It’s been my pleasure
to periodically share excerpts from SYNTHESIS, the self-published textbook written
by the late Bill Kleinsasser, one of the significant teachers and
architects who shaped my architectural worldview. In the following passage from
his book, Bill’s understanding of the idiosyncratic work of Henry Chapman
Mercer illustrates a specific design principle, in this case the nature of
an appropriate response to place. In turn, Bill drew a parallel between the
memorable landscape of Bucks County, Pennsylvania (which he was as thoroughly familiar with as Mercer was) and John Ruskin’s
influential writings about how places are experienced. The spirit and mood evoked
by this piece perfectly suits my contemplative frame of mind on this gray mid-November morning in Eugene.
Whole Spirit and Mood
When Mercer lived this Bucks County countryside was partly wild, partly cultivated, partly inhabited, partly empty of human life. It was variegated, challenging, mysterious, and evocative of previous life. Mercer studied this land all his life and knew it well. He travelled through it again and again, searched it for its archaeological secrets, and found in it many inspirations. John Ruskin, whose works Mercer undoubtedly knew very well, probably would have called this land “woody green country,” a kind of country especially suited for habitation by industrious, conservative, but romantic people, and Mercer was all of these. He often revealed his strong feelings and romanticism about Bucks County. He loved to tell about the place, and he did it well.
As if guiding Mercer’s response to this rich woody green Bucks County countryside, John Ruskin’s words in 1838 had been:
“. . . be it observed that anything which is apparently enduring and unchangeable gives us the impression rather of future than of past, duration of existence, but anything which being perishable and from its nature subject to change has yet existed to great age, gives us an impression of antiquity though of course none of stability. A very old forest tree is a thing subject to the same laws of nature as ourselves. It is an energetic being, liable to an approaching death. Its age is written on every spray, and because we see that it is subject of life and annihilation like our own, we imagine it must be capable of the same feelings and possess the same faculties, and above all others, memory. It is always telling us about the past, never pointing to the future. We appeal to it, as to a thing which has seen and felt during a life similar to our own though of ten times its duration and therefore receive from it a perpetual impression of antiquity.
“This being the case, it is evident that the chief feeling induced by woody country is one of reverence for its antiquity. There is a quiet melancholy about the decay of the patriarchal trunks, which is enhanced by the green and elastic vigor of the young saplings. The noble form of the forest aisles and the subdued light that penetrates their entangled boughs combine to aid the impression, and the whole character of the scene is calculated to excite conservative feeling. The man who could remain a radical in a woody country is a disgrace to his species.
“Now, this feeling of mixed melancholy and veneration is the one of all others which (a building in this land) must not be allowed to violate. It may be fantastic or rich in detail, for the one character will make it look old fashioned and the other will assimilate with the intertwining of leaf and bough around it, but it must not be spruce, or natty, or very bright in color, and the older it looks the better.
"A little grotesqueness in form is the more allowable because the imagination is naturally alive in the obscure and indefinite daylight of wood scenery. [It] conjures up innumerable beings—of every size and shape—to people its alleys and smile through its thickets.”
Mercer must have understood Ruskin. His buildings embody just the qualities Ruskin recommended for the “woody, green country,” especially Fonthill with its “fantastic and rich detail,” its “grotesqueness of form,” and the fact that it “assimilates with the intertwining of leaf and bough around it.” All three buildings are “old fashioned” in appearance, “not spruce, or natty, or very bright in color.” All three have been developed to take advantage of the fact that “the imagination is naturally alive” in a woody green setting. To anyone who has felt the haunting serenity and mystery of the countryside of Bucks County, these qualities seem exactly right.
But these are responses to the character of the larger place. Mercer’s buildings also embody response to smaller contextual scales. All three contributed to the cultural place: the Museum with its evocative and informative collection of tools; Fonthill with its arboretum, preserve, and tiles; the Tileworks with its preservation of one of the unique crafts of the community; and all three buildings with their epical addition to community symbolism and richness as long-lasting sources of amazement, pleasure, and wonder.
The buildings also contain the results of many other contextual responses: towers from which one may see the surrounding place in all directions; numerous terraces and balconies upon which the variation of sunlight, wind, and weather may be felt; and spaces that collect and dramatize the daily and seasonal changes of atmosphere and light.
Even minor details, both inside and out, call attention to the sun’s position, the time of day, the season, the weather, and the place. Colored tiles on columns and walls become sparkling, independent sources of light. Dark surfaces and planar intersections tend to be obscured and mysterious as daylight diminishes. Other edges and planes catch light as it comes and goes, defining places, boundaries, and layers of space. Subtle colors and textures reflect and absorb light, become brighter or subdued, and change from sandy brown to bluish gray, to olive gray, to green and grayish gold. At certain times the buildings float across the fields like ships or suddenly appear like ghosts among the trees.
The buildings also address the
most ordinary problems of building within an existing place. At Fonthill, a
colonial farmhouse was in the way of the new place. Rather than destroy it,
Mercer built around it and over it, giving it renewed and new life. At the
Tileworks, the property boundaries and access route forced development to the
south and west. The building was adapted to take full advantage of this. At the
Museum, opportunities were restricted by the existing museum on the north and a
street on the east. Mercer connected the new Museum to the old, accepted the
tight boundary on the east, and freely extended the new building south, west,
and up. In each building, ordinary stie problems generated unusual, useful, and
often wonderful ideas.
By embodying as many responses to their surrounding places, Mercer’s buildings become vivid. Not only are they clearer and stronger in themselves, but they also establish a powerful source of appropriateness regarding the dynamics and nature of the places joined. Our consciousness is heightened by these links with place—by its reinforcement, dramatization, and celebration. Without these responsive links, an otherwise good place remains ordinary and fails to be what it might have been.
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