A. Peter Fawcett- Architecture Design Notebook

ARCHITECTURE :DESIGNNOTEBOOK

For Karen

ARCHITECTURE :DESIGN NOTEBOOK

2nd edition

A. Peter Fawcett(Illustrated by the author)

AMSTERDAM BOSTON HEIDELBERG LONDON NEW YORK OXFORD

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Architectural Press

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British Library Cataloguing in Publication DataA catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Fawcett, A. Peter

Architecture: design notebook�2nd edn.

1. Architectural design

I. Title

721

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ISBN 0 7506 5669 7

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CONTENTS

1 PREAMBLE 1

2 THE CONTEXT FOR DESIGN 3

3 ARRIVING AT THE DIAGRAM 13RESPONDING TO THE SITE 13CHOOSING AN APPROPRIATE ‘MODEL’ 16ORGANISING THE PLAN 23

4 CHOOSING APPROPRIATE TECHNOLOGIES 39STRUCTURE 39SERVICES 42HOW WILL IT STAND UP? 43HOW IS IT MADE? 51WILL IT BE COMFORTABLE? 58WILL IT BE GREEN? 62

5 HOW WILL IT LOOK? 71EXPRESSION V SUPPRESSION 71

ROOF 74OPENINGS 77ELEVATIONS 77WALL MEMBRANES 78THE CORNER 81SCALE 83

6 THE SPACES AROUND 93CENTRIFUGAL AND CENTRIPETAL SPACE 93URBAN SPACE TYPOLOGY 101

7 POSTSCRIPT: A WORKING METHOD 107TRADITION V THE VIRTUAL BUILDING 107

FURTHER READING 111

vi Contents

1 PREAMBLE

As we enter the twenty-first century, it hasbecome fashionable to consider architecturethrough a veil of literature. Such was notalways the case; indeed, it could be arguedthat the practice of architecture has rarelybeen underpinned by a close correspondencewith theory, and that designers have beendrawnmore to precedent, to seminal buildingsand projects rather than to texts for a creativespringboard to their fertile imaginations. Thisis merely an observation and not an argumentagainst fledgling building designers adoptingeven the simplest of theoretical positions; nordoes it deny the profound influence of a smallnumber of seminal texts upon the developmentof twentieth-century architecture, for there hasbeen a close correspondence between some ofthose texts and icons which emerged as thebuilt outcome.But even the most basic theoretical stance

must be supported in turn by a few fundamen-tal maxims which can point the inexperienced

designer in the right direction towards prose-cuting an acceptable architectural solution.This book, then, attempts to offer that supportby not only offering some accepted maxims ordesign orthodoxies, but also by suggestinghow they can inform crucial decisions whichface the architect engaged in the act of design-ing. The text is non-theoretical and thereforemakes no attempt to add to the ample litera-ture surrounding architectural theory; rather itaims to provide students engaged in buildingdesign with a framework of accepted ways oflooking at things which will support and informtheir experiment and exploration during the so-called ‘design process’.The plethora of literature concerned with the

‘design process’ or ‘design methodology’ is afairly recent phenomenon which gainedmomentum during the late 1950s. In theseearly explorations design was promulgatedas a straightforward linear process from ana-lysis via synthesis to evaluation as if conform-

ing to some universal sequence of decision-making. Moreover, design theorists urgeddesigners to delay as long as possible the crea-tive leap into ‘form-making’ until every aspectof the architectural problem was thought to beclearly understood. But every practising archi-tect knew that this restrictive linear model of thedesign process flew in the face of all sharedexperience; the reality of designing did notconform to a predetermined sequence at allbut demanded that the designer should skipbetween various aspects of the problem inany order or at any time, should consider sev-eral aspects simultaneously or, indeed, shouldrevisit some aspects in a cyclical process as theproblem became more clearly defined.Furthermore, the experience of most architectswas that a powerful visual image of theirembryonic solution had already been formedearly on in the design process, suggesting thatfundamental aspects of ‘form-making’ such ashow the building would look, or how its three-

dimensional organisation would be config-ured in plan and section, represented in realityan early, if tentative, creative response to anyarchitectural problem.The act of designing clearly embraces at its

extremes logical analysis on the one hand andprofound creative thought on the other, both ofwhich contribute crucially to that centralground of ‘form-making’. It is axiomatic thatall good buildings depend upon sound andimaginative decisions on the part of thedesigner at these early stages and how suchdecision-making informs that creative ‘leap’towards establishing an appropriate three-dimensional outcome.These initial forays into ‘form-making’

remain the most problematic for the noviceand the experienced architect alike; what fol-lows are a few signposts towards easing afledgling designer’s passage through thesepotentially rough pastures.

2 Architecture: Design Notebook

2 THE CONTEXT FOR DESIGN

It’s a hoary old cliche that society gets thearchitecture it deserves, or, put more extre-mely, that decadent regimes will, ipso facto,produce reactionary architecture whilst onlydemocracies will support the progressive. Butto a large extent post-Versailles Europe borethis out; the Weimar Republic’s fourteen-yearlifespan coincided exactly with that of theBauhaus, whose progressive aims it endorsed,and modern architecture flourished in thefledgling democracy of Czechoslovakia. Butthe rise of totalitarianism in inter-war Europesoon put an end to such worthy ambition and itwas left to the free world (and most particularlythe NewWorld) to prosecute the new architec-ture until a peaceful Europe again prevailed.This is, of course, a gross over-simplification

but serves to demonstrate that all architectswork within an established socio-politicalframework which, to a greater or lesser extent,inevitably encourages or restricts their creativeimpulses, a condition which would not neces-sarily obtain with some other design disciplines

like, for example, mechanical engineering(which, incidentally, thrived under totalitarian-ism).This brings us to another well-worn stance

adopted by progressive architects; that archi-tecture (unlike mechanical engineering)responds in some measure to a prevailing cul-tural climate in which it is created and thereforeemerges inevitably as a cultural artefactreflecting the nature of that culture. Certainlythe development of progressive architectureduring its so-called ‘heroic’ period after theFirst World War would seem to support thisclaim; architects found themselves at theheart of new artistic movements throughoutEurope like, for example, Purism in Paris, DeStijl in Rotterdam, Constructivism in Moscowor the Bauhaus in Weimar and Dessau.Inevitably, such movements generated aclose correspondence between architectureand the visual arts so that architects lookednaturally to painters and sculptors for inspira-tion in their quest for developing new architec-

tural forms. Indeed, Le Corbusier applied theformal principles of ‘regulating lines’ as anordering device both to his Purist paintingsand as a means subsequently of ordering theelevations to his buildings (Figures 2.1, 2.2).Equally, Piet Mondrian’s abstract painterlycompositions found themselves reinterpreteddirectly as three-dimensional artefacts in thearchitectural projects of Van Eesteren andVan Doesburg (Figures 2.3, 2.4), andLubetkin’s iconic Penguin Pool at LondonZoo was informed by the formal explorationsof Russian Constructivist sculptors like NaumGabo (Figures 2.5, 2.6).But the architectural culture of the twentieth

century was also characterised by a series of

theoretical models of such clarity and seduc-tiveness that designers have since sought tointerpret them directly within their ‘form-making’ explorations. Such was the casewith Le Corbusier’s ‘Five Points of the NewArchitecture’ published in 1926 where a tradi-


Figure 2.1 Le Corbusier, Regulating lines, OzenfantStudio, Paris, 1922. Author’s interpretation.

Figure 2.2 Le Corbusier, Regulating Lines: Villa atGarches, 1927. Author’s interpretation.

Figure 2.3 Piet Mondrian, Tableau, 1921. From De Stijl1917�31: Visions of Utopia, Friedman, M. (ed.), Phaidon.

tional cellular domestic plan limited by theconstraints of traditional timber and masonryconstruction was compared (unfavourably)with the formal and spatial potential affordedby reinforced concrete construction (Figures2.7, 2.8). Consequently ‘pilotis’, ‘freefacade’, ‘open plan’, ‘strip window’, and‘roof garden’ (the five points) were instantlyestablished as tools for form-making. A cele-brated series of houses around Paris designedby Le Corbusier between 1926 and 1931 gaveequally seductive physical expression to the‘five points’ idea and in turn was to provide acollective iconic precedent (Figure 2.9).Similarly, Louis Kahn’s theoretical constructof ‘Servant and Served’ spaces found an

The context for design 5

Figure 2.4 Theo Van Doesburg and Cornelius vanEesteren, Design for house 1923 (not executed). From DeStijl, Overy, P., Studio Vista.

Figure 2.5 Berthold Lubetkin, Penguin Pool, London Zoo,1934. From Berthold Lubetkin, Allan, J., RIBA Publications.

Figure 2.6 Naum Gabo, Construction, 1928. FromCircle, Martin, J. L. et al. (eds), Faber and Faber.

equally direct formal expression in his RichardsMedical Research Building at Philadelphiacompleted in 1968 (Figure 2.10) where mas-sive vertical shafts of brickwork enclosed the‘servant’ vertical circulation and service ductsin dramatic contrast to horizontal floor slabs ofthe (served) laboratories and the transparencyof their floor-to-ceiling glazing.The adoption of modernism and its new

architectural language was also facilitated byexemplars which were not necessarily under-pinned by such transparent theoretical posi-tions. The notion of ‘precedent’, therefore,has always provided further conceptual mod-els to serve the quest for appropriate architec-tural forms. Such exemplars often fly in the faceof orthodoxy; when Peter and Alison Smithsoncompleted Hunstanton School, Norfolk, in1954, they not only offered a startling ‘court-yard-type’ in place of the accepted Bauhaus‘finger plan’ in school design (Figures 2.11,2.12), but at the same time offered a new‘brutalist’ architectural language as a robust


Figure 2.7 The Five Points, Traditional House. Author’sinterpretation.

Figure 2.8 The Five Points, Reinforced Concrete House.Author’s interpretation.

Figure 2.9 Le Corbusier, Villa Savoye, 1931. Fromstudent model, Nottingham University.

alternative to the effete trappings of the Festivalof Britain.And within this complex picture loomed a

burgeoning technology which further fuelledthe modernist’s imagination. Architects werequick to embrace techniques from other disci-plines, most notably structural andmechanicalengineering and applied physics to generatenew building types. The development offramed and large-span structures freed archi-tects from the constraints of traditional build-ing techniques where limited spans and load-bearing masonry had imposed variations onan essentially cellular plan type. Now archi-tects could plan buildings where walls andpartitions were divorced from any structuralintrusion.


Figure 2.10 Louis Kahn, Richards Medical ResearchCentre, University of Pennsylvania, 1961. FromArchitecture Since 1945, Joedicke, J., Pall Mall.

Figure 2.11 Alison and Peter Smithson, HunstantonSchool, 1954. From The New Brutalism, Banham, R.,Architectural Press, p. 32.

Figure 2.12 Alison and Peter Smithson, HunstantonSchool, 1954. From The New Brutalism, Banham, R.,Architectural Press, p. 34.

Whilst this revolution was facilitated by anearly nineteenth-century technology, laterinventions like the elevator, the electric motorand the discharge tube were to have profoundeffects upon a whole range of building typesand therefore upon their formal outcome. Forexample, the elevator allowed the practicalrealisation of high-rise building whose poten-tial had previously been thwarted by the limita-tions of the staircase (Figure 2.13). But theinvention of the electric motor in the late nine-teenth century not only facilitated the develop-ment of a cheap and practical elevator but alsofundamentally changed the multi-level nine-teenth-century factory type which had beenso configured because of the need to harness

a single source of water or steam power. Theinherent flexibility of locating electric motorsanywhere within the industrial process allowedthe development of the single-storey deep-plan factory. Moreover, the deep-plan modelapplied to any building type was facilitated notonly by the development of mechanical venti-lation (another spin-off from the electricmotor), but also by the development of the dis-charge tube and its application as the fluores-cent tube to artificial lighting. Freed from theconstraints of natural ventilation and naturallighting, architects were free to explore theformal potential of deep-plan types.This is but a crude representation of the gen-

eral milieu in which any designer operates, acontext which became progressively enrichedas the twentieth century unfolded. But what ofthe specific programme for building designwhich presents itself to the architect? Andhow do architects reconcile the generality ofcontextual pressures with the specific natureof, say, a client’s needs, and how, in turn, aresuch specific requirements given formalexpression?When James Stirling designed the History

Faculty Library at the University of Cambridge(completed 1968), the plan form respondeddirectly to the client’s need to prevent a spateof book theft by undergraduates. Therefore anelevated control overlooks the demi-semi-circular reading room but also the radialbookstacks, offering not only potential sec-


Figure 2.13 Adler and Sullivan, Wainwright Building,Chicago, 1891. From Architecture Nineteenth andTwentieth Centuries, Hitchcock, H. R., Penguin, p. 343.

urity for books but also a dramatic formaloutcome (Figures 2.14, 2.15).In 1971 Norman Foster designed an office

building for a computer manufacturer inHemel Hempstead whose principal require-ment was for a temporary structure. Fosterused a membrane held up by air pressure, atechnique not normally applied to architec-ture, but which offered the potential for speedydismantling and re-erection on another site.The translucent tent provided diffused day-lighting and lamp standards were designedto give support in the event of collapse(Figure 2.16). Whilst this contextual ‘snap-shot’ firmly articulates an orthodox modernistposition, the so-called post-modern world has


Figure 2.14 James Stirling, History Faculty LibraryCambridge, 1968, Ground floor plan.

Figure 2.15 James Stirling, History Faculty LibraryCambridge, 1968, Axonometric.

Figure 2.16 Norman Foster, Computer Technology Ltd,Office, London, 1970, Section.

offered a range of alternatives borrowed fromliterature and philosophy which in turn hasoffered architects a whole new vocabulary ofform-making well removed from what manyhad come to regard as a doctrinaire modernistposition. In this new pluralist world whichrevealed itself in the last quarter of the twenti-eth century, architects found themselves con-sumed by a ‘freestyle’ which on the one hand inrevivalist mode quarried the whole gamut ofarchitectural history (Figure 2.17), or on theother borrowed so-called ‘de-construction’from the world of literature (Figure 2.18).Within this post-modern celebration of diver-sity, others sought a return to vernacular build-ing forms, often applied to the mostinappropriate of building types (Figure 2.19).But as we enter the new millenium, deeper

concerns of energy conservation and sustain-ability have to a large extent eclipsed the sty-


Figure 2.17 John Outram, Terrace of Factories, 1980.From Architectural Design: Free-style Classicism.

Figure 2.18 Zaha Hadid, Kurfurstendamm, Project1988. From Architectural Design: Deconstruction inArchitecture.

Figure 2.19 Robert Matthew, Johnson-Marshall andPartners, Hillingdon Town Hall, 1978.

listic obsessions of post-modern architects.Consequently, buildings which are thermallyefficient, harness solar energy and rely onnatural lighting and ventilation, reflect a returnto the tectonic concerns of pioneering mod-ernists. Moreover, like their modernist fore-bears, such buildings offer a fresh potentialfor form-making, always the primary concernof any architect (Figure 2.20).Having briefly explored a shifting context for

architectural design during the twentiethcentury, the whole complex process of estab-lishing an appropriate form will be examined.Although parts of the process are identifiedseparately for reasons of clarity, each designprogramme generates its own priorities andtherefore a different point of departure for the

designer to get under way. Moreover, thedesigner will have to consider much of whatfollows simultaneously and, indeed, recon-sider partially worked-out solutions as thedesign progresses, so that solving even rela-tively simple architectural problems emergesas a complex process far removed from asimple linear model.


Figure 2.20 Emslie Morgan, St Georges School,Wallasey, 1961. From The Architecture of the Well-tempered Environment, Banham R., Architectural Press.

This Page Intentionally Left Blank

3 ARRIVING AT THE DIAGRAM

RESPONDING TO THE SITE

Unless you are designing a demountable tem-porary structure capable of erection on anysite, then the nature of the site is one of thefew constants in any architectural programme.Other fundamentals like, for example, thebrief, or the budget may well change as thedesign progresses, but generally the siteremains as one of the few fixed elements towhich the designer can make a directresponse. Just as an architect may establishquite early in the design process an ‘image’of his building’s organisation and appear-ance, so must an image for the site be con-structed concurrently so that the two mayinteract.

Analysis and surveyAn understanding of the site and its potentialsuggests an analytical process before the busi-

ness of designing can get under way. There areobvious physical characteristics like contourand climate, for example, which may stimulatethe designer’s creative imagination but first it isimperative to comprehend the ‘sense of place’which the site itself communicates. It is neces-sary therefore, to have some understanding ofthe locality, its history, its social structure andphysical patterns or ‘grain’, so that the formand density of your proposed interventionsare appropriate. This is best achieved byobservation and sketching on site as is theless problematic recording of the site’s physi-cal characteristics. How for instance will thesite’s topography suggest patterns of use? Isthe utility of concentrating activity on the levelareas of the site overridden by concerns formaintaining mature planting or avoiding over-shadowing, for example? Are gradients to beutilised in generating the sectional organisa-tion of the building? How will the building’sphysical form respond to and moderate the

climate? Is it important to maintain existingviews from the site or will the building constructits own inward-looking prospect? How isaccess to the site to be effected and how canthe placing of buildings on the site reduceroads and site works to a minimum whilst atthe same time allowing for easy circulation ofpeople and vehicles? How do site accesspoints respond to an existing infrastructure ofvehicular and pedestrian routes? Where areexisting services to the site located?Such a survey need not be exhaustive to

prompt a designer’s key site responses. Thesein turn will be reappraised and modified alongwith other decisions as the design progresses.During these initial explorations it is advisableto draw the site and outline building proposalsto scale so that relative sizes of the site andmajor building elements may be absorbedearly on in the design process. In this way it ispossible even at this stage to test the validity ofbasic design decisions and whether there existsa fundamental harmony between the site andthe proposed buildings which it is to accom-modate.This whole question of an architect’s

response to a specific site is best illustrated byexample (Figure 3.1). Here is a generoussouth facing sloping site with mature plantingwithin a lush western suburb of Sheffield.Dramatic distant views of the city are affordedto the south and a major road forms the site’snorthern boundary together with vehicular and

pedestrian links to local facilities. The localauthority insists that all mature trees on siteare retained. The initial steep gradient fromthe road makes vehicular penetration of thesite impracticable and, in the event, undesir-able, given its mature planting. The client’sneeds appear to be even more demanding;he wishes to retire to this house with his wifeand requires to live, eat and sleep at road level,that is, on an elevated plane to the northboundary. Moreover, he wishes to store histhree historic motor cars at the same leveland adjacent to the road to minimise hard sur-facing on site. As much as possible of themature planting on site must be retained (it isthe former garden of an adjacent nineteenth-century villa). The initial diagrammatic solu-tion (Figures 3.2, 3.3) demonstrates notonly how responses to the site and, for exam-ple, client’s needs are interdependent, but alsothe need to consider simultaneously various


Figure 3.1 Fawcett, A. Peter, House for Anaesthetist,Sheffield 1987.

components of the programme. Furthermore,it demonstrates how apparently severe pro-grammatic constraints may provide a realspringboard for creativity and form-making;hence the linear, single-aspect plan; the ele-vated living floor for access and views with ser-vice areas below; the retention of the boundaryretaining wall to the north to serve also as thebuilding’s boundary thereby minimising its‘footprint’ on site to preserve all mature plant-ing; the minimal ‘mews’ vehicular access.

InterventionThis demonstrates how aspects of a specificprogramme can interact with a site to deter-mine an optimum formal outcome. But exem-plars have also conditioned architects’responses to the site during this century;these have taken on extreme positions fromthe archetypal Corbusianmodel where precisegeometrical building form is set up in dramaticcontrast to the landscape (Figure 3.4), andwhere ‘pilotis’ allow the building to hover inapparent detachment from the site, to an alter-native modernist orthodoxy where a building’s‘organic’ form is perceived as an outcrop of thesite itself (Figure 3.5). These positions havevariously been interpreted as the self-con-scious designed object contributing to thelandscape (Figure 3.6), or, as in the case ofCullinan’s visitors’ centres for sensitivearchaeological sites, for any intervention to

Arriving at the diagram 15

Figure 3.2 Fawcett, A. Peter, House for Anaesthetist,Sheffield 1987, Ground floor and basement plans.

Figure 3.3 Fawcett, A. Peter, House for Anaesthetist,Sheffield 1987, Section/site plan.

be virtually consumed by the landscape so thatphysical intrusion is minimised (Figure 3.7).

CHOOSING AN APPROPRIATE‘MODEL’

Although it may be ill-formed and far fromclear, architects generally arrive at a visualimage for their building soon after the designprocess gets under way. Such an image oftenmerely exists in the mind’s eye long before thelaborious process begins of articulating suchimagery via drawings and models and thentesting its validity; nevertheless, this initialcreative leap into form-making, this point of


Figure 3.4 Le Corbusier, Villa and apartment block,Wessenhofsiedlung, Stuttgart, 1927. From Visual History ofTwentieth Century Architecture, Sharp, D., Heinemann.

Figure 3.5 Frank Lloyd Wright Taliesin West, Arizona,1938. From FLW� Force of Nature, Nash, E. P., Todtri, p.61.

Figure 3.6 Richard Meier, Smith House, Long Island,1975. From Five Architects, Rowe, C., et al., OxfordUniversity Press.

departure when the initial ‘diagram’ of thebuilding begins tentatively to emerge is themost crucial and most difficult aspect ofdesigning and, indeed, the most intimidatingto a fledgling designer.

Getting startedBeaux Arts architects referred to the initial dia-gram of their building as the parti, literally, ‘apoint of departure’. The parti encapsulated theessence of a building in one simple diagramand implied that the development of the build-ing design could proceed to completion with-out substantial erosion of the initial idea orparti. Whilst such a process had then beenboth informed and judged by accepted BeauxArts canons, nevertheless the process of pro-ducing an initial diagram for a building of realclarity and order still has equal validity todayeven if in a pluralist modern world thosecanons have multiplied and shifted.

So which aspects of the ‘programme’ can weharness in producing this three-dimensionaldiagram from which the building design canevolve? What constitutes this crucial creativespringboard?As has often been articulated, architecture at

its most basic manifestation is mere shelterfrom the elements so that human activity canbe undertaken in acceptable comfort.Should the designer assume this position, a

greater concern for matters of fact rather thanany theoretical stance, accepted canon, orprecedent is implied. Indeed, the earliest,most primitive attempts at making shelteragainst the elements merely assembled avail-able materials to hand; this was an entirelypragmatic process of design by trial and error(Figure 3.8). Even today, some decisionsembodied in the design process are entirelypragmatic in nature particularly when incor-porating new materials or methods of con-struction; early crude and tentative effortstend to be refined and modified by trial anderror using the same pragmatic processes asour forebears.But in searching for this initial form or parti

it is unlikely that purely pragmatic consider-ations will dominate. Designers are muchmore likely to be profoundly influenced byaccepted ways of doing things or canonswhich are a useful source for ordering thisnotoriously problematic form-finding process.Classical architects worked, literally, within


Figure 3.7 Edward Cullinan, Archeolink Visitor Centre,Aberdeenshire, Scotland 1997. From Architects’ Journal,6/12/97, p. 35.

the ordering device of the orders and simi-larly, the Beaux Arts parti relied on its owncanonic devices which effectively orderedwithin an accepted framework the architect’sinitial forays into form-making (Figure 3.9).With the advent of modernism, Le Corbusier’s‘Regulating Lines’ and his later ‘Modulor’were presented as canons based upon thesame mathematical origins and with thesame outcome in mind; they similarly offereda set of devices to order and clarify architec-tural form.

TypologyTo a large extent the notion of typology (orstudy of ‘types’) has replaced the Beaux Arts

parti in more recent times as a crucial pointof departure in our formal explorations. Thisis, of course, an over-simplification, for eight-eenth- and nineteenth-century architects weredeeply concerned with the idea of building‘types’ classified by use, which reflected anequally profound concern on the part of con-temporaneous scientists for classifying by‘type’ the entire natural world.We have already seen how pragmatic

designers in their quest to develop primitiveforms of shelter developed buildings which intheir forms and materials were closely asso-ciated with nature; materials at hand wereassembled in such a way as to meet thedemands of climate and user alike. This


Figure 3.8 Guyanan benab.

Figure 3.9 Sir E. Cooper, Port of London AuthorityBuilding, 1931.

developed into a vernacular typology (Figure3.10) in which architecture and nature estab-lished a close correspondence, a source ofconstant inspiration to both designers andtheorists since the eighteenth century. But asa burgeoning nineteenth-century technologyin turn created a new building technology, soa new tectonic typology (Figure 3.11)emerged concerned with new structural andconstructional devices far removed from ver-nacular precedent. Finally, architects havefound themselves profoundly influenced bythe physical context in which they design, sothat a contextual typology (Figure 3.12) hasdeveloped. Not surprisingly, all these typolo-gies have been developed to great levels ofsophistication and represent, as a combinedresource in the form of exemplary precedent,the fundamental springboard for effectivelyprosecuting building design.


Figure 3.10 Vernacular, Barns, Suffolk.

Figure 3.11 Contamin et Dutert, Palais des Machines,Paris Exposition, 1889. From Space, Time and Architecture,Gideon, S., Oxford University Press, p. 270.

Figure 3.12 Robert Venturi, Sainsbury Wing, NationalGallery, London, 1991. From A Celebration of Art andArchitecture, Amery, C., National Gallery, p. 106.

Plan typeSo much for a broad perspective of typologiesas another backdrop to creative activity, buthow can we harness specific typologies tohelp us develop our building as a three-dimen-sional artefact? Le Corbusier famouslydeclared, ‘The plan is the generator’; puttingaside for a moment that much meaning waslost in the English translation (‘the three-dimensional organisation is the generator’would have been nearer the mark) it neverthe-less suggests that plan types can indeed pro-vide one of many departure points (others willbe discussed later). Further putting asidewhether your building will adhere to free orgeometric forms, or both, it is still possible todistil a remarkably limited range of basic plantypes which tend to be variations on linear,courtyard, linked pavilion, shed, or deep-plan organisations (Figures 3.13�3.17).There are, of course, massive variations oneach type and most buildings combine aspectsof more than one to satisfy the needs of a com-plex brief. Nevertheless, this initial stab atestablishing a plan form which will providean appropriate ‘frame’ to sustain specificsocial activities, is one crucial decision whichallows the design to proceed.

Building typeHistorically, of course, plan types like, forexample, the ‘basilica’ or ‘rotunda’ were


Figure 3.13 Barry Johns, Technology Centre, Edmonton,1987. From Architectural Review, May 1987, p. 82.

Figure 3.14 Aldo Van Eyck, Orphanage, Amsterdam,1960. From The New Brutalism, Banham, R., ArchitecturalPress, p. 158.

often closely associated with specific buildingtypes and this linkage between plan and build-ing type has, if less dogmatically, neverthelessstill persisted in characterising twentieth-cen-tury architecture also (Figures 3.18, 3.19).But inevitably such orthodoxies are challengedfrom time to time and these challenges aregenerally recorded as important catalysts inarchitectural development.Thus the linked pavilion type of post-war

school buildings in Britain was challenged bythe Smithsons in 1949 at Hunstanton Schoolwhere a courtyard type was adopted (Figure3.20), but also by Greater London CouncilArchitects’ Department in 1972 at Pimlico


Figure 3.15 Eiermann and Ruf, West German Pavilion,World’s Fair, Brussels, 1958. From A Visual History ofTwentieth Century Architecture, Sharp, Heinemann, p. 223.

Figure 3.16 Norman Foster, Sainsbury Building,University of East Anglia, 1977.

Figure 3.17 Ahrends, Burton and Karolek, PortsmouthPolytechnic Library, 1979. From ABK, ArchitecturalMonograph, Academy Editions, p. 99.

School where a linear plan type not onlyresponded to its London square context butalso to the notion of an internal ‘street’ whereinformal social contact could take place(Figure 3.21).Similarly, pressures to conserve energy by

utilising natural ventilation and lighting ledMichael Hopkins to adopt a narrow plan forhis Inland Revenue offices in Nottingham in1995 (Figure 3.22). This has been configuredwithin a courtyard type effectively replacing theestablished deep-plan orthodoxy of the officetype which the development of mechanicalventilation and permanent artificial lighting(both high energy consumers) had facilitated.Moreover, the courtyard has generated anacceptable urban form with a public domainof tree-lined boulevards and a private domainof enclosed courts (Figure 3.23). Conse-quently, Hopkins has capitalised on one severeconstraint not only to challenge an accepted


Figure 3.18 C. Aslin, County Architect, Hertfordshire,Aboyne Infants School, 1949.

Figure 3.19 Ahrends, Burton and Koralek, MaidenheadLibrary, 1972. From ABK, Architectural Monograph,Academy Editions, p. 65.

Figure 3.20 Alison and Peter Smithson, HunstatonSchool, 1954. From The New Brutalism, Banham, R.,Architectural Press.

office type, but has also been able to offer amodel at an urban scale for controlling thechaotic growth of our cities.

ORGANISING THE PLAN

As the building design develops from the initialdiagram, it is essential on the one hand tomaintain the clarity of that diagram and onthe other to keep testing its validity as the archi-tectural problem itself is clarified so that theparti is constantly revisited for reappraisal.This whole process of establishing in detailthe building’s three-dimensional organisationis best explored through the medium of draw-ing; a facility for drawing in turn facilitates


Figure 3.21 John Bancroft (GLC Architects’Department), Pimlico Secondary School, 1966. FromArchitectural Review 1/66, p. 31.

Figure 3.22 Sir Michael Hopkins and Partners, InlandRevenue Offices, Nottingham, 1995. Section. FromArchitectural Review 5/95, p. 34.

Figure 3.23 Sir Michael Hopkins and Partners, InlandRevenue Offices, Nottingham, 1995. Site plan. FromArchitectural Review 5/95, p. 34.

designing in that ideas can be constantly (andquickly) explored and evaluated for inclusionin the design, or rejected.Many commentators have argued that the

problematic process of form-making can berooted in drawing, and more specifically,within established techniques. This has beensuggested in the case of James Stirling’s mostcelebrated works from the 1960s, theEngineering Building, Leicester, 1964, andthe History Faculty Library, Cambridge,1968, where, arguably, the formal outcomehas to some extent been a product of an axo-nometric drawing method (Figures 3.24,3.25). This may seem a far-fetched proposi-

tion, for clearly these buildings are rooted intraditions which transcend any concerns fordrawing technique; the nineteenth-centuryfunctional tradition and the modernist tradi-tion.Thus, we have two buildings which, in their

formal outcome, express a fundamental canonof modernism; that a building’s three-dimen-sional organisation (and functional planning)should be clearly expressed as overt display.Hence the separate functions of workshop,laboratory and lecture theatre are clearly anddistinctly articulated at Leicester as are thefunctions of reading room and bookstack atCambridge.


Figure 3.24 James Stirling, Leicester EngineeringBuilding, Leicester University, 1964, Second floor plan.From Architectural Design, 2/64, p. 69.

Figure 3.25 James Stirling, History Faculty, Cambridge,1968. From Architectural Review,11/68, p. 330.

CirculationBut apart from expressing an organisation ofdisparate functional parts, Stirling’s three-dimensionalmodels express ideas about circu-lation within the building (Figures 3.26,3.27). Indeed, concern for imparting someformal expression to horizontal and verticalcirculation systems within buildings has con-stantly been an overriding concern to archi-tects of modernist persuasion. Hence theobsession with free-standing stair towers andlift shafts which connect by landing and bridgeto the principal building elements, and theequally strong desire to express major horizon-tal circulation systems within the buildingenvelope.Indeed, many architects think of circulation

routes as ‘armatures’ upon which cells ofaccommodation are hung (Figure 3.28) sothat expressing circulation patterns not onlybecomes central to establishing a functionalworking plan but also in turn gives authori-

tative clues to the form-finding process.Moreover, attitudes towards circulation canmodify and enrich basic plan types. For exam-ple, whether a linear building is configured assingle or dual aspect will affect the plan andtherefore the formal outcome (Figure 3.29).Similarly, a ‘racetrack’ circulation route withina courtyard building may be internal (Figure3.30) or may be shifted laterally to relatedirectly to the internal court (Figure 3.31);clearly, such decisions concerning circulationwithin buildings not only affect the nature ofprincipal internal spaces but in the case of acourtyard type, the nature of the courtyarditself. Should this model be developed furtherinto the so-called ‘atrium’ plan then the


Figure 3.26 James Stirling, History Faculty, Cambridge,1968. From Architectural Review,11/68, p. 337.

Figure 3.27 History Faculty, Cambridge, 1968, Fifthfloor plan. From Architectural Review, 11/68, p. 337.


Figure 3.29 Linear plan, single/dual aspect.

Figure 3.30 ‘Race-track’ courtyard plan, dual aspect.

Figure 3.31 ‘Race-track’ courtyard plan, single aspect.

Figure 3.28 James Stirling, Leicester EngineeringBuilding, Leicester University, 1964, Second floor plan.From Architectural Review, 2/64, p. 66.

atrium, or covered courtyard, will itself assumea circulation role (Figure 3.32).Unless the ‘architectural promenade’ is to be

celebrated as a means of clarifying the buil-ding’s organisation (this will be discussedlater), there will be pressure on the designerto minimise circulation routes. Clearly, thispursuit presents some difficulties when facedwith a linear building, but there are deviceswhich an architect can use to minimise theapparent length of the inevitable corridorsand galleries which result from such a type.

Horizontal circulationEssentially, such devices will serve to punctuatethese routes by variations in lighting, for exam-ple, which may well correspond to ‘nodes’

along the route like lobbies for vertical circula-tion (Figure 3.33). Further punctuations ofthe route can be achieved by ‘sub-spaces’off the major route which mark the accesspoints to cellular accommodation within thebuilding (Figure 3.34). Such ‘sub-spaces’may also provide a useful transition betweenthe route or concourse, and major spaceswithin the building.Circulation routes also have an important

role in helping us to ‘read’ buildings. First,there is a hierarchy of routes in any buildingand this can be used to clarify the functionalplan so that diagrammatically, patterns of cir-culation are tree-like with primary concourse(trunk) and secondary corridors (branches)(Figure 3.35). But it is also essential thatthese routes are punctuated by events whichalso help us to ‘read’ the building’s three-dimensional organisation. Reiterated refer-ences to major events within the buildingalso help the user to ‘read’ and comprehendthe functional plan; these ‘structuring points’may be nodes of vertical circulation or majorpublic spaces like foyers, concourses, or audi-toria (Figure 3.36). Patterns of circulationalso allow us to orientate ourselves within theplan by not only engaging with major internalevents, but also with those outside; views outonto the site or into courtyards provide a con-stant reference to the user for purposes oforientation.


Figure 3.32 ‘Atrium’ courtyard plan.


Figure 3.34 ‘Sub-space’ off circulation route, plan/elevation.

Figure 3.35 Tree/circulation analogy.

Figure 3.36 Herman Hertzberger, Ministry of SocialAffairs, The Hague, 1990. Upper floor plan.

Figure 3.33 Route ‘node’.

Vertical circulationThe location of vertical circulation also contri-butes substantially to this idea of ‘reading’ abuilding and clearly is crucial in evolving afunctional plan. There is also a hierarchy ofvertical circulation; service or escape stairs,for example, may be discreetly located withinthe plan so as not to challenge the primacy of aprincipal staircase (Figure 3.37).Moreover, a stair or ramp may have other

functions besides that of mere vertical circula-tion; it may indicate the principal floor level orpiano nobile where major functions areaccommodated, or may be a vehicle fordramatic formal expression (Figure 3.38).

And what form should the stair or ramp take?A dog-leg stair or ramp allows the user to re-engage with the same location on plan fromfloor to floor (Figure 3.39), whilst a running orstraight flight configuration (including theescalator) implies vertical movement withinsome horizontal ‘promenade’ so that the useralights at different locations on plan (Figure3.40) at each floor level. Should the stair orramp be curved on plan, then a furtherdynamic element is introduced (Figure3.41). Landings may not only punctuateflights, but if generous enough, may inducesocial contact as informal meeting places.


Figure 3.37 Le Corbusier, Maison La Roche, 1923. Firstfloor plan. From student model, Nottingham University.

Figure 3.38 Alvar Aalto, Institute of Pedagogics,Jyvaskyala, Finland, 1957. From Alvar Aalto 1898�1976,Museum of Finnish Architecture, p. 75.

The promenadeClosely associated with any strategy for circu-lation within a building is the notion of ‘prome-nade’ or ‘route’. This implies an understandingof buildings via a carefully orchestrated seriesof sequential events or experiences which arelinked by a predetermined route. How the userapproaches, enters and then engages with abuilding’s three-dimensional organisationupon this ‘architectural promenade’ hasbeen a central pursuit of architects throughouthistory.The external stair, podium, portico and ves-

tibule were all devices which not only isolated aprivate interior world from the public realmoutside but also offered a satisfactory spatial


Figure 3.39 ‘Dog-leg’ stair.

Figure 3.40 ‘Straight-flight’ stair.

Figure 3.41 Le Corbusier, Maison La Roche, 1923.

transition fromoutside to inside (Figure 3.42).Moreover, these devices were reiterated andreinterpreted during the twentieth century asa central modernist concern; the floatingpodium, often associated with water, assumesthe role of a ‘ceremonial bridge’ (Figure3.43), and the projecting canopy or deeplyrecessed entrance replaces the classicalportico as not only ‘marking’ an entrance,but also by allowing some engagement withthe building before entry (Figures 3.44,3.45).


Figure 3.42 Bernini, Saint Andrea al Quirinale, Rome,1678. From The World Atlas of Architecture, MitchellBeazley, p. 303.

Figure 3.43 Mies van der Rohe, Crown Hall, IllinoisInstitute of Technology, 1956. From Modern Architecturesince 1900, Curtis, W., Phaidon, p. 262.

Figure 3.44 Le Corbusier, Salvation Army, City of Refuge,Paris, 1933. From Le Corbusier and the Tragic View,Jenkins, C., Allen Lowe, p. 116.

The exemplarBy the late 1920s Le Corbusier had developedthe notion of promenade architecturale to avery high level of sophistication. At the VillaStein, Garches, 1927, a carefully orchestratedroute not only allows us to experience a com-plex series of spaces but also by aggregationgives us a series of clues about the building’sorganisation. The house is approached fromthe north and presents an austere elevationwith strip windows like an abstract ‘purist’painting. But the elevation is relieved bydevices which initiate our engagement withthe building. The massively-scaled projectingcanopy ‘marks’ the major entrance and rele-gates the service entrance to a secondary role.

At the same time the two entrances are differ-entiated by size thereby removing any hint ofduality or ambiguity (Figure 3.46), and apierced opening in the parapet suggests theexistence of a roof terrace. On entry, an open-ing in the first floor provides a gallery whichimmediately asserts the importance of the firstfloor; the piano nobile has been established. Afree-standing dog-leg stair allows us to re-engage directly with the void at first floorlevel, the serpentine edge of which invites afurther exploration of the plan. Generous glaz-ing to the south elevation engages with thegarden beyond, but the pre-determined routethen leads to an external terrace which,because of the complex sectional organisationinvolving further terraces overhead, reads as atransitional space between inside and outside.Finally, a straight-flight stair leads into a gar-den to conclude a complex promenade(Figure 3.47). The route reveals sequentiallythe building’s principal spaces but at the same


Figure 3.45 Peter Womersley, Roxburgh County Offices,1968

Figure 3.46 Le Corbusier, Villa at Garches, 1927. Northelevation.

time conceals the ‘service’ elements of the planlike service stair, servants’ quarters at groundfloor and kitchen at first floor to establish aclear functional hierarchy.Whereas at Garches the route marks and

celebrates the prominence of an elevated firstfloor or piano nobile, the reverse can beemployed to equally dramatic effect; at AlvarAalto’s serpentine student dormitory block forMassachusetts Institute of Technology,Cambridge, Mass., 1949, visitors engagewith this riverside building at high level anddescend into the principal foyer and socialspaces with views over the Charles River(Figure 3.48).

James Stirling developed this notion of acomplex route within the context of a highlydisciplined plan to further levels of sophisti-cation at two celebrated art galleries; theNeue Staatsgalerie at Stuttgart, 1984(Figure 3.49), and the Clore Gallery, TateGallery, London, 1986 (Figure 3.50). Bothcelebrate access by preamble and transitionand both buildings use the promenade as apowerful structuring device engaging withramps and stairs which provide a dynamicelement alongside a controlled sequence ofgallery spaces.At a more prosaic level, Peter Womersley

employed similar devices to describe the


Figure 3.47 Le Corbusier, Villa at Garches, 1927. Firstfloor plan. From student model, University of Nottingham.

Figure 3.48 Alvar Aalto, Baker House, Cambridge,Massachusetts, 1951. From Modern Architecture since1900, Curtis, W., Phaidon, p. 297.

organisation of his design for RoxburghCounty Offices, Scotland, 1970 (Figure3.51). Here a ‘campanile’ forming strong-rooms at each office level initially marks butconceals from view the entrance, itself high-lighted by a deep recession within the officestructure. This, in turn, gives access to anentrance foyer, also double height with over-sailing gallery at first floor. The entrance doorsflank a lift shaft which is expressed externallyand the foyer engages with a central court-yard. Therefore, by using such simple devices,the essence of this public building is directlyrevealed to the user; a three-storey courtyardtypology with dual aspect cellular officeslinked by a central ‘racetrack’ corridor.


Figure 3.49 James Stirling, Staatsgalerie, Stuttgart,1984. From Architectural Review, 12/92, p. 77.

Figure 3.50 James Stirling, Clore Gallery, Tate Gallery,London Plan, Elevation. From A-D Freestyle Classicism,1982, p. 108.

Figure 3.51 Peter Womersley, Roxburgh County Offices,1968, Ground floor plan.

Whilst formally of a very different genre,Womersley nevertheless similarly harnessesthe promenade to describe and clarify the fun-damental components of a functional plan.

Spatial hierarchies

Whilst such patterns of circulation and theordering of ‘routes’ through a building allowus to ‘read’ and to build up a three-dimen-sional picture, there remains the equallyimportant question of how we communicatethe essential differences between the spaceswhich these systems connect. This suggests ahierarchical system where spaces, for exam-ple, of deep symbolic significance, are clearlyidentified from run-of-the-mill elements whichmerely service the architectural programme sothat an organisational hierarchy is articulatedvia the building. Similarly, for example, whendesigning for the community it is essential thatthose spaces within the public domain areclearly distinguished from those deemed tobe intensely private. Between these twoextremes there is, of course, a range of spatialevents which needs to be placed within thishierarchical order which the building alsomust communicate.This clear distinction was achieved by Denys

Lasdun at the Royal College of Physicians,Regent’s Park, London, 1960 (Figure 3.52),where the ceremonial area of the buildingaddresses the park as a stark stratified pavilion

elevated on pilotis. By contrast, the office ele-ment is expressed simply as a self-effacing infillto the street beyond (Figure 3.53). Moreover,the distinction is clearly expressed externallyand further reinforced as the plan is exploredinternally.


Figure 3.52 Denys Lasdun, Royal College of Physicians,London, 1959. From Denys Lasdun, Curtis, W., Phaidon.

Figure 3.53 Denys Lasdun, Royal College of Physicians,London, 1959. From Denys Lasdun, Curtis, W., Phaidon.

Sub-spacesThis whole question of spatial hierarchy mayalso be applied to sub-spaces which are sub-servient to a major spatial event like sidechapels relating to the major worship spacewithin a church. At the monastery of LaTourette, Eveux-sur-Arbresle, France, 1959,Le Corbusier contrasted the stark dimly-litcuboid form of the church with brightly-litside chapels of sinuous plastic form whichwere further highlighted by the application ofprimary colour against the grey beton brut ofthe church (Figure 3.54). Such a juxtapositionserved to heighten not only the architecturaldrama but also the primacy of the principalworship space.

Although using a different architecturalvocabulary, C. R. Mackintosh sought similarlyto clarify a major space (bedroom) at HillHouse, Helensburgh, Scotland, 1904, whichassociated sub-spaces enriched rather thanchallenged (Figure 3.55). But the meanswere the same; by means of a taller ceilingand a simple rectilinear geometry, the majorspace retains its dominance.Similarly, public buildings like theatres must

establish a clear distinction between publicand private domains of ‘front’ and ‘back’ ofhouse. Lasdun’s National Theatre, London,1976, articulates this distinction through exter-nal architectural expression, but more directlyby means of a clear planning strategy which is


Figure 3.54 Le Corbusier, Monastery of La Tourette,Eveux, 1955.

Figure 3.55 C. R. Mackintosh, Hill House, Helensburgh,Scotland, 1903. Main bedroom.

immediately comprehensible (Figure 3.56)and avoids any hint of ambiguity.

Inside-outsideEstablishing and then articulating these spatialhierarchies within the context of a functionalplan has exercised architects throughout his-tory; a system of axes employed by Beaux Artsarchitects, for example, greatly facilitated thispursuit. But many architects of modernist per-suasion, in their desire to break with tradition,have shed such ordering devices and haveespoused the liberating potential that develop-ments in abstract art and building technologyseemed to offer. One outcome was functionalplanning freed from the formality of symmetry

and axiality (Figure 3.57) but another was aconcern for establishing an almost seamlessrelationship between inside and outsidespaces. This allowed the designer to punctuatethe plan with external spaces which wereexpressed as internal spaces without a roof.Moreover, the development of glazed curtainwalls as movable screens allowed the com-plete correspondence between outside andinside uninterrupted by major structural intru-sion.Even by the mid-1920s modernists had

developed such techniques to a remarkablelevel of sophistication; Le Corbusier’sParisian villas at Garches, 1927, and Poissy,1931, deploy controlled external spaces as an


Figure 3.56 Denys Lasdun, National Theatre, London,Plan. From Denys Lasdun, Curtis, W., Phaidon.

Figure 3.57 Walter Gropius and Maxwell Fry, ImpingtonCollege, Cambridge, England, 1936, Plan. From WalterGropius, Berdini, P., Gustavo Gilli, Barcelona, p. 155.

extension of habitable rooms. At Garches full-height parapet walls punctuated by carefully-placed openings enclose what are in effectexternal living spaces (Figure 3.58). AtPoissy an internal ramp engages with an exter-nal terrace and terminates at a solarium(Figure 3.59) and the fenetre longue of theliving room is projected into the full-heightenclosing parapet of the adjacent terrace,establishing yet another inside/outside ambi-guity (Figure 3.60).


Figure 3.58 Le Corbusier, Villa at Garches, 1927. FromL’Architecture Vivante, Le Corbusier, Albert Moranc.

Figure 3.59 Le Corbusier, Villa Savoye, Poissy, 1929.From student model, University of Nottingham.

Figure 3.60 Le Corbusier, Villa Savoye, Poissy, 1929.

4 CHOOSING APPROPRIATE TECHNOLOGIES

In our quest for form-making we have longbeen aware of the role of technology; in theeighteenth century Marc-Antoine Laugier, thecelebrated critic, declared that technique wasthe prime cause of architectural expression, aproposition developed in the nineteenth cen-tury and indeed, adopted as a central plank ofmodernism in the twentieth. But the proposi-tion has much deeper roots; primitive builderslooked around them for available buildingmaterials which, when assembled, couldprovide shelter.

STRUCTURE

Such materials tended to be sticks, blocks,membranes (animal skins), or malleable claywhich developed into an orthodoxy of framed,planar or plastic structural forms respectively(Figures 4.1�4.3).

Although this represents an over-simplifica-tion, nevertheless, there are several modernisticons which clearly express a similar range ofstructural forms apparently facilitated by aburgeoning technology. Not unnaturally, thesame formal categories of framed, planar,

Figure 4.1 Framed form.

and plastic were to emerge pursued with vary-ing degrees of rigour. Mies van der Rohe’sFarnsworth House, Plano, Illinois, 1951,remains as the archetypal framed pavilion(Figure 4.4), Gerrit Rietveld’s SchroderHouse, Utrecht, 1924, celebrated the poten-tial of planar form (Figure 4.5), whilst ErichMendelsohn’s Einstein Tower, Pottsdam,1924 explored plasticity (Figure 4.6).Whereas these examples demonstrate anadherence to one formal type, most buildingsembody all three simultaneously. LeCorbusier’s seminal Villa Savoye, Poissy,1931, is a case in point; here, ‘framed’ pilotissupport the cuboid ‘planar’ elements of theprincipal floor which in turn is surmounted bythe ‘plastic’ forms of the solarium (Figure4.7).But such attempts to explore the potential of

new building techniques in establishing amodernist formal vocabulary exposed pro-


Figure 4.2 Planar form.

Figure 4.3 Plastic form.

Figure 4.4 Mies van der Rhe, Farnsworth House, Plano,Illinois, 1950. From Architecture Since 1945, Joedicke, J.,Pall Mall, p. 89.

found contradictions; smooth, welded junc-tions in the Farnsworth House’s steel framewere achieved by labour-intensive grinding,essentially a craft technique; the spectacularcantilevered roof and floor planes at the

Schroder House were achieved bya pragmatic mixture of masonry, steel, andtimber, suggesting that a close correspon-dence between form and structure was nothigh on the design agenda; similarly prag-matic and craft-based were the plasteringtechniques employed at the Einstein Tower inpursuit of plasticity, and even the smoothmachine-like planes at the Villa Savoye wereachieved with the help of skilled Italian plas-terers.Already discussed is the profound effect of

technological invention and developmentupon building types and therefore form-mak-ing. Indeed, a modernist orthodoxy decreedthat, ‘The Modern Movement in architecture,in order to be fully expressive of the twentiethcentury, had to possess . . . faith in science andtechnology . . .’ (Pevsner).

Choosing appropriate technologies 41

Figure 4.5 Gerrit Rietveld, Schroder House, Utrecht,1924. From Visual History of Twentieth CenturyArchitecture, Sharp, D., Heinemann, p. 75.

Figure 4.6 Erich Mendelsohn, Einstein Tower, Potsdam,1921. From Architects’ Journal 4.6, p. 64.

Figure 4.7 Le Corbusier, Villa Savoye, Poissy, 1931.From Le Corbusier and the Tragic View of Architecture,Jencks, C., Penguin Allen Lane, p. 92.

SERVICES

Consequently, architects seized upon not onlythe form-making potential of new structuraltechniques, but also that of mechanicalservices.This approach reached its zenith at the

Centre Georges Pompidou, Paris, 1977(Figure 4.8), and at the headquarters forLloyd’s of London, 1986 (Figure 4.9),both by Richard Rogers, where the conven-tional central core of services within a flex-ible space was reversed so that theseelements were shifted to the periphery ofthe building. Furthermore, they were givenclear external expression so that lift cars,

escalators, and ventilation ducts were dis-played as a dramatic image of so-called‘hi-tech’ architecture.But such had not always been the case; pro-

gressive nineteenth-century architects, equallyconcerned with incorporating the benefits of aburgeoning technology within their buildings,felt no compulsion to express such innovationeither internally or externally and it was onlythose architects who did so, however tenta-tively, that gained any credit as precursors ofthe modernist cause (Figure 4.10). Similarly,architects of so-called post-modern persua-sion have also felt little compulsion to allowinnovative structure or services to inform an


Figure 4.8 Richard Rogers, Centre Georges Pompidou,Paris, 1977.

Figure 4.9 Richard Rogers, Lloyds Building, London,1986. From Richard Rogers, Architectural Monographs,Academy, p. 129.

architectural expression whose origins werequite remote from such considerations(Figure 4.11). The honest expression of ele-ments which make up a building exercisedarchitects throughout the twentieth century sothat a question of morality has constantlyunderpinned the modernists’ creed, a positionjoyously abandoned by their post-modernbrethren.

HOW WILL IT STAND UP?

Nowhere is this notion of architectural honestymore prevalent than in structural expression.We have seen how architects have sought to

express diagrams of circulation within theirbuildings or have indicated a functional orga-nisation of volumes through direct formalexpression, but designers have also harnessedstructure as a principal generator in their form-finding explorations.

Structural expressionThe logical conclusion of this pursuit of struc-tural expression is a close correspondence ofstructure, form and space enclosure. This totalinterdependence has been a central pursuit ofmodernists and accounts for their liberal refer-ences to such nineteenth-century icons asDutert’s Galerie des Machines built for the1889 Parisian Exposition (Figure 4.12), orFreyssinet’s airship hangars at Orly, France,1916 (Figure 4.13). Where the architectural


Figure 4.10 Deane and Woodward, Museum of NaturalHistory, Oxford, 1861. From Bannister Fletcher,Architectural Press, p. 1024.

Figure 4.11 Moore, Grover, Harper, Sammis Hall, 1981.North elevation. From Freestyle Classicism, Jenks, C., A�D,p. 81.

programme lends itself to such direct or ‘one-liner’ solutions, such as in the case of exhibi-tion buildings, then this inseparability of form,space and structure is more likely to berealised.This has consistently been the case with the

tent-like structures of Frei Otto (Figure 4.14),or with the geodesic domes of Buckminster

Fuller (Figure 4.15) where decisions aboutstructure determine the nature of externalform but also as a direct outcome, the type ofspace enclosed. Furthermore, the nature of theexternal membranes of both examples allows aclose correspondence with the structure whilstat the same time providing transparency ortranslucency for daylighting purposes.But such structural virtuosity, whilst a demon-

stration of skill admirably suited to an exhibi-tion building where the primary need is for onelarge uncluttered and flexible space, is hardlyappropriate for more complex architecturalprogrammes; in such situations, the designerre-engages with the notion of ‘type’. Althoughmodern structural engineering techniquesmay


Figure 4.12 Contamin et Dutert, Galerie des Machines,Paris Exposition, 1889. From Durant, S., Architecture inDetail, Phaidon.

Figure 4.13 Freyssinet, Airship Hangar, Orly, Paris,1916. From Bannister Fletcher, Architectural Press, p. 1106.

Figure 4.14 Frei Otto, Olympic Games Complex,Munich, 1972. From Dictionary of Architecture, St JamesPress, p. 243.

seem to offer bewildering choices for the archi-tect, the range of tectonic types (like plan types)is limited. For example, will the programmebest be served by an ‘ad-hoc’ application ofa traditional load-bearing masonry and timbertype, or should advanced building technologybe explored with its very different formal con-sequences? Which tectonic type will best ‘fit’the plan type and parti (or diagram) for thebuilding currently being explored?

Plan and structureAt this stage in the exploration it is worth con-sidering how plan and structure interact. Themodernists were quick to recognise the poten-

tial freedom that framed structures offeredarchitects in generating new plan types.Indeed, Le Corbusier’s ‘Five Points of theNew Architecture’ and most particularly hisconcept of the ‘open’ plan were dependentupon the minimal structural intrusion on planthat a framed structural type offered (Figure4.16); rather than the intrusive and thereforerestrictive ‘footprint’ of loadbearing walls(Figure 4.17), the minimal repetitive footprintof a column within a structural grid seemed tooffer a new vocabulary of space enclosure.Moreover, by wilfully avoiding the columns,non-loadbearing partitions could weave onplan between them without challenging theprimacy of the structural system (Figure 4.18).


Figure 4.15 Fuller and Sadao Inc., US Pavilion Expo ’67,Montreal. From Visual History of Twentieth CenturyArchitecture, Sharp, D., Heinemann, p. 280.

Figure 4.16 Column and slab structure facilitating ‘openplan’.

GridBut the repetitive grid of a structural frame alsooffers an ordering device to the architect asthe building’s diagram is developed so thatplan and structure interact (Figure 4.19).Moreover, such a system of repetitive framesor ‘bays’ provides a primary order in which asecondary order of sub-systems may operate(Figure 4.20), and this potential for flexibilitycan allow the designer to ‘add’ or ‘subtract’spaces from the primary structure without dilut-ing its clarity. Lubetkin used this device to goodeffect at a house in Bognor Regis, Sussex,1934 (Figure 4.21), and at Six Pillars,Dulwich, London, 1935 (Figure 4.22),where additive and subtractive spaces areused to mark entrances, to provide open ter-races or projecting balconies, or are used


Figure 4.17 Traditional house plan.

Figure 4.18 Harding and Tecton, ‘Six Pillars’, Dulwich,London, 1934. Ground floor.

Figure 4.19 Sir Norman Foster and Partners, School,Frejus, France, 1995. From Architectural Review 5/95, p.64.

merely to fill left-over space in an irregular sitebetween the boundary and a primary orth-ogonal structural grid.

PlaneBut modernists also employed traditionalstructural types in pursuit of new attitudestowards space enclosure and form-making,exploring the potential of masonry walls asplanes which loosely defined spaces ratherthan enclosing them as in a traditional cellularplan.Moreover, timber was used to create dra-matic cantilevered roof planes in pursuit of aplanar architecture which, whilst employingtraditional materials and building techniques,owed nothing to tradition. And just as the repe-titive structural grid had provided an orderingdevice to interact with the plan, so architectsdevised plan forms which were generated froma different kind of order; the disposition of wall


Figure 4.20 Steidle and Partner, University Building,Ulm, Germany, 1992. Section. Architectural Review 11/92,p. 34.

Figure 4.21 Lubetkin and Tecton, House at BognorRegis, Sussex, 1934. Ground floor.

Figure 4.22 Harding and Tecton, ‘Six Pillars’ Dulwich,London, 1934. Ground floor.

and roof planes which itself reflected the lim-itations of a traditional building technology.Mies van der Rohe’s design for a Brick

Country House of 1924 explored the potentialof interrelated brickwork planes in liberatingthe plan (Figure 4.23) much in the mannerof De Stijl attitudes towards space enclosure(Figure 4.24) whose origins could be tracedback to Frank Lloyd Wright’s ‘prairie houses’;these had enjoyed an immense following in theLow Countries before and during the FirstWorld War following publication of the‘Wasmuth’ volumes, a lavish production ofWright’s oeuvre (Holland had remained neu-tral during that cataclysmic event and was ableto develop its artistic movements unhinderedby neighbouring hostilities). Wright developedthese explorations still further in the celebrated‘Usonian’ houses of the 1930s and 1940s

where a rationalised timber technology wasassociated with a masonry core to achieve atotal correspondence between form-making,space enclosure and tectonics (Figures4.25, 4.26).James Stirling’s design in 1955 for CIAM

Rural Housing (Figure 4.27) also demon-strates how simply-ordered traditional build-ing elements can generate a whole orga-nisation in plan and section as well as beingthe major determinants of the building’s for-mal outcome. Similarly, the work of EdwardCullinan and Peter Aldington has its roots inthis tectonic tradition (Figures 4.28, 4.29)where a discipline of building technique hasprovided the principal clues for the ‘diagram’and the functional plan. This attitude towardsusing technique as a springboard for the pro-cess of design has produced in its wake a


Figure 4.23 Mies van der Rohe, Brick house, plan, 1923.From Design in Architecture, Broadbent, G., Wiley.

Figure 4.24 Gerrit Rietveld, Schroder House, Utrecht,1924. From De Stijl,, Overy, P., Studio Vista, p. 120.


Figure 4.25 Frank Lloyd Wright, Jacobs House,Wisconsin, 1937.

Figure 4.26 Frank Lloyd Wright, Jacobs House,Wisconsin, 1937.

Figure 4.27 James Stirling, Rural housing project, CIAM,1955. From The New Brutalism, Banham, R., ArchitecturalPress, p. 79.

Figure 4.28 Edward Cullinan, House, London, 1963.Section. From Edward Cullinan Architects, RIBA, p. 19.

powerful pragmatic tradition within the plural-ist ambit of recent British architecture.Just as most buildings juxtapose a range of

formal framed, planar or plastic elements, sodo they embody contrasting tectonic types.This may well be a response to a programmedemanding a range of accommodation, thecellular elements of which could be servedby a traditional structure of load-bearingmasonry, but where other parts of the buildingdemanding uncluttered spaces will require thetechnology of large spans.Architects have seized upon the potential for

form-making that such juxtapositions offer(Figure 4.30), but they also raise a questionof structural hierarchies, where one structural

form remains dominant over sub-systemswhich provide a secondary or even tertiaryorder.

ExpressionHaving arrived at an appropriate structure, orset of structural systems, be they framed, pla-nar or plastic which will allow the ‘diagram’ todevelop and mature, the designer is faced withthe whole question of structural expression andhow this interacts with the ‘skin’ of the building.Should the external membrane oversail andobscure a structural frame, should it infill andtherefore express the frame, or should theframe be revealed as a free-standing elementproud of the external cladding or ‘skin’(Figures 4.31�4.33)?Moreover, if load-bearing masonry structure

is adopted, should the building in its externalexpression articulate a clear distinctionbetween what is load-bearing and what is


Figure 4.29 Aldington, Craig, Collinge. Housing,Bledlow, Bucks, 1977.

Figure 4.30 Michael Hopkins, Inland Revenue AmenityBuilding, Nottingham, 1995. Section. From ArchitecturalReview 5/95, p. 40.

merely non-load-bearing infill. Thereforewithin this complex design process, attitudestowards choice of structure and its expressionestablished at an early stage, inevitably have aprofound effect upon a formal outcome.

HOW IS IT MADE?

Tectonic displayHaving established what the ‘carcass’ or barebones of the structure will be, the designer willgive further thought to how these ‘blocks’,‘sticks’ or ‘membranes’ will be assembledand joined together. As we shall see in thenext chapter, this process in itself allows the


Figure 4.31 Cladding ‘oversailing’ structure.

Figure 4.32 Cladding ‘flush’ with structure.

Figure 4.33 Cladding recessed behind structure.

designer plenty of scope for architecturalexpression, for just as architects of the func-tionalist school decreed that the nature ofthe ‘carcass’ should receive attention as anexpressive element, so did they tend towardsthe view that the nature of materials making upthe building’s envelope, and more particu-larly, the manner of their assembly, shouldalso contribute to ‘reading’ the building.To the modernist there was something inher-

ently satisfying about a building which was soexplicit about its structure, its materials and itsassembly and construction that it is not surpris-ing that the pioneers of modernism lookedto the work of contemporaneous structural,mechanical or nautical engineers and itsnaked expression of materials and assembly,for an acceptable modus operandi (Figures4.34�4.36). But the pluralist world of so-called post-modernism in which we now findourselves allows for alternative forms of archi-tectural expression where other pressures, bethey cultural or contextual, may well override

any perceived need to make an explicit displayof structure, or constructional method.

The envelopeThe majority of our constructional concernsrelate to the design of the building’s externalenvelope; the walls and roof membranes andhow these are pierced for lighting or access.Decisions about the nature of this external


Figure 4.34 Robert Stephenson, Britannia Bridge, MenaiStrait, 1850. From Architecture of the Nineteenth andTwentieth Century, Hitchock, Penguin.

Figure 4.35 1903 Renault.

Figure 4.36 The Flandre. From Towards a NewArchitecture, Architectural Press, p. 81.

‘skin’ to the building will not only interact withother major decisions as the design develops,but will also determine to a large extent how thebuilding will look.

The roofTake the roof for example; will it be flat orpitched, and in either case will it projectbeyond the wall plane to afford some protec-tion from the weather or will it be arrestedbehind a parapet wall? Should the roof be con-sidered as a lightweight ‘umbrella’ structurallyand visually separate from the principal struc-tural idea (Figure 4.37), or does that idea alsoproduce the roof envelope merely by the appli-cation of a waterproof membrane (Figure

4.38)? These fundamental questions ofwhether the roof is a lightweight or a heavy-weight envelope (with a considerable thermalmass) have real consequences regarding thebuilding’s appearance but also its perfor-mance.Flat roof technology has developed so that

insulation is positioned at the ‘cold’ side of anyheavyweight roof, allowing the structural ther-mal mass to work in favour of the building’sthermal performance. Not surprisingly, theflat roof (or a roof with minimum falls to pointsof rainwater collection) will be considered as acontinuous impervious skin whether that skin isapplied to a heavyweight structure or to a light-weight roof ‘deck’. But as to pitched roofs,decisions regarding a lightweight imperme-able and continuous membrane as opposedto a heavy roof of traditional provenanceformed from individual tiles or slates whichare by their nature permeable, will again


Figure 4.37 Michael Hopkins, Inland Revenue AmenityBuilding, Nottingham, 1995. Section. From ArchitecturalReview 5/95, p. 46.

Figure 4.38 P. L. Nervi, Palace of Sport, Rome, 1957.From Visual History of the Twentieth Century Architecture,Sharp, D., p. 213.

have a profound effect upon the building’sappearance. Moreover, the particular materi-als employed in the latter case will determinethe limit of inclination or pitch for the roofplane; the larger the tile or slate, the lowerthe pitch which may be effected. Clearly suchconstraints also contribute to the visual out-come of any roof (Figures 4.39, 4.40).Another strategic element of roof design is

how rainwater is to be collected. It is importantto realise how such an apparently mundaneand banal proposition as rainwater collectioncan have a profound effect upon how a build-ing looks. Many architects have seized uponexpressive devices at the roof’s edge to collectwater from the roof membrane and then dis-charge it (Figures 4.41, 4.42); exaggerated


Figure 4.39 Lightweight roof ‘deck’.

Figure 4.40 Traditional heavy slate and pantile roofs.

Figure 4.41 Le Corbusier, Chapel, Ronchamp, France,1955.

projecting eaves have rendered such expres-sion even more explicit (Figure 4.42). In con-tradistinction to this approach, some architectshave chosen to conceal gutters and downpipes(with obvious consequences for future main-tenance) within the building fabric. Where apitched roof is employed, this may result in aminimal roof surface of projecting eavesbeyond the building’s edge shedding water tothe ground without recourse to any system ofcollection (Figure 4.43). In any event it isimportant to understand the visual conse-quences of such decision-making.

The facadeLike the roof, the wall membrane is an ‘envir-onmental filter’ which contributes to the buil-

ding’s performance and decisions regardinglightweight versus heavyweight, or permeableversus impermeable which applied to the rooflikewise need to be considered. But in the caseof walls these decisions assume a greaterdegree of complexity for, much more thanroofs, walls tend to be punctuated by openingsto provide access, daylighting, views out, orventilation, all of which have to be accommo-dated within the strategy for construction.Should traditional loadbearing structure

be employed, then the wall membrane willbe ‘heavy’ and most likely permeable.Moreover, openings are likely to be formedwithin this heavy membrane by simple lintelswhich suggests a directly expressive ‘hole-in-the-wall’ architecture (Figure 4.44). By con-


Figure 4.42 Ralph Erskine, Clare Hall, Cambridge,1968. Rainwater chute. Figure 4.43 Donald MacMorran, Social Science

Building, Nottingham University, 1957. Eaves detail.

trast, a structural frame opens up a wholerange of alternatives for considering the natureof the external wall. At one level, a non-struc-tural traditional heavy envelope may concealstructural columns, beams and floor slabs andmay employ a traditional ‘hole-in-the-wall’expression thereby flouting the modernistorthodoxy for structural ‘honesty’ (this hasbecome much less of a ‘sacred cow’ since theemergence of a post-modern pluralism).But just as a repetitive framed structure has

liberated the plan so has it liberated the facade.Architects arenow facedwitha rangeof devicesto express ‘wall’ which may or may not expressthe primary structure. At one level a lightweightimpervious ‘rainscreen’ may oversail the frame

and in the process provide the principal gen-erator of architectural expression, openingsappearing in the monolithic screen as andwhen required. Alternatively, the screen maybe considered as repetitive panels which mayoversail the structure but junctions betweenpanels will conform to the structural grid; insuch a situation the design of panels to allowfor a range of openings determines the archi-tectural expression (Figure4.45).Moreover, itis possible to express the structural framewithinboth light and heavy envelopes; at its mostbasic, the frame remains proud of the cladding(Figure 4.46) or is simply infilled (Figure4.47).It is not our purpose here to provide amanual

of building construction techniques but rather


Figure 4.44 Donald MacMorran, Social ScienceBuilding, Nottingham University, 1957. Window detail.

Figure 4.45 Nicholas Grimshaw and Partners, Factory,Bath, England, 1976.

to articulate a range of attitudes and optionsopen to the designer. Clearly the nature of themembrane is determined by the nature of thematerials which it comprises, whether heavy orlight, permeable or impermeable, monolithicor comprising a variety of distinct components.However, most of our constructional concernsnot unnaturally surround the whole questionof joining one element to another. At afundamental level, how is the wall con-nected to the roof and how does the wallmeet the floor? And how does a claddingmembrane join the structure? How do weachieve a satisfactory junction betweensolid and void, opaque and transparent ele-ments within the building’s ‘skin’?The outcome of all of these questions will

have a powerful effect upon the building’sappearance and therefore upon how we‘read’ the building.We have already discussedhow a clear ‘diagram’ involving the functionalplan and structural expression allows us to‘read’ and assimilate a building’s organisa-tion. This notion may be further extended toconstruction so that the building is also ‘read’at a detailed level where secondary and tertiaryelements whichmake up the building add to anunderstanding of and are consistent with theprimary design decisions surrounding thediagram or parti.Consequently, design seen in this context is a

reiterative process where themes are intro-duced and repeated throughout the building,


Figure 4.46 Roche, Dinkeloo, Factory, Darlington, 1964.

Figure 4.47 James Cubitt and Partners with EeroSaarinen, Factory, Darlington, 1964.

externally and internally; materials and con-structional techniques employed within thebuilding’s external fabric may be appliedinternally in pursuit of ‘thematic’ consistency.

WILL IT BE COMFORTABLE?

Just as a designer’s attitudes towards structureand how that structure is clad may profoundlyaffect the form-making process, so may ourstance regarding environmental comfort havea powerful bearing upon that formal outcome.And just as architects harnessed new technol-ogies of structure and construction to liberatethe plan, so did an artificially controlled inter-nal environment remove traditional planninglimitations; the option now existed for creatingdeep-planned buildings freed from the orga-nisational constraints of natural ventilationand lighting.This brings us yet again to the notion of ‘type’

and its central position in the design processfor not only, as previously discussed, can ‘type’inform our attitudes towards ‘plan’ and ‘struc-ture’, but it can also determine how the variouscriteria for environmental comfort are to bemet.

Active v passiveTherefore, the designer may decide that com-fort will be achieved totally by artificial means

where heating, ventilation and lighting stan-dards are met by the installation of sophisti-cated mechanical and electrical plant. Thismay be considered to be one ‘type’ where theinternal environment is subjected entirely toartificial control. At the other extreme, thedesigner may wish to harness the building’sinherent characteristics in a passive way tocontrol levels of comfort.Historically, such were the constraints of nat-

ural ventilation and lighting, that designerswere forced into the orthodoxy of a narrowplan for efficient cross-ventilation from open-ing windows, and a generous floor-ceilingheight to maximise levels of natural lighting(Figure 4.48). By way of a bonus such build-ings of heavy traditional construction also


Figure 4.48 Nineteenth-century office, typical section.

offered considerable thermal mass for passivecooling in summer and heat retention in win-ter. But with the move during the mid-twentiethcentury towards a totally artificial environment,architects found themselves no longer con-strained by a narrow plan typology and werefree to explore the potential of deep plans.Therefore as these systems developed in theirlevels of sophistication, so the traditional roleof the building fabric itself as an ‘environmen-tal filter’ was displaced (Figure 4.49).So just as framed and large-span structures

developed during the nineteenth century mod-ified a traditional correspondence betweenplan and structure, so did the development of

mechanical servicing within buildings duringthe twentieth century replace the inherentenvironmental capability of traditional build-ing forms. And moreover, just as progressivearchitects seized upon new structural forms forfresh architectural expression in the early twen-tieth century, so did the next generation exploitthe expressive quality of tubes, ducts and plantassociated with mechanical servicing.Clearly, the selection by the designer of an

‘environmental’ type has consequences uponthe development and outcome of the design asprofound as considerations of type whenapplied to ‘structure’ and ‘plan’. All suchtypes must be considered simultaneously andare inherently interactive. Therefore at oneextreme we arrive at a type entirely dependentupon the mechanical control of heating, cool-ing and ventilation for thermal comfort andupon permanent artificial lighting. At theother, a type emerges which embraces purelypassive measures in achieving acceptablelevels of comfort, not only harnessing thebuilding fabric to achieve natural ventilationand lighting, but also potentially using thebuilding as a collector of available solar andwind energy; in extreme cases such buildingsmay exceed in energy generation their energyconsumption.But most environmental types fall between

these two extremes and just as architects initi-ally embraced an emergent technology ofmechanical ventilation to assist an inherently


Figure 4.49 Richard Rogers, Inmos Factory, Newport,Wales, 1982. From Richard Rogers ArchitecturalMonographs, Academy, p. 65.

passive traditional system, so do most typesemerge as hybrid systems.The orthodoxy of an artificial environment

served by mechanical means of high energyconsumption was to undergo a fundamentalrevision largely on account of the so-called‘energy crisis’ of the 1970s. Architects recon-sidered and reinterpreted traditional passivemethods of environmental control which didnot rely upon profligate levels of energy con-sumption and this fundamental shift in attitudewas applied to a range of building types toproduce a new orthodoxy for the latter part ofthe twentieth century. As already indicated,such changing attitudes were profoundly toaffect the formal outcome of established build-ing types; the reversion to ‘narrow’ plans(Figure 4.50), the development of theenclosed ‘atrium’ form (Figure 4.51), andsuch devices as ‘thermal chimneys’ (Figure4.52) were all developed as part of this passiverevival, and architects were quick to recognisetheir potential for form-making.

Architectural expressionThe outcome of such concerns for energy con-sumption has been a profound modification ofestablished partis for a range of building typesas diverse as offices, hospitals, health centres,housing and schools. Presciently pre-datingthe energy crisis by several years, St.George’s School, Wallasey, Cheshire, by E.

A. Morgan, 1961, was a pioneering exampleof harnessing solar energy. Central tothe environmental functioning of the buildingwas the ‘solar wall’ whose height and length toa large extent predetermined the form andorientation of the building. As a heat source


Figure 4.50 Michael Hopkins and Partners, InlandRevenue Offices, Nottingham, 1995. Ground floor plan.From Architectural Review 5/95, p. 34.

Figure 4.51 Arup Associates, Office, Basingstoke,England, 1985. From The Environmental Tradition,Hawkes, D., Spon, p. 156.

this was supplemented by electric light fittingsand the building’s occupants, an early exam-ple of heat recovery. But the plan type, a linearsingle bank of teaching spaces, south facingand with corridor access and lavatory accom-modation on the north side, is entirely subser-vient to the functioning of the solar wall(Figure 4.53). Moreover, the section incorpo-rates a steep monopitched roof to accommo-date the tall solar wall, and offering muchreduced headroom to a heavily insulated andminimally fenestrated north elevation(Figure 4.54). Therefore the whole ‘diagram’for the building and its formal outcomedeparted fundamentally from an established‘linked pavilion’ or ‘courtyard’ type for schoolbuilding in favour of a clear ‘linear’ organisa-


Figure 4.52 Peake Short and Partners, Brewery, Malta,Thermal chimney, 1901. Figure 4.53 Emslie Morgan, Wallasey School, 1961.

From The Environmental Tradition, Hawkes, D., Spon, p.122.

Figure 4.54 Emslie Morgan, Wallasey School, 1961.From The Environmental Tradition, Hawkes, D., Spon, p.120.

tion as a direct result of a radical environmen-tal strategy.At the Inland Revenue offices, Nottingham,

1995, Michael Hopkins demonstrated howconsiderations of heating, cooling and light-ing were major factors in generating a planform well-removed from a prevailing deep-plan orthodoxy. In the event, a medium-risecourtyard type prevailed as a direct conse-quence of this strategy, but also suggestingan appropriate model for extending an existing‘grain’ of the city onto redundant inner-citysites. At the onset of the design process it wasdecided to avoid air conditioning, but to har-ness ambient energy and natural lighting asmuch as possible. The outcome is a narrowplan which gives views through (opening)windows to internal courtyards or to externalpublic ‘boulevards’. Moreover, masonry pierssupporting exposed precast concrete floorslabs provide substantial thermal mass tomaintain an equable internal environment(Figure 4.55). The expression of these mas-sive piers and the barrel-vaulted floor slabswhich they support help us to ‘read’ the build-ing but also provide a repetitive rhythm and‘scale’ to the elevations. Moreover, the lightshelves which reflect daylight deep into theplan and the low-level louvres which preventthe penetration of winter sun are also used toimpart an intensity to the scale of the building.Cylindrical thermal chimneys extract air fromthe offices, accommodate the stairs, and offer

an external ‘marker’ to the points of entry(Figure 4.56). The result is a satisfying corre-spondence of plan type, structural and envir-onmental types, formal outcome and detailedarchitectural expression.

WILL IT BE GREEN?

So far we have established how specific tec-tonic decisions regarding structure, construc-tion, or environmental performancemay affectthe formal outcome of our building design, butwhat of the much broader issue of sustainabil-


Figure 4.55 Michael Hopkins and Partners, InlandRevenue Offices, Nottingham, 1995. From ArchitecturalReview 5/95, p. 37.

ity and its potential for influencing architecturalform?Attitudes towards achieving a sustainable

environment gathered considerable momen-tum during the latter quarter of the twentiethcentury. Consequently, architects practising inthis century now view sustainability as a centralplank of their professional skills, and a neces-sary addition to those traditions already aggre-gated.But what do we mean by sustainability? At its

broadest, a sustainable environment will behealthy for its inhabitants, will be economicduring its life span, and will be capable ofadapting to society’s changing needs. Many

buildings throughout history have, indeed,satisfied these criteria andmay be deemed sus-tainable, but conversely, many (particularlyfrom the twentieth century) have not. Insteadthey have met with premature obsolescenceand, in many cases, demolition.But for the architect, much of sustainability

surrounds the minimising of fossil fuel con-sumption with an attendant reduction ofgreenhouse gas emission (of which carbondioxide represents the main component),which contributes to global warming. Theorthodoxy of deep-plan, mechanically air-conditioned buildings which relied on highlevels of permanent artificial lighting, andoften used materials of high embodied energy(Figure 4.57), has been replaced by buildingsdesigned for natural lighting and ventilation,which harness alternative forms of energy suchas solar or wind power (Figure 4.58). Thissuggests a design regime where climate andsite can fundamentally influence primarydesign decisions. Moreover, such buildingswill conserve energy and will be constructedof re-usable materials with minimal environ-


Figure 4.56 Sir Michael Hopkins and Partners, InlandRevenue Offices, Nottingham, 1995. Thermal chimney.From Architectural Review 5/95, p. 35.

Figure 4.57 Deep-plan orthodoxy.

mental impact in their manufacture and trans-port to the site.In the pursuit of sustainable architecture, this

suggests a further ‘sub-set’ of design principlesto add to those discussed elsewhere: harnes-sing climate and natural energy sources;selecting re-cyclable materials of low em-bodied energy; and energy conservation.Arguably, these principles are long establishedin architectural history, and have only recentlybeen rediscovered to represent the architec-tural aspirations of the twenty-first century,but it is their interaction which promises anew ‘holistic’ architecture with genuine sus-tainable credentials and fresh opportunitiesfor formal invention.

Climate and natural energy

Harnessing the climate to improve humancomfort is nothing new; the Greeks and

Romans well recognised the benefits of design-ing dwellings whose principal rooms facedsouth to improve thermal comfort. But insome climates, designers are met with the pro-blem of cooling spaces to improve comfort,and here, similarly, we can look to tradition.High-density Middle Eastern courtyard hous-ing used shade and a water fountain to coolair within the courtyard, which was thenexhausted via wind towers to assist cooling ofthe habitable rooms (Figure 4.59). Windowopenings were kept to a minimum to restrictsolar gain. By contrast, the traditional Malayhouse moderated a tropical climate by using aframed structure of low thermal mass withoverhanging eaves to a pitched roof, whichoffered shading from the sun but also protec-tion from monsoon rains. Wall openings atroof level provided cross ventilation to assistcooling (Figure 4.60).But how have contemporary designers used

climate as a source of renewable energy to


Figure 4.58 ‘Sustainable’ orthodoxy.

Figure 4.59 Middle East courtyard house.

heat, light, and cool buildings and to improvecomfort? Most techniques involve solar energyused actively and passively, or wind power.

Passive solar energyBecause passive systems of recovering solarenergy are readily accessible, and after twentyyears’ development have reached a sophisti-cated level, they are the most prevalent. At afundamental level, passive solar designdepends upon: (a) principal facades facingsouth-east to south-west; (b) the site’s orienta-tion and gradient; (c) avoiding overshadowingon site from existing obstructions; and (d)avoiding overshadowing from obstructionsbeyond the site boundary. Passive systemsembrace simple direct gain (of solar energy),indirect gain, or a combination of both.Direct gain, as its name implies, depends

upon a majority of the building’s fenestrationfacing south-east�south west (for the northern

hemisphere) so that solar radiation enters thebuilding directly. Ideally, such fenestrationshould relate to principal spaces, relegatingpurely service areas to north-facing facades.The high thermal mass of floor slabs in directcontact with solar radiation can be used as athermal ‘store’ to moderate internal tempera-ture fluctuations; in domestic situations, thewarmed floor slab will release its stored heatduring the evening when occupancy is likely tobe at its highest. At night, the detailed design offenestration (preferably triple-glazed with low-emissivity glass) can assist this heat retention byincluding internal insulated blinds; daytimeoverheating in summer can be reduced byincorporating external shading devices (blindsor louvres), or simply by extending the canopyof roof eaves. Analysis of existing direct gainsystems in domestic applications suggests thatthe dwelling depth should be limited to 12 mand that solar glazing should be no more than35 per cent of the room’s floor area. For opti-mal solar collection in the UK, roof pitchshould be at 308 to 408 with solar facades at608 to 708 from the horizontal (Figure 4.61).Indirect gain depends upon an ‘interface’ of

high thermal mass located between the sunand habitable spaces, so that solar energy istransferred indirectly to the interior. TheTrombe wall is the most common ‘indirectgain’ device and employs a 300 mm thermalstorage wall located between an outer skin ofglazing and habitable space. Its area should


Figure 4.60 Malay house-on-stilts.

not exceed 20 per cent of the area which itheats. Just as the floor slab in direct gain sys-tems releases its stored heat slowly, so theTrombe wall allows its stored heat to be trans-mitted to the interior at a rate depending uponits thickness. The outer skin of glazing providesa rain screen but also contributes to heat reten-tion through an inherent ‘greenhouse’ effect.The Trombe’s efficiency is enhanced by incor-porating vents at its base and head, which con-nect the glazed void to the habitable space; byconvection, air from the room is tempered andre-circulated (Figure 4.62).The familiar conservatory or ‘sunspace’

embraces both direct and indirect solar gainand provides, economically, a flexible exten-

sion to habitable space. Thermal isolation willreduce heat loss from an adjacent room inwinter and will control heat gain in summer.Vents will allow for a moderating air flowbetween the conservatory and its adjoiningspace (Figure 4.63).

Active solar energyThere are two types of active solar systems;those which directly use the sun’s rays (as in aflat plate collector) and those which convertsolar energy into another power source (as inphotovoltaic cells). Both collectors aremounted on south-facing roofs at optimumpitch (308 to 408).


Figure 4.61 Direct solar gain.

Figure 4.62 Trombe wall.

The flat plate collector is essentially a water-filled calorifier behind an absorber plate,which transfers solar heat to another medium.In the UK, it is generally used for domestic hotwater systems, where roof-mounted collectorsheat water storage tanks within the roofspace(Figure 4.64).Photovoltaic (PV) cells convert solar energy

into electrical power which is then harnessedwithin the building for space heating, cooling,mechanical ventilation, or lighting. Theyembody two layers of semi-conducting mate-rial which, when exposed to sunlight, generate

electrical power. They are normally incorpo-rated within roof or wall cladding systems,and in some installations offer sun shading.

Embodied energy and recyclingThe ‘embodied’ energy of materials within abuilding is complex, and relates to how suchmaterials can be recycled after the building’s‘first use’, as well as to the energy used in theirmanufacture and transport to the site.Moreover, embodied energy is small (approxi-mately 10 per cent) when compared with thatconsumed during a building’s useful life.The English Arts and Crafts architects, nota-

bly Ernest Gimson (Figure 4.65) and EdwardPrior, sourced their building materials as near


Figure 4.63 Attached ‘sunspace’.

Figure 4.64 Flat plate solar collector.

to the site as possible. This both satisfied theirideological concerns and their regard for uti-lity, but well pre-dated the widespread use oflightweight building materials sourced inter-nationally. Therefore in the interests of sustain-ability, heavyweight materials such as masonryand aggregates for making concrete, shouldbe sourced locally, but for most lightweightmaterials, the embodied energy in transport-ing them to the site is far outstripped by thatconsumed during manufacture, suggestingthat local sourcing is less critical.There are two categories of recycling; one re-

uses the salvaged building materials and com-ponents ‘as found’ in a new building, whilst theother manufactures new components from

‘scrap’ material. The embodied energy of thelatter is much greater.On a larger scale, some buildings offer an

infinite capacity for re-use, whilst others,because of an inherent inflexibility in theirorganisation and method of construction,face demolition after the expiry of their ‘firstlife’.

Energy conservationWhilst buildings which are heavily insulatedand air-tight will conserve energy, sensibledesign decisions at a strategic stage are never-theless crucial in this pursuit. For example,north-facing fenestration should be minimal,or in extremis, avoided altogether. This simplecase exposes the interactive nature of sustain-able design, for high levels of insulation willnot produce ‘green’ architecture shouldembodied energy, or working with a prevailingclimate, be disregarded.Nevertheless, high insulation represents an

economic way of dramatically reducing a buil-ding’s energy requirement and therefore itsconsumption of fossil-based fuels. A building’sthermal performance can easily be measured,and this quantitative component of sustainabledesign has led to ‘superinsulated’ buildings,particularly in the domestic sector, where thebenefits of 300 mm thick wall insulation and500 mm thick roof insulation can be readilycalculated (Figure 4.66). Locating such insu-


Figure 4.65 Ernest Gimson: Stoneywell Cottage, Leics.

lation on the ‘cold’ side of heavyweight walls,floors, and roofs will allow the thermal mass ofthese elements to moderate the internal envir-onment by heat retention in winter and by pas-sive cooling in summer. Vapour barriersshould be located at the ‘warm’ side of insula-tion; openings in the building’s fabric andjunctions between constructional elementsshould be airtight.So what effect has sustainability had upon

architectural form? Certainly, architects haveextended their range of architectural expres-

sion both at strategic and tactical levels. Theresponse to climate is obvious in a new ortho-doxy of heavily-glazed south elevations withshading devices (Figure 4.67) and attendantminimally-glazed north elevations on a narrowplan, with direct visual consequences.Moreover, devices such as atria and thermalchimneys (Figure 4.68) have been displayedby architects as expressive elements to describetheir building’s ‘green’ credentials.In extreme cases, such as Hockerton housing

in Nottinghamshire, UK, by Robert and BrendaVale (Figure 4.67), traditional modes ofarchitectural expression have been virtuallysubsumed by a need to satisfy the ‘green’agenda. Even though a menu of traditionalmaterials has been employed, they constructsouth-facing sunspaces, earth sheltering tonorth and east elevations, and turf-coveredroofs, to establish a fresh and distinctive archi-tectural expression for domestic buildings.


Figure 4.66 Superinsulation: Robert and Brenda Vale,Woodhouse Medical Centre, Sheffield.

Figure 4.67 Passive solar housing: Robert and BrendaVale, Hockerton Housing, UK.

On a larger scale, Michael Hopkinsemployed the whole gamut of sustainabledevices at Jubilee Campus, NottinghamUniversity, UK (Figure 4.68). Atria with glazedroofs incorporating PV cells, light shelves,louvred shading devices, thermal chimneys,and grass roofs, are all overtly displayed aspowerful elements within a new architecturalexpression, and, in the event, extend thatmodernist concern for tectonic display tomainstream contemporary architecture.


Figure 4.68 Atrium diagram: Michael Hopkins, Jubileecampus, Nottingham University, UK.

5 HOW WILL IT LOOK?

Throughout history, but particularly during thetwentieth century, architects have beenseduced by powerful visual images whichhave been reinterpreted (or misapplied) inbuilding types quite divorced in function andscale from the seminal work which providedthe image in the first place. Therefore, thevisual imagery of Le Corbusier’s Villa Savoye(Figure 5.1), a weekend house in Poissy for awealthy bourgeois Parisian family, has beenfreely applied to such diverse buildings as ascientific research establishment (Figure 5.2)or a parish church (Figure 5.3). Moreover, byway of emphasising the inherent longevity ofsuch images, these reinterpretations post-datethe original by as much as four decades.It has already been suggested that very early

in the design process, architects have in theirmind’s eye some notion, however tentative, ofhow their building will look, and as we havealready seen, most decisions made by thearchitect towards prosecuting a buildingdesign have profound visual consequences.

This has been demonstrated at a primarylevel of arriving at appropriate ‘types’ forplan, structure and environmental strategy,for example. But what of secondary or tertiarydecisions regarding the building’s ‘skin’?

EXPRESSION v SUPPRESSION

However, be it for symbolic or contextual rea-sons, or even to satisfy the designer’s stylisticpredilections, expression of the external skin ofthe building may override any considerationsfor plan, structure and construction. In extre-mis such attitudes lead us to historical revival-ism where the ‘facade’ literally disguises allpotential for tectonic display (Figure 5.4);whilst this may be one intriguing manifestationof a pluralist world, nevertheless, because ofan obsession with limited stylistic concerns,such a course inevitably leads to an architec-tural cul de sac.

It was Lubetkin who remarked that one of themost difficult tasks facing the architect was giv-ing a building ‘a hat and a pair of boots’. In theevent he followed the Corbusian example ofallowing the building to ‘hover’ over the siteon free-standing columns, thereby offering atransitional void between the building and thesite; at roof level, a carefully organised repeti-tive facade was terminated by an eruption ofplastic formal incident which effectively fin-ished off the building with a silhouette akin toabstract sculpture (Figure 5.5). These devices

were initially established by Le Corbusierembodied within his ‘five points’ manifestoand were best exploited on multi-storey build-ings, but even when faced with designing hisown single-storey dwelling at Whipsnade,Bedfordshire, 1936, Lubetkin reinterpretedthe Corbusian model by cantilevering thefloor slab from its primary support so that thewhole structure appeared to be visually


Figure 5.1 Le Corbusier, Villa Savoye, Poissy, 1931.From student model, University of Nottingham.

Figure 5.2 Ryder and Yates, Gas Council ResearchStation, Killingworth, Northumberland, 1969.

Figure 5.3 Derek Walker, Chief Architect, Milton KeynesDevelopment Corporation, Parish Church, Milton Keynes,1974.

Figure 5.4 Quinlan Terry, Library, Downing College,Cambridge, 1992.

divorced from the site. At roof level, a curvedwall within the plan was reiterated as a plasticscreen addressing the surrounding landscape(Figure 5.6).The classical language of architecture had

offered a whole range of devices for establish-

ing a satisfactory transition between the build-ing and the ground, and, indeed, forterminating the facade at roof level; suchwere the roles of the rusticated base and enta-blature respectively and architects have sincereinterpreted these devices in various ways(Figure 5.7). Whilst various alternatives tothe classical base or podium have beenevolved as plinths firmly to wed the buildingto its site, it is the role of the roof in determininghow a building looks which has most taxedarchitects’ visual imaginations.

How will it look? 73

Figure 5.5 Le Corbusier, Unite d’Habitation, Marseilles,1952.

Figure 5.6 Berthold Lubetkin, House at Whipsnade,1936. From Berthold Lubetkin, Allen, J., RIBA, p. 186.

Figure 5.7 T. C. Howitt, Portland Building, NottinghamUniversity, 1957.

ROOF

The first question to ask is whether the roofshould assume a major visual role orwhether it should remain obscured behinda parapet wall. The notion of ‘parapet’ gen-erally suggests a heavy wall envelope with aflat roof concealed behind it, whereas thedecision to use a pitched roof generates arange of possibilities not only regarding roofform (steep/shallow or dual/mono pitch, forexample) but also regarding the nature ofthe membrane (heavy/light), and more par-ticularly, how the roof and wall effect a satis-factory junction.Just asa structural grid canassist inorderinga

plan, so can a pitched roof give order to thebuilding’s final form by providing a dominantcanopy to which all other formal interventionsare secondary. Wright’s prairie houses, withtheir low-pitched roofs and massively project-ing eaves illustrate how a dominant roof canbring together and unify subservient visual inci-dent (Figure 5.8). Furthermore, it is possiblevisually to enrich the roof by tectonic display;exposed rafters, trusses and how they connectwith supportingwallsandcolumnsofferanend-less range of visual incident for the designer toexplore (Figure 5.9). Part of this overt displaycan involve rainwater collection from the roof;architects have exaggerated gutters, gar-goyles, downpipes and water shutes to gain


Figure 5.8 Frank Lloyd Wright, Warren Hickox House,Kankalee, Illinois, 1900. From Architecture of theNineteenth and Twentieth Century, Hitchock, Pelican, p.376.

Figure 5.9 David Thurlow, Eurocentre, Cambridge,1985.

maximum visual effect from the simply utilitar-ian (Figure 5.10).And how will the roof turn a corner? Will the

chosen eaves detail be repeated at every cor-ner and re-entrant so that a ‘hip’ and a ‘valley’respectively are the inevitable result (Figure5.11), or will the corner reveal a ‘gable’ anda ‘verge’ (Figure 5.12)? Will the verge projectbeyond the wall plane to expose purlins andrafters (Figure 5.13), or will the verge be‘clipped’ (Figure 5.14), or even concealedbehind a parapet? Will such a change in rooftreatment at a corner imply an elevational hier-archy and the inevitable consequences in‘reading’ the building?If the plan is deep or if internal circulation

routes need daylight it will be necessary to

penetrate the roof membrane with some formof roof light. Again, the form these rooflightstake will have visual consequences both intern-ally and externally. It is as well to group roof-lights or make them a continuous extrusion sothat they are of sufficient visual mass to ‘read’


Figure 5.10 Edward Cullinan, Housing, Highgrove,London, 1972.

Figure 5.11 Hipped and valleyed roof.

Figure 5.12 Gabled roof.

as part of a design strategy. It is possible toplace a continuous rooflight at a roof’s ridgesimply within the roof plane, elevated (Figure5.15), or projecting one roof plane beyondanother to form ‘dormers’ (Figure 5.16).The latter solution has the benefit of offeringreflected light off the ceiling plane.We have already seen how the choice of wall

membrane can profoundly affect a building’sappearance; whether heavy or light, loadbear-ing or non-structural infill to a frame. But thewall must also accommodate openings foraccess, lighting, views out and ventilation aswell as providing aesthetically satisfactory con-nections with roof, intermediate floors and theground. The wall must also turn corners so thatquoins and re-entrants are significant visualevents rather than mere planning expedients.


Figure 5.13 Projecting verge.

Figure 5.14 Clipped/parapet verge. Figure 5.15 Continuous rooflight.

OPENINGS

Planning the pattern of openings in an externalwall has long exercised the designer’s imagi-nation; the classical language of architectureoffered an ordering system of proportions forthis task which Le Corbusier was to reinterpretas variously ‘Regulating Lines’, and ‘LeModulor’. These were evolved to ensure abuilding’s order and harmony, including itselevational treatment.Whilst the primary consideration when pla-

cing orifices within the wall must be the provi-sion of light and access, areas of void within anelevation may have other purposes. For exam-ple, entrances have symbolic importance asthresholds and such openings must be fash-ioned with this in mind. Moreover, within a

framed building a continuous clerestory win-dowmay effect by separation a visual transitionbetween roof and wall (Figure 5.17); shouldthe eaves project, this will also providereflected light from the roof’s external soffit,an effect heightened if the soffit projects overwater. In a similar fashion vertical strips ofglazing adjacent to a column can highlightthe column, again assisting in the process of‘reading’ a framed building (Figure 5.18).

ELEVATIONS

Indeed, as has already been indicated, ourwhole attitude towards structure, its expression


Figure 5.16 Ridge ‘dormer’ window.

Figure 5.17 Clerestory/roof/wall junction.

or suppression, and how structure interactswith openings within the fabric, can profoundlyinfluence the elevational outcome of build-ings. Even within a simple loadbearingmasonry wall there are several ways in whichwindow openings may be fashioned and theseare determined largely by relationshipsbetween the plane of the wall and the planeof the glass. It is possible for the glass to beflush with the external wall so that the elevationreads as a taut plane; this will give generousreveals and cills internally which will reflectlight and help to minimise glare. Conversely,should the glass coincide with the internal wallface then deep external reveals will impart arobustness to the facade absent in the formerexample (Figure 5.19). Developing the eleva-

tion further, the designer may wish to expresscills, lintels, light shelves and external shadingdevices further to articulate the facade and toprovide visual intensity (Figure 5.20).Moreover the design of openings may indicateby differentiation, a hierarchy of spaces whichthey serve, again helping us to ‘read’ the build-ing.

WALL MEMBRANES

The idea of ‘layering’ a series of planes toform the wall takes on further meaning whendealing with framed structures whose wallmembranes have no structural function otherthan resisting wind loads. At one level, a struc-tural frame may be totally obscured by a heavy


Figure 5.18 William Whitfield, Geography Building,Sheffield University, 1974.

Figure 5.19 Flush/recessed fenestration.

cladding which looks as if it is loadbearing,suggesting that the designer has had otherpriorities in fashioning the elevational treat-ment than straightforward structural expres-sion. This was certainly the case in thechapel at Ronchamp by Le Corbusier wheremassive rendered walls of rubble completelyconceal a reinforced concrete frame whichsupports the shell-like roof. An apparentlyrandom fenestration pattern is ordered notonly by the Modulor proportioning device,but also by the requirement to avoid the col-umn positions buried within the wall (Figure5.21).Clearly, the location of the wall plane in rela-

tion to the column is the primary decision when

designing the elevations of framed buildings.The wall may oversail the columns which thenwill be revealed internally, roof and floors can-tilevering beyond them to connect with thecladding (Figure 5.22). Or the cladding, inthe form of a continuous membrane orexpressed as a modular system of panels,may connect with but conceal the frame. Inthe latter case, the panel module will inevitablyrelate directly to the structural module (Figure5.23).The simplest method of structural expression

of the frame is for the cladding to fill the voidbetween column and beam so that structureand wall share the same plane.Various devices have been used to express

the non-structural nature of such infill like pro-viding a glazed interface between structure


Figure 5.20 Michael Hopkins and Partners, InlandRevenue Offices, Nottingham, 1995. From ArchitecturalReview 5/95, p. 36.

Figure 5.21 Le Corbusier, Chapel, Ronchamp, France,1955. Location of columns and beams in wall.

and cladding so that the two systems appearvisually, and therefore ‘read’ as, functionallyseparate (Figure 5.24).However, the most compellingly expressive

method is to locate the cladding plane wellbehind the structural plane so that the columnsand beams visually divorced from the wall pro-vide a ‘grid’ for the elevation. Within this pri-mary order, secondary elements like shadingdevices can occupy the interface betweenstructure and wall to add visual incident andscale (Figure 5.25).We have already seen how architects have

projected the idea of tectonic display to expressnot only loading and structure, but also venti-


Figure 5.22 Richard Sheppard, Robson and Partners,Science/Arts Buildings, Newcastle University, 1968. FromArchitectural Review 9/68, p. 177.

Figure 5.23 Norman Foster, Faber Dumas Building,Ipswich, 1978.

Figure 5.24 Casson, Conder and Partners, ShoppingCentre, Winchester, 1965. From Architectural Review 2/65,p. 131.

lation ducts, or movement via staircases, liftsand escalators. But many designers havesought to express not only structure but alsohow the entire cladding system is assembled,so that each component (and in extreme casesthe actual fixings which provide their location)is revealed (Figure 5.26).This is one direct method of imparting visual

incident to the elevation, the end result ofwhich equates to the practice of applying dec-oration, a course shunned by modernists butreinstated by their post-modern successors.

THE CORNER

The whole idea of visual intensity and how itmay be achieved applies to the treatment of the‘corner’. The classical language of architec-ture provided several devices for celebratingthe corner, and nineteenth-century eclecticsdelighted in applying the whole gamut oftheir ‘free style’ to augment the corner(Figure 5.27). Similarly freed from constraint,the so-called post-modernists have felt free tocelebrate the corner, most notably at No. 1,Poultry, London, by Stirling and Wilford,1997 (Figure 5.28), but also equally success-fully by Terry Farrell for a modest speculativeoffice building in Soho, London (Figure 5.29).In each case the density of visual eventincreases towards the corner.


Figure 5.25 Arup Associates, Graduate Building, CorpusChristi College, Cambridge, 1965.

Figure 5.26 Howell, Killick, Partridge and Amis,Graduate Centre, Cambridge University, 1968.

Farrell uses simple means of achieving thislike intensifying the fenestration pattern andintroducing increasingly decorative brickworkpatterns as a prelude to the corner which ineach case is formed by a careful articulationof two adjacent facades. To the modernist, theidea of celebrating the corner was somewhatmore problematic, but the corner and particu-larly the corner column, how it is fashioned andhow it joins to beams, wall and roof cladding,has assumed a central importance in theappearance of framed buildings, particularlythose employing an exposed steel frame(Figures 5.30, 5.31).


Figure 5.27 F. Simpson, Emerson Chambers, Newcastleupon Tyne, 1903. From Newcastle upon Tyne, Allsopp, B.,Oriel Press.

Figure 5.28 James Stirling and Michael Wilford, No. 1Poultry, London, 1997. From RIBA Journal 10/97,p. 30�31.

Figure 5.29 Terry Farrell, Office Building, Soho, London,1987.

SCALE

In this discussion of how designers can deter-mine how their buildings look, architecturalscale has been alluded to. But what do wemean by scale in the context of architecturaldesign? Scale is not synonymous with size;even buildings of modest size can be imbuedwith monumental scale and vice-versa.There exists here an analogy with the scale

drawing of a building where a trained eye canaccurately deduce the correct size of its consti-tuent elements. In like fashion, the buildingitself possesses a ‘scale’ which allows us todeduce its actual physical dimensions; if thatscale is ‘normal’, then we deduce its size cor-rectly but increased or reduced scale misleadsor confuses (either as intended by the architector otherwise) leading to a distorted assessmentof size.

Scale cluesBut architectural plans, sections and eleva-tions have a fixed scale-relationship with anobserver who is interpreting them, whereasthe scale-relationship between a buildingand an observer constantly changes as thebuilding is approached and as more scaleclues are revealed. So-called scale cluesallow us to assess the size of a building bycomparison with the sizes of known elements


Figure 5.30 Mies van der Rohe, Corner columns, IllinoisInstitute of Technology, 1946, Lake Shore Driveapartments, Chicago, 1951. From Architecture Since1945, Joedecke, J., Pall Mall, p. 45.

Figure 5.31 David Thurlow, Eurocentre, Cambridge,1985.

so that (either consciously or unconsciously)we learn to make judgements about a build-ing’s dimensions by constant reference tofamiliar elements and artefacts of known size.These familiar elements fall into two cate-

gories. First there are general environmentalelements which form the physical context forbuildings, like trees and planting, vehicles,street furniture and even the occupants andusers of the building (Figure 5.32); these arefamiliar objects and as environmental scaleclues allow us by comparison to make someassessment of size. Second, there are familiarbuilding elements like storey heights, masonrycourses, windows, doors, and staircases whichfurther add to our perception of a building’ssize (Figure 5.33); these are building scale

clues and are used by the designer to deter-mine the scale of a building. Therefore, ifthese clues mislead, then we assess size in-correctly (Raskin).Traditionally, designers working within a

classical architectural language could callupon a series of familiar devices like podium,entablature, columns, and pilasters, allordered within a strict proportioning system.But the rejection of such an architectural voca-bulary by modernists during this century hasbeen problematic as far as scale clues are con-cerned; an architecture embracing new struc-tural forms with large spans and largemonolithic expanses of unrelieved surfacespotentially did not offer traditional scale clues


Figure 5.32 Scale: Environmental clues.

Figure 5.33 Scale: building clues. Architects’ Co-partnership, Dunelm House, Durham University, 1964.

(Figure 5.34), and as we have already seen,architects were drawn to exposing structuraland constructional elements to break downthe building into a series of visually discretecomponents. In this sense, modernists havevariously manipulated a tectonic display offamiliar building elements to reinterpret tradi-tional scale clues (Figure 5.35).Not surprisingly, architectural scale and its

potential to deceive can be a powerful tool inan architect’s armoury. Therefore, architectsserving totalitarian regimes have routinely har-nessed monumental scale in buildings whosepurpose is to symbolise temporal power(Figure 5.36); conversely building typessuch as primary schools and old people’shomes consciously have been imbued with asub-domestic scale to impart a sense of inti-macy, security and wellbeing.


Figure 5.34 Kenzo Tange, Olympic Sports Hall, Tokyo,1964. From Visual History of Twentieth Century Architecture,Sharp, D., Heinemann, p. 261.

Figure 5.35 David Thurlow, Bishop Bateman Court,Cambridge, 1985.

Figure 5.36 Albert Speer, Great Hall, Berlin, 1941(project).

Depending upon the intention of thedesigner, scale may be manipulated in quitedistinct ways which leads us to four establishedcategories of architectural scale: normal scale,intimate scale, heroic scale and shock scale(Raskin).

Normal scaleNormal scale is the ‘mean’ with which the othercategories compare. Most buildings weencounter are of normal scale and generallyachieve this in a relaxed fashion without anyself-conscious manipulation of scale clues onthe part of the architect. The size of the buildingand its constituent parts will be precisely asperceived and anticipated by the observer.Normal scale is most readily achieved whenthe building looks to be broken down into aseries of lesser components each of which is‘read’ and contributes to a sense of visualintensity.

Intimate scaleIntimate scale, as the term suggests, is moreintense than normal scale. It is achieved byreducing the size of familiar components toinduce a relaxed, informal atmosphere ofcosy domesticity and is applicable to buildingtypes such as old persons’ housing or primaryschools where a sense of comfort and securityis induced by an environment of intimatescale. This can be achieved by reducing the

height of window heads and cills and by redu-cing ceiling heights. Externally, eaves may bebrought down to exaggeratedly low levels andentrance doors may be marked by canopies,all devices to increase the intensity of scale(Figure 5.37). Primary schools are equippedwith furniture and fittings reduced in sizewhich accentuate a sense of intimate scale.Although generous classroom ceiling heightsare necessary for daylighting and ventilation,generous transoms or light shelves introducedat a lower level and broad, low internal cillsare devices which may induce intimate scale(Figure 5.38).


Figure 5.37 Ralph Erskine, Housing, Killingworth,Northumberland, 1964.

Heroic scaleHeroic scale is the converse of intimate scale inthat rather than enhancing the ego of the user,it seems to diminish it. Architects have consis-tently used the monumentality of heroicallyscaled building elements as symbols of powerand authority to which an individual is unableto relate his relative smallness. Thereforeheroic scale has been consciously applied toa whole range of buildings which need toexpress their civic importance; in extremecases like themonumental architecture of tota-litarianism, architects used a stripped classicalarchitectural language to symbolise the powerof the regime but also to intimidate the users byundermining their feeling of security (Figure5.39).Vincent Harris used exactly similar methods

to create an appropriate heroic scale for arange of civic buildings in pre-war Britain,many commissions being won in open compe-tition. Typical of the genre was Sheffield City

Hall completed in 1934 where Harrisemployed a giant Corinthian order for ahuge portico mounted on a massive podium(Figure 5.40). Huge unrelieved areas of ash-lar remove the usual scale clues to consider-ably enhance the scale heroically of what is abuilding of relatively modest dimensions.Moreover an apsidal secondary hall is ele-vated in scale by the surprising device of add-


Figure 5.38 Colin Smith, Hatch Warren Primary School,Hampshire, 1988. From Schools of Thought, Weston, R.,Hampshire County Council.

Figure 5.39 A. N. Dushkin et al., Pantheon for heroes ofthe great patriotic war, 1943 (project).

Figure 5.40 Vincent Harris, Sheffield City Hall, 1934.

ing a giant order of columns supporting a free-standing entablature (Figure 5.41).In more recent times, architects have

exploited the modernist tendency to expresshuge unrelieved surfaces in pursuit of heroicscale. W. M. Dudok’s Hilversum Town Hall,1930, and ironically, in its modernity pre-dat-ing the Sheffield example, employs within amonumental De Stijl composition vast un-relieved areas of brickwork for heroic scalein a building which was to become a modelfor post-war civic architecture (Figure 5.42).Oscar Niemeyer used similarly unrelieved sur-faces but combined with massive primaryEuclidean forms such as rectangular prismswhich formed a cleft Secretariat tower, an

Assembly ‘saucer’ and a Senate ‘dome’ all indramatic juxtaposition to create a governmen-tal seat of suitably heroic scale at Brasilia in1960 (Figure 5.43).

Shock scaleShock scale is of limited use architecturally buthas been put to effective use by exhibitiondesigners or in advertising to startle and excitethe observer. It depends upon familiar objectsof known size being exaggeratedly expandedor reduced so that they are seen in often amus-ing scale relationships with their environmentlike a beer bottle hugely enlarged to serve as abrewer’s dray (Figure 5.44). Painters like Dali


Figure 5.41 Vincent Harris, Sheffield City Hall, 1934.

Figure 5.42 Willem M. Dudok, Hilversum Town Hall,1928.

also employed the idea of shock scale forSurrealist effect.

ContextSo far, we have discussed how the architect canmanipulate scale to induce a pre-determined

response from the user, but when designingwithin established contexts, particularly of avisually sensitive nature, it is important thatthe designer responds to the scale of that con-text.When Alison and Peter Smithson designedthe Economist building in St. James’ Street,London, 1964 (Figure 5.45), they not onlyhad to respond to the scale of the existing streetwhich one of the site boundaries addressed,but also were building on an adjacent plot toBoodle’s Club, designed in 1765 by Crundenin the manner of Robert Adam. The Economistcomplex comprises three towers, the lowest ofwhich addresses St. James’ Street; the atticstorey of the flanking towers at Boodle’s isreflected in an ‘attic’ storey of the Economistbuilding and Boodle’s piano nobile is reflected


Figure 5.43 Oscar Niemeyer, Government Buildings,Brasilia, 1960. From Architecture Since 1945, Joedicke, J.,Pall Mall, p. 71.

Figure 5.44 Shock scale: Advertising. Beer wagon asbeer bottle.

Figure 5.45 Alison and Peter Smithson, EconomistBuilding, London, 1969.

in the Economist’s first-floor bankinghall, given further prominence by its escalatoraccess. By way of a linking device, the exposedgable of Boodle’s received a faceted baywindow detailed as the fenestration of thenew building.The success, therefore, of the Economist

building lies in its careful response to thescale of its immediate physical context ratherthan in any self-conscious attempt to repeat thePalladianism of its neighbour. But in manysituations the context for design is a historicbuilding whose primacy must be maintainedwhen extended or built alongside. Such wasthe case when Howell, Killick, Partridge andAmis designed the delicately-scaled seniorcombination room at Downing College,Cambridge, 1970, alongside the originalWilliam Wilkins building completed in 1822(Figures 5.46, 5.47). The new and existingclassical pavilions are linked visually by abland screen wall which acts as a backdropto the jewel-like senior combination roomand as a neutral void between two buildings.

The wall also obscures the considerable bulk ofkitchens and offices which otherwise wouldhave upset the delicate balance of the compo-sition. But it is the sensitive handling of scalewhich contributes most of this scheme’s suc-cess; the primacy of Wilkins’ building and itsheroic scale are not undermined by the intru-sion of its delicately-scaled neighbour.Moreover the new building, despite its overtlymodernist tectonic display, makes subtle over-tures to its classical neighbour; it sits on a ‘sty-lobate’ extended from that of the Wilkinsbuilding; the faceted pitched roof formsevoke the classical pediment next door; free-standing columns and beams give more than ahint of Wilkins’ giant lonic order and entabla-ture.


Figure 5.46 Howell, Killick, Partridge and Amis,Downing College, Cambridge, Senior Combination Room,1975.

Figure 5.47 Howell, Killick, Partridge and Amis,Downing College, Cambridge, Senior Combination Room,1979.

The clear message in these two examples isthat the tenets of modernism may be appliedsuccessfully to the most sensitive of contextswithout recourse to historicism, often a disas-trous but always a problematic course. Suchwas the case when Robert Venturi extendedthe National Gallery, London, in 1990, fol-lowing a now familiar ‘post-modern’ responseto context; the new facade echoes the neoclas-sicism of Wilkins’ original facade (completedin 1838) but dilutes in its classical detail gra-dually as it recedes from the original (Figure5.48). Given Venturi’s skills, the contextualaims are realised, but in lesser hands, the pur-suit of historicism on contextual grounds hasresulted in an indescribably banal pastichewhich has failed to offer a model for restoringour city streets.


Figure 5.48 Robert Venturi, Sainsbury Wing, NationalGallery, London, 1991. From A Celebration of Art andArchitecture, Amery, C., National Gallery (cover).


6 THE SPACES AROUND

Our judgements of towns and cities tend to bebased much more upon the nature of spacesbetween buildings than upon the perceivedqualities of the buildings themselves. And justas there are accepted ways of form-making inthe arena of architectural design, so are thereaccepted ways of making external spaces. Theimpact of new building upon existing settle-ments can have profound consequences if anexisting urban ‘grain’ is not responded to sym-pathetically. Conversely, when establishingcomplexes of new buildings, it is important toestablish a hierarchy of spaces between build-ings which can be ‘read’ as clearly as thatwithin buildings.

CENTRIFUGAL AND CENTRIPETALSPACE

Ways of making spaces within buildings are,not surprisingly, equally applicable to estab-

lishing external spaces and a sense of enclo-sure induced within them. Furthermore, whenconsidering the creation of external spacesbetween and around buildings, it is helpful toreturn to the notion of type in considering twodistinct spatial types; centrifugal space andcentripetal space (Ashihara).The distinction between the two spatial types

is best expressed by considering the role of thecolumn as a spatial generator. A single columnin space can define a space around it, the sizeof which depends upon the height of the col-umn but the definition of which depends uponthe interaction of the column and the observer(Figure 6.1). Therefore, a column defines aspace around it in a radial fashion; this iscentrifugal space.But four columns positioned in some proxi-

mity with each other to form a ‘square’ willinteract and induce a space enclosure(Figure 6.2). A centripetal order is establishedto define a space which even at this most basiclevel approximates to ‘architecture without a

roof’. This is centripetal space. If four walls areused to define this centripetal space rather thanfour columns, then the sense of enclosure isenhanced (Figure 6.3), but the corners areless well defined and space tends to ‘leak’from the voids thus created.However if eight planes are used to enclose

the same space by clearly defining the corners,then the perceived sense of enclosure isstrengthened still further (Figure 6.4).This phenomenon is best demonstrated

when town ‘squares’ are established withinthe order of a town grid. If the square is formedmerely by the removal of a block or blocks fromthe grid, then corner voids will result with aconsequent loss of perceived space enclosure(Figure 6.5). But should the square be offsetfrom the grid, then the corners remain intact


Figure 6.1 Centrifugal space: single column.

Figure 6.2 Centripetal space: four columns. Figure 6.3 Centripetal space: four walls.

thus heightening the sense of enclosure andgiving views from the centre of the squarealong principal access routes (Figure 6.6).As in building design, the study of precedent

can provide a vital starting point for the designof spaces between buildings; whilst manifestlydifferent in formal terms, Piazza San Marco,Venice, and Piazza del Campo, Siena havesome important similarities which provide aset of clues or points of departure in the designof external centripetal spaces. First, bothspaces are clearly defined as large-scalevoids carved from the intense continuousgrain of a city’s fabric, so that they appearlike public ‘living rooms’ without a roof,where a plethora of activities inducing socialintercourse can take place.

The spaces around 95

Figure 6.4 Centripetal space: four corners, eight planes.

Figure 6.5 Town square ‘on grid’. Figure 6.6 Town square ‘off grid’.

Second, because there is no roof, the wallsof the buildings which enclose the space takeon great importance as primary elementswithin the design. Third, both spaces includea prominent vertical intervention, or campa-nile, as a pivotal element within the space.The Piazza San Marco, Venice, is really two

spaces in onewith the free-standing campanileforming a pivot between the trapezoidal mainpiazza and the piazzetta. St. Mark’s cathedralchurch addresses the tapering piazza whilst theDoge’s palace and St. Mark’s library containthe piazzetta’s flanks, its connection with thelagoon beyond effected by the simple deviceof two columns forming a visual ‘stop’ to thepiazzetta (Figures 6.7, 6.8). The enclosing‘walls’ of the main piazza are perceived as a

bland backdrop defining the square but alsoacting as a foil to the western front of the cathe-dral church (Figure 6.9). In such a context thedesign of the horizontal surface assumes greatvisual importance; this accounts for the large-scale simple geometrical paving pattern atPiazza San Marco (Figure 6.10).At Piazza del Campo, Siena, the surrounding

buildings also form an innocuous backdrop tothe open space, but the plan is almost semi-circular with the campanile of the Palazzo delPublico at its focus. Like Venice, the pavingpattern of the piazza is similarly bold withradial lines focusing on the campanile, thuslinking the floorscape of the piazza and itsthree-dimensional form (Figures 6.11,6.12).Even such cursory analyses will reveal the

importance of the enclosing walls as back-


Figure 6.7 Piazza San Marco, Venice, From BanisterFletcher, Architectural Press, p. 611.

Figure 6.8 Piazzetta San Marco, Venice.


Figure 6.9 Saint Mark’s Cathedral, Venice.

Figure 6.10 Piazza San Marco, Venice. Paving pattern.

Figure 6.11 Siena, Piazza del Campo.

Figure 6.12 Siena, Piazza del Campo. Paving pattern.

ground urban architecture and how the patternof the horizontal surface should reflect thescale of the space itself. But they also indicatethat the sense of enclosure within such urbanspaces is governed by the relationship betweenthe height (H) of the buildings which define thespace and the distance (D) between them. If theratio D/H is between (1) and (4), then a satis-factory sense of enclosure will ensue; if D/Hexceeds (4), then there will be insufficient inter-action between the wall determinants of thespace and the sense of enclosure will be lost;but should D/H be less than (1), then interac-tion is too great and the ‘balance’ of enclosureis lost (Figure 6.13).This crude rule-of-thumb may be applied to

significant twentieth-century developmentswhich have hinted at new urban forms by the

manipulation of centripetal space. The high-density housing development at Park Hill,Sheffield, designed by city architect, LewisWomersley in 1960 encapsulated most of theideas on social housing which had been for-mulated during the previous decade; that it isbeneficial to the life of a city and to its commu-nity if a substantial provision of mixed high-density public housing is located adjacent tothe city centre. This was achieved at Sheffieldby manipulating amulti-storey serpentine formon a steeply-sloping site to enclose a series ofpublic open spaces associated with the hous-ing blocks and their high-level deck-accessroutes (Figure 6.14). But as the roof level forthe entire complex remained constant, build-


Figure 6.13 Centripetal space enclosure, D/H ratio.Figure 6.14 Lewis Womersley, Park Hill Housing,Sheffield, 1961.

ing heights decreased as the serpentine formreached the highest points of the site (Figure6.15). This is reflected in the diminishing sizeof open spaces as the site levels rise; the smal-ler areas on plan respond exactly to the dimin-ishing height of the enclosing building form, sothat satisfactory D/H ratios are maintainedthroughout the scheme.In 1995 Michael Hopkins used established

‘centripetal’ techniques to order the InlandRevenue offices in Nottingham. Here, thesquare and the boulevard are reinterpreted toprovide public tree-lined linear spaces andenclosed private courtyards all achieved bysimple attenuated building forms (Figure6.16) which establish a satisfactory D/H ratio

and suggest a model for extending the city. Theheart of the complex is an open public squarewith a jewel-like community building placedwithin it.In his 1945 plan for Saint Die, in eastern

France, Le Corbusier produced a prototypefor city centre development which was to bereiterated throughout war-torn Europe.Firmly within the centrifugal category, a

series of self-conscious civic buildings forma carefully placed assembly on the backdropof an open piazza. An administrative towerblock forms the visual focus and defines anopen space around it.Smaller civic buildings such as a museum

and public assembly hall, interact with eachother to determine the nature of the massiveopen public space. But essentially, the archi-tectural devices used to achieve such openspaces are the inverse of those used in pursuitof centripetal space; now, by way of contrast,


Figure 6.15 Lewis Womersley, Park Hill Housing,Sheffield, 1961.

Figure 6.16 Michael Hopkins and Partners, InlandRevenue Offices, Nottingham, 1995. From ArchitecturalReview 5/95.

the neutral backdrop of the vertical wall isreplaced by the bland horizontal surfacewhich ‘displays’ a collection of architecturaltours de force.The Saint Die model was employed by

Gollins, Melvin and Ward, albeit in muchdiluted form, to extend the university campusat Sheffield in their competition-winning entryof 1953 (Figure 6.17). However, whereas LeCorbusier’s plan for Saint Die represented asymbolic rebirth of a town destroyed by war,Gollins’ arrangement of rectilinear slabs andtowers was extending the courtyard (centripe-tal) typology of a typical late Victorian Britishuniversity. But the same devices emerge; a

massive tower addresses the major openspace and provides a visual focus for the entirecampus with lower slab blocks providing asecondary rectilinear order.The Economist Building, St. James Street,

London, provides an equally potent applica-tion of centrifugal principles to urban space.Here, three towers of varying height and ofsimilarly exquisite detailing emerge from aplaza slightly raised above the level of St.James Street (Figures 6.18, 6.19). The build-ings, themselves raised on delicate pilotis,appear to hover over the paved plaza whichagain forms the backdrop to considerablearchitectural incident.


Figure 6.17 Gollins, Melvin, Ward and Partners,Sheffield University, 1956 Master Plan. From Britain’sChanging Towns, Nairn, I., BBC, p. 78.

Figure 6.18 Alison and Peter Smithson, EconomistBuilding, London, 1965. From The New Brutalism, Banham,R., Architectural Press, p. 90.

URBAN SPACE TYPOLOGY

Just as the notion of ‘type’ may be applied tobuildings (and, indeed, to the elements whichconstitute them, such as structure, services andcladding), so may it be applied to urbanspaces. The concepts of ‘centrifugal’ and ‘cen-tripetal’ space represent two fundamental‘types’ of urban space. As already discussed,spaces around a central monument or ‘figure’(centrifugal) assume the role of a backdrop or

‘ground’, whereas spaces enclosed by build-ing facades (centripetal) are themselves‘figures’ within a passive architectural back-drop, or ‘ground’ (Moughtin).

Square – enclosureWithin this framework of centrifugal and cen-tripetal, secondary ‘types’ emerge, which, his-torically, have constituted familiar structuringelements of our towns and cities. Modernist‘centripetal’ typologies reversed the acceptedorthodoxy of the enclosed square, and, in theprocess, did not contribute significantly to itsdevelopment. The traditional enclosed square(Figure 6.20) as a focus for social and com-mercial activity, as well as being the symboliccore of the community, has rarely beensuccessfully reiterated where enclosure hasbeen subsumed by an ill-defined open space


Figure 6.19 Alison and Peter Smithson, EconomistBuilding, London, 1965.

Figure 6.20 Enclosed square.

accommodating a series of free-standingarchitectural ‘monuments’ (Figure 6.21).But an enclosed square also imparts a senseof order, a conscious attempt to set itself apartfrom the chaotic nature of its hinterland, aswell as being the symbolic core of the commu-nity and a focus for social and commercialactivity.As already discussed, the interaction

between depth of square and height of thewall determinant creates a sense of enclosure,which is amplified if the corners of the squareare clearly defined. Similar ‘rules of thumb’exist for the plan form of urban squares. Sitteguarded against squares whose length wasmore than three times their width, Albertichampioned the ‘double square’ where lengthwas twice the width, whereas Vitruviusfavoured a length to width ratio of 3:2.

MonumentBut some squares, whilst adhering to suchaccepted canons, also accommodate, andare subservient to, a major civic architectural‘monument’. The urban theorist, Camillo Sitte,identified two types of square: ‘deep’ and‘wide’. These classifications were largelydependent upon how a major civic buildingaddressed the square. Within the ‘deep’square, the ‘monument’ (traditionally achurch) addresses the shorter side of thesquare and, for maximum domination, its ele-vation forms the vertical determinant to oneside, the other three sides being a neutralbackdrop designed to accentuate the primacyof the ‘monument’ (Figure 6.22). By contrastthe ‘wide’ square accommodates, for exam-ple, the attenuated facade of a palace toform its longer side (Figure 6.23), therebydominating the other three ‘neutral’ elevationsto the square.

Street – enclosureWhilst the street can take on the role of thesquare, as a hub of social contact or com-merce, it is also a route, or path, leadingfrom one event to another. However, the latterrole, in coping with ever-increasing traffic den-sities, has tended to obscure the street’s tradi-tional sense of ‘place’, where generouspavements effectively extended buildings’social spaces into the public realm.


Figure 6.21 Non-enclosed open space.

The ‘rules of thumb’ applying to the design ofsquares can also be adapted to the street; asense of enclosure depends upon the samewidth to height criteria, for example. Butbecause of the street’s linear form, designershave invoked various devices, not only to

punctuate its length, but also to provide a satis-factory visual termination, thereby signallingentry and exit from the street as ‘place’.Beaux Arts planners positioned major build-ings as visual ‘stops’ to streets or ‘boulevards’(Figure 6.24), and designers with ‘pictur-esque’ tendencies favoured ‘setbacks’ to thefacade, or variations in elevational treatmentand materials, as punctuations to avoidmonotony (Figure 6.25).

FacadeMuch of the characterisation of the street canbe attributed to its architecture. Architects suchas Robert Adam in Edinburgh’s New Town,


Figure 6.22 ‘Short’ side monument.

Figure 6.23 ‘Long’ side monument.

John Wood the elder and his son in Bath(Figure 6.26), or John Nash in London(Figure 6.27), favoured a monumental, clas-sical architecture with repetitive bays using onematerial, generally dressed stone or stuccoedbrick. Hence the street appeared formal andheroic in scale, characteristics quite at var-iance with the typically English medieval streetwith its informal, meandering plan, and pictur-esque assembly of disparate architecturalforms and materials.


Figure 6.24 ‘Visual stop’ to street.

Figure 6.25 ‘Picturesque’ street.

Figure 6.26 The Circus, Bath.

CornerJust as architects throughout history have cele-brated the corner of their buildings in a varietyof ways, so have urban designers recognisedthe importance of the corner formed by the

junction of two streets. Neo-classical stylophi-lists used the column to mark the corner, as didtheir modernist successors in their quest forstructural expression. By contrast, nineteenth-century designers (and to some extent, theirpost-modern successors) invoked picturesquedevices to intensify the corner as a visual event.Whilst there are two generic corner types

(internal and external), it is the external cornerwhich punctuates the street and has generatedits own varied typology. Thus, the designermayemploy, in pursuit of formality or the pictur-esque ideal, angular, faceted, curved, sub-tractive, additive and detached corners, alloffering different degrees of visual complexity(Figures 6.28 and 6.29).Just as any exploration of building typology

may reveal a simultaneous mix of types, evenwithin the same building, to describe its plan,structure, or services, so too can urban spacetypology reveal itself as similarly pluralist.


Figure 6.27 Nash’s London Plan.

Figure 6.28 Corner types.

Centrifugal and centripetal space, formal andinformal squares and streets enclosed bybuildings of equally eclectic provenance,when employed collectively, inevitably serveto enrich the visual outcome of the widerurban domain.


Figure 6.29 Corner types.

7 POSTSCRIPT: A WORKING METHOD

TRADITION v. THE VIRTUALBUILDING

Our primary concerns have been those aspectsof a design programme whichmost profoundlyinfluence the ‘form-making’ process in theprosecution of a building design. But havingestablished a ‘form’ which meets the majordesign objectives and is capable of develop-ment, this process represents in time but a frac-tion of the entire protracted design period.Nevertheless, it represents by far the most cru-cial (and arguably, the most problematic)activity for the designer; flawed decisions inform-making cannot be retrieved by subse-quent assiduous attention to detail but onlyappropriate formal responses at this stagecan form the basis of meaningful architecture.Moreover, they can be developed to enhancethe clarity of that initial concept.And which techniques are most appropriate

for prosecuting and developing the design at

this early conceptual stage? As we enter thetwenty-first century, the enormous sophistica-tion of computer software for drafting andthree-dimensional modelling has fundamen-tally altered the traditional view that a soft pen-cil and tracing paper, supported by physicalmodels in cardboard or balsa wood, are thebest tools to facilitate our initial, tentative,form-making excursions.

Design by drawingNevertheless, it is axiomatic that a facility fordrawing most emphatically assists the designprocess; ‘design by drawing’, then, representsby far the most accessible and efficient methodfor early exploration in design. Moreover,overlays of tracing paper, because of theirtransparency, allow swift modification of aninitial ‘form’ again and again without havingto repeat the whole process from scratch; theresults of this process can then be assessed bymeans of a physical model. Even at this stage,coloured pencils can be used, ‘coding’ draw-

ings to distinguish spatial hierarchies. Suchclarity will help not only the ongoing assess-ment of the emerging design’s validity, butwill also assist in maintaining the clarity of thediagram as the design develops.Designs cannot be ‘tested’ until they are

drawn to scale. Only in this way can thedesigner ‘feel’ the size of building elements inrelation to each other and in relation to the siteand its physical context. A range of appropriatepreferred scales should be used which will varyaccording to the size of the project but it isessential that as many aspects of the designas possible are developed concurrently.Having established a ‘diagram’ to scale,details of major junctions can be explored atlarger scale, so building up as early as possiblea comprehensive picture of design intent. It isuseful to retain evidence of these early sketchesas a design ‘log’ so that, if necessary, rejectedsolutions can be revisited and reassessed asthe design progresses; this may form a usefulreference, particularly if drawn on sheets ofstandard-size, numbered and dated.At the same time it is imperative to build up a

fact-file for reference on precedent studies ofcomparable building types, appropriate struc-tural systems, construction, materials andenvironmental performance.Architects conceive and design their build-

ings from the outset as three-dimensional arte-facts and, as already indicated, a facility fordrawing greatly facilitates such conceptual-

isation. In these early stages therefore, it isimperative to develop freehand axonometricand perspective drawing methods which canquickly explore the three-dimensional conse-quences of design decisions.

The virtual buildingAlthough it is now unthinkable that fledglingarchitects could enter their profession withoutsophisticated levels of computer literacy,nevertheless, there is still a perceptionamongst many that hand drawing and physicalmodels offer a more direct and flexible designtool than computer-generated techniques. Butif the central role of the architect is to createspaces for human habitation, then it seemsaxiomatic that the virtual building, whichprovides an accurate three-dimensional repre-sentation of the designer’s concept, will allowhim to understand the project more compre-hensively.Essentially, the virtual building is an accu-

rately described digital representation of anarchitectural design modelled three-dimen-sionally. As the project develops, the virtualbuilding allows the architect to accurately‘test’ the three-dimensional outcomes ofdesign decisions that affect the nature of exter-nal form, internal space, and junctions of com-ponents. Moreover, because it is representedby one model, then the need to co-ordinateseveral drawings is removed, and the margin


for error, inherent in traditional methods, istherefore substantially reduced. Two-dimen-sional plans, sections and elevations mayalso be extracted for evaluation early in thedesign process, with any modifications subse-quently being fed back into the single virtualbuilding model.Whereas with ‘design by drawing’, early

decisions regarding planning, structure, andconstruction, for example, will accelerate thedesign process, with the virtual building, suchdecisionsmust be logged into a database at anearly stage for the design to proceed at all. Inthe event, this not only represents good prac-tice, but also allows the three-dimensionalmodel to provide a complete visualisation ofthe project, which can then be communicated,electronically, to other members of the designteam.The virtual building, in effect, offers a

new method of designing buildings byoffering instant evaluation of the project intwo and three-dimensional images at anystage of the design process, a process ofrefinement which, by comparison, traditional

drawing renders unacceptably labour-intensive.The purpose of this book has been to estab-

lish a sensible working method for getting themassively complex process of designing abuilding under way, for inevitably it is withinthese early decisions and tentative forays intoform-making that the seeds of true architectureare sown. And yet it represents a mere begin-ning, for design activity carries on until thebuilding is completed on site: reordering maywell ensue during a building’s ‘first life’ andbeyond should recycling of salvaged buildingcomponents be considered in the originaldesign. It is not within our scope here to chartthat entire process; more to suggest that itseffectiveness will inevitably depend upon thisinitial exploration of uncharted territory insearch of an appropriate ‘form’.But that exploration could also heed Albert

Einstein’s sage counsel; ‘If you wish to learnfrom the theoretical physicist anything aboutthe methods he uses . . . don’t listen to hiswords, examine his achievements.’ The samecould well apply to architecture.

Postscript: A working method 109


FURTHER READING

Abel, C., Architecture and Identity; Towards aGlobal Eco-culture, Architectural Press,1997.

Ashihara, Y., Exterior Design in Architecture,Van Nostrand Reinhold, 1970.

Banham, R., The Age of the Masters; aPersonal View of Modern Architecture.Architectural Press, 1975.

Banham, R., The Architecture of the Well-tempered Environment, Architectural Press,1969.

Blanc, A., Stairs, Steps and Ramps,Architectural Press, 1996.

Brawne, M., From Idea to Building,Architectural Press, 1992.

Broadbent, G., Design in Architecture; JohnWiley and Sons, 1973.

Chilton, J., Space Grid Structures,Architectural Press, 2000.

Cook, P., Primer, Academy Editions, 1996.Curtis, W., Modern Architecture since 1900,

Phaidon, 1982.

Edwards, B., Sustainable Architecture,Architectural Press, 1996.

Edwards, B., Rough Guide to Sustainability,RIBA Publications, 2002.

Groak, S., The Idea of Building, E&F Spon,1992.

Hawkes, D., The Environmental Tradition, E.and F. N. Spon, 1996.

Howes, J., Computers Count, RIBAPublications, 1990.

Hunt, A., Tony Hunt’s Structures Notebook,Architectural Press, 1997.

Jencks, C., Modern Movements inArchitecture, Penguin Books, 1973.

Lawson, B., How Designers Think,Architectural Press, 1998.

Lawson, B., Design in Mind, ArchitecturalPress, 1994.

MacDonald, A., Structure and Architecture,Architectural Press, 1994.

Moughtin, C., Urban Design: Street andSquare, Architectural Press, 1992.

Moughtin, C. et al., Urban Design; Methodand Techniques, Architectural Press, 1999.

Porter, T., Goodman, S., Design DrawingTechniques for Architects, GraphicDesigners and Artists, Architectural Press,1992.

Raskin, E., Architecturally Speaking, BlochPublishing Co., 1997.

Sharp, D., A Visual History of Twentieth-century Architecture, Heinemann, 1972.

Smith, P., Options for a Flexible Planet,Sustainable Building Network, Sheffield,1996.

Smith, P., Architecture in a Climate ofChange, Architectural Press, 2001.

Sparke, P., Design in Context, GuildPublishing, 1987.

Tutt, P., Adler, D. (eds), New MetricHandbook: Planning and Design Data,Architectural Press, 1979.

Vale, B., Vale, R., Green Architecture: Designfor a Sustainable Future, Thames andHudson, 1991.

Wilson, C., Architectural Reflections,Architectural Press, 1992.


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A. Peter Fawcett- Architecture Design Notebook

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