IN DEFENSE OF (SOME) MODERNISM

June 26, 2022

As a proponent of traditional design and architecture, I sometimes find myself in the position of wanting to defend the work of certain ‘modernist’ architects against the more strident ‘traditionalists’ on twitter and elsewhere who are as reflexively dismissive of all ‘modernist’ architecture as architectural progressives are of traditional forms. This blanket dismissal suggests to me that these critics haven’t really understood that what makes a building ‘traditional’ in part or whole is the degree to which it displays the underlying principles that constitute the ‘traditional’ in design, and are instead relying on superficial attributes or associations, such as era or style, in passing judgement. I always emphasise that traditional design has nothing to do with historicism or classicism, and that it is perfectly possible to do traditional architecture that is neither.

Traditional architectural principles are broadly hierarchical, and died in stages: first to go was ornament, but lack of ornament isn’t necessarily fatal to a building. Most of the architects of the period of early or ‘high’ modernism, though their work may be shorn of ornament, nevertheless preserved many of the other, arguably more foundational, principles of traditional design that were progressively lost over the following decades: natural materials, a degree of fractal scaling, local symmetries, a careful sense of proportion, plumb walls, rectilinear windows, and so on. Were you to bring them back, most of these architects would be appalled by the sterile, anti-human, parametric horrors of the architect-priests of our own time.

The modern cult of individual creative genius may have been disastrous for architecture as a whole, but that doesn’t mean that such figures don’t exist. And these architects certainly had their failures- the problem with free-floating, intuitive inspiration, as opposed to vernacular or classical design anchored in the communal rules of tradition and so almost infinitely forgiving of mediocrity, is that if the muse deserts you you aren’t left with much. But the best of the work of the best is, to me at least, undeniably beautiful, and represents a self-conscious but successful high-architectural invocation of the spirit of vernacular architecture. You might even, with some justification, call it ‘traditional modernism.’

DESIGN CONDESCENSION

June 19, 2022

From time to time I come across articles on interior design blogs or in other places where the writer traces the development of a particular aspect of architectural or interior design through its history. In these articles, there is often a faint undercurrent of condescension or superiority, as if to say, ‘haha look at those silly premoderns, luckily we moderns know better.’ This attitude is driven by an underlying assumption of inevitable and endless progress, be it social, material or technological, that confers redundancy on everything that came before the present.

A good example of this is kitchen design. The author will sketch out the history of kitchens, comparing the separated and poky little lean-to kitchens of the nineteenth century unfavourably to the modern ‘open plan’ that is ubiquitous today, and imply bafflement that anybody would have chosen to do it any way other than we do. As an aside, it is stating the obvious to point out that between the two ends of this kitchen design spectrum there are all kinds of in-between ‘semi-open’ design possibilities that allow the best of both worlds, but for whatever reason these possibilities are rarely explored; nor in any case are the eminently rational motives behind the design decisions buried in these old and ‘primitive’ kitchens.

Before electricity and even gas, all cooking was done with wood or coal, and the risk of fire was very real. By separating the kitchen off the back of the house, the risk of a kitchen fire taking out the entire house was reduced, particularly in the case of a brick house where the lean-to kitchen was effectively fire-separated from the main dwelling. Cooking fires also generate a lot of heat, which isn’t necessarily wanted in the rest of the house, especially in an Australian summer.

No electricity also means no mechanical extraction fans, so a separate kitchen was the only way of preventing smoke, soot, oil, cooking smells, and water vapour from permeating the walls and furnishings of living areas.

These are only some of the ‘technical’ reasons for kitchens being the way they were; there are also social factors that I won’t go into here. The point is that the design decisions of past buildings shouldn’t be dismissed as historical or superannuated, but rather taken seriously and even learnt from.

Design, like evolution, has no telos; design features, like the features of biological organisms, simply represent the fittest or best responses to the prevailing conditions of the environment in which they exist. If, as I believe, we are leaving our historically anomalous environment of extreme energy and resource abundance, and re-entering an environment of energy and resource scarcity that is almost beyond living memory in the first world, then we will also witness a reversal of the design ‘progress’ seen by techno-progressives as irreversible, and the re-emergence of many of the design elements, and much of the design wisdom, contained in old kitchens and other spaces.

JAPANESE MINKA VI - THREE ROOM LAYOUTS 2

June 12, 2022

Last week we examined the three room layouts that evolved within the tatebunwari pattern, where the basic principle of room division is that of transverse ‘columns’ across the dwelling - the room adjacent to the doma (typically called the hiroma) bounds the doma for its full width, and the rooms further ‘in’ are generally parallel to the hiroma and also span the full width of the dwelling. This week we will look at the other subgroup of three room layouts: those that developed from the yokobunwari pattern, where room divisions are longitudinal, and more than one room bounds the doma.

The first subtype of the yokobunwari pattern is called the mae-zashiki-gata 前座敷型or ‘front zashiki’ type. In the example of this type shown below, we have the front zashiki of the title, where more formal or public-facing activities would take place, and also possibly more utilitarian activities in the area of the zashiki bordering the doma. To the rear of the zashiki are two rooms: the doma-bordering daidoko 台所, where eating of meals and other household activities were undertaken. The daidoko might also be used for sleeping. At the most ‘interior’ part of the dwelling is the nema 寝間, used mainly for sleeping.

The *maezashiki* type, *yokobunwari* pattern.

The second type is called the tatenarabi sanma-dori 竪ならび三間取り which I will call the ‘row type’ in contrast to the ‘column type’ discussed in the last post. Here the three rooms are arranged parallel to one another so that each borders the doma on their short side. The example below is typical, with again the front zashiki, the middle daidoko, and the rear heya for sleeping.

*Tatenarabi sanma-dori* type of the *yokobunwari* pattern.

Analysing these patterns and layouts and contemplating the possibilities inherent to each pattern and type can be a productive exercise for any architect or designer. Without corridors or other distracting auxiliary spaces, they have the purity of architects’ schematic bubble diagrams, but made real; there is an appealing directness and clarity to the functional and spatial relationships they contain.

JAPANESE MINKA V - THREE ROOM LAYOUTS

June 5, 2022

Further to last week’s post on two room layouts and the two ways in which these rooms can be arranged - the tatebunwari and yokobunwari patterns - I would now like to examine the sub-variations that emerge from these two patterns when they are developed into three room layouts, beginning this week with tatebunwari layouts.

The tatebunwari pattern can be further broken down into two sub-types: the heiretsugata, or what I will call the ‘column type’ layout, and the hiromagata or ‘hiroma type’ layout.

In the heiretsugata type, the rooms are arranged in transverse ‘columns,’ with the ‘outermost’ room fully and exclusively bordering the doma. In the example shown below, this room is called the gozen, typically where meals, family ‘together time’ and handwork would take place; further in comes the omote, for sleeping and other activities, and then the innermost tsubone, for receiving guests and other more ceremonial or formal activities.

A typical *tatebunwari* pattern *minka* of the subtype *heiretsugata* or ‘column’ type.

In the hiromagata type, the ‘everyday’ space (in the example below called the hiroma) again fully borders the doma. Hiroma in general usage simply means a wide or large room; in the context of rural minka it is the ‘general’ room for eating and other everyday activities. The inner portion of the raised floor area is here divided not transversely but longitudinally, into the rear heya (literally ‘room’) for sleeping, and the front zashiki, a formal space for the entertaining of guests, etc.