Architectural Design and Regulation

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Architectural Design and Regulation

Architectural Design and Regulation. Rob Imrie and Emma Street. © 2011 Rob Imrie and Emma Street. Published 2011 by Blackwell Publishing Ltd. ISBN: 978-1-405-17966-9

Architectural Design and Regulation

Rob Imrie and Emma Street Department of Geography King’s College London

This edition first published 2011 Ó 2011 Rob Imrie and Emma Street Blackwell Publishing was acquired by John Wiley & Sons in February 2007. Blackwell’s publishing program has been merged with Wiley’s global Scientific, Technical and Medical business to form Wiley-Blackwell. Registered office: John Wiley & Sons, Ltd, The Atrium, Southern Gate, Chichester, West Sussex, PO19 8SQ, UK Editorial offices: 9600 Garsington Road, Oxford, OX4 2DQ, UK The Atrium, Southern Gate, Chichester, West Sussex, PO19 8SQ, UK 2121 State Avenue, Ames, Iowa 50014-8300, USA For details of our global editorial offices, for customer services and for information about how to apply for permission to reuse the copyright material in this book please see our website at www.wiley.com/wiley-blackwell. The right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the UK Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, except as permitted by the UK Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, without the prior permission of the publisher. Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book are trade names, service marks, trademarks or registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publisher is not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. This publication is designed to provide accurate and authoritative information in regard to the subject matter covered. It is sold on the understanding that the publisher is not engaged in rendering professional services. If professional advice or other expert assistance is required, the services of a competent professional should be sought. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Imrie, Robert, 1958- author. Architectural Design and Regulation / Rob Imrie, Emma Street. p. cm Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-1-4051-7966-9 (hardback) 1. Building laws. 2. Architects–Legal status, laws, etc. I. Street, Emma, author. II. Title. K3538.I575 2011 3430 .07869–dc22 2010049559 A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. This book is published in the following electronic formats: ePDF [9781444393132]; Wiley Online Library [9781444393156]; ePub [9781444393149] Set in 10/12.5pt Avenir by Thomson Digital, Noida, India 1

2011

Contents

Illustrations Tables The Authors Foreword Preface Illustration Credits

PART I 1

2

OF

REGULATION

Regulation, Rule, and Architecture: Introductory Comments 1.1 Introduction 1.2 The autonomy of architecture and the design process 1.3 The study of regulation and the practices of architects 1.4 Conclusions The and 2.1 2.2 2.3 2.4 2.5 2.6

3

THE CONTEXT

ix xi xiii xv xix xxiii

Rule and Regulation of Building Form Performance Introduction Early settlement and the codification of design practice Spatial codes and the regularisation of design and development Hygienic spaces and the efficiency of design From the regulatory society to the regulatory state Conclusions

Urban Design and the Rise of the (De)Regulatory Society 3.1 Introduction 3.2 Self-activation and the (re-)regulation of design activities

1 3 3 8 16 23

25 25 28 37 46 56 66

69 69 72

Contents

3.3 3.4

PART II 4

Regulating design: an evaluation of leading assumptions Conclusions

THE PRACTICES

OF

REGULATION

Working with Regulation 5.1 Introduction 5.2 Systems of control and the management of the design process 5.3 The interrelationships between regulations and the practices of architects 5.4 Conclusions

Case Study B: Straw-Bale Building in the USA: Negotiating the Codes 6

Risk 6.1 6.2 6.3

and the Regulation of the Design Process Introduction Building form, performance and the regulation of risk Risk, regulation, and architecture: some evidence from the UK 6.4 Conclusions

Case Study C: Regulating the Design Process: a Risky Business?

PART III 7

vi

103

Learning about Regulation 105 4.1 Introduction 105 4.2 Discipline, education, and the creation of the architect-subject 107 4.3 Pedagogy and the acculturation of architects: evidence from the field 112 4.4 Conclusions: towards relational pedagogies 125

Case Study A: Rethinking Education: Evidence from a Focus Group 5

77 101

THE SCOPE

OF

REGULATION

The Role of Project Actors in Influencing Design 7.1 Introduction 7.2 Redefining roles in the UK design and construction industry

129 135 135 137 140 159

162 171 171 174 178 190

192

199 201 201 204

7.4 7.5

Contemporary project teams and the rise of the new professional Responding to change: architects’ experiences of a changing profession Conclusions

Case Study D: Traces of Regulation: the School of Sport, Exercise and Health Sciences, Loughborough University 8

The Coding of Design and Architecture 8.1 Introduction 8.2 Modernity, urbanism and the revival of urban character 8.3 The influence of design coding on the practices of architects 8.4 Conclusions

Case Study E: The Use of Design Codes in Two English Towns 9

Regulation and the Practices of Architects: Concluding Thoughts

Endnotes Appendix: Research Design and Methods References Index

209 212 228

Contents

7.3

230 239 239 242 246 261

263

275 285 303 309 335

vii

List of Illustrations

1.1 1.2 1.3 1.4 2.1 2.2 2.3 2.4 2.5 2.6 2.7 2.8 2.9 2.10 2.11 2.12 2.13 2.14 2.15 2.16 2.17 2.18 2.19 2.20 2.21 2.22 2.23 2.24 2.25 2.26 3.1 3.2 3.3

The Palladian representation – Villa Pisani Villa Rotonda The architect’s representation Piazza de’ Rucellai The Tower of the Winds Prehistoric building regulations? The settlement of Copan Bam, Iran The Wang Cheng, Imperial City Creek Square Ground or ‘Big House’ Ta Prohm, Angkor The prologue of the Code of Hammurabi on a clay tablet in the Louvre William Blake’s depiction of Isaac Newton Sapporo, Japan: the modern rationalised urban form Park Crescent, London – a Georgian Terrace Drawing of Almshouses in Rochford, 1787 New Lanark Plan of Santiago de Chile by Emmanuel Bowen, 1747 The Great Chicago Fire, 1871 The Silent Highwayman Mulberry Street, 1900 ‘Set back’ architecture in New York City Chicago tall buildings Casa – The Double House The Ernst May House Reconstruction of a Frankfurt kitchen, Vienna An apartment block: Plan for Greater Moscow, 1932 The Narkomfin building Alvar Aalto private home and studio in Helsinki The modernist city Reconciling housing standards and affordability American Youth Works, Austin Regulated public spaces: Valencia Gardens, San Francisco

9 10 11 13 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 39 40 42 43 44 45 48 49 50 52 53 58 59 59 60 62 63 65 79 80 85

List of Illustrations

3.4 3.5 3.6 3.7 5.1 5.2 5.3 5.4 5.5 5.6 B1 B2 B3 6.1 C1 C2 7.1 D1 D2 D3 8.1 8.2 8.3 8.4 E1 E2 E3 E4 E5 E6 E7

x

Facilitating the use of new techniques and materials Perspectives on the code formation process in the USA Influencing the code formation process Constraining the location of investment by regulation The realisation of creativity by breaking the rules Regulatory complexity A design with combined ramp access and stepped entrance The impact of Part L on building form A building surveyor’s view of architects Seeking to influence the regulations A typical straw-bale building with stucco exterior A non-load-bearing straw-bale building Mom’s House A ‘risk register’ Embassy of the United States in London, Grosvenor Square Security measures and the diminution of aesthetic quality? ‘Letability’ and design: the case of 10 Fenchurch Street Computer generated image of the School of Sport, Loughborough University The previous building and SB site, Loughborough University Lecture theatre, School of Sport, Exercise and Health Sciences Builders’ attitudes to design codes A rationale for design codes – a view from California The iterative process of design coding A builder’s observations about house-builders Character of an Upton mews street, Upton Design Code The developer selection process at Upton Housing at Upton, first land parcel Housing at Upton, later land parcel Newhall regulating plan Cala Domus, Newhall Housing at Newhall by PCKO Architects

90 95 97 100 144 147 149 151 154 156 163 164 168 187 194 195 217 231 233 234 249 250 257 258 265 266 267 268 269 270 271

List of Tables

4.1 4.2 4.3 4.4 4.5 4.6 4.7 5.1 5.2 5.3 5.4 5.5 6.1 6.2 7.1 7.2 7.3 8.1 8.2

‘An architect needs to receive training in budget management’ ‘I received adequate training in budget management’ ‘An architect needs to receive training in marketing’ ‘I received adequate training in marketing’ ‘How well did your education prepare you for architectural practice?’ ‘An architect needs to receive training in building regulations’ ‘I received adequate training in building regulations’ ‘Architecture is subject to too much regulation’ ‘Architecture is too bound up in red tape and prescriptive standards’ ‘Regulation is becoming more complex’ ‘Regulation is becoming more difficult to deal with’ ‘I am rarely consulted by government about planning control and building regulations’ ‘The design process is highly influenced by considerations of risk’ ‘There is more risk of litigation against architects than five years ago’ ‘Project managers disproportionately influence the design of buildings’ ‘Quantity surveyors disproportionately influence the design of buildings’ ‘Consultants disproportionately influence the design of buildings’ ‘The introduction and use of design codes is a good thing’ ‘The use of design codes is likely to raise the quality of urban design’

117 118 118 118 119 124 124 145 146 146 147 159 180 182 224 224 225 252 253

The Authors

Rob Imrie is Professor of Geography in the Department of Geography at King’s College London. His research interests include disability and design, the regulation of the built environment, urban regeneration, and urban policy and politics. He is co-author of Buyer-Supplier Relations (1992, MacMillan, Basingstoke) and Inclusive Design (2001, Spon Press, London), and author of Disability and the City (1996, Sage Publications, London), and Accessible Housing (2006, Routledge, London). He is co-editor of British Urban Policy (1999, Sage Publications, London), Urban Renaissance? (2003, Policy Press, Bristol), Regenerating London, (2009, Routledge, London), and The Knowledge Business (2010, Ashgate, Farnham). Emma Street recently completed her PhD in the Department of Geography at King’s College London. Her research interests include architecture and the built environment, urban regeneration, and urban governance and policy processes. She has written various papers published in outlets such as Urban Studies, and Town and Country Planning.

Foreword

Rob Imrie and Emma Street’s book brought to mind a suppressed (and now embarrassing) memory. As the design principal of a young and growing firm I reacted instantly, if thoughtlessly, when the principal of a rival firm down the street penned a letter to the editor of the local newspaper wherein he argued that the sole reason for our profession to exist was to serve the ‘health, safety and welfare’ of fellow citizens. In the name of Art I was outraged! In response to this philistine grovelling I beat my fists on the table loud enough to disturb the work of my colleagues across the old mill space in which we worked. If such utilitarian interests were to limit the spiritual aspirations of society so fundamentally, I raged, we had descended to a sorry state indeed. Twenty-five years later I now understand that it took me much longer than it might have done to bring to consciousness, and thus to purge, the tacit values of my education. Fortunately for today’s young architects, engineers, public policymakers and others, Imrie and Street provide, in this significant text, not only a useful critique of what they refer to as the ‘Palladian model’ of architectural production, but also the exhaustive empirical evidence to get beyond it. That evidence comes in the form of interviews with practitioners from many disciplines related to the construction industry, from focus groups, surveys and a remarkably thorough review of the literatures. I use the plural form of ‘literature’ here because Architectural Design and Regulation is a thoroughly interdisciplinary book. First, the authors are geographers writing about architecture and urban design. Second, their bibliography derives as much from the social sciences, philosophy and engineering as from architecture or geography. And third, they challenge, from the outside, the deeply held assumptions of a discipline not their own – thus the need for empirical rigour. In the 1970s, Canadian sociologist Erving Goffman developed what we now refer to as ‘frame analysis’. In coining this term Goffman held that various social groups understand what goes on in the world from inside distinct frames of interpretation. Insurance brokers, for example, interpret the concept of risk very differently from high-wire acrobats or

Foreword xvi

equestrians. The same observation can be made about the manner in which architects and carpenters interpret the act of building. An important, if ironic, dimension of this interpretive dynamic is that it is only those who exist entirely within a single frame – as do most famous architects – who are perceived to have the necessary authority amongst their peers to alter it. These same famous architects, however, lack the capacity to imagine change in the system of which they are an essential part because the achievement of high status within the group depends on perpetuating the tacit values and hierarchies of the group. Conversely, code-switchers – or those who have the intellectual capacity to inhabit several frames of interpretation simultaneously – generally have little authority in the eyes of professional elites. After all, elites reason, they are neither qualified nor ‘one of us’, so how can they see the world correctly (as we do)? This is precisely the problem now faced by Imrie and Street. To successfully challenge the ‘Palladian’ frame of architectural production they ask architects to step outside a frame of interpretation that has held itself to be autonomous from, and superior to, the concerns of everyday life – from the common act of building. For many architects this will be very difficult indeed. The good news is, however, that it is architects themselves who have the most to gain in accepting Imrie and Street’s invitation. To characterise this book as only a ‘critique’ of architecture-as-art is, however, overly limiting. In my own view this critique is much needed, but far more important is that the authors redirect our attention away from the dysfunction of contemporary architectural practice, to underappreciated intellectual territory that is of value not only to scholars, but to designers too. This is no small achievement. Their investigation, then, is not one that is predetermined to delegitimise art as a cultural practice, but one that reconstructs what I will call the co-evolution of three related phenomena: the profession, technology and the ‘organisational governance’ of both. Imrie and Street provide compelling evidence that, from the perspective of architects themselves, the nature of practice is changing. Some refer to the change as the ‘crisis of regulation’, others as the problem of ‘calculative thinking’, and still others as ‘the burden of management’. What all these characterisations have in common is that they describe new and paradoxical conditions. Some architects welcome the new technologies of computer aided design (CAD), and more recently building information systems (BIM), because they seem to empower the discipline. Increased productivity will allow, we imagine, more creative time to fashion beautiful objects. But other architects hold that these technologies shift the responsibilities and time commitments of architects away from aesthetic considerations toward

Foreword

managerial ones. It is, of course, no accident that such technologies have emerged at the same time that the nature of regulation itself is ‘fragmenting’. Increasingly it is not the state that regulates how we build, but insurance companies, building managers, corporate utilities and banks. It is the ‘decentring’ of regulating authority, as the authors describe it, that has transformed the ‘organisational governance’ of the building industry as a whole. This is to say that building regulations do not emerge in isolation, or at the hands of distant bureaucrats. Rather, the profession, our technologies, the environment, new contractual formats and modes of governance all co-evolve as a large complex system. The only thing truly surprising about all of this is that we architects are oddly isolated from it by our own romantic traditions of artistic autonomy. Some of the authors’ respondents quoted in the text have radicalised this observation by dramatically announcing ‘the end of the architect’. Fortunately, Imrie and Street take a more nuanced, hopeful and supportive view of our discipline’s promise. Rather than gloat over the fate of increasingly irrelevant, romantic aesthetes clinging to the sinking ship of tasteful power, the authors recognise not disciplinary collapse, but an opportunity. In their view, architects have always participated, even if unconsciously, in the regulation and coding of the life-world. The question this book asks is whether we will choose to participate mindfully, and in the process find new opportunities for creative problem-solving in addition to those that are visual. In this book, our discipline has received a gift from outside the tacit values embodied in what we architects refer to as ‘studio culture’. We can, of course, dismiss the critique and ignore the opportunity presented by the authors if we so choose. But if the entrenched architects of my generation do, I am confident that the next generation of citymakers will not – because, like Imrie and Street, they already glimpse the creative potential of interdisciplinary invention. Steven A. Moore Bartlett Cocke Regents Professor of Architecture and Planning School of Architecture The University of Texas at Austin

xvii

Preface

The design and development of the built environment is influenced by a complexity of socio-political and institutional processes, including the application of rules and regulations relating to the form and performance of buildings. From the earliest periods of architecture and building, architects’ actions have been conditioned by a plethora of rules, regulations, standards, and governance practices, ranging from socio-cultural and religious codes seeking to influence the formal structure of settlement patterns, to prescriptive building regulations specifying detailed elements of design in relation to the safety of building structures. In the book, we develop the argument that the rule and regulatory basis of architecture is part of a broader field of socio-institutional and political interventions in the design and development process that serve to delimit, and define, the scope of the activities and actions of architects. In so doing, we suggest that the rules and regulations relating to building form and performance ought to be understood not as external to creative processes and practices, but as integral to them. This understanding of the interrelationships between architecture and its regulation is part of a contribution to an emergent field of scholarly work that seeks to challenge the powerful discourse of the autonomy of architecture. This discourse asserts that architecture is the creation of beautiful buildings that reflect the artistic talents of architects. The aesthetic activities of the architect are distinctive to the prosaic matters of building carried out by others, such as builders, who remain distinctive to, and outside the purview of, the specialist field of architecture. This distinction, between architecture and building, and creativity and craft, is one whereby whole domains of practice, such as the legal regulation of design, are conceived as external to the actions of architects, and therefore unimportant to the task of artful and artistic creation. At best, the intersection of regulations with creative practice is a guarantor of the safety of buildings, and provides legal protection for architects. At worst, it is a restraint on creative freedom with the potential to diminish the aesthetic qualities of the built environment.

Preface xx

Drawing on surveys of, and interviews with, architects, and other development professionals, the book highlights the contradictions and tensions contained in such understandings of the interrelationships between regulation and the actions of architects. In particular, we explore how the activities of architects, whatever the discourse of autonomy may claim, are deeply embedded in complex systems of rules and regulations, covering everything from the legal requirement to provide safe exit routes from buildings, to the clients’ wishes, contractually specified, to ensure a risk free procurement process. The data show that creative actions are not independent of the socioregulatory parameters of the design and development process, but are constituted by, and constitutive of, them. We illustrate this point by referring, first and foremost, to the building regulations, but also to the emergence of design codes, and the proliferation of rules relating to risk management in projects, including the co-ordination and organisation of work across fragmented design and development teams. In bringing the book to publication we are indebted to a number of people and organisations. We would like to thank the Arts and Humanities Research Council (AHRC) for funding the research that much of this book is based upon. We are grateful to the participants in the research for giving up their valuable time to share their experiences with us. These include Robert Adam, David Eisenberg, Roger Evans, George Ferguson, Anthony Floyd, Stuart Hersh, Derek Horn, Judy Knox, Rosanna Law, John Moen, Michael Montgomery, Andy Mytom, Mriganka Saxena, Charles Thompson, numerous architects, and participants in a focus group in December 2009. We would particularly like to thank David Morley of David Morley Architects (DMA) and John Robertson of John Robertson Architects (JRA) for providing us with access to their organisations, and permitting us to spend time talking to, and interacting with, various staff members, and attending meetings and visiting project sites. An important source of support was Chris Roberts of DMA who, at various times over the last few years, has commented on the changing nature of architectural practice, and provided challenging feedback to us about what we were doing. We are grateful to a number of individuals who supported our work by commenting on various versions of questionnaires, advising on different stages of the research process, and reading some of the draft chapters of the book. These people include Steven Moore from the University of Texas, Paul Jones based at the University of Liverpool, Paul Finch, Chair of the Commission for Architecture and the Built Environment, and anonymous readers of chapters 4 and 8. Our research design was also improved, significantly, by the comments of anonymous referees of the AHRC application, and their suggestions were subsequently incorporated into a readjustment of the

Preface

methodological basis of the project. The editorial team at WileyBlackwell were an excellent source of support, and we would like to thank the senior editor, Madeleine Metcalfe, and the assistance provided by Cat Oakley, Teresa Netzler, Paul Beverley, and Arindam Bose. We are particularly grateful to Sarah Fielder for reading much of the manuscript and using her copy-editing and grammatical skills to provide pointed observations that have helped us to improve the text. Marian Hawkesworth and Oliver Moore also read various parts of the manuscript, and they made some telling comments that made us rethink some of the arguments.

xxi

Illustration Credits

Except where acknowledged in the text, all illustrations in this book are the property of Rob Imrie and Emma Street. The authors and publisher are grateful to all who gave their permission for the use of copyright material. They apologise if they have inadvertently failed to acknowledge any copyright holder and will be glad to correct any omissions that are drawn to their attention in future reprints or editions. We acknowledge the editors and publishers of Urban Studies for permission to reproduce the paper, Imrie, R. and Street, E., (2009), Risk, regulation, and the practices of architects, Urban Studies, 46, 12, 2555–2576. Likewise, chapter 5 is based, substantially, on the paper Imrie, R., (2007), Environment and Planning B: Planning and Design, 34, 5, 925–943, and we acknowledge the publisher Pion for permission to reproduce this article.

Part I The Context of Regulation


Chapter One Regulation, Rule, and Architecture: Introductory Comments

Every parcel is almost predetermined by what you can build upon it, in a way of planning code and building code issues. There are very strict envelopes about height, bulk, massing, separation, aspect to light that produce the form of the city. It’s all been pre-sculptured. (Testimony from an architect, 2008)

1.1 Introduction As this testimony suggests, the practices of architecture are influenced and shaped by building regulations, codes, and rules that are devised to guide and influence all aspects of architectural production, from conceptual design to urban form. Such regulations and codes are not necessarily enshrined in law but are, as Huge (2004) has intimated, systematic sets of rules characterised and differentiated by authorship, context, and implementation.1 In all instances, rules and regulations are constitutive of the practices of architecture, yet little is known about their impacts on, and implications for, the design and production of the built environment (although see Ben-Joseph, 2005a, 2005b, BenJoseph and Szold, 2005, Bentley, 1999, Carmona et al., 2006, Davis, 2008, Dennis, 2008, Harris, 1991, Huge, 2004, Imrie, 2007). The book seeks to address this lacuna in knowledge by exploring the interrelationships between regulation and the design and production of urban space, with a focus on the practices of architecture. This task is important because a feature of modern life is the increase in forms of governance and (re-)regulation, influencing everything from food production and its distribution, to the protection of personal health and safety. For some, we are living in an over-regulated world


The Context of Regulation 4

characterised by, in the urban context, a plethora of rules about conduct in public spaces, the emergence of privatised redevelopment sites that restrict, through formal regulations, rights of access, and an increase in surveillance as part of policy to regularise and normalise citizens’ behaviour (see, for instance, Blumenberg and Ehrenfeucht, 2008, Miller, 2007). Such regularisation of behaviour was highlighted by the leader of the British Conservative Party, David Cameron (2009), who, in a speech about government powers in the UK, referred to ‘Control State Britain’. Here, Cameron acknowledged the welldocumented trend, observed worldwide, towards an expansion of the regulatory capacities of the state, albeit often through the context of decentred fragmented forms, including hybrid cross-cutting organisations (Mackenzie and Martinez Lucio, 2005). These wider, societal, trends are evident in relation to the design and construction of the built environment, in which state-centred legal forms of regulation have proliferated. For instance, in the UK, the government has said that planning regulation and building control will be important in delivering an urban design-led renaissance of the British cities (DETR, 2000, ODPM, 2005a). Here, the government is widening the scope and scale of building control activities, to incorporate ‘non-traditional’ spheres of regulation (Hawkesworth and Imrie, 2009). These include, on the one hand, responding to the creation of ‘resilient cities’ that incorporate building design sensitised to threats to health and safety posed by terrorism and climate change, while, on the other hand, seeking to use the building control system to respond to socio-psychological and cultural issues related to place making and sustainable urban living. This is a marked departure from the traditional, physical or design, focus of building control, and one where there is little knowledge of how the system is responding and adapting to the new challenges. For architects, and other development professionals, such systems of state rule and regulation are, we argue, one of the critical contexts that influence the form and content of the design and construction process. There is no part of the design and development of the built environment that is untouched by the plethora of rules, regulations, standards, and governance practices, relating to building form and performance. From the earliest urban settlements, the practices of architects have been entwined with, and conditioned by, directives about street layouts, building widths, the control of pollution, and fire precautions. Kirk (1978), for instance, refers to the control of spatial development of ancient cities in India, through rulers’ application of the treatise, the Arthasastra, published between the 4th and 2nd centuries BC. The Arthasastra outlined the conditions for statecraft and, according to Kirk (1978: 74), it contained a ‘whole series of bye-laws aimed at achieving

Regulation, Rule, and Architecture: Introductory Comments

an orderly, urbane existence’. Like similar documents in ancient Greece and Rome, it was a forerunner of modern systems of discipline, propagating encoded ideals of what makes good urban form (see chapter 2). These ideals were often overlain with architects’ use of building types, or the (self-)development of principles of aesthetics that served to guide the crafting of urban form. Such crafting has, however, been influenced by increasing layers of state intervention in, and control of, urban design that, while evident in ancient city cultures, escalated throughout medieval times and became part of the rise of regulation in the late 18th and 19th centuries. This featured the well-documented intervention of governments in health and safety, including prevention of fire risk in buildings, and the development of systems of planning and building control. By the mid to end of the 20th century, the omnipresence of spatial regulation was such that some commentators were suggesting that architects no longer needed to design anything. Rather, it was felt that this was being done for them through the context of the application of the rules, regulations, and standards relating to the form and performance of buildings and the built environment (Gummer, 2007, Saint, 2001). State-centred, regulatory, formations are only a part of the broadcloth of rules and regulations that shape urban design and the spatial development of cities. In recent times, non-state institutions or decentred organisational formations appear to be as influential as, if not more so than, their state counterparts in shaping the design and development, or the production, of urban space (Miller et al., 2008). Of significance are the actuarial activities of insurance companies that seek to identify and prevent risk in relation to human behaviour (O’Malley, 2004). The formative building codes of the late 19th century were influenced by the regulatory requirements of insurers, who set conditions relating to most aspects of building form and performance. If anything, their role has been heightened and it is indicative of what O’Malley (2004: 191) suggests is a post-disciplinary order, whereby the coercive, even punitive, actions of the state are being supplanted, in part by the preventative and risk-spreading (i.e. insurance) activities of organisations that ‘appear to act technically rather than morally’. What this suggests is that the actions of architects and other agents involved in the production of the built environment are entwined in complex ways with a panoply of state, non-state, and civil organisations, associations, and relations. These relations extend to the entanglement of architects’ creative practices with the pragmatics of the design process, and in particular the regulation of design activity through the application of multidisciplines, and the disciplinary

5

The Context of Regulation

behaviour, of diverse project professionals (Baer, 1997, Habraken, 2005). This reflects what Sarfatti-Larson (1993: 23), refers to as the ‘heteronomous conditions’ of the design process, in which the making of buildings is the co-production of different actors involved in a ‘creative synthesis and an eminently political activity’.2 This activity draws attention to the networks that are part of the dispersal, or decentring, of the actions of architects in ways whereby architects are increasingly engaged in complex inter-disciplinary teams of professionals in the negotiation of design outcomes. These observations provide a steer to theory building and development, and part of this is the current concern, in the social sciences, with understanding phenomena as relational and influenced by processes of co-production through the context of complex networks. Such notions are helpful for steering analysis away from a conception of architecture as an autonomous sphere, and useful in (re-)centring social scientific ideas into the study of urban design. However, we feel that there is much to be done to develop such concepts to ensure that research based upon them does not reproduce reductive frames of analysis. For instance, co-production implies, helpfully, a sense of negotiation or the search for consensus. It directs attention to the importance of networks and interactions, and implies a sharing – even an equalisation – of power between co-producers. This has analytical benefits, but dangers too, in that it may deflect analysis from power inequalities or structural differences more likely to be captured by other concepts that emphasise, much more, structural inequalities and organisational differences. Despite the rule-based and bounded nature of architecture, there is limited knowledge or understanding of how development professionals, such as architects, interact with and understand the rules and regulations relating to the construction of the built environment, and how such interactions shape different elements of the design process. A key focus of the book is to develop particular lines of argument or ways of thinking about the relationships between rules, regulations, and the practices of architects. These include the following. 1. Regulation is core to the practices of architecture and, in turn, such practices (re)define, in part, the scope and possibilities of regulation. If one accepts this proposition, it seems incumbent on research to (re-)centre the understanding of the practices of architecture within the broadcloth of the rules and regulations that, in turn, are part of the broader contexts within which architecture unfolds. 2. Rules and regulations are part of a matrix of relations that influence the practices of architecture and they are embodied in different

6

In developing these, and related, insights into the interrelationships between rules, regulations, and the practices of architects, we divide the rest of the chapter into two main parts. First, we outline the discourse about the autonomy of architects and architectural practice (Cuthbert, 2006, Knox, 1987, Sarfatti-Larson, 1993, Till, 2009). We develop the argument that the insistence on a separation between architecture as the pursuit of aesthetic endeavour from building as the crafting and construction of the built environment is related in part to the understanding of regulation, propagated by some within the architectural profession, as exterior to the legitimate concerns and practices of the architect. One implication is that regulation, whether it is through the context of planning standards, building regulations, or design codes, is often understood as part of a separate sphere of expertise and experience to the practices of architects and, as such, it is rarely conceptualised as intrinsic to, and implicated in, the creative actions and activities of the architect. Second, in seeking to move beyond the notion of the ‘autonomy of architecture’, we briefly discuss the importance of rules and regulations in relation to the governance of urban form and process, and outline why the study of regulation ought to be (re-)centred within the broadcloth of the analysis and understanding of architecture and urban design. We relate such discussion to an overview of the book’s content. In doing so, we discuss broader debates about what regulation is, and how it ought to be thought about or regarded in relation to the activities and actions of architects.


forms, including language, text (construction), materials, drawings, and, of course, buildings. The shape of rules and their shaping of the practices of architecture is part of a relational mixture of discursive practices and social and political processes. 3. While conceptions of design may preclude explicit incorporation of regulations and building standards, such standards do influence aesthetic and design outcomes in variable ways. Regulations ought to be conceived of as much more than technical instruments or part of a non-creative process somehow removed from architects’ practices (or the practices of architecture). 4. It follows from this that rules about, and the regulation of, the form of the built environment are constitutive elements in the (re)production of urban space. This suggests that the regulation of building form and performance is part of relational socio-political formations, a conceptualisation that requires a rethinking of the alleged centrality of architects in the shaping of the built environment.

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1.2 The autonomy of architecture and the design process One of the objectives of the book is to contribute to the understanding of the social context of architecture by discussing the role of rules and regulations relating to building form and performance in influencing the content and conduct of the design process. The actions of architects are influenced by a complexity of socio-institutional and political processes and relations in which, as Frampton (1980: 17) notes, of all the forms of cultural production ‘it may be claimed that architecture is, in fact, the least autonomous, compelling us to admit to the contingent nature of architecture as a practice’ (also, see Hill, 2003, Knesl, 1984, Knox, 1987, Sarfatti-Larson, 1993). This observation contrasts with the dominant traditions of research about design that, as Markus (1993: 27) suggests, are bifurcated between social historians or critics who conceive of close connections between art and society but rarely mention architecture, and architectural historians who ‘treat buildings as art objects’ but do not say much about social and political context. This orientation, in the study of architecture, tends to conceive of the architectural process as ‘autonomous’, in which the architect is what Bentley (1999: 28) suggests – the ‘heroic form giver’ – deploying their creative talents to design and produce the built environment.3 It is assumed that architecture is a form of artistic expression and endeavour, and, in Ghirardo’s (1991: 9) terms, ‘that art has a high moral purpose in the formation and transmission of culture . . . of the design of aesthetically pleasing forms of poetic spaces’ (also, see Frampton, 1980, Porphyrios, 1985). However, for Bentley (1999) and SarfattiLarson (1993), such discourses (of architecture) are problematical because they tend to side line certain subject matter from scholarly consideration, by emphasising, first and foremost, the importance of study of artistic or creative behaviour, and/or the technical or investment attributes of buildings and the design process (also, see McGlynn and Murrain, 1994, Knox, 1987, Prak, 1984). This is part of a perennial theme emphasising the schism between architecture and building and between the architect and builder. This schism is one whereby the work of the architect is conceived as a separate act from the actions of building or the construction of the built environment. This disjuncture, between architecture as the creation and conception of the aesthetic components of the built environment, and the realisation of building as a product or tangible, material, physical form, was brought to the fore in a range of writings, including the publications of Leon Battista Alberti in the 15th century who, for Habraken (2005: 41) ‘introduces the persona of the architect’. For


Alberti (1988), the architect operated over and beyond the rules or conventions of building and, instead, exercised autonomy of thought and action. As Alberti (1988: 3) suggested, ‘I consider the architect, who by sure and wonderful reason and method, knows both how to devise through his own mind and energy, and to realise by construction, whatever can be most beautifully fitted out for the noble needs of man’.4 This viewpoint was an echo of sentiments expressed in earlier periods of history that extended the understanding of the architect as the purveyor of beauty and truth through the context of their focus on what Vitruvius (1960: 37) coined as ‘eurythmy’, or the beautiful rhythms of a perfectly composed building. While Vitruvius (1960) had a broad conception of the architect as someone who conjoined the technical with the artistic, and whose practices could not occur in abstraction from an understanding of the substance of building and construction, later influential architects, such as Mauro Codussi (1440–1504), Sebastiano Serlio (1475–1554), and Andrea Palladio (1508–1580), emphasised much more the visual, artistic, and stylistic components of buildings (Figure 1.1). For Habraken (2005: 10), architects, such as Palladio, were in

Figure 1.1 The Palladian representation – Villa Pisani. The figure depicts a typical representation of buildings by Palladio in his book I Quattro Libri dell’Architettura (The Four Books of Architecture). This drawing was published in 1540, and based on a house named the Villa Pisani designed by Palladio in the 1540s. Source: Villa Pisani a Bagnolo di Lonigo (Vicenza), from I Quattro Libri dell’Architettura by Andrea Palladio (2002).

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the vanguard of an emerging tradition that came to represent buildings ‘as abstract models divorced from site or context’. Habraken (2005: 9) characterises the legacy of this as contemporary architects being ‘Palladio’s children’, or those involved in the (re)production of a persona of the architect that, during the lifetime of Palladio, became ‘increasingly self-referential’. This was characterised by an outpouring of writings and published works by architects, as part of their oeuvre. This often comprised visual and graphical representations of proposed and completed buildings, with the intent to display them as art-objects and as powerful signifiers of the creative prowess and powers of the architect. Palladio’s output was more voluminous than most, and was significant for the use of a picture-book format characterised by drawings of the geometrical compositions of buildings (Bentley, 1999, Habraken, 2005). For Habraken, these representations, while beautiful artistic creations, were symptomatic of architects’ increasingly distanced relationships to the broader fields, or contexts, of building production, construction, and outcomes (Figure 1.2). This distancing was apparent in Palladio’s work in which the character of the architect, the so-called eponymous hero, was paramount, and in which discussion of buildings and form occurred with limited

Figure 1.2 Villa Rotonda. The Villa Rotonda was commissioned in 1566 and designed and inhabited by 1569. It is located on a hilltop near to Venice, and commentators claim it to be the most influential of all the buildings designed by Palladio. It is wholly symmetrical and inspired others around the world to copy its style. Palladio (cited in Wundram et al., 1993: 186) describes the building in the following terms: ‘The place is nicely situated and one of the loveliest and most charming that one could hope to find; for it lies on the slopes of a hill, which is very easy to reach. The loveliest hills are arranged around it, which afford a view into an immense theatre; because one takes pleasure in the beautiful view on all four sides, loggias were built on all four facades.’ Source: Illa Capra, Vicenza, Palladio – Seccion de ‘i quattro libri’ – 1570 – Publicacion de Scamozzi, 1778, copyright expired.

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reference to the social, institutional, and political contexts of the design and construction process (Bentley, 1999, Knox, 1987). For Palladio, the building was (re-)presented primarily as an object, a thing in and of itself, rather than as an element in a broader series of social relationships. Habraken’s (2005: 13) description of one of Palladio’s buildings, the Villa Rotonda, conveys the sense of its abstraction from the materiality of the design and construction process: ‘the building remains self contained . . . it dominates the land while not being rooted in it . . . it is set like a stone upon the hill’. The outcome, for Habraken (2005: 11), is the objectification of ‘the building, to distinguish it from the landscape’. The object does no more than inform the observer of the building’s line, height, and width, and conveys proportions between these components. This style of representation of buildings is an undercurrent of much contemporary architectural practice, in which the Palladian discourse encourages site and context to be subsumed by emphasis on form, and where an objective of the architect is to demonstrate their artistic and creative skills by the projection of architecture as the production of objets d’art. Like Palladio, subsequent generations of architects came to represent their buildings as ‘stand-alone’ objects, to illustrate and emphasise form and style or the aesthetics of the design (Figure 1.3). One of the key instruments of representing architecture, the drawing, often became an end in itself, characterised by representation of

Figure 1.3 The architect’s representation. The figure is an illustration of the one- and two-dimensional representation of buildings commonly used by architects to show scale and proportion of built form. It is devoid of a three-dimensionality in relation to the projection of the building’s form. It is unable to show performance in relation to its use. Source: Imrie, 2003.

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scale measures, of plan, elevation, and section (Imrie, 2003, Bloomer and Moore, 1977). These emphasised the metric properties of form, and reproduced a representation of architecture reduced to Cartesian coordinates, or geometrical points between different parts of a building. There was no conveyance of the performance of buildings or how they might operate once occupied and in use (Hill, 2003). These abstractions of form from aspects of site and locational context are not dissimilar to the Palladian ideal’s foreclosure of other matters of building deemed to be marginal, even irrelevant, to the architects’ pursuit of aesthetic and artistic expression. This is particularly so in relation to the rules and regulations relating to the design and development of the built environment. No building is designed and constructed outside of perceptual and practical, or material, schema about rules relating to proportions, performance, and form, nor outside of socio-political controls relating to the safety of structures. Yet these aspects of the practices of architects are rarely revealed in, or acknowledged by, architects’ representations of, and scholarly writings about, the design and construction process. The buildings of architects like Palladio appear to emerge as free floating from laws and rules about form. Where regulation is referred to, it is usually counterpoised to architecture as purveyor of visual representation and artful masterpiece. Regulation is part of the external world of building with the potential to render the design process no more than a technical exercise. A legacy of such perspectives about architecture is that a fuller study of the socio-institutional contexts underpinning the shaping of design is not always evident, especially in relation to subject matter such as the interrelationships between architects and the rules and regulations that codify and regulate their practices. However, from Alberti’s (1988) conception of buildings as a form of living body, which led him to construct rational rules of architectural form determined by mind and matter, to the structuring of space around the four cardinal points, codes and/or rules have always been core to architects’ conceptual schema and practices. Indeed, they reflect, in part, the imposition of a moral order on spatial representation and practice (Figure 1.4, over page; also, see chapter 2). For Bentley (1999: 27), rules enable architects to ‘get to grips with the otherwise implausibly complex flux of the world’ and, since the late 19th century, rules relating to design and building structure have been increasingly institutionalised through formal, usually legal, regulation and conduct by government. This is indicative less of the autonomy of architecture from the rulebased contexts of design and construction, and more its entwinement with(in) a complexity of socio-institutional regulatory processes. This recognition of entanglement with(in) the rules and regulations relating

Regulation, Rule, and Architecture: Introductory Comments Figure 1.4 Piazza de’ Rucellai. The Palazzo Rucellai is a 15th-century palace in the Piazza de’ Rucellai, Florence, Italy, designed by Leon Battista Alberti between 1446 and 1451. The Institute at Palazzo Rucellai describes it in the following terms: ‘this splendid work was the first to fully express the spirit of fifteenth century Humanism in residential architecture. The structural elements of ancient Rome are replicated in the arches, pilasters and entablatures, and in the larger blocks on the ground floor which heighten the impression of strength and solidity. The pilasters of the three stories embody different classical orders creating an effect reminiscent of the Coliseum’ (text cited at: http://www. palazzorucellai.org/(S(uxtzemzkolxoeoe2nfhszh55))/StandardPage.aspx?id¼8) Source: Wilhelm L€ ubke, Max Semrau: Grundriß der Kunstgeschichte. Paul Neff Verlag, Esslingen, 14. Auflage 1908, copyright expired.

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to design is one whereby the architect is being confronted with the contradiction between, on the one hand, seeking to propagate the Palladian discourse or the essence of architecture as art and, on the other hand, the understanding that its realisation is dependent on others, or what Sarfatti-Larson (1993: 5) refers to as ‘rival professionals or humbler executants’. The recognition of such dependence confronts architects with the realisation of their less than autonomous capacities. It sets up the architectural profession, potentially, in opposition to, or at least in tension with, other professions and disciplines, such as building regulation, that, through their operations, have the capacity to transform architects’ conceptual or aesthetic schemas. It is not surprising then that a commonly held view of regulation by architects, particularly in relation to planning and building control systems, is one whereby it is seen as anathema to, and likely to diminish, ^tre, that is, the pursuit of beauty (chapter 5; architects’ raison d’e also, Saint, 2001). The opposition between architecture and building thus situates regulation as part of bureaucratic rule that, through its application, is likely to diminish the quality of design. This feeling was also at the forefront of Alberti’s (1988: 140) observations in 1452, on regulatory differences between country and city: ‘a large number of men and things cannot be accommodated as freely in the city as they can in the country. Why is this? In urban building there are restrictions such as party walls, dripping gutters, public ground, rights of way . . . to prevent one’s achieving a satisfactory result. In the countryside this does not happen; here everything is more open, whereas the city is restrictive.’ Alberti (1988) was hinting at a discourse that was yet to be developed in the mid 15th century, but has since become part of a popular, often caricatured, understanding of the interrelationships between architecture and regulation (chapter 3). Such understanding views regulation as one more restriction on the autonomy of architects, and something that is imposed rather than part of a negotiated, even democratic, process. It is the antithesis of design, and a threat to what Habraken (2005) regards as architects’ visualisations of buildings in abstract terms, and regarding them as, first and foremost, proportional objects designed around orderly principles. Regulation disrupts, potentially, the rhythm, methods, and forms of architects’ practices, and it is a challenge to the idea, even ideology, of design as a discrete skill. Typical of this view is Ventre (1997: 17) noting that planning and building control regulations are ‘culturally conservative’ and anathema to the ‘romantic heritage of architecture’. For Ventre (1997: 17), this meant an inevitable clash between architecture and regulation or, as he suggests, ‘obdurate approaches to, or, at best, ambivalence towards the aspect of regulation’.


Such views have a more extreme version, and authors such as Knesl (1984: 9) go as far as to suggest that ‘architecture has seldom been more than a recipient of the laws affecting the built environment’, so suggesting that architects are passive and compliant in the face of regulatory control and practice (also, see Bentley, 1999, Knox, 1987, Saint, 2001). As Knesl (1984: 9) suggests, ‘architecture is predetermined by political and economic power, including laws, statutes, codes. . .’ This narrative is, potentially, problematical for conceiving spatial regulations as a) external to what architects think and do; and b) determinate of architectural processes and outcomes (also, see Baer, 1997, Imrie and Hall, 2001, Imrie, 2007). Thus, if architecture is ‘predetermined’ by political power, as Knesl (1984) suggests, it renders architecture, and its practitioners, as somehow inert or without substance, inactive and not able to influence, in any significant ways, the actions of regulators and the outcomes of regulatory activities. Neither this conception of the design process, nor that of the ‘autonomy of architects’, is particularly tenable. The former is based on an understanding of process in which the ‘self actions’ of politicians and/or regulators are responsible, largely, for shaping architects’ practices. The latter conceives of what Till (2009: 37) describes as architects ‘ridding the world of contingency’, and propagating a view of their work as operating with little constraint or control on their design activities. In both instances, actions and outcomes become reduced to a singular point or determinant when, as some of the empirical substance of the book will show, the relationships between architects, regulators, and others are recursive or relational. In Lefebvre’s (1991: 15) terms, they are ‘part of a practical relationship, part of a dialectic’ in which regulations and architects’ practices are conjoined through the context of specific social, political, and institutional processes. Sarfatti-Larson (1993: 5) refers to this as ‘heteronomy’ or ‘the architect’s dependence on clients and the other specialists of building’. She suggests that the design of buildings is not just ‘architects’ autonomous application of knowledge and talent alone’ (SarfattiLarson, 1993: 5). Rather, they reflect Bentley’s (1999) understanding that architects’ actions are inextricably connected to a project’s contexts. Such contexts reflect the complexity of the conjoined elements of design and construction, including the instruments and techniques of design and building that influence and discipline architects. The techniques range from the client’s brief, the project manager’s use and application of risk assessment, cost estimation, forecasting and economic evaluation, to the rules and regulations relating to the different dimensions of the design and construction process. What is important to study is not, as Saint (2001) suggests, the issue of whether the

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regulations ‘matter more’ but, rather, how they matter and function in relation to the design and production of the built environment. This, then, is to recognise and document that the daily activities of architects take place in contexts of negotiation, disputation, and debate about different aspects of the development and design process. The notion that there is a simple linear relationship between design and buildings is, as Hill (1999) suggests, problematical (also, Bentley, 1999, Knox, 1987, Scott, 1999). Of significance, and a focus of ^tre of rules and regulations relating this book, is the role and raison d’e to architectural form, and how and where in the process they are absorbed into the design of buildings. In particular, rules and regulations about design and building form often stress the importance of vernacular, localism, and tradition. For Huge (2004), the specificity of authorship (i.e. who wrote the rules), context (i.e. their interpretation and where, and under what conditions, they are applied), and implementation (i.e. how they are applied) are paramount to an understanding of the interrelationships between architects’ practices, regulation, and design.

1.3 The study of regulation and the practices of architects A perennial image of the architect is conveyed by Frank Lloyd-Wright (1992a: 29) who, in a speech to the University Guild of Evanston, Illinois, in 1896 observed that ‘art . . . is to be revered and fostered as the creative power . . . to feel ennobling enthusiasm for and to work for.’ Later in the same presentation Lloyd-Wright suggested that art and aesthetics are constrained by the ‘ultra commercial’, an observation lamenting the loss of architects’ control over the production of the built environment, and one that anticipated the rise of what Lloyd-Wright (1992b) called the ‘plan factories’: ‘architecture today is the great orchestration of materials, methods, men’ (also, see Le Corbusier, 1925). Here, Frank Lloyd-Wright (1992b) was referring to the development of multi-agent project teams, and a ‘new’ architecture characterised by a fragmentation of tasks and the multiplicity of seemingly disparate and uncoordinated actors and agencies. For Frank LloydWright (1992b), the aesthetic foci of architects were being supplanted by the bureaucratic rise of management as part of a rationale to assure project development and delivery. Frank Lloyd Wright’s observations anticipated much of what architecture has become, in which a core activity of contemporary architects is to ensure the delivery of buildings to budget and time, within prescribed health and safety standards, and sensitised to a multiplicity 16


of rules and regulations relating to building form and performance. This multiplicity is indicative, so some allege, of a regulatory society that, in the 21st century, is characterised by what Levi-Faur and Gilad (2004: 106) refer to as ‘the proliferation of new mechanisms and techniques of regulation’ (also, see Black, 2002, Crawford, 2006, Morgan and Engwall, 1999). In the spatial development context, architects appear to be entwined in a greater range of legal regulatory obligations, partly as a product of the expansion of the scope of both planning and building control, and also the management of project risk through the context of an explosion in contractual, rule-based, relationships between different parties involved in the design and development process. It is this regulatory complexity that forms the backdrop for the rest of the book, in which we explore architects’ entanglement with the rules and regulations that govern much of the conduct of the design and development process (also, see Fischer and Guy, 2009). The research underpinning Part II of this book was preceded by a range of projects conducted by the authors, that had their origins in the exploration of the interrelationships between the mobility and movement of disabled people and the building regulations (Imrie, 1996, 2003, 2006, 2007, Imrie and Hall, 2001). The findings of these projects suggested a complexity of architects’ feelings about, and interactions with, the regulations relating to their activities. Far from the Palladian schism between architecture and building and design and construction, the research identified deeply embedded, often positive, relationships between architects’ actions and the (building) regulations, to the point whereby they were revealed as neither ephemeral nor insignificant to the design process, but as an integral and constitutive part of it. This understanding informed the shaping of subsequent, follow-up projects, including the research that is the basis of this book (see the appendix for further details). In particular, given that previous research had specifically focused on the interrelationships between disability and the building regulations our point of departure was to broaden the documentation of the building regulatory systems, with the focus on the UK. The justification for this focus is primarily because we feel that the building regulations are an under-explored and under-emphasised part of spatial development. As previously alluded to, the building regulations have rarely been an attractive subject of study, for either practising architects or art historians, or for academics working within the social sciences where studies of spatial regulation have focused primarily on planning. This lacuna seems untenable, given that building regulations, we contend, are much more integral to the work of architects than has been acknowledged in previous research and writings. In the course of conducting the research our focus on the building regulations – and our views of rules and regulation – shifted, primarily

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due to the ways in which architects were defining regulatory type and process as not necessarily legally based or bounded, or reducible, solely, to state-centred legal fiat or form. In interviews, it was commonplace for respondents to talk about the ‘tacit and hidden rules’ embedded in the complex relationships between different actors and agents, often with competing and different value systems (also, see Lawrence, 1987). This began to highlight the implicit informal, often unwritten, rules that define principles of interaction between actors, that do not necessarily have a basis in law. Part of the basis of such rules is moral and ethical, a rootedness to obligated relationships, even to habituated systems of interaction, or what Moore (2008) describes as codification that is closely interlinked with custom, practice, and traditions of local communities (also, see Bourdieu, 1998, Moore and Wilson, 2009). This chimes with an understanding of regulation that we seek to develop in the book, referred to by Black (2002) as ‘decentred’. A decentred definition of regulation is one that does not exclusively relate regulatory form, behaviour, and process to the activities and actions of the state, such as the building regulations. Rather, decentred regulation is characterised as dispersed across social, institutional, and political contexts, and not confined to any specific organisational form or process. Regulation is, as Black (2002: 4) suggests, ‘in many rooms’ (also, see Nader and Nader, 1985). This observation corresponds with the views of those who claim that state-centred government and regulation is fragmenting, characterised by shifts towards self-activated actors, and new forms of governance based upon self-regulation and the rise of systems of audit and control (Black, 2002, Levi-Faur, 2008). In these emerging contexts, the practices of architects may be thought of as relational webs of decentred regulation in which scope for action is dependent, in part, on institutional rules, governance processes and practices, and the values of actors relating to different stages of the design process. We develop these ideas in more detail in subsequent chapters, particularly in chapter 2, where we outline the significance of rules and regulations in relation to the practices of architecture. We suggest that architecture, from the earliest stages of human habitation, has revolved around, and been constituted by, rules of building form and style, many tacit and part of tradition and learnt through practice, others related to laws about building height, strength, and performance. They are part of socio-cultural formations that Davis (2006: 202) defines as a ‘system of social constraints that guarantee that a certain set of knowledge and rules will be followed by the building culture’. Since the late 18th century, such codes and/or rules of building form and performance have become increasingly entwined with formal, legal, systems, or government and private sector interventions in the


regulation of building form and performance. Of paramount concern has been the regulation of health and safety in the built environment, rule setting by insurance companies, and state regulation to ensure minimum standards of building design. We seek to understand changes in the practices of architecture as part of the emergence of disciplinary and state policing powers that, as O’Malley (2004) suggests, operate on and permeate the individual, and seek to develop the individual as an object of knowledge. The architect was becoming not only the object of regulation but one of the means through which regulatory practices were being (re)constituted and put into practice. We extend this understanding of regulation to discuss the rise of a risk and regulatory society, that, since the mid to end of the 20th century, has become characterised by new forms of managerial control, conduct, and a challenge to the professional ethic of architects. It has centred on the Palladio ideal of architecture as the pursuit of truth and beauty through creative action. As we outline, this challenge is one whereby the fragmentation of work tasks, and the emergence of a plethora of ‘new professional’ actors in project design and delivery, is – so some allege – decentring architects and potentially rendering them less significant to the production of the built environment. In chapter 3, we evaluate the broader attitudes and values of architects, and other professionals, towards the regulation of design and development activities, with a focus on the building regulations. We suggest that architects’ attitudes are part of a deeply rooted discourse about the regulation of design and development activity that, at its core, is premised upon the understanding that regulatory controls are anathema to the delivery of a modern urban infrastructure and environment. Indeed, there are many in the development industry who expound the sentiment that the practices of architects, and other development professionals, are over regulated and subject to rules and regulations that have the capacity to diminish the quality of design, while increasing the costs of building and construction activities. Perennial observations suggest that regulations often encourage conservative behaviour by design professionals, who are less likely to innovate or experiment, with the consequence of the (re)production of bland architecture and the perpetuation of sterile urban spaces. Part II of the book, on ‘the practices of regulation’, is a series of empirical investigations into different aspects of architects’ engagement with, and understanding of, rules and regulations relating to building form and performance. The chapters are interlinked by two main concerns. The first is to advance, through evaluation, our understanding that the style, appearance, or aesthetics of the built environment are not just the products of taste, but of a much wider set of social, cultural, and political programmes and practices. Paramount, we

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suggest, are the rules and regulations relating to the conduct of architects. The second is to provide in-depth evaluation of the interrelationships between different forms of regulation and the design process, with reference to the self-testimonials of architects and other development professionals. In doing so, we seek to challenge some of the cruder, reductive, characterisations of rule and regulation that dismiss them as nothing more than anathema to the production of a well-designed environment. We begin our empirical explorations in chapter 4 by focusing on the role of pedagogic processes in influencing architects’ understanding of the contexts of design, including regulation. We discuss the significance of the education and training of architects in relation to the formation of their values and attitudes towards design, and evaluate how far, and in what ways, this perpetuates the view of the autonomous architect, and with what implications for dealing with the manifest realities of rule and regulation. As we suggest, architects’ education continues to be dominated by the studio culture, or a form of instruction premised on the understanding that architects are central to the design process. In this view, the design process is, in Habraken’s (2005: 153) terms, about architects’ ‘total control of a discrete and self contained building’. Such mentalities, or discourses of design, are, we contend, the key bases for the (re)production of attitudes and values that reinforce the divide between architecture and building. In turn, this may contribute to the sidelining of regulation as a subject of study or frame of reference for the (self-)understanding of the practices of architects. Chapter 5 is a discussion of one specific part of the regulatory environment of architecture: the building regulations. As we argue, it is commonly assumed that building regulation and control is a technical activity, and part of a bureaucratic machine external to the design process. For many architects, building regulations are no more than a set of rules to be adhered to, and are usually seen as ephemeral, even incidental, to the creative process of design. However, the main argument of this chapter takes forward the underlying thesis of the book, that the building regulations are entwined with, and are constitutive of, architects’ practices. Such rules and regulations are, we contend, one of the critical elements of the ‘ordinary built field’ that shape architects’ actions (Habraken, 2005). Far from being an insignificant part of the design process, as some commentators suggest, we develop the argument that the building regulations influence aspects of creative practice and process in architecture and, as such, ought to be given greater attention by scholars of urban design. We shift the focus of investigation in chapter 6 to a discussion of the interrelationships between risk and its regulation in the design process.


We suggest that a new focus for the understanding of architecture – and urban design more generally – ought to be consideration of the interrelationships between creativity, risk, and regulation. There is a plethora of regulation relating to building form and performance, and seemingly much more emphasis on risk identification and its management, particularly in relation to the processes underpinning the development and delivery of building projects. It appears that the practices of architects, like other urban design professionals, are implicated in the construction of risky objects and their mitigation by recourse to systems of managerial governance (Hood et al., 2001). These risks are diverse and complex, but include budget and programme overruns, failure to deliver on design components or work packages, and non-compliance with health and safety legislation (Beck, 1992, Power, 2004, 2007). The chapter is built around the proposition that risk and its regulation is entwined with organisational changes in the nature of project development and delivery, and linked with the emergence of what we might regard as diffused or dispersed organisational forms that, in and of themselves, become harbingers of risk, while also being one of the means to create new forms of risk governance. In turn, much of architects’ responses to risk revolve around procedures to secure reputation in contexts where loss of standing and repute is perceived to be a significant threat (Power et al., 2009). As our data indicate, much of the daily work routines of architects, and other development professionals, revolve around the development of new management systems, to the detriment, so many suggest, of their involvement in creative design work. Such (risk averse) systems are designed to apportion, and thereby reduce, the risks facing design and construction professions as part of the building process and, as we discuss, appear to be part of a change in architects’ work with increasing proportions of time being directed towards administrative functions related to risk and its management. In chapter 7, we develop the understanding of what regulation is by connecting it to organisational changes in the design process, and to the discourses and conduct of different professionals involved in project development and delivery. As we suggest, while regulation can be conceived as state centred, and defined as the exercise of legal rules and modes of conduct, it can also be thought of as non-state derived or located, and characterised by a complexity of socio-institutional forms and relations. This complexity includes not only the codified regulations, such as the building regulations, but also what Faulconbridge (2009: 2551) refers to as ‘other forms of socio-technical regulation (i.e. the multiple parties involved in the design process, social practices, and their influence on the use and identity of built

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forms)’. This points towards the analysis of how the practices of architects may be influenced by the disciplines, rules, and values of other project professionals, such as project managers, structural engineers, and chartered surveyors, in a context whereby, as some allege, the architect is increasingly a marginal part of the process that underpins the design and delivery of the built environment. The arguments of chapter 7 seek to develop the understanding that architects’ interrelationships with other professionals are constitutive of a form of regulatory influence over design outcomes. In particular, we suggest that such regulatory influences may be understood as a process of ‘co-production’ through the context of a series of relational networks or socio-institutional and political interdependencies (also, see Baer, 1997, Bentley, 1999, Hawkesworth and Imrie, 2009, Mackenzie and Martinez Lucio, 2005). In the chapter, we develop, in part, Offe’s (1984) observation that the fragmented nature of social and political life is characterised by complexity of institutional interdependencies and interactions that render regulation messy and indeterminate. No single actor or institution can dominate social life, and agents such as architects are influenced by the knowledge, rules, resources, and actions of those that they interact with (Bentley, 1999). It is in and through such interactions that the actions of architects may be conceived as part of a process of co-produced activities. In chapter 8, we turn to a discussion of design codes and what appears to be their increasing importance in influencing the activities of architects. While there is nothing new about design codes, they have gained ascendency in the past 20 years in a context whereby there has been increasing dissatisfaction with the quality of urban design (Carmona et al., 2006, Carmona, 2009). We develop the proposition that codes are related to crosscutting, even contradictory, discourses about the interrelationships between regulation and urban form and process. Design coding is part of a discourse of urban crisis in relation to the sustainability of the form and performance of the built environment. Here, the design code may be understood as an instrument or technique of government that seeks to discipline design professionals to respond in appropriate ways to broader social and environmental concerns about the sustainability of the urban form. We develop the understanding that the design code is entwined with political and moral struggles to shape the good city, in which what are defined or understood as ‘appropriate’ approaches to spatial development are part of a contested and politicised field. Chapter 9 concludes the book and seeks to reflect on some of the implications of (re-)centring the study of rule and regulation as part of the understanding of the practices of architects. We summarise the main messages of the book about the importance of rules and

1.4 Conclusions There are few substantial writings about the regulation of architecture and its practices, and little by way of a systematic evaluation of the rulebound nature of the design and development process (although, see Ben-Joseph, 2005a, Davis, 2008). While the scope of such a task is beyond this particular book, our ambition is to draw attention to some of the ways in which the practices of architects are entwined with, and influenced by, rules and regulations that seek to specify the form and performance of buildings. From the formative stages of human habitation, including the design and occupation of shelter, rules and regulations relating to the systematisation of building form and performance have been evident and documented by a range of writers. As suggested in this chapter, such rules range from tacit or informal understandings of what good building is or ought to be, often influenced by religious and cultural beliefs, to the perennial concerns about health and safety, and the need to safeguard human life from the possibilities of building defects and structural failures. The underlying message of the chapter, and one that is an undercurrent of the book, relates to the continuing tension between architecture and building, and the split, or disjuncture, between the creative activities of thinking about design and its translation into the fabric of the built environment through the practices of construction. This observation draws attention to what Duffy and Dutton (1998) regard as a professional structure that has led to architects’ failing to develop an appropriate understanding of management relating to building processes (also see Davies and Knell, 2003). This estrangement is linked, in part, to the ideological or value bases of architectural


regulations in relation to the governance of urban form and process. We seek to reinforce the understanding that the regulation of the practices of architects ought not to be conceived, as some have done, as necessarily inhibiting creative design actions and outcomes. Rather, they may also be thought of as generative, by facilitating as well as constraining actions. The chapter also discusses the theoretical and empirical implications of seeking to understand regulation, and its entwinement with architects, as part of relational socio-political formations. That is, regulation and the practices of architects are conjoined, and not necessarily part of separate spheres or domains of knowledge, expertise, and practice. We conclude by sketching out what a future research agenda is, or ought to be, in relation to enhancing the understanding of the role of regulatory activities in shaping the spatial form of cities.

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production that, as we have discussed in the chapter, seek to perpetuate the discourse of an autonomous architecture, or what Habraken (2005: 136) refers to as the ‘Palladian role model’. This model serves to emphasise the importance of architects’ control of the design process, and the primacy of their ingenuity to craft and construct the built environment (Bentley, 1999, Sarfatti-Larson, 1993). Such perspectives have, however, the potential to perpetuate representations of the design process based on what Tafuri (1976: 182) describes as ‘impotent and ineffectual myths, which so often serve as illusions that permit the survival of anachronistic “hopes in design”’. The outcome is ‘the death of the architect’ whereby the architect is, according to Tafuri (1976), implicated in the (re)production of the ideological basis of architecture, or design as the pursuit of pure form. For Tafuri (1976), this basis, for the practices of architecture, is illusory, and it flies in the face of the manifold realities of a process shaped, increasingly, not by the architect, but by the actions of a multitude of actors and agents that operate outside of the architectural profession. In seeking to understand the actions of architects, this observation directs analytical attention to the broadcloth of socio-institutional forms and relations, including legal and quasi-legal rules and regulations that, in combination, are at the fulcrum of the production of the built environment.

Chapter Two The Rule and Regulation of Building Form and Performance

Codes are Rosetta Stones, keys or prescriptions for acts of translation. Poised between fantasy and construction, codes – if they are both broad enough and precise enough – can be the channels of urban invention. (Sorkin, 1993: 1)

2.1 Introduction A recurrent theme in urban studies is the interrelationship between urbanism and bureaucracy, and the regulation of everyday life in cities. Lewis Mumford (1961: 608) describes the early 20th century city as characterised by the ‘growth and widening influence of the bureaucracy’. For Mumford (1961: 617), the city was emblematic of the forces of modernity, in which ‘every aspect of life must be brought under control’. This theme, of social and political control of urban space, is at the heart of the writings of Foucault (2004: 12) who, in commenting on 17th and 18th century urbanism, refers to the ‘problem of the town’ as a ‘problem of circulation’ (also see Rabinow, 1995). For the town to function as a place of trade, exchange, and economy, spaces of circulation and movement were subject to government controls or regulations. Foucault (2004: 18) identifies these as measures to open up densely packed spaces, connecting intra-urban flows to external, interurban networks to ensure the physical movement of goods and services between towns, and the organising of space to maximise surveillance of the ‘daily comings and goings’. Foucault’s (1979, 2004) writings, with those of authors such as Rowe (1993), Rabinow (1995) and Wright (1991), demonstrate the significance of the city as a series of regulated and policed spaces,



comprising places subject to particular forms of rule relating to the spatial juxtaposition of buildings, roads, and related infrastructure, as well as specifications of what their performance ought to be. For Otter (2002: 3), the emergence of a regulatory order in the 19th century was indicative of disciplinary governance, or the making of urban spaces as part of a political programme ‘where ruling through freedom could be made possible and visible’ (also see Huxley, 2008, O’Malley, 2004, Rabinow, 1995). The visibility of ruling (the city) was, for Foucault (2004: 18), by recourse to the code, the means to ‘do things’, or what Sorkin (1993: 1) refers to ‘as prescriptions for acts of translation’. These acts emerged as part of a process by which space became delimited, categorised, divided, and made amenable to the exercise of government. The making of urban spaces through the application of spatial rule, regulation, and rationality, has been a staple feature of urbanism across many different socio-temporal, political, and spatial contexts (Ben-Joseph, 2005a, Mumford, 1938). For instance, the design of ancient Chinese cities revolved around the use of grids, squares, and regular lines, in which the objective was the propagation of the prevailing religious and political order (Bray, 2005, Friedmann, 2007, Lynch, 1984). Likewise, the examples of formulaic urbanism, that characterised most post-1945 housing developments in the Soviet Union and China, were, for Bray (2005), indicative of a rational disposition of space. The rationality was part of a broader agenda, by governments, to ensure a minimum quantity of housing supply, while signifying the collective identities of the political regimes, or what Bray (2005: 24) refers to as bolstering ‘the ordered regimen of collective activity’. These views could apply equally to what was occurring in countries such as the UK and the USA during the same period. These different examples illustrate the omnipresence of rules and regulations relating to building form and performance, and their significance as means or instruments of disciplining and shaping the practices of architects. The rest of the chapter provides an overview of the complexity of rule and regulatory-type in relation to the design of urban space and, in doing so, seeks to understand the interactions of architects with the rules and regulations that seek to govern the conduct of the urban design process. Such regulation cannot be understood outside the specificity of the socio-political and moral contexts of society. Regulation relating to design is never purely technical, nor is it value free or divisible from the exercise of political power and the organisation and control of socio-spatial relationships. Rather, as Foucault (1979), Lefebvre (1991), Rabinow (1995), and many others have suggested, the regulation of urban space is socio-culturally encoded and characterised by it seeking to

The Rule and Regulation of Building Form and Performance

(re-)create, first and foremost, conditions for the reproduction of the human body. This is one of the common trans-historical themes about building design and its regulation that we highlight in this chapter, or what Groak (1992: 71) refers to as the relevance of the rule in seeking to secure ‘the physiological condition and biochemical balance of the body’. We suggest that the rules and regulations relating to building design are derived from, and seek to reproduce, the conditions for the functioning of the human body.1 In this respect, we concur with Groak’s (1992: 81) observation that the regulation and design of the built environment is related to the ‘sensory basis of comfort’. The body is relevant not only as the object/subject of regulatory intervention, but also as the basis for deriving proportional measurements of building form. As we discuss, from the earliest forms of human settlement, to contemporary design projects, the body underpins, in part, the derivation of building form, scale, and performance, and, as Hakim (2001, 2008) suggests, it is ‘the maxim and measure’. In developing this, and related, ideas, we divide the chapter into four parts. First, referring in brief to classical pre-modern history and the periods of the European Renaissance, we develop the understanding that the practices of architects have always revolved round the disciplining of the design process by recourse to rules and regulations relating to building form and performance. From the earliest, formative, forms of human habitation, rules relating to the spatial disposition of buildings, including their location and physical dimensions, have underpinned the emergence of what Davis (2006) refers to as building cultures (also see Bentley, 1999, Ben-Joseph, 2005a, 2005b, Parker-Pearson and Richards, 1994). These are characterised by a mixture of regulatory-types and processes, including propagation of tacit codes, or non-legal rules, which are part of socio-cultural and religious traditions and practices, and also the use of legal regulation relating to the conduct of political power, and the securing of space for safe human habitation. Second, our discussion turns to the emergence of what some have described as the regulatory society at the end of the 18th century, and the expansion of the disciplinary powers of the state (Foucault, 1979, Rabinow, 1995, Rowe, 1993). This was characterised by an increase in the scale and intensity of the policing of all spheres of social life, including the design and construction of buildings (Otter, 2002). It was a period in which tacit codes relating to building were increasingly interwoven with, and subject to, legal and quasi-legal rules and regulations, relating specifically to the development of the hygienic city or places constructed to ward off the risks to the health and safety of the population. The regulation of the modern city was the propagation of what Rabinow (1995: 13) refers to as the ‘practice of reason’, or the

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application of scientific knowledge and technique and a rationality of governing and regulating society that, for Rabinow (1995: 13), was ‘devoted to efficiency, production, and the welfare of its population’. Third, we describe briefly the expansion of the regulatory society into the broadcloth of state-centred forms of control in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, characterised by the well-documented emergence of the modernist state, and comprehensive forms of spatial intervention, planning, and control (Healey, 2002, Ward, 2004). We highlight the rise of central state policing of social and economic life, and the extension of centralised expertise to intervene in, and orchestrate, the activities of the citizenry. In relation to architects, and the design process more generally, the ‘command and control’ state heralded the extension of planning and building control and, for many in the development industry, it became synonymous with what Black (2002: 2) characterises as ‘poorly targeted rules, rigidity, ossification, under or over enforcement, and unintended consequences’ (also see Levi-Faur, 2008). For architects, there was a sense of loss of autonomy and control over the design process, or what Sarfatti-Larson (1993: 243) has described as ‘the architect’s subservience to power’. Fourth, we discuss the extension of the socio-technical mentalities of modernity in the 20th century, and the development of a comprehensive, legal, regulatory apparatus that, as Jane Jacobs (1961) suggests, was at the heart of the socio-political processes responsible for undermining the vitality of many cities (also see Mumford, 1938). For much of the 20th century, in places as far apart as the (former) Soviet Union and the UK, the design process was subject to top-down, prescribed rules and regulations relating to spatial development, stemming not only from the state but also from corporate builders and construction companies seeking to develop and deliver standardised build and form. The Palladian ideal of the building as ‘art-object’ was supplanted by the building as an object of profit and practicality. While, we argue, this remains central, we discuss the emergence in the 21st century of what some are calling the regulatory society, or an alleged shift towards self-regulation in which roles and responsibilities of actors, such as architects, may well be providing some scope for breaking out of the ‘logics of modernity’ (Levi-Faur, 2008).

2.2 Early settlement and the codification of design practice From the unitary codes of cities, dating from the writings of Vitruvius (1960) in the 2nd century BC, to the rise to prominence of Euclidean geometric proportion between the 15th and 19th centuries, 28

architecture has always been subject to what Bentley (1999: 60) characterises as structures of assumptions or constitutive rules about process and product. In classical antiquity, rules relating to building ranged from the specification of building heights, to what Vitruvius (1960: 24), in his classic text, The Ten Books of Architecture, described as the proper ‘apportionment of house lots within the walls and the laying out of streets and alleys with regard to climatic conditions . . . to exclude the winds from the alleys’ (Figure 2.1). For Vitruvius (1960: 17), architecture was conditioned by a hierarchy of principles, including, first and foremost, securing a site to guarantee ‘the healthfulness of the future city’, and then to craft urban form around the provision of religious and public buildings designed and constructed ‘in due proportion according to correct principles of symmetry’. There was nothing new about this rule-bound nature of architecture, and the earliest primitive forms of habitation, pre-dating the writings of those such as Vitruvius, revolved around the setting of rules relating to the siting and location of buildings, and the construction of structures to enable them to withstand climatic and other physical threats or sources of danger. For example, Carter (2009: 1) describes the construction of early English and Scottish round houses, dating between the 8th and 1st century BC, and develops the thesis that they were based on systematic rules or that ‘the builders were using similar principles of foundation design’ (Figure 2.2, over page). Such settlements exhibited purposive planning and a formalisation of (design) rules, including a functional differentiation of specific areas of buildings (Mumford, 1938). For Carter (2009: 1), the evidence suggests that ‘prehistoric timber building was


Figure 2.1 The Tower of the Winds. Andronikos of Kyrrhos (or Cyrrhestes), a Macedonian astronomer, supervised the construction of the Horologion according to Vitruvius, known today as the Tower of the Winds, in the Athens marketplace in the first half of the first century BC. Source: credited – Andreas Trepte, www.photo-natur.de

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The Context of Regulation Figure 2.2 Prehistoric building regulations? Source: K. A. Steer, 1956. ‘An Early Iron Age Homestead at West Plean’, Proc. Soc. Antiq. Scot., 89, 227–49

architecture created by competent specialists’ and that ‘thousands of years before the appearance of building regulations . . . prehistoric builders had it covered’. While Carter’s observations may be exaggerated, they highlight the significance of common law or other codes based on custom, evident in many traditional societies, as the basis for regulating building form and performance. For Davis (2006: 202), the emergence of the earliest building cultures was defined by ‘common law doctrines’ that formalised the practices of architects and builders. Such formalisation reflected the incorporation into rules of customs, traditions, and cultural forms and processes, or aspects of buildings that are not easily codified and represented through systems of measurement and management. For Moore (2008: 263), the codification of early culture was characterised by tacit codes, or those that ‘bind citizens to the customary practices of their community’. These were evident in societies as diverse as ancient Mayan, Islamic, and Greek civilisations, where the design of buildings was informed by specific knowledge systems relating to the integrity of structure, aesthetics, and building quality and performance (Figure 2.3). Such integrity revolved around socio-cultural referents in which the physical order of places emerged out of local tradition, based on religious beliefs and traditions. For instance, the earliest urban settlements in Islamic cultures were informed by religious rule-based systems to guide design and construction activities. Hakim (2001) outlines the 30


Figure 2.3 The settlement of Copan. Copan is an ancient Mayan settlement located in Western Honduras, Central America. Buildings date back to 1000 BC. The design and aesthetics of the site have undergone numerous changes, and as Sharer et al. (1999: 3) suggest, its ‘building sequences reflect the perpetuation of political power by using important locations as symbolic links to the sacred past. Source: Rene Giovanni Sanchinelli, EyeFetch

traditional rule system relating to the Islamic city, noting that two types of rules were used to influence building form and performance. The first was based on meta-principles or centrally imposed laws; the second was based on matters of detail and derived from localised community based customary rules. The meta-principles were part of the moralisation of the built environment that sought to connect the physicality of buildings and neighbourhoods with personal responsibility and moral and ethical conduct. As Hakim (2001: 89) notes they ‘contributed to the phenomenon of the diversity of settlements within specific sub-regions of the Islamic world’ (Figure 2.4, over page). This was not dissimilar to most other urban forms in different sociocultural settings that derived their rules for building form from astrological or cosmic points of reference. Lynch (1984) refers to the significance of urban design in early Chinese cities in seeking to bring together ritual, power, and place. The design of Chinese cities revolved around the use of grids, squares, and regular lines, in which the objective was the propagation of the prevailing religious and political order. Lynch (1984: 13), describes the imperial Chinese city where ‘ritual and place were fitted together’. Likewise, Zhu’s (2004) study of imperial Beijing shows how the formal plans and building codes of the 31

The Context of Regulation Figure 2.4 Bam, Iran. Bam was originally founded during the Sassanian period (224–637 AD) and displays the meta-principles of design referred to by Hakim (2001). Prior to the earthquake of 2003 that destroyed much of the city, the city comprised a remarkable series of buildings and spaces, including a citadel, 38 watchtowers, and the historic town with an 9th century mosque. The city has been described by UNESCO as ‘the most representative example of a fortified medieval town built in vernacular technique using mud layers’. (see http://whc.unesco.org/en/list/1208). Source: Benutzer: The 194.231.230.60

city reflected and reproduced imperial ideology, in which, as Zhu and Kwok (1997: 128) observe, the city was designed ‘according to a strictly prescribed hierarchical arrangement’. This included the location of the Imperial Palace at the centre of the city, as signifier of the sanctity of the feudal class system and the power of the Emperor (Figure 2.5). The pre-modern Chinese settlement exhibited physical form akin to traditional agrarian villages in other cultures, by interlinking building form with what Davis (2006: 29) describes as ‘the cosmic order connected to daily and annual cycles of life’ (also see Low, 1996, ParkerPearson and Richards, 1994, Smith, 2007b). For Davis (2006: 29), human settlement, in places as far apart as Amazonia and New Guinea, comprised physical form that was a recognition of life’s dependence on the sun, and other elements of existence, that lay beyond the earth itself. Davis (2006) refers to the Creek Indians in the American southeast in which the centre of the settlement comprised a sacred fire as part of a civic ceremonial place (Figure 2.6). Nabokov and Easton (1989: 111) describe the architecture of the Creek square as a gendered space, suffused with socio-cultural and religious meaning: ‘the square 32


Figure 2.5 The Wang Cheng, Imperial City. ‘The city was built by artisans in a square pattern, stretching nine lions each side and each inset with three city gates’. Within the city there were nine horizontal streets and nine vertical streets, each wide enough to accommodate nine carts running parallel (the centre of the city was a palatial town); set up on the left side of the palatial town was an ancestral temple for worshipping the ancestors of Emperor Zhou; on the right side was a Sheji Altar for worshipping the god of the land and the god of grain’ (from the ‘Kao Gongji’ or Notes on the Inspection of Engineering Work). Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Jingshanpic1.jpg

ground, its shelters, and the ritualized movement of males through them expressed Creek ideas about the structure of the tribal universe – of which the square ground was a symbolic microcosm – and the proper places of human beings in it’. The emplacement of people within the context of design in this way was part of the emergence of a typology of building form. In western culture, this was partly predicated on what Mikellides (1980: 22) refers to as the body as ‘the image of the absolute of God’. In Greek and Roman civilisations, a body-centric architecture was combined with the design of buildings based on elaborate geometrical structure and form, or what Parker-Pearson and Richards (1994: 39) refer to as the production of spaces ‘which anchored commemorative rituals to place’. Such rituals often reflected, in design terms, the orientation of buildings and spaces around the four cardinal points, and the belief in proportion, symmetry, and order as the (rule) basis for the design of the built environment (Figure 2.6, over page). This later became 33


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S Figure 2.6 Creek Square Ground or ‘Big House’. Creek Native American culture illustrates the importance of civic ceremonial places constructed according to precise rules and measurements. The square ground was organised around the cardinal points depicted here by the positioning of four buildings, known as cabins. The cabins’ dimensions were 30 10 feet and each consisted of two long seats, one behind the other. Nine posts held up the roof and the ends of the cabins were separated into two parts. Source: Access Genealogy

enshrined in the writings of those such as Claude Perrault (1683: 6) who eschewed the proportionality of classical antiquity for ‘the geometrical and mathematical method’ based on rules as analogous to discovering the truth and, as he suggested, only the true architect uses proportion as the basis of all good taste. The derivation of design, whether by geometrical proportions, the four cardinal points, or other cultural and religious referents, illustrates the importance of classification and (formal) order in influencing the practices of architects, without recourse, necessarily, to law or legal sanction and process (Cuthbert, 2003, Akkerman, 2003). From the earliest periods of human habitation, those designing the built environment have been situated in a complexity of rule-bound practices. We concur with Lawrence (1987: 34) who suggests that a code or regulation may be understood ‘as the structure of a general set 34


Figure 2.7 Ta Prohm, Angkor. Ta Prohm is a major Angkor ruin constructed in the mid 12th century. Its design includes five rectangular enclosing walls surround a central sanctuary. Ta Prohm is oriented to the east, and the temple is set back to the west along an elongated east–west axis. There are entrance buildings called gopuras at each of the cardinal points. Source: http://wapedia.mobi/en/File:Gopurataprohm.jpg, usage granted under GNU Free Documentation License

of possibilities for communicating and understanding particular characteristics of human culture’ (also see Bentley, 1999, Habraken, 2005, Rowe, 1993). In this respect, the boundaries, thresholds, dimensions, and locations of spaces within and between buildings – that is, the morphologies of architecture – are products, in part, of social and cultural assumptions and norms or expectations of use and utility. Such norms are part of the emergence of building-types or forms that follow design rules and conventions. They reflect the situating of design practices, from the earliest periods of building, within what Weber (1978: 17) refers to as ‘traditional action’, or the propagation of ‘custom and habit . . . derived from ideals and symbols’ (Rowe, 1993: 289). As Rowe (1993: 289) suggests, architectural types are less complete buildings worthy of emulation than they are implicit rules of spatial organisation and architectural compositions to be followed. Indeed, for Rabinow (1995: 48), the task with which many architects were charged was ‘to represent correctly the origins of a building and to make its function a visible and legible part of its structure’ (Bentley, 1999, Habraken, 2005). The ‘type’ provided a means for this and, as Rabinow (1995) notes, it was a prerequisite for codifying building structure and 35


performance, and was significant in enabling architects to provide benchmarks for the evaluation of construction. The benchmarking of architecture was also subject to laws and legal process relating to what Tombs (2002: 114) characterised as the reproduction of everyday life free from ‘death, injury, and illness, destruction, and despoliation . . .’ One of the best, early known, examples of legal regulation was a code of laws devised by the 2nd century BC ruler of Babylon, Hammurabi, that placed the risks of building failure with the builder/designer who, at the extreme, could be put to death for harm or injury caused by defective design (Figure 2.8). Formative legal systems, relating to planning and building control, were evident in many socio-cultural settings at this time, and thereafter. They were primarily seeking to prevent construction of unstable structures and risk of building collapse and fire. One of the first legal responses to fire risk

Figure 2.8 The prologue of the Code of Hammurabi on a clay tablet in the Louvre. Source: Purchase, 1925 – copyright expired

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in cities emerged in Rome after a major conflagration in AD 64. Klitzke (1959: 175) describes the outcome as wider streets ‘laid out in an orderly fashion’, with every house limited in height, and ‘party walls were not permitted and open spaces were left between buildings’. In later periods, the range of legal interventions relating to design multiplied and comprised a variety of instruments and techniques of regulation. An example was the 1342 statutes of Perugia that, as Freidman (1992) outlines, prescribed the minimum widths of eight feet for neighbourhood streets. In Renaissance Florence, garden walls of eight feet in height were also required by law, as part of an aesthetic or measure of creating a streetscape that the legislation described as ‘useful and proper and beautiful’. Such legal interventions were evident in Islamic cultures, and Ben-Joseph (2005a: 16) describes them as derived on performance-based codes closely ‘associated with customary law and the ethical systems and values of a community’ (also see Ben-Joseph and Szold, 2005). For Ben Joseph (2005a: 24), the interlinking of custom, social norms, and law provided scope for the actions of architects to transcend ‘an ideal average and social homogenization’ and, instead, work in and through the complexity and specificity of the places they were designing. The tacit and legal rules and regulations relating to the design process, prior to the emergence of the European Enlightenment, reinforce the views of Lynch (1984), Mumford, (1938), and Jacobs (1961), amongst others, that urban form reflected purposive actions and interventions, based on a complexity of knowledge relating to a diversity of socio-cultural traditions and practices. Architects were, and still are, subject to convention and (rule-based) type or historically repeated configurations that conditioned, in part, what they were able to design or achieve as building form and performance. While such types were sometimes legally codified, more often than not they were part of a culture of building, or what Davis (2006: 5) defines as ‘the coordinated system of knowledge, rules, procedures, and habits that surround the building process in a given place and time’. This building process was to become, post Renaissance, increasingly subject to state fiat and rule, and part of the extension of government into the social and economic affairs of the population.

2.3 Spatial codes and the regularisation of design and development The increasing legalisation and formalisation of the conduct of architects was evident in western societies from the mid 16th century, when 37


the certitudes of the religious world were being challenged and displaced by a secularisation process and, with it, the emergence of what Tr€ uby (2005: 24) refers to as ‘a modern orientation to risk’. This orientation, defined partly by the growth of the state and its governance of life, was a response to the modern preoccupation with seeking to reduce human insecurities through purposive governmental interventions in life, in a context whereby questions were being asked how far order was possible in a world that had displaced God and the cosmological certitudes of existence (also see Rose, 1999, Tr€ uby, 2005). The affirmative response was that societal order could be ensured by the development and deployment of science, bolstered by the belief in the rational calculus of scientific method. Such methods were to provide the means for appropriate socio-technical interventions in nature and society, and to be the basis for guaranteeing the future wellbeing of the population. This was a period of the rise of a ‘modern’ view or understanding of aesthetics and design, that was less concerned with architecture as art and more with it as part of function and economy. Claude Perrault, in challenging the significance of the ornamental and the decorative in architecture, emphasised the importance of the functional and structural efficiencies of design, or what Francis Mallgrave (2005: 12) described as ‘less ornament, plain surfaces, and rectilinear architectural forms’. Such views were a challenge to the Palladian ideal of architecture, and they sought to redefine the understanding of the actions of architects as a rationale for ‘how to build in an efficient and economical manner’ (P erez Go´mez, 1983: 4). By the mid 17th century, architecture was increasingly associated with, and defined by, operational and prescriptive rules and the pursuit of prosaic and practical outcomes. P erez Go´mez (1983: 4) suggests that this was the propagation of ‘a paradigm of economical construction’, characterised by the pursuit of utility, ‘not beauty, pleasure, or any other metaphysical ideal’ (Rabinow, 1995: 50). The emergent paradigm was characterised by the rise of the calculative society, and the techniques of measurement and construction, as the basis of spatial order and the development of urban forms (Crampton and Elden, 2006).2 From the quantitative or mathematical assessment of building form and performance to the costing of projects and the discipline of economy, architects were encouraged to be part of a context of thinking and organising that revolved around (the mentalities of) calculation (P erez Go´mez, 1983, Rabinow, 1995, Rowe, 1993). These mentalities sought to propagate a practice of reason based upon the elevation of technique and function above that of style. As Rabinow (1995: 51) suggests, style was rendered inessential in a system predicated on a logic that increasingly conceived of


architecture as a systematic range of technical elements ‘based on geometrical form and mathematical drawings’. Such views were not uncontested, and many writers, artists, and social commentators were critical of scientific rationalism and its reduction of human actions to purposive and deliberative forms, based upon the certitudes of knowledge generated by the method and techniques of science (Feyerabend, 1980, 1985, Oakeshott, 1994). The English poet and artist, William Blake, like other contemporaries, outlined what he perceived as the threat of science and reason to individual expression and imaginative actions and outcomes. He symbolised his feelings in a painting of Sir Isaac Newton depicted at the bottom of the sea, described by one commentator as ‘immersed in the waters of materialism’ (Cordon, 2008: 1). The print shows Newton with a pair of compasses, or symbols of measurement and regulation, but also, in Blake’s terms, ‘rational barriers to the exploration of unconfined realms of the spiritually elevating world of the imagination’. For Blake (1994: 73), Newton’s rationalism had the potential to stifle creativity, and, as he said, ‘if the doors of perception were cleansed, every thing would appear to man as it is, infinite’.

Figure 2.9 William Blake’s depiction of Isaac Newton. Cordon (2008: 1) describes this image as ‘the personification of reason’ or one that ‘expressses Blake’s rejection of scientific rationalism. Through the accidental nature of the colours and texture of the rock Blake asserts his belief in the supremacy of the creative imagination’. Source: http://www.artprints-on-demand.co.uk/noframes/blake/isaac_newton.htm

39


Blake’s lament of the loss of artistic individuality has overtones with the scientism of the city, a process that began to erode the status of architecture as a purveyor of decorative form and that, increasingly, (re)positioned the architect as ‘the servant of surveyors and engineers’ (Rykwert, 1985: endorsement of P erez Go´mez, 1983). The combination of geometrical measure with scientific calculation in the pursuit of building economy reoriented architecture towards the evolution of what Rabinow (1995) calls a species of building plans organised around a basic symmetry that permitted some, albeit limited, variations in architectural form and outcomes. These variations were part of a logic underpinned by the rise to pre-eminence of the norm, or what Foucault (1979: 4) refers to as ‘standards that the subject of discipline came to internalise and manifest in behaviour’ (also see Canguilhem, 1989, Rabinow, 1995, Rowe, 1993). For Foucault (1979), such standards were subject to increasing legal regulation and acquire a particular character through the laying down of detailed rules and procedures (also see Bentley, 1999, Eward, 1990). The filtration of such rules into place-making was evident in the spatial development of cities in the Renaissance and Baroque periods (Ben-Joseph, 2005a). These were characterised by the translation of the geometrical mentalities of society into a ‘rationalised urban form’, including the regular patterning of streets, minimum widths between buildings, and the standardisation of building frontages (Rykwert,

Figure 2.10

40

Sapporo, Japan: the modern rationalised urban form.


1988). For Ben-Joseph (2005a: 27), the rational city was ‘controlled by strict form shaping standards’ that were part of political programmes to create orderly spaces in seeking to secure the ‘efficiency, production, and the welfare of its population’ (Rabinow, 1995: 13). The rationalised urban form was, for Ben-Joseph (2005a), one of the bases for the regulation of social conduct, by seeking to influence the flow and movements of the population through designated and controlled spaces, and by providing a minimum quality of building form and performance to assure the health and safety of the citizenry. Some of the best examples of rational form relate to the formative building regulations of the late 16th and early 17th centuries, in which an objective of government was to secure human safety in, and movement through, towns. Loew (1998) suggests that the emergence of building regulations in 17th century Paris, first enacted under what was termed the Sully Edict of 1607, sought to control street alignments and building projections into the street. The Edict specified minimum widths of streets and building lines, and prohibited overhanging upper storeys of buildings. Likewise, the development of the first building regulations in London, following the Great Fire in 1666, was based on recognition that the administrative and legal apparatus to achieve comprehensive rebuilding was weakly developed. By 1672, most of the City was rebuilt, coordinated by Commissioners with responsibilities for what Lynch (1976: 7) refers to as ‘the unified management of paving, levelling, draining, and clearing’. Lynch (1976: 5) describes the emergence of a new regulatory environment: A special Fire Court was set up to cut through legal mazes . . . and sites on which owners refused to build could be acquired by compulsory purchase and resold. Official surveyors regulated property lines and the quality of construction. All buildings would now be built with brick or stonewalls and according to one of three standard designs, which prescribed elevations, sections, materials, and construction details.

The intrusion of ‘building’ activity into the aesthetic actions of architects, including the regulation of building form and performance, had, not surprisingly, drawn negative opinion and reaction (Disraeli, 2004). For instance, the London Building Act 1774 was introduced to standardise the quality of buildings and prevent the construction of dangerous structures, to control the spread of fire, and to restrict building encroachment onto streets. In doing so, it prohibited external ornamentation and decoration, such as wooden eaves and cornices. The legislation was later characterised by Victorian commentators as the ‘Black Act’, for encouraging bland architecture and ‘a standardised style’. Benjamin Disraeli (2004: 96), for instance, blamed the London 41

The Context of Regulation Figure 2.11 Park Crescent, London – a Georgian Terrace. Developments such as Park Terrace are regarded today as elegant and beautiful and premium prices are paid to get access to them. However, in the mid to late 18th century, the view of such architecture was more akin to Disraeli’s observations. Source: http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Park_Crescent_at_London_ (Bpercent26W).jpg

Building Act (1774) for ‘all those flat, dull spiritless streets, all resembling each other, like a large family of plain children’, and suggested that ‘the influence of our parliamentary government upon the fine arts is a subject worth pursuing’ (see Figure 2.11; also, see Guillery, 2004).3 Such legislation led to the emergence of a new professional cadre seeking to prescribe and police building form and performance as part of broader mentalities of government to survey and control the population. For Huxley (2008), the new governing practices, such as sanitary reform, town planning, and building control, were partly to discipline ‘bodies out of control’ and to manage ‘unruly places’, ensuring order and civility in cities. Such spatial (re-)regulation was integral to political programmes of social control, and was indicative of what Lefebvre (1991: 143) describes as space commanding bodies, ‘prescribing or proscribing gestures, routes, and distances to be covered’. Some of the examples of such governable spaces, or highly prescribed architectural forms, were the planning of almshouses and hospitals, and new settlements or places that, for Foucault (1979: 172), were indicative of the relationship between power and building forms, and the significance of architecture ‘to transform individuals, to act on those that it shelters, to provide a hold on their conduct’. 42


Figure 2.12 Drawing of Almshouses in Rochford, 1787. Source: Ink-wash illustration of Rochford Alms houses in Essex, 1787, by John Thomas Smith – copyright expired

These places were based, primarily, on a utilitarian architecture or design related to a prescribed function of a building. In this respect, they fitted well with the rationalities of political power that were driven by what Mikellides (1980: 7) describes as ‘classification, efficiency, order’. Some of the best-known examples include Edinburgh New Town, developed from the mid 18th century, and the model settlements of Saltaire in England and New Lanark in Scotland, both developed in the early 19th century (Markus, 1993). These settlements combined the prescriptive rules of physical design codes with a moralisation of space, or the attainment of places that reflected and sought to reproduce the normalisation of behaviour and practice or the correction of the individual. In the case of New Lanark, the use of rules of geometrical design and the symmetrical distribution of buildings were, as Bray (2005: 79) suggests, ‘intended to impart an exact grid like order to social life’ as part of a broader system of seeking to influence patterns of sociability in the settlement. The calculative mentalities of rule and regulation were also to the fore in the planning and spatial regulation of colonial settlement, and they reflected the significance of political power and administration in influencing urban form and the actions of those responsible for its design (King, 1984, 1989, Wright, 1991). For instance, the Spanish 43

The Context of Regulation Figure 2.13 New Lanark. Source: R. Pollack, released into the public domain, 29 August 2006

conquest of Latin America led to the establishment of new colonial towns that, following the ‘Planning Ordinances of the Laws of the Indies’ (1523), and later, the ‘Ordinance for New Discoveries, Conquests and Pacifications’ (1573), underpinned the production of a formulaic urban structure based on what Mundigo and Crouch (1977: 247) described as ‘the gridiron . . . and checkerboard system of square blocks’. For Martinez Lemoine (2003: 355), this pattern ‘became the paradigmatic example of the new city’ in Latin America, based on rules that Lynch (1984: 83) describes as part of ‘a practical handbook’ specifying everything from ‘the segregation of noxious activities’ to ‘the uniform style of the buildings’. The design of the Spanish colonial city exemplifies the interrelationships between social and cultural values, and the politics of rule and regulation relating to spatial practice (Conti, 2003, Kostof, 1991, Low, 1996, Smith, 1955, Wright, 1991). Architects were absorbed into a political rationality of rule that sought to define and delimit spaces through the practical application of architecture to the crafting of the built environment. This crafting was less about what one might describe as ‘techne’, or the propagation of architecture as art to the crafting of place, and more about the implementation of a technoscience in the service of demarcating physical space ‘to control the contacts between natives and colonialists’ (Lynch, 1984: 21; also see Rabinow, 1995). The instruments of control were the new 44

The Rule and Regulation of Building Form and Performance Figure 2.14 Plan of Santiago de Chile by Emmanuel Bowen, 1747. Source: Emmanuel Bowen, 1747, copyright expired

techniques of building regulation, including physical devices described by Lynch (1984: 21) as the ‘spatial separations, gates, and barriers . . . order, formality, cleanliness, level ground, standard parts, and things in lines’. By the close of the 18th century, the new instrumentations of urban design had, as previously alluded, elevated building engineers and carpenters to a pre-eminent position within the design and development process. Architecture, as the pursuit of aesthetics and art, was not as significant in a context where the new science of building, including the use of building regulations and standards or rules relating to measures of the built environment, had gained preeminence. The production of space, through the panoply of regulatory forms, was a system of urban management based on precise measurements and formulae, and scientific reasoning and application. The age of practical reason was one when spatial interventions were understood not as political phenomena per se, but as the application of objective technical measures or instruments. This understanding was to form the cornerstone of the emergence of modern systems of spatial regulation and control, and to contribute to the shaping of contemporary urban form. 45


2.4 Hygienic spaces and the efficiency of design The development of a comprehensive regulatory or coding framework for the design of buildings emerged in the 19th century, in a context of rapid urban change in western countries. Urbanisation generated new risks and hazards relating to the density of both population and buildings, and the quality of workmanship and materials relating to the construction of the urban fabric (McLean, 2003). Timber was the primary building material, and inner urban areas were often characterised by zero lot line, or no separation between buildings. From the 1850s, the complexity of the technical infrastructure of cities began to increase, and new sources of energy, such as gas and electricity, were introduced along with the piping and wiring required to service the built environment. The new technologies (of the city) accentuated hazards related to fire and infrastructure failure, and the basis of the modern systems of building control, fire risk and its prevention, became one of the important objects of intervention for government regulation and rule. This was part of the emergence of a regulatory society in the 19th century, seeking to respond to the urban conditions at that time. These were characterised by unregulated spaces and construction activities, with the consequence that poor-quality neighbourhoods emerged, prone to different risks relating to building quality and performance.4 One of the significant risks that precipitated increasing regulation of the design and development process was fire, and a typical example of this, at the turn of the 18th century, were cities such as Helsinki, where buildings were primarily single-storey, and constructed of timber, so much so that it was characterised as ‘the timber city’. A fire in 1808 led to the establishment of a Committee for Reconstruction which stipulated that city centre houses had to be built of stone, and Helsinki was rapidly constructed around a stone-built city centre. Dwellings were oriented parallel to the street, and household structures, such as stables, sheds and outdoor lavatories, were located around the edges of the plots. The governance of risky spaces became part of a broader concern of government with the health and safety of the population, or a process of risk management by the application of supervision and examination around the use of prescriptive design criteria (also see Beck, 1992, Dean, 1999, Foucault, 1979). Such criteria, relating to matters concerning drainage, fire hazard, rights to light, and unstable structures, were no more than forms of reasoning to permit what Dean (1999: 177) regards as ‘the ordering of reality . . . into a calculable form’ (also see


Miller and Rose, 1990). This reality revolved around the setting of numerical or ordinal limits of (building) performance, in which building control evolved as a technical and, purportedly, objective system for the administration and management of the regulations. Such regulations tended to require no more than minimum standards of (technical) design, or measures that, as Rowe (1993: 311) suggests, were expected to ‘hold minima in all situations, regardless of specificities’. The new regulatory regimes reflected, in part, rapid changes in building materials and techniques of construction, and generated a demand for new design and building expertise supplied, primarily, by contractors, carpenters, and engineers (Bentley, 1999, Emmitt, 2001). The 19th century was a period of rapid professional development, characterised by the rise of surveying and structural engineering, and the emergence of an engineering aesthetic, defined in part through ‘design by regulation’, that made inroads into work previously done by architects (Bowley, 1960, Emmitt, 2001). The development of building regulation in the late 19th century was not, however, an unequivocally bad thing for the architectural profession, and as Saint (1983) has suggested, it became an object of architects’ work, and generated a demand for new services and modes of operation. It broadened the scope of the architectural field to the extent that Saint (1983: 67) claims that the growth in regulations in the 19th century was a ‘boon to the security of the profession’.5 Such security revolved around the propagation of the new knowledge of the norm that, as Canguilhem (1989: 239) notes, was a means ‘to impose a requirement on an existence’. By this, he was referring to the norm as a standard of conduct characterised by a mode of regulation ‘designed to correct deviations and to secure compliance and conformity’ (also see Foucault, 1979, Rabinow, 1995). The normalising process in relation to buildings was achieved, so Rowe (1993: 57) argues, by the application of scientific criteria relating to bodily physiology and construction, in which an objective was to attain the ‘normalcy of family life’. It was argued, by government officials in the later 19th century and onwards, that producing minimum standards of building performance, to ensure the physical, mental, and social health of the population, provided the basis for such normalcy, or what McHoul and Grace (1993:17) describe as the exercise of regulation ‘to manoeuvre populations into “correct” and “functional” forms of thinking and acting’. The challenge in attaining such normalcy was posed by the ‘shock city’ characteristics of the rapidly growing cities of the 19th century, often characterised by poor sanitation and spectacular fires, such as the Great Chicago fire in October 1871. This event led to 2100 acres of property burnt down, over 17,000 buildings destroyed, and 100,000 people made homeless. The fire was described by one commentator at the time as

47

The Context of Regulation Figure 2.15 The Great Chicago Fire, 1871. Source: The Great Chicago Fire, 1871. An artists rendering, Chicago in Flames – The Rush for Lives Over Randolph Street Bridge, by John R. Chapin, copyright has expired (http:// en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Chicago-fire1.jpg)

‘everywhere dust, smoke, flames, heat, thunder of falling walls, crackle of fire, hissing of water, panting of engines, shouts, braying of trumpets, roar of wind, tumult, confusion, and uproar’ (cited in Kartman and Brown, 1948: 41). The devastation of Chicago, like similar fire events elsewhere, drew attention to the failures of both technical and social, or governance, systems, and as Sawislak (1996: 4) suggests, the fire had the effect of ‘leading to critical shifts in land use, new forms of investments, and innovations in technology and architecture that all hastened the transformation of the city into its modern form’. These transformations were stimulated by the social and material conditions of urbanism that were widely reported in popular books, journals, and newspapers at that time. An expanding middle class read voraciously the sensational accounts of the urban condition, and metaphors and images of the city as disordered and a menace to life and habitation were not uncommon. The infamous image of the Silent Highwayman, published in Punch magazine in 1847, is one such example, so too the writings of various commentators, such as Matthew Arnold, Octave Mirabeau, and Jacob Riis. Riis’s (1902) description of one part of New York captures the sentiments of the times in describing the urban form as part of a dystopian environment: ‘what was it like? says a man at my elbow, who never saw it. Like nothing I ever saw before, or hope ever to see again. A crooked three-acre lot built over with rotten structures that harboured the very dregs of humanity. 48


Figure 2.16 The Silent Highwayman. This powerful image portrayed societal fears about the ills of urban life, and, as Halliday (2001: 1469) suggests, it reflected a popular belief in Victorian society that disease ‘was caused by inhaling air that was infected through exposure to corrupting matter’. Source: Cartoon from Punch Magazine, Volume 35 Page 137; 1858 – copyright expired

Ordinary enough to look at from the street, but pierced by a maze of foul alleys’. Riis’s (1902) comments were made about a place called Mulberry Bend that later, like much of New York, became the object of intervention or what Rabinow (1995: 100) refers to as ‘the normalising recommendations of hygienists, building technicians, and industrialists’. Some of the earliest building regulations emerged out of inhospitable and insanitary urban conditions and in May 1867, a law was passed in New York regulating tenant houses with the intention to secure ventilation and cleanliness. Part of the process was to secure a retrofit of tenements, and the design and construction of new buildings to more exacting standards, including a minimum number of windows to each room, the construction of drains and sewers, the abolition of cess pits, and ‘to compel landlords to whitewash twice a year’. These requirements extended the range of possible interventions in the design of the built environment, and were part of a process that, while in its formative years, was indicative of what was to come in relation to ever-increasing layers of state control over private actions.6 These controls were controversial and were part of a broader series of public and government debates in the 19th century about the relevance of, and the need for, the regulation of urban form (Burnett, 1986, Dyos and Wolff, 1973, Hunt, 1996, 1999, Otter, 2002). They were characterised by a tension between, on the one hand, regulating too 49

The Context of Regulation Figure 2.17 Mulberry Street, 1900. Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Mulberry_Street_NYC_c1900_LOC_3g04637u_ edit.jpg

little, with the consequence of failing to deal with the major urban problems of the day, and, on the other hand, regulating too much and, in the words of one parliamentarian, interfering ‘with the discretion of builders’ (The Builder, 1844a: 342). For instance, a proposal for a London Building Act in 1843 was, according to Harper (1985: xiii), controversial because ‘many felt it would interfere with the rights of the individual, increase costs, [and] prove difficult to implement’. There was much opposition by builders and the popular and trades presses to what was seen as ‘creeping regulation’, and the newly founded journal, The Builder, carried regular columns opposing building regulation. A typical feature was the Report of the Committee on the Metropolitan Buildings Bill, stating that some of the clauses represented ‘vexatious interference’ (The Builder, 1844b: 280). An editorial, published in The Builder in July 1844, was more forthright in noting that the bill displayed ignorance of architects and the building trade: ‘few people know, especially members of the Legislature, the real state of the architectural constructive knowledge’ (The Builder, 1844c: 543). The editorial refers to the bill as ‘this wretched thing’ and suggested that it was ‘a broaching of much unwholesome, petty interference with matters of form and good construction, which are the subject’s, the architect’s, and the builder’s inherent birthright’ (The Builder, 1844d: 343). It was later argued, in the April 1851 issue of The Builder (1851: 247), that the problem inhibiting 50


architects’ creativity was the public’s ignorance of architecture, ‘particularly building committees’. In contrast, the regulation of the urban condition was conceived of, by its protagonists, as part of a progressive politics that was seeking to utilise new knowledge of building materials, health, and sanitation that, with scientific management, would ensure not only the healthy reproduction of the population but also its moral uplift. The first formal building regulation in New York, the Tenement Act of 1901, reflected such sentiments, and it brought to the fore the possibilities of using physical design as a purposive tool for the social betterment of neighbourhoods.7 In anticipating the 1901 law, the New York Times, in 1896, stated: ‘The chief objections to the old-style tenements are contracted quarters, lack of family privacy, and promiscuous toilet arrangements, inviting moral deterioration; lack of light and air, and of sanitary accommodations, insuring a large death rate, and danger from fire – that ever-present tenement horror’ (New York Times, 1896: 13). These sentiments reflected the hygienist mentalities of the times, and were a forerunner to the first zoning law in the USA (Makielski, 1966, Whitten, 1917). This was passed in New York in 1916, and its provisions were focused primarily on issues of light and air. It specified the distances of buildings to be ‘set back’ from each other, to permit sufficient circulation of light and air around the built environment. This was particularly critical in New York in a period of construction of high-rise buildings (Scobey, 2003, Tallack, 2005, Willis, 1995). Depending on the width of streets, the emerging high-rise skyline had the potential to block out air and light. The zoning law was put into place to ensure that maximum building heights could be attained, while ensuring that air and light qualities would reach minimum standards. The design solution was the ‘set back’, or the requirement that, as the building elevation increased, its bulk would be set back to maintain consistency of air and light quality (Figure 2.18). The building regulatory environment was also closely aligned with the changing political economy of urbanism, and sensitised to the increasing demands by corporate companies for the supply of commercial office space. The ‘set back’ was a method of not only ensuring a minimum quality of air and light, but also of maximising the volume of office provision and contributing to the modernisation of the urban structure and its economy. The proliferation of building instruments and regulations from the late 19th century, in New York and in most cities in western countries, was part of what Harvey (2003) refers to as a systematic crisis of accumulation, or the development of programmes of building and design that were oriented to, and influenced by, political agendas to generate jobs and income by recourse, in part, to building works (Figure 2.19). In this respect, the actions of architects

51

The Context of Regulation Figure 2.18 ‘Set back’ architecture in New York City. Source: Reproduced with the kind permission of Mark and Nicky Sims.

52

Figure 2.19


Regulations and rule are interventions in the disposition of buildings in space. This is not a politically neutral process but is part of what Lefebvre (1991) refers to as the abstraction of space, in which planned spatial interventions, by building administrators, the building codes and standards are inextricably linked to, and part of, the process of the accumulation and circulation of capital. There is a political economy of urbanism that is reflected in the design and development of the built environment, and etched into the physical fabric of urban form. Regulations play a key role in facilitating the spatial pattern and physical form of cities, and in particular are influenced by political and economic relations associated in part with providing environments attractive to investors in, and users of, the built environment.

Chicago tall buildings.

53


An example of the entwinement between regulation, spatial form, and urban (political) economy relates to different periods of the development of tall buildings in Chicago. In 1923, Chicago’s city government abolished a height limitation ordinance passed in 1893 that prohibited the construction of buildings more than 130 feet in height. The context for its abolition was a series of construction booms in the years preceding 1923, characterised by the supply of cheap finance to fund construction, high levels of demand, and accordingly high rental levels that made the sale of commercial office space lucrative. The revised zoning ordinance permitted an increase in the cubic volume of tall buildings, including the erection of structures up to 264 feet above the pavement. In addition, it was permissible to construct towers above the 264 feet limit to no more than one sixth of the cubic area of the main building and not exceeding 25 per cent of the building lot or area (Willis, 1995: 111).

Figure 2.19

54

(Continued).

Figure 2.19


The typical result was buildings that Willis (1995: 111) characterises as ‘big blocky bottom surmounted by an undersized top’ and that became an integral feature of the Chicago sky line.

(Continued).

and other building professionals were, and remain, closely intertwined with broader social and economic goals (of government) that placed a value on the commodification of the built environment.8 By the early part of the 20th century, architects were operating under these increasingly prescriptive regimes relating to the regulation of building form and performance, characterised by the rise of what some have termed the regulatory society, or the extension of the state, and its control, into the social and economic lives of its citizens (Black, 2002, 55


Levi-Faur, 2008, Morgan and Engwall, 1999). The belief in planning for social and economic outcomes, and predicting and controlling the course of events, was part of the justification for the intensification of statist controls. Such controls were particularly to the fore in relation to spatial development, and by the early 20th century, the actions of architects were entwined in what Ben-Joseph (2005a: xiii) characterises as ‘standards and codes that virtually dictate all aspects of urban development’. The pervasiveness of this was such that Sarfatti-Larson (1993: 39) observed that ‘when planning and building standards decided so much, what, then, did architects contribute?’

2.5 From the regulatory society to the regulatory state The statement by Sarfatti-Larson (1993) perhaps exaggerates the extent of architects’ marginalisation from the design and development process and, for some, the mentalities of modernity provided scope, and opportunity, for architects to broaden their modus operandi (Saint, 1983). The influential architect, Le Corbusier (1980: 30), suggested that design was necessarily interlinked with regulation and rule relating to urban form: ‘architecture is a process based on standards’ and the regulation of design is ‘to take possession of space’. This reflected his belief in the power of science to provide the rules and tools to create the good city. As Le Corbusier (1986: 11) said, ‘the engineer, inspired by the law of economy and governed by mathematical calculation, puts us in accord with universal law. He achieves harmony.’ Other advocates of the scientism of design included Robert Whitten (1917: 325), an American city planner, who claimed that neighbourhoods could be planned scientifically, according to order, and could thus avoid what he described as ‘the irreparable injury caused by haphazard building’. The reduction of spatial disorder became an organising principle of, and justification for, the development of planning and building regulation in the 20th century, with the belief that the aesthetic and the functional could be combined to assure the (re)production of environments that would cater for all (Hall, 1998, 2002, Ward, 2004). Spatial regulation was predicated, in part, on interlinking science and technology with purposive government interventions to ameliorate unregulated city building, and to ensure the development of a minimum standard of building form and performance. Frederic C. Howe (1912: 590–591), a social reformer during the Progressive Era, provided a typical commentary in 1912 in support of the evolving regulatory systems: ‘our cities have been planned by a hundred different land owners . . . streets 56


have been laid out without regard to the needs of the future. They have been cheaply paved, watered, and sewered. There have been few building restrictions, little provision for parks, open spaces or sites for public buildings.’ Howe’s (1912) proposed solution, like many others at that time, was to advocate the extension of the (central) state into spatial planning and regulation. Its objectives were first to harness the science of urbanism as the basis for developing knowledge of the objects of intervention, and second to develop the appropriate planning techniques, methods, and instruments that, in combination with technical regulations, were the basis for a ‘blueprint’ approach to urban development (also see BenJoseph, 2005a, Goodrich and Ford, 1913). A plethora of planning and building controls emerged in the early to mid 20th century as part of the rationality of city building, including design codes, zoning ordinances, and formal legal systems to adjudicate development proposals by private sector developers. The idea of ‘the practical city’ underpinned the rise of standards as a basis for spatial form, or the understanding that numerical measures and dimensions could be identified to facilitate what the renowned German planner, Josef St€ ubben (1906: 1iv), advocated as ‘the systematic or regulated laying out of cities’. This belief in standard-setting and the regulation of architects’ actions was evident in the evolving discourse of (building) standards in the 1920s, typified by the notion of the ‘minimum house’ (existenzs Internatiominimum). ‘Minimum house’ was outlined by the Congre naux d’Architecture Moderne (CIAM) in Frankfurt in 1929 to describe the possibilities of producing functional living spaces derived from standard measures relating to human biological and psychological needs. Bodily performance was translated into technical (design) criteria, or the minimum spaces required to facilitate efficient (bodily) functions (for various examples, see Figures 2.20 to 2.22, on pages 58 and 59). The efficiency of design was a challenge to the Palladian ideal of the architect as aesthete, and one of the exponents of the minimum house, Mart Stam (1970: 20), defined ‘the modern outlook’ as rejecting the architect ‘as special and individual’. Henceforth, design was to ‘yield to what is common to all’ by the application of technical standards and the rational disposition of physical layout and function in dwellings. The application of such principles was apparent in much of interwar Europe, and a leading exponent was the German designer Ernst May. May was a proponent of ‘minimum standard’, and much of his work reflected the social and political context of interwar reconstruction, of seeking to harness the powers of architects, planners, and other experts to develop a built environment as part of radical social programmes to provide for the needs of the population. Wurster (1965: 48)

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Figure 2.20 Casa – The Double House. The Casa or Double House is located in Stuttgart, Germany. It was designed by Le Corbusier and built in 1927 as part of an archetype settlement with the goal of creating a model for future living of people in large cities. It reflected many of the values associated with those seeking, in the words of Mies van der Rohe (cited in Pawley, 1970: 12) to ‘free the practice of building from the control of aesthetic speculators and restore it to what it should exclusively be: building.’ Source: http://en.wikiarquitectura.com/index.php?title¼Double_House_in_ Weissenhofsiedlung

Figure 2.22 Reconstruction of a Frankfurt kitchen, Vienna. Source: Christos Vittoratos, 2008, Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike.


Figure 2.21 The Ernst May House. Source: www.ernst-may-gesellschaft.de

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describes May’s work, and that of his contemporaries, as propagating ‘a rationale for improving human environment in a modern industrial society’. May’s work, as chief architect in Frankfurt, oversaw the design of 15,000 apartments in the city between 1925 and 1930, harnessing new prefabricating techniques and reproducing what Frampton (1980: 138) describes as the ‘extensive use of ingenious built-in storage, foldaway beds and above all on the development of the ultra efficient, laboratory-like kitchen, the Frankfurter K€ uche’. The propagation of rationalised dwellings, or what some termed ‘the new objectivity’, was interlinked with the decline of the idealistic objectives of architects in the 1920s, and their replacement by what Andrusz (1985: 124) describes as ‘a cost efficiency concept . . . which postulated a simple linear relationship between an improvement in the standard of accommodation and industrial output’. The centralisation of architectural design and construction, that typified most countries in the interwar period, was seen, by some, as the subservience of aesthetic principles to a process described by Brumfield (1982: 15) as ‘the prefabrication of standardised parts and modules for assembly on site’. This was typified by Ernst May’s design of apartments in Moscow in the early 1930s based on a ‘systematic architectural and engineering

Figure 2.23 An apartment block: Plan for Greater Moscow, 1932.This is a perspective view showing the construction process for apartments in Moscow. It was part of the USSR’s first Five-Year Plan, sponsored by the Central Office for Foreign Construction Industry Consultants. The goal was to design low-cost, mass-produced workers’ flats as part of a general plan to house an additional 2 million inhabitants within Moscow’s existing urban core of 2.8 million. By October 1930, the lead architect, Ernst May, with Gustav Hassenpflug, had assembled a systematic architectural and engineering production unit for the assembly-line construction of apartments. Source: Collection Centre Canadien d’Architecture/Canadian Centre for Architecture, Montr eal.

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production’ process. The impressive output of standardised housing units was part of a state orchestration that, for Brumfield (1982: 15), was characterised by architects ‘constrained by rather limited technological and financial resources, and by the narrow range of options provided by . . . mass construction’. This was a period in which the ‘new architect’ was being heralded or, as the Russian artist, El Lissitzky (1929: 67) suggested, one who would subsume art into science, and romance and emotion to the pragmatics of building, as part of the endeavour to produce ‘objective work’. This was exemplified in the Soviet Union by the notion of the social condenser or what Scott (2009: 59) defines as the use of ‘architecture to limit private life within the single-family home and instead encourage collective socialization and participation in activities (Figure 2.24, over page)’. This building type was similar to the standardisation of building form and type in Maoist China that was achieved by the use of design codes and regulations governing construction methods. However, as Bray (2005) notes, the building codes were insufficient to ensure the production of standardised form. What was also crucial in China was central government funding and control that, as Bray (2005) suggests, insisted on implementation of prescribed ‘norms for design and construction’.9 In the British context, the notable planner, Thomas Sharp (1932: 11), described ‘design by prescription’ as debasing the character of towns and countryside, by creating homogenised spaces and characterless places: ‘tradition has broken down. Taste is utterly debased. There is no enlightened guidance or correction from authority . . .’ The Finnish architect, Alvar Aalto (1941: 118), also noted that the problem of poor urban design was due to the ‘inherent formal conservatism’ of architecture that was forcing ‘great differences of context into a mould’. For Aalto, architects were hindered by ‘outward formal constraints’, including ‘town planning . . . and the related regulation’ that, as he said, stymied ‘the emergence of the basic quality of architecture (Figure 2.25, over page)’. Aalto was not alone in these opinions, with Le Corbusier (1980: 135) noting that architects’ scope for action was conditioned and constrained by democratic rule making: ‘the modern world is held prisoner in a web of democratic rules, based on compromise, ill devised, which are no more and no less than obstacles to doing the right thing . . .’ Such views were not just confined to architects, radical planners, or members of the development industry, but were reflected in, and reproduced by, government officials’ observations throughout the 20th century (Achenbach, 1970, Cochrane and Newman, 1966). For instance, in 1920, the US Senate Select Committee noted that ‘the building codes of the country have not been developed upon scientific

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Figure 2.25 Alvar Aalto private home and studio in Helsinki. Alvar Aalto’s architecture reflects sensitivity to vernacular and traditional referents, and he was concerned with responding to users and their feelings about how the built environment would work for them. His work fluctuated between different styles, and one example is his private home in Helsinki, described by Simon Glynn (2007) ‘the road side of the house is quite austere, with no windows in the cladded wood ‘box’, which provides a minimal porch over the front door. At the side, the house begins to open up, but still providing only a hint of the very open garden fa¸cade’.

data, but rather as compromises . . . they are not uniform in practice’, and do not assure ‘more useful or more durable buildings’ (Department of Commerce Building Code Committee, 1920: 2). For this Committee, the codes lacked ‘principles’ and ‘involve an additional cost of construction’. This theme was amplified by a report (US Department of Labor, 1923) to Congress in 1923 that estimated that conflicting building codes increased construction costs by 10–20 per cent. By the late 1950s, the emphasis had broadened to consider the contributions of building codes to national efficiency goals, and it was considered 3

Figure 2.24 The Narkomfin building. Moisei Ginzburg and Ignati Milinis designed The Narkomfin building in Moscow in 1928 for employees of the Commissariat of Finance. According to Cecil (2007), the architects were ‘given the ideologically charged task of creating a transitional, semi-communal apartment block to introduce the Soviet citizen to the communal way of life. It was to have brought communism into the heart of domestic life and prepare citizens for a fully communal life’. It was a prototype design for modern housing estates that were subsequently designed and constructed in different parts of Europe. Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Narkmomfinfoto2.jpg

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that too often they were inhibiting the development of a building process based on ‘efficient mass production’. These criticisms intensified, post World War II, when it became common practice for architects and other development professionals to work within a spectrum of design standards, guidelines, and spatial development controls, developed and administered by a host of regulatory organisations. A plethora of techniques and instruments were deployed, ranging from local plans to zoning ordinances, and these, for some, were implicated in reducing the design process to no more than that of following a template (Ben-Joseph, 2005a, 2009, Saint, 1983). The templates covered everything from the specification of road widths and layouts, to the density of buildings, their heights and widths, including, in many instances, the types of materials that could be used in construction. The standardisation of place-making was overlain with bureaucratic processes and procedures, and these, coupled with the demands of corporate builders and construction companies, to (re)produce places as part of systems of mass production, were seen as constraining the scope for architects’ actions. City building was characterised by identikit-type processes, which revolved around the production of cities as systems of component parts, spatially separated and linked by major intra-urban road networks. The instruments and techniques of planning and building control were underpinned by, and sought to enforce, a segregationist ethos, or one whereby non-conforming uses were split up as part of a process of creating the ‘efficient city’ (Krier, 1984). The physical spaces of the city became structured, exclusive, and increasingly characterised by mono or single (use) functions, and implicated in what Krier (1984: 17) has described as ‘destroying the infinitely complex social and physical fabric of pre-industrial urban communities’. For others, such as Calthorpe and Fulton (2001: 43), the architect was sidelined in a context whereby the political objective was to ‘plan and engineer rather than design’, thus contributing to the loss of what Sandercock (2003: 3) describes as ‘the city of memory, of desire, of spirit; the importance of place and the art of place-making . . .’ Observations of this type have, in recent times, formed a basis for the emergence of urban design movements, such as the New Urbanism, seeking to break out of statist and corporate controls, and to (re)assert the importance of the aesthetic and the decorative in relation to the form and performance of the built environment (Duany et al., 1991). The (re)assertion of urban design has become paramount, not as a formulaic process seeking to (re)produce identikit places but, rather, as a mechanism to express local socio-cultural vitality and differences and giving priority to vernacular architectures. This implies an emphasis less on the prescriptive formula of planning and building regulations,

Figure 2.26


and more on the intuitive feel for a place, by decentring decisionmaking away from state bureaucrats to key actors such as architects. Governments worldwide have, to an extent, embraced such ideas, in a context whereby the revival of cities, including their physical vitality and design, is significant as part of broader policies to create convivial places attractive to investors and to the skilled strata of the global labour markets. Spatial regulations, while more numerous than ever before, seem to be part of more sensitised regulatory systems encouraging a diversity of interpretations and design possibilities or outcomes as part of the pursuit of ‘the good city’. An implication, potentially, is more scope for architectural interventions in, and interpretations of, design and development, and possibilities for architects to regain ground lost in the earlier shifts to the aesthetics of standardisation. There is, however, lack of clarity about how the regulatory landscape is evolving, and much

The modernist city.

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The Context of Regulation Figure 2.26

(Continued).

debate and conjecture about the extent to which modernist values and modes of governance are being supplanted by a new value-base (Moran, 2007). As we suggest in the next chapter, much of the (re)regulation of design appears to characterised by project actors, including architects, increasingly responsible for ‘self regulating’ the design process in ways that are commensurate with the directives of the state. Whether or not this is freedom for architects’ self-expression is open to question.

2.6 Conclusions In this chapter, the objective has been to convey the understanding that the actions of architects have always been interrelated with the rule and regulatory basis of society relating to the form and performance 66


of buildings. From the beginnings of people’s inhabitation of space, socio-cultural and political rules and regulations relating to the form and performance of buildings have emerged as part of a process in shaping the built environment (Davis, 2006, Lynch, 1976, 1984, Rabinow, 1995). This process has revolved around different systems of order and ordering, exhibiting what Scott (1999: 155) refers to as the ‘fixed and evident ratios of design’. The examples are manifold, and range from what Rabinow (1995: 244) describes as the ‘first great architectural achievement’, the cities of Assyria, that were planned around geometric scale and proportion, to the deployment of Islamic codes that, as Hakim (2001: 25) suggests, were culturally encoded and embodied to preserve ‘privacy from visual intrusion’. While the informal tacit or culturally encoded forms of regulation remain important in influencing architecture, the development of rules and regulations into legal and quasi-legal forms, particularly in the period from the late 17th century and early 18th century, became increasingly important in influencing the practices of architects (Davis, 2006, Foucault, 1979, Rabinow, 1995). Hunt (1996: 168), for instance, refers to what he calls the ‘extensive and self conscious’ regulatory projects that revolved around a panoply of regulatory forms, characterised by the development of the city in the 16th and 17th centuries. The spatial form of such settlements was orchestrated by an intensification of governance, or what Foucault (1979) refers to as the rise of the administrative state (also see Hunt 1999). This was a period of the emergence of the first formative building regulations during a period that Foucault (1979) refers to as ‘social orthopedics’, in which supervision, examination, and discipline were to the fore. The disciplinary nature of society was, as we have argued in this chapter, at the heart of the transformation of early modern, and modern, urban forms. In relation to the formation of settlement, the exercise of rule was indicative of how the regulatory basis of architecture was, and remains, closely connected to systems of political power and practice. This was as true for the form of colonial settlement as it was for the modernist cities of the 20th century, or those places that Jane Jacobs (1961) characterised as based on zoning that she saw as a rejection of the city and its vitality. These emergent modern social imaginaries of the city placed faith in the power of governable spaces, or the importance of calculable control through planning and the regulation of the built environment as the basis for the development of modern urban form. The plan, as Le Corbusier (1925: 61) characterised it, ‘determines everything’, leaving, so it was alleged, limited roles for architects. These observations highlight a series of perennial tensions relating to the governance of the design process, and the struggle by different

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^tre of architecture. For groups to define and assert the raison d’e instance, Rabinow (1995) documents the tension between architecture as beauty and truth and as pragmatics and use, and refers to the work of Durand (1800, English version, 2000) and his codification of the elements of architecture as ‘economy and function’. Similar debates have rerun at different periods of time, and their crux relates to the changing role of the architect in relation to the governance of design activities. While the 20th century appeared to herald the ascendency of functional imperatives relating to design, the increasing use of prescriptive rule, and the emergence of bureaucratic planning, in the chapter we have sought to convey that the nature of rule formation and regulatory type is indeterminate. There is fluidity in relation to the different ways in which rules and regulations intercede with, and influence, the actions of architects. For some academic commentators, the mentalities of the modernist state, and the control of spatial development by direct diktat, and rule by prescription, may now be on the wane (Ben-Joseph, 2005a). This does not necessarily mean that the Palladian ideal of architecture, relating to the autonomy of architects, is being (re)asserted. As we discuss in the next chapter, in a context of an individuated fragmented design and development process, that involves multiple actors, the possibilities for new intertwined regulatory relationships are emerging, including project partners seeking to influence each other to ensure that building outcomes are commensurate with the legal requirements of the development process. The evidence in later chapters, particularly chapter 6, reaffirms the observations of Levi-Faur (2005: 15), that the regulation of social and economic life, including the actions of architects, may be less a loss of state-centred control, and more the emergence of new re-regulatory techniques and forms indicative of ‘a new division of labor between state and society’.

Chapter Three Urban Design and the Rise of the (De)Regulatory Society Cutting . . . red tape is all about understanding the limitations of government – where we need to get out of the way. But at the same time, we should never be limited in our aspirations for government – where we need to get involved. (UK Prime Minister, David Cameron, 2010)

3.1 Introduction Architects’ actions occur within a complexity of intra- and inter-organisational relations defined by rules and regulations that set limits on what can be designed and developed as part of the built environment. The regulatory basis of design is particularly evident in relation to government rules and regulations about building form and performance, including those emanating from planning and building control. Such systems of control, so some argue, are characterised by increasing layers of organisational and procedural complexity that partly reflect a general societal shift towards a ‘regulatory explosion’ or what Braithwaite (2009: vii) has coined ‘the regulatory state’ (also see Jordana and Levi-Faur, 2004, Levi-Faur, 2008). For Braithwaite (2009), the notion of the regulatory state denotes, in part, that while the state is running fewer things, it is regulating more of them, often through arm’s-length agencies and organisational self regulation to ensure compliance with insurance and legal liabilities. This regulatory explosion is evident in relation to the spatial regulation of design and development processes. In recent times, insurance has become much more implicated in influencing the form of certain building types – so too procurement routes and contracts. Likewise, the latest additions to the building regulations in England, such as Part L (conversion of fuel and power), Part G (hygiene), and Part P (electrical safety), are an outcome of the government’s observation that the Architectural Design and Regulation. Rob Imrie and Emma Street. © 2011 Rob Imrie and Emma Street. Published 2011 by Blackwell Publishing Ltd. ISBN: 978-1-405-17966-9


systems of building regulation and control will be one of the main mechanisms for delivering an urban design-led renaissance of the British cities (DETR, 2000). Planning regulation and control is also occupying new strategic terrain, with Planning Policy Statement 1 (PPS1) in England, for example, requiring local development frameworks or spatial planning strategies to be underpinned by good design as a prerequisite to the delivery of sustainable communities (ODPM, 2006). A significant development is the stretching of building codes from specifications and control of health and safety standards into new domains relating to what Williams and Knight (2008) refer to as ‘the emerging glut of regulation’. This is a qualitative shift from control of health and safety issues to considerations of cultural, psychological, and global concerns, including those relating to religion and buildings, place-making, and securing buildings from terrorist threats. For government, it is insufficient for building control to be reactive or a mechanical system that seeks to administer technical regulations. Rather, there is onus on the system ‘to take account of ongoing and predicted future societal change’ (DCLG, 2008a: 6). In the UK context, it is suggested that planning and building control systems reproduce the ‘prevailing societal norm’, and that they need to do more to influence how buildings and their technical dimensions can meet new socio-cultural requirements and demands for secure, safe, and sustainable places (Carmona, 2009, Imrie, 2007). New planning and building codes are also emerging in other countries, including the introduction of measures to respond to green and environmental issues (Kilbert, 2008, Moore and Engstrom, 2005). For instance, in August 2008, San Francisco’s green building codes for new construction and renovations of existing structures in the city came into force, focusing on water and energy conservation, recycling and reduction of carbon emissions (Bradbury, 2008, Buchanan, 2008). Likewise, in Australia, the draft 2010 Building Code has, at its core, the objective of devising regulations to promote the efficient use of energy as part of a broader programme to tackle climate change. In both cases, the invective of builders and property development professionals opposed to such measures has been evident, with the Residential Development Council in Australia claiming that an energy code will add $20,000 to the cost of a new apartment (Perinotto, 2009). Such claims are not untypical and are part of a deeply rooted discourse about the regulation of design and development activity that, at its core, is premised upon the understanding that regulatory controls are anathema to the delivery of a modern urban infrastructure and environment. As the previous chapters have suggested, those who believe in the freedom to build, unfettered by rules and bureaucratic

Urban Design and the Rise of the (De)Regulatory Society

process and procedures, view regulation of the design and construction industry with some disdain and negative feeling. In this chapter, we outline the emergence, and persistence of this discourse within the design and building professions, and suggest that those calling for a ‘better-regulated’ society are increasingly challenging the perceived centrality of regulation in society. As we note, the emergence of a ‘better regulation’ movement, not just in the UK but also in most developed countries, is part of a response by politicians and others to a perceived crisis relating to systems of government, rule, and control. This crisis is characterised by what appears to be simultaneously the decentralisation and centralisation of regulatory control, and attempts by governments to create new socio-institutional mechanisms to develop and deliver regulatory order and control. An example is central governments’ seeking to devolve facets of control beyond traditional regulatory authorities, based in part on the emergence of what Braithwaite (2009) calls ‘regulated self regulation’. In the UK, this includes part privatisation of building control, and self-certification, whereby professionals administer and monitor their own performance in attaining the legal specifications of the regulations. In Foucault’s (1979) terms, this means that different actors such as architects are increasingly embedded into a system of self-governing self-activated actions. They are part of a process whereby government is ‘acting at a distance’ to ensure the efficient operations of the regulation of design and building activities. Such operations vary from one place to another, and in part two of the chapter we describe the building regulatory systems in the UK and the USA. We develop the argument that the structure and operations of both systems are primarily influenced by economic efficiency and cost objectives related to facilitating broader government goals of competitiveness and wealth creation. While most architects might baulk at, and react against, the suggestion that the regulation of their activities can contribute to betterment of economy and wealth, the evidence suggests that spatial regulation, including building control, is embedded into the discourses of ‘better regulation’. In the UK, this is characterised by recent shifts from prescriptive to performance-based systems of control to facilitate greater freedoms. The US context features attempts to standardise the building code system across a nation that is characterised by highly localised and fragmented forms of regulatory governance. Despite such endeavours to streamline and rationalise the respective systems of regulatory control, the discourse relating to regulation as anathema to good design practice remains centre stage (Ben-Joseph, 2005a, Burby et al., 2000, Saint, 1983). In part three of the chapter, we seek to evaluate this discourse and, in particular, to highlight some of

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the leading assumptions about the regulation it is based upon. These assumptions are underpinned by the understanding that regulation is harmful to design and development, and is likely to inflate land values and costs associated with construction and building. It is also suggested that regulators who are not necessarily flexible in their interpretation and application of regulations dominate the regulatory process. It is claimed that this may stifle creative behaviour by architects, and reduce scope for innovation in the design process. We suggest that these and related observations, while having some basis in experience, are largely based on anecdotal or incomplete evidence and that they caricature the interrelationships between regulation and the design and development process (also see Tombs, 2002). The discourse perpetuates, at best, a misrepresentation of the role and significance of regulation in the design and development process and, at worst, it is based on what Angel (2009, cited in Perinotto, 2009) refers to as ‘ideological knee jerk’, rather than an informed understanding of the complex ways in which architecture and regulations are entwined and co-constitutive elements in influencing building form and performance.

3.2 Self-activation and the (re-)regulation of design activities The apparent constraints on architects’ actions by regulation have formed part of a broader critique of spatial control that, from the 1970s, began to intensify. The main focus was the impact of building codes on house-building costs, and the inconsistency of code interpretation and application from one locale to another. In 1982, for instance, Colwell and Kau (1982) characterised the building code system as ‘intellectually and morally bankrupt’, while the President of the Property Rights Foundation of America, Carol LaGrasse (2008: 1), has stated that the building codes in the USA ‘have gone far beyond their original purpose to protect public health and safety, to micromanage and obstruct private homeowners’ plans’. For LaGrasse (2008), the problem is not so much the codes that exist, demonstrably, to protect lives, but the proliferation of micro rules and conduct that inhibit individuals’ actions and that work against, in particular, less powerful groups and organisations, such as small businesses.1 Such views were already ingrained in professional circles in the late 1980s and could be considered to be part of a broader narrative that had emerged worldwide about the impact of regulation on society.2 The narrative regards social and economic life as over regulated, with negative consequences for the conduct of business and related 72


activities. A dominant viewpoint is one of ‘regulation costs’, and that it adds to the fiscal burden of organisations. Thus, Sparrow (2000: 19) suggests that by 1997 in the USA ‘the cost of complying with federal regulations was $688 million per annum’. In the UK, a government organisation, the Better Regulation Task Force (2005a) estimated that the cost of regulation to the UK economy, in 2004, was between 10–12 per cent of GDP, or over £100 billion.3 Other estimates abound, and the British Chamber of Commerce (2008) note that the cumulative cost to business of new regulation since 1998 had risen to £65.99 billion, up by more than £10 billion from 2007. These observations are part of the basis for political pressures for regulatory reforms that, in the UK, are known as ‘better regulation’, now led by the Better Regulation Executive (BRE). The equivalent organisation in the USA is the Council for Excellence in Government (CEG) set up in 1983 and recently absorbed into the newly formed Partnership for Public Service. Both promulgate the OECD’s (1997: 9) observation that government ‘rules, paperwork, and administrative formalities’ have escalated, and potentially inhibit creative actions. The language used by the BRE reinforces a negative view of ‘traditional regulation’, or mechanisms based on direct rule or the conduct of actions from centralised public agencies. The problem of regulation is couched in a familiar way on the BRE’s website, that ‘too much regulation, or regulation that is poorly designed, will hold back the growth we need to restore the economy and public finances’.4 The broader debates about ‘better regulation’, and the need to (re) regulate the conduct of everyday life, have underpinned the emergence of what some see as more responsive and flexible mechanisms for regulating the spatial development and design process. In New Zealand, the Building Act of 1991 provided a basis for introducing market mechanisms into systems of building control. Likewise, in the UK, the Building Act of 1984 introduced a private (approved) inspectorate to compete with building control surveyors, as part of a process to create a more flexible, customer-responsive, system of control (Hawkesworth and Imrie, 2009, Imrie, 2007, van der Heijden, 2009, van der Heijden and de Jong, 2009). In the USA, as elsewhere, a significant change is the shift in the building control system from prescriptive to interpretative forms of regulation, and the onset of what appears to be surveyors or code officials exerting a much more ‘active’ discretionary presence in interacting with, and influencing, clients and architects. Such changes to planning and building control are illustrative of governmental policies to ‘better regulate’, and to create conditions in which regulatory reforms are able to offset, even eradicate, some of the alleged externalities associated with regulation over the past 20 years

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or so. This is the perception of many actors involved in the design and development process, and it is echoed by organisations such as the OECD (1997: 9) who have noted that ‘the volume and complexity of laws . . . reads at an all time high in OECD countries . . . regulatory inflation erodes the effectiveness of all regulations’. Governments’ responses are based, in part, on encouraging ‘governing at a distance’, by seeking to externalise aspects of regulatory activities to architects and others involved in development, including self-certification of some aspects of building control approval, and the introduction of voluntary non-statutory control in the form of design and construction codes and standards. In the UK, these changes are a break with modern prescriptiveorientated building control systems. In England and Wales, for instance, the modern system was first introduced in 1966, and it was based on achieving minimum standards of design and building work in the construction of domestic and industrial buildings (Wright, 1983). The stated objective of governments was, and still is, to ensure the health and safety of occupiers and users of buildings. Up until major revisions in 1984, the regulations were regarded as mandatory, based on prescribed design standards that architects and developers were expected to follow. They provided little flexibility for interpretation and surveyor discretion, and did not encourage applicants for building control consent to have recourse to alternative guidance. Throughout the 1970s and early 1980s, the building control system was subject to criticism for stifling innovation in design, adding to development costs, and contributing to the construction of a bland built environment (Hurst, 2010, Saint, 2001). The 1984 legislation introduced a discourse of culture change, in which a reaction against old bureau-practices emerged. Building control departments began to draw on, and were absorbed into, a broader discourse of modernisation, consumerism, and culture change. The language of local authorities predated and anticipated the modernising agendas of Labour governments from 1997, with pronouncements about ‘customer service’, ‘empowering staff’, and ‘delivering quality services’ to the fore as part of the reinvention of building control.5 This resembled the emergence of localised organisational regimes, characterised by quasi-business approaches to service delivery, developing the means to compete with approved inspectors, budgetary control, and performance evaluation. With more surveyors being part of a team, the changing mentalities of building control services (BCS) have involved building a corporate culture of shared identities and commitment to organisational goals (Clarke and Newman, 1997). The apparent dissolution of BCS into something appearing to resemble fragmented decentred forms of governance has done little to


reduce a perception, by design, development, and other professionals, that the regulatory burden is increasing. Indeed, the paradox is that the shift towards a performance-based risk-assessment style of regulation is placing much more onus on architects to self-assess compliance (see chapter 6). The outcome appears to be an increase in administrative and managerial functions, and more responsibilities placed on architects to (self)regulate their activities. As one of the architects we interviewed said, ‘it’s very rare that we get any feedback at all from the building control checkers, because from a structural point of view, they’re not really taking any responsibility, because obviously we’re appointed to make the building stand up and if there are problems with the building then we’re the ones that are going to get sued; nobody’s ever going to try and sue the local authority for not checking something’. Processes of re-regulating building codes are also apparent in the USA, where the paramount concern is to simplify regulatory processes by seeking to standardise them across the country. Building codes did not become a significant political issue until the 1960s, in a period of much debate about the causes and consequences of urban blight and its solution. For some observers, urban development was being hindered by a fragmented system of building code formulation and implementation. This fragmentation was, until recently, characterised by local or state government often following their own regulatory route or adopting the provisions of one of three model building codes organised and administered at the national level. These model codes were provided by private organisations, including the Uniform Building Code, set up in 1927, followed, in 1945, by the Southern Building Code, and, in 1950, by the Basic Building Code. Each code had a regional bias or orientation, and local states tended to adopt the one that was specific to their region.6 By the early 1990s, similar pressures to those evident in the UK were coming to the fore in the USA, with calls for both performance-based regulation and a reduction in the spatial fragmentation of the coding system. A recurrent observation was the inability of the three model coding organisations to provide a systematic and standardised service or, as Field and Rivkin (1975: 35) suggested, the ‘model codes may not be part of the solution to building code diversity, but part of the problem’. The response has been the development of the International Code Council Performance Code in 1994, an amalgamation of the three former codes authorities. The competitive system of coding has, however, not disappeared, and the ICC operates in competition with the National Fire Protection Association. Both are characterised by what May (2004: 23) describes as ‘simplification of code provisions’ that encourage ‘acceptable solutions’.

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As with performance-based codes elsewhere, this evolving system seeks to place the onus on professionals, such as architects, to identity sources of risk, and to self administer compliance by identifying means of complying with the intent of the codes’ provisions (see chapter 6; also, Miller, 2009, Power, 2004). The system is not without problems, and a key tension is that, on the one hand, governments are seeking to facilitate local discretion and choice through a performance based regime and, on the other hand, they encourage local adoption of a national model code, committed, as a point of principle, to the standardisation of the coding process (Moore and Wilson, 2009). It is not clear how the achievement of the latter can easily be reconciled with the former, particularly given that much power, of whether to adopt a model code or not, resides in the local politics of municipalities. The changing regulation of spatial development, not only in the USA but also in other places such as the UK, Australia, and New Zealand, is not straightforwardly deregulation, in the sense of central and local governments relinquishing mechanisms and modes of control to third parties or subjects whose activities are the objects of regulation. Rather, a variety of governance changes appear to be taking place that revolve around strengthening central state directives and control. In countries such as Australia and the USA, (building) regulatory reform relates to ‘scaling regulation upward’ as part of a process of international standardisation. The case is outlined by the Australian Building Codes Board (2007: 7) in relation to reforms to the Building Code of Australia: ‘Regulation should be compatible with relevant international or internationally accepted standards and practices in order to minimise the impediments to trade’. The shift towards the universalisation of code type and process is linked to a political economy of urbanism and the development of systems to facilitate mass production of building form and type. For Moore (2008: 365), the emergence of the ICC is part of a process of better regulation that can be understood as ‘technological colonialisation’. By this, Moore is referring to the pressures of modernisation to standardise building codes and practices, within and between countries, to ensure a reduction in the varieties of code-types and practices. A future scenario, if the ICC is able to extend its sphere of influence, is to develop ‘international norm compliance’, or what Cortell and Davis (2000) refer to as a process that requires the delegitimisation of national systems of regulation. There is some way to go for this to take root, but the internationalising of design and building standards is part of the evolving political debates about codes, design, and development, a process that may well contribute towards a reduction in vernacular design-types or outcomes.

There is a plethora of writings that seek to discredit the arguments for regulating design and, in doing so, uncritically perpetuate the observations of those who, in the words of the former USA president, George W. Bush, regard one of the core problems of society to be ‘excessive rules, regulation, and red tape’ (cited in Advisory Commission on Regulatory Barriers to Affordable Housing, 1991: 2; also, see Field and Rivkin, 1975, Liebing, 2007). Similar views are evident in relation to architecture, with Liebing (1987: 5) noting that architects see regulations ‘from mere nuisances as necessary evils, to highly restrictive’. Codes are blamed for exacerbating all sorts of urban problems, including, as Tucker (2009) argues, housing inequalities by restricting the supply of poor quality housing affordable to people on low incomes. Yet Tucker’s (2009: 81) observation reduces the understanding of a complex phenomenon – housing inequalities – to a singular point of reference by suggesting that ‘building codes have become a way of trying to drive cheap housing off the market’. Such widely held views contrast with the relative silence of those who regard regulation as a ‘good thing’. Tombs (2002: 114) describes this situation as one whereby there is little or no challenge to the intellectual dominance of those who see regulation as anathema to a progressive society. Rather, as Tombs (2002: 114) suggests, there are few writings, either academic or popular, on the case for regulation, but many commentaries that seek to justify why regulation is a problem or ought to occur only ‘with as light a touch as possible’ (although, see Ayres and Braithwaite, 1992, Braithwaite, 2000, Clarke, 2000, Feenberg, 2010, Tweedale, 2000). Consequently, there is less said about how regulation has the capacity to mitigate harm and injury within society, and much more about its harmful effects on industrial output, economic efficiency, and international competitiveness (for example, Liebing, 2007). Martin (2005) provides an important critique of those who subscribe to the view that building codes, and spatial regulation more generally, necessarily act as a deterrent to design and development activity. He suggests that too much of the debate revolves around anecdotal evidence and hearsay, with little reference to, or use of, empirical evidence. For Martin (2005: 253), development professionals, including architects, have ‘fully bought into the anecdotes’. These are derived out of a number of assumptions about the impact and implications of the building regulations in relation to the design and development process. These include the understanding that regulation a) adds to the costs of the design and development process, b) has the potential to


3.3 Regulating design: an evaluation of leading assumptions

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intensify the bureaucratic burden, stifle creative behaviour, and inhibit the development of innovative architecture, and c) is influenced, disproportionately, by code officials and the bureaucratic procedures of the building regulatory process. We discuss and evaluate each proposition in turn.

a) Regulation adds to the costs of the design and development process It is common for many building professionals to characterise planning and building control as imposing additional costs on development. A perennial observation, particularly in the USA, is the contribution of building codes to housing costs that act, potentially, as a deterrent to construction activity. In 1969, the National Commission on Urban Problems (1969: 255) identified a link between regulations and housing costs: ‘it is alleged that unneeded provisions and restrictions in locally adopted codes add significantly to the cost of housing . . .’ (also see, Bemis, 1934, Field and Ventre, 1971, Vermilya, 1941). These observations were later reaffirmed by a Federal Advisory Commission (Advisory Commission 1991: paragraph 3-1) on barriers to the supply of affordable housing, with the conclusion that ‘the building codes of America’s older cities sometimes contain archaic regulations that . . . generate excessive costs by requiring unnecessarily expensive materials [and] safety features . . .’ In the USA, Burns and Mittelbach’s (1968) analysis of the 1968 House and Home Survey indicated that up to 7 per cent of the cost of constructing a single family home could be saved by eliminating what they characterised as the most wasteful building codes (also see Bemis, 1934). Similarly, the NCUP estimated that $1838 per housing unit was added as a result of application of codes. Other studies tend to rely on builders’ testimonials, or anecdotes from design and construction professionals that are not easy to substantiate. Thus, Babcock and Bosselman’s (1973) study, that involved interviews with house-builders, reported an increase of structure costs by as much as 250 per cent due to the application of building codes. Later studies reaffirmed such findings with Luger and Temkin (2000: 140–141) estimating that the ‘direct cost of excessive regulation for house-builders averaged $10,000 to $20,000 per new dwelling constructed . . .’ It is also alleged that strict enforcement of building regulations or codes is one cause of city centre decline in the USA, because, as Burby et al. (2000: 154) comment, ‘it adds to the costs of development in unnecessary ways’ and is likely to put off business investment. It does so, according to Burby et al. (2000), in situations where regulators insist on using of high-cost materials. Some research cites delays in the

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One of the key debates about regulation and design relates to the supply of affordable housing in a context whereby building codes may drive costs of construction beyond what is reasonable for lowincome households. This is the crux of a debate within the USA about how far building codes discourage or prevent the construction of affordable housing. In the City of Austin, Texas, there is awareness that green building and energy codes are responsible, in part, for discouraging the construction of affordable housing units. One building code official said, in interview, that a common reaction by builders of affordable units is, ‘Why do you make me do this? You’re trying to get to affordability and then you’re artificially driving up my costs, which make it harder for me to get to this goal.’ The issue of regulation and housing affordability revolves around a tension about what constitutes a priority public good. On the one hand, there are those who regard regulations as intrinsic to securing the public good, relating to the quality of built form and performance. The regulations, in this view, are inviolable. On the other hand, there are those who regard the regulations as a potential source for restricting the supply of affordable housing or a public good that is, if it is supplied, likely to infringe private rights and add to development and other costs. In the Austin context, an interviewee outlined the dilemma: ‘so you have two schools of thought that compete with each other at various times and the people who wrote the regulations generally think that they’re community values and shouldn’t be waived, and the people who are trying to achieve this other public good generally see them as regulatory barriers that need to be removed altogether’. Figure 3.1


provision of building permits that add to development costs. BenJoseph’s (2003) study of house-builders shows average waiting times of 17 months for relevant permits, with 20 per cent of respondents waiting for more than two years. Likewise, Seidel’s (1978) research describes how the regulatory complexity of the coding process, including delays in decision-making, was exposing developers to financial risk, and discouraging investment in areas perceived to be slow to respond to applications for building permits. Claims that the coding process is adding to development costs and discouraging investment may be exaggerated and not necessarily an accurate reflection of code impacts on design and construction costs (Figure 3.1). Indeed, studies of the impact of building codes on costs of design and development, including official government evaluations,

Reconciling housing standards and affordability.

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suggest that the fiscal burden may be minimal and even insignificant. For instance, the additional construction costs due to the introduction of an energy code, Part L, to England and Wales in 2006 were estimated to be £28.91/m2 for commercial and public buildings and £10.32/m2 for industrial buildings, representing an increase in total construction costs of 1.9 per cent and 1.6 per cent respectively (EDAW, 2008: 3). Maisel’s (1953) study of house-building in the San Francisco bay area confirms the marginal cost implications of codes, in showing that 50 per cent of builders had their construction costs raised by less than 1 per cent for the typical home due to compliance with the uniform (model) codes. Listokin and Hattis (2005: 25) also note that claims of building codes increasing housing costs are premature because ‘more empirical data are needed on the subject’. They suggest that there is a lack of understanding of how codes affect housing, and conclude that much of the debate lacks an ‘overall perspective’. By this they mean that it is likely that building codes ‘have much less of an impact on new housing costs compared to other regulations’ (Listokin and Hattis, 2005: 23). Listokin and Hattis (2005) suggest that most studies of the impacts of codes on design and development costs are beset by methodological problems. These include a deficiency of studies of contemporary coding contexts, and too much reliance on evidence based on studies related to ‘the code world of yesteryear’ (Listokin and Hattis, 2005: 22). Few studies consider the relative impacts of building codes compared to other forms of regulation, and there has been limited effort to appraise the costs and benefits of regulation as part of a process to identify appropriate from ‘inappropriate or excessive regulations’ (Listokin and Hattis, 2005: 25). Even within the cost calculus mentalities of mainstream government evaluations of building codes, it is possible to demonstrate that a net benefit or contribution can accrue from what appears to be, at face value, prohibitively expensive regulatory requirements (see Figure 3.2; also, Sparrow, 2000). This is particularly so in relation to regulations about energy saving in buildings, and the use of materials related to

One of the buildings in Austin, Texas, identified by local officials as comprising ‘green credentials’ is Austin Youth Works’ administrative centre located in the downtown. It was completed in 2000 and, as a local official stated in interview, the building has been constructed to a high level of specification incorporating, at the time, the very best green building standards.

Figure 3.2

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American Youth Works, Austin.

It’s a local organisation. And they’ve been around for, I believe, a couple of decades, and they’ve been building green affordable housing for a very long period of time. We’ve been dealing with American Youth Works for a number of years and they tend to be very green buildings, but then they don’t build very many houses a year, and they’re able to do this because historically their labour costs were funded out of federal programmes, so to the extent that you were able to reduce your costs by having other kinds of public dollars come in, the question would be, how many of these could you build if you didn’t have any public dollars? If you had to pay for all your labour, you got no assistance in terms of either the construction or the acquisition of the land, you know, how could you build these things?’

Figure 3.2

Continued


Some of its features include: a roof that is 85 per cent solar reflective to minimise cooling load; the orientation of the building on an east/west axis to maximise day-lighting and minimise sun exposure; a combination of low-e windows with sun-shading devices for south-facing windows and electronic ballasts with T-8 lamps allows for day-lit offices and classrooms while minimising solar heat gain and cooling loads; and recycled and renewable materials and finishes were used throughout the building including recycled steel framing, recycled content ceiling tiles, sunflower seed panels used in wainscot, and reused salvaged doors. A local building permits official outlined how such construction was possible:

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Continued

broader societal objectives of creating ecologically sensitive built environments (Ahn and Pearce, 2007, Kilbert, 2008). Major benefits have accrued from energy- and water-use codes and appliance standards, which, for example, set minimum levels of insulation or maximum levels of water use. In 1978, California adopted a new energy code that had saved $11.4 billion on energy expenditures by 1995, and it is predicted to save another $43 billion by 2011 (Normile, 1995). There is a danger that evaluations of the interrelationships between regulations and costs underplay the role of the coding process in adding (non-monetary) value to buildings, and their contributions towards improving the quality of the built environment (see for example, Thompson, 1947; also, Vermilya, 1941). As Schill (2005: 7) suggests, regulations serve ‘an important public purpose’, in which increased costs to builders ought to be regarded as a necessary byproduct of positive government action. Similar arguments can be made in support of design coding, which, despite significant initial cost outlays to support code-making processes, may allow for the recouping of additional costs through subsequent increases in land and property values (Carmona, 2009; also, see chapter 8). The value of building codes can also be demonstrated, in part, in relation to earthquakes or other hazardous events that have the capacity to damage buildings and threaten lives. For example, Roodman and Lenssen (1995) note that in Kobe, Japan, code revisions in 82


1971 and 1981 minimised the death toll from the 1995 earthquake to less than 5000 people, since few of the newer structures collapsed. Despite the Chilean earthquake in February 2010 being one of the strongest ever recorded, fatalities and building damage were comparatively low due to what Edwards (2010: 1) describes as the imposition of ‘tough building codes in recent decades, rendering modern structures more likely to survive any given [earth]quake’. Likewise, the Louisiana State University Hurricane Center ‘estimated that 80 percent of the $10 billion in wind damage to homes in Louisiana as a result of Hurricane Katrina in 2005 would have been avoided with modern building codes’ (cited at http://www.namic.org/newsreleases09/091105nr1.asp) Others describe examples of where the absence, or poor enforcement, of building codes has had deleterious effects on habitat, livelihood, and well-being (May, 2004). For example, Burby et al. (2000) outline instances of where building failures, resulting in deaths, were due to design flaws and poor enforcement of codes, including a collapse of part of the Hyatt hotel in Kansas in 1981 that led to 113 fatalities. The most recent, and tragic, example of this was in January 2010, when a 7.0-magnitude earthquake occurred in Haiti, killing up to an estimated 200,000 people. The majority of deaths and injuries were related to building failure and collapse, with an estimated 20,000 commercial buildings and 225,000 residences completely destroyed or damaged beyond repair in the capital city, Port-au-Prince (Zengerle, 2010: 1). This earthquake occurred in a context where no building codes exist, primarily because the population and government are too poor to build to exacting construction standards. In the Haiti instance, building codes may well have averted some fatalities, and destruction of buildings, thus highlighting the societal value of regulation and its contributions to human welfare. Such contributions cannot be captured easily by a cost calculus evaluation of regulation, and the problem relates to the short-term nature of some actors in the development industry, in which cost is equated with a small part of the process, usually the front end. As an architect that we interviewed observed: ‘People always focus on that front, initial cost, because they look at the bottom line: here’s what it’s going to cost me to build this structure, get it up. You really need to go further in terms of operational expenses. I mean that initial cost is, depending upon the project, a three- to five-year period, however long it takes to get the project from initial conception to occupancy. Well, that’s short term, you move in and you’re there for 30 years.’ For others, the initial costs associated with adapting to codes can be offset by the reduction of other design and development costs. In interview, one of our respondents, an architect, outlined the cost savings related to the adoption of fire sprinkling systems in building

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codes. As he said, ‘if you put in a sprinkled building the fire insurance premiums are going to be less . . . you have to look at the whole picture . . . putting in a sprinkler system, it’s going to be a small proportion of the initial cost . . . it would be an interesting analysis to look at how much it saves in terms of fire insurance premiums.’ Another architect, working in Phoenix, Arizona, noted that some of the building codes were life saving and beyond monetary valuation. As he suggested, ‘clearly the biggest thing is in our fire sprinkler systems in a building, and once you understand that that is probably the biggest life safety system out there, cost means nothing’.

b) Regulation has the potential to intensify the bureaucratic burden, stifle creative behaviour, and inhibit the development of innovative architecture The criticisms of building rules, codes, and regulatory processes proffered by architects and other design and development professionals are not dissimilar to those who argue against the ‘command and control’ functions of the state (Gummer, 2007, Pennington, 2000). These criticisms suggest that government is an inappropriate source of/for the development and coordination of building regulation and control. This is because it is inflexible and unable to provide responsive organisational forms that are able to respond in appropriate and flexible ways to local conditions (Pennington, 2000, 2006). It is also assumed that government cannot easily acquire the knowledge or information to identify causes of design problems, and to develop, accordingly, the appropriate solutions. Government is, so it is suggested, also prone to failure, relating to non-compliance with regulations, and unable to develop effective systems of enforcement. The debate, about the role and relevance of government regulation is polarised between those who hold a romantic ahistorical notion of architects as individuals with the freedom to design unfettered by state actions or other constraints, in contrast to those who suggest that architects have never had much scope to determine the final form or outcomes of building projects. For instance, writers such as John Cooke (1991: 78), in looking back to previous periods of design and development practices, suggest that ‘we are denied the risk and self confident architectural expression and sense of purpose of Venice or Paris or Florence or Bath or Edinburgh . . . it has been decided that individuals cannot be trusted to build with proper regard.’ In contrast, the Royal Institute of British Architects (RIBA, 2005) has outlined a more realistic scenario, in noting that architects’ actions are influenced by their embedding into a complexity of intra- and inter-organisational networks and relations. 84


Such institutional and organisational complexity ought to mean that no single actor or action is regarded as determinate of design and development outcomes (Bentley, 1999, Hawkesworth and Imrie, 2009, Imrie, 2007). However, this observation tends to be disregarded by a powerful anti-regulation lobby insistent on the power of bureaucracy to reduce architecture to a bland conformity with prescribed rules about urban form (Bemis, 1934, Gummer, 2007). For instance, Harper (1985), in writing about Victorian building regulations in Britain, notes that the various London building Acts of the 19th century were regarded by many commentators as conservative, in that they rarely referred to, or encouraged the use of, new methods of design and construction. He refers to the ‘model by-laws’ in 19th century Britain and suggests that they produced a negative reaction because they were associated with encouraging builders to produce a monotonous and bland built environment (Harper, 1985). This monotony was allegedly due to regulations restricting material usage and building form, part of a wider bureaucratic process anathema to the production of good design. In the UK context, John Gummer (2007: 70) has been one of the more out spoken commentators against spatial regulation, noting that ‘half the houses built fail to meet the standards and the process is so intrusive’ in thwarting the actions of development professionals (also see Clark, 2007, Richardson, 1967). For Gummer (cited in Hurst, 2006: 1) the logic is indisputable: ‘we have a system that makes it very difficult for architects to be innovative. It’s clear one of the reasons is building regulations’ (see Figure 3.3). Such views were repeated by some of our respondents, with an architect from Phoenix suggesting that the US system of building codes makes buildings ‘somewhat conform or be in a uniform look within a particular Congresswoman, Nancy Pelosi (1997: 1), in announcing the redevelopment of a housing scheme, Valencia Gardens, in San Francisco in 1997, said, ‘a revitalized Valencia Gardens, as a mixed income development, will provide the kind of community that fosters selfsufficiency . . . [and] . . . promote the best possible living situation for its residents.’ The scheme was completed in September 2006 and it is characterised by Rongerude (2007: 2) as a ‘post welfare institution’ and part of a ‘regulated public environment’. Such regulation is characterised by the provision of daycare, community, and learning facilities, and there is a children’s play area and a community sculpture garden. Four-story buildings line the perimeter, with three-story buildings along the interior blocks. The scheme has entry doors on raised stoops at the pavement level

Figure 3.3

Regulated public spaces: Valencia Gardens, San Francisco.

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that directs attention toward the street, providing semi-private buffer zones for clear delineation of public and private realms, creating density at the street instead of fence barriers, removing dead zones, and encouraging safe pedestrian activity. Accessible units with level entrance ways and doors are a feature. There are contrasting views about the scheme. In Architecture Week (AIA/HUD, 2008: 1), it is reported that ‘residents who experienced both the former and the current developments have conveyed the sense that their new homes provide a safer place to live with more usable private open space and more interaction among neighbors. The project integrates well with the surrounding neighborhood and city. It has a different feel to its previous incarnation, as a run down public housing estate’. However, in interview, other opinions were expressed about the outcome of the project, in relation to its strict adherence to local building codes. For one architect, working within San Francisco, the scheme exemplifies the problems of rigid use of codes. As he said: Well, you know, sometimes one feels that the way things have been, by implication, heading, is that one would have to be escorted in all places by a building inspector, you know. You cannot step off a kerb because you might trip. I mean it reaches a point of ridiculousness in some regards, and one’s seen actually many good schemes here in San Francisco, for example, that have been blemished by an overly strict adherence to codes. There’s a beautiful little project that’s recently been built, just a few blocks away, called Valencia Gardens, by some other architects. And it’s public housing replacement and it creates a little alley running at the back. And yet the codes, in terms of handicapped access, firetruck access, protection of electrical boxes and meters and all those other things, all got out of control of the architect, in a way, and produced an environment that is just plain ugly. You know, that these things design themselves, as it were, and what was a fine scheme on paper is now blemished with all sorts of clunky issues in terms of, you know, for example on the sidewalks they have these bright, bright yellow or orange pads so that partially sighted people know when you’re coming to a kerb, and there are all sorts of bollards around an electrical transformer box. There are huge great signs for handicapped parking spaces, there are all sorts of clunky kerbs and things like that, and the sort of adherence to individual codes has wrecked the design of a perfectly fine little street. Images: Courtesy of Rene Hohmann

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Figure 3.3

Continued

Figure 3.3

Continued

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Continued.

zoning area’, and ensures restrictions on ‘the aesthetics of a building’ (also see chapter 5). These themes have been aired in various quarters over the years, and much of the evidence generated is equivocal (Bemis, 1934, Carmona et al., 2006, May, 2004). Field and Rivkin’s (1975: 22) formative account of the interrelationships between building codes and the design and construction process, suggested that the coding process was an ‘impediment to innovation in housing and construction’. In a survey of 250 house-builders, 69 per cent of their respondents said that building codes were a problem, limiting innovation in construction practices. The examples of this included code officials in some municipalities prohibiting the use of certain building materials, such as ‘plastic pipes in drains, waste and plumbing systems’, and the rejection of particular construction techniques, including ‘the spacing of 2 by 4 inch wooden studs in non-load-bearing partitions’ (Field and Rivkin, 1975: 57). 88

Urban Design and the Rise of the (De)Regulatory Society Figure 3.3

Continued

Later work, by authors such as Noam (1982), reiterated the feeling that the regulatory process is, in Ben-Joseph’s (2005b: 2) terms, ‘ineffective and exclusionary and that it stifles innovation’. Noam’s (1982: 402) assessment of building codes suggests that a consequence of their application ‘is to restrict the use of new or non-traditional building techniques’, and to inhibit the use of new materials (also see chapter 5). The situation is not so straightforward and in the USA, advocates of straw building outline mixed experiences in seeking to persuade regulators to adopt the material for buildings. An advocate for the use of straw building said, in interview, that ‘it’s almost to a person they’re [surveyors] supportive of it in principle, but it’s when you get down to the details and where the limits and where the lines are drawn, that’s where the issue is, that’s where they exhibit resistance. So they continue to make a point of saying that they encourage us and they want to see it (straw bale) codified’ (also see Figure 3.4). 89


A visit to the building permits department in Scottsdale, Arizona, in April 2007, provided us with some insights into what might facilitate or prevent the use of new materials and technologies in the design and development process. We interviewed two building permit officers who had many years of experience of working with architects encouraging them to use techniques and building products that push the boundaries of design. We reproduce here some of their understanding of the relationships between regulation and the design process. It’s understanding the intent of the building code. There is a building variance application process for alternative materials and methods of construction that goes before the city Building Advisory Board of Appeals for an interpretation and final ruling. I think what has served us well here in Scottsdale is being open-minded with the intent and benefits of alternative materials. We have some very unique projects here, including earth sheltered, monolithic foam, rammed earth and strawbale houses. We have always stressed the importance of coming in early to the building department to review/discuss the options for approval. You just can’t submit your construction documents and expect everything to go smoothly without getting an early sign of potential problems that may require a variance or alternations to the building design. This can really slow down the permit approval process.

. . . Such views are apt in relation to one of the more innovative buildings in Scottsdale, the Beaulieu House, designed by Bryan Beaulieu. 90

Figure 3.4

Facilitating the use of new techniques and materials.

The Beaulieu house is described on the City of Scottsdale website in the following terms: Conceived in 2000, the house was completed in 2006 with the goal of minimizing its impact on the base of a south facing desert mountain site while taking advantage of the natural energy potential of site topography with its boulders (mass) and elevation changes (convection air currents). The project has numerous passive and active sustainable design features including earth sheltered construction (earth and boulders), mass construction (concrete and masonry), radiant barriers, radiant floor heating, radiant cooled ceilings, convection air loops and evaporative water features for natural cooling. Reproduced from: http://www.scottsdaleaz.gov/greenbuilding/hydrogenhouse.asp


Images reproduced with the kind permission of Jack London

The building permits officers we spoke to in Scottsdale offered the following insights into the Beaulieu residence: . . . So for instance, [with] the Beaulieu house, the owner started the process two years before he submitted final construction documents for building permits. He wanted to identify and resolve potential issues, and at one time planned to install an on-site sewage treatment system. There were other innovation approaches he was talking about at the time. He started an early dialogue with the city in order to get an understanding of the regulatory hurdles and thereby adapt his design to meet the intent of our codes and standards . . . . . . I think what helped is that he knew we had a green building programme, so he figured he would start there. Because his house was environmentally responsible, it was only natural to go through that green building program process, which is part of the building department process. We were able to refer him to fire prevention staff to talk about regulations for hydrogen fuel storage and to other respective staff regarding recycling of wastewater and alternative plumbing systems. Figure 3.4

Continued

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The encouragement to architects and others to use innovative materials and processes depends, in part, on the local political environment and the empathy and understanding of knowledgeable building control or permits officers. One of the interviewees explained the context in Scottsdale: ‘I think it’s the culture in Scottsdale, because of our history and our background, because of the arts and the sensitivity to the environment’. For this individual, the local environmental milieu was the setting, or backdrop, that was influencing, in part, political sensitivities towards the adoption of a green agenda. As he suggested, ‘we have a desert wash, that’s a multi-purpose space, it’s parks and recreation and grass. Instead of a concrete channel we’re trying to integrate nature.’

The social sensitivity to the environment is, however, connected to income and the ability of people in Scottsdale to afford the first wave of green homes that is often constructed with unconventional materials and products. As an officer said: A lot of times people that have the money and can afford it, are more interested in energy-efficient, green buildings that are sensitive to the local desert environment. I think that’s one of the reasons why it’s that way here in Scottsdale. People here with a little more income can afford the green homes in the custom home communities of the lower-density foot hill region of northern Scottsdale. Figure 3.4

Continued

The testimonial in the previous paragraph indicates that the problem relating to surveyors’ reluctance to sanction the use of new materials or techniques is not necessarily because of their prejudice or ignorance, but rather that they are often constrained by what is legally permissible, or feel that they are limited to what had been tried and tested and approved as safe to use (see also chapter 5, Case Study). As Field and Rivkin (1975: 56) note, standards and testing procedures ‘are not responsive to the requirements of newly developing’ design concepts, and, coupled with officials’ often risk-averse behaviour, is likely to reinforce the status quo. The situation was outlined to us by a couple of building surveyors in the UK: Respondent 1: We’re not prejudiced against any form of construction or material, you know, providing we can see that it performs satisfactorily, it’s going to give longevity in its use and it’s going to meet building regulation functional requirements. Respondent 2: Where the problems can come – it’s not just RIBA, it can be anybody in the profession – is if they’re going to use something different 92

Interviewer: So you need the evidence really. Respondent 2: We need the evidence, that’s right. We can’t work in theories and prototypes really (laughs), because of our liability, apart from anything else. I mean we do sometimes get a sticking point with new materials or new types of construction, that there isn’t necessarily the evidence there to back it up, to say that it is going to perform okay, and at the end of the day we do need that evidence.

These perspectives are helpful because they hint at the complexity of the coding process in suggesting that surveyors’ behaviour is conditioned by the broader socio-political contexts of the design and development process, including the resources that they have at their disposal, support from local politicians, and attitudes and competences of architects and other development professionals (Field and Rivkin, 1975). Thus, to blame bureaucratic process and procedure for ‘lack of innovation’ seems to miss the broader contexts that impinge on, and influence, architects’ actions. There are many factors that might prevent architects, and other professionals, pursuing innovative approaches to design, of which building codes appear to be a minor consideration (also see chapter 5). Other factors include client specifications and cost structures that set boundaries on what can be done, and demand instability in property markets and the risk-averse attitudes of some builders (chapters 6 and 7). In relation to certain sectors, such as house-building, much of the creative process has been reduced to the use of templates and house types, providing architects with little scope for creative design. The economics of construction influence the design and development process and, as Hendrickson and Au (1998: 7) suggests, ‘the inconsistent levels of retained earnings over a period of years . . . discourage support for research and development efforts which are required to nurture innovation’ (also see Landis, 1982). Such views are confirmed by other studies, with Harris and Buzzelli (2005: 59) characterising housebuilders as ‘hidebound by tradition’ and a contributor to inhibiting ‘innovative’ development. For Moore et al. (2010), builders and other development professionals regard regulations as based on taken-forgranted categories that become established as habit and practice. This leads to situations whereby new rounds of code formation and standard setting may be resisted to avoid changes to established practices and cost structures.


they should be prepared to stand up and say, ‘It’s okay because . . . it’s been done before, research has been done on it.’ It’s the fact that when you ask they say, ‘How dare you ask me, this is going to be okay, it’s a new idea.’ And it’s the fact that we do need something to show us that it is going to work.

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c) Regulation is influenced, disproportionately, by code officials and the bureaucratic procedures of the building regulatory process A familiar commentary about architects is that they are remote from, and have little influence over, decision-making relating to the code formation process (also see chapter 5). This is a theme highlighted by Field and Rivkin (1975), Ventre (1997), and others, who, collectively, suggest that the building regulations represent architects’ loss of autonomy to influence and determine the aesthetic process. For Howard (1994: 8), ‘instead of making law a neutral guidepost protecting against unfairness and abuse, this accretion of law has given bureaucrats almost limitless arbitrary power’. Likewise, Ventre (1997) claims that planning and building codes are anathema to the aspirations of the architectural profession, and that the architect has no control over the regulatory process. As Ventre (1997: 17) says, ‘it is these non designers who have established and now maintain’ the means to influence the conduct and operations of a whole host of design professionals, including the activities of architects. These observations are underpinned by a problematic formulation that may reduce an understanding of design outcomes to state bureaucratic processes, and to the individual characteristics of surveyors and their practices. This is typified further by a former acting president of the American Institute of Architects (AIA), Robert Fowler, noting that the building codes ‘are written from the enforcer’s standpoint in a fashion that is not friendly to architects’ (cited in Dorris, 1998: 171). Field and Rivkin (1975: 56) also suggest that ‘it is not unusual for an official to resist practices with which he is unfamiliar, since almost all incentives favor the traditional or local way of building, and none favor the innovative’. There is a danger in such views that they may do no more than ‘blame the surveyor’ and reproduce, and support, an understanding of the regulatory process that is divorced from the broadcloth of socio-political and institutional relations within which surveyors’ behaviour is set. In moving beyond what is, potentially, a reductive frame of understanding, one of the more useful ways to contextualise the formulation and implementation of regulations is outlined by those who subscribe to the idea of political cooption or capture of the code formation process or, at least, the propagation of special interest group representation that is disproportionately influential in shaping the form and content of regulations (Brand, 2009, Carmona, 2009, Field and Rivkin, 1975, Fischer and Guy, 2009). In the UK context, an interview we conducted with a structural engineer expressed a common view held by design and development professionals. As he suggested: ‘over the last five or ten years, a lot of the British Standards seem to have been


written by committees of technical people that don’t necessarily have a day-to-day input into designing buildings, so some of them aren’t really practical for the purpose that they’re set out to achieve’. This observation is particularly apt in relation to the code formation process in the USA that, as Hemenway (1978) suggests, is highly influenced by political lobbyists from industry (also see Field and Rivkin, 1975). Indeed, Ventre (1997) notes that the development of codes is one whereby the needs of industry take precedence over those of the public interest. There is also evidence of foreclosure of codes and standards development, with single-group representation and influence significant. The history of code formation in the USA appears to support those who claim that the process is subject to influence, even capture, by specific political interests and groups (Burby et al., 2000, Field and Ventre, 1971, May, 2004). Nichols, (1945: 6) whose paper was originally penned in the late 19th century, suggested that ‘the building codes of many of our cities are obsolete, drawn to favour certain industrial trades and certain types of merchandise which create unnecessary costs of home construction’. There are numerous examples of materials’ manufacturers seeking to influence the regulations (see Figure 3.5). In July 1909, the New York Times reported a case of Roebling Construction Company, the nation’s largest producer of cinder concrete fireproofing, objecting to a proposed new building code that was likely to provide advantages to its competitors, particularly manufacturers of terracotta tiles (New York Times, 1909). As the newspaper reported, the building code was vetoed for a number of reasons, including intense lobbying by Roebling’s representatives. The outcome reflected what the New York Times characterised as ‘the alleged politics of the code’ (New York Times, 1909: 6). In discussion with code officials, we were told similar stories, typified by the comments of one official: ‘I had a friend in the restaurant business in New York City and he used to say that in older restaurants it cost you twenty thousand dollars to install a sprinkler system and ten thousand dollars not to install it. That’s what you had to pay the fire department not to do it’ (also see Smith, 2009a and chapter 5).7 The formation of regulation is an inherently political process that involves a multitude of actors seeking to influence the form and content of regulatory provisions. This appears to be particularly so in the USA where there is a fragmentation of building code systems, and much scope for different groups – ranging from materials’ manufacturers to service providers – to influence the formation of Figure 3.5

Perspectives on the code formation process in the USA.

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rules and regulations relating to design. The following is an extract from an interview that we conducted with a senior building code officer with years of experience of involvement in the code formation process in the USA. Watching codes get made is a very frightening and frustrating thing . . . I used to have this impression that it was the best and the brightest in the building community getting together and scratching their heads and they’re all debating and saying, ‘Okay, let’s make this occur.’ That’s not the way it works. Have you ever sat in on a code meeting?

This official had recently become involved in the process amalgamating competing building codes in the USA, through the auspices of the ICC. As he recalled: I heard about this last year as I was in Orlando Florida to discuss what will be in the International Code for 2007, and what, unfortunately, it’s turned into, from what I understand, is a bit of a circus, where you have lobbyists from the various building manufacturing groups and home building groups, and for example, if you wonder why does a code ask for such high amounts of insulation in the walls when insulation doesn’t really matter that much in climates like Orlando Florida or Austin Texas, and the sad answer is because the major insulation manufacturers have a very strong lobby who take the code officials out to dinner and say, ‘You know insulation is going to only help, so let’s just make sure you call for R19 insulation in all the walls.’ I know I might sound like I’m grinding an axe here; I’m not really trying to, but those people who are sitting on those code councils aren’t necessarily going to be the most educated in America when it comes to building science. So they don’t have necessarily the tools to argue and say, ‘Well, horse pooey, R19 won’t make any difference. I’m not going make that a requirement in the code.’ They don’t know. They’ll say, ‘Well, yeah, that makes sense; sure we’ll do it. Let me have another steak dinner.’ (Laughs).

The building code process is also a repository of special interests trying to keep their market share and protect jobs. For example, there is sometimes conflict between unionised and non-unionised construction labour over whether certain materials that are less labour intensive should or should not be allowed in housing or commercial and industrial construction. Thus, there are examples of conflict between plumbers, electricians, and heating and air-conditioning engineers who try to limit the types of materials used in buildings to the most labour intensive as a 96


means of protecting jobs. As an architect suggested in interview, ‘there’s a little bit too much undue influence brought about by the lobbying groups that represent the various building product manufacturers. I’ve heard them arguing, I’ve heard them say things like they don’t care about the science; this is reality of jobs’. This message is core to Field and Rivkin’s (1975: 45) understanding, that while the building code official ‘breathes life into the code’, their actions are highly conditioned by ‘the political structure and the interests of the construction industry’. This observation builds upon Field and Ventre’s (1971) study of building departments in the USA in which they indicated that house-builders were able to exert political pressure on regulators (see Figure 3.6). As they observed, ‘builders are widely known for their aggressiveness and political sophistication . . . one can readily visualize [the] pressures that converge on the local building officials in these circumstances. (Field and Ventre, 1971: 140). Field and Ventre’s (1971: 139) research suggests that ‘local building officials . . . are very sensitive to political pressure..building departments, by and large, have acquired reputations . . . for being responsive A building permits officer from a large US city provided some insights into the complexities of the code formation process. We reproduce part of his testimony from an interview conducted with him in April 2007. But anyway . . . there’s been this incredible transformation in the market because of it, so what’s happened is that the National Association of Home Builders, which is the NAHB, you may have encountered them, [they are] extremely conservative, well, ultra-conservative reactionary . . . . . . But anyway, a very, very conservative organisation, basically out of fear and out of a need to control what’s happening . . . and they’re like anti, they fight against any sort of ratcheting up of any standards of codes or anything for years, well, they’ve suddenly just partnered with the International Code Council to develop a green building residential standard, and . . . of course the goal, their goal, is to make sure that the standard is as light green as possible . . . . . . So basically the writing was on the wall for them, you know . . . there was no way they were going to stop this from happening so they basically said, ‘Okay, we need to get in the game and make sure that this ends up being good for us’ . . . Figure 3.6

Influencing the code formation process.

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. . . So, I mean there are some people in NAHB who actually get it and really want to do the right thing, but the leadership is in the ‘American’t’ realm, and their solution is basically to control the game and to get a standard that protects them rather than pushes them into figuring out how to do the right stuff. I think they’ll struggle with getting, I mean they’re going to end up with something different than what they’re imagining, even though there’s a huge number of industry people on that committee . . . they have some very good people on there, and people who are really knowledgeable about the codes and really knowledgeable about green building, so it’s going to be an interesting process that’s just starting . . . . . . And so that’s the focus and then you accommodate the other people on the committee who have these other goals, but that’s not your goal, so what you end up with are these standards that get developed that are very much about the interests of the people engaged in developing the standard, and only some of those interests have to do with public benefit or public welfare. And I try really hard not to be cynical, but I also . . . you know, it’s sort of like what they say about, you know, better if you don’t, if you want to eat sausage it’s better if you don’t see how sausage is made, don’t go to the sausage factory. (Laughter) It’s kind of like that, if you want to trust standards and, to some degree, codes it’s probably better to not know too much about where they come from and how they evolve . . . . . . Codes, I think, are better, for the most part in this country, they’re better because they’re developed by, and the final say is from people who don’t have a financial interest, and that’s a really big and crucial distinction. Anyway, so it’s been really interesting to see how the . . . public awareness and the market is pushing, is changing the whole field of activity and pushing people who are anti-regulation into actually engaging in developing standards for something that they don’t want to be doing. Because they see that it’s going to happen and they know that if they’re not initiating it it’ll happen to them.

Figure 3.6

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Continued

to the needs of their clients, the members of the local building community’ (also see Noam, 1985). While this formulation is prone to reducing an understanding of regulatory processes to their capture by a singular interest, it is helpful in pointing towards a broader, beyond the state, socio-political dynamic in influencing the design and development process, and, in doing so, potentially shifting attention to the political, and politicised, nature of the code formation process. This point is particularly pertinent in relation to the socio-political shaping of the interpretation and application of regulations at the local municipal level, or what


Faulconbridge (2009: 2546), characterises as the spatial heterogeneity of regulation in relation to their production, application, and policing. Such heterogeneity was recognised by some of our interviewees as a challenge to architects’ ingenuity and capacity to adapt to contrasting regulatory requirements from one locale to another, and, as one respondent said, ‘our biggest challenge is responding to the different ways in which the regulations are interpreted and applied across the country’. This testimonial highlights the significance of the geography of regulation, or how local political and social differences are important in influencing the formation and implementation of legal controls relating to building form and performance. A similar point is to the fore in Harris’s (1991: 274) observation, that the development of building codes in major American cities in the early 20th century was part of a political struggle and ‘fundamentally a class, and incidentally a minority, issue’. For Harris (1991: 274), an understanding of the building codes depends, in part, on situating them within their political contexts, and evaluating the different ways in which they are ‘a matter of political struggle’. In this sense, the regulatory process can be understood as being deeply embedded in, and shaped by, social and class relations, or what Harris (1991: 274) refers to as the ‘local balance of political forces . . . and indirectly, the social composition of residences’. This is revealed, in part, by the nature of code formation in the USA in which the diversity of regulations and regulatory processes is primarily a product of the localisation of significant tranches of political power and administration (Burby et al., 2000). In interview, an architect working in San Francisco, outlined instances where local rules were limiting what he was able to design. As he said, ‘there’s a rule that a third floor of a dwelling cannot have more than five hundred square feet of area. That’s a rule that only applies in the Bay area, and up and down the California coast, but doesn’t apply in other states. That produces a restriction on the configuration of dwellings. It means that you’re pushed into either two-storey buildings, or the third floor has always got to be much smaller than other floors’. The rationale is mitigation of fire risk, in a context whereby the objective is to avoid the design of large floor-plates that might otherwise encourage the congregation of large numbers of people with only a single staircase as a means of escape. The implication, as Burby et al. (2000) and others see it, is a loss of potential investors, put off by restrictions to floor area and a diminution in a city’s economic growth (Kelly, 1959, May, 2004). This scenario was outlined by interviewees in Austin, Texas, where the use of green codes, and stipulations relating to energy conservation, is allegedly

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implicated in diverting housing investment to municipalities that fringe the city limits (also, see Figure 3.7). An interviewee outlined the context: ‘the City of Austin is generally perceived to have many more regulatory barriers than the jurisdictions immediately outside the city limits. So if I’m building a retail store or an office building or a house, I know that if I One of the biggest issues about regulation and development relates to variations in the nature of regulatory regimes, and the impacts on investment decisions. In interview in April 2007, a building codes inspector from Austin, Texas, outlined some of the key issues: The more difficult it is to get through the regulatory process it will limit who will invest in that environment. If you’re a multinational corporation with lots of resources where costs are not an issue then the fact that it takes you much longer to get through this process or not may not be an impediment. You take that as a given. But if you’re a small business person or you’re a small home builder, and you have a choice to build anywhere in the region or anywhere in this particular part of town or in this part of the country, and there are places that are more difficult to get through or more unpredictable and places that are much more predictable then you will often choose some place that you consider reasonable where you’ll get a rate of return on your investment in a [reasonable] time framework . . . . . . So it drives the first decision about in which community construction will take place. I mean, I did a session on affordable housing in San Francisco a few years ago, and in California every decision by every regulatory official is appealable, so the length of time to actually get a building permit is often a year, year and a half. In Austin, only certain decisions are appealable, so you can submit a certain set of plans and if they comply with all the regulations and what not you can have a higher level of confidence that you can be under construction in a much shorter period of time than if you were doing that same design in San Francisco.

Figure 3.7

Constraining the location of investment by regulation.

build it within the city limits of Austin I’m going to be subject to a series of regulations that I may not be subject to if I’m building it right outside the city limits, serving the same population’ (see Figure 3.7).8 This illustrates the potency of political differences between local municipalities, or places characterised by contrasting social and demographic patterns and processes underpinning, and shaping, the regulatory environment (also see Bagguley et al., 1990, Faulconbridge, 2009, Massey, 1992, 2005).9 It conveys the complexity of the crosscutting socio-institutional, and spatial, relations implicated in the 100

3.4 Conclusions Architects and other professionals have ambivalent attitudes towards the regulation of the design and development process and, for many, it is seen as a potential source of intrusion into, and diminution of, the integrity of their expertise and knowledge. These sentiments are evident throughout different historical periods and socio-cultural contexts, and are part of a discourse that, as alluded to in chapter 1, is connected to the Palladian conception of the architect as the purveyor of beauty and truth through the context of their creation of artful objects. Such objects have tended to be regarded as separate from, and distinctive to, what Ameri (1993: 3) describes as ‘the mere building – considered a menial activity unworthy of theoretical pursuit’. This view perpetuates what Vesely (2004: 29) refers to as the romantic notion of genius, or the reduction of ‘the traditional complexity of culture to a single creative gesture’. While the everyday working experiences of architects highlight their dependence on others for the realisation of ‘creative gestures’, the ideas outlined by Vesely (1995, 2004) are a powerful, almost subliminal, part of the ideological basis of, and mentalities of, the architectural profession. One of the manifestations of this is the development and perpetuation of a discourse about regulation, particularly relating to legal and quasi-legal rules, which regards regulatory form and process as anathema to the production of good urban form. This conceptualisation revolves around a static understanding of architecture as separate from – and in opposition to – regulatory form and process. A consequence of this is a failure to acknowledge and understand that ‘creativity’ is not the preserve of any one individual, or reducible to singular acts of genius, but is part of co-constituted relationships of which, in the design process, the interrelationships between the actions of architects and regulation are paramount. However, as highlighted in the chapter, too often regulation is conceived of as external to the production of design, as a thing done to it rather than part of a relational process. Regulation is regarded negatively and is likely to reduce scope for creative actions while adding costs to the design and development process. The evidence deployed to support such observations is, at best, partial and equivocal. For instance, the impacts of regulation on design and development


regulation of the built environment, and suggests that the analytical focus on building regulations is best served by avoiding a reductive frame of reference or one whereby a single actor or institutional process is seen as determinate of design process and outcomes.

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costs are difficult to estimate. Where any additional costs are accrued – costs that can be linked to a rule or regulation relating to building form – they are often marginal or easily absorbed into the cost structures of projects. Too often, the cost calculus mentalities of many designers and builders mean that the notion of ‘regulation costs’ is more or less accepted as axiomatic. This ignores the broader dimensions relating to the enhanced value that buildings may accrue as part of the implementation of a regulation relating to building form and performance. Similar observations can be made in relation to the alleged effects of regulation on the locational decisions of investors, such as housebuilders, where it is claimed that they are likely to resist investing in places that seek to specify a minimum level of regulatory compliance. Again, the evidence on this is unclear and equivocal. There is also a tendency, by actors in the development industry, to characterise regulation and regulatory effects as a type or singular process whereby all regulation is branded as bad and likely to detract from the quality of spatial development. However, evidence in this chapter, and from elsewhere, shows that regulation is not a static object that necessarily has particular effects, but rather it becomes what it is in and through the interactions of a diversity of actors operating within particular project contexts. In other words, regulation is a socio-political and institutional process, in which its composition, and its effects, cannot be easily known in advance of its making.

Part II The Practices of Regulation


Chapter Four Learning about Regulation

That, I think, is the biggest shock for young architects leaving architecture school and coming into an office. I think most people don’t realise what an incredibly regulated world we live in. (Testimony from an architect, 2007).

4.1 Introduction In previous chapters, we have outlined a popular understanding of architecture as part of a separation between, on the one hand, the architect as the purveyor of ideas and inventions, and on the other hand, practice and practical know-how or processes relating to the construction of buildings (Carpenter, 1997, Till, 2006, 2009). While the former seeks to encourage creative activities and to create the intellectual bases and possibilities for the production of design, the latter is the ‘act of building’, or matters that are related to material organisation and construction, including the regulation of the design process by state ordinances and laws. The ensuing dualisms, of architecture– building, design–craft, and architect–builder, provide an ideological basis for asserting the specialised separate roles and competencies of the architect. These dualisms are also part of architects’ justifications for not knowing about, and not needing to develop, their knowledge of domains of expertise that exist outside of what comes to be defined as the legitimate spheres of actions and activities of the architect (Hill, 2003). These activities are based on the aesthetics of design, and the perpetuation of professional architecture as seeking to realise its ideas and inventions, often against the constraints imposed, seemingly, by the material processes of building. The tension between architecture and building is revealed, in part, by architects’ often hostile attitudes towards anything that might be perceived as a transgression of the aesthetic pursuit or dilution of creative practice, including the Architectural Design and Regulation. Rob Imrie and Emma Street. © 2011 Rob Imrie and Emma Street. Published 2011 by Blackwell Publishing Ltd. ISBN: 978-1-405-17966-9

The Practices of Regulation 106

regulation of the design process (see chapters 3 and 5). Such attitudes, we argue, are precisely the product of the false distinction between architecture and building, in which knowledge of design process and practice is often presented in de-contextualised forms, that is, in abstraction from the specific socio-political and institutional contexts that shape architects’ behaviour. This de-contextualisation is related, in part, to systems of education and training or to the pedagogic and professional bases of architecture that, in Sarfatti-Larson’s (1993: 10) terms, are the foundations for the production and reproduction of the discourse of architect as art. In evaluating these and related observations, the objective of this chapter is to provide insights into how far, and in what ways, the education and training of architects contributes to the (re)production of values and attitudes that perpetuate, potentially, the division between architecture and building (also see Bentley, 1999, Carpenter, 1997, Habraken, 2005, Till, 2009). In doing so, we seek to contribute to, and build upon, a range of scholarly work that regards education and training as acculturation into the values and beliefs of disciplinary fields that are part of a process in both defending, and seeking to enhance, the power of professional associations and their identities (Bentley, 1999, Bourdieu and Passeron, 1990, Webster, 2007). Such identities, in relation to architecture, are likely to oppose absorption of ideas and practices into the aesthetic process not regarded as core or essential to the activities of architects. Rather, matter or material understood as part of building, such as the regulatory control of design, are likely to be dismissed, or rendered irrelevant, as an object of both learning or practical engagement and understanding. We divide the chapter into three parts. First we outline, in brief, the interrelationships between education, training, and the acculturation of architects into what Sarfatti-Larson (1993: 10) refers to as the distinctive pedagogies of a ‘fantasised and idealised notion of architectural practice’. We develop the understanding, after Webster (2005a: 6), that architects’ education can be understood as part of the creation of the architectural subject, in which training systems deploy ‘micro technologies of power’ or mechanisms to ensure that individuals are absorbed into ‘the dominant disciplinary paradigm’. Some refer to this as a process of transmission, or what Crysler (1995: 210) describes as the ‘unmediated transmission of skills and information delineated by experts’.1 While such processes are neither inevitable nor straightforward, nor unaffected by instances of individual resistance or refusal to accede to the core paradigmatic values, we suggest that the disciplining of architects through select pedagogic practices is one of the key bases for the (re)production of attitudes and values that reinforce the divide between architecture and building.

Learning about Regulation

We develop these ideas in the second part of the chapter. Referring to our survey and interview data, we explore architects’ understanding of their education and training experiences, with the specific focus on the role they play in the formation of values and attitudes in relation to the regulation of the design process. The data suggest that while there is much complexity in the formation of architect-subjects, the experience of education and training, as recounted by our respondents, provides evidence of conformity with core architectural values relating to the primacy of aesthetic endeavour and application (also see Webster, 2005a, 2005b). This is reflected in attitudes towards the broader contexts or fields of design production, such as state regulation of architects’ activities, which, for most respondents, represents a diminution of their freedom to act, and the inhibition of their creativity. Then we conclude the chapter by discussing ideas of critical pedagogy, or what some term the ‘pedagogy of critique and possibility’, and their relevance in recommending changes to architectural education and training (Ellsworth, 1994, McLaren, 1996, Stevens, 1995, 1998).

4.2 Discipline, education, and the creation of the architect-subject An objective of this chapter is to understand how far architects’ attitudes towards the regulation of design activity are related to their acculturation experiences, specifically those acquired through the context of education and training. A range of writers suggest that architects’ education and training is characterised by a pedagogy that seeks to elevate their professional standing, by providing them with distinction in relation to their skills and intellectual capacities and capabilities (Bentley, 1999, Dovey, 2005).2 This reflects Foucault’s (1979) observations about the disciplinary construction of knowledge in the 18th and 19th centuries, in which what emerged in Europe were subject-specific discourses that, as Webster (2005a: 6) notes, ‘reified particular, but illusory, notions of truth and knowledge at fixed historical moments’. Such notions became the basis for organising disciplinary mechanisms to absorb trainee architects into the discourse of the discipline. For architecture, the (pre)dominant discourse revolved around design as an aesthetic endeavour, or what Dovey (2005: 294) refers to as the reduction of practice ‘to the production of imagery’. This was not always the case, as testified in some of the earliest writings about design and construction. For instance, Vitruvius’s (1960) classic book, The Ten Books of Architecture, outlines the importance 107


of trainee architects acquiring competence in both the theoretical aspects of practice and the technicalities of building. For Vitruvius (1960: 5), the education of architects had to be predicated on ‘knowledge of many branches of study’, and to acquire ‘the ability to demonstrate and explain . . . principles of construction, and practice’, and also to engage with ‘the continuous and regular exercise of employment where manual work is done . . . according to the design of a drawing’. Vitruvius (1960: 5) rejected a reduction of architecture to form or theory, and suggested that those ‘who relied only upon theories and scholarship were obviously hunting the shadow, not the substance’. Thus, for Vitruvius (1960: 5), pedagogic experiences had to be grounded in both the theory and practice of design, or, as he argued, ‘those who have a thorough knowledge of both . . . have the sooner attained their object and carried authority with them’. The emergence of a disjuncture, or rupture, between theory and practice, or a challenge to some of the presuppositions of Vitruvius, was evident during the Renaissance in which, as Broadbent (1995) observes, architects sought to elevate the status of the profession from that of craftsman to philosopher (Roth, 1993, Sarfatti-Larson, 1993, Vesely, 1995). This elevation was an attempt to develop the stature of the architect beyond what Roth (1993: 111) has termed the ‘architectmaster mason’, or individuals that ‘understood from the inside out how a building was put together’.3 Instead, the period from the early 15th century witnessed the development of the modern architect, described by Roth (1993: 111) as the ‘artist-architect’, or individuals preoccupied with architecture as somehow superior to building or construction. This was the beginnings of a separation between thought and practice, and architecture and building, with the former understood as the application of the mind that, as Alberti (1988) asserted, was the basis of the dignity of human kind. Such views were formative in shaping the modern institutions of architecture, including the panoply of rules, laws, and regulations governing the conduct of architects, many of whom emerged out of the newly formed organisations set up to professionalise the activities of the architect. Foremost was the Royal Academy of Architects, established in 1671 in France, to provide architects with training in ‘grand symbolic designs’ (Roth, 1993: 116). Later, in 1793, it became the Ecole des Beaux Arts, an institution that encouraged students to study the art of ancient Greece and Rome, and to acquire skills in painting and sculpture (Fletcher and Cruickshank, 1996, Frampton, 1980, Pevsner, 1991).4 The Ecole gained international renown, and was a gravitational point for many individuals who later became influential architects.5 Its significance was the emphasis on the teaching of design as ‘good composition’ or, as Julien Gaudet (1901)


suggested, ‘composition . . . must be beautiful as well . . . you will seek character, which contributes to beauty by creating variety’. These observations are reinforced by Rabinow’s (1995: 53) study of French urbanism, in which he notes that the Ecole des Beaux Arts articulated the problem of producing good design ‘in terms of solving a compositional problem harmoniously’. In doing so, the Ecole, and similar organisations, such as the Prussian Bauakademie in Berlin, were, in Foucault’s (1979) terms, mechanisms of disciplinary knowledge and its circulation.6 They became important institutional sites for the development and dissemination of an architectural style suitable to the cultivation of the architect, and were pivotal in establishing architecture as a distinctive field. For Rabinow (1995), this field was characterised by no less than an emphasis on the reproduction of trainee architects in the guise of their masters or tutors. This was a process of the inculcation of values, mentalities, and dispositions, in which the distinctiveness of the architect was attained by focus on the ‘universalist speculation on the nature of architecture’s principles’ (Rabinow, 1995: 51). The reinforcement of a distinction between the artist-architect and craftsman-builder, set in motion by the Ecole, was part of the professionalisation of architecture in the 19th century when much of the institutional infrastructure, governing the education and training of architects, was set up. The RIBA was founded in 1834, followed by the Architectural Association in London in 1847, and later, in 1857, by the AIA, the latter expressing its remit to ‘promote the scientific and practical perfection of its members’ and to ‘elevate the standing of the profession’. (cited at http://www.aia.org/about/history/ AIAB028819).7 This was a familiar, and often repeated, refrain, and part of a preoccupation with the creation of distinction, or what Bourdieu (1998: 468) considers to be, in part, the acquisition of cultural competences or ‘the practical or explicit mastery of a cipher or code’. For architects, the content of the code was the knowledge and concepts relating to their autonomy as producers of aesthetics, which, in Bourdieu’s (1998: 468) terms, revolved around the understanding of ‘form, manner, style, rather than the subject’. The development of architects’ distinction occurred through the context of micro-technologies of power, such as the emergent network of architectural schools, and use of specific techniques for the induction of trainee architects, including the dominance of design studio teaching (Dutton, 1987, 1991, Lehmann, 2006, Moore, 2001). Design studio pedagogy became one of the key instruments to normalise trainees into the values of the architectural profession, with its emphasis on the production of buildings as art-objects in abstraction from their social context or setting. The objective of such pedagogy was

109


experimentation with form and expression through the medium of artistic representations, including drawing, painting, photography, and sculpture. This was the basis for the profession asserting architecture as a relatively autonomous (artistic) field, characterised by its practitioners acquiring what Bourdieu (2000: 166) defines as symbolic capital, that is, ‘the esteem, recognition, belief, credit, and confidence of others’. For autonomy, as objective and outcome, to be attained, the deployment of specific techniques was paramount and became most readily associated with studio project work and pedagogic practices through the context of the design jury or ‘crit’ (Anthony, 1991, Moore, 2001, Webster, 2005a, 2007). Webster (2005a) notes that the design jury emerged as a practice of examination, by experts, that served to induct students into the architectural community. It became a means of cultural assimilation, which, as Crysler (1995: 208) suggests, encouraged students ‘to subordinate their other identities to the task of becoming a professional’. For some, it was no more than a mechanism of conformity with the received judgements of an architectural elite. In particular, the assessment of students’ work, by expert panels of established, often elite, architects, involved the apportioning of distinction, a process redolent of what Foucault (1979: 24) describes as a combination of ‘the ceremony of power and the form of the experiment, the deployment of force, and the establishment of truth’. Seeking to maintain the distinctiveness or autonomy of architecture as a discrete field has, however, been a point of tension, even contradiction, given the inescapable fact that, for architecture to be realised as built form, it is dependent on, and entwined with, building and construction activities (Jones, 2009, Fischer and Guy, 2009, Till, 2009). This truism has, at periodic intervals, manifest itself in different approaches to architects’ education. One early example was the Bauhaus School, established in 1919 by Walter Gropius, and described by Broadbent (1995) as seeking to bring the arts and crafts together as the basis of architectural production.8 For Gropius, the Bauhaus was not a crafts school; rather, as Dondis (1974: 144) suggests, it sought to ‘reconcile the artist and the machine’. Gropius (1919: 1) sought ‘to create a new guild of craftsmen, without the class distinctions which raise an arrogant barrier between craftsman and artist’. The objective, as Gropius (1919: 1) suggested, was to embed architects into the practicalities of practice: ‘the teaching of a craft is meant to prepare for designing for mass production . . . [to] touch with the entire process of production from start to finish’. These sentiments signify the importance of understanding the social and institutional contexts of architecture, through the complex, relational, networks of design, building, and construction (Habraken, 2005,


Sarfatti-Larson, 1993). Such relationality suggests that the creative process of design is not so much reducible to the actions of the architect per se, but part of the broadcloth of interactions between diverse actors and agents. That this point seems to be lost on some architectural schools is a recurrent theme in writings about architects’ education (Broadbent, 1995, Duffy, 1995, Nicol and Pilling, 2000). It is suggested by some that far from building activity, including regulatory control of design, being ‘non-creative’, or irrelevant to issues of aesthetics, it is constitutive of what makes good architecture, and should be integral to architects’ pedagogic experiences. For instance, Fischer and Guy’s (2009) research, of building regulations, shows that far from the activities of building surveyors being anathema to achieving good design outcomes, that they can, through appropriate interventions, add creative value to the actions of architects (also see chapter 5, Imrie, 2007). Such observations are the basis for those who encourage a broadening of architectural curricula and pedagogic experiences, to reflect what Crysler (1995: 211) argues is architecture’s ‘practical dependence on the heterogeneous activities of building’. This dependence is recognition, by the RIBA, AIA, and other professional organisations, that, since the late 1960s, structural changes in the organisational and operational relations of design and construction, including the emergence of new forms of regulation, and changing roles and responsibilities of building professionals, has altered the responsibilities and modes of working of architects (chapter 7). For some, the architects’ role has diminished in significance in the design and development process, in a context whereby time and monetary issues have become paramount, with heightened emphasis on interrelating design to issues of management, budgeting, and cost control. In this respect, Leach’s (1995: 28) observation, that ‘architectural education should not be limited to the purely architectural project’, seems apt. This comment is directed at those who seek to maintain a distinction between architecture and building, and, in doing so, are likely to reproduce a pedagogy that, in Moe’s (2007: 25) terms, ‘tends to teach its technical practices as isolated rather than socially constructed’. Rabinow (1995: 52) hints at something similar, in referring to the decontextualised nature of architectural knowledge, or its estrangement from ‘social, cultural, and geographic considerations’. Likewise, Duffy (1989: 120) notes architectural schools’ failure to specify, or teach about, architectures’ interrelationships with the broader socio-political processes of building, suggesting that ‘by behaving as if nothing has changed in the practice of architecture during the last twenty years . . . they perpetuate a system which is not only irrelevant but false and cruel’.9 This perennial view is the basis of the RIBA (2005: 10) report

111

The Practices of Regulation

on ‘constructive change’, noting that ‘architectural education initiates and enforces certain negative behaviours and attitudes’, and fails to equip architects with the practical know-how and skills ‘to meet industry and wider market needs’. While the practicalities of design and construction illustrate Cuff and Smith’s (2009) observation that practice is a social process, there is some doubt expressed about how far architecture, as a discipline, is engaged sufficiently with what Moore (2001: 73) refers to as ‘the agency of practice’. Moore (2001: 73) advocates a pedagogy of practice to break the epistemic distinction between architect and building, architect and craftsman, and for diverse practitioners, including architects, to be part of ‘effective dialogue’ to enable shifts in entrenched professional viewpoints. How far a dialogical approach is able to break what Webster (2005b: 267) describes as the tacit or hidden curriculum, that is, the ‘non-cognitive functions, such as values, tastes, and beliefs’, is open to question. Dialogue, in and of itself, may achieve nothing and for those subscribing to critical pedagogy, dialogical relations are a diversion from the task of overcoming the complicity of education in the reproduction of systemic social inequality and disadvantage. We return to these themes in the conclusions of the chapter but now, in the next section, we evaluate architects’ understanding of their education in relation to knowing about, and engaging with, the pragmatics of design, with the focus on the building regulations.

4.3 Pedagogy and the acculturation of architects: evidence from the field As the last section intimated, there are commentators who believe architecture to be in crisis, by virtue of it seeking to hold on to its professional identity while all around it everything is changing (Bentley, 1999, Crysler, 1995, Till, 2009, Webster, 2005a, 2005b). Not only are high numbers of architects out of work at present, but also many leave the profession within a short period of entering practice, seemingly disillusioned with what it has to offer.10 Here, the disjuncture between architecture as taught, its promise of autonomy, creativity, and the propagation of taste, contrasts with what most of it is like in practice, a world characterised by a messy complexity, including the fragmentation of work tasks, and onus on mundane matters relating to the management of projects and financial control (chapters 6 and 7). For some, such as Crysler (1995: 208), the problem for architects relates, in part, to the transmission of skills and values often incongruent with what the job entails, and not well attuned to survival 112


of practices in ‘a highly competitive and increasingly specialised marketplace for design services’ (also see Till, 2009). In the rest of the chapter, we discuss data from our postal survey of, and interviews with, architects to evaluate how far, and in what ways, their formative educational and training experiences are, in Bourdieu and Passeron’s (1990) terms, implicated in the reproduction of a cultural formation, that is, the specificity of architecture as a system of artistic representation and practice (also see Bourdieu, 1988, Carpenter, 1997).11 Our argument is that while the process of reproduction is neither straightforward nor guaranteed it is part of a broader, albeit uneven, acculturation of architects into values and attitudes that do not regard matter, such as (building) regulations, as a part of creative practice or a legitimate part of what they should be concerned with. Rather, most educational experiences are part of the systemic division between architecture and building, often reinforced through class, linguistic, and style differences, and characterised by compartmentalisation of things such as regulations into the category of ‘residual matter’, to be considered and dealt with only when it is absolutely necessary to do so. We divide the rest of the discussion into two parts. First, with reference to the data gathered as part of the AHRC project (see Appendix), we evaluate how far, and in what ways, pedagogic content and practice, relating to architects’ education and training, may encourage the development of knowledge production and understanding that is de-contextualised from the pragmatics of building and construction (Carpenter, 1997). Second, we relate such discussion to architects’ attitudes to issues about the ‘culture of building’, with a focus on the (building) regulation of design activity. While there are some variations in the ways that different architects experience their education, such variations, we argue, do not mask what Till (2009: 15) characterises as ‘the stasis of its own processes’, a reference to the propagation of form and taste as the centre of architects’ raison d’^ etre.

The pedagogies of cultural assimilation As Webster (2005b: 267) notes, a number of writers, including Bourdieu (1988) and Foucault (1979), have identified what she describes as the ‘coercive power of covert educational practice to reproduce the dominant values and beliefs of disciplinary fields’ (also see Crysler, 1996, Stevens, 1995, Till, 2009). Webster’s (2005b) study of the architectural review is instructive in highlighting its importance as a technique or tool of architects’ acculturation into the customs and practices of architecture. As Webster (2005b: 274) suggests, ‘at the earliest stage in their education, students seemed to realise that the explicit criteria for 113


assessment were inexplicably interwoven with other implicit criteria relating to notions of aesthetics or architectural value’ (also see Anthony, 1991, Lehmann, 2006, Till, 2009). This view was reflected in most respondents’ responses to our survey, in which a commonly held view was that the main motivation for their study was to develop ‘creative dispositions’ or, as one respondent said, ‘the course was very encouraging and creative and . . . they give us freedom to design anything we wanted [to]’. This view provides some support for Stevens (1995: 107) observation, that the objective of architectural training in most schools is not the transmission of technical knowledge per se, but, rather, ‘the production of members socialised into the culture of architects’ (also see Bentley, 1999, Carpenter, 1997, Sarfatti-Larson, 1993, Till, 2009).12 For one respondent, this is appropriate. He suggested that the remit of the architectural schools ought to be ‘to develop each individual’s capacity to think three-dimensionally and spatially’. This architect amplified the point by noting that ‘when you’re at university or when you’re going through architectural courses, there needs to be a time when each architect is allowed to develop their spatial thinking’. In particular, he emphasised a widely held belief amongst respondents, that thinking about spatial relations ought to be facilitated with the focus, first and foremost, on ‘form’, without it being reduced to issues of technique, building, or, as he put it, ‘having to comply with (learning about) [building] regulations’. While respondents indicated some variations between schools in terms of quantity and quality of training in relation to non-aesthetic matter, the usual training provision rarely departed from what one architect referred to as the teaching of architecture as ‘an applied art that’s part of the environment’. For Sarfatti-Larson (1993: 4), this subject focus is one of the bases for the inculcation of architects into ‘the rhetorical aspects of style’. Most respondents concurred with this view in noting that the emphasis of education in architectural school was, in the words of one architect, ‘developing a style, a persona’, linked to what a colleague said was the focus ‘always on design’. Another architect said that ‘we spent most of the time in the design studio . . . we went through the history and the practice of the building regulations and planning law, it was all lumped into one’. For others, the creative aspects of architecture were paramount. As a respondent observed, ‘the theory of architectural design was very strong, and a lot of the technology was abysmal’, and ‘it was more [about] design; our education was more design driven’. This focus is part of what Bourdieu (1996) refers to as the process of individuals acquiring a distinctive (architectural) habitus, or where there is development of the beliefs, habits, language, and practices that


correspond with the projection of architecture as separate from building. This separation is, as one respondent said, not just at the level of ideas, but is interlinked with the social practices and the profile of architects, and is part of a class differentiation between different strata of the design and building professions. As she said: ‘I had this view that architecture was slightly elitist in a way . . . a lot of the background of the people, they tend to be . . . people whose parents are architects who go into the profession, very sort of middle, or upper middle class sort of background, not all, but there’s a lot of that’. For another, his acculturation was defined by the acquisition of a language that set apart architecture from building: ‘in the universities it is architecture speak, you’ve got academics who are looking at very refined and advanced thoughts, if you like, and if you go and talk to the estates department of a local authority or something it’s a completely different level of conversation’. Some respondents articulated the distinctiveness of the architect as a product of a perceived difference between education and training. The former was regarded as the acquisition of cognitive or mental dispositions, or ways of thinking and knowing about the substance of the subject, the latter the domain of the prosaic, the practical, and the preserve of the technician. In the views of one respondent, architects’ education ‘provides scope for thinking and experimenting unfettered by real-world constraints, or by necessarily reducing design to a series of practical [outcomes]’. Likewise, in interview, a former President of the RIBA cautioned against the propagation of a rationalist pedagogy in education, that is, the use of methods and tuition that seek to produce architects ‘fit for work’, ready-made for the practicalities of practice. He said: ‘you’ve got people out there who want to train architects and churn out – what’s the phrase? – oven-ready architects . . . it’s always practitioners who say this, by the way, because they want students who can come in and work for low wages and be completely competent professional people. I think it’s a mistake’. Rather, for this individual, the point of education is to provide a context for reflection about concepts relating to form: What they’re there to do is not learn about building regulations for one simple reason, is they don’t need to. Now they need to be aware of planning and building regulations, of course they do, but what they’re there to develop is a sense of what it means to design volumetric spaces with uses. Forget about the building regulations, you know, that is what they’ve got to develop, and you do not develop that by trying to learn about Part M and this and that, this and that.

An implication of this perspective is, however, that, as Symes et al. (1995: 8) suggest, ‘the pragmatics of building, planning, and 115


construction can be altogether submerged’ by the ‘studio culture’ of architectural schools (also see Symes and Seidel, 1999, Till, 2009, Webster, 2005a). Respondents expressed concern that this submergence might be abstracting from building contexts rather than stressing the relational nature of how buildings and places are put together. This, as Till (2009) suggests, is part of pedagogy that privileges the ‘design of the object’ as the primary part of the educational experience. An implication is, as one respondent commented, that ‘I came out of architectural school ignorant of the broader process’, while, for another, ‘the architectural schools used to train you up to be able to run a practice without actually telling you that running a practice was, as you say, 90 percent paperwork and 10 percent design’. Others noted that diverse, although connected, parts of the design process were often overlooked: ‘I left the school with not much knowledge of builders, planners, all those things that you have to deal with every day in practice’. Such views were reflected broadly by respondents to the postal survey, with the data indicating that they felt well prepared in relation to traditional subject matter, or substance of the subject that relates to the understanding of form and taste (see Appendix for further details of the survey). Thus, a majority of respondents said that they had received adequate training in theory and ideas relating to subjects such as the history of architecture (210 respondents or 87%), a sentiment that was not dissimilar for other traditional subject areas, such as building technology (155 or 64%) and schematic design (177 or 74%). In particular, respondents felt that they had acquired a good knowledge of scales and proportions through drawing, with one architect noting that ‘you got to draw a hell of a lot of lines and it takes a long time’. Another respondent suggested that the emphasis was very rarely about ‘the practical use of materials, although in fact it was a practical-based course’. For another, ‘I think a lot of architects find the same: the first three years you tend to be dealing with architecture rather in the abstract’. Such abstractions are characterised by limited course-related interchange and dialogue with the pragmatics of building, and less emphasis on the acquisition of technical, management, and practical skills (Broadbent, 1995, Duffy, 1995, Till, 2009, Webster, 2005a). What respondents’ testimonials suggest is the importance of architecture as aesthetic formalism, and a pedagogy that, in Dutton’s (1987: 23) terms, values ‘individualism, desire, and pleasure’. These features were, for one respondent, part of acquiring a distinctiveness to set him apart from others. As he said, ‘I wanted my education to be about gaining a grounding in aesthetics, art history, that sort of stuff, developing my drawing skills, becoming part of the set’. For this person,

Non response Strongly agree Agree Neither agree nor disagree Disagree Strongly disagree Total

Number

Percent

11 40 144 43 2 1 241

4.6 16.6 59.8 17.8 0.8 0.4 100


the acquisition of what Bourdieu (1996) refers to as cultural capital was paramount, and characterised by acquiring, through education, the feel for the discipline by absorbing its concepts, language, modes of communicating, thinking, and the cultural competence to be a legitimate part of the profession. The emphasis on the acquisition of cultural competence, or seeking to embody the social and cultural traits of what it means to be an architect, did not mean that respondents were unaware of the dangers of a potentially one-sided curriculum. For some, it was as though they were, following Foucault (1979), being made to think and act in ways congruent with received rules and modes of conduct. This was characterised by a respondent as ‘befitting an architect’. He added that ‘we did do a lot of design work, and we did do the building technology curriculum, but there wasn’t enough of an emphasis on that’. This feeling was shared by others, with another architect arguing that ‘[they] were teaching architecture without any framework . . . without anything to hang the clothes on, and so the clothes hang horribly don’t they, you know’. Symes et al.’s (1995) research suggests likewise, with their study of 395 practising UK architects showing that subject matter such as budget, construction, and office management received low ratings from architects when asked to assess the adequacy of the training provided. This is all the more alarming, they suggest, since their study showed that architects were spending increasing amounts of time on these areas of practice. Fifteen years on, our data almost mirror Symes et al.’s study, with Tables 4.1 and 4.2 showing, respectively, that while 76% (184) of respondents agreed that architects need to receive training in budget management, only 7% (18) of those surveyed felt that they had received adequate training in this area. Likewise, Tables 4.3 and 4.4 outline a similar set of responses in relation to marketing, in which while 60% (142) of respondents felt that architects need to receive training

Table 4.1 ‘An architect needs to receive training in budget management’

117


Non response Strongly agree Agree Neither agree nor disagree Disagree Strongly disagree Total Table 4.2

Number

Percent

21 2 16 52 108 42 241

8.7 0.8 6.6 21.6 44.8 17.4 100

‘I received adequate training in budget management’

in marketing, only 5% (13) felt that they had received the requisite training. These figures are more or less replicated in relation to a host of subject areas, whereby the dominant response of respondents was that they had not received adequate training in practice-based disciplines, particularly in relation to office management (62% or 149) and project management (50% or 121). For one respondent, the only way around this shortfall in his education was ‘to teach myself, I mean you know I sat down and I sort of read books, and I looked in old construction books and find out how you put things together’.


Table 4.4

118

Percent

10 27 115 63 22 4 241

4.1 11.2 47.7 26.1 9.1 1.7 100

‘An architect needs to receive training in marketing’


Number

Number

Percent

21 3 10 45 102 60 241

8.7 1.2 4.1 18.7 42.3 24.9 100

‘I received adequate training in marketing’

Non response Very well Well Neither well nor poorly Poorly Very poorly Total

Frequency

Percent

4 25 97 72 34 9 241

1.7 10.4 40.2 29.9 14.1 3.7 100


Despite this, when asked how well their education had prepared them for architectural practice, Table 4.5 shows that 51% (122) said that it had prepared them well or very well. As one respondent said, ‘you know, my education gave me the time to do something, the resource, the time and the space to think’. Only a small minority of respondents (18% or 43) felt that their education prepared them either poorly or very poorly for working in practice. A typical comment included the observation from one architect that, ‘the reality of life is completely different’. For another, it was suggested that there was ‘too much focus on design and independent working when architectural practice is much broader and team based’. Others were more pragmatic with one person commenting that ‘you have to take what you can from higher education – it’s not and should not be spoon-fed or handed on a plate’, while another architect expressed the view that ‘it is impossible to expect to teach everything an architect needs to know between the ages of 18 to 23, and for it not to become obsolete within five years’.

Table 4.5 ‘How well did your education prepare you for architectural practice?’

These reflective, often critical, views of educational curriculum, process, and outcomes highlight students’ exposure to what Ellsworth (2005: 1) refers to as knowledge as a ‘thing made’, or something that comes preformed, prescribed, and that ‘once it is defined, taught, and used . . . is dead’. For some of our respondents, there was the feeling that the curriculum was static or based on knowledge that did not embed itself into the practicalities of project development and delivery or, as one interviewee said, ‘we had concepts and stuff which we had to work with, [but] in real life you don’t have to’. Ellsworth (2005: 2) suggests that the challenge is to develop a system of learning that she describes as ‘knowledge in the making’. This is about developing an understanding of buildings through sensory bodily experiences, or where the pedagogy of a designed space can be brought alive through students’ direct encounters with the complexity of the practice-based contexts that are the centrepiece of the making of the built 119


environment (also see Muschamp, 2003). This is a theme we return to in the concluding chapter of the book.

Pedagogic methods and the missing dimensions of building The evidence in the previous section indicates that the pedagogic content and practices of much architectural education and training is unlikely to significantly reduce the distinctions between architecture and building, or ameliorate value-differences between different design and building professionals, or their antipathies towards each other (Broadbent, 1995, Carpenter, 1997, Duffy, 1989, Symes et al., 1995, Till, 2009). An implication, highlighted by some, is that the education of architects does not prepare them to deal with the complexities of building; it fails to provide an appreciation of how architecture, as the making of places, is integrally interconnected with the diverse elements of physical form, including the construction, legal regulation, maintenance, and performance of the built environment (Bentley, 1999, Till, 2009). As Carpenter (1997: 16) suggests, the challenge is to (re) introduce the ideas of people such as Walter Gropius, who sought to propagate architecture as ‘the creative effort of building through an inseparable linkage of art and design’, in which construction was conceived of as indissoluble from design.13 The dissolubility of building from design is, however, something that respondents were keen to pinpoint as part of the pedagogic process that, through use of specific types of skills training, was likely to remain a feature of architects’ educational experiences. This was particularly so in relation to what some saw as the problems of (over-)reliance on computer-aided design (CAD). Stevens (1995: 1) describes his experiences of computer pedagogy as the ‘non-reality of computer graphics imagery (euphemised as virtual reality); far away from the hard and difficult realities of bricks, concrete, and timber; of water, wind, heat, and cold; and further still from the even harder realities of client demands, local building regulations, and truculent contractors’ (also see Till, 2009). Our respondents expressed similar disquiet with what was seen as a disproportionate emphasis on computer pedagogies. For some, it was leading to a generation of architects able to produce beautiful computer-generated graphics, stylistic and impressive visually yet without context or content to produce understanding of how the images fitted into the pragmatics of building projects.14 Till (2009: 15) has described the significance of computer pedagogy in architectural schools as the conjoining of ‘technical determinism and formal determinism’, a point reinforced by a respondent who said that ‘I think they’re not teaching them very well at colleges at the moment . . . they can do the most amazing CAD drawings, but they


don’t seem to understand how a building is put together’. For another, ‘well, if you think an architect should be able to draw, it’s surprising. I mean we’ve had students in here and they can use the computer, no problem. They’re better at it than we are, probably, but when it comes to . . . putting the elements together of the building, they’re hopeless. And building regulations, I mean, they don’t know’. For these respondents, CAD pedagogies were a potential basis for distorting the complexities of the design and development process, and likely to produce representations of building form and performance that, as -Morales (1996) suggests, are no more than representational Sola straitjackets (also see Till, 2009). Such straitjacketing was highlighted by some as not only reducing architects’ engagement with the pragmatics of building, but also diluting traditional skills and the architects’ craft, that is, the representation of design through the context of drawing. As an architect said, ‘. . . because of technology they . . . don’t understand scale, proportion . . . because all that they see is what is on a computer screen. They have never picked up a pencil and actually tried to present graphically their ideas in a freehand fashion, and it’s actually remarkable’. For others, CAD pedagogies were disarming trainee architects into thinking that what is seen on screen is analogous to real life building contexts. For one respondent, CAD is no more than simulation, and does not capture the nuances of the building process. As he said, ‘the CAD drawing goes to contractors, there’s no dimensions on it, there’s no note saying that symbol represents whatever it represents . . .’. Another noted how reliance on CAD was problematical in discouraging ‘dialogue in a team’, while, for another, it reduced the quality of communication between project team members, or, as he said, ‘a contractor can’t understand CAD drawings’.15 The influence and impacts of CAD pedagogies, on architects’ knowledge of the building process, ought to be seen as symptomatic of a broader set of pedagogic mentalities within architectural education that, as already intimated, do little to dispel the centrality of the idea of the autonomy of architecture. This is particularly evident in relation to architects’ attitudes to the teaching of building regulations and subject matter that, as we discuss in chapter 5, is regarded by many architects as dealing with substance that is anathema to good design, and likely to mitigate and compromise the scope of creative actions and outcomes. In one of our interviews, a respondent provided a not untypical reaction: Q: Where did you do your architectural education? A: The Architectural Association. Q: Was there much in the course there or since or even before that you did about [building] regulations?

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A: Nothing, no. Q: Nothing. Do you think there ought to have been? A: No, no.

This person was echoing those who argue that architecture is not reducible to building structure per se or, as another architect said, ‘architecture isn’t building, building is part of architecture, but I mean the art of architecture really shouldn’t be part of building . . .’ An implication of the disjuncture, or split, between architecture and building is the likelihood that, in Bourdieu’s (1996: 20) terms, ‘formidable misunderstandings’ will emerge when architects are confronted with material or matter that are part of the building process. Rules and regulations relating to design and construction are part of a field of production that architects rarely intercede with, and seemingly have little or no influence on. As one respondent said ‘I haven’t thought about this at all . . . the thought (about regulations) rarely enters my head’. Others concurred with one architect noting that ‘I suppose I’ve never thought of regulations being that important in shaping my design philosophy’, a view supported by a respondent who suggested that ‘regulations are part of the background, and not something that seems too important’. Some respondents went much further than this and were hostile to the idea of the teaching of (building) regulation or related building matters as part of the curricula (also see Carpenter, 1997, Imrie, 2004, 2007, Till, 2009, Webster, 2005b). A typical response from respondents was offered by one architect who suggested that ‘this thing about whether they should have regulations thrust down their throat. Course they shouldn’t. It’s absolutely mind numbing, this sort of stuff’. Another respondent more or less admitted to student complicity in supporting a one-sided teaching programme, characterised by a lack of practicebased teaching. As he said, ‘but they never gave us enough support, well, not that we asked for it, but they would not encourage us to read up on the building regulations’. Such complicity was bolstered, so some alleged, by the support of the professional bodies, such as the RIBA, in under emphasising the significance of teaching building-related subjects in architectural schools. As one respondent commented, ‘it’s something you learn in practice, as far as the architectural profession’s concerned’. These observations reinforce, in part, Bourdieu and Passeron’s (1990: 5) understanding that pedagogic action is no less than the imposition of arbitrary cultural forms ‘by an arbitrary power’ that, crucially, ‘cannot function without the complicity of the oppressed to their own oppression’. Testimonials provide some support of Bourdieu and Passron’s statement, with respondents providing examples of


reluctance to engage with building-based subjects, and active purposive choices of where to study based, in part, on the pursuit of ‘architecture as art’. For others, there was a passive acquiescence or acceptance of what was presented to them as the curriculum, and the development of what could be described, after Foucault (1979: 138), as ‘subjected and practiced bodies’, reflecting a state of docility or a conditioning of the subject by a conservative educational system. As one respondent said, ‘we took what we were given, we were not able to challenge’, while for another the pedagogic experience was akin to a transmission model, in that ‘they [tutors] spoke, we listened, absorbed, and that was that . . . it was never interactive’. There was, however, a contradiction in responses by some respondents who felt that, on the one hand, education ought to be the basis for developing architecture in the abstract, as ‘visual and spatial appreciation’, while, on the other hand, recognising that their own companies were suffering because of the dearth of practice-based skills training that new entrants to the profession were receiving. While this tension was not openly acknowledged by respondents, most felt that the calibre of new entrants, post education, was often poor, with a skills base far removed from what was needed to do a good job. As one architect said, ‘I’ve tried employing people, they’re usually in their Part 2, and it’s quite salutary, actually, I’ve had to let them go’. Several architects expressed the view that some schools were failing to prepare students for practice, particularly with regards to the technical knowledge required. Another commented ‘one could pick on quite a number of courses . . . which don’t teach the practical skills, and I think that’s regrettable, because I get students from certain schools who have to be taught all those sort of things . . . they’re not able to pin it down to practicalities, even on very small things’.16 Not surprisingly, there was recognition that changes ought to occur to curricula and that much more (relational) training in architectural schools would have benefits, and provide a basis for an easier transition to the working environment. As one respondent said, ‘I think architects should be aware of regulations reasonably early’, a view echoed by another in relation to a trainee architect that he employs: ‘What we can find from the course that he’s on is that the regulations and even materials and construction techniques do not seem to feature so much, and there is more to be done in the practical training of architects once they start working.’ These views are neither isolated nor uncommon and are corroborated, in part, by Symes et al.’s (1995) survey, in which 91% of their respondents felt that architects should be trained in regulations, codes, and other technical matters, but only 57% felt that this had been done adequately where they had studied. These figures are not dissimilar to our survey in which, as Tables 4.6 and 4.7 show,

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while 87% (210) of respondents felt that they ought to have received training in building regulations, only 36% (87) said that they had done so to their satisfaction. Reaction Non response Strongly agree Agree Neither agree nor disagree Disagree Strongly disagree Total

Number

Percent

7 82 128 20 4 0 241

2.9 34 53.1 8.3 1.7 0 100

Table 4.6 ‘An architect needs to receive training in building regulations’

Reaction Non response Strongly agree Agree Neither agree nor disagree Disagree Strongly disagree Total Table 4.7

Number

Percent

16 16 71 70 47 21 241

6.6 6.6 29.5 29 19.5 8.7 100

‘I received adequate training in building regulations’

Despite perceived shortfalls in formal (formative) training, some felt that the practicalities of building could only be learnt ‘on the job’. As one architect said, ‘we learnt very, very little about regulations at college, it has to be said. It comes from being in the office really’. One architect commented that there was danger of ‘overloading’ students with technical detail in the formative years of their training, ‘At that stage when, in my view, you’re learning about design, quite frankly, how to actually be rigorous in the design process and cultivate that side of it. I mean a lot of the stuff you actually learn in practice.’ Most architects felt that they could deal with ‘knowledge deficits’ of regulations through the context of support teams in the office that have a remit to provide advice and guidance on regulations and other building matters. Thus, a respondent noted that ‘shortfalls and gaps in knowledge are dealt with by back up staff’.17 Such support seemed to be increasingly important because, as one architect noted, ‘there are too many regulations now and they’re coming at us thick and fast, we need help to get to grips with them’ (also see chapter 5). 124

An observation by the RIBA (2005) is that there is an urgent need for architects to understand their actions as part of the complexity of project-based disciplines and modes of operation that, in combination, constitute what architecture is. This view is part of perennial commentary about the state of architecture, illustrated by Duffy (1992: 8) calling for a ‘new logic of cooperative professionalism’, and Moe (2007) suggesting that architectural curricula ought to be designed to acknowledge the socially contingent nature of architects’ practices.18 While testimonials from respondents suggest some understanding of the need to broaden the scope of the pedagogic experience, the identity of architects, as part of a discrete group of practitioners with autonomy to exercise creative judgement, retains not only a powerful hold over the sense of who the architect is or wants to be, but is a central part of educational and training programmes. An implication is that architects are detached from the social, political, and institutional contexts that shape the design process or, as Till (2009: 25) suggests, they ‘look through the wrong end of the telescope, and so see the world as an abstraction’. This comment may be overstated but it highlights much that needs to be done to produce pedagogies of and about architecture that are embedded in the pragmatics of building (Carpenter, 1997, Crysler, 1995, Ellsworth, 2005, Webster, 2005a). The data in this chapter show a continuing trend, previously identified by authors such as Duffy (1992), Broadbent (1995), Symes et al. (1995), and Till (2009), of educational experiences characterised by one-dimensional representations of the design and development process (also see Carpenter, 1997, Webster, 2005a). In particular, a distinctive hierarchy of subjects is part of the shaping of individuals’ cultural capital, commensurate with what it is to be an architect, with the teaching of art history more likely to feature than tuition about office management or the pragmatics of project delivery. The absorption of ‘appropriate knowledge’ was described by one of our respondents as providing them with ‘the means to practice as an architect’, or what Webster (2005b) suggests is inculcating architects with a specificity of values and beliefs of what architecture is. Such inculcation is part of a process described by Foucault (1979) as one of disciplines fixing and arresting or regulating the content of what knowledge is. Thus, the binary of building and architecture segments, divides and orders what is to be known about design and development processes. Architecture is delimited and (pre-)defined, and the architect is segregated, potentially, from other spheres of knowledge and knowing in ways whereby misunderstandings of the social context in


4.4 Conclusions: towards relational pedagogies

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which they operate may result. For Habraken (2005: 151), misunderstandings are due partly to failures of communication across different social and organisational settings, and, as he suggests, the major challenge is for the architectural profession ‘to share a common environmental body of knowledge’. For others, like Cowan (2008), this requires the learning of a design literacy or, as he commented in interview, ‘instead of architects just thinking of themselves as the good guys, thinking they’re better, they need to learn to understand others, and their contributions to the design of places’. While developing dialogue and communicative interactions may well be a prerequisite for a progressive architecture, or one that transcends the binary of building and design, a rationality of communication, in and of itself, is not, we contend, sufficient. In addition, much more emphasis is required to embed architects’ education to the understanding of how places are made, by exploring what Habraken (2005: 129) refers to as the ‘material and spatial complexities of the field’. First and foremost, this ought to be interlinked to historical contextualisations of contemporary events. As one of our respondents said, ‘my complaint about architectural education would be more to do with the lack of historical grounding in what architects have done and what they’ve produced and why – you know – which has to do with placing regulation in context, in other words it becomes part of the history of architecture’. Others concurred with one person noting that ‘I think it’s awareness of how regulations and codes have and do affect architecture, and I think one can do that in a historical way, so that’s the way you appreciate it’. For others, the contextualisation of architecture needs to be aligned to a questioning of what the appropriate epistemology ought to be that guides and shapes design practice (Crysler, 1995, Findeli, 2001, Till, 2009). Findeli (2001: 6) notes that most architectural education reproduces positivistic conceptions of knowledge that revolve around dualistic systems of thinking, and is prone to the presentation of (relational) relationships as discrete and independent, and it also encourages ‘an aesthetics based almost exclusively on material shapes and qualities’. For Findeli (2001), one of the challenges is to ensure the development of a relevant architecture that shows the interconnections between building and design, and stresses the situational nature of architects’ practices. This includes the development of pedagogic processes that problematise knowledge of and for architecture, including an opening up of architects to interdisciplinary and self-directed learning, and a shift from knowledge systems based on transmission or received models or modes of instruction. This opening up ought to form part of what Moore (2001: 59) refers to as ‘pedagogy of practice’. This comprises at least three interlinked components. One relates to what the appropriate substance of the


subject is, and the need for a critical education to shift its focus beyond what Till (2009: 162) suggests is a concern with ‘static objects’ or the study of ‘the building as aesthetic and tectonic object’. For Till (2009), this reinforces a sense of detachment of the objects of architectural intervention, the building, from its substance, and fails to convey the diverse ways in which buildings, and the practices that bring them into being, are part of a complexity of social and political relations and processes. While this is a familiar observation, there seems to be stubborn resistance or, at least, indifference, by the RIBA, the AIA, and many tutors in architectural schools, to the message that an appropriate education ought to be one that seeks to broaden the substance of what is taught, in ways whereby the messy realities of the field can be conveyed to future practitioners. This is dependent, in part, on a second component or task being addressed. This is the need to (re)integrate theory and practice, or the conceptualisation of design with its practical basis, as part of a process of engendering learning about the specificities of what architecture actually is, that is, the practical making and inhabitation of the built environment. A familiar observation by architects, evident from testimonials in this chapter, is a mismatch between what they learn in architectural school and their subsequent experiences of practice, with the former failing to provide the skills and know-how to deal with the intricacies of the latter. Part of the problem, as alluded to, is the de-contextualised nature of architects’ education, revolving around the ‘design of the object’ in abstraction from the specificities of practice. One implication is the potential misunderstanding of the substantive dimensions that relate to a project’s context, and, as a consequence, a mis-specification of what the (practical) applications or components of the architecture, form, content, and process ought to be. Finally, there is an issue of process, or how to develop and deliver a relevant education, where, as Moore (2001: 74) suggests, there is a ‘shift from parceling out knowledge to encouraging learning’. This relates to the idea of what Ellsworth (2005) calls ‘the learning self’ or a person able to break away from the dominant discourses of design education, and to challenge the received wisdoms and modes of instruction that, in combination, are part of what Freire (1970) referred to as ‘pedagogy of the oppressed’. For trainee architects, such oppression may be subtle, such as the false promises offered by the Palladian legacy, or the operations of the ‘crit’ system that, in Ellsworth’s (2005: 89) terms, seeks to instill compliance ‘with the people or discourses that dominate and threaten to overwhelm’. This is the antithesis of a creative experience that stifles through use of preset curricula and reproduction of static knowledges delivered through

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social hierarchies that serve to reproduce distinctions between the knowledge givers and the knowledge takers. The challenge to those responsible for the production of architectural education, and also for those consuming it, is to provide the basis for the learning self, or the (self-)reflexive learner, to be the centrepiece. We return to this theme in the conclusion of the book but, at this juncture, note that an implication of ‘the learning self’ is, as Ellsworth (2005) outlines, nothing short of the destruction of what is known, or a process in which knowledge is rendered ‘dead’ as a prerequisite to its revitalisation. For Ellsworth (2005: 165), this is a pedagogic process whereby the learning self is encouraged to be ‘open endedly noncompliant’ by confronting what is already known ‘as a provocation and a call to invention’. Such views are suggestive of knowledge and knowing not as a process reducible to ‘a thing’, an expert, or a professional domain, but rather as the realisation of new possibilities through flexible and open-ended thinking, based upon the dissolution of the social hierarchies of knowledge production and its apparatus of learning.

Case Study A: Rethinking Education: Evidence from a Focus Group

Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:AAshow.jpg

Building standards regulations, no, I don’t think they featured very much [in architectural school] . . . I suppose it’s correct . . . you don’t want to be too stifling at that point. There’s enough of that once you’re in practice. (Testimony from a British architect)

We conducted a focus group with eight architects about their educational experiences. All were working in London and were within five years of having completed Part 3 of their qualifications and thus relatively new entrants to the architectural profession. The discussion suggested that there was an unrealistic expectation, amongst both staff and students, about the abilities of newly qualified architects to enter the profession and be able to easily engage with the complexities of project work. As one of the participants said, ‘you still had this idea that you were going to walk out and you were going to just drop a building on a site’. It was felt that this attitude was evidence of a ‘superiority complex’ amongst architects, or a misplaced sense of their (self-)importance in the design process. One of the focus group participants commented that ‘there is an arrogance to architectural education, I think’. Others felt that the problem was one of architects’ estrangement from practice or a distancing from the everyday needs of users of the


built environment: ‘It’s because architects don’t understand what the everyman wants. We assume that we know best, and that’s the arrogance.’ Most respondents understood this as part of the broader rationale of the education of architects, that is, to unlock the creative talents of students by providing scope for individual expression and the development of aesthetic appreciation. The emphasis was, as one person put it, ‘to develop the artistic side . . .’ Others concurred in noting that their education was very broad, with one person suggesting that ‘you’ve probably picked up that we spend quite a lot of time doing artistic endeavours and then sort of tack on a bit of technical knowledge to sort of substantiate that’. For others, the architect as heroic figure was omnipresent throughout their training, or as a person commented, ‘You go to university and there’s this idealistic view that architects still are the renaissance men who are going to come in, they’re going to do your concept sketch and then see you through to the end, and that’s what they try to push on you at university.’ Some participants in the focus group saw the process of students’ inculcation into ‘architectural culture’ as providing an unrealistic understanding of elements of the design process (also see Stevens, 1998, Till, 2009). One person suggested that ‘one of the things at university I remember most was the fact that we wrote our own briefs, and like literally . . . that doesn’t happen out here [in practice]’. This person rationalised the experience as one whereby the tutors were looking to provide scope for actions, unfettered by real life constraints: ‘[it] was to give us creative freedom, basically, to do whatever we wanted . . . they would give us a task, as it were, but we created our brief however we wanted’. Not surprisingly, participants felt poorly prepared for practice, as the following interchange conveys: Interviewer:

Respondent 1: Interviewer: Respondent 1: Interviewer: Respondent 1: Respondent 2:

Can I ask you all about what it felt like when you moved from architectural school into practice? What were your kind of [feelings]? Was it a shock, a relief? Do you mean [into] permanent [practice]? Yeah, yeah. Because I know that you had the kind of bits and pieces of working in practice. Shock. Shock? Yeah. It’s pretty traumatic, I think. It’s like a feeling of being out of my depth.

Participants felt they had little to offer on leaving architectural school and had to equip themselves as best they could: Respondent 3:

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I honestly think if I didn’t have any skills in computer program, which I taught myself at university, when I started my job after Part 2 I don’t know what else I could’ve offered the practice, in terms of what I could have done’.

Rethinking Education

Such feelings were shared by employers, and, as intimated in chapter 4, architects we spoke to were not enamoured by the quality of new graduates. As the director of an architectural practice said: ‘I think we’ve found that there are a lot of students who come out of schools of architecture who haven’t got a clue about any issues to do with not only the regulation side but the whole issue of build-ability, even to the extent of knowing quite what a building might be.’ For others, most new entrants were bereft of knowledge about some of the basics of the building process, or as an architect commented: ‘In terms of construction knowledge I think we generally start from scratch. I’m trying to wrack my brains to think of an example where a Part 2 student has actually . . . imparted some knowledge they’ve learnt from school in something related to construction.’ He continued by noting that ‘I get frustrated with the education system, because they [educators] don’t seem to prepare them [students] for the fact that there are so many people, so many regulations, requirements involved in making a building, they don’t really prepare them’. These views reflect Carpenter’s (1997) observation that much of architects’ education remains split between, on the one hand, a fixation with aesthetics, and on the other hand, the process of making buildings – a point corroborated by focus group participants, and one that was a source of frustration for them (also see Duffy, 1992, Moe, 2007). They identified ‘practice gaps’ and lack of first-hand experience of construction as a problem. One person outlined his experience: ‘we had to do construction . . . models, lighting sort of models and all that, natural daylight’. However, for another ‘we didn’t really learn much from it, for me anyway, I just traced stuff out of a book and joined it up’. A participant recalled a situation in which she was completely lost when asked to design the rudiments of a building: ‘I remember working in an architect’s practice before going to university and they just sort of said, “Right, try and design these houses.” And it was bloody impossible, you know, just obvious things, like where to put windows and things like that, it was just, “Well, what do I do?”’ Symptomatic of the divide between architecture and building in the educational process is the limited time given to the tuition of rules and regulations relating to the design process. When asked about how far teaching about regulations had been part of their course curricula, the following exchange occurred: Interviewer:

In your experience where did regulations come in? Did you learn about those? Respondent 1: We were aware of them; we didn’t necessarily have to design to them. Respondent 3: We knew there was something called building regulations, but that was about it. Respondent 4: It was always a last minute rush job you’d cram in a week. 131


Respondent 3: And bodge it together; it wasn’t a key part of what we had to learn, I don’t think. Respondent 1: No, it wasn’t in-depth or in detail at all. Respondent 2: [there are] a lot more regulations attached to these things but, you know, it’s part of the architectural education I don’t think was ever addressed for us. For participants, the limited emphasis on practical training is at odds with how architecture is changing, and they conveyed a feeling that the profession has splintered into at least two parts. One part is the preserve of a minority of elite architects, the other is where the majority of people are engaged in routinised jobs, often administrative and management functions. As one person said, there are now ‘two branches of it. There is that high-end design-led stuff that is still making journals, and there’s also the rest of it, you know, the rest of the churning out of housing and all the other blocks that people need.’ Participants felt that they were more likely to be part of the latter than former group, but that their education was not preparing them for an environment requiring prosaic and practical skills. As one respondent said, ‘I think one of the big differences between the professional architect and the student architect is that architectural education hasn’t quite moved on in the same way as architecture, like building contracts have in the last 10 or 15 years’. This respondent was referring to the proliferation of design-and-build and private finance initiative contracts, both of which encourage the involvement, increasingly, of a variety of professional groups in the development process.1 For participants, their education did not appear to anticipate the new realities of a design process, involving a multiplicity of professional groups. As one participant said: ‘the architects’ actual reality, you know, in contemporary architecture, is quite often much more of a consultant rather than this all-arching idea that we control everything’. Others felt that the job was being reduced to mundane functions, serving the cost/profit concerns of the development industry: ‘A lot of what we do is quality control, I think. It’s like once you’ve got your initial design everything just gets cut, cut, cut.’ The respondent qualified this by outlining the future for architects: ‘you know, you can see in 20 years’ time my firm, if they wanted to be, could just be a bunch of draftsmen, and there really wouldn’t be a great deal more training than that, because to do some of the works it’s just about, you know, a large proportion of architecture that goes out there is just about getting numbers on sites and things like that.’ This scenario sees a reduced role for architects in project teams, a viewpoint shared by the focus group participants who felt that architects were becoming so marginal to the main tasks of design and development

Rethinking Education

that anyone could do their job. In particular, there was some disquiet with what was perceived to be the rise to pre-eminence of architectural technicians, and unease expressed about other professional organisations taking over much of the work traditionally the preserve of architects. As one person noted, ‘but you know, 50 years ago there weren’t half the consultants that there are now’. This individual referred to his father, operating as an architect without the professional qualifications: ‘My old man does an architect’s job but he’s a chartered building surveyor.’ Others felt likewise; ‘because someone else, who’s not an architect, can do exactly the same thing as you, just under a different name. So what’s the joy in being called an architect?’ The implication is that developers are less likely to use qualified architects because, as a participant said, ‘it’s just more expensive’. The perceived changes in the socio-institutional realities of the design and development process led most participants to suggest that there needs to be much more focus, in their education, on managerial and administrative functions or training students to deal with the day-to-day operations of an architectural practice (also see Till, 2009). As one of the participants said, ‘university doesn’t really prepare you for the fact that you will be working with some other people, or that you’re in charge of like now . . . two or three Part 1s on one project, a couple of argumentative Part 2s on another one and dealing with a particularly stroppy partner on something else. And you’re like dealing with all those people and trying to move different projects forward, you’re not prepared for that kind of managerial aspects of the whole thing.’ The focus group discussion turned, briefly, to questions of what architectural education should be or how it ought to be changed to reflect some of the new organisational structures of project work. Not surprisingly, a commonly held view was that it ought to be more practice focused or as one participant said, ‘It needs to be more vocational. To make you better prepared for practice then it ought to be more vocational’. One person felt that this meant there had to be a closer interrelationship with other professions: ‘I think there has to be a closer link to construction.’ This was echoed by others, with another participant suggesting that his education was too abstract: ‘I don’t think it’s related to reality. What I think that it could do with is, sounds a bit daft, but if once every week you had to go and work on a building site, for example, for an afternoon, just, you know, even if it’s going to look, once a week as part of the practical training. It would make you so much more prepared for what happens in real life.’ Some felt that architectural education should be based on apprenticeships or a return to a model of ‘learning on the job’. As one participant said, ‘but back then you used to do apprenticeships anyway, you didn’t just go to university. You used to work, you used to start life in an architect’s office and educate yourself in the evenings after work.’ This person amplified the view by noting that ‘I think that’s, in essence, where I would prefer to see the

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architecture industry go. I’d rather see you do a design focused, say three, four years design course at university and learn about the history and how to design, and then really develop into [an] apprenticeship rather than go back for what [something that] is . . . half-hearted . . .’ The conversations documented in the focus group indicate that many of the criticisms of the current education system, namely its (in)ability to prepare young architects for the realities of practice, are well founded. The young architects we spoke to suggested, as many commentators have indicated, that the system remains too focused upon the aesthetic or creative aspects of practice, at the expense the providing the skills to deal with many of the mundane practical tasks of running a practice and interacting with other development professionals. While some felt this was fitting, others expressed concerns that this was marginalising their exposure to the ‘pragmatics of practice’ such as value engineering, dealing with project-based risks and regulation, and the demands of meeting budgeting and build programme restrictions. As such, their feelings add weight to calls for a refocusing of architectural education in ways whereby it exposes students to the (complex) realities of the contemporary design and construction industry.

Chapter Five Working with Regulation

I’ve found that I make much better places when I argue for the breaking of the rules . . . You simply are prevented creating something that is as good as the places that we pay money to go and see, by the regulations, and I think a good creative architect just thinks out of the box. (Testimony from an architect, 2007)

5.1 Introduction The design of the built environment has always revolved around a complexity of aesthetic and political and practical objectives relating to the form and functioning of urban space. As we described in chapters 1 and 2, from the architectural ideas of the Italian renaissance, which conceived of beauty in buildings as a uniform system of proportion, to the Ecole des Beaux Arts, which Rabinow (1995: 211) describes as conceiving of cities as objects ‘to be harmoniously ordered’, the craft and creative powers of the architect have been emphasised as paramount in the shaping of space and the built environment (Alberti, 1988). This discourse – the architect as the purveyor of beauty and ornament – is part of the Palladian legacy that, in differentiating the architect from broader environmental forms and processes, has been the basis for perpetuating a falsehood relating to the interrelationships between architects and what Habraken (2005: 28) refers to as ‘the entirety of the ordinary built field’. As alluded to in previous chapters, this falsehood is premised on the autonomy of the actions of architects, and their separation from, and distinctiveness to, other professionals and tasks that, in combination, represent what Habraken (2005: 28) describes as ‘the integrated field of form and people’ (also see Bentley, 1999, Till, 2009). The field comprises a complexity of actors, tasks, and methods relating to the constituent parts of the design and development process (also see chapter 7). These include the rules and regulations affecting different Architectural Design and Regulation. Rob Imrie and Emma Street. © 2011 Rob Imrie and Emma Street. Published 2011 by Blackwell Publishing Ltd. ISBN: 978-1-405-17966-9


aspects of professionals’ behaviour. They comprise, amongst others, the client’s brief, and their specification of building type and form; the subject-specific disciplines and rules relating to the different design elements of a project, ranging from interior design to electrical engineering; the planning system and its determinations of spatial land-use allocations; and, the subject matter of this chapter: the building regulations and rules relating to the form and performance of buildings. Such rules and regulations are, we contend, one of the critical elements of the ‘ordinary built field’ that shape architects’ actions. This shaping is based on a complexity of rule type and form and, in the English context, it is stated by government that the building regulations are to ‘ensure the health, safety, welfare and convenience of people in and around buildings, and the water and energy efficiency of buildings’ (DCLG website, 2010b).1 The design and construction of all buildings has to adhere to the building regulations, yet there is limited research about how precisely building regulations and control interact with architects and creative design practices (although, for exceptions, see Baer, 1997, Ben-Joseph, 2005a, Wright, 1983). Popular conceptions of the building regulations do not help in this regard, in that, as discussed in chapter 3, they conceive of them, problematically, as technical and value neutral, and part of bureaucratic and procedural processes external to the creative practices of architects. This way of thinking about the building regulations, and its interactions with architecture, can be referred to as ‘substantialist’, in which, as Emirbayer (1997: 282) suggests, ‘it is the substance of various kinds (things, being, essences) that constitute the fundamental units of all inquiry’ (also see Dewey and Bentley, 1949, Foucault, 1979). In the context of the building regulations and architecture, a substantialist view would conceive of them as entities ‘which come performed, and only then to consider the dynamic flows in which they subsequently involve themselves’ (Emirbayer, 1997: 283). It is as though the building regulations and architecture are separate spheres, as acting under their own powers, rather than, as we will argue later in the chapter, a relational matrix whereby their meaning and significance is derived, in part, out of the different ways in which they are conjoined as part of ‘a dynamic unfolding process’ (Emirbayer, 1997: 287). In developing this observation, we divide the chapter into three parts. First, we outline the importance of the building regulations in shaping architects’ practices, and we develop the proposition that one aspect of the study of architecture ought to be based, in part, on a relational understanding of building regulation and control and the design process (see, for example, Emirbayer, 1997). Second, referring to our survey and interview data derived from architects, we describe

Working with Regulation

and evaluate their understanding of, and engagement with, building rules and regulations, and show some of the ways in which building regulations are entwined with architects’ practices. Third, we conclude by noting that the development of a relational perspective, or approach, to the understanding of design processes, has some potential to enhance the study of the interrelationships between building regulations and architecture and, in doing so, to contribute towards the study of the social context of design.

5.2 Systems of control and the management of the design process As chapter 3 discussed, building professionals, including architects, are not that well disposed towards the building regulations, or other forms of regulatory control relating to the design and development of the built environment (Hawkesworth and Imrie, 2009, Imrie, 2007, Liebing, 1987, van der Heijden, 2009). A perennial observation about building regulations, characterised by writers such as Field and Rivkin (1975), suggests that they are a burden to the building professions, and an added financial cost to the design and development process (also see Burby et al., 2000, Liebing, 1987). For Field and Rivkin (1975: 3), ‘regulatory business discourages efficiency’, and building codes ‘raise insuperable barriers’ that have potential to inhibit the actions of builders. Such sentiments are evident in statements of political parties, with the UK’s Conservative Party (Gummer, 2007: 70) stating that the building control process ‘stifles innovation and impedes necessary change’. While these observations are prone to overstating the influence of building regulation and control, they point to the potency and possibilities of legal rules in influencing the form and performance of the built environment. In the present-day context, whereby the sustainability of urbanism is subject to intense debate, much is made of the potential of building regulations, and related regulatory instruments, to make constructive and decisive contributions to the creation of sustainable urban forms (ODPM, 2006, DCLG, 2008a). For instance, in Ireland in July 2009 an energy regulation (Part L) in relation to dwellings came into force. It is seen as contributing to a qualitative shift in housing quality, or, as Gormley (2007: 1) suggests, it will ensure ‘that new housing stock . . . is built to the highest international standards, and will be cheaper to run, easier to maintain and have a much lower impact on the environment’. These sentiments are evident in different countries, in which governments have identified the building regulations as a crucial instrument in 137


helping to regenerate cities. In Australia, the government note that the building code is ‘a critical contributor to an efficient building and construction industry, [and] a safer built environment and a strong national economy’ (Australia Building Codes Board, 2008: 1). In the UK, the scope of the regulations has been extended to incorporate new dimensions of building, relating to energy conservation, climate change, and the detection and prevention of crime (DCLG, 2008b). Government ministers have stated that the delivery of sustainable communities in the major cities depends, in part, on the appropriate use of the building regulations. For example, in a recent statement, the UK Parliamentary Under Secretary noted that building control ‘is central to the Government’s ability to deliver more and better homes and buildings, [and] to address the challenge of climate change and sustainability . . .’ (DCLG, 2009: 7). While increased emphasis and expectations are being placed on the building control system to deliver an urban renaissance in British cities, there is, simultaneously, recognition that it may not, in its present form, be able to do so. The Conservative Party has suggested (2007: 70) that building control ‘tells builders and architects, surveyors and designers, how to do things, not what to achieve’, and concluded that the system is ‘unfit for purpose’. In March 2008, the Labour government published a consultation document on the future of building control, noting that there are ‘some significant weaknesses that must be tackled if we are to ensure that it remains fit for purpose in today’s world and in the future’ (DCLG, 2008a: 6). This document highlights the importance of reconnecting building control with its customers, and giving it ‘a more positive perception as a modern service and source of valued independent advice in the community it serves’ (DCLG, 2008a: 18). Governments’ positive spin of building regulations does not necessarily persuade building professionals of the value of regulatory control. As discussed in chapter 3, many in the architectural profession conceive of the building regulations as an externally imposed constraint by building surveyors and their organisations (also see Ben-Joseph, 2005a). There is a widely held perception that rules and regulations relating to building form and performance impinge on and potentially reduce the scope of creative actions, despite recognition of their positive contributions to health and safety. Indeed, Field and Rivkin (1975: 8) note, ‘building regulations have adversely affected the welfare of our society’, a view propagated by the British Conservative Party whose spokesperson on building regulation, John Gummer (2007: 71) has suggested that if his party were to gain power, they would abolish ‘all the current Building Regulations Approved Documents . . . [and] shift from the complex and prescriptive requirements’.


This view is misconceived because the regulatory system in the UK, and elsewhere, is more open to interpretation than alluded to by John Gummer. His view is part of a discourse that, as suggested in earlier chapters, caricatures the systems of regulation and building control. One implication is that regulation becomes understood as part of a process of ‘self action’, or something that is able to act under its own powers, independently of others’ substances (Emirbayer, 1997). Here, regulation, and the building control system, is characterised as ‘exclusive’ or standing outside, and impervious to influence by, the actions of architects. It is as though architects, and other design professionals, are subject to the will of a state leviathan, and that their actions are determined by structural forces beyond their capacities to intervene in and change. In this scenario, architects, and design professionals, are victims of a process that is insensitive to anything beyond the prescribed rules and regulatory frameworks. However, as our data show, this is not so, and it is a view that fails to acknowledge the interrelatedness of regulation and design, and the conjoined nature of the different actors and institutions involved in the process. Far from regulation being prescribed and ‘handed down’ by building control surveyors, as a fixed form or entity, it is, we contend, shaped by a project’s context and only then begins to emerge in and through the social transactions and interchanges that occur between different actors and their organisations. As Cassirer (1953: 36) notes, ‘things’ – like building regulations, cannot be presumed to have an independent existence and have to be understood – ‘in terms of relations, and as such can never be “given” in isolation’. Such relationality requires one to acknowledge what Yeung (2005: 44) describes as the ‘interconnectedness between discrete phenomena and to transcend their dichotomisation’. We feel that this is a helpful way to begin to rethink the interrelationships between architects and regulation, because it moves beyond a dualistic and deterministic formulation and, instead, acknowledges the multiple ways in which regulations and rules – their form, interpretation, and application – are conditioned by a complexity of actoragent (inter)relationships. It suggests that the interpretation and use of codes and regulations by architects and other professionals is contingent, that is, dependent on ‘particular institutional structures and social relations, as well as on the knowledge contexts and mental models of the agents involved’ (Bathelt and Gluckler, 2005: 1545). These ideas denote that design outcomes cannot be reduced to any particular agent or actor, or any specific part or point of the process, and that there is no necessary effect of a regulation on an architect’s actions; rather, any outcome or effect depends on a variety of specific, contextual, factors and (inter)relationships.

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An example of such contextual variation relates to the geography of regulatory interpretation and conduct (also, see chapter 3). As the next part of the chapter indicates, far from the building regulations leading – as some commentators suggest – to a uniformity of design outcomes, there are significant variations in their interpretation and application from one place to another. This is related to the local politics and social geographies of places, including specific actors and organisations. Collectively it is part of a relational mixture, comprising interactions between local and national scales of governance, or a process that architects usually describe as the ‘inconsistency’ of interpretation of the building regulations. Another way of seeing this is not so much as inconsistency, but as an illustration of contingency, characterised by outcomes that reflect the (inter)relations between different geographical scales, including local and central state organisations, and nonstate actors such as the members of design and development teams.

5.3 The interrelationships between regulations and the practices of architects As we have previously suggested, studies of the interrelationships between architects and government rules and regulations in relation to design have not featured that much in writings about architecture (although, for exceptions, see Baer, 1997, Ben-Joseph, 2005a, Bentley, 1999, Imrie, 2006, 2007, Imrie and Hall, 2001, Knesl, 1984, Knox, 1987, Saint, 2001). In seeking to redress, in part, this research lacuna, the rest of the chapter provides insight into architects’ attitudes and responses to building regulations, with a focus on the English context. In particular, the chapter shows that architects are not passive recipients of rules and regulations, but are active in their interpretation and outcomes. In this sense, what will be emphasised are the different ways in which architects’ practices and regulations are related as a dialectic, in which design can be thought of as a dynamic unfolding process that cannot be understood separately from the (social and political) contexts in which it is embedded. We divide the rest of the discussion into two parts. First, we describe and evaluate architects’ knowledge of, and attitudes towards, regulations and building control, referring primarily to the data gathered by the AHRC project (see Appendix). As the data indicate, architects’ attitudes to the building regulations are not straightforward, in that most tend to regard them as exterior to the creative process, that is, as an add-on, while simultaneously regarding them as the kernel of responsive and responsible design. Second, we consider some of the ways in which architects’ practices are entwined with building 140


regulations and control. We develop the view, after Bentley (1999), that much of the design process is not reducible to the practices of heroic figures or the imaginations of creative geniuses. Rather, as the data show, architects’ practices are constitutive of, and constituted by, broader social contexts of design, including the focus of the chapter, legal regulation and control through the context of building regulations.

a) The creative process and the ‘burden’ of (building) regulation While the popular projection of architects’ attitudes towards the regulation of design is one of hostility, much of the evidence from our interviews shows ambivalence and, in some instances, architects suggesting that the building regulations have a positive role to play in the design and development process. A common observation, voiced by one respondent architect, is that the regulations ‘set a standard of building, which is a positive thing’, while, for another, ‘I am in sympathy with the aspirations of the building regulations’. Most respondents feel that regulations are helpful and provide a basis for good design, or as one architect said, ‘I’ve never found regulations to be a problem, and they’re about giving a better quality of environment’. Others noted that the regulations create predictability of process and outcome that, as one person commented, ‘can be a good thing . . . we’re just looking at renovating some tower blocks from the fifties, and I’m sure a lot of people there wished there had been higher standards of building regulation’. Such sentiments are part of a broader (ideological and political) genre in which rules and regulations (of design) became adopted, as Rowe (1993: 57) suggests, as ‘a social tool indispensable to the new era’. As discussed in chapter 2, this era of scientific rationality and calculability propagated the rule and regulation that, for Le Corbusier (1925: 39), was ‘the strategic base for the journey towards progress’, in which, as he suggests, ‘complete uniformity in detail’ creates circumstances in which ‘the mind is calm’ (Le Corbusier, 1925: 74). Some architects, in interview, expressed similar views about what they perceived to be the progressive rule-based nature of the building regulations, in noting variously that, ‘it does make life easier, and at the moment it doesn’t seemingly cause any problems’; ‘having a regulation helps us to design something better’; and ‘it helps us to design something that is good for the end user, and it’s very important, I mean there’s no point building something pretty and it doesn’t work’. Despite such comments, architects rarely begin the design process with the building regulations in mind, and for some respondents there is a tendency to think of them as exterior to the creative process (also see the next section). For some, albeit a minority of architects, the 141


conception of a building occurs in a regulation-free context, or where initial design is conceived of with few references to the practicalities relating to its construction and use. As one architect said: ‘we always design what we think is best for the scheme, and then we’ll look into regulations and see how they will affect the scheme and try to comply with the regulations’. Others concurred with another respondent noting that ‘it’s probably not the first thing you think about’. One architect outlined the approach of his practice: ‘this is what we want, if we can’t kind of then tweak that to comply with the regulations then we’ll go and argue why we don’t think it does quite comply and see if we can get that OK’d, and if that doesn’t get OK’d then we get a bit pissed off and argue it a bit more’. However, most architects said that the building regulations are a paramount feature of the design process, and a consideration at its earliest stages. One architect suggested that ‘it is something we have to think about right from the beginning of anything’, while, for another, ‘it does shape (what we do) from very early on in the design process. A simple thing is the geometry of staircases and the requirements for widths and heights of stairs’. Most recognised the importance of early incorporation of building regulations: ‘If you’re aware of the regulations at the beginning you produce a design which you know will comply with [them], and it’s easier then to live with the regulations’. Likewise, one person commented that ‘it’s natural for me to start off with all of the dimensions and sizes as laid out in the regulations . . . they’re always to the fore. I’ve always worked closely with the regulations which are all about making it happen’. For most architects, the relevance of the building regulations relates to the (legal) guarantee of a safe and secure environment for the public. One respondent said, ‘if you didn’t have any regulations and you didn’t have building control then there could be lots of unsafe situations’ (also see Bentley, 1999, Baer, 1997). Others agreed, with another interviewee noting that ‘you have to regulate what architects do otherwise they produce buildings that fall down . . . so I welcome regulations, they are there for good reason’. As one respondent put it, ‘regulation provides a framework . . . it protects us from litigation’. All those interviewed, more or less without exception, said this. For example, one architect observed, ‘it is less worry for me if I know that the building I’ve designed meets all the regulations that are in place’, while another noted that ‘I think architecture should be regulated . . . we should be held responsible for our actions’. While architects are supportive of a strong legal framework to secure safe and risk-free buildings, they are less likely to support legal regulation in relation to the delivery of design excellence and quality. Thus, while 51% (126) of our postal survey respondents agree or


strongly agree with legal regulation to secure safe buildings, only 13% (32) of respondents felt likewise in relation to the legal regulation of design quality. Here, architects are differentiating between what they feel is permissible from impermissible for regulatory interventions, and identifying the creative acts of architects – that is, designing – as an illegitimate sphere for state intervention. Thus, while one architect outlined the rationale relating to health and safety issues, ‘like with any industry there’s the need for it to be policed . . . there are a book of rules that ought to be followed’, for others, there was a balance to be struck, or, as another architect said, ‘they [state regulators] should leave us alone to design the architecture’. There were, however, mixed feelings about the role of regulation in influencing the design process. For one architect, ‘whatever you want you can do under building regulations’. Some agreed, with another respondent noting that ‘the regulations give us a framework but they don’t predetermine design. That’s predetermined usually by cost and what the client’s prepared to pay’. For some, the regulations are only one of a number of challenges in creating good design and, as an architect said, ‘I think there is a role for codes, because I think if they’re used well there can be scope for innovation . . . there always are a lot of constraints, well, usually in any type of design, and a good architect works within those constraints and produces something good and innovative as a response to that’. Likewise, others noted that a design skill was to work with the regulations to best advantage: ‘it doesn’t matter what kind of restriction there is, a good designer can always design something that suits, that is innovative and also comply with all the regulations . . . so I don’t see that’s a problem’. One respondent provided a typical testimony: Regulations are aimed at everybody, not just architects. So I think the idea that regulations kind of uniquely stifle an architect’s creativity, what about engineers? I’d like to see the evidence that they stifle creativity because if you said, if you took British architectural engineering over the last, the period I’ve been writing about it, over the last thirty years, I mean it’s been one of extraordinary creativity, invention, synthesising the new materials, where you kind of had to be innovative if you wanted to push some of those envelopes. Have building regulations stopped any of this happening? No. So I would dispute that fundamentally.

These views were widely held, with many architects unsympathetic to colleagues who complained about regulations. For one architect, ‘the biggest complainers about the planning system and the regulations are usually the worst architects. Now you can’t say that as an absolute rule, but what I have found is the people who’ve given me the most grief 143


So I think building regulations are essentially benign. I think they provide minimum standards, not maximum, so there’s an interesting question in there, in that if you can design something which complies with all regulations, and let’s assume that it can always also get planning permission because it’s a house in a site zone for a house, you don’t upset anybody. You say, ‘Well, if we design that it has to get approval’. Well, that’s true, and then you say, ‘Well, in that case what’s the architect done?’ Well, what the architect might have done is do more than the minimum. As a colleague said, ‘architecture is about wasting space’. You know, if the minimum size of the bedroom is x, supposing you make it 5x, that’s architecture. And the fact that you’ve done more than the minimum doesn’t make it bad, doesn’t make it good. It makes it more than the minimum. And by and large people use architects because they want more than the minimum. If they want the absolute minimum they can buy a volume produced home . . . I think sometimes I find myself being creative in breaking the rules. I mean, I think that often, to make a good place, for instance, if you see the standard housing estates in this country, they come out of slavishly obeying the regulation on the width of road, the amount of pavement, the height of the lights, the [width] of the verge, the distance between the windows for overlooking. A load of box-ticking stuff that doesn’t make a good place. You know, for instance the places that we all really enjoy have often got very narrow streets, they give shelter, buzz, you know, historically they give shelter from the sun in hot climates, they give shelter from the wind in more northern climates, and they make better meeting places’. Testimony from a British architect, July 2007. Figure 5.1

The realisation of creativity by breaking the rules.

about all these issues are those who really basically don’t want to come up to standard, or they haven’t got the imagination to cope with these things’.2 For others, creative and talented people ought not to find the regulations a problem, or, as one respondent said, ‘now the point about it is if you look at the work of creative, truly talented architects, did they go round, you know, worrying about whether their schemes would meet building regulations? Of course they didn’t, because at a certain level building regulations have been designed around, building regulations actually reflect requirements, I mean they haven’t come from outer space to be imposed’. In contrast, some commentators, such as Bratton and Choay (1997: 121), suggest that the building regulations are characterised by technical inertia and bureaucratic management and that they make 144


Number

Per cent

3 67 105 36 28 2 241

1.2 28.2 43.6 14.9 11.6 0.8 100


‘innovative ideas very hard to introduce’. For Bratton and Choay (1997), the building regulations have potential to be antithetical to creativity and innovation in design and, in this respect, likely to lead to the perpetuation of design ‘types’ (also see Field and Rivkin, 1975). This view was more common than not amongst respondents, and, as one architect said: ‘by definition I don’t think they encourage innovation whatsoever’. Others felt that fulfilling the requirements of the regulations reduced the creative component of the design process, characterised by architecture that is derived from, and conditioned by, non-aesthetic objectives, such as health and safety: ‘I think it makes it mundane and repetitive, because there are straightforward ways of achieving regulations’. For another, ‘I think it becomes too consistent, and you cannot vary components to the same extent’. Most architects feel that their main focus, to design buildings, is being diluted by the requirement to respond to too much regulation relating to issues of risk, health and safety, and building quality (also see chapter 6). For one respondent, ‘There are not enough hours in the day for a small practice to make a living whilst keeping up to date on regulation’. The content of Table 5.1 echoes this view in showing that 172 architects (72%) from our survey feel that architecture is subject to ‘too much regulation’. As a respondent said that ‘most architects are totally committed to achieving the highest standards they can yet feel . . . oppressed by what appears to be partially informed external regulations’. Other architects felt more strongly. One noted that the problem is that ‘endless paperwork instead of design occupies my time’, while, for another, ‘regulations . . . are increasingly strangling creativity and adding huge bureaucratic burden and therefore costs to every project’. This was a recurrent observation, with an architect suggesting that ‘one is completely straitjacketed by regulations’, a view supported by another who said that ‘one finds oneself backtracking on creative ideas when a regulation gets in the way’. Those who thought that ‘architecture is too bound up in red tape and prescriptive standards’

‘Architecture is subject to too much regulation’

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reinforced this. As Table 5.2 indicates, 155 respondents (64%) felt that this was the case and one architect rationalised this by noting that this is a ‘characteristic of society more generally – everything is measured and controlled’. Most architects feel that the ‘bureaucratic burden’ has escalated, or as one respondent said, ‘I’ve seen the regulations grow and grow and grow, often as a response to failures, rather than as a positive growth’. Not surprisingly, 192 (80%) of the survey respondents either agreed or strongly agreed that they spent more of their time on red tape and bureaucratic procedure than five years ago. For one architect, the issue is that ‘simply in terms of the [an] increase in volume . . . you now have less time to design as more is spent on administration, eventually quality suffers’.


Number

Per cent

4 42 113 53 26 3 241

1.7 17.4 46.9 22 10.8 1.2 100

‘Architecture is too bound up in red tape and prescriptive standards’

It is not just the quantity of regulation that is the challenge, but its complexity, and the difficulties that this creates in relation to architects’ abilities to understand and implement the regulatory requirements. Thus, as Table 5.3 suggests, most respondents (93% or 223) feel that regulation is ‘becoming more complex’ or, as one architect said, ‘it’s so overwhelming that many people drawn to architecture decide to follow another profession’. Others concurred with another architect noting that the complexity had reached the point ‘where the regulators don’t understand it themselves!’ Likewise, Table 5.4 shows that most respondents (85% or 205) feel that regulation is more difficult to deal with; it Response Non response Strongly agree Agree Neither agree nor disagree Disagree Strongly disagree Total Table 5.3

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Number

Per cent

2 140 83 13 2 1 241

0.8 58.1 34.4 5.4 0.8 0.4 100

‘Regulation is becoming more complex’


Number

Per cent

3 109 96 27 6 0 241

1.2 45.2 39.8 11.2 2.5 0 100


Response

‘Regulation is becoming more difficult to deal with’

means that architects have to devote more time to it, with consequences for the design process. Others felt that some of the building regulations were too difficult to understand: ‘. . . try and work out L1 and L2 without a computer (you can’t!)’. ‘No one understands Part L!’3 One solution, so some said, was to contract work out, and buy specialist help. One architect said that ‘complexity requires additional time to resolve and frequently requires specialist input . . .’, while another noted that ‘fewer tasks can be dealt with in house and more specialist input is now required’, a viewpoint echoed by others: ‘you need to specialise in keeping up to date’. Some, though, were realistic about the regulations: ‘One adapts!’ ‘We have to accept the changes and gear up for them’ and ‘. . . but this is a challenge for us to rise to’ (also see Figure 5.2). For another, the solution was to contract work out to specialists: ‘at the end of the building when it’s complete, they want some SAT calculations. So I’ve got plenty of time to find somebody. I think what I’ve got to do is just find a friendly engineer, you know, environment engineer, who will be able to carry out this kind of service as a matter of course. So I’m lagging, and this is the new Part L, which I’m sure everybody’s mentioning. And I don’t really know how to address it yet . . . it’s probably not as scary as all that, and just find the right consultants. But of course it’s more expensive . . .’ Our codes do get larger and more complex over time. I have back in my library the Phoenix plumbing code that goes back into the 1930s and it’s a pamphlet about this size and about maybe a quarter inch thick, even if that. Now, our plumbing code is that thick and so they do get more complex. Just to give you an example to be a little bit more specific, the City of Phoenix used to require structures designed for wind lateral pressure of fifteen pounds per square foot, which means that when a building would exert a maximum fifteen pound a square foot, and the building had to be designed to resist that, that wind loading, now it’s done by a pretty complicated formula that just over Figure 5.2

Regulatory complexity.

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time changed from a flat 15 psf to a simple set of formulas as to a more complex set and now it’s even much more complex than that, and this has evolved a lot through academic research that’s tried to refine these things. Maybe the goal is to improve safety and also to try and improve the economics of construction too by trying to save the . . . that are not necessary by fine tuning it, but it does make the codes more complex so the designers are spending more time [on trying to understand them]. That’s one example but anecdotally, when you look at the size and volume of our codes, they do get more complex, they do get larger, bigger. Testimony from a Building Permits Officer, City of Phoenix, April 2007. Figure 5.2

Continued.

Some architects expressed frustration with what they characterised as the ‘traditional’ orientation of the regulations, and the feeling that they are not able to provide much guidance about design and construction that differs from ‘time-served’ or conservative (building) practices. As one architect said: ‘I think it’s based on precedent you know, sort of old models and old technologies, and I think it’s very rare that a building regulation will encourage innovation’. Others said likewise: ‘I think that the regulations have not caught up with technology and with social structures’. Some feel constrained or held back by the regulations, and as one person noted, ‘it’s difficult to work out what to do from the regulations . . . they do indicate a more traditional area of architecture’. For another, ‘they make it very difficult for architects who want to do something different’.4 Respondents were also perplexed by regulations that seek to respond to what are perceived to be ‘minority concerns’, to the detriment of most of the users of the built environment. Thus, some architects suggested that aspects of Part M of the building regulations for England and Wales, relating to disabled people’s access to buildings, and regulations dealing with means of escape from buildings, were not necessarily warranted.5 For one respondent, ‘means of escape I think is somewhat unreasonable . . . it’s a bit of a knee-jerk reaction to minority incidences, and do we legislate for the lowest common denominator or for the most horrific possibly conceived situation or do we accept that nine thousand nine hundred and ninety nine times everything will be fine and the fire services will get in there . . .’. For another, the biggest problem is Part M, or as he said, ‘nobody seems to be able to say no to the disabled lobby’. This person was reacting against the provision of a downstairs sanitary facilities in starter homes which he characterised as ‘nonsense, total and utter nonsense’. 148

Figure 5.3


The formulaic nature of the regulations appears to reside in what are perceived to be variable and inconsistent interpretations by building control surveyors, and the observations of other officials, such as fire officers. Some thought that where surveyors follow the ‘rule book’, and due process, regulations could be inhibiting and likely to produce what one respondent called ‘least best outcomes’. For one architect, ‘it’d be nice if sometimes I could judge where I think those rules lie, rather than them being imposed’. There was some feeling that the building control process was, in part, doing the designing, or at least constraining, potentially, the aesthetic judgements of architects. For instance, one respondent felt that ‘we’ve had to basically follow their recommendations, so they’re designing it’, while, for another, ‘the opinions of building control surveyors are important, and you have to fight for what you want, or else you can easily end up with something that wasn’t really intended’. This seems to occur most often in relation to fire regulations. In one example, the architect feels she has had to compromise both what the client wants, and what she wants from an architectural point of view, to meet fire regulations. As she explained: ‘we’ve managed to squeeze in some extra population on our top floor by putting a door where building control surveyors asked us. It’s only one door but it’s like, well, actually we’d design it differently, from an architectural point of view.’ The architect of a prestigious dwelling, shown in Figure 5.3, made a similar point. He said that the need to accommodate the provisions of Part M meant that his plans for a series of steps up to

A design with combined ramp access and stepped entrance.

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the front entrance had to be shelved to ensure that a ramp could be constructed at a gradient less than 1:15. His original plans would have meant a gradient in excess of this, but as he said, ‘what we ended up with was what the building control surveyor wanted . . . he designed it’. Others provided examples of where the regulations made a difference to the design outcome, and sometimes contrary to what the client and/ or the architect had originally intended. For instance, Figure 5.4 shows the design of a residential building prior to, and after, changes to Part L of the building regulations, relating to energy conservation. The building is part of a major mixed-use development that extends to 100 acres with the creation of 1500 new homes. The application for building control consent for the original design was submitted in phase one of the development, to include two flats on the top floor. Prior to consent being granted, a change to Part L, requiring higher standards of energy conservation in buildings, came into effect and the architects were requested by building control to redesign the building. The outcome is what the architect characterised as ‘solid infill to spandrel panels’ that, as he said, has ‘had a detrimental impact on the quality of the building . . . it looks top heavy but with more glass it would have looked alright’. In other instances, however, the regulations have potential to enhance the quality of the built environment. For example, architects pointed to instances in which the application of the regulations can lead to better quality buildings by providing legal redress to influence clients to spend extra on particular design features. This is particularly so in relation to the example above, that is, Part L of the building regulations. As an architect said: ‘we welcome the increase in the regulation as far as energy conservation is concerned in particular, because it gives clients no choice. Before it was always a case of, “We think we should have twelve inches of insulation in your loft. How much extra is that going to cost? Oh no.” And they wouldn’t go for it. Now it’s a regulation’. This reflects the view of others, with Kessler (cited in Dorris, 1998: 4) noting that ‘codes and standards are tremendous benefits to architects because they allow us to start at a much higher plane when designing a building’.

b) The interrelationships between architecture and building regulation The building regulations are part of a broader discourse concerning standards and rule in relation to the appropriate structure and functioning of cities. Rabinow (1995: 77) notes that the emergence of modern elements of urban regulation was premised, in part, on conceptions of urban form as ‘a technical object to be worked on, improved and regulated’ (also see Baer, 1997, Bentley, 1999, 150

Working with Regulation Figure 5.4 The impact of Part L on building form.The original design, depicted in (a) was conceived before a revision to Part L in early 2005 required adjustments that led to the outcome shown in (b). Source: reproduced from Imrie (2007: 936).

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Canguilhem, 1989, Foucault, 1979, Imrie and Hall, 2001, Rowe, 1993). Such objects, ranging from physical elements that comprise a house to the form and functioning of transport routes, are characterised, by the discourse of (building) regulation, as ‘autonomous’ or what Rabinow (1995: 13) refers to as ‘defined by their own operation’. These perspectives conceive of the building regulations and control as acting under their own powers, or perpetuating ‘self action’ in which the acts of regulation are reducible to the systems of regulation themselves. The reduction of processes to static conditions is part of the epistemic bases of the disciplines and practices that collectively provide comment on, and intervene in, the built environment. These disciplines, and related practices, such as building surveying and architecture, are usually divided into discrete or divisible parts, characterised by often poor communications between (different constituencies of) practitioners, and contrasts in their conceptual and linguistic structures, forms of communication, and objects of interest. For practitioners, absorbed into the discipline of disciplines, (their) reality of the built environment is fragmentary or, as one architect said, ‘we don’t know much about what building control surveyors do’. Others saw this in stronger terms, distinguishing between the creative work of architects, and the practices of building or construction that, as one architect said, is ‘the actual practicality of building it . . . that’s what needs to be controlled really’. This ‘commonsense’ understanding is, problematically, part of academic commentary about building regulations, in which, as Saint (2001) suggests, the building regulations and architecture are separate spheres, and not conjoined as part of the design process (also see Wright, 1983). For Saint (2001: 159), the regulations are the ‘passive tradition of urbanism’, in contrast to ‘the active model represented by design’. Saint (2001) argues that, whereas the latter serves, through lateral thinking and application, to create and inspire, the former is characterised by the application of (one-dimensional) functional and technical rules and regulations (also see Baer, 1997, Bentley, 1999, Sarfatti-Larson, 1993). Some architects, as previous sections have intimated, articulated this understanding of regulation and its outcomes, and, as one respondent said: ‘buildings have to work; architecture has to inspire. You’re trying to get something deeper into your buildings than just the regulations’. However, most architects recognised that analytical and/or practical distinctions between their (creative) practices and regulation was sometimes difficult to defend or sustain. As one architect noted, ‘it depends on the situation, but creating design is indissoluble, I would think, from working with building regulations’. This view was common,


and most respondents rejected the dualism between regulation and design, and instead suggested that regulations are constitutive of, and integral to, design practices. For one architect, ‘I think about the regulations as I put pen to paper as they’re always in the back of your mind’, while another noted that ‘it’s difficult to step back from knowledge of regulations, and so it becomes ingrained in the ways you think about design’. Others concurred: ‘I think it’s intuitively part of the initial design process’; and ‘you learn to start to include regulations as they change, so you’re aware of that at the starting point and it doesn’t become something which has to be forced on a design which has got to a certain point’. Respondents rejected any sense of architecture as subservient to regulations and, instead, conceived of rules and architecture as entwined, or part of a relational context. As Emirbayer (1997) suggests, the meaning, significance, and identity of the different actors involved in the design and regulatory process come, in part, from the changing functional roles that they play in the interchanges or transactions that take place (also see Dewey and Bentley, 1949). Thus, the interrelationships between regulations and the aesthetic qualities of buildings are, as one architect put it, ‘complex and there are no predetermined outcomes . . . we never quite know what we’ll end up with’. He amplified: ‘I think the fact that you have certain buildings that are beautiful and functionally extremely elegant and satisfying, and you have other buildings which are absolutely awful, but both designed within the same sort of parameters, I think suggests that there’s more to it than just sort of almost feeding in the regulations and you spew out a building’. These and related views are suggestive of alternative ways of thinking about architecture and regulation from those expounded by Saint (2001) and others. They suggest that far from reducing building regulations to ‘things’ or ‘objects’, they need to be understood, in part, ‘as networks of social-material interactions’ (MacKenzie, 2003: 4). These networks are, for architects, manifold, and one characteristic is the widening of agents involved in the design process. As a respondent said: ‘there’s far more people involved in the building process now, you know, design teams have project managers and all sorts of people who in the past were never really involved’. Such networks were, for one respondent, ‘extended and quite messy and not predictable, and every time you deal with a different building control surveyor you never know what the outcome will be . . . you spend much of the time in meetings trying to get a consensus’ (also see chapter 7). This observation is particularly pertinent in relation to the interpretation and implementation of the building regulations that, as Baer (1997: 48) notes, is a messy indeterminate affair, whereby ‘observer and observed, controller and controlled are – reflexively – inevitably one’. A

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feature of building regulations is that they are open to interpretation by building control surveyors, and are written in ways that provide scope for debate and negotiation about how precisely, in design terms, they should be achieved. All interviewees provided textual evidence that conveyed aspects of this point, and, as one respondent said: ‘it doesn’t matter what the written word is, or what advice documents provide, it comes down to how you get on with building control and fire officers’. For others, the range of different views was a product of local political differences: ‘local authorities change dramatically from one to the next, which again doesn’t help you know. But yes, I find it’s a pain, a real pain.’ One response to this is that some architects seek to manage the regulatory process by forming partnerships with building control surveyors, whereby clients and/or their architects work with a building control team of their choice on projects across a range of local authorities.6 A partnering scheme has been in operation in the UK since 1997 and, as one architect said, ‘we use it on simple projects that are easily replicated across the country . . . it makes sense to use the same building control surveyors, because you build up a rapport and they get to know you and your needs, they’re like part of the design team and we take advice early on from them’. For others, partnering reduces uncertainty and creates constructive dialogue and rapid progress. One respondent noted: ‘We’ve been working with one local authority building control team for years and they’re good, they know our style and approach, so it means we can usually get a good solution.’ We’ve found that they generally want to get involved early on, especially the good ones. They want to run their designs past us as soon as possible so they can make sure they haven’t missed out a staircase or the layouts are fine. They’ll instigate probably meetings and things on the specific topics – fire safety and perhaps structure – but once the thing gets up and running, the more, dare I say, mundane issues, we do struggle in communicating with architects. We produce schedules of comments that, you know, we’ll perhaps have a two- or three-page schedule of things that we’ve found wrong with the drawings or more information that we want, and although they’re keen to see us first thing to get the principles sorted out, which is fine, from there on in we do find it quite a struggle to get some responses out of them. It varies from architect to architect, some are better than others, they’re very hard pushed, and I think the one big thing you find, going from local authority building control to an approved inspector, especially as I was building control consultant in the meantime, as a building inspector building regulations are 80 per cent of your life, or 80 per cent of your working life, an architect it’s down here somewhere [gestures to the floor], you know . . . I suppose that’s the one big thing we realise, that

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Figure 5.5

A building surveyor’s view of architects.

Testimony from a British building control surveyor, January 2007. Figure 5.5

Continued.


from an architect’s point of view building regulations represent 1 or 2 per cent, or 5 per cent of their workload, it’s an important 5 per cent or whatever, but they’ve got to satisfy their client, it’s got to be built on budget, it’s got to get past planning.’

However, partnering is not that likely on complex projects, and most projects are still open to what one architect referred to as the ‘looseness of interpretation and inconsistency between building control surveyors’, that, for another, is characterised by rules ‘being imposed’. Such views denote that architects do not see regulation as neutral or passive, but rather as the conjoining of aesthetics and politics in what Haber (1996) refers to as ‘strategies of power’. For instance, in some circumstances, architects note that building control decisions are risk averse, often influenced by surveyors not wanting to upset local politicians, or do anything that might work against building control surveyors’ perceived understanding of what the rules are that underpin the regulations. In one exchange with a respondent, it was felt that the building control decision was doing no more than following the ‘rule book’, and providing limited scope for alternative views or design possibilities: Interviewer: How do surveyors interpret the regulations? Respondent: It says in the foreword, this is a guide only and each circumstance should be taken on its merit. Is it hell?! Q: You reckon they just read off of it? A: I know they do. I know all these guys very well and the point is that if he sticks his neck out, if he sticks his head above the parapet and there’s an accident, he gets his arse kicked. ‘Why didn’t you follow the design guide? Your pension’s in jeopardy, young man’.

In these and similar circumstances, some respondents feel that interactions with building control surveyors and other agents require them to improvise, or think in ways to ensure that a range of design options and/or possibilities will be discussed. One architect noted that ‘we have to plan how we approach certain surveyors, and we have to work out ways of ensuring our design ideas stay intact . . . it can be quite a battle’. For another, ‘part of the skill of being an architect is working around the constraints’. Such attitudes, as Emirbayer (1997: 292) observes, relate 155


to ‘moves in a game’ in which members of a categorically bounded network, such as architects, seek to defend ‘symbolic, positional or emotional resources’. For instance, one respondent suggested that ‘we, at all times, try to preserve the integrity of our design, while, for another, the design was something ‘you’ve got to really sort of fight for it and make it your own corner’. Working in and through the building regulations appears to be part of reflexive actions for most architects, in which, as one architect said, ‘It has to be kind of second nature, because the trouble is if you produce a design, if you come up with a design that doesn’t actually meet the regulations you’re stuck, and it could be quite fundamental.’ For others, the building regulations were referred to as a mechanism that encouraged self-disciplinary behaviour, in which an architect will rarely conceive of design without close reference to regulation and rules relating to building standards. This is akin to Foucault’s (1979: 303) observation that a feature of modern society is the shift from ‘external constraint to internal states of conscience’, or, as one architect said, ‘It’s something I have to conform with, and I think at a very simple level I will abide by the building regulations because if I don’t it’s going to cause me more work in the future to amend the plans according to the building control surveyor’s recommendations.’ For others, the (self-)disciplinary nature of the building regulations meant that they saw little need for building control surveyors, or, as one respondent suggested, ‘if I could consult the building regulations, but without being actually checked on it – you know, having to have something approved – then that would be the ideal situation. Because I know I’d try to follow those recommendations, from a safety point of view at least.’ Other respondents referred to the (over)zealous policing of building control surveyors, not dissimilar to Foucault’s (1979: 59) observation that a key characteristic of modern society is ‘the supervisory control of individuals’. One architect recounted the views of most respondents: the regulations would work better if they were ‘less open to interpretation by individual building control surveyors’, while, for another, her frustration related to surveyors’ procrastinating: why should we have ‘to wait for some vague answer from some vague surveyor who’s not willing to stand behind anything he says?’ We interviewed a former building inspection and code enforcement officer in the City of Austin, Texas, about regulatory politics and processes of code making and implementation. He highlighted how, in the USA, the shaping of building codes is part of a complex, interest group, politics, exhibiting partisanship with many different Figure 5.6

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Seeking to influence the regulations.


organisations seeking to influence the code formation process. His testimony indicates that the more influential groups are builders, manufacturers, and utilities or service organisations, which are looking to protect a market share, a product, or jobs related to the provision of a particular good or service. Architects are conspicuous by their absence from much of the lobbying process (also see Figures 3.5 and 3.6). And the classic [example], in the States, has been the issue of sprinkler systems in residential constructions. Twenty years ago we had a national debate about requiring sprinkler systems in every house in the country, and there became an interesting alliance against that. On the one hand, the builders who said that it would make housing unaffordable and, on the other hand, the fire departments who were worried that fire stations would close down, because if all of a sudden you didn’t need as quick a response time because the fire would put itself out and people could get safely out of the building then you wouldn’t need as many firefighters. And so you had a national convention when this was the hot topic 20 years ago . . . . . . It’s 20 years ago this year (2007), and we’re having the same debate again in Kansas City. This time the issue is about making every hotel, every apartment unit, every house that was built from that point forward in the States have a sprinkler system, to reduce public sector costs in terms of firefighters and reduce the loss of life and the losses to property. They had devised plastic sprinkler systems that were much less expensive to install, required much less training of labour than the conventional systems where you were putting copper pipe in and you were having to solder and do all those kinds of things, and soldering the sprinkler head. There was a fear that it would not only get installed in those buildings, but the commercial installations that had been very expensive and labour intensive would also go the plastic pipe way because it was just as effective . . . . . . It all got defeated and there were very few communities in the United States that ever adopted that at the local level. We’ve gone through the same thing on energy and green building issues, we didn’t even look at regulating the building envelope and performance of air-conditioning equipment, heating equipment, until the oil embargo in 1973 and at that point we began looking at requiring minimum sorts of insulation in the building, for the first time, because up until then people could install it or not install it; it wasn’t really regulated, it was all left to the creativity of the architect and the price that the home buyer or the business owner was willing to pay for their end product . . . Figure 5.6

Continued.

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. . . And when those costs were recognised as going higher, then you began an examination of perhaps that we shouldn’t just let the marketplace make this decision for us. Because that’s ultimately what building codes are: it’s a decision to say the market will solve this or there needs to be some government intervention. There’s a whole full philosophical debate about that, you know, which side you come down on, that whole thing will play it out currently in terms of the whole issue of global warming and scarcity of resources, all of those kinds of issues, and the price of oil rising and other sorts of things, causing us to re-examine what is the appropriate level of regulation, and how prescriptive we should be . . .’ Figure 5.6

Continued.

These descriptions of the coding process, in the previous paragraph and in Figure 5.6, are partial and incomplete insofar that other respondents suggested that it was not a matter of refraining from seeking to influence the content of codes. Rather, they did not try to influence the formative processes that shape building regulations, partly because they did not really know who or what to influence. As one architect, in interview, said: ‘I’ve no idea who they are, where they are, and where they are doing any of this work . . . I mean it’s a sort of world unto itself.’ This view was echoed by others, with another respondent noting that those individuals responsible for drafting regulations are ‘probably clever people who are doing a reasonably good job but you know they are a bit invisible’. For another, ‘I don’t know who puts the regulations together; I wouldn’t know who to approach.’ A common interchange was as follows: Interviewer: Do you try to influence the content of the regulations? Respondent: I don’t think we as a practice or any other ecologically environmentally conscious practice have had one jot of impact on the regulations. Interviewer: So you don’t feel you’re part of the debate? Respondent: No, not at all. Absolutely not.

This view is corroborated, in part, by evidence that shows that the influence of architects and architectural organisations and/or pressure groups is limited in relation to the formulation of the building regulations. For instance, Gutman (1988) notes that of the 461 changes proposed for the Uniform Building Code (1984) in the USA, none were 158

Total

Per cent

6 86 87 31 25 6 241

2.1 35.8 36.3 12.9 10.4 2.5 100


Non response Strongly agree Agree Neither agree nor disagree Disagree Strongly disagree

Number

Table 5.5 ‘I am rarely consulted by government about planning control and building regulations’

sponsored or suggested by architects. Another example were revisions to Part M of the UK building regulations in the mid 2000s. The government set up a working party, the membership of which was conspicuous by the absence of architects.7 The composition of the working party included academics, building professionals, management consultants, civil servants, local government officers, and representatives from the Homes and Communities Agency and the house-building industry. Architects, and their organisations, such as the RIBA, only entered the process as part of a consultation exercise at a later date, confirming our survey respondents’ views, that they are rarely consulted about regulatory matters (see Table 5.5). The implication of little or no involvement of architects in the process was highlighted by some respondents: ‘there’s a danger with the building code when it’s not being written with architects in mind or with architects on board with the people who are writing it’. Such (perceived) dangers, however, were passed over by pressures of the job that do not permit much time for activities beyond project work. As one respondent said: ‘I think as a practising architect, trying to push the boundaries of what’s possible, you have to devote a lot of time to the job . . .’ For another, the business was the priority: ‘I mean it’s a handson full-time business, just getting through the business of designing, building and maintaining cash flow and all that kind of thing.’ Others suggested that they should do more but felt constrained: ‘sitting on committees about the future, I’m sure is very worthwhile but it’s one of those things that probably takes second place or third place to some of the other pressures we have . . . we’re all so involved in the immediacy of the latest building, the latest commission.’

5.4 Conclusions One argument of this chapter is that building regulations are a constituent part of the design process and, as such, warrant serious attention 159


by scholars of urban design. The rules and regulations that condition the building process are neither ephemeral nor insignificant and, as Frampton (1980: 19) notes, ‘society tends to transform the subjective originality of the work through the process of appropriation’. Such appropriation is, however, best thought of, so Bentley (1999: 20) observes, as architects interacting with society as in a positive, constitutive, way, rather than as passive consumers of rules and regulations (also see Habraken, 2005, Till, 2006, 2009). In particular, some of the evidence in the chapter suggests that the interpretation and use of the building regulations is contingent – that is, dependent on – and shaped by, the contexts of actor-agency involvement in the different stages of the development process (also see Chapter 7). This observation opens up potentially interesting areas of enquiry, not the least of which is to challenge the ‘autonomous’ discourse of architecture, or architects’ practices as somehow external to building processes. Architects’ interrelationships with systems of building control show that while formative conceptions of design may preclude explicit incorporation of regulations and building standards, such standards do influence, in variable ways, aesthetic and/or design outcomes. As indicated in the chapter, (interpretation of the) regulations have capacity to influence design, or the aesthetic of a building, such as Part M’s insistence that dwellings incorporate ramp features, or Part L’s insulation requirements potentially impacting on the scale of window glazing. These examples suggest that building regulations ought to be conceived of as much more than technical instruments, or part of a noncreative process somehow removed from architects’ practices. By stressing the processual (inter)relationships between architects’ practices and regulations, or the ‘heteronomic’ nature of the design process, a non-reductive understanding of regulatory process is possible. This is one in which totalising identities and naturalised categories, such as ‘designer’, ‘architect’, and ‘building control surveyor’, may be challenged and subject to scrutiny in ways that open up their multidimensional and sometimes contradictory modes of thought and action (Emirbayer, 1997: 309). Data from interviewees suggest likewise, highlighting that the interactions between different professionals in the design process are messy and indeterminate and bound into project contexts. This includes, amongst other aspects of analytical enquiry, the matrix of professionals and the evolving ways in which they interact in and through the course of developing and delivering specific building outcomes. Such foci are likely to challenge commentators who characterise the regulations in caricatured ways, in which, so it is suggested, building regulations, and the exercise of control, impose cost burdens and inhibit creative practice. These views lack sensitivity to the complexity


of regulations and the contexts in which they take shape. Rather, views from respondents show that far from architects conceiving of regulation as anathema, and a burden and cost pressure on creative practices, building regulation and control is usually conceived of as ‘necessary and worthy’ in seeking to achieve, as one architect said, ‘a good environment’. For most architects, there is overlap and complementarity between what they do and what building control surveyors are looking to achieve, in terms of workable, safe and healthy design. While architects sometimes feel frustrated by some surveyors procrastinating, and perplexed by those who appear to follow the rulebook, there is general appreciation for a function that provides reasonable rules and guidance for them to follow. This, and related evidence, is suggestive of a research agenda that ought to treat building regulation and control much more seriously as a subject of scholarly enquiry and investigation. There is much research and writing about planning, architecture, and design, yet major gaps and absences in the writings about, and understanding of, building regulation and control systems. In writing this book, we came across little that directly interconnected the operations of building regulations and the actions and activities of architects. This is curious because, as the chapter argues, (building) regulation is core to architects’ practices, and, in turn, such practices (re)define, in part, the scope and possibilities of regulation. If one accepts this statement, then this places responsibility on academic and practitioner communities to develop, much more fully, an understanding of how the actions of architects are entwined with (building) regulation, as a contribution to the broadcloth of knowledge about the design and production of the built environment.

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Case Study B Straw-Bale Building in the USA: Negotiating the Codes

It is commonly observed by architects and other development professionals that building regulations do not favour the use of new or alternative building materials and techniques. Instead, it is argued, coding systems tend to encourage the use of tried and tested construction processes, and traditional industrial materials such as concrete and steel. However, as concerns over sustainability within the industry grow, alternative or renewable construction techniques are receiving more attention. This is particularly so with regards to straw bale building. It seeks to promote the use of renewable building materials and techniques. Straw bale building is a well-established part of the ecological building movement in the USA and Canada, and it is becoming increasingly popular throughout the world (King, 2006, Greenweaver, undated). Referring to interviews with US-based straw-bale experts, we explore the relationship between straw-bale building and the US building code system, and provide insights into how to establish codes, and regulate for sustainable building materials, systems, and practices.

Straw-bale building Straw-bale building is a technique using baled straw to create buildings that are typically easy to build and relatively low in cost. Straw has excellent

Straw-Bale Building in the USA Figure B.1 A typical straw-bale building with stucco exterior.

natural insulation properties; baled buildings are an estimated 65–75% more energy efficient than those built using conventional construction materials (Greenweaver, undated). Straw-bale buildings tend to be vernacular in design, small to medium in scale, and often built by owners as private dwellings (Figure B.1). As the technique has become more popular, larger buildings, such as schools, are increasingly being made using straw. There are two main types of straw-bale structure. Non-load-bearing structures are the most common; these use a non-straw structural system, such as a wooden or metal frame, to hold up the roof (and any floors and walls above), with straw bales then used as an infill (Figure B.2). Electrical wiring and other services are built into the structure and surrounded by straw, and then sealed with plaster or ‘stucco’. Load-bearing or ‘Nebraska-style’ structures are less common, and use stacked bales covered in plaster as the entire structural system for the building. The plaster or ‘stucco’ skin also protects the straw from rain pests, fire and air infiltration (King, 2006). Its proponents regard straw-bale building as an affordable and sustainable alternative to modern construction techniques. As Judy Knox, a strawbale pioneer, consultant and advocate based in Tucson, Arizona, explained in an interview: We never thought straw-bale was the only answer; we just thought it was one wonderful demonstration of a way that we could provide shelter in a dramatically different way. That was energy efficient; beautiful, people could do it themselves; and the material was an annually renewable resource . . . all of those reasons. 163

The Practices of Regulation Figure B.2 A non-load-bearing straw-bale building.

According to King (2006), straw-bale building can be considered an example of ‘industrial ecology’, whereby what may be considered as waste by some is, to others, an efficient and flexible building material. In much of the world, straw is an agricultural by-product that is in plentiful supply. In the USA, for example, there is enough straw harvested annually to build approximately 10 million 2000-square-foot homes (Greenweaver, undated, also, see US Department of Energy, 1995). Another appealing feature of straw-bale building, is its simplicity, since ‘a plastered straw bale is structure, insulation, air barrier, finish and fire resistance all in one’ (King, 2006: xxv).

Coding for straw-bale buildings The earliest known straw-bale structures in the USA were built in Nebraska in the late 1800s, following the invention of the baling machine. This allowed European settlers to take advantage of the plentiful grasses found in the area (King, 2006). With little access to materials such as stone or wood, the settlers baled and then plastered straw with mud to create modest but comfortable homes, some of which still stand today (King, 2006). As King (2006) identifies, the building techniques developed in Nebraska bore 164

Straw-Bale Building in the USA

many similarities to those used for centuries in Europe. However, as the Industrial Revolution gathered pace in the USA, straw-bale fell from favour as modern construction techniques and materials emerged (King, 2006). Despite its lengthy history in North America, those using straw-bale techniques can experience difficulties in proving compliance with building codes or regulations (Eisenberg, 1997, Eisenberg et al., 2002, Hammer, 2006, Henderson, 2006). These difficulties relate to building codes being based upon, and written for, the use of high-technology, industrially processed materials. As architect Robert Barclay (1987: 14–16, cited in Benge, 1999) has noted, ‘Invariably, neither existing building regulations, nor the local building by-laws, are sufficiently receptive to the use of low-cost materials and technology’. Techniques such as straw-bale tend to be perceived as ‘alternative’ or ‘low-technology’, and positioned outside of, or in opposition to, building codes and regulations (Eisenberg, 1997). The lack of approved tests for alternative materials, especially in relation to structure and fire safety, has presented difficulties for straw-bale users. As the founding chairman of the International Code Council (ICC), Bob Fowler (cited in Eisenberg and Fowler, 2000: 22) comments, ‘Proving compliance requires performance test results that often don’t exist and are very expensive to generate, presenting an even greater obstacle for these projects.’ Tests often have to be specially commissioned and overseen by code officials, adding to building costs, and requiring expertise that may be beyond the skills set of straw-bale builders. In recent years, more tests have been developed, both in the USA and elsewhere, for structural strength, fire resistance, and moisture and thermal performance. These have gone some way to alleviating these issues (see Ecobuildnetwork.org, undated). The predisposition of enforcement officers towards alternative building techniques impacts upon whether or not a straw building gains code approval. In a survey of 198 code users (i.e. those seeking to gain code approval for green buildings), Eisenberg et al. (2002) identified a series of barriers that affected the approval rates of green building techniques. These barriers were both technical, i.e. there was a clear conflict with the intent or letter of the code or a lack of supporting information to satisfy safety concerns, and non-technical, i.e. a general unfamiliarity with the construction technique or insufficient time to conduct research in order to understand the alternative. In addition, some straw-bale advocates have argued that the ‘regulatory mindsets’, that predominate among code officials, can further complicate the code approval process for green buildings. As Eisenberg (2005: 8) suggests: If we think in historic terms of codes essentially being a response to catastrophes, we can understand that no matter how positive the work of preventing disasters is, in the end many will view it as a negative task. This is the

165


‘regulatory mindset’ that often makes it seem that the job is just keeping bad things from happening rather than enabling good things to happen.

In interview, Martin Hammer, architect and author of a proposed strawbale code for California and several publications on building codes, concurred with this viewpoint, explaining that, in his opinion, code officials ‘are not there to create building codes even though they may have certain opinions about them. It’s like a police officer whose job is to enforce the law, not to create the law, even though he may have questions about whether the law is fair.’ However, he does feel that, as the green building movement gathers momentum, code officials are becoming more aware of the wider sustainability context underpinning coding systems: ‘They still take a [defensive] position, but they can see the direction that it’s going. So there is discussion about broadening the scope of what the building codes are all about and they’re becoming more receptive to alternative materials and methods, including straw-bale.’ What this statement highlights is that, in determining whether a project is likely to gain approval, the quality of information submitted to code officials, the level of training they received, the time they have available to assess the project, along with their prior knowledge and experience in assessing similar projects, are all critical elements (Eisenberg et al., 2002). Such observations also illustrate the importance of establishing positive working relationships between straw-bale advocates, architects and building code officials in the negotiation of standards for building with straw.

Coding for sustainability The debates surrounding coding and straw-bale building are of wider significance, since the use of materials such as straw are tied into broader questions relating to new, more flexible, forms of coding and regulation, and, more fundamentally, what regulation of the built environment should seek to achieve. As Judy Knox suggested in interview: ‘I think the other impact that straw-bale construction has had as far as regulation and code and just acceptance goes, is that . . . it really became the catalyst for other alternative methods to come to the fore that had been kind of back there, limping along . . . because the straw-bale community was so vibrant and so international.’ As Knox’s comments indicate, the prominence of the straw-bale movement has provided a catalyst for action for the promotion of a range of alternative construction techniques and practices. King (2006) suggests similarly that an initial interest in straw-bale building has introduced both building industry insiders and the general public to issues such as waste 166


reduction and energy efficiency. The growing awareness of these and other construction-related environmental impacts, has contributed to the development of official standards such as the LEED (Leadership in Energy and Environmental Design) building certification system. Developed by US Green Building Council, the LEED standard provides building accreditation relating to levels of energy use, water efficiency, CO2 emissions, and indoor environmental quality. A series of high profile green building advocates, including those interviewed for this research, remain active in promoting the benefits of sustainable construction techniques. By working with organisations such as the ICC, the intention is to ensure that alternative construction techniques, such as straw-bale, gain acceptance within international coding systems. As Martin Hammer acknowledges, ensuring that straw-bale is represented within model codes such as the ICC’s International Building Code ‘could pay large dividends in terms of broad adoption, use, and acceptance’ (Hammer, 2006: 238). To this end, in May 2010, Hammer submitted a section on straw-bale construction to the ICC for consideration in its first, 2012, edition of the International Green Construction Code. If included, it is expected that this section will then migrate to the more widely used International Building Code, significantly raising the profile of straw-bale among code officials.

‘Mom’s House’, Tucson, Arizona This section considers a straw-bale building called ‘Mom’s House’, built by Judy Knox and Matts Myhrman, two straw-bale pioneers based in Tucson, Arizona. It was built to provide a comfortable, accessible, home for Matt’s elderly mother. The small, stucco-covered building, located in the garden of Judy and Matts’ home (Figure B.3), became one of the first code-approved load-bearing structure in the USA, with the resulting Tucson/Pima County, Arizona, straw-bale code being the forerunner of subsequent codes, such as the straw-bale construction codes in the State of California, Austin in Texas, Boulder in Colorado, and the State of Oregon (Hammer, 2006). Gaining code approval for Mom’s House was a lengthy process. Judy and Matts, supported by David Eisenberg, Director of the Development Center for Appropriate Technology (DCAT), worked closely with local coding authorities, a graduate student in structural engineering at the University of Arizona, and local architects to develop a testing process to prove the building’s code compliance. As the city of Tucson and Pima County already had an adopted earthen building code, with an appendix chapter on earthen materials, this was used as a template to develop a draft of the straw-bale code. As Judy explains, both patience and persistence was required as the code was negotiated: ‘David and Matts did the front work with code 167

The Practices of Regulation Figure B.3 Mom’s House.

officials; we persevered, it took five years . . . they came at the code officials from a point of view of, “we think this is a viable building method; what do you need from us in order to feel comfortable with getting that into code?” and they sat together and listed what indeed was needed.’ Testing was done on a limited budget, and was aided by the close working relationship between the code users (Judy, Matts, and David) and the testing officials. As Judy explained, this was a critical factor in the (eventual) securing of code approval: ‘Testing was done with borrowed equipment from a discount building supply store, in a borrowed building that David’s parents owned and gave us the use of. We involved the code officials, we invited them down there for every one of our tests.’ Five years after the start of negotiations, in January 1996, ‘Load-bearing, Nebraska-style Straw Bale Construction’ became a prescriptive standard in Tucson, Arizona. At the same time, the State of California adopted the Tucson/Pima County code language through legislation. Soon afterwards, Austin in Texas adopted a similar model code. As the Pima County Chief Building Code Official reflected, in a recent interview, while the code is a prescriptive standard, it is also part and parcel of a wider movement within 168

More performance based obviously gives much more latitude for not only creativity but also sustainability issues. That’s another area that has traditionally had a lot of conflicts in the code, if you, designers, wish to do the right thing sustainably, by adding green building elements, suddenly they come into conflict with, ‘No, you cannot use reclaimed water to flush toilets because there are basic problems in the plumbing code regarding that.’ So we set up an ombudsman basically . . . not to reject any code requirement without going through that individual [project] first if it’s a sustainable project, so that we can try and mitigate and isolate the issues in the code.


building standards towards more flexible, performance-based, coding that attempts to assess projects on their own merits:

While the Tucson/Pima County code was ‘groundbreaking’, flaws in the code and its descendants, around issues such as moisture barrier requirements, began to emerge as understanding about straw-bale building increased (Hammer, 2006). As Hammer suggests, some industry experts argued that writing a straw-bale code was ill-advised as it could enshrine outdated or inefficient techniques, or impede experimentation into new methods in straw-bale building. In interview, David Eisenberg acknowledged that he shared some of these concerns: ‘We knew at the time that it was probably too early to be writing a code for straw-bale construction, but we also recognised that if we didn’t create one, we wouldn’t get to build enough buildings to learn what the code should be. So we tried to build in as much flexibility and as much of a performance basis as we could.’ Arguments against the enshrining of standards within codes are familiar and, as earlier chapters have outlined, are often levelled at regulatory systems more broadly. However, despite some initial scepticism, it is generally felt that the development of straw-bale codes will not only avoid some of the difficulties experienced by users in obtaining building permits, but also ensure that buildings achieve at least a minimum standard contained in codes (Hammer, 2006).

The future of coding As Benge (1999) suggests, ‘In a world that is becoming more regulated and more aware of liability it is increasingly difficult to introduce radically new materials or to revive traditional methods of construction.’ This statement, if indeed true, is likely to place increasing pressure upon regulatory and coding systems, as the demand for sustainable construction materials and techniques grows. The adoption of a less prescriptive and more responsive coding and regulatory system, of the kind well established in countries such as New Zealand and the UK, is one way that green building techniques may become better represented within coding processes. Performance-based 169


codes, which state only what must be achieved and not the mechanisms through which compliance is to be proven, offer greater flexibility, and allow building control officers to assess safety and standards on a case-bycase basis (Benge, 1999). Developing partnerships between green building enthusiasts and code or regulatory officials is seen as key in establishing a coding regime that allows for alternative construction techniques (see Eisenberg et al., 2002, Eisenberg 1997). As Hammer (2006: 237) suggests, code writing requires ‘extensive knowledge, broad experience, foresight, wisdom and skill, and more . . . No single person has all of that.’ In this respect, a code can be considered ‘a document both of singular vision and broad consensus’ (Hammer, 2006: 237). Hammer’s statement indicates the need for coding systems to enshrine both broadly agreed (minimum) safety standards, while allowing sufficient flexibility to accommodate the features of individual projects. Increasingly, codes also seek to mitigate the role that buildings’ lifecycles play in processes of climate change, necessitating a complex balancing act that is the source of much of the conflict seen in contemporary coding debates.1

Chapter Six Risk and the Regulation of the Design Process The greatest risk management tool is reaching understanding and clear communication between the architect, owner and contractor . . . (US Green Building Council, undated)

6.1 Introduction The design and construction of the built environment has always been a focal point of debate in relation to the risks that poorly designed buildings can pose to human health, habitation, and wellbeing. From the early building codes of Mesopotamia in the first century BC, to the emergence of modern systems of building control in the 19th century, regulating the risks associated with the building industry has been a feature of the design and construction process. As outlined in chapter 2, such risks range from the threat of fire due to poorly installed electric wiring to the possibility of building collapse in areas prone to seismic activity. For instance, a major earthquake in central China, in May 2008, led to an estimated 5.36 million buildings collapsing, a further 21 million being damaged, and estimated deaths that exceeded 70,000 people (United States Geological Survey, 2008). The event was attributed, in part, to the inadequacy of the region’s building codes and construction practices and, in particular, to the absence of a uniform code for quakeresistant public buildings, the use of cheap materials, and the lack of enforcement of the building regulations (Chan, 2008, Lee, 2008a). These observations signify the importance attributed to the mitigation of risk through the development and use of rules and regulations relating to building form and performance. In England and Wales, the building regulations continue to expand in a context whereby the generation of new knowledge about materials and construction generates demand for what Rothstein et al. (2006: 94) refer to as ‘control of previously unidentified or unmeasured risks’. For instance, Part P of the Architectural Design and Regulation. Rob Imrie and Emma Street. © 2011 Rob Imrie and Emma Street. Published 2011 by Blackwell Publishing Ltd. ISBN: 978-1-405-17966-9


Building Regulations, introduced in 2005, requires electrical work in homes and gardens to be carried out by ‘competent persons’ rather than, as was previously the case, any person irrespective of their knowledge of the interrelationships between building materials and electric current. Likewise, in the USA, White and Dietenberger (2001) note that the increasing use of flammable wood–plastic composites in housing construction, for features such as decking and roofing, is likely to lead to new building codes to regulate against fire risk, especially in areas of wild fires, such as Southern California. Both examples are part of a broadcloth of regulatory responses to heightened awareness of health and safety issues in society, and a manifestation of what Power (2004: 10) refers to as the ‘risk management of everything’. For Power, modern society is characterised by the emergence of a ‘duality of risk’ in which there is, on the one hand, an increase in the quantity of regulations in relation to the management of societal risks, such as building failure, and, on the other hand, the development of risk analysis to manage potential threats to organisations, relating to possible malpractice, misconduct, error, or omission. While the former relates to issues of danger and threat, and may necessitate the application of legal regulations, the latter is concerned with organisational accountability and legitimacy. Here, there is some onus on professionals to show how they will respond to risk, or, as Power (2007) suggests, what is paramount is less the assessment and analysis of risk than its governance (also see O’Malley, 2004, 2005). These broader tendencies are manifest in the built environment professions (for example, RIBA, 2005). There is a plethora of regulations stemming from external sources relating to building form and performance, and, seemingly, much emphasis on risk identification and its management, particularly in relation to the processes underpinning the development and delivery of building projects. In the past 15 years, there has been an expansion in the number of building regulations, and a much greater emphasis on health and safety procedures, characterised by the UK Health and Safety Executive, in 1995, introducing the Construction and Design Management (CDM) regulations to identify hazards, reduce risk, save lives, and eliminate injury.11 An extension to CDM regulations, in April 2007, requires architects to consider the safety of buildings’ end users and to make clients responsible for appointing a dedicated CDM coordinator, part of a trend that, for O’Malley (2004), signifies organisations becoming much more managerial and regulatory. An implication of the introduction of CDM and other regulations is the onus placed on professionals, such as architects, to manage and reduce risk in the design and construction process, and the development of administrative and managerial systems, including (re)deployment of staff time and financial resource, to ensure that risk minimisation targets are

Risk and the Regulation of the Design Process

attained and adherence to regulations is assured. For some observers, this means that the traditional focus of architects, the aesthetic of building design, is being supplanted by prosaic and pragmatic tasks relating to the development, delivery, and implementation of building projects (Habraken, 2005, RIBA, 2005). One architect, Thomas Colbert (2007), has asked, ‘what is left if you take away the aesthetics from architecture?’ His reply: ‘You’re left with only function, only utilitarianism. You’re left with extreme reduction.’ For others, the emerging managerial environment of architecture is no less stark, and may well be one whereby ‘there is no aesthetic requirement and no need for imaginative solutions’ (Hughes, 2003: 2). While such pronouncements seem to exaggerate the extent of change, they point towards what some see as a diminution of the aesthetic craft of architects, and its supplanting by, and entanglement with, issues of risk and regulation, relating to anything from the dimensions of exit routes from buildings, to the legal and contractual obligations of different project professionals (RIBA, 2005). Such issues, we contend, are neither ephemeral nor unimportant in architecture, but, as discussed in chapter 1, reflect what Sarfatti-Larson (1993: 23) describes as the heteronomous conditions of architecture and the processes that shape the production of the built environment (also see Imrie, 2007). This activity constitutes design and building as ‘risky objects’, and regulation as part of a process in the minimisation and management of risk in relation to the different activities of professionals and organisations. In this view, the practices of architects are highly implicated in, and constitutive of, the construction of risk objects, and their amelioration by recourse to systems of organisational governance. In the chapter, we develop insights by analysts of risk and regulation and relate these to an understanding of the design and construction of the built environment (Dean, 1999, Fischoff et al., 1984, O’Malley, 2004, 2005, Power, 2004, 2007, Rose and Miller, 1992). We advance the argument that the risky, regulatory, and rule-based nature of architecture is a significant, if under-explored, dimension of the processes of production of the built environment. Our analytical focus on issues of risk and its regulation contrasts with traditional foci of scholarly studies of architecture, on the decorative and the aesthetic content of buildings. Rather, our concern is the conjoined nature of aesthetics and the pragmatics of project organisation, or a focus on the socio-material and political relations underpinning the design and construction of buildings. This includes the different ways in which the actions of architects are, in part, constituted by, and constitutive of, rules and regulations about risk and buildings, including those that relate to building form, its performance, and the contractual, legal, and operational conditions that shape its design and construction. We divide the chapter into two main parts. First, we outline how the work of architects is entwined with issues of risk, and we suggest that a

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new focus for the understanding of architects’ practices ought to be the consideration of the interrelationships between design, risky objects, and their regulation. Second, we discuss findings from our survey and interviews with architects. We describe and evaluate their understanding of, and responses to, what they perceive to be increased exposure to risk (and its regulation) in the design process. This exposure has two key dimensions. The first is related to architects operating in increasingly complex organisational networks, characterised by decentred and dispersed forms. These, we suggest, have the potential to open up a range of risks relating to a project’s organisation, and its development and delivery. The second is a consequential deployment of calculative rationalities of risk management, or methods, mechanisms, and technologies to minimise risk exposure. We develop the understanding, after Power et al. (2009), that such technologies are part of a process of architectural practices seeking to secure their legitimacy, and to ensure their reproduction as responsible and reputable organisations.

6.2 Building form, performance and the regulation of risk So far in the book we have sought to convey that the practices of architects are regulated by a plethora of rules and regulations relating to building form and performance, as part of broader societal objectives to secure minimum standards of design, including safe and healthy environments. These include design conventions and cultural codes relating to aesthetic styles, legal regulation seeking to control the usage of materials, health and safety directives about use of construction techniques, design and costing parameters provided by clients, procurement-types, and subject specific inputs from project specialists, including quantity surveyors and letting agents. In combination, these are indicative of a broad and complex ‘regulatory field’, in which different dimensions of the design and development process are construed, by government and non-government actors and agents, as ‘risky’ and possessing capacities to create hazards and insecurities (RIBA, 2005). Such risks include not only those to the buildings to be designed and constructed, but also those that relate to the ways in which projects are organised, developed, and delivered. The ensuing organisational complexity, relating to the development and delivery of design projects, means that risk might be difficult to anticipate, predict, control, or subject to calculative interventions (Beck, 1992, 1999). However, the mentalities of much of the design and construction profession reproduce what Gephart et al. (2009: 143) refer to as ‘the cognitive science perspective on risk’, placing faith in the 174


modern post-enlightenment application of science and technology ‘to the management and control of the insecurities of life’ (Tr€ uby, 2005: 24). The underlying conception of risk here revolves around the modernist understanding that it is manageable and preventable by recourse to systems of empirical data collection, governance and regulation. Risk, in this view, is an objective phenomenon, amenable to its measurement and amelioration through the application of purposive systems of regulation. It is, as Gephart et al. (2009: 141) suggest, part of a sociopolitical and cultural value system that conceives of society as ‘capable of dealing with its own foreseeable future’ (also see Miller, 2009). The development of building control is one example of the modernist conception of risk, whereby state directives set out minimum standards of building performance, based on a series of general formulae (Hawkesworth and Imrie, 2009, Imrie, 2004, 2007, van der Heijden, 2009). Such formulae, written as rules and standards, were, as outlined in chapters 2 and 3, a response to the emergence of dense urban forms in the 19th century that generated risks and hazards relating to the density of development, the construction of buildings, and the use of new fuels, such as gas and electricity. McLean (2003), for instance, outlines instances of death due to boiler explosions in the USA, citing the case of the SS Sultana steamship that, in 1865, blew up on the Mississippi river with the loss of 1547 lives. The subsequent public outrage provided some impetus for the development of safer technologies, although, as McLean (2003: 45) notes, it was not until the early 20th century that the ‘state began to enact police powers . . . in relation to health and safety laws’. The state’s policing of design and construction activities has since been significantly extended, characterised by the codification of building regulation in law, and the development of other legal directives relating to diverse aspects of construction, planning, health and safety. One example, in the UK, is the CDM (2007) industrial regulation that places a responsibility on principal contractors to prepare a ‘construction phase plan’, as part of a process of risk minimisation to health and safety. This is part of what we termed, in chapter 3, a ‘regulatory explosion’ in the UK, a bureaucratic burden creating additional work for architects and other professionals. This was highlighted in a government report on building regulations which suggested that the system is ‘evolving in an inefficient and ineffective manner . . . [with] excessive complexity and a lack of clarity’ (DCLG, 2007: 10). Likewise, in the USA, a plethora of legal regulations and rules, relating to building work, exists, leading observers to note that they act, potentially, as a deterrent to good architecture and, in some instances, as an administrative burden that contributes directly to discourage development (May and Wood, 2003, Woudhuysen et al., 2004).

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While formalised external systems of regulation seek to intervene in, and ameliorate the effects of, risky objects in the design process, we concur with Morgan and Engwall (1999) that much of the regulation of risk in relation to the design process is informal and not necessarily embedded in law, legal principle, and application. Rather, the design process, and the practices of architects, is shaped by a complexity of inter-organisational relations, and related modes of regulation and governance that stem from non-state sources (Sarfatti-Larson, 1993). In particular, the opening up of possible risks occurs through a highly individuated dispersed design and development process that involves multiple actors with different roles, responsibilities, and expectations (Bentley, 1999, Habraken, 2005, Woudhuysen et al., 2004). In most instances, architects are part of a complex (vertical) hierarchy of project control and command, subject to checks, constraints, and regulation (of actions) through what Habraken (2005: 143) refers to as ‘interface conditions, boundaries, and limits of responsibility’. The interfaces between architects and heterogeneous actors in the design process may also be characterised by what some refer to as postbureaucratic formations, and a partial dissolution of traditional hierarchical organisational and professional boundaries and modes of expertise, and their recombination in different, often novel, ways (Clarke and Newman, 1997, Heydebrand, 1989). The assemblage of design project teams comprises a complexity of actor interactions that are often akin to what Callon (1991: 132) refers to as a ‘techno-economic network’, or a hybridity of organisational forms that, for Miller et al. (2008: 944), ‘make possible lateral information flows and cooperation across the boundaries of organisations’. It is the intersection between different parts of hybrid formations, at the juncture of (their) organisational boundaries, which exposes professionals, such as architects, to new practices, processes, and forms of expertise. Such exposure may require professionals to adapt by acquiring new competences and understandings, and a transformation in skills sets and mentalities. For Reches (2009), these complicated structures create the potential of (new forms of) risk exposure for the individual firm, architect, and other professionals that are not easily predictable or controllable (also see Power, 2004). This is related partly to the short-lived nature of the project networks, which are usually assembled on a project-by-project basis and involving a different (re)combination of professionals each time (RIBA, 2005). This creates potential risks relating to how far stable networks can be constructed to allay institutional mistrust, and thus provide a basis for trust to be built and established between actors to ensure the successful completion of the project. The interdependencies of actors in project networks mean that this process may be fraught, time-extensive, and orientated towards a mixture of behaviour. These include strategies of individual risk aversion, or, as is evident in most


design project contexts, risk sharing arrangements characterised by Power (2004: 7) as ‘the design of contracts with the power to bond agents to principles’. The power of such bonds may be tested by the market orientation of the design and development process that, as Morgan and Engwall (1999) suggest, makes it especially vulnerable to risky behaviour and activities. Architects operate in project contexts whereby trust in partner organisations to deliver to time and budget, is bound by contracts and specifications. Yet, this is no guarantee that contracts will be honoured or that externalities relating to market conditions, such as bankruptcy or failure of supply chains, will be mitigated or eliminated (Sarfatti-Larson, 1993). Likewise, the property market is prone to fluctuations, even failure, due to the imbalance of information between producers and consumers (Morgan and Engwall, 1999). This may prompt architects, and other design and development professionals, to create regulatory capability and systems to reduce risk through the context of what Morgan and Engwall (1999: 5) describe as ‘explicit systems of rules or in implicit norms of conduct and action’. The uncertainties associated with both market relations and fragmented forms of project organisation and delivery, combined with an increasing emphasis by government and non-government actors on health, safety, and building risk management, are part of a context underpinning what some see as the ‘re-managerialisation of risk’. For Power (2007: 23), this is ‘the attempt to subject it [risk] to systematic controls so as to increase confidence in social processes’. Anecdotal evidence suggests that this is evident in architecture. The RIBA (2005: 7) encourages architects to become ‘street wise’ by ‘discouraging professional norms and behaviours’ that are ‘outdated’ and, instead, to construct ‘virtuous organisational control’, including formalised risk sharing, such as employing contractors under design-and-build contracts to reduce risk of budget overruns. At the heart of the process is the emergence of ‘self governing’, in which the regulation of risky objects is less likely to occur through centralised, state-administered, strategies of risk control, and more through a series of technologies of risk governance encouraging self conduct. Such conduct increasingly requires organisations to demonstrate competence in risk management (and regulation). In particular, architectural firms’ involvement in risk based regulation, such as self certification of parts of the building control process, the appointment of ‘risk auditors’, and auditing of compliance with health and safety directives, provides opportunities to demonstrate capacities as ‘self-reflective and self-improving’ organisational actors that can be trusted. The individualisation of risk, and its regulation and management, thus become a key element in (architectural) firms’ self presentation to potential clients and other project partners, as competent, trustworthy, or having ‘a

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distinctive style of organisational discipline and accountability’ (Power, 2007: 23, also see O’Malley, 2004). This is part of what some see as reputational risk management, whereby firms change internal procedure and process to assure rationalised delivery of risk management, in such a way that ‘blame avoidance’ is put into place as part of broader (self-)regulatory measures. The regulatory/risk environment has implications for the practices of architects, relating to reorganisation of functions, development of new responsibilities, and potential broadening of architects’ roles (Bentley, 1999, Habraken, 2005, Imrie, 2007, RIBA, 2005). Some evidence suggests that professionals are spending more time on practices such as auditing and collating of data (or evidence of risk management), creating ‘paper trails’, as well as engaging in less-formalised practices relating to risk sharing or ‘offloading’ risks, which may conflict with, or even undermine, risk-reducing standards such as CDM (RIBA, 2005). Likewise, the practices of architects are increasingly legalised and subject to (the threat of) litigation (Harmon, 2003). This potentially creates defensive and risk averse behaviour. Power (2007: 170) refers to this as ‘legalistically constructed practices’, in which conformity to rules, and the setting up of compliance mechanisms, takes up a greater part of the practices of architects. In summary, architecture is entwined in risk and its regulation in a number of ways. Foremost, legal state-centred rules and regulations are broadening the scope of what constitutes risky objects (to be regulated) in the design and development process. This potentially contributes to task enlargement related to the development of new systems of regulation. In turn, this is interlinked with what appears to be greater legal risk and litigation, and more reliance on self regulation, or the individualisation of responses to possibilities of ‘blame displacement’ for elements of project failure. The dispersed decentred nature of the design process also constitutes, we would argue, a key context of/for regulation, in which regulatory activity and behaviour are co-produced through a complexity of interactions between project partners. However, there is little or no knowledge, beyond anecdote, of how far architects feel that their practices are influenced by issues of risk and regulation, and the impacts on the design and development process. This is a theme that we now turn to.

6.3 Risk, regulation, and architecture: some evidence from the UK In this part of the chapter, we explore architects’ perceptions of how far, and in what ways, their practices are entwined with, and influenced 178


by, risk and regulation. We divide the rest of the section into two parts. First, drawing across our different data sets, we outline the significance of risk and its regulation in influencing the practices of architects. We seek to understand architects’ focus on the management of risk as related to the emergence of hybrid organisations, in which the architect is part of a process of managing risky objects associated with project development and delivery through the context of often decentred and dispersed organisational forms (Clarke and Newman, 1997). Such formations, we argue, have potential to increase the risk exposure of architectural firms and to destabilise their operations, with consequences for their longevity. We develop the understanding, after Power et al., (2009), that the potential for instability is a basis for prompting risk management, particularly in relation to securing reputation by recourse to the (risk) management of both internal and external systems relating to project development and delivery. Second, we suggest that securing reputation, as a means of maintaining organisational stasis or stability, is related to a rationality of organising, characterised by a proliferation and use of techniques that can be described as conceiving risk as ‘objective and assured to exist in real form in the world’ (Gephart et al., 2009, 143). This is part of a calculative rationality or series of mentalities that render risk as amenable to control through regulation (also see Dean, 2007, Hawkesworth and Imrie, 2009, O’Malley, 2004, Power, 2004, 2007, Rose and Miller, 1992). We outline and evaluate the key ways in which architects seek to manage risky objects in the design process, by developing and applying particular techniques (of risk management). Here, we highlight the significance of both the collectivisation and individualisation of risk management, and the importance of internal systems to ensure, as far as is practicable, the delivery of ‘risk free’ systems of design.

a) Hybridisation and the risk management of reputation An important part of architecture is its co-production through networked governance characterised by a complexity of organisational forms and processes. This complexity is recognised by a number of writers. Habraken (2005: 56) suggests that architects operate within, increasingly, ‘complex rules of performance and procedure’ relating to the multiple parts of the building process (also see Bentley, 1999, Imrie, 2007, Mackenzie and Martinez Lucio, 2005, RIBA, 2000, 2005, SarfattiLarson, 1993). The multiplicity is, as will be discussed in chapter 7, a matrix of relational networks in which, it is alleged, there is a dissolution of professional identities and dispersal of functions to contractors and others not traditionally part of the design and construction process. There is ambivalence about professional identity and role ascription, so 179


that it is no longer easy to identify who does what, or who, precisely, is the architect. Noordegraaf (2007: 775) describes such contexts as ‘neobureaucratic settings . . . with hybridized organizational forms’ (also see, Heydebrand, 1989, Mackenzie and Martinez Lucio, 2005). These hybridised forms are characterised not only by an extension of the range of actors involved, directly or indirectly, in the development and delivery of projects, but by the formation of often unstable interdisciplinary networks to deliver design and construction outcomes. These, for Noordegraaf (2007: 775), ‘cannot be easily organized’, and they could expose organisations to network failures and uncertainties that, in Power’s (2007: 23) terms, ‘must be organised as risks to be managed’. Such uncertainties relate to all aspects of project design and implementation, including risks relating to control of costs, project overruns, defects, and accidents. This leads to a proliferation of rules, procedures, and practices relating to the coordination and management of design and construction risks, ranging from the use of legal contracts outlining the content of procurement processes, to the specification of the obligations and responsibilities of different actors. As one of our respondents said, ‘our profession is quite a risky profession, it’s becoming more risky . . . risk is what we do for a living, we are risk-brokers, effectively, aren’t we?’ Such sentiments were reaffirmed by respondents to the survey who felt that issues of risk, and their regulation, were not only at the forefront of the design process but were much more a part of their job than five years previously. As Table 6.1 shows, the majority of respondents strongly agreed or agreed with the statement that ‘the design process is highly influenced by considerations of risk’ (148 respondents or 61%). One architect suggested that ‘much of our work here is defined by risk’, while, for another, ‘we do designers’ risk assessments, we do pretender health and safety plans’. The considerations of risk are multiple and include responding to legal rules such as a building regulation or health and safety directive, to ensuring risk minimisation in relation to aspects of project development and delivery (Blau, 1984). Thus, as one Response

Number


180

4 45 103 72 13 4 241

‘The design process is highly influenced by considerations of risk’

Percent 1.7 18.7 42.7 29.9 5.4 1.7 100


respondent said, ‘there are all sorts of risks . . . planning risk . . . energy risk . . .’ Others referred to ‘programme risks’, or the risk of a project running over time, and to ‘financial risks’, or the risk of a project running over budget. These responses convey that risk, for architects, stems from multiple sources, and that it is not easily definable or reducible to any specific actor, agent, or type of risk (also see O’Malley, 2004, 2005). The term ‘risk’ is considered, by some, to be ambiguous, and even vague and illdefined, or, as Power (2004: 13) suggests, ‘the concept remains elusive, contested, and inherently controversial’ (also see Fischoff et al., 1984, Garland, 2003). Most respondents feel that they are living in a ‘risk proliferation society’, or one whereby everything is deemed to be a potential risk that requires a plan or means of mitigation. Some respondents suggested that part of the problem is government and project partners ‘inventing’ risks, or exaggerating potentially risky situations, and one architect said, ‘it seems as though everything is a risk now’ (also see O’Malley, 2004, 2005, Power, 2004). An outcome is, as another architect commented, ‘all valid but we’ve become besotted with the process rather than having this in the background’. The foregrounding of risk in architects’ work is perceived as stemming from the escalation in external government controls emanating from a range of agencies relating to the regulation of health, safety, and building form and performance. As highlighted in chapter 5, this escalation feels, as one architect said, ‘something that is exponential and never-ending’. Others concurred in noting the escalation of regulation with a respondent suggesting that ‘what’s changed is that where you were working before and you had five British Standards you’ve now got 55 British Standards, so you can’t work the way you worked before’. Instead, architects are often absorbed with developing management competencies akin to what Hoggart (1996) and others describe as the managerialisation of modern organisations (also see Clarke and Newman, 1997). One architect outlined a widely held view that ‘much of the time is now spent managing the process, and managing others’. Part of the bureaucratic burden is the contracting out of work, and architects’ buying in specialist help. As intimated in chapter 5, there is evidence of architects increasingly ‘buying in’ advice and specialist expertise as part of a process for managing risk management, including assistance with interpretation and implementation of health and safety standards, those relating to materials used in construction, and building regulations. This is part of a process producing lateral information flows and networking across the boundaries of architects’ firms and newly emerging specialists, a process referred to by Miller et al. (2008) as the ‘hybridising of expertise’. This was explained by one architect as co-producing knowledge with the help of specialist contractors to

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ensure risk minimisation: ‘we’re having to rely on . . . niche professions before we can actually deliver our completed building . . . previously Part D regulations were relatively straightforward, but because we’re an increasingly litigious society . . . I’d be very reluctant to do some party wall . . . and not get them checked over by an acoustic engineer.’ These observations highlight the importance of new governing actors as part of the process of risk management in architecture. Such actors are part of what Power (2007: 22) refers to as ‘the opening up of new spaces of managerial action’, in which the invention and definition of the (risk) objects to be targeted, and the problems to be solved, are part of a ‘self-fulfilling’ modus operandi. Thus, the new ‘risk actors’ are, as Power (2007: 99) suggests, ‘conspicuously the creators and carriers of templates for managing risk’, or individuals to enable (architectural) firms to ameliorate the harmful effects of risky objects and/or uncertainties in the development and delivery of projects. For architectural firms, faced with regulation relating to (risky) building form and performance, such ‘risk actors’ are part of a process for securing internal control, through what Power (2007: 84) conceives of as ‘creating actionable response paths’. In referring to building maintenance, one architect outlined how the process had become programmatic and led by ‘actionable’ mentalities: ‘whereas before, I’m sure, maintenance engineers would run round with a set of steps and just run up the ladder, change it and job done. Now, I mean . . . you need to sort of have your whole action plan laid out.’ Not surprisingly, at the core of architects’ responses to risk (and its regulation) is the management of multiple, and multiplying, actors in project teams related to a dispersal of activities, and what was perceived as the possible threat of litigation for breach of contract or negligence (Table 6.2). As the design process becomes increasingly stretched across a network of organisations, legal liabilities become paramount to the point whereby, as one person suggested, it ‘overpowers everything’, and ‘everyone is scared of making a decision’. Several respondents have adopted ‘low-risk strategies’ in their work to avoid litigation, and, as one Response

Number


182

4 66 102 59 7 3 241

Percent 1.7 27.4 42.3 24.5 2.9 1.2 100

‘There is more risk of litigation against architects than five years ago’


architect commented, ‘our society is increasingly litigious and as such the architect must err towards the low-risk strategies’. Others agreed: ‘we do not want to get sued trying to reinvent things which might go wrong’; and ‘we have a moral obligation to avoid risk – and, in a highly litigious arena, a financial imperative’. For some architects, part of the (risk) culture relates to fear of blame, underpinned by lack of trust in other actors and systems to check or control elements of practice. As one architect noted, a lack of trust is reflected in the assemblage of legal teams in projects: ‘the one thing you notice on teams, big teams for big projects, is there’s a massive team of lawyers involved as well . . . redefining contracts, or writing contracts from scratch’. Others suggested that the system appeared to be about ‘apportioning blame’, or at least about risk reduction by ensuring that risk can be shared between the different project partners. One architect felt that the emerging risk culture is one whereby ‘there are many people interested in covering their own backs and simply want to shift the risk to others’. Others were more circumspect in conceiving of the need for ‘regulatory strategies’, such as legal contracts, to ensure project delivery, thus reflecting Power’s (2007: 170) observation, that legalisation ‘creates spaces for strategic manoeuvre’. Such manoeuvres can be understood, in part, as firms seeking to secure their reputations by recourse to actions that, as Power et al. (2009: 302) suggest, ‘become a benchmark of being a legitimate organisation’. The dispersed networks that are part of the complexities of the design process mean that architects are exposed to the gaze and discipline of numerous external bodies that ‘evaluate and rank, and thereby generate reputational risk’ (Power et al., 2009: 301). The management of reputational risk is a way of organising conduct, and most respondents felt that it was generating a risk-averse, or defensive, attitude as part of the normalised mentalities of securing reputation. One architect commented, ‘risk avoidance is at the heart of all informed design decisions. We do not “trail blaze” using untried materials and techniques’. For others, the risk culture is anti-innovative and likely to hold the design process back. As one architect said, ‘in terms of creative architecture, I think that is really, really negative, because it’s only the brave or the rich who are prepared to actually try things, risk things’, while, for another, ‘you end up with a sort of tolerable bland conformity . . . it suppresses the potential for people to expand the edges’. As part of the process to secure reputation, architects feel that they are spending more time on risk management, both on a project-byproject basis (163 survey respondents or 70%) and on general officebased procedures (159 or 65%). Much of the time expended is characterised by the internal regulation of risk, providing the opportunity for architects to show potential clients that they are ‘less risky’ than

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competitors or, as one respondent said, ‘it’s not cutting costs, it’s getting cost certainty. What clients want is cost certainty; they don’t want risk’. For most architects, there is no choice but to be involved in risk management and the regulation of risk because it is part of ‘good business’ and developing a ‘reliable reputation’. This concurs with Power (2007: 196), and others, who suggest that reputation and blame are ‘distinctive kinds of meta risk objects for all organisations’. An important aspect of this is ‘governing reputation’ and with ‘the heightened preoccupation with how organisations are seen’ (Power, 2007: 23). Thus, reputational risk is part of the organisational landscape and as one respondent said, ‘if you get the risk wrong, I think, [it] could be a bit of a nightmare’, while, for another, ‘the issue is about, you know, you talk about it protecting the profession’.

b) Calculative rationalities and the management of risky objects As suggested in the previous section, the risks associated with the operations of dispersed organisational forms place more onus on the management of risk in ways that seek to heighten the reputation of firms, and potentially to enhance the ‘production of value’, This is at the basis of what Power (2004: 30) refers to as organisations seeking ‘to demonstrate that they are in control’. There is evidence that the practices of architects increasingly revolve around the use of auditable items, calculative operations, and techniques and instruments to assure the minimisation of risk (to their organisations) (also see Dean, 1999, O’Malley, 2005). Core to the process is the internal regulation of risk, or the development and use of mechanisms to ensure that the organisation is able to respond to the breadth of regulatory/risk contexts, including health, safety, and building regulations. Much of the process is not about an organisation’s management of the underlying risks per se, but more about their management of the specific risks that they face (Power, 1997). The increase in risk and its regulation has implications for the conduct of architecture, particularly in relation to the role of managerial and administrative practices and processes. The onus on architects is the development of management systems to deliver project outcomes, a process that Power (2007: 35) describes as leading to ‘a calculative rationality to measure, manage, and reduce possibilities of risk in organisational behaviour and activities’ (also see Dean, 2007). Such observations were reaffirmed, in interview, by a past president of the RIBA who said that the architect is responsible, first and foremost, for calculating how building work may affect health and safety. As he explained: 184

Core to the practices of architects is the governance of risk as part of a process for mitigating and avoiding harm (Dean, 2007, Power, 2007, O’Malley, 2004). Such governance is being developed through the context of what Power (2007: 22) refers to as ‘enterprise risk management’ (ERM), or a managerial discourse about risk and its management (Power, 2004, 2007). For Power, ERM is broad in scope and not a unitary category or necessarily concerned with rigid control or discipline of actions. Rather, it seeks to encourage the development and use of techniques and instruments to manage and regulate risk ‘as a fundamental constituent of the production of value’ (Power, 2007: 69). ERM promotes a ‘way of thinking’, or disposition, towards the use and management of regulatory knowledge, partly to promote the development of systems to minimise ‘risks to profits’, internal control to assure ‘risk-free behaviour’, and use of both internal staff appointments, and external agents and actors, as ‘risk managers’. In particular, the contractual nature of much design and development work reflects the onus on the ‘production of value’, and control over ‘risks to profits’. This is core to the use of two-stage design-andbuild (D&B) contracts by clients keen to reduce their exposure to rising costs during construction. D&B is perceived as offering greater certainty of cost and completion date compared to more traditional contract types because the contractor effectively assumes the risks by working on a fixed-fee basis once a design package has been agreed. From a client’s perspective, traditional contracts rely on contractors ensuring that there is enough contingency or ‘risk money’ to cover problems that may arise after the build budget has been set. As one client explained, ‘if he’s missed things out then effectively he has to have enough risk money to cover it or he’s got to manufacture claims, and I think this, for me, that was the problem’. In contrast, the D&B route takes ‘some of the risk out’ and, as one architect suggested, it is indicative of a more ‘risk-averse’ approach to design and construction:


We’re required under the law now to write a health and safety plan at the beginning of the project; it’s our responsibility to flag up the issues that need to be considered, in terms of how the building is built, what materials are specified, how materials are moved round the site, what kind of risks are associated with the building process, and what kind of issues will arise in terms of how the building is maintained.

There’s a big desire to transfer risk and that one of the simplest ways of doing that is through some sort of design-build type contract where you can avoid a traditional area of conflict, which is between the contractor and the information that it’s been issued with . . . If you put those two elements into one, so you’re responsible for both the information and the building then from the client’s perspective that seems to be good. 185


While D&B contracts are focused on regulating ‘cost/profit risks’, by imposing fiscal discipline on partner organisations, much of architects’ focus in managing ‘risky objects’ relates to the development of internal control, or what Power (2007: 35) refers to ‘as a distinctive mode of organisational uncertainty handling’ (also see Dean, 2007, Power, 2004, Rose and Miller, 1992, Spira and Page, 2003). Several respondents outlined the importance of internalised systems of ‘self regulation’ or the pressure to develop approaches to risk management to account for (their) actions (Dean,1999, 2007). Thus, part of the rise in regulatory behaviour in architecture is the use of what Dean (1999) describes as ‘moral technologies’, such as checking, verifying, auditing, and paper trailing. Such technologies are part of what Parker (2002) describes as meta-regulation or the regulation of self regulation, that is, the utilisation of systems that, for Power (2007: 40), are ‘designed to make key trust variables visible’. An illustration of internal, process-based, risk management is the ‘risk register’ or ‘design problem schedule’ (Figure 6.1). Here, a member of the design team, usually the cost consultant or project manager, sets up a document that lists a series of potential risks specific to the project, calculates the likelihood of them occurring, and identifies potential ways to avoid them. The project team has a series of meetings whereby the risks are ‘delegated’ to different members who take responsibility for managing them. In interview, one respondent noted that ‘it’s part of the whole process now. We have to provide designers’ risk assessments at every stage of the design process . . . I think it’s a good discipline to have, I think some of it can turn into meaningless piles of paper this high, for a small project, that nobody ever looks at, but I think it’s a good discipline for our architects to have to go through that process’. However, he acknowledged that the process was one of ensuring that the firm was seen to be covering, to the best of their abilities, all possible risk scenarios: ‘you think of all of the things that could be dangerous and you put them down on a list so that if something does happen that you didn’t think of at least you can say “well, we did an assessment”.’ While the risk register seeks to respond to a perceived need for internal control relating to risk assessment, most respondents observed that recourse to audit, evaluation, and performance indicators was key to what one architect referred to as ‘showing our value’. As a client explained, ‘you have to demonstrate that you have considered the risk properly and the only way you can really do that is with an audit trail, which is paper’. A project manager agreed, noting that setting up auditing systems to ensure that project team members were ‘covering themselves’ was a priority. He suggested it was ‘very difficult to maintain some kind of organisation around what’s going on with each project . . . because it is just a never-ending paper trail’. One architect described the auditing process, which, due to the number of personnel involved, had,

187

Closed Open

Verification of current proposals against a confirmed Measured Building Survey

Impact of further Asbestos Surveys

SURVEYS

Figure 6.1

A ‘risk register’

Recent increases in gypsum prices

INFLATION

Open

The extent of fire protection required is unknown

Upstand beams currently shown on UAF drawings

FIRE STRATEGY

Extent of propping & shoring to basement levels/existing structure/roads above basements

CONSTRUCTION

CONSTRUCTION

Open

Risk of steel prices increasing above inflation.

INFLATION

Open

Open

Open

Open

Open

Open

Traffic / logistic management in and around sensitive street area.

Scaffolding provisions /strategy for construction

Level of water table under and/or around basement level

Open

Open

Open

Open

Open

Open

Open

Open

Open

Open

Open

Open

CONSTRUCTION

SURVEYS

Open Open

CONSTRUCTION

Danger of the basement filling with water during piling & construction

CONSTRUCTION

Renewable energy source requirements

SUSTAIN ABILITY

Security requirements in and around the building

Level of sustainability measures introduced

SUSTAINABILITY

Extent of works to listed areas / restriction of works to listed areas

Existing building ‘Unknowns’

SITE LOGISTICS / BUILDABILITY

Funding /sponsorship /donations required to meet the budget

May need to reinstall previously removed fittings

PLANNING/EH

SERVICES

Identifying existing features of the building that need to be retained

PLANNING/EH

COMMERCIAL

Ecological assessment

PLANNING/EH

I.T./A.V.

Confirmation of Fixed and Loose Furniture which is being provided

CLIENT SIGN-OFF

ADDITIONAL CONSULTANT INPUT

Open

Acceptance of outline specification of finishes

CLIENT SIGN-OFF


Open

Users need to verify special standards that can be delivered and confirm acceptance

CLIENT SIGN-OFF

Transport

Open

Confirmation of Fire Brigade acceptance of revised strategy

FIRE STRATEGY


Open

Interface of power to other linked buildings through the tunnel

SERVICES

Open

Open

Adoption of economically feasible Sustainability issues

SERVICES

Acoustics

Open

Verification of adequate Plant-room space, Ventilation Strategies and Services Zones

SERVICES

Risk of tolerance within new and existing building

Open

Compliance with relevant British Standards

DESIGN COORDINATION

Integration of storage system with existing structure

Open Open

Ventilation system and storage system interface

DESIGN COORDINATION


Open

Interface issues between existing finishes and new services upgrade installation.

DESIGN COORDINATION

STORAGE

Open

Temporary works propping solution to the access road

STRUCTURE

STORAGE

Closed

Interface between new build and retained areas

Archaeological issues?

STRUCTURE

STRUCTURE

Closed

Closed

Inconsistencies in information produced

Status

Risk/Problem

SURVEYS

2

1

1

2

3

1

1

1

1

1

2

2

2

2

3

2

1

2

2

2

3

1

2

2

2

2

2

3

2

1

1

1

2

2

1

1

1

3

2

Probability

2

1

2

2

3

1

1

2

3

1

2

2

1

2

3

2

2

2

3

3

3

1

2

1

1

1

1

2

2

1

2

1

2

2

3

2

3

2

2

Impacts

4

1

2

4

9

1

1

2

3

1

4

4

2

4

9

4

2

4

6

6

9

1

4

2

2

2

2

6

4

1

2

1

4

4

3

2

3

6

4

Risk

SEC to consider basement strategy and advise Site Investigation required - underway Main contractor input required Main contractor input required

h g n n

Monitor prices, allow for increase in cost plan

n h

CCF

SEC / UAF

SEC / SEF

SEF

CCF / AC

CCF

CCF

AC

SEC

BU

AC

BU / AUF

AC / BU

ALL

ALL

BU / AC

AC

ALL

ALL

ALL

ALL

UAF

SEC

AC

AC

AC

UAF

AC

ALL

SEF

ALL

SEF / UAF

ALL

SEC

AC

SEC

AC

AC

CCF

Owner


SEC/SEF to confirm fire rating of slabs & fire strategy advisor to inform Impact and strategy to omit/accommodate the upstands to be clarified

n

Monitor prices, allow for increase in cost plan

BU to advise the extent of their security requirements

h

SEC to provide information for assessment.

AC to gain sufficient funding

h

h

Schedule required from EH/BU re. scope of works in listed areas

n

n

Highlight any risks as soon as they become apparent AC/BC to advise on clients’ strategy

Extent of this work to be established by EH / AC

n

AC to give guidance on the extent of sustainability required

EH to be involved to assist identifying

n

n

Required towards the end of stage C

n

Required towards the end of stage C n

h


n

FF&E schedule of new and existing to be produced

n

n

Once specs are prepared, BU prompt review and sign off is needed

h

SEC to advise on tolerances

AC to manage user's aspirations against what is deliverable

n

Co-ordination with storage suppliers needed

Contact fire brigade

n


Further investigation into all aspects of the tunnel to be carried out

n

n

Review WRAP, renewable technologies and advise project

n

n

Further investigation required

n

n

Design team co-ordination required Check that current scheme complies with relevant British Standards

n

Design team co-ordination required

n n

Design team co-ordination Archaelogical survey completed Further investigation required

n n

Condition survey completed

n n

Measured building survey completed

Further investigations completed

Mitigation Strategy

Risk: Probability x impact to highlight areas of biggest risk

n

Trend n

Scale for impacts: 3: Will add significantly to project cost/time 2: Will add moderately to project cost/time 1: Will probably add to project cost/time

Process

Scale for probability: 3: High probability that event will happen 2: Medium probability that event will happen 1: Low probability that event will happen Trend: Signifies whether risk is increasing (h) static (n) or decreasing (g)

SURVEYS

BU: Building User AC: Anonymous Client UAF: Unnamed Architects’ Firm SEC: Structural Engineering Co. SEF: Services Engineering Firm CCF: Cost Consultancy Firm EH: English Heritage DT: Design Team


he felt, become a burden: ‘I think what the danger is that it tends to become a very large bureaucracy which is set up for dealing with issues which, arguably, come down to using common sense’. Other respondents, however, felt that the process of ‘paper trailing’ is important as a means to demonstrate to clients, and other project partners, that decisions (and related responsibilities) have been resolved collectively. As one architect outlined: One of the stakeholders did something which I think was hugely beneficial, although I moaned about it at the time: they insisted that every page of every specification and every drawing that went into the contract was signed by everybody. So they had a whole morning signing some several hundred, possibly a thousand plus pieces of paper. Every single person signed every single page and it was bound and given to everyone. If you deliver that we’ll have no cause to come back to you.

This testimony illustrates that a key aim of the process was to avoid ‘individual blame’ should things go wrong, by taking steps to demonstrate shared accountability in relation to design decisions. Despite the process creating paperwork, the architect felt that it helped efficiency, by clarifying channels of communication and itemising roles and responsibilities of different actors. In a later job, when such a ‘paper trail’ was absent, he describes some confusion and misunderstanding about who was responsible for what parts of the process: So you go away and you start designing information, thinking it’s on the basis of those documents you’ve done earlier, and then you get into an almighty [mess], you upset people because they’re asking, ‘Why have you changed it?’ And we say, ‘We haven’t changed it.’ ‘Yes you have.’ ‘No we haven’t.’ ‘Yes you have.’ ‘No we haven’t.’

Another respondent outlined the use of what he called a ‘memorandum of understanding’ as an important instrument in establishing communication between project team members: ‘Well, it comes down to the risk again. A memorandum of understanding, you know, I’m not a legal fellow but it’s something . . . going to sort of dictate the way people behave with each other.’ For this respondent, the practice of using a simple device, like a memorandum, was important in working with consultants, when lines of communication between different members of the team were often unclear:

188

But at the moment the contract for employment of services is between me and the team of consultants, even though they should, which is when we hand it over and the responsibility for the employment of the consultants becomes the contractor’s. So fundamentally the link between, the contractual link between me and the consultants is broken and they are with them, so they’re their bosses then.


He felt such practices were a reflection of positive developments within the industry: ‘I think the industry has got smarter over the years, and I don’t think you can beat actually fairly and calmly setting out your conditions’. These examples illustrate, in part, Flyvbjerg et al.’s (2003) observation, that successful risk management depends upon transparency in decision-making. This requires not only the supply of ‘better and more rational information’, but also accountability in relation to risks that can be measured through a series of ‘checks and balances’ (Flyvbjerg et al., 2003: 7; also, see Dean, 1999, 2007). There was evidence that demonstrating accountability was an important practice for architects and other project professionals. As one respondent recalled, this often involved going beyond complying with the legislative standards: ‘There’s so many documents, quality plans . . . it’s not legislation you have to comply with but . . . you need to demonstrate that you’re achieving a certain level within the industry’. This corresponds with observations by O’Malley (2004), Power (2004), and others, that internal, regulatory, control has a ‘managerial and conceptual life of its own as a benchmark of good governance’ (Power, 2007: 47). While part of the process is about ‘collective responsibility’ towards risk, it is also about seeking to manage, and regulate for, individuals’ risky behaviour (Dean, 1999, O’Malley, 2004). In this respect, the individualisation of the responsibility for risk management, and by extension, the threat of legal action against individuals, is paramount in the design and construction industry (Bentley, 1999, Sarfatti-Larson, 1993). One respondent sees architects as ‘an easy target’ or, as he said, ‘increasingly . . . we still carry design liability, and everybody tries to put it onto us’. As one architect explained, the possibilities of litigation had changed behaviour: ‘You’ve always got to have it in the back of your mind, and I was always trained to actually confirm every discussion in writing . . . if I get a contract in from my client that is not a standard contract I get my insurers to review it and read it, because it’s better to be forewarned and forearmed than to have something thrown at you at a later date.’ The individualisation of risk (and its regulation) is also occurring through the adoption of ‘risk-sharing behaviour’, more commonly known as ‘risk spreading’ whereby risk is ‘allocated’ to different members of a project team. As one participant commented, ‘contractors no longer take responsibility for their workmanship – [they are] hiding behind regulation for guidelines’. Because of the litigious nature of the development process, one respondent felt that ‘sending the risk down the line’ to other project partners was appropriate. As he said, ‘from an architect’s point of view . . . we can pass on design risk to subcontractors and that, to me, is a good thing’. For others, however, it is a perpetuation of unequal power relations between different actors in the development process, more akin to risk displacement and blaming than risk sharing (O’Malley, 2004, Miller et al., 2008, Spira and Page, 2003). One

189


architect articulated a commonly held view: ‘to me it’s sort of lazy, it’s just, it’s somebody else’s fault, blame them, sue them, let the insurance cover it’.

6.4 Conclusions Risk and regulation are entwined or, to echo Morgan and Engwall (1999: 2), ‘the risk society is a regulatory society’. This observation is particularly relevant to architecture given the embedding of risk and regulation into the social and organisational relations of urban design, characterised by exposure to health and safety risks, and risks relating to the physical form and performance of buildings. The findings in the chapter suggest that there is more regulation of activities relating to design and construction than five years ago, and an onus on architects to identify, and mitigate, different forms of risk in the design process. This is primarily a result of external stimuli stemming from legal regulation, non-statutory building standards, and market-based processes in which dispersed systems of project development and delivery are prone to potential failure and threat (or risk) of litigation. One outcome is heightened awareness, by professionals, of building activity as ‘risky’, and the design process as fraught with ‘risky situations’ that require regulation and risk management as part of a process for successful project development and delivery. As much is suggested by architects who, in this chapter, reveal the increasing significance of risk and its regulation as part of their practices, with much more resource being put into, and time expended on, the development and design of systems to manage risky situations. Such systems include the development of internal mechanisms of (risk) control, that revolve around what Power (2007: 194) and others refer to as ‘the moral economy of risk governance’. In dispersed organisational settings, characterised by dense networks and overlapping roles and responsibilities, there is an onus on architectural practices to set up processes to demonstrate their worth as ‘good organisations’. The identification and mitigation of risky objects is core to this process of what is not only ‘self validation’, but the attempt by architects to secure reputation in contexts whereby loss of standing and repute is perceived to be a significant threat. A discourse of risk (and its) regulation therefore becomes part of the ways that architects increasingly articulate what their work is, and how creative practice and outcomes may be shaped. The influence of risk considerations on the content and form of the design process is, however, an underemphasised, and largely unexplored, part of studies of architecture. Beyond anecdote or partial insight, there is little knowledge about precisely how risk issues


interconnect with the actions of design and construction professionals, including architects, and what the outcomes for urban form are. Thus, an important task is the development of urban design theory that acknowledges, and seeks to understand, how the creative design process is interconnected with the prosaic and pragmatic processes of the governance and regulation of risk relating to building form and performance. This can be accomplished, in part, by the development of a stronger dialogue between academic research that focuses, primarily, on architecture as craft and creative practice, that is, a product of individual and collective creativity and endeavour, and those that seek to understand such practices as part of a socio-political economy of urban design. Interchanges between different epistemic positions, or modes of understanding urban design, can contribute to a broadening of research agendas. Foremost, there is a need to understand more about how issues of risk (and its regulation) are embedded into the professional identities, positionalities, and practices of architects. Risk not only relates to material issues of building safety, but is part of the social language of architecture. How is risk articulated by architects, particularly in relation to the ways that they see themselves (as professionals, as creative practitioners)? How far is the governance and management of risk in architecture likely to change what architects do, or what may be required of them in increasingly dispersed project networks? How far, and in what ways, are their subject positions, or subjectivities, likely to be challenged and changed by the emergent risk environments? Are architects’ actions necessarily risk averse, as suggested by some of the findings in this chapter, or is there much more variation in the ways in which they perceive and respond to risky contexts, and with what outcomes for building form? The rise of risk and regulatory issues in architecture is also concurrent with similar developments in other areas of design practice. This includes the growth of codification in urban design and planning, and the internal procedures of design consultancies (including graphics, visual communication, interior design, and product design) that have been increasingly systematised to minimise risk.2 This omnipresence of risk, and its regulation, is not well documented and there is value in knowing how the specificity of risk issues related to architectural practice compares to the experiences in other creative industries. Cross-comparative studies also ought to be aligned with much more in-depth investigation of the heternonomy of design (Sarfatti-Larson, 1993). Here, the focus should be the study of the micro relations of project teams, because it is in and through the intricate interrelationships of project actors and agents that the interdependences between risk and creative practice are most likely to be revealed.

191

Case Study C Regulating the Design Process: a Risky Business?

The original focus of our work was to study the building regulations and their interrelationships with architects’ actions and impacts on the design quality and performance of buildings. It had never been the intention to talk with architects, and other development professionals, about the specificities of project risk, but it became part of our conversations when, time and again, it was raised as one of the most important issues in influencing the attitudes and behaviour of actors towards the design process. When asked how to define the term ‘regulation’, respondents, not surprisingly, related it to planning and building control. It was just as common, however, to associate regulation with risk, and how risky issues impose a way of thinking, working, and operating in relation to the design and development of buildings. This has its roots in the health and safety aspects of building, and, as one respondent said, ‘the main concern has to be ensuring that the building is safe to use’. As indicated in the main part of chapter 6, there was much disquiet among architects with the demands being placed on them to respond to a host of risk directives emanating from both government and project partners. A recurrent issue is the limits placed on the scope of what architects

This risk-averse attitude to design, again, wouldn’t produce the beautiful places that we really enjoy. The edge of docks, you know, that lovely relationship between water and the quayside, well, we’ve been forced, by the Environment Agency, in case somebody gets wet with a wave, to put . . . 1400 high barriers the whole way round Royal William yard in Plymouth. Well, it’s absolutely bonkers, it completely wrecks the feel of the place.

The understanding of respondents is that by following national guidelines, such as those of the EA, they will provide some protection from legal action in the event of a building failure. However, there was disquiet with such guidelines, in relation to what was perceived to be their negative impact on design quality. One architect outlined widely held feelings:

Regulating the Design Process: a Risky Business?

can design by what are seen, by some, as over-zealous government directives about risk and the built environment. One architect outlined what he sees as the disproportionate response of the UK Environment Agency (EA) in seeking to minimise flood risks to buildings. As he recalled:

If we follow the national building specification and we follow recommended details of . . . we’re pretty damn safe, but it doesn’t necessarily respond well to local conditions or look right, you know, especially aesthetically, or encourage imagination. There has been a tendency by government, well-meaning government . . . to economise on affordable housing and things like that, to produce standard details for housing associations right across the country. Now that is, that is much worse than planning codes.

Such views are to the fore with new directives relating to risk, terror threats, and the design of the built environment. The insertion of anti-terrorist measures into the built environment is one of the most visible ways that risk-reduction measures are implicated in the work of architects. Following the September 11th 2001 terrorist attack in the USA, governments across the world have sought to increase anti-terrorism measures, particularly in global cities such as New York and London. In 2007, the UK government commissioned a review of how to protect crowded places from terrorist attack, and identified the need to design counter-terrorism measures into new buildings as a way to ‘incorporate unobtrusive security measures that blend well with the local environment’ (Home Office and CLG, 2009: 1). In part, this was a response to widespread criticism of the addition of temporary barriers and bollards, such as those at the US Embassy in London and the Palace of Westminster (Figures C.1 and C.2). The early engagement of a design professional is seen as key in the development of safe, secure places. Speaking at the ‘Places versus Fortresses’ conference in 2009, the then security minister, Adam West, said: ‘I’d like 193

The Practices of Regulation Figure C.1 Embassy of the United States in London, Grosvenor Square. The roadblocks put in place at the Grosvenor Square site, following the 2001 terrorist attack, have been the source of a long battle between the Embassy and local residents. The latter have argued that the measures put their properties at increased risk of attack, and were ugly additions to the built environment (Philp, 2010).

architects to talk to our experts [and] always bear [counterterrorism] in mind when designing a building. I’d like to think they are receptive’ (quoted in Lazell, 2009). The RIBA’s response to this has raised concerns about levels of training amongst local planning officers, and a feeling that there is a disproportionate emphasis on the risk of vehicle bombs (Bloomfield, 2009). In the RIBA’s own (2010) guidance on counter-terrorism the president, Ruth Reed, warns, ‘If design retreats to a bunker mentality and colludes in the restriction or exclusion of the general public from many public buildings, or the creation of a sense of unease in crowded places, there will be a greater sense of alienation from all corners of society’ (RIBA 2010: 2). These views reflect a wider sense of unease, amongst architects, about the demands that risk-reduction measures, such as counter-terrorism initiatives, place upon designers (see the main part of chapter 6). With a new National Security Strategy currently being developed by the UK coalition government, it remains to be seen how great an emphasis their anti-terrorism policy will place upon architecture and urban form, although it seems likely to remain a key focus of activity in seeking to create safe, secure, and liveable places. While many respondents recognise the value of risk minimisation in relation to terror threats, and do not oppose the underlying sentiments of 194

Regulating the Design Process: a Risky Business? Figure C.2 Security measures and the diminution of aesthetic quality? A reaction to the perception that security aesthetics may detract from building quality is a shift towards unobtrusive measures as highlighted in this photograph. Marian Hawkesworth (personal communication) describes this in the following terms: ‘the emerging emphasis of government policy is to make security features in our cities invisible, or unobtrusive, rather than highly visible, through the use of softer design features, such as the use of trees for defensive cordons, large flower planters, sculptures and streetscape solutions’. Photo credit: Marian Hawkesworth.

safety and security directives, most feel that contemporary ‘risk culture’ is indicative of an over protective society, in which the professional no longer has the trust of government or the public. As one respondent said, ‘you feel your integrity is at stake, always having to prove what you do’, a reference to the fact that the job is subject, increasingly, to surveillance, including close monitoring, through audit, of the minutiae of day-to-day tasks. For another, the main problem that architects face relates to dealing with societal attitudes towards behaviour and risk that are intolerant of anything that might be deemed a threat to personal safety, no matter how small or implausible the risks may be. One respondent described a project he had been involved in that appeared to take the definition of risk to extremes: I suppose the most obvious situation relates to say flat roof design, where what we’ve been used to doing is if you design a flat roof or even if you design a gently sloping roof, then the roof is assumed to be out of bounds, except where you actually physically prescribe an access route. We’ve had a job fairly recently, which was a library which we built, which had a flat roof, where the mechanical plant was in a designated area, was all 195


surrounded by railings with defined walkways to it, and the health and safety executive decided that because somebody unlawfully could actually get over these railings, could then walk to the edge of the roof and could possibly then throw themselves off, that the entire perimeter of the roof should be protected. Now that’s the sort of thing, and I mean I’ve got lots of friends in the business who are having a very similar kind of debate with the health and safety executive about those sorts of issues, and there’s a point at which you . . . you just think there’s a certain degree of madness. I mean it’s a bit like somebody suddenly deciding that when you stand on the edge of a platform on the underground that the platform needs to be guarded the whole way along, as you now do on the Jubilee Line for example. So does that then suddenly make all the other underground stations unsafe?

A characteristic of the risk culture, for some respondents, appears to be about ‘buck passing’ and deflecting responsibilities for actions and outcomes. One respondent provided an example of how they pass risk ‘along the line’: ‘. . . before the job goes out to tender the planning supervisor gets all the designers to do risk assessments, which highlight potentially dangerous things so that they can possibly be designed out, but also so that they say to the builder, “when you build this building there are certain risks that we draw your attention to”.’ While this seems reasonable, some feel that this places liability on those not necessarily able to control individuals’ behaviour, or anticipate, and deal with, all possible ‘risk scenarios’. As one person argued: ‘if at the end of the day some idiot drives a dumper-truck down a hole, even if it’s hoarded off and signed, he’s an idiot, and that’s what often happens, it’s an idiot doing something’. He amplified by suggesting that it is more or less impossible to ‘risk assess’ such situations, and that the requirement to do so comes from those that do not appreciate the job that design and development professionals are doing. As he outlined: . . . and then the builder would have lots of documentation to show “thou shalt not drive dumper-trucks down holes” and “thou shalt put adequate warning signs around”, which they would have done, but at the end of the day the poor bloke’s dead. So, and I think a lot of this bureaucracy comes from people sitting in Whitehall or wherever it is, and they’re not doing the job that I do and the builders do and the building inspectors do and the people who are really doing it.

Many respondents also feel that changes in the nature of procurement, particularly towards the use of design and build, displaces risk along the chain of actors, and creates much more ‘risk exposure’ (also see the main part of chapter 6). As one architect said, ‘It’s from on high, “Thou shalt procure buildings.” The estates department, “You shall procure buildings 196

Regulating the Design Process: a Risky Business?

through design and build because it gives us more guarantee of the end date.” Well, it’s risk averse. That’s exactly what they want it to be, risk averse.’ Another outlined the typical situation they now faced in relation to dealing with clients: ‘They [the clients] like that risk to be borne by the contractor and then the designers. They did procure previously on traditional [contracts] and it hurt them, for whatever the reason, and they’ve not opened their minds up to going back.’ The design-and-build procurement route is part of a broader shift towards risk management, and this is creating a new set of (risk amelioration) tasks and tools, including a different disposition or mindset towards work. As one of our respondents said, ‘It’s as though it’s about the process, spending more time on ensuring that we’re not liable for anything.’ For another, this translated into ‘a risk workshop . . . you sit down and think, what could possibly go wrong? What should we do about it? You talk about asbestos and that sort of thing . . .’ Risk amelioration becomes more or less an end in itself, and was described by some respondents as akin to a ‘deficit position’ or one whereby the work of architects is absorbed less by design and more by the proliferation of paperwork and the tendency, by those with responsibilities for risk assessment, to try to cover all possible scenarios relating to risky events. The result is, as one respondent suggested, much less emphasis on ‘common sense’ and an onus on audit and checks and controls. As he suggested, ‘. . . all this [is] to do with health and safety, which is, you know, I’m not for a moment saying it’s silly. But . . .’ Others highlighted the time and effort expended on risk assessment that, they felt, was necessary to show that they were competent and reliable. As one architect said, ‘if, in fact, something happens that you didn’t think of, at least you can say, “Well, we did something with the best intentions at the time.”’ He noted that all aspects of potential risk had to be covered for fear of litigious action: ‘But if you’ve done no designers’ risk assessments and somebody falls off the top of the building then they’ll say, “Well, you didn’t do a designers’ risk assessment, you’re useless, we’re suing you”’. Some see such threats as part of the escalation of the risk society and its extended reach into all spheres of life. One architect outlined how, over the years, the requirements relating to risk had changed from dealing with big and obvious issues to those that seem trivial. As he said: ‘There’s a high voltage cable across the site, there’s a big sewer, whatever it might be, there’s a railway line next door. And the idea of it was there’s just a few particularly dangerous issues relating to that job would be highlighted. What, of course, has happened is you get inches of paper, about laying blocks, about adhesives for floors, because everybody’s just covering their arse and they’re not seeing the wood for the trees.’ Similar reactions were conveyed by others, with another architect noting that: ‘so when someone’s done a risk

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assessment, they have decided that . . . any ceiling that’s over, let’s say two and a half metres, we can’t change off a ladder, we require a scaffold platform, because it’s a more stable base.’ The presence of risk and its regulation reflects a design and construction culture in which trust is weakly developed and even absent. The proliferation of risk-related activity is symptomatic of a sector that is not working well, and its operations are contrary to what John Egan (1998) called for in relation to constructive change in the design and development professions. A diminution in risk-related activities requires, in part, a transformation in the social and organisational relations of design and construction that include, we would argue, possession of, and access to, much more information held by different parties within project teams, as part of a process to encourage mutual sharing, and a breakdown of adversarial and ‘selfinterested’ operations. It is our contention that the actions of architects, and other professionals, cannot advance beyond the risk culture if some of the structural inequalities within the design and development process persist.

Part III The Scope of Regulation


Chapter Seven The Role of Project Actors in Influencing Design

Contingency insures that no architect is able to determine a design free from the relationship with the ‘other’ – the client, staff, and other factors relevant to the design process. All architects face this other. Architecture is thus a form of communication with the other, who, by definition, does not follow the same set of rules. (Karatani, 1995: xxxix)

7.1 Introduction In recent years, there have been a series of changes in the design and construction industry that have impacted upon the professional standing of architects (Hiley and Khadzir, 1999; RIBA, 1999, 2000, 2005; AIA, 2007). As Spence (2001) identifies, these have been wide-ranging, and include new legislation and government standards relating to design and building work, changes in working practices, and the emergence of hybridised organisational formations. Previous chapters have noted that the design and construction industry has been subject to an expanding regulatory regime that places the onus on architects and other design professionals to reduce exposure to risk through adherence to a series of industry-specific standards such as the CDM and building regulations (also see chapters 3 and 6). One consequence of this growing field of standards, regulations and codes, has been the emergence of larger and more complex project teams. Architects are increasingly working in partnership with professionals such as project managers and specialist engineering consultants, many of whom have come to the fore to manage the complexities of regulatory requirements. For Dent and Whitehead (2002), this is part of a broader series of changes to the status of traditional professional occupations such as lawyers, doctors, and architects. Such professions have been destabilised in recent years as part of the rise of what Dent and Whitehead Architectural Design and Regulation. Rob Imrie and Emma Street. © 2011 Rob Imrie and Emma Street. Published 2011 by Blackwell Publishing Ltd. ISBN: 978-1-405-17966-9

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(2002) term the ‘new professional’ (also see Abbott, 1988, Bauman, 2001, Clarke and Newman, 1997, Hetherington and Munro, 1997). The new professionalism thesis holds that the coherence of distinct professional groupings, job demarcations, and functions are breaking down as new identity formations and roles emerge (also see Bauman, 2001). The notion of the autonomous, privileged, and specialised professional has been subject to scrutiny in a context of managerial and organisational changes that increasingly call for the adaptive and ‘flexible, reflective practitioner’ (Dent and Whitehead, 2002: 3). In addition to what some see as an ‘ideological attack’ on professionals’ expertise, there has also been a concomitant loss of confidence amongst professionals in their claims to (their) extraordinary knowledge (Sch€ on, 1991). This loss of confidence, in the architectural profession, reflects the feeling that the actions of architects are increasingly subject to the disciplines and mentalities of a diversity of actors operating in ways that place limits on them. The complexity of construction, and the requirement for specialised and technical knowledge and labour, is part of the impetus for the emergence of (new) professionals into the design process. Coupled with the convergence of design and construction, and the client’s emphasis on time economy, throughput, and outputs, the parameters of the process are increasingly towards the minimisation of ‘pure design’ in project work. The AIA (2007: 1) has observed that ‘clients see the separation of design and construction as inefficient’, and, as a consequence, are using ‘non-professionals’ to define ‘projects from feasibility through design and into operations’. Likewise, the RIBA (2000, 2005: 11) has noted the emergence of many more actors in the design and development process, with some newly emergent professionals, such as project managers, taking over functions previously the preserve of architects. While the supplanting of architects by other professional groups is not a new phenomenon, it is suggested, by some, that the trend is intensifying (RIBA, 2005). For the RIBA (2005) and the AIA (2007), the status and autonomy of the architectural profession is under threat, by its failure to keep up with changes in design and building, including a widening gulf in values between architects and other project professionals. The gulf reflects a perennial tension for architects, of how far to pursue architecture and creativity over building and craft, reflected in what the RIBA (2005: 11) observes as the ‘norms or culture of the profession . . . increasingly at odds with the modern construction industry’. Here, the RIBA (2005) hints at architects’ culpability in their estrangement from the design and development process, in suggesting that they operate from an introverted perspective, driven by their own achievements and peer group recognition and, as a consequence,

The Role of Project Actors in Influencing Design

are rarely perceived by others in the construction industry to be team players. Such claims are not unique to the architectural profession, although Faulconbridge and Muzio (2008: 9) suggest that there is little research that addresses the ways that professionals ‘may be able to absorb, adapt and reconcile new methods, practices and vocabularies drawn from the world of management and business with traditional notions of professional autonomy, discretion and independence’. This chapter seeks to explore this relationship by discussing how far, and in what ways, the actions of architects are subject to, and influenced by, the values, mentalities, and dispositions of other project professionals. We seek to develop the understanding that architects’ interrelationships with other professionals are, in and of themselves, constitutive of a form of regulatory influence over design outcomes. In interviews, architects defined the values and actions of other professionals as part of the ‘regulatory field’ or matter influencing the scope of what they could do. This ranged from the client’s cost plan, delimiting the range of spend, to the observations of, and interactions with, structural engineers in defining the scale and performance of a building’s structure. This extends the understanding of regulation beyond legal or statederived rules and procedures, to focus attention on intra- and interorganisational relations, and the diverse roles of actors, their values, views, and practices, in a building’s design and development. Opinions vary about how such roles are impacting on architects. Some commentators, such as Ventre (1997: 17), regard non-architectural actors as dominant in establishing ‘the rule structures and modes of discourse with which design is done’. Others, however, note that the actions of architects are not necessarily determined, in and of themselves, by external constraint or the discourses of non-architectural actors. In Foucault’s (1979) terms, architects are not passive actors or psychological dopes without the productive power to influence design outcomes. Rather, we suggest that their actions are part of the complexity of the organisational field of design, characterised by relational processes within which meanings, actions, and outcomes, are negotiated between professionals. In developing such ideas, we divide the chapter into four. First, we outline some of the key changes to the roles of architects since the 19th century, and their influences on the status of the architectural profession (also see Powell, 1996). The discussion shows that much of the period sought to reinforce the Palladian ideal of the autonomous architect and the distinction between architecture and building. Second, drawing upon the concept of the new professionalism, we describe the key contemporary changes in the UK design and construction industry, with a focus on how these are influencing the stature

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The Scope of Regulation

of architects. There is much equivocation in the literature about what the changes imply. For some, such as Woudhuysen et al., (2004: 7), the changes have rendered architects ‘irrelevant visionaries’ (also see Ventre, 1997). For others, such as the RIBA (2005), new opportunities have emerged, and the challenge is for architects to engage more fully within the field of design and development, and to adapt to the emerging realities of the profession. Third, referring to survey, interview, and observational data we provide examples of how architects’ actions are entwined with, and influenced by, the disciplines of other project actors. We focus discussion on two themes. The first is the disciplining of architects’ actions by the ‘pragmatics of practice’, that is, processes such as value engineering that form a central part of meeting the budgetary and time restrictions that dominate project-based work in the modern construction industry, along with the regulatory standards and changing procurement routes that have impacted upon architectural practices and, subsequently, the professional status of the architect. The second theme discusses the significance of professionals’ interactions in project teams, and how far architects perceive other actors to be imposing their values and attitudes, and diluting – even compromising – elements of the aesthetic process. This issue, according to Macmillan et al. (2001), is likely to become more prominent as interdisciplinary design continues to be pushed by both industry insiders and government keen to drive up efficiency and quality in the industry. We conclude by noting that it may be helpful to conceptualise the actions of architects as part of a relational process, in which design is (co-)produced through interactions between a diversity of design professionals, as well as interactions with statutory and non-statutory regulations and codes. This, we argue, is part of ‘the regulatory field’, whereby architects’ practices, far from being external to, or distinct from, the influence of other professionals and industry regulations, can be understood as contingent on, and shaped by, interactions with the diversity of project actors. This understanding reflects Offe’s (1984) observation that the complexity of institutional interactions and interdependencies, that make up social and political life, means that no single actor of professional can be considered dominant or determinate in the (re)production of societal forms and processes.

7.2 Redefining roles in the UK design and construction industry According to Lowe (2009: 776), at the beginning of the 19th century the building industry was one whereby a ‘project was procured as a series 204


of trades contractors covering traditional trades such as masonry, carpentry, plumbing and plastering’. Responsibilities were fluid and overlapping, with much flexibility in how architects and craftsmen interacted with each other, characterised by the interchanging of tasks and work roles (Powell, 1996). The usual procurement route was known as ‘measure and value’, and involved advancing payment to a master builder. However, difficulties associated with measuring the value of completed work frequently led to disputes. As a result, competitive tendering, whereby builders competed with each other on the basis of cost, began to emerge after the Napoleonic wars of the early 1800s, and by the mid part of the 19th century the majority of building works were conducted under formalised contracts. The role of the architect changed dramatically during the 19th century, and new procurement routes necessitated greater cost certainty and the production of more detailed design drawings. Whereas previously the architect had been involved in both the design and construction of buildings in a ‘master builder’ role, this period saw a concerted attempt to form a distinct, design-led, profession.1 Architects began to limit their activities to the earlier design stages, while building production became the mainstay of more specialised contractors (Davis, 2008).The RIBA was established in 1834 with the aim of enhancing the standing of the profession by seeking to sever links with craft trades.2 This reflected the (re)assertion of the Palladian ideal of the architect as separate from the making and crafting of things. The RIBA’s early membership consisted largely of leading architects, later joined by the mass of the profession towards the end of the century (Powell, 1996). By 1901 there were over 10,000 registered architects, compared to 3000 in 1851, although the professional status of the ‘architect’, over this period, was yet to be safeguarded. As Micklethwaite (1874: 236) recounts: ‘Any man worth a brass plate and a door to put it on may dub himself an architect, and a very large number of surveyors, auctioneers, house-agents, upholsterers . . . with a sprinkling of bankrupt builders and retired clerks of works, find it in their interest to do so.’ While the RIBA made efforts to discourage the builder–architect practitioner, the architecture profession, as distinct from other construction workers, remained in its infancy. In a speech in 1910, the RIBA president, Ernest George (1910), made a plea for the commissioning of professional architects: the mass [of building in this country] . . . knows no architect and is subject to no laws. In the future we trust that the speculating builder, and the hard-headed lawyer who finds him the money, will realise the advantage of the architect’s help to improve his plan, to give pleasant proportion to his

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building, and a semblance to some recognised style, while saving him his present outlay on lavish and misplaced ornament.

The construction industry boomed during the inter-war period, and by the 1930s it was estimated that architects were designing one half of all building work (Powell, 1996). The professionalisation of architecture gathered pace, and between 1910 and 1940, RIBA membership increased four-fold. A draft Parliamentary Bill, requiring the registration of all practising architects with the RIBA, was introduced in 1927 (Kaye, 1960). It was designed to protect the public from unqualified practitioners, and made the employment of professional architects by municipal and other public bodies in their building schemes compulsory. It also mandated the supervision of architectural education reflecting the belief that ‘beautiful architecture was produced only by educated people’ (Kaye, 1960: 152). Such pronouncements led critics to suggest that the Bill was an attempt to ‘close’ the profession, by making it difficult for working-class children to become architects. After modifications to the Bill ensured that no one professional body could oversee the registration process, the Architects Registration Act was passed in 1931. For Powell (1996: 121), the Act marked ‘the end of old-style and loosely defined architects with strong links to the industry and property development’. The measures taken to professionalise architecture, and the increased size and scope of building projects, placed new responsibilities and demands upon practitioners. These included meeting the requirements of new governmental legislation relating to building standards, and the challenges of working with newly emerging technologies and materials (Powell, 1996). One of the major challenges was developing the knowledge and functional skills to understand, and work with, the rapidly changing content of the technological field, including acquiring the practical know-how to communicate with the diverse specialists serving it. Doubts about the profession’s ability to respond to such developments began to emerge (Bowley, 1966, Davis, 2008, Woudhuysen et al., 2004). As Bowley (1966: 78, in Powell, 1996: 122) suggests, architecture at this time was dominated by a ‘climate of narrow conservatism . . . due in part to a lack of incentive for innovation’, comments that resonate with the RIBA’s (2005) concerns about the contemporary profession. The number of private architectural practices grew slowly during the post-war years. While the proportion of self-employed architects began to fall, high levels of public sector construction saw the number of architects employed by local authorities increase rapidly. An increase in the scientific and technical basis of construction in this period yet again brought architects’ technical abilities into question, with some

The difficulty which faces designers nowadays is that the knowledge required to design a modern building or structure is far too extensive to be mastered by one mind. This is so because of the enormous technical progress [of] the past 100 years, and because, as a result, design has become much more important [and] complicated . . . Therefore the design cannot be created without intimate knowledge not only of the exact functional requirement . . . but also of all the modern structural techniques and labour-saving devices, including production engineering . . . The answer can only be found by the collaboration of specialists. There is, however, a great danger in this. ‘Design by committee’ is not practicable . . . It must be largely intuitive, and that means it must take place in one brain with access to all the expert knowledge and advice and with authority to make the final decision. The first step is to choose an architect or engineer to be in charge of the design, [but this is] like choosing a doctor in an unknown town; he might kill or cure. To obtain the right design is the important thing, because that is the same as serving the client’s true interest. That is exactly the duty of the two professions.


builders suggesting that an industry-wide lack of progress was in large part due to the ‘inefficiency and folly’ of architects (Powell, 1996: 172). The engineer, Ove Arup (1960), described the challenges facing designers at this time of rapid change thus:

Arup’s statement highlights a much-discussed issue within the construction professions: the need to balance creative design freedoms with adequate technical knowledge and competence. This tension is exemplified by the perceived, often separate, expertises of the architectural and engineering professions. However, as Davis (2008: 278–9) highlights, while ‘conventional wisdom sees architecture as an artistic pursuit, and engineering as a mathematical/technical one . . . in practice the normative practice of architecture and engineering are more similar than different’. Others disagree, and Kroes et al. (2008: 5) suggest that engineers and architects operate in distinctive ways (also see Guy and Shove, 2000). They are part of different epistemic communities characterised by contrasting values and attitudes toward what can be known or designed. Such epistemic differences are, as Kroes et al. (2008: 5) suggest, characterised by architects thinking in expansive terms, ‘beyond the everyday’, in contrast to engineers thinking of design issues in relation ‘to the narrowest empirical criteria’. Industrialisation, and the new materials and technological processes accompanying it, deepened the (perceived) schism between architects’ technical and artistic functions (Davis, 2008). Capitalist economics were seen to be complicit in this process: ‘By converting skilled craftsmen into wage labourers, capital could more directly influence the process’ (Davis, 2008: 279). This tendency was heightened during the 1980s, 207


a period that brought a series of economic and political transformations that had a significant impact upon the British construction industry. Kelly and Male (1993: 4–5) summarise these as: a government committed to the ideology of neo-liberalism; a macro-economic climate that has been characterised by a series of ‘booms’ and ‘busts’; the introduction of competitive fee bidding for construction consultants’ services; the emergence of more diverse procurement routes for projects; more demanding and knowledgeable clients; the emergence of the European market; a redefinition of roles in the industry; and a move towards single-point responsibility and management of the total construction process. Clients’ expectations of the industry also began to shift, reflecting the growth in speculative, market-led development (Powell, 1996). Projects were expected to be delivered in ever-tighter timescales, and the practice of ‘de-risking’ projects to try to limit unanticipated delays became commonplace. Despite these changes, the industry retained a reputation for inefficiency and cost overruns, and was considered by some to be fragmented, characterised by (continuing) differences, and divisions, between design and construction. Poor communication and confusion prevailed as roles and responsibilities within the industry were renegotiated. This had particular significance for architects, who, as Kelly and Male (1993) suggest, were losing their status as managers of design teams. Large construction companies became more involved in the wider design and development process and ‘moved increasingly towards offering services directly for the client . . . using their management skills to manage the process’ (Kelly and Male, 1993: 5). Lead contractors began overseeing the entire design and construction process, with others assuming a more marginal, subcontractor, role in specialised areas, such as engineering installations (Lowe, 2009). As the protection of developers’ profit margins and expanding property portfolios became core industry concerns, a new level of management was created to coordinate and control increasingly large and complex projects (Powell, 1996). The role of the project manager emerged, aiming to improve interdisciplinary communication and to facilitate a ‘project team culture by cultivating the values and beliefs and motivating project members to actively engage in realizing the project goals’ (Georg and Tryggestad, 2009: 970). However, as Powell (1996) notes, despite traditionally carrying out project coordination functions on behalf of clients, few architects moved into project management. Instead architects became increasingly sidelined by newcomers, such as quantity surveyors, with ‘greater management skills’ (Powell, 1996: 215). The regulatory sphere, as intimated in earlier chapters, continued to expand beyond traditional health and safety concerns, placing

7.3 Contemporary project teams and the rise of the new professional


demands, such as the CDM and energy efficiency targets, upon the industry. The increasing complexity of these standards required more specialised knowledge and skills, much of which was beyond the remit of architects (also see chapter 5). As the number of specialist consultants and other actors such as project managers grew, their influence over the design process became more pronounced. As Habraken (2005: 123) suggests, while the input from these professionals is not always immediately obvious, it is often significant since, ‘it frequently establishes dimensions, spans, storey heights, and other fundamental aspects of architectural character’. In this respect, the potential for new forms of social control of architects’ actions were being set in place, based on the incorporation of new disciplines and discourses about building form and performance.

Evolving and expanding project teams can be understood, in part, through the context of debates about the ‘new professional’ in which, as Dent and Whitehead (2002: 7) suggest, traditional discipline-specific professional identities are being challenged by a combination of workbased risk assessment, regulation, and managerial imperatives (also see chapter 6). These are, so it is alleged, part of the restructuring of work organisation, and the emergence of networks, that, for Dent and Whitehead (2002: 7) are indicative of a (growing) ‘culture of performativity’. This entails external accounting, audit, control, appraisal, and the monitoring and measurement of individuals that, in combination, have capacity to discipline professional groups and individuals into specific forms of practice and performance (Clarke and Newman, 1997, Dent and Whitehead, 2002). Performance is related to what Dent and Whitehead (2002: 9) refer to as a ‘scientific knowledge order’, where architects, like other professional groups, are subject to increased scrutiny over quantifiable outcomes such as budgets and regulatory compliance. As Faulconbridge and Muzio (2008: 9) suggest, this appears to be producing a melding of new and old professions, ‘hybrid forms of professional organization, where new and old inevitably co-penetrate each other’. Architects’ perilous position, within what Powell (1996: 212) describes as a ‘newly fluid division of labour’, has been exacerbated by the growing number of procurement options available to clients (Lowe, 2009). In recent years, the ‘design and build’ (D&B) contract, in which the contractor assumes overall control of a project’s design and construction process, has become predominant, replacing 209


traditional contracts in which architects assumed a more central role.3 Some architects have expressed concerns about what is perceived as the ceding of design control to contractors, arguing that D&B contracts compromise architectural quality, and one of the major means by which design is regulated. One of Britain’s prominent architects, Richard Rogers, threatened to boycott the 2012 Olympic Games in protest at the Olympic Delivery Authority’s use of D&B contracts, fearing they would result in poor-quality design (Dorrell, 2006). Long-held concerns about inefficiency and fragmentation within the UK design and construction industry remain a concern for both government and industry groups. ‘Constructing the Team’, a wide-ranging report by Michael Latham (1994), identified inefficiencies in procurement and project management that, he suggested, were responsible for both poor levels of productivity, and conflict and distrust amongst industry partners. ‘Rethinking Construction’, commissioned by the former British Deputy Prime Minister John Prescott four years later, highlighted similar problems, and called for a greater focus on the client, better team integration and a ‘quality driven agenda’ to drive up efficiency and standards in the industry (Egan, 1998). In 2003, the UK Government commissioned a review of the skills needed to deliver the Sustainable Communities Plan (ODPM, 2003) and which cast doubt on the construction industry’s ability to meet the ambitious housing targets contained within the Plan (ODPM, 2004).4 The Review proposed a series of reforms to address persistent problems including low and unreliable rates of profitability, under-investment in research and development, poor training and skills shortages, and high levels of client dissatisfaction. The RIBA (1999, 2000, 2005) undertook its own review of the architectural profession, and a series of reports noted that the position of architects within the modern design and development process is diminishing in its importance. This is characterised, so the RIBA (2005) allege, by a reduction in the professional autonomy of architects, and a diminution of their authority over other project actors, including reduced scope to influence different stages of the design process (RIBA, 1999, 2000). In his RIBA presidential speech, Paul Hyett (2002: 2) noted that ‘the context in which we work and changes to it are, I believe, a . . . serious cause for concern for engagement and success’. This message has, subsequently, been reinforced by others, with the RIBA (2005: 38) suggesting that the fragile state of the architectural profession, and its diminution in the design process, has, in part, been self inflicted, or an outcome of ‘having failed to capitalise on its core capability by not creating the range of skills needed to meet the demands of the modern construction industry’ (also see Gutman, 1988, Till, 2009).


Architects’ ability to adapt to these demands is premised, in part, upon the adoption of methods and techniques to discipline their actions. These include the use of the language, technologies and practices of performance measurement, in which the objective is continuous improvement in relation to cost, time, predictability, defects, accidents, productivity, and turnover/profits. To facilitate this, the RIBA (2000: 3) pronounced their support for the use of key performance indicators, noting that ‘benchmarking and performance measurement of architectural projects and practice is a rich area of development’. Performance measurement is one part of corporate construction practices and the mass customisation of building processes, in which what are termed value engineering and engineering design are centrepiece. This is indicative, so some argue, of a challenge to the professional core of architects’ practices, in which, as Sarfatti-Larson (1993) suggests, the future scenario could be a diminution in demand for aesthetic and creative inputs into the design and development process. Fischer and Guy (2009: 2578) argue that such pronouncements represent a defensive reaction to the changing professional environment whereby some architects have sought to (re-)emphasise their role as ‘guardians of aesthetic autonomy in the face of regulatory intervention’. For Davis (2008: 282), though, this attitude belies the complexity of the contemporary design team and provides further evidence that ‘the paradigm of the individual architect designing the individual building is outmoded’. Rather, architects are ‘dependent’ on others, and, as Fischer and Guy (2009) suggest, in the struggle to respond to the diffusion of project tasks, and the emergence of a plethora of actors involved in the process, architects appear to be refashioning their roles as the new ‘interpreters’ or ‘intermediaries’ (also see Till, 2009, Saint, 1983). This is similar to Salama’s (1998) argument that the future of the profession lies in architects adopting a ‘facilitator–interpreter’ role, or one whereby, as Blackshaw (2005: 70) suggests, ‘the interpreter recognises that the fusion between himself and the thing that he is surveying is everything’. The redefinition of roles, and the emergence of new facilitator responsibilities, reflects the shifting organisational landscape of the design and development process. These include the manifold ways in which the actions of architects are subject to influence, control, or regulation, by a plethora of actors, and the importance of seeking to manage the disparate parts of the process. For Habraken (2005: 123), the emergent regulatory realities, including the development of techniques to manage the design process, mean that ‘teaming within the discipline has become a norm of institutional practice’. Such norms remind architects of the significance of the ‘ordinary built field’, or the heteronomous nature of the design process, in which, as Habraken

211


(2005: 123) suggests, ‘many architects in practice never actually design an entire building by themselves’. What the evolving (professional) contexts necessitate is, as Habraken (2005: 123) suggests, ‘the profession to conceive of new ways of intervening and collaborating’, as one of the ways of maintaining the architect at the core of the design process. This points towards the need for a greater emphasis upon the timely and accurate exchange of information between project actors, as teams have become hybridised and complex. As Habraken (2005: 123) suggests, ‘coordination is the singular greatest challenge of many projects’. For Lloyd (2000), the importance of communication between design team actors underlines the social nature of design practice. In a study of engineering design practices, Lloyd (2000: 357) suggests that while engineering is characterised as a predominantly ‘technical, mechanical, even anti-social activity’, design ‘only really coheres as a social activity in a collective context’. Similarly, for Dong (2005: 447), ‘language (and the meaning of words) is a facilitator to bridge gaps of knowledge between what individual team members know and the larger body of experience held by the team’. The outcome of such exchanges, so Dong (2005: 447) claims, is that team members (together) ‘construct a socially held representation of the designed artefact’. Such insights signify the centrality of the collective interactions of actors in influencing the design process. Indeed, as Kroes et al. (2008: 4) suggest, the (persistent) idea that there is a single author of architectural products may seem ‘na€ıve’, since, ‘the client, let alone the many draftsmen, engineers, suppliers and contractors who contribute skill and knowledge to a project’s realization, also contribute to the design process’. Davis (2008: 282) takes this argument further, noting that, today, ‘the bulk of the environment is controlled by developers . . . and forces beyond the architect’s control’. While perhaps exaggerated, Davis’s (2008) statement does go some way to acknowledging that some elements of the design process are outside of architects’ direct control. However, by characterising these as externalised practices of control, Davis’s claim underplays the negotiated nature of the design process. It is clear, as our data suggest, that as core members of the design team, architects continue to play a critical role in the negotiation of design outcomes with other actors.

7.4 Responding to change: Architects’ experiences of a changing profession While there is recognition that a series of developments, such as increasingly hybridised project teams, and the growth in industry-specific 212


standards and codes, are (re)fashioning the architect’s role, there is limited knowledge of how this is impacting on, and regulating or influencing, the actions of architects. Drawing on our interviews with architects, our postal survey data, and notes written while observing design team meetings at two architectural practices, we explore architects’ attitudes and responses towards changes and challenges within architectural practice. We divide the discussion into two. First, we explore the impact of what we term the ‘pragmatics of practice’ upon architects’ activities. Such pragmatics (of practice) range from responding to value engineering, and to the demands of adhering to increasingly tight project timescales. We argue that these pressures are becoming ever more significant in the contemporary design process, and core to the regulation of the activities of the architect. Second, we discuss how far other project actors may be interceding in the work of architects, and with what implications for changing roles in the design process. In doing so, we develop the argument that professional responses to the changing context of architects’ working environs can be conceived as part of the wider regulatory process, which, we suggest, is a site of significant mediation and negotiation. The data show that exchanges between different actors, such as clients, letting agents, and planners, exert regulatory influences over architects’ practices and the eventual design outcome. For Fineman (1998: 953) such interactions are part of the ‘enactment of regulation’ whereby the architect, and other design professionals, becomes the ‘creator of the regulation-rules in practice’. While architects have, to varying degrees, long been subject to, and (co-)creator(s) of, such (regulatory) processes, we argue that the pragmatics of practice are becoming more demanding of architects’ attentions. We suggest that, as a result, these practices should be seen as something significantly refashioning and refocusing the detail of architects’ work. This sentiment is rarely acknowledged in architectural writings that, instead, are still prone to representing the architect as an autonomous artist. We argue that there is a pressing need to bring to the fore the negotiated and contingent nature of the design process.

a) Architects, autonomy and the pragmatics of design As the regulatory context becomes more complex, the onus is on design team members to ensure compliance, while protecting developers’ profit margins by adhering to increasingly tight build programmes and maintaining design integrity. Such demands are part and parcel of the management of risk, something that, as chapter 6 explored, is a significant focus of architects’ activities. Risk management and reduction includes a concern for what Miller and Lessard 213


(2001) term ‘completion risks’, such as the (unforeseen) difficulties that contractors may face in building the project, and the possibility that future income flows will not materialise. The assertion of control, by simplifying design practices as far as possible, is one professional response to the growing complexity of design practice. Thus, project dynamics increasingly revolve around achieving ‘cost certainty’ and reducing the risk of budget overruns for clients. Due to the risky nature of most design and construction projects, this is typically a complex and challenging exercise that spans from early design to construction stages and even after project completion. The mitigation and management of these ‘design pragmatics’, we argue, exerts a significant influence over project team members’ activities. Georg and Tryggestad (2009: 969) use the term ‘calculative devices’ to refer to project budgets and other non-human objects such as architectural drawings, which, they suggest, can have a ‘performative effect shaping roles in construction management’. Kroes et al.’s (2008: 8) use of the term ‘socio-technical systems’ is also helpful in shedding light on the processes underpinning design outcomes, and refers to the ‘amalgams of technological objects, agents, and social objects’ that characterise the contemporary design and building process. Georg and Tryggestad (2009: 971) suggest that ‘the ways in which project management unfolds is not just a matter of what the project managers, project members or other interested parties do’. Instead they argue, ‘it also depends on all the ‘things’ they are using, e.g. on the building materials, machines, budgets, drawings and other calculative devices’ (Georg and Tryggestad, 2009: 971) (also see the case study at the end of this chapter). This section considers the role of calculative devices such as project cost plans in design outcomes, with a particular focus on how they are mediating and (re-)fashioning the architect’s role. Value engineering (VE) or value management, a technique developed in the US manufacturing sector, has become an important part of the design process, and reflects the growing pressure on industry professionals to codify or quantify their activities wherever possible. Kelly and Male (1993: 4) define value engineering as, ‘a service which maximizes the functional value of a project by managing its development from concept to completion and commissioning through the audit (examination) of all decisions against a value system determined by the client’. While VE can take on a variety of different forms, it usually entails the scrutinising of design details for potential cost savings, a process commonly overseen by the client’s cost consultant or the project manager. At the heart of this process is the cost plan, usually in the form of a spreadsheet, which, as we observed, was an omnipresent part of design team meetings. The plan, we suggest, is a physical manifestation of the challenges that design team members face in


adhering to project budgets, and which had a significant regulatory effect upon project team activities and design outcomes. As one architect suggested, it is ‘design by calculator’, while another interviewee commented, ‘every job I’ve ever worked on has always come in over-budget . . . you’re always forced to make cuts somewhere and restrict what you’d initially planned to do.’ Often this involves scrutinising particular design packages, such as a building’s lighting scheme, and the selection of lower-cost fittings. Even if not physically present, we observed that the cost plan was shaping design outcomes through expectations that packages could be value engineered down. As one project building contractor explained, ‘we value engineer the job, [and] try and bring [cost] down . . . we value engineer the M&E design [by] changing specifications’. While some suggest that value engineering can reduce design quality, interviewees overseeing VE were keen to point out that cost cutting need not compromise what was referred to as the design vision or integrity (Brown et al., 2007). Indeed, for Barima (2010), the concept of ‘value’ is a complex construct, with the potential to assume a variety of meanings across project actors. As one project team member commented, changing the specifications of light fittings to a cheaper brand, ‘gives the same aspiration, maybe it’s a different . . . fitting, but you could change the . . . fitting and save the job forty or fifty grand’. Another team member described a similar process: The approach that we have taken is actually we do not want to compromise on the specification but we will take out things which [are] not necessary. For example, under-floor heating . . . it looks good . . . it’s [an] even heat distribution system, but the client can’t afford it according to [the budget], so we have to take that system out and replace it with radiators, good looking ones, something like that.

The team members we spoke to, including architects, were largely pragmatic about restrictions on cost and the impact this has upon design outcomes. This interchange recorded in a research diary illustrates the point: A team member comments, ‘you’re looking for buggeration on cost’. Another individual appears to have a similarly jaded outlook on the process commenting, ‘in a perfect world you’d wait for information and comments. You want to have your cake and eat it, you want it right first time’. One team member carries on the theme, ‘if we get to site and don’t get what we want we’ve got to stop it, we’re duty-bound by CDM [health and safety regulations]’. They both seem quite cynical about the process and I get the impression they have perhaps had problems with similar builds in the past. 215


The cost plan, as administered in this case by the project manager, also acts as a device through which the architect’s authority over the issuing of design drawings is called into question. In a research diary extract, below, we refer to the ‘demo incident’. This was an interchange between project team members about what drawing ought to have been given to a demolition contractor to ensure that they had absolute clarity about ‘what goes and what stays’. The structural engineering team had produced one drawing and the architect another, and while the architect felt both should have been issued, the project manager, citing cost constraints, attempted to assert ownership of the issue by claiming that only the engineers’ drawing should be used: The ‘demo incident’ seemed to be a real culture clash between the architect and the rest of the team, and particularly the project manager, who felt it opened up risks and was likely to lead to further issues down the line. The architect seems unhappy about being told what to do but asserts his authority at the end by saying that the two drawings are to go out – he seems to be able to dominate the team. However, the project manager makes the final statement by saying he disagrees with the architect’s decision. The architect feels that delivery will be jeopardised if they do not go his route but I am not sure why it would be jeopardised. Another team member agrees, saying that ‘it is daft to send out two drawings as the guy in the field will just want the one’. His view is that, ‘we’re already over budget on the project and this will just add to it – we’re well above the £12.5 million set aside for the project and the problem is we’re now asking for it with serious time pressures’. The project manager suggests a compromise where one looks at both drawings and highlights, in pen, the discrepancies.

Intense financial pressures characterised both of the projects we observed, and it became clear that, as a result, the project cost consultant and/or project manager was having a significant influence on design outcomes through their administration of the cost plan. This was particularly so in relation to design details such as finishes and materials, which were commonly subject to value engineering. However, despite this, individuals were often reluctant to identify themselves as ‘designers’. As one project manager explained in interview: Our appointment is limited and our professional indemnity insurance is limited as well, whereby we can’t carry out any design anyway; all we can do is comment on the design . . . we have no design input and we have no real influence over design. I mean we can, in terms of a cost, but even then . . . in reality what we’ll say is, ‘the cost plan has an allowance for £50 a square metre, effectively, you know, choose a product . . . ’ 216

So while I try not to get involved too much in the sort of creative process, by our very nature our advice impacts the creative process, so we have to be aware of the knock-on impacts, mitigate those impacts, and try to stay as true to the architect’s vision as possible.

Such statements resonate with Karatani’s (1995) assertion that a range of non-architects have a significant stake in, and influence over, the design process (also see the next section). As one contractor suggested, ‘we sit more like a designer, or part of the design team’. Interestingly, there were conflicting perceptions of how integral nonarchitects were in the production of building design, as illustrated in Figure 7.1. As a project manager commented, ‘although if you . . . speak to say our commercial director, he’ll say, “we don’t design. We don’t do any design.” Technically we don’t, but we do influence it quite heavily.’


We observed that it was not only those managing project budgets that influenced design outcomes. As a contractor explained: ‘We influence a lot. I mean . . . with, as an example, health and safety, if we specify something, a particular block, a particular weight, we are then, under health and safety law, we are then the designer . . . we do go in there and influence things.’ This building contractor spoke about his impact on the design of the building, but felt that this was something to be minimised in order to avoid the ‘dilution’ of the architects’ design vision:

10 Fenchurch Street is a 5400 m2 building in EC3, London. Designed by Sir Denys Lasdun, the building was completed in 1985. In 2006 the building was acquired for redevelopment and, following a design competition, John Robertson Architects were selected to oversee the design of the refurbishment. This saw the floor space increased by adding two floors, and office environment and external envelope improved in line with Lasdun’s original design. We observed a series of design team meetings held at JRA’s London office, from which we produced some thoughts and reflections, and also conducted a series of interviews with team members. The project was procured under a traditional contract which, as an interviewee explained, meant that the client was closely involved in the running of the project, ‘. . .we’re taking all the development risk and we’re entering into all the appointments and contracts directly; we’re effectively under CDM regulations and all that sort of issue.’ Figure 7.1

‘Letability’ and design: the case of 10 Fenchurch Street.

217


Continued

Figure 7.1

218

[the team] probably talked about [a total rebuild] for about ten minutes and then decided it was too much . . . they would’ve only done something like that potentially if you could’ve built something back that was a lot larger, i.e. going up a lot higher, to get a lot more space, because there was no financial benefit in knocking it down just to rebuild something that was pretty similar size in terms of lettable floor area.

A compromise was reached which saw the partial demolition of the existing top floor, with the addition of two new floors, creating 72,344 sq ft of office space and two retail units. The interior of the building was fully refurbished, while the exterior cladding was partially refurbished. Ensuring that the building came onto the market at the correct time was considered critical in terms of securing future tenants, a concern that was re-emphasised throughout the duration of the project:


In the early stages of the project, there were discussions about the viability of demolishing the building and rebuilding it. However, this idea was quickly abandoned due to concerns about the narrow profit margins that a rebuild would entail. As one team member explained:

You’re trying to hit the market, just trying to get that window of the market. I mean it’s just a classic supply and demand, which is why you now look out of the window and everybody’s building like mad and there are cranes everywhere . . . The delivery for this project’s October, I think, at the moment, October 2008. Which is about as late as you’d want to get it into the market.

Concerns about the ‘letability’ of 10 Fenchurch Street, and ensuring that the project hit the market at the optimum time to appeal to commercial tenants, had a notable impact on the project design. It was a dimension of the project that illustrates how the actions of architects are conditioned by specific disciplinary knowledge, such as marketing. Such knowledge is able to delimit, and define, some of the scope of what can be designed. The following quote from a team member demonstrates that a key concern was ensuring that the style and quality of finishes appealed to the financial companies likely to rent the completed building: It just means the better the specification, the better the rent that you can demand really, obviously. So it is rental driven. Some people are prepared to pay for absolutely all the whistles and bells, some people are, you know, this won’t be a prime, prime building, [but] it’ll be a very good refurbishment.

Figure 7.1

Continued

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As this diary extract illustrates, the letting agent, as the representative of potential tenants, had a high level of input into the finishes and fixtures. The combination of the mentalities of value engineering (VE) and the marketing knowledge of sales agents ensured a particular approach to the design: The architect discusses the building’s toilet areas that will have ‘accents of walnut’. He describes how there will be ‘stainless steel skirtings, ceramic floors, modules, and simple lights’. The vanity tops will be marble. The architect comments, after running through the proposed design, ‘Perhaps we should confess about possible cost issues.’ These seem significant, and the project manager says ‘the specification is £100,000 over, due to the mirrors and glass’. It seems as though cost issues are really coming to a head now, and everyone seems to have cost at the forefront of their minds. The letting agent comments that a plain mirror finish might be better as ‘tenants like to see themselves’. It also makes the room ‘feel bigger and is cheaper’ he says. The architect says that, at the moment, the design is ‘a third over budget’. I wonder if he has put the design proposal forward, despite the obvious cost constraints, to get some indication of what details and finishes are seen as most important, and therefore what should or shouldn’t be taken out of the design as the VE process continues. The team goes on to discuss, in detail, different types of soap dispenser and toilet flushes, and I get the impression that what might seem like mundane details are actually very important when it comes to letting the building on completion. The architect seems to get defensive at one point as he reflects on past experience of value engineering, and it is clear that everyone is under pressure to produce a quality finish under cost constraints. He says that fittings are the first thing to go when the budget is squeezed and this is a shame, since ‘everyone likes it, we like it, but we never get it’.

Figure 7.1

Continued

The exchanges we observed in the Fenchurch Street case (figure 7.1) hint at some of the conflicts between project actors, particularly where design integrity is threatened by demands relating to cost, letability, and project build schedules. While there is significant pressure from government and industry groups for the building sector to adopt a more consensual and collaborative style of working, the industry continues to be characterised by poor partnership-working and high levels of litigation (Egan, 1998, Latham, 1994, RIBA, 2005; also, see chapter 6). In the design team meetings we observed, tensions were often visible between those responsible for budgets and project programmes and architects, who retained primary responsibility for aesthetics and the overall built form, albeit within the parameters of available resources and regulatory requirements. As the following diary extract demonstrates: 220

A discussion about cladding finishes, also recorded in a research diary, illustrates this: The cost controller comments that it’s ‘coming out at X which is just ridiculous. The alternative product is like a £30,000 saving’. The architect comments if ‘that’s what we’re saying, can’t it just be a lean-to?’ He sketches what he sees as the benefits. The cost controller responds, ‘I don’t think the client will be convinced.’ The architect appears to give in, ‘let’s go with Vector 4 then; I don’t want to waste our time . . . alright let’s leave it as it is’ . . . This meeting is dominated, it seems to me, by cost constraints, and there is evidence of an almost stereotypical, designer versus cost controller divide.


There is again a sense that the cost ‘guys’ . . . are putting pressure on the others to achieve/produce certain things. The architect in particular is (uncharacteristically) defensive and appears frustrated by the demands placed on his team at the moment.

Our observations of design team meetings indicate that adhering to design and build programmes also had a significant impact upon interteam roles and responsibilities, and design outcomes. It was the case that in both of the projects we followed, and much like the administration of the cost plan, a professional project manager employed on behalf of the client oversaw the project programme. The programmes included estimated completion dates for a series of tasks such as the procurement of various design packages, and it was made clear, from our observations, that deviating from the programme would have serious cost implications. For one of the projects, it was suggested that deviation from the build programme could undermine the viability of the entire scheme. Much like the cost plan, the programme schedule was frequently referred to at project meetings, and again there was evidence to suggest that this had a regulatory influence upon design processes. As this statement from a project team member illustrates, there was pressure on individuals to deliver information, such as prices and plans, on time so as not to delay the project’s progression: Well, I think you’re always going to have that constant pressure . . . I mean you look at the programme for this for the front end and there’s been a squeeze on that, [I’m] being squeezed at my end because the guys obviously want to get onto site, we don’t want to lose the team.

Team members largely adopted a pragmatic stance to the pressures of sticking to the project programme with one member commenting, ‘You’re never going to have an easy run of a programme’. However, despite measures such as the use of risk registers to reduce the 221


likelihood of unforeseen events occurring, programme delays remained common (also see chapter 6). As one individual described, a shared task within the design team was to ‘pull back the programme’ by looking for ‘soft targets’, that is, elements of the project where time savings can be made relatively easily. He was sceptical about the project finishing on time: ‘In reality we’ll probably end up having to put a couple of weeks back on when it comes down to it, but in terms of what the client wants to see at the moment and to get the funding arranged . . . it’s just the way it is, isn’t it?’

b) Design team dynamics in hybridised organisations The previous section highlighted the significance of cost, marketing, and other project considerations in exerting regulatory influences on the design process, or part of what we might understand as the (new) pragmatics of architectural practice. Such pragmatics reflect what some architects appear to see as their displacement, even removal, from aspects of the design and development process. For instance, Jack Pringle (2005), a past president of the RIBA has commented, ‘we have lost a lot of ground over the last generation and I think the pendulum has swung too far the other way. Architects need to regain control of the design team at least’. Others view the practice of VE, a process dominated by non-architects, as further evidence of the architect’s retreating role. However, for Powell (1996), attempts by architects to reclaim control of the design team are flawed and are likely to prove futile given the rapid and ongoing changes in the industry. As Powell (1996: 216) comments, ‘the idea of the architect as leader looked increasingly anachronistic in an age which conferred responsibility on the basis of management ability rather than creative ability’. The architects we spoke to had varied opinions about how far recent industry changes had impacted upon the status of the architect (also see chapter 5). One respondent characterised the situation as one whereby ‘our role has been greatly eroded’ while, for another, the position of architects ‘has gone from being team leader to team dogsbody . . . new professions now exist which did not exist 30 years ago . . .’. Another interviewee noted, ‘architects, in many ways, are being marginalised to becoming sort of boutique-type addresses . . . where you can buy a trophy design and then probably get it executed by other firms’. This was not an untypical comment, and it resonates with a widely held sentiment that the perception of the architect, as the head of the design team, was an outdated concept. As one respondent intimated, architects do not lead but are led: ‘somehow we’re lead consultant just in name only . . . I think we are not . . . seen as very important members of that team.’ 222


Some linked this development directly to an increase in industry regulation, or as one respondent said, ‘the historic role of the architect as team leader is under pressure because of the number and complexity of buildings and regulations’. Several architects noted that meeting contemporary building standards required specialist skills, ‘Part L, Part E, Eco-homes etc, all are beyond the architect’s remit – he must refer to a specialist – [the] architect [is] becoming even more of a ‘jack of all trades, master of none!’ Given the complexity of regulation, many recognised that specialist professionals were now best suited to ensure compliance. For some, this represented an incursion into the architect’s field of practice, as one respondent suggested, ‘more specialists are carving careers from traditionally architect-led disciplines’ (also see chapter 5). Others were more pragmatic, suggesting that such practices were now commonplace across the industry, ‘we’re all resorting to third parties, which adds time and cost to the process’. The shaping of building form and performance by third parties was, for one respondent, a significant change in the design process: ‘if you went back 20 years, architects designed just about everything. Or between architects and engineers they designed just about everything that got built and they detailed just about everything that got built, whereas that doesn’t happen now’. The implication is the incursion of others into terrain previously the preserve of architects thus reinforcing, in part, Pringle’s observation about threats to the status of architects. In interview, a quantity surveyor provided a flavour of how the design process is influenced by specialist groups: A lot of things, like cladding or glazing, have become very specialist and so particular trade contractors, glazing contractors for example, have become very specialist and they’ve built up their own in-house design teams for that, and actually their ability far outweighs any architectural practice. An architectural practice would have to turn themselves into a glazing manufacturer almost to be able to get the same levels of skills and ability there.

While such views hint at the erosion of architects’ autonomy in the design process, our postal survey results were equivocal in indicating that respondents felt that other professionals did not necessarily threaten their roles. For instance, responding to the statement, ‘project managers disproportionately influence the design of buildings’, only a quarter (61 or 25%) of respondents agreed or strongly agreed that this was the case. Almost half neither agreed nor disagreed, while 54 respondents (22%) either disagreed or strongly disagreed with the statement (Table 7.1). Results were similarly mixed in relation to other design professionals. As Table 7.2 demonstrates, just over a quarter (63 respondents or 26%) of architects agreed or strongly agreed that 223


Response Non response Strongly agree Agree Neither agree nor disagree Disagree Strongly disagree Total

Frequency 9 18 43 117 48 6 241

Per cent 3.3 7.5 17.9 48.8 20 2.5 100

Table 7.1 ‘Project managers disproportionately influence the design of buildings’

quantity surveyors disproportionately influence the design of buildings. Similarly, when asked to respond to the statement, ‘consultants disproportionately influence the design of buildings’, a relatively small number (29 respondents or 12%) of those surveyed agreed or strongly agreed, while 124 (or 51%) neither agreed nor disagreed, and 78 (or 32%) disagreed or strongly disagreed with the statement (Table 7.3). Respondents’ reactions towards the involvement of other professional groups in the design process were accepting of the situation and as one person said, ‘it’s what we have to do now, and we have to get on with others to realise the best possible outcomes’. These sentiments reflect, in part, Faulconbridge and Muzio’s (2008: 18) observation that in recent decades professionals have ‘absorbed and adapted the practices and language of management (annual reviews, key performance indicators, strategic plans etc.)’ whilst seeking to maintain ‘professional preferences, values and priorities’. Here, Faulconbridge and Muzio (2008) are pointing towards the resistance of professionals to wholesale changes to their occupations, while noting that a process of professional hybridisation is occurring. In the design and development context, this is characterised by job crossovers and interchanges


Frequency 7 11 52 94 64 13 241

Percent 2.5 4.6 21.7 39.2 26.7 5.4 100

Table 7.2 ‘Quantity surveyors disproportionately influence the design of buildings’

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Frequency 10 2 27 124 69 9 241

Percent 4.2 0.8 11.3 51.7 28.8 3.3 100

Table 7.3 ‘Consultants disproportionately influence the design of buildings’

between different project actors, albeit in ways whereby, as Faulconbridge and Muzio (2008: 18) suggest, architects are subject to ‘increasing attention for efficient management’. A key part of processes of professional hybridisation and adaptation is adjusting to different roles in increasingly complex project teams, including the languages, values, and mentalities of other actors. Design teams usually consist of a wide range of professionals including architects, project managers, quantity surveyors, mechanical and electrical engineers, building control surveyors, acoustic engineers, planning consultants, building contractors, and structural engineers, amongst others. The teams we observed were not static entities. While they had a relatively stable core of key personnel that included architects, other actors moved in and out of the team according to the particular demands of the project programme, resulting in many ‘decision-making nodal points’ (Clarke and Newman, 1997: 31). This is now the norm in a majority of construction projects, and, as one of our respondents said, ‘anybody that sits around a table in a project meeting has some influence on the design, by just opening their mouths and talking about it’. This observation points towards the potential complexity of the ‘ordinary built field’ of architecture, and respondents acknowledged that a major challenge related to inter-organisational communication or, as an architect said, you’ve got to work really hard to keep everybody on board’. This reflects the distinctive ‘institutional logics’ permeating organisational fields such as design and construction. These ‘logics’ refer to what Scott (2001: 139) describes as the ‘belief systems and related practices that predominate in an organisational field’, and form the ‘basis of taken-for-granted rules guiding behaviour of fieldlevel actors’ (Reay and Hinings, 2009: 629). For Reay and Hinings (2009: 629), logics are an important theoretical construct because they ‘help to explain connections that create a sense of common purpose and unity within an organizational field’. While institutional logics can help


Response

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to forge interpersonal connections, we observed that (misaligned) logics could also result in miscommunication(s) and disrupt attempts to work collaboratively. One potential outcome is that architects may find themselves having to accede to the discourses of other professional groups, to their subject-specific rules, or modus operandi. In interview, one quantity surveyor outlined a typical situation: I’m not always sure all architects appreciate what ‘fully designed’ really means. I mean that sounds daft because they ultimately do always design it, but in this day and age as well there are so many elements of work that are not designed by the design team, they’re designed by specialist contractors . . . it will include the lifts . . . the steelwork, it’ll include the cladding works.

The implication is that the architect is subject to the disciplines of diverse specialists and, as one quantity surveyor said, If you actually take that value out you’d probably find that a third of the value of the building is actually not [designed by architects]. The ultimate design responsibility will sit with the trade contractors, and they will warrant that through the main contract and therefore . . . the main contractor, will be responsible for the design of those elements.

There were numerous examples conveyed to us about how different professionals were exercising authority, or discipline, in relation to influencing the outcomes of projects. In interview, one quantity surveyor suggested that his involvement in design is more important than is often acknowledged by other actors, including architects: ‘there’s no doubt that a very proactive surveyor can have quite an influence on the overall design . . . although it can be perceived as being a rather negative side of things’. He elaborated by suggesting that: I find that we often comment on elements of the design based on what we’ve seen on other projects. And say, ‘Well, that worked quite well on that project, why don’t you think about that. Oh, that’s a good idea.’ And that will be incorporated into the design, potentially. So albeit the design responsibility is with the architect or the engineer still, because they physically put it on their drawing or on their specification, the idea may have come from a surveyor still. So, there are these ways of influencing design.

Such sentiments were evident in relation to the role of marketing and assuring a good rental value for a building (also see Figure 7.1). Respondents identified letting agents as critical actors in influencing design or, as an architect said about one particular scheme, ‘this is 226


letting agent led’. In this context, the design was delimited, and defined, in part, by the marketing brief. A letting agent outlined his influence: ‘we’re always pushing the floor to ceiling heights higher and higher, which obviously has quite a major impact on the M&E [mechanical and electrical engineering]. We will also ensure design or the ability for a building to house full catering facilities, for example, so that means designing in soft points in the slabs to allow extraction if required’. He amplified by noting that ‘we probably have quite a large impact in that, if you think about it in that case, in that respect . . . the other thing that we also do is sort of look at all the finishes, we’ll agree all the finishes, so we’ll make sure that a reception has the city feel to it, [and that it] isn’t going to upset any tenants’. He concluded by noting that the architects ‘might sulk a bit’. This testimony is indicative of particular concepts and rules relating to building gaining ascendency and being part of a disciplinary apparatus in relation to the actions of architects. In this example, the marketing and appeal of the building to prospective tenants became part of the broader regulatory context of the design and development process. This is illustrative of how the design process can, in some instances, be dominated by particular concepts, rules, and modes of communication that are not necessarily understood or accepted by all actors. Some respondents, for instance, felt that they, as architects, are increasingly subject to the discourses and mentalities of engineers and surveyors, in which the potential for miscommunication, and misunderstanding, between parties is high. One project team member we interviewed felt that meetings were dominated by language and concepts that were inaccessible to some members of the team. He noted that the ‘mechanical and electrical engineers . . . assume that you know what they’re talking about. They’ll talk about X number of kilowatts . . . you can’t know everything, can you?’ A response to the possibilities of communicative breakdown is to regulate design by formation of stable partnerships. As one interviewee explained, efforts were made to keep cohesive teams together from one project to the next in order to reduce the incidence of misunderstandings and to enhance collaborative working: ‘It’s easier to negotiate as well sometimes, when you get to know the design team, it’s kind of [the] barriers are not there . . . if you know each other already it’s easier to actually negotiate’. The development of mutual trust and a set of shared understanding(s) regarding design outcomes were seen as key to this process (Doloi, 2009; Smyth et al., 2010). Thus, when selecting a project team, efforts were made to ensure that people worked well together to minimise the effects of potential personality clashes that could be costly in such highly pressurised working environments. For Reay and Hinings (2009), such practices are part of a

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process of ‘pragmatic collaboration’, whereby groups work together because they see no other way to accomplish particular tasks.

7.5 Conclusions Conceptions of the architects’ role as mediated and shaped by different elements of the design process, including the building regulations, multiple professional values, understandings and knowledge(s), and the pragmatic demands of budget and programme management, highlight the regulated and socially embedded nature of architectural practice. As some have suggested, the architect is only one component of the ‘messy reality’ of design (Stolterman, 2008, Till, 2009). Other actors, such as developers, builders, and the client, as well as nonhuman ‘calculative devices’, such as cost plans or project programmes, have an active role in determining the form and performance of buildings. While the people we spoke to accepted, largely, the pragmatic demands and complexities of the modern construction industry, many writings on architecture still fail to recognise, or acknowledge, the situated nature of the actions of architects. As Kroes et al. (2008: 4) note, there is still a tendency, by the architectural press, to present ‘a vision of the architect as author, either producing a unique vision alone, or directing a panoply of other actors in assisting in the production of that vision’. The data in this chapter provide a corrective to this view, and point towards the multiple influences on the actions of architects. We have highlighted the importance of acknowledging the active roles of those considered to be ‘non-designers’, in creating project contexts that discipline architects into particular ways of thinking and acting. Such disciplining is part of what we have termed a regulatory field. This is much more than the application of planning, building regulations, or other legal, regulatory, standards. In addition, it reflects the mentalities and discourses of different project actors, and their organisations, that, in combination, have the capacity to define much of the form and content of the design and development process (also see Habraken, 1999, 2005). For the RIBA and the AIA, however, there is a perception that these changing interrelationships between professionals are a threat to the architectural profession, and are contributing to the continuing loss of autonomy of architects. The more extreme versions of this view suggest the ‘end of the architect’. We feel that such perspectives are both alarmist and a mischaracterisation of the architectural profession. It has never been ‘autonomous’ or operated independently of project contexts, including the actions of a diversity of actors, and their values, that are part of the field of design


and development activities. As with all professions, architecture is subject to reinvention and changes that are not necessarily unidirectional or apocalyptic in outcome. One scenario, suggested by Fischer and Guy (2009: 2590, drawing upon Callon, 1996: 35) is that the emergence of professions such as quantity surveyors and project managers is repositioning architects towards ‘driving a design agenda by bringing together the requirements of different other professionals, reinterpreting the brief and related regulations accordingly and reconciling the varying interests that may impact on a design project’. How far this is the case is a matter of (further) empirical investigation, but it points towards an understanding of the actions of architects that we subscribe to, that is, as part of a relational, network of actors in which actions and outcomes are indeterminate.

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Case Study D: Traces of Regulation: the School of Sport, Exercise and Health Sciences, Loughborough University, David Morley Architects

Photo credit: Morley von Sternberg

In recent years, literature has emerged to challenge what Latour (1988: 298) describes as sociologists’ tendency to ‘discriminate’ against nonhumans. For Latour (1988: 298), sociology, while expert in the study of human groupings, ‘is less sure of itself’ when it comes to non-humans. Actor network theory (ANT), an approach with its origins in science and technology studies (STS), seeks to redress this balance, and emphasises the reciprocal relationship between humans and non-humans. As Latour (1999: 180) has suggested, ‘Agents can be human or (like a gun) non-human,

Traces of Regulation

and each can have goals (or functions as engineers prefer to say)’. However, often non-humans are positioned as wholly technical instruments, which, Latour and others suggest, fails to acknowledge the social and moral agency that non-humans possess. A key feature of ANT is its emphasis on movement and agency, and the term ‘network’ is used to indicate a ‘string of actions where each participant is treated as a full-blown mediator’ (Latour, 2005: 128). Such a reading is relevant for the study of architecture, since it indicates that buildings are active and complex socio-technical assemblages of both human and nonhuman parts. However, as Latour and Yaneva (2008: 80) suggest, ‘the problem with buildings is that they look desperately static’. Thus, even though it is widely acknowledged, ‘especially [by] architects . . . that a building is not a static object but a moving project’, it remains difficult to capture the ‘project flow that makes up a building’ (Latour and Yaneva, 2008: 80–1). This is due, in part, to the representation of buildings, by architects, primarily through drawings and, more specifically, 3D-CAD (computer-aided design) images. As Latour and Yaneva (2008: 81) ask, ‘where do you place the angry clients and their sometimes conflicting demands? Where do you insert the legal and city planning constraints? Where do you locate the budgeting and the different budget options?’ Figure D.1 shows a computer generated model of the School of Sport, Exercise, and Health Sciences (hereafter the sports building or SB), designed

Figure D.1 Computer generated image of the School of Sport, Exercise and Health Sciences, Loughborough University. Photo credit: David Morley Architects

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by David Morley Architects (DMA), which forms the basis of the rest of this case study. As Latour and Yaneva (2008) would suggest, such an image, in and of itself, does little to convey the ‘project flow’ that constitutes a building, a set of active processes which the following narrative seeks to draw out. Following the work of ANT and STS scholars, we suggest that what may appear to be mundane design details, such as the use of a particular construction material or finish, is in fact revealing of regulatory processes, negotiations, and inter-disciplinary communication(s) between humans and non-humans, that, in combination, are (co-)productive of urban form (s). Latour’s (2005: 128) notion of ‘tracing a network’ is helpful in moving away from (static) representations, such as texts or drawings, and towards ‘a narrative or a description or a proposition where all the actors do something and don’t just sit there’. In the remainder of this case study, we consider how non-human ‘actants’ have (co-)produced the SB, and suggest that they can be used to ‘trace’ the (regulatory) processes that underpin design features. We suggest that tracing these objects is revealing not only of the impact of statutory building regulations and codes, but also of the mediating effect that exchanges between team members and non-humans have upon the built environment. These exchanges create what Callon and Law (1989) term, ‘spaces of negotiation’, which, as the case study demonstrates, have a significant effect upon the final building form.

Traces through the School of Sport, Exercise and Health Sciences (SB) The SB was designed by David Morley Architects (DMA) and opened in 2009, and is described as an ‘innovative new project type that bridges the gap between Healthcare and Sports’ (DMA, undated: no page number). Built on the site of a disused swimming pool at Loughborough University in Leicestershire, it is designed to integrate facilities for learning, teaching, and research in the field of sports related science (Figure D.2). Between October 2006 and February 2007, we attended project and design team meetings at DMA’s offices in London, and at Loughborough University. We also conducted in-depth, semi-structured, interviews with 13 project team members, including the project architects, client, engineers, project managers and construction team representatives. We use Latour’s (1999) conception of ‘actants’ to consider how non-humans and humans interacted to influence design outcomes in the SB. The following sections seek to ‘trace’ two non-human actants, the audio visual (AV) specification and the client’s brief, and illustrate how, through interaction(s) with project team members, actants mediated and (co-)produced the SB. 232

Traces of Regulation Figure D.2 The previous building and SB site, Loughborough University Photo credit: David Morley Architects

Traces of Regulation: The audio-visual equipment and the client’s brief Our observations of design team meetings suggest that, as Latour has indicated, features that might be considered ‘purely technical’, such as the building’s AV equipment, or the client’s design brief, are in fact active components of the finished building. They are also revealing of, and engage with, a series of (regulatory) processes that underpin the design process. Figure D.3 depicts one of the completed SB lecture theatres. Given that the SB is a centre for (high-tech) research, teaching, and learning, the AV equipment is a critical actant in ensuring the effective functioning of the building. However, the image does not convey the (complex) ways in which the AV equipment represented a constitutive element in the design process, a theme to which we now turn. We observed that much discussion by project team members revolved around the notion of the (AV) specification, a written description of the quality of the built product and its component products (National Building Specification, NBS, undated). The specification (‘spec’) is usually prepared by the architect and/or other designers, and is, according to the National Building Specification (NBS), ‘about deliverables – systems and products – but not processes – so it is not about workmanship . . . but it is about executed work’ (NBS, undated). As one of the architects of the SB commented, while the specificiation ends up as an NBS, ‘it can often begin 233

The Scope of Regulation Figure D.3 Lecture theatre, School of Sport, Exercise and Health Sciences Photo credit: Morley von Sternberg

life as a list of the client’s aspirations for the project’, much like the ‘client’s brief’ referred to later. Our observations of project meetings suggest that the NBS’s positioning of the specification as something abstracted from processes of team-working is misleading. Instead, as the following diary extract demonstrates, our observations indicated that the AV specification imposed a particular way of working upon project team members: The project manager and mechanical engineer talk about the university being ‘quite prescriptive’ in terms of the AV specification. This, they feel, may become a problem due to cost pressures. Interestingly, on this subject the project manager says, ‘we need to know how delicate a subject it is first’. One gets the sense that often the team are trying to guess what they will be able to present to the client and anticipate what options they will ‘go for’.

As one architect commented, the ‘outline spec’ put forward by the client may be wide-reaching, encompassing elements that he categorised as ‘blue sky’, ‘nice to have’, or ‘absolute’, or core components. The spec needs to be, in his words, ‘assessed for value in the same way all decisions are to achieve a balanced design solution’. The AV specification was, for those responsible for enforcing the project budget, one way to assess or test the flexibility of what is referred to as the ‘client’s brief’: a list of the client’s needs, vision, and outcomes for the project. As this exchange, recorded in a research diary, indicates, it was often the architect who sought to ‘defend’ or maintain the design integrity of the building, in line with their understanding of the client’s wishes: 234


The researcher asks those at the design team meeting, ‘what is driving the design?’ The response from the project architect is that it is ‘the client’. He describes how DMA’s buildings are always first and foremost, a ‘response to the client’s requirements’. The design process, for him, starts with a ‘rigorous analysis of their requirements’. From this you then ask yourself a series of questions such as ‘How do you skin it?’ ‘How do you control the environment?’ For him, ‘the user focus is first’, and he stresses the need to balance the ‘inside out’, that is the client’s core objectives for the project, with the ‘outside in’, that is the design response to the wider public realm.

The client’s brief for the SB building was physically packaged and represented in a list, later transferred to a computer spreadsheet, and, much like the AV equipment, and cost plans and project programme, was an active component in the negotiation of design details (see the main part of chapter 7). As a project architect explained in interview, the client’s brief had a significant ‘regulating effect’ on the design by establishing a series of disciplinary boundaries, within which the designer must operate: [The client] gave us an immense list of rooms and it was several pages of spreadsheets with rooms. But they didn’t really explain the relationships . . . we had to take all of these little puzzles, all of the volume of room and try and work out what’s the commonality. ‘What is this building going to be?’ So it very much influenced our thinking; the client’s brief regulated our design more than the regulations themselves.

The client’s brief was, as we observed, not a static object, but instead served to influence the designer’s thinking on a range of design details, as this quote indicates: First day back [the client] gave us a new list of rooms, different mix and sizes, and said, ‘Actually, we want this. And we want five hundred square metres more.’ Which was a 16% increase in brief, ‘and we . . . aren’t increasing the cost plan.’ That regulates your thinking.

Other project team members indicated the challenges involved in adhering to the client’s brief, alongside other pressures, such as keeping to the build schedule and budget, as this diary extract demonstrates: The discussion was about trying to decide on what options to recommend to the client and ensuring that the appropriate justifications could be given. I felt that much of the discussion was occurring with the client in mind, or in relation to what the team members felt the client was likely to go with. The spectre of the client hung over the meeting. It seemed strange in some ways that the client wasn’t there. It felt like that the design team 235


had to ‘get it right’ here to ensure that the client would ‘go with them’. So, we had phrases like ‘we need to persuade them to do this’.

As suggested, the building’s AV equipment was critical in satisfying the client’s needs, since it was fundamental to the building’s function as a centre for teaching and learning. As this diary extract reveals, the AV specification assumed the role as an active component in the negotiation between the cost-controller and ‘end-user’ (a member of university staff who will be based in the building), whose (separate) professional interests in the project led to disagreement about the extent to which the ‘high-tech’ AV equipment the university desired could feasible be delivered within the project’s budget:1 We are straight in there with discussion of ‘budget requirements’ and there’s a lot of number crunching. Figures are thrown around, and I pick up that [the end-user] is keen to increase the allowance for AV equipment. The project manager talks more about budgetary issues. He explains that they are realising some savings and should be able to put some money back in. AV is he says, ‘top of the list’, but he’s not sure of the final amount yet. He says that ‘nice-to-have items’ are still ‘at risk’ until we have the mechanical and electrical tender. The end-user explains the background to the scheme from the university’s perspective; she says that they are trying to make ‘grand statements’ about how high-tech their centres for learning and teaching are, so they’re ‘under pressure to deliver’. Someone comments that they are pricing on ‘today’s prices’, but that this is an issue because they won’t be ‘building for another year yet’. The contractor suggests that they could hand over a provisional specification to Loughborough, but the end user is clear that she doesn’t want to do this . . . ‘it was discussed already’, she says. There is a bit of a squabble between the two, and the project manager has to chip in, ‘Can I just put my hand up here . . .?’

The eventual outcome of the meeting, whereby the end-user appears to accede to the cost pressures of the project, is illustrative of how something as seemingly neutral as the AV equipment is, in fact, as Latour (1988: 298) suggests, ‘a highly moral, highly social actor’: The end-user reflects on past experience and says that ‘we’ve learnt over the years that if you don’t write everything down it gets lost’. The project manager appears defensive and says, ‘I’m not trying to strip this element of the AV specifications out’. The end user says rather dramatically, perhaps in an attempt to try and defuse some of the tension in the room, ‘I quit!’ This has the desired effect, and there is laughter from the team. I am impressed that, even during what are quite fraught negotiations, the team make efforts to keep relations as cordial as possible. Making jokes is one 236


way of doing this. The end-user explains that the university is ‘trying to make rooms as flexible as possible’ in terms of their AV requirements. The project manager says he understands that. He proceeds to go through the end-user’s list of requests relating to AV equipment. I think the purpose of this activity, although it’s not said overtly, is to question the end-user by asking, ‘do you really need this?’ The end-user jokes that she’s ‘rehearsed that argument’, and, in some ways, she seems ready for a fight.

What this extract demonstrates is the agency of the end-user’s AV specification or ‘wish list’ in invoking what is, despite the professionalism of the team, an emotional set of responses. As one of the project architects commented, ‘if you want to achieve a great building, you need to go beyond the technical. Design is a very emotive process.’ Thus, although project team members sought to adopt what might be termed a ‘businesslike’ way of working, we witnessed that the negotiations surrounding the AV equipment were indicative of the priorities (e.g. reducing costs or providing facilities for staff and students) underpinning professionals’ roles, and which often appeared incompatible: The project manager proceeds with the meeting, and tries to negotiate whether ‘some rooms may not need all three [visual] screens’. He comments that the requirements are ‘generic’. The end user disagrees with this. The project manager responds, saying that the list ‘may be overspecified; I’m just trying to understand it’. I wonder if that is really the case, or is the process more about trying to reduce the specification and saving costs, than about ‘understanding’? The end user says, ‘I’m getting defensive now.’ She explains that she’s ‘speaking on behalf of academic staff’. The contractor comments that the problem is ‘we have to put a price on this very soon’. The end-user sticks to her guns, ‘the bottom line is, it’s the other specification that we want. But I’m a pragmatist . . . if we’re going for the lower grade spec then we could replicate . . .’ The end-user appears to have compromised or caved in. It appears to me that she was fighting a losing battle and that the decision to ‘downspec’ would have been made with or without her. Perhaps by way of compromise/reassurance, the project manager explains that they want to get a ‘standard spec which meets needs’, then they can ‘add extra bits when possible once there’s more money’. However, I’m sceptical about whether this will happen in the light of all the budget cuts that the project has been subject to thus far. The end-user also seems to be sceptical about this and says that ‘what worries me about crossing a few lines is that it changes the whole package’.

In addition to highlighting a key project dynamic, that of user-needs and project cost constraints, the AV equipment is revealing of previous months of complex, detailed, discussions that produced the final design 237


specification. As this exchange between the project architect (PA) and the mechanical and electrical engineer (M&E) reveals, there was much complexity revealed through these interchanges, M&E:

PA: M&E: PA:

M&E: PA: M&E:

It may be an issue pulling cables through. It’s the same as having a bit of conduit popping up here and there. We can put length of wire in to pull the cable through. What is roughly the max? We need to speak to [the contractor]. Generally we have 8.5ms around here. You’re generally feeding this way [shows on a plan], you won’t have trenching going both ways [vertically and horizontally]. It makes sense if we have feeds here and rise up here. The doorway makes it more difficult. Generally, the power’s coming in through here. What’s this showing? [Refers to a plan.] I need to rethink this. They will all be fed from this end. They require a projector and lectern for the lecture theatre. Also there’s a slide at the back. It’s only a socket, possibly a data socket. All I need is a 25mm gap. The problem lies in getting it from here to here. It’s going to be a challenge. We’re only talking about a conduit. It’s getting very tight. We do need to talk to the furniture people.

These, and the other diary notes and interview extracts referred to, are revealing of the ‘project flow that makes up a building’ (Latour and Yaneva, 2008: 80–1, see also Yaneva, 2009). As Latour and Yaneva (2008) have suggested, this ‘flow’, made up of factors such as the demands of meeting regulatory requirements, mediating client relations, and adhering to project budgets underpins and shapes the design of buildings such as the SB. However, project flows often remain unacknowledged given the tendency to represent buildings as static, technical, and value-free objects. An ANT approach, which asserts the (co-)productive nature of human and nonhuman actants in shaping the (social) world, offers much potential.

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Chapter Eight The Coding of Design and Architecture 8.1 Introduction I would just say that design coding is no substitute for good design. That’s all I would say. If an architect’s allowed to go through a proper design process, in my view there’s no need for a design code, quite frankly. (Testimony from an architect, 2008).

An emerging trend in the design and construction of the built environment is the use of design or form-based codes, or what Madden and Spikowski (2006: 174) define as ‘land development regulations that emphasise the future physical form of the built environment’. Such codes differ from building and planning regulations in seeking to specify the aesthetic form or content of buildings, and the relationships of buildings to each other and to the broader environment within which they are set. While there is nothing new about design codes, there is renewed emphasis by governments on their development and use as part of a contribution to good urban form and structure. The UK government stated in 2000 that many cities had become characterised by ‘poor quality design and layouts and poor building practices’, requiring nothing short of an urban renaissance (DETR, 2000: 55). For government, the prognosis was ‘to make all urban areas places for people by . . . getting the design and quality of the urban fabric right’ (DETR, 2000: 10). Similar sentiments have been conveyed in the USA, not by antipathetic politicians in federal government but by various architects, urban designers, and officials in state and municipal governments concerned with the poor quality of urban environments. For some, such as the architects Rob Krier and Christoph Kohl (2010: 1), ‘modern urban design has punched holes in the city’ and wounded the urban fabric.



For others, such as Trancik (1986), the modern urban landscape is composed of buildings designed as isolated objects, rather than integrally connected with each other and integrated through design as part of the larger fabric of the city. Trancik (1986) refers to ‘lost space’ to describe the design of the modern city, or places that are disconnected and fragmented and characterised by on Krier (2001) critique places that are rarely designed. This echoes Le of modernism and his observation that ‘the city as a framework for establishing connections among members of an urban population has been changed to a spatial structure whose aim is to disconnect’. These pessimistic and negative observations of the modernist city are, as we discussed in chapter 2, part of a genre of commentaries about 20th century urbanism, including Joel Garreau’s (1991: 23) writings about the ‘sterile and characterless’ nature of edge cities in the USA, or what Jane Jacobs (1961) characterised as the never-ending miles of low-density development that, for her, symbolised the failures of urban development (also see Dutton, 2000, Fishman, 1989, 1990, Lindstrom and Bartling, 2003). Garreau (1991) argues that US cities are designed around an unsustainable urban form based on suburban sprawl and mediocre developments with little sensitivity to setting or context. Similar views have been expressed about urban form in the UK, with Richard Rogers (2000) noting that most housing, constructed in the post-1945 period, is ‘thoughtlessly laid out’ and is ‘poorly designed, with public realm and buildings of a very low quality’. This view is commonplace with the Urban Design Compendium (HCA, 2009: 1) suggesting that ‘development has been third-rate and is lacking in any sense of place’. The blame for poor design quality is attributed to a multitude of factors. These range from the use of building regulations or codes that, so it is alleged, reduce urban form to static or fixed categories and content, to the economics of the development and construction industries that, for some commentators, seek to supply cheap cost, standardised, design insensitive to place or locale (Ball, 1998, Hooper and Nicol, 1999, 2000). An important school of thought is that the postwar decline of urban design quality reflects the imposition of state regulatory mechanisms and controls that stifle the creativity of design and construction professionals (O’Toole, 2000). Walters (2007), for instance, notes that the American zoning system encouraged the development of mono-functional places, or spaces characterised by absence of socialisation and community interaction. What emerged, for Walters (2007), were places conceived from reactive forms of regulatory control, based on rigid rules of spatial form, and related modes of interpretation and application.

The Coding of Design and Architecture

Other observers place less emphasis on state regulations for poor design quality and, instead, locate it within the socio-institutional and political structures and relations of the design and development process (Ball, 1998, Bentley, 1999). This directs attention to the political economy of urban design, or the values and practices of real estate actors, architects, property developers, and other property professionals operating under what Bentley (1999: 271) refers to as ‘the profitable working of the capital accumulation process’. This process is characterised by the short-term operations of the development industry, in which design is seen as the delivery of a product (a building), and less a part of a process integral to place-making. Some commentators point towards the development industry’s lack of innovation as a reason for its poor design performance, while others note that the fragmentation of the design and development process, into specialised disciplines, militates against multi-disciplinary approaches regarded as intrinsic to the delivery of good urban form (Barlow, 1999, 2000). This combination of state regulatory practices insensitive to the specificities of place and the capital logic of the development and construction industries have prompted calls for different ways of ensuring the delivery of urban design quality. One of the suggested mechanisms is the use of design or form-based codes, or what CABE (2008: 2) regards as an ‘increased level of design control in an attempt to exert greater assurance over the quality of the product’.1 While, at face value, it appears to be a re-regulation of the urban design process, and a tightening of control of the actions of design professionals, we develop the argument, in the next section, that design codes are, in part, interwoven into a discourse about the efficacy of the minimal state. This discourse suggests that design codes can provide a basis for efficiencies in the operations of planning and regulatory systems that, otherwise, are seen, by some, as anathema to the production of the good city (Pennington, 2000, 2006). Here, the design code is seen as means of reducing regulatory burdens in relation to spatial development. The rise in significance of design codes is related, however, to a complexity of crosscutting, even contradictory, discourses about the interrelationships between regulation and urban form and process. We highlight some of this complexity in the next section and, in particular, point towards an understanding of design coding as part of a discourse of urban crisis in relation to the sustainability of the form and performance of the built environment. Here, the design code may be understood as an instrument or technique of government that seeks to discipline design professionals to respond in appropriate ways to broader social and environmental concerns about the sustainability of the urban form. We develop the proposition that the design code is

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entwined with political and moral struggles to shape the good city, in which what is defined or understood as ‘appropriate’ approaches to spatial development are part of a contested and politicised field. The main part of the chapter is an exploration of architects’ attitudes towards, and involvement with, design codes. Referring to our survey and interview data, we suggest that architects are ambivalent about design codes, partly because so few have had direct experience of them. We discuss the impact of the design coding process on the activities of architects, and seek to evaluate respondents’ observations that the development and use of design codes is experienced as a series of paradoxes. On the one hand, the use of design codes seems to signal a shift towards the importance of creativity as part of the development process but, on the other hand, for some architects it appears to reduce much of the process to templates and prescriptive rules. We discuss how architects are seeking to make sense of the emergent design-coding environment, and we conclude by speculating on the significance of design codes in relation to the future of the regulation of the practices of architects.

8.2 Modernity, urbanism and the revival of urban character A motivation attributed to many architects is the fascination with the tabula rasa, or the creation of buildings based upon a rejection and erasure of the past (Cooke, 2004).2 This was the basis of modernism’s emergence in the 19th and 20th centuries in which, as Habraken (2005: 18) notes, there was a rejection of ornamental and vernacular styles, and the propagation of a ‘pure geometry . . . unencumbered by indications of material, color, or texture’ (also see Frampton, 1980, Rattner, 1988). There was a preoccupation with grandiose visions, of creating places anew based on anti-tradition or rejection of historical points of reference. Such views were to the fore amongst some of the leading architects of the 20th century, with Le Corbusier (1986: 47) proclaiming that ‘architecture has nothing to do with the styles’. Rather, for Le Corbusier (1925: 24), the architects’ remit was to put places in order, or to ensure the orderly spatial disposition of ‘function and objects’. The disaffection with such visions, and related ones about the modernist city, were discussed in chapter 2, and they led to the rise in conservation and heritage groups seeking to preserve what they defined as aesthetics commensurate with urban character. This usually referred to historical components of urban form, and to elements of design that specified, and sought to draw out, ‘the feel of a place’ (Dovey, 1999, Dovey et al., 2009). The contemporary renditions of this 242


are particularly associated with new urbanism and movements highly critical not only of urban form but also of the socio-institutional and political processes that have shaped it. For proponents of new urbanism, the modernist city contains negative features such as urban sprawl and characterless neighbourhoods that are devoid of social interaction and a human scale of activity. It is alleged that historical referents in the built environment have been submerged by uniform design styles, encouraged by planning and regulatory systems that, as research from the USA shows, do not prevent low-density sprawl and urban fragmentation (Talen and Duany, 2002). These observations form part of the case for those advocating the development and use of design codes as part of a process to transform the modernist city and improve the quality of the built environment (CABE, 2006, Walters, 2007). In the UK, organisations like CABE have noted that the planning process does not specify the details of design, and consequently fails to provide appropriate guidance about what the good quality components of an environment are or ought to be. In the USA, similar observations are evident with Walters (2007: xvi) commenting that use-based zoning systems have failed to facilitate consideration of the urban form of communities and, consequently, there is ‘little or no consideration given to what it would actually look and feel like to inhabit new developments’. It is suggested by Walters (2007) that design or form-based codes may provide an understanding of the three-dimensional characteristics of places, and be a basis for creating environments sensitised to the specificities of site and spatial context.3 This claim is echoed by CABE (2006) who, in justifying the advocation of design codes, note that they have the capacity to challenge the practices of builders intent on doing no more than using standardised design packages as the basis of spatial development. Carmona et al. (2006: 7) develop this point in suggesting that a design code, as a type of planning tool, seeks to outline the ‘components of a particular development with instructions and advice about how these relate together in order to deliver a master plan or other site-based vision’. This vision is premised, in part, on the embedding of codes into, and deriving them out of, the locales or places that are the subject or object of intervention. Such interventions have the potential, so CABE (2006) and others argue, to enable the emergence of local or vernacular architectural styles as part of the design and development process, and provide a basis ‘to break the mould of mediocrity that has characterized so much new housing development’ (CABE and DETR, 2001: 5; also, see Cuff and Smith, 2009).4 Such mediocrity is seen by some commentators as symptomatic of the unsustainable nature of modern urban development; one of the

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rationales for the adoption of design codes is, as intimated in the introduction, to contribute to the crafting of sustainable, liveable, places (Walters, 2007). For government, the (modernist) city, and the processes shaping it, is no longer viable. The problem is, so government alleges, that too little of the design and development process is subject to governmental controls, and that too much urban design is left to the development industry. As Harvey (2001) suggests, while some development teams are sensitive to what good design is, most reflect and reproduce the industry’s drive to reduce costs ‘for their own market-driven benefit’. The prognosis, highlighted in a UK government White Paper in 2000, and a raft of subsequent publications, is to use design as a tool or means of urban revitalisation, in which design codes will be part of a series of measures to encourage the renaissance of British cities (DETR, 2000, ODPM, 2003). The justification for codes is particularly related to the alleged power of design in contributing to the social and economic wellbeing of places (CABE, 2006, Jackson, 2003). In the UK, CABE (2006: 3) suggest that the way that places are designed ‘has a significant impact on their social and economic fortunes’. As they amplify, ‘good urban design can help increase property values, reduce crime, contribute to public health, and ease transport problems’ (CABE, 2006: 3). Urban design is part of place-making and provides local authorities with the infrastructure to contribute to capturing global flows of finance and investment. Seeking to protect or enhance urban character is part of strategies to ensure that a ‘sense of place’ can act, potentially, as a means to attract investors and to stimulate economic development. As Harvey (2001: 410) suggests, one can understand design codes as part of a ‘market logic’ or political economy of place-making, interlinked to a politics of urban regeneration, place marketing and city officials seeking to ‘attract capital through the market desire for uniqueness’. A different perspective suggests that the emergence of design coding is part of a broader shift towards a deliberative politics, and the encouragement of stakeholder involvement in, and influence over, the design and planning of places. Here, design coding is not the pursuit of a singular objective or necessarily reducible to a ‘capital logic’. Rather, for advocates of design coding, it is suggested that the process may facilitate an open-ended negotiated and democratic approvals process, and challenge and transform the statist top-down procedures that characterise much of the planning system. For instance, Derbyshire (2009) refers to the possibilities contained in the English Planning Act 2008 which, as he suggests, requires developers and planners to interact with local communities in establishing a neighbourhood basis for permitted development, the so-called Local Development Order (LDO). As Derbyshire (2009: 6) notes, the LDO


need not necessarily adhere to the Local Development Framework or Local Plan, but provides scope ‘to reflect the contribution of local communities in negotiating a basis for development which can then be captured in a design code’.5 The opening up of the planning process in this way is part of governments’ rationale to use instruments such as design codes to reduce alleged inefficiencies and bureaucratic process in the planning of spatial development (Ben-Joseph, 2005a). By specifying the components of good urban design in advance of the submission of planning applications, design codes have the potential to reduce the time spent in negotiating the details of a proposal and hence speed up the planning approval process (Carmona et. al., 2006). For Carmona (2009), evidence suggests that the design coding process may curtail the discretionary powers of regulators in specifying the detailed content of planning applications, and thus reduce uncertainty for developers. In this respect, while the design code, in Rouse’s (2003: 18) terms, appears to be part of an ‘ongoing shift in the planning system’, from a reactive to a proactive model of control, it may also be interpreted as being, simultaneously, a reduction in state involvement in, and control over, aspects of the spatial development of cities. This interpretation is not necessarily one that finds favour with many in the design and development professions. Spokespeople in the architectural profession tend to be dismissive of design codes as a regulatory mechanism likely to reduce architects’ creativity (see Gardiner, 2004). For instance, the RIBA (2005) have cautioned against the use of design codes because they are likely to lead to ‘pattern book’ architecture, or pre-specified design packages that redefine architects’ actions as the reproduction of instructions from a design manual or guide (Dutton, 2000, Upton, 1984). In a more forthright way, the architect Will Alsop (2006: 1) claims that design codes represent the ‘kiss of death’ and ‘will stifle our imagination’.6 For some, design codes are no more than the reduction of urban complexity to a series of formal elements, and the propagation of a physical determinism that assumes that the specificity of place is, as Dovey et al. (2009: 2612–13) suggest, ‘embedded in built form, waiting to be defined, fixed, and protected’. Other observers note that the design code is an extension of the existing, failed, planning systems (Murrain, 2002, O’Toole, 2000). O’Toole (2000: 514) suggests that design codes are ‘creeping social regulation’ and a threat to ‘freedom of choice, private property rights, mobility, and local governance’. Such threats are part of the code formation process that adds a new layer of bureaucracy into planning, compounded by legal ambiguity of their status and confusion about how, when, and where they can be used. For example, outline planning consent may be tied to a code or series of codes. The control of

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freehold rights may be exchanged on the basis of code compliance, or design codes may be introduced as a requirement at a competitive design bid stage. Commentators such as O’Toole (2000) note that there is lack of clarity about how far codes should be site-specific, and what level of detail they should contain. How far should they prescribe development and design details, and how do they interrelate, if at all, with other policy and planning guidance (also see Carmona et al., 2006)? These observations highlight various views about the relevance of design codes as part of the broader planning and development process. There is, however, a relative lack of documentation of architects’ attitudes towards, and understanding of, design codes, beyond anecdotal evidence and reportage of sensational comments by high-profile personalities (for example Alsop, 2006, Murrain, 2002, RIBA, 2005). In the next section, we turn to a discussion of what architects think about the emergent design-coding environment, and evaluate how far, and in what ways, it is influencing and changing aspects of their practices.

8.3 The influence of design coding on the practices of architects The early part of the 21st century appears to have heralded the emergence of a qualitatively different approach to spatial development that, as some authors imply, is a break with the policies and practices associated with modernist approaches to the planning and design of the built environment (CABE, 2006, Carmona, 2009, Smith, 2007a, Talen, 2009, Walters, 2007). Talen (2009: 144) notes that the US planning system is developing a new approach to urban regulation based on form-based codes that, as she suggests, do not concentrate on bulk and use but rather ‘on the dimensions and locations of buildings, streets, frontages, and other elements that constitute the physical design of place’. Likewise, Samuels (2010) refers to the development and use of design codes as a changing emphasis in the British planning system, from a focus on the determination of physical land use allocations, to interventions in influencing the form and performance of buildings and the spaces around them (also see Davies, 2007).7 The incorporation of design or form-based codes into the design and development process has implications for the actions and activities of architects and other professionals. What these implications are depends, in part, on the approaches adopted in producing a design code. These can vary from the production of a few simple guidelines that outline key principles of good design, to coding approaches that, 246


as Talen (2009: 158) suggests, are ‘all controlling’ and seek to specify the design details of all aspects of an environment. The coding process can vary in its organisation, and the involvement of different design professionals depends, in part, on what the process is expecting to do and achieve. In the UK, most design codes are prepared by local planning authorities, in association with developers and with the use of specialist consultants and key stakeholders, including consultations with members of the public. The process usually leads to the production of a master plan outlining the broad principles, and a series of written documents that may provide detailed design specifications and guidance. How architects are inserted into the design code process depends on factors that vary from one coding context to another. Given that design codes are not a legal or mandatory part of the British planning system, it is the case, as our data show in the next section, that many architects do not come across them. While some architectural practices, such as Adam Architects, specialise in master planning and the development of design codes, others may be brought into the process at a later stage and be required to work within the stipulations of a master plan devised by another development and design team.8 The combination of possibilities of how architects interact with design codes are numerous, and in the next two sections of the chapter we explore, through architects’ self-testimonies, some of the complexities relating to the regulation of the practices of architects through the context of coding processes. In doing so, we highlight how the coding process has potential to delimit the scope of what architects can do, but also to provide opportunities for (re)assertion of creative actions and outcomes.

a) Formulaic urbanism or the restoration of urban quality? Architects’ attitudes towards design codes Part of the Palladian legacy, alluded to in previous chapters, is the architects’ preoccupation with the aesthetics and form of a building, and the production of what Habraken (2005: 10) refers to as ‘exquisite signature objects’. For Habraken (2005), the Palladian emphasis on geometry and proportion underlies a culture of design in which what matters for the architect is the building’s aesthetics and form (Bentley, 1999, Till, 2009). The design code can be understood, in part, as reaction to abstracting buildings from their contexts, or the practice of architecture as though the buildings’ location or broader environmental setting were unimportant in the crafting of good urban design. For one respondent, architects approach the design process as though there is little beyond the building itself. As he said, ‘architects have 247


been very bad at this place-making . . . we’ve tended to think in terms of individual buildings rather than the making of place’. The impetus for design codes stems, in part, from the observation that good urban form seeks to connect buildings together or, as another architect said, ‘the buildings are the walls of the places rather than the buildings just sitting in space’. These observations were not uncommon, and are part of architects’ awareness of the government’s broader agenda, in the UK context, to encourage design professionals to join up their work with each other.9 For one respondent, the design code is symptomatic of the government encouraging architects to develop what he called ‘the skills of urbanism’ or a synoptic disposition towards the design of the built environment. Another architect described the design code as part of the ‘assembly of urbanism’, and the key instrument in ensuring the delivery of high-quality architecture: ‘it’s about the kit that actually makes a total environment . . . architects will just look at buildings and just look at buildings, whereas the code is trying to draw out every aspect that would bring a total environment together’. Most respondents were positively disposed towards such sentiments but felt that the emergence of design codes was less about creating contexts for architects to realise their creativity, and more about controlling the poor practices of the development industry, particularly volume house-builders. In 2006, the Barker report on changes in household formation identified the need for a major house-building programme in the UK, and most of our respondents felt that it was government’s commitment to this that had prompted debate about how to ensure that the house-builders met a minimum quality of design. As one respondent said, the rationale for design codes is to encourage developers to change their predilection to building to low quality standards: ‘it’s so rare to have designers – say of housing – who are capable of innovation or who are encouraged to innovate because actually they’ve got a volume house-builder saying, ‘Look, these are the materials, this is the house type we’re using, we just want to roll these out.”’ Architects felt that design codes could be helpful to them as a tool to persuade reluctant builders to design to higher quality standards. It provides them with a basis to highlight the significance of aesthetics as part of building. As one respondent commented, ‘we’re working with the volume house-builders, it’s almost like doing idiot-proof design. You know, how can we design in such a robust way that it’s strong from a design point of view but it can’t be de-speced . . . or if they do try and de-spec it, it’ll still work’. In a somewhat softer tone, another architect said that design codes can ‘help to endorse and set base standards for a culture of design’. Similarly, another research participant felt that

The national house-builders don’t like them, because the national house-builders have invested a whole generation of time into creating their own house types, into creating their own build methodologies, into creating their own material supplies, their own sources of supplies, and anything which makes them break from that investment they are very uncomfortable with.


We had a database from the House Builders’ Federation (HBF)†, I think we wrote to sixty, seventy [house-builders] and we said, ‘This is the X project, this is what we aspire to. Would you like to be involved and if so can you send us some examples or an example of something interesting that you’ve done?’ We had quite a large response back. The quality of work, development that had been built, was truly disappointing, and in the early stages it was more difficult to get developers to agree to build a design code; they thought it was a cost, an overhead.

Testimony from a British-based urban design consultant, 2007. †

The HBF is, in their own words, ‘the voice of the home building industry in England and Wales. Our members deliver around 80% of the new homes built each year. We represent member interests on a national and regional level to create the best possible climate in which they can deliver the homes this country needs’ (http://www.hbf.co.uk/).

Figure 8.1

Builders’ attitudes to design codes.

coding could ‘strengthen architects’ arguments against others who see design as a luxury’. It was felt that design codes’ emphasis on a holistic approach to the urban ‘will raise designers’ awareness of the wider environment beyond the individual site boundaries and encourage a more coherent approach to urban design’. Such coherence is part of assuring a minimum quality of design as part of a broader public interest (see Figure 8.2 for a view from the USA). A number of respondents felt that design codes were indicative of a political reaction to the excesses of the speculative developer, and part of a broader social movement to reinstate design at the fulcrum of the spatial development process (Bentley, 1999). One architect outlined what the rationale for design codes is: ‘the code might well be something that we see in terms of the public interest; that it’s there in a sense to safeguard, protect, to delimit, to define what the public interest is in relation to building design’. For another, the coding process can provide protection for the public against the market imperatives of the construction industry to (re)produce minimal design quality: ‘design codes are there in the hope they can drive quality of the 249


There are many firms now that do design guidelines and there are some who do very, very specific design guidelines, you know, whereby they say the buildings along the street here have to have arcades and there has to be a corner turret at the corner like that and it has to have a little dome, and there has to be a string course at such and such a level and the windows have to be vertically proportioned. And the reason why certain planners specify things like that is they say if you don’t specify it . . . most buildings that get designed are so crummy that unless they follow the guidelines it’ll look awful. I had an interesting debate with a friend of mine about this, and he was saying talented architects always know how to overcome the challenge of a design guideline and do something that’s very good, it’s the less talented ones that you’re aiming at. And his attitude is to tell them how to do it and that’s what they will do. I think our approach is not as rigid as that, because I think we’ve seen ourselves sometimes they can be a real straitjacket. I think you’ve got to say ‘What is important?’ It’s holding the street wall line, for example, it’s a height limit, it has to do with the definition of the public realm, it has to do with car access and things of that nature and service aspects, and it has to be general enough to be capable of being understood and agreed to immediately. Because I think, you know, if people are going to start fighting with the regulations from the very beginning then there’s a tendency for those just to get pushed aside, you know, they’ll get abandoned. They should be so self-evident that people say, ‘Yes, I can work with that.’ So it’s getting that balance between what are seen to be obvious rather than what seem to be overly restrictive. It’s easy to design guidelines, I think, for a city that has an accepted and agreed architectural vocabulary. I mean design guidelines for a city like Santa Barbara here, on the California coast, is relatively easy because the city has an agreed architectural language, it’s all in Spanish mission, there are so many examples that you can follow, in terms of white stucco walls, pan-tiled roofs, you know, Spanish details, arcades, portals and balconies and such like, that that’s an agreed architectural language that everyone can relate to. Cities where there isn’t that common language are much more complex and the challenge is to try and find what are the essential elements of a city that are agreed upon and respected that one can use. Particularly if you’re talking about just the creation of the background buildings, the urban fabric. Testimony from an architect, 2007.

Figure 8.2

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A rationale for design codes – a view from California.


end product up because they can spell out to people what they want. Meanwhile the procurement industry, especially in housing, is concerned with driving quality down’.10 There was, however, scepticism about how far ‘the public interest’ can be met by design codes given that, in the UK, they have a weak basis in law and are not a mandatory part of the spatial planning process. As one architect suggested, without legislative powers, guidelines can be ignored: ‘the danger is, of course . . . if you set guidance and it’s not backed up by regulation, because of all the commercial imperatives in the market . . . both private and commercial [clients can say] “Do we really have to do that? How can we not do that?”’ These views contrasted, however, with others supportive of a broadly voluntary framework, or where non-legal directives provide scope for discretion about how far, and in what ways, codes should be used. One respondent outlined a commonly held view: ‘I don’t have a problem [with design codes], but I do think they need to be quite loose . . . I think they [should be] guidance rather than codes, it’s a bit like the British Standards, you know . . . it’s good and sensible to set a standard and it’s also quite good that they’re not actually mandatory’. Respondents felt that the rationale for coding is due to mistakes made in past planning policy. As one architect said, ‘It’s a reaction to the dreadful mess that we made . . . you know, with the normal private housing estates, the cul-de-sac crap that we produced right across the country that was simply allowing builders to do what they wanted’. The irony for architects is that the past mistakes of planning may well be replicated by what they perceive to be an extension of its powers through the context of the coding process. For most respondents, then, the design code represents an extension of the mentalities of planning, and a perception of the architects eclipsed by planners and the reduction of aesthetics to the rules of bureaucratic procedure and process. One architect voiced fears that prescriptive codes would result in planning officers being less open to more creative designs. As he said, ‘the planners can’t see past it, you see. And if they say you can have this, that’s it, all you can do is that. They’re not prepared to look at anything that might be [outside of the codes], you know. That’s the problem’. This reduction of design coding process to no more than the exercise of state (political) authority and jurisdiction, or the administration and control of architects’ aesthetic judgements and expertise, was seen, by most respondents, as akin to the policing of architecture, and the propagation of a culture that does not trust professionals to deliver what is appropriate (also see Bentley, 1999). As an architect outlined, ‘the last few years have been nothing but directives by government, to do this and do that, and design codes are just an extension of this’.

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Others were cynical about local authority officials controlling a process that tended to be characterised by use of broad-brush design principles. One architect outlined a widely held view: ‘they [local authorities] have policies that are practically meaningless, like new buildings should be sympathetic to their surroundings. That means absolutely nothing. And you add discretion to lack of precision you give enormous power to bureaucrats’. Not surprisingly, these observations were the basis of ambivalent feelings expressed by the majority of our survey respondents about design codes (Table 8.1). There were 52 respondents (22%) who either agreed or strongly agreed with the statement that the introduction and use of design codes is a good thing. However, 91 (38%) neither agreed nor disagreed, while 94 (39%) disagreed or strongly disagreed with the statement. For one respondent, design codes have ‘become more omnipresent’, while, for another, they have potential to curtail architects’ creativity. As he said, ‘if you were to do a trawl of press over the past two years, then there’s quite a number of them that would see codes as this thing infringing on their creativity’. This was a common sentiment with another architect suggesting that ‘there is a kind of, an understanding that codes are very much about setting a huge amount of rules that are going to tie down architectural freedom, and some codes undoubtedly do look to, I mean if you have a set of rules then obviously they’re going to tie down some aspects of what you do’. In contrast, some respondents refuted the suggestion that design codes stifle architectural creativity. As one architect noted, ‘well, my response to that sort of comment would be what is it that can’t be done . . . show us the brilliant schemes that fell at the hurdle of regulation. I don’t believe they exist.’ Several people were of the opinion that the best architects were able to maintain their creativity whatever codes they are subject to. As a respondent commented, ‘I think creative people will always think out of the box, to the extent of being able to


Number

Percent

4 7 45 91 71 23 241

1.7 2.9 18.7 37.8 29.5 9.5 100

Table 8.1 ‘The introduction and use of design codes is a good thing’

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Frequency

Percent

4 3 53 106 58 17 241

1.6 1.2 22 44 24.1 7.1 100


beat a certain amount of rules’, a view expressed by another architect who felt that ‘good design is produced by good architects and a good architect can produce it with a code, same as everything else’. Others, however, expressed some caution: ‘in a way [codes] are good because they raise the general tone of everything, but on the other hand . . . you have to be skilful as an architect and not get bogged down by them’. There was doubt expressed by most respondents about design codes raising the quality of architecture in ways anticipated by government. While research by CABE (2006) and DCLG suggests that design codes can raise the quality of design, architects’ attitudes towards the use of codes were more mixed. For many, a design code is primarily to assist those with limited creativity or the inability to produce good design without prescriptive guidance. As one architect commented, ‘all they’ll do is stop bad design messing the place up’. Another concurred in suggesting that a design code is ‘a defence against the appalling, but what you’ll find [is] the high end architects will say is it’s almost a guarantee of the mediocre’. One respondent suggested that ‘design codes are very much a safety net . . . so that the design standards don’t fall below [it]’. In a more positive vein, another noted that design codes ‘will improve the lowest common denominator but good urban design and architecture should still be able to flourish’. These views were reflected in responses by respondents to the statement that ‘the use of design codes is likely to raise the quality of urban design’. As Table 8.2 shows, while 56 (23%) respondents feel that design codes are likely to raise the quality of design, 106 (44%) neither agreed nor disagreed, and a further 75 (31%) either disagreed or strongly disagreed that this would be the case. The negative comments focused on the perception of a reduction in architects’ autonomy in influencing the design process and, as one respondent commented ‘design codes only encourage uniformity and kill initiative’.

Table 8.2 ‘The use of design codes is likely to raise the quality of urban design’

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Underpinning such views was a sense that good design was dependent on an architect’s skills, rather than being tied to the use of external standards such as coding. As one respondent said, ‘quality comes from the quality of the designer not prescriptive standards’. Another architect suggested, ‘if you were to take the view that the architect is the only one qualified in design, who else is qualified to tell him what to do?’ A number of respondents were concerned about a formulistic design process emerging, based on the production of a limited range of architectural styles that appeal to like-minded individuals. For one architect, ‘the design guides can risk actually putting the Victorian era, for instance, in aspic, and . . . not allowing design which is applicable to the period to evolve’. Another suggested that the coding process was propagating no more than a new design orthodoxy described as being based on creating ‘a place where it’s got a lot of character and it’s people friendly’. In their analysis of coded developments in England, Carmona and Dann (2007) found that the content of design codes was indicative of a series of common design aspirations. These included traditional urban design with perimeter block urban forms, and a desire to integrate with surroundings and produce a high-quality public realm. As one architect said, ‘it would be awful if one got a universal form of design code. I think it should be special to the place’. The irony here is that in trying to counteract the alleged bland uniformity of the built environment produced by modernist design and development processes, the application of design codes may well be part of a process described by an architect as (re)producing ‘just lez and Lejano (2009: 2947) another form of uniformity’. Romero Gonza describe such uniformity as an outcome of the new urbanism planning discourse that promotes ‘a traditional Anglo Saxon and middle class image’ of urban form. For one architect, design coding in the UK has become absorbed by the specificities of new urbanism and, as he said, ‘some of the new urbanism codes, for example, are very specific and prescriptive and . . . they set out a sort of kit of parts and exactly the things that you can do’. The danger, as one respondent said, is that design coding may be no more than another way of (re)inserting a ‘built environment devoid of character and sense of place’.

b) Interacting with the design coding environment Architects’ understanding of what design codes are is based on little or no knowledge or experience of them. We rarely spoke to an architect that had worked with design codes or who had been involved in their development or implementation. More often than not, the typical responses to the question of what experience they had in working 254


with codes included, ‘I haven’t had very much . . . experience of working with design codes’, ‘I don’t have any . . . really direct experience of that’, and ‘no, not much, to be honest with you. No.’ For one respondent, such responses can be understood, in part, by architects not wanting to engage with design codes or the coding process, and feeling indifferent about, sometimes hostile towards, government initiatives to encourage the use of them. One architect articulated a commonly held viewpoint: ‘I don’t think it would be unfair to say that to some extent architects have kind of disengaged from the process of codes.’ This disengagement reflects, in part, the reaffirmation of architects’ identities as ‘stand-alone’ professionals or, as Sarfatti-Larson (1993: 12) suggests, those that seek to reaffirm a ‘specialised body of knowledge’ (also see Bentley, 1999, Till, 2009). Even where architects are involved in, and subscribe to the views of, the movement to create a holistic urban design approach to place-making, there is reluctance to relinquish, or cede control of, what is regarded as the core of architecture. As one architect said, ‘a lot of architects that are involved in masterplanning [and] design coding, all call themselves urban designers, [and] are not interested in delivering construction’. For this architect, working with design codes requires good dialogue and communication between the constituent parts of design teams but, as he suggested, this is a weakly developed part of the process: ‘and there’s even a lot of architects who, you know, their practices are entirely to do with front-end design – nothing to do with delivery’. Some respondents felt that there was professional resistance to the culture of design codes, or its propagation of a place-making agenda premised on breaking down distinctions and differences between different parts of the development process. As one architect said, design codes are about ‘championing the skills of urbanism, that is something beyond architecture’. Here, the professional status of architects is brought into question, a process, as discussed in previous chapters, which has not gone wholly unopposed by organisations such as the RIBA. One respondent described the setting up of an ‘Urbanism Group’ within the RIBA, and outlined some of the problems in getting it accepted. As he said, ‘what we found was impeding its progress was the fact it was in the RIBA, and this made it more difficult for us to bring people in on an equal standing from the other disciplines that are very much involved in urbanism. You know, some of the landscape architects, civil engineers . . . because it was seen as an RIBA controlled thing’ (also see Till, 2009). The struggle for control, in relation to design codes, also reflects perceptions that the coding process has potential to reduce the quality of architecture and the stature of architects. One architect felt that the design coding process could become a ‘tick-box thing’, and he

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suggested that ‘design is a very difficult thing to define. There is obviously the brief that you have, you fulfil your brief, but a lot of design is more than that’. For others, there was the fear that their interactions with the coding process would have, as one person put it, ‘a stultifying effect and then a flattening and deadening effect on environments and I don’t think that would be appropriate’. Some respondents expressed a fear that the coding process may require less architectural expertise and know-how, with the likelihood of contributing to the deskilling of architects’ work. One architect’s experience of dealing with design codes required little creativity because, as he said, the local planning authority thought the codes were ‘etched in stone’. The potential for the coding process to make architects insignificant to the design and production of specific building-types, particularly volume housing, was highlighted by a number of respondents. For one architect, the changes are potentially profound: ‘I suppose, there’s scope for cutting architects out of the process here . . . if you’re modelling codes within 3D CAD systems and using web interfaces to make them publicly available, then there’s potential to source directly from manufacturers or construction firms and for individuals procuring their own housing, to respond much more directly to the parameters of the code, so you potentially have a different delivery process’.11 Others also felt that codes might render architects superfluous. As one architect said: ‘the reason why a design code is being developed is so that any old person . . . can come along and do a development without ever getting an architect involved’. The evidence for this is, however, equivocal at best and, as Carmona and Dann (2007) suggest, design codes need not necessarily render architects superfluous or a marginal part of the development process. In a major residential development that we studied, Newhall in Essex, the design code contains mandatory built-to lines, minimum building heights, parking solutions and construction specifications (also see the case study below). The code does, however, allow considerable freedom for architectural expression within these master plan geometries (also see Figure 8.3). As one of the architects working on the scheme said: you can then, if you want, have a free hand, you can use traditional buildings if you want or you can use . . . conventional styles but you can also have contemporary designs, and that’s not done in most places . . . We didn’t want to say all roofs have to be this pitch and all window-sills . . . We wanted to move away from that and give a sort of free hand to the architects to do something that they’re not normally allowed to do with national house-builders.

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Well, we think there’s better ways of affecting construction details and that level of design, and our codes tend to be at three levels. As we define it, level one is about movement, patterns, and hierarchy, level two is 3D form and massing, and level three is detail of the public realm and architecture. So in the third category you might have colour and materials palettes for buildings, you might have performance specifications for buildings, but we don’t think . . . that you can get good architecture by having prescriptive design codes. And having defined a context for which architects can respond to, you find architects, you get good architects, they do respond well to that, and I think the way to do it is through choosing the right architects to work with, really, and then having a construction dialogue and if they can come up with an improvement to the master-plan then we change the master-plan. Testimony from an architect, working on a design code, 2007.

Figure 8.3

The iterative process of design coding.

While the Newhall-style developments may be more exception than rule, it appears to be part of a shift in the mentalities of UK developers, whereby there is evidence that house-builders are looking to provide a much more variegated range of house types and styles. The design coding process, for some architects, is crucial in this respect and one that opens up possibilities for them to work differently, and expand their portfolios or range of operations. For one respondent, interactions with builders on a major residential development at Upton, Northampton, was placing architects at the core of the process. As he said, the whole principle of Upton is about engaging the volume house-building industry, to break their moulds. They are so used to churning out these things in a financial model, Upton is about giving them a bit of a test-bed and then try something out, and using design code as a bit of a stick to get them to do it . . . I think the design codes have, in a way, forced their hand a little bit, to get architects involved to crack the codes, so to speak.

Others were less optimistic that design codes, in and of themselves, could change the operations of volume builders (Figure 8.4). As an architect commented: ‘I really don’t know how useful the design code is actually going to be in the long term, to be honest . . . In terms of changing the way developers do things. No . . . I don’t think a design code alone would actually do that.’ Rather, for this person, long-lasting change depended, in part, on broader cultural changes, and the ability for architects, with other design team members, to demonstrate to 257


builders some of the alternatives to the production of a standardised house-type. However, this person was still not optimistic of changing builders’ attitudes or approaches to the design of dwellings: ‘I think it’s more, we, on other projects that the office is doing, we actually work with their in-house team to help them develop dwelling types, but again, what will stop them from stopping there, once they’ve developed a new set they just carry on rubber stamping them, blahblah, potato stamping them’. The problem with the national house-builder is that, this is my view, is that the national house-builder is vertically structured, so you have one department, which is the land buyer, goes and buys the land. He’s bought the land, he then hands it over to design. Design then works up the house types to go on that site, he then hands it over to construction, construction then builds it, and construction then hands it over to sales. That’s how they think it works; they’re vertically [organised]. The problem with them is the land buyer can’t talk to construction and design can’t talk to sales, because the whole process doesn’t allow it in the British house-building industry. They’ve all gyrated around the industry, you’ll find the average land buyer, for example, has probably worked for nine of the national house-builders, he’s probably worked for them all at some stage in this cycle. Now that creates huge problems because when you get a complex design code scheme you really need to learn the whole way through the process. You can’t take all the expertise you’ve learnt in negotiating the land purchase and then discard it all when you start constructing the houses, and that’s where they’re going wrong, OK. Now my company is totally different. My company’s three people, I’ve got two companies, I’ve got a sustainable technologies company, and my housebuilding company’s three people because I subcontract everything else, but I stay with the project from the very first sight of the land right through until we have sold the last house. That’s the way it is. And all of that corporate knowledge which we’ve learnt through the process stays with us. Does that make sense? The other problem, of course, is they’re driven by accountants, these companies, and they really do go down to the last screw. I’m convinced that the national house-builder has no aspirations to make any change until he absolutely has to. He’s making money, he’s a plc, he’s got shareholders meeting every year, he’s got a board to answer to, all he’s concerned about is making money, and if he can, we’ve got a shortage of housing in Britain and if he can sell architecturally substandard properties for good money why is he going to [use design codes]? He just isn’t.’ Testimony from a private house-builder, 2008.

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Figure 8.4

A builder’s observations about house-builders.

we genuinely think in the long term it will be, it will make financial sense as well as design sense. I think everybody could, in theory, benefit, because I think residents will benefit, the community [will benefit], we think that in the long run the land values will compensate for the extra costs that we put into the design and even out, or may even be better.


This respondent highlighted a fundamental constraint inhibiting the widespread use of design codes, that is, the costs of developing them (also see Figure 8.4). Carmona et al. (2006) note that the coding is resource-intensive, but suggest that the benefits outweigh the costs. An architect involved in writing design codes partly concurred in outlining the case for supporting the coding process: ‘our argument is that . . . you probably have to take a hit on the first phase, not necessarily but probably have to take a hit, maybe ten, fifteen, twenty per cent hit. But after that you’ll get it back in land value.’ One individual involved in a major housing development made a similar comment,

The realisation of this depends, in part, on a well-organised and coordinated process that, for most respondents, was often absent or weakly developed. One of the key areas of potential organisational weakness, so respondents said, is the relationship between those responsible for the development of the master plan and those for its implementation. Often these are different parties and, as one architect said, the whole idea of coding concerns a lot of architects because if it’s not handled extremely well and there’s no synergy between the executing architect and the master-planner, then it actually can be a hindrance rather than a guide or a framework to work within. Which is why, I think, as a profession we’re somewhat sceptical.

Others concurred, with another respondent outlining issues where a code is inherited, or where there is no contact back to the original designer: ‘if you’re not careful . . . there’s a dislocation between those that do master-planning and design coding, and they never get near the detail . . . the architects that are responsible for delivering . . . against these design codes, you know, they’re completely different’. Scepticism was also expressed about how far design coding was likely to become a common feature of the development process. For one architect, the problem is gaining commitment from different actors to fundamentally different ways of working and organising project development and delivery. As this person outlined, the 259


social relations of the development process are not easily predisposed to the organisational and practical challenges posed by design coding: one of the main things we’re finding about codes is that unless there’s an enthusiasm and a buy-in . . . from the various different people who are linked into the project, then you might as well forget it, because it’ll just make your life hell for the duration of the project, if there’s not a kind of fairly solid support to go through that process . . . it’s time consuming and it’s expensive and you’ve got to put the effort in at the start, believing that there’s going to be a pay off somewhere down the line in terms of the time that you’re going to save, and the process somewhere, at some point in the future, will be smoothed out.

The outcomes can, however, be productive and, for some respondents, design codes are part of a rationality of planning or a potential means of systematising parts of the development process and ensuring some continuity in relation to the design and construction of the built environment (Carmona, 2009, Carmona et al., 2006). The design code, as a form of regulation, has merit in providing long timeframes for development, has the potential to ensure a level of design consistency among construction teams, and even over the lifetime of longer projects. As one individual involved in a design-coded development explained, a design code ‘is a useful document for partners or future partners to have a basis from which to work on . . . because you know . . . this is going to take about ten years to complete, by that time people come and go and so on and you know . . . the discontinuity would have affected the project.’ In addition, where multiple developers are involved in building over several years, design codes can help to maintain a level of design consistency and ensure greater financial certainty for landowners. As a respondent said, ‘When a developer buys into a project, and you might be selling the next phase while he’s finished his phase, he’s confident that the next phase isn’t going to completely screw it up, so there’s a level of mutual confidence in there and that’s, see it’s all part of the master planning process’. However, another respondent who has worked with design codes questioned their practicality: I think it’s more of a flavour of the month, to be honest, in the last few years . . . it’s just not sustainable in terms of the expense. You have additional regulation, you therefore have to have additional enforcement, and it’s really quite simple. And when the resources are so depleted in local authority level it’s just impossible. 260

While the use of design codes is not a new phenomenon, the evidence in this chapter, and elsewhere, shows that they are becoming a more prevalent part of the design and development process (Dovey et al., 2009, Walters, 2007, Carmona, 2009). This is largely due to the failures of large-scale, planning, building, and construction programmes to provide well-designed urban environments. Observers note that the combination of standardised building techniques and technologies, and planning systems based on land use allocation and zoning policies, has done little to facilitate innovation in relation to design, or the creation of spaces that respond to physical setting and social diversity and difference (Ben-Joseph, 2005a, Holsten, 1998, Rowe, 1993). Rather, the legacy of modernist planning, design and development processes is etched into places characterised by poor-quality public spaces, bland architecture, and fragmented urban structure that inhibit ease of mobility and movement or access for different cohorts of the population (Rowe, 1993). The emergence of design coding can be understood, then, as a response to an urban crisis related to the unsustainable nature of the design and functioning of much of the built environment. The development of design coding also ought to be understood in relation to context-specific factors, at a national, local, or urban level. In the UK context, design codes appear to be part of a political economy of urbanism characterised by governments seeking to create more efficient ways of regulating the practices of one part of the development industry’s volume house-builders. Given the high projected demand for new dwellings, governments seem to be unwilling to repeat past mistakes of letting house-builders provide what one architect characterised as ‘a backwardly built mass product’ without a higher level of control over the content of housing design. In this respect, the design code is seen as one means of specifying, in advance of the construction of housing, the quality benchmarks of good design, and ensuring that standards remain consistent in complex, and often lengthy developments. The design code is also an instrument that seeks to ensure a higher standard of aesthetic quality by integrating the different components of urban structure and form. Its emphasis on design as part of a craft of urbanism, in distinction to a craft of architecture or the actions of architects per se, provides, so some architects feel, a challenge to their status and raison d’^ etre. As one of our respondents said, the design code is a ‘tool to dictate what the design should be’. Thus, for architects, the design code is an ambivalent object at best and, at


8.4 Conclusions

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worst, part of a broader process that is potentially diluting the scope of architects’ actions. This view was reflected in testimonies, with many architects feeling that design codes are another layer of regulation, forcing them to follow bureaucratic diktat, rather than responding to, and nurturing, a creative impulse. It is something that, in Habraken’s (2005: 24) terms, works against the Palladian impulse, that is, ‘the urge to be original [as the] guiding force and compulsion of architecture’. An alternative view, held by some architects we spoke to, is that design codes need not be regarded as any more reductive or less likely to produce good design than the actions of architects operating in a non design-coding context. As one architect said, ‘doing a set of design codes doesn’t abdicate designers of [their] responsibilities’. These responsibilities include not only interpretation of codes, and developing the design detail and content of them, but also seeking to work within the field of activities that make up the coding process. This field comprises the complexity of what makes up architecture and the built environment, or, as Habraken (2005: 37) says, ‘designers are beholden to the field; it shapes our interventions far more than our work can transform it’. This shaping means that it is incumbent on architects to understand the different field that design codes are part of, in order to ensure that they can contribute, constructively, to the ways in which the coding process is able to transform the built environment. This represents a challenge to architects, and the architectural profession. It requires a transcendence of narrowly construed professional interests, based on the rejection of coding as a threat to ingenuity, creative practice, and the integrity of architects. Rather, design codes, and the processes they are based on, are part of a broader (re-)regulation of the practices of architects that provide possibilities for creative interactions with not only other professionals, but, more importantly, the consumers and users of the built environment. We say this because too much of the design process is still distanced from the users of buildings and the built environment. The design coding process contains the seeds of a different type of process, whereby architects at least have to think about their (ethical) responsibilities that go beyond just meeting the client’s brief. There is, however, still much to be done to develop what Till (2009) refers to as an ‘ethics of responsibility’ in relation to design, a theme we return to in the concluding chapter of the book.

Case Study E: The Use of Design Codes in Two English Towns

Design Coding in Practice As discussed in this chapter, government sees design coding as a key tool in producing a high-quality built environment, and, in particular, raising the standard of housing design. This case study focuses on two English developments, Upton in Northamptonshire and Newhall in Essex, and discusses some of the complexities in taking a design coding approach to residential development. Both schemes are located on greenfield sites and have attracted a series of design awards and media attention. Those involved in the projects view coding as a way to drive up design quality, and to ensure a coherent aesthetic across different development plots. Drawing on interviews with personnel involved in both schemes, this case study looks at the processes behind the development and implementation of the design codes at each site, and concludes with some broader reflections on the use of design coding in England.


Upton Upton is part of a mixed-use urban extension situated on the outskirts of Northampton, a town of 190,000 people located in the East Midlands of England. It has been identified by central government as a place for further growth (ODPM, 2003; ODPM, 2005b, ONS, 2001). The site is part of the 760-hectare (1879 acre) Northamptonshire South West District. This is a predominantly undeveloped area earmarked in local plans since the 1980s as a suitable location for an extension to Northampton. In 2004, the South West District Spatial Planning Review was published, with the aim of developing six ‘individual self-sustaining communities, with linkages to shared facilities and services’ as part of the urban extension (Halcrow Group, 2004: 11). The 44 hectare (108 acre) Upton site will house one of these sustainable communities, and has planning permission for up to 1220 dwellings, along with two schools, retail and community facilities, to be built in phases across several land parcels (Halcrow Group, 2004).

Creating the codes Upton was granted an outline planning permission in 1997 as part of Phase One of the South West District strategic urban expansion. The landowners, English Partnerships,1 working in partnership with the Prince’s Foundation,2 Northampton Borough Council and EDAW,3 an urban design consultancy, established the Upton Working Group in 2001. The Group was set up to oversee the development process in its entirety, and to create a place that would be an exemplar of best practice in sustainable urban growth (Northampton Borough Council, 2009). Reflecting English Partnership’s commitment to community engagement, in 2001, an Enquiry by Design process was instigated by the Working Group to update and develop the 1997 plans. Enquiry by Design, as a process, is rooted in the principles of collaborative planning, and involves bringing together a range of stakeholders, including community representatives, and planners, in workshop-style meetings to develop collectively the design brief (Energy Saving Trust, 2006; Prince’s Foundation, undated). The culmination of this process was a week-long hands-on design workshop that led to the production of the Upton Urban Framework Plan in late 2002.

The Upton Urban Framework Plan The Upton Framework Plan sets out a number of features that stakeholders considered to be critical to the success of the development, including a mix of housing styles, densities and tenures, designs that are sympathetic to 264

The Use of Design Codes in two English towns

local styles, access to public transport, and the provision of community facilities (Energy Saving Trust, 2006). The Plan also contains the Upton Design Code, which was used as a way to shape the appearance of streets and blocks, giving consistency across the development. The code sets out a hierarchy of street types, including mews and courtyards, which establish the dimensions, use of materials, street trees, street furniture, and the treatment of boundaries between public and private spaces for each street type. The site is also divided into four character areas: Urban Boulevard, Neighbourhood Spine, Neighbourhood General and Neighbourhood Edge. Each character area is accompanied by codes specifying building type, density, height, layout, and land use characteristics. The level of specification varies for different parts of the site. As one interviewee explained, ‘the public realm is designed . . . that is where we have most control down to the specification. Whereas the buildings we just feel that we shouldn’t be restricting the architects and the designers that much’. The design code also establishes the environmental standards required at Upton, which include a sustainable urban drainage system (SUDS), the use of recycled and/or locally sourced materials, and measures to conserve water (Energy Saving Trust, 2006). The code was not designed to be a static document, and was subject to revisions and updates where necessary, with an amended code published in 2005.

Figure E.1 Character of an Upton mews street, Upton Design Code. Credit: Homes and Communities Agency (HCA)/AECOM Design þ Planning

Ensuring code compliance The Upton site is divided into eight land parcels, which developers competed for through a two-stage selection process, overseen by the Upton Working Group. The first stage of bidding was judged purely on design merit as a way to ensure that design bids closely reflected the content of the code. As one member of the Working Group explained, ‘we have very clear evaluation criteria, which reflects the structure of the design codes, so we would be scoring them accordingly.’ If successful, developers were invited to submit a stage two bid, which included financial criteria, alongside the design content of the bid. Figure E.2 265


Issue of Tender Documents to Developers

Design Development Using:

Design Code

Standard information & requirement site constraints drawing DC

Development Brief

Design dialo gue w ith project team

Stage 1: Project team assessment of tender response

DC

Design Code Workshop (developer team attendance mandatory)

Stage 2: Project team assessment of schemes

DC

Selection of Preferred Bidder

Design Elaboration with Project Team

DC

Planning Submission Consent

DC

Implementation Monitoring

DC

Figure E.2 The developer selection process at Upton. Credit: Homes and Communities Agency (HCA)

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illustrates how the developer selection process unfolded at Upton, and shows how the design code featured within the process. Once a developer was appointed, and building work was underway, ensuring code compliance became a site-based activity. Members of the Working Group, and the site manager, monitored construction to ensure that developers stayed within the parameters of the code. As discussed earlier in this chapter, a criticism of the use of design codes is that they restrict architectural freedom and may lead to a uniform style of development (Ben-Joseph, 2005a). However, those involved in Upton felt that a high level of architectural diversity was possible within the parameters of the code. An architect who had worked at the site explained, ‘it’s just reading between the lines and interpreting what the overall achievements are rather than being blinded by the presumptions’. As Figures E.3 and E.4 demonstrate, while housing in a traditional style characterised the first land parcel, homes of a more contemporary appearance featured heavily in subsequent phases of the development. Aesthetic diversity was felt to be a key feature of Upton, and is enshrined in the design code to ensure that the development appeals to a wide range of tastes. As one interviewee explained, On the one hand, you have developments . . . which you would imagine certain people would live in it, and then there’s other town houses further along. And

Figure E.3

Housing at Upton, first land parcel.

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The Scope of Regulation Figure E.4

Housing at Upton, later land parcel.

then further up the site . . . there will be something which is small . . . more middle England, arguably, and then there will be those . . . kind of . . . rural houses, which again appeal to a very different category.

Newhall Like Upton, Newhall is a planned new neighbourhood located on the outskirts of an English town, Harlow in Essex. The Newhall development, located on 200 acres (80 hectares) of privately owned farmland, is ambitious in scope, featuring 2800 new homes across several land parcels, alongside business and leisure facilities such as work–live spaces and restaurants. Construction of Phase One, consisting of 440 homes, began in the spring of 2000, and development continues to be expanded in phases of around 50–100 dwellings. In common with Upton, progress of the development at Newhall is overseen by the landowners, John and William Moen, who manage the project through New Hall Projects Ltd. As their website states, ‘We have a responsibility to this place. Our family has lived here, our roots are here. So it was important for us to create a community that would be recognised for its quality of design and quality of life’ (http://www.newhallproject. co.uk/). 268

A master plan, created by urban designers Roger Evans Associates in the early 1990s, set out the fundamental design principles of the development.4 These included the conservation of natural assets and local distinctiveness, and the provision of a mix of housing types. These principles were translated into land parcel briefs through a design code. Figure E.5 shows the regulating plan for Newhall, which stipulated factors such as minimum build height and where landmark buildings should be located. The code also specified details such as approved materials, as well as providing guidance on building typologies, and the relationship between building edges and the public realm. A colour palette based on local materials and soils was developed in collaboration with a local artist as a way to produce distinctive, yet sympathetic designs at Newhall. As the landowner explained in interview, ‘We had . . . a colour study done early on with an artist, and I think it’s a fairly important thing to do because . . . you get . . . an artist’s eye really on what makes the locality unique . . . and that’s what makes it special to the area, you don’t have to copy all the designs . . . you can then have a free hand’.


Creating the codes

Figure E.5 Newhall regulating plan. Source: Drawing courtesy of studio|REALÒ

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The developer selection process The developer section process at Newhall shared many similarities with Upton. Land parcels of around 100 homes were put out to competitive tender, with a handful of developers invited to submit bids from initial expressions of interest. However, during the first phase of the development, several major house-builders withdrew from the process, finding the demands of the project, namely complying with coded design requirements in the initial bidding stages, too risky. Even the selected developer, Barratt Homes, one of the UK’s largest house-builders ‘felt compelled to use a more standard product on half the parcel to reduce exposure’ (Evans, 2003: 35). When it came to the second land parcel, the Newhall project team decided to approve architects themselves, rather than leave the selection of architects to developers. Here again developers found the Newhall approach challenging. The winning developers, Copthorn with Proctor and Matthews

Figure E.6 Cala Domus, Newhall. Credit: CALA Domus.

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The Use of Design Codes in two English towns Figure E.7 Housing at Newhall by PCKO Architects. Photo credit: Image courtesy of studio|REAL Ó

architects, experienced opposition from city investors unsure about backing the project, when they could invest in more ‘standard’, less-risky schemes (Evans 2003: 35). The tendering process continued to evolve in response to these difficulties, and with the third land parcel a concept design scheme was produced before a developer became involved. An architectural competition saw three firms selected, along with one developer, Cala Homes. The resulting Cala Domus development phase, totalling 74 units, was completed in 2005, winning a CABE gold standard design award.

Ensuring code compliance The Newhall design code is applied by a legal agreement which accompanies the land sale, in which the landowners stipulate that drawings must be approved prior to planning and building regulation applications. However, the purpose of the coding requirements is not to ‘monitor individual architects’ but rather to ‘ensure that developers don’t depart from agreed architectural intentions between concept and construction’ (Evans, 2003, 35). While the code authors maintain a strong level of involvement in code enforcement, deviation from agreed plans is still a common occurrence on site, meaning that design quality is sometimes compromised. As Roger Evans, director of Newhall master planners, Roger Evans Associates, explained, ‘We have been faced in many cases with the choice of enforcing the legal agreement and causing severe 271


disruption to purchasers and occupiers or letting some mistakes stand’ (Evans, 2003: 35).

The challenges of coding Upton and Newhall are in many ways atypical examples of large-scale housing developments in the UK. Both developments are characterised by strong leadership from landowners and other project partners, which, particularly in such large schemes, requires a high level of resourcing. Sustained involvement from landowners has been especially critical in maintaining a coherent design approach across land parcels, that, while allowing for diverse house types and styles, ensures that fundamental features, such as design and build quality and sustainability standards are in place. As an interviewee explained, ‘what happens when you have big schemes and a lot of land and it gets sold to a lot of different developers, you can’t always sort of police it and I think it was [the landowner] then actually decided to sort of prepare a proper design code that . . . everyone’s [going to] follow’. However, it was recognised by those involved in the schemes that this was unusual. As one interviewee commented, ‘Often in development control no one, apart from the landowner, has quite such a strong position, you know, local authorities don’t have the resources to police and monitor something that strongly.’ Both schemes have been developed on an incremental, long-term, basis, with the code-making process taking up a considerable amount of time within the development process. As a designer involved in writing the Upton design code commented, ‘a question I get asked time and time again is, does [using design codes] speed up the planning process? But that depends where you start measuring. It does get through in eight weeks . . . but [it’s] the amount of work . . . the year before’. The length of time needed to develop a code through an Enquiry by Design process, such as that seen at Upton, represents a significant investment of resources that few landowners appear willing or able to support. There are other challenges associated with schemes that aim for a higher standard of design than more typical development models. As Roger Evans argues, ‘The problem with innovative schemes is that regulators such as highway adoption authorities work from manuals of “standards”. It takes time to get everyone on board . . . the landowner persevered here but many house-builders have felt obliged to take the simplest route to approval by following set standards’ (Evans, 2003: 35). One interviewee agreed that at Newhall this was the case, ‘[The landowner is] quite passionate about what they [want to] do and they’re not just . . . flogging the land, they’re passionate in making sure there is quality sustainable development, which is what this is all about.’


The varied housing styles seen at Upton and Newhall go some way to addressing critiques of design coding which claim that codes will produce a homogenous, usually traditional, style of building. However, a related concern, is that coded developments may price some sectors of society out. In a study of house pricing at 152 New Urbanist developments in the USA that often utilise design codes, Talen (undated) found that over 90 per cent of the developments were unaffordable for someone on the average teacher’s salary for a given locality (also see Steffel Johnson and Talen, 2008). Such claims appear to resonate with the Newhall and Upton schemes, which have seen properties sell quickly, at prices above neighbouring developments of a comparable scale.5 This may indicate that UK homeowners are willing to invest in quality design, something that, as a Newhall Projects team member suggested, developers often fail to acknowledge, ‘we were told at the beginning by a lot of developers that . . . the public aren’t interested in contemporary designs because they’ve done their research and not many people are living in contemporary designed houses. Well, part of the reason for that of course is there’s not much choice around’. However, the high housing prices at both of the developments will not dispel fears that design coding increases (build) costs, and may be a factor in further increasing social inequality in housing. As one interviewee admitted, ‘properties like that will hold value better than some of the others that will come up here. So in a way that’s the kind of exclusion, it automatically excludes certain [people]’. While sharedownership schemes may go some way to addressing some these concerns, it remains the case that developments such as Newhall and Upton command a premium price for a high-quality product. In summary, the Upton and Newhall cases appear to suggest that design codes are most effective in schemes where the landowner or project team is able to assume a leadership role throughout the design and development process. This seems to be particularly important in enforcing code requirements in large-scale, multiple-land-parcel developments, of which Upton and Newhall are examples. However, as interviewees from both projects pointed out, the leadership structures in place at Upton and Newhall are far from the norm for residential developments. Instead, projects tend to be overseen by commercial developers who are generally much more focused upon delivering profits for investors, often at the expense of build quality. Despite attempts by government and industry actors to raise the (design) quality of residential developments, it seems an unrealistic prospect to expect a marked increase in the numbers of such high-quality schemes in the near future, particularly given the economics of the UK building industry, and (at the time of writing) the global recession.

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Chapter Nine Regulation and the Practices of Architects: Concluding Thoughts ‘. . . building is controlled . . . by zoning and housing acts, plumbing and electrical codes, fire and health regulations, and labor laws, all of which in some jurisdictions may affect the design, construction, and use of buildings’. (Vermilya, 1941: 133)

Vermilya’s (1941: 130–13) evaluation of American building legislation in the 1930s suggested that there was ‘convincing evidence of the magnitude of the effects of building ordinances’, including ‘unjustified expense’ being ‘placed upon society with attendant undesirable social and economic results’. These observations were not new, nor have they been supplanted since. They are longstanding and deeply rooted in the socio-cultural attitudes and values of society, in which there is antipathy towards the regulation of building form and performance. This is evident in relation to a contemporary example, a nationally recognised code about residential fire sprinklers and its proposed adoption by some states in the USA. The National Association of Home Builders (NAHB) has sponsored bills in different states seeking to outlaw the national code on sprinkler systems, and in North Dakota, a bill proposes that ‘neither the state building code nor a building code adopted by a city, township, or county may include a requirement that fire sprinklers be installed in a single family dwelling or a residential building that contains no more than two dwelling units’ (Residential Fire Sprinklers, 2009: 1) Whether or not the NHAB’s campaign will succeed, it is only one example of the socio-political nature of regulation relating to spatial development, and illustrates Lefebvre’s (1991) observation, that all spatial practices are entwined in systems of regulation relating to



building form and performance. This includes the activities of planners, building control surveyors, and other state-centred agents and also the actions of architects. That is, architects do not operate outside of informal and formal rules relating to design. Rather, as we have argued in this book, they are part of a process in which their practices are constituted in and through a complexity of relationships governed by what are deemed to be appropriate standards relating to building. Such standards are, as Wright (2003: 175) suggests, characterised by socio-cultural and moral understandings of what good urban form is or ought to be, and we concur that regulations need to ‘be taken seriously in their own right, rather than dismissed as Philistine efforts to undermine the integrity of the designer’. The notion of integrity revolves around what architects are, or regard themselves to be. As we have suggested in this book, architecture is part of a paradox relating to, on the one hand, its essence as centred on art and, on the other hand, its dependence on a multitude of other professions for it to be realised (as building). Sarfatti-Larson (1993) refers to the former as insinuating the autonomous nature of architecture, and the latter as implying heteronomy, or what Saint (1983) refers to as architects’ dependence on others involved in the building process (also see Bentley, 1999, Carpenter, 1997, Davis, 2006, Imrie, 2007, Till, 2006, 2009). Such dependence includes architects’ interactions with the complexity of rules and regulations that relate to the making of building form and performance, characterised by Bourdieu (1990: 76) as ‘a juridical or quasi-juridical type of principle that is more or less consciously produced and controlled’, such as a building code or regulation, and ‘regularities that must be followed by everyone who enters a game’ (Lamaison and Bourdieu, 1986: 111). The (re)assertion of the Palladian conception of architecture, as the pursuit of beauty and truth through form production, is one whereby ‘the game’, or the reality of the heteronomy of the design process, is not necessarily acknowledged by architects, or credited by them as creatively contributing to the shaping of the built environment. As data in the book indicate, elements of the design and development process, such as the application of legal and quasi-legal regulation, are usually counterpoised by architects as in opposition to creativity, and regarded as anathema to the attainment of a physical building as a work of art. For many of the architects we interviewed, there is an irreducible logic that regards much regulation as part of a separate sphere or domain of experience and practice that, through its application, constrains the scope of the design process. In this formulation, regulation is part of the mentalities of building, or what one architect characterised as, traditionally, not part ‘of what we do or have been concerned with’.


This perspective is part of a continuing tension embedded into the (oppositional) culture of architecture and building between, on the one hand, seeking to assert individuals’ originality and creativity as the basis of/for architects’ practices, and, on the other hand, being drawn into, and shaped by, modern industrial systems that revolve around the use of building types or design that, potentially, produces aesthetic outcomes shaped by templates and prescriptive rule-based methods. For Lawson (1980: 110), the building type is implicated in outcomes that have a ‘mechanising effect on individual thinking’, and contribute to a lessening of artistic and creative actions in architecture. In contrast, others such as Bentley (1999) suggest that rules relating to form have always been part of architects’ practices, and are constitutive elements of the creative process. Bentley (1999: 53) outlines the example of Frank Lloyd Wright who, as he notes, while always emphasising the value of personal creativity, ‘used a relatively small number of generic types in his own massive output of highly individualistic design work’. Frank Lloyd Wright’s architecture is indicative of the often formal, structured, and rule-based nature of design, and its influence by actors external to the architectural profession. Habraken (2005) refers to this as ‘the ordinary built field’, the activities of which are, as he suggests, not always recognised by architects, and rarely feature as part of their education and training. One of the arguments of this book is that architects’ education, with its adherence to practices of ‘distinction’, such as the ‘crit’ or the design studio model, is partly responsible for the (re)production of the Palladian conception of practice. Matters such as regulation may be conceived as less important than, or immaterial to, ^tre of architecture. For most architects, understanding the raison d’e their exposure to matters of building is often rudimentary, and much of their education and training revolves around analytical attention to physical form. The consequence is limited understanding of what Knox (2007: 120) describes as the ‘social relations that surround the production and meaning of buildings’. One resolution may be to broaden education beyond its focus on the apparel of the built environment. This may be achieved by the development of a critical pedagogy of the design and development process, in which the architect, and their knowledge, is decentred from its focus on ‘building as form’, to open up what Habraken (1999: 28) describes as ‘the professional cage’. Such decentring is not to belittle architecture, or its practitioners, but rather to direct architects’ learning towards what Knox (1987) refers to as the processes underpinning the production of urban spaces (also see Harvey, 2000). This is the recognition that the built environment is a complex socio-cultural product that transcends the application of pure technique. As Michael Hays (1996: 8) suggests, its form is influenced by ‘determinant factors outside of “the building”’. Such factors

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relate to the broader social or material relations of design, including the practical and prosaic operations of the ‘ordinary built field’, of which, we would argue, the rules and regulations relating to different parts of the design and development process are paramount. The decentring of architecture requires its practitioners to reinterpret their situatedness within the design and development process, and to develop a critical literacy that enables them ‘to perceive social, political, and economic contradictions’ (Freire, 1970: 17). Such contradictions may include mis-recognition by architects of the constitutive nature of rules, regulations, and design, and a consequent failure to appreciate the positive role of regulation in influencing design practices and outcomes. The challenge is to develop self-reflexive learning to encourage students to work against architects’ complicity in the perpetuation of the Palladian ideal of the design and development process. This complicity can be changed, in part, by a shift in focus from the self-centred projection of the ego, to the broadcloth of mutual interaction and learning that defines the nature of project development and delivery. The objective of a reflexive learning process ought to be, as Cook (2004: 17) suggests, ‘learning to listen, to learn from others, to learn about difference, and to learn how to alter harmful practices and representations’. Self-reflexive learning cannot occur without changes in the social relations of the learning environment. Fundamental to this is to transform the relationships between educator and student, such that, as Lee (2008b: 194) suggests, the former becomes more ‘a curator of a learning environment than a pedagogue’. The objective here is less to convey a specific architectural knowledge than to create what Lee (2008b: 194) describes as the ‘conditions that make movement to and from bodies of knowledge possible’. In the architectural context, this is to recognise the interrelated nature of knowledge between architecture and cognate disciplines, and to create learning environments where students are able ‘to expand the scope of their theory, inquiry, and practice’ (Gruenewald, 2008: 320). The aim is to facilitate a design literacy by encouraging architects’ inhabitation of the multiple mediations and sources of knowledge that constitute the complexity of the design process and, in doing so, enable them to transcend a narrowly construed knowledge of ‘design as an object’. This transcendence, between architecture and building, is most likely to occur in practice, because of the necessity for different professionals to forego differences in order to work with one another to ensure the completion of building projects. This does not mean, however, that architects’ negativity towards particular ‘cultures of building’, such as the operations of building control or permits departments, will disappear, or that the ‘silo mentalities’ of different professional groups will


easily dissipate and dissolve. Rather, it is more a matter of professionals ‘getting on with the job’. As our data indicate, architects’ attitudes towards design-related regulation, such as building regulations and design codes, are ambivalent, but usually realistic in understanding that they have important roles to play in securing well-designed environments (also see Fischer and Guy, 2009). While some architects may express reservations, even antipathy, it is often more a reaction against the idea of regulation per se, than the actual content, even principles and purposes, of much of the regulatory field. There is, however, a perception by architects that the legal rules and directives related to the design and production of buildings have increased in quantity and complexity, emanating both from state sources and from non-state actors looking to regulate the risks associated with project development and delivery. In relation to statesourced forms of regulation, such as the building regulations, the claims of governments, about the need to ‘better regulate’ by reducing regulatory burdens, and by decentring state controls to a panoply of self-regulating actors and agents, seem to suggest a diminution in regulatory obligations for architects and others involved in spatial development processes. However, for most of our respondents, the situation is paradoxical, in that their reality does not match the rhetoric stemming from government statements. Most architects conveyed, in interview, that there is a ‘regulatory overload’ characterised by an increasing proportion of their time being diverted into the management of issues relating to the regulation of project work. There is also disquiet about changes in the scope of regulation, and the shift of building regulation, and other spatial controls, into matters that many architects consider to be outside the boundaries of what design should reasonably be asked to respond to. One of the unfolding scenarios is that architects, and other design professionals, are being placed at the forefront of managing new urban disorders or risks relating to terror threats, climate change, and international migration. As suggested in chapter 1, governments are seeking to broaden the scope and scale of spatial controls, to incorporate ‘non-traditional’ spheres of regulation. There is little knowledge of how far design professionals are developing the competencies and capacities to respond to what appears to be qualitatively new objects/subjects of regulation and control. This is an important area of research because it relates, in part, to understanding how the tasks of key actors, such as architects, are likely to be transformed, or influenced, by broader societal objectives relating to the production of the built environment. The potential reorientation of regulation, towards new regulatory objects, highlights a perennial debate about the legitimate scope of intervention, and what is reasonable to require of actors, such as

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architects, in relation to (legal) controls of their activities. While the reputation of architects depends on assuring the quality of building form and performance, for many of our respondents the pursuit of this objective is beset by tensions related to the regulation of their activities. One of these, highlighted by Foucault (1979), is ‘whether to govern too much or too little’, a reference to the interventions of the state and the judgement about what the appropriate level of state direction is or ought to be to ensure the (re)production of good quality urban design (also see Dean, 1999). Some of our respondents felt that behaviour by regulators was often of ‘governing too much’, characterised by riskaverse (re)actions unlikely to countenance the use of materials and processes beyond the tried and tested, or to encourage experimentation in building design. This view was an undercurrent of thinking amongst architects, and reflects disquiet with what most expressed as an over-zealous health and safety culture, the actions of which were perceived to be reducing the scope of architectural expression. While some architects feel that much can still be achieved by way of design innovation, irrespective of rules and regulations relating to building form, a majority expressed a view that the risk-averse culture of building was a force for conservatism, and likely to encourage poor design and a mediocre built environment. Gregotti (1996: 33) suggests that the possibilities of such outcomes reflect the dominance of society’s culturally conservative values where political and ‘social conditions have more influence than technical and productive ones’ (also see Cuthbert, 2006). For Gregotti (1996), the subjective value-laden judgements of society hold sway over the value-neutrality of architects, characterised by the shaping of practices that, in Enzensberger’s (1992: 23) terms, are likely to suppress the ‘fundamental conditions for creating works of art’. While Gregotti and Enzensberger may be overstating the case, their defence of the autonomy of art and architecture from the forces of conservatism resonates with some of the concerns expressed by our respondents. There is a perception, often confirmed by practice, of a ‘safety first’ approach to design, characterised by risk-averse behaviour influenced by a litigious culture. Here, the heteronomy of the design process is one whereby the actions of architects are conditioned, even constrained, by other project partners’ requirements, or what Gregotti (1996: 33), describes as the ‘ever tightening limits’ on architecture’s ‘zone of structural endeavour’. From the cost consultant’s concern with cost minimisation and risk reduction relating to budget overruns, to the actions of letting agents in seeking to ensure that design components conform to ‘market expectations’, the management of risky situations generates what Gregotti (1996: 33) describes as ‘yet another version of conservatism’.


Such alleged conservatism is part of a context whereby the management of risk has shifted from prescriptive, rule-based procedures, to the use of verification techniques or what Johansson (2005: 1) refers to as ‘instruments to ensure the attainment of goals have evolved’. A focus of this book has been to highlight how such instrumentation is changing the labour process, in which architects appear to be much more involved in the development of systems and procedures related to selfregulation, or the means to account for their actions and behaviour. Such regulation is redolent of an auditing society, where trust in professionals’ behaviour has to be demonstrated through audits, checks, or what Power (1997) characterises as the technologies of mistrust. As suggested in chapter 6, for architects, and other design professionals, it appears that a logic is emerging of organising processes and practices relating to securing their reputation, or ensuring that they can verify their ability to provide professional, risk-free services.1 There are implications for the labour process and the activities of architects, not the least of which is, as intimated above, the managerialisation of work practices to ensure appropriate responses to regulation and project risks. While the representation of the architect as ‘heroic form giver’ persists in much analysis and writing, most of our respondents did not easily relate to it (Bentley, 1999: 28). Much of architects’ work routines seem to revolve around, increasingly, setting up and managing systems to respond to the demands of both legal regulation relating to building from and performance, and project risks that are manifold in form and quantity. Part of the task, as discussed in chapter 7, is less to do with the production of discrete buildings, and much more a focus on coordinating what Habraken (1999) refers to as dispersed and fragmented design networks (also see Habraken, 2005). Habraken (1999: 26) describes such networks as different partners in any one project bringing with them ‘their own architecture’, or different ideas of what the built environment is or ought to be. The resultant network complexity is characterised by a diversity of, often uncoordinated, conduct between project actors that becomes, in itself, something to be managed. Fischer and Guy (2009) identify this as a potentially new, progressive and responsive, role for architects, that may (re–)centre them within the broadcloth of ‘the ordinary field’. Till (2009), referring to Bauman, describes the emergent roles as ‘architects as interpreters’, an idea analogous to Fischer and Guy’s label of ‘interpretive intermediaries’. These descriptions are not dissimilar to the notion of the ‘master builder’ of yesteryear, an identity that was abandoned following attempts to professionalise architecture during the 1800s. Whereas this professionalisation sought to restrict architects to conceptual design, the master builder role was one whereby architects oversaw both design and construction elements

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of development. They did so by using a (reflexive) skill set that may now be valuable in mediating between the different professional expertise(s) and knowledge(s) that characterise the contemporary building industry (Fischer and Guy, 2009). Transformation in the labour process, in relation to architecture and development, is an area of research that requires further investigation. The data we generated suggest that the emergence of rules and regulations relating to the conduct of the design process may have (work-based) benefits for architects, but more particularly for other professional groups, such as consultants advising on regulatory compliance (Jones, 2010a). Knowledge of, ostensibly, ‘externally’ imposed regulations becomes capital in the architectural field, and it is a potential source of job enhancement and enlargement, and a basis for developing new, marketable, products and services. As Jones (2010b) has commented, ‘an internal professionalisation emerges around these “humbler executants”’, characterised by the repositioning of architectural technicians, and the appointment of senior management ‘experts’ that become part of a cadre of support of/for the managerialisation of the design process. The book has also sought to convey what Wolff (1981: 1) describes as the ‘historical, situated, and produced’ nature of art and architecture, in which the production of the built environment is critically influenced by specific social and historical formations. In particular, the rules and regulations relating to spatial development, in combination with contextually variable socio-political relations, have the capacity to facilitate multiple outcomes in relation to building form and performance. The key point here is that regulations only exist in and through practice, and such is the specificity of this that outcomes will always be indeterminate and open, potentially, to influence from a multiplicity of socio-institutional and political sources. This understanding reflects, in part, Anthony Giddens’ (1979) discussion of structure-agency, in which ‘rules’, such as language and musical scales, open up potential for innovation, resistances, and creativity and, as he suggests, it is not just that structures constrain agency, but that rules facilitate as well as limit what can be done. These points are particularly to the fore in relation to respondents’ understanding of the context-specific or situated nature of regulatory processes. For some, legal regulation has the capacity to constrain, even reduce, the scope of architects’ actions that, in different circumstances, may not transpire in the same way or with similar outcomes. Rather, depending on the combination of actors, their values, and predilections towards the regulatory field, regulations may facilitate an opening up, and provide possibilities for, greater scope for design activities and outcomes. The contrast reflects, in part, the diversity of socio-institutional contexts within which regulation, as a process, is


enacted, and the importance of regulatory interpretation by different actors in influencing design and development outcomes. As we have intimated throughout the book, regulation is neither pre-given nor a static object that is imposed, externally, but rather is part of series of socio-political and institutional relations embedded into specific project contexts. Such contexts are suggestive of the diverse geographies of architecture, and highlight the need for much more research about how differences between nation states, in relation to socio-regulatory processes, influence design practices and the shaping of urban form. Differences in regulatory form, and the governance of regulation, are also apparent at sub-national scales, and research by Faulconbridge (2009), about the localisation of global architects’ practices, raises critical issues of how the place specificity of regulation, or its embeddedness in particular spaces, is important in the shaping of places. It may be the case that some types of regulation, in some places, are much more ‘productive’ that others. Conversely, it may be the case that some types of regulation, in different regulatory contexts, are more likely than other types to restrict the scope of architects’ practices. Such observations open up possible lines of enquiry about the socio-political significance of regulation, its form, content, and rationale, in the production of urban space, a research objective that we hope this book has gone some way in addressing. There is also much to be done to develop research that seeks to understand the political nature of urban form, and to evaluate the regularisation of urban space as part of a broader series of political processes and relationships. An instructive paper in this regard is Brand (2009) who considers the ways that design conventions can be utilised to shape and influence people’s behaviour. This includes legally binding state-controlled regulations and codes, along with a growing raft of standards issued by non-governmental bodies. Referring to a case study of Belfast, Northern Ireland, Brand (2009) suggests that the sociopolitical situation requires particular design approaches, such as the removal of bushes and trees in contested residential spaces that would otherwise provide cover for perpetration of violence. For Brand (2009: 2671), while building conventions reflect societal objectives to ensure people’s health and safety in the built environment, they ‘are also intended to create or assert shared bodies of knowledge and common understanding between different actors, and they typically embody struggles over power and influence’. Such struggles are manifestly part of a contemporary urban politics that revolves around conceptions of what the good city is or ought to be in relation to the attainment of sustainable urban forms (also see Mumford, 1961). The socio-political struggles relating to regulation are well

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highlighted in work by Moore and Wilson (2009) about green building codes in Austin, Texas. This provides an illustration of how equity issues are often sidelined in favour of the use of regulations that seek to ensure the primacy of economic development and environmental protection. Moore and Wilson (2009) point to the potency of codes, not only as signifiers of political values, but as mechanisms and instruments of governance that absorb and reproduce the dominant socio-political value systems. As they note, codes are not only technical instruments designed to improve efficiency and ensure safety; they also represent particular value systems at specific points in time. That is, ‘codes of all kinds are both an index of changing social values and at the same time a strategy to enforce those values’ (Moore and Wilson, 2009: 2618). Architects’ testimonials in this book bear witness to the observations of Moore and Wilson (2009), in suggesting that the significance of spatial regulation is less as the application of objective, technical, measures or instruments, and more as political phenomena, embedded in juridical and politicised actions and outcomes (also see Ben-Joseph, 2005a, Dovey et al., 2009). Time and again, architects in our study referred to the politically charged nature of different regulatory contexts, the value biases of regulators, and the partialities related to the interpretations and applications of rules and regulations. There is much more to be done looking into what we might call the discursive construction of regulation, and a need, following the work of people like Dovey (1999, 2005), to investigate how the design of places is defined in and through legal regulation. This should be shaped, we would argue, by specific value systems, competing discourses of what good urbanism is, and by attendant political forces and struggles. Regulation is, ultimately, part of a broader system of social and moral governance that seeks to (re)produce places consistent with normative considerations of what the good city is, or ought to be. This is, as we have suggested, part of a political process, and regulation, and its formation and application through modes of interpretation and implementation, ought not to be disregarded by architects, or others, with a stake in influencing the form and performance of the built environment. There is, one might argue, an ‘ethic of responsibility’ attached to the architectural profession, and its practitioners, to engage with matters of regulatory formation and practice in ways whereby questions are asked by architects about the right and appropriate course of action. For Max Weber (1991: 127), this is ‘a responsibility for the consequences of [their] conduct’, placing onus on actors, such as architects, to take a moral stance in relation to their practices, or what Starr (2010: 418) describes as ‘a form of moral endeavor within the context of the value struggle that emerges in ethical and institutional life’.

Endnotes Chapter 1 1. A letter of invitation by Elijah Huge in 2001, to write a paper about regulation and design, drew our attention to some of the thinking that architects were doing about the interrelationships between design, codes, and the codification of architecture. The subsequent publication of an edition of Prospecta, edited by Elijah Huge (2004), provided a source of inspiration for much of what we discuss in this book. 2. In contemporary architectural practice, obligated and entwined relationships are part of the complex dynamics evident in design teams, or what Habraken (2005: 28) describes as ‘where form, inhabitant, and maker are functionally integrated and semantically joined . . .’ 3. A consequence is that there are many studies of taste, style, aesthetics, and buildings, but very few of architects’ interactions with regulatory forms, such as building regulations, beyond those that present the application of regulations as restricting architects’ practices and likely to inhibit the creative process (Burns and Mittelbach, 1968, Knesl, 1984, Saint, 2001). Saint (2001), for instance, makes the claim that building regulations matter more than architecture in influencing the design of the built environment. As an example, Saint (2001: 25) refers to the London terraced house that, he suggests, ‘is more or less the clauses of the building regulations turned into brick and mortar’. 4. Alberti in his famous treatise, ‘On the art of building in ten books’, first published in 1450, outlined the view that ‘the carpenter is but an instrument in the hands of the builder’ instilling an understanding of the architects’ omnipresence and relative autonomy in the process of the design and construction of buildings (cited in the English translation, Alberti, 1988: 3).


Emdnotes 286

Chapter 2 1. From Part L of the British building regulations, requiring minimum thermal standards in buildings, to the Americans with Disabilities Act, requiring designers to sensitise building design to the movement of wheelchair users, the body is central to the setting of different combinations of rules and regulations relating to the design of the built environment. On the interrelationships between architecture and the body, see Bloomer and Moore (1977), Dodds et al. (2002) and Imrie (2003). 2. Calculation, for Crampton and Eldon (2006: 681), was characterised by quantitative and qualitative forms, the former including ‘Cartesian geometry, numbers, counting, and the mathematisation of the subject’, the latter comprising ‘ranking, ordering, organising, and measuring’. 3. Burnett (1986: 114) notes that the 1774 Act was intended to prevent fire and other health risks emerging from buildings but, as he says, ‘it became associated with municipal interference as well as architectural monotony and largely accounted for the contemptuous dislike that many Victorians subsequently viewed the Georgian period’. 4. Health and safety relating to buildings was, in most countries, a local matter, and there were significant variations in the quality of building materials used in construction, the standards of workmanship, perceptions of risk, and safety expertise. As McLean (2003) notes, local jurisdictions in places like the USA did not prioritise health and safety in buildings, and the allocation of resources for inspection and personal safety was insignificant throughout the 19th century. Platt (2005: 43) also describes the poorly organised nature of fire services in the cities of mid 19th century America, suggesting that ‘there was no municipal fire department. Instead, volunteer companies competed, often violently. It was not unusual for one company to battle another while a fire burned itself out after destroying several buildings or even an entire city block’. 5. Saint’s (1983) account of the architectural profession notes that the rise of building regulations in the late 19th century helped to develop architects’ identity, and to extend their influence over aspects of the building and construction process. As Saint recounts, clients’ lack of knowledge of building law, and builders’ lack of literacy and managerial skills, provided opportunities for architects to establish themselves as ‘intermediate agents’, acting as brokers or those able to deal with the complexities of building.

Endnotes

6. The regulation of building form and performance was, therefore, part of a highly political and politicised arena, characterised by a complexity of socio-institutional and legal processes and use of strategies by key actors to ensure that regulations became part of accepted policy and practice. For instance, an approach by local English authorities was to develop building regulation by appealing to public health and safety concerns as a way of diffusing possible opposition. Knowles and Pitt (1972: 162) suggest that in the last quarter of the 19th century, it became increasingly commonplace for local government to extend the scope of sanitary laws as this ‘was politically an easier way of dealing with housing quality than a full frontal attack on the rights of property’. 7. The regulation of urban space was particularly manifest in places such as New York as part of a process to enhance rental values, and maintain a distinctive character or visual quality to the built environment. Shuffield (2002) shows that in the early 20th century, the regulation of visual order in New York, in relation to building lines and heights, was part of a process to secure the spaces for local upmarket merchants. They were intent on preserving what Revell (1992: 29) refers to as ‘the genteel appearance and economic value of Fifth Avenue’ from encroachment by the garment trade. 8. The history of regulation relating to design and building is also characterised by private zoning or property owners seeking to set their own conditions relating to the structural quality and performance of the built environment. For instance, Blackmor’s study of Manhattan in the late 19th century describes how private landed interests used covenants to guarantee a minimum quality of urban design. Contemporary versions of this include the use of design codes in new residential developments. For instance, gated communities are characterised by standard setting that, in Ben-Joseph’s (2004: 133) terms, facilitate ‘innovative spatial and architectural layouts, and, sometimes, unusually sensitive environmental design’. 9. The Chinese and Soviet examples were part of a broader ideology of place-making that posed a problem for architects wedded to the Palladian ideal of architecture as the pursuit of beauty and art. In the Soviet context, throughout the period from the 1920s to the end of the 1960s, architects were often castigated for, allegedly, perpetuating a divide between architecture and building that, as one commentator suggested, was likely to ‘lead to a new academicism, isolated from life’ (El Lissitzky, 1929: 5).

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Chapter 3 1. These views are part of broader public opinion, one version of which is displayed on an American website that encourages people to write about their building code experiences. The site is called www. dirtcheapbuilder.com (site accessed 10 June 2010) and its headline is ‘Please keep in mind . . . “A house built to code is the worst house you can build”’. This sets the tone in which contributors to the site provide information about how building codes vary from one place to another, and advice about how to avoid their stipulations. A typical entry is from Dan Johnston, a real estate agent, who says that ‘Iowa has no real building codes . . . you just do it . . . it is great to see people’s reactions especially when they have fought through California-style building inspectors’. Another entry, by Coenraad Rogmans (www.housealive.org/nlprinciples.htm, site accessed 9 March 2009), gives a flavour: ‘building codes support the building of toxic homes, devoid of natural materials (except milled wood). By prescribing minimum sizes of rooms, numbers of outlets per walls, over engineered structural components, irresponsible waste treatment systems (sewage and septic) and cold and hot water at multiple locations, buildings have become outrageously expensive. We now have this weird thing going on, where it is deemed irresponsible and illegal to live in a simple, small, cottage by candle light’. Such views are not just evident in the USA. In the UK, an organisation called the Libertarian Alliance outlines its cause, ‘to fight statism in all its forms, and to engage in long-range propaganda for the Libertarian alternative’. In writing about planning and regulation in relation to housing in Germany, Jansen (1984) outlined some of the anti-regulatory views associated with the Libertarian Alliance: ‘people should be free to build houses from the skulls of their ancestors held together by sea-gull droppings on prime inner-city building land. If you let people go with their own brand of madness on their own land at their own expense, they will soon be so busy at it that they won’t have the time left to attempt to impose it on us’. 2. The OECD (1997) has noted that ‘no government activity in OECD countries has grown faster since 1980 than government regulatory functions’ (cited in Jacobs, 1999: 1). Other evidence also suggests an increase in regulation. For instance, by the end of 1991, according to the US Government’s own figures, the number of new federal rules under consideration had risen to nearly 4900 in 1988. Likewise, the number of people employed by US federal agencies writing regulations – as calculated by the Center for the Study of American

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Business at Washington University in St Louis – was estimated to be 122,000 in 1992 (Warner, 1992). Established in 1997 as a non-departmental public body independent of the UK government, the Better Regulation Task Force (2003: 1) aims to provide ‘independent advice and to challenge government on action to ensure that all regulation and its enforcement accord with the Five Principles of Good Regulation’. Setting these out in a report published in December 1997, the BTRF argue that the principles of ‘proportionality’, ‘accountability’, ‘consistency’, ‘transparency’, and ‘targeting’, are the ‘basic tests of whether any regulation is fit for purpose’. In January 2006 the BRTF became known as the Better Regulation Commission. The Commission continues the work of the BRTF in addition to assuming new duties such as vetting government departmental plans for simplification and administrative burden reduction, as outlined in the 2005 budget. The BRE’s rhetoric, like that of the CEG and counterparts in places such as New Zealand and Australia, is related to debates about what (re-)regulation ought to be, and how roles and responsibilities should be redefined in relation to who regulates and how. The BRE model appears to follow what Clarke (2000: 26) describes as a route ‘to apportion blame and credit for the risks’ arising from business activities. This much was identified by the former Chancellor of the Exchequer, Gordon Brown, who outlined the rationale of better regulation as promoting a ‘risk-based approach to regulation to break down barriers holding enterprise back’ (HM Treasury, 2005: 2). For further details of the modernisation programmes of Labour government’s, between 1997 and 2010, see Newman (2001) and Powell (2008). The complexities of the USA coding systems are described by a number of authors, and we direct readers to these for additional details and information. See, for example, Listokin and Hattis, (2005), Moore (2008), and Moore and Wilson (2009). The debates about sprinkler systems and other means of combating fire raise controversy and are part of perennial struggles between vested interests in the USA. For instance, in 1987, there was a national debate about requiring sprinkler systems in every house in the country. House-builders said that it would make housing unaffordable, and fire departments that it would reduce the need for fire fighting staff with implications for jobs. The debate has erupted again with the ICC introducing a fire sprinkler mandate that stipulates that from 1 January 2011 all new residential homes must include fire sprinklers. Opinions are divided. Smith (2009b: 1) outlines reaction from firefighters, including Alan W. Perdue, the

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Guilford County, North Carolina, emergency services director, and a member of the International Association of Fire Chiefs’ board of directors, saying that it ‘will save lives . . . It’s one single item that can truly help us decrease the number of injuries and fatalities annually.’ Reports on various websites show that builders and others in the development industry are unhappy with the new mandate. On one website (below) it says: critics argue that the cost of building a new home is already high, and that adding the expense of fire sprinklers may turn some homeowners away from the building process. ‘I am including a fire safety system in a home that we are currently building,’ Jim Moras, owner of Highmark Builders of Burnsville, Minnesota, says. ‘In this case, we are putting it in based on a request from the homeowner. But I think the industry is balking at having a mandate that demands sprinklers in every new home built, potentially driving up the final house cost’ (cited at: http://fwnextweb1.fortwayne.com/adv/special/easyliving09/0019.html).

8. The consequence is a reversal in where new homes are being built, or as the respondent said: ‘When I came to work for the city 30 years ago somewhere around 85 percent of the new homes were being built inside the city limits, today somewhere around 75 percent of the new homes are being built outside the city limits’. 9. Similar criticisms, amongst others, are directed towards the use of design codes, which, it is argued, frontloads the cost of design onto developers, leading to a slower and more costly design and build process (chapter 8, also see Carmona et al., 2006; Carmona and Dann, 2007). However, such claims are rejected by others, such as the former deputy prime minister, John Prescott (2003a), who, in a speech at the Prince’s Foundation Traditional Urbanism conference in November 2003, announced his intention to use coding to produce, ‘attractive, well planned environments quickly and efficiently’ (also, see chapter 8).

Chapter 4 1. For Crysler (1995: 208) the transmission model of learning ‘assigns everything that differs from the corpus of knowledge and practices embodied in the figure of the architect to a marginalized, private realm’. Crysler (1995: 210) asserts that a key part of this ‘transmission model’ of education involves students being encouraged to sever connections between personal and professional worlds in an attempt to produce a ‘standardized product: a professional armed with a corpus of marketable skills’. 290

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2. Jeremy Till (2009: xi) provides some feeling for this by describing his personal experiences of his formative educational experiences. Recalling his first week in architectural school he describes the ‘boot camp pedagogy’ based around the use of rapidograph pens and their use in what he terms a precedent study exercise, in which ‘each of us had to trace a complete set of drawings of some piece of iconic architecture’. In slightly mocking terms, Till (2009: xi) suggests that the exercise was one whereby ‘slavishly copying the masters the hope must have been that some of their aura would be transferred to us innocents’. 3. Carpenter (1997) notes that, during the medieval period, architects were involved in both design and construction and were commonly referred to as a ‘master mason’ (Hill, 1996). The master mason was responsible for most stages of the process, and Shelby (1964: 389) describes them as individuals who ‘worked within the framework of an organic tradition [and] knew their building material at first hand’. In distinction to the later disjuncture of architecture and building, the master masons operated in ways whereby ‘there was not that separation between the architectural idea and the execution of the idea that is characteristic of modern building’ (Shelby, 1964: 389). 4. This also led to a broadening of the syllabus consisting of lectures in the history of architecture, theory, construction, perspective, and maths. By the early 20th century, additional subjects, such as physics and chemistry, geometry, and building law, had been added to the curriculum. As Broadbent (1995) describes, teaching was clearly demarcated, with theory taught by one set of people in the classrooms, and design by another in the ‘ateliers’, a model that dominated architectural education until the 1920s. 5. Well-known figures who spent time at the Ecole des Beaux Arts included Henri Labrouste, Julien Gaudet, Henry Hobson Richardson, and Louis H. Sullivan. See Roth (1993) for a fuller account of the Ecole. 6. One of the more florid descriptions of institutions such as the Royal Academy of Architects and the Ecole des Beaux Arts was by the 18th century French painter, Jacques-Louis David, who proclaimed that they were the ‘last shelters of all the aristocracies . . . they employ cruel means to smother budding talents and monastic revenge against any young man whose natural gifts put him beyond their tyranny’ (cited in Till, 2009: 11). 7. In the UK, the education of architects is ratified and validated by the Royal Institute of British Architects. It has overall responsibility for defining the broad form and content of educational provision in over 40 architectural schools. The route to qualification is divided

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into RIBA Part 1, RIBA Part 2, and RIBA Part 3. Part 1 is a three-year undergraduate degree seeking to develop a broad range of skills and architectural understanding. Part 2 is two years full time, seeking to enhance students’ architectural knowledge and understanding of project complexity. Part 3 is two years of documented professional experience including final written and oral examinations. On the successful completion of the three Parts, students can register as an architect with the Architects Registration Board (ARB). Cameron (2003: 2) suggests that the Bauhaus school’s programme was outlined as including ‘all practical and scientific areas of creative work . . . Students are trained in a craft, as well as in drawing and painting, and science and theory’. However, the teaching methods and styles of the Bauhaus School did not really differ much from those that were used at the Ecole des Beaux Arts (Anthony, 1991). Duffy (1995) also argues that the specificity of the skills that architects need to acquire, namely training in design, necessitates a holistic approach to education and training. As Duffy (1995: 120) states, ‘design, which means inventing the future not just for ourselves but for the people for whom we work, is the essence of the kind of knowledge that architecture represents’. For Duffy (1995: 121), training in design can only be developed through a combination of university-based study and exposure to the world of commerce, or as he puts it, ‘we need both the academy and practice; it is a coalition. The profession is as good as a school and the schools as good as the profession.’ Between February 2008 and February 2009 the number of architects in the UK claiming unemployment benefit rose by 760% from 150 to 1290 (ONS, 2009). In the USA, architectural and engineering services employment fell by 7.9% between June 2008 and July 2009 (see http://newsletters.agc.org/datadigest/category/datadigest/). Such figures show the exposure of architects to an economic downturn in building and construction activity, and are part of a case, by the AIA and RIBA, to encourage architects to diversify their skills to increase their protection in periods of recession. We asked respondents to the postal survey the year that they graduated from architectural school. The data show that 185 respondents (or 77% of the sample) graduated after 1970, with the majority of respondents graduating in the period between 1971 and 1990 (151 respondents or 53%). Only 2% (or 5 people) had graduated since 2001, and 6 (2.4%) of the sample graduated between 1951 and 1960. Stevens (1995: 112) quotes a member of the AIA Committee on Education who said, in 1906, that the point of architectural

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education was to breed ‘gentlemen of refinement’, and that ‘an architect is a man of culture, learning, and refinement’. Carpenter (1997) suggests that the separation between construction and design during education has contributed towards the erosion of the architect’s role in current practice (also see chapter 7 for a discussion of this point). Carpenter (1997: ix) has advocated the use of construction studios as one way to incorporate construction practices into architectural education. This incorporation, for Carpenter (1997: ix), ought to ‘inspire architects and students to see construction as a creative act’ (also, see Liebing, 2007). Computer-based work is a significant part of architects’ education, although most respondents felt that they had received less than adequate education about computer-aided design (CAD). Indeed, while 89% of our postal survey respondents felt that architects needed to receive training in using CAD, only 12% said that they received adequate training in the subject matter. He also felt that over-reliance on working with computers had a negative impact upon office communication. As he explained, ‘and what happens as well . . . we had an incident where our computers crashed, and I went downstairs in the studio and they were all sitting doing nothing, so I said, “What’s going on?” “Oh, the computers have crashed.” And I actually picked up a pencil and said, “That’s a pencil, that’s a notepad, now, talk to each other and work out the details that you’re working on this particular job.”’ Most respondents recognised that they also lacked the relevant skills base when they entered practice. As one person stated, ‘when I started here I felt like I was starting from scratch, in terms of what was expected of me working in an office. I didn’t feel like anything I’d done in like three years at university [was relevant] . . . And everything that I thought was relevant to, you know, actually being a practising architect I’ve learnt here rather than [in education and training]’. In most offices, it is commonplace for expert assistance to be available. In one practice, ‘the librarian generally keeps things in order and . . . issues a monthly information bulletin of new legislation, regulations, publications . . . we find these to be a very useful resource in order to keep up to date and they are an important part of our CPD programme’ (Roberts, 2006). For Duffy (1992: 137), the call for cooperative professionalism is based on his observation that ‘professional exclusivism has had its day’. Duffy (1992: 137) suggests that a new approach to training ought to be ‘based on particular skills and specific knowledge, but biased towards a more welcoming, inclusive approach to neighbouring and allied disciplines’.

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Case study A 1. The Private Finance Initiative was introduced to the UK in 1992 by a Conservative government to encourage greater private sector involvement in the development and management of public services. It is a form of public–private partnership (PPP). A government document (Allen, 2001: 10) describes PFI in the following terms: ‘public procurement programmes, where the public sector purchases capital items from the private sector, to an extension of contracting-out, where public services are contracted from the private sector. PFI differs from privatisation in that the public sector retains a substantial role in PFI projects, either as the main purchaser of services or as an essential enabler of the project. It differs from contracting out in that the private sector provides the capital asset as well as the services. The PFI differs from other PPPs in that the private sector contractor also arranges finance for the project.’ PFI is controversial, and while we do not have the time or space to write about the controversies surrounding it, readers are directed to critical writings about its impact on construction by looking at Akintoye et al., (2003), Al-Sharif and Kaka (2004), and Raisbeck (2008).

Chapter 5 1. These legal rules which architects and ‘anyone proposing to carry out building projects’ are obliged to follow come in the form of Documents A to P, and Regulation 7 together with various related publications. Such specifications, regularly being updated, are set by the government as minimum standards for building design and construction, and are there to ensure ‘the health and safety of people in and around buildings by providing functional requirements for building design and construction. The regulations also promote energy efficiency in buildings and contribute to meeting the needs of disabled people’ (DCLG, 2010b). There are a number of government departments and the European Union who advise people on the implementation of building regulations but the DCLG Building Regulations Division is the department at the forefront of taking responsibility and dealing with building regulations in England and Wales. 2. An observation about architects making excuses and blaming regulations for their own failings was made by one of our respondents. This was not an uncommon viewpoint: ‘These type of comments are made by thin-skinned architects are often the less talented and they’re always looking round for some excuse about why the 294

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building isn’t great or why it hasn’t won an award or why no one wants to publish it. And it’s kind of, “Oh it would’ve been brilliant if only that building control officer would’ve let us do that”.’ 3. The revised Part L of the Building Regulations, ‘Conservation of Fuel and Power’, came into force on 1 April 2002, and was extended in 2005. It seeks to improve the energy efficiency of all buildings. For existing buildings, including historic buildings, this means reducing heat losses – particularly through windows – and also means introducing much higher standards of insulation. A number of commentators have outlined how they think it may impact on architects. For Lynne Sullivan (quoted by Kucharek, undated), who chairs the Part L working party of the Building Regulations Advisory Committee (BRAC), the proposed changes potentially have a big effect on architects. She says: ‘The consultation is suggesting design stage energy performance calculations – some are even asking for validation of performance of micro-renewables at planning, to be submitted at stage D and passed on to Building Control. In this regard, the onus will be on the architect for basic things such as building orientation and glazed areas, as they will be committing at planning stages to a design that works – and could be seen as negligent if the building fails at Building Control stages. Detailing at design development is going to become crucial. Gone are the days when this could all be left to the engineers.’ Sullivan believes this is pulling energy-saving measures into the realm of the design and access statement, and points, in an ideal scenario, to planning and Building Control policy running in tandem. 4. Architects’ misgivings about statutory regulation of design are particularly to the fore in relation to the operations of the planning system. From our postal survey data, 68% of respondents (163) felt that planning regulation and control hinders the design process. For one architect, the problem for him is having to compromise ‘to suit the whim of planning officers unqualified to judge design matters’. Others felt that the planning system was anathema to good design because of the bureaucratic and subjective orientation of its practitioners: ‘planners are interested in guidelines, policies and procedures. Architects are interested in wanting to improve the environment’; and ‘personal taste inevitably creeps in where it should not’. 5. Part M of the building regulations relates to disabled people’s access to buildings. This regulation, like all, is administered through a government ministry called the Department for Communities and Local Government (formerly the Office of the Deputy Prime Minister).

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6. The partnering scheme is called the ‘Partner Authority Scheme’ (PAS) and Local Authority Building Control (LABC) operates it. Partnering enables companies or advisers to ‘partner’ with their preferred local authority, who then adjudicate applications wherever they are submitted in England. In each individual area, the local authority in close liaison with a partner authority can carry out site inspections, under the PAS. 7. The working party includes, amongst others, the following individuals: David Bonnett, DB Architects; Michelle Brannon, London Borough of Camden; Caitriona Carroll, JRF; Jonathan Chapman, Environment Agency; Clive Clowes, Housing Corporation; Gillian Connor, Age Concern England; Geoff Cook, University of Reading; Julie Cowans, JRF; Mike Donnelly, Habinteg Housing Association; Sandra Duncan, ODPM; Michael Finn, Barratts plc; Julie Fleck, Greater London Authority; Rob Imrie, University of London; Mike Johnson, ODPM; Chris Mills, National House Building Council; David Petherick, ODPM; Mike Roys, Building Research Establishment; Andrew Senatore, Countryside Properties; Andrew Shipley, Disability Rights Commission; John Slaughter, House Builders Federation; Mike Wright, Building Research Establishment.

Case study B 1. As Henderson (2006) suggests, overcoming such conflicts is often dependent upon a greater awareness of, and sensitivity towards, local contexts. As she argues, coding standards that facilitated straw-bale building in New Mexico were predicated upon ‘local, contingent interactions, grounded in particular social practices, material culture and written in visual texts in which group and individual values were embedded’ (Henderson, 2006: 262).

Chapter 6 1. Construction, Design, and Management (CDM) regulations are administered by the Health and Safety Executive and apply to most common building, civil engineering, and engineering construction work. The most recent approved code of practice is CDM 2007. The code of practice states that the objectives of CDM regulations are to ‘integrate health and safety into the management of the project and to encourage everyone involved to work together to: (a) improve the planning and management of projects from the very start; (b) identify hazards early on, so that they can be eliminated or reduced at the design or planning stage and the remaining risks can be 296

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properly managed; (c) target effort where it can do the most good in terms of health and safety; and (d) discourage unnecessary bureaucracy’ (Health and Safety Executive, 2007: 7). 2. Our thanks to one reader of the chapter for this observation.

Chapter 7 1. This ideological and intellectual retreat from the more mundane elements of construction had begun, in part, during the Renaissance period. As Habraken (2005: 22) notes, while the majority of architects occupied a relatively lowly position in the hierarchy of (building) professionals, or remained wedded to traditional clients such as the church or nobility, elite architects such as Andrea Palladio began to forge new ‘more intimate, less hierarchical relationships’ through the design of personal dwellings, which saw architects such as Palladio join their patrons as members of civic organisations such as the Accademia in Venice, a school of painting, sculpture, and architecture (also see chapter 4). 2. As records from a parliamentary debate in 1937 show, ‘When the 1931 Act came into force the first thing the Royal Institute of British Architects did was to seize control of the [Registration] council. They next seized control of the Board of Architectural Education. They predominated the council, and . . . instead of concerning itself with architects it concerned itself with the glorification and predominance of the Royal Institute of British Architects’ (Parliamentary Debates, 1937: 1513–14, cited in Kaye, 1960: 155–6). 3. Powell (1996: 213) characterises the format of traditional procurement method as, ‘design by consultants, lump sum contract awarded on the basis of competitive tender, contractor builds with the assistance of specialist subcontractors’. In 1998, less than 40 per cent of construction (by value) was procured ‘traditionally’, this compares with over 70 per cent during the mid 1980s (RIBA, 2000). 4. The Sustainable Communities Plan (ODPM, 2003) is the UK government’s spatial planning, regeneration and housing strategy.

Case study D 1. Recent studies on the constitutive relationship between buildings and building-users – or ‘end-users’ – has, as Aune and Bye (undated: 2) argue, ‘provided new knowledge about the socio-material system that a building and the users together represent’. 297

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Chapter 8 1. In November 2003, the Department of Transport, Environment and the Regions commissioned research, exploring the potential of design coding in producing ‘attractive, well planned environments quickly and efficiently’ (Prescott, 2003b). The resulting publication, ‘Design Coding in Practice: an Evaluation’ (Carmona et al., 2006), looked at the potential use of design codes and how they could be applied in England. Design codes are being incorporated into policy and are referred to in Planning Policy Statement 3, in which it is suggested that they are one way to help to improve the quality and value of residential development and accelerate the development control process (DCLG, 2010a). In addition, influential non-governmental agencies such as the Commission for Architecture and the Built Environment (CABE) have also published important research on the use of design codes (CABE, 2008). 2. The debate about tabula rasa in architecture is extensive and contested, and, as Cooke (2004) says, ‘tabula rasa was polemically invoked by artists ranging from Barnett Newman to Tony Smith and Donald Judd, variations on a well-rehearsed desire to leave the past behind’. For Habraken (2005), the tabula rasa, as the point of departure for much architecture, represents architects’ seeking to assert their creativity, based on a critique of the failures of previous architectural styles and traditions. For instance, in the 17th century, Andrea Palladio’s architecture was seeking to overcome what Habraken (2005: 88) refers to as ‘the barbarism of his times’. However, a common feature of the different critiques of architectural style is not necessarily the propagation of a tabula rasa, but a return to the work or ideas of previous periods, or the attempt to develop an architecture embedded into points of historical reference. A sense of recovery of something lost is paramount. This is evident in the writings, drawings, and buildings of Palladio, whose critique of the contemporary style was based on a return to classical Greek and Roman architecture. 3. An important source of information about codes is ‘The Codes Project’. It comprises a website that, on its front page, states that the project is ‘an anthology of the codes, laws and related documents that have created, or sought to create, particular urban forms. It is a searchable archive drawn from a broad array of historical documents.’ It is a particularly useful source of information, and an important resource for those wishing to develop their

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knowledge of the complexity of code-types through history and in different places. The project is based at Arizona State University, Tempe, and receives funding from the National Endowment for the Arts, Duany Plater-Zyberk & Co., and the GeoDa Center, Arizona State University. To visit the Codes Project visit: http:// codesproject.asu.edu/ The need for design codes in the UK may be even more urgent, given a report by the Homes and Communities Agency (HCA, 2009) that builders continue to fail to meet quality standards in relation to design. Here, the HCA is referring to how far builders are meeting their ‘Building for Life’ benchmark, a series of design criteria seeking to ensure that well-designed homes and neighbourhoods are delivered by the house-building industry. Hurst (2010: 12) notes that ‘homes failed on a range of basic measures, including poor space standards and over reliance on single-aspect dwellings; low sustainability standards; and poor compatibility with neighbouring properties’. The response of the HCA’s chief executive, Bob Kerslake, to charges by Alan Howarth, a Labour peer and former architecture minister, that his agency was ‘sanctioning a new wave of grotty housing’, is that the HCA has to ‘balance its commitment to design with the urgent need to stimulate the economy’ (both quotes are cited in Hurst, 2010: 12). Local Development Orders were introduced as part of the Planning and Compensation Act (2004). They permit local planning authority to extend permitted development rights for certain forms of development, with reference to the relevant local development documents. One respondent characterised resistance to the introduction of coding as a divide between those who viewed coding as positive and others who ‘want absolute freedom or he’s not a proper artist, that’s actually where it comes from.’ Others pointed out that it is not only architects that can be resistant to design codes: ‘I think the only people who would find [design codes] restrictive, I would imagine, are architects and developers. The developers from the pound signs point of view, and the architects from obviously the aesthetic point of view; it’s just the way we are trained.’ Design codes have been used for centuries as a way to influence the design of buildings and to shape urban settlements. In 1262, Siena stipulated that housing at the edge of the town should be fitted with battlements that produced a distinctive style of building (Ben-Joseph, 2005a). Similarly, in Georgian England, design codes helped to produce some of the country’s most distinctive architecture such as the Royal Crescent in Bath, and parts of London, such as Mayfair, Kensington and Chelsea, and Notting Hill. In

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France, the grandes boulevards of Paris by Haussman were guided by codes that specified building heights, cornice levels, and the decorative content and style of the streetscape. Adam Architects are committed to traditional and classical design principles. They are forerunners in the development and use of design codes. One of their innovative schemes was a master plan for a development at Granton, near Edinburgh. As described on their website, it ‘provides 473 new houses and a series of public parks and shops within the existing harbour wall. Four new residential areas have been created in the manner of a European walled city, each with their own identity and distinctive landmark buildings. Within this framework is a cruciform street plan with a dense concentration of buildings at its heart. Middle Pier provides cafes, shops, restaurants, offices and public boat facilities, all designed to complement its historic working character.’ The approach has been adopted widely in the Netherlands, Germany, Australia and the USA, and has resulted in such wellknown examples as Borneo Sporenburg in Amsterdam and the B-plan approach used in Vauban and Freiburg in Germany. These examples illustrate a very important by-product of this more openended, negotiated, and essentially democratic approvals process, namely a greater variety and diversity in the way new neighbourhoods are built out. For Carmona and Dann (2007), design codes may raise design quality by challenging traditional development processes, particularly in relation to house-building. Codes establish quality aspirations, meaning that those unable to meet standards can be identified and removed from projects early on. One of the respondents, an architect who has worked on design-coded developments, concurred, ‘certainly working with volume house-builders, where probably design coding is quite relevant . . . it pulls the poorer ones up. It gives a level playing field to start with’. This individual felt that his company had been selected on the strength of their design, as opposed to a financial package. As he said, ‘I think through the sort of tender process it was not so much about the money it was the design of the scheme.’ This architect amplified his statement by noting that ‘already we’ve seen some codes now which are going to be available on websites. If you have a look at, say for example the code for Allerton Bywater, which is one of the millennium communities that EP (English Partnerships) have done, then that code has a web interface, so it has a much more direct relationship with, potentially, the community that are going to live there, and in its modelled form it has a relationship to the manufacturer who, potentially, is going to

Case study E

Endnotes

deliver the housing. You have a whole load of new interfaces potentially available with the codes’.

1. English Partnerships is the national housing and regeneration agency for England. It was re-formed as the Homes and Communities Agency (HCA) in 2008, see: http://www.homesandcommunities.co.uk/ 2. The Prince’s Foundation for the Built Environment was established by the Prince of Wales to improve the quality of people’s lives by teaching and practising timeless and ecological ways of planning, designing and building, see: http://www.princes-foundation.org/ index.php?id¼3 3. Upton masterplanners and urban designers EDAW are now part of AECOM, see: http://www.aecom.com/ 4. Newhall masterplanners and urban designers Roger Evans Associates are now known as studio | REAL, see: http://www.studioreal.co. uk/ 5. The average property price for Upton in March 2010 was £220,357, compared to a Northampton average of £138,811 (home.co.uk). In Harlow, Essex, the average property price in March 2010 was £204,514, which compares to a starting price of £189,000 for a one-bed apartment in the Chase development, Newhall, where 4/5 bed houses cost upwards of £400,000 (see: http://www.findanewhome.com/property-developers/Newhall/13855.fap).

Chapter 9 1. The systems that seek to ensure risk-free project work are illustrative of what appears to be the increasing legalisation of social, political, and institutional relations, and, to paraphrase Berns (1998: 152), the penetration of the design process by contractual relations. Berns (1998) is referring to the phenomenon whereby the contract has moved from the periphery to the centre of public regulation, or what is popularly referred to as the ‘new contracturalism’. While this term is more readily associated with debates about social policy and the restructuring of the welfare state, it has potential for crossover into the study of design and spatial development processes. It relates to what Jayasuriya (2002: 309) describes as ‘patterns and structures of partnership and active agency’, in which the state seeks to encourage self-active and responsible actions by individuals in relation to the management of the risks relating to their lives. This describes much of what the design process is. 301

Appendix Research Design and Methods The book is based, in large part, on primary research conducted by the authors, and it draws on a range of different projects. The book’s substance is primarily based on a research project funded by the Arts and Humanities Research Council (AHRC) entitled ‘The codification and regulation of architects’ practices’ (grant number 119248). This project ran between April 2006 and December 2007. Its original objective was to generate insight into, and discussion of, how architects’ conceptual schema and practices, in relation to building form, style, and materials, are influenced by both statutory and non-statutory regulation in relation to the design of the built environment, with the primary focus on building regulations. There were three research questions: What is architects’ understanding of the role and raison d’^ etre of current rules and regulations in relation to building form? Where is such understanding derived from, and how does it influence architects’ practices? In what ways, and with what effects, are architects’ conceptions of the design process, and related practices, influenced by current rule-based and/or regulatory contexts of architectural production? It was decided that one way of gaining an overview or producing a broad-based evaluation of the interrelationships between architects and (building) regulation was to undertake a postal survey of a representative sample of architectural practices in the UK. Thus, after the completion of ten scoping interviews, with key actors in the design and development professions, including representatives from the RIBA, we devised a postal survey that was sent to 798 RIBA-registered architects in three rounds between June and September 2006. The questionnaire was usually sent to the director of the architectural practice or a senior architect. The sample was derived from a database held by the RIBA and was weighted to be broadly representative of architectural practice size and the geographical location of practices across the UK. We received a total of 241 replies (a response rate of 30.2%). The next stage of the research was in-depth, face-to-face, interviews with a range of architects, working in a variety of different practices, to Architectural Design and Regulation. Rob Imrie and Emma Street. © 2011 Rob Imrie and Emma Street. Published 2011 by Blackwell Publishing Ltd. ISBN: 978-1-405-17966-9

Appendix 304

gain some insight into how they thought about and defined regulation, and the ways in which it influenced the activities of design. In total, 20 face-to-face interviews were undertaken that, when joined up with data from previous projects, that also involved architect interviews, gave a respondent pool of over 60 individuals. Interviews varied in length between one and three hours, and were usually conducted with a senior architect in the chosen architectural practices. The practices varied in employment size, portfolio, and design philosophies. The interviews were based on semi-structured questions or topic schedules that sought to engage respondents in conversation. Supporting documents, such as drawings, architectural plans, and photographs of buildings, and specific design features, were acquired and used as part of the evidence. Follow-up site visits, with a selection of interviewees, also take place to look at specific building projects, and photographs were taken on site. The final stage of the AHRC research design were case studies of architectural firms, including an investigation of the variety of intra and inter networks that define their operations. This part of the research was modified from the proposal to AHRC, to take account of additional time expended in conducting the postal survey and a realisation that our original idea, of conducting five case studies in five different architectural firms, was too ambitious and time-consuming given the limits of our resources. There were also difficulties in negotiating a high level of access to firms, and it took the research team nearly four months to gain access to the two companies that became the focal point of the casework. We approached DMA Architects and John Robertson Architects through previous contacts, and conducted a continuing professional development seminar in each, based on the results of the postal survey, as a way of introducing ourselves. We negotiated permission with the directors of the respective firms to conduct ethnographic research in each, and part of the process included giving verbal and written feedback of progress to the respective practices over the period of the research. In total, the research team spent six months with the two architectural practices. Once we had access to the first case study firm, DMA, we decided that the best way to explore regulatory relations was through the context of specific ‘live’ projects. This involved further negotiating access to design team meetings often coordinated by people external to the architectural organisations. The process of gaining access to DMA was repeated with John Robertson Architects. The two ‘live’ projects were investigated, one per practice, and, in total, this involved 24 interviews and attendance at 10 meetings, ranging from project team meetings, including the client, to specific, one-to-one meetings, with project architects, quantity surveyors, structural engineers, and letting agents.

Research Design and Methods

The research team has, subsequently, been involved in various forms of dissemination of project findings. Over the six months period that we spent in each practice, the research team interacted with the architects and design team members, and they provided feedback about our ideas, and encouragement for the work that we were doing. They never made us feel out of place or that the work did not hold intrinsic interest for them. Information we gathered from observations, interviews, and research diaries was fed back to the project architects at various intervals. This included both verbal and written feedback, including an end-of-project report and a follow-up seminar with the respective practices. Architects from both practices attended our end-of-project workshop held in November 2007, and parts of the book were sent to individuals to comment on, where it related to their organisation. The research was extended to an international dimension to consider the role and significance of the (building) regulations in the USA. We conducted a three-week study tour to the USA in April 2007, focusing on regulations in specific places, namely, Austin in Texas, Phoenix and Tucson in Arizona, and San Francisco in California. The choice of locations reflected our desire to visit places with a diversity of approaches to building regulatory issues, and exhibiting innovative features in relation to governance practices and the use of nonconventional materials and building technologies, such as straw bale in Tucson. 18 interviews were conducted with a range of building code officers, developers, advocates of straw bale building and architects, with a focus on issues relating to sustainable architecture and regulation, and the role of the International Code Council in influencing the regulatory environment. In addition, the research was extended to consider design codes and their impact on aspects of the practices of architects. It was not part of the original research objectives of the AHRC proposal to consider design codes, but the scoping interviews persuaded us of the usefulness of doing so. In interviews, architects mentioned design codes as an increasingly important part of the evolving regulatory landscape, and suggested that they were likely to become much more important in the future, given governments’ concern to reduce, in particular, poorquality housing design. We conducted case studies at places that had gained a reputation for producing excellent approaches to the design coding process: Upton in Northamptonshire and Newhall in Essex. Our objective was to understand how the design coding process in the respective places had been set up, and how the codes were being used to try to achieve higher standards of residential design. 12 interviews in total were conducted with key actors including architects, landowners, design consultants, planning officers and residents.

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In addition, the RIBA were involved at the outset in the project. They provided lists of contacts for the postal survey, and provided access to their library. The postal survey results were written into a report and the RIBA were provided with a hard copy of this and a disk of the postal survey data. We have given the RIBA permission to use the data as part of continuing professional development course design. The research team produced six practitioner papers over the duration of the research, and the project’s findings were headlined in one of the issues of the journal Building Design. This ensured a high visibility of the research findings amongst the practice community. The book also draws on research from two British Academy funded projects, one entitled ‘The regulation of architects’ practices’ (grant number SG-40703), the other entitled ‘The significance of building control and the process of urban design’ (grant number LRG-44982). The former project involved interviews with a sample of practising architects. Using a RIBA database and other web-based information, a sample of architectural practices, primarily based in London, was chosen as a basis for investigation. In total, 30 interviews were conducted with architects in architectural firms using a semi-structured interview schedule. In addition, site visits were made to five different projects, in the company of architects that had designed the schemes. The project was developed beyond the original specification in that interviews were conducted with a small sample of building control officers (10) to get their views about how far, and in what ways, their interactions with architects influence the design process Throughout the substantive parts of the book, primarily in Part 2, we interweave the evidence from both postal survey and interviews with architects and other development professionals in the UK, and from the interviewees whom we spoke to on the short study visit to the USA in 2007. The evidence is based, in part, on textual material provided through interviews, and while we do not claim that it is objective in any sense, it does provide insights into the values and attitudes of architects in seeking to respond to, and work with, rules and regulations. In doing so, the material conveys some of the complexities relating to the regulation of the practices of architects. We have retained the anonymity of respondents, as required by ethical protocol, and we have endeavoured to use information and testimonies from across the range of interviewees, and not just confining reportage based on the thoughts of one or two select respondents. As a final reflection, we were nearly put off the idea of the original AHRC project, and related writings, by what we perceive to be a resistance by some in the academe to those seen as ‘outsiders’ scrutinising architecture. On different occasions, it has been made known to us that we lack the qualifications or the special insights

Research Design and Methods

required to research into the world of architects and their profession. As one referee said about the original book proposal, ‘I distrust nondesigners who try to reach conclusions about the design process from questionnaires that they themselves have devised.’ Likewise, in relation to the research proposal, one referee made it clear that the subject matter was such that ‘it’s the kind of thing that only an architect could write about incisively’. Other comments were positive and encouraging with one referee of the AHRC proposal suggesting that ‘it is perhaps helpful that the authors are not architects, as they offer an objective view of a topic very close to the working environment of practitioners’. While we do not necessarily subscribe to this view that we are somehow ‘objective’, because of our apparent distance from the field of (architectural) practice, we do feel there is scope for interchange and dialogue between people from different disciplinary backgrounds. We do not claim any privileged insight or special powers to reveal ‘truths’ about architecture and the design process. However, we do feel disquiet about judgements that revolve around the use of what Weingart (2000: 29) refers to as ‘disciplinary criteria of validity’. The application of such criteria has the potential to exclude contributions that might otherwise enhance knowledge and understanding and this, to us, seems to be contrary to what academic endeavour ought to be about.

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Index Aalto, Alvar, 9, 61, 63 Abstraction, 9, 11, 12, 53, 106, 109, 116, 125, 127 Access, and: Disability, 86, 149 Expert knowledge, 207 Fire, 86 Mobility, 261 Public transport, 265 Rights of, 4 Routeway, 195 Actant, 232, 233, 238 Actor network, 229, 230–238 Actor network theory, 230–231 Adam Architecture, 247, 300 Adam, Robert, xvi Administrative state, 21–22, 67, 75 Aesthetics, and: Architects preoccupation with, 247–248 Art, 45 Copan, Central America, 31 Integrity of, 30 Palladio, 247 Project organization, 173 Restrictions on, 88 Standardization, 65 Utilitarianism, 173 Affordability, 79 Affordable housing, 77, 79, 80–82, 100, 163, 193 Age Concern, 296 Air infiltration, 163 Alberti, Leon Battista, 8–9, 12–13, 14, 135, 285 Alignment, 41

Almshouses, 43 Alsop, Will, 245, 246 American Institute of Architects (AIA), 94, 109, 201, 202, 292 American Youth Works, 80–82 Ancient cities, 4–5, 13 Arcades, 250 Architects Registration Act (UK), 206 Architects Registration Board (UK), 292 Architectural education, 106–134 Architectural historians, 8, 17 Architectural language, 6–7, 114–115, 117, 191, 211, 212, 227, 250 Architecture, and: Aesthetics, 45, 107, 113, 116, 123, 173 Artistic expression, 8, 191 Autonomy of, 6, 7, 8–16, 121, 160 Beautiful buildings, xv Beauty and truth, 68, 206 Cartesian coordinates, 12 Contingent nature of, 8 Creative actions, 277 Dependence on building, 111, 122, 125 Drawings, 11–12, 38–39 Earliest periods of, xv Economy and function, 38, 68 Health and safety, 145 History of, 116, 126, 291, 282 Ideological basis of, 24 Language of, 191 Narrow conservatism, 206


Index 336

Architecture, and: (Continued ) Opposition to building, 8, 14, 20, 105, 106, 108, 111, 113, 115, 120, 122, 131, 202, 203, 277, 278 Palladian ideal of, 6, 17, 19, 24, 276, 287 Pedagogies of, 111, 125 Political power, 15 Popular understanding of, 105 Prescriptive standards, 38, 41, 85, 145–146 Principles of, 29, 109 Professionalization of, 109, 204–209, 281 Pure form, 40, 108 Residential, 13 Romantic heritage of, 14 Rules about, 29 Social contexts of, 12, 110–111 Substantialist views of, 13 Tabula Rasa, 298 Timber building, 29–30 Vernacularism, 64–65 Visual representation, 12 Utilitarianism, 43, 173 Crisis of, 112 Le Corbusier’s views of, 16 Co-production, 179–80 Iconic, 291 Private life, 61 Teaching of, 11 Body-centric, 33, 286 Arizona, 90–92, 167–170, 299 Arizona State University, 299 Arnold, Matthew, 48 Art of place making, 247–48 Artists, and: Autonomy of, 110, 213, 299 Blake, William, 39 Code making, 269 Craftsmen, 109, 110 Representations of, 110 Scientific rationalism, 39 Tabula Rasa, 298 Artistic, xv, 9–10, 110 Arup, Ove, 207 Athens, 29 Audit, 18, 178, 184, 186, 195, 197, 209, 214, 281

Audit trail, 186 Auditing, see Audit Austin, Texas, 79, 80–81, 96, 99–100, 156, 167, 168, 284, 305 Australian Building Codes Board, 76 Autonomous architecture, xx, 6, 8–16, 20, 24, 110, 121, 152, 160, 202, 203, 213, 223, 228–229, 276 Autonomy, and: Actions of architects, 134–35 Aesthetics, 109, 211 Alberti, Leon Battista, 9 Art, xxi, 280 Contradictions of, 110 Design and construction, 285 Exercising creative judgement, 125 Loss of, 12, 28, 94, 228 Palladian ideal of, 68 Pragmatics of design, 213–222 Promise of, 112 Pursuit of aesthetic objectives, 7 Reduction of, 253 Studio project work, 110 The architectural profession, 202, 203, 210 Thought and action, 9 Babylon, 36 Bam, Iran, 32 Barratt Homes, 270, 296 Barriers, 39, 45, 77, 78, 79, 86, 91, 100, 137, 165, 193, 227, 289 Bauman, Zygmunt, 202, 281 Beautiful, xx, 9, 10, 37, 42, 86, 109, 120, 153, 163, 193, 206 Beauty, 9, 14, 19, 38, 68, 101, 109, 135, 276, 287 Ben Joseph, Eran, 1, 23, 26, 27, 37, 40, 41, 56, 57, 64, 68, 71, 79, 89, 136, 138, 140, 245, 261, 267, 284, 287, 299 Better regulation, 71, 73, 76, 279, 289 Better Regulation Executive, UK, 73 Better Regulation Task Force, 73, 289

The body, 33 Traditionalism, 35 Transmission of, 8 Building regulations, and: Affordable housing, 79 Alternative building materials, 162 Architects’ awareness of, 121–124, 129, 132, 153, 279 Benefits of, 282 Burden of, 19, 141–150, 240 China, 61 Community values, 79 Complexity of, 223, 279 Constitutive part of design, 6–7, 15, 17, 20, 23–24, 26, 68, 72, 101, 111, 112, 126, 137, 139, 140, 152–154, 159–161, 173–174, 278 Cost implications of, 72–73, 78–84, 160–161 Creative actions, 6–7, 15–16, 138–139, 144 Decentred forms of, 18 Design challenges of, 111, 143, 147, 282 Design influences of, 111, 113, 148–149, 135–161, 223–224, 241, 282–283 Design philosophy, 122, 131–132 Disability, 17 Early forms of, 5, 37, 41, 44–45, 47, 49–52, 57, 67–68, 286 Embodiment, 28 Encroachment onto streets, 41 Enforcement of, 78–84, 171 Enhancing quality, 150–151, 282 Escape from buildings, 148 Fire risk, 5 Fire sprinklers, 275 Formation of, 93 History of, 287 Housing costs, 80 Hydrogen fuel, 91 Imposed constraints of, 94, 138–139, 144–145, 147, 160–161, 285

Index

Blue print, 57 Body, 12, 27, 33, 286 Boulder, Colorado, 167 Bourdieu, Pierre, 18, 106, 109, 110, 113, 114–15, 117, 122–123, 276 Breaking the rules, 135, 144 British Chamber of Commerce, 73 British Standards, 94–95, 181, 251 Brown, Gordon, 289 Budget management, 117–118, 177, 228 Building Code of Australia, 76 Building collapse, 36, 83, 171 Building culture, and: Amazonia, 32 Ancient cities, 5 Architects attitudes to, 278–79 Changes to, 74 Chinese cities, 31–32 Classical antiquity, 34 Common law doctrines, 30 Corporate forms of, 74 Creative gestures, 101 Creek Indians, 32–33, 34 Design, 248–49 Enclosed walls, 35 Formulaic urbanism, 247–254 Four cardinal points, 33 Geometry, 33 Greek civilization, 30, 33 Islam, 30, 31, 37 Litigation, 280 Materiality, 296 Mayan civilization, 30–31 Meta principles, 31 New Guinea, 32 Performativity, 209 Physical dimensions, 27 Pre-history, 29–30 Professions, 202 Renaissance, 37 Risk aversion, 280 Risk, 195, 196–197 Safety, 280 Shared identities, 74 Social constraints, 18 Studio work, 20, 116 Tacit codes, 30

337

Index

Building regulations, and: (Continued ) Inefficiencies of, 175–176 Interpretation of, 140, 149, 154–156, 160 London Building Act, 1774, 41 Loss of architects’ autonomy, 94, 113, 139 Moral order, 26–27, 64 Ordinary built field, 20, 136 Over regulation, 3–4, 19, 279–280 Part D (UK), 182 Part E (UK), 223 Part G (UK), 69 Part L (UK), 69, 147, 223, 286, 295 Part M (UK), 148, 149–150, 159, 295 Part P (UK), 69, 171–172 Politics of, 94–101, 156–161, 284, 287, 288 Pre-history, 29–30 Proliferation of, 65, 176 Public good, 79 Resilience, 4 Risk, 171, 178, 182 Self-action, 152, 156 Separation from architecture, 94, 113, 139, 141–142, 145, 152–153 Shaping urban form, 53, 142 Spatial heterogeneity of, 98–99, 100 Sully Edict (1607), 41 Teaching of, 121–122 Unattractive subject of study, 17 Uniform Building Code (USA), 158–159 Welfare, 138 Writing of, 96 Building Regulations Advisory Committee (BRAC), 295 Building Research Establishment, UK, 296 Building type, 5, 35–36, 37, 61, 69, 76, 136, 163, 256, 265, 277 Bureaucracy, 25, 85, 188, 196, 245 Bureaucratic burden, 78, 84–93, 145–146, 175–176, 181–182 Cala Domus, 270 Calculable form, 46–47, 67

338

Calculation, 38–39, 40–41, 56, 286 California, 82, 99, 100, 166, 167, 168, 172, 250, 288 Cameron, David, 4, 69 Canguilhem, Georges, 40, 47, 152 Carmona, Matthew, 3, 22, 70, 82, 88, 94, 243, 245, 246, 254, 256, 259, 260, 261, 290, 298, 300 Carpenters, xx, 45, 47 Cartesian coordinates, 12, 286 Casa ‘The Double House’, 58 Centralisation, 60–61, 71 Chartered surveyors, 22, 133 Checkerboard, 44 Chicago, 53–55 Chicago Fire, 1871, 47–48 Chile, 45, 83 China, 26, 31–32, 61, 171, 287 Chinese cities, 26, 31–32 Circulation, 25, 51, 53, 109 Citadel, 32 Classical antiquity, 13, 27, 29, 347, 298 Classical design, 300 Co-production, 6, 22, 178, 179–180, 181 Code formation process, 5, 93, 94, 95–101, 156–159, 164–170, 245–246, 284 Code of Hammurabi, 36 Codification, 18, 28–68, 175, 191, 285 Coding, and: Adding value to buildings, 82 Alternative construction, 170 Architects antipathy towards, 239, 255 Architectural intentions, 271 Benefits of, 249, 259, 290 Challenges of, 260, 272–273 Competitive systems, 75 Complexity of, 79, 93 Conservative nature of, 162 Control of the design process, 247 Critiques of, 273 Deliberative politics, 244 Democracy, 244 Design orthodoxy, 254

Conservatism, 14, 19, 60, 123, 148, 206, 280–281 Conservative government, 294 Conservative Party, 4, 137, 138 Construction industry, and: Budget restrictions, 204 Capital logic of, 241 Changes in, 201, 203 Complexity of, 202, 228 Cost over runs, 208 Energy efficiency targets, 209 Exposure to risk, 190, 201 Fragmentation of, 208, 210 House building, 95, 249, 257, 258, 261 Housing targets, 210 Industry specific standards, 201 Inefficiencies of, 202, 204, 208, 210 Inter war period, 206 Interests of, 97 Lack of innovation, 241 Methods of, 61 Perception of architects, 19, 203 Poor communications in, 208 Procurement, 204–205, 208, 210 Public sector, 206 Range of skills in, 112, 210 Redefining roles in, 204–209 Risks associated with, 171–172 Short-term operations of, 241 Speculative development, 208 Sustainability, 162 Technical basis of, 206–207 Contingency, 15, 140, 185–186, 201 Contractors, 47, 120, 121, 175, 177, 179, 181, 185, 189, 205, 208, 210, 212, 214, 223, 225, 226 Copan, 31 Copthorn, 270 Cosmology, 38 Cost plan, 203, 214–216, 221, 228, 235 Council for Excellence in Government (USA), 73 Creativity, 21, 39, 51, 101, 107, 112, 143, 144, 145, 157, 169, 191, 202, 240, 242, 245, 248, 252, 253, 256, 276, 277, 282, 298

Index

Developer uncertainty, 245 Development costs, 79, 273 Emergence of, 261 Flexible forms of, 166 Future of, 169–170 Green building movement, 166, 169–170 Holistic approach to design, 249 House builders, 300 Impact on the environment, 256 Impediment to innovation, 88 International systems of, 167 Life world, xxi New urbanism, 254 Performance based, 169 Planning policy, 251 Policing of architecture, 251–252 Raising design standards, 249, 257, 262 Rapid urban change, 46 Recuperating building costs, 82 Resource intensity, 259 Spatial fragmentation, 75 Standardisation, 76 State authority, 251–252 Straw bale building, 164–167, 296 Sustainability, 166–167, 169–170 Threat to ingenuity, 239, 247, 255–256, 259, 262, 299 Trust, 251 Urban crises, 22, 241 USA, 289 Codussi, Mauro, 9 Colorado, USA, 167 Command and control state, 28, 84 Communication, 121, 126, 152, 188, 189, 195, 201, 208, 212, 225, 227, 232, 255, 293 Cosmological, 38 Competitiveness, 71, 77 Completion risks, 185, 214 Computer aided design, xx, 120–122, 231, 293 Computer spreadsheet, 235 Congres Internationaux d’Architecture Moderne (CIAM), 57 Conservation, 70, 99–100, 138, 150, 242, 269, 295

339

Index

Creek Square Ground, 32–34 Cultural production, 8, 36, 113 Custom, 18, 30, 31–32, 35–36, 37, 113–114; also, see norms, tradition David Morley Architects, xvi, 230, 232, 233 Death of the Architect, 24 Death rate, 51 Decentralisation, 71 Decentred, 4, 5, 6, 18, 19, 65, 74–75, 174, 178, 179, 277, 278, 279 Design code, and: Aesthetic quality, 253–254, 261 Ambivalent object, 255, 261–262 Another layer of regulation, 262, 290 Architects attitudes to, 245, 247–256 Architects knowledge of, 254–255 Architectural freedom, 267 Basis for development, 245 Benefits of, 82–83, 150, 253 Challenges of, 272–273 China, 61 Complexity of, 147–148 Compliance with, 167–168 Costs of, 82, 259, 273, 290 Craft of urbanism, 261 Creating them, 264, 269 Creeping social regulation, 245–246 Criticisms of, 290 Developer selection process, 270 Earthquakes, 83, 170 Economic development, 299 Efficiency of, 138 Emergence of, xvi, 22, 261 England, 263–273 Environmental standards, 265 Formation of, 95 Georgian England, 299–300 Hammurabi, 36 History of, 43, 95 Influence on architects’ practices, 255–256, 239–273 Local planning authorities, 247 Mesopotamia, 171

340

Minimal state, 241 Modernist city, 243 Need for, 299 New urbanism, 273 Performance based 37 Political economy of urbanism, 261 Preparation of, 272 Prescription, 254 Public interest, 249–250, 251 Raising design quality, 253, 263–273, 298, 300 Rationality of planning, 57, 260 Reasons for, 244–245, 248, 250–251, 254, 298 Residential development, 263–273, 287, 298 Restrictions of, 255–256, 259, 262, 299 San Francisco, 70 Scepticism about, 259–260, 290 Sustainability, 244, 260 Technique of government, 241–242, 243 Time consuming process, 260 Uniformity of building, 254 Urban crises, 241 Urban settlement, 299 USA, 75 Volume house builders, 257–258, 298, 300 Writing of, 159 Design competition, 217 Desire, 64, 116, 185, 244, 254 Dialectic, 15, 140 Disability, 17, 296 Disability Rights Commission, 296 Disabled people, 17, 148, 294, 295 Discipline, and: Authority, 226, 228 Bodies, 42 Building form, 209 Economy, 38 Education, 107–112, 117 Epistemology, 152 Fiscal practices, 186 Knowledge, 125 Modern systems of, 5

Geometrical forms of, 10, 39 Importance to architecture, 11–12, 109 Interpretations of, 216 Landowners, 271 Non-human objects, 214 Palladio, 9, 298 Performative effects of, 214 Practices of architects, 7, 109 Project contracts, 188 Representing design, 11–12, 109, 110, 120, 226, 231, 232, 291 Scales and proportions, 116 Skills of, 116, 292 Duany, Andres, 64, 243, 299

Index

Professional identities and actors, 22, 179, 202, 204, 209, 241 Project work, 22, 125 Reputational risk, 183 Risk assessment, 186 Specialists, 22, 226 Subject of, 40, 67 Techniques of, 211 Discourses of: Aesthetics, 8, 14, 107 Architectural freedom, 20 Autonomy of architecture, xv, xvi, 7, 11, 14, 24, 101, 106, 135, 160 Beauty, 101, 135 Better regulation, 71 Building form, 209 Building performance, 209 Culture change, 74 Design education, 127 Freedom to build, 70–71 Good urbanism, 284 Minimal states, 241 Minimum house, 57–58 New urbanism, 254 Non-architectural actors, 21, 203, 227, 228 Poetic spaces, 8 Regulation as anathema to good design, 19, 70, 71–72, 101, 152, 241 Risk, 185, 190 Standards and rules, 150 Truth and knowledge, 101, 107, 135 Urban crises, 22, 241 Discursive practice, 7, 284 Disjuncture, 8, 23, 108, 112, 122, 291 Disraeli, Benjamin, 41–42 Distinction, 107, 106, 109, 111, 112, 203, 251, 277 Distrust, 84, 177, 183, 210, 281 Division of labour, 209 Drainage, 46, 265 Drawing, and: Computer aided design, 120–121, 231 Culture clash, 216

East Midlands, 264 Eco-homes, 223, 301 Ecole des Beaux Art, 108–109, 135, 291, 292 Edinburgh, 43, 84, 300 Education, and: Architect-subject, 106, 107–112 Bauhaus School, 110 Calibre of new entrants, 123 Complexities of building, 120 Computer aided design (CAD), 293 Construction practices, 293 Covert practices, 113 Critical forms of, 127 Cultural assimilation, 113–120 Cultural capital, 116–117 Curriculum, 119 Detachment from social contexts, 106, 125, 127 Distinction, 277 Fixation with aesthetics, 111, 114, 117, 123, 127, 130, 131, 134, 206, 277 Formative experiences of architects, 113, 120, 128–134, 291 Learning self, 128 Negative behaviour and attitudes, 112 One-dimensional representations, 121, 125 Place making, 126 341

Index

Education, and: (Continued ) Positivism, 126 Preparation for practice, 119, 132, 133, 134 Rationalist pedagogy, 115 Refinement, 293 Reproducing social inequality, 112 RIBA, 291–292 Studio culture, 20 Training, 20, 109, 115, 292 Transmission model, 290 Visual and spatial appreciation, 123, 130 Egan, John, 198, 210, 220 Eisenberg, David, xvi, 165–166, 167, 169, 170 Elevation, 12, 38, 41, 51, 91, 108 Emirbayer, Mustafa, 136, 139, 153, 155, 160 Emissions, 70, 167 Emmanuel Bowen, 45 Energy codes, 70, 79, 80, 82, 99–100, 150, 265 Energy conservation, 70, 99, 138, 150, 295 Energy Saving Trust, UK, 264, 265 Enforcement, 28, 78, 83, 84, 156, 165, 171, 260, 271, 289 England, 43, 69, 70, 74, 80, 148, 171, 249, 254, 262, 264, 268, 294, 296, 298, 299, 301 Enlightenment, 37, 175 Enquiry by Design, UK, 264, 272 Enterprise risk management, 185 Environment Agency, UK, 193, 296 Environmental quality, 167 Epistemic communities, 191, 207 Ernst May, 57–61 Essex, 43, 256, 263, 268, 301, 305 Euclidean, 28–29 European Union, 294 Eurythmy, 9 Evanston, USA, 16 Family, 42, 47, 51, 61, 78, 268, 275 Fenchurch Street, 217–220 Fire, and: Chicago, 47–48

342

Codes, 86 Fighters, 157, 289–290 Helsinki, 46 House builders, 289–290 Insurance, 84 Precautions, 4 Proofing, 95 Regulations, 149 Resistance, 164, 165 Risk, 5, 36–37, 46, 51, 99, 170, 172, 286 Sacred forms of, 32 Safety systems, 154, 165, 275, 290 Spread of, 41 Sprinklers, 83–84, 75, 289–290 Stations, 157 Vested interests, 289–290 Fire Court, 41 Fire precautions, 4 Fire services, 148, 286, 290 Flyvbjerg, Bent, 189 Fortified, 32 Fowler, Bob, 94, 165 Frampton, Kenneth, 8, 60, 108, 160, 242 Frankfurt, 57, 59, 60 Frankfurt kitchen, 59, 60 Frontage, 40, 246 Garreau, Joel, 240 Gates, 33, 45 Gender, 32–33 Gendered space, 32–33 Geometrical points, 12, 33, 34 Geometry, 142, 242, 247, 286, 291 Georgian, 42, 286, 299 Glazing, 160, 223 Global cities, 193, 244 Governance, and: Administrative states, 67 Centralisation, 76 Decentred forms of, 74–75, 245 Discipline, 26 Failures of, 48 Fragmented forms of, 71 Good forms of, 189 Increase in, 3 Instruments of, 284 Managerialism, 21

Habinteg Housing Association, 296 Habraken, John, 6, 8, 9–10, 11, 14, 20, 24, 35, 106, 110, 126, 135, 160, 173, 176, 178, 179, 209, 211–212, 228, 242, 247, 262, 277, 281, 285, 297, 298 Hammer, Martin, 165, 166, 167, 169, 170 Harlow, Essex, 268, 301 Harvey, David, 51, 244, 277 Hassenpflug, Gustav, 60 Hawkesworth, Marian, xvii, 4, 22, 73, 85, 137, 175, 179, 195 Health and Safety, and: Awareness of, 172 Building plans, 185 Bureaucracy of, 297 Citizens, 41 Common building, 296 Compliance with, 178 Construction techniques, 174

Culture of, 280 Diffusing opposition, 287 Functional requirements of, 294 Glut of regulation, 70 Government intervention in, 5, 46 Implementation of, 181 Influencing professionals’ thinking, 192 Lack of common sense, 196, 197 Legal directives, 175, 217 Non-compliance with, 21 Organizational responses to, 27, 184 Perennial concerns about, 23 Plans, 181 Prescribed standards of, 16 Protecting the public, 27, 46, 72 Rationale for, 143 Risk management, 177 Risks of, 27, 190 Societal objectives of, 283 Terrorism, 4 Traditional concerns of, 208 USA, 72, 286 Users of buildings, 74 Helsinki, 46, 63 Heroic figure, 130, 141 Heroic form giver, 8, 281 Heteronomy, 15, 276, 280 Heydebrand, Wolf, 176, 180 High-rise buildings, 51–55 Hill, Jonathan, 8, 12, 105 Home Office, UK, 193 House builders, 29, 78, 79, 80, 85, 88, 93, 97, 102, 157, 205, 248, 249, 256, 257, 258, 261, 270, 272, 289–290, 299, 300 House Builders Federation, UK, 249 House type, 93, 248, 249, 257, 258, 272 Housing Corporation, UK, 296 Housing standards, 137, 144, 248, 251, 261, 299, 272–273, 300 Howe, Frederic, 56–57 Human body, 27, 33 Hybrid, 4, 176, 179, 209 Hybridised, 179–184, 201, 212, 222–229 Hyett, Paul, 210

Index

Modernism, 66 Moral forms of, 284 National scales of, 140 Networks, 179 Non-state sources of, 176 Organisational forms of, 173 Practices of, 4, 305 Risk, 21, 46–47, 172, 175, 177, 185, 190, 191 Scaling of, 76 Self-regulation, 18 The design process, 67–68 Urban form, 7, 23 Greater London Authority, 296 Greece, 5, 108 Greek civilization, 30, 33, 298 Green building codes, 70, 79, 80–82, 90–92, 97, 98, 99–100, 165, 166, 284 Green Building Council, UK, 167, 171 Green buildings, 70, 80–82, 90–92, 99–100, 157, 165, 169, 170 Gregotti, Vittorio, 280 Gridiron, 44 Gropius, Walter, 110, 120 Grosvenor Square, London, 194

343

Index

Hygienic city, 27 Hygienic spaces, 46–56 Illinois, USA, 16 Imperial City, 31–32, 33 India, 4–5 Industrial ecology, 164 Infrastructure, 19, 26, 46, 70, 109, 244 Injury, 36, 56, 77, 172 Insurance, xxi, 5, 19, 69, 84, 190, 216 Interior design, 136, 191, 219 International Building Code, 167 International Code Council, 75, 96, 97, 165 International Green Construction Code, 167 Investment, 48, 78, 79, 100, 210, 244, 249, 272 Isaac Newton, 39 Islamic, 30–31, 37 Islamic codes, 67 Jacobs, Jane, 28, 37, 67, 240 John Robertson Architects, xvi, 217 Jubilee line, London, 196 Karatani, Kojin, 201, 217 Knox, Judy, xvi, 163, 166, 167 Knox, Paul, 7, 8, 11, 15, 16, 140, 277 Kohl, Christoph, 239 Kostof, Spiro, 44 Krier, Leon, 64, 240 Krier, Rob, 239 Latham, Michael, 210, 220 Latin America, 44 Latour, Bruno, 230–232, 233, 236, 238 Law of the Indies, 44 Le Corbusier, 16, 56, 58, 61, 67, 141, 242 LEED (Leadership in Energy and Environmental Design), 167 Lefebvre, Henri, 15, 26, 42, 53, 275–276 Leicestershire, UK, 232

344

Libertarian Alliance, 288 Lloyd Wright, Frank, 16, 277 Local Development Orders, UK, 244–245, 299 Localism, 16 London, 41–42, 50, 85, 109, 128, 193, 194, 217, 232, 285, 299 London Building Act (1774), 41–42 London Building Act (1843), 50, 85 Loughborough University, 230–238 Low technology, 165 Lynch, Kevin, 26, 31, 37, 41, 44, 45, 67 Marketing, 117, 118, 219, 220, 222, 226–227, 244 Markus, Thomas, 8, 43 Massey, Doreen, 100 Master builder, 108, 205, 281–282, 291 Master planning, 243, 247, 255, 256–260, 269–271, 301 Mayan, 30, 31 Medieval, 5, 32, 291 Memory, 64 Mesopotamia, 171 Metric properties, 12 Minnesota, USA, 290 Mirabeau, Octave, 48 Mississippi river, USA, 175 Modern society, 27–28, 38, 46, 60, 67, 83, 156, 172, 175 Modernism, 240, 242 Modernist, 28, 65–66, 67, 68, 240–246, 254, 261 Modernity, 25, 28, 56, 242–246 Moore, Steven A., 18, 30, 76, 284, 289 Moral economy, 190 Moral technologies, 186 Morley, David, xvi Moscow, 60 Mosque, 32 Mulberry Bend, New York, 49 Mulberry Street, New York, 50 Mumford, Lewis, 25, 26, 28, 29, 37 Myhrman, Matts, 167

Objet d’art, 11 Offe, Claus, 22, 204 Olympic Delivery Authority, 210 Olympic Games, 210 Open spaces, 37, 57, 86 Ordinance for New Discoveries, Conquests and Pacifications (1573), 44 Oregon, 167 Ornament, 38, 135, 206 Ornamental, 38, 41, 242 Palace of Westminster, 193 Palettes, 257 Palladian, xx, 9, 11, 12, 14, 17, 24, 28, 38, 57, 68, 101, 127, 135, 203, 205, 247, 262, 276, 277, 278, 287; also, see Palladio

Palladio, 9–14, 19, 297, 298; also, see Palladian Paper trail, 178, 186, 188 Paris, 41, 84, 300 Park Crescent, London, 42 Parks, 57, 92, 300 Partner Authority Scheme, 154, 296 Partnership for Public Service (USA), 73 Partnerships, 154, 170, 227 Performance based standards, 76, 169, 170 Performativity, 209, 214 Perrault, Claude, 34, 38 Pevsner, Nikolaus, 108 Phoenix, Arizona, 84, 85–86, 147–148 Piazza de’Rucellai, Florence, 13 Pima County, Arizona, 167–69 Place making, 4, 26, 40–41, 64–65, 70, 120, 241, 244–45, 248, 255, 287 Plan Factories, 16 Plymouth, UK, 193 Policing, 19, 27, 28, 99, 156, 175, 251 Politicians, 15, 71, 93, 239 Politics, 44, 51, 76, 140, 155, 156–157, 283 Politics of the code, 95 Population, 27, 28, 37, 38, 41, 46, 47, 51, 57, 83, 100, 149, 240, 261 Portals, 250 Practical City, 57 Prehistoric building regulations, 29–30 Prescription, 25, 26, 61, 68 Prescriptive controls, xv, 38, 43, 46, 55, 64–65, 68, 71, 73, 74, 138, 145–146, 158, 168–169, 234, 242, 251, 253, 254, 277, 281 Prince’s Foundation, 264, 290, 301 Pringle, Jack, 222, 223 Privacy, 51, 67 Private Finance Initiative (PFI), 132, 294 Private realm, 86

Index

Narkomfin building, Moscow, 63 National Association of Home Builders, USA, 97, 275 National Building Specification, UK, 193, 233 National Fire Protection Association, USA, 75 National House Building Council, UK, 296 National Security Strategy, UK, 194 Nebraska, USA, 163, 164–165, 168 New Hall Projects Ltd, 268 New Lanark, Scotland, 43, 44 New Mexico, USA, 296 New professional, 19, 176, 202, 203–204, 206, 209–212 New urbanism, 64–65, 243, 254 New York Times, 51, 95 Newhall, Essex, 256, 257, 263, 268–273, 301 Norms, 35–36, 37, 61, 177, 202, 211–212 North Carolina, USA, 290 North Dakota, USA, 275 Northampton, UK, 257, 263, 264, 301 Northampton Borough Council, 264

345

Index

Procurement, xvi, 69, 174, 180, 196–197, 205, 208, 209, 221, 251, 294 Professionalism, 125, 202, 203, 237, 293 Progressive Era, 56–57 Project actors, 201–238 Project managers, 22, 153, 201, 202, 208, 209, 214, 223, 224, 225, 229, 232 Project teams, xvi, 6, 16, 132, 140, 153, 176–177, 182, 183, 191, 198, 204–205, 209–213, 223, 225, 227–228, 260 Property Rights Foundation of America, 72 Public buildings, 29, 57, 80, 171; also, see Public realm Public interest, 95, 98, 249, 251 Public realm, 235, 240, 250, 254, 257, 265, 269; also, see Public buildings Rabinow, Paul, 25–28, 35–36, 38–39, 40, 41, 44, 47, 49, 67–68, 109, 111, 135, 150, 152 Ramp access, 149, 150 Reason, 9, 27–28, 38, 39, 45, 46 Red tape, 69, 77, 146 Regulators, 15, 72, 78, 89, 97, 143, 146, 245, 272, 280, 284 Regulatory complexity, 17, 26, 74, 79, 93, 146–147, 160–161, 175, 178, 209, 241, 279 Relational, 6, 7, 15, 18, 22, 23, 101, 111, 116, 123, 125, 126, 136, 137, 140, 153, 179, 203, 204, 229 Religion, 29, 38, 70 Religious beliefs and order, 23, 26, 27, 30–31, 32 Religious codes, xv, 34–35 Renaissance, 27, 37, 40–41, 135, 297 Renovation, 70 Representation, 9, 10, 11–12, 95, 110, 113, 121, 125, 212, 231, 232, 278, 281

346

Representational, 121 Resilient cities, 4 Rhythms, 9 Royal Institute of British Architects, (RIBA), 84, 92, 109, 111, 115, 122, 125, 127, 159, 172, 173, 174, 176, 177, 178, 179, 184, 194, 201, 202–203, 204, 205, 206, 210, 211, 220, 222, 228, 245, 246, 255, 292, 297 Rights to light, 46 Riis, Jacob, 48–49 Risk, and: Actors, 182 Assessments, 15, 180, 186, 196, 197, 209 Auditors, 177 Aversion to, 21, 92, 93, 155, 176, 183, 185, 193, 197,280 Behaviour, 177, 189 Budget overruns, 214 Buildings, 142–143, 173–174 Coded design requirements, 270 Conceptions of, 175 Control of costs, 180 Control of, 175 Creativity, 191 Culture, 195, 196 Definition of, 180, 182, 195–196 Design culture, 198 Discourse of, 190 Dispersed organisations, 184 Exposure to, 174, 196, 201 Fear of blame, 183 Financial, 79 Fire, 5, 46, 99, 171, 172 Governance, 21, 46, 172, 190 Increase in, 19, 179, 184, 191 Individualisation of, 177, 178, 189 Invention of, 182 Legalisation of, 36–37, 180, 301 Litigation, 178, 182–183, 190, 280 Management, 20, 21, 46, 172, 173, 175, 177, 178, 179, 180, 181–182, 184, 185, 186, 189, 191, 197, 213–214, 296–297 Modern orientation to, 38 Perceptions of, 286 Performance based, 75

Safety; see Health and Safety Saint, Andrew, 5, 14, 15, 47, 56, 64, 71, 74, 140, 152, 153, 276, 285, 286 Saltaire, UK, 43 Sanitary reform, 42, 49–51, 148, 287 Santa Barbara, California, 250 Santiago de Chile, 45 Sapporo, Japan, 40 Sarfatti Larson, Magali, 6, 7, 8, 14, 15, 24, 28, 56, 106, 108, 111, 114, 152, 173, 176, 177, 179, 189, 191, 211, 255, 276 Schism of architecture from building, 8, 17, 207 Schools of Architecture, 131 Science, 38, 39, 44–45, 56–57, 61, 96, 97, 175, 292 Science of buildings, 45 Scientific knowledge, 28, 38, 39, 40, 45, 47, 61, 109, 141, 209 Scientific management, 51

Scottish round houses, 29 Security, 47, 193–196 Self-certification, 71, 74, 177–178 Self-governing, 71, 74, 177 Serlio, Sebastiano, 9 Set-back architecture, 51–55 Settlers, 164–165 Sharp, Thomas, 61 Shelter, 23, 33, 42, 90, 91, 144, 163, 291 Social Condenser, 61 Social orthopedics, 67 Societal norm, 70 Sorkin, Michael, 25, 26 Soviet Union, 26, 28, 61, 287 Spanish colonial rule, 43–44 Spatial disorder, 48, 56 Spatial planning, 4, 5, 17, 28, 41, 42, 43–44, 56, 57, 67, 68, 70, 73–74, 114, 136, 241, 243, 245, 246, 251, 264, 297 Specifications, and: Audio-visual equipment, 232, 233–234, 236, 237–238 Building heights, 29 Building type and form, 136 Compromising on, 215, 220, 237 Construction, 256 Cost savings, 215, 237 Deliverables, 233 High level of, 81, 219 Legal forms of, 71 Obligations, 180 Performance-based, 26, 257 Preparations of, 233 Project control, 265 Provisional forms of, 236 Responsibilities, 180 Road widths and layouts, 64 Trust, 177 Square blocks, 44 Stam, Mart, 57 Stepped entrance, 149–150 Stevens, Garry, 107, 113, 114, 120, 130, 292–293 Strategies of power, 155 Straw bale, 90, 162–170, 296

Index

Profits, 185–186 Project teams, 188, 189–190 Projects, 17, 134, 192, 279, 281 Reduction of, 173, 183, 193, 194, 280 Register, 186, 221–222 Regulators, 280 Reputation, 179–184 Sharing, 177, 178, 189 Sources of, 76, 181 Spreading, 5, 189 Terrorism, 193, 279 Transfer of, 185 Risk society; also, see risk, 19, 172, 175, 181, 190, 195, 197 Risky spaces, 46 Roads, 26 Roger Evans Associates, 269, 271, 301 Rogers, Richard, 210, 240 Rome, 5, 13, 37, 108 Rosetta stones, 25 Round Houses, 29 Rule type, 18, 26, 30–31, 35–36, 37, 68, 136, 277

347

Index

Structural engineers, 22, 47, 203, 207, 216, 225 Structural failures, 23 Structural strength, 165 Stucco walls, 163, 167, 250 Studio culture, xxi, 20, 109–110, 114, 116, 277, 293 Subcontractor, 189, 208, 297 Subservience, 28, 60, 153 Sully Edict, 41 Sustainability, 22, 138, 162, 166–167, 169, 241–242, 260, 272, 299 Sustainable communities, 70, 137, 210, 244, 264, 283 Sustainable construction, 162, 167, 169, 265 Sustainable development, 4, 162, 169, 265, 272 Ta Prohm, Cambodia, 35 Tafuri, Manfredo, 24 Tall buildings, 52–55 Tempe, Arizona, 299 Tenement Act, New York (1901), 51 The Silent Highwayman, 48, 49 Thermal performance, 165 Timber building, 29–30, 46, 163 Tower blocks, 54, 141 Tower of the Winds, 29 Toxic homes, 288 Tradition, and: Agrarian settlement, 32 Art, xxi Design principles, 63, 94, 256, 272, 300 Emerging forms of, 10 Failures of, 61, 298 Form and taste, 61, 116 House builders, 93 Local communities, 18 Localism, 16 Organic, 291 Passivity, 152 Practice, 18, 35 Professional autonomy, 203 Rejection of, 242 Religious beliefs and practices, 27, 30–31

348

Research, 8 Skills, 121, 205 Social aspects of, 37 Trancik, Roger, 240 Translation, 23, 25, 26, 40, 285 Trust, 84, 98, 177, 183, 186, 195, 198, 205–06, 227, 251, 281 Tucson, Arizona, 163, 167–169 Unaffordable housing, 157, 273, 289 UNESCO, 32 Unfit for purpose, 138 Uniform Building Code, USA, 75–76, 80, 158–159 United Kingdom (UK), 4, 17, 26, 28, 70, 71, 73–74, 75, 76, 85, 92–93, 94–95, 117, 137, 138, 139, 154, 159, 169–170, 172, 175–176, 179, 193, 194, 203–209, 210, 237, 240, 243, 244, 247, 248, 251, 254, 257, 261, 270, 271, 272, 273, 288, 289, 291–292, 294, 297, 299–300 University of Arizona, 167 Unsustainable, 240, 243, 261 Upton, 257, 262, 264–268, 270, 272, 273, 301 Upton design code, 257, 263, 264–268, 272, 273, 301 Urban condition, 46, 48, 49–50, 51, 287 Urban crisis, 22, 51–52, 241–242, 261 Urban Design Compendium, 240 Urban disorder, 48–49, 279 Urban fabric, 46, 53, 64–65, 238–239, 240, 250 Urban form, 3–6, 7, 19, 21–23, 26–27, 29, 37–38, 40–41, 45, 46, 50–51, 53–55, 56, 57, 61, 64–65, 67, 79, 85–86, 101, 135, 137, 150–51, 175, 190–91, 194–95, 232, 239–44, 245, 247, 248, 254, 261, 276, 277–78, 283–84, 287, 298–99 Urban invention, 25 Urban policy, 4, 69–70, 246, 287, 298

Valencia Gardens, San Francisco, 85–89 Value engineering, 134, 211, 213, 214–216, 220 Value management, 184, 185, 214–215 Value neutral, 136, 280 van der Rohe, Mies, 58 Venice, 10, 84, 297 Ventre, F., 14, 78, 94, 95, 97–98, 203, 204 Vernacular, 16, 32, 63, 64–65, 76, 242, 243

Vesely, Dalibor, 101, 108 Victorian, 41–42, 49, 85, 254, 286 Vienna, 59 Villa Pisani, 9 Villa Rotonda, 10, 11 Vitruvius, Marcus, 9, 28–29, 107–108

Index

Urban renaissance, 4, 70, 138, 239, 244 Urbanism Group, 255 Urbanisation, 46 United States of America (USA), 26, 51, 52–55, 71, 72–73, 75–76, 77, 78–79, 89, 95–96, 97–98, 99, 156–159, 162–170, 172, 175, 176, 193, 239, 240, 243, 249, 273, 275, 286, 288, 289–290, 292, 300

Washington University, St Louis, 289 Wasting space, 144 Water conservation, 70 Wealth creation, 71 Weber, Max, 35, 284 Whitehall, 196 Whitten, Robert, 51, 56 Wild fires, 172 William Blake, 39–40 Wiring, 46, 163, 171 Wright, Gwendolyn, 25–26, 43, 44, 74, 136, 152, 276 Zoning, 67, 87–88, 240, 243, 261, 275, 287 Zoning law, 51 Zoning ordinance, 54, 57, 64

349

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