Dynamics of Delight: Architecture and Aesthetics

The Dynamics of Delight

It is only worth examining the experience of aesthetic pleasure if there are grounds for believing that there are objective truths underpinning the subjective experience of beauty. The Dynamics of Delight explores the roots of aesthetic perception within the framework of individual taste and collective fashion. Its aim is to offer mental tools for the critical analysis of buildings and urban configurations with the purpose of enhancing appreciation of the built environment. It is some of the recent branches of science and biomathematics which provide a platform for a theory of aesthetics which transcends the subjective without undermining subjectivity. Beauty is not arbitrary; there is a logic which informs its infinite variety of manifestations. It is not enough just to know what we like; the experience of beauty is that much richer when we know why we like it. Until recently Peter F. Smith was the Vice-President of the Royal Institute of British Architects, with special responsibility for sustainable development, and Professor of Architecture at Sheffield Hallam University. Prior to that he was Head of the Leeds School of Architecture of which he is Professor Emeritus.

The Dynamics of Delight Architecture and Aesthetics Peter F. Smith

First published 2003 by Routledge 11 New Fetter Lane, London EC4P 4EE Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada by Routledge 29 West 35th Street, New York, NY 10001 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2003. © 2003 Peter F. Smith All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Smith, Peter F. (Peter Frederick), 1930– The dynamics of delight : architecture and aesthetics / Peter F. Smith p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. 1. Architecture–Aesthetics. 2. Architecture—Psychological aspects. I. Title. NA2500 .S56 2003 720'.1'9–dc21 2002014811 ISBN 0-203-40189-1 Master e-book ISBN

ISBN 0-203-40832-2 (Adobe eReader Format) ISBN 0–415–30009–6 (hbk) ISBN 0–415–30010–X (pbk)

Contents

vii Illustration credits viii Preface x Acknowledgements

1 Part 1

Amsterdam and the tiger

3

1

Laying the foundations

7

2

The roots of aesthetic perception

13

3

The protean factor

20

4

Exploring harmony

26

5

From harmony to chaos

35

6

From Nature to artefacts

48

7

Intelligent interventions

62

8

Unity versus diversity

69 Part 2 71

9

The Parthenon and the sunflower

The deep structure of proportion

76 10

The numerology of beauty

88 11

Developing the theme

100 12

Beyond the portico and dome

107 13

Contemporary variations

122 14

Architectural metaphor

132 15

Second-order proportion

143 16

The limbic domain

148 17

Bioclimatic opportunities

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159 Part 3

The dynamics of the city

161 18

The city and dimensions of engagement

166 19

The rewards of chance

173 20

The street

187 21

The square

197 22

Encounters with old gods

211 23

The ethical dimension

216 Appendix 220 Index

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CONTENTS

Aesthetic performance checklist

Illustration credits

Geoffrey Birkett Bill Bordass

18

131

Roderick Coyne Bill Dunster

3

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© Peter Durant/arcblue.com

85, 107

Gustav Fechner (originated in the nineteenth century) Foster and Partners

83, 132–5

Professor Byron Mikellides Marshalls plc

55

137

Eamonn O’Mahony/Richard Rogers Partnership Pilkington

52

2

98

Andrew Putter

97

Richard Rogers Partnership Earl of Scarbrough Peter F. Smith

100

43

1, 5, 8, 11–17, 19–42, 44, 46, 48, 50, 51, 53, 54, 56–82,

84, 86–96, 99, 101–6, 108–28, 130, 136, 138–40, 142–60, 162–85 Courtesy of Ian Stewart, from Life’s Other Secret (Springer-Verlag)

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Courtesy of Ian Stewart, from What Shape is a Snowflake (Weidenfeld and Nicolson)

6

Courtesy John Stoel, Groniger Museum Victoria and Albert Museum

129

4

vii

Preface

Of Sir Henry Wotton’s triumvirate of conditions for good architecture ‘firmness, commodity and delight’, the emphasis here is on the last of the three, hence the title. Those who enter the danger zone of architectural theory tend to fall into two camps. First, there are the ones who navigate the currents of contemporary style and fashion, seeking to identify commonalities which can justify classification as a discrete style, like post-modernism. They are constantly on the alert for buildings which might be sowing the seeds of a new trend. The second group tends to concentrate on a particular theme. These are people who chew on the same bone for a large slice of their lifetime. They are not committed to a particular time or place. I confess to displaying this tendency. My particular ‘bone’ has been the study of human reactions to the range of manifestations in architecture and urban form. From time to time it has been a ‘bone of contention’, especially since my focus narrowed to trying to expose the roots of aesthetic perception. Four books have marked the route to the present volume: The Dynamics of Urbanism, The Syntax of Cities, Architecture and the Human Dimension and Architecture and the Principle of Harmony. All have tended to approach the subject from the direction of psychology. Whilst the psychological agenda figures in this book, I scan more widely for insights into the mystery of aesthetic pleasure. The unlikely foundations for a science of aesthetics were laid early in the last century with the development of quantum mechanics and the uncertainty principle. These paved the way for chaos theory and fractal geometry. The book suggests how these relate to aesthetic values using architecture as the vehicle. At the time of writing there is almost an obsession with Quality Assessment, Standards of Performance and Key Performance Indicators. This has penetrated the sphere of the aesthetic quality of buildings. The Commission for Architecture and the Built Environment (CABE) is, according to the magazine The Built Environment (15 June 2001), set to create a mathematical model which will provide the ‘delight factor’ for a given building. Underpinning this book is the belief that, whilst mathematics impinge on the subject, the perception of beauty can never be reduced to an algorithm. Because this represents what will probably be the conclusion to a journey of exploration, there will inevitably be echoes of the previous

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books. This is because nothing written here invalidates earlier thoughts. The main difference is that, this time, I have tried to create a more comprehensive structure to the theory, drawing evidence from systems in Nature as well as developments in psychology. I have reached the point of the ‘topping-out’ ceremony. Peter F. Smith July 2002

PREFACE

ix

Acknowledgements

I owe my warm thanks to Paul Hyett, President of the RIBA, for his valuable critique of an early draft of the book. I am also indebted to my wife Jeannette for her unmatched skill in proof-reading.

x

Part 1

Amsterdam and the tiger

Chapter 1

Laying the foundations

Buildings and cities only survive if we value them and wage a constant war on their behalf against entropy. More often than not the criteria of value have little or nothing to do with utility, otherwise why preserve ruined temples and castles? Architecture in its individual and urban form is a macro source of aesthetic and symbolic experience. It is the unavoidable art. ‘Sustainability’ has almost become the mantra of the age. The emphasis is understandably upon all forms of pollution, especially by greenhouse gases, and the preservation of the earth’s natural capital. In terms of the built environment the aspect of sustainability that tends to be overlooked in the presence of these high profile considerations is the quality of endurance. Many years ago there was a call by the President of the RIBA for buildings to be designed for ‘long life, loose fit’. This is one aspect of sustainability: buildings which can accommodate changes of use and which are designed for longevity. Buildings have a high probability of enduring, perhaps for centuries, if they meet a succession of different needs and are aesthetically pleasing in a way that transcends temporary taste. In an age when the emphasis is laid on sustainability, Wotton’s ‘delight’ is an important component which can sometimes be overlooked by those with their sights set on purely ecological goals. Until the twentieth century architecture had the status of ‘the queen of the arts’. This concept was firmly quashed by the apologists for the Modern Movement who severed the link between architecture and aesthetics. This was partly a reaction against the aesthetics movement which took an elitist view of the subject, separating it from concerns of everyday life. Roger Fry was one of the Bloomsbury critics who led this movement. At the time of writing the debate about the role of beauty in art has been reawakened, notably by the art historian John Cage of Oxford University. He concludes: ‘in visual art it’s [beauty] that has become extremely unfashionable’. Somewhat grudgingly he goes on to concede: ‘I suppose architects do have a sneaking interest in it from time to time’.1 They do

3

indeed, but covertly. ‘Beauty’ is still a word hedged about with embarrassment. The architectural critic Jonathan Glancey, writing in the Guardian, has no inhibitions about declaring his stance on the matter: ‘architects were once their own worst enemy when they delighted in buildings conceived as purely functional machines. But one of those functions must be to provide beauty’ (my italics).2 So the tide is turning, which makes it an appropriate time to seek to rehabilitate aesthetics and expose its roots. This should help to explain what it is that causes certain buildings and works of art to weather the buffeting of temporary trends and short-term fashions. But first, to get things into perspective, let me explain what this book is not about. It is not about ‘style’, though that is bound to feature. Many who venture into print on this hazardous subject do so from a stylistic position. For example, Roger Scruton is devoted to classicism and he views aesthetics through doric-tinted spectacles. Pugin, on the other hand, saw virtue only in the early gothic, regarding classicism as the outward sign of paganism. Apologists for a particular style have frequently gone beyond aesthetic preference to claiming that their chosen style is the repository of truth. In the twentieth century the advocates of the Modern Movement made such claims for the architecture of the machine age. It was to be the engine of a social revolution. The fallacy of moral superiority for an architectural style was exposed by David Watkin in Morality and Architecture.3 Morality has a place in this argument but not in the way described by the promoters of the ‘machine aesthetic’. I am not concerned with reviewing the field of aesthetics theory and entering into the dialectical mode of argument and counter-argument. I leave that to the philosophers who are so good at that kind of thing. The objective of the book is to argue the case for a rationale for aesthetic perception which draws on evidence from psycho-biology and certain constants which underpin Nature. This approach is not new, and terms like ‘psycho-biology’ and ‘bioaesthetics’ have been recognised for some time and represent an alternative approach to the subject of aesthetics to that employed by the philosophers. The fallacy which has dogged the philosophers in their consideration of aesthetics is the belief that beauty is capable of ‘objective contemplation’. It is now widely accepted that, even in the most rigorous scientific laboratories, there is no such thing as perfect objectivity. The first task will be to summarise our current understanding of aesthetic perception in terms of mental drives and rewards. However, the main purpose of the book is to step beyond current orthodoxy and expand on the bioaesthetic theme, arguing the case for linkages to fairly recent ways of describing Nature. There is a tradition of drawing inspiration from Nature, but it has been mainly confined to reflecting natural forms in architecture; so-called organic shapes which echo natural growth patterns. Such forms certainly inspired Antoni Gaudi and infiltrated the patterns of Art Nouveau. Rudolf

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Steiner pioneered the use of mass concrete to create monumental organic analogies, as in the recently restored Goetheanum in Dornach, Switzerland, to symbolise the ‘Science of the Spirit’. The aim in this volume, however, is to seek connections between certain underpinning rules in Nature and the phenomenon of aesthetic perception. The book draws on a wide variety of sources and owes allegiance to no particular school of psychology, unlike some recent works. For example, Ralf Weber views aesthetics through the lens of gestalt psychology in On the Aesthetics of Architecture.4 There are useful insights here, but it is far from the whole story. Overall the aim is to be descriptive and not pre-scriptive. Those seeking to find an easy answer to the business of arriving at an aesthetic judgement will be disappointed. The purpose here is to explore the mental drives and strategies that emerge as aesthetic perception, using architecture as the medium. The underlying assumption is that aesthetic judgement is a category of perception in its own right. This was first suggested by Clive Bell in his book Art.5 Umberto Eco endorsed this classification in Art and the Middle Ages.6 Despite the widespread dissolving of boundaries between hitherto discrete disciplines, the fundamental rift between arts and sciences remains intact. The nineteenth-century scientist William Whewell coined the word ‘consilience’ to describe the coming together of diverse disciplines. One of the most significant intellectual events of the twentieth century was the progressive dissolving of boundaries between disciplines and a shift away from a compartmentalised Newtonian world-view to a holistic, gestalt appreciation of the world in which an infinity of interactions produces monumental uncertainties. Euclidean geometry has given way to fractal geometry. All-embracing disciplines have emerged like ‘chaology’. The developments in chaos theory and fractal geometry have opened up new ways of mapping systems with inbuilt unpredictability like the weather. Yet the most persistent divide is still between the so-called Two Cultures. In seeking to bridge the gulf, the American Frank Oppenheimer has said: Art and science are very different but they both spring from cultivated perceptual sensitivity. They both rest on a base of acute pattern recognition. At the simplest level, artists and scientists alike make it possible for people to appreciate patterns which they were either unable to distinguish or which they had learned to ignore in order to cope with the complexity of their daily lives.7 As far back as 1908 Jules-Henri Poincaré was grappling with the problem of inspiration in science. He concluded that the generator of

LAYING THE FOUNDATIONS

5

inspiration was the ‘subliminal self’. In the face of a problem it scans to select the most fruitful combinations of data. He concluded that ‘the most useful combinations are precisely the most beautiful, I mean those best able to charm this special sensibility’. For Poincaré everything hinged on ‘the aesthetic sensibility of the real creator’.8 In a recent book called Consilience, Edward Wilson has gone slightly further: ‘in both the arts and sciences the programmed brain seeks elegance, which is the parsimonious and evocative description of pattern to make sense out of a confusion of detail’.9 To help us make sense of the confusion of detail I shall draw on the developing fields of non-linear dynamics, popularly called chaos theory, and the emerging subject of biomathematics. But first it must be said that the application of science to aesthetics is not new.

References 1 John Cage, Colour and Culture (London: Thames and Hudson). 2 Jonathan Glancey, the Guardian, 26 June 2000. 3 David Watkin, Morality and Architecture (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1977), ch. 22. 4 Ralf Weber, On the Aesthetics of Architecture (Aldershot: Avebury, 1995). 5 Clive Bell, Art (London: Chatto and Windus, 1914). 6 Umberto Eco, Art and Beauty in the Middle Ages (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1986). 7 Quoted by Pat Murphy, By Nature’s Design (San Francisco: Chronicle Books, 1993), p. 13. 8 Quoted by Arthur Koestler, The Act of Creation (London: Hutchinson, 1964), p. 165. 9 Edward O. Wilson, Consilience (London: Little Brown and Co., 1998), p. 243.

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Chapter 2

The roots of aesthetic perception

‘No theory of aesthetics that is not substantially based on the activity of the brain is likely to be complete, let alone profound.’ Semir Zeki further asserts: ‘All visual art is expressed through the brain and must therefore obey the laws of the brain whether in conception, execution or appreciation.’1 The ‘laws of the brain’ are the common inheritance of humans and therefore must form the platform of commonality on which is built any theory of aesthetic perception. This leads us inevitably into the outer fringes of neurobiology. The scientific approach to aesthetics began in earnest with the work of Wundt and Fechner from 1874 to 1876 which equated aesthetic pleasure with the level of arousal produced by visual stimuli. Fechner suggested that ‘the fundamental principle of aesthetics may be briefly summarised by saying that human beings, in order to enjoy the contemplation of some object, require to find therein a kind of unified variety’.2 The breakthrough which led to a new level of understanding of aesthetics was the by-product of surgical interventions in the 1960s to relieve epilepsy. It was believed that an epileptic seizure was the result of a massive electrical surge across the brain. To bring relief to the most severely disabled patients an operation was performed which cut the dense fibres, the corpus callosum, connecting the two halves of the brain, the right and left cerebral hemispheres. This meant that the two sides of the brain could no longer communicate with each other. The result was a pandora’s box for psychologists since, for the first time, they could analyse the specific functions of the two sides of the brain, which, in a normal person, operate in a symbiotic way. Leading the experimental field was Dr Roger Sperry in California. He and his colleagues ‘found that each half of the brain had its own separate train of conscious thought and its own memories’ and that ‘the two sides of the brain

7

think in wholly different ways. While the left brain tends to think in words, the right brain thinks directly in sensory images.’3 Blakeslee continues: ‘As the language specialist the left brain only thinks in words; it excels at the kind of one-step-at-a-time logical sequences that are the basis of language. Because the right brain thinks in images, it has a tremendous advantage for recognising and manipulating complex visual patterns.’4 In summary, the left brain operates ‘in series’ whilst the right brain works ‘in parallel’. The left deals in parts whilst the right considers the wholes. Daniel Bennett sums up the difference this way; he speaks of ‘the global, spatio-temporal right hemisphere [and] the concentrated, analytical, serial left hemisphere’.5 It is probably the right brain which is responsible for truly ground-breaking discoveries which sidestep the incremental logical step-bystep approach of the left brain. Interestingly, Albert Einstein has said: ‘The words of the language as they are written or spoken do not seem to play any role in my mechanism of thought.’ In 1865 Friedrich von Kekule was being severely taxed by a particular problem in organic chemistry. The answer came in a dream in which he saw a snake biting its own tail. This right-hemisphere inspiration led to the conclusion that certain important organic compounds are not open structures but closed chains or rings. Watson and Crick ‘pictured’ the double helix of DNA, and the rest is history. The right brain is the seat of intuition and inspiration. What this means is the right hemisphere has the capacity to absorb the elements of a problem which may or may not have been consciously conceived. There is a period of unconscious incubation when the right brain scans for new connections that combine into a novel whole. When this happens, the new insight breaks into consciousness – the eureka experience. This is the essence of creativity. Sheltering beneath the canopy of the cerebral hemispheres is the mid-brain, or limbic region, which is the seat of emotions. It is known that the right hemisphere has special links with the limbic system. The contrasting modes of consciousness in the right and left brains and the right’s special relationship with the centres of emotion have made the human brain the ideal machine for making aesthetic decisions. The two cerebral hemispheres deal with information in their specific ways, the left breaking down data into their parts, the right re-assembling them into discrete wholes and making value judgements about the quality of the wholes which it communicates directly with the limbic brain, hence the emotional dimension to aesthetic experience. A further biological factor which influences aesthetic judgement is the constraint imposed by the channel capacity of the brain. There are fairly precise limits to the rate of complexity which the brain can process. To round off this section of the argument, the Oxford anatomist J.Z. Young made this prophetic remark as far back as the 1970s: ‘Concepts

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of opposition and balance . . . and of golden means may be part of the fundamental structure of our brain programs as they are of our bodily structure.’6

Programmes of the brain The psycho-biological approach to this subject also argues that it is not only the structure of the human brain but certain fundamental inherited programmes that create the basis for believing in a common ‘deep structure’ which shapes aesthetic experience. It is argued that the capacity to make aesthetic judgements is the consequence of certain ‘epigenetic rules’; that is, we have a programmed propensity to achieve aesthetic pleasure but it has to be activated by experience. There is still some opposition to the view that there could be collective underpinning mental programmes which shape aesthetic perception, perhaps because it implies a degree of regimentation which poses a threat to individual freedom. Some prefer to live with the ‘black box’. Furthermore, it has been argued that aesthetic pleasure is an anomaly since it does not appear to offer any survival advantage and Nature rules out free meals. How can we attribute survival value to experiencing a Rembrandt? In his book How the Mind Works, Steven Pinker has no doubts: ‘As far as biological cause and effect are concerned, music is useless. It shows no signs of design for attaining a goal’.7 Commenting on this Susan Blakemore of Oxford University adds ‘we might say the same of art’.8 The counter-argument may be found in a biological model of aesthetic perception developed by the Canadian Donald Berlyne and described in his book Aesthetics and Psycho-biology.9 He suggests that one of the fundamental mind programmes in humans (and all higher animals) drives us to explore the unknown in order to enlarge the boundaries of territorial certainty. We tackle uncertainty and stress in order to achieve a higher level of orderliness in our world. He concludes that art developed as a way of ‘artificially’ creating a challenge in order to experience the reward of discovering the hidden order within a work of art, a view endorsed by Morse Peckham: Art, as an adaptational mechanism, is a rehearsal for those real situations in which it is vital for our survival to endure cognitive tension . . . art is the reinforcement of the capacity to endure disorientation so that real and significant problems may emerge.10 We should add ‘endure disorientation in order to achieve a higher level of reorientation’. The adaptational benefit of the arts is that they are a vehicle by which we ‘learn to learn’.

THE ROOTS OF AESTHETIC PERCEPTION

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To put this more firmly into its psychological context, the mind possesses a triumvirate of drives that are involved in the aesthetic response. In the first place there is the need to receive a steady flow of stimuli to keep the mind functioning. Experiments have shown that total sensory deprivation, even for a short period, can have devastating results. Not only do we need this constant inflow, it is also necessary to be confronted with new information: ‘Surprise is essential to mental health and growth.’11 The driving force here in the first instance may be the emotion of boredom. We embrace uncertainty to gain stimulation and to arrive at a higher certainty. The prospect of the experience of the new generates arousal emotions that are linked to the production of adrenalin. This is the emotion of anticipation, the frisson of excitement at the prospect of uncertainty – even danger. When the mountain is conquered or the problem solved a further class of emotion comes into operation. De-arousal emotion encompasses the pleasure at having achieved a goal and pushed back the boundary of the unknown. This is why a scientist who solves a problem experiences pleasure which is indistinguishable from aesthetic pleasure derived from a work of art. Poincaré wrote: It may be surprising to see emotional sensibility evoked a propos of mathematical demonstrations which, it would seem, can only interest the intellect. This would be to forget the feeling of mathematical beauty, of the harmony of numbers and forms, of geometric elegance. This is a true aesthetic feeling that all real mathematicians know.12 The central theme throughout the book is that the underpinning principle behind aesthetic experience is that of complexity giving way to orderliness. Clash is an essential component of aesthetic perception. Resolution of clash delivers aesthetic reward. The sudden evaporation of stress in the achievement of a goal in whatever form it takes is related to the refined experience the philosophers have sectioned-off as aesthetic pleasure. But in contrast to the philosophers, my approach to the subject is inclusive not exclusive. The biological benefit of laughter and pleasure, including aesthetic rewards, is that it counteracts the physiological consequences of arousal and stress by decreasing the level of the stress hormone cortisol which, in turn, increases the level of immunoglobulin in our system. In other words it bolsters the immune system. Art is not just a pretty face. Not only is it legitimate to talk of ‘aesthetic perception’, we can go further and state that it is a human characteristic to need a regular diet of aesthetic nourishment. People take this nourishment in an infinite variety of forms, only a few of which would be regarded as ‘high’ art. The appetite

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for aesthetic sustenance is ‘hard-wired’ – in other words, a common factor in genetic inheritance. Individuality surfaces as the potential to respond to different modes of aesthetic expression. It is an intuitive ability which can be sharpened by developing an analytical approach to beauty in parallel with the capacity for holistic vision. We can develop the technique of close focus analysis of form and structure on the one hand and, on the other, distancing oneself in order, as Alexander Pope put it, to ‘see the thing whole’.

Tying the knot How does all this come together? One of the most powerful and persistent drives within the human mind is directed towards discovering new patterns of knowledge. To quote Zeki: The brain has a task, which is to obtain knowledge about the world, and a problem to surmount, which is that that knowledge is not easy to obtain since the brain has to extract information about the essential, non-changing aspects of the visual world.13 He then makes a daring generalisation: ‘I shall therefore define the function of art as being a search for constancies which is also one of the most fundamental functions of the brain.’14 ‘Constancies’ could be equated not only with knowledge but also with pattern, since pattern may be defined as a rate of repetition of elements within a defined boundary which exceeds the chance rate of repetition within the wider milieu of random events. In its mission to achieve security the mind searches for ‘stability patterns’ to act as constants within the shifting kaleidoscope of the sensory stimuli – extracting the immutable from the ephemeral. Similarly knowledge arises from discovering connections between disparate data to create significant patterns of information, patterns that form stable constants, or stability zones within the landscape of uncertainty. What Zeki suggests is that a principle function of art is to reveal the order and constancy which underpins the fast-moving events of life. It enables us to stand back from the rush of incidents to contemplate what T.S. Eliot called ‘the still point of the turning circle’. Can we go further and equate knowledge with harmony? Acquiring knowledge means the apprehension of new truths and it represents a new pattern of orderliness arising out of the complexity of random information. It is viable because it creates links with existing patterns of information and can be said to echo the Gerard Manley Hopkins line: ‘likeness tempered with difference’. So, the attainment of knowledge has affinities with the perception of harmony – order transcending complexity to establish a new concept with its unique elegance.

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It is the mechanism of our divided consciousness which has enabled humans to be so successful in acquiring knowledge on the one hand and, on the other, creating such timeless works of art. Surely these are two sides of the same coin. The left brain scans for units of information which are classified, but which, on their own, have minimum value. The right brain searches for common elements within the flow of information. Where it is successful the result is new knowledge or a technological advance or a work of art. The creative propensity of the human brain lies in the complementary operation of the two cerebral hemispheres. One might even say that all knowledge and all art is the result of synergy between the contrasting elements of the brain. We hunger for new manifestations of harmony which perhaps is why millions take their vacations in historic cities, swapping one form of urban life for another for a brief period. Historic cities satisfy the aesthetic demand on a monumental scale. This is because somewhere along the road of evolution we developed a divine discontent with the status quo. We might also have had a brush with the devious deity Proteus.

References 1 Semir Zeki, Inner Vision (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), p. 1. 2 Quoted by J.Z. Young, Programs of the Brain (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1978), p. 240. 3 Quoted in Thomas R. Blakeslee, The Right Brain (London: Macmillan, 1980), p. 6. 4 Ibid., p. 10. 5 Daniel Bennett, Consciousness Explained (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1991). 6 Young, Programs of the Brain, p. 243. 7 Steven Pinker, How the Mind Works (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1998), p. 528. 8 Susan Blakemore, Scientific American (October 2000). 9 Donald Berlyne, Aesthetics and Psycho-biology (New York: Appleby Century Crofts, 1971). 10 Morse Peckham, Man’s Rage for Chaos: Biology, Behaviour and the Arts (Philadelphia, Pa.: Chilton Books, 1965). 11 G.A. Miller, Psychology, the Science of Mental Life (London: Hutchinson, 1964). 12 Quoted by Arthur Koestler in The Act of Creation (London: Hutchinson, 1964), p. 147. 13 Zeki, Inner Vision, p. 12. 14 Ibid.

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Chapter 3

The protean factor

During the 1990s there was increasing interest in what is called ‘protean behaviour’. Proteus was the Greek god who constantly outwitted his enemies by having the ability to change his shape in unpredictable ways. It is the aspect of unpredictability which justifies the link with Greek mythology. In terms of natural selection, there is, it seems, an advantage in being able to behave erratically so that actions are harder to predict. Humans have developed the capacity to think randomly in order to gain competitive advantage. This, it is argued, has been a major factor in human development and creativity. Its roots lie in what has been called ‘Machiavellian intelligence’, which refers to the power to predict the actions of others and thereby be able to manipulate them. Creativity relies on the ability to break out of accepted modes and make non-linear connections. It is bound up with ‘lateral thinking’, as described by Edward de Bono in the 1970s and 1980s. At the receiving end, aesthetic perception may, in part, be a development of the capacity rapidly to adjust to unpredicted actions by others within a competitive situation. Aesthetic perception involves changing frames of reference in order to see the hidden logic and orderliness behind what at first may seem random and strange. One of the selective pressures behind the development of the arts may be as a mechanism for developing mental agility; a way of rehearsing the capacity to change a mindset in the face of novelty and surprise. This leads directly to the mental shake-up which occurs whenever we are faced with fairly radical departures from the norm in terms of art and architecture: ‘the shock of the new’. It is this protean factor which enables us to adjust our mental models to accommodate such new evocations of art and architecture. As such it is an essential component of the fabric of aesthetic perception.

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Aesthetics and cognition The first step in the process of perception involves comparing new information with the accumulated sum of past experiences that constitute our mental map of the world. Nicholas Humphrey was one of the first to suggest that this process could produce a form of aesthetic response, and so it is appropriate to see cognitive enrichment as the first rung on the aesthetics ladder. The need to fit new information into our mental model of the world is the first priority when we encounter an unfamiliar object like a building or a whole town. Only when the mental reclassification routine has been completed can a second level of aesthetic perception begin to kick-in, the level which most art historians and philosophers consider to be the true province of art – namely, the response of the senses to the formal properties of an object. To appreciate this first level of aesthetic activity, we need to take a brief look at the mechanism of memory. There is still much to be discovered about the way memory is organised, but enough is known to be able to make the aesthetic connection. Whenever the mind is engaged in the process of recalling stored information this is considered to be the cognitive aspect of aesthetics. This is being written over two millennia, so to speak. The final decade of the twentieth century saw an accelerating rate of architectural activity. This was in contrast to the end of the first millennium when the building of churches petered out in the expectation of the apocalypse. This means that town dwellers in particular are being confronted, at an accelerating rate, with changes in the urban landscape. They are constantly having to adjust their mental map or urban schema. This is beneficial provided the pace of change does not overtake the mind’s capacity to make the necessary adjustments. One of the pioneers of modern memory theory was F.C. Bartlett who, in the 1920s, argued that, though memories are stored in a serial way, they act as a cohesive whole. He used the term ‘schema’ to describe the unitary mass of memory information, technically a set of memory ‘nodes’ linked together under a single broad heading. Applying this concept of the ‘node link structure’ to buildings and urban configurations, we register buildings and places in a serial way, yet these one-after-another experiences coalesce to form our built environment schema which forms the benchmark against which new experiences are judged. Within the schema are numerous divisions relating to building types or urban forms. The need to live in an orderly and predictable world creates the urge to classify things, first into broad groupings, and then to ever-finer detail within the groups. For example, the group under the heading ‘church’ comprises the sum total of experiences of this building type. An appropriate term for such a generalised grouping is ‘mnemotype’, from Mnemosyne, the Greek goddess of memory. It was coined by H.F. Blum in 1963.1

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When we are faced with a new building it is judged against this unified body of past experiences of buildings in the same broad category. If the new building is generally recognisable as falling within a mnemotype category then that mnemotype is adjusted to accommodate the novel elements in the building. The mnemotype can be considered as a template with adjustable edges. Each new architectural experience fractionally changes our perception of the whole spectrum of architecture in much the same way that T.S. Eliot considered every new poem to change the whole corpus of poetry. However, a building which allegedly belongs to a given mnemotype, but which threatens radically to change the shape of the template, is frequently greeted with hostility and rejected as an aberration. This phenomenon was the central theme of Alvin Toffler’s definitive work Future Shock.2 How does this mental routine qualify to be included in the broad spectrum of aesthetic experience? Because it involves the same drives and generates the same emotions which are central to aesthetic experience. In Genes, Mind and Culture (1982) Lumsden and Wilson state: The operations of the human mind incorporate 1) the production of concepts 2) the continuously shifting reclassification of the world.3 The continuous reclassification of the world is not merely a reactive activity; the human mind is proactive in searching for experiences which prompt incremental reclassification; ‘Surprise is essential . . .’ This is the essence of cognitive adaptation: the continuous adjustment of the environmental mental model to achieve an ever-better fit between expectations and reality; to push back the boundaries of uncertainty. It works because of the mental reward we gain once we have adjusted and enlarged mnemotypes and schemas to accommodate new information. Buildings are the pressure cookers of cultural change. This is because, as artefacts, they are large and unavoidable. They frequently challenge the accepted norms and as such stretch the mind and thereby improve what psychologists call the ‘optimum perceptual rate’; in other words, our capacity to adjust to novelty and surprise. New interpretations of traditional building types can initially cause pain. For many the most challenging building of the 1970s was Piano and Rogers’s Pompidou Centre in Paris (Figure 1). The finished product generated an avalanche of protest. It violated every preconception of a prestigious public building; it was not what Paris expected of an art gallery. Recently refurbished, it is now the most popular building in France, even outclassing Notre Dame. This is because people gradually came to appreciate how much more it offered in terms of delight and entertainment than traditional galleries. It is much more than a hanging space for pictures. Those who experience it have a greatly enriched ‘art gallery mnemotype’.

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Londoners had their own exposure to ‘future shock’ when Richard Rogers applied the same engineering/aesthetic rationale to the new headquarters for Lloyds in the City. Again the cries of protest, but now it is appreciated as adding sparkle within a complex of much more predictable buildings. At the time of writing the latest building to appear from the Rogers stable is the National Assembly for Wales at Cardiff Bay (Figure 2). It is a radical departure from the norm for such buildings since, in concept, it emphatically symbolises open government. It promises to be a really elegant addition to the city.

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1 Centre Georges Pompidou, Paris

2 National Assembly for Wales

One of the most daring practices of recent years in the architectural firmament is Alsop & Stormer, formerly Alsop and Lyall. As the latter these architects broke through the notoriety barrier with their astonishing government headquarters for Marseilles – ‘le grand bleu’. It causes us to see local government offices in a new light. Another civic building which is causing pleasurable surprise is the just-completed Library for the London Borough of Peckham (Figure 3). In section it is an inverted capital ‘L’, providing covered space for public events, and its multi-coloured façade injects joy into one of the most joyless parts of London. The most conservative sector of the built environment is speculative housing. At the present time Britain is in the grip of ‘retro-chic’, especially in terms of nostalgia for the Tudor golden age. So, homes like the zero energy houses in the London Borough of Sutton (see pp. 156–7) may take some time to win general acceptance, especially since it is not just an architectural innovation but also a social experiment (Figures 139, 140 on pp. 156, 157). The architect most associated at the moment with mouldbreaking is Frank Gehry. His gravity-defying shapes, as in the Walt Disney

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3 Public Library, Peckham, London

Concert Hall, tend to cross the line from architecture to sculpture. Sculpture as a habitat for art achieved its apotheosis in the Guggenheim Museum, Bilbao (Figure 93, p. 115). Despite its architectural daring it has been almost universally acclaimed, perhaps because it creates such a vibrant counterpoint between the building container and its contents. Maybe it also marks a new age of tolerance towards architectural innovation. How else can one explain the benign attitude of the citizens of Vienna towards the creations of Friedensreich Hundertwasser! (See Chapter 16, and Figures 126, 127, on pp. 144, 145.) These are just a few examples of buildings which challenge the status quo and we need them to keep our minds alive. As we come to

4 Victoria and Albert Museum, London. Daniel Libeskind proposed ‘spiral’ addition

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assimilate them into our schema of urban forms, so we experience the pleasure which comes from overcoming obstacles and broadening our knowledge base. It is an experience which touches the fringes of aesthetic pleasure. It will be interesting to see the public reaction to Daniel Libeskind’s insertion into the boiler house site within London’s Victoria and Albert Museum (Figure 4).

References 1 H.F. Blum, ‘On the Origin and Evolution of Human Culture’, American Scientist 51, 1 (1963), pp. 32–47. 2 Alvin Toffler, Future Shock (London: Pan Books, 1972). 3 C.J. Lumsden and E.O. Wilson, Genes, Mind and Culture (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1982), p. 5.

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Chapter 4

Exploring harmony

At the heart of the idea of beauty is the concept of harmony, a word we freely use in connection with architecture but which originates in music. For decades after the last war we suffered from the fact that planners completely misunderstood the true meaning of harmony. They took it to mean conformity or even uniformity. So, we have those tedious Portland stonefaced reconstructed streets in Plymouth (Figure 5) or Sheffield and the clinical austerity of early Milton Keynes.

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5 George Street, Plymouth in the 1970s

If they had realised what harmony means in musical terms things might have been much better. For example, in the tonic chord of G-major there is a significant level of clash between the wave profiles of the notes, but the rate of overlap or synchronisation exceeds the rate of clash, so order succeeds in outweighing complexity. In this one chord is played out the archetypal battle between order and anarchy. What matters is that there is a significant rate of conflict between consonance and dissonance. Harmony incorporates dissonance but synchrony outweighs conflict. This idea goes back at least as far as the medieval scholar Boethius who defined consonance or harmony as ‘a unified concordance of sounds dissimilar in themselves’.1 Even a single note has harmonic significance, which becomes apparent when we compare an electronically produced note with the same note from a violin. The former is bland whereas the latter is the product of a combination of sounds. The dominant note is called the fundamental. However, other notes are present called the ‘harmonics’ which are related to the fundamental in mathematical ratios. The note we hear contains other notes at the interval of an octave, a fifth and a fourth, and so on. They may be perceived consciously or unconsciously, but the richness of the sound is the outcome of a clash between the fundamental and its harmonic overtones. Conversely, ‘Dissonance gains strength in proportion to the extent to which two frequency profiles fail to overlap’.2 Both singers and instrumentalists avoid producing a perfect, sustained note, opting instead for the vibrato effect. This involves oscillating between the main note and a pitch slightly below it, producing the throbbing effect. Again, this is adding complexity by introducing an element of dissonance. This only becomes unpleasant if the oscillation is so pronounced as to create confusion as to which is the true note. The mind is repelled by uncertainty which will not yield to resolution. Finally, a variation on this phenomenon is reverberation. Music in a great cathedral has a special appeal because of the building’s long reverberation time. This means that a note or chord clashes with its predecessors in diminishing strength according to the reverberation time of the space. For example, Liverpool Anglican Cathedral has a reverberation time of about eight seconds which can be marvellously exploited by the largest organ in the land. The echo phenomenon adds another level of complexity against which orderliness must compete. The melody line is dominant, but its chords are sounded against the surviving strains of the preceding chords in declining strength. The result is a measure of clash or discord that adds considerable piquancy to the experience. There is a richness to Thomas Tallis in a great cathedral which is absent from the concert hall or recording studio. Of all composers J.S. Bach leads the field in encapsulating the archetypal contest between order and confusion. For example, in the Passacaglia and Fugue in C minor the measured chorale melody in the bass

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has to fight its way through cascades of notes in upper registers. The melody wins the contest but only after a heroic struggle; the epitome of the aesthetic principle. A similar contrapuntal pattern shattered the mould of nineteenth-century convention in the form of the astonishing compositions of Charles Ives. Within the realms of tonality a piece of music represents a unique pattern of chords and melody. At first hearing it is unpredictable. Yet it observes the conventions of form and tonality. It has been said of Mozart that his genius lay in the way he broke the rules of the time, sharpening the cutting edge of tonality by pitching it against discord as in the ‘Dissonance’ quartet. Here Mozart raised to new heights the creative clash between order and complexity, extending the boundary of aesthetic possibilities. When music completely breaks free from the underpinning laws of tonality we have randomness and therefore no chance of perceiving any pattern of order. When a work of art defies all efforts to uncover any underlying orderliness, the result, for most people, is ugliness and rejection. On the other hand a strict symmetrical pattern fails to elicit an aesthetic response because it lacks the critical minimum of unpredictability or complexity requiring to be resolved. In music an octave does not constitute harmony because there is no clashing of wave profiles; they fall neatly into a 2:1 pattern. The mind needs to confront a challenge to unscramble the pattern to justify the reward which accompanies the triumph over uncertainty. In other words, when we perceive the lawfulness underpinning the disorderliness, we receive the emotional payoff for achieving a small victory over uncertainty and confusion; a survival benefit. This is the principle of harmony – order ascendant over complexity, ‘unity within multiplexity’, ‘likeness tempered with difference’.3 The philosopher Herbart said something similar in 1808: ‘Those judgements which are conceived under the name of taste are the result of the perfect apprehension of relations formed by a complexity of elements.’4 ‘Relations’ here refers to the incidence of pattern. Definitions of harmony weave an unbroken thread back to the Greeks with their belief that the essence of beauty lies in the clash between complexity and order. The human mind is attuned to recognising pattern within a milieu of apparent randomness. When the pattern is seen to emerge out of the disorder we receive a special kind of reward which, since the eighteenth century, has been termed ’aesthetic pleasure’. It was A.G. Baumgarten who is credited with inventing the concept of aesthetics and summed up its meaning as: ‘Richness or multiplicity . . . combined with clarity’.5 He may have been influenced by Leibniz who defined the drive for perfection as the desire ‘to obtain as much variety as possible but with the greatest order one can’.6 Samuel Taylor Coleridge speaks of the power of creative imagination which ‘reveals itself in the balance or reconciliation of opposite or discordant qualities; of sameness with difference; of the general with the

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concrete; of the sense of novelty and freshness with old and familiar objects’.7 The last word should go to Donald Berlyne: The aim of all intellectual pursuits, including science, philosophy and art (including the art of building well) is to seek unity in the midst of diversity or order in the midst of complexity. The ultimate task is to fit multifarious elements into some kind of compact, cohesive, apprehensible scheme.8 The inescapable truth is that aesthetic reward only follows when the pattern has been identified after a degree of effort. The idea of aesthetic reward is, for most, bound up with the concept of harmony. There are those who dispute this connection, but they are usually committed to a philosophical position which overrides the normal intuitive response to beauty.

Aesthetics and the unavoidable variables Whilst the main purpose here is to identify the constants which influence aesthetic judgement, we also need to acknowledge the existence of unavoidable variables, and one major variable is the philosophical complexion of the culture in which we operate. ‘Pattern born amid formlessness: that is biology’s basic beauty.’9 The ‘battle between uniformity and nonuniformity’ or ‘between forces of stability and instability’ in Nature has a parallel in the bi-polar nature of high culture. The arts are a reflection of human nature, or, more precisely, the nature of the mind. In the evolution of western culture there are clear swings between cultural opposites. At one pole there is the drive to establish rigid orderliness and eliminate fuzziness and uncertainty. It is reflected in a society which is circumscribed by rules which regulate social behaviour as well as the arts. In England it was in the eighteenth century that this ethos was in the ascendant. The most reviled word at the time was ‘enthusiasm’ since it implied uncontrolled behaviour by individuals with unpredictable consequences. This was the ‘Augustan’ age, so-called because it sought to emulate the values of the golden age of the Emperor Augustus. In France the Court Painter Lebrun ruled the artistic scene with a rod of iron. In terms of cultural history it is described as the Classic pattern, which, not unnaturally, found its inspiration in classical Greece and Rome. The Classic drive tends to be backward looking and, in the process, idealises the past. The opposite to the Classic ethos is Romanticism which usually emerges as a reaction to its claustrophobic climate. Its banner proclaims liberation from rules and the primacy of the individual over the group. It too has its underpinning myths – in this case the pastoral myth. If the Classic

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golden age was urban, the Romantic was rural, hence fertile ground for Nature poets like Wordsworth and the ‘back to nature’ philosophers like Rousseau. Nature is idealised but not in a manicured way, but as awesome and sublime. In Romantic times there is an emphasis on innovation and risk. It is the time when there are breakthroughs in the arts.10 From the psychological point of view the Classic and Romantic drives are basic components of the mind, and it is the strength of one relative to the other which does much to determine our personality. They represent the twin poles of mental need: on the one hand the desire for serenity and withdrawal and submergence of self into the group and, on the other, the thirst for excitement, challenge and engagement. The reason for embarking on this explanation is that the evolution of the arts has been characterised by the Classic–Romantic oscillation. The way we judge the arts, especially architecture, is heavily influenced by the cultural complexion of the age. The judgements we make pass through the filter of the prevailing cultural values. The other point of all this is to draw a parallel with natural ecosystems in which there is continual tension and striving for ascendancy. One might argue that the peak points in a culture are when either the Classic or Romantic impulses achieve dominance, but within limits that preserve the robustness of the subordinate. We can make a comparison between the tension which drives the cultural oscillation and the elemental condition in Nature whereby it is driven by the tension between ‘forces that amplify differences . . . and forces that dampen them’.11 Echoes here of the complementary modes of consciousness within the human brain. Romanticism rejoices in differences that enrich the whole; the Classic drive tends to dampen them. Systems in Nature are subjected to internal tension through these forces and patterns emerge when a system crosses a stability threshold. It has to be driven by this tension sufficiently far from symmetry before a pattern starts to appear. The forces of order and symmetry fight their corner against the forces of complexity and nonuniformity until they can hold out no longer, and symmetry gives way to a broken pattern. The idea that Nature works on the principle of order engaging in a perpetual contest with complexity has echoes of definitions of beauty stretching back to the Greeks. Plato recognised that ‘it is a characteristic of human reason to seek unity in multiplexity’.12 For Aristotle, beauty lay in the recognition of ‘similars within dissimilars’. In the Middle Ages, Thomas Aquinas came up with a passage which hits the spot: After the travail of the discursive act of understanding, the intellect rejoices at the vision . . . of order and integrity . . . Beauty is what pleases when it is seen, not because it is intuited without effort, but because it is through effort that it is won . . . We take pleasure in knowledge which has overcome the obstacles in its path . . .13

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References 1 De Institutione Musica 1.8. 2 ‘Tonal Consonance and Critical Bandwidth’, Journal of the Acoustical Society of America (1965), pp. 548–60. 3 Gerard Manley Hopkins, Catholic priest and influential Victorian poet. 4 J.F. Herbart, Allgemeine practische Philosophie (Göttingen: Danckwerts, 1808). 5 A.G. Baumgarten, Aesthetica (Kunze, 1750). 6 Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz, La monadologie (1714). 7 Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Biographia Literaria (1817). 8 Donald Berlyne, Aesthetics and Psycho-biology (New York: Appleby Century Crofts, 1971), p. 296. 9 James Gleick, Chaos (London: Sphere Books, 1987), p. 299. 10 One of the definitive works on this subject is Jacques Barzun’s Classic, Romantic and Modern (London, 1961). 11 Mark Buchanan, ‘Inside Science’, New Scientist (19 June 1999), p. 3. 12 Plato, Phaedrus 249b. 13 Thomas Aquinas, thirteenth-century theologian and philosopher.

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Chapter 5

From harmony to chaos

On the face of it, a leap too far. But in fact the link between harmony and chaos theory takes us to the heart of aesthetic perception which, on the formal level, is concerned with the quality of the outcome of interacting shapes, colours, tones and textures of buildings aside from cognitive meaning. It involves a rather special way of seeing which may be termed ‘holistic’ vision. Often it takes an act of will to stand back from the detail in order to take in the wider whole. In the built environment the formal aesthetic resolves down to two main themes: pattern defined as ‘coherent diversity’ and the theory of proportion. These themes reflect several overlapping psychological drives in the mind’s mission to impose orderliness on the continual stream of stimuli reaching the brain via the senses: •

The need to build up a mental map of the immediate environment.

•

The necessity to create patterns of related data to reduce the demands on the storage capacity of the brain.

•

The urge to seek out challenges in order to experience the rewards of attaining new heights of orderliness in the perceived world.

•

In its mission to create an orderly world a favourite strategy of the brain is to identify binary combinations or ‘sets’ so as to establish clarity between the dominant and the subordinate in the partnership. This is the essence of the idea of binary harmony which is the basis of good proportion and the subject of Part 2.

Pattern recognition and the incorporation of opposites into a balanced whole, these are the two sides of the coin of aesthetic experience.

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Defining pattern As stated earlier, the concern of this book is not with biomorphic shapes but with exploring how the underpinning rules of Nature may have a bearing on the way we attach aesthetic value to buildings and townscape. The human mind is genetically attuned to pick out points of affinity within the complex stream of sensory information reaching the brain, because pattern equals redundancy. A pattern is a way of ‘chunking’ an array of information so that it takes up less attentional space. That word’s original American usage described a group of linked symbols in long-term memory that can be summed-up by a single ‘chunk symbol’. It is a way of filing data which have enough features in common to fall under a common heading. The more the mind can store information in this way, the more free capacity it has available to cope with novelty and surprise. However, I am also bending the use of ‘chunking’ to cover the process in perception of aggregating the buildings or architectural features within a scene which have numerous features in common in order to reach an aesthetic judgement. What, then, do we mean by ‘pattern’? Non-linear dynamics or chaos theory can offer insights into our understanding of aesthetic value in architecture and urbanism based on the concept of pattern. There are two kinds of pattern: on the one hand, uniform and symmetrical; on the other, broken or disjointed. In Nature it is usually the latter that it is in evidence. It is now understood that patterns in Nature arise out of universal principles rather than the localised properties of chemicals or particles. Patterns are the outcome of ‘deep phenomena more a consequence of mathematics than physics’.1 Alan Turing devised a formula which determined the distribution of the pattern of stripes on a tiger. In another case, the Ginzburg–Landau equation describes the way patterns form in chemical systems, super-conducting materials, heart muscle activity and even the shape of amoeba colonies. A limited number of pattern-formation equations underpin the bewildering array of patterns in Nature. They define the ‘order parameter’ that arises from ‘the battle between uniformity and nonuniformity . . . there are only a few categories of battle’.2 The mathematician Professor Ian Stewart has said: Something in the human mind is attracted to symmetry . . . However, perfect symmetry is repetitive and predictable, and our minds like surprises, so we often consider imperfect symmetry to be more beautiful than exact mathematical symmetry . . . nature also seems to be dissatisfied with too much symmetry.3 This is echoed by Frank Close of the Rutherford Appleton Laboratory:

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Whether we scrutinise life, the Universe or anything, the deeper we look, the more asymmetry appears. Indeed, asymmetry is seemingly necessary for anything ‘useful’ to exist.4 So, ‘spontaneous symmetry breaking’ seems to be an underlying principle of Nature. It is this tension between opposite forces which generates the patterns of Nature. ‘Patterns only emerge when a system crosses a stability threshold: it has to be driven sufficiently far from equilibrium before a pattern starts to appear.’5 Nature’s alleged dissatisfaction with too much symmetry links us straight in to the relatively recent field of chaos theory. This needs an explanation, because chaos theory is not about chaos as popularly understood. It was Edward Lorenz who started it all accidentally when trying to model weather progressions. By omitting the fourth decimal place in the input figure to an equation he expected that this would make an insignificant difference to the outcome. In fact the divergence was dramatic after a relatively short run. This led to the poetic concept of the butterfly effect: a minute disturbance in one continent building up to storms in another. This led him to conclude that complex dynamic systems are theoretically capable of being fully understood but, in practice, the number of active features within such a system are virtually infinite and thus chaotic. Nature is a holistic, dynamic system and the so-called ‘butterfly effect’ is the popular metaphor for chaos theory. Why such systems are described as chaotic is because they are subject to constant positive feedback from an infinite number of influences and, as such, they are non-linear. Small differences become greatly amplified, making prediction impossible as any weather forecaster will confirm. Chaos principles abound in Nature. An understandable reaction would be to regard beauty and chaos as opposites like orderliness and randomness. In fact, chaos theory offers to create a bridge between them in that it describes a situation in which there is apparent randomness which is underpinned by laws. At the same time, chaos in this definition means that ‘systems obeying simple rules can behave in surprisingly complicated ways’.6 This means that chaos patterns can have the appearance of randomness yet be underpinned by quite basic rules: randomness with direction. The idea that a simple set of instructions can generate a high rate of complexity was first posed by Helge von Koch in the nineteenth century. By adding an equilateral triangle to the middle third of a larger equilateral triangle, at the same time blanking off the middle third base line and repeating the procedure many times, you arrive at an extremely complicated figure understandably called the ‘Koch snowflake’ (Figure 6). With the development of computers in the 1970s, this concept was explored, notably by Benoit Mandelbrot who exploited the complexity

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6 Koch snowflake

potential of fractal geometry. The ‘Mandelbrot set’ (Figure 7) is now one of the icons of mathematics and demonstrates that observing simple rules can produce unpredictable patterns to an ever-diminishing scale. It is the ultimate mathematical expression of complexity underpinned by orderliness. Fractals are created by continually re-running an equation and then inputting it back into itself, called ‘iterating the equation’, so that the output becomes the input. The result is apparently chaotic, but there is order beneath the confusion. John Briggs makes the connection with art: ‘Artists have always exploited and valued what might be called “the order that lies in uncertainty”.’7

7 Mandelbrot set computed by Roll Silver of Amygdala, San Cristobel, New Mexico from Fractals, Patterns of Chaos

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The latest development arising from the Koch snowflake concept is to be found in the development of robotics where the principle of ‘chaotic logic’ prevails. A robot is programmed with a limited set of rules, together with the ability to learn. From the rules stem a variety of unpredicted patterns of behaviour. The point to be emphasised is that the immense variety in nature is the outcome of the effect over time of the operation of some very basic rules. For example, every tree is unique, with a high incidence of randomness, yet each conforms to the architecture of the taxonomic group set by the rules of the species and, at the same time, is a classic example of the fractal principle. Its basic form is reflected at ever-smaller levels of branching. At the same time branches are distributed in a pattern which balances their considerable cantilever forces. Also there is consistency in the way in which branches ‘know’ when to stop growing with the result that the profile of a tree can be remarkably trim and orderly. All this is regulated by the ‘epigenetic manual’ for the particular species of tree. Epigenesis will feature later as a useful analogy for the development of towns. From the branches of a tree to the stripes of a tiger or zebra is not that much of a leap. Every tiger has a unique pattern of stripes, but all within the general super-pattern of ‘tiger-ness’. How is this achieved? Alan Turing offered an answer by writing a formula which suggested that animal patterns had a basis in geometry. This was developed into a model in which the pattern distribution was the outcome of a battle for territory between melanin chemicals and melanin-inhibiting chemicals. A cease-fire is declared by the DNA when the melanin chemicals have produced the right ratio of stripes to background colour according to the epigenetic rules of the species. Nature, it seems, works on the contingent principle rather than the blueprint programme. Growth and development are born of tension and clash and are highly dependent upon the immediate preceding condition. The beat of the heart is determined by the few previous beats, not by some master clock. In terms of natural growth patterns the element of randomness is an essential condition for success. Non-linearity safeguards a system from being locked-in to a process that resists change and adaptation. Strict regularity represents enslavement to only one mode of progression. Chaos theory is concerned with understanding the interplay of order and indeterminacy or non-linearity, summed up by Joseph Ford as ‘randomness with direction’. One of Einstein’s enduring remarks is: ‘God does not play dice with the universe.’ In the light of recent thinking the reposte is ‘Yes He does, but the dice is loaded.’

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Chaos from cosmos to biosphere One of the main contributions of science and mathematics in the twentieth century has been to come to terms with the existence of asymmetry and uncertainty at every level of the natural world. The ultimate chaos system is the universe. The mechanistic universe of Isaac Newton has been replaced by one in which the regularity of an expanding universe is being constantly subjected to random events such as exploding stars, supernovas. Of direct concern to earth is the way that asteroids unexpectedly break out of the asteroid belt and hit planets, such as the 1997 collision with Venus which produced an impact many times greater than the simultaneous triggering of the total world arsenal of nuclear weapons. The dinosaurs knew all about asteroids. Einstein’s General Theory of Relativity proposed that all bodies in space have their own gravitational field. The cosmos is an almost infinite system of affective and affected bodies in space. An object dropped on earth is submitting to the gravitational pull of the planet which is a function of the planet’s mass. At the same time, the earth is pulled an infinitesimal amount towards that object. Objects in space compete to draw other objects into their energy field. The ultimate predator is the black hole. Uncertainty lies at the heart of the system by virtue of the fact that the amount of matter in the cosmos does not appear be sufficient to account for a stable universe. Galaxies are not heavy enough; there is insufficient matter ‘to balance the universe’s books’. The idea of negative gravity is increasingly favoured as a theory to account for this discrepancy. However, the overriding fact is that the universe displays orderliness expressed by the fact that objects are receding in space at a speed which is proportional to their distance from the earth. This is proved by the Doppler red shift, recently confirmed by the refurbished Hubble space telescope. In his book The Accelerated Universe, describing the latest discoveries in cosmology, Mario Livio, who heads the team running the Hubble programme for NASA, argues that scientists are seeking to discover an aesthetically rich underlying orderliness behind the apparent chaos of Nature. He states: You look at those images and they are astoundingly beautiful. But then there is a hidden beauty in the physics, namely that underneath all this richness and complexity there is a relatively simple truth which allows these phenomena to occur.8 So, whilst the universe seemingly displays complexity and chaos, beneath it all is a simple set of propositions which it is the mission of physics to discover, what Livio calls ‘a few simple principles of compelling beauty’.9 The chaotic system which has the most impact on our lives is the weather. Forecasters come under constant criticism because they are able to make reliable predictions for no more than a few days at a time.

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This is because small perturbations can quickly expand into major, even catastrophic events. There is too much uncertainty; so many unpredictable factors can change the course of the weather that even the most advanced computers can only make short-range forecasts with any degree of certainty. For instance, weather systems are driven by the warmth emitted by the land and oceans. Equatorial areas receive much more solar energy than the poles, which sets up a differential warming of the air. Warm air rises, cold descends, and so here is one ingredient of weather uncertainty. The system is complicated by the rotation of the earth, which provides a continuous stirring effect. The oceans retain heat for twice as long as the land and are able to move warmth around. At the same time, the oceans are thermally dynamic. Descending cold water and rising warm water create currents which affect air temperatures. In the Pacific this produces the famous El Niño current which, in 1998 and 1999, was responsible for devastating effects worldwide. Yet, despite these many variables the overall global weather system is stable. Storms are compensated for in other parts of the system. There is underlying lawfulness about the weather – which is just as well. One predicted outcome of global warming is that the underlying stability is being threatened by human activity enhancing the greenhouse effect. This is a random interference with the underlying lawfulness of the system and therefore poses the threat of an exponential consequence such as runaway warming and an end condition similar to that enjoyed by Venus. It is possible to regard the human brain as a chaos system. We have already noted that the evolution of the brain has resulted in a system which maintains a critical balance between the autonomy of the parts and the integrity of the whole, allowing earlier brain units a high level of influence over higher brain functions. Add to this the different specialisations between right and left cerebral hemispheres and you have the perfect system for producing unpredictable outcomes. This is the mechanism of creativity. Every creative act is a chaos pattern. Even heartbeats follow a chaotic pattern. One way of diagnosing heart disease is to plot the rhythm of beats. If they are too regular this is a clear sign of problems. There is ‘a sophisticated kind of irregularity in the dynamics of the healthy heart’.10 Finally, it seems our very existence depends on asymmetry. The universe is composed of matter and antimatter. Crucially, a split second after the big bang, the primal symmetry was broken in favour of matter as against antimatter. Had this not been the case they would have annihilated each other leaving only radiation. The universe would have vanished the instant it appeared. Mystery still surrounds the way Nature creates asymmetric patterns from underlying uniformity. However, solving this greatest of remaining mysteries is the objective of an experiment scheduled for 2005 at CERN, the European Laboratory for Particle Physics at Geneva. It will attempt to recreate the conditions which existed before the natural

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symmetry was broken. Now, ‘A multitude of natural asymmetries have made the cosmos what it is.’11 However, there are strictly regular patterns in Nature, the best example being the tides which rise and fall according to the gravitational pull of the moon and sun. However, here too chaos theory can intrude, as when winds supplement the force of the incoming tide to produce a storm surge. Add to this the fact that winds are often associated with intense low-pressure systems which can result in a localised sea level rise of up to half a metre and we can appreciate why the predictability of the tides can be seriously undermined, as with the devastating east coast floods in the UK in 1953. Some detail has been necessary to demonstrate that all of Nature is caught up in a web of competition and feedback loops, all of which produces the dynamic of growth and a constantly shifting equilibrium. And humans are part of that system and therefore it is reasonable to conclude that it will have an influence on the way we perceive and evaluate the world around us. The energy that powers developments in Nature seems to be generated by the tension between forces dedicated to orderliness and those which favour complexity – an echo of the Second Law of Thermodynamics which encompasses the clash between order and entropy. The snowflake encapsulates the essence of chaos: ‘a delicate balance between the forces of stability and forces of instability; a powerful interplay of forces on atomic scales and forces on everyday scales’.12 The 8 Fracture cracks as chaos pattern

principle that Nature functions between the poles of symmetry/orderliness and complexity/variety is the logical link with the subject of aesthetics. When dynamic systems move from orderliness to complexity, it is at the boundary situation or transition zone that chaos patterns emerge. Chaos is found along the frontier ‘between stability and incomprehensible disorder’. A chaos system manifests ‘order beneath confusion’.13 An example of this is when an orderly surface is subject to dynamical pressure through drying or pressure. Figure 8 is an abstraction from a thin layer of polystyrene compressed between two layers of glass. The result is a perfect chaos pattern which looks remarkably like the plan of a medieval city like Bruges (Figure 9).14 To conclude, as Briggs indicates: ‘the study of chaos is also the study of wholeness’.15 Aesthetics is the study of wholes which add up to something much greater than the sum of their parts. Let Briggs have the

9 Bruges, medieval city plan

last word: ‘Artists have always exploited and valued what might be called the order that lies in uncertainty.’16

References 1 Mark Buchanan, ‘Inside Science’, New Scientist (19 June 1999), p. 4. 2 Ibid., p. 2. 3 Ian Stewart, Nature’s Numbers (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1995), p. 73.

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4 Frank Close, ‘Fearful Symmetry’, New Scientist (8 April 2000). 5 Ibid. 6 Stewart, Nature’s Numbers. 7 John Briggs, Fractals: The Patterns of Chaos (London: Thames and Hudson, 1992), p. 27. 8 Mario Livio, The Accelerating Universe (London: John Wiley and Son, 2000). 9 Ibid. 10 Mark Buchanan, ‘Fascinating Rhythm’, New Scientist (3 January 1998), p. 23. 11 Close, ‘Fearful Symmetry’. 12 Briggs, Fractals, p. 309. 13 Ibid., pp. 21, 27. 14 Derived from Stewart, Nature’s Numbers. 15 Briggs, Fractals, p. 21. 16 Ibid., p. 27.

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Chapter 6

From Nature to artefacts

The link between art and chaos is said to have been forged by Max Ernst in 1942. He is reputed to have been the first ‘action painter’ by virtue of a procedure which he described: Tie a piece of string, one or two metres long, to an empty tin can, drill a small hole in the bottom and fill the tin with fluid paint. Then lay the canvas flat on the floor and swing the tin backwards and forwards over it, guiding it with movements of your hands, arms and shoulder and your whole body. In this way surprising lines drip onto the canvas.1 The combination of chance with certain regularities of application was his hallmark, a technique further developed by the American Jackson Pollock (see Figure 10). His paintings were generated by the ‘drip and splash’ technique, meaning that streams of paint were poured in continuous trajectories across the canvas. The lines and blobs were the product of a limited range of gestures and movements as he walked around the canvas. He controlled the character of the lines by varying the viscosity of the paint and the height, angle and rate of pouring. All this adds up to the appearance of randomness, but generated by a limited number of application techniques or rules combined with a restrained pallet: a diagram of chaos theory. When asked ‘Why don’t you work more from nature?’ he replied: ‘I am nature.’ He was closer to the truth than he knew. This idea is taken up by John Briggs: ‘the deep intent of many artists is to create forms that exhibit something of the inner structures . . . to be found in nature’s forms’.2 Richard Taylor, a physicist at the University of New South Wales 10 ‘Number 14’, Jackson Pollock

at Sydney, conducted an experiment in which he commissioned artists to generate both chaotic and non-chaotic (random) drip paintings. Subjects

35

were asked to identify which were the most visually appealing based on pure pattern recognition. Of a sample of 120, 113 preferred the chaos patterns. Pollock claimed that he was concerned to capture ‘the rhythms of nature’. Taylor speculated: ‘Could he have been so in tune with nature’s processes and people’s desires to see patterns generated by them that he harnessed chaos to capture the essence of nature?’3 This accords with Briggs’s view that ‘The science of chaos is helping to newly define an aesthetic that has lain beneath the changing ideas of different periods, cultures and schools.’4 Composers in the eighteenth century adopted a version of chaos theory in a method called Ars Combinatoria. This involved setting a number of parameters like a fixed harmonic pattern and a set number of bars and notes. The sequence of the notes was determined by the throw of a dice, the purpose being to discover new tunes using the element of chance.

About buildings About twenty-five years ago I composed a picture to show how King’s Parade in Cambridge might look if redeveloped within the design philosophy of the day (Figures 11 and 12). I borrowed Fitzwilliam College for the

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11 King’s Parade, Cambridge – hypothesis

12 King’s Parade, Cambridge

purpose. What surprised me even then was how many people were taken in by it. Of course it is the opposite of chaos pattern; there is a bare minimum of visual complexity to tax the mind’s pattern-recognition skills. Soon after this Cambridge suffered the real thing with the intrusion into the medieval King Street of a concrete eruption for Christ’s College (Figure 13). It was intended that this building should set the pattern for the complete redevelopment of the street.

13 Addition to Christ’s College, King Street, Cambridge

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37

About the same time the world famous Princes Street in Edinburgh was all set to be demolished and replaced by the minimalist architecture of the day (Figure 14). One of the architects for the redevelopment stated: ‘Whatever coherence Princes Street might have had in the past has long since gone . . .’ A number of the brave new world ‘coherent’ examples were built and stand today as stranded monuments to the ‘less is more’ philosophy.

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14 Princes Street, Edinburgh and arrested proposal

The City planners saw the light just in time to ensure that the pattern integrity of the overall streetscape was preserved. Critics of the immediate post-war interpreters of the Modern Movement accuse them of selling out to the accountants and bringing down the curtain wall on the identity of cities. The so-called ‘international style’ created an international identity. Singapore, Kuala Lumpur, Hong Kong, Dallas are all interchangeable. To gauge the measure of this collapse in individuality we can refer to an earlier international style which was the trademark of the medieval transnational trading organisation the Hanseatic League. The style is immediately identifiable, but each country interpreted it in a distinctive way, and nowhere better than in the Netherlands. One of the key features of chaos theory is that it is holistic by definition. It is dynamic in the sense that a particular system like the weather is capable of being affected by its smallest ingredient. Everything affects and is affected by everything else within the system, and systems influence other systems and so ad infinitum. Furthermore, this carries over into human perception. A building, or especially a sequence of buildings, is a complex interactive system in which the perception of one feature is altered according to the form and proximity of neighbouring features and according to the preconceptions of the percipient. Cities are the ultimate man-made expression of the holistic principle, especially when they echo fractal rather than Euclidean geometric forms, which brings us back to Holland and the city of Amsterdam. Few would argue against the idea that certain views of the city deserve the title ‘picturesque’ (Figure 15). The use of this term implies that

15 Medieval Amsterdam

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such views stand out as achieving special aesthetic significance. Is this because they qualify as chaos pattern? Certainly there is a high level of unpredictability or complexity about them: storey heights are different; most terminate in stepped or curved gables; windows are of varying size and are placed at different levels, and so on. In the 1960s it would never have received planning consent. At first sight it may seem that randomness prevails. Yet randomness by definition cannot qualify as aesthetically significant. There have to be some overriding continuities which become evident due to the capacity of the mind to highlight pattern factors and play down differences. To substantiate this statement we need to make a brief detour into brain theory to explain how the organisation of activity within the left and right cerebral hemispheres contributes to aesthetic perception. The contrasting functions of the left and right hemispheres, as explained earlier (pp. 7–8) are: •

the left brain concentrates on the detail and processes information in a serial, step-by-step manner

•

the right hemisphere has a panoramic, spatial focus and is good at recognising connections.

Within the mind there is constant competition which recalls the clash in Nature between ‘forces that amplify differences . . . and forces that dampen them’. So, in summary, the left discriminates between the parts, the right apprehends the whole. In western civilisation there is a bias towards rational, serial mental processing underpinned by a desire to classify objects to ever-finer levels of detail. In the case of trees, for instance, we tend to concentrate on its innumerable characteristics down to its molecular structure and, in the process, risk becoming increasingly blind to the forest. Some experiments in 1999 were designed to test the hypothesis that the left hemisphere focuses on the detail whilst the right perceives the whole. Subjects were wired up so that the activity in the respective hemispheres could be recorded. They were then presented with a letter ‘navon’; that is, a recognisable shape made up of individual recognisable shapes likes letters. The left hemisphere was found to focus on the individual letters whilst the right took in the total picture – in this example the left concentrated on the letter ‘F’ whilst the right saw the pattern as a letter ‘S’.5 The physiological theory of this is that neurones which make sparser, short-range connections with their neighbours fix on the fine detail. These are found in the left hemisphere. The right hemisphere neurones are more richly and widely connected, enabling them to embrace the global picture. The point to emphasise is that it is possible to develop the capacity for aesthetic perception by correcting the left-hemisphere bias and

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creating scope for the right hemisphere to lift our senses above the detail. It is apprehending the orderliness of the totality emerging from the complexity of the bits that is the theme of this book. The complementary operation of the halves of the cortex can be illustrated by the example of Amsterdam. The medieval and renaissance parts of the city exhibit a key fractal characteristic, namely self-similarity. Despite the fact that every building has a unique identity, all clearly belong to the same family; they bear the Hanseatic stamp with regional overtones. The unifying Hanseatic characteristics are: •

Narrow frontage, deep plan

•

Gables facing the street

•

Embellishment of gables to establish individuality

•

High ratio of window to wall.

These features provide the foundation of pattern which is reinforced by regional style characteristics. The medieval and renaissance parts of Amsterdam exemplify the principle of ‘rhyme’. Despite the fact that every building has a unique identity, all clearly belong to the same family; likeness outweighs difference. They are bound together by certain unifying elements which establish pattern over randomness. Starting with the windows which, despite their variations, mostly share similar proportions of height to width; they usually occur in groups of three and are vertically orientated; they have a rectangular pattern of glazing bars painted white with a white surround to the opening. This rate of conformity outweighs the rate of variation, so the dominant effect is of broken pattern. As stated, Dutch houses are renowned for the variety and richness of their variations on the Hanseatic theme. In this scene all gables are different, yet they have sufficient common characteristics to fit-in to the sub-species of ‘gable-ness’. The occasional cornice in the sequence merely serves to heighten the tension between pattern and complexity. The façades vary in width and height, but within the limits which suggest broken pattern rather than anarchy. Each elevation has its particular colour, but there is an overall consistency in tone and brightness which provides an ensemble in which varied colours submit to an overall muted discipline (Figure 16). The residual effect is of an animated contest between pattern and variety, with pattern winning by a short head – enough to guarantee its aesthetic stature. It is indeed a man-made version of a chaos pattern, a metaphor of nature. An interesting comparison can be made with the north German city of Munster, a Hanseatic town much damaged in the Second World War (Figure 17). The reconstructions have echoed the historic style, but stripped of the detail. There are occasional episodes of delight but the overall effect

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16 Amsterdam broken pattern. Variety underpinned by orderliness is the principle which Amsterdam shares with the tiger

is of uniformity which fails to aspire to dynamic pattern. In mitigation there were severe financial constraints within post-war Germany. A recent development in the Eastern Docklands of Amsterdam suggests how the medieval/renaissance spirit of the city has metamorphosed. The Borneo-Sporenburg development of waterfront houses (Figure 18) had to conform to firm constraints in terms of plot size and building height. In other respects architects were given free rein, and it certainly shows. The result is constrained anarchy. Pattern may be evident but it is on the abstract level of rate of information. The rate of visual complexity is fairly constant. However, the final verdict could be that orderliness has lost the battle with randomness. Nevertheless, with its bright colours and reflections in water it has its attractions on the limbic level. Given the pace of global warming and climate change it is to be hoped the residents are on short leases.

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17 Munster reconstructed

To summarise: in most situations there are certain constants which add weight to the orderliness side of the equation. For example: •

Characteristics of local materials, like the local stone or clay for bricks and tiles.

•

Local building techniques and strength of available materials. For instance the height of buildings is determined by the economic balance between wall thickness determined by slenderness ratio and plot size-to-space ratio. Similarly the ratio of window to wall is determined by the strength of brickwork in relation to height and economic wall thickness. So, in Amsterdam, there is consistency within fairly narrow margins in the ratio of window area to wall area.

•

Another example is the state of glass technology in a particular time. The maximum available size of flat glass determined the pattern of glazing bars which contributed to the style of Dutch architecture, and, of course, Georgian architecture in Britain. The aesthetic penalty which is paid for improvements in glass technology can be seen where Georgian windows have been replaced with single pane sash

18 Borneo-Sporenburg development

windows. The complexity of white glazing bars relieved the austerity of the Georgian style. Where that element of complexity is removed,

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43

the result is blandness, as seen, for example, in the Georgian buildings which have been ‘upgraded’ in Edinburgh’s New Town. Now they look ‘sightless’. •

The optimum span of the available timber laid constraints on plot width which results in variability within tight margins.

•

Even in the Middle Ages planning control was in evidence, especially in Italian cities like Siena. This adds to the list of constraints which reinforce pattern.

•

Climate is another determining factor that places limits on design freedom, as does topography.

All these factors tend towards regularity, yet builders, especially in the Middle Ages, have been skilled in expressing individuality within these constraints. Every locality has its vernacular characteristics which constitute a unique pattern. At the same time it is the Hanseatic thread which connects Amsterdam with cities as far apart as Lübeck and Landshut in Bavaria. Even within short distances there can be pronounced differences within the discipline of an overarching style. If we compare a typical Amsterdam sequence with the magnificent merchants’ houses in the Place Royale in Brussels or the Grote Markt in Antwerp (Figure 19) there are clear points of similarity, but also marked differences.

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19 Antwerp Grote Markt

The Belgian examples belong to the main species of Hanseatic architecture but, at the same time, powerfully express their local identity. They have their special interpretation of pattern, placing them firmly in time and space. In north Germany two adjacent towns, Goslar and Celle, use timber as the main structural material (Figure 20). Both achieve a delightful level of ‘likeness tempered with difference’, and each has a unique identity of style. In both places it is evident that the inhabitants expressed through their buildings their pride in citizenship. In all these cases the elements of the architecture combine in a special way that confers identity – the identity of style. We may define style as ‘broadly consistent features which confer identity’. It involves general conformity to a structural and decorative programme which may be regarded as a template with fluid edges. Irregular pattern can emerge outside the confines of style. Earlier I referred to Princes Street, Edinburgh. It is a heterogeneous assembly of buildings displaying a variety of styles. Yet it all coalesces into a whole in which pattern dominates randomness and the reason is that visual information occurs throughout the street at a relatively consistent rate despite style differences. In other words there is a fairly constant density of information which presents as pattern. And the pattern is powerful enough to overcome the insertions of the twentieth century. 20 Celle (a) and Goslar (b), north Germany

(a)

In a narrow street in Barcelona, it is the broken rhythm of verticals which establishes the pattern, enlivened by the counterpoint of horizontal balconies and lintels underscored by shadows (Figure 21). Here it

(b)

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21 Lines, edges and shadows in Barcelona

is not so much style which conveys the aesthetic message but abstract features like lines and edges. This opens up another level of irregular patterning through what I have earlier called ‘density, variety and intensity of visual events’. Contrasting styles can be harmonised by the fact that they conform to a broadly consistent pattern at the level of these abstract lines and tones in space. Near the extreme end of the chaos spectrum is a slice of townscape taken from Bridge Street, Chester (Figure 22). Varying styles, heights, widths come together as an irregular pattern, mainly due to the fact that there is broad consistency across the scene in terms of the rate and density of information. The forces of coherence are enhanced by the continuous covered passage at first-floor level, The Rows, which is one of the distinguishing features of the city.

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22 Bridge Street, Chester

Once again there is a parallel here with music. If we consider music of the late eighteenth century, there was overall a relatively small vocabulary of chords available to a composer. In a particular composition all the chords may be familiar, but the way they combine into a unified structure or melody is unique. Here also it is the alliance between familiarity and novelty which is a guaranteed source of delight. Describing his principles of composition, Carl Maria von Weber sums up the chapter: ‘The unity must shine forth, despite its diversity.’6

References 1 Max Ernst, German painter/sculptor; he was a prime mover in the Surrealism movement. 2 John Briggs, Fractals: The Patterns of Chaos (London: Thames and Hudson, 1992), p. 170. 3 Richard Taylor, ‘Fractal expressionism’, New Scientist (25 July 1998), pp. 30, 32. 4 Briggs, Fractals, p. 28. 5 Described by John McCrone in New Scientist, ‘Left brain right brain’ (3 July 1999), pp. 26–30. 6 Carl Maria von Weber, nineteenth-century German composer and opera director.

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Chapter 7

Intelligent interventions

Does the chaos principle have a bearing on tactics to be adopted when breaking into the grain of existing townscape? There are broadly three levels of intervention: •

submergence

•

rhyme

•

fracture.

In the first case the new blends seamlessly into the existing without causing a ripple of adrenalin. An example is the Orchard Place building (Figure 23) occupying a strategic corner in the centre of Sheffield. It is now effectively invisible. Compare this with another hinge building, the Haas-Haus in Vienna. No danger here of submergence (see Figure 86, p. 110). Rhyme derives from poetry and happens when there is similarity in couplets in terms of phonetics and meter. In the architectural sense, for phonetics we can read ‘visual features’, and for meter, the rhythm of visual events. As a concise definition of rhyme we can again enlist the line from Gerard Manley Hopkins: ‘Likeness tempered with difference’, which is equally applicable to harmony. Fracture introduces turbulence into the urban milieu and it can be either positive or negative. It involves interventions which have no obvious links with neighbouring buildings or which rupture the scale of their environs. A positive example is the Centre Georges Pompidou in Paris (Figure 1, p. 16). In forming an attitude to interstitial development, especially where there is a strong urban pattern, we can draw further inspiration from Nature – in this case from the principle of epigenesis. This marks a shift from a law of Nature which parallels our perception of phenomena towards

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23 Orchard Place, Sheffield

a principle which regulates the growth and development of organisms and, as such, offers an analogy for interstitial development. A biologist understands epigenesis as: The processes of interaction between genes and the environment that ultimately results in distinctive anatomical, physiological, cognitive and behavioural traits of the organism . . . the interacting environment . . . expands – in the case of human beings especially – [until] it includes all aspects of culture.1 These authors discriminate between ‘primary epigenetic rules of mental development [which] are based upon the more automatic processes that lead from sensory filtering to perception’ and secondary epigenetic rules which involve the ‘bias curves’ of individual personality.2 Epigenetic rules are encoded in the genes and prescribe the DNA developmental programme. This programme instructs cells as to the exact environmental circumstances in which they divide and develop a

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particular limb or organ. Physical growth is a pre-programmed transaction between cells and environment. Earlier we considered the formation process of stripes on a tiger and the role of the DNA in determining the ratio of stripes to background colour. Cultural development also follows the epigenetic principle. We are born with the propensity for language. Unless we are exposed to language, this propensity atrophies. We may be born with an ‘ear’ for music but its potential will not be realised if we do not experience the gamut of musical possibilities while the brain is still in its development stage. Life skills emerge from an alliance between genetic programming and experience. So, the epigenetic principle states that development is the outcome of certain underlying rules plus specific sensitivity to the environment. As such it is a concept which is readily transferable to urban development. Every town and city is a unique ‘species’ in the sense that its accumulation of buildings and spaces constitutes the epigenetic programme for that place. What exists sets the fundamental rules for the way that new development should respond to its context. For many years it has been a criticism of architectural education that it produces designers who are concerned solely with the building in isolation. They either ignore or underplay the wider context. The result is that cities which have been redeveloped since the last war are often collections of individual buildings rather than holistically conceived townscape. A classic example is Brasilia. Not only was Brazil to have a new capital city, it was also to be a demonstration of the work of the leading architects of the day. The result: an exhibition of architectural monuments at the expense of city-ness. Buildings and spaces have been conceived as monumental sculpture rather than elements of organic townscape. To a lesser degree the same situation can be seen in the development of London Docklands. There are quality buildings but little connectedness because they lacked a neighbourhood-specific epigenetic programme. The one early essay in integrated urban design at Heron Quays, designed by Nicholas Lacey, Jobts and Hyett, failed to pass on its genes. In contrast Peter Foggo’s phases 1 and 2 of the London Broadgate development respond well to the wider urban environment whilst, at the same time, offering excellent examples of symbiosis between buildings and urban space. Where the development echoes the principle of epigenesis is in the fact that it has been very much shaped by the existing buildings and infrastructure. Epigenesis is a developmental principle so it means that the new buildings do not merely echo the existing milieu but add something new and dynamic to the situation. Earlier I offered examples of clear violations of this principle in the Cambridge King Street development for Christ’s College and the plan for the reconstruction of Princes Street, Edinburgh. To redress the balance, Edinburgh offers an outstanding example of a building which responds to

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its environment whilst emphatically declaring its contemporaneity. It is the National Museum of Scotland in Chambers Street (Figure 24), the heart of the correct and unsmiling buildings of Edinburgh University. It makes no stylistic concessions to the adjacent buildings, yet achieves a powerful sense of ‘Scottishness’ via its shapes and materials. Because of this it achieves the quality of rhyme, at the same time transforming a hitherto featureless corner of the city. The internal spaces offer a delightful voyage of discovery in which the architecture and the exhibits create a dynamic partnership. Scotland is singularly blessed in that its other internationally famed gallery, the Burrell (Figure 25), reaches the same heights of synergy between architecture and artefacts, and between the building and its environment – in this case a parkland setting. The only other gallery that I know which rises to the same heights in the way it embraces Nature is the Danish National Louisiana Gallery near Copenhagen (Figure 26). In both there is a processional dialogue between enclosed space for exhibits and glazed areas which draw the parkland into the building. Epigenesis at its best. The theme of the moment is ‘urban regeneration’, which means 24 National Museum of Scotland, Edinburgh

that much attention will be focused on how the urban milieu evolves. This in turn means approaching the problem of interstitial redevelopment with a

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25 Burrell Gallery, Glasgow

26 Louisiana Danish National Gallery

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sensitivity which was sadly absent in the 1960s and 1970s. There is mounting evidence of a new appreciation of the visual qualities of ordinary towns and cities. Every place, whatever its size, has a unique style ‘fingerprint’, its pattern identity from which can be derived its developmental guidance conditions. When biologists speak of the ‘epigenetic manual’ they are referring to the sum of DNA which directs the development of plants and animals, and this is a useful analogy in that each place has its particular manual or super-pattern which should set the parameters for development especially within the interstices. These may range from strict conformity to the surrounding architecture to stylistic freedom within constraint of the overall rate of complexity. A good example of new development within the scope of the epigenetic parameters of a town is to be seen in Lemgo in north Germany. Several new buildings are reproductions of the historic style of the town. Others break free and declare their contemporaneity and this creates an animated dialogue between past and present without violating the overall character of the town (Figure 27). They observe the basic forms of the townscape whilst employing the fenestration systems of the present day. Rhyme in excelsis. They indicate that, even in historically sensitive places, the epigenetic manual has inbuilt elasticity. In Temple Bar, Dublin (Figure 28), the late 1990s arrived in the form of a crisp, white, neo-modern insertion which has a hint of Rietveld. It observes the height constraint of the area but nothing else. Nevertheless it succeeds, bringing a flash of colour and brightness to a small square which would otherwise be unmemorable. When the redevelopment of the square is complete its corner location will give it even greater visual importance. 27a, b Rhyme in Lemgo, north Germany

(a)

The restrained architecture of the majority of the square can happily accommodate this piece of uninhibited modernism.

(b)

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28 Temple Bar, Dublin

It is always risky putting one’s buildings where one’s mouth is, but in the early 1970s my own design for a Baptist Church in the industrial Lancashire town of Barnoldswick (Figure 29) sought to achieve the balance between observing the local scale whilst being uncompromisingly contemporary. Let others be the judge!

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29 Barnoldswick Baptist Church

We are back in the realm of asymmetrical pattern central to chaos theory, in this case, ‘non-linear redevelopment’. The prime consideration here is: in a given situation, what degree of non-linearity is acceptable? How much latitude should be given to depart from the style of the surrounding architecture? Referring back to Goslar and Celle, in the Middle Ages local builders struck just the right balance between individual identity and conformity to the super-pattern of the town using timber as their principal medium. Ironically, Goslar also provides an example of an ‘epigenetic blindness’ with its 1960s style department store corrupting its medieval heart (Figure 30).

30 Discord in Goslar

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Where it is appropriate for a building to relate to its neighbours, it is a matter of proportion as well as pattern consistency. Is it in scale with its context? If not, this may be because it violates the predominant scale of the pattern established by the surrounding buildings. This can be for a number of reasons: •

it disrupts the broad consistency of pattern by virtue of its overall size

•

it breaks the run of iconic patterns – namely, the prevailing array of

•

it fractures the run of pattern established by abstract physical fea-

and its ratio of height to breadth architectural features, including the dominant style tures: lines, edges, light and shade, texture and colour; in other words it fails to reflect the rate at which these abstract features occur across the field of view. This all adds up to the way that proportion complements ‘likeness tempered with difference’. To be ‘in proportion’ in contextual terms means to rhyme with neighbouring buildings. Too much deference to neighbours can produce uncertainty as to why the designer has not gone the full distance and produced a faithful reproduction. Aggressive defiance of the prevailing ‘grain’ may evoke hostility because it not only fails to connect with surrounding buildings but visually ‘thumps’ them. This situation can produce intemperate language, even from the highest in the land. However, this is not to say that such ‘pacer’ buildings are to be outlawed. There are times when a leap into the future can relieve the visual constipation of a whole neighbourhood, as happened with the Pompidou Centre in Paris. Its high-tech vocabulary paid no heed to the architectural context. The initial cries of outrage soon gave way to delight in the way it redefined public architecture, transforming it into accessible space offering a dramatic counterpoint between interior exhibits and external views over the city (see Figure 1, p. 16). It was a shrewd move by President Pompidou to ensure immortality. Truro has two recent buildings which are models of urban enhancement. The first is an extension to the Royal Cornwall Museum, linking it to a converted chapel housing an art gallery (Figure 31). It is selfeffacing architecture, offering only discrete references to the adjacent façades. It is unpretentious yet elegant and strikes just the right note in its setting. The other positive addition to the city is the Crown Court on the high ground above the cathedral (Figure 32). Designed by Evans and Shalev, this pale-grey orchestration of shapes knits well into the townscape whilst also quietly asserting its contemporary identity. Its status as exemplar of new building in a historic context is confirmed when it is viewed at a distance from the River Fal. This is architecture of the highest quality, and to prove it wasn’t a fluke the architects demonstrated the same skill in the

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31 Royal Cornwall Museum, Truro

Tate Gallery at St Ives (Figure 33). The supreme touch is the open rotunda, half of which is an enclosed gallery. The rest is open to the wide expanse of the bay. Sand and sea are embraced within the building. For the inhabitants of the town, this feature is a metamorphosis of the gas holder which previously occupied the site. Here is urban regeneration at its best. There are circumstances in which an elevation can be considered out of proportion when seen in isolation on the drawing board or monitor and yet in context is seen to be correctly conceived. This is because all elements within a visual field exert an influence on their

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32 Crown Court, Truro

33 Tate Gallery, St Ives

34 Mueller-Lyer illusion

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neighbours. The affective nature of proximate features has been well illustrated by a number of psychological ‘illusions’, the best known being the Mueller-Lyer illusion. In this figure two lines appear to be of different length according to the end features, an arrow head and a reversed arrow head (Figure 34). It is worth repeating here that pattern does not rely exclusively on style. So a new building may be inserted into an established street without making any stylistic gestures and nevertheless harmonise with its neighbours on the level of the overall rate of information. Things do go wrong, which they did on a monumental scale in Dublin. The Bank of Ireland needed to increase its floor space. The result is an oppressive megalith that intimidates the neighbouring buildings (Figure 35); a prime candidate for urban surgery. It is difficult to understand how such a low IQ building was ever sanctioned. After all, the Bank could not exert leverage on the planners by threatening to relocate in Belfast! A milder case of epigenetic blindness is evident in Truro. In its principal thoroughfare, Boscowen Street, the Littlewoods store imposed its corporate style on the city oblivious of the fact that it was perpetrating an 35 Bank of Ireland, Dublin

act of vandalism against the cathedral. A few metres further to the east and the cathedral rises over the rooftops in an amicable partnership (Figure 36).

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(b)

(a)

Finally, even blandness can be a violation of the epigenetic manual. One of the most prestigious streets in London is Pall Mall. The south side of the street contains some of London’s finest historic buildings. At the eastern end its visual riches suddenly evaporate with a bulky, vacuous, stone-faced seven-storey example of minimalist architecture (Figure 37a). The north side of the street contains various nineteenth- and twentieth-century buildings, and a recent insertion is an acceptable case of rhyme in that it maintains the flow of architectural incident, even accepting the occasional flashes of post-modernism (Figure 37b). To end the chapter on an epic note, the macro-pattern of a street or square can rise to the level of magic through an addition which pushes rhyme to the limits of connectivity. This is the case in Nîmes where Norman Foster’s uncompromisingly modern Carrée d’Art echoes the nearby Roman temple with its slender steel interpretation of the classical portico (Figure 89, p. 113).

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36a, b Contrasts in Boscowen Street, Truro

(b)

(a) 37a, b Pall Mall, London: contrasting observance of the urban grain

References 1 C.J. Lumsden and E.O. Wilson, Genes, Mind and Culture (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1982), p. 370. 2 Ibid., p. 36.

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Chapter 8

Unity versus diversity

So far the emphasis has been on the application of the principle of chaos pattern to the wider urban milieu. It also has relevance to the design of individual buildings involving the expression of the parts in tension with the unity of the whole. I have still not discovered a better illustration of the situation than a comparison between two cathedrals: Lincoln and Notre Dame, Paris (Figure 38). The west front of Notre Dame, is an integrated whole, whereas the west end of Lincoln Cathedral represents an unremitting collision of opposites. Towers and screen completely fail to ‘talk’ to each other. In both cases success and failure result from the way surfaces have been treated.

(a)

62

(b)

38a, b Lincoln Cathedral and Notre Dame, Paris

The adornment of the surfaces of buildings has largely developed as a means of melding diverse elements so that there are no drastic collisions and the sense of wholeness outweighs the impression of fragmentation. Decoration is much more than ornament. It was the Hellenic Greeks who wrote the timeless primer on how to harmonise the contrasting elements of a building. A building boom was fuelled by euphoria following the victories over the Persians at Salamis in 480 BC and Plataea in 479 BC. By the time of the accession of Pericles in 444 BC the Doric style had matured to the point which made possible supreme achievements like the Parthenon. The classical vocabulary of decoration evolved as a means of softening junctions and relieving bare surfaces. As with the Parthenon frieze it also immortalised epic victories. But its main purpose was as a vehicle for the blending of all the parts of a building into an integrated whole. Much of classical decoration had functional origins. The Doric style is said to be a reincarnation in stone of timber prototypes. The triglyphs are assumed to be a metamorphosis of the ends of timber beams with the six guttae below echoing the fixing pegs. The capital maintained its original function of providing generous seating for the main edge beam, the architrave, whilst spreading the load transmitted to the column. However, such reductionism would miss the point of the amazing aesthetic achievements of Hellenic Greece from 650 BC. The most enduring Greek form has been that of the temple with its origins in the simple pitched roof hut. The feature which has been most copied and adapted is the triangular pediment. As a way of tying the side to the front of the temple, the cornice is bifurcated with one element continued horizontally round the front and the other following the profile of the roof. The result is a perfect marriage of side with front (Figure 39).

39 The Parthenon: side and front alliance

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Ironically, the pediment and column combination achieved timeless aesthetic status as the ‘portico’ – an almost two-dimensional feature divorced from its origins. It was the Greeks who paved the way for this evolutionary step, for example in the Tower of the Winds in Athens built around 48 BC. Two miniature distyle porticos adorn the octagonal structure, which was one of the earliest known weather stations. It fell to the Romans to complete the transition from functional form to decorative/ symbolic feature. The most spectacular example is the Pantheon. In the renaissance it was Palladio who most exploited the portico, integrating it with basilicas or palazzos to great effect, a formula which captured the imagination of the English Palladians (see Chapter 11). The Doric capital is another reconciling agent. A primitive functional load plate became transformed into a subtle combination of abacus and echinus. The echinus is a cushion-shaped expansion of the column and, in late examples of the style, follows a near parabolic curve. It is a beautifully understated ‘offering-up’ of the column to the entablature (Figure 40). The tapering columns of the Doric style are fluted. Usually 20 channels are separated by sharp arrises. They represent a triumph of craftsmanship. The fluting terminates in three to five incised rings, the annulets, round the base of the echinus which offer a visual stop to the eye drawn upwards by the fluting. They are a prelude to, and preparation for, the weighty horizontality of the entablature. The decoration of all Hellenic temples is concentrated at high level, drawing the eye upwards to the heavens, a principle carried to the limits by medieval builders. At the same time, the elaborate cantilevered cornice creates a firm boundary between building and sky, firmly neutralising the vertical thrust of the columns. The way that buildings are embellished illustrates the difference between regular and chaotic pattern. Classical architecture epitomises regular pattern. At its heart are strict rules in terms of form and proportion. It has a high rate of redundancy in that a great deal of information about a building can be inferred from a small number of decorative details. There is no place for randomness in classical architecture. When the rules are broken, even slightly, the result is, at the very least, unease. The classical vocabulary evolved as a highly sophisticated way of articulating the forms of a building and imposing a high level of orderliness on elevations, sometimes breaking down the monumental scale of mighty edifices like the Rome Colosseum or the amphitheatre at Nîmes (Figure 41). It also had a structural purpose by employing arches and counter-arches to create maximum strength with the most economical use of materials. From the aesthetic point of view, the great contribution of this style was in softening abrupt junctions and easing transitions to create overall harmony. On the other hand, the Gothic style allows for much greater inventiveness. Within the overall identity of the style, there is considerable

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40 Doric capital

(a)

(b)

41 Colosseum, Rome (a) and amphitheatre, Nîmes (b)

space for individuality and even eccentricity. Despite its wide vocabulary of shapes and decorative features, the Gothic style is capable of harmonising the disparate parts of a cathedral which has evolved over centuries. Gothic is the ultimate expression of chaos pattern in the individual building (Figure 42).

42 West front, Strasbourg Cathedral

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Emphasising the limits of a building in both the horizontal and vertical planes has been a pursuit of architects since classical times. The crepidoma of the Greek temple firmly anchored it to the ground. The practice of having a rusticated ground storey to the Renaissance palaces of Florence and Rome was a variation on the same theme. Not only did it give visual emphasis to the base of a building it also suggested that the refined architecture was emerging from the rude earth. It established a bridge between human artifice and the works of Nature; a harmonising feature. In England this was a standard feature of palladian architecture (Figure 43). The urge to integrate buildings into the cosmic realm was dramatically demonstrated in the openwork spires of medieval Franco-German cathedrals like Strasbourg, Freiburg, Regensburg and Ulm. At a more intimate scale, later Gothic churches in England, like King’s College Chapel, employed openwork battlemented parapets to ease the transition from the solid to the ethereal (Figure 44).

Contemporary variations The last two decades of the previous century saw a flowering of architectural imagination. The ‘game’ of giving due prominence to the parts without compromising the integrity of the whole has been played with great skill by architects such as Richard Meier, Richard Rogers and Frank Gehry. Meier’s Barcelona Art Gallery (Figure 88, p. 112) presents an entertaining blend of forms falling within two broad divisions: solid and transparent. Rogers’ design for the new Welsh Assembly (Figures 2 and 100) exploits the counterpoint between a transparent external screen and the solid shapes of the

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43 Sandbeck Park, South Yorkshire. Original drawing by its architect James Paine

44 King’s College Chapel, Cambridge

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interior Assembly chamber. There is powerful bi-versity, but within the constraints of overall unity, a concept first seen in the equally successful Tribunal de Grande Instance in Bordeaux (Figure 105, p. 125). The energetic forms of Frank Gehry’s Museum in Bilbao (Figure 93, p. 115) are unified by the consistency of flowing shapes powerfully expressed due to the all-embracing silver titanium cladding. More appropriate to northern climes, and echoing the traditions of the regional style, is the Scottish National Museum in Edinburgh (Figure 24, p. 51). In certain ways it is a contemporary expression of Renaissance mannerism in the contradiction between the effect of solid masonry load-bearing walls and various incisions which belie this perception. The vigorous curved and rectilinear forms are reconciled together by the all-over distinctive ‘clashach’ stone facings. These buildings will feature in a later chapter. However, it is on the grand scale of cities like Amsterdam or Bruges and towns like Goslar that the archetypal contest between order and anarchy is played out with gusto. They are a kind of parable, externalising the triumph of order and harmony over dissonance, remembering that harmony depends as much on clash as correspondence. So, to conclude this first division of aesthetic experience, we might agree that the stripes of the tiger and the coherent diversity of, say, Amsterdam are both manifestations of chaos pattern which hint at a fundamental link between the works of Nature and human artefacts.

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Part 2

The Parthenon and the sunflower

Chapter 9

The deep structure of proportion

A linguistics professor Noam Chomsky used the term ‘deep structure’ to convey the idea that all languages are underpinned by a common set of rules. The rules are so deep-seated that there is little or no hint of them in the expression of a given language – yet another analogy of chaos theory. Is there a message here about the nature of proportion in architecture which is expressed in an almost infinite variety of visual ‘languages’? At the start I proposed two basic modes of aesthetic perception deriving from fundamental psychological drives, the first concerning the organisation of information into patterns, the second being concerned with the harmonisation of contrary elements. If it is true that the nonsymmetrical patterns in Nature are a consequence of mathematical principles, then we should be able to uncover the evidence. This is the aim of the developing field of ‘biomathematics’. So, does the mathematical ordering within Nature constitute that deep structure which underpins the concept of ‘proportion’ in architecture? There’s no denying that most humans have an innate sense of proportion. Where does it come from? In Chapter 5 it was argued that asymmetry abounds in Nature: ‘A multitude of natural asymmetries have made the cosmos what it is.’1 How does this relate to proportion? Once again we turn to psychology. The human mind is geared to organising information into the most convenient grouping. So far we have been concerned with the chunking basis of pattern. At other times the appropriate organisational mode is into paired or binary sets. Developmental psychologists claim that ‘everyone is born with the primitive sense of the number two’. The sociobiologists C.J. Lumsden and E.O. Wilson have written: ‘in many instances the possible routes to a solution are legion but the mind reduces the options to a binary choice’. The mind tends to ‘chunk information into binary alternatives’.2 What this is saying in this context is that, in the interests of achieving the most economic perceptual

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orderliness, the mind chunks information into two clear-cut patterns contained within a super-pattern. There is also an inherent preference for binary patterns which are asymmetrical, and this is the point at which we cross the threshold into aesthetics. When the two discrete but associated clusters of information are counterbalanced within the mind, it is most likely to be aesthetically satisfying if the outcome is asymmetrical. The concept of asymmetry assumes a precondition of symmetry; an analogy of the big bang. An asymmetrical pattern has broken sufficiently far from symmetry so as not to be confused with it but, at the same time, not so far as to have broken all connection with it. Its strength lies in the fact that it sets up tension with the state of symmetry. This is the aesthetic basis of proportion and was articulated by Trystan Edwards when he identified the unsatisfactory nature of the ‘unresolved duality’. For aesthetic satisfaction there had to be a significant rate of difference between the two components of a visual binary set. There is also the suggestion that the intuitive sense of proportion derives from the delicate sense of bodily balance imprinted within the brain via the inner ear. We have a well-developed sense of the limits of equilibrium, which is only properly appreciated when it is undermined, as experienced by victims of Ménière’s syndrome. Others link it to observing the proportions of Nature. We absorb the proportions of trees and flowers through perceptual osmosis. Edward Wilson claims that the connection with Nature is structural. He has argued for many years that the laws of Nature are written in our brains, as they are in all living things. This has echoes of the celebrated Oxford anatomist J.Z. Young: Concepts of opposition and balance . . . of golden means may be part of the fundamental structure of our brain programs.3 This may not be such a romantic notion. Since at least the time of Polycleitus the concept of proportion has been entwined with mathematics. To this day there are those who maintain that: Proportion is not a matter of individual taste, but depends on mathematical laws of harmony which could only be broken at the expense of harmony.4 This was certainly the belief in the Middle Ages when beauty was considered a scientific matter whether in architecture or music. An intuitive approach to beauty was inadmissible. In the Renaissance architectural proportion tracked the evermore elaborate ratios of musical theory, reaching a climax with the architecture of Palladio. This has been admirably discussed by Rudolf Wittkower in Architectural Principles in the Age of Humanism.5

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There are good arguments against adopting a strict mathematical approach to harmony and proportion in the visual sphere because the eye and ear respond to information in different ways. The ear is acutely aware if a note is very slightly off-key whereas the eye has a considerable degree of tolerance when it comes to harmony in colour or form. The act of arriving at a decision as to whether the elements of a composition are ‘in’ or ‘out of’ proportion presupposes some very subtle and complex mental operations. A basic point is that the idea of proportion is grounded in the comparison between two patterns of information which are different but which nevertheless belong within the same frame of reference. A decision regarding proportion involves evaluating the nature of the relationship between two different but linked entities, such as the size of a door in relation to the dimensions of a room. Earlier it was suggested that, despite the breadth and richness of the aesthetic spectrum, the underlying assumption is that aesthetic perception evolved from basic survival programmes, in particular the mental need to organise the stream of incoming sense impressions into orderly patterns. The binary pattern is the most basic form of orderliness. Noam Chomsky applied this to his field of study, suggesting that language is binary in nature, predisposing us to counter an argument with a contrary proposition. The purpose of this reduction technique is to be able to reach a clear decision. If the two components are too finely balanced and therefore incapable of being resolved into dominant and subordinate, uncertainty reigns. In architecture it produces the unresolved duality and it is intrinsically ugly; for animals it can be lethal, as in the unfortunate case of the ass who starved to death between two equal piles of hay. The outcome of a binary choice ideally represents a clear-cut division between a dominant and subordinate, thus resolving uncertainty. As such it is one of the basic tactics of the mind in its mission to build an orderly mental model of the world. At the same time it involves a challenge through the need to establish the relative position of the two related but contrasting ingredients. This was clear to medieval scholars, as stated by Umberto Eco: ‘It was a common view to all the scholastics that beauty was born out of contrasts.’6 At the same time it was contrast within an orderly composition: ‘the beautiful ordering of the parts to create a unified whole’ (Ordinatio partium venusta) was the basis of good proportion in building. The next problem is to consider the nature of ‘beautiful ordering’. We could start with Vitruvius, as paraphrased by Alberti: Beauty consists in a rational integration of the proportion of all the parts of a building in such a way that every part has its fixed size and shape, and nothing could be taken away without destroying the harmony of the whole.7 This idea is still alive, as revealed by this quote from a review of a Vermeer

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exhibition in The Hague by a correspondent from the Daily Telegraph: ‘To move one element in the meticulously constructed composition by a fraction of an inch would be to upset its equilibrium.’8 By coincidence, Vermeer again scores in this regard, this time by Vivienne Westwood, the celebrated fashion designer. Describing The Lacemaker she says: ‘One molecule too many or too few would destroy the balance.’9 All three quotations imply that the mind somehow invests the elements of a building or painting with the property of weight in order to arrive at an aesthetic judgement. We take for granted the application to the arts of terms from physics like ‘balance’, ‘equilibrium’, or ‘weight’. Yet this indicates that the brain has some remarkable abilities. How is it that the mind comes to the conclusion that ‘everything has its fixed size and shape’ or is in perfect molecular balance? Even more remarkable is the fact that there can be agreement between individuals that this is indeed the case in particular works of art, like the Vermeer. By proposing that a painting has the quality of ‘equilibrium’ means that the mind has established a connection between the pigment of a painting and physics. It suggests that the elements of a composition act upon each other as if they possessed mass in the physical world. They are mutually affective. Information has weight. The mind seems to have an intuitive awareness of the relationship between mass, energy and fields of force: a psychological case of E ⫽ mc 2. It is as though visual features possess energy intensity, as in the case of Monet’s Impressions at Sunrise, the painting that inspired the term ‘Impressionism’. The bright orange disc occupies a small area of the canvas but nevertheless dominates the picture. It has an informational intensity which dominates the remainder of the composition. This is due to its hue and relative brightness. Red-orange is the most symbolically charged colour with its connotations of fire, the life-giving energy of the sun, as well as its destructive associations. Fire is at the root of human technological development. Maybe the perceived weight and associated field of influence of a feature has a direct connection with the rate of neuronal activity it generates. But that is speculation. This brings us back to the chaos model of the universe discussed earlier in which the universe is an almost infinite system of interacting gravitational fields with bodies affecting, and being affected by, other bodies. This is an analogy of the miniature universe of a memorable city view or the elevational arrangement of a building, but the principle is the same. Objects possess informational ‘mass’ and act upon each other as if contained within a closed force system. It seems that the greatest satisfaction is to be derived from a system which is in tensile equilibrium, and the closer to the edge of instability the better. It has been proposed that the affective strength of, say, buildings within a piazza, is a function of their complexity or visual weight. Paulo

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Portoghesi suggests that buildings generate a force field and charge space with energy according to their size, proximity and decoration.10 This idea is echoed by Rudolf Arnheim.11 The perceived weight of an element may be summed up as the result of one or more of the following characteristics: •

its size in relation to the whole perceived frame of reference

•

the hue, intensity or brightness of its colour

•

the relative impact of its texture

•

its emblematic associations

•

its symbolic links

•

the complexity of its shape and content. To sum up, when criticising art and architecture we frequently

use the analogy of weight to describe a feature or colour. Visual compositions can affect the mind in a way that is equivalent to a gravitational force system; miniature representations of the dynamics of the universe. Forces reinforce or cancel out each other and where the resultant is zero we perceive equilibrium. Proportion is to do with a stable system which is just the right side of instability. There is a link here back to catastrophe theory in which systems adjust to the strain of change until they reach their limit of elasticity. Then, catastrophe, which is merely a way of indicating that things have adjusted to a new set of stable parameters. The chaos principle is exemplified by water from a tap. As the tap is turned the flow organises into a steady, orderly stream and continues in this state as the flow is increased. Then comes the point when the flow breaks up into a chaotic pattern. This is the stability boundary, and beauty lies just on the right side of it.

References 1 Frank Close, ‘Fearful Symmetry’, New Scientist (8 April 2000), p. 2. 2 C.J. Lumsden and E.O. Wilson, Genes, Mind and Culture (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1982), p. 89. 3 J.Z. Young, Programs of the Brain (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1978), p. 243. 4 HRH The Prince of Wales, paraphrasing Polycleitus. 5 Rudolf Wittkower, Architectural Principles in the Age of Humanism (London, 1952). 6 Umberto Eco, Art and Beauty in the Middle Ages (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1986), p. 35. 7 Vitruvius, De re aedificatoria, Book VII, Ch. 5 (1485 edn). 8 Daily Telegraph, 22 November 1995. 9 Vivienne Westwood, The Guardian Weekend (11 December 1999). 10 Paulo Portoghesi, Le inibizione dell’ architettura moderna (Rome, 1974). 11 Rudolf Arnheim, The Dynamics of Architectural Form (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1977).

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Chapter 10

The numerology of beauty

The connection between proportion, Nature and beauty was articulated by Augustine who made the link between mathematics and music. In De musica he expounded on the science of harmony. He illustrated how harmonious musical intervals have a mathematical basis and that the intervals of the perfect consonances – namely; 1:1, or symmetry; 1:2, the octave; 2:3 the fifth; and 3:4 the fourth – are the proportions which reveal the hidden beauty of the cosmos. To translate these musical intervals into architecture was to ‘lead the mind from the world of appearances to the contemplation of the divine order’.1 The principle underlying Gothic architecture was that music was the divine gift which gave humans a foretaste of the felicities of Heaven. ‘Visible and audible harmonies are actually intimations of the ultimate harmony which the blessed will enjoy in the world to come.’2 So, according to Augustine, the true architect was one who was versed in the sacred laws of harmony, which gave him a status well beyond that of master builder. ‘God is the artful architect (elegans architectus) who builds the cosmos as his regal palace, composing and harmonising the variety of created things by means of the “subtle chains” of musical consonances.’3 So here we have it, the scientific link – as the medieval scholars perceived science – between mathematics and Nature. It may seem a long way from the theory of chaos in Nature which connects with beauty and aesthetic perception. It seems to conflict with the earlier quote from Ian Stewart: ‘we often consider imperfect symmetry to be more beautiful than exact mathematical symmetry’.4 Let us explore this paradox. Purely regarded as organisms, humans share with the whole of Nature the characteristic that equilibrium is the ultimate goal; but as mental beings the preferred state is disequilibrium. Life flourishes on the interface between order and anarchy; it is successful because of asymmetry and tension.

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Over the last half century the emergent science of biomathematics has led to a deeper understanding of the regularities that underpin Nature, whether in the patterning of animals or the growth of plants. It seems we live in a universe of patterns. For instance, in most flowers the number of petals falls within a numerical series in which each number is the product of the two previous numbers. For example, lilies 3 (2+1) buttercups and geraniums 5 (3+2) delphiniums 8 (3+5), marigolds 13 (5+8), asters 21 and most daisies 34, 55 or 89. These numbers may be recognised as belonging to the Fibonacci series. In 1202 Leonardo of Pisa, known as Fibonacci or ‘son of Bonaccio’, wrote a treatise advocating a switch from Roman to Egyptian numerals. To illustrate the case he used the breeding rate of rabbits which he noted conformed to the series that bears his name: 1.1.2.3.5.8.13.21.34.55, and so on. This series was not his invention. It apparently had been known in Egypt for a considerable time. Studies have shown that the Fibonacci series is embedded in the development of spirals and the growth pattern of plants. If a circle is divided into unequal segments so that their respective areas correspond to adjacent values within the Fibonacci series (the higher the values the better) the angle dividing the segments is 137.5 degrees. This is a particularly important angle in the growth of plants. For example, in the case of the sunflower (Figure 45), at the tip of a developing plant there is a feature called the apex. Around the apex, 45 Sunflower

tiny lumps called primordia form. These migrate along a tightly wound spiral called the generative spiral (Figure 46). This dynamic behaviour seems to

46 The Fibonacci angle of divergence of 137.5077 degrees

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arise from the fact that the primordia are designed to repel each other, like magnets with the same electrical charge. So, each primordium begins its spiral journey when the one ahead reaches a point which ensures that the angle between adjacent primordia and the centre is 137.5 degrees, hence the term ‘angle of divergence’. The outcome is the tightly packed Fibonacci spiral representing the most efficient packing of seeds in the head of the sunflower. This is a clear demonstration of the epigenetic manual sending the seeds into the unknown armed only with two basic rules: •

florets with the same ‘charge’ repel

•

the timing of the launching of florets along their developmental track is determined by the 137.5 degree angle of divergence. The new primordium begins its journey exactly when the preceding primordium reaches this angle of divergence from the apex along its spiral path. Perhaps it is the point at which the force of the DNA instruction to progress along the spiral path overcomes the mutual repulsion between florets. Stewart illustrates how computer studies have shown that this

angle of divergence produces the most efficient packing of florets round the centre. The slightest deviation from this angle causes things to fall apart (Figure 47). This packing of florets also produces radiating whorls, one set going clockwise, the other anti-clockwise. Here too the Fibonacci series is in evidence. For example, pineapples and pine cones have 8 rows of florets or scales spiralling to the left and 13 to the right. This is described as Fibonacci phyllotaxis of 8:13. Sunflower phyllotaxis includes 21:34, 55:89 and 89:144 according to species; daisies are 21:34, and so on (Figure 48). There is a further step in the story. When the spiral is opened out into a three-dimensional helix the Fibonacci angle fixes the distribution of leaves on a stem. A rotation of 137.5 degrees between each succeeding leaf ensures that all leaves get maximum sunlight. This is an extension of Fibonacci phyllotaxis (Figure 49).5

a

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b

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c

47 a ⫽ 137.3 deg, b ⫽ 137.5 deg (golden angle), c ⫽ 137.6 deg

48 Contrary Fibonacci whorls

Why this emphasis on the Fibonacci series? The answer is that this series generates the most famous proportion in the history of art and architecture: the Euclidean golden section or golden ratio (shorthand phi). The ratio between any two values in the series produces the golden number to increasing levels of accuracy the higher the numbers in the series. So, for example, 3:5 ⫽ 1:1.666, 21:34 ⫽ 1:1.61904, 55:89 produces 1.61818, which is close to the actual golden section number of 1.618034 . . . 49 Fibonacci in three dimensions

Returning to the circle, the opposite to the golden angle of 137.5 degrees is 222.5 degrees. The golden number 1.618 is produced when

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222.5 is divided by 137.5, and when 360 is divided by 222.5. And when the fractions are reversed the result is 0.618, the ‘golden cut’. Altogether it is evident that the golden section ratio is one of the main principles behind growth, whether the branching of plants, the venation of leaves, and the arrangement of florets. There is nothing mystical about this; it is not a blueprint designed to create beauty but to enable plants to achieve the most efficient growth and take maximum advantage of their environment. Nature abounds with Fibonacci values, which suggests that the series offers an ideal window of opportunity for optimum development. To speculate for a moment: is it possible to see a connection between Fibonacci and chaos theory and fractal geometry? We have noted how the developmental principle in Nature is based on the clash of opposites: attraction and repulsion, uniformity and non-uniformity, symmetry and asymmetry, etc. It was stated earlier that a tree is a fractal displaying selfsimilarity at diminishing scales. In the branching of plants it is often the Fibonacci ratio which determines the point at which branches divert from the stem or trunk. In fractal geometry a system begins as symmetry but then reaches a fracture point – hence the name, when it becomes chaotic. In a plant the stem represents symmetry and the branches the point of fracture or bifurcation. Competing energy domains fight it out – ‘stem-ness’ against ‘branchness’ – and the bifurcation point represents a victory for branchness. It seems that a Fibonacci ratio pinpoints the position of fracture whether resulting in the emergence of a branch or the growth of a leaf. It is logical that chaos theory and biomathematics should be intimately connected; the challenge for someone is to prove it. It may seem a leap too far to link mathematical evidence of developmental processes in Nature with the behaviour of the stock market, but that is the claim of John Casti in a paper in New Scientist.6 He suggests that ‘The numbers behind the fractal shapes of a snowflake can also describe our society’s financial activities.’ He goes on to ask: ‘Financial data is one thing, but why should the maths that describe a seashell’s spiral also underlie our technological progress?’ A Los Angeles accountant Ralph N. Elliot analysed stock market behaviour in the great depression when the market lost 90 per cent of its value in the three years following the crash of 1929. He identified repetitive wave patterns within market indices like the Dow-Jones Index. His claim was that the movements in the stock market were a direct reflection of human psychology – ‘the rhythms of human emotion’ co-ordinated by the herd instinct. These patterns came to be called ‘Elliot waves’, and the rhythms generating them ‘move in waves of a definite number and direction’. It turns out that that number and direction has a close connection with the Fibonacci series. It was financial expert Robert Prechter who made the connection between Elliot waves and the Fibonacci sequence. He claimed that ‘these patterns reveal a direct connection between Nature’s numbers and

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all of human behaviour. Prechter believed the wave patterns are the organising principle for myriad social behaviours, ranging from newspaper sales figures to the fortunes of national leaders.’7 What, then, is the link between Elliot waves and the Fibonacci series? A wave has two components: an impulse element marking the upward thrust and a corrective feature in the opposite direction. Invariably one outweighs the other, determining whether the overall direction is upwards or downwards. In reality the smooth curves that usually depict the movement of, say, the stock market, in reality contain a myriad of spikes. What has been revealed is that it is the disposition of the spikes which makes the Fibonacci link. If, for example, the higher-order wave pattern marks an upward trend, an Elliot wave would consist of a corrective pattern of three elements and an impulse pattern of five elements, giving the total wave pattern eight elements (Figure 50). The components of these waves split again to the same ratios. ‘The number of waves that comprise the Elliot patterns at each successive level of detail are precisely the numbers of the Fibonacci sequence.’ Casti then concludes: The connection between Elliot waves and the Fibonacci sequence is intriguing, because it links the wave principle that

IMPULSE

COMBINED

CORRECTIVE

50 Elliot waves and Fibonacci values

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underlies the stock market with other natural patterns and processes found in living forms. The Fibonacci sequence appears all over the scientific landscape: it describes the spiral patterns found in seashells and the DNA helix, as well as number of spirals on pine cones and sunflower seed heads . . .8 In conclusion, Casti poses the question: If Elliot waves can describe all human activity – economic trends, wars, shopping habits and political ideas – and a sequence of numbers that is ubiquitous in Nature can describe Elliot waves, is our behaviour somehow dictated by numbers? Is what we do just a natural process like the way a snowflake or seashell forms? Somehow, for all our cleverness and cherished free will, it seems we might simply be living by numbers.9 Perhaps it is more than a coincidence that the golden section was adopted by the Pythagorean Brotherhood as the prime yardstick of beauty. It is probable that Pythagoras learnt of the mysteries of phi during a stay in Egypt. Between 300 BC and

AD 500

the School of Alexandria was the

greatest mathematical school of ancient times. There is evidence that the golden ratio was known to the architects of Islam; for example, it occurs in the Dome of the Rock, Jerusalem and the Alhambra in Granada. Also in India there is evidence of what we might call ‘visual phi’ – for example, in the overall dimensions of the temple city of Jambushuar. The Taj Mahal sits within a phi rectangle, and so on. Mathematically the golden section is produced by the formula: root five minus one over two: 兹莥 5⫺1 2 In linear terms it is the point at which a line might be unevenly divided so that the ratio of the longer to the smaller section is the same as that of the longer section to the whole length (Figure 51). Numerous tests have shown that subjects prefer a rectangular form which clusters round the golden section proportion. Gustav Fechner is the best known of the many nineteenthcentury experimental psychologists who investigated the appeal of the phi rectangle. The Fechner graph, which is well known, plots the preference of subjects for a range of rectangles from a square to the ratio of 2:5. Three-

A

B

C 51 Golden section ratio

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52 The phi preference graph

40 35 30 25 20 15 10 5 0

␾

quarters of the subjects opted for rectangles at or near the phi proportion (Figure 52). A similar result was obtained in an experiment with students from different disciplines at Sheffield University in 2002. Psychologists account for the enduring aesthetic dominance of this proportion by suggesting that it represents the best outcome where there is competition between two entities whereby one edges into dominance to the point at which the system reaches the ‘stability boundary’. Rudolf Arnheim links the idea of harmony to the fact that the mind deplores uncertainty. He suggests that: proportions [which] are based on small differences . . . leave the eye uncertain whether it deals with equality or inequality, square or rectangle. We cannot tell what the pattern is trying to say.10 The golden ratio rectangle represents the point of departure from the square which achieves maximum clarity. A new stability is created as one energy path wins the contest and halts its dominance at a point which still allows the subordinate entity to retain its integrity. The result is a non-symmetrical pattern; order spiced with tension. This ties in neatly with the perspective of the biomathematicians. Is Fibonacci the point at which one energy domain sufficiently outweighs its opposite to create a nonsymmetrical but stable pattern which optimises growth? In music the golden ratio is apparent in the organisation of the sections in the music of Debussy and Bartok. For example in Debussy’s ‘Image, Reflections in Water’ the sequence of keys is marked out by the intervals 34, 21, 13 and 8, and the main climax sits at the phi position. In Bartok’s Music for Strings, Percussion and Celeste the xylophone progression occurs at the intervals 1:2:3:5:8:5:3:2:1. The golden section has long associations with painting. Claude Monet certainly seems to have embraced it either by accident or design in several paintings. The best known example of a phi rectangle translated into architecture is the end elevation of the Parthenon (Figure 53). By common consent it is regarded as one of the most harmonious façades ever

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53 The Parthenon and phi

conceived, even though most who see it have no idea of its connection with the golden section ratio. The elevation further divides into phi proportions, with the colonnade and crepidoma (or base) representing 1.62 and the entablature and pediment together totalling 1.0. Other examples of the phi ratio are the temple of Athena at Priene and the Arch of Constantine in Rome. Le Corbusier based his elaborate Modulor on the golden section, in his case derived from the proportions of the human body (Figure 54). However, the most magnificent testimony to the aesthetic power of the golden section is not the Parthenon but the Cathedral of the Virgin at Chartres (Figure 124, p. 141): In Chartres, proportion is experienced as the harmonious articulation of a comprehensive whole; it determines the ground plan as well as the elevation; and it ‘chains’, by the single ratio of the golden section, the individual parts not only to one another but also to the whole that encompasses them all.11 A lesson to be learnt from the Parthenon is that its magic is due to much more than its mathematics and is not transferable. There have been meticulously accurate reproductions which fail to capture the essence of the original. The use of strict mathematical proportions is no guarantee of success. One reason is that reproductions cannot capture the unique quality of Mediterranean light falling on Pentelic marble. But perhaps the most important factor is that the Parthenon is not an isolated building. It is one of a family of buildings on the Acropolis, especially the asymmetrical Erectheum with its spectacular porch of the Caryatids. What establishes the excellence of the temple is its relationship to the route established by the ancient Panathenaic procession which approaches the Parthenon at an ascending tangent. This means that the

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54 Phi and the human body

55 The Parthenon approached from the Propylaea

building is seen in total from the moment it is framed by the elaborate gatehouse complex, the Propylaea. This is the kind of view which is permanently etched on the memory (Figure 55). Are there other factors which combine to make the Parthenon the epitome of good proportion? Looking beyond mathematics, what we have in the temple is a fundamental counterpoint between the combined forces of verticality and those which emphasise the horizontal. The rapid rhythm of perimeter columns declares verticalness which is counteracted by powerful horizontal lines of the entablature, supplemented by the threestepped base or crepidoma. What we perceive is predominantly a horizontal building, so the horizontal alliance wins but only by a margin sufficient to dispel uncertainty. The columns are by no means humiliated. What we have is an example of dynamic stability. In terms of the interplay between chunked clusters of information it is an analogy of the golden section ratio (Figure 56). Once we stand aside from strict mathematical ratios and apply the golden ratio in fuzzy terms to contraposed information patterns we open the door to a much more productive way of evaluating buildings. As mentioned before, the eye is much more tolerant in weighing-up proportion than the ear in perceiving harmony. Experiments suggest that the brain cannot distinguish between two rectangles whose height to breadth ratios vary by up to 6 per cent. This means that a phi rectangle could be perceived as such when it ranges from 1:1.57 to 1:1.67. This is why it is preferable to use the term ‘Fibonacci’ rather than phi. As stated, the Fibonacci ratios

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change as the series progresses, thus it has an inbuilt degree of imprecision whereas phi suggests a mathematical prescription. It is this impreci-

56 The Parthenon, the contrary axes

sion which, in Nature, prevents phase lock and in aesthetic perception allows for a margin of variation. However, the margin has limits which is why the concept of Fibonacci can form the basis for a theory of proportion. It would be impossible to achieve mathematical precision when dealing with the counterbalancing of complex clusters of information. Fortunately the eye is capable of performing remarkable procedures in organising information in order to arrive at an aesthetic judgement. Recent studies in the operation of the brain enable us to understand a little of the complexity of these procedures. Yes, there is a mathematical basis to proportion, but it is not the mathematics of Polycleitus. Rather it is the fuzzy version which opens the way to much more exciting concepts. As soon as we are liberated from the constraints of traditional aesthetic analysis we can begin to recognise new relationships; for example, the link between the Parthenon and the Art and Architecture building at Yale University by Paul Rudolf (Figure 57). Like the Parthenon

57 Art and Architecture Building, Yale University

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the Yale building represents a strident contest between features that fall into two camps, aligning with either the vertical or the horizontal. Overall the building comes across as horizontally dominant. Within that dominance the verticals nevertheless give a strong account of themselves, just like the Parthenon. On a second level of counterpoint, the building engages in amicable contest between the solid and the transparent, the brutalist and the refined; but more of that later.

References 1 Otto von Simson, The Gothic Cathedral (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1962), p. 22. 2 Ibid., p. 24. 3 Augustine, De planctu naturae, PL, CCX, 453, Alan of Lille. 4 Ian Stewart, Nature’s Numbers (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1995), p. 73. 5 John Casti, ‘I’ll Know What You’ll Do Next Summer’, New Scientist (31 August 2002), p. 29. 6 Ibid., p. 31. 7 Ibid. 8 Ibid., p. 32. 9 Rudolf Arnheim, Art and Visual Perception (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1954), p. 22. 10 von Simson, The Gothic Cathedral, p. 214.

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Chapter 11

Developing the theme

Returning to the classical vocabulary, what first catches the eye about Prior Park in Bath (Figure 58) is not the precision of its mathematical proportions but the contrast between its primary elements, the palazzo and the temple. Andrea Palladio forged this enduring marriage between the domestic and

58 Prior Park, Bath and the informational divide

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the sacred at a stroke, bridging across these archetypal opposites and making the ultimate statement of harmonisation. Here are two discrete patterns of information bound together into a unified whole. They are counterbalanced on the scales of the mind to see if their respective information ‘weights’ or densities add up to an aesthetically satisfactory outcome. The palazzo is the larger element, but relatively low in information density. The temple, by contrast, has added symbolic weight. The portico carries messages of status, religion, antiquity and is bathed in the glory of Greece and Rome. It is visually more intricate than the house, with the added weight of contrast between light and shade. The result is that the portico achieves dominance but within the fuzzy limits of Fibonacci. It wins the contest, but only by enough to remove uncertainty. The palazzo retains its self-respect. Prior Park illustrates the principle that, in ‘weighing-up’ the proportions of a building or a painting, the mind identifies the fundamental informational divide then separates the main elements in order to attribute to them the property of weight. Having completed this dissection and analysis it then reassembles the parts to see the unified whole and arrive at an aesthetic verdict. If we have any doubts about the ability of the brain to engage in this kind of operation, a recent hypothesis published in the Proceedings of the Royal Society1 should help to allay them. This proposes that consciousness is a multiple phenomenon. Professor Semir Zeki and Andreas Bartels of University College, London believe that there are several ‘micro’ consciousnesses within the mind that amalgamate to form the overall perception of an object. The mind uses several parallel modes of consciousness to analyse the visual facets of a single object. Not only do different parts of the brain handle different attributes of an object, they do so at different rates. This ‘federal’ view of consciousness provides a basis for the idea that the mind is capable of focusing on the parts of an object and then reassembling them with a view to arriving at an aesthetic verdict. In Inner Vision Zeki develops this theme, identifying precise regions of the brain which respond to colours, object recognition, faces and even a region dedicated to perceiving motion.2 Returning to architecture. A comparison between Prior Park and Osterley Park near Richmond, London, a sixteenth-century house restyled by Robert Adam, shows a portico which has overstepped the mark in terms of the scale (Figure 59). However, a comparison between Prior Park and William Wilkins’s University College, London (Figure 72, p. 97) shows the extent to which the relationship between palazzo and portico can go wrong. The portico is hugely out of scale with the palazzo element; indeed overwhelms it. That is not its only problem, as we shall see. Prior Park is a basic Palladian composition. Slightly more

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59 Osterley Park, London

complex is Sandbeck Park, a Palladian mansion in South Yorkshire. It is the same basic formula except that it has projections at the ends capped by a pediment. So a small piece of portico territory has been exported to the palazzo element. In its drive to arrive at a straightforward binary pattern, the flanking pediments are subsumed into the informational cluster of the main portico, reinforcing its total weight – so it still ends up as a contest between temple-ness and house-ness. You may agree that the outcome achieves harmonic proportion in a similar way to Prior Park. Sandbeck introduces another facet of the aesthetic inventory. The slight end projections, with their pediment, serve to give a ‘full stop’ to the building. They emphasise wholeness and containment and establish a firm boundary between the building and its surroundings. In gestalt terms they underline ‘closure’ of the pattern (Figures 60, and 43 on p. 66).

60 Sandbeck Park, South Yorkshire

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On a more intimate scale a similar effect was achieved by Andrea Palladio with the triple pilasters on the corners of the Palazzo Thiene in Vicenza (Figure 61). The eighteenth-century passion for Palladio’s architecture in England adapted his triadic compositions to the English landscape in works like Holkham Hall in Norfolk (Figure 62). How does this yield to binary analysis? Again, the mind scans for the most obvious binary divide, and in this case it is between the central house and the flanking pavilions. The pavilions are identical so they comprise a single chunk of information to be pitched against the main house. It falls within the range of harmonic proportion, which becomes evident when we compare it to Florence Court in Northern Ireland (Figure 63). Palladian architecture generally observes the classical rule that it should be unambiguous in its composition. In this respect Basildon Park in Berkshire raises a problem. At first glance John Carr has created a straightforward Palladian ensemble (Figure 64). However, an ambiguity emerges on analysis. Should it be read as a standard Palladian composition with a bit left over at each end? Or is it to be perceived as three semi-autonomous elements? The rustication confined to the ground storey of the main 61 Palazzo Thiene, Vicenza

element suggests that this was the architect’s intention. This uncertainty undermines the integrity of the design, even though in its detail the composition observes classical discipline. The post-modern phase of the 1980s spawned any number of contemporary interpretations of the palazzo–portico theme, the most basic being a temple profile rendered down to a glazed curtain wall (Figure 65).

62 Holkham Hall, Norfolk

Perhaps the most serene example of the work of Andrea Palladio is the Villa Capra or Rotunda near Vicenza. Here the portico–palazzo

63 Florence Court, Northern Ireland

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64 Basildon Park, Berkshire

65 Palazzo–portico in post-modern guise

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66 Houghton Hall, Norfolk

combination is crowned by a perfectly proportioned low-profile dome. The English Palladians imported this combination, with villas like Mereworth Castle in Kent by Colin Campbell and Chiswick House by Lord Burlington and William Kent clearly revealing the source of their inspiration. James Gibbs and Colin Campbell varied the theme in Houghton Hall, Norfolk (Figure 66), with its magnificent interiors by William Kent. It is a variation on the Holkham formula, the main departure being the four domes that emphasise the corners of the main house. Houghton was a blatant display of wealth and power by Sir Robert Walpole who, as Prime Minister, saved the nation from economic ruin as a result of England’s first Stock Exchange crash, the South Sea Bubble. The ultimate extension of the palazzo concept is the popular ‘city hall’ formula of palazzo, portico and dome (Figure 67). Can this triadic composition resolve into two information chunks which invite analysis in terms of proportion? The question is, where is the fault line? The Fibonacci displacement becomes evident if the division is based on the symbolic associations of the elements. The combination of portico and dome is the symbolic core of the composition. Together these features announce the status of the building and represent its highest concentration of information weight. Like the tower, the dome has powerful religious associations, especially through the Byzantine influence, which are never wholly eliminated when the context is purely secular. As a representation of the dome of heaven and the realm of the gods it has archetypal force, adapted by the Byzantine Church to accommodate Christ the Pantocrator at its apex. These two evocations of temple architecture, dome and portico, constitute a logical unit to be set against the palazzo. Our expectations are rewarded when this powerful architectural alliance outweighs the palazzo by the critical margin (Figure 68).

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One of the early examples of this genre in Britain is Liverpool Town Hall (Figure 69) designed by John Wood and Son of Bath in 1754,

67 Town hall, typical composition

though the present dome was added early in the nineteenth century. Its reception rooms by James Wyatt were described by Edward VII as ‘the finest suite of rooms in England’. Taken in isolation the dome might be considered too weighty for the palazzo/portico element. Viewed as closure to the vista of Castle Street it assumes an urban significance which takes priority over its stand-alone proportions. It is likely that Castle Street was narrower when the Town Hall was built and the buildings smaller in scale, framing, but subordinate to, the civic building. This view also provides evidence of the insensitivity of the twentieth century to the architectural heritage from the eighteenth century. The overall lesson is that context is critical in establishing good proportion within the urban context.

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68 The ‘town hall’ composition informational divide

69 Liverpool Town Hall

Earlier Sir Christopher Wren, in his final design for St Paul’s, acknowledged this fact by creating two domes. The inner dome is designed to be in proportion to the internal scale of the basilica. The higher external dome relates to the scale of the city, and even today establishes a firm presence among the glass walls of commerce. Wren understood that scale and proportion are context dependent (Figure 75, p. 98). Buildings with these features can range in scale from the Thomas Jefferson residence of Monticello, Charlottesville to the Capitol Building in Washington, DC. The Capitol, designed from 1790, was originally crowned with a low dome after the style of the Pantheon. The present dome and flanking wings were added between 1851 and 1867. The relative size of the three components of this type of building can be critical. One of the most revered buildings in London is the National Gallery (Figure 70), perhaps because it has formed the backdrop to so many massive public expressions of euphoria such as the victory celebrations in 1945. If we draw aside this emblematic veil and analyse the building objectively, it is apparent there are problems in terms of proportion. Forming a complete side of Trafalgar Square, its overall proportions are out of scale with the square. The space calls for a building with much greater presence which epitomises the super-image of the city, even the state. As the

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National Gallery it is a poor thing compared, say, with the Louvre or the Prado.

70 National Gallery, London

Considering the design in more detail, the main problem arises over the feature above the portico. Is it an anorexic dome or a cupola with delusions of grandeur? Whatever our verdict it is an inadequate companion to the portico and a feeble addition to the whole composition. A revised dome would give it the presence its function and status demands (Figure 71).

Perhaps University College, London (Figure 72), could also benefit from remedial treatment. In either case it is to be hoped the ghost of William Wilkins will not object. Another case where inflation would be beneficial is the dome of the Customs House in Dublin (Figure 73). It fails to measure up to the scale of the main building. On the other hand the dome of the Courts of Justice goes to the other extreme (Figure 74). After some very doubtful early attempts, the final design by Sir Christopher Wren for the dome of the Cathedral of St Paul’s, London turned out to be a masterpiece. The drum has three divisions: a base of solid unadorned masonry; second, a colonnade surmounted by an entablature and balustrade. The third stage is stepped back from the main drum ensuring that the hemispherical dome is just the right proportion in relation to the whole composition (Figure 75). The conventional solution would have

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71 National Gallery, London, with an adult dome

72 University College, London (a) and alternative (b)

(a)

(b)

73 Dublin, Customs House

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74 Courts of Justice

75 St Paul’s Cathedral, London and a conventional dome composition

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been to spring the dome directly from the colonnade which, in this situation, would have made the composition top-heavy as well as very ordinary. As a postscript to this chapter it is interesting to speculate how the concept of informational bi-versity transfers to painting. Take the case of Monet’s Bridge at Argenteuil. There are two main focuses of attention, the boats in the foreground and the bridge. The boats cluster has greater informational ‘mass’ than the bridge and is the primary subject. The bridge, despite providing the title, is the secondary subject. So, of the two prominent patterns of information, the boats dominate, but arguably within Fibonacci margins – just dominant enough to declare their primacy. Interestingly the riverbank is within a whisker of the phi position on the vertical axis and the bridge house on the horizontal axis.

References 1 Proceedings of the Royal Society (August 1998). 2 Semir Zeki, Inner Vision (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), pp. 16, 84.

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Chapter 12

Beyond the portico and dome

Up to now the emphasis has mostly been on classical architecture. What about Gothic cathedrals? Can we apply the same principles to, say, Lincoln Cathedral (Figure 76)? Even with such an enormous edifice as this, the mind automatically seeks to simplify the situation by identifying the most logical informational divide. In this case it is between the predominantly vertical features, the towers, and the horizontal mass of the nave and transepts. By

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76 Lincoln Cathedral

comparison the towers are visually the weaker partner, but this is where symbolism again comes into its own in the aesthetic story. Towers or campanile have long been associated with churches, at least since the sixth-century basilicas built by Justinian in Ravenna. Their symbolism goes back far beyond that to the beginnings of human anxieties about the fundamental things of life: birth, survival, procreation and death. Towers were amongst the earliest archetypal symbols since they served the double purpose of enabling humans to reach up to the gods whilst also ‘earthing’ the energy of benevolent gods to give protection against the capricious acts of less amenable deities. Of course we don’t believe any of that now, at least not on the rational level. However, our emotional brain is remarkably impervious to reason and resistant to evolution. Edward Wilson attaches this perspective to the arts in general: The arts are not solely shaped by errant genius out of historical circumstances and idiosyncratic personal experience. The roots of their inspiration date back in deep history to the genetic origins of the human brain, and are permanent.1 One effect of all this is that towers, especially when associated with religious buildings, carry a powerful symbolic charge which greatly adds to their informational weight. The result is that the aggregated weight of the three towers at Lincoln establishes dominance over the basilica, but within harmonic limits (Figure 77). So far this investigation into proportion has focused on informational bi-versity as it concerns the main components of a composition. However, there are many occasions when the initial aesthetic impact derives from the overall massing of a building: its proportion of height to width. In the example of Prior Park (Figure 58, p. 88), not only is the ratio of 77 Lincoln Cathedral: towers against basilica

palazzo to portico aesthetically agreeable, but also the overall massing of the building qualifies as ‘good proportion’. This is despite the fact that we

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78 United Oxford and Cambridge University Club in the context of Pall Mall

are not talking here of anything like a golden section ratio. The portico is constrained by the classical rules of proportion. It is this which conditions the size of the palazzo element against the yardstick of a Fibonacci ratio. Where a building is a relatively simple cubic composition, this is where the height to width ratio becomes critical, as in the case of the Bank of Ireland building in Dublin (Figure 35, p. 59). Aside from its relationship to its neighbours, the proportions fail the basic test of resolving the contest between competing energy domains, in this case between the vertical and horizontal axes. The relationship between the two axes remains unresolved in that neither establishes clear dominance. A building need not be an isolated composition for its overall proportions to be apparent. For example, the United Oxford and Cambridge University Club in Pall Mall by Sir Robert Smirke (Figure 78) conforms to the rate of pattern across the street to which it owes its primary allegiance. Nevertheless it discretely expresses the quality of its inherent proportions, setting up a dialogue between separateness and belongingness, partness and wholeness.

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79 Musée d’Orsay, Paris

Architectural metamorphosis Stepping beyond the strict phenomenology of proportion, another realm of binary significance relates to buildings which have undergone radical remodelling to accommodate new uses. Some of the aesthetic energy in this case is generated by the contrast between their two incarnations. One of the features of the 1980s was the move in favour of adapting existing buildings to meet new needs, a situation which has accelerated in the 1990s. Warehouses are becoming luxury apartments in hitherto derelict industrial zones of cities. St Katherine Dock in London established the trend soon followed by the transformation of the Albert Dock in Liverpool. However, some of the most imaginative metamorphoses are when obsolete buildings are converted into cultural centres; one of the best examples is the Musée d’Orsay, Paris (Figure 79) which houses the finest collection of Impressionist paintings. The transformation from rail station to gallery engenders a special kind of aesthetic satisfaction in the counterpoint between old and new uses. This is why there should be reminders within the building of its original use so that this evolution can be remembered.

80 Sculpture Gallery, Angers

Another stunning instance of this strategy is the conversion of a ruined medieval abbey in Angers into a gallery housing representations of

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great figures in history, mostly French (Figure 80). The new roof is completely glazed, which causes the cream stones of the Gothic structure to glow in the natural light. The pattern of the shadows cast by the intricate lacework of the roof structure adds a further layer of complexity. This mounting momentum in favour of the visual arts has been the salvation of one of London’s industrial landmarks, the former Bankside power station, a final monument to Sir Giles Gilbert Scott. Its transformation by architects Herzog and de Meuron into Tate Modern is a spectacular example of architectural resurrection. The former turbine hall has the proportions of a medieval cathedral. The galleries and restaurants and offices form seven floors one side of the hall. Resting places affording views into the hall give added attraction to the art galleries (Figure 81). On the sixth floor there are stunning views across the Thames, with the elegant footbridge by Foster and Partners leading the eye to St Paul’s Cathedral. In its first weeks of opening it was almost overwhelmed by visitors. Still with the arts, another most successful transformation of a redundant building has been the Royal Exchange in Manchester. A selfcontained theatre has been erected within the vast trading floor. The light

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81 Tate Modern, London

82 Royal Exchange Theatre, Manchester

tubular steel cradle supporting the auditorium and the transparent walls complements the classical solidity of the Exchange; bi-versity at high amplitude (Figure 82). Credit for one of the most spectacular of all transformations must go to Norman Foster for his firm’s rehabilitation of the Reichstag Parliament building in Berlin. Strictly it is not accommodating a change of use, but the transformation of the political ethos which it embodies is even more dramatic than a change of function. If ever a building was steeped in dubious symbolism, this is it. Foster has exploited the demand to retain a central dome to give the building a completely new identity and create a visible testimony to open government. He has, in fact, created two glass domes. The lower dome permits views into the Parliament chamber but excludes sound. The upper dome is a public space and viewing platform. The most spectacular feature here is an inverted cone which is sheathed in 360 mirrors which reflect natural light into the lower chamber. Sun-tracking

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83 Reichstag Parliament Chamber

shading ensures that direct sunlight does not reach this space (Figures 83, and 135 on p. 153). These features are not just for visual appeal. The cone houses air extract and heat exchange equipment which is powered, together with the motorised shading, by photovoltaic cells. This is just one example of the way this naturally ventilated building responds to growing concerns about the environment. From the point of view of the symbolism of the building, by remodelling the old Reichstag the transformed building is stating emphatically that it is forward looking, but without being in total denial of the past. The architects have achieved the almost impossible task of replacing the darkness of the past with light and transparency. A new partnership between a great historical building and the latest technology came to light in 2002 with the completion of the Millennium Bridge over the Thames connecting St Paul’s Cathedral with Tate Modern: innovatory design from the seventeenth and twenty-first centuries (Figure 75, p. 98).

Reference 1 Edward O. Wilson, Consilience (London: Little Brown and Co., 1998), p. 242.

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Chapter 13

Contemporary variations

The concept of proportion is particularly associated with classical architecture. However, it has already been suggested that modern buildings can be subjected to analysis on the basis of counterbalancing chunked elements. The Yale Art and Architecture building (Figure 57, p. 86) was used to illustrate how the same assessment routine can transfer from the Parthenon to a contemporary building. Counterpoint between rectilinear and curved forms is now a popular leitmotiv among contemporary architects. Liberated from the rectilinear straitjacket of earlier style disciples, architects are exploring the design opportunities afforded by this freedom. The interplay between cuboid and curved forms is an increasingly popular platform for the display of proportion facilitated by developments in technology and computer-aided design. In addition to the obvious formal contrast, there is an associational element which adds weight to these opposites. Hard angular forms have a masculine association whereas soft, curved shapes are deemed to be feminine. Where buildings embrace both forms, this adds a symbolic component to the aesthetic significance of this alliance. One of the most robust alliances between the round and the rectangular is seen in the Lowry Centre in Salford (Figure 84). This is a multi-purpose complex which combines the role of theatre with that of housing the national collection of Lowry paintings. Its waterside site adds to the impact of the complex, especially with reflections from the glistening stainless steel cladding. Despite the complexity of the building it nevertheless renders down into animated counterpoint between the curved and the linear. It illustrates how the emphasis can shift according to the viewpoint. Seen from the south, curved forms are dominant so, in terms of proportion, the aggregation of round and curved features achieves dominance, arguably within Fibonacci limits. However, viewed from the east it is the linear

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emphasis which dominates, suggesting that, in terms of proportion, some of the most interesting buildings exhibit the characteristics of Janus. Another building in which curved forms are distributed throughout the composition is the National Museum of Scotland (Figure 24). It has a strong circulation drum acting as a visual hinge carrying the building round a corner. This curved form is supplemented by a saucer-shaped feature accommodating a roof garden. Normally one would not expect to be citing train stations in this catalogue of notable buildings. The new Jubilee Line demonstrates how this routine function can produce some of the most exhilarating architecture, like Alsop and Stormer’s North Greenwich and Norman Foster’s

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84 The Lowry Centre, Salford, Greater Manchester

Canary Wharf stations. The transport interchange at Canada Water has also elevated the genre to new heights. It is relevant because its primary impact is of a harmonious partnership between a massive glazed drum and powerful linear forms. Light from the drum filters down to the platforms. The plan shape bears a resemblance to the Lowry Centre, and overall the outcome reflects great credit on its architect Eva Jericna. Other successful examples of a constructive integration of line and curve include the Tate Gallery in St Ives (Figure 33, p. 58) and the Crown Court in Truro (Figure 32, p. 58). The last word on this particular form of counterpoint must go to Edward Cullinan, Architects. Their design for the new campus for the University of East London makes a bold clash between linear and circular forms (Figure 85). The student residences comprise five paired drums on the waterfront of Albert Dock. This is a striking assembly of shapes and colours which will transform the lives of students and staff, previously condemned to inhabit buildings which would challenge the vocation of the most dedicated academic.

85 New Campus, University of East London

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The drive to create buildings which present a ‘dialectic’ between design elements is currently tapping a rich vein of modes of expression. In Georgian and Palladian architecture the relationship between wall and windows was carefully manipulated since it was a key element on the overall quality of the proportions of the building. This is one of several ‘second-level’ interactions which contribute to the final aesthetic outcome of a design. Contemporary buildings are revealing many variations on the interaction between wall and window. A fashion in the 1980s was to step the boundary between these basic elevational components. An example is the Haas-Haus in Vienna designed by Hans Hollein (Figure 86). Its site could not be more sensitive, being directly opposite the Cathedral of St Stephan. Its curved plan eases the flow from the Graben to the Stephansplatz. The descending stepped masonry wall reflects the transition from street to square, with the maximum glazing facing the cathedral. This is architecture which operates on a variety of levels. It is a retail store in the week but at weekends, when the Graben and Stephansplatz are the focus for Vienna’s perambulating citizens, the Haas-Haus becomes a public gallery for viewing the Cathedral. Though the retail area is closed the public are invited to use the fully glazed

86 Haas-Haus, Vienna

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zone to experience both the internal and external delights. It is public architecture designed as much to entertain as to fulfil a retail function. To make an aesthetic assessment of this building one needs to take into account the variety of levels on which it performs. Initially it generated considerable controversy due to the deliberate clash between the rich complexity of the Cathedral with its almost flamboyantly coloured roof and the machine-precision and post-modern flavour of Hollein’s architecture. It abruptly breaks the continuity of the florid architecture of the Graben, sharply raising the architectural tempo of the Stephansplatz. In bald terms it represents a binary clash between opaque and transparent, but it is more besides, as we shall see in a moment. A French version of this architectural motif is the Bastille Opera House, where the stepped external wall mirrors the internal staircase (Figure 87). The Lowry Centre is only the most recent of a succession of cultural buildings, and it is in this realm that some of the most elegant and exciting architectural creations have appeared. Richard Meier’s Art Gallery in Barcelona is a prime example (Figure 88). It forms the complete side to a square of contemporary architecture and is a perfect example of how, instead of adopting static proportions, architects are exploiting the aesthetic potential of the counterpoint between contrasting wall systems. At the Art Gallery the basic interplay is between the solid and the transparent. On a secondary level there is the clash between line and curve. The backcloth to the elevational games is a plain screen wall which emphasises its cosmetic role by the reticular pattern of facing tiles and the fact that it has no rightangle return. It is a mild form of twentieth-century mannerism. To the left of the elevation a perforated flying wall marks the main entrance. It both conceals and reveals, offering glimpses of the interior. A fully glazed façade stands proud of the screen wall and this really does allow the eye to

87 Bastille Opera House, Paris

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penetrate to the inside. The final flourish is an elevated wavy drum structure which gives the impression of being free-standing whilst also forming an essential element in the overall design composition. It is a striking embodiment of Robert Venturi’s ‘complexity and contradiction in architecture’. In terms of its wider aesthetic impact, it forms a dynamic and entertaining contrast to the heavy, static buff masonry buildings on two sides of the square which act as a foil to the gallery. As an additional flourish the transparent wall plays host to a number of brightly coloured panels, some of which carry information. One of the most elegant art galleries to appear in recent years is the Carrée Gallery in Nîmes (Figure 89). It faces the flank of the best preserved rectangular Roman temple, the Maison Carrée. It is an uncompromising statement of Foster and Partners’ high-tech glass-wall philosophy. The vibrant dialogue here is between the ultra-modern and the ancient, two cultural buildings separated by nearly two thousand years. The projecting sun baffles on the south elevation of the gallery are supported by five slender columns which set up a rhyme with the portico of the temple. The bi-versity here is across time and space. The interior of the gallery has a wonderfully soft natural light. Even the stairs have glass treads and open risers to offer least impediment to the overhead glazing. On the top floor is a terrace restaurant which offers splendid views of the temple and the incidental entertainment of illegally parked cars being towed away. The proportions of the building are perfectly allied to the situation of the square and the surrounding buildings. It has created an epic public space which spans the millennia. Another clash of opposites can be experienced in the highly charged dialectic between the Gothic fantasy of St Pancras Station and the

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88 Art Gallery, Barcelona

89 Carrée d’Art and Maison Carrée, Nîmes, France

uncompromising shapes of the British Library by Colin St John Wilson (Figure 90). It is astonishing that such an elegant building should emerge after such a painful and fractious gestation. The architect deserves to be canonised. The whole ensemble has affinities to a Bach chorale whereby the crisp, serious Aalto-esque shapes of the Library form stately counterpoint to the playful complexity of Sir George Gilbert Scott’s confection: dynamic bi-versity taken to its limits. Whereas in the 1960s and 1970s the cultural climate was biased towards ‘clean-sweep’ redevelopment, in the final decade of the twentieth century there has been a marked shift in favour of ensuring that new development does nothing to undermine the presence of older buildings of

90 The British Library at St Pancras, London

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91 Montevetro House, Battersea, London

architectural merit. Three recent buildings exemplify how large buildings have been shaped to respect historic buildings of more modest scale. The first example is the Montevetro housing complex on the banks of the Thames at Battersea on the site of a redundant Hovis flour mill. It is a high-density development of 103 apartments organised into five connected blocks designed by the Richard Rogers Partnership in association with Hurley Robertson and Associates (Figure 91). It successfully pays due deference to the Grade 1 listed eighteenth-century church of St Mary by descending from 20 storeys at its north end to four adjacent to the church. The result is that the church has much greater prominence than when the site served an industrial purpose. Here are two buildings separated by 200 years but which express the same underlying philosophy of economy of form and fitness for purpose; each representing a coalescence of parts to form an elegant whole. Two buildings in Manchester completed in mid-2002 project the same image. An apartment block Number One, Deansgate and Ian Simpson’s Urbis Museum of Urban Life are both located within the field of influence of the Cathedral (Figure 92). Like Montevetro they descend in scale to avoid violating its ‘sacred space’. The Urbis Centre features the first internal funicular ascent in Europe, which will be in danger of eclipsing the Museum’s contents in popularity. How a single building can transform a whole neighbourhood was earlier demonstrated by the Pompidou Centre in Paris. Renzo Piano and Richard Rogers achieved the breakthrough for art galleries as architectural entertainment as well as cultural experience (Figure 1, p. 16). Its flexible interior enables it to adapt to a great variety of forms for exhibitions and social activities. Piano and Rogers redefined the concept of ‘art gallery’ and paved the way for further boundary-breaking examples of the genre such as Frank Gehry’s latest evocation at Bilbao for the Guggenheim Foundation (Figure 93). This organisation has sponsored leading edge gallery design

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(b)

(a) 92 (a) Number One, Deansgate, Manchester; (b) Urbis Museum of Urban Life, Manchester, opened July 2002

ever since it commissioned Frank Lloyd Wright to design its New York gallery, which took the form of an expanding spiral. There are two questions posed by the anarchic architecture of Frank Gehry. First, how does it fit into the system of architectural aesthetics which has been developed here? Second, why is he in such demand as an architect for top prestigious buildings?

93 Guggenheim Museum, Bilbao

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Referring back to chaos theory, could it be argued that Gehry takes randomness beyond the boundary in which there could be said to be any underlying lawfulness? His forms seem entirely arbitrary in the manner of an abstract piece of sculpture. Function seems to have been subverted by form in diametric opposition to the canons of the Modern Movement. Indeed, some see his designs as an act of defiance against the underlying disciplines of architecture. Earlier I argued that such radical architecture has its place as a means of creating new horizons for the possible. They shift the boundary of normality. Gehry has certainly earned his place among the ranks of the revolutionaries with designs like the Walt Disney Concert Hall in Los Angeles (Figure 95, p. 117), the Vitra Design Museum and the American Centre in Paris. It is no coincidence that these are all cultural buildings and therefore more easily perceived as works of art in their own right. So, the answer to the first question as to how it sits within the main argument of the book is that perhaps we should assess such buildings as urban sculpture on the grand scale. The answer to the second question regarding his popularity is that such creations attract worldwide attention. An undistinguished Spanish industrial town is now on the cultural map thanks to Gehry’s vigorous shaking of the foundations. It is essentially a stand-alone three-dimensional architectural sculpture and could never be comfortable as one side of a square, in contrast to Meier’s Barcelona building. Once we switch our frame of reference from ‘architecture’ to ‘sculpture’ the Bilbao composition can be appreciated as a superb essay in the build-up of flowing curvacious colliding forms which make the most of their riverside position. It is almost an analogy of a medieval town, full of surprising combinations of form and light as the perimeter is traversed. Internally this analogy is even more appropriate. It is consistent with chaos theory, but in a different key. Yet even a highly sculpted composition like this can ultimately be rendered down into a binary composition. The vigorous cluster of interfolding shapes with a vertical emphasis contrasts with the graceful flowing elements that form a kind of podium to the building. Like the Parthenon or Prior Park it reduces to shapes falling into two patterns: complex and vertically orientated, against the clean-cut, flowing horizontal forms. The complex eruption of vertical forms wins the contest, but, in information terms, within the fuzzy margins of Fibonacci (Figure 94). This work pleases, I suggest, because it is an exciting departure from the norms of architecture, and its shining titanium coat appeals to limbic sensibilities. At the same time, on a deeper level, it observes the fundamental laws of proportion. The genetic code for the Guggenheim is clearly displayed in Gehry’s Walt Disney Concert Hall in California (Figure 95). This, even more than Bilbao, seems to have been conceived as habitable abstract sculpture in which function takes second place to form.

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94 Counterpoint at Bilbao compared with that at Prior Park

Yet to be built is an addition to the Victoria and Albert Museum in London. The local planning committee overrode its planning officers by granting permission for Daniel Libeskind’s ‘spiral’ of colliding cuboids to occupy the ‘Boiler House’ site. It is due to be completed in 2004, subject to the accumulation of funds. It will be an explosion of sculpture inserted between the neo-Gothic elevations of the Museum and will put London firmly on the map of places offering architectural shock. There is no doubt it will generate controversy. But for those who are able to break free of architectural preconceptions it will create an aesthetic dynamic of rare intensity; a glittering crystalline shape which carries metaphoric inferences but leaving the Museum staff with some difficult internal shapes to deal with (Figure 4, p. 18). As pressure on space in existing galleries and museums has intensified, so this has created new opportunities for architectural counterpoint. In London the first to expand were the Tate Gallery, with the Turner wing designed by Stirling and Wilford, and the extension to the National Gallery by the Venturi husband and wife team. These are self-contained additions, whereas some of the latest projects have been interwoven into the existing fabric often in ingenious ways. A notable example is the Secklar Gallery in the Royal Academy. Its clean light-washed spaces establish a dynamic contrast to the classical exuberance of the main eighteenthcentury building, proving that Norman Foster is just as capable at the intimate as the heroic scale. The same can be said of Jeremy Dixon who has slipped easily from the scale of the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden to shoe-horning

95 Walt Disney Concert Hall

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some excellent new gallery space into the National Portrait Gallery. Particularly memorable is the roof-top restaurant which affords views of London previously the preserve of maintenance staff. As for the Royal Opera House, the challenge was to modernise and enlarge a national monument without compromising its historic integrity (Figure 96). At the same time there was a requirement to create commercial accommodation to provide revenue for the Opera House. The final test was to ensure that the exterior blended with the remainder of the Covent Garden Piazza originally designed by Inigo Jones. The architects Jeremy Dixon, Edward Jones have risen admirably to the challenge, despite being subject to frequent changes of brief and funding. These examples demonstrate how contemporary interventions can create a new dynamic interaction between old and new, raising the aesthetic stature of both in the process.

Creative ambiguity

96 Royal Opera House

An architectural ‘conceit’ which became popular in the 1990s involved creating ambiguity between outside and inside; a building within a building. Environmental priorities were behind Arup Associates’ design for No. 3, The Square, Stockley Park (Figure 97). Instead of the conventional

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97 No. 3, The Square, Stockley Park

internal atrium, the architects placed the atria on the outside of a cruciform plan. The effect is of a dynamic counterpoint between an opaque and a transparent building. The relationship between them is constantly changing according to the light conditions and the position of the sun. At night the illuminated inner building becomes the dominant element, changing the whole ‘personality’ of the building. The ultimate in environmentally driven architectural counterpoint is the Mont Cenis In-service Training Centre in Herne-Sodingen, Germany (Figure 98). It illustrates how the architectural vocabulary is changing in response to bioclimatic imperatives. A massive glazed canopy encompasses a variety of buildings performing different functions. It is claimed to create an internal climate that rivals the Mediterranean. The final flourish is an array of 10,000 square metres of photovoltaic (PV) cells producing one megawatt of electricity – more than enough for the whole complex. There will be further reference to bioclimatic architecture in Chapter 17. In 2001 a dramatic transformation occurred in the British Museum in London. An internal court which had been used as a storage space became an elegant piazza, thanks to a glazed roof designed by architects Foster and Partners, with Arup Associates as engineers (Figure 99). It is a tour de force of ‘high-tech’ design, with its glazing structure radiating from a central oval Reading Room in contra-rotating whorls reminiscent of the sunflower. Each pane of glass is a unique shape. Three ages of architecture form a magical alliance: Sir Robert Smirke’s Greek revival style of the Museum’s elevations, the neo-Gothic of the refurbished Reading Room and the sophisticated steel and glass of the twenty-first century. Until this

98 Mont Cenis In-service Training Centre

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99 The Great Court, British Museum, London

intervention the Museum and the Reading Room had been unconnected entities; now they are unified under a spectacular canopy of glass. The interplay of inside–outside is reinforced by the external façades of the Museum, now transformed into the internal boundaries of the Great Court, which all adds up to an eloquent expression of the dynamics of architecture and delight. Finally, a variation on this idea is evident in a number of civic buildings which contain semi-autonomous architectural forms. In the case of the Richard Rogers Law Courts in Bordeaux it is the individual court rooms (Figure 105, p. 125); in the Welsh Assembly building in Cardiff it is the assembly chamber (Figure 100).

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100 Project for the National Assembly Building for Wales

Another interpretation of this contrapuntal theme is evident in Alsop Architects, Library and Media Centre in Peckham (Figure 3, p. 18). Three enclosed pods on splayed legs dominate the main lending floor, creating buildings within a building. Two of the pods penetrate through the roofline. They house, respectively, a children’s activity area, an African Caribbean literature centre and a meeting room. If this building sets the standard for the regeneration of south-east London, we are in for some splendid surprises.

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Chapter 14

Architectural metaphor

In the arts terms frequently cross boundaries, as when the concept of metaphor transfers from literature to architecture. The strict definition of metaphor is that it describes a link between disparate concepts that avoids ‘like’ or ‘as’. There is no point-to-point correspondence, the association being on the level of suggestion rather than simile – ‘I see a cloud that’s dragonish . . .’ A metaphor creates a bridge across unexplored territory, connecting two unlikely entities. The aesthetic ‘spark’ is generated by the novelty or poignancy of the association; the arcing across conceptual space. The emotional reward comes from the recognition of a new pattern of relationship. The phenomenon of metaphor operates in parallel with the formal aesthetic qualities of a building being a variation on the theme of binary aesthetics, introducing the poetic element into architecture. The Boiler House addition to the Victoria and Albert Museum connects with architecture, sculpture and metaphor. It alludes to a reality far removed from conventional buildings. It hints at ascent in its spiral form whilst also evoking Nature in its crystalline shape (Figure 4, p. 18). In Sheffield, the former National Centre for Popular Music by Coates and Branson (Figure 101) consists of four pods which have more than a passing resemblance to drums, even to the tilt. The suggestion is subtle and therefore well within the territory of metaphor. This is a building which also has addressed ecological concerns in terms of its internal climate. Unfortunately, it failed to meet expectations as a music centre and currently its future is uncertain. The graceful curves of Oscar Niemeyer’s Cathedral at Brasilia (Figure 102) are said to represent the crown of thorns. They could also signify the opening petals of a giant flower responding to the rising sun – perhaps a metaphoric allusion to pagan roots. On the border between metaphor and simile is Saarinen’s grace-

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101 Former National Centre for Popular Music, Sheffield

ful New York Airport building with its almost literal reference to a bird in flight (Figure 103). The architecture of metaphor can emerge in some surprising places. The sea-front landscape of Ilfracombe in north Devon has been transformed by two massive brick cones, said to be symbolic of the industrial buildings which once abounded along this coast. It is the Landmark Theatre (Figure 104) by Tim Ronalds Architects built on the site of a redundant hotel. One cone accommodates the auditorium, the other, a winter garden. The cones were constructed without formwork in the tradition of the kilns of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. It is to the credit of this traditional candy-floss seaside town that it agreed to this striking building, making it a worthy rival to St Ives with its Tate Gallery. Perhaps the most poetic of all buildings is Utson’s Sydney Opera House with its sail-like forms projecting into the harbour. Its graceful curves

102 Brasilia Cathedral

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103 New York Airport

and interlocking volumes almost step beyond metaphor into simile to create a masterful composition which has made it the emblematic building for Sydney, and perhaps even Australia. No doubt this is why it is forgiven for its occasional functional shortcomings. In the design for law courts in Bordeaux (Figure 105), the Richard Rogers Partnership has elected to echo the imagery of the wine stills which are the symbol of the region’s economic success. In the Gulf States, hotels are emerging which draw inspiration from the sails of a yacht or the profile of a wave. Dominikus Bohm’s local administration building, which rises above the remains of the medieval castle of Bensberg (Figure 106), evokes an image of the castle using a contemporary vocabulary of forms expressed in concrete and glass. It is a striking building with echoes of the expressionism of the 1930s. One of the most poignant of architectural metaphors is to be seen in the Holocaust Museum in Berlin by Daniel Libeskind (Figure 107). Its form abounds in sharp points from the plan to the shape of openings. Its cladding

104 Landmark Theatre, Ilfracombe, Devon

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105 Tribunal de Grande Instance, Bordeaux

106 Bensberg Administration Building

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107 Jewish Museum, Berlin

in zinc copper titanium alloy adds menace to the razor-sharp edges and angles. The apparently arbitrary positioning of openings in the elevations originate in lines connecting the addresses of Jewish victims of the Nazis across Berlin. Vigorously clashing shapes put the finishing touch to a building which is a most eloquent memorial to the suffering of the Jews in the Second World War. It is the architectural equivalent of Picasso’s Guernica. Opposite the Lowry Centre in Salford is Libeskind’s Imperial War Museum North (Figure 108). Its colliding shapes are said to represent the shards found after a battle. Three main elements symbolise the theatres of war on land, sea and in the air. Another image that is evoked is of a weapon buried into a wide curving roof which can represent the earth or perhaps a

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108 Imperial War Museum North, Salford

human skull. It is a sculptural metaphor of violence which may not quite be what the Ministry of Defence intended. A group of structures completed in August 2000 sits on the boundary between metaphor and direct structural correspondence. The structures are situated in an enormous disused quarry near St Austell, Cornwall and form the centre of the Eden Project (Figure 109), an ambitious enterprise to create humid tropical and warm temperate environments to accommodate plants from all parts of the world. The Humid Tropics Biome is the largest building and consists of three interlocking domes. At 55 metres high, 240 metres long and 110 metres wide it is the world’s largest unsupported greenhouse. Its inspiration can be traced back to the geodesic domes of the American architect Buckminster Fuller. The principle

109 Eden Project, St Austell, Cornwall

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geometric element of the structure is the hexagon, which is the link with Nature. Hexagon clusters are one of the most efficient forms of structure, seen in the honeycombs of bees and in the structure of the eye of a housefly. The skin located within the hexagons consists of inflated envelopes of the plastic ethyltetrafluoroethylene (ETFE) which does not degrade in sunlight. They are a small fraction of the weight and cost of glass and have a life expectancy of 25 years. The architect is Nicholas Grimshaw, with Anthony Hunt Associates as structural engineers. This technology has considerable potential for creating huge spaces, with a controlled environment within which can be placed individual buildings or whole streets and piazzas. The realisation of the dream of zero energy towns within a cluster of geodesic domes may not be too far distant. This will be the ultimate in biomorphic architecture. Metaphor avoids the representational image and leaves the percipient with work to do to unravel the connection. It is counterpoint on the emotional level. Making that connection is a creative act and thus a form of aesthetic experience. Where the correspondence is on the level of simile rather than metaphor it runs the danger of being counter-productive. One would avoid a burger bar shaped like a burger.

Beauty and the sublime ‘Sublime’ is one of those words which has been devalued over the centuries. Longinus referred to it in the first century

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as the fascination with

that which is overwhelming and awesome; the pleasure at being in the presence of danger without actually being in danger. In the eighteenth century this was picked up by philosophers such as Edmund Burke, who considered the sublime to be the opposite of beauty. He described the beautiful as satisfying but the sublime as stupefying.1 The rise of Romanticism in the eighteenth century was accompanied by the rediscovery of the sublime. The Nature poets, especially William Wordsworth, were attracted to the awesome in Nature, more often than not enhanced by the imagination. This was the case in The Prelude where Wordsworth laments that Mont Blanc failed to live up to its sublime expectations. Architecture has long been a vehicle for conveying the sense of the sublime, usually as manifest by superhuman scale. This was undoubtedly one aspect of the motivation of the architects of thirteenth-century France where the almost frenzied competition to achieve height produced the incredible achievements of Amiens Cathedral (Figure 110) and the disconcerting vastness of Cologne Cathedral. The fascination for the gigantic is an aspect of phylogenetically early brain programmes – the limbic system which generates emotional responses. Amiens is testament to the fact that the inchoate limbic reaction to

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(a)

(b)

110 Cathedral of Amiens (above) and detail of West Window at Chartres

superhuman scale can work in harmony with the higher aesthetic sensibilities. Amiens represents the perfect marriage between overwhelming vastness of space and sophisticated architectural forms and refined and rich detail. Chartres Cathedral touches the deepest nerve, with its sombre light making the brilliance of the stained glass all the more breathtaking. Figure 110, right). It evokes the experience of the sublime in concert with the archetypal message of the ‘sacred cave’ in counterpoint with the perfectly proportioned interior elevations, all of which goes to prove that beauty in architecture is a many-layered thing. The same can be said of the interior of Hagia Sophia in Istanbul. It is an awesome place; a vast multiple-domed space which leaves the percipient incredulous at this feat of sixth-century technology (Figure 111). Ambition at times ‘o’er-leaps itself’, as happened at Beauvais Cathedral whose incompleteness stands as a permanent testimony to ‘vaulting ambition’. To experience the sublime, there is no better place than the interior of Beauvais; it is a deliciously disturbing experience. In Britain it is the interior of Giles Scott’s Liverpool Anglican Cathedral that best captures this phenomenon. The external aspects are no less awesome, culminating in the massive Vesty Tower (Figure 112). With the exception of Liverpool Cathedral, in the nineteenth century the baton of the sublime was passed from cathedral architects to engineers. Even today the huge arches of St Pancras Station carry the message of overwhelmingness.

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111 Hagia Sophia, Istanbul

This pursuit of the sublime of gigantism in secular architecture rapidly gathered pace in the twentieth century. In Chicago the Sears Tower leads the eye straight from pavement level to vertiginous heights. In the twenty-first century this trend is gathering pace, with mile high buildings in prospect. Such buildings can only be accounted for as statements of wealth and power, continuing one of the basic functions of sublime architecture which was to emphasise the insignificance of individual humans in the face of corporate strength: ‘the frightening, necessary delight of knowing our own smallness’.2 In the Middle Ages that was God; now it is the multi-national corporations. It may be that Burke was right within the constricted definition of beauty which was current in the eighteenth century. Today we might interpret the sublime as an interplay of the opposites of danger and security

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112 Vesty Tower, Liverpool Anglican Cathedral

or of the human and the superhuman. The pleasure lies in the mixture of apprehension and awe, and the knowledge that we are not in actual danger as when we cross a slender suspension bridge over a deep gorge – or its London equivalent, the new Millennium Bridge across the River Thames. The mental counterpoint between primitive emotions and intellectual rationality is a clash of opposites which has an affinity with aesthetic pleasure.

Reference 1 Edmund Burke, Philosophical Enquiry into the Origins of our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful (London, 1757). 2 Op. cit.

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Chapter 15

Second-order proportion

We have been considering the first level of perception which takes in the overall quality of a building: its primary visual counterpoint. Aesthetic judgement does not end there. In coming to a value decision the mind searches for secondary binary groupings, which all contribute to the final aesthetic outcome. For example, as discussed, the basic informational fault line in Lincoln Cathedral is between towers and basilica (Figure 113a). A secondorder bi-versity occurs within the relationship between the towers themselves. There is a contest between the western towers and the central tower. The western towers are virtually identical and so there is almost total information overlap or redundancy. In this binary contest the central tower achieves dominance within the fuzzy phi margins. This is aesthetically satisfactory on two counts: first, in the proportional sense; second, in terms of our expectations concerning the proper order of things. Central towers should be dominant. The strength of this argument is demonstrated by a comparison with York Minster (Figure 113b). It has a magnificent pair of western towers, but the central tower fails to meet the requirement of dominance. In fact it is incomplete, marking a victory by medieval accountants over master builders. The result is that it is an unworthy complement to the western towers both in scale and richness of detail. The result is that there it fails to measure up to good proportion. The striving by medieval builders to make their buildings evermore accommodating to light resulted in some astonishing achievements, like St Chapelle in Paris where structure dissolves into light. This endeavour was driven by the philosophy of ‘divine light’, the element closest to the purity and brilliance of God. This had a spin-off in terms of domestic architecture, and the elevations of some of the great houses of the later Middle Ages are dominated by massive reticular windows. The outstanding

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example is Hardwick Hall in Derbyshire (Figure 114), correctly described as ‘more glass than wall’. Credit for this extraordinary building must go to Elizabeth, Countess of Shrewsbury (‘Bess of Hardwick’) who ensured that there could be no doubting her wealth or who should take the credit for the edifice. Her initials ES adorn the strapwork at cardinal points around the roof.

113 A comparison of towers: Lincoln (a) and York (b)

(a) (b)

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The point being made is that the relationship between windows and wall is a factor in determining the overall proportional quality of a building. Most medieval great houses are window-dominant; on the other hand, in a Palladian or Georgian house the wall is the major partner. The thread that is running through the whole book applies here – namely, that where there is an obvious partnership between elements like window and wall they establish a semi-autonomous pattern capable of being judged in isolation. At the same time, this secondary pattern must owe its allegiance to the super-pattern of the total concept. In coming to an aesthetic decision, chunking again comes into play. The sum of ‘window-ness’ is pitched against the totality of ‘wall-ness’. Either way there should be a clear-cut winner of the binary contest, but within the limits of deferential dominance. The perceived ratio of window to wall can be manipulated. In Figure 115 example A is a typical plain Georgian elevation with windows punched into the wall. It is wall-dominant. However, if the façade is embellished with pilasters and the windows emphasised with projecting surrounds (B), the balance seems to change. The windows have become more assertive, even though the openings are the same size. They have been given extra perceptual weight due to the fact that the pilasters mark out

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114 Hardwick Hall, Derbyshire

115 Window to wall ratio: changes in perception

their territory so that the portion of wall surrounding the window and between the pilasters is perceived as window territory. It adds to ‘window-ness’. Windows as a discrete feature have significance in terms of proportion. The ideal Georgian window conforms to the golden ratio. If we compare it with a four-pane Victorian window there is a sharp aesthetic dip in terms of the latter, even though it conforms to the golden section overall. There may be several reasons for this (Figure 116). The reticular pattern of white-painted glazing bars in the Georgian window gives it a powerful presence in its competition with wall-ness. By contrast, the Victorian window is visually weak. Finally it is also the case that the latter commits the sin of 116 Georgian and Victorian windows

committing the ‘unresolved duality’. Compared with the triple panes of the Georgian window it is dynamically inert.

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117 Palladian window and derivative compared with Holkham

Is it a coincidence that the mind prefers triadic compositions to symmetrical binary ones? In Dutch houses, for example, the main windows are usually in groups of three. In early Gothic architecture, lancet windows are either in groups of three or five – Fibonacci again. In York Minster the Seven Sisters window is the exception that proves the rule. Finally, one of the triumphs of window design is the Palladian window. It is a perfect case of two identical subordinate elements competing with a central major feature. It is another case of an informational representation of the phi ratio. It is a small-scale analogy of Holkham Hall. The Georgians made their own variation on the theme (Figure 117). Halfway through the last century Le Corbusier extended the possibilities of the interplay between window and wall. This was amply demonstrated in the inclined walls of the Chapel of Notre Dame, Ronchamp. Here the wall factor might seem overwhelming, but the abstract arrangement of windows creates a unique pattern which gives the windows added prominence. Inside the Chapel, the windows contribute to an atmosphere that is profoundly religious in an archetypal rather than Christian sense. His remarkable Monastery at La Tourette (Figure 118)

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118 Monastery of La Tourette

established a very different wall to window relationship, plus the fact that the broken pattern of the slatted windows adds the touch of chaos.

Bi-versity variations The question of proportion impinges on the vertical division of elevations. Particularly in the Renaissance, buildings were clearly divided into layers, maybe with a colonnade or heavily rusticated defensive ground storey. The main floor, or piano nobile, was suitably embellished and delineated from the attic storey which accommodated the servants. The proportions of these layers is a key contributor to the overall aesthetic verdict, as proved positively by Andrea Palladio (Figure 61, p. 91) and negatively by the architect to the Emperor Charles V who grossly violated the aesthetic integrity of the Alhambra in Granada with a building of breathtaking insensitivity (Figure 119). Things are not always as they should be with contemporary buildings that employ the classical vocabulary. For example, a recent addition to the City of London forms numbers 1–3 Bishopsgate (Figure 120). The elevation divides into two layers, with the lower comprising a giant

119 Charles V’s additions to the Alhambra, Granada

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order of classical columns giving the building a ‘leggy’ appearance. The two divisions are of similar informational weight which, even though they are expressed differently, create the problem of the unresolved duality. The suggested amendments gives proper weight to the piano nobile whilst lowering the status of the arcade. It is a more conventionally classical composition, but if the classical vocabulary is chosen there are good reasons to obey tried and tested convention. The extent to which a building displays the quality of proportion is a compound of characteristics, ranging from the massing of its principal features to the proportion and disposition of windows, the ratio of the ground storey to upper floors and wall to roof. Any doubts about the proportional significance of the wall to roof bi-versity will be dispelled by the pyrotechnic roofscape of the Royal Chateau of Chambord on the Loire (Figure 121). The analytical process focuses down to ever-smaller matters of detail to arrive at an overall aesthetic assessment. The fact that this complicated process is conducted for most of us at the intuitive level is another indication that the qualitative aspect of the sensory world is a matter of some importance to the mind. In analysing buildings in this sequential way we need to bear in mind that, in making an intuitive assessment of a building, the brain operates in parallel rather than in series. In other words, the various components that contribute to an overall value judgement as to the aesthetic quality of that building are evaluated in toto and more or less simultaneously. This rationalisation of the process is designed to provide analytical tools to discover why we make a particular intuitive response. Analysis is, of necessity, a linear process, but can mean that the recombined entity is the richer for the process.

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120 Numbers 1–3 Bishopsgate, City of London, with revised proportions

121 Royal Chateau of Chambord, Loire

Finally, every building is entwined within its context. Prior Park can be analysed as a drawing board composition in vacuo, but the building reaches its true architectural stature when viewed from a distance across the carefully composed landscape with a lake and a replica of the Palladian Bridge from Wilton House in the foreground. So often it is the environs to a building which supply the magic. The Adams’ elevation to Keddleston Hall 122 The Adams’ elevation, Keddleston Hall, Derbyshire

in Derbyshire is beautifully complemented by the landscaped gardens in contrast to the severe classicism of the front elevation set on the summit of a bare slope (Figure 122). This dual external personality, coupled with the

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magnificence of the Adams’ interiors, makes this one of the architectural gems of the English Renaissance.

The interior experience So far the only reference to proportion as applied to internal space has been the quotation making claims for the unifying power of the golden section in the Cathedral of Chartres (Figure 124, p. 141). The apprehension of internal space requires a different perceptual routine from that normally associated with buildings in external space. The field of information is 360 degrees and consequently involves complex eye and head movements to enable the brain to construct a perceptual whole. The individual building in external space usually requires, at most, eye movements, and therefore the perceptual process is sharply focused. At the same time, being inside a building can be much more emotionally engaging since it is all-encompassing. It might be said that a further complication with interior space is that its proportions can be said to change as one moves about the space. Here the constancy rule in psychology comes into play. For example, as we move further and further away from a tree, our perception of its size remains constant even though it occupies an ever-smaller part of the visual field. Similarly, on entering a room the initial impact of its proportions stays with us despite changes of position. The rooms which have attracted most attention are ones which conform to a strict geometrical programme like the double cube at Wilton House, part of Inigo Jones’s additions to the house. Appreciation of its proportions is not straightforward since its baroque embellishments, grand paintings and strident colour scheme conspire to soak up attention. Even in a room of this complexity there is an opportunity for the exercise of binary judgement in that a powerful focal point is established by the ornate fireplace. In grand houses the fireplace represents a high concentration of detail. Combine this with the symbolic and archetypal associations of fire and you have the potential for harmonic dominance. Despite its celebrity status the double-cube room hovers between the concepts of room and corridor. This hint of ambiguity undermines its aesthetic integrity, which leads to the question: does Fibonacci once again hold the answer? Is a room more comfortable if its dimensions of length, breadth and height fall within the fuzzy margins of, say, 8:5:3 respectively (Figure 123)? In the case of the Cathedral of Chartres (Figure 124), its unknown architect has created a space which conveys a sense of serenity unrivalled by any other European cathedral. In my own case this was a judgement arrived at long before I knew that its internal elevation conformed to the Fibonacci series, even though its rebuilding commenced before the famous treatise that illustrated the series in the breeding rate of rabbits.

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123 Fibonacci interior

124 The Cathedral of Chartres, interior

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This, of course, risks attracting the charge of oversimplification since perceived proportions can be manipulated by the position, size and proportion of windows and doors, the position, style and scale of furniture, the decoration and colour scheme, and so on. The affective nature of objects and colours is a fascinating subject in its own right and could spawn a host of doctoral theses. However, it is worth considering that maybe the Fibonacci sequence offers the best chance of creating a harmonious space in terms of its basic proportions, a space which invites sojourn.

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Chapter 16

The limbic domain

The learned understand the nature of art, the unlearned its voluptuousness.1 No such politically incorrect remark would be allowed today. In fact, it has taken the learned some considerable time to appreciate the value of ‘voluptuousness’. As students in the 1950s we were conditioned into despising the excesses of baroque/rococo architecture; that is, until we were reprogrammed by Nikolaus Pevsner in his Slade lectures at Cambridge. He revelled in the exuberance of Austro-German Baroque and our antibodies were not nearly strong enough to resist being infected by his enthusiasm. Even the most austere puritan could not fail to be overwhelmed by the explosive power of the Monastery of Melk on the Danube (Figure 125).

125 Chapel of the Monastery of Melk

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There is a part of the mind which delights in bright primary colours, in the glitter of silver and gold, in the bombardment of the senses by complexity at saturation pitch. It may be the more primitive, so-called ‘unlearned’ elements of the brain which respond to such stimuli, but this is not to detract from its value or validity. What brain research has made clear is that the mid-brain or limbic regions can operate a full perception routine aside from consciousness and operate a value system which relates to the primordial stages in human development. Being the seat of our emotions, the limbic brain can deliver a powerful emotional charge in response to visual and auditory stimuli which connect with this value system. As an example, every year the BBC Promenade season ends with the Albert Hall ringing to the sounds of ‘Land of Hope and Glory’, providing convincing evidence of how readily we submit to limbic values – in this case the Elgar–Benson alliance marvellously epitomising redundant social and political values. If Gehry is entertaining as ‘high art’, the opposite is true of the Austrian artist-designer who styled himself Friedensreich Hundertwasser. He came to fame with his anarchic transformation of various buildings in Vienna. He did not design buildings so much as transform existing structures. He approached his designs as a painter and, when he applied his art to buildings, he was not inhibited by the constraints which would normally be experienced by an architect, the exception being Antoni Gaudi who must have been a source of inspiration. There are political overtones to his work, flying in the face of the Establishment. Ironically, Vienna, the home of the Austrian elite, is the city which provided him with his best opportunities. Most celebrated of these is the Hundertwasser apartment block (Figure 126) which caused a furore when it first appeared. How do we evaluate such a building? The fact that it attracts a steady stream of visitors is evidence that there is an appeal in buildings which make a defiant gesture to existing norms. If architecture really is a projection of the collective psyche of society then clearly there are acute tensions in Vienna. Nor can this be regarded as an aberration, since Hundertwasser was let loose on the unpromising challenge of an industrial plant – Vienna’s incinerator and district heating plant. Originally a severely functional building, it has been transformed into a fantasy of Christmas decorations (Figure 127). In the face of this building all normal architectural criteria are suspended and one simply delights in this festival of colour and glitter. If ever there was an emblem of limbic architecture, this is it. All credit to Hundertwasser, who died in April 2000 as this was being written, and to the city fathers for making it possible. Perhaps Hundertwasser tapped into the psychological vein which was earlier responsible for Melk. This raises the issue that there is a realm of experience which elicits pleasure outside the confines of pure aesthetic satisfaction. When we respond with delight to the glitter and shine of baroque, to the bright

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126 Hundertwasser apartments, Vienna

127 Incinerator and power plant, Vienna

colours and press of the crowd of the marketplace, to the reflective sheer glass walls of the Urbis building (Figure 92), we do so on the more primitive levels of the mind, hence the term ‘limbic pleasure’. This acknowledges the fact that it is the evolutionary earlier brain systems which are activated as the senses are bombarded with ‘wall to wall’ stimuli. No question here of seeking out the underlying pattern; just a case of submitting to the overwhelming impact of sights, sounds and smells. Elsewhere I have argued about the importance of allowing for this kind of experience within our towns and cities. Planners have tended to sanitise cities, squeezing out any kind of anarchic activity. At last things are changing with the recognition that neatness is not always next to godliness.2

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Towards entropy The Oxford English Dictionary defines ‘entropy’ as ‘a gradual decline into disorder’. In the scientific sense it is a measure of complexity. As applied to architecture it concerns the breakdown of the logical association between the elements of a building – the breakdown of accepted modes of connectivity between the parts of a design so that the emphasis is on the impression of disparate elements arbitrarily thrown together – rather than of a coherent whole. A brand of architecture emerged in the 1980s which aggressively flouted the laws of aesthetic, and often structural, logic. It could be described as anti-aesthetic, and might be defined as ‘entropic’ architecture since it is aimed at achieving unrelieved complexity. It was designed to deliver shock and sometimes to express contempt for the prevailing order of things. Lucien Kroll might be credited with delivering the first salvo in the battle to overthrow established norms with his apartments for medical students near Brussels. His alibi was that he allowed students to have a free rein in the design. However, by later standards he was almost conservative. Vienna is also the home of one strand of this tendency, notably in the work of the firm Co-op Himmelblau. A conventional commercial building at a guess late nineteenth century, is crowned with a construction that suggests a giant bird which has crash landed. This amazing concatenation of disparate elements houses the company’s boardroom. To appreciate this architectural statement we need to change our frame of reference from aesthetic value to humour. Humour used to gain a commercial edge was the hallmark of the New York practice of Site Incorporated. From the 1970s these architects produced some extraordinary buildings which appeared to be in the late stage of disintegration. Entropic architecture is evident in Stuttgart where two buildings represent the genre. The first is a kindergarten in the Lugisland district. It is a building appearing to suffer from post-earthquake trauma. The elements of its cladding collide and overlap to present a prospect of randomness. Architecture of chaos this is not, since there is no underlying logic. It is said to represent the ‘deconstructive aesthetic’, which is an oxymoron. The philosophy is that it offers an unstructured environment for children so as not to inhibit their development. Clearly it is a product of the time when it was believed ‘baby knows best’. It would be interesting to track the later development of its pupils. The same philosophy, but in a more restrained manner, is the low-energy centre, the Hysolar Institute (Figure 128). Here one can contemplate the contrast between the playful architecture and the serious scientific intent of the activities it contains. One of the most anarchic of all recent public buildings must be the Groniger Museum in the restrained Dutch city of Groningen (Figure 129). Its shapes could not have been more randomly composed if they had

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128 Hysolar Institute, near Stuttgart

129 Groniger Museum, Groningen

been dropped from a great height. It has been described as an ‘exercise in arbitrary dissonance’.

References 1 Quintilian, Institutio Oratoria IX, 4. 2 Peter F. Smith, ‘Viva vulgarity! And other limbic values’, Chapter 10 in The Syntax of Cities (London: Hutchinson, 1977). 3 Peter F. Smith, Architecture and the Principle of Harmony (London: RIBA Publications, 1987). 4 Peter F. Smith, Architecture and the Human Dimension (London: George Godwin, 1979).

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Chapter 17

Bioclimatic opportunities

It seems appropriate at this point to illustrate how new architectural forms are emerging in response to the need to make buildings evermore environmentally neutral. Reducing demand for carbon intensive energy is regarded as the most cost-effective way of reducing carbon dioxide emissions, and buildings are the biggest culprits. The drive to maximise natural light and ventilation and reduce the demand for energy in space heating is leading to new architectural opportunities. In offices the central atrium is not a new idea, but as a means of admitting natural light to the interior of a building and powering ventilation by means of thermal buoyancy it is creating a new vocabulary of design possibilities. The atrium has, in some instances, evolved into an internal street. In offices it has become a place of social interaction complete with restaurants and ‘indoor/outdoor’ cafés. The environment of Sheffield Hallam University was transformed by the retrofit addition of an atrium connecting parallel building blocks. It now has a community space which was sorely needed (Figure 130). This has also become almost a cliché of corporate architecture. A popular approach is to make the atrium a microcosm of a city neighbourhood, often embellished with generous planting. One of the first examples of this genre was the Swiss Airlines Headquarters in Stockholm by Niels Torp. This formula was repeated by this architect in the headquarters for British Airways, Waterside, Heathrow (Figure 131). This is a gesture towards bioclimatic architecture which, at the same time, optimises quality of life for its inhabitants. The internal elevations of the offices become the external elevations of the glazed street, a rhyme between the concepts of ‘inside’ and ‘outside’.

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130 Atrium, Sheffield Hallam University

The ecological tower Surely an oxymoron? The orthodox ‘green’ would rule out anything above about twelve storeys since this is the height at which natural ventilation in the western European climate zone is said to become impracticable. Tower blocks usually require a heavy engineering services system. Also the construction energy costs rise significantly every five floors or so. However, the ecological tower block has its advocates, most notably Ken Yeang from Kuala Lumpur. He pioneered the idea of gardens in the sky, coupled with natural ventilation. To cope with the wind speeds (up to 40 metres per second at 18 storeys) he uses wing wind walls and wind scoops which deflect the wind into the centre of the building.

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131 Atrium, British Airways Headquarters, Heathrow

The most spectacular extension of these principles in the west is the Commerzbank in Frankfurt (Figure 132).1 This began life as a limited competition for an office headquarters comprising 900,000 square feet of office space and 500,000 square feet of other uses. The brief was clear that it should be an ecological building in which energy efficiency and natural ventilation played a crucial role. At that time the Green Party was in control of the city. In the winning design by Foster and Partners, a 60-storey threesided building wraps round an open central core ascending the full height of the building (Figure 132). The most remarkable feature of the design is the incorporation of open gardens. The nine gardens each occupy four storeys

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132 Commerzbank, Frankfurt

and rotate round the building at 120 degrees, enabling all the offices to have contact with a garden. The gardens are social spaces where people can have a coffee or lunch and each one ‘belongs’ to a segment of office space accommodating 240 people. As the architects put it: ‘we’re breaking the building down into a number of village units’. This is extremely important in reducing the scale of the place for its occupants. The gardens feature vegetation from North America, Japan and the Mediterranean, according to their height above ground (Figure 133). The natural ventilation enters through the top of the gardens passing into the central atrium. The atrium is subdivided into 12-storey units and within 12 floors there is cross ventilation from the gardens in the three directions (Figure 134). Air quality is good, enhanced as it is by the greenery. It is estimated that the natural ventilation system will be sufficient for 60 per cent of the year. When conditions are too cold, windy or hot, the building management system (BMS) activates a backup ventilation system

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133 Commerzbank, typical floor plan

which is linked to a chilled ceiling system that operates throughout the building. The curtain wall design is on Klimafassade (climate façade) principles. Air enters at each floor in the façade into a 200 mm cavity, where it heats up and passes out through the top of the cavity (which is, in effect, a thermal chimney). The climate façade consists of a 12 mm glass outer skin that has been specially coated to absorb radar signals, presumably from the airport. The inner skin of the façade is Low E double glazing, giving the overall system a high insulation value. There are permanent vents in the outer skin whilst the inner double-glazed element has openable vents which can be overriden by the BMS when circumstances demand it. Motorised aluminium blinds in the cavity provide solar shading. It is calculated that the ventilation system will use only 35 per cent of the energy of an air-conditioned office. This is a laudable attempt to create a high tower block which minimises its environmental impact whilst also providing optimum comfort and amenity for its occupants. It also demonstrates how bioclimatic architecture is subject to the vagaries of political fortune. If the Greens had not had their brief moment of glory in Frankfurt we can be almost sure this building would never have happened. Foster and Partners’ most recent exploration into the genre of the ecological tower is the London Headquarters of the insurance organisation Swiss Re. At the heart of the City of London it will accommodate 4,500 office workers. It will be ventilated by fresh air and the conical tower will be punctuated by ‘sky gardens’ that spiral around the structure. Its shape is the result of minimising the overshading of surrounding buildings. When it comes to the regeneration of an old building, nowhere has this been achieved with such panache and drama as in Foster and Partners’ resurrection of the Berlin Reichstag, as described in Chapter 12. The

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134 Natural ventilation paths in the Commerzbank

135 Reflective cone in the Reichstag

aim of directing daylight into the interior has resulted in one of the most spectacular and delightful architectural features in the mirrored cone that descends from the dome (Figure 135). Here indeed is a marriage between functional necessity and limbic appeal. Bioclimatic pressures are producing new kinds of roofscape. One of the most technologically sophisticated of this new generation of environmentally advanced buildings is the new Parliamentary building in London, Portcullis House1 (Figure 136). It is situated adjacent to Westminster Bridge, which is one of the most polluted locations in London. This posed a serious challenge to the design brief to make this a naturally

136 Portcullis House, Westminster, London

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137 Coventry University Library

ventilated building. Michael Hopkins is the architect and Arup Associates the services and structural engineer. Once again it is the skyline which sets this building apart from the usual prestige office accommodation. Huge thermal chimneys which incorporate a thermal wheel puncture the sky. Air is drawn into the building at high level via a thermal wheel to minimise pollution by particulate matter from vehicles’ exhausts. Rising warm air which drives the thermal wheel is expelled through the exhaust chimney.1 Even more striking in roof profile is Alan Short’s Coventry University Library1 (Figure 137). This is a deep-plan building, yet the architect has designed it to be naturally ventilated without the benefit of crossventilation. Air circulation is driven by thermal buoyancy, controlled by a highly sophisticated building energy management system. Exhaust air is expelled through perimeter towers capped with termination devices which prevent the prevailing wind from pushing air back down the stacks. These stacks are suggestive of the wind towers of traditional architecture in Arabian cities, except that the function is reversed since the objective is to expel air. Its estimated energy demand is 85 per cent less than for a conventional air-conditioned building, which is the norm for this type of building. Another image is suggested by the revolving cowls reminiscent of oast houses in Kent1 (Figure 138). In the Jubilee campus, Nottingham University, the rotating wind vane on the cowls ensures that the prevailing wind creates negative pressure at the exit grille, helping to draw out exhaust air. Architects in this case were Michael Hopkins and Partners. Smaller versions of this feature look set to change the image of housing. Bill Dunster’s celebrated ‘BEDZED’ (Beddington Zero Energy Development) project for the Peabody Trust in the London Borough of

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138 Air handling units, Jubilee Campus, Nottingham University

Sutton optimises natural ventilation, with inevitable consequences for the roofscape (Figure 139). The innovative Peabody Trust commissioned this development as an ultra-low energy mixed-use scheme for the London Borough of Sutton. It consists of 82 homes with 271 habitable rooms, 2,500 square metres of space for offices, workspaces, studios, shops and community facilities, including a nursery, organic shop and health centre, all constructed on the site of a former sewage works – the ultimate brownfield site. The housing comprises a mix of one- and two-bedroom flats, maisonettes and town houses. Peabody was able to countenance the additional costs of the environmental provisions on the basis of the income from the offices as well as the homes. Though the Trust is extremely sympathetic to the aims of the scheme, it had to stack up in financial terms.

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In every respect this is an integrated and environmentally advanced project. It is a high-density development along the line recommended by the Rogers Urban Task Force. It realises an overall density of 50 dwellings per hectare plus 120 work spaces per hectare. At such a density almost 3 million homes could be provided on brownfield sites with the additional benefit of workspaces for the occupants, radically cutting down on the demand for travel. This density includes the provision of 4,000 square metres of green space, including sports facilities. Excluding the sports ground and placing cars beneath the ‘village square’, the density could be raised to 105 homes and 200 workspaces per hectare. Some dwellings have ground-level gardens whilst the roofs of the north-facing workspaces serve as gardens for the adjacent homes (Figure 140). Photovoltaic cells are incorporated into the roofs and south elevations providing electricity which will ultimately charge the batteries of a fleet of electric cars, which will be available for hire by the residents on an hourly basis. There are many other remarkable features about this scheme which point not just to a new form of architecture but also a new kind of urban living.2 Bill Dunster has also been a pioneer as regards the use of recycled materials for a new building. His Conference Centre at the Earth

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139 South elevation, BEDZED housing project, Sutton

140 BEDZED north elevation, with bridge access from houses to green spaces and workspaces under

Centre near Doncaster has walls of gabion construction; that is, loose stones held within a galvanised steel mesh. In this case crushed concrete comprises the filling. The timber supports for the main structure are recycled pylons discovered in a lorry park. The steel for the roof is also recycled. This is an ultra-low-energy building with its electricity demand partially met by a wind generator. An underground 400 cubic metre tank stores solar warmed water in the summer for recirculating in the winter. The pressure is on to create buildings that make progressively fewer demands on the earth’s natural resources and which ultimately will make no contribution to global warming. Indeed, the aim for the future is to make buildings net contributors of zero carbon electricity to the grid. Bioclimatic design is not a constraint on imagination but an opportunity to explore new expressive territory and enhance the potential for delight. Dunster’s interpretation of a tower block is to create a floor plate of four accommodation ‘lobes’ which optimise daylight and views whilst also acting as wind concentrators for vertical axis wind turbines at the centre of the cluster. The configuration of the lobes should accelerate wind speed fourfold. Together with photovoltaic cells, the building should be a net exporter of electricity (Figure 141). The project awaits an imaginative client.

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141 Ecological tower, SkyZed

References 1 A more detailed appraisal of these buildings is contained in Peter F. Smith, Architecture in a Climate of Change (Oxford: Architectural Press, 2001), pp. 122–5. 2 The scheme is described in more detail in P.F. Smith, Sustainability at the Cutting Edge (Oxford: Architectural Press, 2002), pp. 153–9.

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Part 3

The dynamics of the city

Chapter 18

The city and dimensions of engagement

To be valid as a model for aesthetic experience in architecture a theory has to survive the transition to the scale of the city. Cities are architecture plus space and time. On this level the aesthetic impact has much to do with the fourth dimension, what has been termed the ‘diachronic’ aesthetic. The aesthetic sum is the product of an accumulation of experiences as one negotiates the streets and piazzas of a town. It is a serial experience interspersed with ‘standstill’ climaxes. In this sense it is comparable to music, and, like music, it has its moments of lyrical ‘melody’ connected by lower-key continuo passages. My engagement with aesthetics and urban design spans between Gordon Cullen’s Townscape (1960) and Towards an Urban Renaissance, the Report of the Urban Task Force chaired by Lord Rogers of Riverside, 1999. We seem to have come full circle. Both extol the virtues of towns and cities as places where life is enhanced, not least through their variety, aesthetic richness and symbolic resonance. This is summed up by a paper presented at the Smithsonian Institute, Washington, by Asa Briggs, now Lord Briggs: The etymological fact that within the Western tradition the words ‘city’ and ‘civilisation’ have a common root, along with ‘citizenship’ and ‘civility’, points to the second of these aspects of the city as an influence in history – to something far more than survival, to the temple and the theatre rather than to walls or shelters, to the creativity of the individual and of the society, and to the enrichment of human culture.1

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This accords with a pre-political correctness pronouncement by Lewis Mumford who asserted that the city should encourage: the magnification of all the dimensions of life . . . to make man at home with his deeper self and larger world . . . and the best economy of cities is the care and culture of men.2 On one level cities can be regarded as concentrations of aesthetic and symbolic possibilities. Buildings are the backcloth to the continual movement of people. Especially in the Latin countries, the city can be elevated to the role of theatre with buildings as a stage-set to the innumerable little life dramas enacted on the streets and in the squares. This is a benefit yet to be fully exploited in the more northern latitudes. The city is the pinnacle of human endeavour from which the ultimate aesthetic artefact emerges from the alliance between practical and symbolic necessity. Towns and cities which generate deep and abiding satisfaction are testimony to the miraculous cohesion of hundreds, maybe thousands, of individual contributors to its final form, which so dramatically exceeds the sum of its parts. As such it mirrors the complexity of the human mind, responding to a range of needs programmed into the human brain over the course of its evolution. The various urban externalisations of internal needs will be considered separately on the understanding that they are interactive and impinge on the mind simultaneously. This is because, as stated earlier, the human brain is capable of making perceptual responses on several levels in parallel; of making a holistic response to stimuli because it is itself a holistic entity in which no specific region is an island. It is the epic orchestration of the physical answers to psychological needs which defines, on one level, the sustainable city. On another level there are the ecological concerns which are assuming an ever-higher profile. The survival of the city may ultimately depend on whether it erases its image as an ‘ecological black hole’. This second level of sustainability is considered in Architecture in a Climate of Change.3

Primary needs Underpinning all our responses to the many facets of the city are basic survival needs dictated by the earliest evolutionary unit, the so-called visceral brain. Often anxieties generated at this level fail to reach consciousness but they nevertheless have a profound influence over mood and demeanour. They can override all other higher responses and so it is vital that they are acknowledged in all discussion about the psychologically sustainable city. One of the most important qualities of cities in this context concerns the extent to which form and landmarks facilitate fixing an individual’s

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location and orientation. Everyone has experienced the anxiety which accompanies moments of disorientation due to the absence of recognisable features or cues that enable us to fix our position in space. This can happen in buildings with labyrinthine passages that defeat the mind’s mapping ability. Large circular spaces which lack clearly defined exit points and features which allow us to position ourselves in space are particularly stress inducing, as are spaces which are inadequately lit. Perceived sufficiency of light and air are of prime importance. Confined claustrophobic spaces induce anxiety, more so in some than others. Concerns are aroused not only by perceived shortcomings in light and air but also in means of escape. Within buildings it is important that spaces which are inhabited for long periods have external views, not just roof lights. Lecture theatres are particular culprits in this respect, especially in these days of anorexic budgets and PFIs (private funded initiatives). However good the climate control, many people exhibit the physical signs of stress after an extended period in a room with purely artificial lighting and no obvious access to outside air. In townscape this means that narrow confined passages with 142 Expansion of street into micro-piazza, Perigueux

very limited skyscape should be punctuated by wider, better-lit spaces: micro-piazzas, as in the example of Perigueux (Figure 142).

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Problems can be experienced at the opposite end of the spectrum in spaces that are excessively generous. In very expansive piazzas the tendency is for most people to confine themselves to the perimeter of the square. In part this is because this often is where the interest is concentrated. However, it is also because most people recoil from being conspicuous – a primitive security response. Agoraphobia is just as disabling a condition as claustrophobia. Incidentally, in churches with sparse congregations it is usually the pews at the rear and sides which are occupied, even though a church should be considered the ultimate in sanctuary. Gloomy, ill-defined spaces also induce the fear of assault, even though the rational mind knows that the chances of attack are remote. But this is a response pattern laid down in the mind when danger was much more in evidence. The so-called ‘gut’ brain is impervious to reason. The modern age has posed another problem for the visceral brain – that is, the competition for urban space between people and motor vehicles. Immediate benefits have been experienced in terms of well-being when city roads have been pedestrianised. Increasingly city centres are being perceived as the domain of the pedestrian, like The Graben in Vienna (Figure 154, p. 177). All this may seem obvious, but it is important to remember in the design of buildings and the urban milieu that our sophisticated rational brain sits on top of much more primitive structures which are responsible for autonomic responses with direct access to the centres of emotion. The rational mind is the servant of this ancient cluster of drives, not the master.

Complementary mental programmes Higher up the evolutionary scale of the mind are programmed drives which have been decisive in pressing forward human development. In Chapter 2 there was discussion of the basis of aesthetic perception and how the human mind is motivated to meet the challenge of uncertainty and surprise in order to gain the reward of comprehending a more ordered world. This lies within the same cluster of drives that impel people to seek engagement with their milieu, particularly other human beings. Humans are social animals. The extrovert side of personality delights in interpersonal contact, in display, in immersion in the activities of the wider populace. Nowhere is this aspect of humanity better catered for than in towns and cities. Streets and squares which attract a bustle of activity stimulate all the senses and keep the adrenaline flowing. The pulse is quickened by the suggestion of hidden goals or by a distant visible fragment of a spectacular building. Squares and streets in the old quarter of the French city of Perigueux epitomise different kinds of socially dynamic space (Figure 174, p. 195). On another level there is what could be called ‘Koinonic’ space. The Greek word koinonia sums up the concept of partnership, sharing and

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fellowship. Certain spaces in cities are invested with the symbolism of citizenship. They are places in which people congregate to signify their civic allegiance and cement their bond with fellow inhabitants. This level of engagement and heightened involvement cannot be maintained indefinitely. Another side to the human psyche requires that such activity is balanced by periods of withdrawal. The introvert side of the mind calls for periods of disengagement and reflection; passive time in which to digest the impact of adrenaline-raising activity. Here, too, urban form offers answers. Green space is particularly effective in this respect. It can be intimate or expansive like the London parks. Few cities can match London for its ratio of green space to built space. So much for an introductory summary; now for a more detailed analysis.

References 1 Asa Briggs, ‘The Environment and the City’, Paper presented at the Smithsonian Institute, Washington, DC, December 1982. 2 Lewis Mumford, The City in History (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1961). 3 Peter F. Smith, Architecture in a Climate of Change (Oxford: Architectural Press, 2001).

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Chapter 19

The rewards of chance

Having set the scene, the next question to consider is this: can the model of aesthetic judgement proposed in the previous sections be applied to the broader spectrum of urbanism? The wider urban milieu made its appearance in Part 1 with the consideration of the nature of pattern. Can the principle of proportion also be transposed to the higher key of the city? At the scale of the city the range of aesthetic possibilities is greatly increased, not least because it involves the fourth dimension. Movement is an essential component of the aesthetic agenda. Whereas individual buildings may be designed according to a particular aesthetic programme – they are set pieces to be appreciated as such – the aesthetic rewards to be gleaned from towns and cities are often encountered by chance. Things can be helped if the mind is attuned to make such aesthetic discoveries; ‘chance favours the prepared mind’. Medieval towns are the ultimate expression of man-made chaos pattern. Their delight resides in their unpredictability. The elements that make up their townscape may be largely familiar, but the appeal lies in the way they can combine to create a unique pattern. They satisfy the primitive drive to explore in order to enrich our urban schema, at the same time satisfying the aesthetic demand by exercising the mental facility for extracting pattern from complexity. Above all there is the hope that surprising riches lie around the corner or at the summit of a hill. The ultimate aesthetic reward lies in discovering views in which everything coheres into an epic composition that stands out from its surroundings. So often there is a ‘still point’ at which all the forces within a scene achieve harmonic balance; that is, balance arising from tension. In a previous work I called this the ‘critical fix’, and that still seems an appropriate term.1 The question is: what are the qualities of such a view that differentiate it from its surroundings? The first essential condition is that all the elements of the view seem to knit together to form a coherent whole which is distinct from the random, lower-grade information of the townscape that forms the prelude to the encounter.

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According to gestalt theory, the brain is programmed to search for patterns of coherence in which the whole adds up to more than the sum of the parts. Historic towns are particularly rich in opportunities to discover such information ‘holons’, as Arthur Koestler described them. Aesthetic pleasure is the reward for this perceptual achievement. Such views display a high level of internal orderliness; the multifarious parts unite to form a self-sufficient whole, just as a lyrical tune stands out from the stream of notes in a symphony. Part of the pleasure at making such discoveries lies in the fact that identifying them is a creative act on the part of the percipient. It is not prepackaged as in the case of a painting. Returning to Lincoln, there is a critical fix, a point on Steep Hill at which things visually come to a standstill (Figure 143). Later we will consider Lincoln as an example of the aesthetics of anticipation marked by clear stages. Now the emphasis is on harmonic proportion. Despite the complexity of the scene, it nevertheless yields to clear binary analysis. There are only two basic categories of information: on the one hand the secular buildings and, on the other, the ‘temple’ on its high platform marking a cosmic crossroads.

143 Lincoln and the critical fix

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The houses and shops sink their differences to form an alliance to create a unified informational package to challenge the cathedral. However, the cathedral, though occupying much less of the visual field than the houses, has a much higher information density. This is due to its symbolic carrying capacity, as indicated earlier in the discussion about the towers of Lincoln. So, the tower wins the contest, but within margins just sufficient to establish superiority. Proportion writ large because even at this scale the mind renders the scene down to two contrasting quanta of information which are counterposed. In this case it is suggested that the result falls within the Fibonacci bandwidth (Figure 144). It is no different in principle from the counterpoint discussed in regard to the towers and nave of Lincoln (Chapter 12). To recapitulate, the Fibonacci concept is used here to describe the margins within which we perceive aesthetically pleasing proportion. The inbuilt imprecision within the Fibonacci series allows for a sufficient degree of fuzziness, bearing in mind the tolerance which the ‘eye’ employs when it comes to assessing proportion, especially when the visual clusters

144 Lincoln counterpoint; proportion at city scale

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comprise the rich complexities of townscape. The Fibonacci idea encapsulates the principle that the mind will tend to reduce information to a binary choice, and, in making an aesthetic assessment, will favour a condition in which one element is dominant up to a point which still preserves the dynamic tension between the ‘protagonists’. The Fibonacci ratios provide a logical framework for such an assessment. This, of course, is an accidental concordance of visual stimuli which relies for its aesthetic significance on the ‘eye of the beholder’. (Neuroscientists get upset at the use of this term since it is the brain, not the eye, which has the powers of analysis.) Discovering these fortuitous aesthetic holons is one of the great rewards of visiting medieval towns rich in complexity. It is because of the chaotic nature of such places that surprises are possible. It is worth repeating that making such discoveries is a creative act in its own right, and, furthermore, the so-called ‘eye’ can be trained to extract these epic compositions of critical balance from the stream of routine perceptions. In Totnes there is an echo of Lincoln, but on a more intimate scale as the aesthetic formula of harmonic balance between church and domestic buildings is realised at a particular point in the ascent of Fore Street (Figure 145).

145 Fore Street, Totnes, Devon

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How such views can be dramatically undermined by the insensitivity of the planning regime is illustrated by the city of Truro. A delightful curving street creates the foreground to the cathedral; an echo of Lincoln. The same viewpoint rotated through 180 degrees testifies to the aesthetic blindness which can allow a multi-storey car park to violate the fine grain and aesthetic integrity of a city centre (Figures 146, 147). To balance the scales of justice, the Crown Court in the city mentioned earlier (see Figure 32, p. 58) are an exemplar of how new development can enhance a historic city. The sensitivity of the critical fix to viewing position can be illustrated by a scene in Christchurch, Dorset (Figures 148, 149). In the first view

146 Truro, towards the Cathedral

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147 Truro: same viewing position as in Figure 146, rotated through 180 degrees

(Figure 148) the tower of the Priory dominates the scene with the secular buildings providing inadequate balancing complexity. Overall there is a relatively low rate of visual complexity and little is left to the imagination. The second view (Figure 149) considerably raises the aesthetic tempo. There is vigorous visual activity within the town buildings, enlivened by hanging signs and flags. The pavement café comes into prominence.

148 Christchurch, Dorset

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149 Christchurch

The church tower is less exposed, but this merely serves to add to the dynamics of the scene. We have considered how such a feature touches various symbolic chords whilst activating the sense of anticipation. Where only a fragment of a special building is exposed the mind conjures up idealised images of the whole. We could describe it as the potency of hidden information, a phenomenon which is one of the main attractions of historic towns and cities which stimulate our compulsion to explore. Because of this implied reward and its symbol-centred message of transcendental orderliness, the Priory tower succeeds in balancing the clutter of secular buildings. To summarise, the epic view is one segment in the circle of aesthetic rewards the city can offer; time to complete the circle.

Reference 1 Peter F. Smith, Architecture and the Principle of Harmony (London: RIBA Publications, 1987).

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Chapter 20

The street

The anticipation of rewards ahead and then the realisation of the goal is a variation on the theme of aesthetic reward. Earlier it was suggested that identifying a problem then achieving a solution produces emotional satisfaction which is indistinguishable from aesthetic pleasure. In the urban context the street is frequently the vehicle for this pattern of aesthetic satisfaction. The street is a visual conveyor belt; chaos pattern in motion. It is much more than a mere means of communication. At its best it is aesthetically rich and emotionally stimulating, simultaneously offering enclosure and protection whilst representing a concentration of human activity. Some streets have evolved into ritual ‘ambulatories’ where people negotiate the route several times. It is a form of display as well as creating opportunities to meet friends by chance or design. It is also a way of identifying with the wider society and expressing communal pride in the city. Perhaps the best known paseo is La Rambla in Barcelona (Figure 150).

150 La Rambla, Barcelona

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151 Paseo, Burgos

Its rival in Spain is the Paseo in Burgos which culminates in the spectacular city gate of Santa Maria. It is lined with trees and covered with pink and white patterned paviours. At mid-distance it opens out to provide a spectacular view of the Cathedral (Figure 151).

The teleological drive The drive to identify then realise goals is a deep-seated human preoccupation, which helps to account for the popularity of older towns and cities rich in such rewards.

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(a)

(b) 152 Rue Gros Horloge, Rouen

Among the best-preserved medieval streets in Europe is the Rue Gros Horloge in Rouen (Figures 152a and 152b) connecting the market square of Jean d’Arc fame with the cathedral. Moving from west to east, the view is interrupted by the arch which accommodates the spectacular clock from which the street is named. It provides enclosure and an intermediate goal which compartmentalises the journey, generating the tension between ‘hereness’ and ‘thereness’, in the words of Gordon Cullen. Arches bisecting streets and thereby framing a view invest the distance with a special magic. Here, from the outset, there is the distant presiding presence of the great cathedral, declared by its amazingly delicate open-work cast-iron spire. Once through the arch the gently curving street frames the

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great tower of the cathedral, crowned by its delicate octagonal lantern. Then, unexpectedly, a short street opens to the left presenting a view of a spectacular late medieval hall. The street finally presents the full view of the cathedral, one of the great Gothic structures in Europe. The psychological richness of the rue du Gros Horloge lies in the fact that it offers rich variety of interest at street level in its shops and cafés – attractions at short focus. At the same time, traversing the route from the market square, the distant presence of the arch and the cathedral generates the teleological tug; an animated dialectic between the ‘here’ and the ‘there’, which makes it one of the most rewarding urban experiences to be found in any European city. The same formula on a more intimate scale is to be encountered in the Devon town of Totnes, one of the best-preserved medieval towns in Britain. Unlike Rouen, this is a hill town, so its main street, beginning at a bridge over the River Dart, ascends steeply to the Eastgate, a Tudor gate to the town walls, complete with Guildhall over the arch, and, in this case, featuring a petite horloge (Figure 153). The approach to the arch reveals the

153 Tudor Gate, Totnes, Devon

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sandstone tower of the town church – a miniature cathedral and the climax of the journey (Figure 145, p. 169) – though not entirely. Off to the right of the church is the circular castle, a classic motte and bailey example of the genre. In the Graben, Vienna (Figure 154), the street expands into the Stephansplatz dominated by the cathedral from which the name derives. What makes this particularly memorable is that the transition from the Graben to the square is enhanced by the uncompromisingly contemporary architecture of the Haas-Haus, referred to earlier as a multi-purpose building. From the Graben the architecture progressively changes from the solid wall to glazed screen, offering reflections of the Gothic exuberance of St Stephan. The final flourish is a glazed drum which is public space and affords marvellous views of the Stephansplatz. At the same time the counterpoint between the crisp ‘high-tech’ ‘weightless’ architecture of the HaasHaus and the cathedral with its dazzling polychromatic roof is a dramatic engagement of opposites (Figure 155). There are innumerable variations on this theme. Approaching the Old Town Square of Prague along a lesser-known street from the east, the 154 The Graben, Vienna

twin towers of the Church of Our Lady Before Tyn appear over the steeply pitched roof of the nave and adjoining buildings, creating an electrifying

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155 St Stephansplatz from the Graben, Vienna

charge of promise (Figure 156). This is dynamic urbanism at its best, since the reality of the square exceeds all expectations. Time and again in medieval towns and cities this formula raises the aesthetic temperature – for example, for Prague substitute Colmar (Figure 157). One of the most rewarding routes in England is to be found in Lincoln. It begins in the High Street, which is bisected by a Tudor gate marking the medieval walls (Figure 158). The western towers of the cathedral just appear over the battlements, creating the first charge of pulling power. Once through the gate one is ‘within the pale’; that is, the zone of security. This may now be irrelevant in rational terms, but archetypal

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156 Our Lady Before Tyn, Prague

157 Colmar, Alsace

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messages are impervious to the overlays of time and reason. We are now at a different level in the hierarchy of urban space. As the road rises towards the north, the twin towers of the cathedral focus attention on the narrow, winding route up Steep Hill towards the Minster; the cathedral unfolds as you negotiate Steep Hill (Figure 159). Moving on and upwards towards the cathedral, through the ‘critical fix’ position featured earlier, and past the Romanesque Jew’s House, the route culminates in the Exchequer Gate which marks the defensive boundary to the Minster Yard. Within is one of the finest of English medieval structures, despite the compositional shortcomings of the west front. The journey which began in the High Street now enters a higher plane as it crosses the threshold of the nave of the Minster. English cathedrals are, on the whole, more linear than their continental counterparts. It

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158 Tudor Gate, Lincoln

(a)

(b)

159a, b Lincoln, the climactic ascent

then increases in symbolic tempo, passing through the chancel screen into the choir and ending at the high altar, but not quite. English cathedrals mostly terminate in a vast east window, and there are few rivals to this magnificent decorated climax to the Angel Choir, implying that the altar represents not an end but a beginning (Figure 160). The importance of the approaches to a great cathedral is brought home by a comparison between a historic view of York Minster and the present. Up to 150 years ago the town buildings partly concealed the west front. The approach road to the Minster narrowed to a lane called Little Blake Street, intensifying the experience of the ultimate goal (Figure 161). In the middle of the nineteenth century the ‘offending’ buildings were demolished and the approach widened into its present form. Most commentators have described this as an improvement, but is it? Now the west front is seen in its entirety from a considerable distance. The powerful counterpoint between this palace of heaven and the unpretentious domestic buildings has been lost; as has the pleasure of anticipation at the prospect of a final explosive revelation (Figure 162).

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160 Lincoln Cathedral east window, the Angel Choir

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161 York Minster within the medieval street pattern

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162 York Minster approaches

163 The Mall, London, with emblematic overtones

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164 Government offices from St James’s Park, London

Finally, the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries maximised the potential of the street as the vehicle for heroic messages. For the British this is epitomised by The Mall strung out between Admiralty Arch and Buckingham Palace. This is urbanism saturated with emblematic messages. The Union flag sums up nationhood, in this case reinforced by the Palace, symbol of historic values and the hierarchical profile of society, that last vestige of the Shakespearean ‘chain of being’ (Figure 163). Alongside The Mall is St James’s Park. A stretch of water connects the two historic centres of power: the monarchy and the administration. From the bridge across the lake there is a view which encapsulates the spires and pinnacles of government (Figure 164). Finally, there are strong psychological connotations to spaces which contract into increasing gloom. Cullen’s term for this was ‘The Mawe’.1 The psychological charge is increased if there is the prospect of a rewarding goal beyond. In one sense it is an urban representation of archetypal religious ceremonies of initiation whereby the neophyte submits to a ritual analogous to death in order to ascend to a higher form of life: through darkness into light. Such messages now rarely rise to consciousness but

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165 Evesham, Hereford and Worcester

they are part of our primordial inheritance, which cannot be erased, as we shall consider later. Even an intimate corner of a country town can encompass this symbolism (Figure 165).

Reference 1 Gordon Cullen, Townscape (Oxford: Architectural Press, 1960).

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Chapter 21

The square

If the street is dynamic the square is static; it is nodal space designed to encourage sojourn and social intercourse. In classical and medieval times citizenship was a privilege not a right. Accordingly people perceived their city as representing the super-image of the whole community. This is why most historic cities have a space to which the inhabitants naturally gravitate in times of celebration or crisis. Despite being London’s largest roundabout, Trafalgar Square has been ascribed this role by common consent. The symbolic attraction of Nelson’s Column flanked by Lutyens’s lions accounts for much of this status. It is to be hoped that the current redirection of traffic will enable the space to realise its full potential. The Italians’ mastery of urban design achieved its highest expression in the piazza. This was a place not only to express civic pride but also to play out the rivalry between the families and factions within the city. Nowhere is this more evident than in Siena (Figure 166) where the deathdefying Palio is the means of deciding the champion faction – until the next time. However, it is the alchemy of the architecture and the form of the space it encloses that singles out the Piazza del Campo as a pinnacle of urban excellence. Even though perhaps the world’s most celebrated piazza it is worth examining why it is so universally acclaimed. Is it because it is the embodiment of chaos pattern? Certainly its plan is irregular; it is also contoured; the encompassing buildings vary in height and width, but all these variations are contained within limits which suggest order and pattern rather than randomness. Windows are of similar size and proportion throughout and the ratio of wall to window is near enough constant. The variety of forms is welded together by the all-prevailing Siena red of the masonry. The aggregate height of the buildings is appropriate for the size of the piazza – enclosure without prejudicing the spaciousness of the area. Not only are the enclosing buildings in proportion to the scale of the space, they also establish an excellent rapport with the Gothic Palazzo Publicco with its elegant campanile which still houses its great bell. Despite its dominant position and powerful civic symbolism the

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Palazzo and campanile nevertheless defer to the organic wholeness of the Piazza. They are dominant but not overbearing; a case of the phi principle on the grand scale. The impact of this spectacular space is enhanced by the fact that constricted means of access maximise the drama of the progression from darkness to light, the kind of light which seems to be God’s special gift to Italy. But its inventory of attractions is not quite complete. Whilst the Piazza is emphatically a ‘hereness’ place, the dome and marble campanile of the Duomo which appear over the rooftops exert their quiet magnetic attraction, which eventually becomes irresistible. The brief ascent is richly rewarded with the revelation of one of the most beautiful of western elevations of any cathedral in Italy, rivalled only by Orvieto. (See Smith 1974, p. 67). A variation on the phi theme can be discovered in the arrangement of connected major and minor squares in a number of Italian cities. Is it tendentious to suggest some features of an urban plan can yield to aesthetic analysis? The outstanding example of articulated piazzas is seen in Venice (Figure 167). The Piazza of San Marco turns through 90 degrees into the Piazetta, which opens to the Lagoon and the view of Palladio’s S. Maria Maggiore. The major square is enclosed, focusing on the Basilica of San Marco. The massive free-standing campanile acts as a hinge connecting the two spaces and breaking open the urban containment. It is worth noting that the whole of the south elevation of the Piazza of San Marco was

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166 Siena, Piazza del Campo

Todi Venice

167 Articulated piazzas, Venice and Todi

moved several metres south to detach the campanile and give it its independence. This was an aesthetic decision which considerably heightens the spatial drama. Where does phi come into it? We have to remind ourselves to hink of quanta of ‘information’ rather than mathematics. Here on the grand scale are two distinct but related urban spaces, one dominant, one subordinate but bound together in a continuum of space creating a superordinate pattern. The lesser square, despite being much the smaller of the two, is still a powerful space, flanked as it is by the Doge’s Palace. Its character is quite different, being open-ended and offering a spectacular view. As such it offers serious competition to the main piazza which nevertheless wins by a sufficient margin to justify the phi analogy. The same arrangement occurs in the small Umbrian town of Todi. The principal square, the Piazza del Popolo, accommodates the cathedral and the town hall. Both are approached by a generous flight of steps. Arches supporting the civic building permit the flow of space from major to minor square. The piazetta gravitates round the statue of Garibaldi, but the ultimate appeal lies in the open view it offers of the Umbrian plain; the same formula as Venice. In S. Gimignano an open loggia connects major and minor squares. The difference here is that the lesser square is totally enclosed and bounded on one side by a stage defined by a huge proscenium arch – theatre within theatre. Unfortunately Britain does not have an enviable record when it comes to exploiting the potential of its urban spaces. The art of creating city squares which flourished in previous centuries has been all but extinguished by a combination of the assaults of traffic, fast-track commercial architecture, and a chronic loss of nerve. London’s Trafalgar Square twice

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suffered the consequences of the latter. The first occasion was when the award-winning extension to the National Gallery fell victim to Royal invective. The inoffensive compromise design is now all but invisible. The second occasion was when an office building at the junction with The Strand was demolished and then rebuilt as a facsimile of the original routine neo-classical commercial architecture. An object lesson in visual assertiveness towards a square is provided by the Norwich Union building in Queen’s Square, Leeds (Figure 168). Rather than being inflected towards the square, its circular shape thrusts into it: an aggressive statement of corporate hubris. However, things are not all negative in Britain. In the City of London there is an instance of a spectacular success with a sequence of squares masterplanned by Arup Associates on a site close to Liverpool Street Station. As such it constitutes a major pedestrian route. The squares have been landscaped with semi-mature trees, providing for a range of outdoor activities. The centre of the square at Broadgate (Figure 169), is used for concerts, exhibitions and open-air theatre. In winter it can be transformed into an ice-skating rink. All credit in this instance to Arup Associates

168 Norwich Union Offices, Queen’s Square, Leeds

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169 Broadgate, London

as planners and architects, as well as Rosehaugh Stanhope Developments for setting the standard for enlightened commercial development. In the provinces the transformation of the Peace Gardens (Figure 170), in the centre of Sheffield is another success story. Even though the overall development is still a construction site, already it has proved a considerable success in a city busy re-inventing itself, signalled initially by the Millennium Galleries and the spectacular Winter Gardens. Moving from the urban to the rural vernacular, the quality of ‘placeness’ is evident in the restrained buildings which create the square in the centre of a village like Quarante in the Herault district of Languedoc (Figure 171). This is eloquence in a local dialect: a medley of architectural shapes almost iridescent in the Mediterranean light reflected from the golden stones. It has a simple beauty which touches a nerve somewhere deep in the collective psyche.

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God, mammon and the limbic zone There is a long tradition of links between the Church and commerce. In the Middle Ages the naves of churches often accommodated market stalls, and there is a record of wine sellers being expelled from the nave of Chartres on account of the rowdiness associated with their trade. The tradition continues, albeit outside the church, though Ripon Cathedral was, a few years ago, granted a licence to brew its own beer, available on the premises. Whether or not it is coincidence that market squares are often adjacent to great churches, the reality is that this sacred and profane partnership is somehow reassuring. It is as though the Church is keeping a benevolent eye on proceedings, even sanctioning them. Maybe traders will be less inclined to dishonesty under the eye of God. However, the symbolism of this partnership of opposites penetrates to deeper levels. One of the finest English Cotswold towns is Cirencester (Figure 172). Its main street expands into a square opposite the splendid church with its richly adorned tower and remarkable late Gothic

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170 Peace Gardens, Sheffield

171 Village square, Quarante, Hérault, Languedoc

172 Cirencester market square

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porch. The well-mannered secular buildings symbolise temporal existence, whilst the church represents the transcendental dimension. It is an ensemble which sends deep-rooted signals of security at several levels. We don’t rationalise these things, but they register on the pre-rational level of emotions which are manifest in feelings of reassurance. On market days the place takes on a new persona, offering a rich diet of stimuli coupled with the subliminal reassurance of the crowd. It sums up the realities of existence: the day-to-day business of living and the overall span of life expressed by the secular building – these being presided over by the architectural expression of hope beyond the grave (Figure 173). In Chapter 16 I alluded to a value system which stems from the more primitive structures of the brain and operates independently of aes-

173 Cirencester on market day

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thetic perception. Within the limbic system resides the appetite for phenomena which make a powerful impact – bright primary colours, glitter and shine, strong, regular rhythm and objects of superhuman scale. The cultured twenty-first-century mind is shocked by the revelation that the frieze on the Parthenon was illuminated with garish colours; that early medieval churches were a riot of colour calculated to saturate the senses. We have noted how this cultural strand reached its apotheosis in the baroque extravaganza of the Monastery of Melk (Figure 125, p. 143). This appetite for stimuli which saturate the senses is far from dead, as a visit to Las Vegas will testify. Today this zone of mental need finds expression in carnivals, religious festivals, fairs and markets. As we indicated, the tempo of a place rises on market days and accelerates further when a city is in carnival dress, as in the case of Périgueux in July (Figure 174).

174 Périgueux in carnival mode, July 2001

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Even the precision, highly polished finish of the most advanced examples of ‘high-tech’ architecture derive some of their appeal from this subterranean value system. Office towers clad in ‘planar’ glass that dispenses with external framing and is highly reflective by day and luminous at night triggers emotions at this primordial level. No doubt this also contributes to the popularity of the titanium clad Guggenheim Museum at Bilbao (Figure 93, p. 115). Titanium is becoming the material of choice for the twenty-first century – a limbic trigger if ever there was one. Cities which hope to engage with the full spectrum of emotions will pay due regard to this stratum of expression. There must be a place for exuberance; for the occasional ‘over-the-top’ breakout from the rarefied atmosphere of good taste.

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Chapter 22

Encounters with old gods

The resonance of archetypal images I have referred occasionally to the idea of archetypal symbolism. Let me expand on this. It is currently fashionable to consider how towns and cities can be made sustainable, particularly in the context of global warming and climate change. Historically a sustainable city is one which provides its inhabitants with the essentials of life, ranging from basics like the availability of fresh water and access to a productive hinterland to symbolic matters which can even override practical considerations. A major factor in deciding the durability of a place is the extent to which it is an emotional attractor – that is, its spaces and buildings set up sympathetic vibrations at the deepest levels of the mind, the level, in fact, of the archetypes. This is relevant to the main thrust of the book because, as suggested earlier in the context of cathedral towers, symbolic association can add considerable weight to the aesthetic significance of a feature. It can tip the scales, as suggested in the case of the view of Lincoln Cathedral above Steep Hill. Why are we emotionally moved by some places and left cold by others? What causes the emotional surge at the first sight of the Parthenon crowning the Acropolis or the distant view of Chartres towering above the surrounding plains of northern France, or the surge of adrenaline at seeing Assisi spring into being in the distance, its pink stones coming to life suddenly against the backdrop of the hillside? There is no obvious survival advantage in experiencing these views, just as our delight in walking the streets of any well-preserved medieval town has nothing directly to do with improving our adaptive capability. The fact is that there is a whole realm of emotional experience which seems to refer back to a pre-rational relationship between humans and the natural environment. This is what archetypal symbols are all about – ‘arche’, the beginning.

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It was C.G. Jung who first postulated that: ages and attitudes of men long since dead live on as systems of reaction and disposition, which determine life in an invisible but all the more effective manner.1 Jung went on to develop the theory that a small repertoire of fundamental symbols which were conceived to enable primordial Man to come to terms with the most profound experiences of life and death somehow live on within the more primitive layers of the brain. He concluded that there is a high degree of consistency not just between individuals but across cultures in terms of the expression of these symbols. In the 1960s psychologist Paul MacLean contributed to the theory by suggesting that: though the visceral brain could never aspire to conceive of the colour red in terms of a three-letter word or a specific wavelength of light, it could associate the colour symbolically with such diverse things as blood, fainting, fighting . . .2 We should also add ‘fire’, as the most symbolically charged ‘redness’. In his book The Artful Universe, John Barrow, Professor of Astronomy at the University of Sussex, states: We have instincts and propensities that bear subtle testimony to the universalities of our own environment, and that of our distant ancestors . . . the structure of the Universe, its laws, its environments, its astronomical appearance, imprints itself upon our thoughts, our aesthetic preferences, and our view about the nature of things . . . In some instances . . . our propensities will arise as by-products of adaptations to situations that no longer challenge us. Those adaptations remain with us, often in transmogrified forms, as living evidence of the presence of the past.3 This would seem to support the idea that certain brain programmes are wired-in at birth, as mentioned earlier. Developmental psychologists have suggested that a newborn infant has the innate ability to recognise the features of a face, and that this carries a strong emotional association. Within the Jungian camp this idea had been extended to include certain geometric figures like the mandala, or cross in a circle, which is attributed with deep symbolic significance in widely diverse cultures which could not have had any physical contact. These archetypal symbols were conceived as humans took the quantum leap which enabled them to have objective awareness. The ability to project the mind into the future by referring to evidence from the past had enormous benefits, but it

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also brought a penalty: the awareness of the inevitability of death. Archetypal symbols evolved as a way of enabling emergent humans to come to terms with the ultimate realities of birth, procreation and death. According to Jung, this sub-stratum of symbolic resonance was said to reside within the ‘collective unconscious’. Another writer of the Jungian school, Heinrich Zimmer, adds his emphasis: The spiritual heritage of archaic man (the ritual and mythology that once guided his conscious life) has vanished to a large extent from the surface of the tangible and conscious realm, yet survives and remains present in the subterranean layers of the unconscious.4 The most resonant archetypal reference in cities is the sacred centre. Anthropologist Mircea Eliade concludes: Every microcosm, every inhabited region has what may be called a ‘centre’; that is to say a place that is sacred above all. It is there, in that centre, that the sacred manifests itself in its totality.5 He goes on to say: it is the gate of the gods . . . the intersection of the three cosmic zones of Heaven, Earth and Hell.6 As a literal example, the name ‘Babylon’ derives from Bab-ilani, a ‘gate of the gods’. In the context of the great cities of Sumeria, Sybil Moholy Nagy has said: Their specific brand of urban piety consisted of the claim to have created a microcosm on a par with the galaxies. The construction of a ziggurat . . . established a city state at the dead centre of earth and sky . . . Man at the centre of the universe was not a geographical fact but a [symbolic] truth.7 All this sounds archaic and primitive, yet who can deny that the sudden view of a distant city evokes a surge of emotion, especially if it commands high ground or is pitched against an awesome mountain landscape? The ideal city, the New Jerusalem, is an image which has proved resilient to erosion over time. The central question is this: is it possible for attitudes of earlier generations to be encoded within the genes and shape ‘systems of attitude and disposition’ in the present day? Can the epigenetic manual passed from

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generation to generation be incrementally changed through experience? This is the implication behind Edward Wilson’s remark: epigenetic rules affecting the human brain shaped genetic evolution by the needs of Paleolithic people in the environment.8 And again: in the course of evolution the animal instincts of survival and reproduction were transformed into the epigenetic algorithms of human nature.9 The conventional wisdom is that the epigenetic instruction manual is a fixture when passed from generation to generation. Now there is growing support for the idea that changes in this manual can sometimes be passed from parent to offspring. It is even suggested that this is a fasttrack alternative to Darwinian selection, enabling animals to adapt much more quickly to their environment. It was the ‘animal instincts of survival’ which led to the formulation of a range of fundamental symbols which served both to externalise these primary life needs and to provide a channel of access to the gods to bolster human weakness in the face of the threats to survival. Evidence of symbolism aimed at easing the transition to the after-life goes back 50,000 years to the Middle Paleolithic Age with ceremonial burials and the inclusion of symbolic objects in the graves. Around 40,000 years ago there was an explosion of symbolic art in the caves of southern Europe. Through cultural imprinting over many millennia these fuzzy symbolic patterns could have become incorporated into the genetic instruction manual of diverse cultures, which responded in similar ways to common needs. One of the most recent theories of how long-term memories are inscribed in the brain may support this hypothesis. The orthodox view is that lasting memories are installed by creating synaptic connections between cells. They die with the individual. Recently scientists have been thinking the unthinkable, and that is that long-term memory may involve changes in the brain’s DNA. After all, the immune system is a form of permanent memory at the molecular level. Scientists at the University of California have proposed that humans possibly create gene-like codes which record and fix memories.10 Who knows what the implications of this may be for intergenerational transmission? It is claimed that one of the characteristics of archetypal symbols is that they are ambivalent. Water has been one of the most persistent archetypal symbols because, according to the Bible, Koran and Egyptian mythology, it is the medium from which life first arose, being associated with birth and subsequent survival. At the same time it is an agent of death when it assumes cataclysmic proportions, as in the myth of the great flood.

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In passing it must be said that recent evidence suggests that the Black Sea was once land-locked and appreciably lower than the Bosphorus. There is archaeological and topographical evidence that hundreds of square miles were inundated when the barrier between these two seas collapsed – a good reason to implant the flood in the collective memory of the region. In Babylonian mythology water was personified by the sinister goddess Tiamat who engaged in a cosmic struggle with Marduk, the divine hero and ultimate victor. Most ancient cultures have their sea monsters, Behemoth or Leviathan; we have to be content with the Loch Ness monster. In early religious rituals total immersion in water as an initiation rite symbolised death and rebirth. The neophyte would return to land resurrected and transformed. The psychologist Erich Fromm describes this as ‘an old and universally used symbol . . . of starting a new form of existence . . . of giving up one form of life for another’.11 When we encounter water within the urban context, could it be that it sets up sympathetic vibrations with these ancient beliefs? What else can account for the popularity of fountains taking an almost infinite variety of shapes and sizes. The eighteenth-century Somerset House in London (Figure 175), was recently released for public use and its internal court 175 The internal court, Somerset House, London

graced with probably one of the largest fountains to be constructed. It is a place for public participation in hot weather.

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176 Charles Bridge, Prague

Even the routine crossing of a bridge is a form of flirtation with the dark forces of water from a position of safety. This is an example of the sublime: of being in the presence of danger whilst not being in danger. Any scepticism about the special appeal of bridges can be dispelled by trying to cross the Charles Bridge in Prague during the summer (Figure 176). Another of the satisfying bi-polarities of urban experience is the counterpoint between buildings and ships, and nowhere is this better demonstrated than in the Nyhavn in Copenhagen (Figure 177). When ships and buildings come together it is a marriage of the static and the dynamic; ships embody the imagery of distant places whilst also representing a variation on the theme of the challenge to Behemoth.

177 Nyhavn, Copenhagen

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Whilst Carl Gustav Jung arrived at his theory of archetypes within the collective unconscious on the basis of the dreams reported by his patients, or revealed under hypnosis, this was the nearest thing to scientific evidence at the time. Now theories are emerging which could offer a firmer scientific underpinning to his belief in a collective unconscious, with its inventory of fundamental response patterns to a set of specific visual stimuli connected with existential anxieties. As such they could indeed ‘live on as systems of reaction and disposition’ which have a profound influence upon mood and demeanour. At the same time they will inevitably have an impact upon aesthetic perception, adding emotional weight to such features as towers and domes and the spatial theatre of cities. We may have lost that intimate and superstitious relationship with the gods in their various guises, but experience confirms that the symbols which establish this archetypal link account for much of the emotional appeal of historic towns and cities. Consequently we should take seriously the symbolic dimension of cities and remember that the anxieties and aspirations which possessed our ancestors are still alive and well, even though they may be masked by a veneer of confidence underpinned by a National Health Service. It also needs to be remembered that symbolism can affect an aesthetic response in a negative way. To one person the fortress-like chateau towering above the town of Saumur is ‘picturesque’ (Figure 178); to another it is a symbol

178 Saumur, Loire

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of the tyranny visited on the populace by the military aristocracy and, as such, undermines the aesthetic outcome.

Ultimate transactions between mind and city The orchestration of archetypal images and aesthetic impact has the potential to create the ultimate demonstration of harmony. One of the most complete historic cities in Britain is York, which still boasts significant Roman remains. From one viewpoint there is a juxtaposition of the Roman gate, Bootham Bar, with the Minster creating counterpoint between the gate to the temporal city and the gate to the eternal city (Figure 179). The west front of the Minster represents the culmination of the evolution of the city gate. Early examples like the west front of St Denis, Paris, are almost faithful reproductions of the more ceremonial versions of Roman gates, as still seen at Trier. The symbolism was obvious, as the cathedral was conceived as offering a foretaste of the eschatological city, the New Jerusalem. The two gates at York, so different in style, nevertheless rhyme on a number of levels. The triple arches of the Roman gate are replicated in Gothic dress in the Minster; the defensive turrets have been elevated into the twin western towers. The gatehouse lineage of the west front is represented in the openwork castellations which cap the gable of the nave and the towers. This is a truly vibrant partnership which sums up the

179 Bootham Bar, York

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human desire for security on earth and assurance regarding the world to come. Even the statue has been so sited as to suggest he is drawing the same conclusion. The image of the cathedral emerging from the busyness of the secular town encapsulates the archetypal theme of the celestial city which is, hopefully, the destiny of the faithful. Water has been mentioned as one of the most potent archetypal mediums. One of the most universally resonant partnerships is that between architecture and water. Perhaps the attraction of such places lies partly in the fact that this alliance activates profound layers of symbolism and so it is no accident that cities like Venice, Amsterdam and Bruges, which embraced water out of necessity, now top the league of places which attract visitors. The Jungians will say that this is because they strike an archetypal chord. Perhaps this chord is sounded most resoundingly when cathedral, secular city and water combine into a balanced composition which encapsulates the human condition, from the waters of birth, through worldly existence to the hope of after-life. Prague says it all. A view of the Cathedral of St Vitus rising above the flank of the massive Hradcany Castle and the houses of the Mala Strana (Lesser Town), underpinned by the waters of the Vltava river, cannot fail to evoke an emotional response (Figure 180).

180 St Vitus Cathedral, Prague

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181 Lincoln Cathedral across Brayford Pool

The finest Anglicised version of this symbolic orchestration is the view of Lincoln Cathedral from across the Brayford Pool, the harbour developed by the Romans (Figure 181). In south-west France a view of the city of Béziers offers the same compound of elements, with the added ingredient of the bridge (Figure 182). The whole gamut of human emotions is aroused when beauty and fundamental symbolism converge. At a point to the south-east of the Cathedral of Chartres there is an outstanding view embracing a river with its bridge, a curving, ascending street of medieval houses and, at the summit, the greatest of all Gothic churches, the Cathedral of the Virgin with its asymmetrical spires (Figure 183). A similar archetypal/aesthetic convergence of features is to be

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182 Béziers, Languedoc

183 Cathedral and town, Chartres

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184 St Front, Perigueux

found in the city of Périgueux in the western Dordogne. It has all the symbolic ingredients coming to a climax in the magnificent domed cathedral of St Front built in the twelfth century, a church which is one of the better outcomes of the First Crusade (Figure 184). The styles of Byzantium and Islam unite to form one of the most remarkable churches in Christendom. Finally, another classic city view can be experienced in Cornwall. It is the city of Truro seen from Garras Wharf (Figure 185). The scene is crowned by the cathedral founded by Bishop Benson in the late nineteenth century. Any scepticism about the aesthetic potency of a religious building at the heart of a city should be dispelled if we compare the same view with and without the cathedral. Its architect J.L. Pearson did more than just design a great church; he connected Truro to the circuitry of archetypal symbolism which truly defines a city.

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185 Truro from Garras Wharf, with and without the cathedral

Familiarity – friend or foe The question to round off this exploration of townscape is this: does the magic of places gradually drain away through familiarity? How do we counter those who claim that the worm that corrupts our delight in cities is habituation? Fine for visitors, but what about inhabitants who see their town or city day after day? The answer lies in the nature of emotional reward. If habituation really was the killer, then we would not bother to hear repeats of Brahms or Britten; we would have no wish to return to Florence or Prague. The fact is, the more places engage with the emotions the more resilient they are to erosion by habituation. There would seem to be biological reasons for this. Experiments in the 1960s and 1970s examined how different regions of the brain responded to repeated stimuli. It was found that the response of the higher ‘rational’ part of the brain or neo-cortex rapidly declined when the subject was repeatedly exposed to the same stimulus. However, this was not the case with the mid-brain or limbic area which is responsible for the emotions. It is able to recover a full response to the same stimuli after a relatively short time.12 The conclusion to be drawn from this evidence is that this onesided habituation process might actually enhance our appreciation of significant townscape. As the demands on attentional energy devoted to sharp-focus, higher-brain activity to do with mnemotype classification etc.

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fall off, so the limbic intensive dimension comes to the fore. When the ‘busyness’ of neo-cortical activity has abated this leaves space for the emotional potential of buildings and spaces to be realised. This is all the more powerful when urban configurations transmit archetypal messages. There is something infinitely reassuring about places which tap in to the roots of emergent human consciousness. Archetypal symbols are as therapeutic today as they were for our Cromagnon ancestors. The emotional temperature peaks when the city becomes a platform for seasonal celebrations such as Christmas, or pageants which are explosive affirmations of the bonds of community. Southern European and Afro-Caribbean cultures are the least inhibited about such collective extroversion, as witnessed in the annual Notting Hill festival in London. These matters all impact on the theme of aesthetic reward. One of the underlying principles here is that the aesthetic spark is generated across the gap between order and complexity, between the known and unknown, the here and the there, the deep past and the present, and the ‘now’ and the ‘then’. Scenes that encapsulate these fundamental yet connected opposites make an emotional impact that is impervious to the erosion of time. The city has the potential to be the epitome of harmony; a giant projection of the principle of the reconciliation of opposites. As such, it might be said to offer a prescription for the healing of divisions across all aspects of life. But, at the same time, human beings are restless and forever seeking new experience. This teleological drive means that no orderliness is immutably fixed, no reassurance permanent, merely a place to get your breath on the relentless journey in search of the ultimate experience. Pilgrim’s Progress is a parable for all seasons.

References 1 C.G. Jung, Seelenprobleme der Gegenwart (Zurich: Rascher & Co., 1931). 2 Medical paper of 1964, cited by Arthur Koestler, The Ghost in the Machine (London: Pan Books, 1970), p. 326. 3 John Barrow, The Artful Universe (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995), p. 2. 4 Heinrich Zimmer, quoted by I. Progoff in Jung’s Psychology and its Social Meaning (Julina Press, 1953), p. 252. 5 Mircea Eliade, Images and Symbols (London: Harvill, 1961). 6 Ibid. 7 Sybil Moholy Nagy, The Matrix of Man (London: Pall Mall, 1968), p. 44. 8 Edward O. Wilson, Consilience (London: Little Brown and Co., 1998), p. 247. 9 Ibid., p. 255. 10 See New Scientist (15 September 2001), pp. 25–7. 11 Erich Fromm, The Forgotten Language (New York: Grove Press, 1972). 12 See J. Mackworth, Habituation and Vigilance (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1969).

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Chapter 23

The ethical dimension

Architecture has long been associated with a purpose beyond the utilitarian. Asa Briggs speaks of ‘the enrichment of human culture’;1 for Lord Esher architecture is involved in ‘the diffusion of joy and the effecting of reconciliation’2 which implies that there is a value to architecture beyond the practically useful. There is a long tradition of attaching a moral component to architecture, never more so than in the Middle Ages. Through the twin mediums of Sacred Geometry and Divine Light, medieval cathedral architects sought to communicate the laws of harmony which underpin creation. Experiencing the God-given proportions washed by divine light, the worshipper gained a preview of the courts of heaven which awaited the righteous. Sculpted capitals and the great west tympanum vividly portrayed the pains of hell to those who were not ‘on message’. The flavour of this world-view was picked up in the nineteenth century by N.A.W. Pugin for whom the Early English style of Gothic was the ‘Word made stone’. His justification was that this style emerged from the crucible of Christianity, whereas classical architecture was born of paganism and therefore to be rejected as an appropriate style for churches. Morality infiltrated architecture in the first half of the twentieth century. Leading the initiative was Sir Nikolaus Pevsner who left his native Leipzig in favour of England. Architecture became the principle weapon in the crusade to transform society, and, as such, carried considerable social and political baggage: ‘Architecture is the effective instrument of the good society’, therefore ‘architects are the right guides and social promulgators of political ideals’,3 and ‘The ethical necessity of the New Architecture can no longer be called into doubt.’4 In this new era individual imagination must be suppressed so that the architect becomes the conduit for the physical expression of the spirit of the age. Pevsner’s philosophy is summed up by Watkins: This real architecture will . . . be essentially socialist in character . . . A consequence of its socialist character is that it will

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dominate totally all individual life: it will not be possible to diverge from it since it will be the ‘art of the 20th century’.5 At the start of the twenty-first century it seems things have diverged. Architecture still reflects the spirit of the age, but it is a pluralist ethos which is sympathetic to individual modes of expression. The political ideals which underpinned the pronouncements of the ‘pioneers of the Modern Movement’ have collapsed under the weight of ‘turbo-capitalism’. Whatever one’s view of this change, at least we are free once again to talk about aesthetics. With the demise of the moral justification for the austere precepts of the early twentieth century, does this mean that there is now no aspect to architecture which addresses ‘the care and culture of man’? The thread that connects the various sections of this book is the principle that a precondition of aesthetic value is that there is tension between order and complexity which resolves into a state in which order prevails. It presupposes the simultaneous existence of orderliness and diversity and is born of the creative tension between them. Is this not also a prescription for the stable society? The differences between, for instance, ethnic groups, are valued for their contribution to the totality which is our humanity. Buildings are the unavoidable art, whether the high art of the architectural masterpiece or the rich vernacular heritage of villages, towns and cities. Their forms and details are absorbed mostly on the nonconscious level, yet they weave their spell on the mind without our consent. They influence mood and demeanour, especially when they tap in to the subterranean currents of archetypal symbolism. On this level they can transmit subliminal messages of reassurance. At the level of aesthetics per se, can we justify the belief that there is a social value which extends beyond merely offering transient pleasure?

Aesthetics as therapy At the start of the book it was noted that humans are the inheritors of bi-lateral consciousness: a divided cortex the two sides of which have specialised functions but which are nevertheless in constant communication. To recap: the left hemisphere is the ‘chief executive’ for verbal skills, rational thought and the serial classification of information. It is the primary seat of consciousness and its beam of attention is sharply focused enabling it to classify data to ever-smaller levels of detail. The right hemisphere is adept at spatial perception. It concentrates on the wholes leaving analysis of the parts to its opposite number. It has special links with the emotions and is concerned with the nature of the

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relationship between things, hence its primary but not exclusive role in aesthetic awareness. In most people within western cultures the left hemisphere is the dominant. Here is another analogy with the golden section. Dominance must stay within limits which ensure the security of the lesser partner. The problem is that, in a dynamic and closed system, dominant systems will tend to get stronger at the expense of the minor unit. In western culture there is clear evidence of this system-maximisation process in operation. The emphasis in all spheres is on left-centred activities like verbal and mathematical skill, with stress laid on information rather than knowledge. Knowledge relies on the right-hemisphere capacity to recognise the links between quanta of information. Knowledge is holistic. Why the term ‘therapy’? One of the hoped for outcomes of broadening and deepening the experience of aesthetic reward is the ‘healing’ of the division between the two cerebral hemispheres caused by the leftward bias of western civilisation. In his novel Fathers and Sons, Turgenev parodies this trend in the character of Sergei Bazarov who has no time for art, poetry or other ‘romantic rubbish’. In his essay ‘Knowledge and Values’, Henryk Skolimovsky suggests that Bazarov represents the world of ‘cold facts, clinical objectivity and scientific reason’. He continues: ‘We are training Bazarovs in our academic institutions . . . Bazarovism has pervaded the fabric of our society and the structure of academia.’6 Things do not seem to have improved. Bazarov is alive and well and engineering the continued relegation of the arts in education to the status of last resort for those not academically gifted. Back in 1980 Blakeslee concluded that education from the elementary to university level was victim to a ‘the left-brain takeover’.7 It focuses on left-brain skills at the expense of insight and intuition. Yet it is the intuitive right brain which makes discoveries, creating innovative connections and doing so on the non-conscious level until the new pattern is complete – and then, eureka! it bursts into consciousness. It is the right brain which makes the ‘sudden . . . leap toward a farther shore that could not be reached by the ferry-boats of custom’.8 Max Planck, who is credited with the development of quantum theory, wrote in his autobiography that the true scientist must have ‘a vivid intuitive imagination for new ideas not generated by deduction, but by artistically creative imagination’.9 This creative capacity is ‘educated out’ of most pupils by a system which concentrates on information neatly packaged into modules that masquerade as education. A research study at Yale University sought to establish how the education system matched the world of work. The grades of engineering students over two years were compared with their subsequent employers’ rating of their originality or creativity. In other words, was academic success a true indicator of the potential for creative success in work? The result showed a correlation of only 0.26 (a correlation of 0 means there is

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no relationship whilst 1.0 means a complete match). A further study of 56 physicists showed a correlation of 0.21.10 In another experiment 267 college students were tested to measure their intuitive thinking ability. When the results were related to the students’ cumulative grade average the correlation was 0.048; that is, virtually non-existent.11 Our lives are increasingly being ruled by people dominated by words and numbers in the areas of health, education, environmental protection and social services. These new mutants are the ambassadors of the left hemisphere and are the spearhead of an emergent species which Marcuse called ‘one-dimensional man’. The arts, and particularly architecture, are the corrective because they involve the synergistic operation of both hemispheres. They serve Colin Blakemore’s prescription: What we should be striving to achieve for ourselves and our brains is not the pampering of one hemisphere to the neglect of the other . . . or their independent development, but the marriage and harmony of the two [my italics].12 Architecture is the ideal marriage broker because it envelops us in the cradle of urbanism or wraps around us in the interior of buildings. It is allpervasive. The moral imperative is to create buildings which challenge our expectations but which, at the same time, express the fundamental laws of pattern and harmony which this book has explored. In this regard welldesigned buildings and their related spaces not only create a pleasing environment but also persistently connect with our subconscious, silently working to correct the flight to the left brain. The fact that people visit the great ‘picturesque’ cities in their millions is a sure indication that such places satisfy a hunger for allencompassing aesthetic reward and relief from the workaday pressure of words and performance indicators. Architecture on the grand scale is a powerful antidote to the bias of a left-brain world. If this is considered a matter of ethical concern, so be it. The latter half of the last century witnessed a revolution in thought just as radical as that effected by Isaac Newton. This seismic shift was the move away from the certainties of Euclidean geometry and Newtonian physics to the uncertainties of fuzzy logic, chaology and fractal geometry. These proved to be much better tools for understanding complex systems that are subject to feedback, like the weather. I have tried to suggest that they are also tools for achieving a deeper understanding of aesthetic perception. Architecture is important because it is at the interface of everyday life, and it endures. This is why it is essential that the values which it projects also have the quality of endurance.

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If this book does no more than illustrate how aesthetics in architecture has its origin in core values which transcend styles and fashions then it will have served a useful purpose. Beyond this it can be argued that repeated exposure to buildings and urban spaces which express the primacy of order over anarchy and the harmonious blending of opposites may, by perceptual osmosis, help establish inner balance: ‘the effecting of reconciliation’ between our conflicting emotions, at the same time improving our capacity for the enjoyment of beauty in all its forms. Those expecting to be offered prescriptive rules as to how to measure aesthetic merit in architecture will have been disappointed. Yet, as I write, the government is about to publish ‘good architecture indicators’ which will focus on ‘how to measure good architecture’. I have tried to suggest that making value judgements about architecture is an immeasurably subtle mental operation and totally beyond the scope of numerical quality indicators. To suggest otherwise is the ultimate ‘Bazarovism’. We live in an age of escalating uncertainty, and this book is a product of its time, maybe even to the extent of itself being an embodiment of chaos theory. Hopefully it has provided a glimpse of how the rich variety of architectural expression can be a source of profound pleasure. The justification for this is the belief that there is a deep and universal structure to the concept of beauty. Of the three conditions for good building laid down by Sir Henry Wotton: ‘Firmness, Commodity and Delight’, perhaps the greatest of these is Delight. ‘He must have chaos within him who would give birth to a dancing star.’

References 1 Asa Briggs, ‘The environment and the city’, Encounter (December 1982), p. 25. 2 Lord Esher, Hans Juda Lecture at the Royal College of Art, 1976. 3 David Watkin, Morality and Architecture (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1977), p. 103. 4 Walter Gropius, cited in Watkin, ibid., p. 104. 5 Watkin, Morality and Architecture, pp. 86–7. 6 See Henryk Skolimovsky, The Participatory Mind: A New Theory of Knowledge and of the Universe. 7 Thomas R. Blakeslee, The Right Brain (London: Macmillan, 1980), p. 57. 8 Robertson Davies, The Lyre of Orpheus (London: Penguin, 1991), p. 268 9 Quoted by Arthur Koestler in The Act of Creation (London: Hutchinson, 1964), p. 147. 10 D.W. Taylor, ‘Thinking and Creativity’, Annals of the New York Academy of Science 91 (1960), pp. 108–23. 11 M. Wescott and R. Friedland, ‘Correlates of Intuitive Thinking’, Psychological Reports 12 (1963), pp. 595–613. 12 Colin Blakemore, Mechanics of the Mind (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1977), p. 167.

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Appendix

Aesthetic performance checklist

The urban scale As the Rogers Task Force recommended, urban regeneration should be conceived as a holistic operation, embracing the entire urban fabric and acknowledging that one piece of architectural change can have reverberations far beyond its immediate context. A vital step in this process is to understand the wealth of architectural and spatial assets a place already possesses. This will be possible if all clusters of population from villages to cities are encouraged to compile an inventory or a register of key visual assets. One of the purposes of this book is to provide some conceptual tools which will enable such assets to be identified and possibly graded in value. This should serve to enable the inhabitants to see their place in a new light and appreciate the qualities which might have been hidden behind a veil of familiarity. We take ‘seeing’ for granted, but the truth is that vision is selective; most of the time it is driven by immediate needs. The capacity for holistic vision which has been the central theme of the book is not necessarily automatic; for most it needs to be learnt. One of the purposes of this book has been to stimulate the ‘seeing’ process. An important outcome of such an endeavour will be to enable greater critical rigour to be applied to any proposals for change and identify where there are opportunities for aesthetic optimisation. In the UK things are moving in the right direction, and so there could not be a more appropriate time to formalise the process and embark on a programme of quality assessment of the urban fabric with the object of creating an inventory of urban assets.

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Potential urban assets The following represents a sample of the categories of urban phenomena which can be evaluated. They echo the categories of architectural and urban events in the main text.

Dynamic space: the street Complexity The rate of eye-level interest: shops, pavement cafés, arcades, etc., the street as a market. Architectural interest Aesthetic rating of the sum of the buildings; the quality of ‘coherent diversity’. Goal attractors The magnetism of the distant view of a fragment of a symbolically charged building – church, city hall, etc. Implied rewards: the benefits of tactical concealment which hint at hidden rewards. Subtle indicators: curving, ascending streets, light gradient, changes in architectural tone, rate of decoration, scale, etc. Spatial definition The articulation of townscape through intermediate small spaces, ‘piazzetas’, monuments, sculpture, landscaping constituting landmarks or urban nodes clarifying the urban structure. Surprise Unexpected vistas and special views through fissures in the enclosing streetscape or unexpected views of a distant landscape. Creative ambiguity Counterpoint between ‘hereness’ and ‘thereness’; the role of the bisecting arch (Totnes, Rouen); and at the margin between street and square. Bi-polarity Diametrically contrasting situations, e.g. dense urbanism against expansive green space or between contrasting sides of a street (e.g. Princes Street, Edinburgh), or buildings and water (Nyhavn, Liverpool, London, Budapest). Bi-polarity between city and landscape, e.g. background of mountains (Salzburg).

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Fatigue factor In streets the ratio of perceived distance to rate of visual en route interest. Incidence of intermediate goals breaking up perceived distance. Security Remains of historic boundaries – town gates, the symbolic weight of ‘within the pale’ (e.g. Lincoln, York, Bastide towns). Social attractor Socially significant spaces, streets which have spontaneously assumed ritual status for social interaction and display (e.g. the Ramblas, Barcelona; The Paseo, Burgos). Hierarchical profile The build-up of expectation through architectural expression; the hierarchical treatment of space and architecture leading to the urban climax of the centre. The critical fix Architecture and space configurations which cohere into compositions of heightened aesthetic significance. Key viewpoints.

Convergent space – the piazza Socially intensive space Collective meeting places by common consent. The civic space Urban configuration which epitomises the city; the formal expression of civic super-image. Multi-layered space Representing the profile of life: church, secular buildings, market; the encapsulation of urban meaning. Emblematic space Space focusing on an emblematic object; the consensus location for emotionally charged civic or national feeling (e.g. Trafalgar Square, London; Wenceslas Square, Prague).

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Bi-modal squares The articulated square – linked major and minor squares (e.g. Venice, Todi, S. Gimignano). Secondary squares Spaces which offer relief from the insistent ‘onwardness’ of streets whilst also articulating the fabric of cities. Passive space Quiet refuges for reflection and withdrawal. The linear piazza Expanded linear space to accommodate the market, often with permanent covered market structures. Green space Central area green ‘lungs’ of high environmental and aesthetic value (London parks; Central Park, New York). Inner urban parks, legacy of nineteenth-century philanthropists (Liverpool, Leeds). Linear parks penetrating from countryside into inner urban areas (Sheffield). Urban green squares (London, Edinburgh). Green space around and within buildings. Special buildings Individual buildings and groups of buildings that are of particular architectural and/or historical value should be identified and value rated, irrespective of the listing system. These are examples of the potential visual assets of towns and cities to which values can be assigned to create an inventory of the aesthetic/ symbolic value of a place’s urban fabric.

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Index

Note: page numbers in italics denote illustrations where separated from the text

Acropolis 84–5, 85 action painting 35, 85 Adam, Robert 89 Adam brothers 139–40 aesthetic perception viii, 5, 10–11; brain 7, 40–1, 164; emotion 203; harmony 71; holistic vision 26; novelty 10, 13, 47; optimum perceptual rate 15; patterns of information 71; stimuli/response 10; symmetry 27 aesthetic pleasure viii; arousal 7; biological model 9; chance 166, 167; experience 9; science 10; unpredictability 13 aesthetics: architecture 3, 215; asymmetry 72; Baumgarten 22; Briggs 33; cognition 14; deconstructive 146; diachronic 161; gestalt psychology 5; machine 4; philosophy 4; Poincaré 5–6, 10; scientific approach 7; therapy 212–13; urban environment 161 after-life 200 agoraphobia 164 Albert Dock, Liverpool 103 Albert Dock, London 109, 109 Alberti, Leon Battista 73 Alhambra 137, 137 Alsop and Lyall, architects 17 Alsop and Stormer, architects 17, 108 Alsop Architects 121 American Centre, Paris 116 Amiens Cathedral 128, 129 amphitheatre, Nîmes 64, 65 Amsterdam: broken patterns 42, 42; consistency 43; order/chaos 39, 40, 68; picturesque 39–40; selfsimilarity 41 Angel Choir, Lincoln Cathedral 181, 182 Angers sculpture gallery 103–4, 103 anti-aesthetic 146 Aquinas, Saint Thomas 24 archetypes: collective unconscious 199, 203; religion 136; symbolism 197–9; water 205

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architecture: aesthetics 3, 215; art 75; beauty 3–4; discord 55; ecology 3, 149–58; emotion 197; endurance 214; ethics 211–12; innovation 15–19; language 71; limbic system 144–5; metaphor 122–8; modern 107, 113–14; Nature 4–5; rhyme 48, 51, 53, 60, 61; sculpture 18, 50, 116; styles viii, 4, 39, 59, 215; subconscious 214; sublime 128–31; symbolism 106; water 205; Wotton viii, 3, 215 Aristotle 24 Arnheim, Rudolf 75, 83 arousal 7, 10 Ars Combinatoria 36 art: adaptation 9; architecture 75; beauty 3–4; chaos 35, 36; equilibrium 74; function 11; knowledge 12; music 9; Nature 35; science 5; uncertainty 29; see also painting; sculpture Art and Architecture Building, Yale University 86–7, 86, 107 Art Nouveau 4 Arup Associates 118–20, 154, 190–1 asteroids 31 asymmetry: aesthetics 72; chaos theory 55; Nature 32–3; pattern 55; tension 76 Athena, temple of 84 atrium 119, 148, 149 Augustan age 23 Augustine, Saint: De musica 76 Babylon 199, 201 Bach, J. S. 21–2 balance 9, 72; see also equilibrium Bank of Ireland, Dublin 59, 59 Bankside power station 104, 104 Barcelona Art Gallery 66, 111–12, 112 Barcelona streets 45–6, 46 Barnoldswick Baptist Church 54, 54 baroque architecture 143, 144–5 Barrow, John: The Artful Universe 198 Barteis, Andreas 89

Bartlett, F. C. 14 Bartok, Béla 83 Basildon Park, Berkshire 91, 92 Bastille Opera House, Paris 111, 111 Baumgarten, A. G. 22 beauty: Aquinas 24; architecture 3–4; Aristotle 24; art 3–4; emotion 206, 207; golden section 82; harmony 20, 22; Middle Ages 72; perception viii; Plato 24; scholastics 73; sublime 128–31 Beauvais Cathedral 129 BEDZED project 154–6, 157 Behemoth 201, 202 Belgium 45 Bell, Clive: Art 5 Bennett, Daniel 8 Bensberg Administration Building 124, 125 Bensberg castle 124 Berlyne, Donald 23; Aesthetics and Psycho-biology 9 Beziers 206, 207 Bibao Guggenheim Museum 114–15 binary patterns 26, 72, 73 binary sets 71, 91, 169 bioaesthetics 4 bioclimatic architecture 148; roofscapes 153–7 biology: aesthetic pleasure 9; epigenesis 49–50, 53; pattern 23 biomathematics 6, 71, 80, 83; see also Fibonacci series biomorphic architecture 128 Bishopgate 1–3, London 137–8, 138 bi-versity 137–40; information 101; painting 99; time–space 112; towers 132, 133 black holes 31 Blackmore, Susan 9 Blakemore, Colin 214 Blakeslee, Thomas R. 8, 213 Bloomsbury critics 3 Blum, H. F. 14 Boethius, Anicius 21 Bohm, Dominikus 124 Bootham Bar, York 204, 204 Bordeaux Law Courts 68, 120, 124, 125 Borneo-Sporenburg development 42, 43 Boscowen Street, Truro 60 brain: aesthetic perception 7, 40–1, 164; art/science 6; balance 72; cerebral hemispheres 7–8, 12, 32, 40–1, 212–13; chaos 32; genetics 200; holons 167, 169; information management 71, 86; intuition 138, 213, 214; phylogenetics 128–9; psycho-biology 9; stimuli 11, 26, 209; value systems 194–5; visceral 162, 164; wired-in programmes 198; see also left brain; limbic system; right brain Brasilia 50

Brasilia Cathedral 122, 123 Brayford Pool, Lincoln Cathedral 206, 206 Bridge Street, Chester 46, 47 bridges 202 Briggs, Asa 161 Briggs, John 29, 33, 35, 36 bright colours 144, 195 British Airways 148 British Airways Headquarters 150 British Library 113, 113 British Museum, London 119–20, 120 Broadgate, London 50, 190–1, 191 Bruges 33, 68 building materials 43 building techniques 43, 44 buildings 3; contemporary/classical 137–8; cultural change 15; external views 163; historic 113–14; medieval 132–3; node link structure 14; piazza 74–5; ships 202; subliminal messages 212 built environment: context 50, 139; pattern/proportion 26; sustainability 3 The Built Environment viii Burgos Cathedral 174 Burke, Edmund 128, 130 Burlington, Lord 93 Burrell Gallery 51, 52 butterfly effect 28 Byzantine influence 93, 94 Cage, John 3 campanile 101 Campbell, Colin 93 Canada Water, London 109 Canary Wharf station 109 capitals 64 Capitol Building, Washington DC 95 carbon dioxide emissions 148 carnivalesque 195 Carr, John 91, 92 Carré d’Art, Nîmes 61, 112, 113 Casti, John 80, 81–2 Castle Street, Liverpool 94, 95 catastrophe theory 75 cathedral music 21 cathedrals: English 180–1; gothic 100–1; Middle Ages 211; morality 211; openwork spires 66; sublime 128–9; towers 62 celebration in cities 210 Celle 45, 45, 55 cerebral hemispheres 7–8, 12, 32, 40–1, 212–13; see also left brain; right brain

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CERN 32 chance/aesthetic pleasure 166, 167 chaos theory viii, 5, 6; art 35, 36; asymmetry 55; brain 32; coherent diversity 68; Fibonacci series 80; gothic style 65; harmony 26; Nature 28; non-linearity 27, 30; Piazza del Campo 187–8; streets 173–4; tap water analogy 75; townscapes 48; universe 31, 74; unpredictability 5 Charles Bridge, Prague 202, 202 Charles V, Emperor 137 Chartres Cathedral: commerce 192; counterpoint 129; emotion 197; golden section 84, 140, 141; river 206, 207; windows 129 chimney cowls 154, 155 Chiswick House 93 Chomsky, Noam 71, 73 Christchurch 170–2, 171, 172 Christ’s College, Cambridge 37, 37, 50 chunking: information 27, 71–2, 85; modern architecture 107; windows/walls 134 Church/commerce 192 Church of Our Lady before Tyn, Prague 177–8, 179 churches: gothic style 66; Middle Ages 192, 195; see also cathedrals Cirencester 192, 193, 194 cities: celebration 210; celestial 205; civilisation 161; community 187; emotion 210; festivals 210; habituation 209; hereness/thereness tension 210; ideal 199, 204; landmarks 162–3; node link structure 14; picturesque 214; sacred 199; space–time 161; symbolism 162; value 3 citizenship 165 civic buildings 17, 93–4, 120–1 civilisation 161 classical architecture: contemporary buildings 137–8; decoration 63; informational divide 88–9; pattern 64; primary elements 88–9; proportion 107 Classicism 4, 23–4 climate change 197 climate façade 152 climate/topography 42, 44 Close, Frank 27–8 close focus analysis 11 closure 90, 94 Coates and Branson, architects 122, 123 cognition 14, 15; see also brain coherence 68, 167 Coleridge, Samuel Taylor 22 collective unconscious 199, 203 Colmar 178, 179 Cologne Cathedral 128 colonnade 84

222

INDEX

Colosseum, Rome 64, 65 columns 64 commerce/Church 192 Commerzbank, Frankfurt 150, 151, 152 Commission for Architecture and the Built Environment viii community 187 complexity/order 23, 24, 33, 212 composition: contrasts 73–4; Gothic architecture 101; Palladian architecture 91; randomness 146–7; weight 75 computer-aided design 107 concrete 5 confusion/order 21–2 consciousness 8, 12, 89; see also collective unconscious consilience 5 consistency 43 consonance 21 constancy 140 Constantine, Arch of 84 context 50, 94, 139 contingency 30 contrasts 71, 73–4 conversions 103–6 Co-op Himmelblau, Vienna 146 Corbusier, Le: Modulor 84; windows/wall 136–7, 136 corpus callosum 7 counterpoint 132; Bilbao/Prior Park 117; Chartres 129; gallery expansion 117; Lincoln 168; Millennium Bridge 131; Peckham library 121 Courts of Justice, Dublin 96, 98 Covent Garden 118, 118 Coventry University Library 154, 154 creativity 13, 22–3, 213–14 crepidoma 66, 84, 85 Crick, Francis 8 critical fix: Christchurch 170–2; Lincoln 167, 180; Truro 170 Crown Court, Truro 56–7, 58, 109, 170 Cullen, Gordon 175, 185; Townscape 161 Cullinan, Edward Architects 109 cultural change 15, 50 curtain wall design 152 curved forms 107, 111 Customs House, Dublin 96, 97 Daily Telegraph 74 Darwin, Charles 200 de Bono, Edward 13 Debussy, Claude 83 decoration 63, 64 development: epigenetic 50–1; interstitial 48–9, 51, 53

developmental psychology 198 discord 55 disequilibrium 76 dissonance 21, 68 diversity, coherent 68 Dixon, Jeremy 117–18, 118 DNA 49–50, 53, 200 Docklands, London 50 domes: National Gallery 96, 96; portico 93; Reichstag Parliament building 105–6; St Paul’s Cathedral 95, 96, 98, 99 domestic/sacred 88–9 Doppler red shift 31 Doric style 63, 64 dreams 8, 203 drip and splash painting 35–6 Dunster, Bill 154–7 dynamic systems 27–8, 33, 217–18 Earth Centre, Doncaster 156–7 East London, University of 109, 109 Eastern Docklands, Amsterdam 42, 43 Eco, Umberto 73; Art and the Middle Ages 5 ecology/architecture 3, 149–58 ecosystems 24 Eden Project 127–8, 127 education 213–14 Edward VII 94 Edwards, Trystan 72 Einstein, Albert 8, 30, 31 elevations/proportion 137–40 Eliade, Mircea 199 Eliot, T. S. 11, 15 Elliot, Ralph N. 80 Elliot waves 80–2 emotion: aesthetic perception 203; architecture 197; arousal 7, 10; beauty 206, 207; cities 210; habituation 209; limbic system 128–9, 144, 210; mid-brain 8; Parthenon 197; pre-rational 194; right brain 212–13; symbolism 197 entablature 63, 64, 84, 85 entropic architecture 146–7 entropy 33, 146 epigenesis: biology 49–50, 53; blindness to 59; cultural change 50; development 50–1; interstitial development 48–9; passed on 199–200; psychobiology 9; town development 30 epilepsy 7 equilibrium 74, 76; see also balance Erechtheum 84–5 Ernst, Max 35 Esher, Lord 211

ethics in architecture 211–12 Euclid 79–80 Evans and Shalev, architects 56 Evesham 186 evolution 200 experience 9, 50, 144 external views 163 exuberance 196 façades 41 familiarity/novelty 10, 13, 47, 209 Fechner, Gustav 7, 82–3, 83 festivals 210 Fibonacci series 77–80; biomathematics 83; chaos theory 80; Elliot waves 80–2; fuzziness 168–9; interiors 140, 141, 142; Lincoln Cathedral 168; Nature 80; painting 99; phi 85–6; windows 136 financial markets 80, 81–2 fire 140 Fitzwilliam College, Cambridge 36–7, 36 flooding 33, 200–1 Florence Count 91, 91 Foggo, Peter 50 Ford, Joseph 30 Fore Street, Totnes 169, 169 Foster, Norman 105–6, 108–9, 117 Foster and Partners: British Museum 119–20, 120; ecological towers 150, 152; glass walls 112; Millennium Bridge 98, 104, 106 fountains 201 fractal geometry viii, 5, 29 fracture: proportion 56; townscapes 48 Freiburg Cathedral 66 Fromm, Erich 201 Fry, Roger 3 Fuller, R. Buckminster 128 fuzzy logic 214 gabion construction 156–7 gables 41 gardens in the sky 149, 150–1, 152 gardens on roofs 156 Garras Wharf, Truro 208, 209 gates 204–5 Gaudi, Antoni 4, 144 Gehry, Frank 66, 144; American Centre 116; Guggenheim Museum 68, 114–16, 117, 196; Vitra Design Museum 116; Walt Disney Concert Hall 17–18, 116, 117 genetics 50, 200 geodesic domes 127–8

INDEX

223

Georgian architecture: Edinburgh 44; windows/walls 43–4, 110, 134–5, 135 gestalt psychology 5, 90, 167 Ginzburg–Landau equation 27 Glancey, Jonathan 4 glass technology 43–4, 112, 196 glazing bars 41, 43–4, 135 global warming 32, 42, 197 Goetheanum 5 golden section: beauty 82; Chartres Cathedral 84, 140, 141; Euclid 79–80; left brain 213; music 83; painting 83; Parthenon 85, 86 Goslar 45, 45, 55, 55, 68 Gothic architecture: cathedrals 100–1; chaos 65; churches 66; composition 101; early 4; inventiveness 64–5; music 76; Pugin 211; vertical/horizontal 100–1; windows 136 Graben, Vienna 164, 177, 177, 178 Greeks, Hellenic 22, 63 Green Party 152 greenhouse gases 3, 32 Grimshaw, Nicholas 128 Groniger Museum, Groningen 146–7, 147 rue du Gros Horloge, Rouen 175–6, 175 Grote Markt, Antwerp 44, 44 Guardian 4 Guggenheim Museum, Bilbao 18, 114–16, 117, 196 Gulf States 124 Haas-Haus, Vienna 48, 110–11, 177, 178 habituation: see familiarity/novelty Hagia Sophia, Istanbul 129, 130 Hanseatic League 39, 41–2, 44, 45 Hardwick Hall, Derbyshire 133, 134, 134 harmony: aesthetic perception 71; beauty 20, 22; binary 26; chaos theory 26; contrasts 71; dissonance 68; knowledge 11; likeness/difference 48; mathematics 72; music 20, 21–3; proportion 167–8; as science 76 heart beats 32 Heathrow 148, 150 Herbart, J. F. 22 hereness/thereness 175–6, 188, 210 Heron Quays, London 50 Herzog and de Meuron, architects 104 hexagons 128 high-tech architecture 196 historic buildings 113–14 holistic vision 5, 26 Holkham Hall, Norfolk 91, 91, 136 Hollein, Hans 110–11 Holocaust Museum, Berlin 124–5, 126

224

INDEX

holons 167, 169 Hopkins, Gerard Manley 11, 48 Hopkins, Michael 154 hotel buildings 124 Houghton Hall, Norfolk 93 housing, zero energy 17 Hradcany Castle 205, 205 Hubble space telescope 31 human body, phi 84 humour 146 Humphrey, Nicholas 14 Hundertwasser, Friedensreich 18, 144, 144, 145 Hunt, Anthony, Associates 128 Hurley Robertson and Associates 114 Hysolar Institute 146, 147 imagination/creativity 22–3 Imperial War Museum North 126–7, 127 Impressionism 74, 103 incinerator plant, Vienna 144, 145 information: binary choice 169; bi-versity 101; chunking 27, 71–2, 85; hidden 172; holons 167, 169; left brain 12, 212; pattern 71; right brain 12 information management 71–2, 86 informational divide 88–9, 94 innovation 15–19 inside/outside ambiguity 118–19, 120, 148 inspiration 5–6 interiors: Fibonacci series 140, 141, 142; proportion 140–2 interstitial development 48–9, 51, 53 intuition 138, 213, 214 Islam 82 Italian light 188 Ives, Charles 22 Jambushar 82 Jefferson, Thomas 95 Jericna, Eva 109 Jones, Edward 118 Jones, Inigo 118, 140 Jubilee Line 108 Jubilee Campus 155 Jung, C. G. 198, 199, 203 Justinian 101 Keddleston Hall, Derbyshire 139–40 Kekule, Friedrich von 8 Kent, William 93 King Street, Cambridge 37, 37, 50 King’s College Chapel, Cambridge 66, 67 King’s Parade, Cambridge 36–7, 36, 37 knowledge 11, 12, 213

Koch, Helge von 28 Koch snowflake 28, 29, 30 Koestler, Arthur 167 Lacey, Jobts and Hyett, architects 50 Landmark Theatre, Ilfracombe 123, 124 landmarks 162–3 language: acquisition 50; architecture 71; binary 73; left brain 8, 212; thought 8 Las Vegas 195 lateral thinking 13 leaf growth 78, 79, 80 Lebrun, Charles 23 left brain: dominance in society 214; golden section 213; information 12, 212; language 8, 212; letter navon 40; and right brain 12, 32 Leibniz, Gottfried 22 Lemgo, Germany 53, 53 Libeskind, Daniel: Holocaust Museum 124–5, 126; Imperial War Museum 126–7, 127; Victoria and Albert Museum extension 18, 19, 117, 122 light: darkness 185–6; Italy 188; medieval buildings 132–3; village square 191, 193 likeness/difference 48, 56 limbic system: architecture 144–5; bright colours 144, 195; emotion 128–9, 144, 210; pleasure 145 Lincoln: counterpoint 168; critical fix 167, 167, 180; Steep Hill 167–9, 167, 180, 197; streets 178, 180–1; Tudor Gate 178, 180 Lincoln Cathedral: Angel Choir 181, 182; Brayford Pool 206, 206; Fibonacci series 168; Steep Hill 167–9, 180, 197; towers 62, 100–1, 132, 133, 168 linear forms 111 Littlewoods store, Truro 59, 60 Liverpool Anglican Cathedral 21, 129, 131 Liverpool Town Hall 94, 95 Livio, Mario: The Accelerated Universe 31 Lloyds headquarters 16 local government offices 17 Longinus 128 Lorenz, Edward 28 Lowry Centre, Salford 107–8, 108, 111, 126 Lumsden, C. J. 15, 71; Genes, Mind and Culture 15 machine aesthetic 4 MacLean, Paul 198 Maison Carrée, Nîmes 112, 113 The Mall, London 184, 185 Mandelbrot, Benoit 28–9 Mandelbrot set 29 Marcuse, Herbert 214

market squares 192, 194 Marseilles government headquarters 17 mathematics 10, 72–3, 76; see also biomathematics; Fibonacci series Meier, Richard 66, 111–12, 116 Melk, Monastery of 143, 143, 195 memory 14, 200 Ménière’s syndrome 72 Mereworth Castle 93 metaphor 122; architectural examples 122–8 micro-piazza 163 mid-brain 8 Middle Ages: beauty 72; building techniques 44; cathedrals 211; churches 192, 195; great houses 132–3; light in buildings 132–3; streets 175–7; sublime 130; town patterns 166 Millennium Bridge 98, 104, 106, 131 Milton Keynes 20 minimalism 60, 61 Mnemosyne 14 mnemotype 14, 15, 209 Modern Movement 3, 4, 39, 116, 212 Modulor (Le Corbusier) 84 Monet, Claude 83; Bridge at Argenteuil 99; Impressions at Sunrise 74 Mont Cenis In-service Training Centre, Germany 119, 119 Montevetro housing complex, London 114, 114 Monticello, Charlottesville 95 Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus 22 Mueller-Lyer illusion 58, 59 multi-national corporations 130 Mumford, Lewis 162 Munster 41–2, 43 Musée d’Orsay, Paris 103, 103 music: Ars Combinatoria 36; art 9; cathedrals 21; ear for 50; familiarity/novelty 47; golden ratio 83; gothic architecture 76; harmony 20, 21–3; mathematics 76; randomness 22; tonality 22 Nagy, Sybil Moholy 199 NASA 31 National Assembly for Wales 16, 17, 66, 68, 120, 121 National Centre for Popular Music, Sheffield 122, 123 National Gallery, London 95–6, 95, 117, 190 National Louisiana Gallery, Denmark 51, 52 National Museum of Scotland, Edinburgh 51, 51, 68, 108 National Portrait Gallery, London 118 natural selection 13 Nature: architecture 4–5; art 35; asymmetry 32–3; chaos 28; contingency 30; Fibonacci series 80; pattern 27, 77–9; proportion 72; regularity 33; sublime 24; symmetry 28

INDEX

225

nature poets 24, 128 Netherlands 39–40, 41–3 neurobiology 7 New York Airport 123, 124 Newton, Isaac 31, 214 Niemeyer, Oscar 122 Nîmes: amphitheatre 64, 65; Carré d’Art 61, 112, 113 node link structure 14 non-linear dynamics: see chaos theory North Greenwich station 108 Norwich Union building, Leeds 190, 190 Notre Dame, Paris 62, 62 Notre Dame Chapel, Ronchamp 136–7 Nottingham University, Nottingham University Jubilee Campus 155 novelty/familiarity 10, 13, 47, 209 Number One, Deansgate, Manchester 114, 115 Nyhavn, Copenhagen 202, 202 office towers 196 Old Town Square, Prague 177–8 opaque/transparent elements 111, 119 Oppenheimer, Frank 5 opposites/pattern 26 Orchard Place, Sheffield 48, 49 order: complexity 23, 24, 33, 212; confusion 21–2; consistency 43; dissonance 68; entropy 33; symmetry 24 organic shapes 4–5 Osterley Park 89, 90

Paine, James 66 painting: bi-versity 99; drip and splash 35–6; Fibonacci series 99; golden section 83; Monet 74, 83, 99; phi 99; Picasso 126 palazzo: portico 89, 90, 91, 92; post-modernism 91, 92; temple 88–9; town halls 93–4, 84 Palazzo Publicco, Siena 187, 188 Palazzo Thiene, Vicenza 91, 91 Pall Mall, London 60, 61, 102, 102 Palladian architecture 88–91, 110, 136 Palladians 64, 66, 93 Palladio, Andrea 88–90, 188; Palazzo Thiene 91, 137; portico 64; proportion 72; Villa Capra 91, 93 Pantheon 64 Parthenon: approach to 84–5, 85; emotion 197; frieze 63, 195; golden section 84, 85, 86; phi rectangle 83–4; proportion 85 parts/whole tension 62, 66, 68, 166 Paseo, Burgos 174, 174 pastoral myth 23–4

226

INDEX

pattern 11, 22, 27; asymmetry 55; binary 26, 72, 73; biology 23; broken 42, 137; built environment 26; classical architecture 64; closure 90; information 71; irregularity 46; Nature 27, 77–9; opposites 26; regularity 33; style 59; symmetry 27; unpredictability 29; variety 41, 42 Peabody Trust 154–5 Peace Gardens, Sheffield 191, 192 Pearson, J. L. 208 Peckham, Morse 9 Peckham Library 17, 18, 121 pediment 63, 64 Périgueux: carnival 195, 195; micro-piazza 163; St Front Cathedral 208, 208; social dynamics 164, 195 Pevsner, Nikolaus 143, 211 phi 82–4; Fibonacci series 85–6; human body 84; painting 99; Parthenon 83–4; squares 188; urban space 189 philosophy/aesthetics 4 photovoltaic cells 156 phyllotaxis 78 phylogenetics 128–9 Piano, Renzo 15, 114 piano nobile 137, 138 piazza 187; articulated 188, 189; buildings 74–5; space 164, 218–19 Piazza del Campo, Siena 187–8, 188 Piazza del Popolo, Todi 189, 189 Picasso, Pablo: Guernica 126 picturesque 39–40, 214 pine cones 78 pineapples 78 Pinker, Steven: How the Mind Works 9 Place Royale, Brussels 44 planar glass 196 Planck, Max 213 Plato 24 pleasure 144, 145 Plymouth, George Street 20, 20 poetry 15, 24, 128 Poincaré, Jules-Henri 5–6, 10 Pollock, Jackson 35, 36 pollution 3 Polycleitus 72, 86 polystyrene fracture cracks 33 Pompidou Centre, Paris 15, 16, 48, 56, 114 Pope, Alexander 11 Portcullis House, London 153–4, 153 portico 64, 89, 90, 91, 92, 93 Portoghesi, Paolo 74–5 post-modernism 60, 61, 91, 92 Prechter, Robert 80–2 Priene, temple of Athena 84

Princes Street, Edinburgh 38–9, 45, 50–1 Prior Park, Bath: context 139; counterpoint 117; palazzo/temple elements 88–9; proportion 88, 101–2 Proceedings of the Royal Society 89 proportion: built environment 26; classical architecture 107; context 94; deep structure 71; elevations 137–40; fracture 56; harmony 167–8; interiors 140–2; language 71; mathematics 72–3; modern architecture 107; National Gallery 95–6; Nature 72; Parthenon 85; Prior Park 88, 101–2; Renaissance architecture 72; rhyme 56; scale 56; second order 132–7; symbolism 95–6; urban environment 166; windows/wall 134 Propylaea 85 protean behaviour 13 Proteus 12, 13 psycho-biology 4, 9 psychology: constancy 140; developmental 198; gestalt psychology 5, 90, 167; information management 71–2; stability boundary 83 Pugin, A. W. N. 4, 211 Pythagorean Brotherhood 82 quality assessment viii quantum mechanics viii Quarante, Languedoc 191, 193 Quintilian 143 railway stations 108–9, 112–13, 129 La Rambla, Barcelona 173–4, 173 randomness: Amsterdam 40; composition 146–7; creativity 13; Gehry 116; music 22; natural growth 30 Ravenna 101 rectilinear forms 107 Regensburg Cathedral 66 Reichstag Parliament building, Berlin 105–6, 106, 152–3, 153 religion: archetypes 136; water ritual 201 Renaissance architecture: palaces 66; proportion 72; rustication 66; storeys 137 reverberation 21 rhyme: architecture 48, 51, 53, 60, 61; proportion 56; selfsimilarity 41; townscapes 48; York 204–5 rhythm, broken 45–6 RIBA 3 right brain: connections 40; emotion 212–13; imagery 8; information 12; intuition 213; and left brain 12, 32; letter navon 40; spatial perception 212 Ripon Cathedral 192 robotics 30

rococo architecture 143 Rogers, Richard 15–16, 66, 114, 120 Richard Rogers Partnership 114, 124 Rogers Urban Task Force 156, 161, 216 Roll Silver, Amygdala 29 Romans 64 Romanticism 23–4, 128 Tim Ronalds, Architects 123 roofscapes: bioclimatic architecture 153–7; gardens 156 Rosehaugh Stanhope Developments 191 Rouen Cathedral 175, 176 Rousseau, Jean Jacques 24 Royal Academy, London 117 Royal Chateau of Chambord 138, 139 Royal Cornwall Museum, Truro 56, 57 Royal Exchange Theatre, Manchester 104–5, 105 Royal Opera House, London 117–18, 118 Rudolf, Paul 86–7 rustication 66, 91 Saarinen, Eero 122–3 sacred: cities 199; domestic 88–9; sublime 129 St Chapelle, Paris 132 St Denis, Paris 204 St Front Cathedral, Perigueux 208, 208 St James’s Park, London 185, 185 St Katherine Dock, London 103 St Mary, Church of 114, 114 St Pancras Station 112–13, 113, 129 St Paul’s Cathedral: dome 95, 96, 98, 99; Millennium Bridge 104, 106; Wren 95, 96, 98, 99 St Stephan, Cathedral of 110–11, 177, 178 St Vitus Cathedral, Prague 205, 205 San Gimignano, Todi 189 San Marco, Piazza of 188–9 San Marco Basilica 188 Sandbeck Park, South Yorkshire 66, 90 Saumur, Loire 203–4, 203 scale: modern/historic buildings 113–14; proportion 56; sublime 130 schema 14 scholastics 73 science/art 5–6, 7, 10 Scott, Sir Giles Gilbert 104, 113, 129 Scruton, Roger 4 sculpture 18, 50, 116 sculpture gallery, Angers 103–4, 103 sea monsters 201 Sears Tower, Chicago 130 Secklar Gallery, Royal Academy 117 self-similarity 41 sensory deprivation 10

INDEX

227

shadows 104 Sheffield 20 Sheffield Hallam University 148, 149 ships/buildings 202 Short, Alan 154 Shrewsbury, Elizabeth, Countess of 133, 134 Siena 44, 187–8 Site Incorporated, New York 146 Skolimovsky, Henryk 213 Smirke, Sir Robert 102, 119 Smith, Peter F.: Architecture in a Climate of Change 162 snowflake 33; see also Koch snowflake social dynamics 164, 195 social experiment 17, 156, 157 social revolution 4 socialism in architecture 211–12 Somerset House, London 201, 201 South Sea Bubble 93 space: convergent 218–19; dynamic 217–18; green 165; koinonic 164–5; piazza 164; psychological 185; and time 112, 161; urban 189 Sperry, Roger 7–8 spires 66 No 3 The Square, Stockley Park 118–19, 118 squares: market squares 192, 194; nodal space 187; phi 188; Prague 177–8; see also piazza stability boundary, psychology 83 Steep Hill, Lincoln 167–9, 167, 180 Steiner, Rudolf 4–5 Stewart, Ian 27, 76, 78 Stirling and Wilford, architects 117 stock markets 80–2, 93 Stockley Park 118–19, 118 Strasbourg Cathedral 65, 66 streets: Barcelona 45–6; chaos pattern 173–4; dynamic space 217–18; Lincoln 178, 180–1; Middle Ages 175–7; Totnes 176–7 Stuttgart, entropic architecture 146, 147 style viii, 4; international 39; pattern 59; value 215 subconscious 214 sublime: architecture 128–31; beauty 128–31; bridges 202; cathedrals 128–9; danger/security 128, 130–1; Middle Ages 130; multi-national corporations 130; Nature 24; sacred 129; scale 130 subliminal self 6, 212 submergence, townscapes 48 sunflowers 77–8 supernovas 31 survival instinct 200 sustainability 3, 162, 197 Sutton, London Borough of 17, 154–5, 156, 157 Swiss Airlines Headquarters, Stockholm 148

228

INDEX

Swiss Re, London Headquarters 152 Sydney Opera House 123–4 symbolism: after-life 200; archetypes 197–9; architecture 106; cities 162; emotion 197; fire 140; Jung 198; light/darkness 185–6; proportion 95–6; towers 101; urban environment 185; water 200–1 symmetry: aesthetic perception 27; Nature 28; order 24; pattern 27; spontaneous breaking of 28 Tallis, Thomas 21 taste 22, 196 Tate Gallery, London 117 Tate Gallery, St Ives 57, 58, 109 Tate Modern, London 104, 104, 106 Taylor, Richard 35–6 technological development 107 teleology 176 Temple Bar, Dublin 53, 54 temples: crepidoma 66, 84, 85; decoration 64; Greek 63–4, 84; palazzo 88–9 tension: asymmetry 76; hereness/thereness 175–6, 188, 210; parts/whole 62, 66, 68, 166 thermal chimneys 154 Thermodynamics, Second Law 33 thought/language 8 tides 33 tiger’s stripes 27, 30, 50 time–space 112, 161 titanium 196 Todi 189, 189 Toffler, Alvin: Future Shock 15 tonality 22 topography 42, 44 Torp, Niels 148 Totnes streets 169, 169, 176–7, 176 La Tourette Monastery 136–7, 136 Towards an Urban Renaissance 161 tower blocks: ecological 150, 152, 157, 158; offices 196; ventilation 151–2; wind scoops 149 Tower of the Winds 64 towers: bi-versity 132, 133; cathedrals 62; Lincoln Cathedral 62, 100–1, 132, 133, 168; symbolism 101; York Minster 132, 133 town halls 93–4 towns: chaos theory 48; epigenetic rules 30; fracture 48; interstitial development 48–9; Middle Ages 166; rhyme 48; submergence of new 48; unpredictability 166; see also urban environment Trafalgar Square, London 95, 187, 189–90 transparent elements 111, 119 tree growth 30 Tribunal de Grande Instance, Bordeaux 68, 120, 124, 125

Truro: critical fix 170; Littlewoods store 59, 60; Magistrates Courts 58, 109, 170 Tudor Gate, Lincoln 178, 180 Tudor Gate, Totnes 176–7, 176 Turgenev, Ivan 213 Turing, Alan 27, 30 Ulm Cathedral 66 uncertainty viii, 10; art 29; cognitive adaptation 15; fuzzy logic 214; natural selection 13; universe 31; see also unpredictability unconscious 199, 203 United Oxford and Cambridge University Club, London 102, 102 universe 31, 74, 199 University College, London 89, 96, 97 unpredictability: aesthetic pleasure 13; Amsterdam 40; behaviour 30; chaos 5; pattern 29; town patterns 166; see also uncertainty urban environment: aesthetics 161; dynamic 178; phi 189; proportion 166; symbolism 185; see also towns urban regeneration 51, 53, 57; checklist 216–19 Urbis Museum of Urban Life, Manchester 114, 115, 145 Utzon, Jørn 123 Venice 188, 189 ventilation, natural 149, 151–2 Venturi, Robert 112 Venturi team 117 Venus 31, 32 Vermeer, Jan 73–4 vertical/horizontal features 45–6, 66, 85, 87, 100–1 Victoria and Albert Museum addition 18, 19, 117, 122 Victorian windows 135, 135 Vienna incinerator plant 144 Villa Capra, Vicenza 91, 93 village square 191, 193 Vitra Design Museum 116 Vitruvius Pollio, Marcus 73 walls/windows 110, 111–12, 134–5 Walpole, Sir Robert 93 Walt Disney Concert Hall, Los Angeles 17–18, 116, 117 warehouses 103

water: archetype 205; architecture 205; chaos theory 75; Chartres 206, 207; fountains 201; symbolism 200–1 waterfront developments 42, 43 Watkin, David 211–12; Morality and Architecture 4 Watson, James 8 weather systems 28, 31–2 Weber, Carl Maria von 47 Weber, Ralf: On the Aesthetics of Architecture 5 Westwood, Vivienne 74 Whewell, William 5 Wilson, Colin St John 113 Wilson, Edward O.: arts 101; binary choices 71; Consilience 6; epigenetic rules 200; Genes, Mind and Culture 15; Nature 72 Wilton House 140 wind generators 157 wind scoops 149 windows: Chartres 129; Fibonacci series 136; Georgian 43–4, 135; glass technology 43–4; glazing bars 41; gothic architecture 136; Palladian architecture 136; reticular 132–3; Victorian 135; and walls 110, 111–12, 134–5 Wittkower, Rudolf: Architectural Principles in the Age of Humanism 72 Wood, John and Son 94 Wordsworth, William 24, 128 Wotton, Sir Henry viii, 3, 215 Wren, Sir Christopher 95, 96, 98, 99 Wright, Frank Lloyd 115 Wundt, Wilhelm 7 Wyatt, James 94 Yale University, Art and Architecture Building 86–7, 86, 107 Yeang, Ken 149 York 204–5 York Minster: approach 181, 182, 183, 184; Seven Sisters window 136; towers 132, 133 Young, J. Z. 8–9, 72 Zeki, Semir 7, 11; Inner Vision 89 zero energy buildings 128, 154–6 Zimmer, Heinrich 199

INDEX

229