Structure and Signification

I purchased a copy of Five Architects during my first year in architecture school, way back in 1977. The book, a slim but influential volume that crystallized a moment in American modernism, showcased early work by Peter Eisenman, Michael Graves, Richard Meier, Charles Gwathmey, and John Hejduk. I found it enthralling, and I quickly read it from cover to cover. What struck me wasn’t just the buildings these five architects designed, it was the idea that architecture could be grounded in intellectual inquiry. Various critics, including Charles Jencks, later framed the contrast between Eisenman's form rigor and Graves' symbolic gestures in linguistic terms, interpreting their work as exemplifying architectural syntax and semantics, respectively. That framing resonated with me then, and it still does today.

Syntax, in this context, refers to the internal logic of architectural form: the rules, structures, and generative systems that guide composition. Semantics concerns meaning: how buildings signify, reference, or evoke cultural and historical associations. These terms offer a way to examine architectural intention—not as style, but as structure and signification. My aim here is to reflect on this framework’s enduring value, not to advocate its revival, but to explore how it prompts us to question how buildings speak and what they say in today’s context.

House II, by Peter Eisenman, Architect (photo source: House II 1970 - EISENMAN ARCHITECTS)

Eisenman’s House II and House III illustrated a syntactic approach. In House II, he manipulated a grid recursively to produce spatial conditions that resist conventional function. The house didn’t accommodate domestic life intuitively; instead, it foregrounded architectural autonomy. House III fragmented and reassembled spatial elements, prioritizing formal operations over lived experience. These projects resembled architectural sentences composed without narrative—grammar without story. Eisenman's work of this period was "syntactic" in that it prioritized generative structure over narrative, capturing his commitment to internal logic over external reference.

Hanselmann House, Michael Graves, Architect (photo source: Hanselmann House – Michael Graves)

Graves’ contributions to Five Architects—the Hanselmann House and the Benacerraf Addition—reflected a different sensibility. Graves (1934–2015) later embraced overt historical references and postmodern ornamentation, but his work during the 1960s and early 1970s drew more from Cubist composition than a classical vocabulary. The Hanselmann House, with its cube-like geometry and layered volumes, evoked spatial fragmentation and visual tension. The Benacerraf Addition, often described as a “Cubist kitchen,” explored figure-ground relationships and compositional ambiguity. Graves’ approach was conceptually semantic, emphasizing symbolic reference and cultural resonance over formal autonomy. Graves invited interpretation, but not through a language of signs. His architecture gestured toward meaning through spatial collage and formal resonance.

Villa Savoye, Le Corbusier, Architect (my photo)

Both Eisenman and Graves produced work in this period that resembled Le Corbusier’s 1920s villas. For example, their white surfaces, planar compositions, and minimal ornamentation recalled Le Corbusier’s Villa Savoye and Villa Stein. Yet the resemblance was fundamentally superficial. Eisenman stripped away Corbusier’s functional logic in favor of syntactic recursion. Graves reinterpreted Le Corbusier's vocabulary from the perspective of a Cubist, seeking symbolic depth rather than formal purity.

Revisiting this analogy today may seem out of step with current priorities, not to mention referencing the work of architects whose heydays and influence have long passed. Architecture now contends with such imperatives as climate resilience, social equity, and adaptive reuse. My fascination with viewing architecture as a form of language, structured around linguistic parallels, might appear dated, even indulgent. Still, I believe the analogies remain useful, not as doctrine, but as a way to unpack how architecture balances structure and story. While postmodernism’s pluralism challenged this binary’s rigidity, it remains a lens for balancing form and function in sustainable design. It invites us to ask how form and meaning intersect, even in projects driven by pragmatic demands.

Daxing International Airport, Zaha Hadid Architects (photo by Siyuwj, CC BY 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons)

Contemporary architects navigate these poles in varied ways. Zaha Hadid Architects (ZHA), for instance, often pursue a syntactic approach, using parametric tools to generate fluid forms, as seen in projects like the Beijing Daxing International Airport, where functional logic governs circulation, daylighting, and structural rhythm. Herzog & de Meuron, by contrast, lean semantic, as in the de Young Museum in San Francisco, where a perforated copper skin evokes cultural memory and environmental dialogue. These practices don’t replicate the Eisenman–Graves divide but engage similar tensions: autonomy versus context, system versus story.

de Young Museum, Herzog & de Meuron, Architects (my photo)

Beyond aesthetics, syntax now often arises directly from materials and performance. Building systems and environmental concerns shape how architects compose space. Mass timber construction, for example, demands a specific logic. Cross-laminated timber (CLT) panels require predictable spans, coordinated joints, and careful attention to fire resistance and acoustic performance. These constraints don’t limit design but rather define it. The discipline embedded in mass timber systems produces a syntax rooted in fabrication, sustainability, and structural clarity. Architects working in this medium don’t just follow rules; they compose with them.

During my professional career, I approached these questions from a different angle, one that paralleled the semantic intent discerned in Graves’ early projects. In a recent post, On Architecture, Meaning, and the Responsibility of Creation, I described the design of the VA Roseburg Protective Care Unit. That project aimed to convey meaning not through a language of signs, but through symbolic resonance. My colleagues and I used the metaphor of the “Tree of Life” to express continuity, memory, and vitality for veterans living with dementia. The symbolism didn’t serve as ornament; it shaped the spatial experience and material choices. It offered a narrative framework without prescribing interpretation.

That experience affirmed for me that meaning in architecture need not follow Graves’ semantic model. It can emerge from attentiveness, metaphor, and coherence. It can root itself in experience rather than reference. At the same time, syntax remains essential. Whether shaped by conceptual rigor or material discipline, the structural logic of a project—its internal order, its spatial grammar—still carries weight. Syntax and semantics need not be opposing camps. They’re tools. And in today’s context, they require careful use.

I don’t propose reviving linguistic metaphors as architectural principles, but I do believe they offer a way to reflect on what architecture communicates. Buildings speak, though not always clearly. Revisiting syntax and semantics helps us ask what we’re trying to say, and whether we’re saying it well. These questions remain vital as we shape spaces to meet today’s challenges.

The Architecture of a Print Legacy

Sitting in our garage, boxed and staged for delivery: an archive of architectural thought spanning five decades.

For nearly fifty years, I’ve lived alongside a growing collection of architectural periodicals. Architectural Record, Progressive Architecture, and others filled boxes and lined shelves, slowly expanding from a modest reference library into a quiet presence throughout our home. These magazines captured decades of design, critique, and innovation, not just as resources, but as companions, inspiration boards, and time capsules.(1) 

Since retiring, I’ve begun decluttering the house my wife and I share. Among the items leaving are the professional journals I’ve amassed over a lifetime in architecture. A broken office chair, an old lawnmower; those are easy enough to dispose of. But the archive? I haven’t read every issue from cover to cover, yet each one is meaningful to me because it marks a moment in contemporary architectural thought that evolved alongside my schooling and career. Letting them go isn’t just a logistical choice. It feels like letting go of something personal. 

I first subscribed to Architectural Record and Progressive Architecture while still in high school. I did so with the same eagerness I later brought to design challenges. I read closely, followed trends, and flagged issues with ideas relevant to my work. Before long, I had amassed hundreds and hundreds of volumes. The collection outgrew our bookshelves and began migrating into every available space: a closet here, a corner there, eventually the attic. The expansion was slow but steady. 

Many issues throughout the years stand out to me: my very first copy of Architectural Record, which featured the 1976 United Nations Conference on Human Settlements that Vancouver, B.C. hosted; the one with an early mention of “sustainable design” long before it became mainstream; others that featured buildings by architects I greatly admired. 

A recent visit to the Eugene Public Library brought my dilemma into sharper focus, reinforcing my decision to part ways with my collection. Wandering through what was once a robust architecture section, I was surprised to find how much had quietly disappeared. That moment left me wondering: If long-held books can vanish from institutions built to preserve knowledge, what does that mean for the legacies we hold at home? Stewardship, it seems, isn’t only about saving what’s old — it’s about recognizing when to pass things on and how to do so thoughtfully. In that light, letting go of my collection is not abandonment, but adaptation. 

My initial (and reluctant) thought was to simply consign the magazines to recycling. Selling individual issues seemed daunting, and I doubted any organization would take them in bulk. On a whim, I contacted the nascent Northwest Center for Architecture(2) here in Eugene to see if they might be interested. To my surprise, board president Abraham Kelso responded with an enthusiastic yes. Soon, the entire lot will be headed to the Center, where the magazines can be appreciated by others who value the profession’s history. 

I won’t be keeping a handful of favorites as I first thought I would. Instead, I take comfort in knowing the archive will remain intact, continuing to serve as a record of architecture’s evolution through nearly a half-century of innovation, crisis, and renewal. I release my collection with gratitude. 

Architecture is a practice of building, but also of remembering. These magazines chronicled a profession in flux. From a personal perspective, they mirrored my architectural journey. They may no longer line my home’s bookshelves (and occupy other nooks and crannies), but thanks to the Northwest Center for Architecture, they’ll continue to speak—in the conversations they spark, the insights they preserve, and the histories they keep alive.

(1)    I first wrote about my print archive in a 2011 blog post and again in a later update.

(2)    I’ll share more about the Northwest Center for Architecture — and its mission to preserve and celebrate the region’s architectural heritage — in a future post.

The Sustainable Urban Design Handbook

In an era when cities face compounding pressures—climate disruption, housing scarcity, and the need for more inclusive public spaces—guidance grounded in both vision and practicality is rare. That is what makes The Sustainable Urban Design Handbook stand out. Coauthored by Nico Larco, AIA and Kaarin Knudson, AIA, it offers cities like Eugene the tools to design a more resilient, equitable future.

Published last year, the 438-page volume reflects the authors’ deep understanding of urban form and environmental systems. I’ve followed its release with interest, not only because of Nico and Kaarin’s professional credentials—Nico as a professor of architecture at the University of Oregon, and Kaarin as an architect, educator, and now mayor of Eugene—but because of my own belief in the need for such a comprehensive approach to urban design, and also because I’ve had the opportunity to discuss Eugene’s design challenges with Kaarin firsthand on multiple occasions. In a city wrestling with affordability, climate adaptation, and livability, this book feels both timely and necessary. 

The Handbook’s structure is elegant and intuitive. It organizes over 50 urban design elements into five core topic areas: Energy Use & Greenhouse Gas, Water, Ecology & Habitat, Energy Use & Production, and Equity & Health. Nico and Kaarin examine these topics across four spatial scales—Region & City, District & Neighborhood, Block & Street, and Project & Parcel—which together reveal how decisions at every level influence one another. A parcel-level bioswale, for example, supports district-wide stormwater strategies and contributes to regional watershed health. Transit-oriented neighborhoods at the district scale can dramatically reduce emissions city-wide. In Eugene, these principles are visible in efforts such as riverfront revitalization and the EmX bus rapid transit system. The Handbook offers not just ideals, but implementation strategies that resonate with our local context. 

Crucially, the book’s impact goes beyond sustainability metrics. It is also about good urban form—designing places that function well, feel good, and invite people. The Handbook includes guidance for creating walkable streets, robust stormwater networks, infill development, and affordable housing strategies—each reinforcing not only environmental performance but also quality of life. In this way, its utility transcends its title: it is as much about building desirable, livable communities as it is about reducing emissions. 

One of the most compelling aspects of the Handbook is how it balances high-level theory with on-the-ground practicality. Each design element is accompanied by clear descriptions, case studies, diagrams, and cost/difficulty ratings. For example, Nico and Kaarin note multimodal streets as cost-effective in new developments but more complex in existing urban settings—a valuable nuance for planners, designers, and decision-makers. In Eugene, the Handbook’s ideas apply directly to projects like the Franklin Boulevard redesign, where walkability and transit align with equity goals, or to affordable housing initiatives that integrate green spaces to enhance community health. These examples, blending global insight with local relevance, transform abstract concepts into tangible solutions for professionals and advocates here and beyond. 

Visually, the book’s meticulous design shines. Its diagrams translate complex ideas—of walkable streets and cross-scale stormwater management—into accessible images. These graphics facilitate collaboration, making them useful tools for workshops, design charrettes, and public engagement efforts. 

An introductory page explaining the book's chapter structure.

The Handbook is earning attention nationally. Nico recently shared that it topped Amazon’s bestseller list for Planning and Landscape Architecture, ahead of such enduring titles as The Death and Life of Great American Cities and A Pattern Language. The Handbook’s place alongside A Pattern Language on the bestseller list highlights a deeper parallel. Like Christopher Alexander’s 1977 classic, The Sustainable Urban Design Handbook presents its content through modular, interconnected parts. Alexander’s 253 patterns outline a vocabulary for shaping human environments of all scales—from regions to window seats—distilling complex design problems into practical, re-usable solutions. Similarly, Nico and Kaarin’s elements address urban challenges—heat islands, stormwater runoff, walkability—across scales and contexts. Their elements, like Alexander’s patterns, combine flexibly to yield diverse, cohesive outcomes. Both frameworks champion adaptive, systems-based thinking and an iterative approach to design. If Alexander wrote for a world seeking beauty and coherence, Nico and Kaarin write for one confronting climate breakdown and inequality—anchoring their approach in today’s most pressing challenges while echoing a time-tested methodology. 

No book is without its blind spots. While Equity & Health is a foundational topic in the Handbook, it just barely touches on the risk of displacement and gentrification—issues increasingly relevant in neighborhoods like Eugene’s culturally vibrant Whiteaker, where citywide development pressures risk undermining affordability and community cohesion. Likewise, the Handbook acknowledges implementation barriers but could do more to explore how cities build support for infrastructure investments like transit hubs or affordable housing. These gaps are worth noting, especially in a book that aims to balance ambition with feasibility. Still, they don’t diminish the Handbook’s overall value. 

This is a book for a wide audience. Professionals in architecture, planning, engineering, and landscape architecture will appreciate its technical depth. Policymakers and advocates will find clear explanations and actionable strategies. And students will encounter a richly structured resource that bridges theory and practice. In Eugene, where climate and housing challenges are front and center, the book’s ideas—cool or green roofs, transit corridors that prioritize pedestrians, ecological restoration in urban districts—offer a way forward. 

With Kaarin as Mayor, Eugene benefits uniquely from this work. Her combined experience as a designer, teacher, and civic leader positions her to help translate the Handbook’s principles into built outcomes—community spaces, transportation systems, and housing that meet environmental goals without sacrificing human needs. Her presence in local government is more than symbolic; it’s a catalyst for design-led change. 

In all, The Sustainable Urban Design Handbook is a triumph. It bridges disciplines, scales, and aspirations with clarity and conviction. While deeper attention to the social dynamics of urban change would strengthen it, its synthesis of form, function, and equity is exceptional. For Eugene—and for any city striving to do better by people, by place, and by planet—it’s not just a guidebook. It’s a blueprint.

The Houses of Louis Kahn

 

I revisited another of the books in my collection this weekend: The Houses of Louis Kahn, cowritten by George H. Marcus and William Whitaker, and published in 2013, explores an often-overlooked aspect of Louis Kahn’s architectural legacy: his residential designs. The focus of Marcus’ and Witaker’s excellent book is the nine private homes Kahn completed and the other designs that never saw construction. These houses, most located in the Philadelphia area, reveal the more intimate side of Kahn’s architectural philosophy.(1)
 
While I’ve long admired Kahn for his monumental works (among them, the Kimbell Art Museum and the Salk Institute), I haven’t been as big a fan of his residential designs, so a deep dive into them is exactly what was necessary for me.
 
Marcus and Whitaker document Kahn’s design process for each of the nine houses, providing readers with a detailed look at an aspect of his architectural evolution from mid-career until his death in 1974. Through photographs, Kahn’s own sketches, and original drawings, along with previously unpublished materials from interviews and archives, the book paints a comprehensive picture of Kahn’s residential work. The authors examine Kahn’s evolving relationship with Modernism, his philosophical inquiries into the nature of domestic space, and his close collaborations with clients, which often resulted in homes that were both innovative and deeply personal.
 
Marcus and Whitaker challenge the common belief (one I long held) that Kahn’s architectural identity only fully emerged with his public commissions. They argue that his early residential projects, which predate his iconic works like the Yale University Art Gallery, already displayed significant architectural ambition and were foundational in his development as an architect. This notion invites a reevaluation of Kahn's trajectory and suggests that his exploration of essential ideas in architecture was present even in these intimate settings.
 
At the same time, Marcus and Whitaker claim Kahn's approach to residential architecture was not driven by a desire to make grand architectural statements but rather by a deep respect for the specific circumstances surrounding each project. They write that Kahn’s houses were not experimental prototypes but rather thoughtful responses to the unique requirements of the site, program, budget, and client. I suspect the truth is Kahn did regard his residential work to be opportunities to realize his evolving design philosophy and as test beds for ideas he would then apply to his monumental projects.

 

Margaret Esherick House (photo by JERRYE & ROY KLOTZ MD, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons)

A strength of the book is its exploration of Kahn’s attention to detail, particularly in the realm of interiors. He believed in creating cohesive, harmonious living environments tailored to the individual needs of his clients, prioritizing the experience of the inhabitant over the mere aesthetic of the structure.
 
I contend Kahn’s focus on universal architectural ideas held precedence for him over the specific characteristics of the sites themselves. Contrast that with the work of architects like Frank Lloyd Wright or Arthur Erickson, whose signature residential projects are memorable for being inseparable from the sites upon which they are built. Wright’s Fallingwater and Erickson’s Graham House are two cases in point. Certainly, Kahn’s projects were not always blessed by a spectacular setting, so perhaps I should temper my criticism. Marcus and Whitaker contend that his designs supported a dialogue with their environments through their materiality and light, showing that context and abstraction can coexist. While Kahn’s fascination with materiality and light are evident in his houses, I do not regard them as being of their sites; rather, they are placed on them.
 
Until I see one or more of Kahn’s residential projects with my own eyes, I only have photographs and drawings on which to base this judgment. The Houses of Louis Kahn is richly illustrated, with both period and new photos commissioned for the book, so that is helpful. Based upon these alone, I find the Margaret Esherick House and the Norman and Doris Fisher House most interesting. This may be because of their relatively modest size, which amplifies the extent to which they illustrate some of Kahn’s foundational principles. These include the division of buildings between served and servant spaces, and his fascination with how daylight is shaped and invited indoors.

 

Norman and Doris Fisher House (photo by JERRYE & ROY KLOTZ MD, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons)

I did appreciate Marcus’ and Whitaker’s acknowledgement of the influence of others on Kahn’s evolving design philosophy, particularly that of Anne Tyng. Tyng was Kahn’s romantic partner, muse, and associate, whose contributions to his acclaim would not receive their due largely until after Kahn’s passing. Tyng’s deep interest in mathematics and geometry was most evident in the Fred and Elaine Clever House.
 
The Houses of Louis Kahn is a significant contribution to the scholarship on one of the 20th century’s most influential architects. The book is essential reading for anyone interested in understanding the full scope of Kahn’s work, offering fresh insights into his approach to architecture on a more intimate, human scale. It captures the essence of Kahn’s unique ability to create spaces that, while often not tied to dramatic landscapes, foster a deep connection between the inhabitants and their environment.
 
I found The Houses of Louis Kahn particularly enlightening given how much Kahn’s philosophy has influenced my own views on architecture. The book provided me with a deeper appreciation of his residential works and their place within his architectural legacy.
 
(1)    I’m planning an architectural pilgrimage to Pennsylvania sometime in 2025, during which I hope to see some of Kahn’s projects, perhaps including one or more of his houses.

Complicity and Conviction: Steps toward an Architecture of Convention

I dusted off one of the old books from my collection this weekend. I originally found Complicity and Conviction: Steps toward an Architecture of Convention by retired architect and M.I.T. professor William Hubbard a challenge to read. By the time I purchased it in 1981, both Charles W. Moore and Bill Kleinsasser, among others, had lauded Complicity and Conviction. Charles regarded it as “the most illuminating and convincing description of what architecture is really about,” while Bill directly excerpted quotes for inclusion in his textbook SYNTHESIS. So, I was determined to give it another go, but I immediately struggled with it again.

If I understand Hubbard’s thesis correctly, Complicity and Conviction was his critique of contemporary architecture at the height of the 1970s-1980s modernism vs. post-modernism debate. Specifically, he perceived a failure of nerve within both ideologies, which imposed restrictive forms on individuals, ones shaped by extra-personal forces rather than evolving from human volition. According to Hubbard, this imposition not only threatened the creative essence of architecture but also the embodiment of essential human values in built structures.

The book’s central argument revolved around the need to rescue architecture from this failure of nerve stemming from the detachment between architectural form and human values. Hubbard proposed applying the notion of conventions to architecture, positioning them not as mindless habits but as pragmatic tools for giving concrete form to shared human values.

He explored three systems of conventions—games, typography, and the law—to illustrate how structured rules and conventions can embody human values. Despite the potential for these conventions to be different, Hubbard argued that society willingly accepts and gives complicity to them, convinced of their rightness. He extended these principles to propose strategies for producing architecture that actively engages with and reflects human concerns.

The Lawn, University of Virginia (photo by Phil Roeder, CC BY 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0>, via Wikimedia Commons)

Kresge College (photo by Ponderosapine210, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons)

To illustrate his point, Hubbard presented two building projects he considered successful: Thomas Jefferson's Lawn at the University of Virginia and Kresge College at the University of California at Santa Cruz by MLTW. Hubbard presented the two as tangible examples of how architecture can embody convention as a design strategy. Specifically, he analyzed how both share characteristics that embody  ideals, build upon an esteem for past works and conventions, and widen the range of ways we experience built forms.

The book’s closing chapter analyzed additional projects by renowned contemporary architects (among them Robert Venturi, Philip Johnson, Michael Graves, Richard Meier, and Peter Eisenman) revealing specific ways in which Hubbard believed their work both supported and challenged prevailing convictions about architecture.

The interdisciplinary approach of Complicity and Conviction, drawing inspiration from unconventional sources like scenographic architecture, typography, games, and laws, did nothing if not underscore the complexity of Hubbard's argument. For example, his correlation of the convention of games with architecture, emphasizing unconscious patterns in how individuals navigate built environments, was a useful and creative means to support his primary tenet.

A reason why I continue to find Complicity and Conviction challenging to read was Hubbard’s tendency toward labyrinthine prose and profound convolution; here’s a case in point:

“But in order to use buildings in this way we must open up our attitudes about unconsciously enacted patterns. We must avoid both the putatively humanistic attitude that confers esteem upon any pattern that results from human action, as well as the seemingly scientific attitude that denies the worth of any pattern that is other than the one consciously intended by the actor. For when we make such blanket judgments beforehand, we abdicate our freedom by surrendering our capacity to make decisions to a standard outside the direct control of our will. What we want is the ability to stand as free critics of our own actions, to judge our own actions on the basis of our reaction to the consequences those actions are likely to produce. To do that, we need to know the unseen connections between what we do and what eventually happens. To disclose those unseen connections is, I think, the proper role of analysis. Analysis ought to arm us with that knowledge so that we can decide which of our actions we want to keep up, which we want to stop, even which ones we might want to adopt from other circumstances. But what standard of judgment can we use to make such decisions? Quite apart from finding a standard we can agree upon, what standard of judgment could avoid that surrender of the other, “beforehand” standards?”

You get the picture.

Complicity and Conviction is a difficult read, but it offers rewards to those who are willing to invest the necessary time and effort. It most definitely demanded my careful attention and multiple readings to fully grasp. Would I prefer that Hubbard’s writing style was simpler and more accessible? Yes, but perhaps having to actively participate in the process of understanding and interpreting the text was the point. Perhaps Hubbard wanted his readers to engage more thoroughly, rather than compromising the depth of his philosophical exploration.

On balance, Complicity and Conviction is a significant work because at the time of its publishing it did help prompt a reconsideration of the intersection between architectural ideologies and human values. Hubbard's dispassionate analysis of modernism and postmodernism's impact on architecture served as a valuable contribution to the ongoing discourse in the field. The book's exploration of unconventional perspectives, coupled with an emphasis on the influence of external domains, positioned it as a thought-provoking work within the realm of architectural criticism and theory.

COTE Book TALK: People, Planet, Design

I attended the latest Committee on the Environment (COTE) book talk hosted by AIA Oregon back on February 8. The virtual presentation, produced by Island Press, featured author Corey Squire, AIA and his new book People, Planet, Design: A Practical Guide to Realizing Architecture’s Potential. Corey’s compelling presentation, along with the subsequent question-and-answer period moderated by AIA COTE Leadership Group member Lyndley Kent AIA, focused on the idea that successful buildings should not only be beautiful but also positively impact the community, the planet, and the people who use them.

 

Corey Squire is an architect and nationally recognized expert in sustainable design who has empowered multiple award-winning design firms to achieve high-performance projects across their portfolios. He lectures nationally on a range of sustainable design related topics and was a lead author of the American Institute of Architects Framework for Design Excellence, a resource that is actively redefining excellence in the built environment. Corey is presently an Associate Principal and Director of Sustainability at Bora Architecture and Interiors in Portland.

 

Corey Squire, AIA

People, Planet, Design is a guide for designing change, making the case for how every design choice affects the community, the planet, and the people who will use a given building. The book (which I have yet to read) aims to simplify complex ideas by providing architects with a framework for transforming their practices to meet the needs of a carbon-neutral future.

 

Fundamentally, Corey’s thesis revolves around the factors that empower high-performing architectural firms. He sees these as inextricably tied to the declaration of an urgent and sustained climate imperative, the consequent need to transform day-to-day professional practice, and in turn aligning and using external messaging to leverage support from peers, clients, and the broader populace. He believes some projects perform better than others precisely because the offices who designed them are thriving environments in their own right.

 

Helena Zambrano, AIA, furnished the illustrations used in the book.

To excel in sustainability, a firm committed to sustainability goals needs two things: 1) the right culture; and 2) the right knowledge. Corey asserts that our profession already has all the knowledge and technology it needs. If the right culture additionally exists within a practice, implementing a unified vision for design excellence through an understanding and prioritization of what matters is achievable.

 

One clear mechanism for reaching these goals is to redefine what design excellence means. It can no longer simply be defined by aesthetic trends or by the starchitects of our world. The impact of buildings is too great for the planet to withstand designs whose virtues solely lie in their idiosyncrasy. Instead, we need to define the right outcomes, align those outcomes and systems with effective design strategies, and create an environment—the right culture—within a practice to make them happen.

 

It really was this aspect of Corey’s talk that was my biggest takeaway. The vision thing lies at the crux of the matter for firms who want to do the right thing but do not know where to start. Under even the best circumstances, cultural change takes time and requires effort and patience. Firm leaders must be the ones to establish the necessary vision. They often know what they need to do. How to do it is the challenge. To date, there has been a notable gap in professional literature addressing this. I will reserve judgment until after I have read People, Planet, Design to gauge the extent to which Corey has bridged the gap.

 

I am hopeful the book directly addresses the challenges posed by the exponential growth of things we need to focus on when we design buildings and the limited time within which we are afforded to do so. The sheer volume of knowledge needed to align outcomes and systems with effective design strategies is overwhelming. I asked Corey whether he believes we can ensure that architects—all design professionals—can acquire the necessary knowledge within a reasonable period of development and experience. We all know students enter professional practice with woefully inadequate skill sets, so the problem seems particularly pronounced for the emerging generations of designers. Corey responded by saying his hope is that People, Planet, Design can be part of the solution by promoting a holistic approach to sustainable design that avoids the need for an exhaustive knowledge base. He believes the key is to provide every architect with a baseline understanding of what is important and with guidance about how to proceed when applying that baseline of information to every project.

 

As I said, I have not yet read People, Planet, Design, but hope to soon. If you’re likewise interested in the book, it is available for purchase directly from the Island Press or from Amazon in both e-book or hard-copy (paperback) formats. I am confident my time reading the book will be amply rewarded.

The Story of Architecture

Decluttering the very cluttered home my wife and I live in is one of my modest life goals. We have managed to accumulate a ridiculous amount of stuff over the course of our lives together, much of which we no longer have use for or have any emotional attachment to. Our pledge is to be more mindful moving forward, only adding to our home what we truly need, and to live with more intention. I do make one exception to this pledge, which is to exempt my ever-growing library of books on architecture. I have added to it once more, my most recent acquisition being The Story of Architecture, by Witold Rybczynski. 

I am just a few chapters in, but that is enough for me to understand how Rybczynski organized his book. Ambitiously sweeping in scope, The Story of Architecture traces the evolution of architectural ideals from the Stone Age to the present, demonstrating how technological, economic, and social changes, as well as shifts in taste have shaped those ideals. Rybczynski uses a host of examples to illustrate the universal human desire for order, meaning, and beauty in architecture, ranging from the neolithic Cairn of Barnenez (circa 4800 BC) to the Louvre Abu Dhabi, completed in 2017. 

A survey of architecture over a period of more than six thousand years would seem to be a daunting task for any author or reader, but Rybczynski broke his book into 39 manageable essays, each about 3-6 pages in length. I will read one or two of the essays during each sitting, picking up where I left off as I have time. 

Unlike a typically pedantic, academic accounting of architectural history that prioritizes precise scholarly language, The Story of Architecture is breezy and broadly appealing. Witold Rybczynski is an engaging writer, skilled in making esoteric content accessible to anyone. Unsurprisingly, his writings on architecture and urban design have graced the pages of popular publications like The Atlantic Monthly, The New Yorker, and Slate.com. With a diverse bibliography of over twenty books covering topics ranging from architecture to the history of the seven-day week (Waiting for the Weekend - Wikipedia), to the humble screwdriver (One Good Turn: A Natural History of the Screwdriver and the Screw a book by Witold Rybczynski (bookshop.org), Rybczynski's skill lies in imparting personal thoughts on each subject he explores. 

Like me, Rybczynski spent his formative years in Canada, he in Montreal (though born in Edinburgh, Scotland) whereas I grew up in Vancouver. Despite the undeniable historical, geographical, and cultural differences between Quebec and British Columbia, I think we share a trait that betrays our mutual Canadian-ness: a pragmatic conservatism that shapes our perceptions of what we consider to be good design. 

My personal library now includes four of Rybczynski’s titles; the other three in my collection are:

• The Most Beautiful House in the World (1989)
• The Biography of a Building: How Robert Sainsbury and Norman Foster Built a Great Museum (2011)
• How Architecture Works: A Humanist's Toolkit (2013)

Rybczynski does point out that he did not intend The Story of Architecture to be a comprehensive accounting of architectural history. He limited the works he describes to prominent projects, notably those still in existence and available to visit. He also admits he did not give equal attention to all parts of the world, primarily working within the story of the Western canon. He states his goal was to “best convey the principal thrust of the strain of architectural thought that has most influenced [him],” and to tell the story of architecture as an accounting of the unexpected twists and turns he has followed in coming to appreciate its ability to celebrate, honor, pay homage to, and impress.  

I am looking forward to reading more of The Story of Architecture. Though as of writing this blog post I have only completed the first three chapters, I feel confident in offering my highest recommendation for the book because Witold Rybczynski has never disappointed me in the past. Accordingly, The Story of Architecture already occupies a proud place in my library, a collection I cherish and will continue to add to, decluttering be damned.

The Nature of Order

 

Photo by Roberto Nickson on Unsplash

As I write this blog post, it’s Christmas morning. I’m not a religious person nor am I a particularly spiritual individual, yet I am moved by the “Christmas Spirit.” The yuletide season is a time to be selfless, to forgive, share with others, take stock of what is important, and become better versions of ourselves. It’s also a time to seek meaning and purpose in life, to connect with something beyond the self, and embrace awe and wonder. Additionally, Christmas is marked by reflection upon a range of traditions that link us to our past, to the world, and to the people and communities that are important to us.

I’ve always believed the best architecture is likewise moving. The best architecture is meaningful and purposeful. It is supportive, provides us with comfort, venerates nature, and sustains traditions. Like Christmas, the best architecture is an expression of positive values, of connections with community and a greater good. 

So, is there a formula or theory that we can draw upon to improve the odds of designing buildings and places that are humane, full of life and meaning, immediately and inextricably connected with place, culture, and tradition—in a word, that are “moving?” Many architects and theorists have sought to provide such a prescription, but a successful, fundamental, objective, and all-encompassing model has proven elusive.      

In his four-volume magnum opus, The Nature of Order, the late Christopher Alexander attempted to define the “patterns of life” essential for creating a sense of well-being and connection to the natural world in the places where we live and work. His theory is based on the idea that there is a fundamental unity to the world, and that this unity can be seen in the patterns and structures found in nature. He believed these patterns are essential for creating a sense of life and vitality in the built environment, and that they can be used to create spaces that are both functional and aesthetically pleasing.

Book One of The Nature of Order is The Phenomenon of Life, in which Alexander proposed a scientific view of the world wherein all things have a perceptible degree of “life.”

Book Two is The Process of Creating Life. In it, Alexander claimed life and beauty only arise from processes which allow living structure and structure-preserving transformations to unfold.

In Book Three, A Vision of a Living World, Alexander presented hundreds of examples to illustrate what a world built in accordance with the principles outlined in Books One and Two is like.

Book Four is The Luminous Ground, which revealed Alexander at his most spiritual. In this volume, he described a new cosmology uniting matter and consciousness.

To elucidate the concepts throughout all four volumes, Alexander drew upon a wide range of examples from architecture, urban design, and the natural world. He introduced a set of principles for designing buildings and spaces that reflect natural patterns. These principles include ideas such as the importance of creating a sense of order and coherence in the built environment, the use of natural materials and forms, and the creation of spaces that are adaptable and flexible over time.

One of the key concepts throughout The Nature of Order is Alexander’s concept of “wholeness.” He argued that we should design buildings and spaces with a sense of wholeness, with each element fitting together seamlessly to create a harmonious whole. This sense of wholeness is essential to well-being and connection with the natural world. Harmony is a function of wholeness, and Alexander described how we perceive it, describe it, and achieve it in the formulation of things.

Photo by Ronincmc, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons

To illustrate the concept of wholeness, Alexander used the example of a traditional Japanese tea house. He argued that the tea house is a perfect example of a building that possesses wholeness, with each element fitting together seamlessly to create a harmonious whole. The classic tea house displays a clear hierarchy of structure, with the tearoom at its center, surrounded by a series of smaller rooms and spaces. The materials used, such as wood and stone, are natural and authentic, and the layout of the tea house is changeable.  

Beyond wholeness, Alexander further defined “order” as the arrangement of elements in a way that creates coherence and unity. The concept of order and the patterns and structures that comprise it are closely linked to the idea of an essential quality of buildings and spaces that are deeply satisfying to be in.

The Nature of Order builds upon the ideas Alexander and his colleagues presented earlier in the enormously influential book A Pattern Language. While both argue for the importance of the “patterns of life” to the creation of the places in which we live and work, The Nature of Order goes into greater depth, providing a comprehensive and systematic exploration of how these patterns fundamentally underlie the creation of architecture.   

The Nature of Order does touch on spiritual themes, in the sense that Alexander explored ideas bordering on the ineffable. In another earlier volume, The Timeless Way of Building, Alexander writes of The Quality Without a Name, which he described as a central quality of life in a man, a town, a building, or wilderness. He said this quality is objective and precise, but it cannot be named. This quality permeates all 2,200 pages bound within the four books of The Nature of Order.

To a degree, Alexander’s metaphysical, oracular tone and his commitment to absolute certainty undercut the legitimacy of his utopian principles; nevertheless, it is this very tone that I find compelling about The Nature of Order and Alexander’s other work. It may be because it helps to satisfy a spiritual deficit, a void I reluctantly acknowledge. Perhaps it is because it touches me in the same place, in a different way, as the spirit of Christmas does.

Though I have owned them for many years already, I have yet to completely read all four books of The Nature of Order from cover to cover. They are so unimaginably sweeping, both in terms of their scope and their transformative vision for architecture, that I cannot absorb in one take the entirety of the framework for design that Alexander created. I fully expect it will take multiple re-readings and years for me to appreciate his grand unified theory of everything truly and fully.