What Is Architectural Theory?

Can we arrive at a more or less objective definition of the concept of architectural theory? If so, we run the risk of producing a definition that is ahistorical, one that presupposes an eternal, immutable meaning which may not actually reside in the term itself. The criteria for objectivity in a definition demand that it also possess historical legitimacy; but such legitimacy can only be established for a given period of time. Moreover, such a definition immediately encounters difficulties of categorization—that is, when we take some standard and treat it as a touchstone against which anything that has been called, or has claimed to be, architectural theory can be measured. The more closely we examine this subject, the clearer it becomes that an abstract, normative definition of this kind is both impractical and historically untenable.

Nevertheless, a more limited definition can be found, provided we regard the history of architectural theory as the sum total of everything that has consciously been formulated as architectural theory—that is, if we take it to be a history of architectural thought that has been recorded in written form. At first glance, this heavy reliance on written sources may seem unnecessary, for one can easily imagine a theory that was never written down yet was nonetheless realized in built architecture. The same applies to written sources that have been lost—as in the case of the entire body of architectural theory from antiquity, with the sole exception of Vitruvius. In such circumstances, one must ask to what extent theory can be extracted from surviving architectural remains. Reaching a consensus even on this question is not possible, as we see from the various attempts that have been made to interpret Greek and Gothic architecture—attempts which in the end reveal the position of the interpreter more than they illuminate the subject of interpretation. All architecture rests upon diverse principles, but these principles need not necessarily have been articulated in words. From a technical standpoint, such principles can be reconstructed, but re-experiencing the mental state that lay behind them is not possible. By way of example, utterly contradictory interpretations have been written of Gothic architecture—a spectrum of readings ranging from those who interpret it as pure functionalism to those who see in it transcendentalism. In reality, our situation resembles that which prevails in the history of styles and the general history of art. The point is that we rarely encounter historical analyses written about the foundational theories of architecture that are free of ambiguity.

Through comparative analysis, too, we can identify some of the rules of architecture. In principle, there is no necessity for an architectural theory to be committed to writing. But the historian cannot escape reliance on documents and records of this kind. Therefore, for practical reasons, architectural theory is synonymous with the written works of architecture.

But even if we limit the concept of architectural theory in this way, it will still remain one aspect of a historical process of which the observer himself is a part. We have seen that no objective criteria exist for arriving at a definition of this concept. Neither are there objective criteria for making judgments about it.

Thus it is necessary first to understand historical systems on the basis of their own premises and objectives, and only then to undertake comparison, trace lines of development, and arrive at the conclusion as to whether truly enduring factors are at work—or whether there merely exist ways of studying them that are governed by historical determinism. Every theoretical system must be judged according to its own aims, and the first question to ask is: what is its purpose? And the second: who is its audience?

An evolutionary or positivist understanding of progress is, in my view, indefensible. Every “advance” is usually the product of new needs or new technologies, though it may also be the expression of pure mental ideals. One absolutely cannot assume that with every advance in history, the quality of architectural theory has also advanced; in fact, in most periods of historical progress, one can observe intellectual stagnation and a lack of cultivation. The existence of natural laws should, in my opinion, neither be taken for granted nor deduced from historical experience. It is therefore unreasonable to reduce the developments of architectural theory to a few equations—that is, to do what has become fashionable in art-historical writing ever since Wölfflin² introduced his “fundamental concepts.”

The practical definition offered above is probably the only one that the historian can rely upon. Yet another difficulty arises. The theoretical concepts of architecture can be found in complex literary texts; obviously, one cannot confine oneself solely to sources whose content is exclusively architectural theory, for the views expressed on this subject are usually interwoven with broader discussions of artistic theory in which architecture is merely one facet—that is, a part of a wider discourse, such as, for example, the idea of proportion. We are thus confronted with multiple theories about architecture that are embedded within broader discussions of art theory, especially in cases where the aim of these discussions has been to formulate a comprehensive classification that encompasses all the arts. Art theory, and aesthetics as a branch of it, is one facet of the epistemology of its era. Our sources of knowledge about architectural theory are therefore multidimensional, and there is no justification for narrowing the field of inquiry. Even works that have addressed the subject in a more limited fashion rest upon aesthetic, philosophical, and ideological foundations that we must not neglect if we wish to understand the position of these works within their historical context. This is admittedly not feasible in every case, since many of the writers who have written about architecture lack a philosophical dimension.

Another aspect of the subject is what attitude to adopt regarding practical matters—things such as construction, materials, function, and the like—matters that have their rightful place in architectural theory, since they constitute the precondition for any theoretical discussion. [...] Given that the most important aim is the investigation of ideas and motivations, we must first determine the extent to which such technical matters are significant in any given theory.

Most programmes that claim to be theory have sought to create a coherent general system by combining aesthetic and social issues; their emphasis is either on theoretical or practical matters, depending on whether the author directly addresses the question of architecture’s purpose and possibilities and consequently seeks to encourage some change in it, or whether his intention is to produce a handbook with instructions for building—and usually with little concern for theoretical issues, which are typically presented in the form of a collection of examples and models. This twofold division is closely related to whether the author is himself an architect or not, and also to the audience for whom he writes. Collections of examples are usually full of illustrations and photographs, accompanied by exemplary buildings—either existing structures or the author’s own ideal designs—and often exhibit a distinct inclination toward prescription and recommendation. This type of book is far more popular, owing to its practical value, than essentially theoretical works whose authors have not themselves been architects and whose treatises contain no illustrations. [...]

The practical branch has made it possible to address individual topics separately—such as the classical orders of architecture, proportion, or the study of specific buildings or particular parts of them (for example, a column capital, or a doorway)—and a large portion of architectural theoretical literature belongs to this category. But there has also been the risk that the theoretical content may be neglected and the part mistaken for the whole. This is especially true of works on classicism published in northern Europe.

Now, taking all these considerations into account, perhaps we can propose the following practical definition for our subject: architectural theory comprises all systematic written works on architecture, whether comprehensive or partial, that rest upon aesthetic categories—even if the aesthetic content of a system has been reduced to the level of mere function, this definition will still apply.

If we bear in mind the changes that have occurred in how architectural theorists have understood their own activity, it becomes clear that any attempt to arrive at a more restrictive definition would be of little use. Even in the definition offered above, the boundary line between architectural theory on the one hand, and aesthetics and art theory on the other, as well as pure technology on the other, remains unresolved. Furthermore, architectural theory and other historical disciplines—particularly archaeology, architectural history, and art history—are closely interconnected; literary figures, too, may draw upon this material, as Francesco Colonna³ and Rabelais⁴ did. One of the interesting areas of overlap is the domain of political and social utopianism, in which utopian ideas are expressed in the form of architectural conceptions. But the most important allied field remains archaeology, which since the Renaissance has been one of the principal pillars of architectural theory. One should bear in mind that men such as Palladio⁵, Piranesi⁶, and even Henri Labrouste were simultaneously practicing architects, theorists, and archaeologists. Until the era of Neoclassicism, the publication of archaeological discoveries was not merely because they were interesting as antiquities; in fact, the purpose of publishing these discoveries was to provide norms or models that could be adapted to new uses.

Especially in the nineteenth century, architectural history became the vehicle of architectural theory, and perhaps the most extreme representatives of this programmatic systematization can be found in Ferguson and Choisy. Without the models that architectural history offered, even the rise of Historicism could not have been conceived; from the so-called “Battle of the Styles” to Sigfried Giedion to postmodernism, the historical materials and historical arguments that have been presented were consciously selected with an eye to contemporary debates and objectives.

Art history likewise exerts an influence on architectural theory, for it keeps the memory of historical theories alive, and then architectural theorists pursue them. As an example, Emil Kaufmann was enormously influential through his rediscovery of so-called “revolutionary architecture”; Rudolf Wittkower, in his book Architectural Principles in the Age of Humanism (1949), had a similar effect. The role of the historian in such cases has been carefully defined and specified—or should be—for although he may trace the history of an architectural theory, he cannot himself offer a theory, since in doing so he would have overstepped the bounds of his duties as a historian.

The subject of another question is the nature and manner of the influence of such works, and this is another matter entirely. How others—architects and theorists—have used a given work may be reflected in it. But the historian himself cannot dictate to others how they should use his work. Part of the responsibility for the use and misuse of history rests with him, yet objectivity must be his ultimate goal, even though he may never fully attain it.

Understanding how architects have conceived of their task, and comprehending the theoretical basis of the architecture of a given period and how it has evolved, are of paramount importance. Architectural theories always have a historical context that has given rise to them. New systems emerge from debate and contention with older systems; there is no such thing as an entirely new system, and if a system claims to be one, it is either naive or dangerous. For this reason, architectural theory and its history are synonymous, insofar as the present position always represents a stage in a historical process.

If a practicing architect wishes to understand the principles upon which he works, he must have acquired a certain body of knowledge in the theoretical foundations of his subject; and in order to clarify his own views, it is necessary—or at least useful—for him to know how others have grappled with the same or similar problems. An architect who has no theoretical foundation will find that his work either degenerates into arbitrariness or becomes formulaic.

What is the relationship between architectural theory and the architecture actually built in a given period? Is theory a set of retrospective reflections that complete and justify what has already been built, clothing it in the garments of thought? Or does it establish programmes and expectations that architecture is meant to fulfil in the future? The reality is that architectural theory oscillates between these two poles. On the one hand, in its passive mode, it is the expression of what Marxists would probably call the “superstructure” of architecture, which can be discarded without making any difference to buildings that already exist. On the other hand, it is a practical manifesto of architectural principles and teachings. To illustrate both positions, numerous examples can be cited, but in neither of them can the existing or desired relationship between architecture and architectural theory be fully reflected.

The sharpest rebuttal of the belief in the influence of theory on architectural practice was expressed in 1924 by Emil Kaufmann⁸:

Kaufmann never repeated these extreme views. At almost the same time, Paul Valéry was engaged in reflecting on the oscillating relationship between theory and practice in his dialogue Eupalinos⁷ (1923), where he concluded that “when theories reach their most extreme formulations, they may, depending on the situation, provide weapons for action.”

Today it is virtually impossible to deny the fact that without the influence of Vitruvius, the whole of architecture from the Renaissance to Neoclassicism would have been utterly different. The study of classical architecture and the study of Vitruvius may have complemented each other, but each has gone its own way. Most of the editions and commentaries on the writings of Vitruvius in the sixteenth century clearly show that the investigation of the text had become an end in itself, and rarely were surviving ancient buildings brought forward as evidence.

But the influence of theory on built architecture carries a particular ambiguity. Theory may, while transforming the rules of aesthetics into norms, destroy creativity or at the very least bind its hands and feet. When architectural theories, on the basis of their implementation, lead to catastrophic results—such as reducing architecture to function, or the concept of zoning in modern urbanism—the relationship between theory and practice must be questioned.

Architectural theory and architecture itself can only flourish in a give-and-take with each other. Theory may take the form of a statement, or the systematization of architectural practice, or a programme—and the quality of the corresponding architecture is the gauge that measures the usefulness of the theory. Can we then conclude that good architecture always has the capacity—or should have the capacity—to be justified? Several great architects have recognized this reciprocal relationship and have bequeathed a body of theoretical works in addition to their architecture—for example, Palladio and Frank Lloyd Wright—and unless one is familiar with their theoretical works, one can never fully comprehend their buildings.

Only under particular historical conditions have architects been able to express their ideas in the form of theory; in the fifteenth century, the humanists⁹ wrote about architecture, and in the eighteenth century, this was done mainly by men of taste. The individual architect, so long as he works within the norms of his own era, has no need to articulate his theories—just as the theorist is under no obligation to put his own theories into practice. There is no simple causal relationship between architecture and architectural theory.

Throughout the ages, architectural theory has, to varying degrees, taken on the colour of political ideologies; in extreme cases, it has itself become an ideology. Here, too, there is no explicit correspondence between theory and practice. Architectural theory, as in France under Colbert, may play a normative and official role while still enjoying a certain degree of intellectual freedom. In absolute regimes, as the twentieth century has demonstrated, architectural theory is debased to the level of an ideological instrument in the service of uniformity, and pseudo-theories are concocted as a complement to inferior art. In such societies, the important function of art criticism—namely, its reforming role—is suppressed. But even in these societies, one cannot say with certainty which is cause and which is effect. As Fascist Italy has shown, the role that political and ideological factors play in architecture can only be demonstrated in particular historical situations, or perhaps only in particular cases. One must be cautious and avoid the trap of generalization.

Furthermore, architectural theory must fundamentally be considered within its historical context. Any examination that takes the form of a chronicle of abstract systems detached from their historical context—as we often see in books on the history of philosophy and aesthetics—is ahistorical and of negligible value. An aesthetic idea is not important in and of itself; what matters is when, under what circumstances, and in what context it was formulated.

It is necessary, in view of the diverse and numerous historical connections of architectural theory, to say something about the relationship between the history of architectural theory and these historical connections. [...] There is always the danger that a history of architectural theory may be overwhelmed by the history of aesthetics, technology, society, culture, and politics—the fate that befell Miloutine Borissavlievitch’s¹⁰ book on the theories of architecture (Paris, 1926).

From the methodological standpoint, there are various ways of presenting the subject. For example, it can be presented in separate chapters devoted to proportion, symmetry, the classical orders, and other such topics. But such an approach may invite the objection that the historical significance and meaning of each of these concepts within the system in which they emerged cannot be adequately conveyed—and there is also the risk that the concepts under discussion may be torn from their historical context. The book Origins of Functionalist Theory by Edward Robert De Zurko¹¹ (New York, 1957) suffered the same fate. The best way to understand the systems of architectural theory is to regard them as entities possessing their own integrity, as parts of a historical chain. We must first understand each system on the basis of its own definitions and engage with it, while also grasping the historical foundations upon which later systems arose. To do justice to a system, one must, before passing critical judgment, measure it against its own claims. In this method, the shifts in the centre of attention within architectural theory that have occurred over the centuries will not be overlooked. For example, in the nineteenth century, the focus shifted to popular concerns. [...]

The aim of most architectural theories is their own age—the age in which they are written—but their influence can probably be felt in times far more distant. For instance, Vitruvius had absolutely no standing in classical Rome, and his meteoric rise to the heights of renewed fame began in the fifteenth century. The influence and impact of individual theorists is the central concern of the history of architectural theory, but until quite recently, determining the extent of this influence was possible only in limited areas. It is only in recent years that the publication of numerous photographic reprints has made it possible to study the original texts.