DOUBLE GLAZING DEBUNKED, PART ONE

Insulated glazing unit (IGU) is the industry name for any glazing product that consists of two or more panes of glass separated by a metal or polymer spacer, with the whole assembly forming a thin sealed chamber that contains an insulating layer of air or other gas (typically argon). Insulated glazing was first patented as far back as the 1860s, and IGUs have been commercially available since the 1940s. Though triple, quadruple and even sextuple glazing is available for use in colder climates, double glazing is by far the most common type of IGU seen in Australia, where it has steadily gained market share to the point that it is now arguably seen as the standard choice (at least outside the tropics) in new houses, particularly since achieving first a five-star, then a six-star energy efficiency rating became mandatory in most states in the 2000s. IGU’s themselves are not mandated in the building code, but they are one of the easiest ways to ‘tick the boxes’ in the formal and largely meaningless exercises known as thermal energy assessments (which is a whole other subject in itself). Indeed, double glazing has become somewhat emblematic of ‘green’, ‘eco’ or ‘sustainable’ architecture - feel-good, nebulous and largely sham concepts that generally indicate the uncritical application of energy-intensive, high-tech solutions to perceived ‘problems’ in building design and construction.

But does double glazing work? Well, that depends what you mean by ‘work’. IGUs perform as advertised out of the box, but will they work for the lifespan of your house? Almost certainly not. Lifespans (and warrantees) given for IGUs range from around 10 to 25 years; the failure mode is almost always the failure of the seal, and an IGU is only an IGU as long as the seal retains its integrity. If you look closely at the strip of metal or plastic separating the panes of glass in an IGU, you will see two rows of tiny holes. Under these holes is a layer of desiccant. Once the seal fails, moist air enters the gap, the desiccant eventually becomes saturated, and all you have at that point is two expensive and very closely spaced single-glazed windows prone to internal condensation. If being ‘green’ is your concern, bear in mind that the whole IGU must now be replaced, with all the additional embodied energy that implies.

A sectioned timber-framed IGU showing the desiccant layer (white) under a perforated metal strip

Older, low-tech alternative to IGUs exist that provide much of the insulative benefits of IGUs without the limited lifespan. One very old solution is the use of external storm shutters, but these have the disadvantage of not being able to be used during the day. A more modern solution, common in cold climates from the early 20th century until the advent of IGUs, is just to use two single-glazed openable units in a single frame, separated by ten centimetres or so. While the large gap does mean that there will be some convection of air which will reduce the insulative performance, it also allows the internal faces of the panes to be easily cleaned, and the fact that the cavity is not sealed means that there is no seal to fail - the inevitable fate of all IGU’s in the end.

But perhaps the most fundamental ‘solution’ to this ‘problem’ of heat transfer across windows doesn’t require the application of technology at all, either high or low. Rather it simply requires a change of attitude, which is perhaps why it is almost never mentioned. It requires us to go right back to basics and challenge one of the assumptions that underlies the adoption and perceived necessity of double glazing in the first place: the idea that larger windows are always better and more desirable than smaller.

In next week’s post, we will demonstrate how this ‘no tech’ approach works, by first reviewing the physics of heat transfer and looking at how the insulative properties of materials and building elements are measured and calculated, and then applying this knowledge via a practical example to highlight the influence of window size on heat loss from a room or building.

 

JAPANESE MINKA VII - FOUR ROOM LAYOUTS

The four room type (yon-madori gata) represents something of a point of completion or fulfilment in the evolution of the minka, having first appeared in the relatively advanced and affluent Kinki region at the beginning of the Edo Period (1603 - 1867), and from there spreading around the country.

In this type, as the name suggests, the raised floor portion of the minka is divided into four rooms; in the paradigm example below, the divisions are in the form of a cross, known in Japanese as the ta-no-ji-gata-madori, ta being the Japanese character for rice paddy, ‘田’. In this example the four rooms are the ‘everyday’ room, here called the dei; behind it the katte for eating; the formal zashiki; and behind it, the heya for sleeping.

In the following examples the rooms have different names, but the functions are the same. In them we can see how the ta form can be easily adapted to meet the ‘weighting’ requirements of the various rooms, simply by shifting one of the lines of partition off centre.

Any later development of the minka beyond the four room type, such as minka with five, six, or more rooms, or minka with multiple wings or other complex plan-forms, is limited to a relatively small number of examples of upper class dwellings rather than types per se, and are thus difficult to fit into any generalising classification system.

 

LOCAL HEATING

Heating the entire volume of a house or room with a fan-forced convection device such as a split-system air conditioner is a very recent luxury. Before gas and electricity, heating was far more ‘local’ to the body, and was usually achieved with a radiant heat source, be that an open fire, stove, or brazier. Then as now, conductive heating was also employed, and at the most local level possible: by using the heat of the body itself to warm the layer of air trapped between it and clothing or blankets.

In the unsealed and uninsulated traditional Japanese house, there were three main ‘stations’ of heat that the inhabitants used to keep warm throughout the day and night: the kotatsu, the bath (heat by conduction), and bed.

The kotatsu is an excellent example of the kind of evolved emergence and holistic integration of parts that is so often found in vernacular ‘design’. It is a low table with a top that sits loose on the frame; between the frame and top is sandwiched a padded futon (here meaning a blanket or quilt rather than ‘mattress’) which drapes down on each side to the floor and is placed over the laps of those sitting at the table, so enveloping their legs in the heated space created between the floor and the futon.

 

A modern Japanese kotatsu

 

In the modern version, the heat source is a small electric space heater attached to the underside of the frame. In the traditional version, the hori-gotatsu or ‘sunken’ kotatsu (presumably evolved from the irori, the hearth sunk into the floor of Japanese ‘living rooms’ in farmhouses and elsewhere), there is a pit sunk into the floor that contains a small charcoal brazier and is covered by a grate flush with the floor to protect the legs. In some cases, there is a pit for the legs roughly the size of the table itself and the depth of the lower legs, so users can sit as if in a chair rather than cross-legged; the brazier is contained in a smaller pit within this pit.

Extended family gathered around a farmhouse irori.

The modern kotatsu (top) and the more traditional hori-gotatsu (bottom).

The key to the effectiveness of the kotatsu is in the clothing of those using it: traditional Japanese clothing such as the kimono are open at the bottom, allowing the heat from the kotatsu to rise up into the space between the clothing and the body; the clothing can also be drawn closed or open at the neck to prevent or allow the heated air from escaping as necessary. The kotatsu also forms the locus of the social activity the Japanese call kazoku-danran: sitting together in a family ‘circle’ to eat, talk, play games, and so on. So the kotatsu can be seen as part of a system, a highly satisfying vernacular solution that integrates not only the function of heating with the furniture and the architecture, but also with the clothing, and even with the manner of social interaction.

A birds-eye view of kazoku-danran around the kotatsu

Similar solutions can be found in the west, though perhaps not so sophisticated as the kotatsu. The high-backed, winged armchair, for example, achieved its form for functional reasons in the days before central heating. When faced towards an open fire, the cupping shape of the chair collects the radiated heat; the high back and wings block cold draughts to the head, and the the arms allow a blanket to be more securely draped over the legs.

 

ANIMAL ARCHITECTURE

Animal Architecture is a great book by the German ethologist Karl von Frisch, on the subject of (you guessed it) animal architecture. Von Frisch is probably best known for deciphering the dance of the honey-bee; this book is not one of his academic works, but is intended for the general reader. I highly recommend it to architects and designers- not, mind you, as a collection of forms to be turned verbatim into buildings (the world does not need any more spiral shell floor plans or treelike columns, thanks) but as a source of analogues and guiding principles. I don’t have a copy, but have always remembered one line from it on the topic of scale, which was brought to mind today when driving past the edgy new government building that has recently gone up in my town: a monolithic, undetailed monstrosity that completely dwarfs not only the people below it but also the existing buildings around it. The line goes something like: “The hummingbird does not build his nest out of branches, nor the eagle his of gossamer.”

 

WHAT HAPPENED TO COLOUR?

Is our era the most monochrome in Australian architectural history? Light gray-dark gray-white, and other equally drab exterior colour schemes, have held sway here for years, and show no signs of going away any time soon.

Most people know by now that ancient Egyptian, Greek, and Roman buildings were a riot of colour:

Egptian columns

Reconstruction of a polychrome Greek temple

As were Gothic cathedrals:

Gothic clustered columns

Even Victorian and Federation vernacular buildings, though their builders had only a limited range of relatively subdued natural (and a few synthetic) pigments to work with, seem positively joyous compared to our desaturated modern streetscapes (but good luck finding a house from those periods that hasn’t been ‘refreshed’ to look ‘contemporary’).

Period Federation colour scheme

Probably a big part of the motive here, for both developers and home owners, is the same as that behind the fact that the vast majority of vehicles are white, silver-grey, or black: the desire for ease of resale. Houses are now painted not to present the individuality and taste of their long-term owner to the street, but to be as bland and inoffensive as possible, with one eye to flipping them for a profit a few years down the track.

This is a great pity, especially in the emphatically not-grey country of Australia, where a short walk in the bush will provide you with endless colour ideas, and where you could spend an entire career working only with the palette found on a single parrot or eucalyptus tree.