More Zoning Politics

I never intended this blog to delve into politics.  It's about architecture: the fun stuff like design, psychology, materials, and  significant architecture. Yet I find myself posting a third entry on the proposed new zoning code for the city of Denver. Zoning isn't about architecture, though it does affect architecture. It's mostly about politics, as individuals and neighborhood groups develop agendas about controlling what happens around them. Below is a letter I wrote to Councilmember Peggy Lehman with copies to the full City Council and Mayor Hickenlooper. The letter has been widely circulated and picked up by at least one neighborhood newsletter as an editorial. If you live in Denver, the new code will affect you directly. If you live elsewhere, similar issues come up on a regular basis in most cities. If you find these comments useful please feel free to reproduce them in any form. 

Here is a link to the new code: http://www.newcodedenver.org/

Dear Ms. Lehmann:

As a resident of Council District 4 and as an architect specializing in residential design I am concerned about the final draft for the proposed zoning code for the City of Denver. It still contains numerous arbitrary and unworkable ideas that do not benefit the city.

The fourth and final draft is a rewrite of previous drafts that were laden with conceptual conflicts and impossible restrictions. Members of the design community (private planners, architects, and investors) have given freely of their time to digest the voluminous proposal and analyze its impacts. Numerous changes were made in response to these efforts. Between Draft #3 and Draft #4, approximately 50% of the text has changed. This responsiveness on the part of Community Planning and Development is commendable. However, the amount of “redlines” also indicates the depth of equivocation in the new code. Four new drafts in the last few months contained major changes at each step and scant weeks between drafts for the rest of us to “crunch the numbers” and see what it really means. There is inadequate time or opportunity to analyze and correct the current, and supposedly final, draft.

Numerous problems and ambiguities remain in Draft #4. I cite just one here: the height limits for “S” (Suburban) zones. There are many such proposed zones throughout the city. To visualize one, picture the area of University Hills north of Eisenhower Park, slated to be “S-SU-D.” As you know, these blocks contain extensive new development that has replaced small, post-war housing. A suburban district evokes images of large sprawling homes on ample lots. However, this particular “suburban” neighborhood has unusually small homes that are not up to modern code and energy expectations. These older structures are excellent starter homes and rentals, but many owners dream of improving their lot in the future. This neighborhood contains perfect candidates for upgrade or replacement because the existing stock does not meet current market needs. Older homes in this neighborhood are of no historic value. They are energy sieves and cannot compete with the amenities offered in new homes outside of Denver. It is a good thing for neighborhoods such as this to experience redevelopment because it enhances property values, adds to the city tax base, draws diversity to the urban center, and provides housing that meets the needs of families and professionals. Certainly, it is a sign of the desirability of District 4 that such development has taken place on a large scale. However, the proposed Draft #4 imposes a de facto ban on two-story homes. This would effectively quash further development in University Hills.

Two story homes are technically permitted, but if an architect were clever enough to design a house under the 27’ overall limit (dimension A, below) the best you could get is 8’ ceilings to keep within the 20’ side wall restriction (dimension B, below). Eight-foot ceilings are not what the current market expects. In actual practice, not even eight-foot ceilings would be achievable since that works only for perfectly flat lots. Most lots have less than perfect conditions (a slope or a high water table, for examples) that would skew these numbers to ridiculous results. The probable effect is that a two-story house would be impossible to build in University Hills.

The drawing below is from Draft #4. The red numbers (added by me) demonstrate that, in redeveloping neighborhoods like University Hills, new housing will be unmarketable, unlivable, or unbuildable. This would be true regardless of lot size.

To illustrate this point, the house pictured below is typical post-war construction in the blocks north of Eisenhower Park. Redevelopment of homes such as these would cease under the rules proposed in Draft #4.

The recently developed homes below (also in the blocks north of Eisenhower Park) would be in gross non-compliance with the proposed new rules.

In parts of Draft #4, the “bulk plane” concept reappeared (after having been eliminated in earlier drafts). I believe the current bulk plane is a fair and workable concept; it should be restored to the “S” zones so neighborhoods like University Hills can continue to be renewed. As the economy recovers, we need the tax base, vibrancy, and new life that a refreshed housing market brings to Denver.

We are getting closer to a workable code but need more time to produce a final draft that addresses this and numerous other issues. I urge the Council to allow a period of review and response by the design community and all interested parties before voting on Draft #4.

Sincerely,

Michael Knorr

Focal Points

When successful, architecture first attracts our attention by an exterior magnetism that is a combination of proportion, materials, and siting. Realtors call this “curb appeal” but great architecture has a draw much deeper than glib marketing lingo. A combination of curiosity and esthetic enticement draws us inside and then, through exploration, provides a rewarding spatial experience. The rewards, especially in great architecture, are many and varied. They can be emotional, as in the awe-inspiring experience of a great cathedral. They can be intellectual as in the geometric rigor of a Greek temple. They can be purely physical as in the rejuvenation provided by a spa. The sequence of events in exploring architecture can unfold on different paths and different levels of interpretation, even in the same building. Among the rewards of such exploration - regardless of style, materials, or function - is encountering a focal point.

A focal point is a design feature that makes an architectural experience meaningful. As an architectural element, it provides a goal for our explorations. It acts as a reason for our investigation of form and space. It anchors architectural composition. A focal point may incorporate symbolism, as with an altar in a church or a fireplace that attracts the company of friends and family. Or it may simply be an abstract emphasis within the total spatial experience.

Most fine art has some version of a focal point because it is a useful tool for organizing creative expression. Focal points create order out of chaos and provide resolution for conflict. In literature, conflict leads to resolution providing a dénouement for the narrative, which acts as a focal point. In music, a crescendo will seize our attention through increased intensity and become a focal point.

The focal point of a painting is the center of interest that holds our attention. In The Birth of Venus by Botticelli (1445-1510) the focal point is, of course, Venus. Everything in the painting forces our attention toward this center.
Venus is framed by trees, landforms, and flowing draperies. Other figures direct their eyes and gestures towards her. Green peninsulas literally point toward Venus; the entire structure of the painting establishes her as the focus of our attention. This arrangement of elements is intentional. Without such organization, a painting would be a collection of things without meaning.

The center of interest is not always the literal geometric center of a work of art. It is the point where the weight of the work is concentrated. It is the visual center of gravity. It is the area that your attention naturally settles upon. Venus happens to be the geometric center of her painting, but in Argenteuil by Claude Monet (1840-1926) the focal point is well off-center: the building at the end of the road.

It is a focal point because every other element in the composition gestures towards it: the bold line of the horizon, the edges of road and water, the angle of trees as they diminish in perspective. Despite being off-center, the location of the focal point is undeniable and easily diagrammed.

Another way to analyze Monet’s painting is to look at the planes of color that orbit around the focal point in pinwheel fashion. Reduced this way, the compositional energy of the painting becomes clear. In the generation after Monet, artists such as Piet Mondrian (1872-1944) and Pablo Picasso (1881-1973) based entire schools of painting on just such compositional elements.

Unlike with a flat canvas, architectural focal points are three-dimensional. Architecture is not a static art and it is an artificial limitation to view it from only one vantage point. We can do this with paintings or photography, but architecture is three-dimensional and requires movement. If we limit our experience of architecture to just pictures, we flatten it into a two-dimensional experience. This renders it unreal and we are unable to fully appreciate whatever focal points the architecture contains.

In St. Peter's Basilica, for example, columns, aisles, and chapels align three-dimensionally to channel our attention on the ultimate focal points of the high altar under the dome and the throne of St Peter beyond. But it requires our movement through this space to fully understand this meaning.

As if this intention is too abstract, numerous sculptures and paintings frame the nave with gestures in the same direction, literally pointing the way for us. The art and architecture of St. Peter's propels us forward until there is no doubt where our attention must go.

When done right - with grace and subtlety - these artistic incidents seem natural. In fact, the idea of a focal point is analogous to events in the natural environment. Art is an abstract reflection of that which nature provides effortlessly and abundantly. Flowers are the focal points of plants. Lakes and rivers the focal points of valleys. A captivating sunset a focal point on the horizon. These natural phenomena provide the foundation and inspiration for artistic explorations.
Examples of focal points in architecture can be as straightforward as a fireplace in a residence or as majestic as a dome above a mosque.
Other architectural focal points could be a dramatic stairway, an aperture looking upon beautiful scenery, or a vista through interior space.
Such elements of themselves are not automatically focal points. They depend on their position in plan and their relationship to other elements in the design. They become focal points when designed as key features that demand our attention and reward our exploration of architecture. Composition is important in this context, and that is part of the art of architecture. You might guess – correctly – that focal points can come about inadvertently and have unintended negative results. A closet door as the main feature at the end of a gallery, perhaps. Or a stairway uncomfortably close to an entrance. These are two common examples of building elements that become focal points for no good reason and to no good effect. The result is likely underwhelming, even annoying.

A building may have more than one focal point – especially very large buildings. If the goal of architecture is to enhance the enjoyment of place and make experience vital, then our imaginations need to be stimulated. In the example of Monet’s painting, you might say that the sailboat is a second focal point. The eye tends to be drawn back and forth between boat and building. This movement establishes a dynamic tension that adds interest to the painting. A series of focal points makes architecture more interesting and satisfying. A major focal point is a necessity for most structures, but every space should have minor points of focus on a more intimate level. A complete work of architecture will have delights at every turn, in every room, and in every space. In this way architecture becomes an exciting series of spatial events and ultimately focuses our attention on the enjoyment of life.

Images:
Botticelli and Monet paintings in the public domain.
St Peter’s interior by Giovanni Paolo Pannini in the public domain.
St. Peter’s sculpture, Janine Pohl. .
St. Peter's altar, NicvK.
Flower, Jon Sullivan.
Lake Torres del Payne, M. Knorr.
Sunset, Jerry Segraves.
Fireplace, Rob Munger.
Mosque dome, Chapultepec.
Stairway, M. Knorr.
Spa, M. Knorr.

Gallery, Rob Munger.

Enfilade - An Unfolding Story

There is a word rarely used in architecture, but descriptive of a strong design principal: enfilade. In military parlance, enfilade is a familiar term. It means gunfire directed from a flanking position along the length of an enemy battle line. The architectural definition has nothing to do with battle. However, there is a conceptual relationship with the military application. Both derive from the French enfiler, "to string together as in series or row." Enfilade, in architecture, is an interconnected group of rooms arranged in a row with each room opening to the next. Simply put, enfilade means spaces arranged in sequence along an axis. This implies symmetry but that is not the salient feature of enfilade. It is better understood as a sequential revelation of architectural features that stirs our curiosity and forces our movement forward. It is an ancient and compelling design tool.

Enfilade is a powerful military tactic; it is also surprisingly powerful in architecture. Enfilade is a way to focus attention and influence emotion in architecture. Typically this is a subconscious effect; we seldom are consciously aware of the architectural elements that are forcing our attention in one direction or another. Nevertheless, the effect is real and irresistible. A few examples demonstrate its meaning and power.

Consider the spatial organization of great cathedrals. The typical plan progresses from narthex, to nave to high altar. The spaces build to an architectural crescendo.
A crescendo — a focal point — is an important element of architecture and deserves its own discussion. Enfilade is not the crescendo itself, but the means of getting to it. This arrangement of spaces along an axis is like telling a good story: simple statements engage our interest, then proceed to more complex and engaging concepts until our intellect, emotions, and curiosity are satisfied and rewarded. In Roman Catholic cathedrals a story is often told literally with the stations of the cross distributed off the main axis. The architecture reinforces the literal story and propels it forward as well as providing an emotional subtext.

A spectacular example of enfilade is the Forbidden City in Beijing. This enormous complex of courtyards, temples, and palaces is brilliantly analyzed by Edmund N. Bacon’s in his book Design of Cities. Bacon, through a series of diagrams and plans, deftly explains the richness and grandeur of this classic arrangement of spaces. The Forbidden City is one of the worlds great examples of enfilade on a monumental scale and Bacon's book is worth the time of anyone interested in architecture and urban planning.

We can also look to Egyptian temple and funerary architecture for examples of enfilade. In classic Egyptian architecture, courts, halls, and colonnades are arranged in mysterious and awe-inducing sequences. Banister Fletcher’s A History of Architecture on the Comparative Method is an excellent reference for this building type. Queen Hatshepsut’s (1508-1458 B.C.E.) mortuary temple, designed by Senemut on the banks of the river Nile, is one of the most influential works of architecture in ancient Egypt. The complex is approached through a relentlessly symmetrical sequence of events that reveal, in turn, colonnades, courtyards, terraced gardens, and sacred devotional chambers. It is exactly the same processional ritual that modern-day tourists experience, as pictured above. Imagine the original grandeur emphasized with rows of towering palms, colorful pennants, and flanks of ceremonial guards. All of this would have contributed to enfilade.

We can also see enfilade on a residential scale. The process of approaching, entering, and walking through a home can use the concept as a series of planned events. The floor plan and photos below (a residence in Rancho Santa Fe, California, by Michael Knorr & Associates) illustrate a sucession of controlled spaces experienced by the visitor in deliberate order.
The sequence of events begins with a sheltered porte cochere, moves past glimpses of walled gardens, onto an entry porch, through a foyer, on to the living room, a crescent-shaped swimming pool and, finally, culminates in a spectacular view of hills and ocean in the distance. Notice how the first few spaces are defined and contained by massive (3’ diameter) columns. The space alternately “expands” and “contracts” until the route gradually releases into a wider volume at the living room and reveals the full expanse of distant vista. We are rewarded for our efforts as we progress forward. This progression is an unfolding story that provides interesting incidents along the way. (Note, for example, the water features to the left and right of the entry porch.) In the end our attention is focused and rewarded.

Enfilade is one of the great three-dimensional experiences that architecture can provide and one of the most useful tools in an architect’s bag of tricks.

Photo Credits: Forbidden City from Microsoft Office Clipart. All others by Rob Munger.

Three Minute Opinion

Readers of this blog may have noted my concerns about the major overhaul of Denver’s zoning code that's in the works. (See A Letter to the Mayor, July 6, 2009). The Denver Post also published an op/ed piece I wrote on the subject, criticizing the second draft of the code. The writers of the proposed code (Community Planning and Development, led by Peter Park) are now in their third draft and, to their credit, there is evidence they have been listening. Not just to me. The local AIA, builders groups, and others have been analyzing the document and providing critiques. However (and this is a big “however”) I still have concerns about the new rules and the timing of the entire process.

We are now at the point of public “listening sessions” where city council and CPD listens to public comments on the proposed code. The format for these sessions is "open mic" with three minutes of time allotted per person. Three minutes is not a long time if your concerns are many. Here is what I said (italics) at the first listening session held yesterday downtown.

Community Planning and Development has issued three drafts of the proposed code over the past three months. Each time the public has responded with input and questions. And each time CPD has responded with new language in the updated drafts.

I appreciate the responsiveness and hard work of CPD. However, I have two concerns.

First, with each new draft, the full impact of 700 (+/-) pages takes significant time to interpret and understand. CPD has had nearly five years to develop everything in the code. The general public, design professionals, builders and developers get only a few weeks between drafts to absorb and understand the issues. Most of us also have real jobs that occupy much of our time. Now the fourth and final draft is about to come down. My first concern is that there is simply not enough time budgeted to review, understand, and respond. I have reviewed parts of the proposed code that directly affect my work. The council is about to vote on all aspects of the code – every nook and cranny of it – for the entire city and for a long time into the future. If we can spend five years getting to this point we should also have a proper amount of time to avoid a rush to judgment. That time is not in the schedule now.

My second concern is more nuanced. It appears that in crafting a “form based” code there is a prejudice – whether intentional or accidental -- against some architectural styles. This emerges in the way the numbers are written. Counter intuitively, even some important traditional forms (such as the architecturally significant Jacques Benedict designs on Seventh Avenue Parkway) would be impossible to emulate under the proposed zoning. Though we have been told that the new code does not dictate architectural style, the de facto results of the numbers have a huge impact on style. In an apparent effort to maintain the status quo, many parts of the code micromanage form in a manner that is more like a narrowly-controlled, covenanted community then a vibrant urban center. Protecting our neighborhoods from traumatic change is desirable, but it should not be at the expense of innovation, creativity, and experimentation. That is what distinguishes a dynamic city from a backwater burg. The new code effectively freeze dries many parts of town, even where they are not historically, architecturally or economically interesting. We also need more time to fine tune what I hope are such unintended consequences of the proposed zoning code.

That is all three minutes allows.

The "prejudice... against some architectural styles" includes different height limits for pitched-roof buildings than flat-roofed (often contemporary) buildings. Here is how a pitched roof building in zone E-SU-Dx (refer to the code to understand these new "simplified" designations) would be affected. The red-highlighted areas would be disallowed under the new rules:
For an identical floor plan but with flat roofs the new restrictions would be so severe as to make the design unbuildable:
This appears to be a prejudice against contemporary design. A "bulk plane" approach, as we have now, would be a more objective way to control the impact of a structure on its neighbors.


But traditional designs are also hampered. Below are three of the Jacques Benedict designs referred to above. They would all be disallowed under the new code because their unbroken facades are too long. This would micromanage architectural design in a way that is inappropriate for a large city like Denver.
This material and more has been provided to city council.


I was heartened by the turn-out at yesterday's listening session. Many people are concerned about the impact of the code on their neighborhood and their property. Thoughtful and articulate opinions were voiced about areas of the proposed code that I have not yet explored. (It is over 700 pages, you know.)

You can explore the current draft of the new code and express your opinion at http://newcodedenver.org/ .

The Prairie Avenue Bookshop

This is hardly breaking news, but I found out yesterday that the Prairie Avenue Bookstore in Chicago closed its doors this past summer. This was an institution in the Windy City for the past fifty years. I got a big part of my architectural education by visiting the store regularly in my youth (when they were actually located on Prairie Avenue). Over the years the staff was always friendly and informative and eager to fuel two of my obsessions: books and architecture.
In the days before the Tattered Cover and Barnes and Noble made bookstores comfy with overstuffed chairs and a relaxed atmosphere, Prairie Avenue intermixed architectural artifacts and craftsman style furniture with beautiful books. You felt like you were entering a private club where the only membership requirement was a love of architecture. But it was a dangerous place. I would go in just wanting to browse and come out with more books than I could carry or afford. When I realized they would ship my purchases instead of having me lug them back home it only made things worse. Architectural books are expensive. Especially the really great portfolios, like the Frank Lloyd Wright Drawings published in Japan (limited to 700) or the Bruce Goff collection of plates or the Neutra retrospective published by Taschen. They are all gorgeous examples not only of architecture, but of the publishers art. You don’t find them in regular bookstores.

As the name implies, Prairie Avenue specialized in prairie school architecture: Frank Lloyd Wright, Walter Burley Griffen, Purcell and Elmslie, and the bright array of inventive architects that came out of Chicago in the early twentieth century. The shop’s location was significant in that it helped cement Chicago’s reputation as the birthplace of modern architecture. Their loop location was surrounded by surviving examples of Louis Sullivan buildings, the first “skyscraper”, and the el trains that made it possible for commuters to reach prairie school suburban homes in Oak Park or Evanston. The inventory of the Prairie Avenue Book Shop also reached into other branches of architecture, following the modernist movement to the present day. It was the best architectural book store in the country and its closure is a significant loss for Chicago. I will miss it.

A Mormon Temple

Disclaimer: What follows is written as an architectural review. This should not be construed as a theological critique of the Church of Jesus Christ of Later Day Saints (The Mormons). I have often driven on Interstate 5 north of San Diego to be confronted at Exit 28 with the splendiferous wonder of the San Diego Mormon Temple. No matter how many times I come upon it, I am always shocked. This white jumble of crystalline spires, full of symbology and topped with gilt sculptures glistening in the sun, is in-your-face architecture. It makes a statement.
There are approximately 140 Mormon temples distributed around the world, all of them different. The San Diego Mormon Temple - a regional center for Mormon rituals and ceremonies – is not to be confused with local Mormon churches. Temples are closed to the general public; only Mormons In Good Standing are permitted entrance and only with a “recommend” from their bishop. The rituals performed inside the temple include marriages “for all eternity”, baptism of the dead, and “sealing” children to parents to permanently establish after-death families. Young people come from a wide region for these events. Even though I knew I would not be allowed to enter the temple, on a recent visit to San Diego I was determined to at least write a proper architectural review for a structure that has arrested my attention so often. This time, instead of ogling the building at 60 miles per hour, I exited the freeway and entered the Mormon temple grounds.
Mormons have a reputation for organization. This is evidenced immediately in the orderly landscaping. Manicured lawns and tidy flower beds frame the building in symmetrical simplicity. Parking is efficiently and discretely handled so as not to distract from the main focus. The grounds are ample but not immense. The scale of the place is difficult to gauge at freeway drivebys. Up close it appeared smaller than I had thought. It is not the Vatican, after all. The building itself, in all its whiteness, is somewhat bigger than Space Mountain but smaller than Cinderella’s castle. Not to say I was disappointed. One keeps returning to its overwhelming whitey whiteness. Even the people inside are dressed in white suits (more on that later). In comparison to dark European cathedrals this is truly an immaculate conception. The effect is achieved by mixing marble dust in plaster. This refractive surface is what makes it seem ethereal. The structure all but coalesces out of the clouds. At night it is brilliantly illuminated and the freeway impact is even more overpowering. Several times after dark I have nearly caused a gawking accident. As with Las Vegas hotels, the importance of using architecture as advertising is not lost on the Mormon church.

So, how to describe the impressive architecture of this Mormon temple? The word that keeps coming to my mind is confection. Impressive does not necessarily equate with good. The effect is greatly impressive, but the design does not qualify as great architecture in the same way that Las Vegas hotels do not qualify as great architecture. There is no real substance behind any of this. Like a giant pastry confection – say a wedding cake -- this temple is sweetness in excess, piling layer upon layer of fairytale goodness borrowed from fantastic dream images that never were. It does not emerge from any legitimate thread of architectural theory. The main confectioners, architects William S. Lewis Jr. and Kenneth Moeller, claim some sort of gothic influence (according to one Mormon web site). Other than overwrought verticality there is nothing gothic about this building. In fact, one might describe it as anti-gothic since the main tenant of gothic architecture was to liberate interior space by reducing exterior structure. In this temple the interior space is anticlimactic. You might assume from the exterior visage that this soaring temple encloses a wondrous and soaring interior, as would any gothic cathedral. In fact most of the temple is divided into small spaces like the baptistery (total immersion tank supported by twelve golden oxen), changing rooms for ceremonies (long rows of doors as in the Marx brother’s “Day at the Opera”), and other esoteric, but apparently spatially undemanding, uses. The Celestial Room at the top of the west tower is the biggest space in the building but it is nothing like we would normally expect in a large ecclesiastical edifice. What impact the Celestial Room may have is more a result of interior decoration than architecture. How do I know about the interior layout if non-Mormons are forbidden entry? Two sources. First, I visited the Las Vegas temple before it was sealed “for time and all eternity.” Different architect; same program. Anyone may visit a temple during a public open house before it is consecrated. Like all modern temples, the Las Vegas building is divided into small spaces for ceremony with the aforementioned Celestial Room at the top. The Celestial Room is supposed to remind you of heaven. In Las Vegas heaven is, apparently, mauve carpeting and French provincial furniture. To each their own. As Mormon canon says, “ …we dreamed each man according to the impression of his dream.” (Genesis 41:11.)

My second source is the Nice Lady in Red who was the official greeter at the San Diego temple. Sitting at the ready on a shade-dappled stone bench with a laminated picture book of temple images, she was eager to answer the questions of visitors who wanted to learn more. She allowed me to photograph her pictures of the Celestial Room and the self-supporting grand stairway that fits under one of the temple’s towers.
The Nice Lady in Red was quite proud of the temple interior. It is similar to the Las Vegas version. She told me that when Mormons enter the Celestial Room they are all required to dress in white. She said this further enhances the impression that one might actually be in heaven. This image sticks in one’s mind. I wonder what they do in that room, gliding around like angels? Mormons seem to be enthralled with this sort of thing. So what’s the harm? I don’t wish to demean anyone’s religious inclinations, but the architectural harm lies in confusing this treacle with real architecture. Perhaps their overreaching is a result of the Church of Jesus Christ of Later Day Saints being a newly-invented religion. They try very hard to establish their credibility by insisting on such grandiose buildings.

I fully understand that many people sincerely like this kind of building design. (I have a hard time calling it architecture.) I would ask them to look closely at their reactions. Do they really think it’s good architecture or is this just a visceral response to some pretty great special effects? We shouldn’t confuse good set design with good architecture. Truly, if the San Diego temple were painted green I would expect the Wizard of Oz inside. As for the Celestial Room, Morris Lapidus would have been proud. Morris Lapidus was an architect famous for designing over-the-top Miami Beach hotel lobbies in the 1950s. The Celestial Room rises no higher than this glam approach to interior design. I actually like it in hotels; it is suspect in a religious setting.

Such superficiality hardly seems like real architecture. The nut of the problem is, to borrow from Gertrude Stein, there is no there there. The San Diego Mormon Temple provides tantalizing suggestions that something might be going on. But with a cardboard cut-out approach to the exterior and no significant interior volume there’s not much meat and a lot of potatoes.
The Nice Lady in Red did her best to present this building in its most flattering light. I listened politely and without sarcasm. The second half of her book was about the Mormon religion. She explained how it was founded by Joseph Smith who came upon the angel Moroni in the woods near Palmyra, New York. He was led to golden tablets which he translated into the Book of Mormon using magic spectacles while hidden behind a curtain. The angel Moroni is commemorated atop one of the spires of the temple: a golden figure blowing on his trumpet. Naturally, I was moved to asked the Nice Lady in Red about Mormon doctrines, such as their past interest in polygamy and current funding of controversial political initiatives. She referred me to the Mormon missionary system, which I expect will come calling one of these days. I just hope they don’t try to convince me that there is any substance to their buildings. Finally, I have a confession: when the Nice Lady in Red was preoccupied with another visitor I approached the main entrance. Yes, I set foot inside the sliding doors. Maybe the lobby isn’t actually forbidden. I don’t know. There were two guys dressed in white (just like the Nice Lady in Red said there would be), one looking exactly like Colonel Sanders. They didn't look too alarmed at my presence. I wanted to ask them more questions, because I had plenty. But they were busy with Mormons In Good Standing awaiting access to the elevators that flanked the reception desk. I suppose the elevators went up to the Celestial Room. I left, satisfied that I had seen enough.

As a footnote, I have a question: if only Mormons In Good Standing may enter the temple, what happens when non-Mormon fire marshals need to make an inspection? I’ve always been curious about this. The Nice Lady in Red didn’t know the answer. In my office the fire marshals drop in annually to check the fire extinguishers and make sure fire exits are clear. If they happen to come when the office is closed they keep coming back until we are open. They are pretty insistent about making these regular inspections. If anyone knows the answer to this question I’d really like to know. Click on comments below to write your response. Thank you.

Rhythm

Musical analogies are frequently used to describe architecture. Rhythm is one musical concept that transfers effortlessly into the world of architecture.

Everybody knows what rhythm means in music. To be clear: rhythm is the pattern of musical movement through time formed by a series of notes differing in duration and stress. (All definitions from American Heritage Dictionary.) Describing rhythm in words almost obscures the meaning. We know what rhythm is and what different kinds of rhythm there are by listening to a jazz composition or a waltz or a rap tune. They all have different rhythms and we understand them through direct experience. The dictionary also provides a definition of rhythm as applied to visual arts: A regular or harmonious pattern created by lines, forms, and colors in painting , sculpture , and other visual arts. This gets closer to an architectural definition but is incomplete. We experience architecture with all our senses in both time and space. So, in architecture, rhythm can be seen not only in the surface patterns and decoration, but in the pace of interior spatial progressions. The interior of a barn, as interesting as it may be, is devoid of rhythm because there is simply not enough there to establish a rhythmic pattern.

The following floor plan illustrates rhythmic interaction in the public spaces of a residence. Starting at the foyer, moving up the curved stairs to a hall, then into the great room, the vertical axis demonstrates an “ABA” rhythm. It is important to understand that this a spatial rhythm. The floor plan alone cannot convey this fully. You have to imagine what the spaces feel like. The two “A” spaces are large, with higher ceilings and a change in floor levels; the “B” space is relatively narrow, compressed with a lower ceiling. One could extend this idea of rhythm to the exterior spaces as well. At the covered patio in the rear and to the covered entry outside the foyer. Since these are both relatively expansive spaces the rhythm could be described as AABAA. A minor rhythm, “DCBCD” runs perpendicular to the main rhythm. The two rhythms cross at “B”. The second rhythmic sequence is counterpoint – borrowing another musical concept. The “D” spaces are minor vestibules to the children’s bedrooms on the left and the master suite on the right. Though rhythm is repetitive, it is not necessarily about symmetry. The two “A”s are not identical; they’re simply similar in quality. The same with the two “D” spaces.

If all of this sounds too analytical, remember it is the three-dimensional experience that really counts.

Here is the same analysis for the same project in photographs instead of plan:

Does any of this really matter? It certainly does not matter that we analyze these things when we visit a place, though it may enhance our understanding. In the end, it is only the space that counts and how we react to it. But it does matter that these relationships exist. This is the how of architecture. Experientially, the effect is largely subconscious.

Spatial rhythms are the most complex expression of rhythm in architecture. Other uses of the concept are very direct and plain to see. We can see rhythmical patterns in building fenestration (the arrangement of windows) as in this example of Louis Sullivan’s Wainwright Building (St. Louis,
For a residential example we can turn to a model home for a speculative development in Tyler, Texas designed by Bruce Goff (c. 1974).
In the Wainwright Building you almost hear the music. Deep, deliberate basso rhythms in the blocky chunks of the first and second floors, moving to a higher-pitched rhythm of alternating verticals as the building ascends. Sullivan was a master of rhythmical composition. In the Goff design the band of windows is a clear and firm statement that is reemphasized in the clerestory. No misunderstandings are possible about the rhythmical theme. Notice the staccato counterpoint of the extended mullions that travel with the windows.

Below is another residential example by Lloyd Wright (Frank Lloyd Wright’s son) in Los Angeles. (Navarro House c.1929.) This is rich with complex rhythms. Repetitive patterns in the decorative copper. Rhythmical offsets in the massing. Vertical and horizontal modules in the fenestration. All of this interlocks like a Bach fugue.
For a larger scale example, more like the rhythm of a symphony, we only have to turn to more complex buildings, like the great cathedrals. Enormous spatial sequences establish a rhythm that is enriched by underlying rhythms of ribbed vaults and columns. Numerous other incidental rhythms are threaded through the whole to enrich the experience.
It was stated above that a barn is too simple to demonstrate rhythm. That is not entirely true. Alternating boards and spaces in the walls would generate rhythm, as would overhead beams and bracing. When that happens it may be interesting but it is largely accidental. The difference between a barn and a cathedral – or any serious work of architecture – is that real architecture is controlled with purpose in mind. In truly great architecture every aspect is coordinated. A theme is established and underlying rhythms support the whole. A piece of music must be disciplined by the structure of rhythm. A work of architecture is no different. Rhythm establishes order in the midst of chaos.

Once you become aware of the existence of rhythm in architecture you begin to see it everywhere. In decorative elements like these trellises. (Herb Green’s Cunningham house, Oklahoma City, OK 1963.) In stonework and architectural sculpture. (Bruce Goff’s Boston Avenue Methodist Church, Tulsa, Oklahoma 1929.)
In skylights (Paolo Soleri’s Cosanti Foundation, Scottsdale, Arizona, begun 1956.)
Rhythm surrounds us and provides a framework for artistic expression. The arches and lights of the Auditorium Theater by Louis Sullivan (Chicago, IL, 1889) illustrate how the bones of a building all but require a sense of rhythm. To close the musical analogy, the lyrics of Ira Gershwin sum things up pretty well: “I got rhythm…. Who could ask for anything more.”

Credits: Photos illustrating ABA and CBC rhythms by Rob Munger. Cathedral with blue roof by Rob Munger. All other photos by MJK. Architecture for floor plan example by Michael Knorr & Associates, Inc.