The realization of space, from the moment the first ideas and spatial concepts take shape in the architect's mind to the point where they find tangible expression in built form, requires traversing a path that may be called "architectural engineering." A path along which the designs and images that have been envisioned as sketches, models, and the like are first cast in the mold of geometry and numbers, expressed in the language of construction drawings, and then, through successive stages of construction, given physical substance by means of building elements, materials, and components. The process of an "idea" becoming a built work exists in all forms of artistic creation: both those that, like painting, sculpture, or music, culminate in a tangible object, and those that, like poetry or fiction, have no physical materiality. But what is common to all is that the realization of idea into work requires methods, skills, and arts that are largely learned and acquired, and when it is necessary to borrow from other fields for the "execution" of the work, this is usually where that happens. Unlike the creative idea and design, which are generally neither very predictable nor necessarily improved by more physical labor and a larger team, the process of construction and execution is more or less estimable and plannable, and it is quite possible that with the expenditure of more effort, time, and money, better results can be achieved. In architecture, for various reasons, the path from idea to execution is long, expensive, and complex, and inevitably intermingles with other domains such as management, economics, and of course various engineering sciences and technologies—so much so that not only is the entry of specialists from these fields into the arena unavoidable, but usually a trace of each of those domains remains in the built space. In this respect, perhaps only cinema can be compared to architecture. On the other hand, architecture is inherently a social phenomenon: both its genesis and formation are entirely dependent on social variables, and once built,
it becomes an influential factor upon those same variables. Until the pre-modern era, architecture was discussed and attended to more from an aesthetic standpoint, but coinciding with the industrialization of building and the dawn of modernism, its technical and technological aspect has become more prominent and has turned into a factor influencing the concept and essence of space. In the last four decades, at least in lands that have reached a degree of development—that have moved past technical bottlenecks—the cultural and social dimensions of architecture have become more visible and pronounced. But all of this is conditional upon the execution of architecture and the flow of life within it, because a paper design is generally devoid of social and cultural effects and will have no effective reach beyond professional circles, and like the partitions of a musical composition, it will be comprehensible only to those in the profession and even then from a distance. In this issue, the question is put up for discussion: how does the spirit governing the mentality and initial ideas of an architectural work become more effective and refined along the path from idea to construction, or conversely, gradually lose its color and perhaps disintegrate? And how should the dimensions of other factors involved in construction be controlled so that they do not grow to a size that casts the overall architectural design and the spirit of space into their shadow? What is the role of architects in all this? Does the reality that erecting a building requires diverse specializations and techniques relieve or diminish the architect's responsibility for all aspects of space, reducing their duty to ideation and the definition of the overall spatial structure or the expression of the spirit and atmosphere of space? What effect do those other factors and techniques have on the quality and atmosphere of built space, and through what mechanisms should their effects be guided?
Footnotes: 1- "Mohandess" (engineer) is the active participle of hendese (geometry) and means one who measures. 2- Art: used in its traditional sense—a compound of taste, skill, experience, and knowledge. "Why should one draw out this speech? / Art appeared superior to essence."
The Seven Crutches Years ago, Philip Johnson, in a lecture, enumerated seven "crutches" for architecture that, in his view, most architects rely upon at least one of to produce their designs: good design, utility, comfort, "client's wish," and structure. And as he also said, not all crutches are equal: the crutch of good design may yield results that at least have visual merits; leaning on the crutch of structure will not produce a glaring disaster; but the crutch of the client's wish can be terrifying, because any catastrophe can be justified by leaning on it. The words "crutch" and "leaning"—which inherently carry a connotation of disability—bear such negative weight that designing with a crutch is automatically deemed reprehensible. But who has ever taken pen to architectural design and not known that even in the most conceptual and avant-garde designs, it is virtually impossible for no trace of any crutch to remain? Now let us call them not crutches but, say, the origin of the idea, technical and functional requirements, financial and legal constraints, and so on (Frank Lloyd Wright used to say that constraints are the architect's friends). Of course, the old man himself (who was not very old at the time) had candidly acknowledged that he had always leaned on a crutch in design
and presumably would continue to do so. But if we accept one definition of architecture as the creation of space, and if built space is the vessel of human life, then the vessel of architectural space—like the human being who is its content—will be something complex and multifaceted, with various layers that cannot be observed from a single particular viewpoint or a limited angle, or, in Johnson's terms, by leaning on a single crutch. All works of architecture throughout all of human history—from the most outstanding and creative to the most commonplace—are not free of the imprint of crutches, and it may well be that the spark of a creative idea flew from the tip of one of Johnson's very crutches. In other words, if in design all dimensions are sacrificed to a single factor—or, in Johnson's terms, one leans on only a single crutch—the result is what alarmed Philip Johnson years ago.
Architecture Suspended in Air But after all this syllogistic reasoning, I want to speak of a kind of architecture or building construction that leans on no crutch at all and is floating in the air: it is neither pioneering nor path-breaking, has no historical roots, possesses no proper design,
is neither functional nor useful nor robust, provides no comfort, is not inexpensive, has no logical diagram or relationships, and not even its client knows what they want. Its sole attribute is that it is devoid of any creativity, logic, beauty, and knowledge. I have named it "minimalist architecture," or rather, the minimum of architecture. Of course, by minimalist architecture I do not mean Minimal architecture in the sense derived from the aphorism "less is more," in which visible elements are reduced to a minimum and pure space is enriched. Minimal space is to create and produce—and even to imitate and repeat—a difficult thing, not the work of every weaver and carder, because like a polished mirror it clearly reflects the slightest flaw, and one can no longer hide spatial defects and design weaknesses amid a multitude of elements. Likewise, primitive spaces such as hand-hewn caves, stone-stacked animal pens, huts and nomadic tents, Eskimo igloos, or rudimentary forms of rural architecture are not included in this designation, because despite their primitive appearance, they contain an essence of architectural and engineering creativity and logic that, sometimes in combination with the environment, nature, and topography, produces novel and extraordinary spaces and vistas. Minimalist architecture is that in which the share of art, knowledge, and logic—in mathematical terms—tends toward zero. Its shaping factors are neither Johnson's seven crutches, nor Vitruvius's three principles, nor any other standard or norm that could even with great indulgence be considered architectural-engineering or economic. (Surely, profiteering to the last penny cannot be called economy.) But my reason for blackening these precious pages to speak of something so worthless is none other than the fact that the minimum of architecture has conquered the maximum of our country's living spaces and, like a malignant tumor, is "metastasizing" to the remaining buildings and fabrics within cities and villages and the natural areas surrounding them.
Many of us Iranians pride ourselves on being a very intelligent and gifted people, and despite all relevant evidence and statistics, we continue to insist on our pride and boasts. With such a belief, it is strange that in something as expensive as a building—something that devours a large portion of our income and savings—we see no trace of these merits and do not spend a single drop of our boundless ocean of art, creativity, and genius upon it. Our historical record, both in architecture and in other fields, shows that we are not strangers to concepts such as beauty, proportion, logic, and quality, and bear no hostility toward them. So what has hit us over the head that in creating our living spaces we resort to the most trivial and hasty methods and settle for the bare minimum? The "why" of the rampage of minimum architecture is beyond the scope of one or two articles, and presumably all manner of cultural, social, economic, and historical factors are involved in its emergence and persistence. (The adverse effects it also has—in the sense of the container shaping its contents—upon the mentality and character of its users are a matter unto themselves.) For example, each of the following factors may be complicit in a portion of this sin: the country's administrative, technical, and executive system, which regards architecture as manual labor, whose sole criterion for fees or any other measure is the dimensions and square footage of the building; public judgment and criticism of architecture, which is discouragingly superficial and unsophisticated; the low level of construction technology and the workforce's skill, which drags everyone into the abyss of the most rudimentary methods; the bylaws of municipalities, which in their irrationality and obstructiveness sometimes rival the superstitions of the Age of Ignorance; or even the free money from oil, the nationalization of the economy, and the dominance of bureaucracy
Urban fabric of Anarak. Entrance to the residential space of Makhunik. Urban fabric of Anarak.
Rural house in Gilan. Black tent of Bakhtiari nomads.
over all affairs of the country (the approximate contemporaneity of these with the prevalence of minimum architecture is a rooster's comb too large to ignore). But all these factors—or any other factor contributing to this epidemic—if they are the necessary condition for the minimization of architecture, they are not the sufficient condition. The foundation—or as our trans-Oxian compatriots say, the "base"—of this affair is laid in architecture offices: weakness and laziness in architectural design and illiteracy in the basic engineering sciences are factors that, like the bacterial culture dishes of medical laboratories, create a fertile environment for the proliferation of all those "bacteria." (I emphasize the metaphor of foundation, because no building is without a foundation, yet rarely is a building's foundation visible.) Now, the question of what factors have produced this laziness and ignorance, and what environment and what university we hapless and inept people have emerged from, is a discussion for another time.
"This Design Is Not Feasible" Virtually all architects, from their third and second years of school through approximately their first ten years of professional practice, hear this judgment about their designs. Some take offense and feel aggrieved; some suppose there truly is some wisdom in this sentence and humbly try to uncover this professional secret; and some simply shrug and draw something else. But the result in every case is the same: throw out your design and draw something more insipid and bland. One cannot deny the effective and positive role of professional and social experience and maturity in architectural design. Architecture is not one of those endeavors where one can produce anything noteworthy through the mere eruption of genius and creativity without acquiring skill and experience. Einstein and Heisenberg had not yet reached thirty when they cracked open the vault of heaven as physicists, and they spent all their subsequent years expounding and interpreting their own work. Schubert and Mozart created all those brilliant works and died in their thirties. Or Farrokhi Sistani, who in his youth "had a robe split front and back and
poetry in the seventh heaven." But we virtually have no authorial, style-defining architect who has produced an influential and enduring work before the age of 40–45, and generally the first brilliant work of any great architect has a backdrop of years of thought and reflection behind it. But this reality, as far as my personal experience tells me, has little to do with that satanic verse "this design is not feasible," which usually should be interpreted as follows: its "key" numbers, such as the ratio of common area to usable area or kilograms of steel per square meter, should be as favorable as possible; the structural grid should be uniform, right-angled, with dimensions that waste no rebar or steel beams, and that the most incompetent and lazy two-to-three-day structural engineer can calculate; standard details that have been drawn a thousand times since the days of Abolhassan Ebtehaj should be fed into it; finishes should be executable solely from the finishing schedule, without any need for drawings—because the drawings we submit are merely perfunctory; and most importantly, the design should be such that the slowest-witted, least educated, and most inexperienced person can, without any effort and with a single glance at the drawings, grasp the design from start to finish and see nothing beyond the few familiar mental images they possess. Now, if in this design process, for instance, the spatial diagram of a residential unit is merely the result of fitting the maximum number of cars into the parking lot; if a sports hall, airport terminal, or train station is nothing but a dolled-up warehouse; if a hospital becomes a bewildering, dreadful labyrinth; or if a hotel, museum, and library are indistinguishable from a multi-story parking garage—none of this matters. What more compelling argument could there be than that our design is feasible and economical and suits the conditions of "this country"?
There is truly no need to cite specific examples and offend esteemed colleagues, because I am certain that before each of the above sentences has even settled, several concrete examples parade before our eyes. But this is not the whole story, and the entanglements of architecture offices and the laying of the foundations of minimum architecture have other dimensions as well.
Planning by the Fireside Among mountaineers, there is an expression to this effect: so-and-so person or such-and-such group planned their ascent by the fireside. It is a sardonic allusion to someone who, without tasting the dust and dirt of the mountain, has sat in the warmth and comfort of home and, oblivious to their own ability and determination, has drawn up a plan for an imaginary ascent: with elaborate gear and provisions they set foot in the area and, before reaching the halfway point, they retreat from the climb. Now then: grandiose talk and boastful claims about a project, or alluring, seductive renders (once by hand, now by computer) may be tricks of the trade for securing projects, but their output cannot be architectural space—neither built space nor space on paper. Delusions and fantasies, whether in the form of words or images, are not only unbuildable but are not even amenable to critique and analysis. Now, as to why in our divine land this aspect of the work (which should be classified under marketing) has assumed disproportionate importance is a lengthy discussion, but the evidence is that architecture offices are perpetually preoccupied with finding people who can produce attractive renders and professional post-productions. (One of my friends, who is highly skilled and tasteful in this domain, genuinely believes that if a project has had any success in a competition or judgment, it is solely and exclusively because he produced its renders and presentations.) This dangerous belief—which reduces architecture to rhetoric and formal and visual games—typically produces the following outcomes:
fantasy and insistence on an idea ill-suited to the nature of the project (which is usually imitative, though even if original, it makes no difference); inability to develop the design, leaving the project's spatial, formal, and technical issues unresolved; and consequently the rise of a building with defective space, ugly form, and numerous functional and construction problems. In architecture, as in most affairs of this world, good intentions and grand aspirations alone, if not destructive, are of no benefit whatsoever. A physician who through ignorance and incompetence has sent their patient to the grave cannot be considered innocent simply because they intended to heal; by the same token, one cannot refrain from reproaching an architect who dreams of a masterpiece yet produces a disaster. In the gatherings and social circles of architects, clients' interference, distrust of the architect, and disregard for the design are a recurring grievance we have often voiced and heard. But if we look at the matter from the other side, the existence of projects of this sort—fanciful design and unresolved issues—is not without effect in spreading the belief that a project should not be entrusted to the architect. Grand claims in words and impotence in action are not exclusive to the field of architecture and can be exemplified in many other domains, but unfortunately architectural examples are enduring. A pretentious, weak film or book can be unwatched and unread, but a building of this sort imposes itself upon the city and upon the space of life, and no amount of rouge can make it presentable. If the mistake of an ignorant physician is hidden beneath the earth, the handiwork of a substanceless architect will stand like a flagpole before the eyes of all for years to come.
A Good Building Must First Be... ...sturdy, safe, economical, distinctive, indigenous-national or Islamic, have good functionality, have technical installations that run like clockwork, or—following the trend of recent years—be "luxury."
Bibi Khanum Mosque, Samarkand. Tilla-Kari Madrasa, Samarkand, restored with wallpaper.
This item, unlike the previous paragraph which is more often committed by the young, consists of pronouncements issued by experienced and mustachioed engineers in whose decrees no questioning is permitted—because their years of professional life say so, because world architecture is heading in this direction, because the rest of the issues are unimportant and will resolve themselves, and because the conditions of "this country" so dictate. And strange it is that the one domain they do single out as important, they dispatch by abbreviating it to a few general rules: if it has two or three arches and a few pieces of tilework with a bit of clay slathered on, it becomes Islamic; if it is a labyrinth of rooms and corridors and intertwined stairs with structure dominating space, it becomes sturdy and vernacular and ecological; if it is vulgar and gaudy, it becomes distinctive; and if everything in it is pointlessly expensive, it becomes luxury. Small waters breed small fish: a minimalist view of any subject will yield a minimalist result. Very often, creative architectural ideas act as a shortcut for reconciling conflicting factors. One can focus solely on a single point and ignore the other realities of the project, but realities—whether seen or unseen—impose themselves. Anyone who has done architectural design has felt this: in design, we deal with a set of factors that are not so much aligned as they are opposed, and the interaction of all of them turns "building" into something complex. But ensuring that this complexity is not transferred to the space—that the architectural space possesses due transparency and clarity—requires additional work, during which one must traverse the path from idea to construction drawings several times from both opposing directions (the notion that simplicity is difficult is not unfamiliar). Assumptions of the type "a good building must first be... such-and-such" are tantamount to a kind of intellectual laziness and indolence in design, by which a subject is deemed absolute and immutable and determines the design's fate in advance, with all other requirements and exigencies then pinned onto it. This design method leaves many issues unresolved and ultimately imposes gratuitous complexities upon the built space, the result being a space that is ambiguous and inarticulate.
Needle and Sacking-Needle This delusion—that everyone else is flawed and we are fine—is not exclusive to the noble profession of architecture and is probably a national trait. Earlier in this essay, reference was made to some of "everyone else's" shortcomings that affect the quality of architecture. But reason and logic demand that if we thrust a sacking-needle at others, we should also prick ourselves with a needle: we know that architectural design is hard work; we know there is no correspondence between its remuneration and its effort; we know that vast amounts of time and energy are spent on pointless marginalia; and that the self-evident rights of architects have become their aspirations. Architecture is inherently difficult work: thinking well, discerning the fitness of thought to subject, developing an idea and elevating it to a design, and solving the design's various problems—all are difficult, all require innate abilities, and much practice is needed to cultivate those abilities. But this is an eternal rule that someone must always endure hardship so that the world may be a better place to live, and whenever the subject is place, one cannot help but envision architects in the front ranks. Elevating space and place is hard work for which, to paraphrase a saying attributed to Euclid, there is no royal road.
1- Quoted from the Four Discourses of Nezami Aruzi.
