Light

Vancouver, August 18, 2019 (my photo)

As I write this, I’m in Vancouver, B.C. visiting my aging parents, who welcome the distraction my company brings from the cheerlessness of their daily routine. I likewise appreciate the opportunity to see them, especially now that each of my too infrequent visits is increasingly precious (my father is 91 and my mother is 90). I tend to be wistful and nostalgic each time I’m here, but I seem especially so during this stay.

It’s mid-August, but Vancouver is gray, cool, and misty. The watery, flat light is familiar and comforting to me. It is also unlike the light I’ve experienced most everywhere else. Even the light in Seattle, to which Vancouver is frequently compared, is different. Exactly what makes it different is hard to put a finger on. I suspect Vancouver’s forested North Shore mountains play a part. Maybe too just the few degrees of latitude that separate the two cities. Even when the persistent veil of clouds does dissolve, Vancouver’s sky is less radiant, and perhaps more cerulean in hue than its American counterpart. What I do know is a considerable share of Vancouver’s sense of place is attributable to the unique quality of its light.

Vancouver’s characteristic light contributed to the signature murk of the of X-Files television series, a mood-setting, melancholic dreariness the show would lose following its move to Los Angeles during the final years of the series’ long run. The X-Files was never the same.

Humans have exploited daylight and controlled its effects since they first began building. Notable architects assigned to light preeminence among other critical design considerations. For example, Le Corbusier described architecture as “the learned game, correct and magnificent, of forms assembled in the light.” And Louis Kahn memorably said of light that “Architecture appears for the first time when the sunlight hits a wall. The sunlight did not know how magnificent it was until it hit that wall.” Prominent among the works of both Corbu and Kahn are some of modern architecture’s most revered paeans to light (for example, the Chapel of Notre Dame du Haut at Ronchamp and the Kimbell Art Museum, respectively).

There’s no doubt any architect worthy of the title will acknowledge and develop an understanding about the quality of light specific to a place. Historically, the specific attributes of that light impacted how architects design as much as matters of program, topography, tradition, or technology. Stylistic variation developed over time, distinguishing regions from one another. It’s why the brilliant, harsh light of equatorial settings favored bold, elemental geometries (think of the pyramids), while the mostly grayer skies of northern climes prompted a greater interest in elaborate silhouettes and profiles (such as the spires and filigree of Gothic cathedrals).

Today of course, advanced glass technologies offer architects the freedom to design walls entirely of glass, irrespective of a given site’s light conditions, the building’s orientation, and views; however, simply because glass walls are possible doesn’t mean we should apply them so liberally. The beauty of individual windows—their shape, proportion, sill depth, and reveals—imparts much of the character and regional specificity buildings historically have possessed. Architects who seriously consider a setting’s peculiar luminosity are more likely to produce designs featuring carefully considered, tailored apertures.

I find it comforting to be reminded when I travel that here is not always like there. Places are different despite humankind’s inexorable and unwitting efforts to homogenize our world. Vancouver is unique because of its spectacular setting but also because its distinctive light has influenced its architectural heritage, from the mildew-y shabbiness of its ubiquitous, cheaply built housing to the transcendent, shimmering works of West Coast modern masters like Arthur Erickson. Great architecture glows from within but is invariably defined too by the natural light that envelops it.