Democratising the Tectonic

The realization that the material qualities of buildings matter enormously — that the human choice of these qualities connects us to our most primal perceptions and to our relationship with nature in humanity's enduring struggle to transform the constructional world into a more agreeable and dignified place to live — this constructional understanding, as Kenneth Frampton puts it, is a formidable response to the sometimes monstrous and terrifying forces of dehumanization in the modern world:

In the past quarter-century, much has been said about the marginalization of architects. To put it very simply, the argument is that for office buildings and similar commercial ventures, form is largely dictated by urban regulations, economics, and structure; interior design is usually done by others; and mechanical services alone constitute the single largest cost element. In such a production, architects play a very minor role: they prepare the overall project — at best within a very limited scope; their architectural expression is confined to time spent on entrance lobbies and atria, if such spaces exist in the building at all; and the facade, a relatively inexpensive element, allows for quite dramatic differences in building appearance without much added cost.

The rise of postmodernism in the 1970s and 80s was also a consequence of this: in this period, the work of architects was pushed further to the margins, and buildings were little more than indicators of their owners' power. Against this superficial notion of architecture, two significant reactions emerged. One is generally called Deconstructionism, in which entirely traditional conceptions of place and space are overturned — partly an attempt to give architectural embodiment to the philosophical doctrine of deconstruction, which critiques the presumption of simple, guaranteed meanings for any cultural activity. Deconstructionism has led, in its most superficial manifestations, to the absurdities of Eisenman and Koolhaas; yet it has also inspired profoundly thoughtful masterpieces, such as Daniel Libeskind's Jewish Museum in Berlin.

The second reaction to marginalization cannot be identified by a single label. It is a growing understanding across the world — a realization that the material qualities of buildings are of immense importance. The human choice of these qualities connects us to our most primal perceptions and to our relationship with nature in the enduring human struggle to transform the world into a more agreeable and dignified place to live. This constructional understanding, as Kenneth Frampton puts it, is a formidable response to the sometimes terrifying forces of dehumanization. Although one might dispute, to some extent, his very dark analysis of modern capitalist culture — and certainly the last issue of the journal gave his extremely binding rules quite compelling treatment — he is absolutely right that tectonic quality contains something profoundly important for us at the deepest levels of our being. It is so profound that we have no adequate word, or even a clear idea, to express its power.

Compare these descriptions with how we work when we try to talk about the nature of materials and how they affect us. According to the worn professional language we typically use: wood is warm, fragrant, rough or smooth; steel is cold, thin and stretched; stone is hard, strong and massive. These words are lifeless. They have no resonance. And perhaps one reason why the Eisenman/Koolhaas tendency, with its insistence on discourse, cannot come to terms with the material nature of materials, is precisely this.

Unlike our conceptions of space and its boundaries, which from very ancient times have been translated for us in a semi-magical manner — where, for example, the ceiling stands for the sky (Old French: ciel), the window for the eye of the wind (Norse: vindauga), or even the room for an open space in the forest (Old English: rum) — we need enduring strategies for giving constructional presence to buildings. We must also discover that humanity's deep responses to materials can extend to a much wider range than the traditionally familiar materials of brick, tile, stone, timber, and wood — the so-called "natural" materials that Vitruvius discussed, though it is hard to understand why brick or lime, made from mineral matter under extremely high temperatures, should be called natural. Bronze, from the great doors of the Florence Baptistery to the pleasingly tactile curves of Aalto's door handles, has been a beloved and noble material. Since the Crystal Palace, few have been able to remain indifferent to the power of ferrous metals as building materials, or to the properties of glass as a magical substance that almost imperceptibly separates us from the outside world — yet can, if asked, take on colors and tints capable of transforming the relationship of inside to outside. We have gradually come to realize that other new materials may also have equally transformative effects. For example, a few years ago, it was discovered that sheets of compressed plastic in various colors, when laminated and then carved, can possess authenticity and be a source of pleasure. New materials must be discovered with a sensitive constructional understanding and also with technological competence.

Constructional Knowledge and Technology

Peter Rice, one of the most brilliant engineers of the century, who died tragically young, when describing the Pompidou Centre, reminded us of a truth about the nature of the relationship between technology and industrialization — a truth that called upon our deepest perceptions:

This dispels another myth about technology — that for a technical problem there is one correct solution. This feeling is very common, but a technical solution, like any other, is a moment in time — a decision that depends on previous background and aptitude above all. What is often missing is evidence of human intervention:

If Rice had lived and completed his professional life, he would probably have taught us many more things about the nature of materials. His last experiments with stone in tension — seemingly strange — were bold discoveries about the nature of materials and the frontiers of constructional sensibility. We must continue experimenting with tectonic quality in ways that reconcile modern technology with our deepest feelings. These experiments will usually be on the scale of magnificent serial spectacles — but not all. They will be of vital importance for a living culture and one that resonates.

Frampton errs, however, when he says that the celebration of tectonic quality must necessarily go beyond individual creativity. The use of touch and smell is no less subjective and open to the artist's interpretation than the use of sight; it is simply harder to talk about. A few months ago, at the opening of "The Ark" by Ralph Erskine, I watched him standing in its corridors, caressing handrails made of various types of wood and veneers and slightly differing cross-sections. One of the workshop supervisors asked: "Which of them do you like best, Mr. Erskine?" A long silence followed, during which he rubbed the wood very thoughtfully and carefully with his hand. Finally, with unusual economy of words, he said: "Well, certainly here we had architecture standing with an awareness..." It truly had "hand" in the process of making. That is why when he said "it is all made of plaster and cardboard," I was astonished: in fact, it had been made from the cheapest type of dry-lining construction. Perhaps Erskine's method is one of the few available to us today for constructing ordinary buildings that can still make contact with the material surfaces of perception.

Perhaps — at least for some building types — we should set aside the idea of a seamlessly unified building, the assumption that Greek temples or Gothic cathedrals were always thus. There will always be a handful of exceptional works, like Kahn's Kimbell Art Gallery, Brion Cemetery by Scarpa, and Villa Mairea by Aalto, in which everything is integrated and unified. But these buildings, like temples and cathedrals before them, will continue to be the product of unstinting patronage by devoted benefactors.

To give constructional presence to buildings — to democratize tectonic quality — we need enduring strategies. We must also discover that humanity's deep responses to materials can extend to a much wider range, so as to go beyond the traditionally familiar materials of brick, tile, stone, timber, and wood. New materials must be discovered with a sensitive constructional understanding and technological competence alike.