CHINESE VERNACULAR DWELLINGS II

This post continues on from last week’s in taking a look at the contents of the book「中国民居の空間を探る」“Exploring Space in Chinese Residential Architecture”.

As good a place to start in any exploration of this subject is with one of the most representative and archetypal plan-forms of Chinese vernacular dwellings (民居, mínjū): the sìhéyuàn (四合院). In this post I would like to attempt to summarise the book’s introduction to this particular building typology.

The sìhéyuàn is an arrangement in which four (四sì) wings, or independent buildings, are arranged in a square or near-square around a central courtyard (合院 héyuàn). These wings or independent buildings are probably best described under the Japanese catch-all counter for buildings, 棟 (tou, literally ‘roof ridge’), which accurately captures the fact that each wing or building has its own pitched roof (gabled at its free ends) with a central ridge that slopes down to front and back. The history of the sìhéyuàn goes back over 2,000 years, typically seen as the relatively luxurious dwellings of the upper classes; sìhéyuàn can be found all over the country, with many variations according to local climatic, environmental, and other conditions.

The best way to understand the sìhéyuàn is to trace its evolution from simpler forms. We begin with the 横長方形住居 (Japanese: yoko chōhōkei jūkyo) pattern, a single-storey, single tou, rectangular building, arranged with its long axis oriented east-west, a south-facing facade with large openings to admit as much of the available southern sun as possible, and a completely blind northern wall to protect against winter cold. Most examples of the yoko chōhōkei jūkyo are divided into three or more bays, with one primary central ‘living’ bay, and the remaining bays, typically for sleeping, symmetrically arranged to its left and right. This arrangement as a whole is called a 堂屋 tángwū or ‘hall’; the prototypical three-bay tángwū is called the 一明二暗 yī míng èr àn, literally ‘one light two dark’. In many cases, the whole site of the dwelling is walled, with the building situated at the northern part of the resulting enclosure; the southern part is left as open space, but this ‘negative’ space is not considered to be a courtyard (院子 yuànzi) proper, because it is weakly formed by the perimeter walls, not by buildings (Fig. 1).

Fig. 1

The prototypical yoko chōhōkei jūkyo form eventually evolved into a more complex arrangement of three tou, arranged in a U shape open to the south, known as the 三合院 sānhéyuàn, which first appeared in the north-east of China before spreading to the other regions.

There are three subtypes of sānhéyuàn. In the first, the three tou are completely independent structures; though these structures clearly define (and mark the first appearance of) the true ‘positive space’ courtyard (院子 yuànzi), and establish a relatively close relationship between the courtyard and the main living area (堂táng), the courtyard in this arrangement still lacks a strong sense of intimacy (Fig. 2).

Fig. 2

This sense of intimacy is only gained when the three tou are unified into a single building, as in the second type of sānhéyuàn, in which the basic east-west oriented yoko chōhōkei jūkyo is extended southward at each end (Fig. 3), eventually forming a fully continuous U around the yuànzi (Fig. 4). This form is often seen in farmhouse dwellings, and the southern side of the yuànzi is left open.

Fig. 3

Fig. 4

The third subtype is similar to the second, the only difference being that the southern side of the yuànzi is fully closed off by extending a wall between the southern ends of the east and west wings (Fig. 5). There are also two-storey examples of this type, more commonly seen in urban settings.

Fig. 5

The step from sānhéyuàn to sìhéyuàn is relatively straightforward: the southern side of the yuànzi is infilled, not with a wall as in the third subtype of sānhéyuàn, but with a fourth tou, thus forming a courtyard enclosed on all four sides by buildings (Fig. 6). The entry gate (大門 dàmén) to the complex was typically placed on the central axis in the southern wall, though from the Song Dynasty (960-1279) onwards there are also many examples with the dàmén at the south-east corner, as a result of fēngshuǐ considerations.

Fig. 6

Each of the four volumes in the sìhéyuàn is a 堂屋 tángwū in itself, typically the 一明二暗 yī míng èr àn three bay type, with a central 堂 táng flanked on either side by an auxiliary sleeping bay. In effect then, the sìhéyuàn is a rotational quadrupling of the yī míng èr àn around a central courtyard, with the internal facade of each tángwū open to the courtyard, and the ‘back’ walls facing away from the courtyard left blind. In examples where the four tángwū are unified into a single building, the resulting corner rooms are typically ‘servant’ spaces, for activities such as cooking and washing. The tángwū lack internal corridors; the auxiliary bays are accessed from its central táng. Movement between each táng is via a corridor or cloister (廊廊 zǒuláng) ringing the yuànzi; the zǒuláng is protected with a shallow, low roof but is open on the side facing the yuànzi, and serves to unify the whole composition, not only functionally but also by modulating the transition between interior táng and exterior yuànzi (Fig. 7).

Fig. 7

CHINESE VERNACULAR DWELLINGS I

I’ve been looking through the book「中国民居の空間を探る」“Exploring Space in Chinese Residential Architecture” with the unwieldy subtitle「群居類住　ー　光・水・土 中国東南部の住空間」“Communal Living - Light/Water/Earth - Residential Space in Southeast China”, by 茂木計一郎 (Mogi Keiichiro) et al., published by 建築資料研究社 “Architectural Resource and Research Corporation”, 1991, 247 pages.

The book presents the results of research trips taken by a group from Tokyo University of the Arts in the 1980s, and is a fantastically detailed study of a variety of Chinese vernacular residential building types, including the famous tulou (土樓, literally ‘earthen structure’) fortified communal dwellings of Fujian province.

Bird’s eye view of a group of tulou.

Interior courtyard and cantilevered balconies of a tulou.

Facade of a tulou. The massive earthen walls taper as they rise and slope inwards for stability. Note also the fortified elements: blind lower storeys and a stone-reinforced entrance.

The book is a great resource for anyone interested in the subject, even for those who don’t read Japanese; it is informative and pleasurable enough just to look at the huge number of photographs and floor plans, street plans, diagrams, sections, cutaways, and detail drawings, all beautifully and finely drawn. It is also a valuable resource in that it is safe to assume that many, if not most, of the buildings and streetscapes documented have since been demolished, given the immense economic development experienced by the region in the decades since the book’s publication.

Something that will immediately jump out at any reader who is far more familiar with Japanese architecture is the Chinese predilection for symmetry in plan and elevation, even in relatively modest residential buildings. The Japanese, in contrast, seem to have an innate dislike of too much symmetry, and will rarely miss a chance to ‘sabotage’ it in one way or another, even in formal religious buildings.

OPPOSITE DIRECTIONS

It’s one thing to write in the abstract about the theoretical differences between traditional and modernist architecture, and to study pictures and diagrams of traditional and modernist buildings. But it’s only when you encounter the two architectures starkly juxtaposed ‘in the wild’ that you are really struck by the living difference between them, not only in the buildings themselves but in their effect on the atmosphere of the place. As in the example of the two buildings shown below, the photos of which were taken by standing in the exact same spot, but facing in opposite directions.

THE SHIP OF THESEUS: PART THREE

In this final (probably) post on the Ship of Theseus and the question of architectural authenticity, I would like to consider the example of Australian mountain huts that have been lost in fires and later rebuilt. In particular, Delaneys hut in Kosciuszko National Park, which has now been rebuilt twice after being destroyed in bushfires: once in the mid to late 2000s after the fires of 2003, and again this year after the fires of 2019-2020.

The original Delaneys Hut, built circa 1910, Kosciuszko National Park.

The original Delaneys Hut after its destruction in 2003.

Delaneys Hut during its first reconstruction.

The first reconstruction. Note the horizontal rails to the timber slab chimney, reasonably faithful in design to the original.

The first Delaneys Hut reconstruction after its loss to fire in 2020.

The second reconstruction of Delaneys Hut under construction, due to open to the public in April 2023. Note the fire-treated cladding and ridge-mounted sprinkler system.

Another view of the second reconstruction. Note that the chimney now lacks horizontal rails, and has gained a cowl.

Comparing before and after photos of these huts, the thought occurred that is probably easier to successfully reconstruct a work of classical or ‘high’ architecture than it is to rebuild a vernacular building, because classical buildings are more formally and precisely designed and thus more easily ‘abstracted’ into a set of measured drawings and other documents that capture the ‘essence’ of the design; in the terminology of aesthetics, they are more allographic and thus more reproducible, more akin to composed music or a written work. In vernacular buildings, the authenticity arguably lies more in the process of production; they are more autographic, like a painting or a sculpture. Does this then mean, somewhat paradoxically, that aiming for a ‘perfect reproduction’ of a lost vernacular original is actually against the spirit of vernacular building? Perhaps the attitude expressed by one of the men who worked on both Delanys Hut reconstructions is in fact the correct one: “I didn't need a plan this time because I still had it in my head."  

If you are interested in learning more about Australian bush huts, this is an excellent site.

THE SHIP OF THESEUS: PART TWO

Continuing on from the conclusion of last week’s post on the issues raised by the Ship of Theseus thought experiment and the importance of process, or craft, in the consideration of the ‘authenticity’ of traditional architecture and vernacular building (that we call it vernacular building is itself a clue to the importance of craft in the character of vernacular buildings), I would like to consider a local example.

In architecture, Ship of Theseus scenarios play out not only as ‘plank-by-plank’ transformations via the progressive replacement of decayed or broken parts over a long period of time, as in the original myth, but also, and perhaps more often, as wholesale ground-up reconstructions of historically important buildings that have been lost to fire, war, and the like. We almost got to see such a reconstruction in Melbourne, Australia, a few years back, when developers illegally demolished the Carlton Inn (c. 1856), one of the oldest surviving buildings in Carlton. The City of Melbourne at first sought to force the perpetrators to rebuild the building brick-for-brick, and it would have been interesting to see what resulted: whether the reconstruction would have been true ‘in spirit’ as well as in form, or whether most of the fractal texture would inevitably have been lost through the use of modern ‘precision’ industrial materials and techniques.  Presumably at least some of the original material of the building could have been salvaged from the demolition site and reused in the reconstruction; whether this would have been proportionally enough of the whole to carry the entire building is an open question. The stamp of authenticity imparted by things like handmade bricks is taken in at a glance, and is so subtle as to operate on an almost unconscious level.

The Carlton Inn as it was in the early 20th century (1920s?).

The building in more recent years.

The building during its demolition.

The ‘park’ that currently occupies the site.

Unfortunately all this will have to remain at the level of speculation, because the developers in the end received only what essentially amounted to slap on the wrist: fines totalling far less then the increase in value of the land they achieved by demolishing the pub (something they had no doubt factored in to their risk-reward calculation when deciding to undertake the demolition), and an order to establish a temporary and perfunctory park on the site, until its inevitable occupation by another generic modernist high-rise development.

The ironic thing is that the Victorian architects and builders responsible for the Carlton Inn’s design and construction, and indeed the architects and builders of the traditional age of architecture more generally, would not have been that bothered by the building’s destruction. Brimming with confidence, the Victorians were not so concerned with preservation, because they were sure that whatever they replaced lost buildings with would be, if not identical, at least equal in quality: quality of design, quality of materials, and quality of craft.  Part of the impetus and urgency behind the preservation of ‘historical’ (actually traditional) buildings today is the knowledge that, in the vast majority of cases, we are not capable of matching the quality of the buildings we demolish, in any category.

THE SHIP OF THESEUS: PART ONE

In Greek mythology, the Ship of Theseus is the ship in which King Theseus returned from Minoan Crete to Athens, where it was maintained in seaworthy condition for centuries by replacing its decayed parts with new, until eventually nothing of the original ship remained. In philosophy, the story is used as a thought experiment to prompt contemplation of the notion of identity: does an object that has had all of its original constituent parts replaced remain the same object? Does the identity lie in the form only, or also in the content?

Probably the most famous example of the ‘form over content’ approach to architecture is the Ise Jingu, or Ise Grand Shrine, in Mie, Japan, whose buildings have been dismantled and constructed anew (on adjacent sites) over 60 times going back around 1,300 years. Other than in periods of war or other disruption, reconstruction takes place every 20 years; the last in 2013 cost over half a billion dollars. The forms and details of the buildings have remained largely unchanged over the centuries, providing invaluable insights into the history and development of Japanese architecture; perhaps even more importantly, the reconstruction process also plays a crucial role in preserving and handing on the knowledge, techniques, and traditions of the various trades involved; to the form/content binary we should perhaps add a third element, process. These practical, constructional aspects are usually given less emphasis in writings on traditional architecture than are issues of ‘form’ and design theory, which is not really surprising given that most writers on traditional architecture tend to be architects and are thus understandably focused primarily on design. But the viability and even the ‘authenticity’ of traditional architecture lies as much in the hands of the tradesman it as it does in the hands of the designer.

Ise Grand Shrine buildings

Aerial view of Ise Grand Shrine, showing extant buildings on the left and the vacant site awaiting the next reconstruction on the right.

VERNACULAR PICTURES 15: JETTYING

The traditional practice of projecting the upper storey or storeys of a building horizontally out beyond the ground floor footprint, by the use of cantilevered (supported at only one end) or bracketed beams or joists, is called jettying (the word is cognate with jut and project). In the past, jettying was commonly employed in urban areas as a way of increasing overall floor area by extending the upper storey or storeys out into the ‘airspace’ of the street, something that modern planning codes no longer allow.

As noted, jettying is a form of cantilever, but modern cantilever-as-feature architecture is an entirely different beast to the modest projections of traditional jettied buildings. Whereas the reach of the traditional jetty was limited to the bending strength of practically obtainable timber beams, steel and reinforced concrete allow for much greater cantilevers; for even more extreme projections, the whole volume can be engineered as a giant box truss, formed by steel structural members within the floor, walls and roof.

A huge cantilever with structure exposed, showing how the whole volume constitutes a giant truss.

While undeniably impressive from an engineering perspective, these extreme cantilevers tend to induce anxiety and a sense of imbalance. Humans have a finely-tuned instinct for what is structurally stable (if these cantilevered volumes were boulders balanced on other boulders, would you stand on their edges, or walk underneath them?), and knowing that these structures have been carefully designed so that they will not collapse does not reduce this fundamental feeling of unease. It’s also interesting that despite superficial or cosmetic differences, these ‘wow-factor’ cantilevers are essentially all the same, to the point of cliche.

VERNACULAR PICTURES 14: AGEMISE AND SHITOMIDO

Any designer can tell you how satisfying it is to find a design solution that allows a single element to perform ‘double duty’ by fulfilling multiple functional requirements, and it’s always a pleasure to come across examples of such solutions in vernacular buildings. Two such examples from Japan, in a way the mirror image of each other, are the agemise and the shitomi-do.

The agemise or battari-shogi is a fold-down timber platform or bench for the display of wares (or for sitting on) in front of a machiya townhouse. In its folded-up position, it can either sit in front of a blank wall, or in front of a koushi lattice that fully covers the main opening or the facade, or it may itself form part of the security arrangement over the opening; it also provides impact and intruder protection to the lower half of the opening, and when folded up, sends a clear ‘we are closed’ signal to passers-by. When folded down, it forms a kind of extension of the interior floor out into the street.

Fine example of an agemise folded up against the koushi of a machiya facade.

Agemise folded up to form the lower half of the protection to the openings, with the upper half formed by folding shutters.

Folded-down agemise showing their function as platforms for the display of goods, in this case books.

The shitomi-do is a top-hung lattice shutter most closely associated with Buddhist architecture. It covers either the full opening or, as is more often the case for openings that extend to the floor, only the top half. It is usually held open in a horizontal position, on hooks at the ends of iron struts that hang town from the eaves; shitomi-do are usually well protected from the weather by the deep eaves of the roof above.

Lattice shitomi-do in the open position on a Buddhist temple building.

Top-hung shutters can also be found in vernacular applications, where they are often more exposed to the elements, and so also function to provide protection to the opening from sun and rain. These vernacular examples are usually board-clad rather than latticed, so are not strictly shitomi-do; the other main difference to their architectural counterparts is that they are usually propped open in an angled position, on angled timber struts that rest on the sill of the opening.

Rustic top-hung shutters propped open on a building in Okinawa.

More refined example of top-hung shutters.

Top-hung shutter to a small unglazed window.

Looking out through half-opened shutters. This image illustrates another of the functions served by top-hung shutters: that of filtering or ‘muting’ the view.

Example showing agemise and top-hung shutters used in combination.

VERNACULAR PICTURES 13: THE DESIGN ENVIRONMENT

This blog focuses on traditional architectural design, so it is easy to overlook or forget the fact that any designed object can be designed in a traditional manner; indeed, in the not-so-distant past, all designed objects were traditional in their design. It is interesting to speculate on the positive impacts of living in such a design environment (or what Kon Wajiro called the fudo), where not only the buildings but every object, from the most rustic and utilitarian to the most refined and ornamented, was worthy of aesthetic contemplation, and contributed to the psychological wellbeing of the people who moved amongst and interacted with them, whether taken for granted at a conscious level or not. Even machines were traditional in their design and ornament. Compare this world with the ugly chaos of our own design landscape: take any modern design object with a historical continuity of at least 100 years, and line it up next to its ancestral counterparts. It is an understatement to say that the modern designs don’t come off well in the comparison.

19th century bollards. Old cannon barrels were often used as bollards, and the design was so well liked that eventually bollards were purposely cast in this shape.

Modern bollards.

An early 20th century car: the Ford Model T

A modern car

A 19th century cash register

A modern cash register

And before anyone objects that ‘materials like timber and brass are no longer affordable, nor the labour involved in ornamenting them’ — this may be true, but there is no practical reason whatsoever why traditional design and ornament can’t be achieved in injection-moulded plastic or other modern materials.

VERNACULAR PICTURES 12: THATCHED ROOFS

The thatched roofs of Japanese minka farmhouses are an indispensable part of their overall character. These monumental, steeply pitched roofs might be oppressive or overwhelming if clad in any other material, but the inherent softness of thatch and its fine-grained, almost porous texture gives these buildings a distinct warmth and an impression of welcome and shelter.

Thatch is probably the most sculptural of all roofing materials: its smooth, rounded hips and valleys, uninterrupted by capping or flashing; the creative and even fanciful solutions it allows in resolving complex intersections; and its great thickness, fully expressed at the eaves, are all difficult or impossible to recreate in any other material.

A cold-region minka with not only thatched roofs, but thatched walls: thatch is an excellent insulator.

Thatched roof with a beautifully smooth valley transition. Note also the grasses and even trees growing from the ridge capping.

A fine example of the subtle sculptural possibilities of thatch.

Due to fire concerns, thatched roofs have been absent from Japanese cities for hundreds of years, long replaced by tile. Unfortunately, thatch has also become a rarer and rarer sight in the Japanese countryside, due in large part to the fact that for most people, thatching only makes sense economically if it is undertaken as a communal effort, with each villager volunteering their labour in the harvesting of reeds and laying of the thatch, under the direction of a skilled thatcher, and each receiving help in their turn when it comes time to rethatch their own roof. The communities and community structures required for this reciprocal system to work barely exist any more, and to pay a professional crew to rethatch a roof is prohibitively expensive.

Incidentally, a thatched roof isn’t strictly waterproof. It relies on its thickness and the careful orientation of the ‘fibres’ or individual reeds within the body; they are laid at an angle slightly shallower than the pitch of the roof as a whole, just as tiles are. In extremely idealised terms, a drop of rain hits the topmost layer of reeds, travels along it for a distance, falls through onto the later below, travels along that, falls again, and so on; the thatch layer must be thick enough so that by the time the drop of water penetrates through to the underside, it is outside the wall of the building and exits the thatch at the eave.

Simplified and idealised diagram of how rainwater ‘travels’ through a thatched roof and exits at the eave.

Thatching has never been a part of the Australian vernacular landscape. The industrial revolution was already well underway in Britain by the time European settlement of this country began, and from the very earliest days roofs in Australian towns tended to be of corrugated iron or slate, both brought out from Britain as ships’ ballast. Outside of the more populated areas, settlers’ bush huts tended to use bark or boards as a roofing material, sourced from trees felled on site. At any rate, the dry climate means that the marshy areas needed to support the growth of reeds are relatively rare; add to that the ever-present risk of fire, and thatch was never going to be a viable proposition here, unlike in Britain. But steel roofing, probably the most common roofing material in Australia, in corrugated and other profiles, presents its own sculptural possibilities; these have barely yet been explored.

A LITTLE GOLDEN AGE

The idea of the cultural Golden Age is familiar to most, with 5th century B.C. Athens and Renaissance Florence probably the best-known examples in the West.  But there is another, more modest kind of cultural age, or rather stage, that I would like to consider: that which results from the overlapping or alloying of a waning pre-industrial traditional culture with the nascent technologies that eventually overwhelm it. 

I have written elsewhere about a similar phenomenon in the history of architecture: namely the period of modern architecture from around the middle of the nineteenth century to the early 20th, when engineers and architects employed radical new materials and techniques, but still within the idioms of traditional architecture and classical ornament. 

Another fascinating example of this kind of transitional period can be found in the history of the folk or ‘low’ music of the United States: the great flowering of what were then known as ‘hillbilly’ (white vernacular music) and ‘race’ (black vernacular music) 78rpm records, which lasted from roughly 1925 to 1935. 

By folk music, I mean the vernacular music of a common people, transmitted orally without the intermediation of any recording or transcription technology, although of course in reality things are rarely that neat: ballads were being circulated as printed ‘broadsides’ from the early 16th century, for example.

A broadside ballad

Before 1925, recording was done acoustically, which meant playing or singing (or rather shouting) into a cone.  Even when well-preserved, these muddy, scratchy recordings can be difficult to enjoy, or are best listened to in a historical or musicological spirit.  The music, too, is mostly uninteresting show tunes, novelty songs and the like.  

An acoustic recording of an orchestra, early 1920s.

Then two things happened: the advent of electrical recording, and the coincident realization by record companies of the commercial viability of folk music, produced both by and for the last inheritors of a pre-radio, orally-transmitted musical tradition.  The resulting recordings have a quality both warm and sharp, intimate and distant, unsentimental yet mysterious and romantic; there is a preserved-in-amber quality to them, a perfect self-containment, where content and carrier, music and medium, are inextricable from each other.  Recording technology is a medium just as oil paint and marble are, and the acoustic quality of these recordings is as intrinsic to their aesthetic character as marble is to the sculptures of Michelangelo or oil paint to the paintings of Rembrandt.

An early electric microphone, circa 1925

The great depression basically wiped out the market for, and thus production of, these records, and by 1935 the spread of radio, improvements in recording, microphone and amplifier technology, and the attendant rise to prominence of more purely popular commercial genres such as swing, rhythm and blues, and bluegrass meant that this golden age had come to an end.

The irony of course is that recording technology allowed the preservation of this wonderful music while at the same time playing a significant role in the destruction of the cultural conditions out of which it arose; fortunately the great majority of these recordings have survived, and are now freely available on Youtube and other places online.

Dock Boggs (1898-1971)

Boggs playing Pretty Polly (1927), a variation of the murder ballad “The Gosport Tragedy” first circulated in broadsheet form in around 1727.

POSTMODERNISM AND TRADITIONALISM

Postmodernism is usually regarded as a movement distinct from modernism, hence the name, but is probably better understood as a sub-movement within the modernist progression, succeeding the ‘high’ or ‘classical’ modernism of Mies et. al. and preceding the ‘deconstructionist’ or ‘parametricist’ modernism of figures like Zaha Hadid and Rem Koolhaas.

Aldo Rossi (1931-1997) is one of the more interesting of the architects categorised as ‘postmodernist’. His work exemplifies that movement’s flirtation with traditionalism, and he was perhaps the most successful of any of the big name postmodernist architects in his incorporation of traditional design principles in his buildings.

Rossi’s Teatro del Mondo, a temporary structure built on a barge for the Venice Biennale, is playful and fantastical, with simple geometric shapes and windows looking like something out of a Miyazaki film or a child’s drawing, but it has an undeniable charm and seems perfectly at home in its context.

The Teatro del Mondo, Venice, 1979

His Scholastic Building in New York (1997) displays strong symmetry, verticality, and reasonable distribution of scales in its facade, though not in the bare columns. It fits relatively well into its streetscape, but ultimately suffers in comparison to the buildings on either side of it, especially the Beaux-Arts Little Singer Building (1903) with its beautifully ornamented facade of iron lacework and terracotta panels.

Scholastic Building, New York, 1997

The Quartier Schützenstrasse in Berlin (1997) is an ensemble of basically conventional urban buildings, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Only the colours and dormer windows betray it as a ‘postmodern’ work.

Quartier Schützenstrasse, Berlin, 1997

Postmodern architecture is characterised by a playful irony, and it is generally in this spirit that traditionalist elements were deployed. But the line between playful allusion and grotesque caricature is a fine one, and too often irony is seemingly used to ‘spike’ or self-sabotage the work, perhaps out of a fear of sincerity. After all, to commit to ‘playing by the rules’ of traditional design is to open oneself to the possibility of losing the game. Rossi’s House in Friedrichstadt, Berlin (1981) is a good example of this: it seems Rossi couldn’t resist the temptation to stamp his individuality on the project, to disturb an otherwise attractive and modest building and make it ‘remarkable’ by inserting a grossly overscaled and unornamented ‘column’ into the looming corner cutout.

House in Friedrichstadt, Berlin, 1981

VERNACULAR PICTURES 11: BRICK CORNICES

The external wall-roof junction is barely given any attention in contemporary architecture, and especially in volume-built housing: it is invariably a simple timber or colorbond fascia/barge board, to which is attached a steel eaves gutter in one of several common profiles, which acts not only to catch water but also to hide the unsightly edge of the steel or tile roof from view.

Typical Australian ‘builder’s vernacular’ treatment of the external wall-roof junction, showing colorbond eaves gutter and ugly colorbond fascia.

Examples from traditional architecture remind us, as always, that there are many many other and more interesting ways to handle this transition, especially in brick. The possible ornamental permutations of a brick cornice are infinite!

The brick cornice and tile roof of the cloister of the church of San Michele, Venice, 15th century.

How not to do it: the monotonous, scale-impoverished result of a modernist attempt at being ‘interesting’.

WHAT IS TRADITIONAL ARCHITECTURE?

Over a year into this blog, and it has occurred to me that I have never really attempted to explicitly define or articulate what traditional architecture and design are - at least not in a single, reasonably comprehensive and standalone post. So I thought I would give it a go, with the idea that an abridged version of it could also serve as a useful addition to the ‘About’ section of this website.

To most people, the term traditional architecture brings to mind images of ‘old’ or ‘historical’ buildings, in contrast to what they might regard as modern, modernist, or contemporary architecture. The association of traditional design with the past is understandable, because until the 20th century all buildings were traditional, and today almost no traditional buildings are built, at least not in Australia. But this is an unfortunate and damaging misconception, and I would like to address it here, by establishing definitions for the various terms, and laying out at least an introductory examination of the concepts.

THE TRADITIONAL AS METHODOLOGY

Traditional architectural design is not about the past, or of the past. Rather, it is a particular design approach or methodology, a ‘timeless’ way of designing and building that was once universal across all eras and cultures: so universal, in fact, that until the advent of modernism it didn’t even have a name. It is not an abstract, theoretical framework, but a set of design principles, developed by instinct and transmitted by custom and instruction. These principles include fractal scaling, harmonious proportions, verticality over horizontality, symmetry, ornamentation, natural or ‘honest’ use of materials, and colour harmony, amongst others. I have explored them (or will explore them) in detail elsewhere on this blog and so will not go into them here.

MODERNISm as ideology

Modernist architecture, or modernism, also represents a particular approach to design, but one that is far more abstract and theoretical, and, I would argue, ideological. It is the antithesis of the traditional. From its beginnings, modernism has positioned itself in opposition to and in rebellion against the traditional, and though it is typically described in positive terms — minimalist, functional, rational, analytical, and so on — I would instead suggest that it is a negation, characterised by a progressive rejection and abandonment of the traditional design principles listed above.

TRADITIONALIsm as ideology

On reflection, perhaps it would be better to refer to the practice of traditional design methodology as traditionalism, both to make its oppositional relationship to modernist architecture more explicit, and to acknowledge that, in our age, it is the modernist methodology that has become universal, applied reflexively and by default to almost all contemporary design; conversely, traditional design is now also by necessity an ideology; it is become the outsider position that must be consciously and deliberately sided with and defended.

THE CONTEMPORARY

Strictly speaking, contemporary means ‘of the same time’ but since it is commonly used simply to mean ‘current’ or ‘recent,’ that is how I will use it here, and not to refer to the particular style of architecture that I have defined as modernism. In this sense, every building we now consider ‘historical’ was contemporary in its own age: Wells Cathedral (1239) and the the Royal Liver Building (1911) were both very much contemporary, and even modern, to the people alive at the time of their construction; and yet, despite being separated by over 700 years, both are also traditional buildings.

Wells Cathedral (consecrated 1239)

The Royal Liver Building (1911) by Walter Aubrey Thomas

In contrast, compare the Royal Liver Building to the Fagus Factory (1913): although these two buildings are almost exactly contemporary, and both are undoubtedly modern as I have defined it, the former is clearly traditional, and the latter modernist.

The Fagus Factory (1913) by Walter Gropius and Adolf Meyer

THE MODERN or industrial

Note that I use modern, in distinction to modernist, simply as a technological description, without stylistic or ideological implications, to indicate buildings that incorporate any of the revolutionary advances in building materials (primarily steel, concrete, float glass) and methods (riveting, welding, bolting, reinforced concrete, steel trusses, tension structures, etc.) that occurred in the industrial revolution, particularly from the latter half of the 19th century onwards. An alternate and perhaps more accurate term to describe these materials and methods would be industrial.

THE TRADITIONAL OR PRE-INDUSTRIAL

In contrast to the modern or industrial methods and materials are what are usually called ‘traditional’ methods and materials; but again, to avoid confusion with the use of traditional elsewhere as a methodological term, these materials and methods might be better described as pre-industrial: stone, clay, timber, reed, bamboo, puddled and blown glass; post-and-beam construction, wattle and daub, solid masonry construction, arches, and the like.

THE TWO AXES

With the meanings of these various terms defined and distinguished from one another, we can now establish two separate binaries, polarities, or axes: on the one hand, we have the design-methodological axis of Traditionalism — Modernism; on the other, the material-technological axis of Traditional — Modern, or, alternatively and perhaps less confusingly, Pre-industrial — Industrial. This formulation makes it clear that it is entirely possible to build a modernist building with pre-industrial materials and methods, or a traditional building with industrial materials and methods. In fact, all modern buildings before the 20th century were traditional in design, the Royal Liver Building being just one of tens of thousands of examples. And what is true then is true today: the principles of traditional design can be applied equally successfully and validly to contemporary buildings, using modern materials and methods, without contradiction.

OPPOSING WORLDVIEWS

It is probably fair to say that, beyond their methodological opposition, traditionalism and modernism also represent opposing philosophies or worldviews. Traditionalism tends to eschew Theory with a capital T and pseudo-philosophical interpretative frameworks, and rejects the idea of architecture as a ‘high’ art whose purpose is to serve as a vehicle for the ego-expression of the architect as unfettered creative genius. The traditionalist designer is happy to work within the ‘rules of the game,’ understands that traditional architecture can be as deeply idiosyncratic, creative, and innovative as modernist architecture, and that the possibilities inherent within traditional design principles are far richer, more challenging, and more rewarding than those offered by the modernist ideal of ‘following one’s own rules.’

HISTORICISM and pastiche

Traditional design is not ‘historicist’ or ‘pastiche.’ Were the neo-classical architects of the Renaissance or the neo-gothic architects of the Victorian era historicists? Are the cast-iron classical columns of the great train stations of the 19th century ‘pastiche?’ Of course not. It is hubris to think that our own time is somehow exceptional or different to all the ages that have passed, or that the modernism that prevails today is somehow ‘better’ than the thousands of years of traditional architecture that came before it. The traditionalist sees the whole history of architecture before the 20th century as a continuum (the word itself comes from the Latin traditionem, ‘a handing down’) and a repository of elements that he is free to incorporate and combine in his own work. This inheritance was rejected by the modernist architects, who instead chose to follow a path that traditionalists would argue is unnatural and even unhealthy, both psychologically and physically. Traditionalists regard the principles of traditional design not as arbitrary or subjective stylistic preferences, but as objectively desirable and appealing, because they are deeply rooted in and reflective of human neurology and psychology.

THE VERNACULAR

Finally, I should note that traditional architectural design can be divided into two broad and sometimes overlapping subcategories: the vernacular and the classical. Vernacular is also sometimes called folk architecture, though it has been argued that vernacular architecture is not strictly speaking architecture at all, but simply building. It is the ‘low’ architecture of the common people: houses, townhouses, worker’s cottages, barns and the like. It is characterised by simplicity and rusticity, archetypal forms, modest scales, local materials, and minimal ornamentation. There are no vernacular architects, only builders, working unselfconsciously and anonymously within a local style passed down from master to apprentice, without working drawings, and with local materials. Vernacular buildings form the ‘ground’ of the traditional built environment.

Vernacular building: an Irish farmhouse

THE CLASSICAL

Classical architecture (again, some would regard this expression as tautological and instead simply use the term architecture) on the other hand is formal, ornamented, refined, and very consciously designed to a high degree of perfection, often with reference to historical examples and built to drawn plans. It is the architecture of the temple, the villa, the museum, the bank: classical buildings are the ‘figure’ or ‘feature’ buildings of the traditional built environment, set amongst and against the far more numerous buildings of the vernacular ‘ground’.

The musicological distinction between classical music and ‘folk’ or ‘ethnological’ music is a very apt analogy here, and probably a distinction that most people are more familiar with.

Classical architecture: the British Museum

In the west, we are naturally most familiar with the western classical and vernacular traditions, but all civilisations have their own analogous traditions, within which the same vernacular-classical or high-low distinctions can be drawn; the important point is that all of these traditions are, of course, traditional.

VERNACULAR PICTURES 10: ARCHITECTURE ON SCREEN

Do an image search for ‘architecture in movies’ and the results you get back are a largely predictable survey of what most people (and probably most architects) would think of when prompted by the term: sci-fi cityscapes and mega-sets going right back to Metropolis (1927), or some species of ‘high architecture’, typically brutalism or clinical modernism. Utopias and dystopias.

Finding good traditional and vernacular architecture and design on screen, on the other hand, is not something you can do with a simple google search. It’s more of an incidental treasure hunt: occasionally coming across an interesting facade or design detail in something you happen to be watching for unrelated reasons. Unsurprisingly, these finds tend to come not from sci-fi films or big budget spectaculars, but from historical movies and documentaries. I have a small collection of screenshots of buildings from such sources, with nothing in common other than that something about them caught my eye. Unfortunately I saved many of them with titles like ‘dfwfkigwhx’ so don’t always remember where they came from!

From an unknown film.

From Robert Eggers’ The Witch (2015).

From an unknown documentary.

From an unknown documentary.

This painterly scene from one of Sergio Leone’s The Man With no Name trilogy of films (I forget which- probably The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly) is a clear homage to Vermeer’s The Milkmaid.

Johannes Vermeer’s The Milkmaid

Architecture on screen can either be real buildings, or buildings that are built as ‘props’ for a film or television production and so are generally not fully functional. There is also the category of buildings in historical parks, which might be genuine historical buildings relocated from elsewhere, or modern but faithful and complete reconstructions. There is an overlap here: historical theme parks are sometimes used to film movies or television programs, and historical movie sets are sometimes opened to the public, for example the set of ancient Rome built for the TV series Rome at Cinecitta Studios, also in Rome. Toei Movie Village in Kyoto, Japan was intended from its inception to operate both as a movie set and theme park, often at the same time.

Set of the TV series Rome

Toei ‘Movie Village’ in Kyoto, Japan.

Part of the appeal of what you might call ‘set’ architecture is that it presents us with buildings that no longer exist in the world, either because they would be illegal to build, or because there is simply no demand for them. Unencumbered by codes, regulations, or popular taste, vernacular architecture on screen is ironically more ‘authentic’ and beautiful than anything you will find in real life in many places. Perhaps ‘Go into the movies’ is good advice not just for young actors!

TRADITIONAL DESIGN IV - PUSHING AND PULLING PART 2

Following on from last week’s post on Salingaros’ ‘push-pull’ model of generating fractal structures in architecture, here we will consider the implications of this conceptual framework on architectural design, particularly with regards to horizontality and verticality.

As discussed, the model combines the two axial forces, tension and compression, with two orientations: vertical and horizontal. Creating a matrix of these forces and elements would suggest a total of four possible combinations; however, Salingaros only considers three of these combinations valid in the context of architectural design: horizontal tension, which creates vertical perforations; horizontal compression, which creates vertical folds; and vertical compression, which creates horizontal folds or bulges. That vertical tension has been omitted is not an arbitrary decision or an accidental oversight: it is because, in Salingaros’ view, vertical tension expresses an unstable and unnatural ‘anti-gravity’ state; there is no natural force or mechanism that can act on a building to produce vertical tensile stress. In other words, there are biological and biophilic constraints on the push-pull model: we are an upright animal, and our physiology orients us vertically (all vertical really means is ‘along the line that gravity acts’), perpendicular to the horizon. We evolved under the force of gravity, and we possess an internal model of it, an ‘instinct’ that tells us that a vertical pull is somehow ‘off’ or ‘wrong’.

It follows from this that the horizontal perforations (such as horizontal windows) resulting from vertical tension are also unnatural, and produce anxiety in the observer. Vertical tension breaks the facade of a building, cutting and separating it into horizontal windows, spandrels, and slabs. Salingaros references the philosopher Roger Scruton’s observation that most modern buildings are just stacked horizontal slabs, with the archetypal example being the multi-storey parking garage.

Both the parking garage in the foreground, and the office building in the background, display the anxiety-inducing horizontal perforations that result from the ‘vertical pull’ model of designing a building.

It is something to ponder that of the four possible combinations of axial force and orientation, it is the one that is most antithetical to nature, the most anxiety-inducing, that has become dominant and ubiquitous in architecture today. The esteemed modernist architect Le Corbusier was instrumental in this development; in particular his Dom-ino House (1914-15), which formed the conceptual basis of his output over the following decade, has proved to be immensely influential on subsequent approaches to architectural design.

Le Corbusier’s Dom-ino House

Lifting the ground plan upwards to create the building, in a kind of copy-paste process, destroys the possibility of three-dimensional design. The ‘vertically stretched’ building, with its facade of horizontal elements, is in effect a two-dimensional object, and cannot be related to by humans in any natural way; it is not really designed but rather pulled into existence, in a process akin to unpacking a Chinese lantern.

Chinese accordion lantern

It is telling that even buildings designed according to the contemporary ‘parametric’ methodology, while no doubt considered sculptural by their designers, cannot escape this ‘Chinese lantern’ quality, or the sense of being fundamentally horizontal and two-dimensional.

A generic example of a contemporary building that, for all its heavy-handed cleverness, is still just a stack of horizontal slabs.

The superficial facade treatment cannot disguise the fundamental two-dimensionality of the building.

The designers of the earliest skyscrapers, in contrast, by working within a traditional design paradigm, were able to produce buildings of genuine three-dimensional, sculptural quality, with a dominant sense of verticality to their facades.

Example of an early ‘skyscraper’ displaying a strong sense of verticality.

The massing of the overall form, articulation of the facade, and window proportions of this early skyscraper combine to give it a strongly vertical character.

An intriguing ‘hybrid’ or ‘transitional’ example: the overall form is convincingly three-dimensional and suggestive of the vertical, but the proportions and repetition of the windows allow the horizontal to dominate, resulting in a somewhat dissonant and unsettling overall effect.

Vertical tension can even seem to pull the building right off the ground, the connection only maintained by minimal supports called pilotis, which, within the framework of the push-pull model, are not true columns but slim members that seem to by trying to efface their own supporting role and make it appear that the building is floating above the earth, away from the human realm. The piloti is in a sense the opposite of the column: whereas columns are compressed cylinders; thickened at capital and base and fully expressive of their role in supporting the building under gravitational load, pilotis are stretched cylinders, seemingly narrowed by a vertical pull.

The novelty ‘floating’ and ‘cantilever’ effects made possible by the piloti have been much sought after by architects and lauded by critics, but in Salingaros’ view this is a perverse and artificial attitude that one must actively work to convince oneself of, via long immersion in Critical Theory and academic propaganda.

Le Corbusier’s Villa Savoye, perhaps the archetypal example of the use of pilotis in modern architecture.

TRADITIONAL DESIGN III - PUSHING AND PULLING PART 1

This is the third in a series of posts exploring the ideas of the mathematician and design theorist Nikos Salingaros, and by extension those of his collaborator, the architect Christopher Alexander.

The first and second posts in this series covered Nikos Salingaros’ theories on fractals and fractal scaling in architecture. Here we will build on this foundation by looking at Salingaros’ exploration of how fractal structures are generated, via his analogical ‘physical’ model.

The basic model Salingaros proposes is the ‘push-pull’ model, which incorporates the two axial forces of tension (pulling) and compression (pushing), and their respective effects, perforation and folding, to account for how various architectural (and fractal) elements are generated in architecture. The role of bending forces and processes, in generating ‘boundaries for space’ such as curves and domes, is touched upon but not in great detail, so will not be covered here. Nor does Salingaros consider shear in relation to architecture, and it would be interesting to explore the possibilities of incorporating this force into his models.

Perforation, like the theoretical example seen in the Sierpinski gasket discussed in the previous post in this series, is the process of generating openings in a surface. In architecture, perforation results in windows, doors and other openings. Perforated elements have the property of semi-permeability; they let some elements through and prevent others from passing. Salingaros gives the example of the bollard, which permits pedestrians but blocks cars.

Perforations are generated by tension. Imagine a strip of rubber coated with sealing wax. If you pull on both ends of the rubber strip (i.e. apply tension), the wax will crack at regular intervals along the length of the strip - first into larger pieces, then each larger piece into smaller and smaller pieces. Note here that these cracks or ‘perforations’ are oriented perpendicularly to the axis of the tensile force - the importance of this point will become apparent in the next post in this series. Applying this analogy to architecture, we see that if we metaphorically ‘pull’ a wall horizontally, it will perforate into vertical openings - firstly windows and doors, and then, if we keep pulling, the wall will further separate out into arcades, then columns.

Diagram by Nikos Salingaros illustrating the process by which increasing horizontal tension creates first windows, then arcades, then columns.

Folding, by contrast, is the process of generating elements like folds, meanders, thickenings, hollows, and bulges by applying compression. Whereas perforation removes material from a plane, to fold is to fill space: ‘folding the line is the first step to filling the space slightly’. Architecturally, folding finds expression in articulating elements like pilasters on a wall, the capital, base, and fluting of a column, and thick door and window frames. Salingaros also gives the example of alcoves in a temple wall.

An alcove in a wall, flanked by pilasters.

Again, note for later that compression creates folds that are oriented perpendicularly to the axis of compression, so horizontal compression creates vertical fold lines, and vertical compression creates horizontal elements, like the ‘bulging’ of a classical column at its head and base.

Diagram by Nikos Salingaros illustrating the process by which increasing horizontal compression creates folds in a plane at successively smaller intervals and scales.

Classical columns embody the effect of vertical compression: bulges at the head and base, and entasis of the shaft.

From a structural perspective, folds create strength or stiffness in a material by moving parts of it away from its central axis; this is why steel sheeting is corrugated. Salingaros points out that a floor with beams exposed on its underside is visually expressive of the same idea: the beams can be regarded as the locations of strengthening ‘folds’ in the plane of the floor.

From a structural perspective, the beams in the floor plane are equivalent to the corrugations in a sheet of corrugated iron.

In the next post, I will consider the implications of Salingaros’ push-pull model on approaches to architectural design, in particular in explaining the traditional emphasis on verticality over horizontality in architecture, which, as Salingaros demonstrates, is not merely a superficial stylistic preference, but has an objective basis in physics and evolutionary biology.

JAPAN PHOTOS 1: WOODEN LOCK

Still in January (summer) mode here, so for the next few weeks I am just going to be lazy and post photographs I took in Japan, until the weather cools down or inspiration strikes again.

This one is of a simple but clever timber locking mechanism to a sliding door in a minka dwelling. It is shown here in a ‘half-cocked’ state. To lock the door, you push upwards from below on the vertical ‘bolt’, the upper end of which (out of shot) then goes into a mortise or ‘bolt-hole’ cut into the head of the door opening. The short horizontal member or ‘key’ is then slid across to the right to lock the vertical member in place. To unlock, you simply slide the key back to the left, and the bolt drops back down onto the stile.

VERNACULAR PICTURES 9: HALF DOORS

One type of building envelope filter with great aesthetic appeal is the ‘half door’ or ‘Dutch door’: an external hinged door with independently openable upper and lower halves. The two halves may be completely separate leaves, with each leaf hinged directly to the door jamb; or the upper leaf may be a ‘door within a door’ hinged to the stile of the main door, a type most common in Ireland.

In terms of its filtering functions, the half door can work either as a normal door, or, when the top half is left open, as a gate, allowing light and air to pass while keeping farmyard animals from entering the house, keeping children from wandering outside, and preventing dust and debris from blowing in. The half door also acts as a social filter at the threshold of public and private: it allows comfortable, direct social exchange with a degree of separation, be it with salesmen or other strangers, or even with friends, when the visit is of the ‘I won’t come in…’ variety. In this role it is analogous to the Japanese genkan, where the social ‘gate’ is the change in floor level.

Half doors were never common in Australia, perhaps because the screen door performs much the same function, with the added (and absolutely essential in rural areas) role of keeping out flies.

KOUSHI AND FACADE ARTICULATION

An addendum of sorts to the previous post on koushi:

An important characteristic of the machiya facade is the subtle stepping-back in depth or ‘reveals’ (mikomi, 見込み) of the various members: posts to sills, posts to plaster infill, koushi perimeter frame to horizontals, horizontals to verticals, etc.  These reveals are only on the order of 10-20mm or so, but they impart subtle variety and visual interest to the facade, giving it depth, shadow, and life.  The rhythm of the facade is played not only along the x or left-right axis, but also along the z or front-back axis. This has its analogue in traditional Western brick facades, which achieved similar effects by stepping courses and rows of brick in and out to form cornices, string courses, pilasters and the like- again, variations of only a few centimetres are enough to bring the facade to life. This is in contrast to the modern industrial predilection for ‘flush’ surfaces, and the resulting over-compensation of planning schemes in demanding exagerrated setbacks in the facade on the order of metres, as I have written about in an earlier post. 

The stepping-back also appeals to structural logic: primary members are foremost, with subsequent members set back according to structural importance. 

Finally, mikomi gives thought to the carpenter or joiner.  If all members are designed flush, there is no tolerance: any error is glaring.  But if, for example, a beam or header rail is tenoned into a post with a designed mikomi of 10mm, an error of a millimetre or two either way will be unnoticeable.