It so happens these days that we encounter the phrase "Architecture for Architects" in speeches and writings; and we're already used to it. What is meant when this term is used, is that architects believe, at the time of drafting and design, only in those thoughts and ideas they've already accepted as the mere truth or have taken their colleagues' words for. They're not much concerned with people's morals and standards and don't even pay much attention to the needs of their clients or people in general.
Even the International Congress of Modern Architecture, CIAM (Congrès Internationaux d'Architecture Moderne), which came to reality by the efforts of Le Corbusier and some other world's most well-known architects, was ironically named the International Congress of Mutual Admiration (Congrès Internationaux pour Admiration Mutuelle).
Once Larousse dictionary described architects as society's tailors, but in this condition architects are such tailors who take their own size when making cloths for people! If this sounds like an overstatement one could agree on the fact that they're more concerned with their own tastes and ideas than that of their clients.
Architecture is not a pure art, that's why it's sorted under the title of "Applied arts." Though, it has one thing in common with the other branches of art: it does exist for people and must exist by their side. As Arnold Hauser says, "Ruskin was the first in the U.K. to insist on the fact that art is something related to all people." We know Ruskin is the one who wrote the "Seven Candles of Architecture" and therefore we can believe when he talks about arts he has architecture in mind too.
This very fact is the essential point of consideration in this article. We should bear in mind that architecture is a kind of art and the same questions as the above goes for other arts — from literature to music. But one should be aware of the difference between architecture and art in general, especially when the relation of ordinary people and architecture is discussed.
The disenchantment of the public
This judgement may to some extent be true, but it is not complete; it sounds rather one-sided, and it does not hold in every case. Moreover, in recent decades it may have left people — and even some young architects newly arriving in the field — disappointed and at times even pessimistic about architecture.
Architecture without Architects, the exhibition Dr Bernard Rudofsky mounted in New York in 1964 and the book of the same title that he published¹; Prince Charles's dissatisfaction with modern architecture; books such as From Bauhaus to Our House², by the journalist Tom Wolf³; and Jane Jacobs's sharp criticism of modern architecture and urbanism, set down and published in The Death and Life of Great American Cities — all these are instances of the spread of this pessimism.
The greatest danger of this pessimism and disappointment is that it has thrown the doors wide open to anyone and everyone, of any capacity or talent, and has handed the criterion to noise, deal-making, glibness, and the power of salesmanship: while many an architectural masterpiece — particularly of modern architecture — is ugly and discordant and the people flee from it. So everything is acceptable, or in Jencks's phrase everything goes, and so are vulgar, popular works.
The relation of people to architecture
This very point gives rise to the discussion of this article. What is the relation of the people to architecture, and what should — or could — it be? Are only those criteria acceptable that the architects themselves have laid down? Or should architectural works be liked by people, and should they meet the people's needs?
For a more exact discussion of these points, the matter must be examined in a broader field. For, without forgetting the material and functional sides of architecture, we should remember that architecture is an art, and the questions we have raised apply, of course in different degrees, to the other arts — from literature to music. Even the work of the philosopher, the relation of his words and thoughts to the people and the people's grasp of them, can serve as an example for our discussion. Plato, who wrote on the gate of his Academy: "Let none enter who does not know geometry," did not, in one sense, only close the gate to the body of the people; he also restricted entry, even from among scholars and young seekers of knowledge, to those who knew geometry alone.
Among artists, the relation of writers and men of letters with the people is probably more direct and, in this sense, easier; the relation of musicians, especially at the loftier levels, is more indirect and more difficult. The writer's connection is more direct because the man of letters and the poet write or compose in the language of the people — the same language all their fellow speakers understand and use, or transmit to one another their meanings and thoughts in. Speech and writing thus furnish the relation of the writer and the people; and except for occasional exceptions — obscure words in old texts, the long sentences of Thomas Mann, the convoluted phrases of Derrida, and to some extent the verbose writings of Sartre — the writer and the poet, by the means at their disposal, can establish a contact with their readers and listeners earlier and more directly, at least relatively. Of course interpretation and exegesis have their place; but the language of letters lies close to the everyday language of the people, and on the whole the contact is more easily established. It is clear that even Hafez's language is not exactly simple; yet it has so much sweetness, ingenuity, fluency, and clarity that the body of Persian-speakers — even if the more refined subtleties escape them — take pleasure from him to the measure of their understanding, establish a contact with him, and become so attached that they ask him about their present and their future.
Two great sides: function and beauty
Architecture is not a pure art. For this reason it has been counted among the "applied arts." But it has one common feature with the other arts, and that is that it must be for the people and with the people. In Arnold Hauser's⁴ words: "Ruskin was also the first in England to insist on this truth that art is a matter that concerns the body of the people."⁵ We know that Ruskin is the same thinker who wrote The Seven Lamps of Architecture⁶, and we can believe that his reference to "art" includes architecture as well.
All the same, the difference between architecture and art in the general sense — especially where the relation of architecture to the body of the people is concerned — must be recognised. Our discussion so far has been an attempt in that direction. Yet, taking the effort further, we should remember that architecture has two principal sides: the functional and the aesthetic. Some thinkers — Eric Gill⁷ among them, and after him Christopher Alexander — hold that, if the functional side is properly answered, the aesthetic side will follow of itself; but this is either untrue or incomplete. We have seen Alexander's banal work in Das Café Lintz in Vienna and are familiar with the design and appearance of this café, which, in spite of a measured functional logic, has an ordinary, even ugly look. This witness shows clearly that a measured and correct function — which one might suppose Alexander's work to possess — does not necessarily produce an architecture worthy of the name; the two sides each have their own characteristics, values and criteria. The reverse is also true: by no criterion can one accept the function of Eisenman's bedroom riddled with holes! But which of these two sides — function or beauty — can better and more largely give rise to the relation of architecture and people, and preserve it? In so far as the question concerns the functional side of architecture — itself springing from the actual and potential demands and needs of clients (the people) — the answer is plain. Of course architecture must be considered and convincing in its function, that is, must answer the demands and needs of the people who use it. In smaller works of architecture, residential buildings for instance — though the matter calls for a long discussion of its own — let us assume this is a simple business; but for larger works, especially great buildings, meeting the demands and needs of all the people is not easily done. It is precisely here that architecture comes close to planning. Planning for an architectural design has been called programming, and its inventor — so far as I know — is William Peña⁸, an American architect of Mexican origin who has wide and subtle thoughts on this matter.
The trouble and complexity here is that, although the answer in architectural design is relatively direct and relatively simple for some needs and demands, it is not so for all of them. The variety of demands and needs is in some cases so great that they enter into conflict with one another. As an example, consider the composition of interior and exterior space in architecture, which in the work of some first-rank architects is reckoned a high quality, and which many architectural critics of standing have praised and spoken of; and set it beside the question of energy economy, which became urgent and widespread in the West especially after the energy crisis of 1973. These two factors, or qualities, are at odds with one another in architecture: one calls for ample, transparent (glazed) spaces; the other calls for narrow, closed spaces that are easier and cheaper to heat, cool, and ventilate.
It may yet be that one day mathematical models, with the use of electronic instruments, will give relatively suitable and convincing answers to these functional questions. The advances made in this field in recent decades carry promise of this — though it may also be that no solution will ever be found for problems of this kind, and that they will remain among the difficulties with which man must learn to live.
Moreover, in different buildings the role and importance of function and beauty are not the same. In a memorial building, for instance, functional issues weigh less than the artistic side, by comparison with a residential building; for in a memorial building the aim is to keep alive a name or an event of importance. Here architecture might perhaps be said to come closer to sculpture.
Following the people's demands
On the architect's following the demands of the people (the client or clients), one should be aware that the demands and needs of the people may change. People may want one thing today and, with the passing of time, something else tomorrow. More importantly still, in some buildings the future users are unknown. Office buildings and large stores are among these. The basis of Mies van der Rohe's discussion of the universal plan (the plan suited to any purpose) and Le Corbusier's plan libre (the free plan) was that the architect should provide only the principal-space scheme of the building, so that within this principal space the building could take shape according to the needs and demands of its future users — a chance that the new technology had given by freeing the building from the limits of load-bearing.
It may happen, in some cases, that the architect, by his own intuition, sets aside one consideration in favour of another that he considers more important — for example, the pleasant view of snow-covered mountains seen in winter through wide windows, in exchange for greater and dearer energy consumption! Perhaps it is here that the architect is accused of imposing his own criteria upon a building whose cost the client is paying and which is built for the client's life. We have read that Dr Farnsworth⁹, Mies van der Rohe's client, took her architect to court over the house he had built for her, on the grounds that the cost of this building had grown several times beyond the figure the architect had originally estimated. Of course this lady, who was a professor of medicine at Northwestern University¹⁰ (near Chicago), lost in court; but in exchange she became the owner of a house that friends and foes alike have recognised as a masterpiece of modern architecture, and which now, after her death and after passing through several hands, has become a private museum and is registered among the national twentieth-century works of America.
The artistic side of architecture
The reference to Mies van der Rohe's Farnsworth House brings us close to the second point of our discussion: "the artistic side of architecture." The Farnsworth House has been accepted, and continues to stand, as a rare masterpiece because its artistic side is strong; Mies's exquisite and lofty taste set aside whatever struck him as superfluous or destructive of his scheme, and dealt only with the most essential elements of architecture.
But discussion of the artistic side of architecture is much harder than judgement of its functional side, since the criteria of architecture's functional side are "objective": do the private and public realms of a house keep their dignity and privacy, or do they not? Many of these criteria — as Christopher Alexander has asked himself, and answered yes or no — can be answered with conviction. But to the criteria of the artistic side of architecture one cannot easily and simply answer yes or no. Some of them are essentially not measurable. More importantly still, many of the criteria of architecture's artistic side cannot be laid down in advance, without regard to a particular work. Every criterion of this kind weakens the creative quality of architecture and renders architecture stiff and constrained. The artistic side of architecture is mental, and the question of taste, sensibility, and accepted norms is at issue in it: that is, an architectural work — a work worthy of the name — cannot be praised or rejected on the strength of "compelling reasons."
Arnold Whittick¹¹, one of the contemporary critics and authorities, raises this very issue and brings forward a notion he has called universal subjectivity. This phrase one might perhaps render in Persian as "general subjectivity" or "collective subjectivity"; but lest it be confused with the subjectivity of the masses, one should at once add: "the subjectivity of the body of the discerning." The point really is that, if the body of the discerning has praised a work, that judgement — even if it has not been carried out on objective criteria thought through in advance — is in fact an acceptance which leaves an effect. Sa'di's speech, for instance, has been called fluent, exalted, and "easy-yet-impossible" (sahl-i mumtani); its excellence and loftiness have been accepted, and need no acceptance from this person or that.
Our discussion is of architecture — is the acceptance of the discerning alone the condition? Then what is the relation of architecture to people — to this one and that one — and how is it justified? What, then, is the meaning of Picasso's saying that "in art there is no upper-class neighbourhood," by which he meant just this relation of people and art? Yes — in the judgement and recognition of works of art, the views and verdict of the discerning are the condition; but they themselves are affected by the people and society — only with a higher "filter" through which not all things, of every kind, may pass. Therein lies the difference between high art and popular art. Popular art that is in vogue does not last; in a short time "a fashion" replaces "a fashion." Perhaps Goethe — the famous German poet — puts the matter more clearly: "The artist must show people what they ought to want."
Of course, over time the judgement of the discerning sometimes shifts because of the public's reception. There have been artists who, during their lifetime, met with indifference from the discerning. Van Gogh quitted life in complete misfortune. Henri Rousseau — who was a minor official of the Paris customs and was therefore called "Henri the customs man" (le douanier)¹² — set aside all the rules of anatomy and the accepted criteria of the discerning in his painting, and is now known by the appreciation of the discerning and of the discerning society of the people; his name and his work have entered every encyclopaedia.
Where architecture comes closest to the people
From this discussion it should now be clear that the relation of the people with architecture is determined chiefly by its functional sides: people want, and have the right, to enjoy comfort in works of architecture, and life in their building should be easy and desirable; whereas the assessment of architectural works is done largely on the basis of its artistic sides. In recent decades there have been efforts to overcome this "duality." By way of example, Charles Moore¹³, the well-known contemporary architect — who has now been some time deceased and was one of the protesters against modern architecture precisely because of modern architecture's indifference to the people — used to arrange television programmes and tried to design a building by gathering the people's opinions, by telephone. We see that his work led nowhere, and that the design of the building, in the end, came out as he himself had wanted! It is clear that his designerly questions drew the answers he expected. In one residential house he even put the shower — or, in his own phrase, the "edicule"¹⁴ — in the middle of the living-room. Thank God the house belonged to him; otherwise the people's outcry might well have risen, that the place of a shower is the bath, not the middle of the living-room. Kevin Lynch's aim, in The Image of the City, was to build the city according to the views of the people, but this is an almost impossible task. He, too, in each city of several millions, polled only thirty persons — and even then with questions which inevitably steered the answers, more or less, in the direction the questioner desired.
Housing and architecture
There is one place where architecture comes forward as a pressing need of the people. Perhaps here, more than anywhere else, architecture can establish a responsible relation with the people: the people's need for shelter, for a roof, for a place that makes the continuation of their lives possible. With the ever-rising population, the millions of young people who reach marrying age and seek to set up a family demand housing — housing that is part of their natural social rights; housing whose purchase or rent agrees with their income and their budget. In this matter, more than in any other, "economy" speaks first; and more than anywhere the low-income classes (the deprived) are under pressure, and the relation of architecture to people is at its weakest in this field.
In the time of President Carter — who claimed strongly to be a man of the people — a minister diverted the budget allocated to housing loans for the low-income classes (something in the order of 400-500 million dollars) to the building of luxury apartments for the rich, and sold them to her "friends." When the matter came to light, all this minister's reply — she was first put on trial and then acquitted — was that building luxury apartments was more profitable for the state!
We see that, in the building of housing for the low-income classes — and even for the middle classes — under the present circumstances, no place is left for architecture. Cramped, dark, box-like, identical, and uniform shelters are usually built en masse, of the cheapest possible materials, to quiet the noise a little and to stand, in place of housing, as housing for the people's needs and to lessen the sharpness of the question.
Truly, so long as the bankers, builder-sellers and brokers are at work, there is no place for architecture, and the relation of architecture to people remains weak and ineffective.
Notes
1. Architecture without Architects 2. From Bauhaus to Our House 3. Tom Wolf 4. Arnold Hauser 5. The Social History of Art, by Arnold Hauser, translated by Ebrahim Younesi, p. 1548 6. The Seven Lamps of Architecture 7. Eric Gill 8. William Peña 9. Dr Farnsworth 10. Northwestern University 11. Arnold Whittick 12. Henri, le douanier 13. Charles Moore 14. Edicule
