An interesting essay on:
The Public Realm and the Language of Architecture. By John Simpson (Engelsberg Ideas, 08072023)
Simpson studied architecture at University College London. He is Principal of John Simpson Architects LLP, Chartered Architects and Urban Designers, London. He is a member of Royal Institute of British Architects. Simpson is part of the New Classical Architecture movement of contemporary architects designing in classical styles. A profile of Simpson's design for his own house featured on the Sky Arts programme,The Art of Architecture, in 2019
We live in an ironic age. Whilst our ancestors were adept at building towns and cities of remarkable beauty, we, in spite of notable technological advances, have failed, opting instead for anonymous environments devoid of any cultural references. Tragically, this could not have happened at a more critical time in our existence. With increasing numbers of people choosing to live in cities, the UN estimates that a staggering 80% to 90% of the world's population will live in urban environments by 2050. Moreover, we are amid a global crisis of well-being, where those living in cities today are 39% more likely to experience a mental disorder. In other words, we are on the cusp of an almost entirely urban worldwide society, where well over a third of people will suffer because of their environment. In this essay, I argue that a large part of the solution to this problem lies not in a frenzied search for increasingly advanced technologies, but rather in learning to combine technology with an older way of thinking, one developed over centuries and used very successfully by our ancestors to inform the design of their towns and cities. The traditional language of architecture.
This I do first by examining the significance of architecture to community and how it is reflected in the public realm, before elaborating on how the public realm is codified by the language of architecture and why, given that many of today's social problems stem from a lack of community, it has never been more relevant. The challenges facing society are illustrated in a number of ways. In the developing world, we have seen an exponential growth in shanty towns, with approximately a third of urban populations inhabiting them in 2014. Like a cancer, they establish themselves, usually at the edge of a city, and grow without proper consideration, adequate services, or sanitation obliterating any sense of local identity as the city is drowned in a homogenous sea of first-world hand-me-downs. In the developed world, we find innumerable, soulless suburban developments of the past century, where convenience and economy of construction triumphed over a building's beauty, or indeed the well-being of those within them, as illustrated so painfully by the housing estates of Britain, as well as the notorious [banlieue in France]. In more prosperous areas, these developments are punctuated by statement pieces for corporate firms whose buildings dominate what little public space remains, advertising their presence at the expense of the local community, whose fragile identity is completely overpowered.
These additions to our cities invariably ignore human scale and, devoid of any sense of place, are designed so that life without a car is at best inconvenient and at worst impossible. In our historic towns and cities, meanwhile, older buildings are repeatedly replaced by new ones that bear no relation to the history of the local community, its character or cultural identity. Whilst local authorities appear to turn a blind eye and instead quibble about whether there is adequate room for parking cars or whether the turning space for a refuse collection lorry is sufficient. Without much to distinguish one place from another, it is not surprising that occupants fail to build attachments, settle and lay down routes in these places. Instead many people today seem condemned to roam as nomads moving from one anonymous city to another as their work demands, pursuing the mirage of a better life. Without a community to fall back on, the casualties are inevitably the old, the young, and the vulnerable. In the UK, this is illustrated by the 1.9 million people over 70 who report feeling lonely. According to the charity Age UK, loneliness is as toxic as smoking 15 cigarettes a day. There are also increasing numbers of people suffering from mental health disorders and the unhappiness of many children who have turned to the virtual world of the computer for stimulation. A recent study by the National Trust suggested that children are playing outside for an average of just over four hours a week, half the amount of time their parents did.
At the heart of this issue is the fact that humans are social animals who, in order to preserve their well-being, need to live in communities. According to the Cambridge English dictionary, community is defined either as people considered a unit because of their common interests, social group, nationality, or more biologically, a group of animals or plants that live or grow together. Architecturally, community is not only reflected in but curated by the public realm of the city, the streets, squares, and open spaces between the buildings in which we interact. Just as each of us contributes to the society in which we live, the architecture of our buildings contributes to the form and nature of our society. Rather than merely providing circulation space to private buildings, therefore, the public realm must embody our shared values and aspirations as well as personifying in some way, where we have come from and what distinguishes us from others. This can range from a simple detail on a facade to the order and organization of buildings, but it must evolve out of the same influences enjoyed by its inhabitants, be they ideological, historic, or geographical. The latter encompass location, climatic conditions, geology, and technology is particularly significant.
This is perhaps seen nowhere more clearly than in Venice, which developed a highly distinctive architectural style to reflect its unique position as an island port. Practically, this is illustrated by the use of water entrances, storage, and business rooms on the ground floor with residential rooms relegated upstairs in case of flooding, as well as by the unusual shape of chimneys, which are designed as a guard against fire, given the density of the buildings. Culturally, it is seen in the characteristic Venetian formation of the piano nobile around a central hall, often lit at one end by arched windows embellished with Byzantine, Gothic, or classical detailing in line with the fashion of the time, reflecting the city's position as a multicultural trading centre. Indeed, so powerful was this architectural reflection of the Venetian community that as the city's influence expanded into the Veneto and along the Dalmatian Coast, areas where the functional constraints imposed by the lagoon were not an issue, the style continued to be used. Private villas and farmhouses, or the formation and character of towns built on the mainland, illustrate just how integral this type of architecture was to the city's identity and sense of belonging.
This phenomenon is not unique to Venice and is effectively how every city establishes its identity, building according to an established framework which has a clear pattern of rules rooted in the public realm. In other words, it relies on a language of construction analogous to the spoken word.
The Cambridge English dictionary defines language as a system of communication consisting of sounds, words, and grammar. In an architectural context, grammar can be defined as use of proportion and scale, words as the individual elements such as windows, cornices, and door cases, and sound as location, geography, materials, and so on. This is necessary not only to create coherent, even beautiful designs for buildings in tune with one another, but also to project a sense of continuity between one generation of buildings and the next, ensuring the places to which we belong now are related to and enjoyed by our children and grandchildren to come.
By following a language, change, rather than jarring with its surroundings, is consensual, with each architect or builder adding to the work of the previous one in a thoughtful way, investing further significance in the architectural canon. This is why, ever since humans learn to build, the language of architecture has flourished alongside the written and spoken word. It is an essential part of a culture's expression and one seen in every society across the globe, from China to India, the Middle East to the Midwest. Let us dive further into the Western architectural tradition and explore the etymology of its language and origins in ancient Greece. Vitruvius, who wrote the only surviving text on ancient architecture, states that the Doric order, the foundation of ancient Greek architecture, derives its detail from the original timber construction of their buildings. The aesthetics of the order being the expression of post and lintel construction with the triglyphs representing presenting the ends of the beam on the exterior façade. Various studies have been done similarly, exploring how floating on columns originates from bundles of reeds and that of mouldings from the technology of connecting timber. It is reasonable to assume that the Greeks began to use stone as a more durable construction material, the more affluent they became.
However, despite the whole world around them having device techniques to span openings using small pieces of masonry, in transitioning to stone, the Greeks persisted in building using post and lintel construction. Something that is simple and relatively economic to do in timber requires significant effort in stone, relying on heavy, long, and cumbersome pieces of masonry. It is inconceivable that the Greeks did not know how to build arches. Since the first city of Ur in ancient Mesopotamia, humanity had learned how to span openings using small baked mud bricks. The great Ishtar Gate in Babylon, with its sophisticated use of brick arches, was built in 575 BC. In 432 BC, Pericles rebuilt the Acropolis and the Parthenon we know today in stone, post, and lintel construction. The Greeks were sophisticated builders, but they continued to use techniques their predecessors used to build with timber. They chose to do this not only because it linked them with their ancestors, but also to assert their difference from the Eastern Persians who had tried so hard to dominate them. The basic slang of Western architecture was therefore formed out of a stubborn determination to maintain a distinct identity and to remain aesthetically untainted by potential dominators.
The same is true of Greek politics, philosophy, art, sculpture, and democracy, and is thus how a distinct Western culture was established. Once codified into a formal grammar, the Western tradition was carried forwards by the Romans before rediscovery in the Renaissance, sweeping across Europe over to America and then down to us today, enjoying over 3,000 years worth of application. The reason this tradition has been so successful, satisfying so many generations, is because as a supple framework, it has been capable of serving each cohort. It lends itself to re-repeated reinvention, allowing successive people to take ownership of it and make it contemporary, reflecting the relevant priorities of each age. This is illustrated by the numerous interpretations of classicism in the Baroque, Rococo, and Neoclassical traditions, as well as a myriad of regional ones where local forms are directly analogous to regional dialects. These dialects or idioms are responsible for creating some of the most beautiful towns and cities of the past, including the a fore-mentioned Venice. As such, the classical tradition is an iterative process and remains one of the most dynamic cultural phenomena the world has ever seen, as contemporary as the generation interpreting it is imaginative.
To further the literary analogy, it is for the same reason that we continue to write novels. Even though they are all variations of the same story, the lens through which each generation views them is different, at first religious, then historic, romantic, Gothic, and so on. Crucially, however, because each novel is written using the same language, not only do readers relate to them now, they also understand where they have come from. Let us take Piazza Navona, for example, one of the most popular public squares in Rome. Its original shape was determined by the form of an ancient Roman circus built in the first century AD. In the 1500s, when the city market moved here from Capitoline Hill, the new square's first buildings were erected on the foundations of the old tiered public stands. Whilst the market has moved again, the piazza remains one of the liveliest public spaces in Rome, embellished in the 17th century by Pope Innocent X, who commissioned fountains by Bernini and architecture by Borromini. Just as a Richard Curtis film may remind us of a Jane Austin novel, then so too does the outline of the Piazza Navona, remind us of Rome's ancient forbearers. Indeed, given its visibility, this is all the more apparent. Despite the endless variety, diversity, and sheer chaos that makes up a city, if it is built using a consistent architectural language, it retains a cohesion that reflects the cultural identity of its inhabitants, while simultaneously making it a satisfying, enjoyable, and beautiful place to live.
When praising the great architectural legacies of our ancestors, we must not forget that their language has been left to us also. Arguably, this is a far greater legacy, and with over a millennium of refinement, it is more ancient, subtle, and sophisticated than any one building. Moreover, it trounces any slur cast against it by contemporary practice, which vainly assumes the lessons learned over the last century somehow surpassed those of the previous 15. In light of the issues currently faced by society, we have no choice but to use it. It is the architectural Excalibur, if you will. With it, our ancestors achieved a astonishing feats without the aid of the remarkable technology available to us today. In combining the two, it not only has the potential to hugely increase quality of life for millions, but to save lives across the globe.
By providing safe, culturally sensitive living spaces for those in the developing world, as well as communal spaces for those in the developed, where premature deaths and suicides, nuclear rather than extended family units, and an ageing society are all leading to an unprecedented social crisis. Given the scale of the problems and their unique relation to the built environment, never before has the role of architecture been so significant. To quote the 15th-century Italian architect and author Leon Battista Alberti, “Beauty is the adjustment of all parts proportionately so that one cannot add or subtract or change without impairing the harmony of the whole”. Over the last century, too many things have been changed, added to, or subtracted from without consideration of the whole. This has resulted in an inevitable loss of harmony, both aesthetically and socially. In order to regain it, a more holistic view is needed, and we must return to the language of architecture, a tradition with community at its core, not frozen in time, as its critics suggest, but open to proportional adjustment: hence its success. Use this and we shall recover the urban beauty so longed for, reject it and we needlessly condemn future generations to misery.
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