–1938 and held the position of Dutch Consul (CZA A114/34). 38 Letter from Wijdeveld to his wife Ellen, Jerusalem 15.3.1923 (NAi Wijdeveld B38.3). 39 Haifa District Electric Work Power House, Drawings Ha 1, 2, 21a, 18.3.1923. 40 For a fuller account of the development of the Haifa Power Station project, following Mendelsohn/s return to Berlin, and Kauffmann’s involvement, see Herbert, Heinze- Greenberg, Sosnovsky. (2003). 41 Letter Mendelsohn/Rutenberg, 27.11.1923 (PEC Archives). 42 Letter Kauffmann/Mendelsohn, 22.7.1924 (CZA). 43 The Mendelsohn/Rutenberg correspondence is in the PEC Archives. 44 Ita Heinze-Mühleib (1986), p. 71, citing Mendelsohn’s ‘My own contribution,’ in Beyer (1967), p. 170. 45 Beyer (1967), p. 10. 46 For short biographies of these architects and further details of their work see Herbert and Sosnovsky, (1993); for Orell see Aluf and Dror Orell (2008). 47 See Gilbert Herbert and Ita Heinze-Greenberg (1995). 48 For a discussion of cultural adaptation see Liliane Richter (2003). 49 Letter Chaim Yassky/Mendelsohn, 1945, cited in Gilbert Herbert (1987). Yassky was the Medical Director of the Hadassah Hospital on Mt. Scopus, one of Mendelsohn’s finest buildings. 50 Letter Mendelsohn/Ruthenberg, 21 May 1939 (PEC Archives). 51 Letter Mendelsohn/Kauffmann, 23.2.1941. 52 For an account of this journey see Gilbert Herbert, ‘The Metamorphosis of a Mountain: Eric Mendelsohn in Cape Town, 1941,’ Architecture SA, 3–4 1987, pp. 22–23. This page has been left blank intentionally 4
Working as a Team: From the Transvaal Group to the John Moffat Building
Gilbert Herbert
We regard the architecture which resulted from Fassler and his team’s collective design as the finest building created at Wits in the second half of the twentieth century. —Professor Alan Mabin, Head of Architecture and Planning, Witwatersrand University, referring to the John Moffat Building on the occasion of the celebrations marking its fiftieth birthday.
Introduction
In this account we look at the design of the John Moffat Building, built in the late 1950s as the home of the University of the Witwatersrand’s Faculty of Architecture and Town Planning, against the background of an ethos of cooperation and teamwork which characterized the School of Architecture, its staff and its students. We also look at the close ties between the School and the small band of practitioners who pioneered the Modern Movement, an overlapping alliance initially known as the Transvaal Group. 148 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
This chapter has been written by Gilbert Herbert, who wishes to insert this personal note: ‘It has been my practice, when writing an academic paper, to avoid the use of the first person. This chapter is an exception to my general custom. The first person is used here because I was personally involved in the story for much of the period under discussion: as a student and then a teacher from 1942 until 1961, when I resigned from the staff at the School, on emigrating to Australia. I was also one of the architects in John Fassler’s team which designed the John Moffat Building. Ultimately, for a short period, I knew the building from the user’s perspective, as a teacher discussing students’ work over the drawing board, pontificating in its lecture theatres, or researching in its library; and as an architect working in its collaborative workspace, Studio Seven.’
The School of Architecture and the Transvaal Group
When as a freshman in 1942 I entered the School of Architecture—then housed in the imposing neo-classical Central Block of the University of the Witwatersrand—it was already the stuff of legend, as the focus of the cultural revolution, architecturally speaking, which had transformed South Africa from a provincial back-water into one of the leading forces of avant garde architecture outside of Europe. That revolution had taken place in a few short years, from 1928 to 1932, the principal arena was the School of Architecture at the University of the Witwatersrand, and the principal actors were the Head of the School, Professor Geoffrey Eastcott Pearse, the Senior Lecturer, Stanley Furner, and the young lecturer, Rex Distin Martienssen. Geoffrey Eastcott Pearse (1885-1968), the first Professor of Architecture in South Africa, like many of his generation, had no formal university training, but acquired his professional skills through a process of apprenticeship while attending part- time courses at Institutes in England and South Africa. His professional status came when he passed the Final Examination of the Royal Institute of British Architects in 1912. He chose his mentors well. At the Regent Street Technical Institute his teachers included A.E. Richardson and Banister Fletcher, and the offices he worked in included that of Leonard Stokes, then President of the RIBA and, on his return to South Africa, the prestigious firm of Baker and Fleming.1 Because of his associations his approach to architecture was traditional, eclectic, but with a strong affinity to classicism. Back in South Africa after the Great War (he had a commission in the Royal Engineers, serving in the Middle East) he practised architecture and taught courses at the University College. When full University status was granted, he was appointed to the chair in 1921. Pearse’s role in the revolution was a permissive rather than an active one. He recognized modernism as the wave of the future, and while it was not to his taste he was tolerant and wise enough to let it take root in his School. Pearse made do with part-time assistance until 1925, when Stanley Furner (1892–1971), an English architect, was appointed Senior Lecturer.2 While Furner’s education had been no less traditional than Pearse’s, his experience and outlook was wider. He taught for a short while at the Architectural Association, and then working as a team 149 moved to a post at the Bartlett School. Furner was a forward- looking man, widely read, and he brought to the fledgling school at Wits (as the University of the Witwatersrand was informally known) not only a knowledge and appreciation of the avant garde of Central Europe, but also the writings of Le Corbusier. In 1928 he resigned, to go into private practice, in the highly- regarded firm of Kallenbach, Kennedy and Furner. When in 1931 Pearse took six months’ leave to take up a Carnegie grant, he persuaded Furner to temporarily come back to the School, and take charge. Furner, through his dissemination of the writings of the leaders of the modern movement—presented with critical understanding—was the catalyst of the revolution that was to take place, but not its main instrument. The key figure in this dramatic transformation was the young South African architect, Rex Martienssen, who had just been appointed to the staff of the School. Furner and Martienssen were well acquainted, as the young man had worked in Furner’s office during the summer vacation.
Martienssen and the Transvaal Group Fig. 4.1 Professor G.E. Pearse Rex Distin Martiennsen3 (1905–1942), born in the Cape Province but educated in Johannesburg, enrolled in the degree course in Architecture at the University of the Witwatersrand in March 1923. His progress as a student was chequered, disrupted by his inability to pass the required course in mathematics (switching to the academically less rigid Diploma course, then back to the Degree course when the mathematics requirement was dropped), and completed his final year in 1928. This stumbling career ended triumphantly with his winning of the A.S. Furner Prize for originality in design. His subsequent academic career, as a charismatic lecturer and a scholar, was brilliant, and his research was rewarded with the first master’s degree in architecture (1939) and the first doctorate in architecture (1941) in South Africa. His academic studies were reinforced by the experiences of overseas travel, on a students’ tour (accompanied by his friend Gordon McIntosh) in the winter of 1925-26, and with Norman Hanson in 1930, where at Stuttgart, with Mendelsohn’s Schocken Store and the Weissenhofsiedlung they had an epiphany, experiencing at first hand the ‘shock of the new’. In 1933 Martienssen was in Europe once again, and in Paris met Le Corbusier for the first time. This contact proved to be a turning point in Martienssen’s career. Le Corbusier became the godfather of the movement, who through his writings and his architecture, and finally, through his personal patronage, gave direction to the emerging new architecture, and defined its language of expression, its grammar and its vocabulary. Le Corbusier was the epitome of the artist as individual, the unique genius, the lone wolf, or—to mix our metaphors—the cat who walked by himself. Pierre Jeanneret was his right-hand man, his assistant, but there is no 150 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process doubt which of the two cast a giant shadow, and which worked in the shade. In this, Le Corbusier—like Frank Lloyd Wright—was the towering individual who had helpers and disciples, but never real partners in the creative act. Now while Le Corbusier was Martienssen’s guiding light, the fons et origo of the emerging modern movement in South Africa, Martienssen lacked the egoism of the master, and worked best when surrounded by allies and associates. Consequently, the way in which South African architecture evolved was that of a movement whose leader was first among equals. Martienssen was the acknowledged leader, but the force was that of a consortium, not a formal association but a loosely constituted alliance of progressive practitioners and teachers and students of the School of Architecture, a coterie of kindred spirits which Le Corbusier dubbed Le Groupe Transvaal. Martienssen himself would perhaps have preferred a more ordered arrangement, but his colleagues were happy with the flexibility of their ad hoc associations.4 This penchant for informality was later to characterise the professional exercises in collaboration, culminating in the design of the John Moffat Building. At the core of the Transvaal Group was a senior echelon: Rex Martienssen, Norman Hanson, and Gordon McIntosh; a fairly large intermediate category, whose most important members were John Fassler, Bernard Cooke and Duncan Howie; and a younger group, all School of Architecture students, including Monte Bryer, Kurt Jonas and Roy Kantorowich. This group was characterised by its team spirit and group solidarity. While this was generated and encouraged by Martienssen, the philosophy of teamwork did not derive from Martienssen’s mentor, Le Corbusier, but rather reflected the philosophy of Walter Gropius, the apostle of team-work. We have a paradox here, for the relationship of the Transvaal Group to Gropius was ambivalent. Two houses by McIntosh, the first modern work associated with the Transvaal Group, were dubbed his Gropian houses. Looking for international recognition, the approval of Gropius was sought for the South African movement, and the group received in return a warm letter, generous in its commendation.5 Initially the Gropius-Mies- Corbusier triumvirate were the guiding lights of the movement, but as the influence of Le Corbusier gained ascendancy, that of Gropius was consistently downgraded.6 Nevertheless, while Gropius as an inspirational source of architectural form declined, the team ethos which Gropius advocated became—whether knowingly or not—the spirit in which the Transvaal Group functioned. In later years this ethos was commemorated when the South African Architectural Record devoted an entire issue to an analysis of the holistic approach of Walter Gropius.7 In the eyes of the Transvaal Group, Gropius, although admired, never attained the heroic status of Le Corbusier, but then, this more modest man—who insisted the age of the prima donna was dead - would not have wished it.8 Eventually, as the group matured, the infallibility of Le Corbusier himself was challenged. The critical year was 1942— when the avant garde South African architectural world was shocked by the premature death of Martienssen—as the first public questioning of Le Corbusier’s authoritarian approach took place in the South African Architectural Record, in a debate generated by a critical article by Roy Kantorowich.9 As we shall see, what is relevant for us in this discussion is how the spirit of collaboration and team-work of the Transvaal Group manifested itself in the School working as a team 151 of Architecture. Before doing so, however, we should also briefly point out that the emergence of modern architecture in South Africa depended not only on theory but in the translation of theory into practice, and that its iconic works were produced not only by talented individuals but by small partnerships of practising architects working in harmony. Most notable of these were the architectural firms of Hanson-Tomkin-Finkelstein and Martienssen-Fassler-Cooke, triads of partners whose collaboration was based on a common education, personal friendship, congruence of approach, and complementary talents. We are not talking of teamwork in the sense of Gropius and the Architects Collaborative, or of today’s mammoth architectural firms, those organizational conglomerations dealing with huge practices. Rather, we are dealing with small intimate groups of colleagues working together, with little draughting or technical assistance, handling a limited output of modest projects. They operated in different contexts: Hanson’s partnership was a commercial practice, exposed to all the constraints that implied, while Martienssen’s team was cushioned from the market place by its protective academic shield.
Combined Operations: Collaboration in the School of Architecture
The Architectural School of the University of the Witwatersrand,10 which I entered in 1942, was one of contradictions. As was only natural, there was keen competition between the students when it came to the originality of our design projects, and the grades they received. On the other hand, there was a remarkable esprit de corps among the student body, and pride in the school as a collective corpus, with its own unique identity and its own ethos. There could be a Department of Mathematics, a Faculty of Engineering, but Architecture was a School, in the best creative and academic sense.11 This spirit manifested itself in different ways. Group projects were encouraged. Major design projects were often undertaken by teams of two or three students, where our individual talents—this one a consummate planner, this one a wizard at perspectives—were melded for the common good. Students from more senior years would casually walk into the studio, and offer their more mature criticism or advice. Scanning the Architectural Record, which published a generous selection from the Annual Exhibitions of Student Work, one is aware of the extent of this cooperative work. Even the final fifth year project—we called it the thesis—was often undertaken as a group. My own thesis was undertaken with one other colleague, but I note some earlier, albeit extreme cases, which involved groups of five to ten students. Working together in the studio was a way of life, and late night sessions, as deadlines for submission drew near, generated a sense of intimacy and cohesion.
Staff-student collaboration
There was, however, another level of cooperation, in which students were directed and motivated by a democratic corporate body, the Students Architectural Society, 152 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
Fig. 4.2 Students founded in 1925. On entering the School I was soon aware of the rich history of preparing achievement of this Society. Under Kurt Jonas, its dynamic chairman, it had initiated exhibition two legendary events. The first was the Congress and Exhibition of Abstract Art, held in 1937, which ‘was concerned with establishing the essential unity of all the arts, including architecture, in terms of an abstract aesthetic’—a very Gropian concept. This was followed by an ambitious Town Planning Congress in 1938, for which the students prepared plans for ‘a model native township for 20,000 inhabitants’, and the Transvaal Group, ‘a new business centre for Cape Town.’ The Society continued well into the next decade with its presentation of major exhibitions. To name a few: ‘Rebuilding South Africa’, in 1943; the exhibit showing the South African approach to housing in a larger ‘National Housing Exhibition’ organised by the US Office of War Information and the South African Institute of Architects; the comprehensive ‘Architecture in South Africa Today,’ opened by the Mayor of Johannesburg in the Selborne Hall in August 1946; and ‘The Art of Architecture,’ in 1948. The time- consuming preparation of these exhibitions was carried out with the full support of the teaching staff, and often with the cooperation of the profession. The Society also initiated several series of public lectures not only on South African architecture, but on topics such as Native Housing, Contemporary Russian Architecture, Art and Architecture, Art and Engineering, or Russian Culture and Architecture. It also organised major symposiums—often in association with the Institute of Architects. Finally, there was the students’ contribution to the South African Architectural Record. This monthly journal was officially the organ of the Transvaal Institute of Architects, but in practice it was very much a School magazine. We shall deal with working as a team 153 it again, when we consider its production as a cooperative staff endeavour, but at this point in our discussion it is relevant to stress the students’ role. Not only did student work appear annually, but the lectures sponsored by the Student Society contributed much to its intellectual content. In addition there was a specific student section, the monthly Students Forum, whose material ranged from valuable essays on historic buildings to correspondence on National Housing and an interview with Maxwell Fry. Not only did the collaboration of staff and students characterise the more traditional areas of academic activity—lectures, exhibitions, publications—but it extended to some less usual channels. The first was a product of the times. In the 1940s South Africa was heavily involved in the war, with its forces engaged in East and North Africa, then in the Italian campaign. Many students—I amongst them— volunteered for service and enrolled in the Rand University Training Corps, as an interim measure before going into the regular army. Pearse, who was second-in- command of the corps, explained its purpose and methods. ‘In 1940 the University was asked to recruit students for various branches of the army and air force … Training took place every Saturday morning at Milner Park and lectures were given in the evenings twice a week. In January and July the different Units went to the various military centres for training.’12 Most of the architectural students went into the Engineering Corps. We had weekly training sessions in the fields across from the campus, where we learnt such arcane skills as making machine gun emplacements or laying minefields; and in the long vacations we went for extended periods to regular military camps: the Engineering Corps base at Spitzkop, and the camouflage school at Voortrekkerhoogte. Our immediate officers were two of our teachers, Capt. John Fassler and Lieut. Duncan Howie. The natural camaraderie which existed between soldiers, and the intimate relationship with officers who were well known to us from the design studios and lecture theatres, contributed to the sense of unity which characterised the School. On campus the School undertook combined operations of another sort. A programme of practical building experience was initiated, and for several weeks each year—until we ran out of projects and budget—staff and students worked side by side constructing small buildings to our own design down at the sports fields: a brick-built scoring box at the cricket grounds, or steel-and-concrete pavilions in the style of Mies van der Rohe next to the tennis courts. Shoulder to shoulder, staff and students laboured together, digging foundations, mixing concrete by hand, erecting scaffolding and laying bricks—the latter a Fassler speciality. During the war the School of Architecture was a small department, with less than a hundred architectural students and a limited staff. During the whole period of my studies (1942–1946) I was taught the core subjects (design, construction, architectural history and urban planning) by only four architects: Professor Pearse, Rex Martienssen (the senior lecturer), John Fassler, and Duncan Howie. This tight- knit group (diminished by the death of Martienssen in 1942) was only expanded after the end of the war, when returning service-men swelled the intake of students, and in the years 1946-48 some new lecturers were appointed, including those most relevant to the John Moffat story. Fig. 4.3 Gas Warfare drill: Capt. Fassler, Lt. Howie, University students
Fig. 4.4 Practical building exercise: staff and students working side by side working as a team 155
Even in this expanded form, the staff of the Architectural Department remained Fig. 4.5 Staff relatively small, especially as the number of architectural students by 1948 had Party for Richard grown significantly, to 264. One of the consequences of the limited size of this and Dione Neutra Left-right: Bette group of teachers was that personal relationships on the whole were cordial, (Spence) Pinfold and cooperation—professional and intellectual—became a norm. This of course (seated), Carl was fortunate, because the enforced intimacy could equally have led to rivalry, Pinfold, Duncan disputations, and back-biting. Many of the teachers and their wives visited each Howie, Valerie other’s homes, participated in their celebrations, and loyally attended each other’s Herbert, Sheila Fassler, Gilbert public lectures and exhibitions. Some of us, reinforced by the more intellectually- Herbert, Ugo minded professionals such as Norman Hanson and Roy Kantorowich, met regularly Tomaselli (usually at Professor Fassler’s house, once over a weekend at a colleague’s farm) as At back: Graham an informal Discussion Group to debate cultural issues of the day. As professional de Gruchy, architects we served together on committees of the Transvaal Provincial Institute [unidentified], Wilfred Mallows, of Architects. [unidentified], Lesley Gruzd, John Fassler Academics and Professional Practice: A Question of Balance
At this time, the University’s policy in relation to private practice was that full- time members of the academic staff could practise on a modest scale, but were not permitted to maintain an independent external professional office. In other words, understanding that the architects on their staff needed to maintain their professional skills in real-world situations, the University allowed the academic staff to undertake projects, but only to the extent that these did not interfere in 156 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process any way with their commitment to full-time teaching. Within these parameters, on those rare occasions when a member of staff received a commission he could not handle by himself there were two courses open to him: he could collaborate with a colleague, or with an outside firm. For modest commissions, in-house collegiate collaboration became a norm, and many smaller jobs were carried out in this way. We shall look at some examples, when we discuss such ad-hoc partnerships between members of the John Moffat team, prior to the undertaking of that major project. A loose framework was set up for these associations, with the establishment of what was called Studio Seven, which provided draughting space in which staff could carry out their professional work. This was an ingenious solution which kept commercial activity on campus, but separate from the academic facilities. In the post-war era, when accommodation was at a premium, Studio Seven was located in a separate part of Hut T5A, one of the temporary huts which housed the student design studios. Later, as we shall see, more generous space for Studio Seven was included in the programme for the John Moffat Building, the School’s new home. For larger commissions, requiring the support structure of an established professional office, association with an existing practice was often the chosen path. In general, staff members did not have a private office of their own, and if they conducted a modest private practice as a one-man undertaking it was usually from their own homes.13 Collaboration with outside firms usually came at the latter’s initiative, and ranged from residential buildings to much larger projects which were usually undertaken off-campus, with administration and supervision usually the responsibility of the commercial partner. We shall look at an example of such an ad-hoc association between a member of staff and an outside practitioner, one taken from my own experience, before we deal with two major cases, the one unique (the design of a commercial project, Escom House, by Professor Pearse and his colleagues), the other generic and enduring, the role of academic staff in the design of University buildings. I worked in association with Nathan Fink (the Finkelstein of Hanson-Tomkin- Finkelstein) on two occasions. When he was invited to participate in a limited competition for the design of the Oxford Synagogue, he asked me to join him. I conceived the design, and produced all the drawings, setting up an improvised studio in the basement of my home. Again, in the case of the Cinerama Theatre in Johannesburg, a project contemporaneous with the John Moffat Building, it was Fink who was offered the commission. This was possibly on the strength of his previous experience with cinema design,14 but another reason perhaps was that he had previously worked professionally for the client, Shim Lakofski. As Lakofski’s daughter Denise Scott-Brown, the well-known architect, recalls, her mother was at the Wits architectural school for a couple of years, and got to know many of the heroes of the Transvaal Group. When she married, she hired her old friends, Hanson-Tomkin-Finkelstein, to design the Lakofski house. It was probably Hanson who was responsible for the bravura design, but it was Finkelstein who signed the official drawings as the owner’s architect. At Fink’s invitation, I became his associate architect, and in this role designed the Cinerama Theatre, did the working drawings, and all the details. During the design process Fink maintained contact working as a team 157 with the client, and took over the main burden when it came to the realisation of the Cinerama project. For instance, he handled the technical problems, dealt with the requirements of the City Engineers Department, checked the sight-lines, managed the contract, coordinated the consultants, and supervised the construction.
Escom House, Johannesburg, 1935
Before we look at the University projects in whose design the School of Architecture was involved, we must deal with a particularly significant building undertaken by Pearse and his colleagues, not for the University but for a large quasi-governmental organization, the Electricity Supply Commission [Escom]. The Escom House experiment in collaboration was unique, in the sense that it involved a commercial client outside the accustomed academic framework. The circumstances in which Pearse and some of his University colleagues became involved in the design of the Escom office tower, at the time the most prominent building in Johannesburg, are not clear.15 The design history of this prestigious 21-storey building involved three stages. ‘Preliminary plans were prepared by the Commission, which subsequently formed the basis of the scheme prepared by Mr. P. Rogers Cooke. Ultimately the project was carried out with Professor G.E. Pearse and his staff as consultants, after extensive revisions had been made to the interior and exterior treatment of the building.’16 P. Rogers Cooke, a well-known Johannesburg architect, had in the 1930s been responsible for a series of major theatres in Johannesburg, Pretoria, Cape Town and Durban. The most impressive, the Colosseum in Johannesburg, of 1933, was a majestic structure part Art Deco, part monumental Egyptian, housing a 2,279-seater ‘atmospheric’ auditorium, and was long regarded as the flagship of the African Consolidated Theatres chain. By 1935 Cooke’s design for Escom had taken form, and a splendid watercolour perspective by H.L.G. Pilkington was exhibited at the annual South African Academy. Then, for reasons that are not immediately apparent, but go beyond the scope of this study, Cooke’s connection with the project severed when construction according to his design had already begun, and had reached foundation level. The new architects were committed to retaining the existing column layout. When Pearse took over the project late in 1935, he called upon his University colleagues to work with him. John Fassler headed the special design office where, under Pearse’s direction, he prepared the working and detailed drawings.17 He was joined by Bernard Cooke (no relation to Rogers Cooke) as part of the design team, Rex Martienssen, who designed the main entrance and other minor details, and the sculptor Willem de Sanderes Hendrikz, a lecturer in the Fine Arts Department associated with the School, who did the art work. Considerations of building regulations, zoning laws, sight lines and permissible volumes, together with economic imperatives, determined the form of the building. The stepped form with its central tower and its vertically linked windows also owes much to American skyscraper design. The vertical fenestration and undecorated surfaces recall the News Building in New York by Raymond Hood, but the most direct prototype is the Milam Building in San Antonio, by George Willis. Fig. 4.6a escom House: plans Fig. 4.6b and c escom House: interior of Hall of Achievement 160 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
This too is a 21-storey reinforced concrete structure—the tallest in the USA when opened in 1928—and was the first high-rise air-conditioned office building of its day. There is a hint of Art Deco in Escom House, perhaps a heritage of the original Rogers Cooke design. Its main external distinction was the monumental entrance designed by Martienssen, which brings to mind not only the entrance to Gunnar Asplund’s Stockholm Library, but also the entrance designed for a Magistrate’s Court, submitted for a competition by Martienssen, Fassler and Cooke in 1934. Despite the involvement of these three as individuals in the design process, this is not a Martienssen-Fassler-Cooke project, and the formal treatment owes nothing to the Corbusian canon so beloved by the Transvaal Group. Fassler had become increasingly interested in the application of advanced technologies in both structural and environmental control. In his published account of the design of Escom House we note the emphasis on technical innovations.18 Special attention was paid to the integration of air-conditioning throughout the office areas through the provision of horizontal and vertical ducts, the creation of zones of control, and the installation of air-conditioning plants at five different locations ranging from the 15th floor to the basement—a split installation which presages by many years that of the United Nations Building in New York. It is in the modernity of the interior that we sense the more significant signs of the University staff’s design intervention. In addition to rentable office space the building accommodated the administrative headquarters and offices of Escom itself, the Steel Sales Company of Africa, ISCOR, and the Union Steel Corporation. The main public spaces were two banks on the ground floor, sympathetically designed by the Corporation’s architects, a double-volume exhibition hall, the Hall of Achievement, on the ground floor, and a Conference Room seating 200 above. The Hall of Achievement was a permanent exhibition space characterised by its highly-sophisticated materials: stainless steel handrails and trim, glass block panels, and recessed lighting. The height of the free-standing columns was accentuated by vertical striping in black and white marble, an effect immortalized in a fine water- colour perspective by John Fassler. The space was dominated by a large mural sandblasted on black glass, designed by Willem de Sanderes Hendrikz. Another element in the design of the functional spaces was an arc-shaped auditorium, fully equipped as a motion-picture theatre. We shall come across the integration of art work by a close associate of the architects, and the motif of vertically-striped columns, when we deal later with the John Moffat Building. The Escom House undertaking, and its successful conclusion, was a valuable experience for Pearse. It was also a test by which the University could measure his worth not only as an academic but as a practising architect. It no doubt eased the way for him, step by step, to become involved in the development of the campus, an on-going process we shall now examine.
University Context: the beginnings of the campus at Milner Park
The campus of the newly-established University of the Witwatersrand was laid out in the 1920s with substantial rectangular buildings in the neo-classical style set working as a team 161
symmetrically on a central axis, dominated by the impressive Central Block. The Fig. 4.7 history of the founding of the University and the design and erection of its first University of the buildings has been scrupulously chronicled19 and it is not necessary to recapitulate Witwatersrand, 1930 that story here. We shall, however, name the architects responsible for the design of the early buildings on campus—the firm of E.M. Powers and N.T. Cowin working in association with F. Emley and F.Williamson20—and shall be looking at the Central Block, for it plays a significant role in the account that follows. At the beginning of the 1930s the imposing façade of the Central Block, with its dominant portico of eight Corinthian columns, was little more than a shallow edifice screening a temporary structure behind, which provided the principal accommodation—the administration, the Departments of Geography and Law, the Anthropological Museum, and the University Library—until such time that funds could be raised for the completion of the permanent building. In December 1931 a disastrous fire destroyed the central portion of this building and the temporary structures behind, leaving only the façade intact.21 Two consequences relevant to our story ensued. There was an immediate imperative to replenish and rehabilitate the contents of the library22 and build a new structure to house it; and an eventual need to fill the vacuum behind the remnants of the gutted Central Block with a permanent building. It was these two projects that saw the beginning of a process that brought Pearse and the School of Architecture together with the official University architects in the designing of the buildings on the campus.
The University Buildings: The Involvement of Pearse and Members of the Teaching Staff
The University projects we shall be discussing were examples of collaboration of a comprehensive kind, and an enduring nature. From project to project not only did the names of architects recur, albeit in various combinations, but the work was 162 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
for the same client, it demanded a working relationship with the official University architects, it often involved university colleagues as professional in-house consultant engineers, and several of the buildings were constructed by the same contractor, John Barrow and Sons.23
The University Library, 1933
Fig. 4.8 The The building to house the new University Library (from 1975 called the William University Cullen Library) was designed in 1933 by the official University architects,E mley Library (later and Williamson and Cowin, Powers and Ellis, with input by the Librarian, Mr. P. Cullen Library) Freer. Pearse and his staff were not professionally involved with this University project, but nevertheless had a significant input in the design. Pearse, who had been in America on a Carnegie Corporation Grant, explained what was a somewhat delicate situation:
Soon after my return I was asked by the University to assist in the design of the University Library. As the University architects Messrs. F. Williamson and N.T. Cowin had been appointed to design the building, I found it very difficult to interfere but I managed to persuade them to adopt my proposals and designs for the main reading room and the eastern, northern and southern façades, dealing with these in a classic manner to harmonise with the main buildings instead of using red brick as they had proposed.24
Apart from mentioning that Fassler designed some of the furniture, Pearse does not indicate that the staff of his department was involved in the Library project. However, according to Fassler’s daughter Mira Fassler Kamstra (herself an architect), her father played a significant, if unacknowledged role in its design. ‘As a first year graduate,’ she writes, ‘he demonstrated his versatility in designing a Doric [actually Ionic] columned portico and classical façade and thoroughly modern reading and Fig. 4.9 Main Reading Room (perspective: John Fassler) and ground floor plan, Cullen Library 164 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process stack room to the new university library.’25 Fassler produced a dazzling perspective of the main reading room, with its magnificent murals,26 and the plans as published appear to be from the same hand. Pearse wrote an article commemorating the building, in which he took the opportunity to take the Librarian to task for his presumption in suggesting that he knew better than the architects how to design a library.27 The article in the main is descriptive rather than judgmental, but where it ventures into that more loaded area it tends to mix low-level praise and restrained criticism. Pearse briefly notes the ‘extreme simplicity’ of the internal details and fittings, with simple teak tables and Windsor chairs, but is more expansive about the Senior Students Common Room, furnished by the students themselves, ‘the furniture having been designed by Mr. J. Fassler, of the department of architecture. The settee and easy chairs are covered with a golden brown hide, the writing tables, fixed to the walls, are of veneered teak with chromium plated tubular steel supports. The long table... is also of veneered teak and the chairs are of chromium plated steel with red leather seats and backs.’ This article is in a way a statement of intent. He guardedly approves the University’s decision to continue the classical character of the campus, commending the fact that ‘in the University Library an attempt has been made to harmonise the building with the existing main buildings on the site, as well as to make it fit for its purpose,’ and his brief description of its character—‘externally the building has been treated in a quiet and dignified manner with an Ionic portico at the main entrance’—is praise, appropriately modest, for after all it relates to his own design input.28 But his enthusiasm for Fassler’s modern furniture is a pointer to the future, the way he thinks the University should go. The library building, with its classical portico, entablature and fenestration, does indeed show respect for its context, the central axis of the campus, responding in character to the dominant Central Block, and acknowledging its place in the hierarchy of the axis by its modest size, its more restrained detailing, and—a subtle touch—its choice of the Ionic style as against the Central Block’s more flamboyant Corinthian. Several University publications have suggested that the design was modelled on the Petit Trianon at Versailles, and this has been picked up by most recent commentators.29 I don’t know if this attribution is based on documented sources, but in my view the analogy is an unlikely one. Whatever its sources, however, the Library is an architectural gem, refined and well-proportioned, and is today greatly admired. Apart from its intrinsic merits, the building of the Library is significant for our story, from two points of view. It is aligned along the central axis of the campus, and is an extension northwards of the classical character of that axis. Its next door neighbour will be the John Moffat Building, the first building in the modern style to be erected on the axis.30 In other words, the architectural character of the Library, and its scale and proportions, establishes the immediate context of the John Moffat Building. Preserving the integrity of that context, while designing something new, will be a challenge that the design team will have to confront. The second relevant point is that the University’s decision-making bodies, it would appear, were becoming increasingly appreciative of the contribution that Pearse and his staff working as a team 165 could make to their evolving development of the campus. At the time, it seemed that the University council’s policy was to continue to develop the campus along traditional classical lines. However, that policy was soon to be modified, when the next major projects were launched.
The Central Block, Restoration and Completion, 1936
The destruction of the Central Block aggravated the accommodation crisis which ensued from the University’s continuing expansion. An international Appeal for Funds was launched by the University in August 1936. It was of limited success, but with the economic situation in South Africa improving dramatically it was buttressed by generous donations from local institutions and a grant from the Government. This encouraged the University to restore and complete the Central Block,31 and Williamson and Cowin, representing the two firms who were the University’s original architects, were commissioned to undertake the job. It was mooted by the University that Pearse should be appointed an ‘associate architect’, but when this was opposed by Williamson and Cowin, he was once again named ‘consulting architect’, a professional nicety, for in fact he became responsible for the project.32 A drawing office was set up at the University, and all work was done on the site, the designs being executed according to plans prepared by Pearse’s staff.33 Jean Welz—newly-arrived in South Africa from Paris, where he had worked for Le Corbusier, and was later a well-known painter—was employed by Williamson as a draughtsman, and was responsible for the modern double-volume entrance foyer and staircases.34 It was a serious design problem, and Pearse thought he made a very good job of it. Duncan Howie played an important role in this project. ‘Many years ago,’ it was reported in an article upon his retirement in 1974, ‘when he was in the temporary employ of the architects Messrs Williams and Cowin, he was closely concerned with the design and construction of the extensions to the Central Block.’35 He was especially involved in the design of the Great Hall, an elegant 1100-seat auditorium with excellent acoustics. In an oblique way, the solving of the acoustic problem brought Le Corbusier, god-father of the Transvaal Group, into the picture.36 The initial theoretical study and graphic determination, carried out by Howie, was sent for checking to the Sabine Laboratory, which confirmed its effectiveness. A London architect was then appointed as acoustic consultant, but he had no sympathy with modern architecture, and suggested breaking up the side walls with pilasters. Through the combined efforts of Roy Kantorowich, a young member of the Transvaal Group then visiting Europe, and the backing of Martienssen in Johannesburg, with whom he was in constant communication, the English consultant was side-stepped, and the French firm of GustaveL yon, acoustic adviser to Le Corbusier on such major projects as the Palace of the Soviets, was appointed in his stead. Lyon himself had recently died, but his grandson, Françoise Carpentier, undertook the commission. His recommendations involved only a slight modification to the ceiling’s profile, but more significantly the addition of a shell- like sound reflector at the back of the stage (a concha acting also as a cyclorama), Fig. 4.10 Central Block, 1940s, and Foyer after restoration working as a team 167
Fig. 4.11 Central Block: original plan and plan after restoration
a reflector above the proscenium, and the judicious use of sound-absorbent materials where necessary.37 Applying these changes produced an auditorium not only handsome in appearance but suitable for both speech and music.38 The fan- shaped auditorium was reminiscent of Le Corbusier’s designs, both for the Soviet project and the League of Nations competition. 168 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
Their role in the design of the Central Block served to establish Pearse and his colleagues in the School of Architecture as significant players as the building programme on the campus proceeded to evolve. Endorsement of the new architecture was not something that came easily to Pearse, but he recognised the wave of the future and, as in the reforms which Martienssen was pushing in educational policy of the School, he did not stand in the way of progress. It is true that the stylistic discontinuity of the modern interior showed little respect for the classical façade, but while Pearse accepted this, he was critical of the impurity of the classical idiom of the original building, deploring the fact that the entablature of the pediment did not align with that of the adjacent walls, a solecism he could not forgive.
Bernard Price Institute, 1937
The Bernard Price Institute for Geophysical Research is an unpretentious building whose somewhat austere architectural character belies its historical significance, for it was in fact the first uncompromisingly modern building on the campus. Its provenance is extremely interesting, and derives from the high drama unfolding in the immediate prewar years in Europe. The Institute was founded following gifts from the Carnegie Foundation and Dr. Bernard Price, in order to pursue research work in the field of geophysics, embracing meteorology, radio, lightning, atmospheric electricity and cosmic rays. Dr. Basil Schonland, a world expert on lightning, was to be the first director of the Institute, and the Institute was sponsored by the War Office in London. Claire Fulton explains the connection:
When war clouds gathered in Europe in the late 1930s, the need to develop radar was urgent. Commonwealth countries were secretly invited to send scientists to the UK for a briefing on the new concept of radar. No one went from South Africa. However, Schonland met distinguished New Zealand scientist Sir Ernest Marsden on a ship in Cape Town after the UK briefing. Copies of vague documents and notes made during the UK discussions were all Schonland had to work on. Incredibly, he and his team developed their own radar system, which was fully functional in South Africa just three months after the outbreak of World War II.
The architects of this building were the official University Architects, and Pearse was appointed consultant. Pearse must surely have welcomed the opportunity this appointment offered and, enjoying the support of the University administration, went on to play a major role in the development of the project. As he described it,39 he once again got the University Architects to engage Gordon Chalmers and Jean Welz as draughtsmen, and the latter was chiefly responsible for the planning of the building. Fassler, who had met Welz in 1937, on the occasion of the Abstract Art exhibition, appreciated this opportunity to renew this contact with an architect and artist who, when living in Paris, had personally known Le Corbusier and Picasso. They now met on the construction site of the Institute, and Fassler wrote: ‘In the somewhat torrid atmosphere of a wood and iron hut that served as an office for working as a team 169
Fig. 4.12 The Bernard Price Institute for Geophysical Research
the architectural staff, we discussed painting, sculpture and architecture whenever we met.’40 The layout of the plan, the three-dimensional form, the regular fenestration, and the pre-cast concrete surface treatment are basic, but there are elements of grace in the interior: the staircase balustrade, and the fittings in the conference room and library. This modest building—it took just eight months to build and cost only £8,000—kept the door open for Pearse, and through him the School of Architecture, to have a say in the architectural development of the campus. Fig. 4.13 The Hillman Building, view and ground floor plan working as a team 171
The Hillman Building, c.1939
This tolerance of a modern approach to design, hidden behind the classical façade of the Central Block, and the bland exterior of the Bernard Price Institute, became more evident in the next building entrusted to the architects of the School. Located behind the South West Engineering building and adjacent to the Central Block, the Wolf and Hirsch Hillman Engineering Building, completed in June 1941, was ‘a building that broke with the classical style of the original five academic buildings of the grand campus design of the 1920s. Although constructed only a few years after the William Cullen library it belongs to a totally different era and makes a very modern statement about purpose and design. It is perhaps Wits’ most original international building of the interwar period.’41 The architect responsible for the design of the Hillman Block was Duncan Howie, who describes the somewhat ambiguous terms of his engagement thus: ‘While in the temporary employ of Messrs. Williamson and Cowin, then Architects to the University.... and in the absence of Professor Pearse overseas, I was personally entrusted with the design of the Wolf and Hirsch Hillman Building. In the subsequent published accounts of this building my work was recognized in as much as my name was linked with that of Professor Pearse as a collaborating architect.’42 It was an austere building, a character dictated partly by the wartime conditions then prevailing, but also by Howie’s own approach to architecture, largely derived from considerations of purpose, economics, and ease of maintenance. The planning is a case study in the skilful application of the principle of articulation: laboratories, staff offices, drawing halls and lecture theatres each planned in a separate wing, the major elements linked by a recessed stair and toilet tower. In an article discussing ‘some aspects of the problem and its solution’ Howie explained the rationale of the plan, and why, for this complex building of variable scale and functions, he rejected the traditional square plan typical of all major buildings on the campus.43 This is a summary of his main arguments: the square plan with its internal court implied the limitations of the Italian palazzo whose plan, being of an elementary order, cannot meet the dictates of technical organisation, such as the practical and technical requirements of a laboratory. There is an immediate conflict between the palazzo prototype’s externally imposed order and repetition and the demands for the specific and functional expression of the internal organisation. Howie’s solution: zoning the three main categories of accommodation, the laboratories, the drawing halls and lecture theatres for the students, and rooms for the staff—each with its own specific requirements in respect to ceiling height, orientation, lighting—into three connected wings. While with this plan form Howie knowingly breaks with the architectural norms of the campus, he still takes pains to relate his building to its context. By a clever play of terraces on this steeply sloping site he correlates the ground floor of the Hillman Building with that of the adjacent, lower, Engineering Block, and by interlocking with the Bernard Price Institute he ties this previously isolated building into the overall logic of the site layout. His choice of simple rectilinear forms and the restrained treatment of the façades—concealed structural elements, flat surfaces faced with precast concrete, long horizontally-banded windows, and staircases in concrete- 172 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process framed glass bricks, and with colour and texture focusing on the entrance—results in a building which is severe, but not excessively so. The composition is softened by the imaginative ground floor, and the sympathetic relationship of building to site and landscaping.44 The design intention is not to challenge the prevailing character of the surrounding buildings but to harmonise with it. The details of the Hillman Building interior are crisp and pleasing, while the character of the lofty laboratories, appropriately industrial, is reminiscent of the workshops in the Bauhaus Building at Dessau. Generally the uncompromisingly modern aesthetic language favoured by Howie is closer to that of Gropius than to Le Corbusier. The new engineering block was funded by a generous donation of £35,000 from Wolf and Hirsch Hillman, of Hillman Brothers, an established firm of timber merchants in Johannesburg. It was opened on 18 June 1941 by the Prime Minister, General J.C. Smuts, in an impressive ceremony duly reported in the press, complete with the speeches of Smuts and Dr. P.M. Anderson, Chairman of the Council.45
The Dental School and Hospital, c.1941
The Dental School and Hospital for the University was built off-campus close to the railway station. N.T. Cowin and Pearse were the accredited architects—the professor, no longer merely a consultant or associate, has moved up in the hierarchy—with John Fassler as collaborator. This new arrangement was recorded by Pearse in his Reminiscences, in a brief note: ‘The University has now [1939] embarked on a large building programme and I was appointed consulting architect to prepare sketch plans and working drawings for the new buildings and Williamson and Cowin were to carry them out. On the death of Mr. Williamson, the University decided to appoint me as their architect in partnership with Mr. Cowin.’46 This new decision affected Pearse’s colleagues in the department, not only enhancing their professional prestige, but having practical implications as well. ‘He [Cowin] provided the staff, and I, in collaboration with the staff of my department, prepared the necessary sketches. I was then in a position to receive a portion of the fees for the first time, and to share these with my collaborators.’ We have a detailed and well-illustrated account of the Dental School, written by John Fassler, just after its completion.47 Fassler’s original brief, according to Pearse, had been to prepare the sketch plans, but from his familiarity with every detail of the scheme, so apparent in this publication, he had been involved in much more than the preliminary stages. In this article we are given no commentary on questions of style or aesthetics, but a comprehensive pragmatic account. Fassler analyses the complex uses and functional requirements—spaces, circulation patterns—of a racially-segregated building which is both a school and a hospital. He pays attention to the intricate technical services required now, and in the unknown future, acknowledging the need for flexibility to facilitate change and growth. Considerations of structure and materials are given their due weight. Only when we come down to specifics do we get a hint of Fassler’s attention to detail: the colour schemes, the quarter-inch horizontal jointing of the tiling, the lettering of the external and internal signage. working as a team 173
However, from this building, we have much to learn about the architect’s approach Fig. 4.14 The to questions of form and style. A comparison between Pearse and Howie’s Hillman Dental School Building and Pearse and Fassler’s Dental School, which followed shortly after, is and Hospital, Bok Street instructive. Seen superficially, with their choice of materials, reinforced concrete structure, and the austerity of their unornamented facades, they are buildings expressive of the same epoch. However, their point of origin is completely different, Howie’s that of Gropius and the Bauhaus, Fassler’s that of the classical discipline of conservative modernism. It has been suggested that one of the critical breakpoints between the classical tradition and modernism—a watershed if you like—was when vertical windows were replaced by horizontal ones. In the Hillman Building the columns do not interrupt the horizontal continuity of the windows. However, because Fassler emphasizes the columns of the Dental Hospital and the beams are visually suppressed, a vertical expression of classical proportion, rising the full height of the building, results. This is classicism in spirit, not detail. We noted that Howie dismissed the traditional palazzo form as inappropriate for a multi-purpose modern building; Fassler accepted it. The Palazzo-like quality of the Dental School evident in its formal aspects is even more apparent when the plan is considered: a compact, completely symmetrical courtyard plan, not all that different in principle to the prototypical plan of Palazzo Farnese, but just the opposite of the articulated form of the Hillman Block. While Fassler does not discuss these theoretical considerations, there are in fact two factors which argue for the logic of his design choice. The first is that he is constrained by the context and location, which is not the University campus, but Fig. 4.15 The palazzo plan: the Dental Hospital and Palazzo Farnese, Rome working as a team 175 a typical Johannesburg rectangular urban block. The other factor is anchored in the political realities of South Africa at that time. The worst of apartheid was still to come, but when it came to public buildings racial segregation was rigidly enforced. In such a system, a facility serving both blacks and whites was of its very nature destined to be symmetrical.
The Changing of the Guard: Fassler Takes Over from Pearse
The plan overleaf indicates the buildings on campus in whose design Professor Pearse and some members of his staff participated. The extended Central Block (1936), as its name implies, stands on the middle line of the main axis, facing north. To the west, in ascending order from south to north, are the Bernard Price Institute (1937), the Hillman Block (1939), and the University (Cullen) Library (1933). The first Dental Hospital (1941) is the only other building which falls into this category, but it is not on campus. Its post-war successor—which we are still to discuss—the new Oral and Dental Hospital (1951), at the south-east corner of the campus, is marked on the plan, when its function later changed, as the Wits School of Arts. We eventually get to the John Moffat Building (the Library’s immediate neighbour, shown in the inset below). By now Fassler has replaced Pearse. Before we examine the role of Fassler and his team in the design of that building, we need to review the changing pattern of relationships that developed over the years between the official University Architects, the Head of the School, and the teaching staff.
Professional and Academic Relationships
When the University began its development of the campus in the 1930s, after the great fire, it remained loyal to the firms of Emley and Williamson and Cowin, Powers and Ellis, who were regarded as the official University Architects. While the University was aware of and willing to exploit the pool of architectural knowledge that was available in the School of Architecture, it was not yet ready to grant Pearse and his colleagues professional status. When the commission for the Library was awarded to the official University Architects, Pearse was asked by the University ‘to assist in the design of the University Library,’ which he did unhesitatingly, notwithstanding the professional ambiguity which this request entailed. Fassler, presumably at Pearse’s request, designed the façade and the reading room.48 It was proper that the two firms who were the original architects of the Central Block were commissioned to undertake its renovation. However, by this time, the University obviously desired that Pearse play a more direct role, and he was therefore named ‘consulting architect’. The designs were executed according to plans prepared by Pearse’s staff. Howie, ‘while in the temporary employ of Messrs. Williamson and Cowin was closely associated with the design and construction of the extensions to the Central Block.’49 This rather clumsy arrangement apparently Fig. 4.16 east Campus, University of the Witwatersrand: location of buildings discussed working as a team 177 was acceptable to all parties. Pearse and his staff did the work, the University Architects provided the organizational and professional infrastructure, paid the bills, and got the credit. The same set-up, therefore, was used for the next job, the Bernard Price Institute. Again, the architects were the official University Architects, Pearse was appointed consultant, and at his request the University Architects engaged Gordon Chalmers and Jean Welz as draughtsmen, the latter being chiefly responsible for the planning of the building. With the Hillman Block, Howie again came back into the picture, but with a significant shift in emphasis. Apparently again in the temporary employ of Messrs. Williamson and Cowin, and in the absence of Professor Pearse overseas, he was personally entrusted with the design of the Wolf and Hirsch Hillman Building. In the subsequent published accounts of this building his name was linked with that of Professor Pearse as a collaborating architect. For the first time, one of the lecturing staff came out of the shadows, as it were, and gained recognition for the professional role he had played. The shift in status implied in the Hillman Building is more explicit in the next project, the first Dental Hospital. Here, N.T. Cowin and Pearse are the accredited architects—the professor, no longer merely a consultant or associate, has moved up in the hierarchy—with John Fassler as collaborator. Up to Pearse’s retirement, the triangular arrangement remained unchanged in principle, but the weighting of responsibility, and the resultant professional status, shifted. The University appointed the official architects, and then found a mechanism for bringing Pearse into the picture. After his successful undertaking of Escom House they had no doubts about his professional competence, and the fact that he was an insider when it came to understanding the needs and mind-set of academics (the clients) was an additional advantage. Pearse in turn brought in one or other of his most trusted lieutenants, Fassler or Howie, to be his right-hand man, and his most reliable assistants as draughtsmen to work with the University architects. The next project on campus, the new Oral and Dental Hospital, was to see an entirely new professional framework put into place.
The New Dental and Oral Hospital (1947–1951)
In 1947 the South African Railways [SAR] expropriated land just north of Johannesburg’s central business district in order to build a new railway station. This involved the demolition of the University’s Dental Hospital in Bok Street. Bruce Murray, the University’s historian, writes: ‘Initially the University contemplated erecting a six-storey structure in town on the Wolmarans Street site offered by the SAR, but when government funding was not forthcoming, Council opted for a three-storey building on the main Wits campus.’50 This new building brings us to a change point in the history of the Architectural School and its influence on the architecture of the university campus. First of all, it 178 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
Fig. 4.17 new Dental Hospital, Witwatersrand University, 1947–51
was the catalyst that brought about Pearse’s retirement, and the appointment of a new Professor of Architecture. Secondly, it introduced into the campus a building of unique architectural character which neither reflected the modernising trend that had been evolving, nor predicted what was later to occur in the design of the John Moffat Building. To understand the implications we must follow a complicated trail of events. In his memoirs Pearse wrote: ‘In 1947 … I was asked to prepare plans for a new Dental School and Hospital in the South-West [actually South-East] corner of the University Grounds.’51 At the same time, Pearse, then still a full-time senior member of the academic staff, received not only this commission but also one for an Ophthalmic Hospital at Baragwanath, the giant non-European Hospital on the southern outskirts of Johannesburg. The double load of responsibility, as Dean of a complex Faculty and professional architect with two new major projects, caused him to think about his future. ‘I decided to resign as Professor of Architecture and go into practice,’ he wrote. ‘I took Paul Hahn into partnership and we were asked to keep our offices at the University in one of the huts that had been erected to house the large number of students after the War.’ It was as an academic that Professor Pearse had been appointed architect of the New Dental Hospital, but he then continued as the principal of a commercial architectural practice, Pearse, Aneck Hahn and Bristol. This anomalous situation was corrected when the firm was ‘authorized to continue with the architectural work in connection with certain proposed University buildings [the Oral and Dental Hospital was one of these projects specifically listed] with which Professor Pearse had been closely associated before his retirement from the staff of the University at the end of 1947.’52 working as a team 179
At the end of 1947 Professor Geoffrey Pearse retired from his position as Head of the Architectural School and Dean of the Faculty, and Professor John Fassler, newly appointed to the Chair, took his place. In applying for the Chair, Fassler wrote: ‘In collaboration with Prof. Pearse I recently designed .... the proposed New Dental and Plastic Surgery Hospital in Wolmarans Street, Johannesburg.’53 We are to understand from this that Pearse, following his usual procedure of calling on one of his trusted lieutenants, had recruited John Fassler (now his successor as Head of the School) as his associate. This was apparently right at the very beginning of the project, for Fassler is talking of the Wolmarans Street site, which preceded the campus location. Working with this colleague was a logical move. Fassler’s previous experience in the first Dental Hospital had not only given him some expertise, but he had worked there in close association with Professor J. C. Middleton Shaw, Head of the Department of Dentistry; and the new hospital was to be planned according to Shaw’s specifications. Whatever the formal arrangement, we who were members of Fassler’s staff were in no doubt that the new head of our school— as he guided us over the building, and explained its technical complexities—was wholly responsible for its design. According to his own account of the building, the new Oral and Dental Hospital was intended by Fassler as ‘a reasonably harmonious’ addition to the main group of buildings on campus, which were all classical in character.54 Murray, following Fassler’s line of thought, describes it as neo-classical in design. This is not an accurate designation, for while in a general sense all of Fassler’s work was classicist, the term neo-classic implies a 19th century revival origin, whereas its dominant influence was that of an early 20th century pioneer of modern architecture, the French architect- engineer Auguste Perret. The difficulty in classifying the Dental Hospital stems from the fact that it is a hybrid building. The entrance of the building is emphasised by a portico of full-height columns whose fluted shafts and embryonic capitals hint at the language of the classical orders, but whose slender proportions reflect their reinforced concrete origins. The free-standing lettering on the entablature, entirely modern in its choice of type-face, together with the shadows it casts, cleverly evokes the decoration of the ancient past. The idea of the cornice is also classical, but the square profile of this concrete element comes from the mould in which it is cast. Finally, the decorative grilles flanking the entrance portico are an acknowledged quotation from Auguste Perret.55
Architecture in an Age of Uncertainty
In 1948 Professor John Fassler presided over the Annual Exhibition and Prize-Giving Ceremony, and as was customary, delivered the Dean’s address. In substance it was similar to previous addresses on such occasions, a factual review of the previous year, and some hopes for the future. But in the course of his introduction, a tribute to his predecessor, Pearse, he included this historical note: ‘Although the school had to reorientate itself [from the Baker tradition] when it became receptive to the philosophy of contemporary architecture that was being clarified in Europe and 180 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process the United States, it did not happily lose enthusiasm for our own fine South African heritage of building and planning; and I hope it never will.’56 The school stands on the threshold of a new era, and the vision of the new Dean is not that of the radical Transvaal Group, the Le Corbusier groupies, but that of a true conservative, one who conserves the values of the past, but is receptive to the challenges of the present. An interesting phenomenon begins to reveal itself here, as the school enters into a new phase. During the 1920s the School of Architecture produced designs in the classical tradition, in true Beaux Arts fashion. It was only after the changes of 1932 initiated by Furner and brought about by Martienssen and his circle that work in the modern idiom became the school style. From 1932 to 1942 the design approach of the School of Architecture was dominated by the aesthetics of the International Style, that of Gropius, Mies, and—overwhelmingly—Le Corbusier. Nevertheless, a love of classicism continued to be imbued. Pearse continued to teach his Theory of Architecture course by taking standard building types—an art gallery or a college—and illustrating the planning procedure by drawing a centre line down the blackboard, then arranging a sequence of rooms symmetrically along the axis. The orders were studied in meticulous detail and painstakingly rendered in washes of Chinese ink, hours were spent mastering the intricate geometric basis of Roman lettering, and fifth- century Greece and the Italian renaissance were considered the golden ages of architecture. Seen through the eyes of Martienssen and his followers, traditional classicism and mainline modernism were found to be compatible, and merged into the ethos of the School of Architecture. Both are governed by a rigid rectilinear geometry, and in both they are disciplined by an understanding of the relationship of form to structural technology. In the debate between Apollo and Dionysus, the School was clearly on the side of rationalism, but there were nuances in the interpretation of the rational ethos which led to a diversity of approach among the various members of staff. Martienssen was an unrepentant follower of Le Corbusier, but with his death in 1942, the discipline he had exerted over his disciples (both colleagues and students) relaxed, and his increasingly eclectic approach—the façade of his own house was a far cry from the exuberance of Le Corbusier—proved liberating to his followers. We see in the architects designing the University buildings that the spectrum of rationality which characterised their approach was sufficiently wide to embrace the stylistic classicism of Pearse, the formal discipline of Fassler, and the technology-based, function-driven Bauhaus aesthetics of Howie. In one sense the 1940s and 50s were periods of architectural uncertainty. Mies in Chicago was the unchallenged advocate of minimalism, Niemeyer in Brazil posed the romantic alternative of tropical exuberance, Scandinavia offered an inoffensive New Empiricism, the Festival of Britain celebrated with a confusion of styles dominated by the Royal Festival Hall, and an era of New Brutalism was ushered in. This uncertainty was inevitably reflected in the School of Architecture, both in the work of the students, and in that of their mentors. On the other hand, at the hands of many architects whose professional task was to provide the lofty office buildings working as a team 181 of Johannesburg’s city centre, or the towering blocks of flats of Hillbrow, a far more homogeneous architecture was emerging, the result perhaps from the constraints of zoning regulations and byelaws, and the inexorable economic forces of demand and supply, investment and return. This is the architecture which Nikolaus Pevsner, with guarded praise, called the ‘contemporary vernacular’ of the Transvaal.57 By the 1950s, when the University was about to put into effect its large post- war building programme, it would have been difficult to predict which direction the architectural character of the campus would take: would it be a development of the classicism of the Library, the restrained modernism of the Hillman Block, or the disciplined eclecticism of the new Oral and Dental Hospital? This question was soon to be put to the test, when the School’s dream of a home of its own became a reality. We started this discussion by quoting from Fassler’s first address on Prize Day, at the school of which he had just become head. Let us return to that day, and see what concerned Howie, speaking in his capacity of the President of the Transvaal Institute of Architects at that same ceremony:
Many will remember a plea made by Professor Fassler when President on a similar occasion. He drew attention to the very real disabilities under which the Faculty is functioning and argued the case for proper accommodation and equipment in a building housing the Departments of Architecture, Quantity Surveying, Fine Arts and even Physical Planning … The need for such a building is as real now as it was then. It is only too apparent that the widely scattered studios, lecture rooms and library militate against that essential spirit which is the soul of a training institution.58
The designing of such a building was still some years away, but it was to be the next challenge on the campus to be confronted by Fassler, Howie, now a senior lecturer, at his right hand, and the teaching staff of the school. To undertake this daunting task successfully they would have to act as a team, bridging the differences in their individual philosophies and stylistic preferences. But there is more to architecture than questions of style. Pearse himself stressed this, in defining architecture as ‘solving the practical problem handsomely.’ Fassler and Howie, as the senior members of staff engaged in the design of the University buildings we have so far looked at, had to cope with the typical functional problems of lecture theatres, staff offices, libraries, and laboratories, together with the integration of the technical problems of services and environmental control. The experience gained was to stand them in good stead when confronted with the next challenge, solving the practical problems posed by the design of the accommodation for the School of Architecture.
The Architecture and Fine Arts Building: Appointing the Architects
On 1 November 1954, the Building Committee of the University recorded a momentous decision, when it recommended ‘that the Council authorise that plans, working drawings and details of estimated cost be prepared in respect of … 182 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process a new building to house the Department of Architecture and Quantity Surveying and Fine Arts.’59 After years of enduring sub-standard conditions, the School of Architecture was to get its own building. Equally significant was the rider to that recommendation, namely that not only was the School to get a new building tailored to its specific needs, but that it was being given the privilege of designing its own home. The Committee recommended ‘that the staff of the University Department of Architecture be appointed Architects for the proposed new building … and be requested to proceed forthwith with the preparation of plans and, as soon as possible thereafter, working drawings.’ What is significant is that this commission was not awarded personally to the Head of the School, Professor Fassler, but to the staff of the Department of Architecture. Fassler’s position would inevitably ensure that his role would be a central one, and that he would be the link between the school and the committee. But the wording of the appointment meant that it was for the staff itself to decide the composition of the Design Team, and that this would not be the privilege of the head of the Department, as it had been with Pearse. We have found no record of the discussions within the Department that followed, as the composition of the design team was sorted out. To the best of my recollection, they were conducted amicably. In the meantime, in view of the urgency expressed by the Building Committee (‘proceed forthwith … as soon as possible’) work commenced on the scheme, and proceeded for some time. We shall return shortly to the design process, and the progress being made, but before doing so we need to complete our picture of the design team being assembled. On 3 August 1955, that is nine months after the work was commissioned, Fassler notified Mr. Herholdt, the Registrar, of the names of the staff members participating in the design team. They were J. Fassler, W.D. Howie, G. Herbert, J. Morgenstern, J. Shunn, and U. Tomaselli; and a note was added, that C. Pinfold had indicated that he would not be participating in the scheme.60 A complicated calculation followed, with Fassler setting out the basis for remuneration. Based on the principle that the associated architects would be paid only for work done in their free time (estimated at 10 hours per week) and during vacations, it worked out at about 17/- per hour. It is doubtful that any of the team expected to get rich out of this job, but that was not the point of the exercise. The challenge was to produce a fine building, and the team was grateful for the opportunity to do so. For this princely sum it undertook to produce sketch plans, working drawings, details, and specification, to call for tenders, and to administer the contract and supervise the construction. Two months later, with this letter seemingly unanswered, and while this work was going on apace, Fassler thought fit to write once again to the Registrar. ‘I wonder if you can tell me what the position is about the appointment of Architects for the above building?’ he asked. ‘My problem is that I have to appoint a draughting staff to commence work at the beginning of December, 1955. The members of staff concerned feel hesitant about committing themselves to considerable expenditure in salaries unless their own appointment is secure.’61 Fassler’s irritation, palpable under the surface of this polite letter, prodded the University into a prompt response. ‘The University Council,’ the working as a team 183
Registrar informed Fassler a week later, ‘has agreed to invite you, together with members of your staff (excluding Mr. Pinfold) to accept appointment as Architects for the proposed new Architecture and Fine Arts Building.’ The fee: 4% of the cost of building, with all expenses to be borne by architects, and consultants to be paid by University.62 The nominated consultants were Mr. M. Marcus, Consulting Structural Engineer, and Mr. N.P. Smit, University’s Consulting Electrical Engineer. With the Associate Architects’ acceptance of these terms, the formalities were finally completed on 5 December 1955, a year and a month after the proceedings were initiated.
The Design Team: A Profile
Apart from their diverse national and ethnic backgrounds the team was a remarkably homogeneous group.63 Except for Morgenstern they were all born in the Transvaal, all educated at good English-medium High Schools (Tomaselli, Herbert and Morgenstern actually went to the same school, Parktown Boys High, just across the road from the University), and all received their professional training in the same School of Architecture, studying for the degree of B.Arch from the University of the Witwatersrand. After graduating, all members of the team had, to a greater or lesser extent, practised their profession. Fassler’s and Howie’s professional careers started in the days of the Transvaal Group (Fassler as a partner with Martienssen- Fassler-Cooke, Howie working for Hanson-Tomkin-Finkelstein), then working later in association with Professor Pearse, including the Escom House project, but more essentially the design of buildings for the University, some of them off-campus. As for the rest of the team, the extent of their practical experience varied. Ugo Tomaselli had a small practice, largely residential and ecclesiastic, specialising in the design of funeral parlours and crematoria. His major commercial project was a block of flats and supermarket, in Johannesburg.64 His approach to design was restrained, and his great strength was in the technical aspects of construction. John Shunn, in a 1979 curriculum vitae, states ‘As an architect, I have engaged in private practice, under my own name, from the date of my registration with the Institute of Architects in 1945 to the present day.’ With this emphasis on private practice (his other main interest was chess) he was an experienced and capable architect, as is shown in his Queensgate apartment complex, which was published in the international press.65 On the other hand, Jacques Morgenstern, until he retired from the University in 1956 to establish his own practice, had a relatively modest body of work to his name, but it was sufficient to show his skill as a designer. Working with his architect-wife, his talent as a creative architect, prior to his successful commercial career, was best demonstrated in their own house, a cliff-edge romantic exercise in the Wrightian manner on Johannesburg’s Linksfield Ridge. As I shall note later, I worked in association with the Morgensterns on some successful competition entries, as well as two houses. My own professional experience was also limited, as I saw the fulfilment of my career in academia. Nevertheless, I had designed many houses, as well as some industrial and commercial projects, of which the ground- 184 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process breaking Cinerama Theatre (the second such theatre in the world, after one in Japan) was probably the most important. The design I was proudest of, however, was that of my own house, Casa della Salamandra, in Johannesburg, designed and built while I was engaged on the John Moffat Building. At the time of their appointment to the design team in mid-1955 the architects already knew each other well in various capacities, as fellow students, fellow members of staff, professional colleagues, or personal friends. Some of them were involved in the University Training Corps during the war. They were all members of the same Institute of Architects, and served together on its committees. While Fassler and Howie are obviously the senior members, with Tomaselli in an in- between category, having spent three years in war-time service, the age spread of only 15 years from the oldest member of the team (45) to the youngest (30) was a limited and bridgeable range. As architects they were old enough to have gained experience, but not too old to have passed the peak of their creativity. They were all married, and socially they were a compatible group. Various members of the team had some previous experience of working together. From 1927 the Institute’s official organ, the South African Architectural Record, had been edited within the School of Architecture. In 1947 Howie took over as Editor-in-Chief from Pearse, and for many of the critical years leading up to the John Moffat Building the Editorial Board consisted of Howie, with Tomaselli and the present writer as his associates, working closely together. Colleagues on the staff had also worked together as professional architects. In University buildings where Pearse had involved either Fassler or Howie, it is natural that the other kept a close watch on the proceedings. Architectural competitions were an obvious area for co- operation. Morgenstern and I had combined forces in the Harrismith High School competition, receiving an honourable mention. Together with Riva Morgenstern we jointly competed in ‘The Star Model House Competition,’ winning a first prize and an award of merit. (As an outcome of these awards, we received two actual commissions, and houses based on our competition designs were built in Boksburg and Pretoria.) In the same Model Homes competition there was also a successful entry from a pair of our colleagues Tomaselli and Pinfold. Fassler, Howie, and other staff members worked as a team and submitted a joint entry in the International Competition for the design of the headquarters building of the Uganda Electricity Board in Kampala, and while we were unsuccessful, Shunn, a lone wolf going his own way, won fourth prize. Another area in which members of staff collaborated was in the designing of exhibitions. We have already recounted those exhibitions which the Architectural Students Society prepared, with the active participation of staff members and members of the Institute of Architects. But there were other, commissioned, exhibitions, designed in their capacity as professionals. Two of these, one for the SA Medical Council, the other for the SA Institute of Electrical Engineers, were designed by Howie and me, and constructed in one of the temporary huts used by the Faculty of Architecture. We were also commissioned by the Cultural Affairs Department of the State Information Office to design a retrospective exhibition, ‘Architecture in South Africa,’ for the Union Government State Information Service, working as a team 185 marking the fiftieth anniversary of the founding of the Union of South Africa. This exhibition, first mounted in Bloemfontein in 1960, was designed as a travelling exhibition intended for display in England, Europe and the USA. Apart from the architects, there was another teacher from the Faculty of Architecture involved in the making of the John Moffat Building. Manfred Marcus, the structural engineer, was an important member of the team. We have already commented how his teaching of the Theory of Structures engendered enthusiasm for a subject generally regarded by students as something to be endured rather than enjoyed. It is significant that Denise Scott-Brown, Robert Venturi’s wife and partner, who started her architectural studies at Wits, of all her teachers of those early days—which included most of the John Moffat team—named only Marcus as a mentor.66 As a student I too had learnt much from Marcus the teacher, and later enjoyed his company as a colleague, listened to classical music in his home, admired his Biedermeier furniture, and employed him as my structural consultant when I built my first multi-storey industrial building, Myru House.67
John Moffat, the Benefactor
In recalling the architects involved in the Architecture and Fine Arts Building, one other name should be mentioned. The building is known officially as the John Moffat Building, named in honour of the benefactor whose legacy made it possible. John Abraham Moffat (1871–1941) was born in Manchester, spent his early years in New Zealand and Australia, and from 1905 until his retirement in 1939 worked as an architect in Johannesburg, with a special interest in town planning. Two years after his retirement he died, and was buried on his farm in the Lydenburg district. In his will he left the proceeds of his estate, after certain specific bequests, to be paid to the University of the Witwatersrand fifteen years after his death, stipulating that ‘the use to which these funds were to be put should take a permanent form.’ The legacy, having appreciated over the intervening years, amounted to about £100,000 in 1956. When the University decided upon the project for Architecture and Fine Arts in 1954, it was the anticipation of that bequest, plus a loan from the Government, which made the financing of the Architecture and Fine Arts Building (an appropriate choice for a permanent memorial to the donor, an architect himself) a feasible proposition.68
The John Moffat Building: Design and Construction
We will recall that when, in November 1954, the University decided to construct a building for Architecture and Fine Arts to be designed by the staff of the Department of Architecture, that decision was coupled with a request for the architects ‘to proceed forthwith with the preparation of plans and, as soon as possible thereafter, working drawings.’ On receiving this welcome news Fassler did not wait for the formalities of the appointment to be finalized, but immediately set 186 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process the design process into motion. The first step, obviously, was to call the architects on his staff together, and determine who were interested in participating in this project. The first ad hoc group included all the members of the eventual design team, plus Carl Pinfold. Appointed in 1948 as a temporary full-time lecturer (he was made a permanent lecturer in 1955), Pinfold was a stimulating colleague but not a team worker. By August 1955 he had pulled out of the design team, but contributed to the early, formative stages of the design process. The homogeneity of this group of architects, while it assured that level of compatibility of design approach implicit in team work, nevertheless did not imply uniformity. The participating architects were individuals, each with his own personality, temperament, experience and vision. They also had different skills to contribute, and sometimes saw the problem through the distorting lens of those particular aptitudes: to one the project was an artistic challenge, to another a technological opportunity. At the conceptual stage of the design process this diversity was not to be deplored but rather an asset to be exploited. Howie, in a special brochure to mark the opening of the building, wrote:
The introduction of the John Moffat building into an existing University campus determined the nature of its architectural character. It was felt that the building should be a harmonious addition to the University but that the planning and the detailed treatment should take advantage of contemporary technological methods …. In the handling of the scheme in its broad and detailed aspects, the architectural treatment should be free from any features which might form part of passing architecture fashion.69
This, however, was not an initial statement of intent, but a consensus eventually reached. The starting point was not an a priori statement, but a range of options, to be evaluated comparatively. This indeed was an approach which we as teachers encouraged our students to follow. With a schedule of accommodation broadly sketched out, the first steps in the design process involved a pooling of ideas. This was not a brain-storming session in the accustomed sense, but the generation of independent concepts to be brought together for discussion. ‘Five different sketch plans were prepared by individuals or pairs,’ a report on the building states. ‘The best ideas were incorporated into the final sketch plan.’70 Despite exhaustive searches we have not found these early sketches, but we shall attempt to reconstruct two of these, to indicate the range of possibilities opened up. These two sketches correctly represent the principles involved, but not necessarily the details or proportions, as we are relying on memories of events fifty years ago. Concept A suggests a top-lit upper floor, a horizontal slab carried on pilotis, for the studios, thus enabling a free disposition of the other major elements to take place below. In plan and section, with the disposition of the functional zones one above the other, it is radical, but in three-dimensional form it does not break with the tradition of its palazzo-inspired neighbours on the campus. Concept B follows the articulated form of the Hillman Building, but brings it boldly to the main axis of the campus. It is tee-shaped, with studios in the block forming the head of the working as a team 187
Fig. 4.18 Alternative conceptual diagrams, John Moffat Building
tee, facing north and south, and lecture theatres and administration in the upright. It gives emphasis to the Library, a free-form projection into the courtyard. These polar extremes, and those in between, presented the team with a wide range of possibilities. Howie, writing shortly after the completion of the building, when memories were still fresh, summed up what happened next. ‘The best ideas were incorporated in the final sketch plan. These included the set-back of the East Wing to create a forecourt and the arrangement of the exhibition foyer and lecture theatre suite among others.’ By 16 March 1955 the consolidation of ideas had progressed sufficiently to enable Fassler to present the first sketch plans and estimate of cost to the Building Committee.71 Unfortunately we do not have these, or any other interim plans, so cannot plot the variations that took place. The building as now planned extended on the north beyond the site previously approved by the committee. An extension of the site was approved, provided that the southern line of the building was not more than 40 feet from the building line of the Library. The Department of Architecture was instructed to prepare fuller plans and elevations by the end of April. In September 1955 the Associated Architects submitted a six-page document to the Building Committee, setting out a revised programme for the proposed new building, with a detailed schedule of accommodation. A major item was a 300- seat lecture theatre (the Dorothy Susskind Auditorium), intended to serve as a venue for both the University and the public, a use which governed its location and formal emphasis in the design of the building.72 There were to be two 60- seat lecture theatres (later revised to an 80-seater and a 40-seater), all fully- equipped for projection, automatic black-out facilities, and mechanical ventilation; exhibition space; studios; library; staff offices and administration. A staff drawing office was to be provided, a perpetuation in permanent form of Studio Seven, the accommodation in the hutment in which the plans were then being prepared. 188 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
The revised programme necessitated revisions of the plans. Around the end of the year two draughtsmen were engaged, to speed up production of the drawings. This gave Fassler the confidence to assure the University that he would soon submit the revised sketch plans for approval. These revisions were minor, and ‘concerned adjustments to the internal arrangements of the building with the object of improving the workability and amenity of the building.’73 The design work continued, and by April 1956 the plans were sufficiently advanced to enable the architects to call for tenders for the excavation and clearance of the site. This was not a trivial affair as the site was neglected, and had been used as a dump for the spoil excavated for both the adjacent swimming bath and the Library stack room. However, the planning process was about to hit a serious snag. In the process of refinement and revision, and possibly some miscalculation in the estimate, the anticipated costs now exceeded the budget, causing concern in the Building Committee.74 That body responded with two equally unwelcome suggestions: ‘reducing the cost and allocating as much space as possible for Departments other than Architecture and Fine Arts.’75 At this critical stage, a perspective (the original in colour) shows us what the building looked like. It is a four-storey building with a modular façade, capped by a prominent overhanging cornice. The two wings at right angles are anchored in a rectangular lift tower. Attached to the east face is a two-storey projection, containing a six-bay colonnade flanked by a further three bays of a nondescript character. In view of the Committee’s negative reaction, the architects decided to reduce costs by eliminating the fourth floor. This to a large extent met the committee’s main objective, economy, but they were still troubled by the appearance of the building. Tactfully, they suggested that the architects ‘consider further suggested alterations to the plans, especially the proposed design and treatment of the Eastern façade.’ In June 1956 the Committee approved the revisions, and authorised Fassler and his team to prepare the final working drawings and detailed plans.76 The work was intended to be executed in stages. Firstly, documents had to be ready for the construction of the basement and lower ground floor, for which the University hoped to sign a contract by September. Then, while supervising that construction, the design team were to prepare all the necessary documentation for the upper three floors, which would be a separate contract. The design team, plus their three draughtsmen,77 the consultants, and the Quantity Surveyors, had a busy time ahead of them. The latter part of 1956 was devoted to the preparation of the working drawings and details, the revision of the specifications and the bill of quantities. The finalising of the documents also entailed coordination with the specialists, especially the structural and ventilation consultants. The role of the latter had become problematic, because of indecision on the part of the University whether to build a central boiler house and plant. This left the design team up in the air, not knowing whether they were to rely on the central plant or would need to make provision for heating and ventilation independently. To prepare for this eventuality, which was critical in relation to the lecture theatres, they had asked the consultant, D.H. Hill, working as a team 189
Fig. 4.19 John Moffat Building: early version (perspective John Fassler)
to advise on air-conditioning, heating and ventilation, but were instructed to put the decision on hold. This unsatisfactory situation continued until September, when the issue was finally determined. Howie phoned Hill on 10 September, to inform him that the architects had received instructions from the University Council that the Architecture and Fine Arts Building would be heated electrically. This had implications not only for Hill but more critically for the design team, because if electric heating was to be incorporated in the floor slabs, it affected the foundation and basement contract about to be signed.78 Howie took responsibility for the arduous task of supervising the installation of the system, which demanded technical ingenuity and great precision in execution. It should be noted that between July and November all correspondence from the Registrar was directed to Howie (with one exception, a letter to Tomaselli about insurance of the building), which suggests that Fassler might have been away for some months. In fact, the team was about to be reduced: Jacques Morgenstern resigned from the University in 1956, after building operations were begun, to take up private practice, and I left the team temporarily at the end of 1956 to spend a year in Italy and Great Britain, after being awarded the Baker Scholarship. Progress, for whatever reason, was slow, and Howie felt the edge of the University’s concern. ‘What should I tell the Principal,’ asked the Registrar, ‘are you all [the architects, engineer, and quantity surveyor] keeping to schedule, on what terms do you expect to call for tenders and have the successful contractor start work on Monday, 12 November?’ Howie’s reply was prompt, but not altogether reassuring: ‘It is with regret that I have to report that, in spite of our strenuous efforts to have the documentation of the work completed by the 15th of this month, this intention will not be achieved ... Under the circumstances we should obtain tenders by the 19th of November.’ However, ever the realist, he doubted that a contractor would bring his equipment to the site and start operations before the builders’ annual holiday, beginning on 14th December.79 190 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
It was in fact some months before a tender was accepted and a contract entered into for the superstructure.80 In March 1957, Fassler (now back in the picture) submitted his updated schedule for the completion of the work. He anticipated that by the end of 1958 the whole project should be complete, including the development of the grounds adjacent to the building. When I returned from Europe at the beginning of 1958 to take up my duties once more, it was apparent that this was an optimistic assessment. For the builder there was still much work to be done, and for the architects many details still to be settled.
Teamwork and the Design Process
Before we look at the final building, opened on 23 October 1959 by the Minister of Education in an impressive ceremony81 in the courtyard adjacent to Fassler’s reflecting pool, we should consider how design decisions were taken by the team. The term ‘Fassler’s pool’ gives a hint that some aspects of the design were clearly the priorities and prerogatives of individual members of the team, by virtue of their areas of interest and specialised skills. The landscaping of the surroundings was indisputably the domain of Professor Fassler, and he had fought valiantly throughout the process to retain the pool, even when under pressure to cut costs. The library was another focus of his attention, and he designed the elegant tables in its reading areas. It was self-evident that Howie would be responsible for handling most of the technical problems, especially the under-floor electric heating.82 I recall Tomaselli designing the built-in furniture in the staff offices, and it was expected of me as an historian to find appropriate symbols linking the Modern Movement to its roots in classical Greece (the suggested Greek fret in the mosaics), the Renaissance (Leonardo’s man at the centre of the universe), and the School’s one-time god- father (the modulor as an evocation of Le Corbusier). As the senior academic and natural leader of the team—and teams without a leader (what Gropius called a team captain, and more commercial practices a project manager) lacked focus and coordination—many of the decisions were ultimately Professor Fassler’s. It was not that he was dictatorial, but we respected him personally, as well as his position in the University, and were accustomed to the chain of command in this rigidly hierarchical institution. However, this did not stop us arguing, and pressing our points in the discussions which took place throughout the design process about various aspects of the design. These ranked from issues of principle to matters of detail, and stemmed from the fact that some younger members of the team were still loyal to the ‘ethics of the fathers’, the tenets which had been the lodestones of our education, whereas the older and more mature of us had become much less rigid about so-called ‘rules of design.’ Questions were asked. Didn’t Corbusian orthodoxy demand that functionally-differentiated zones— the office wing, the studio wing, or the auditorium—be separated by articulated links, and not simply abutted one against the other? If ornament is crime, then while the Leonardo and Le Corbusier-derived patterns sand-blasted on the plate glass doors were justified, because they stopped people walking unaware into the doors, the six red mosaic panels on the north façade were an arbitrary addition working as a team 191
Fig. 4.20 John Moffat Building: north façade and west façade
to be deplored. If climate control was an imperative, then why not insert precast horizontal louvres on the exposed north side of the studios? There were, of course, two sides to every issue. The solution to the sun penetration problem was to use tinted glass louvres, set deep into the window recesses, to protect them if possible from hail. This seemed an acceptable solution, for not only did these transparent 192 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
Fig. 4.21 Dorothy Susskind Auditorium
louvres leave the expansive view to the north unobstructed, but they were not obvious from the exterior.83 Other issues were raised. If form follows function, then how could a standard window design reflect the diversity of functional spaces within? Indeed, why did the artificially lit and ventilated Dorothy Susskind Auditorium actually need windows (which entailed an elaborate black-out system) when the Great Hall functioned perfectly well without them? The counter-argument for the merits of ambience against pragmatism won the day. ‘The architects did not desire permanently darkened theatres as there is much in favour of the atmosphere and psychological characteristics which derive from natural lighting.’84 Then, at a detailed level, those of the team who were purists and still paid homage to the aesthetics of the International Style—where building silhouettes were box- like and clean-cut—were uncomfortable with the cornice and unhappy with the plinth, which were regarded as anachronistic, harking back to the Renaissance palazzo. In hindsight, many of the issues we debated so earnestly some fifty years ago seem irrelevant in this post-modernist age, and the building today looks fresh and trim, having aged more gracefully than one perhaps could have predicted. On major issues, especially the planning of the building and its character in general, consensus was achieved, and this was the secret of the successful outcome of the process. Efficient planning of functional spaces was a strong point of the School, emphasised in the design studios and a governing factor in the architectural practice of its teachers.
The John Moffat Building
The planning of the John Moffat Building was particularly felicitous in all its aspects: the broad zoning of major functions, the way the separate departments (Architecture, Quantity Surveying, Fine Arts) were given their own identity but working as a team 193
Fig. 4.22 John Moffat Building: cross-section and ground floor plan
nevertheless integrated into the whole, the ease of the circulation patterns (including the dramatic spiral stair, with the Cecily Sash mosaic at the base) and the detailed layout of minor spaces. Access for students from the campus, the staff from the car-port, and the public from the road to the west, was convenient. The studios were well-lit, and took into consideration both the individual student and the needs of the class as a group. The lecture theatres were meticulously planned as ‘machines for learning in,’ the architects having learned much from the cumulative experience of Escom 194 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
Fig. 4.23 John Moffat Building: architectural design and fine arts studios
House, the Central Block and the Hillman Building; and they opened out onto the generous foyer/exhibition space. The library with its open access shelves and generous reading spaces—with the background noise the gentle plashing of water in the fountains in the pool beyond the picture windows—was easy to manage working as a team 195
Fig. 4.24 John Moffat Building: library and foyer- exhibition area.
and pleasant to use. Staff offices were located conveniently in relation to the studios, the lecture halls, and the administration. As a didactic as well as a social environment the building worked well. We recall that it was at the insistence of the Building Committee that the initial design, as represented in Fassler’s perspective, was amended. Sometimes, apparently, it is worth while listening to the comments of one’s client. The original 196 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
Fig. 4.25 John Moffat Building: east courtyard, original and final version
East façade, as shown on the perspective, is far from felicitous. Stylistically, the amended design, as we now see in the finished building, is a far happier solution. As I was not in the country at the time the revisions were made, I cannot say if they were made willingly. In any event, with the reduction in height of the building, changes to the façade were inevitable What was ill-proportioned and awkward has been turned into a thing of elegance and grace. The portico, reduced to three bays, now reads as an entry, and the foyer (below) and library (on the floor above) are given appropriate emphasis, both in scale and richness of surface. In the published report this is described as follows: ‘The thematic variation of the basic module opening is seen both in the working as a team 197 large scale of these openings and in the design of the mosaic panels. These include a running pattern in pale blue on a honey-coloured background with accents of dark blue and brown, relieved by the repeated contrasts of the white glazed tiles.’ The standard module, it should be mentioned, was 5ft. 6in., which related to the desk spacing in the studios, and was convenient for the offices. The spandrel panels were faced in plain blue glass mosaic, set against the cream-coloured combed terrazzo of the precast column surrounds.
Conclusion
The cynic has it that ‘a camel is a horse designed by a committee.’ The John Moffat Building is no camel, and in equine terms it is a thoroughbred. As a design it holds together, and is a unified work of architecture, unmarred by major inconsistencies. It appears to be the work of one hand, not that of six architects. A committee may be a combative forum, where members striving for opposing agendas can at best hope to arrive at a compromise solution. The camel is that compromise. A team, on the other hand, is motivated by a common goal, and the resolution of differences is achieved by creative synthesis, not compromise. The common objective of the team was to produce a work of architecture which sat well in its context, respecting its neighbours, a work not of ephemeral fashion, but one which would age with grace, and a framework of accommodation practically efficient and spiritually congenial, in which teachers could educate, and coming generations develop intellectually and creatively. The final design of this building did not reflect the direction in which Fassler, the leader of the team, had been moving. If we trace the evolution of his architecture leading up to the School of Architecture Building: the Library, the first Dental Hospital in Bok Street, and the new Dental Hospital on the campus, the John Moffat Building was not its expected summation. Moreover, nor was it to be a take-off point in his subsequent career, the direction he was to follow in the future, when he designed the Senate House and other buildings for the University. The classical dignity and repose of the John Moffat Building is characteristic of much of Fassler’s architecture. While these characteristics are not exclusively his, there are some evocations of classical details, such as the cornice and the plinth, which at that time no other member of the team would have introduced. Some unique features have the Fassler touch, and others are there only through his insistence: the spiral staircase, for instance, or the vertically-striped columns, which he claimed had been inspired by the Allianz Building in Munich, which he had visited in 1956.85 He had, of course, used the device of the striped columns before, in Escom House, and the idiosyncratic broad horizontal joints separating the rows of tiles in the toilets repeat a finicky detail from his first Dental Hospital. But while the hand of Fassler is evident in the John Moffat Building, we venture to say that it is not a design which, on his own, he would have produced, nor is it typical of his approach to architecture. Without knowing the design history one would be hard put to say ‘Ah yes, this is a John Fassler building.’ Having said that, it would 198 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process be equally difficult to attribute the design to Duncan Howie, or indeed any other individual member of the design team. It is a unique synthesis of many individuals each contributing to the whole, some by taking major decisions, some by making counter-proposals, some by merely putting in a judicious word at the right moment, but all marching to the same drummer. The building is an organic whole, the result of a holistic process of design, and it is that quality of holism, where the whole is greater than the sum of the parts, that characterises true teamwork. This is not to assert that teamwork is the best way to achieve a good outcome, but it worked in this case, with this problem and this set of participants. The design of the John Moffat Building was not revolutionary in its day, having neither the elegant sophistication of Mies at IIT, Niemeyer’s pure three-dimensional geometry in Brasilia, nor the bravura display of structural form of Utzon in Sydney. At the time it was designed it was conservative, not in a pejorative sense but in the best meaning of the word, meaning to preserve that which is of value from the past, while being open to the challenges of the future. Fifty years on, it remains undated, refreshingly new.
Bibliography
Bryer, M. 1977. The Faculty of Architecture of the Witwatersrand, Johannesburg and its role in the community. Faculty of Architecture monograph. Witwatersrand University. Chalmers, G. 1938. The Bernard Price Institute of Geophysical Research, University of the Witwatersrand, Johannesburg. South African Architectural Record, March, 69–76. Chalmers, G. 1941. The University of the Witwatersrand, Johannesburg: the Central Block, South African Architectural Record, 134–156. Chipkin, C. 1993. Johannesburg Style: Architecture and Society 1880s–1960s. Cape Town: D. Philip Publishers. Fassler, J. 1937. Escom House. South African Architectural Record, June, 246–260. Fassler, J. 1951. New Oral and Dental Hospital for the University of the Witwatersrand, Johannesburg,’ Public Works of South Africa, August. Fassler, J. 1959. The John Moffat Building. Convocation Commentary, 3, Witwatersrand University. Herbert, G. 1955. The Synthetic Vision of Walter Gropius. South African Architectural Record, December. Herbert, G. 1972. Furner: a Pioneer Commentator on the Modern Movement. Plan, December. Herbert, G. 1975. Martienssen and the International Style, Balkema, Cape Town/Rotterdam Howie, W.D. 1948. Address of the President of the TPIA. South African Architectural Record, August, 243. Howie, W.D. 1959. The John Moffat Building, University of the Witwatersrand, Johannesburg. South African Architectural Record, November, 16–27. Kamstra, M. Fassler. 1985. John Fassler 1910–1971. Architecture SA, July/August, 28–35. working as a team 199
Kantorowich, R. 1942. The Modern Theorists of Planning: Le Corbusier, Frank Lloyd Wright, etc. South African Architectural Record, January, 6–15. Marcus, M. 1945. Art and Engineering. South African Architectural Record, May, 89–97. Murray, B.K. 1982. Wits: the early years. Johannesburg: Witwatersrand University Press. Pearse, G.E. 1934. The Library, University of the Witwatersrand. South African Architectural Record, August, 92–101. Pearse, G.E. (n.d.). Reminiscences, typescript. Pevsner, N. 1953. Johannesburg: the development of a contemporary vernacular in the Transvaal. Architectural Review, 113, 361–64, 381–87. Scott-Brown, D. 2004. Dedication in Venturi and Scott-Brown, Architecture as Signs and Systems for a Mannerist Time, Cambridge: Harvard University Press.
Notes
1 For biographical notes I am indebted to the Artefacts website, Department of Architecture, University of Pretoria. Other documents, such as the CVs of academic staff, come from the Witwatersrand University archives. Specific items are noted where relevant. 2 For Furner see Gilbert Herbert, ‘Furner: a Pioneer Commentator on the Modern Movement,’ Plan, December 1972. 3 For an authoritative account of Martienssen and the transformation of South African architecture see Gilbert Herbert (1975). 4 For Martienssen’s efforts in 1932 to set up a more formal organization , first the elite Alpha Club, and then the Zerohour Group, see Herbert (1975), 94–95. 5 For the exchange with Gropius see Herbert (1975) 185–86). 6 In a 1933 lecture to the Vanguard Club, Martienssen named Le Corbusier, Mies van der Rohe and Gropius as his sources; in a 1934 version, given on the occasion of the Rand Daily Mail Ideal Homes exhibition, Gropius was omitted; finally, on the publication of the lecture, Le Corbusier, ‘the foremost exponent of contemporary architecture,’ alone remained. 7 Gilbert Herbert, ‘The Synthetic Vision of Walter Gropius,’ South African Architectural Record (hereafter noted as SAAR), December 1955. 8 In a conversation with the author, Harvard, 1950. 9 roy Kantorowich, ‘The Modern Theorists of Planning: Le Corbusier, Frank Lloyd Wright, etc.’ SAAR, January 1942, pp. 6–15. Heather Martienssen, Norman Hanson and Angus Stewart all contributed to the controversy which followed, in the March, June and October issues of SAAR . 10 For a comprehensive history of the school see Monte Bryer, The Faculty of Architecture of the Witwatersrand, Johannesburg and its role in the community, Faculty of Architecture monograph, 1977. 11 officially, the School had been a department in the Faculty of Engineering until 1940, when it was elevated to the status of an independent Faculty of Architecture, including the departments of Quantity Surveying and Fine Arts. 200 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
12 Pearse, Reminiscences, pp. 312–13. 13 This arrangement was not closely monitored by the University authorities, and as with all such honour systems it was not always scrupulously adhered to. 14 hanson and Finkelstein had joined with Cowin and Ellis as associate architects for the iconic 20th Century Theatre in Johannesburg in the 1940s. 15 For Escom House see SAAR, June 1937, pp. 245–60; Herbert (1975) p. 234; Clive Chipkin, Johannesburg Style: Architecture and Society 1880s–1960s (1993) pp. 146–48. 16 John Fassler, ‘Escom House,’ SAAR, June 1937, pp. 246–260 17 John Fassler, application for Chair in Architecture, 4 November 1947. 18 Fassler, SAAR, June 1937. 19 Bruce K. Murray: Wits: the early years, Witwatersrand University Press, Jhb., 1982. 20 emley and Williamson were architects for the original Central Block (1920), Chemistry and Physics (1924) and Engineering Building (1925). 21 See Murray (1982) p. 216ff. 22 Professor Philip Tobias, in his address on the 75th birthday of the Cullen Library (22 November 2009), gave details of the irreplaceable contents of both the Library and the Museum. 23 The in-house book of John Barrow’s construction firm has a chapter on the many buildings of the University for which they were the contractors. 24 Pearse, Reminiscences, p. 280. 25 Mira Fassler Kamstra, ‘John Fassler 1910–1971,’ Architecture SA, July/August 1985, 28–35. 26 These are ‘The Colonists’, by Colin Gill; ‘Vasco da Gama leaving Portugal’, by John Henry Amshewitz; and ‘T’kama-Adamastor’, by Cyril Coetzee. 27 G.E. Pearse, The Library, University of the Witwatersrand, SAAR, August 1934, 92–101. 28 Pearse the classical purist could not refrain from adding ‘The introduction of an attic wall above the cornice has given rather a heavy appearance to the exterior. A blocking cornice or an open balustrade would probably have been very much better.’ SAAR, August 1934, 100. 29 Tobias (2009). 30 The Hillman Building preceded the John Moffat, but it was tucked away out of sight, as it were, behind the Engineering Block. 31 For detailed descriptions see SAAR, April 1941, p. 135ff, alsoH erbert (1975), p. 235. 32 According to Murray (1982) p. 227, citing Pearse’s notes. 33 Gordon Chalmers, a recent graduate of the school in whose ability Pearse had great confidence, and Paul Hahn, a part time diploma student—who was later to become Pearse’s partner—also worked on the drawings, on Pearse’s recommendation. 34 For further details of the interior design, especially of the Great Hall, see Gordon Chalmers, ‘The University of the Witwatersrand, Johannesburg: the Central Block,’ SAAR, 1941, 138–146; Herbert (1975) .235–36; Murray (1982) 228. 35 According to an article published on his retirement in 1974, ‘He helped to build the campus,’ The Reporter, p. 3 working as a team 201
36 See the account in Herbert (1975) p. 236. 37 For an analysis of the acoustic goals and recommendations of Carpentier see Gordon Chalmers, ‘The University of the Witwatersrand, Johannesburg: the Central Block,’ SAAR, 1941, pp. 134–156. 38 There was always criticism, of course. See Murray (1982) p. 228 for the comments of Prof. Kirby, professor of music, about critical points in the design. Kirby, a friend of Pearse, was exercising his professional judgement. He had been with Kantorowich when Carpentier was appointed, and approved of the choice. 39 Pearse, Reminiscences, p. 281 40 Fassler, ‘The Jean Welz Exhibition,’ SAAR, October 1942, p. 285. 41 katherine Munro, ‘The Hillman Building: A living treasure,’ Witsreview, October 2010. 42 W.D. Howie, application for the Chair in Architecture, 24 May 1968. 43 W.D. Howie, ‘The Wolf and Hirsch Hillman Building, University of the Witwatersrand,’ SAAR, 1941, 188–199. 44 herbert (1975) p. 217; See also Katherine Munro, ‘The Hillman Block: a living treasure,’ in Wits Review, October 2010. 45 A full-page account appeared in the Rand Daily Mail of 19 June 1941, under the heading ‘Smuts opens new block for engineers at University.’ 46 Pearse, Reminiscences, 312. 47 John Fassler, SAAR, January 1943, 3–12. 48 Fassler’s design of the Library is not documented, but is according to oral testimony of his daughter Mira Kamstra Fassler. 49 W.D. Howie, application for Chair of Architecture, 24 May 1968. 50 Murray (1997) pp. 196–97. 51 Pearse, Reminiscences, p. 319. The site was on the South-East corner, and not the South- West, as Pearse mistakenly writes. 52 referred to as a previous decision in Minutes Building Committee, 22 August 1955 (B.C./155/55). 53 Fassler, application for Chair of Architecture, 4 November 1947. 54 John Fassler, ‘New Oral and Dental Hospital for the University of the Witwatersrand, Johannesburg,’ Public Works of South Africa, August 1951. 55 It should be said that while Le Corbusier at one time worked for Perret there is no evocation of the one-time hero of the Transvaal Group in this building. 56 John Fassler, University of the Witwatersrand School of Architecture, Twenty-Fourth Annual Exhibition and Prize-Giving’, SAAR, August 1948, 234. 57 nikolaus Pevsner, ‘Johannesburg: the development of a contemporary vernacular in the Transvaal,’ Architectural Review, 1953:113, 361–64, 381–87. 58 W.D. Howie, ‘Address of the President of the TPIA,’ SAAR, August 1948, 243. 59 Minutes Building Committee (1 November 1954) B.C./225/54. 60 letter Fassler/Registrar, 3 August 1955 (B5/11a). 61 letter Fassler/Registrar, 4 November 1955 (B5/11a). 202 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
62 letter Registrar/Fassler, 11 November 1955 (B5/11a). 63 Fassler was of Swiss parentage, Howie Scottish, Tomaselli Italian, Herbert Anglo- Jewish, and Morgenstern was a Jewish war-time refugee from Belgium. 64 For Tomaselli see curriculum vitae, c.1972; for publication of flats see SAAR August 1955, 36–40; a 1937 student project for a church (SAAR, July 1942, 199) is unabashedly traditional. 65 Pevsner (1953) 371. 66 Dedication in Robert Venturi and Denise Scott-Brown, Architecture as Signs and Systems for a Mannerist Time, Harvard Univ. Press, 2004. 67 For Marcus’s wide cultural horizon see Manfred Marcus, ‘Art and Engineering,’ SAAR, May 1945, pp. 89–97. 68 See biography in Artefacts, itself dependent in part on the RIBA Archives; and notes on the opening of the John Moffat Building in the University Gazette, 1959, 1:19, pp. 4–6. 69 Quoted in ‘Opening of the John Moffat Building by the Minister for Education, Arts and Science,’ University of the Witwatersrand Gazette, 1:19, 18 December 1959, 5–6. 70 ‘The John Moffat Building, University of the Witwatersrand, Johannesburg, ‘SAAR, November 1959, 16–27, unattributed, but with initials WDH (presumably W.D.Howie) at end. The article ‘The John Moffat Building,’ in Convocation Commentary, 3, 1959, by Professor John Fassler, duplicates some of the text of the more comprehensive SAAR report. 71 Minutes Building Committee (16 March 1955) B.C./28/55. 72 Central Registry Office (September 1955) B5./11a. The Auditorium was named for Mrs. Susskind in recognition of her role in the recent University Towns Festival. 73 letter Fassler/Registrar, 5.12.1955. 74 Mira Fassler Kamstra, in a communication to the author, intimated that her father had been concerned by such a miscalculation. 75 Minutes Building Committee (25 April 1956) B.C./69/56. 76 Minutes Building Committee (18 June 1956) B.C./120/56. 77 lesley Gruzd, W.J. Carter and B.S.L. Gloag. 78 Confirmed by letter Howie/Hill & Co, 12 September 1956. Hill was replaced by N.P. Smit, an Electrical Engineer, but was retained as consultant for the air conditioning and ventilation of the lecture theatres. 79 letters Registrar/Howie, 8 November 1956 and Howie/Registrar 12 November 1956 (B5/11a). 80 This was optimistic. Tenders were called for in May 1957, and that of J.C. Bitcon & Co. Ltd. (for £169,822) accepted in June. 81 ‘Opening of the John Moffat Building by the Minister for Education, Arts and Science,’ University of the Witwatersrand Gazette, 1:19, 18 December 1959, 4–6. 82 he described this installation in great detail in SAAR, November 1959, 25–26. 83 This solution was innovative, but not without problems. We tested their effectiveness as a sun-filter by exposing a test blade to the sun, and were happy with the grey shadow it cast on the draughting table top within. Unfortunately, when the sun was working as a team 203
high, and passed through two blades, the shadow by an unexpected optical trick turned a less acceptable violet colour. 84 Howie, SAAR, November 1959, 23–25. 85 Mira Fassler Kamstra has suggested to the author that her father was influenced with respect to the spiral stair, the striped columns, and the timber inlaid doors, by details of the Allianz Building in Munich, which he visited in 1956. I would suggest that the reflection of the building in the small lake adjoining the Allianz Building would have reinforced Fassler’s determination to have a shallow pool in the East courtyard of the John Moffat Building. For the Allianz Building see Baumeister, October 1955, 653 and 666. This page has been left blank intentionally 5
Kahn, Komendant, and The Kimbell Art Museum: Cooperation, Competition, and Conflict
Mark Donchin
Introduction
The relationship between the architect Louis I. Kahn, the structural engineer August E. Komendant and the other agents in the design and construction of the Kimbell Art Museum in Ft. Worth, Texas presents a fascinating case study of the complex issues involved in achieving the goals of each party in a collaborative effort. Delays, misunderstandings, and personal incompatibilities all preceded the ultimate success of a project influenced by a multitude of interests and personalities. A breakdown of trust during the museum’s construction and a subsequent shift in authority even gave the structural engineer reason to claim that he had been given the responsibility for design decisions. Alliances, profit considerations, and discordant working methods all played their part in creating a situation of grievances, recriminations, and threatened lawsuits before this outstanding building finally opened its door. This study comprises several objectives:
• a review of the chronicle of the building’s evolution to examine the stages of its design, the multitude of trial and error efforts that provided assurance 206 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
Fig. 5.1 Louis I. Kahn Fig. 5.2 August E. Komendant
to the architect of an adequate analysis and synthesis of all relevant considerations, and the impact of critiques from the museum’s trustees and Director • a discussion of the architect’s relations with the structural engineer, client, associate architect, and contractor, and his struggles to comply with deadlines and budgetary requirements • an assessment of the accuracy of the evaluation of Louis Kahn’s personal traits and the history of the Kimbell Art Museum’s design and construction in August E. Komendant’s book 18 Years with Architect Louis I. Kahn1 • the gathering and interpretation of information about Kahn’s career and the design of the Kimbell from interviews with Kahn’s employees, consultants, and students; documents from the Kimbell file at the Kahn Archive at the University of Pennsylvania; books and journal articles about Kahn; and Kahn’s own writings and drawings • an examination of the implications of the contrast between Kahn’s personality attributes: determination, resilience, sociability, confidence, ambition, charisma, and commitment; diversity of skills: conceptual, artistic, graphic, technical, verbal, and organizational; and his public image: visionary, intense, inspirational, dedicated, original, profound, and principled, and Komendant’s personality attributes: careful, efficient, forceful, prompt, decisive; diversity of skills: mathematical, technical, administrative; and public image: brilliant, experienced, proficient, and responsible. kahn, komendant and the kimbell art museum 207
Evolution of the Kimbell Design
Fig. 5.3 Cycloid and Channel
Kahn received the commission in June 1966 for the design of the Kimbell Art Museum upon the recommendation by Museum Director Richard F. Brown to the Board of Trustees of the Kimbell Art Foundation. Kahn’s subsequent study of the site, height limitation, client requirements, mode of encounter between viewer and art work, etc. initiated a formulation of an approach to what he considered the primary design issue: the lighting of the museum’s collection. His first sketches explore the possibility of light reflected upward and sideways by a suspended metal reflector after entering the building from longitudinal slots in an assemblage of folded plates. Kahn and his staff also evaluated ideas for other roof and reflector configurations before the submission of a model and drawings for approval. The museum Director objected to the first proposal, a concrete vault roof structure, because of the vault’s height and scale but accepted a later proposal for a cycloid structure with a lower curvature. He was also favourably impressed with the appropriateness of the cycloid’s strong linear spaces conjoined with the variation in ceiling heights created by the separation of adjacent cycloids at their bases by concrete channels containing an integrated system of air distribution and electrical wiring. The combination of cycloid and channel with its resulting rhythm of release and compression also provided the benefits of the flexibility of a module that could be expanded in length, width, and height and incorporated in different plan configurations. Kahn was aware of the discrepancy between a pure structural expression, which would have foreclosed the possibility of a longitudinal slot, and a po 208 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process etic expression that allowed the most optimum provision of light but decided that the benefit of providing a special quality of light superseded the liability of creating an ambiguous structural expression. The provision of open cycloid-roofed porches at the front of the museum was later explained by Kahn in a 24 June 1972 interview with William Marlin, the typescript of which is in the Kimbell file in the Kahn Archive: ‘ ... the porch was not to be an addition but was to be made in the same way as the interior without any obligation of paintings on its walls. A place of rest, you might say, but the feeling of how the building is made is completely clear before you go into the building. So that was the reason for the open porches ... ’. Komendant’s calculations and later site supervision were essential to both the structural design and the construction of the cycloid; and in his book (Komendant 1975) he also takes credit for advising Kahn on the profile and tapered width of the glazed separation between the bottom of the end diaphragm and the top of the infill wall. However, his contention is challenged by Marshall Meyers, the Kimbell’s project architect, who relates that ‘Komendant said at first a constant diaphragm dimension of 1’-0’ was permissible, but later he changed. He wanted it thicker at the center. It was Kahn’s design of the window that solved the problem.’ 2 Kahn and his assistants were also engaged in the successive exploration of three planning variations: square, H, and C, which they presented to Richard F. Brown, who was the principal liaison with and spokesman for the Board of Trustees as well as the museum’s Director. Each variation was evaluated for its size, site placement, layout, circulation, entry sequence, module dimensions, separation of permanent and temporary galleries, maintenance cost, and other criteria. Instead of reworking the square and H proposals to make them more congruent with client needs, Kahn and his associates found it necessary to rethink the basic geometry of the plan while still holding critical elements constant: the cycloid roof structure, the longitudinal slots for light penetration, and the courtyards of varied dimensions. Brown and the Board eventually rejected the square and H proposals because of their failure to satisfy essential considerations. The acceptance of the C plan with its recessed forecourt subsequently necessitated a determination of adjacent functions and the most effective arrangement of the courtyards, auditorium, restaurant, library, staircases, and services within the structural and spatial framework created by the cycloid as well as an orderly placement of support functions on the lower level. Throughout the lengthy period of planning and construction Brown assumed the role of initiator, facilitator, administrator, educator, negotiator, coordinator, and adjudicator. He had been instrumental in selecting Kahn, whose work he admired and with whom he established a close rapport. However, his respect for Kahn’s judgment and acceptance of Kahn’s working methods in no way reduced his role as a critic of Kahn’s proposals and agent for the interests of the Board. The detailed programme he presented to Kahn contained stipulations not only about required spaces and square footages but about the museum’s requirement for a welcoming ambience and quality of light. He criticized the excessive height of Kahn’s first proposal and demanded a less ostentatious and intimidating scale. His knowledge of museum requirements underpinned his later insistence on a satisfactory resolution of issues of maintenance, scale, parking, auditorium placement, truck kahn, komendant and the kimbell art museum 209
access, loading dock, and other functions. He wished to respect the conventional Fig. 5.4 C-Plan division of authority but found it necessary at times to chastise Kahn and his staff. A letter to Kahn, for example, contains a stern warning and demand for the delivery of the necessary drawings while concurrently stating his belief that ‘the Kimbell is within reach of the finest building of its kind anywhere in the world.’3 His role as the client’s representative fully demonstrates his abilities to anticipate problems and to ensure the smooth and efficient operation of the future museum. During the construction period two different cultures of architectural practice refused to bend to each other’s will. The division of responsibility between Kahn and the associate architect Preston M. Geren, who was based in Ft. Worth, soon devolved into angry conflict because of incompatibilities in philosophic approaches, working methods, the schedule for the preparation of preliminary drawings, and the checking of shop drawings. In addition, Geren had no hesitation in arguing for the superiority of his own ways of practicing architecture and in informing the design architect of his desire, for example, to revise the row of columns in the lower level to reduce costs and eliminate the post-tensioning of the perimeter walls.4 Kahn’s later delays in providing decisions and drawings led to a spate of remonstrations from both the associate architect, his representative Thad Harden, his son Preston M. Geren, Jr. and from A.T. Seymour, the project manager for the general contractor Thomas M. Byrne, Inc. Excerpts from their rebukes are quoted below:
We are starting the working drawings from the schematic drawings without the benefit of preliminary working drawings ...5
As previously stated, we, as much—if not more than anyone, wish this building to be a building designed by Mr. Kahn, but, frankly, that has become secondary to completion in the Owner requirements, and our obligation is to the Owner; 210 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
therefore, we will proceed and hope that we have your cooperation and prompt attention to this project.6
You must work with us in moving the job forward and not backwards ... I feel that it is imperative to emphasize again that we need from you direction - not correction. 7
Our past method of trying to prepare the working drawings as you are still devel oping the preliminary drawings has been unsuccessful as we seem to spend as much time erasing as do drawing and frankly have accomplished very little8 Your method of planning and constructing a building is foreign to my experience ... there has been nothing but continual delay which has resulted in a material price increase in building cost to the Owner over the past three years and nine months.9
We will apparently have to transfer some of our men to other jobs in the very near future simply because if we don’t receive more plans and specifications pertaining to the area that we are immediately working on, we will have no other alternative.10
We constantly find ourselves having to ‘prod’ professional men whom we know from past experience have the ability to make decisions and complete working drawings on this job. We do not like to be in this position. They do not like it either.11
When asked if the tardiness that engendered so many warnings, admonitions, and exhortations from the Kimbell Board of Trustees, the associate architect, and the contractor was simply the result of Kahn’s inclination to delay making decisions as long as possible, Kahn’s field representative W. Neil Thompson’s reply was that the work was complicated by the division of responsibilities between Kahn in Philadelphia and a Ft. Worth Texas architectural firm that he would have preferred not to work with from the beginning. Their approach to architecture was seemingly incompatible, and they had different understanding of what constituted professional responsibility, with respect to such questions as time schedules and cost overruns. The goal for the local architect at that time was to finish the building at all costs, which of course Kahn could not and would not accept. Convictions and principles ranked highest in Kahn’s scale of architectural priorities. The time pressures on Kahn’s staff created both problems and opportunities. Even with several concurrent projects in the office Kahn preferred to employ a few trusted and dedicated people willing to work twenty-four hours a day, and days- on-end if necessary, rather than increasing his staff with the more typical 9 to 5 crew. The results and accomplishments were amazing in terms of innovation and creativity, work quality and quantity, as well as the stimulating atmosphere that was created. A paramount consideration was the number of employees Kahn could himself oversee and supervise to implement his concepts. Kahn’s passion for art and architecture was shared by everyone in his office, and others working on his designs, including workmen, contractors and outside consultants who began to understand Kahn’s vision as their contribution to a future place in history. kahn, komendant and the kimbell art museum 211
He was relentless in his pursuit of simplicity and the essential elements and spirit of architecture, which frequently went beyond the client’s budget; and although financial limits invariably intervened, some clients accepted an increase in cost or accepted his ideas and plans for the future when they sensed their value and necessity to achieve something greater. The research and development initiated in Kahn’s office also opened the doors for future generations to think beyond the norm and beyond what was immediately available and known. It was the unknown that was so exciting and enticing. In this regard and in many ways each building was a major struggle for these reasons. In the end we are the beneficiaries of Kahn’s insights, vision, and resolutions to the conflicts and problems that accompanied the design and construction processes.12
The Philosophic Basis of the Kimbell Design
Kahn’s theoretical achievement was incorporated in the formulation of a compelling set of answers to a series of interrelated questions and their assemblage into a coherent set of architectural ideas. The themes of his philosophy and practice were not only embodied in his buildings but repeatedly expressed in writings, lectures, conversations, and interviews. His approach required a convincing reconciliation of the use of modern building technologies and abstract forms with the expression of permanence and monumentality by means of traditional materials and archetypal forms. Kahn’s reverence for timeless values derived from historic architecture also entailed a reevaluation of modernist orthodoxies such as universal space and the open plan. Instead of accepting the new spatial paradigm as an inevitable consequence of the zeitgeist Kahn proposed a definition of architecture as the thoughtful creation of spaces that evoke a feeling of appropriate use. The desire to conjoin the esprit nouveau of the architecture of modernism with values embodied in the architecture of the past was in turn linked to an insistence in the social and cultural realm on the furtherance of the continuity of institutions as the requisite framework and support for individual and communal identity. Kahn’s architectural philosophy also demanded the clarity of structure and construction processes and a proper understanding of the essence, nature, and appropriate use of each material. Applied ornament was rejected for an ornamentation expressive of craft, joinery, and the separation of materials. The combinatory use of squares, rectangles, triangles, and circles provided a geometric base for the organization and legibility of plans and elevations. A sensitivity to the effect of light on the character, mood, and quality of spaces defined by walls and arranged in axial compositions was expressed in quasi-mystical descriptions of light often found in Kahn’s writings and teaching. Kahn was moreover especially insistent on the reassessment and alteration of a programme and on the reappraisal of every component of a building for the purpose of serving a higher interest than that of the immediate client. Additional core principles evolved, coalesced, and introduced new terms to the architectural vocabulary: aspirations, silence and light, availabilities, treasury of shadows, volume zero, served and servant spaces, etc. Kahn became celebrated for the use of such 212 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
Fig. 5.5 Quality of Light
anthropomorphic phrases as ‘The rooms talk to each other’ and ‘You must ask brick what it wants.’ The altered definitions and use of the words form and design also found their way into his discourse. Kahn’s former employee David C.S. Polk writes:
He said if you mean to do meaningful work you must first discover what the problem is that you are working on. The first act is discovery. Design comes later. Discovery requires that you understand the difference between form and design. Form gives you the inseparable elements of ‘a being.’ Form gives a butterfly its wings, a fish its gills, a tree its leaves, a human its limbs, its brains, its capacity to learn and love. Once the species is known, design will give you billions of humans, each one distinct from the other. When form is known, design can proceed.13
Komendant on Kahn
In 1975, a year after Kahn’s death, Komendant published 18 Years with Architect Louis I.Kahn, an account of their work on the Kimbell and eight other projects. The book begins with two tributes to Komendant written by Kahn followed by a Preface in which Komendant remarks, ‘I will discuss as candidly and honestly, to the best of my ability, what I know about Kahn’s philosophy, his teachings, working methods, problems, faults, and successes.’ Instead of employing a consistent approach in the description of their collaborative ventures Komendant’s chronicle emphasizes what was most memorable and indicative of the peculiarities of each project. Among kahn, komendant and the kimbell art museum 213 the major topics covered are the politics and economics of development approval, conflicts with clients and contractors, construction details, erection stages and procedures, supervision, and contractors’ profits. His appraisals include critiques of Kahn buildings, portrayals of the difficulties of working with Kahn, and a complaint about Kahn’s procrastination and budget overruns. In claiming that Kahn lacked practical knowledge, he never compares Kahn’s knowledge with that of other architects and apparently forgets his own admission that Kahn could speak fluently about precasting and prestressing. Similarly, his assertion that Kahn’s knowledge of engineering was inadequate to cope with his architectural ideas fails to account for Kahn’s interest in and choice of innovative structural systems even before Komendant was called upon for engineering calculations. Komendant never openly admits what he may have learned from Kahn, and his comment ‘Natural light has varied moods of the time of day and the season of the year which elevates the spirit of the workers engaged in precise production line operations’ is a repetition of an observation by Kahn that became a core principle in his approach to architectural design. Praise of Kahn is also occasionally interspersed in this chronicle, for Komendant characterizes him as a hard worker, excellent speaker, inspiring and humorous with his students, and ‘curious, enthusiastic, and imaginative about the possibilities of prefabrication.’ Komendant also mentions his admiration of Kahn’s profound architectural principles, resourcefulness of ideas, and creative spirit. He is impressed with the achievement of the Kimbell Art Museum and states that ‘the atmosphere of the Rochester church was a great success.’ However, glaring self-contradictions are also found in Komendant’s assessments in the account of his years with Kahn. He claims, for example, that ‘I do not pretend to be qualified to evaluate Kahn’s architecture, and what I offer on the following pages are only memories of my own eighteen years with Kahn as an insider and of the era in which he rose to such remarkable prominence’ (1975: xi-xii). This seeming modest disavowal of architectural judgment is later replaced by the assertion: ‘I have studied esthetics and architectural principles in the university and have also learned a lot about architecture during more than thirty years working with excellent architects and about ten years with the most famous one—Louis Kahn. Is that not at least equal with five years of training of any average architect?’ (1975: 92) His distaste for Kahn’s delays similarly finds expression in his comment: ‘Everybody present knew that Kahn’s first image of a design was almost always his best.’ However, this observation is soon countered by his declaration: ‘Any creation at its start is full of agony, hope, and ecstasy. First the ideas have to grow and ripen in the mind before an image will emerge.’ Lastly, two critiques of Kahn’s approach embody Komendant’s view of the relationship of architecture to engineering and function:
‘ ... for Kahn, Architecture was Art. He strongly objected to the generally ac cepted notion that architecture is part art and part engineering. Engineering in Kahn’s mind, was servant to the architecture.’
‘ ... there are some designs in which he used an artistic approach. The most characteristic of these is the second capital of Pakistan in Dacca. In these 214 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
designs serious questions arise, for which Kahn was unable to give positive answers because the forms are arbitrarily chosen , not related to their functions.’
However, Komendant (1975: 166) fails to realize that his evaluation of Kahn’s architecture also contains an opposing appraisal:
A building without a proper atmosphere has no significance in architecture. If anyone cares to study Kahn’s architecture there is clear indication that a philosophic (functional) and not an artistic approach was always used. The design of the Salk Laboratory cooling towers serves as a typical example. . . The form is completely based on the function, airflow, and so function determines the form and not the other way around. The same can be said of most of his designs; there is not a single element where form or shape have not been the result of their function or purpose.
In his writings Komendant evinces an unwillingness to appreciate the component of artistry in architecture. He contends that what he calls an artistic approach contains inherent confusions and contradictions and advocates discipline and economy as the most important constituents of the architectural curriculum rather than social and humanistic courses. However, this denigration of the art of architecture does not extend to an expression of humility with what he deems his own contributions to design, for he writes proudly of the value of his criticism and advice to Kahn in the preliminary design phase of both the Kimbell and the Dacca government center in East Pakistan. Komendant was actually asked to contribute his skills to the Kimbell project only after the cycloid roof structure was tentatively chosen. Nick Gianapoulos, an engineer with the Philadelphia firm of Keast and Hood who provided engineering calculations for many of Kahn’s buildings, recom mended Komendant’s input because of his own unfamiliarity with the cycloid. ‘You had better see Gus,’ he said.14 A further involvement in design, Komendant claims, accompanied his selection as the onsite structural engineer during the Kimbell’s construction: ‘[Dr. Brown] promised to call Geren and apply pressure to engage me as structural engineer in charge of the final design, structural as well as architectural ... I sent him a letter stating my acceptance, provided that I would have the authority to make decisions concerning this design and that these decisions would be honored by both architects.’15 Not only is Komendant’s contention disputed by Kahn’s project architect Marshall Meyers, ‘ ... Kahn was the architect and all aesthetic decisions were his ... Kahn still had the final say on design’; and ‘ ... it was important for Komendant’s self image to have contributed more than just calculations,’16 but Komendant’s own words in his letter of acceptance refute the book’s assertion:
I received your letter dated July 19, 1969 concerning the structural engineering services for the Kimbell Museum, Fort Worth, Texas. Considering the existing conditions, general state of the design, time lost since contract was signed with Thos. S. Byrne, Inc. and my rather tight time schedule, I believe, the structural work (including construction) can be carried out kahn, komendant and the kimbell art museum 215
qualitatively and economically within the scheduled time only with one person in charge whose decisions should be honored by both Architects and the Contractor. [emphasis added]17
Nowhere in the other proposals in this letter is there any indication that Komendant demanded the kind of supervisory role that he leads the reader to believe he subsequently received.
Kahn at Work
As is apparent from the evolution of the design of the museum Kahn used an exploratory, experimental, and evolutionary trial and error procedure leading to the crystallization of a solution that would satisfy the functional requirements and arouse the desired atmosphere for viewing art. Kahn’s analysis of the proper significance of and interrelationships between the multitude of design variables engendered his choice of a system of natural illumination as the generating principle for his design. A constant oscillation between part and whole, analysis and synthesis, and hypothesis and evaluation accompanied a decomposition of the problem into sub-problems whose hierarchy was determined both by experience and the special requirements of this commission. A validation of the compatibility of all proposed variables followed each tentative commitment. Kahn was well prepared for a major change in direction or even the abandonment of a design proposal when a recalcitrant detail or a deficiency in an initially selected generating principle prevented progress towards a solution. As Kahn (Latour, 1991: 252) himself wrote, ‘Design is the struggle to develop these elements into shapes compatible with each other, reaching for a wholeness, a name ... ‘ Fundamental to each stage of the design process is the interaction of imaginative, cognitive, and evaluative processes and the application of knowledge, experience, and insight. Kahn’s journey on the road to success proceeded by means of conceptual flexibility, the creation of a large number of alternatives only delimited by experience and imagination, and the synergistic blending of ideas from a wide inventory of observations, memories, and ruminations. His versatile, curious, perceptive, and imaginative intellect, which encompassed a wide range of theoretical and aesthetic interests and fluently generated and combined ideas, was the foundation of his many accomplishments. He valued his insights, constantly analyzed his reactions to what he saw, and proclaimed that ‘the more one looks, the more one will come to see’ (Latour, 1991: 11) and ‘Intuition is your most exacting sense ... and it, not knowledge, must be considered your greatest gift’ (Latour, 1991: 332). Unlike Komendant, Kahn was unable to begin and complete his work in a continuous burst of intense cogitation and was well aware of the danger of premature closure and the consequent probability of failing to engender the most significant ideas and solutions. Experience had taught him that his best ideas often succeeded his initial ideas and that his subconscious thought processes could generate an unexpected insight that could improve or even transform a prior solution. In thus generating proposals on a subconscious level by means of 216 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process withdrawal, illumination, and verification, Kahn’s most successful mode of design involved working intensively on a project, leaving it for an extended period, and returning to it with another perspective, new insights, and the benefits of learning from his work on concurrent projects. Nick Gianopoulos reminds us that ‘In respect to his pace of working, Lou’s buildings did not build upon previous designs like so many architects who have a signature.’18 Barton Myers, who was both a Kahn student and employee, supplements this observation with the remark, ‘He had just to work at his own pace. Everyone thinks of Kahn as being a slow designer. He may have done his work over and over again, but he came up with ideas very quickly.’19 Kahn’s perfectionist desire to ensure that all possible approaches had been explored led to the uncertainties of waiting for a solution-generating idea in the face of pressure from clients and consultants, but those willing or compelled to tolerate his approach were often rewarded with a much-admired gift that generated this kind of approbation: ‘The opening of the Kimbell Museum has been a smashing success, from my vantage point in every possible way, and, I add my congratulations to your long list of accolades.’ and ‘It has been a distinct privilege and pleasure for me to have worked with you over the past three years, and although the going was tough some of the time, the results were well worth the effort.’20 The evolution of the reflector design and the choice of the cycloid, a rarely used structural form, were only two of the most obvious opportunities for the incorporation of technological advances that augmented Kahn’s already impressive knowledge derived from decades of professional experience. Kahn’s conceptualization of a building’s generating principle was delineated in sketches and drawings, which were the primary means of developing, recording, and evaluating hypotheses, testing geometric configurations, and clarifying and refining ideas. His staff then undertook the tasks of the precise dimensioning of a building from his sketches and of providing assistance in the preparation of successive design proposals. The confirmations and critiques of clients and consultants were also of considerable help during the design process as well as contributions by members of Kahn’s own staff and even, in the case of the Kimbell, by Frank Sherwood, the project coordinator for the associate architect. Conversations with colleagues, students, and acquaintances helped Kahn question his assumptions, enlarge the range of considerations he took into account, and reaffirm, if possible, the validity of his approach. As Marshall Meyers remarked, ‘He talked to people because that’s the way he worked - he needed some kind of reassurance.’21 A great admirer of Kahn’s willingness to listen and respond with the utmost respect to another’s viewpoint was Richard F. Brown, the primary representative for the Kimbell Art Foundation and the agent and spokesman for its interests throughout the entire design and construction process. Kahn valued the assistance given by a strong client to his formulation of an ordering concept and to subsequent decisions, but also appreciated the counsel of anyone who raised his degree of awareness and appraisal: ‘The confirmation by one man with a sensitive feeling of its validity is like getting the approval of a million people.’ kahn, komendant and the kimbell art museum 217
Komendant also stresses the importance of his own critiques, whose value Kahn appraises in this response to a student question about his interaction with his structural engineer:
Komendant is very sensitive to the nature of structures. The fact that he’s an actor and a great performer is of no importance. Every time he approaches the problem, he has a very good manner about it. Though your problems are burning ones, he looks at them as though they just came out of an icebox. But he is a wonderful sensor of the validity of certain structures. He has a weakness like all men have of thinking that he’s an architect. But he has a lot to give to architecture.
I don’t live in concrete. I don’t live in steel. I just sense their potentialities. But he lives in them. He feels the strain of every member. He knows when a thing is pulling away, or when it’s staying at rest. He knows repose very well. He’s not worried about symmetry. He’s just a great balancer. He feels that the thing is out of balance without analyzing it. His suggestions, when they are referring to the architectural field, are to be disregarded. But when they are purely from an engineering standpoint, they’re completely regarded.22
In denigrating Kahn’s knowledge of structure and materials Komendant disregarded Kahn’s concern for the practical considerations of architecture, his enjoyment and skill in detailing and joinery, and the integration in his work of his studies of climate and orientation. As Barton Myers observes, ‘Kahn would fuss over every connection and every expression of a connection ... Probably no one has been more interested in trying to understand the process. If it’s concrete, how you pour it, how you lift it, how you control it, how you express the making of it.’23 Ironically, Komendant’s book Contemporary Concrete Structures (1972) describes Kahn-designed buildings and projects that incorporate the use of such structural and technological innovations as Vierendeel trusses, cycloids, post- tensioned beams, slip form construction, and a cable suspension system. Despite his knowledge of advanced structural forms Kahn was no engineer and never wished to become one; and in accordance with the conventional division of labour found that his technical competence was sufficient for his architectural purposes as long as he could benefit from Komendant’s knowledge and mathematical talent. However, Kahn’s intellectual ability, decades of experience, and comprehensive knowledge were such that they elicited the admiration of Jules Prown, the client’s representative on the design of the Yale Center for British Art, who observed Kahn’s ingenious suggestions to engineers for the clarification, redefinition, and solution of engineering problems.24 The Kahn employees interviewed for this study also disagreed with Komendant’s contention that Kahn responded with hostility and arrogance to his criticism, especially when Kahn felt that Komendant failed to grasp the point, and that Kahn’s employees seldom argued with him. These are some of the points made:
The only way you could help Kahn was to stand your ground and to tell him what you believed. 218 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
Fig. 5.6 Aerial view of the Kimbell under construction
Lou always saw criticism as an opportunity ... In fact, he would say, ‘Don’t be defensive about your solutions. There are lots of solutions.
He completely had confidence enough to accept anything from anybody at all If you brought him a good idea he would use it. Most often his ideas were much better than ours.
You got to the point where Lou could always come up with a better answer than you could.
He talked to all kinds of people in his office, and if they could be the catalyst for him to think about things, that was fine.
I can’t remember an incident where Kahn’s work was criticized, and he was distraught over it.
It’s amazing that Komendant so misunderstood Kahn. He just didn’t know what made him tick ... I can’t remember Lou ever bullying his way to a solution ... He sometimes would argue and win because you saw his point of view, but just as often he would see yours. So no one was afraid of telling him that he was wrong. I can’t remember anyone fearing him. He wasn’t a person to fear. He wasn’t bloody minded.
... sometimes you don’t want to be criticized, and sometimes it’s something that you welcome because it opens up new possibilities.
Yes, I think Kahn was sensitive to criticism, and I do believe that the effect had to do with who was criticizing him. The guy was pretty human.
It’s inevitable that people who work with you affect you and make contributions. kahn, komendant and the kimbell art museum 219
The above comments suggest that Kahn’s confidence in his creativity and Fig. 5.7 Cycloid competence was conjoined with a valuable willingness to listen and to learn and Reflector from others. Despite his own ample output of ideas he realized that he had no monopoly on their generation, range, and profundity. His flexibility and search for fresh viewpoints also empowered his employees, whose ideas, critiques, knowledge, energy, and commitment contributed in turn to his professional success. Thus, for example, it was Marshall Meyers, whose familiarity with the book Surface Structures in Building25 brought to Kahn’s attention the possible use of the cycloid as the structural roof module for the Kimbell. Even the reflector design was improved thanks to the suggestions of Frank Sherwood, a project coordinator for the associate architect and an unexpected source of assistance. Kahn accepted their proposals, demanded no exclusive rights to the genesis of design ideas, and apparently experienced no diminution in his self-image. Komendant (1975: 131) also deprecates what he believes was Kahn’s fear of being overshadowed and consequent unwillingness to anoint a successor. Yet he could not have been unaware of Kahn’s insistence that every individual find his or her own channel and mode of expression, a belief intrinsic to Kahn’s confidence in himself and the singularity of his vision. Even as early as 1931 in his first published essay Kahn remarks that ‘We can never think clearly in terms of another’s reaction; we must learn to see things for ourselves, in order to develop a language of self-expression.’ This belief is repeated often in his writings, where he comments jocularly that an acolyte should not have copied what he has done but what he should have done. In his teaching Kahn stressed that imitation destroys 220 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process the wonderful gift of singularity and also strove to help each student derive from the strength and uniqueness of his or her own ideas their maximum functional and aesthetic value. His insistence on an independent approach is expressed in his comment that ‘To think of new rules and attitudes to supplant the ones that are in play is much more important than to have your head crowded with the rules that prevail.’ However, in preaching the need for the assertion of each individual’s creativity what Kahn avoids discussing is the difference in abilities that limits the potential in the great majority of students and architects for the kind of impressive originality that enabled Kahn’s remarkable contributions. Those who worked with Kahn were also familiar with his fallibilities. One remarked that he had a kind of asymmetrical personality: insular, self-cen tered, and mean and nasty at difficult times but primarily incredibly caring. He was also described as sometimes irritable, sulking, and arrogant—but these traits were not seen as his defining nature. As Thomas Vreeland comments, ‘He experienced tremendous difficulties in living up to his aspirations and in refusing to compromise his vision. There was an immense stress, struggle, and strain in attempting the superhuman task of accomplishing what he did. Although he experienced black moments from all his disappointments he was mostly positive, confident, and life-affirmative.’26 Komendant also contends that ‘As a dreamer-bohemian, he was full of ideas, sensitive, impractical, disorganized, and not a fighter, which characteristics are common to almost all geniuses.’27 However, this assessment is disputed by Marshall Meyers, who observed that ‘He dressed very conservatively and didn’t have the image of a Bohemian at all ... other than for his mistresses, he was very conservative in his behavior.’ 28 It is obvious as well that without the ability to organize and manage an architectural practice Kahn’s level of work and achievement would have been totally unsustainable. Komendant also fails to acknowledge Kahn’s success in convincing such eminent and strong-willed clients as Jonas Salk, Roberto Olivetti, A. Whitney Griswold, Paul Mellon, and Ayub Khan of his skills and the validity of his ideas and designs. Kahn’s relationship with these and other clients was surely advanced by a self-image and self-confidence buttressed by a history of positive encounters and experiences, for as Marshall Meyers once again remarks, ‘He knew that he was good. He knew that he was important. He had that kind of self- importance.’ Komendant’s broad contention is again challenged by Vreeland’s observation that ‘The fact is that he was a fighter when a fight was worth fighting. He was incredibly obdurate on certain things. It was only through this that many of the buildings got built because most of us, when subjected to the cynicism, criticism, and obduracy of clients the way Kahn was, would have given up or at least tried something else.’ 29 People also viewed Kahn as a guide, leader, and luminary. The words and buildings that attracted a worldwide coterie of admirers also exacted a certain price, for as Vreeland again observes, ‘... he always realized that he was carrying this enormous burden. So many people looked at him as being the kind of keystone.’ The interest—if not devotion—was genuine; and, among the reasons appear to have been his exploration of first principles, his recognition of the kahn, komendant and the kimbell art museum 221
significance of the beginnings of human activities and creations, the formulation Fig. 5.8 sense of persuasive ideas, and the presentation of designs that compellingly challenged of Timelessness the conventional wisdom. Kahn’s admirers also recognized the painstaking care and Grandeur he took in searching for the nature of an institution and for the essence of a building type and its appropriate spaces. His buildings demonstrated the success of his quest to find a personal, usable, and convincing mode of connecting the architecture of modernism with the monumental architecture of the past. Their aura of solemnity and spirituality helped to underpin Kahn’s reputation as a master architect. As David Karp, a former Kahn student and employee comments, ‘What I admire most about Kahn’s buildings is their timelessness. I can look at a Kahn building, and I can feel that it was done centuries ago or yesterday. I can’t associate it with any period.’30 And James Steele, another Kahn student remarks, ‘What I am always struck by is the silence and the sense of grandeur and power and the overwhelming sense of peace because of the massive monumentality and the re lationship to light, scale, and space.’31 Kahn’s love for architecture, evocation of the spirit of architecture, and exalted conception of the architect’s role also energized a generation of students and architects. His obvious adherence to the highest standard of professional ethics and the distinction he drew between the domain Architecture and the domain Marketplace captured the admiration of those more desirous, like Kahn, to make a cultural contribution than to practice for financial gain. As a practising architect awarded commission after commission he could speak about actual rather than 222 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process theoretical work; and students realized that vision, dedication, and enthusiasm about the opportunities of professional engagement could indeed be crowned with success. As Barton Myers observes, ‘He was really inspired about architecture. He really lifted you way beyond the mundane aspects of building. That’s why he was very strong. I think he affected people differently, but he really did lift people. I think it was more about the spirit of architecture than about particular solutions in architecture.’32 Thomas Vreeland provides a complementary assessment in his recollections:
Kahn moved among us, like Mozart, as a creature from a different dimension with an understanding none of us would ever have. He knew this but did everything he could to join his world to ours, help us understand what he understood. And frequently he succeeded in making us believe we were operating on his level (which of course we weren’t, nor could we). This must be characteristic of a genius: to be surrounded by such a field of superabundant energy that it envelops those around him.
What I took from Kahn was all that was practical, a methodology for designing a building. ‘Before you begin to design, reduce all the information and requirements of the building to something the size of your fingernail.’ (Program). ‘Reduce all programmatic requirements to two or three categories of generic spaces. Plan your building with these.’ (Schematics). ‘I always begin with a square.’ (Design). And so forth. I found these tremendously useful in my career as a designer. What I didn’t understand of what he said I filed away as his idiosyncrasies.33
Another source of his appeal was his espousal of the human need for self- expression and his advocacy of the power of individual creativity. His youthful, imaginative, and inquiring approach to architecture contributed to the intensity of life and learning in his office and studio. Rapt audiences gathered around him. As James Steele comments, ‘He had a way of implanting ideas that were very mystical in many ways and above you. But as you begin to dwell on them, you would begin to understand them more ... But it wasn’t doctrinaire, and it wasn’t methodical. It was basically the power of his personality, the strength of his character, and the poetry.’34 Not only did his philosophy engage students and colleagues who wanted to lead a life of ideas and ideals, but, as in the case of many outstanding teachers, his thought-provoking insights and personal example helped others further their own self-discovery, personal metamorphosis, and career path.
Komendant at Work
Komendant’s primary responsibilities comprised the determination with the architect of the most appropriate structural system for each project and the prediction and optimization of its behaviour as a whole; the calculation of the requisite cross-sections of supporting and supported members to assure a structure’s rigidity, stability, and longevity; consultation with the contractor on erection procedures; and coordination with other consultants on the placement of Fig. 5.9a sheet 2 of Komendant’s calculations for the Kimbell Fig. 5.9b sheet 3 of Komendant’s calculations for the Kimbell kahn, komendant and the kimbell art museum 225 electrical, mechanical, and plumbing equipment. These tasks required his mastery of a constantly evolving body of knowledge and an expertise in such fields as statics and dynamics; advanced mathematics; strength of materials; soil mechanics; construction methods, equipment, and organization; structural systems, and the cost of labor, materials, transportation, fabrication, and maintenance. He was renowned for his superior knowledge of and experience with construction materials, his grasp of the typology and nature of complex structural issues, and a mathematical proficiency that enabled the formulation of equations to solve the most demanding problems. As David Karp remarked, ‘Komendant was fearless, He would take on anything.’35 His work required ingenuity, cognitive flexibility, the determination of the sequence of discrete steps by which a structure can be most effectively analyzed, and an ability to deal successfully with the most unconventional challenges. Peter McCleary, a structural engineer and colleague of Kahn’s on the University of Pennsylvania staff, notes that ‘Komendant was one of the few engineers who could satisfy Kahn’s need to be avant-garde in masonry and concrete;’36 and as we have seen in his contributions to Kahn’s work, Komendant’s awareness of the latest innovations in precast, prestressed, and post-tensioned concrete expanded the technological boundaries for the design of the Kimbell and other buildings. The image he projected was one of a serious, conscientious, industrious, well-organized, efficient, decisive, forceful, and prompt professional: some one of exceptional competence in whom an architect could place the utmost confidence. Kahn accepted both the image and the reality of this presentation and concomitantly relied on Komendant to tell him what he could and could not do structurally and to help him realize his desire for innovative engineering in masonry and concrete structures. However, conflicts in working methods and approaches to the nature and purpose of the building task led to fluctuating and ambivalent evaluations of each other’s personalities and professional goals. Komendant, for example, concurred with the convention in engineering practice to accept the first feasible solution. He was impatient with the changes created by Kahn’s perfectionism and was reluctant to revise, recalculate, and redraw, the frequent need for which was an irritant that coloured his portrayal of Kahn. Although Komendant describes what he believes are the limits of Kahn’s knowledge and competence nowhere does he claim that Kahn disregarded structural logic and clarity or misunderstood the nature of materials. He similarly refrains from criticizing such Kahn’s decisions about structural expression as, for example, the validity of the longitudinal slot in the Kimbell cycloid. He seems to have had no strong adherence to a philosophy of structures other than ‘maximum results at minimum cost.’ (Komendant, 1972: xi) He was reluctant to recommend a choice of structural solutions for a given load or span, and, when he did, it was often rejected by Kahn. Barton Myers recalls that ‘The problem is that when Komendant came up with an idea of his own it was terrible. He came up with a structure for Salk, I remember, that was the most worthless looking structural system that I ever saw. By himself he had nothing to say.’37 Komendant acknowledged the desirability of structural expression but apparently found no contradiction in recommending 226 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process the use of columns at midpoint to support the catenary cables in Kahn’s Palazzo dei Congressi project in Venice. Jack MacAllistair, who worked for Kahn a dozen years and served as the project architect on the Salk Institute, provided this assessment of the nature of Komendant’s contributions:
Komendant was a follower and not a leader. He never in my experience provided answers except in making what Lou sketched work. It was the same process for all of us. Lou would sketch and make drawings. He was interested in vaults and ways of spanning; and sometimes we would sit down and discuss alternate ways of doing it as we do with any engineer. And Komendant was always very resourceful. He always had in his mind a dozen solutions. But again he seldom gave you a weighting of the solutions. He would let you choose, and you would go far down the line and find out that it was an immensely expensive way of doing it as opposed to a more direct way. So it was difficult to get that out of him—that sense of what ultimately made sense. But Lou was interested in doing things that made sense. It came from the way he lived. It came from his background and not having anything. To be wasteful to Lou even in the means of building a building was wrong. So he’s not that kind of impractical person that Komendant claims. It would tear to his very core of values to be accused of being wasteful of concrete or wasteful of anything.
Komendant was never a poet in the sense of Peter Rice from Arup, who is certainly one of the top structural engineers of the twentieth century; and Peter had an architect’s sense of visual delight. He really cared deeply about how things looked. And he was really very good. I only worked once with him. It was like working with an engineer of a different level altogether. And Komendant didn’t have that quality to inspire. His inspiration was that he could do it. Where other engineers would say, “I can’t do that,” Komendant would say, “There’s a way to accomplish that,” and then he would work it out.38
Conclusions
As in other areas of human endeavor the division of labour in architecture and engineering extends the range of individual capabilities by combining different areas of expertise. Autonomy is constrained by limitations of knowledge, and each participant’s degree of independence, dependence, and interdependence varies with the demands of each project and the composition of the collaborative group. A permeability of occupational boundaries in the spectrum of building types even sometimes allows architects and structural engineers to undertake responsibilities in areas generally monopolized by the other. However, a common goal does not necessarily lead to a smooth collaboration, nor does the clarity of the division of labour imply that all participants will be satisfied with the available and resulting rewards and gratifications of his or her occupational role. In addition, stereotypes and professional self-images may diminish mutual respect because of different value orientations, education, and working habits: and one party’s demand kahn, komendant and the kimbell art museum 227 for what is seen as an unfair increase in prerogatives can disrupt the division of authority and the conventional ordering of responsibilities. Despite differences between Kahn and Komendant that sometimes kindled mutual incomprehension and even antagonism their work necessitated similar concerns about site conditions, the interaction of building components, thermal effects, erection procedures, the design of joints, code requirements, coordination with consultants, and the cost of materials, fabrication, and maintenance. Kahn and Komendant also shared personal attributes that contributed to their professional success: productivity, intelligence, responsibility, self-discipline, industriousness, tenacity, flexibility, experience, motivation, inventiveness, attention to the practicalities of construction, and the enjoyment of challenging tasks. Although their collaboration conformed to the protocols of the conventional division of labour, recognition, and rewards between architect and structural engineer, Komendant’s book reveals a surreptitious but persistent demand for a greater share of credit than that given for just ensuring the structural integrity of Kahn’s buildings. The celebrity resulting from Kahn’s mystifications, success, and charisma appears to have aroused in him a bewilderment verging on resentment. Komendant seemingly was reluctant to recognize how much others valued the ideas and buildings of Kahn that established and sustained his fame and influence: a perhaps understandable reaction in an engineer proud of his brilliance who was dependent on someone who was in turn dependent on him. He was therefore angered when his suggestions were spurned and when he felt that Kahn regarded him as a mere technician and subordinate contributor. As Nick Gianopoulos remarks, ‘First of all, Komendant never looked upon architects as being the prime designers. He had always been used to being in Germany and Estonia the lead. And so naturally there was this reluctance on his part to consider Lou an equal or a superior - not only Lou but other architects as well.’39 There was little opportunity for an agreement on the primacy of their respective professions when Komendant’s remark, ‘Lou, you have to know, engineering can exist without architecture, but architecture without engineering is impossible’ (Komendant, 1975) was countered by Kahn’s statement that ‘Architecture is an art; the technology merely supports it.’40 Despite his claims to the contrary rarely did Komendant’s critiques and proposals provide a generating principle for a Kahn design. Jack MacAllister comments that the only project on which he made a decisive design contribution was the Olivetti- Underwood Factory Building, which required a repetitive module and economical structural system, the choice of which could almost be quasi-routine for an engineer with Komendant’s knowledge of contemporary structural systems.41 However, W. Neil Thompson provides a supplementary viewpoint:
Although Komendant’s architectural values were minimal, his engineering talents enabled major structural achievements An example of his contribution to the success of Kahn’s buildings is his feat of engineering the 20’ wide by 100’ long span cycloid-shaped post-tensioned concrete vaults, penetrated at their apex by a 2.5’ x 100’ oculus to illuminate the Museum with natural light diffused by a unique suspended light fixture that reflects light evenly over the inside of the cycloid surface down to the walls and 228 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
Fig. 5.10 Column floor. The weight of these vaults is supported entirely by four 2’x2’concrete and vault columns. The same engineering skills of Komendant also ensured that the connection lower levels of the Museum, adjacent to the light wells, were washed with natural light without structural impediments. In this sense, his claim about his work with Kahn that ‘We discussed and developed the overall design concept together’ in a letter of November 20, 1989 to Edmund P. Pillsbury, Richard Brown’s successor as Director of the Kimbell Art Museum, can be considered valid.42
Komendant’s book also reveals a lack of understanding and appreciation of the scope and difficulty of Kahn’s time-consuming search for an ordering concept and of the range of issues that Kahn was dealing with concurrently. Komendant’s tasks required the solution of well-defined problems, and his palette of responsibilities comprised structure and material and, not like Kahn’s, the spatial, functional, symbolic, contextual, aesthetic, and psychological implications of a unique presence. His problems were predefined, and his work substituted for exploration and discovery the certainty of mathematical equations and the application of accepted theory in a process of analysis and confirmation. His participation in collaborative ventures with Kahn entailed no need to integrate the tangible and intangible components in the hierarchy of design problems into an artful assemblage of interrelated spaces. There was similarly no need for him, unlike Kahn, to promulgate and defend the ideology that underpins his work and to contend with the predilections of demanding clients. His more limited value system merely kahn, komendant and the kimbell art museum 229 emphasized public safety and the efficient use of materials. He viewed himself justifiably as a brilliant technician who could accomplish his work successfully without necessarily having to question the philosophic basis of the buildings for which he was providing the structural calculations. There is no hint in his book of sympathy for Kahn’s vision, ideals, goals, and aesthetic values and no recognition of Kahn’s intellectual development in this eighteen-year period, an attitude that accompanies a distaste for Kahn’s working methods and willingness to tolerate financial setbacks. The book even contains no acknowledgment that Kahn’s commissions gave Komendant the opportunity to engage in challenging and gratifying work that contributed to his monetary benefit, professional reputation, and later, upon the behest and recommendation of Kahn, an AIA Allied Professions Gold Medal. The appreciation of one’s colleague travelled largely in one direction, for as Ronald Altoon observes, ‘Kahn used to talk about how much he valued the interaction and gave a lot of credit to Komendant and really felt that he could not have done what he did without that collaboration. I found it quite gratifying to see an architect of such stature as Kahn attributing appropriate credit where it was due.’43 A polemical book creates polarized judgments of the validity of its assessments: and David Rinehart, a Kahn student and employee, provides us with his view of Komendant’s motivation and the accuracy of his evaluations:
When one is involved with great work and because everyone in the office worked so hard, there’s a kind of tendency to believe you did it, in a certain kind of way. And so it wasn’t that I was surprised. I was disappointed because one hopes that when people write things like that that they don’t exaggerate the situation—because they become learning tools, part of the historical record for students, architects, designers, educators, etc. So they have a higher responsibility than to make themselves great. And it’s always disappointing when people do that—and they do it a lot. So I wasn’t surprised, but I was annoyed, because why do that? But it seemed to me at least, I think I remember feeling, that anybody who knew Kahn and who was around when did all that work, would see through all of that right away.44
Dr. G. Juri Komendant, a structural engineer in Berkeley, California, recalls his father from another perspective:
He never separated engineering design from architecture. It was all integral to him. He knew he was not an architect himself, and he did not want to be an architect himself, I don’t think. He really valued Lou Kahn for his artistic talent, for his art, for his thinking, for his creativity. He really admired Lou for that; and he kind of feels like he’s the person who helped Lou bring that about. He gave the substance, the support for that architecture and helped Kahn come to a conclusion on his designs rather than having him float out there, never coming to a conclusion. He helped bring him to a conclusion. And he had a very aesthetic eye. The forms that things took, you know, and how that form related to that structure, he was outstanding. And in that process he was able to bring out the architecture or incorporate it in the 230 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
architecture so that they worked together. And that’s what he was very good at. Quite often, my dad would get excited about the project before he even had any drawings, and he would be doing preliminary designs and sketches; and then the architects would look at it and then would incorporate that into the design elements.45
Despite the acrimony chronicled in this essay an outstanding and beloved building was eventually constructed to the delight of the Board of Trustees, the public, and critics. The Kimbell, which was erected with virtually no compromises of the architect’s vision and the Director’s programme, gratified both architect and Director. Dissension among the many agents curtailed the amity of the process but failed to diminish the quality of the final product. Changes proposed by the associate architect were overruled insofar as the contractual division of responsibility later supplemented by a Clarification to the Contract gave Kahn the exclusive right to design decisions. Komendant, dissatisfied with his perceived lack of status and recognition and trying to expand his sphere of influence, performed at his usual stellar level in fulfilling Kahn’s need for superior engineering design and supervision. His work was essential, but as Nick Gianopoulos observes, ‘We have often said among ourselves, if Komendant had never come along, Lou would have found some other source of engineering; and his buildings may have had a different character, but they still would have been Lou’s buildings. And I think that word of that had gotten to Komendant; and he wasn’t very pleased ... Anyway, Lou would have found a way with other engineers to achieve what he wanted. 46 Regardless of grievances each participant had to work for a common end. No one wanted this significant project to fail. Too much time and resources had already been invested, and too much anticipation of the completion of an enthusiastically received design had already been generated. However, were it not for the intercession and support of Richard F. Brown and his admiration for Kahn’s talent and vision, the project could have collapsed because of dissonances in working methods and Kahn’s failure to meet the agreed-upon schedule. Financial considerations of the client and associate architect also created sources of discord. The trustees of the Kimbell Art Foundation feared that any delays would incur considerably higher material and labour costs because of shortages resulting from the construction of the nearby Dallas-Ft. Worth International Airport. Just before ending his book with a short tribute to Kahn’s dedication, achievements, and leadership and an expression of sympathy and regret for the professional disappointments that Kahn experienced before his death Komendant includes a quotation from a remembered conversation with Kahn that surely provides a major reason for the museum Director’s steadfast support of Kahn as well as for Kahn’s continuing significance:
Many architects act in this way, but look and evaluate the results of their quick decisions, mostly they are extremely damaging to the architecture. For those architects the architecture is only a source to make money and not to create beauty and art, as it should be. For me, architecture is not business but a religion, devotion and dedication for human enjoyment.47 kahn, komendant and the kimbell art museum 231
Fig. 5.11 Aerial view of the Kimbell Art Museum
In an assessment of his long association with Kahn Marshall Meyers provides a complementary view: Nobody remembers anybody who got their work done on time and within the budget who did a mundane thing. But even when an architect is late or has problems with the budget, if a fantastic thing comes out of it, then, after the dust settles, its power is undeniable.48 Kahn was awarded with the reputation he sought for the sake of the con tinuation of his creative efforts in architecture in spite of a driving idealism and perfectionism that could have wrecked his career on the shoals of frustration and failure. He was largely able to accomplish his goals even in a commercial culture that worships financial success because of a saving remnant of appreciative clients who recognized the value and validity of his proposed and built designs. His initial successes generated a momentum and a prestige that his later projects only enhanced. Ironically, the celebrity culture of architectural journalism that he deplored helped him obtain the clientele that sustained the later stages of his career, for he too became a revered practitioner whose work was avidly followed by many in the profession, discussed in academia, promoted by colleagues and former students, and exhibited by elite institutions such as the Museum of Modern Art. His was, all in all, a life and a career that began inauspiciously but that blossomed from rags to renown into a remarkable American success story. It ended, as Kahn and his creditors knew all too sadly, in financial disaster, but as Ronald Altoon remarks in his fitting epitaph to the character of Kahn’s contribution, ‘If he left behind a legacy of unpaid debt, he also left us indebted for what he left behind.’49 232 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
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Notes
1 Komendant, A.E.: 18 Years with Architect Louis I. Kahn, Englewood, Aloray, 1975. 2 Interview with the author, 13 January 1998. 3 Letter, Brown to Kahn, 20 December 1965, Box 37, Louis I. Kahn Collection, University of Pennsylvania and Pennsylvania Historical and Museum Commission (hereafter cited as Kahn Collection). kahn, komendant and the kimbell art museum 235
4 Letter, Geren to Kahn, 31 March 1969, Box 37, Kahn Collection. 5 Letter, Geren to Brown, 6 June 1969, Box 37, Kahn Collection. 6 Letter, Geren to Marshall Meyers, 22 July 1969, Box 37, Kahn Collection. 7 Letter, Harden to Meyers, 22 August 1969, Box 37, Kahn Collection. 8 Letter, Geren, Jr. to Kahn, 12 December 1969, Box 37, Kahn Collection. 9 Letter, Geren, Jr. to Kahn, 20 July 1970, Box 37, Kahn Collection. 10 Letter, Seymour to Brown et al., 18 September 1969, Box 37, Kahn Collection. 11 Letter, Seymour to Kahn et al., 12 December 1969, Box 37, Kahn Collection. 12 Telephone interview with the author, 18 February 1999. 13 Letter to the author, 28 May 2004. 14 Interview with the author, 10 March 1998. 15 Ibid. p. 120. 16 Interview with the author, 13 January 1998. 17 Letter, Komendant to Geren, 24 July 1969, Box 37, Kahn Collection. 18 Interview with the author, 10 March 1998. 19 Interview with the author, 10 December 2003. 20 Letter, Frank Sherwood to Louis I. Kahn, 5 October 1972, Box 37, Kahn Collection. 21 Interview with the author, 13 January 1998. 22 Wurman, R.S.: What Will Be Has Always Been: The Words of Louis I. Kahn, New York, Access and Rizzoli, 1986, p. 27. 23 Interview with the author, 10 December 2003. 24 Prown, J.D.: The Architecture of the Yale Center for British Art, 2nd rev. ed., Yale University Press, 1986, p. 46. 25 Angerer, F.: Surface Structures in Building, London, Tiranti, 1961. 26 Interview with the author, 22 June 1998. 27 Ibid., p. xii. 28 Interview with the author, 13 January 1998. 29 Interview with the author, 22 June 1998. 30 Interview with the author, 10 December 2003. 31 Interview with the author, 10 March 2004. 32 Interview with the author, 10 December 2003. 33 Letter to the author, 24 April 2007. 34 Interview with the author, 10 March 2004. 35 Interview with the author, 10 December 2003. 36 Interview with the author, 18 March 1998. 37 Interview with the author, 10 December 2003. 236 The Collaborators: Interactions in the Architectural Design Process
38 Interview with the author, 30 July 1998. 39 Interview with the author, 10 March 1998. 40 Wurman, R.S.: What Will Be Has Always Been: The Words of Louis I. Kahn, New York, Access and Rizzoli, 1986, p. 251. 41 Interview with the author, 30 July 1998. 42 Telephone interview with the author, 11 February 1999. 43 Interview with the author, 12 December 1998. 44 Interview with the author, 12 August 1998. 45 Interview with the author, 8 March 1999. 46 Interview with the author, 10 March 1998. 47 Ibid., p. 190. 48 Meyers, M.: ‘Thoughts about Louis I. Kahn’, A + U, November 1983 Extra Edition, p. 227. 49 Interview with the author, 22 December 1998. Index
Page numbers given in italics refer to beauty of form 28–9 figures Behrens, Peter 118 Beresford-Hope, Alexander J. B. 30 Adler, Dankmar 14–15, 30, 62, 64–8, Bernard Price Institute (University of the 79–80, 81–93, 100–10 Witwatersrand) 168–9, 169, 177 Adler & Sullivan 61–8, 85–6 see also Betjeman, John 45 Adler, Dankmar Beyer, Oskar 128 AEG (Allgemeine Elektricitäts- Billington, David P. 30 Gesellschaft) 118, 131–2 Brown, Richard F. 208–9, 216, 230 Alba, Roberto de 7 Brunel, Isambard Kingdom 15 Allgemeine Elektricitäts-Gesellschaft Burling, Edward 83 (AEG) 118, 131–2 Allianz Building (Munich) 203n85 career disappointments 6 Altoon, Ronald 229, 231 Carpentier, Françoise 165 Amsterdam School 128 Carson, Pirie, Scott and Company Store Ancelevicius, George 9 (Chicago) 98, 99 Andrew, David 80, 94 Caudill, William 8 apartheid 175 Central Music Hall (Chicago) 83, 84 architects Chalmers, Gordon 168, 177, 200n33 and clients 15–23, 117–41 Chicago Auditorium Building definition 28 auditorium 76–9, 78 and engineers 10–15, 27–31, 64–8, design of 61–8, 102–6 205–31 entrances 73 skills 11 hotel 74–6 teamwork 2, 147–98 interior 63 Architects Collaborative 3, 8 office building 73–4 architectural practices 2 planning 68–81, 106–10 Arup, Ove xvi, 15 plans 71, 72, 76 Ashbee, Charles 121 section 63 Auditorium Building see Chicago site of 71–3 Auditorium Building tower 73, 79 autocracy 7 Chicago Opera Festival Auditorium 86–7 autonomy 7–8 China 22 Churchill, Winston 121, 131–2 Baerwald, Alexander 124, 126, 139–40 Cinerama Theatre (Johannesburg) 156–7 Barlow, William Henry 15, 34–41, 46–7, civil engineers see engineers 49–57 classicism 173, 179–80 Bauer, Augustus 82, 104 clients and architects 15–23, 117–41 238 book title
collaboration xvi, 2, 3–9 Goody, Joan 22 Collins, Peter 27 Graham, Bruce 21 Colosseum Theatre (Johannesburg) 157 Gregersen, Charles 61, 65, 73, 106–7 Condit, Carl 89, 114n10 Gropius, Walter 2–3, 5, 7, 130, 150, 199n6 Cooke, Bernard 157 group norms 5 Cooke, P. Rogers 157 Guaranty Building (Buffalo, New York) 95, Cowan, Henry J. 9–10 96, 97, 100 Cowin, Norris Tynwald 172, 177 see also Guggenheim Museum (New York) 95 Williamson and Cowin Gwathmey, Charles 7 Crilly & Blair complex (Chicago) 83–4 Gwilt, Joseph 28 CRS-Sirrine 8 Crystal Palace (London) 30–1 Hahn, Paul 200n33 Cuff, Dana 8 Haifa Power House 124–6, 125, 131–7, Curl, James Stevens 31 134, 135, 136, 137 Hall, Edward T. 6 daylight 93, 99–100 Harkness, Sarah P. 3 de Alba, Roberto 7 Hendrikz, Willem de Sanderes 157 decision making 4–5 Herbert, Gilbert 183–4, 190 direction xvi Herzl, Theodor 120, 120–1 Duby, Georges 12 Hillman Building (University of the Dutton, Thomas A. 16 Witwatersrand) 170, 171–2, 177 Hitchcock, Henry-Russell 31 Edelman, John 84 Holliday, Clifford 126, 140 Eiffel, Gustave 30 Hood, Robert Jacomb 29 Elmslie, George Grant 115n18 Howie, Duncan 153, 154, 165, 171–2, 173, Elstein, Rochelle 66 175, 177, 180, 181, 183, 184, 190 engineers and architects 10–15, 27–31, 64–8, individualism 6 205–31 initiative 2 role of 11–12, 28 innovators 5–6 Escom House (Johannesburg) 157–60, Institution of Civil Engineers xv 158, 159 Izenour, George 76–7, 115n26 Euston Station (London) 40, 41 Jackson, Thomas Graham 28 Fassler, John 153, 154, 157, 160, 162–4, Jahn, Helmut 22 168–9, 172–3, 175, 177, 179–80, 181, Jenney, William le Baron 84 182–3, 184, 190 John Moffat Building (University of the Festival of Britain 180 Witwatersrand) 147, 164–5, 181–97, Finkelstein, Nathan 156–7 189 Fitch, James Marston 65 cross-section 193 Fulton, Claire 168 design and construction 185–92, 187 functionalism 94–102 design team 181–5 Furner, Stanley 148–9 Dorothy Susskind Auditorium 187, Furness, Frank 84 192, 192 East courtyard 196 Gans, Deborah 27 façades 191 Gapon, George 119 foyer 195 Garnier, Charles 95 library 195 Geren, Preston M. 209 planning 192–7 Geren, Preston M., Jr. 209 plans 193 Gianapoulos, Nick 214, 216, 230 studios 194 Giedion, Sigfried 27 Johnson, Philip 114n6 index 239
Jones, Cranston 7 from Euston Road 44 Jones, Owen 47 plans 43, 49 Jordy, William 65, 100 ramped approach 45, 45–6 south façade 42 Kahn, Louis I. 206, 207–22, 227–31 Midland Railway Co. 33–4 Kantorowich, Roy 165 Mies van der Rohe, Ludwig 180, 199n6 Karp, David 221, 225 Milam Building (San Antonio) 157, 160 Kauffmann, Richard 124, 131, 135–7, 139, Moffat, John Abraham 185 140 Mond, Alfred 123 Kimbell Art Museum (Fort Worth) Morgenstern, Jacques 183, 184 205–31, 212, 221 Morrison, Hugh 66, 85–6, 109 aerial view 218, 231 Mueller, Paul 103, 115n18 calculations 223–4 Myers, Barton 216, 222, 225 column and vault connection 228 construction 230 New Empiricism 180 C-plan 209 Niemeyer, Oscar 180 cycloid and channel 207, 207 cycloid and reflector 219 office blocks 73–4, 93 design of 207–12 Ordish, Rowland Mawson 35–6, 53 King’s Cross Station (London) 40, 41 Orell, Benjamin 126, 139 Kinney, Ozias S. 82–3 Oud, J.J.P. 7–8 Komendant, August E. 206, 208, 212–15, 217, 219–20, 222–6, 223–4, 227–31 Paddington Station (London) 40, 41 Komendant, G. Juri 229–30 Palace of Westminster 30 Palestine 117–18, 120 Labrouste, Henri 30 Palestine Electric Corporation (PEC) 118, Lakofski, Shim 156 119–23 Le Corbusier 68, 149–50, 180, 199n6 partnerships 1–2 leadership 2, 3, 4–5 Pearse, Geoffrey Eastcott 148, 149, 153, Letang, Eugène 84 157, 162, 164, 165, 168, 172–3, 175, Lundy, Victor 7 177, 178–9, 180, 181 PEC (Palestine Electric Corporation) 118, MacAllistair, Jack 226 119–23 McCleary, Peter 225 Pelli, Cesar 9 McIntosh, Gordon 150 Perret, Auguste 179 McMillan, Louis A. 3 Peters, T. F. 13, 28 McVicker’s Theater (Chicago) 86, 87 Pevsner, Nikolaus 114n12, 181 Marcus, Manfred 185 Pinfold, Carl 186 Mark, Robert 30 planning 29, 68–81, 93, 106–10 Marks, Percy J. 114n9 Price, Bernard 168 Martiennsen, Rex Distin 149–51, 153, problem solving 5 157, 160, 165, 180, 199n6 Mendelsohn, Erich 98, 114n8, 126–41, Quigley, Rob 21–2 128 Menocal, Narcisco G. 65, 107 racial segregation 175 Methodist Church Block (Chicago) 83 railway stations 29–30 see also Euston Meyers, Marshall 214, 216, 220, 231 Station; King’s Cross Station; Midland Hotel (London) 32, 33, 42–57, Paddington Station; St. Pancras 48 Station criticisms of 44 Rathenau, Emil 132 description 42–6 Rinehart, David 229 design of 46–7, 49–50 Roebling, John Augustus 30 240 book title
Root, John Wellborn 64 South African Architectural Record 152–3, Rosoff, Shmuel 124, 139 184 Rothschild, Edmond de (Baron) 123 Sprague, Paul 65, 107 Royal Institute of British Architects xv Steele, James 221 Rudolph, Paul 7 Stern, Alexander 124 Ruprich-Robert, Victor 84 Studio Seven 156 Rutenberg, Pinhas 117–19, 120–6, Sullivan, Louis 62, 64–8, 79–80, 84–7, 131–41 88–90, 94–110 see also Adler & Rutenberg concession 121–3, 122 Sullivan Rybcynski, Witold 17 Summerson, John Newenham 31, 44, 53 systems xvi–xvii Sacher, Harry 123 Saint, Andrew 8 teamwork 2, 147–98 St. Pancras Station (London) 48 theatre design 90–3 articulated link 55 Thomas M. Byrne, Inc 209 booking office 51 Thompson, W. Neil 210 cabs 40 Tomaselli, Ugo 183, 184, 190 circulation patterns 39–40 Transvaal Group 150–1 criticism of 31–3 Twombly, Robert 95 design of 34–40, 46–57 entrances 40–1, 41, 50 University of the Witwatersrand façade 54, 56, 56–7 (Johannesburg) 148, 161 hotel see Midland Hotel Bernard Price Institute 168–9, 169, 177 longitudinal section 53 Central Block 161, 165–8, 166, 167, plans of 36, 57 175–7 platforms 52 Dental School and Hospital 172–5, roof 37–8, 54 173, 174, 177 site of 34 East Campus 176 structural grid 39, 39 foyer 166 train shed 32, 32, 33–41, 35, 37 Great Hall 165 Samuelson, Timothy 62 Hillman Building 170, 171–2, 177 Schaefer, John 82 John Moffat Building see John Schlesinger & Mayer Store (Chicago) 98, Moffat Building (University of the 99 Witwatersrand) Schocken, Salman 130–1 library 162, 162–4, 163 Schocken Store (Stuttgart) 98 Oral and Dental Hospital 177–9, 178 Schonland, Basil 168 Rand University Training Corps 153, School of Architecture (University of the 154 Witwatersrand) 151–8, 154, 155, School of Architecture 151–8, 154, 155, 179–81 179–81 Schuyler, Montgomery 65–6, 67, Students Architectural Society 151–2 109 Utzon, Jorn 15 Scott, George Gilbert 15, 46 Scott, James A. 62 van Vriesland, Siegfried 144n37 Scott Russell, John 91, 92 van Zanten, David 84 Seidener, Josef 120, 120–1, 143n5 Venturi, Robert 17 Seymour, A.T. 209 Vreeland, Thomas 220, 222 Shaikh Isma’il 121–3 Sherwood, Frank 216 Wainwright Building (St. Louis) 100, 101 Shunn, John 183, 184 Ware, William Robert 62, 84 Smith, E. Willard 82 Weingarden, Lauren S. 94 Sorsky, Samuel David 124 Weizmann, Vera 131 index 241
Welz, Jean 165, 168, 177 Williamson and Cowin 162, 165, 172, White House (Naharaim) 139, 139 175, 177 Wijdeveld, Hendricus 128, 132–4 Winkelmann, Donald 7 Wilhelm II (Kaiser of Germany) 120 Woltersdorf, Arthur 103–4, 114n14 Williams, Frederick Smeeton 34 Wright, Frank Lloyd 88, 89, 103