Market Oriented Architecture (First Impressions)

There is a saying that you have only one chance to make a good first impression. That may be true in personal relationships, but in architecture, you have three chances to make a good first impression: the streetscape, the front door, and, finally, the first glimpse of interior space. All are equally important whether in speculative building, custom homes, commercial development, or pure architecture (whatever that is).

In the realm of residential design, marketing directors and real estate gurus refer to first impressions as “curb appeal.” This phrase has become trite through repetition. However, an architectural principle co-opted as a marketing truism is no less valid. In fact, good architecture often translates into good marketing and, sometimes, vice versa. Purists might want to see a conflict here. But if architecture is good it should appeal to people and if it appeals to people why wouldn’t this be a good marketing strategy?

Streetscape

All buildings exist within a streetscape. A streetscape is simply the first impression a building makes at a distance. While the design of individual buildings is important, so is their relationship to each other, to the community, and to the surrounding environment.

All community elements, such as water features, guardhouses, recreational facilities, gazebos, clubhouses, mail kiosks, and signage are opportunities to provide interesting architecture that establishes the first impression on a streetscape level.

The marketing advantages of considering every detail of the streetscape are clear: these elements have the potential to capture people’s interest and contribute to the overall impression of value.

Front Door

Your second chance to make a good first impression is at the front door of the building. The front door (this includes all major elements on the front elevation) is where a more personal first impression is introduced. Here we establish the mood, style, and quality of the architecture. Some call this curb appeal. It is where we literally have the opportunity to touch the architecture and have it touch us. The first impression made at the front door is the total effect of all visible design elements: materials, details, lighting, stylistic cues.

At this point, the architecture must fulfill the buyer’s (or client’s or renter’s – there really is no difference) vision of what that building should be. These visions are seldom articulated but underlay every decision the buyer makes.

The front door is a prelude to all that follows and must be exactly right for the target market. It must fulfill the market’s hopes, dreams, and architectural preferences. Sometimes assumptions about popular taste prejudice the designing process.  Jettison unfounded assumptions in favor of legitimate market research specific to your area. Market preferences are not interchangeable from one market to another. And old market preferences may no longer be true in the current market situation. That which may be desirable in one neighborhood can have the opposite connotation in another.

Of course, no two people respond in the same way to architecture. Yet the effects of architecture are certainly not at the mercy of whim and caprice. Does the buyer want a grand entrance? That is simply a matter of scale and we can design the building to satisfy that need. Does the buyer want a feeling of security and privacy? We might introduce courtyard walls with decorative iron gates. Does the buyer want a feeling of shelter and protection? Deep porches and broad overhangs may accomplish this goal. The design possibilities for front elevations in response to market research are endless.

Interior Vistas

The interior vista is the final opportunity to make a good first impression.

A dream house is fifty percent dream and fifty percent house. The house part consists of practical, left-brain requirements: shelter, safety, investment opportunity, and things like the right number of bedrooms. The dream part fulfills the need for emotional, right-brain desires like drama, excitement, warmth, and esthetic appeal. When a person enters a house – or any building -- you want to engage feelings, not invite analysis.

To achieve positive emotional responses, immediately reveal interior architectural effects that have known appeal. Show off major amenities. If a fireplace is offered, let people see how great your design is. If a beautiful patio is available, emphasize it. If overhead volume is part of the plan, let it impress the viewer upon opening the front door. While a sense of mystery and playfulness can be useful, such architectural strategies should never leave the buyer frustrated or unsatisfied. Like a story unfolding on a movie screen, the plot must be engaging from the start and hold viewers attention to the end.

Builders should know that solid design principles are at work here. The purpose of architecture is to make space interesting as well as functional. Great first impressions are made with a glance, but they are the result of carefully crafted design decisions. It is the first impressions of streetscape, front door, and interior vista that get people emotionally on your side and ready to do business.

Credits:
Gatehouse architecture by Michael Knorr & Assoicates, illustration by Susan Johnk
Rancho Santa Fe exteriors by Michael Knorr & Associates
Las Vegas interior by Michael Knorr & Associates

Style...

...is a word tossed around with little understanding of the definition of various styles and little agreement on the meaning of style itself. One person may describe a building as traditional. Another person will look at the same building and describe it as Tudor. A third may call it French country. What is going on here? Are we not seeing the same thing when we look at an object?

Style is a fluid concept. A thing (a house, a mass- produced product, or any object of design) may be created in the manner of a particular epoch or person. We, as a civilization, have decided to label these various styles as Tudor, French-country, modern, craftsman, classical, Wrightian, etc. The problem is that the icons of these styles and the materials, shapes, and details used in these styles overlap.  Does a dormer belong to the Tudor style? Or to French-country? Obviously, it belongs to either or neither. A dormer is just an element of structure.

How a dormer is treated may push it into one style or another, but it belongs essentially to no style. Is stucco indigenous to any particular style? Of course not; it is a material that can be used in almost any vernacular. Nevertheless, in our minds we tend to link materials and elements of structure with the style to which we think it most belongs. Decorative elements often derive from a specific style but end up applied to other, quite different, styles. Many styles also enjoy revivals and revisionist interpretations. They are reinvented in novel form and given — sometimes — new names. Who can make sense of all this? If we have not been educated in the nuances of historical styles, it is hit or miss on getting it right. Even the experts disagree on taxonomy. Among architects who deal with the concept of style every day, there is confusion, disagreement, and misunderstandings about particular categories of style. What, exactly, does a given style mean in your mind?

We also use the word style itself with different meanings. We may talk about particular styles, as above, but we also use the word in the sense of a person or thing possessing style: as being “in style” or “stylish”.  Perhaps, in architectural design, it is time to stop worrying about what historical theme a building might possess, and start being concerned that it simply has good basic design qualities. That it has style.

But architecture is not like fashion design, where styles go in and out with the seasons. Works of architecture — from the homes in which we live to the buildings in which we work to the monuments that represent our society — have a less frivolous purpose and more enduring message. Perhaps it is more important that a house (or any building) have architecture that is internally consistent, that flows, that hangs together as a work of art. Let’s call this a non-denominational approach to design. What kind of crazy concept is this? Buildings without a style? Yes: buildings without a style that still possess style.

It would mean that issues like human scale, comfort, proportion, and balance are paramount, rather than how many or what kind of dormers or turrets or gables or Doric columns a building may have. It would mean that we consider, instead, concepts in architecture like rhythm, texture, volume, and emotional resonance. It would mean that distinctions like “traditional” and “contemporary” are largely irrelevant.

In the world of architecture, we seem to have lost our way. We have capitulated to a mind-set that looks at architecture as a recipe book of various styles. Style has shriveled to superficial treatments that, in the end, have no style at all. Like beauty in humans, architectural style ought to be seen as more than skin deep. Perhaps architects should introduce deeper values to the built environment, giving us neighborhoods and cities where architecture is a delight for the senses and a joy to inhabit. That would be great style.

Credits:
Dormers: Friderick Koch, Pearson Scott Foresman, Pearson Scott Foresman
Style Examples: Rama, Waugsberg, Didier B.
Exteriors: Architecture by Knorr, photo R. Munger
Interiors: Architecture by Knorr, photo R. Munger

Giving Architectural Credit Where Due

One of my pet peeves is seeing mention of a work of architecture without acknowledging the architect. To me, that is like a book review without credit to the author. It would never happen with books, but it happens all the time with architecture. To my chagrin, it happened with one of my own architectural reviews.

On April 15, 2009 I blogged about the beautiful Holy Family Shrine in Gretna, Nebraska: A Religious Experince on I-80. I had found a reference in the visitor center to Fay Jones and credited him as the architect. Fay Jones consistently produced wonderful work during his career, including several ecclesiastical buildings in a similar vein.

Last month I received several comments from readers, including Ellen Compton, archivist for the Fay Jones Collection at the University of Arkansas. Apparently, the Holy Family Shrine is not the work of Fay Jones. In fact, the web site for architects Beringer Ciaccio Dennell Mabrey in Omaha prominently displays the chapel as an example of their work. What was going on here? Was I hallucinating that I had seen Jones mentioned in the visitor center? How could I have been that far off base? I decided to write the builiding’s overseer, Father Matthew Gutowski of the Omaha Archdiocese, with my questions. Father Gutowski was kind enough to respond immediately, clearing up the mystery and adding insight to the evolution of Holy Family Shrine. I would like to set the record straight by reprinting his letter:

Hi, Michael,

Thank you for your compliments about the Holy Family Shrine.

No, you are not hallucinating. There is a reference to Faye Jones on the story boards in the visitor center. Anne Louise Miceck, one of the persons involved in developing the Shrine, had seen his Cooper Memorial Chapel in Arkansas and desired to build something like it. And Jim Dennel, one of the partners of BCDM Architects, who is the architect for the Shrine, is an admirer of the Jones’ chapels so he was pleased to be one of the persons who was involved in the developing of the Shrine by designing it and managing its construction. And before I went to the seminary to study to be a priest, I was studying architecture at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln, and also admired Jones’s chapels. So, the three of us were the original trio that the Lord brought together as the founders of the Shrine, who unbeknownst, until we met at Christ the King Parish in Omaha when I was assigned there in the early 1990s, had all individually had some type of admiration for Jones’ work and the desire to build a chapel.

Hope that answers your question. Let me know if you have any more. I looked at your website and blog: very nice!

God bless,

Father Gutowski

Archdiocese of Omaha

I reread my entry from April and stand by my opinion: the Holy Family Shrine is a great experience in light, sound, touch, and a sense of spiritual engagement. It sure looks like a Jones building, but I am pleased to acknowledge BCDM Architects and give them credit for beautiful results.

Photos:
Michael Knorr

Articulation

Articulation in speech means speaking clearly in order to be understood and convey meaning. In architecture, articulation means to delineate spaces so different functions are clear and architecture is meaningful.

In the first half of the twentieth century there was a revolution in architecture: modernists versus traditionalists. For the most part, the modernists won. We are accustomed to radical new forms in architecture. Much of this was driven by new construction techniques, such as steel framing and reinforced concrete. Metals and glass could be mass-produced and made cheap. New theories in the visual arts, literature, and music supported modern architectural ideas. The biggest legacy of the modern revolution is the concept of open planning. Almost every home, office, or public building uses open planning in the arrangement of space. An everyday example is the way kitchens blend into family rooms in most new homes. We do not divide the spaces with walls. Inside our homes, shops, and offices the victory of modern architecture is undisputed. Interior spaces are more open than ever. If traditional styles are used at all, they are limited to exterior shells and decoration.

Before the modern revolution, interior spaces were a series of boxed-off rooms, each function neatly wrapped in its own cocoon. That does not suit today’s lifestyles. We are more casual and demand more flexibility in the use of space. In a sense, we are all modernists whether we admit it or not.

Open plans offer greater freedom for architects. However, with freedom comes responsibility and sometimes it is shirked. Designers and architects seem at a loss, at times, making wide open spaces warm, inviting, and - perhaps most important - meaningful. Freedom in space planning has yielded plans that seem, ironically, unplanned. We all have experienced these types of spaces but usually walk through them without analyzing them. That is one thing about architecture: we rarely know why a space feels wrong. Perhaps we experience a sense of unease or discomfort. Things are not right, but we do not quite know why. Often this feeling comes from the space itself. (Sometimes we just have indigestion.)

When a space lacks articulation, it can be uncomfortable or even chaotic. When one space blends indiscriminately into another, when you don’t know where one function ends and another begins, the plan lacks articulation. Even the furniture can look out of place when there are no architectural clues to guide us in the use of space. Notice how, in the illustration below, one area sloshes into another. You don’t know where the living area stops and the dining area starts. The foyer falls gracelessly into a corner without much thought. The entire space is unarticulated.

On the other hand, articulation avoids ambiguity. It simultaneously makes spaces more interesting and more functional. Architectural elements can establish articulation without making a plan confining. Columns or piers between living and dining areas, for example, can preserve openness while subtly defining functions. Overhead ledges, level changes, a jog in the plan, columns or arcades are a few of the many features that can be used to articulate space. The illustration below shows the same areas as above with exactly the same square footage. Now the space is alive with meaning while still flowing effortlessly, one function to another. It is articulated.

Think of architectural elements – columns, piers, arches, ledges, level changes -- like punctuation marks between words. Just as commas, periods, and exclamation points help articulate the meaning of written words, architectural features can articulate the functions of spaces and make them more meaningful.

Even traditional-appearing spaces can be quite modern in spatial planning. When areas flow without doors or walls, that is a modern concept. Details may be old- world, but if the plan is open it is a modern space. How well it looks and functions is often a matter of how skillfully areas within that space are articulated.

Credits:

All examples by Michael Knorr & Assoicates

Top Ten Works of Architecture (A Personal List)

Everybody likes to make lists of their favorite things. Movies. Books. Places. Presenting a list of great architecture is an excuse to mention the principles and innovations behind these works. Other, equally qualified, choices could be made, but this is my personal list of the top ten all-time best works of architecture. If you have different candidates or you think I missed something important, let me know. Presented in ascending order…

10. Hadrian’s Villa

Architect unknown. Tivoli, Italy. c.120.

This is the oldest structure on the list. I could just as readily have chosen from other groups of ancient residences; Pompeii and Ephesus have more complete examples of Roman homes. Hadrian’s Villa is simply the best-known (and largest) residence of antiquity. I include it here as representative of all ancient Mediterranean villas. As a genre, these homes, right down to those of middle-class merchants, demonstrate that we have much to learn and remember about gracious living.

9. Monticello

Thomas Jefferson, architect. Charlottesville, Virginia. 1769-1809.

The outward shell of Monticello is classical Palladian architecture. That is merely a cloak for Jefferson’s clever spaces. But, in the end, nothing here is either classical or Palladian. This is pure American inventiveness.

8. St. Peter’s Basilica

Architects: Bramante, Michelangelo, Moderno, et al. Vatican City. 1506-1626.

At least one great work of architecture must be included to represent the sixteenth century, so why not the biggest? The Renaissance was one of the most inventive periods for architecture. St. Peter’s embodies (and may be the culmination of) the Renaissance conception of voluminous and voluptuous space.


7. Sainte-Chapelle
Pierre de Montreuil,architect. Paris, France. 1248. (Restored 1855 by Viollet-le-Duc.)
Sainte-Chapelle is not the largest of Gothic cathedrals. In fact, it is simply a small chapel built by Loux IX to shelter sacred relics. But it is a perfect example of the struggle of thirteenth-century architects to completely dissolve structure and create space out of light.

6. Wayfarers Chapel

Lloyd Wright, architect. Rancho Palos Verdes, California. 1949.
At first glance, this glass chapel, designed by Frank Lloyd Wright’s son, may seem like a modern version of Sainte-Chapelle. In fact, a quite different principle is at work here. Instead of enclosing space with stained glass windows, space is extended by blurring the distinction between indoors and outdoors. Here the walls are trees and the ceiling is sky.



5. TWA Terminal
Eero Saarinen, architect. Kennedy Airport, New York City. 1956-1962.
This building falls into a category of expressionist architecture some find willful and strange. But Saarinen’s work, unlike the freewheeling architecture currently in vogue, is never arbitrary or aimless. All of this lush creativity without the aid of computers!



4. Barcelona Pavilion
Mies van der Rohe, architect. Barcelona, Spain. 1929.
Built as the German Pavilion for the 1929 International Exposition in Barcelona, this is generally referred to as the Barcelona Pavilion. With no real function to weigh it down, it synthesizes every revolutionary idea of twentieth century architecture in one succinct opus. An open plan, honest use of materials, indoor/outdoor connections, cantilevered roof, disdain for decoration. All of these truly modern ideas are presented here in elegant simplicity.


3. Bavinger House

Bruce Goff, architect. Norman, Oklahoma. 1951.
No photographs can properly explain Bruce Goff’s inventions, particularly the Bavinger house. This is because his frequent use of non-orthogonal lines has no reference in everyday experience. When we see a picture of a “normal” building (rectangular, with parallel walls and ceilings) we can compare it to the square buildings in our daily life and construct an image of it in our minds. Not so with Goff’s architecture. Goff built houses as if no house ever existed before. His works are pure architecture and must be felt in person to be understood. (Of course, that’s true of all architecture, isn’t it?)

2. Fallingwater

Frank Lloyd Wright, architect. Bear Run, Pennsylvania. 1939.
Built as a weekend retreat in the woods, no twentieth century architecture is more romantic. An answer and a challenge to the more severe approaches of Wright’s contemporary competitors and the so-called international style, Fallingwater is both primal and modern. It not so much on the earth as of it. Defying gravity as it balances atop its waterfall, Fallingwater is beautiful, dangerous, complex. With this building Frank Lloyd Wright confidently reinvented architecture and his prairie-school self.

1. Hagia Sophia

Isidore of Miletus and Anthemius of Tralles, architects. Istanbul, Turkey. 537.
Hagia Sophia was, for a millennium, the largest cathedral the world had ever seen. But it is not just brute size that makes Hagia Sophia significant. (If that were the reason, the Astrodome would be great architecture. It is not.) The massive walls and buttresses of Hagia Sophia support half-domes and galleries that all but explode into a huge, soaring dome that floats magically on a continuous ring of arched openings. A hundred mosques in Istanbul mimic Hagia Sophia, but it was first.

What didn’t make the list?

Many important structures did not make this list. For example, there is not a single skyscraper here; no Empire State Building, no Chrysler Building, no Rockefeller Center. This is because most tall buildings are weak on interior volume. While the Chrysler Building, one of my favorites, is a stunning New York landmark, each individual floor is just conventional office space. The lobby, while an elegant example of art deco design, is not particularly noteworthy in the history of architecture.

Then there are structures like the pyramids, which are architectonic in scale, but enclose no architectural spaces. Call them monuments or sculpture, but don’t call them architecture.

Other built things like the Eiffel Tower or Brooklyn Bridge are wonderful examples of engineering, but are not, by my definition, architecture.

Finally, there are individual architects who should probably have at least one work on my list, but do not. Palladio, Brunileschi, Gaudi, Neutra, Corbusier, Lautner, Calatrava are all missing. Every one of them has contributed important works to the world of architecture, but, in the end, I had to narrow things down to just ten. Probably not fair, but there you are.

Let me know your favorite works of architecture (and why) via the “comments” link below.

Credits:

10. Rob Munger

9. Matt Kozlowski

8. Panini

7. Didier B

6. Gyrofrog

5.pheezy

4. Russ McGinn

3. Jones

2. Figuura

1. Rob Munger

The Seduction of Place

I was looking for something to read the other day and found The Seduction of Place --The History and Future of the City in my library. I read this book by Joseph Rykwert several years ago (it was published in 2000) and forgot all about it. My retention level is low. I seldom remember the plots for old movies (which means, if I wait long enough, I get to enjoy them two or three times) and I barely remembered reading this book. But it had many dog-eared pages, indicating passages I wanted to return to (a bad habit, my mother tells me) so I knew I had read it top to bottom at least once. Judging by the number of dog-eared pages it was an excellent read. So, I decided to read it again.

Rykwert has written several books about architecture. He is Professor of Architecture Emeritus and Professor of Art History at the University of Pennsylvania. Born in Poland, educated in England, and a teacher and lecturer at numerous institutions, his book has a breadth of scope as wide as his experiences. The Seduction of Place is as much about urban planning as architecture. In fact, as a critic of urban planning, he is the equal of well-known teacher/critic/planner Edmund Bacon. (Who, incidentally, is only one degree of separation from Kevin Bacon, his son.)

The Seduction of Place is a sweeping history of cities. Rykwert covers everything from fortified medieval towns to utopian Bauhaus fantasies. But his true skill is explaining how the agendas of dreamers are always tempered by economic reality. When the synergy of idealism and practicality are successful, we are seduced by the resulting places.

As an historian, Rykwert reveals fascinating facts about familiar places. Gothic cathedrals, he claims, were not designed to be seen the way we see them today. The exposed structural skeleton, the flying buttresses, of

Gothic cathedrals are much admired by modern architects. But, Rykwert asserts, this “is certainly not how they were conceived by their builders.” Rather, a “great medieval church was primarily a façade within the city, a front…. yet within it was a soaring vault and a glittering, luminous array of stained glass…. You see the bulk of the main building only in glimpses, but denuded of its accretions and barnacles, of the workshops, the shops and stalls that clung to it, it is impoverished, and, in a way, also betrayed.” This was a stunning revelation to me, but it makes sense. The structural bones of Notre Dame or St. Chappelle were not important; the feeling of the spaces was what mattered (and matters still).

Rykwert devotes thirty-one pages to the development of New York and the history of skyscrapers. This provides a foundation to discuss the symbolism of tall buildings and the primacy of New York as the “capital of a Globe.” He writes that the “cultural hegemony of New York seems, at the moment, more total than those of Paris or London ever were...

As always happens when a new capital emerges or is established, other cities will both envy and try to emulate it. That is why the word 'Manhattanization' had to be coined for the process of making towns or cities more or less like Manhattan. A compliment like that has not been conferred on any other metropolis. Not even 'Romanize' had that sense when its empire was at its greatest.

Though published in 2000, the book provides relevant observations on tall and super-tall buildings and their impact on our sense of place. The book is recent enough to describe the super tall Jin-Mao and World Financial Center towers in Shanghai’s Pudong district.

In this context, his most disturbing observation (for an architect) is that

[The] business of high buildings… has really passed out of the hands of architects, because a wholly new kind of designer has now come into being. .. they operate in large offices that handle many millions’ worth (in various currencies) of work each year. Such offices offer financial advice, quantity surveying, and structural service engineering, all of which actually determine the actual configuration of the building, but the architects’ and decorators’ actual designing is limited to advice on the surface dressing (mirror glass or Gothic or Renaissance or Chinese or some sheathing details derived from Art Deco patterning)… Being a relatively powerless group, architects are a convenient scapegoat for the more forceful generators of the city’s ills.

Other relevant topics are in Rykwert’s scope. He discusses the museum-as-icon craze that began with Frank Gehry’s Guggenheim and continues to this day. He has much to say (none of it good) about the ascendance of gated communities in Las Vegas and other U.S. cities and their impact on the urban fabric. He reviews the evolution of planned cities from Canberra to Chandigard to Brasilia. (Rykwert is much more tepid about Brasilia than his aforementioned contemporary Edmund Bacon.)

Rykwert’s passion is the city. His book is a contribution to the understanding of cities past so architects and planners can better improve or create cities in the present. “All worthwhile building,” claims Rykwert, “must involve the making of places, that is, enclosures that people can inhabit and appropriate without doing themselves violence.”

Credits:
1. Book cover.
2. Plan of London, Christopher Wren.
3. Wikimedia Commons.
4. Pudong, Jacob Ehnmark.
5. Brasilia, Mario Roberto Duran Ortiz.

Mud Huts and Skyscrapers (Culture and Design)

When talking about architecture –especially when making value judgments – culture and environment cannot be separated from design. The underlying influences upon architecture are integral to its understanding and to its creation.

Architecture does not exist in a vacuum. It is a product of individual minds, but minds live within the context of specific cultures. That is why architecture of the Italian renaissance looks quite different from, for example, Nepalese architecture from the same period. Architects of the European renaissance were exploring new spatial relationships with a vocabulary based on ancient Roman forms.

In contrast, architecture in Nepal was compressed and dark. Form was carved into anthropomorphic forms never seen in the west. Religions, social values, political systems, and climate are completely different between Italy and Nepal. So it is not surprising that the two cultures produced two obviously different architectures. Neither type of architecture would logically exist in the milieu of the other unless by some sort of cross-cultural pastiche, like an amusement park. (Disneyland’s Epcot Center is an example of this type of architectural chicanery.) It is easy to deduce that the basilica of San Giorgio Maggiore in Venice is a product of a different culture than Patan Durbar Square near Katmandu. Despite having been built at roughly the same time, the architectural clues to their identities are obvious. It would not take too clever a detective to deduce from small fragments of evidence the true source of almost any architectural style. It is in the DNA of buildings. San Giorgio Maggiore employs a large dome, Roman columns, and the suggestion of a large interior space. It speaks of Italy. (Although the knowledgeable observer will also notice eastern influences that come from trade and political connections between Venice and the Ottoman Empire.) Patan, on the other hand, exhibits rich sculptural surfaces with little indication of spacious interiors because they do not exist. It has the thick weight of Hindu architecture.

This comparison could be made with any number of cultures and the differences would range from the significant and easily identifiable (England:Egypt; Russia:Brazil) to the more subtle (China: Japan; United States: Canada).

Cultural differences occur for many different reasons. Northern climes tend to produce architecture with very steep roofs because they shed snow easily and keep excess weight off the structure. Mediterranean climates  allow low-pitched roofs. Gentle roof lines are often a result of a gentle climates. Those are environmental factors: just the beginning of a complex matrix of influences.

The discussion becomes really interesting when we delve into judgments of good versus bad architecture. Or beautiful versus ugly. How do we define these things? Is there one set of standards by which all architecture can be judged? If you think these questions don’t really matter, I can provide at least one example where it was very important to some people. This came up in a personal way when I was teaching architectural design at the University of Oklahoma. I had two Iranian students who always presented the most unusual solutions to class assignments. To be blunt: I found their projects willfully bizarre. I did not know much about their background or the cultural history of their birthplace. They were refugees from the Islamic revolution in Iran, probably from privileged families, and certainly had values and references different than mine. Maybe, in the context of their culture, their design solutions were not strange. Maybe they were quite appropriate in the context of esthetic issues important in Iran. Perhaps these students intended to apply similar solutions in their homeland at some future time. Who would know or be able to explain to me the full background of a completely alien culture? I realized I didn’t have any fair basis with which to judge their work. If beauty is in the eye of the beholder than what beauty does a stranger see? In the case of these Iranian students, I gave them passing grades as long as they completed the technical requirements of the assignments. Whether or not they were creating “good” architecture I have no idea to this day. (This is my general attitude toward architectural education: I don’t believe good architecture can be taught, but a good teacher will establish an environment in which capable students can thrive.)

Maybe there are some universal reference points common to all architecture. We are all human beings (we’re not talking about imaginary intergalactic architecture) and human scale provides one criterion for what is appropriate in architecture for man. Leonardo DaVinci made man the center of artistic expression as does the entire science of ergonomics.

An experienced architect knows that certain things relating to human scale work very well and others do not. A small room (a powder room, perhaps) with a very high ceiling feels uncomfortable; it is like being at the bottom of a chimney. Even when a home has ten- or eleven-foot ceilings, we might frame a powder room at nine feet to better relate to human scale. Conversely, large rooms with high ceilings can be very exciting. They can also be overwhelming. Introducing lower elements (doors, ledges, partial walls) in contrast to high ceilings can humanize a space. Human references introduce warmth. Almost paradoxically, grand spaces seem even more grand if we can relate to them in some personal way.

The Greene brothers, (Charles and Henry) were master architects at manipulating scale. In projects like the Gamble House (1908) in Pasadena, California, their architecture rises to three stories while conveying the feeling of a comfortable bungalow. This magic trick is conjured from low-slung porches, broad roof overhangs, and details directly related to human scale.

In the Gamble house, low spaces burst into higher volumes that elevate the gaze and the spirit. One specific example can be found on the rear porch where low cross ties on the columns introduce a scale that is seeable and touchable right at the average height of a person.

Presumably this humanizing effect would have a similar impact on all people regardless of cultural origin because it is based on a common attribute of all people.

If human scale is a measure of architecture, cultural experience must still affect human response to specific architecture as it plays with scale. How would an individual whose experiences are limited to the scale of single-story mud huts react to the towers of Rockefeller Center? Would it be with awe? Or terror? Would the feelings be the same for a student at nearby Colombia University? We bring with us to any experience the sum total of our history, even if only subconsciously.

Architecture Without Architects, by Bernard Rudofsky, demonstrates that vernacular architecture (such as mud huts) has artistic value. To fully determine that value we need at least some understanding of the culture of which it is a product. How well does it fulfill the need for shelter? What are the cultural references embodied in the shapes? What is the context in which it exists? The same holds true of skyscrapers. We don’t really know if they are good designs unless we know something about the programmatic requirements behind them, the context of their surroundings, and the expectations of the culture in which they exist. We may know some of this intuitively (or think we know) but should be cautious about placing value judgments on any architecture until we know the full story behind it.

Architects are expected to understand the cultural environment surrounding their projects. This is known as contextual design: to be aware of and recognize the context in which a building exists. This could refer to the physical geometry (scale and style) of nearby buildings as well as the social expectations of neighbors. This seems like a simple and appropriate idea. However, it is fraught with problems and the degree to which context should be considered (or whether it should be considered at all) is the topic of considerable debate among architects. The logic of considering the contextual relationship of new buildings seems irrefutable until you realize that most breakthroughs in architecture don’t consider context very much. Frank Lloyd Wright’s Guggenheim museum (1959) in New York gives very little consideration to neighborhood context. Its fluid lines are in stark contrast to the rigid geometry of Manhattan. Yet it is a widely admired work of architecture. It is great at least partly because it presents a fresh alternative to the conventional context in which it was built. It invites and allows us to look at the world in a different manner. However, without the culture in which it was created (a world of grey boxes) it would stand for (or against) nothing.

In fact, the Guggenheim shuts itself off from its Fifth Avenue neighborhood, turning inward to a self-referenced environment. So much for context!

Despite this, Frank Lloyd Wright was a product of the culture in which he worked. He was of Welsh decent raised in nineteenth century Wisconsin. As unique as his work was, it stands framed by the work of other pioneers of modern architecture who shaped the contemporary zeitgeist. His work was informed by the experiences available to him as man well-read and traveled. In other words, the culture in which Frank Lloyd Wright thrived provided the context in which his work was produced. It is a product of a particular time and place.

We prize innovation in any field. Innovation stands in contrast to something that already exists. It fills a need or crosses a gap or opens a new path but it does so within a cultural context. Wright’s Guggenheim, alien as it seems to the architecture of 1950’s America, is still a product of the twentieth century; it could not have come out of fourteenth century Italy or Nepal.

To be aware of cultural context enriches our appreciation of architecture and deepens our resources when creating it. It doesn’t mean we excuse ugliness when we spot it, but if we choose to judge architecture (always a risky endeavor) we should do so with all the facts. When was it created? For what purpose and for whom? What were the budgetary limitations? What were the programmatic criteria? What materials and technologies were available? What were the historical influences on the architect? What client-driven limits were placed on the architect’s creativity? All of these things and much more are part of the culture that surrounds a work of architecture. Understanding leads to appreciation… or, perhaps, tolerance. Every new project, whether mud hut or skyscraper, is an opportunity for an architect to learn. If a building rightly fulfills its purpose it provides an opportunity for the rest of us to learn as well.