Existence, Space & Architecture
Praeger Paperbacks
Existence, Space &
Architecture
Christian Norberg-Schulz
Christian Norberg-Schulz
Existence, Space & Architecture
PRAEGER PUBLISHERS
New York · Washington
Series Editor: Mary Kling
BOOKS THAT MATTER
Published in the United States of America in 1971
by Praeger Publishers, Inc.
111 Fourth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10003
© 1971 in Oslo, Norway, by Christian Norberg-Schulz
Third printing, 1974
All rights reserved
First published in Great Britain in 1971 by Studio Vista
35 Red Lion Square, London WC1R 4SG
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 70-128598
ISBN © 275 78120 8
Printed in Great Britain
Contents
-
The concept of space
- The system of spaces 9
- The concept of space in architectural theory 12
- Architectural and existential space 14
-
Existential space
- The elements of existential space 17
- Centre and place 18
- Direction and path 20
- Area and domain 23
- Elementary interaction 24
- The levels of existential space 27
- Geography 28
- Landscape 28
- The urban level 29
- The house 30
- The thing 31
- The interaction of levels 32
- Conclusion 34
- The elements of existential space 17
-
Architectural space
- The elements of architectural space 37
- Place and node 39
- Path and axis 49
- Domain and district 56
- Elementary interaction 59
- The levels of architectural space 69
- Landscape 70
- The urban level 75
- The house 86
- The interaction of levels 96
- Conclusion 114
Photo-acknowledgements 115
Bibliography 116
Index 119
- The elements of architectural space 37
A child 'concretizes' its existential space
Foreword
The problem of architectural theory may be approached in many different ways. In Intentions in Architecture (1963) I tried to indicate the various factors which determine the architectural totality, as well as their logical interrelations. A semeiological approach is at present followed by many scholars, based on French structuralism and the linguistic theories of Noam Chomsky. The development of a coherent method of analysing the building task has also been attempted, notably by Christopher Alexander, while others, such as Robert Venturi, aim at a renewal of the theory of architectural form.
In the present book we offer a new approach to the problem of architectural space. So far, the discussion of architectural space has been dominated by naive realism, either disguised as studies in 'architectural perception' or as tri-dimensional geometry. In both cases the basic problem of space as a dimension of human existence is omitted with the result that the space concept is nowadays often regarded as outdated or even superfluous. I still believe, however, that the space concept is particularly suited for the analysis of the human environment. On the basis of a theory of 'existential space', I therefore develop the idea that architectural space may be understood as a concretization of environmental schemata or images, which form a necessary part of man's general orientation or 'being in the world'. I believe thereby to have established a simple and useful key to the architectural totality. The book is indebted to philosophical, psychological and architectural studies, to which reference is given in the text. In particular I would like to thank all those with whom I have had the opportunity to discuss my ideas: Arne Korsmo (Trondheim)��, Sigfried Giedion (Zürich)��, Kjell Land (Oslo), Colin St John Wilson (Cambridge), George Baird (Toronto), Charles Jencks (London), Joseph Ryktwert (London), Hans Sedlmayr (Salzburg), Ferdinand Schuster (Graz), Carlo Cassola (Grosseto), and last but not least, Paolo Portoghesi (Rome) to whom this book is dedicated.
CNS
Any functional action
has particular spatial
implications
The concept of space
‘Like the spider with its web, so every subject weaves relationships between itself and particular properties of objects; the many strands are then woven together and finally form the basis of the subject’s very existence.’
Jakob von Uexküll
The system of spaces
Man's interest in space has existential roots. It stems from a need to grasp vital relations in his environment, to bring meaning and order into a world of events and actions. Basically, man orients to ‘objects’, that is, he adapts physiologically and technologically to physical things, he interacts with other people, and he grasps the abstract realities, or ‘meanings’, which are transmitted through the various languages created for the purpose of communication. His orientation to the different objects may be cognitive as well as affective, but in either case it aims at the establishment of a dynamic equilibrium between him and his environment. Talcott Parsons says: ‘Action consists of the structures and processes by which human beings form meaningful intentions and, more or less successfully, implement them in concrete situations.’ Most of man's actions comprise a spatial aspect, in the sense that the objects of orientation are distributed according to such relations as inside and outside; far away and close by; separate and united; and continuous and discontinuous. Space, therefore, is not a particular category of orientation, but an aspect of any orientation. It should, however, be stressed that it is only one aspect of the total orientation. To be able to carry out his intentions, man has to ‘understand’ spatial relations and unify them in a ‘space concept’.
While the pragmatic space of animals is a function of inborn instincts, man has to learn what orientation he needs in order to act. In the languages of early or primitive civilizations, therefore, we find terms which express and communicate spatial relations, such as above and below, before and behind, right and left. The terms, however, are not abstract, but have direct reference to man himself as well as to his environment and express his ‘position’ in the world. Certain African languages, for instance, use the same word for ‘eye’ and ‘in front of’. The space of the ancient Egyptians was determined by the particular geography of the country, and their language introduced the directions ‘downstream’ and ‘upstream’ rather than north and south. In both cases it is clear that a cognitive concept of space had not been abstracted from the direct experience of spatial relations. The spatial intuitions of the primitive are concrete orientations which refer to objects and localities and therefore have a strong emotional colour.
The Greek philosophers, however, made space an object of reflection. Parmenides represented a transitory position when he maintained that space as such cannot be imagined and therefore is non-existent, but Leucippos considered space a reality, though it has no bodily existence. Plato took the problem further in Timaeus, introducing geometry as the science of space, but it was
left to Aristotle to develop a theory of ‘place’ (topos). For him space was the sum of all places, a dynamic field with directions and qualitative properties. His approach may be considered as an attempt to systematize primitive, pragmatic space, but it also foreshadows certain present-day concepts. Later theories of space were based on Euclidean geometry rather than Aristotle and defined space as infinite and homogeneous – one of the basic dimensions of the world. Thus Lucretius says: ‘All nature is based on two things; there are bodies, and there is emptiness in which these bodies have their place, and in which they move’. 1800 years later Kant still regarded space as a basic priori category of human understanding, different from and independent of matter. A particularly important elaboration of the theory of Euclidean space occurred in the seventeenth century with the introduction of the orthogonal co-ordinate system (Descartes).
The idea that Euclidean geometry gives a faithful representation of physical space collapsed with the creation of non-Euclidean geometries in the nineteenth century and with the theory of relativity. It was demonstrated that such geometries give a clearer approximation of physical space, and still more important, it was recognized that any geometry is a human construct rather than something found in nature. Thus Einstein says:
‘When mathematical propositions refer to reality they are not certain; when they are certain, they do not refer to reality.’
The ancient concept of a unified space, therefore, was split in several ‘spaces’: concrete physical spaces (micro, everyday and macro), and abstract mathematical spaces invented by man to describe the former with a greater or lesser degree of approximation. The theory of relativity carried us even further, substituting the former idea of lumps of matter in a three-dimensional space, with a series of events in a four-dimensional space-time.
The physical and mathematical space concepts, however, satisfy only a small part of man’s original need for orientation. By quantifying the primitive total experience a cognitive world of abstract relations resulted, which has little direct reference to everyday life. Although man conserved fragments of the original intuitions, certain aspects of his existence thereby became impoverished, such as the emotional relationship to the environment. We therefore ought to supplement the space concepts mentioned above, with others covering the affective aspects of behaviour.
The problem of ‘human’ space has been studied by psychologists for about a hundred years. Taking up the question of man’s experience of his environment, it has been proved that space perception is a complex process, where many variables are involved. We do not simply perceive a world which is common to all of us, as naive realists maintain, but different worlds which are a product of our motivations and past experiences. In general, perception aims at valid assumptions about the nature of the environment, and these assumptions vary according to the situations in which we are taking part. A car-driver bases his actions on different assumptions from those of a pedestrian in the same street. Perception mediates a world which could also very well be described as ‘events in a four-dimensional space-time’.
Just as physics aims at a structural description of physical events by means of mathematical models, psychology ought to describe the structure of psychic processes by means of a system of abstract concepts. Like those used in physics, early psychological concepts had a static, absolute character, but recently a more dynamic approach has been introduced. The absolute ‘laws’ of Gestalt psychology, for instance, have been replaced by Piaget’s more flexible ‘schemata’. A schema may be defined as a typical reaction to a situation. They are formed during mental development through the interaction between the individual and his environment and by this process a man’s actions or ‘operations’ are grouped into coherent wholes. Piaget describes the process as a combination of ‘assimilation’ and ‘accommodation’, ‘assimilation referring to the action of the organism on surrounding objects, and
It is highly necessary that the organism should acquire schemata which directly mediate a three-dimensional world. Piaget shows that our 'space consciousness' is based upon operational schemata, that is, experiences with things. The space schemata may be of very different kinds, and the individual normally possesses more than one schema, to allow him a satisfactory perception of diverse situations. The schemata are culturally determined and comprise qualitative properties resulting from the need for affective orientation to the environment. Piaget sums up his investigations with these words: 'It is quite obvious that the perception of space involves a gradual construction and certainly does not exist ready-made at the outset of mental development.'
We thus see that the synthetic space of primitive man has been split into several specialized constructs which serve us in our orientation and adaptation to different aspects of the environment. In addition to the cognitive spaces, we have within the psychological dimension to distinguish between immediate perceptual space and the more stable space schemata. The latter are composed of elements which have a certain invariance, such as universal elementary structures (archetypes) and socially or culturally conditioned structures, and, of course, some personal idiosyncrasies. Together these make up man's 'image' of his environment, that is, a stable system of three-dimensional relations between meaningful objects. We will therefore unify the schemata in the concept existential space. Perceptual space, on the contrary, is egocentric and varies continuously, although the variations are linked to form meaningful totalities (experiences) because they are assimilated to the subjects' schemata, which are in turn somewhat modified by the new experience. We have so far distinguished between five space concepts: the pragmatic space of physical action, the perceptual space of immediate orientation, the existential space which forms man's stable image of his environment, the cognitive space of the physical world and the abstract space of pure logical relations. Praximal space integrates man with his natural, 'organic' environment, perceptual space is essential to his identity as a person, existential space makes him belong to a social and cultural totality. Cognitive space means that he is able to think about space, and logical space, finally, offers the tool to describe the others. The series shows a growing abstraction from pragmatic space at the 'lowest' level to logical space at the top, that is, a growing content of 'information'. Cybernetically, thus, the series is controlled from the top, while its vital energy rises up from the bottom.
One basic aspect, however, has still been omitted. From remote times man has not only acted in space, perceived space, existed in space and thought about space, but he has also created space to express the structure of his world as a real imago mundi. We may call this creation expressive or artistic space, and it finds its place in the hierarchy next to the top, together with cognitive space. Like cognitive space, expressive space needs a more abstract construct for its description, a space concept which systematizes the possible properties of expressive spaces. We may call this 'aesthetic space'. The creation of expressive space has always been the task of specialized persons, that is, builders, architects and planners, while aesthetic space has been studied by architectural theorists and philosophers. In the present book, therefore, we will talk about architectural space rather than expressive space, and aesthetic space as the theory of architectural space. In a certain sense, any man who chooses a place in his environment to settle and live, is a creator of expressive space. He makes his environment meaningful by assimilating it to his purposes at the same time as he accommodates to the conditions it offers.
What then are the relations between architectural space and the other members of the system? Architectural space certainly has to adapt itself to the needs of organic action as
well as facilitating orientation through perception. It could also 'illustrate' certain cognitive theories of space, as when building a Cartesian co-ordinate system with concrete materials. But above all it is related to the space schemata of man's individual and public world. Obviously man's schemata are created through interaction with existing architectural spaces, and when these do not satisfy him, that is, when his image becomes confused or too unstable, he will have to change architectural space. Architectural space, therefore, can be defined as a concretization of man's existential space.
The concept of space in architectural theory
Much attention has been given to the problem of space in architecture. We do not need to discuss the spatial implications of early theories here; rather we should concentrate on the actual use of the term. Recently, as a matter of fact, 'space' has become a catchword, which to many critics seems to explain without further qualifications what architecture is all about. Bruno Zevi, thus, defines architecture as the 'art of space', but he does not really define the nature of the space he talks about. Obviously his concept of space is naively realistic, as is the case with most writers on the subject, to whom space is a uniformly extended 'material' which can be 'modelled' in various ways. Many important investigations, however, have been made on this basis; I may for instance refer to the works of Paul Frankl, A. E. Brinkmann and Paul Zucker. After all, the question of how to articulate Euclidean space is one aspect of the more comprehensive problem of architectural space.
Sigfried Giedion is probably the writer who has contributed most to the actualization of the space concept. In his book Space, Time and Architecture he put the problem of space at the centre of the development of modern architecture, and in later works he has presented the history of architecture as a succession of 'space conceptions'. In general he distinguishes between three basic conceptions. 'The first architectural space conception was concerned with the emanating power of volumes, their relations with one another, and their interaction. This binds the Egyptian and Greek developments together. Both proceed outward from the volume.
The dome of Hadrian's Pantheon at the beginning of the second century signalized the complete breakthrough of the second space conception. From that time on, the concept of architectural space was almost indistinguishable from the concept of hollowed-out interior space. The third space conception, which is still in its infancy, is chiefly concerned with the problem of the interaction between inner and outer space. Giedion thus leaves the idea of a mechanistic combination of units in Euclidean space behind, and attempts to describe the qualitative differences which are related to the general development of man's image of the world. Thus he says:
'The process by which a spatial image can be transposed into the emotional sphere is expressed by the spatial concept. It yields information on the relation between man and his environment. It is the spiritual expression of the reality that confronts him. The world that lies before him is changed by it. It forces him to project graphically his own position if he wants to come to terms with it.'
Giedion here approaches the concept of existential space, but he does not make his idea philosophically precise. His approach is still too naively realistic, although he makes some references to the process of visual perception.
Most studies of architectural space still suffer from a lack of conceptual definition. In general they can be divided into two classes: those which are based on Euclidean space and study its 'grammar', and those
which try to develop a theory of space on the basis of perception psychology. The Euclidean approach has recently been stimulated by the importance of three-dimensional geometry in connection with space-frames, prefabricated building systems and certain utopian city-planning schemes.
The cool and abstract character of combinational geometry has led many writers to maintain that architectural space is basically 'different' from mathematical space. The criticism of a purely quantitative study of space was already voiced by the art historian Hans Jantzen in 1938, who wrote:
'Formalistic spatial analysis that examines the space represented in the work of art as a separable stylistic form must be complemented by a consideration of the represented space as a dimension of the meaning embodied within the work of art.
The Swiss critic Vogt-Göknil takes this criticism as her point of departure, and tries to develop a theory of architectural space as 'Unraum' (surrounding space). She does not, however, recognize the fundamental difference between perceptual and existential space, and therefore gets stuck with imprecise terms like 'Erlebnis cines Raumes' (perceived space) and 'Gesamteindruck' (total impression) or talks about 'an unbiased encounter with the spatial totality'.
Vogt-Göknil's attempt to replace the current quantitative space concept with a more 'human' concept based on man's 'experience of space', is characteristic of numerous recent essays on the subject. Günther Nitschke, thus, in his article 'Anatomie der gelebten Umwelt' contrasts Euclidean space with 'experienced or concrete space', which he defines as follows:
'It has a centre which is perceiving man, and it therefore has an excellent system of directions which changes with the movements of the human body; it is limited and in no sense neutral, in other words it is finite, heterogeneous, subjectively defined and perceived; distances and directions are fixed relative to man . . .'
Nitschke here gives a good definition of perceptual space, but he does not recognize the fact that any perception must be referred to a more stable system of schemata (images) to become meaningful. It is impossible to discuss architectural space systematically when perceptual space is taken as the point of departure. What one describes in this way are subjective architectural experiences, and one would have to arrive at the absurd conclusion that 'architecture comes into being only when experienced'. It is, therefore, nonsense to say that man is always the centre of architectural space, and that the directions of architectural space change with the movements of the human body. Architectural space certainly exists independently of the casual perceiver, and has centres and directions of its own.
The same imprecise use of space concepts characterize Jürgen Joedicke's essay 'Vorbemerkungen zu einer Theorie des architektonischen Raumes, zugleich Versuch einer Standortbestimmung der Architektur' Bauen + Wolnen, September 1968.
Joedicke stresses the importance of defining the spatial concept employed, and excludes mathematical space, economical space, geographical space, political space, as well as 'the space concept of O. F. Bollnow' (to which we shall return later). What he wants to talk about is 'space in architecture', starting from 'the axiom that buildings consist of spaces, and that architectural space therefore exists'(!). Joedicke, thus, starts with the well known approach of naive realism, but later he says: 'We can speak of architectural space as an experiential space', and 'architectural space is tied to man and his perception'. His conclusion is logical: 'Space is the sum of successive perceptions of places'. What has been said above concerning the shortcomings of perceptual space as a point of departure for defining architectural space, also applies to the study of Joedicke.
An article by Michael Leonard with the characteristic title 'Humanizing Space', contains many relevant observations and contributions towards a theory of space, but again the interpretation is hampered by the belief that the 'psychological dimensions of space' are found in immediate perception. Leonard says: '...it is man who creates and experiences the sensation of space', and the final product in the perceptual process is a single sensation - a "feeling" about that particular place...'.
We may thus conclude that recent studies on the concept of space in relation to architecture have either tended to leave man out by discussing abstract geometry, or have made man 'enter' by reducing space and architecture to impressions, sensations and studies of 'effects'. In both cases space as an existential dimension, as a relation between man and his environment, has been forgotten. No wonder that many people are getting tired of the problem of space in architecture and want to talk about 'structure', 'system' or 'environment'. But little is gained by this attitude. Structures and environments concern the architect above all because of their spatial aspects, and sooner or later the problem of space has to be faced. In the following, therefore, we will discuss some contributions towards a more satisfactory theory of architectural space, a theory where space is really understood as a dimension of human existence, rather than as a dimension of thought or perception.
Architectural and existential space
A few years after the second world war, art historian Dagobert Frey and architect Rudolf Schwarz independently of each other formulated ideas which opened up new and inspiring possibilities. Let us start by taking a look at the little known contribution of Frey. In Grundlegung zu einer vergleichenenden Kunstwissenschaft he introduces the concepts of 'path' (Weg) and 'goal' (Mal) to describe spatial structures. These concepts have the advantage of referring both to properties of existential space and concrete architectural space, and represent a true attempt at bridging intellectually the gap between man and his environment. Frey talks about 'archetypal motifs of world experience' and says:
'The goal already contains the path as its point of reference, directional indicator and ultimate end; and movement may be directed towards the goal, may emanate from it or may encircle it. All architecture is a structuring of space by means of a goal or path. Every house is an architecturally structured "path": the specific possibilities of movement and the drives towards movement as one proceeds from the entrance through the sequence of spatial entities have been pre-determined by the architectural structuring of that space and one experiences the space accordingly. But at the same time, in its relation to the surrounding space, it is a "goal", and we either advance towards this goal or depart from it.'
Frey uses the word 'experience' (perception), but he implies that architectural space is not a function of this experience, rather it has a structure which ought to be experienced, because it expresses basic properties of human existence. We recognize here an early attempt at overcoming the abstract use of Euclidean space, as well as the limitations of immediate perceptual space.
Related ideas were brought forward by Rudolf Schwarz in his magnificent but somewhat esoteric books The Church Incarnate and Von der Bebauung der Erde. His carefully worked out concepts will be discussed in more detail later, but it should already be pointed out that his aim is to describe the fundamental structure of existence, of 'being in the world', and to translate this structure into concrete properties of architectural space. A few quotations may illustrate this point.
'Man cannot plan the world without designing himself.' At the time he took his land, he already decided the plan of his life and he measured the earth accordingly and placed the groundplan of his historical existence within it.
While Frey wanted to arrive at a better knowledge of history, and Schwarz aimed at a fuller understanding of existence as a basis for building and planning after the destructions of the war, the American Kevin Lynch takes the concrete problems of our modern cities as his point of departure. Lynch maintains that man's orientation presupposes an 'environmental image', a generalized mental picture of the exterior physical world. This image is the product both of immediate sensation and of the memory of past experience, and it is used to interpret information and to guide action.
A good environmental image gives its possessor an important sense of emotional security. Lynch's concept of 'image' thus corresponds to the space schemata referred to above, and he tries to interpret the environment (city) in relation to an existential space. Lynch goes on to single out what he considers the fundamental properties of space, arriving at conclusions similar to those of Frey and Schwarz. Thus he says: 'The world may be organized around a set of focal points, or be broken into named regions, or be linked by remembered routes.' As the works of Frey and Schwarz have remained known only to a relatively restricted number of people, Lynch's work which is more easily understood and actual has been met with great interest among architects and planners since it was published in 1960. Indeed it represents a very promising point of departure for further research on the problems of existential and architectural space, but so far little has been done. It may be that the general implications of Lynch's ideas have hardly been understood; rather than recognizing the true humanism of his work, he is often considered a romantic intent on saving man by giving him back the piazza.
Several other contributions to the development of a satisfactory theory of architectural space could be mentioned, and the particular ideas of Robert Venturi, Aldo van Eyck, Paolo Portoghesi and others will be returned to later. For the moment, however, let us take a brief look at recent thinking about space in general.
From what has been said above, it is clear that further research on architectural space is dependent upon a better understanding of existential space. To arrive at such an understanding, we have two possible sources of information: the social sciences and philosophy. Although the social sciences have scarcely studied the problem of existential space as such, a great deal can be inferred from the writings of certain psychologists, sociologists and anthropologists. In particular, Jean Piaget's work on the development of the child illuminates the basic structures of man's environmental image very clearly. It is also significant that Piaget, in a recent book, integrates the psychological structures in a more comprehensive 'structuralism'.
Several fundamental studies on space have been published by philosophers. Most important are Gaston Bachelard The Poetics of Space (1964). Otto Friedrich Bollnow Mensch und Raum (1963), the chapter on space in Merleau-Ponty The Phenomenology of Perception (1962) and above all the funda-
See also E. Minkowski Le temps vécu 1933 and Graf K. von Dürckheim 'Untersuchungen sum geleben Raum' Neue Psychologische Studien 6 1932
M. Merleau-Ponty The Phenomenology of Perception 1962, p. 256
M. Merleau-Ponty The Phenomenology of Perception 1962, p. 285
M. Merleau-Ponty The Phenomenology of Perception 1962, p. 293
M. Heidegger 'Bauen Wohnen Denken' p. 31
M. Heidegger Being and Time 1962, p. 103
M. Heidegger 'Bauen Wohnen Denken' 1954, p. 29
M. Heidegger 'Bauen Wohnen Denken' 1954, p. 32
M. Heidegger 'Bauen Wohnen Denken' 1954, p. 35
Graf K. von Dürckheim 'Untersuchungen zum geleben Raum' 1932, p. 389; O. F. Bollnow Mensch und Raum 1963, p. 20
C. Norberg-Schulz Intentions in Architecture 1963, p. 97
Merleau-Ponty, as well as Bachelard and Bollnow, obviously owes much to Heidegger, who was the first to maintain that 'existence is spatial'. 'You cannot divorce man and space. Space is neither an external object nor an internal experience. We don’t have man and space besides...'39 In Being and Time he is already stressing the existential character of human space and says: 'The “above” is what is “on the ceiling”; the “below” is what is “on the floor”; the “behind” is what is “at the door”; all “wheres” are discovered and circumspectly interpreted as we go our ways in everyday dealings; they are not ascertained and catalogued by the observational measurement of space.40 He therefore concludes: 'Spaces receive their being from places and not from “the space”.'41 On this basis he develops his theory of ‘dwelling’ and says: 'Man’s relation to places and through places to spaces consist in dwelling.'42 Only when we are capable of dwelling can we build. 'Dwelling is the essential property of existence.'43
Bollnow discusses similar ideas in more detail, and develops a comprehensive theory of existential space, with numerous references to architectural space. He quotes Graf von Dürckheim to define his aim:
'The concrete space of developed man must be considered in its totality, including the important events experienced within it. For the particular quality of this space, its disposition and order reflect and express the subject that experiences it and dwells within it.'44
Starting from this point Bollnow discusses the concept of place (Ort), basic orientations such as vertical and horizontal, before and behind, right and left, the concept of centre (Mitte), geographical directions, horizon and perspective. He goes on to investigate the phenomenology of ‘open’ and ‘closed’ worlds, and finally discusses the spaces of action, of expression, and of human being together. He concludes with a chapter on the 'spatiality of human life'. Being speculative rather than scientific, Bollnow’s work has been met with a certain suspicion. His material, however, is very rich, drawing its references from nature, literature, art, history, anthropology, psychology and philosophy. His arguments are weighty and substantial, and create a most inspiring basis for further research.
The aim of this chapter has been to outline the basic space concepts man needs to orient himself in his world and to point out that most studies of architectural space have hitherto been hampered by imprecise conceptual definitions and the omission of the key construct, ‘existential space’. In Intentions in Architecture (1963) I maintained that the space concept is of limited importance in architectural theory, and concluded that ‘there is no reason to let the word “space” designate anything but the tri-dimensionality of any building’.45 This stand was based on the fact that studies of geometry or visual perception only grasp relatively superficial aspects of the problem. By introducing the concept of existential space, however, these limitations are overcome, and space regains the central position it ought to have in architectural theory.
2 Existential space
The Vale of Blackmoor was to her the world, and its inhabitants the races thereof. From the gates and stiles of Marlott she had looked down its length in the wondering days of infancy, and what had been a mystery to her then was not much less than mystery to her now. She had seen daily from her chamber-window towers, villages, faint white mansions; above all the town of Shaston standing majestically on its height; its windows shining like lamps in the evening sun. She had hardly ever visited the place, only a small tract even of the Vale and its environs being known to her by close inspection. Much less had she been far outside the valley. Every contour of the surrounding hills was as personal to her as that of her relatives’ faces; but for what lay beyond her judgment was dependent on the teaching of the village school.
Thomas Hardy Tess of the d'Urbervilles
The elements of existential space
We have defined existential space as a relatively stable system of perceptual schemata, or image of the environment. Being a generalization abstracted from the similarities of many phenomena, existential space has ‘object-character’.1 Piaget says: ‘An object is a system of perceptual images endowed with a constant spatial form throughout its sequential displacements and constituting an item which can be isolated in the causal series unfolding in time’.2 He demonstrates that the idea of a structured world gradually develops during childhood (perhaps on the basis of a few a priori intuitions), and that, necessarily, it comprises a developing series of spatial notions. How, then, does this development take place? Piaget usually characterizes the process with the word ‘conservation’. The most basic experience is that things are permanent, although they may disappear and return again. The goal is ‘the construction of permanent objects under the moving images of immediate perception’.3 This means, firstly, that the child learns to recognize, that is, to construct the world as a system of similarities, and, secondly, that he connects the things recognized with particular places, situating them in a more comprehensive totality, a space. ‘So long as the child does not undertake special searches to find objects which disappear, so long as he does not succeed in deducing their displacement in space when he no longer sees them, one should not yet speak of object conservation.’4 Gradually the child learns, however, to distinguish between stable and mobile objects, and to use the former as a frame of reference for the latter. The development of the concept of place, and of space as a system of places is therefore a necessary condition for finding an existential foothold. Piaget concludes: ‘The universe is built up into an aggregate of permanent objects connected by causal relations that are independent of the subject and are placed in space and time. Such a universe, instead of depending on personal activity, is on the contrary imposed upon the self to the extent that it comprises the organism as a part in a whole.’5 As to the nature of space he says; ‘...the true nature of space does not reside in the more or less extended character of sensations as such, but in the intelligence which interconnects these sensations’.6 *Space is therefore the product of an interaction between the organism and the environment in which it is impossible to dissociate the organization of the universe perceived from that of the activity itself.’7
But it is not enough to point out that space forms a necessary part of the structure of existence, we ought also to describe this particular structure in detail. The problem comprises two aspects, one ‘abstract’ and one ‘concrete’. The abstract aspect consists
of the more general schemata of a topological or geometrical kind, and has been studied by Piaget in detail. The concrete aspect refers rather to the grasping of ‘environmental elements’: landscape, townscapes, buildings and physical things, and has been discussed in the works of Frey, Schwarz, Bachelard, Bollnow and Lynch. A theory of existential space must comprise both.
The world of the child is ‘subjectively centred’. Motorically and perceptually a child has little ability to ‘reach out’ into the surroundings, and the environmental image consists of few stable elements. But this does not mean that a child’s world is different from the world of other individuals. Psychologists have shown that the elementary structures are interpersonal, and that the development of schemata follows a normal course. Piaget thus demonstrates that the infant’s space can be described as a collection of separate ‘spaces’, each entirely centred on a single activity. The first relations which bring order into these spaces, are of a topological kind and are established even before form- and size-constancy. Topology does not deal with permanent distances, angles and areas, but is based upon relations such as proximity, separation, succession, closure (inside-outside) and continuity.
It is of fundamental importance to recognize that the topological schemata are similar to the basic concepts established by Heidegger, Frey, Schwarz, Bollnow and Lynch. The elementary properties of existential space, therefore, seem to be quite clear, and ought to be discussed in more detail.
Centre and place
In terms of spontaneous perception, man’s space is ‘subjectively centred’. The development of schemata, however, does not only mean that the notion of centre is established as a means of general organization, but that certain centres are ‘externalized’ as points of reference in the environment. This need is so strong that man since remote times has thought of the whole world as being centralized. In many legends the ‘centre of the world’ is concretized as a tree or a pillar symbolizing a vertical axis mundi. Mountains were also looked upon as points where sky and earth meet.
placed the ‘navel’ of the world (omphalos) in Delphi, while the Romans considered their Capitol as caput mundi. For Islam the Ka'aba is still the centre of the world. Eliade points out that in most beliefs it is difficult to reach the centre. It is an ideal goal, which one can only attain after a ‘hard journey’. To ‘reach the centre is to achieve a consecration, an initiation. To the profane and illusory existence of yesterday, there succeeds a new existence, real, lasting and powerful.’ But Eliade also points out that ‘every life, even the least eventful, can be taken as the journey through a labyrinth. The sufferings and trials undergone by Ulysses were fabulous, and yet any man’s return home has the value of Ulysses’ return to Ithaca.’
If the ‘centre of the world’ thus designates an ideal, public goal, or ‘lost paradise’, the word ‘home’ also has a closer and more concrete meaning. It simply tells us that any man’s personal world has its centre. The Olyssey, however, shows that the home, too, is easily lost and that it takes a ‘hard journey’ to find it again. The notion of home as the centre of one’s world goes back to childhood. The first points of reference are tied to the home and house, and the child only becomes able to cross its borders very slowly. When I once asked my twelve-year-old son if he could tell me something about his ‘environment’, he replied: ‘Then I want to start with home, because it is from there I go out to all the other places’. From the very beginning, then, the centre represents to man what is known in contrast to the unknown and somewhat frightening world around. ‘It is the point where he acquires position as a thinking being in space, the point where he “lingers” and “lives” in the space.’ We also remember Archimedes’ famous statement: ‘Give me a place to stand, and I will move the world!’
During growth the actions of the individual are differentiated and multiplied, and new centres therefore come to supplement the original ‘home’. All the centres are ‘places of action’: places where particular activities are carried out, or places of social interaction such as the homes of relatives and friends. ‘The place is always limited, it has been created by man and set up for his special purpose.’ The actions, in fact, are only meaningful in relation to particular places, and are coloured by the character of the place. Our language expresses this state of affairs when we say that something ‘takes place’. The places are goals or foci where we experience the meaningful events of our existence, but they are also points of departure from which we orient ourselves and take possession of the environment. This ‘taking possession’ is also related to places which we expect to find, or discover by surprise. It could be maintained that the gradual multiplication of the places constituting our existential place would lead to a final liberation from place attachment. We will discuss the problem of ‘mobility’ in more detail later, but should point out here that a structured environment depends on our ability to recognize it, that is, on the existence of relatively invariant places. An ever-changing world would not allow for the establishment of schemata, and would therefore make human development impossible.
A place is characterized by a certain ‘size’. We should here distinguish between the immediate Eigenraum or ‘territoriality’, and the more abstract image of the places known. The Eigenraum has been studied by Edward T. Hall who says: ‘Territoriality is usually defined as the behaviour by which an organism characteristically lays claim to an
The limited size of known places naturally goes together with a centralized form. A centralized form primarily means 'concentration'. A place, therefore, is basically 'round'. In this connection it is interesting to recall Karl Jaspers' words: 'In itself every existence appears round.' The round form consists of two elements, a centre and a surrounding ring. In The Church Incarnate Rudolf Schwarz has described the existential character of these elements.
'The ring unites man to man through the infinite chain of hands. The individual is absorbed by a superior form, and thereby he becomes stronger. When men agree, they form a ring, as if they were following a secret law. The ring has neither beginning nor end, it begins and ends everywhere. Curved back into itself, it is the most sincere and potent of all figures, the most unanimous. Hand in hand men are united by the ring, but they are not completely absorbed by this area and defends it against members of its own species . . . Territoriality provides the frame in which things are done – places to learn, places to play, safe places to hide . . . Basic to territoriality is a sharp sense of the limits that mark the distance to be maintained between individuals. The 'personal space' defined in the concept of 'territoriality' should not, however, be confounded with existential space, which to a large extent has a 'public' character, bringing the members of a society together in common places. Within this public space the individual finds his personal place. Both are generally imagined as being limited and relatively small. Thus Rudolf Schwarz says: 'A domain can only become a home if it is small . . .
The settlements must remain within an imaginable scale if they are to become a home. Bollnow uses the word Geborgenheit to express this fact, and quotes the psychiatrist J. Zutt who has studied the concept of 'home' from a medical point of view. Zutt says: 'In the common dwelling we have a maximum of spatial security.' For its definition therefore, the place needs a pronounced limit or border. The place is experienced as an 'inside' in contrast to the surrounding 'outside'.
The notions of proximity, centralization and closure therefore work together to form a more concrete existential concept, the concept of place, and places are the basic elements of existential space.
Direction and path
I have already pointed out that the concept of place implies an inside and an outside, and that existential space usually comprises many places. A place is therefore 'situated' within a larger context, and cannot be understood in isolation. If that had been possible, man's history would have lacked its dynamism. Any place, in fact, contains directions. The only place that can be imagined without directions, is a sphere freely floating in
Euclidean space. This form, however, is only of interest as a border-line case, if we consider man's existence on earth.
Aristotle recognized the qualitative distinctions above and below, in front of and behind, and right and left, distinctions which are rooted in man's constitution and in his relationship to the gravitational field. The vertical direction expresses a rising up or falling down, and has since remote times been endowed with a particular meaning. Erich Kästner says:
'The climbing of a mountain reflects redemption. That is due to the force of the word "above", and the power of the word "up". Even those who have long ceased to believe in Heaven and Hell, cannot exchange the words "above" and "below".
The vertical, therefore, has always been considered the sacred dimension of space. It represents a 'path' towards a reality which may be 'higher' or 'lower' than daily life, a reality which conquers gravity, that is, earthly existence, or succumbs to it. The axis mundi is thus more than the centre of the world, it represents a connection between the three cosmic realms, and it is only at the central axis that a breakthrough from one realm to another can occur.
The vertical direction, however, also has a more concrete meaning. In connection with the home it expresses the very process of building, that is, man's ability to 'conquer nature'. In Ibsen's play The Master Builder the tower becomes the symbol of victory and defeat, and Serlio already interpreted the vertical column as an expression of man's power of creation.
If verticality has something surreal about it, the horizontal directions represent man's concrete world of action. In a certain sense, all horizontal directions are equal and form a plane of infinite extension. The simplest model of man's existential space is, therefore, a horizontal plane pierced by a vertical axis. But on the plane man chooses and creates paths which give his existential space a more particular structure. Man's taking possession of the environment always means a departure from the place where he dwells, and a journey along a path which leads him in a direction determined by his purpose and his image of the environment.
'Forward', thus, means the direction of man's activity, while 'behind' denotes the distance he has covered. Man 'strides forward' or 'draws back'. Sometimes the path leads him to a known goal, but often it only indicates an intended direction, gradually dissolving into the unknown distance. The path, therefore, represents a basic property of human existence, and it is one of the great
Particularly significant are the German words 'Scheideweg', 'Worsicht' and 'Fortschritt' – literally 'dividing ways' (i.e. crossroads), 'foresight' (i.e. caution), 'away step' (i.e. progress)
O. F. Bollnow Mensch und Raum 1963, p. 81
E. Cassirer The Philosophy of Symbolic Forms 1955, vol 2, p. 99
W. Müller Die heilige Stadt 1961, p. 16
R. Schwarz Von der Bebaung der Erde 1949, p. 15
K. Lewin 'Der Richtungsbegriff in der Psychologie. Der spezielle und allgemeine hodologische Raum Psychologische Forschung' 1934
K. Lewin says, 'The geometry of Lebensraum including its directions depends on the condition of the individual.' (op cit., p. 286)
O. F. Bollnow Mensch und Raum 1963, p. 197
original symbols. Our language expresses this fact in terms such as 'parting of the ways', 'stand in one's way' and 'on the right road'. Man's ways, however, also lead back home, and the path, therefore, always contains a tension between the known and the unknown. 'The double movement of departure and return divides space into two concentric domains, an inner and an outer: the narrower inner is the domain of the house and homeland and from there man advances into the wider outer domain, from which he also returns.'
The directions of existential space, however, are not only determined by man's actions. Nature, too, contains directions which indicate qualitative differences. Thus the cardinal points have since remote times been given prime importance among the factors determining the structure of the world. The word 'orientation' comes from Orient, the direction of sunrise. Christian churches were always oriented by the altar towards the east. 'The east as the origin of light is also the source of life – the west as the place of the setting sun is filled with all the terrors of death.
Nature also determines the directions of man's existential space in a more concrete sense. Any landscape contains directions as well as determined spaces which help man in finding a foothold. His possibilities for movement are limited, and the paths do not follow the mathematical rule that the shortest distance is the straight line. In an early essay, Kurt Lewin studied this problem introducing the term 'hodological space' (from the Greek word hodos meaning way)
Perceptually and as a schema, any path is characterized by its continuity. Whereas the place is determined by the proximity of its defining elements, and eventually by closure, the path is imagined as a linear succession. Primarily it is a direction to be followed towards a goal, but during the journey events happen and the path is also experienced as having a character of its own. What happens 'along' the way, thus, is added to the tension created by the goal to be reached and the point of departure left behind. In certain
cases the path has the function of being an organizing axis for the elements by which it is accompanied, while the goal is relatively less important. Kevin Lynch illustrates this fact with many examples, but he also says: 'People tended to think of path destinations and origin points: they liked to know where paths came from and where they led. Paths with clear and well known origins and destinations had stronger identities, helped tie the city together, and gave the observer a sense of his bearings whenever he crossed them.'32
Area and domain
Paths divide man's environment into areas which are more or less well known. We will call such qualitatively defined areas 'domains'. The known domains are surrounded by a relatively unknown world whose imagined character is determined by the general directions north, south, east and west and by what we have learnt of geography. In a certain sense the domains are
'places', because they are defined by closure or by proximity and similarity of the constituent elements. For this reason Frey and others do not introduce the concept of domain, but describe space exclusively in terms of goals and paths. But the distinction between place and domain is useful, as our environmental image obviously comprises areas to which we do not belong and which do not function as goals. The domain can therefore be defined as a relatively unstructured 'ground', on which places and paths appear as more pronounced 'figures'. The domain has a certain unifying function in existential space. It 'fills out' the image and makes it become a coherent space. If we think of our own country, or of the earth as a whole, we primarily think of domains: oceans, deserts, mountains and lakes, which form a continuous mosaic. These 'natural' domains are combined with political and economical domains to create a more complex pattern.
Because of their general properties, domains function as potential places for man's activities. Taking possession of the environment, therefore, implies structuring the environment into domains by means of paths and places. The Roman settlement is again relevant, where the two main axes not only define the cardinal points, but also divide the area into four domains or 'quarters'. It is significant to remember that city districts are still called quarters. From ancient times the world was imagined as consisting of four parts, and the Roman city can thus be interpreted as an imago mundi. The rituals performed during the foundation of any larger Roman layout, demonstrate that the purpose was to define a comprehensive spatial order related to a central point.33 This order was established within the natural area defined by the horizon, the finalis circulus. Werner Müller discusses the ancient symbolism of dividing the world into domains and explains the idea as an expression of man's general need for imagining his world 'as an ordered cosmos within an unordered chaos'.34
Structuring the world into domains defined by 'natural' directions, ancient man gained an existential foothold. He no longer felt
lost and helpless, as even the ‘blank spots’ on his personal map could be ‘placed’ within the general all-embracing scheme. Modern man, however, can no longer find the same security. He asks for a concrete knowledge of individual places, rather than accepting general ‘characteristics’. When we are travelling in foreign countries, the regions we visit have relatively little meaning for us. No personal experiences are attached to the spaces perceived and they really remain ‘domains’, although as such they may interest the visitor. Today we are no longer able to make up for this lack of deeper meaning with a cosmological image which gives each domain its character. Paradoxically, thus, the foreign has become more foreign today, in spite of all modern media of communication.
Domains may be defined in different ways. Sometimes they are delimited by strong natural elements, such as shore lines, rivers and hills, called ‘edges’ by Kevin Lynch who says: ‘Edges are the linear elements not considered as paths: they are usually, but not always, the boundaries between two kinds of areas’. Sometimes domains are defined by the particular human activities carried out in the area, such as agriculture or dwelling, which create a certain ‘texture’. Social conditions may also determine a domain’s character, as the east- and west-end of many cities show. Often different factors come together to reinforce the image of distinct domains. On a larger scale, even climate creates distinguishable domains which are experienced as such. Modern topoclimatology also illustrates that there are smaller climatically defined domains which we are hardly aware of, but which have evidently been recognized by man during history as factors determining the distribution of areas for agriculture and housing. It is therefore clear that man’s image of domains is influenced by physical and functional as well as social and cultural factors, that is, by the basic objects to which he has to orient.
Elementary interaction
Places, paths and domains are the basic schemata of orientation, that is, the con-
situent elements of existential space. When they are combined space becomes a real dimension of human existence. It has already been pointed out that the character of a place must be understood as a product of its interaction with the surroundings; that a path without a goal becomes rather meaningless; and that domains, finally, function as a less structured, but unifying ‘ground’. The elements can be combined in several ways. The existential space of nomadic people gives primary importance to the domain within which the paths have a great range of freedom, but their place concept is less developed. Early agricultural civilizations were ‘place-oriented’, living a static life within a centralized, ‘closed’ area. Their paths have a circular, engirdling movement, rather than functioning as a direction towards a goal outside. In ancient Egypt, however, the path was the basic symbol.
‘The Egyptian soul saw itself as moving down a narrow and inexorably-prescribed life-path to come at the end before the judges of the dead. That was its Destiny-idea.’
Even the Egyptian ‘domain’, the long and narrow oasis of the Nile valley, can by its very nature be defined as a ‘path’. In later civilizations the three elements entered in ever new meaningful combinations. An analysis of existential space, therefore, ought to start investigating the relative importance given to each of the basic elements. Thereafter the interaction of the elements should be studied.
When places interact with their surroundings, a problem of inside and outside is created. This topological relation, therefore, is a fundamental aspect of existential space. 'To be inside' is, obviously, the primary intention behind the place concept, that is, to be somewhere, away from what is 'outside'. Only when man has defined what is inside and what is outside, can we really say that he 'dwells'. Through this attachment, man's experiences and memories are located, and the inside of space becomes an expression of the 'inside' of personality. Identity, thus, is closely connected with the experience of place, especially during the years when personality is shaped. To function as an inside a place obviously has to satisfy certain formal demands. We have already quoted Rudolf Schwarz's description of the ring as a maximally 'closed' form, and could add that the closure may be increased through geometrization, that is,
by making the ring circular. Geometrization, in general, does away with all the casual directions of the topological form, and has always been used by man to make the intended relationship more precise.
Any closed form, however, has to be entered, and a direction is thereby introduced. 'For a house not to become a prison it must have openings into the world beyond, that connect this inner world with the outer.' The direction unites inside and outside more or less strongly, and we see again that a geometrically straight line is more powerful than a topological curve. The place as such is also influenced by the direction; it is 'stretched' towards the outside, at the same time as the outside penetrates the border, creating an area of transition. This area is related to an opening which may be given various forms to express the degree of continuity in existential space. No wonder, therefore, that the door since remote times has been one of the important symbolic elements of architecture. The door can close off or open up, it can unite and separate. Psychologically it is always open and closed at the same time although one aspect is dominating, as any door may be opened. The opening is the element that makes the place become alive, because the basis of any life is interaction with an environment. A single opening in an enclosure, however, does not take the cardinal points into consideration. Being part of a natural context the place is already 'oriented', and the ancient city which was divided into quarters symbolized a fourfold 'opening', which made the city a part of the surrounding world. In general, the opening expresses what the place 'wants to be' in relation to its environment.
A place is usually related to several directions by a system of paths; these often form a 'star' around the centre. As the paths are
more or less uniform and geometrical, according to the type of activities and the topographical conditions. Some paths are experienced as such because they lead to significant places, whereas others (which lead to the places of other individuals) are only known as a characteristic textural feature of a domain. Holland is a good example of a country which is easily imagined because of its regular path system.
The Dutch countryside, in fact, is divided to form regular grids, because of the system of reclaiming land from the sea, or 'polders'. When two paths meet several expressive solutions are possible on the basis of the continuity principle. We may have a 'bifurcation' or a 'crossroads', both of which have strong existential implications. The choice, in fact, is a basic problem of human life, especially when posed as a choice between which direction to take to reach a more or less clearly imagined goal. The 'bridge' is a particularly expressive path. Joining two domains and containing two directions, it is usually in a strongly felt state of dynamic equilibrium. Heidegger says: 'Bridges assemble the earth as landscape around the river.' The system of paths, therefore, expresses man's possibilities of movement, the range of his world. We here return to Lewin's hodological space, a concept which ought to be revived and further developed.
The relation between place and path creates a basic dichotomy, which has been strongly felt by European man throughout history. We may call it 'the tension between centralization and longitudinality'. Whereas centralization symbolizes the need for belonging to a place, the longitudinal movement expresses a certain openness to the world, a dynamism which may be physical as well as spiritual. Whereas centralization has ancient roots in the Orient, where it expresses the idea of an 'eternal return', longitudinality was introduced by the Jews who imagined life as a 'path'. The Bible, in fact, states the theme clearly with its opening words: 'In the beginning God created Heaven and Earth...'. When beginning and end are distinguished, the continuous (and possibly straight) line becomes the appropriate spatial counterpart. In ancient Rome the two images were brought together, and later remained linked, although centralization was to dominate the world image of Eastern Europe and longitudinality the more dynamic intentions of the West.
The system of paths, together with the topographical conditions, creates domains of varying 'density' in our environmental image. The domains with a higher density will be experienced as 'shapes', whereas the
lower densities define a more neutral 'ground'. This simply means that we know the denser areas better, because physically or intellectually we have 'conquered' them by means of more paths. The denser areas thus become places, although they may not have a clearly defined boundary, whereas the other areas remain domains. This aspect of the problem is mentioned to stress that human identification with the environment presupposes varying densities, and above all, dense foci which serve as basic points of reference.
The environmental image is therefore composed of a few basic elements, which interact in characteristic ways. In the next section this interaction will be discussed in more detail, and interpreted in human and cultural terms. But to conclude this elementary part of the theory of existential space, we will recall the old concept of genius loci. Since remote times man has recognized that different places have a different character. This character is often so strong that it in fact determines the basic properties of the environmental images of most people present, making them feel that they experience and belong to the same place. The genius loci in many cases has even proved strong enough to dominate any political, social and cultural changes. This, for instance, holds true for cities like Rome, Istanbul, Paris, Prague and Moscow.
The levels of existential space
So far the basic schemata which form the elements of existential space have been discussed. If we look upon the problem in a more concrete way, we find that the elements appear on several levels within a hierarchy of which the most comprehensive are levels of 'geography' and landscape, while at the opposite end of the hierarchy is an order of furniture and still smaller objects. The levels are determined by the given environment as well as by man's constitution. It would, in fact, be wrong to imagine our environment as being 'continuous'. Certain sizes of spatial units are simply of no use, or if they are produced, have an illusory and amusing effect.
The third level, the house, gets its dimensions from the more extended bodily movements and actions, as well as from territorial demands. The urban level (which comprises sub-levels) is mainly determined by social interaction, that is, by the common 'form of life'. The landscape level results from man's interaction with the natural environment.
Most civilizations possess all levels, but some of them may be rather undeveloped. Nomadic people, for instance, have little contact with urbanistic schemata, whereas urban people in our time have lost most of the landscape level, although they usually
1 In theatre-decoration, thus, we find 'large furniture or 'doll' houses', as well as 'miniature landscapes'. Palladio in his Teatro Olimpico produced a whole townscape behind the stage. Visitors will remember the absurd effect created when a person walks down the 'streets'
2 Needless to say, the determinants on all levels are physical as well as psychic
Even furniture and objects have in the past been considered images of the world. The chandeliers of the Ottoman and Carolingian epochs, for instance, were images of 'Heavenly Jerusalem'. See H. Sedimayr Die Entstehung de Kathedrale 1950, p. 125
P. Haggett Locational Analysis in Human Geography 1965, p. 18
For the concept of 'capacity' see Norberg-Schulz Intentions in Architecture 1963, p. 155
R. Schwarz Von der Bebauung der Erde 1949, p. 11
This fact is expressed by all the names of towns ending with 'ford' (German: Furt), meaning 'shallow place where a river may be crossed by wading'
See C. Norberg-Schulz 'Möte med Istanbul'
possess some geographical images learnt in school. We will discuss the question of the organization of each level in the following, but should point out in this context that the schemata usually vary from level to level. The house image, for instance, may show a high degree of geometrization, whereas the urban image is topological in character.
Geography
The geographical level has a cognitive character. It is 'thought' rather than 'lived', but may influence the more directly and fully experienced levels. In the past the geographical level hardly existed. Instead we find a 'cosmological' level which was just as real to man as geography is today. We have already mentioned that ancient man conceived his more concrete existential levels as images of the cosmological level. In a certain sense this still happens today, when houses and towns are built on the same Euclidean principles as the space of naïve realism, or when certain works of architecture are inspired by the space-time continuum of relativity. The geographical level, however, hardly serves as a model to be imitated, rather it gives identity to 'objects' such as 'Europe', the 'country' or the 'region', and in so doing assures a considerable political and cultural importance. It also furnishes economical and ecological information which influences man's orientation in the widest sense of the term. The places and paths of geographical space have an abstract character: they do not represent what is directly known, but are potential elements of existential space. The content of the geographical level primarily consists of various domains. (In cosmological space the situation is similar, with the difference that the domains symbolize idealized life situations, such as Heaven and Hell.) Peter Haggett, in a fundamental study on geographical theory, uses the concepts of 'network' (i.e. system of routes or paths), 'node', 'surface' (i.e. domain) and 'hierarchy' to describe geographical structure.
Landscape
The level of landscape has generally been that of the 'ground' on which the configurations of existential space have developed. Strangely, however, man's 'being in the landscape' has hardly been studied. The only coherent theoretical attempt known to us, is found in Rudolf Schwarz's book Von der Bebauung der Erde. Obviously the schemata of the landscape level are formed through the interaction of man's activities with topography, vegetation and climate.
The same landscape, thus, is in some sense different for the peasant, the miner, and the tourist, without, though, becoming entirely different. As any landscape offers a limited range of possibilities for orientation and identification, we may say that it has a certain 'capacity' determined by its structural properties. These structural properties ought to be described in terms of places, paths and domains. Rudolf Schwarz says:
... we talk about landscape spaces and think of a house; the mountains are walls, the fields floors, the rivers paths, the coasts are edges and the lowest point in the mountain range, the door.
Although being primarily background, landscape thus has a structure of its own. It offers areas where the development of places is particularly favoured, and it indicates possible paths and natural domains. If we bring together the different human needs which are satisfied by the place concept, we arrive at a formula where identity/security leads to activity. A place is formed where this formula finds its physical counterpart. In concrete terms this means a naturally protected space, which, however, can easily interact with its surroundings. The great cities of the past, therefore, were located on natural paths of communication, such as rivers, at points which offered physical protection as well as a characteristic identity (genius loci). In a few cases both demands were satisfied maximally, as for instance in Constantinople-Istanbul, where 'paths' from East and West, North and South meet at a point of incomparable beauty. Landscape obviously also contains potential places which can only satisfy one of the basic demands. In such cases the other demand has to be met by artificial means, by planning and building. The formation of paths is also to a large extent determined by natural
conditions. Kurt Lewin's idea of the 'preferred path' is confirmed by modern geographical research, where it is pointed out that movement usually follows an optimal path, according to the lex parsimoniae. Deviations from the straight line, however, are usual, either to obtain something ('positive deviation') or to evade an obstacle ('negative deviation'). In particular, domains are defined by natural elements. Slopes, edges, variations in texture (vegetation etc.) strongly suggest areas which become part of man's environmental image. Often these areas correspond to those used for a particular purpose, such as agriculture, but mostly the correspondence is not one to one, whereby a wonderful counterpoint between natural and man-made domains results.
But landscape structure, it must be admitted, is in general relatively diffuse. The elements only occasionally have a clear definition, such as a lake, and vegetation and topographical forms rarely correspond exactly. A certain correlation is sometimes found as, for instance, when a cultivated field stops against a wood-clad hill, but regular or geometrical forms hardly exist. When they do occur, man tends to bestow upon them a particular significance: Mount Fuji in Japan is traditionally considered holy, and Vesuvius is even more interesting because of its regular contour, accentuated by the isolated position of the mountain. It would, however, be wrong to consider landscape as formless. A landscape with weak formal properties may exist, but it does not offer the same possibilities for orientation and identification as a landscape where large and small dimensions accentuate each other reciprocally, where masses and spaces inspire us to imagine the experience of taking possession of it by physical and psychic movement.
The imagined process of taking possession of landscape during the changing seasons also determines its infinitely varying expressions: it may be intimate or forbidding, smiling or sombre; but all these expressions have a general character. As nature is not man-made, it keeps us at a certain distance and offers great but relatively undifferentiated experiences. Correspondingly, the structure of landscape consists of general topological relationships: we may, for instance, talk about 'a chain of mountains' or 'a glade in the forest'. Let us repeat that landscape always has the function of forming the continuous background of our environmental image (as well as of our visual field). If this condition is corrupted, we stop talking about landscape.
The urban level
On the urban level we find structures which are mostly determined by man's own activities, that is, by his interaction with a man-made environment. On this level, therefore, the basic form is what could be called 'our place'. During his development the individual discovers a structured whole which he shares with others and which more than anything else gives him a sense of identity. In fact, during history the town has simply been civitas, the known and safe world which secured man's foothold in relation to the unknown world around. The primary quality of the urban image, therefore, is the single identifiable place. To satisfy this condition, the settlement ought to have figural character in relation to the landscape. The principles of closure and proximity of the constituent elements, therefore, are of prime importance. The settlement in any case has to have a higher density than its surroundings. This does not mean, however, that the town is a closed system, isolated from its environment. We have already talked about the dialectic of departure and return, of inside and outside and of the meaning of 'openings'. The town, thus, communicates with elements of other levels. But communication presupposes that the town has something to contribute, that is, has a clearly defined identity. Communication does not mean to dissolve into the surroundings.
We have maintained that the identity of a settlement relative to its surroundings depends on a certain density. The question then arises whether this density is also motivated from within. Certainly villages and towns from any period or part of the world were characterized by being dense. This quality, therefore, seems to satisfy a basic
human need. One might refer to the need for defence, a factor which certainly has played an important role, but density also appears where defence was unnecessary. The motivation, therefore, lies deeper. We know that the Egyptian hieroglyph for 'city' also meant 'mother'. The city was experienced as something close, warm and embracing. When I once asked one of the inhabitants of a small Italian village how she would describe her village to somebody who did not know the place, she answered: 'it is like a warm coat I can put on'. Density thus seems motivated also from within. In general it corresponds to what is usually known as human scale.
The discussion of urban structure is not exhausted, however, by pointing out a general place-quality. It also comprises an interior organization which we have already mentioned in connection with the research of Kevin Lynch. Lynch is certainly not the first to define urban structure in terms of 'nodes', 'paths' and 'districts'; conventional descriptions of towns usually refer to squares (piazza, Platz, place), streets and quarters and we may quote the writings of A. E. Brinckmann and Paul Zucker as an example. But he has given these well known terms a new existential dimension, rather than reducing them to aspects of a 'visual' problem. His approach finds significant confirmation in an essay by Claude Lévi-Strauss, who discusses the image natives have of their village. Lévi-Strauss shows that the image is based on simple, topological relations, but that it varies according to the individual's position in the social structure. He also points out that the image-types correspond to real arrangements found in primitive villages. The inner urban structure is thus a complex result of individual and social functions which 'take place'. The same basic elements are found everywhere; they can, however, be combined into several typical urban images. The most elementary of these are the 'enclosure' and the 'cluster', which are the direct expressions of functions taking place and of social 'togetherness'. These two structures also often appear in combination, as when a cluster is given a precise delimitation. Continuity along a path is also a characteristic model, mostly determined by particular environmental conditions. In larger cities these structures form hierarchical systems. A higher or lesser degree of geometrization may appear on all sub-levels.
Kevin Lynch uses present-day American cities as his material, but still arrives at the same conclusions. Man needs an urban environment which facilitates the image-making, he needs districts which have a particular character, paths which lead somewhere, and nodes which are 'distinct and unforgettable places'. In his fascinating analysis of formless Los Angeles, he quotes a characteristic statement of one of the persons interviewed: 'It's as if you were going somewhere for a long time, and when you got there you discovered there was nothing there, after all.' Within the urban level, the individual usually possesses his more 'private' existential space, but it is essential that this is understood as part of a larger whole. Such an understanding grows together with man's gradual becoming part of a social context. 'Socialization', thus, has to be accompanied by the development of existential space to become really meaningful.' Rudolf Schwarz says: 'The individual is born in the village which existed before him. But slowly this village becomes his homeland, a place lived in and full of memories.' 'Paths and places became memories, time and space became the history of his life.'
The house
The private spaces we find within the common urban level, are houses in the fullest sense of the word. The house really brings us inside and represents the need for being situated. But there are also houses which have a public character. This either means that they remain part of the urban level, or that the public realm is recognized as an
extension of the private world, so that man can be said to ‘dwell’ in the public buildings as well as in his own house. In other words, the concept of ‘home’ may have a varying range. Some forms of life, in fact, give prime importance to the common, public environment; the inhabitants dwell together as one large community, whereas elsewhere the house of the family is the basic element. In both cases, however, the fundamental function of dwelling is fully expressed. Heidegger says:
‘What does it mean to build? The old German word for to build was “buan” and means to dwell. That is, to stay, to remain . . . The word “bin” (am) came from the old word to build, so that “I am”, “you are” means: I dwell, you dwell. The way that you are and I am, the way men are on earth is “Buan”, dwelling . . .’
‘Dwelling is the basic principle of existence.’
The house, therefore, remains the central place of human existence, the place where the child learns to understand his being in the world, and the place from which man departs and to which he returns. The poet Milosz says:
‘I say Mother. And my thoughts are of you, oh, House. House of the lovely dark summers of my childhood.’
and a house-inscription by Hermann Broch reads:
‘In der Mitte aller Ferne steht dies Haus drum hab es gerne.’
Consequently Gaston Bachelard describes the house as ‘one of the great integrative forces in man’s life’. In the house man finds his identity.
The structure of the house is primarily that of a place, but as such it also contains an interior structure which is differentiated in several subordinate places and connecting paths. Different activities take place in the house, and their co-ordinate totality expresses a form of life. The activities have a varying relation to the outside and to the basic directions of vertical and horizontal. When Bachelard gives prime importance to the verticality of the house, he obviously recognizes the fundamental relationship discussed by Heidegger: to dwell does not only mean ‘to be on earth’, but also ‘to be under the Heavens’. The house gives man his place on earth, but the ‘vertical’ is always with him. In general, the house expresses the structure of dwelling, with all its physical and psychic aspects. It is imagined as a system of meaningful activities concretized as a space consisting of places with varying character. To illustrate the depth which is given to the world ‘character’ in this context, Bachelard quotes C. G. Jung who says: ‘Conscience behaves like the man who hearing a suspicious noise in the cellar rushes up to the attic to make sure that there are not thieves and subsequently that the noise was a figment of his imagination. In reality the cautious man hadn’t dared to go down to the cellar.’
The image of the house, therefore, depends on the existence of differentiated places which interact among themselves and with the environment in varying ways. Above all, however, the character is determined by concrete ‘things’ such as the fire-place, the table and the bed.
When Alberti called the house ‘a small city’, he probably felt that we dwell in cities as well as in houses, and that the basic elements of existential space determine both. But the analogy is not completely valid. The house, thus, does not give the same importance to the path as does the city. Whereas the city mainly lives by means of its paths, the house is a function of place. In fact, we can follow a logical progression from the domain-dominated landscape over the path-dominated city to the place-dominated house. At the same time we notice a growing precision of form and structure, that is, an increasing tendency towards geometrization. The more man is ‘at home’, the more precisely he can define his environment.
The thing
How, then, should we consider the lowest level of existential space, that of furniture and objects-for-use? Here we can no longer talk about a system of places and paths, but
25 O. F. Bollnow Mensch und Raum 1963, p. 165
26 O. F. Bollnow Mensch und Raum 1963, p. 166
27 G. Bachelard The Poetics of Space 1964, ch. IIII, 4
28 G. Bachelard The Poetics of Space 1964, ch. IIII, 6-7
29 For the theory of objects see Norberg-Schulz Intentions in Architecture pp. 27ff
30 M. Eliade says, 'The sky directly, "naturally", reveals the infinite distance, the transcendence of the deity'. The Sacred and the Profane 1961, p. 117
31 For a discussion of representation see Norberg-Schulz Intentions in Architecture 1963, pp. 167ff
are left with things, which interact with their surroundings in different ways.
The interaction of levels
The levels of existential space form a structured totality which corresponds to the structure of existence. Man exists in relation to many objects: to physical objects, psychic objects, social objects and cultural objects.
It is of great importance that the levels can represent each other, which is also a consequence of the fact that 'things focus' and 'nature contains'.
larger meaningful context. The interaction between man and the environment, therefore, consists of two complementary processes which are directed inwards and outwards respectively, in accordance with Piaget's principle of assimilation and accommodation. The level-hierarchy of existential space is therefore a product of man's taking possession of his environment.
Existential space can also be described as a simultaneous totality where the levels interact to form a complex, dynamic field. Through perception, parts of the field are experienced, but the general image exists independently of the individual situation. This field is neither continuous nor uniform.
Firstly it contains a system of centres, with one centre usually dominating. The centres can be inside each other, as when we think of the different 'known' places of a town, which as a whole functions as a centre in a larger context, or when we think of the various places or foci of a house. This means that the levels contain each other. On each level, the centres are related by paths. It follows that domains may also contain sub-domains as well as places and paths. The degree of acquaintance with an area, therefore, is determined by the sub-elements known. These elements, on the other hand, are influenced by the character of the surrounding domain. In general, we may say that existential space consists of several overlapping and inter-penetrating systems which interact with each other. In such a complex totality ambiguity and conflicts are bound to occur, it is even maintained that they ought to occur, because of 'the richness and ambiguity of (modern) experience'. The question of complexity has been discussed by Amos Rapoport and Robert E. Kantor who refer to recent works by psychologists investigating the degree of environmental complexity preferred. In general, human beings prefer complex environments to simple ones. Experiments with rats have shown that an enriched environment produces an increase in brain weight and intellectual capacity. 'Since healthy behaviour is exploratory, varying, venturesome in nature, it requires an environment which allows, indeed encourages, the development and exercise of such behaviour . . . Yet this preference for the complex and ambiguous is not limitless. Stimuli which are too simple lead to quick boredom; those which are too complex lead to confusion and avoidance. This suggests the idea that for each person there is an optimal perceptual rate.' The authors also discuss a similar interest in ambiguity among present-day architects and quote Aldo van Eyck who says: 'Each place is multi-suggestive.' In particular van Eyck gives importance to the inside-outside relation. His statements reflect what we have found to be basic properties of existential space, and van Eyck himself realizes the determining force behind it, when he says: 'Man is both centre bound and horizon bound'. The structure of existential space expresses the incessant tensions inherent in life.
32 The island represents a relatively closed system and may therefore give rise to a particular kind of existential space. We may also point out the common root in the words 'island' and 'isolate'. See Lynch The Image of the City p. 129
33 R. Venturi Complexity and Contradiction in Architecture New York 1966, p. 22
34 A. Rapoport and R. E. Kantor 'Complexity and Ambiguity in Environmental Design' American Institute of Planners Journal, July 1967
35 A. Rapoport and R. E. Kantor 'Complexity and Ambiguity in Environmental Design' p. 214
36 A. Rapoport and R. E. Kantor 'Complexity and Ambiguity in Environmental Design' p. 216
Conclusion
It has been maintained that the development of an existential space forms a necessary part of the orientation of the individual, and that the basic properties of its structure ought to be public, in order to allow for social integration. Orientation and social integration, however, have many dimensions. Space is only one of the aspects of existence. Could not, for instance, social integration be achieved by cultural or political means rather than by the development of common space concepts? We do not want to reduce the importance of any of the dimensions of human action, but should point out that any activity has spatial aspects, because any activity implies movements and relations to places. Existence and existential space cannot be separated. Heidegger says: "The world at any time reveals the spatiality of the space which belongs to it." Any activity means 'to be somewhere'.
What, then, does it mean 'to be somewhere'? It simply means to be located in one's existential space. We may be 'at home', 'away' or 'astray'. The term 'away' expresses that we are on our way to get 'somewhere else'. The German word weg, in fact, means 'way' as well as 'away'. The term 'lost' expresses that we have left the known structure of existential space. The experience (perception) of space, thus, consists in the tension between one's immediate situation and existential space. When our immediate location coincides with the centre of our existential space, we experience being 'at home'. If not, we are either 'on our way', 'somewhere else', or we are 'lost'.
'To be somewhere', however, has many forms. Bollnow talks about 'Der Handlungsraum' (space of action), 'Der gestimte Raum' (expressive space) and 'Der Raum des menschlichen Zusammenlebens' (space of human interaction). The space of action may also be called 'space of work', and consists mainly in a spatial organization of objects for use. Expressive space, on the other hand, is determined by affective identification. Bollnow refers to the varying character of natural space, and talks at length about the forest, which is generally experienced as being simultaneously closed and open. This character furthermore changes with day and night and with the climatic conditions. As particularly interesting phenomena, Bollnow mentions the effect of snow and fog, and of dawn and dusk. He quotes the well-known verse by Goethe:
'Dämmrung senkte sich von oben, schon ist alle Nähe fern ...'.�����a
The concepts of 'narrow' and 'wide' are especially suitable for describing such character. 'Narrow' is what restricts life (but in certain cases: protects life), while 'wide' is what allows life to unfold. The expression or character of the environment, therefore, is neither something subjective within man, nor something to be found outside, but an aspect of man's being in the world. The expressive spaces created by man primarily aim at the realization of such characters. In fact, Sedlmayr defines art as the 'shaping of an intelligible character' and says, 'the achievement of the artist lies in creating an intelligible equivalent for the particular complex that he has experienced'.������
In the space of human interaction, the spaces of action and of expression are unified to create, in its highest form, what Bollnow calls 'the space of loving communal life'. He points out that marriage among primitive people is often connected with the building of a house and says: 'The space which they (the lovers) jointly produce is their home.' When space of love becomes public, as a common ideal image of existential space, it gains the character of a sacred space.
space always centres on one or more sacred places, that is, foci where the common cosmic image is represented. Often the centres are connected by sacred paths which lead to the meaningful goal. Pilgrimage, thus, is one of the great symbols of human existence.
The sacred path implies that ‘to be on the way’ also has many forms. It is closely related to the problem of pace and rhythm, that is, the changing character of movement. In fact, how we get from one place to another is a basic aspect of man’s being in the world. We can run, stroll, march or dance, thereby expressing different ways of taking possession of the environment. Life itself can be understood as a movement from one condition to another. This movement is incessant and continuous, but it has rhythm and form. Even man’s basic organic needs, such as hunger and thirst, follow rhythmic patterns. Furthermore, man is part of a system of natural rhythms, such as night and day, the change of seasons and his own ‘ages’. Piaget says appropriately: ‘Life is a creator of patterns’. In other words, we become what we do. In this sense, life interprets itself as space by taking possession of the environment.
To conclude we may say a few words about some actual problems connected with man’s existential space. Whereas the human environment so far has had a structure corresponding to the existential space described above, present-day development seems to favour a new mobility. Technical means of communication have freed us from direct human contact, and an increasing number of people have become physically mobile. Many seem to believe that this development offers possibilities for a richer social interaction. Thus the American city-planning theorist Melvin Webber says: ‘It is interaction, not place, that is the essence of the city and city life’. The Dutch utopist Constant Nieuwenhuis has given a particularly illuminating image of a mobile world in his ‘New Babylon’ fantasy. He says: ‘In New Babylon people would be constantly travelling. There would be no need for them to return to their point of departure as this in any case would be transformed . . . It follows that New Babylon could not have a determined plan. On the contrary, every element would be left undetermined, mobile and flexible.’ But such a mobile world, which is not based on the repetition of similarities in connection with a stable system of places, would make human development impossible. Piaget’s research indicates that a mobile world would tie man to an ‘egocentric’ stage, while a stable and structured world frees his intelligence. Nor would a mobile world allow for real human interaction. Christopher Alexander thus points out that ‘the social pathologies associated with urban life – deliquency and mental disorder – follow inevitably from the lack of intimate contact’. To have such an intimate contact ‘the people concerned must see each other very often, almost every day’. He also maintains that mental disturbances occur when people only have ‘nonpatterned encounters with each other’.
In fact, it is a misunderstanding to believe that a stable world and corresponding environmental images hamper man’s mobility. Kevin Lynch says that ‘the environmental image has its original function in permitting purposeful mobility’, and ‘the terror of being lost comes from the necessity that a mobile organism be oriented in its surroundings’. Heidegger furthermore points out ‘When I go towards the exit of a room I am already there and would not be able to go there unless I was already there.’ In other words, mobility presupposes a structured image of the environment, an existential space which contains generalized as well as particular orientations.
The discussion of the human environment has thus taken a new direction. Until a few years ago we discussed whether man ought to live in one-family houses or flats. Today we have penetrated deeper into the problem and ask what we should demand in order to make the environment a satisfactory part of human existence. As an answer to this question, the idea of a mobile world is anything but realistic. It confuses psychic and physical mobility, as well as psychic and physical distance, and substitutes real identification with a chaotic consumption of stimuli. Hans Sedlmayer has grasped the tendency at its very root, talking about ‘the lost centre’. The environmental
problem we are facing, therefore, is not of a technical, economical, social or political nature. It is a human problem, the problem of preserving man's identity. In his 'free' arrogance he departed from his place and 'conquered' the world. But he is left with emptiness and no real freedom. He has forgotten what it means to 'dwell', and remember Rilke's words:
'O Heimweh der Stätten, die nicht genug Geliebt wurden, einst in flüchtigen Stunden – Wie gern gäb ich ihnen, handelnd von Fern Versäumtes, den Umriss abzurunden.'
The Odyssey is still a valid tale.
Perhaps man's departure was motivated by a wrong idea of 'freedom'. Heidegger reminds us that the words 'dwell', 'protection', 'peace' and 'freedom' originally belonged together,
3 Architectural space
It is the city which should be judged though we, its children, must pay the price.
Lawrence Durrell justine.
The elements of architectural space
Architectural space may be defined as a 'concretization' of existential space. Existential space is a psychological concept, denoting the schemata man develops, interacting with the environment, in order to get along satisfactorily. The result of this interaction, however, will not be a finished, complete image, it will normally contain contradictions, and parts will be missing, for example, the feeling of belonging to a particular place. When a group of 'lost' young people in Oslo recently protested against the commercialized use of land and buildings in the centre of the city, their slogan was: 'a place to stay'. The environmental image, therefore, comprises wishes and dreams. To satisfy these wishes, man tries to change his environment. In other words, architecture concretizes an image which goes beyond the already existing environment. It always reflects a wish to improve man's conditions. Man's existential space is thus determined by the concrete structure of the environment, but his needs and wishes create a feedback. The relationship between man and environment is therefore a two-way process, a real interaction.
'Architectural space' is a concrete, physical aspect of this process.
Ideally, there should be an isomorphic relation between existential and architectural space but, in practice, this is not fully achieved. Architectural space is given 'ready made' to the individual, that is, it is the creation of others and reflects their existential spaces. A particular attitude is therefore needed to grasp its structure,
Our private world is obviously based on a series of generalizations, as we order our experiences according to their similarities. But the concepts or 'objects' we arrive at have relatively imprecise boundaries and a low degree of articulation. Our conception
of a tree, for instance, may only consist in a general idea of its shape or colour. A gardener or a botanist, however, will probably have a more complete conception. This is because individual worlds (within a particular field) have been further structured by special knowledge, which in our diagram is illustrated by a feedback-arrow from science.
But man’s individual concepts are not only vague, they also have an inevitable tendency to interfere. A man’s concept of a tree is thus influenced by the situation in which it is experienced: harvesting apples, climbing the branches, or engraving a heart pierced by an arrow. In fact, it is this interference which gives things individual ‘colour’ and makes the individual world something more than a mechanical reaction to physical stimuli. But at the same time is is clear that this interference, if it took place in an accidental and subjective way, would have catastrophic consequences for our intercourse with physical things as well as with other people.
Individual concepts and interference patterns must, therefore, be based on social experiences. This is also illustrated in the diagram by a feedback-arrow. In other words, our different individual worlds must have common basic structural properties to enable us to become part of society. These common concepts and interference patterns we may call the public world. The public world is characterized by a more stable and generalized structure than the individual, but is obviously deprived of all the varying shades which distinguish the latter. As a matter of course, the public world has, to a greater extent than the individual, to make use of scientific insight. It is therefore more objective, but may never correspond to the scientific world, which is characterized by the disappearance of interference, as far as that is possible, or, in other words, by the absence of values. Only by leaving our values does science become ‘exact’. The scientific world is a world of precisely defined and lawfully interrelated objects. As it is interference which determines what we call ‘qualities’, it is natural to characterize the scientific world as ‘quantitative’. If the public world corresponded to the scientific all meaningful feelings and expressive activities would become impossible.
One of the key words used above is ‘value’. To possess a system of values means that one wants and is convinced that the world ought to have a certain structure. Values, therefore, influence our choice of alternatives, they make our actions intentional. They may even lead us to accept solutions which are disadvantageous from a practical point of view. Such solutions can be defended if they are necessary to manifest values needed by society. They should, however, be rejected if they only express private idiosyncrasies.
When we lay stress on the word intention, it is to say that both the (environmental) needs and the (architectural) forms which satisfy them are the result of meaningful choices (conscious or unconscious). This holds both for perception and production. Only in exceptional circumstances do we intend forms which correspond exactly to the measurable, physical stimulus. Usually the stimulus symbolizes a ‘higher’ objective, that is, we experience a meaning. We thus interpret the situation relative to a system of values. To avoid becoming a victim of prejudice, it is essential that perception be based on a value system which gives the stimulus an adequate meaning, that is, a sufficient ‘intentional depth’. A modern pluralistic society where different value systems interfere, makes great demands on the intentional depth. We therefore ought to have knowledge of value systems other than
the one we personally profess, and be able to change attitudes when necessary. But the different systems ought also to have some basic properties in common to avoid inherent conflicts in society. When we say that forms are 'expressive', it therefore means that they manifest higher objectives, which eventually are based on systems of values. The forms are expressive because they engage, because they mean something to us. We could also talk about 'symbolic forms', whereby 'symbol' means something quite different from a naive depiction. 'Expressive forms' and 'symbolic forms' are, therefore, synonyms, signifying that measurable physical forms (perceived or produced) mediate a higher meaning. The symbol-function is basic to all human behaviour. Without symbols which concretize his value-oriented being in the world, man would be inexpressive.
How, then, does architecture enter this model? Should the environment we create be adapted to the private, the public or the scientific world? It is obvious that the last alternative has to be rejected. It is of course possible to reduce architecture to a mere rationalistic activity, and hope that the other arts succeed in showing man that his world is meaningful. Our analysis of existential space, however, tells us that this reduction would make man 'homeless' in the widest sense of the term. Let us therefore hope that our environment may still acquire a 'meaning' to transcend the merely practical aspect. Should it, in this case, correspond to the private or the public world? As it is one of the purposes of architecture to help integrate the individual in a common form, the first alternative is not satisfactory. That is, individual needs certainly have to be satisfied, but they have to be understood, as part of a larger context. In other words, even our individual expressions ought to have a common denominator. In general, architecture should serve the public world. This does not mean that we hypothesize one collective system of values and let everything be determined by that; rather we should use the role-structure of society as our basis; a problem, however, that we have discussed in further detail in other contexts.
In conclusion, architectural space concretizes a public existential space which includes many private existential spaces. It is a symbolic form which mediates the higher objects of man's world through a certain structural similarity, whereby the places, paths, domains and levels of existential space find their concrete, physical counterpart—a fact which follows logically from the discussion of existential space. Creating architectural space, therefore, means integrating an intended form of life in the environment. Rudolf Schwarz says: 'People put the earth within them in the land they find, place the landscape within them on the landscape without, and both become one.'
Place and node
The first problem to discuss is the architectural definition of 'centre'. It has already been shown that centre means the creation of a place, or, in Lynch's terminology a 'node'. Lynch says: 'Nodes are the strategic foci into which the observer can enter, typically either junctions of paths, or concentrations of some characteristic.' Lynch also introduces the term 'landmark' to denote 'point references considered to be external to the observer.' Landmarks often correspond to centres in existential space, but sometimes their function is more to indicate boundaries or directions. In general, the definition of a place is based on the Gestalt principles of proximity and closure. Proximity creates a clustering of elements, that is, a concentration of masses. Hence we find throughout the history of architecture the tendency to mark a place by means of a large mass. Enclosure, on the other hand, determines a space which is separated from its surroundings as a particular place. Such spaces exist in nature, for instance as caves. The initiation rites of the Dogons take place in caves, and the centre of meaning is furthermore indicated by a concentrated mass placed inside the cave, an erect stone of phallic character. We thus find the two original architectural symbols of place brought together.
D. Frey discusses the 'mass-centre' or Mal-Motiv extensively. He points out that the mass expresses the condition of being
(1) Initiation cave of the Dogon tribe central Africa
somewhere, in contrast to the movement to and from, and that space is centralized by the erection of such a Mal.
'The motif of the standing figure bears the same relationship to sculptural representation of the body as the Mal (goal) to the shaping of architectural space. In this stationary centre or goal the very space is systematized as a stationary shape.'
In the Egyptian pyramid we find the strongest expression of absolute existence; it is not a place for human activities in the normal sense of the word, but the goal for the path of life. Tombs, in fact, generally have a centralized form. The ability of a mass to serve as a 'centre', could be described by the term 'concentration'. Concentration is a function of the main shape, as
12 D. Frey Grundlegung zu einer vergleichenden Kunstwissenschaft, pp. 6, 58
(2) Stepped pyramid Saqqara, Egypt 2600 BC III dynasty
well as the treatment of details. In general it is strengthened by a continuous bounding surface and by symmetry. The sphere, hence, has a maximum of concentration.
(4) Town Square with town-hall (1559) and Jesuit church (1656 D. Orsini), Klatovy, Bohemia
(5) Kjell Lund and Nils Slaatto St Halvard's Church, Oslo 1966
clustering and vertical accents. In the town of Klatovy a most impressive 'double focus' is created by the towers of the town hall and the church. In general, the mass is a symbolic or ideal centre, rather than a real place of activity. It puts a stop to the horizontal extension of man's environment, and makes his need for fixed points visible.
The place of activity has roots which are just as old as those of the concentrated mass. The enclosure, in fact, may be considered man's first real attempt to take possession of the environment.
‘Man’s first architecturally important intrusion into his environment – dominated by magical forces – was the definition and enclosure of a domain, the temenos, and by this very act of definition the domain obtained a special relationship to these forces. Here they should dwell or be kept out. This domain fixed the emotionally insecure limits between the ego and the outer world.’
14 G. Bandmann
Mittelalterliche Architektur als Bedeutungstrager 1951, pp. 133ff
(6) Roman amphitheatre Nimes, Augustan period
(7) Wasserburg am Inn Bavaria
(8) Sinan his own tomb
Istanbul 1588
Whereas the mass-centre has an abstract, ideal character, the enclosure has strong social implications. Basically it expresses a coming together, the forming of a ring for a common purpose. Most cultures have such enclosures where rituals or theatrical performances take place. The essential architectural property is a clearly defined boundary, which secures physical as well as psychic protection. In the Roman amphitheatre the effect of enclosure is enhanced by the geometrized form (which however contains directions) and by the rows of seats falling down towards the middle. The regular
(9) Bernardo A. Vittone
Capella della Visitazione,
Vallinotto 1738
distribution of openings also expresses the role of the building as a 'social' centre. While the enclosed single space forms a complement to the concentrated mass, the enclosed settlement corresponds to the cluster of closely spaced elements. The boundaries of such settlements may be natural or artificial, but in both cases a clear distinction between inside and outside is essential to the character of place. In many cases we find denseness as well as enclosure, whereby a still stronger identity is achieved. We will, however, return to the question of defining types of places when discussing the various environmental levels.
The mass-centre and the enclosure both represent an 'either-or'. Only fairly late during the course of architectural history were buildings created which realized in equal measure both aspects of the place concept. This development was closely tied to the building of Christian churches and achieved its most convincing results with the great domed structures of the Renaissance period. About the same time Sinan carried through related intentions in the large mosques of Istanbul.
(11) Colin St John Wilson
Civic Centre Liverpool,
begun in 1966
the strong figures that builds the world'.16
In the eighteenth century Bernardo Vittone still varied the double theme of the centralized place in a series of perfect buildings. Even in modern architecture the great centralized hall appears as an urban focus. Particularly convincing is the solution of Colin St John Wilson for the new Civic Centre at Liverpool, where four administration buildings branch out from a vertically directed space which is lit from above. This project clearly demonstrates the fundamental and timeless character of man's need for a 'centre'.
A place, however, not only becomes a centre because it functions as a goal in existential space. We have seen that it is just as important to regard it as a 'point of departure'. The tension between centripetal and centrifugal forces, therefore, constitutes the essence of any place. Michelangelo must have
(12) Colin St John Wilson
Civic Centre : interior
(13) Le Corbusier
La Tourette Fveux, near
Lyons 1952-60
47
(14) Michelangelo Buonarotti Capitoline Hill Rome 1560
(15) Johann Lukas von Hildebrandt chapel of St John Nepomuk Gollersdorf 1733
17 Michelangelo's intentions were partly changed by della Porta and others, who stressed the longitudinal axis changing several important details.
felt this when he created his Capitoline Square in Rome. His composition essentially consists of two elements: an oval inscribed in the floor of the piazza by means of two descending steps, and three buildings which form a circumscribed trapezium. The oval is clearly characterized as expanding, as it is decorated by a star-like pattern which increases in scale towards the periphery. Furthermore the oval is convex and 'breaks through' the surrounding surface. The trapezium, however, seems to contract, as the two lateral buildings converge towards the open side of the piazza. In the original project all three buildings were articulated in a similar way, creating a continuous boundary. The project has been interpreted as expressing the idea of the Capitoline Hill as the caput mundi. The oval, thus, would be nothing less than the very top of our globe. This interpretation is supported by the fact that Michelangelo here succeeded in symbolizing the essence of place, as perhaps nobody else in the history of architecture. The conflict between the expanding oval with the statue of the Emperor (i.e. man)
in the centre, and the contracting boundary,
in fact contains the basic problem of existential space, giving it a ‘tragic’ note. Few people escape the fascination of the Capitoline Square, which touches the deepest ground of our psyche.
The place as a synthesis of arrival and departure and of inside and outside, is symbolized in a still more direct and less tragic way in some of the great works of the Baroque period. As a particularly convincing and charming example we may mention the small chapel of St John Nepomuk in Göllersdorf by Hildebrandt. Here a centralized baldacchino defines and keeps a place in the most fundamental manner. An opening in the crowning dome stresses the vertical axis, and the diagonally directed columns add a note of dynamic expansion. The little structure is thus both a centre of attention and of ‘radiation’, and satisfies the basic existential demands on the centre.
In all the examples mentioned above, the place is defined by means of certain topological properties. We ought also to mention, however, that some places are defined simply by being strongly dissimilar to their surroundings. This may hold true for ‘natural’ places as well as man-made settlements. Sometimes such a particular character is combined with a strong topological definition to create what Lynch has called ‘a distinct and unforgettable place’.
Path and axis
Kevin Lynch defines paths as ‘the channels along which the observer customarily, occasionally, or potentially moves’. We could also add ‘ideally’ moves. The organizing axis, in fact, is not intended for real movement, but represents a symbolic direction which unifies a number of elements among themselves, and often relates them to a larger totality. Often, however, path and axis are identical. The real path and the more abstract axis may both have horizontal as well as vertical components. In general,
[16] Temple of Queen Hatshepaut Thebes,
Egypt 1400 inc.
(XVIII dynasty)
(17) Temple of Fortuna
Praeneste (Palestrina) first century BC
the definition of a path or an axis is based on the Gestalt principle of continuity, and on a certain similarity of the mass or space elements taking part in the 'composition'.
Settlements organized as a linear succession of units are found in folk architecture from all parts of the world, and are usually determined by geographical factors, as well as particular types of work and communication. In ancient Egypt, however, the path became a dominant symbolic form. The tomb-temples of the Ancient Kingdom are architectural paths consisting of long corridors leading from the reception building on the Nile to the main temple at the foot of the pyramid. In the temple of Queen Hatshepsut near Deir-el-Bahari, the theme is made still more explicit, as the path has become an axis which divides the building into two symmetrical parts. The mountain itself takes over the role of the pyramid.
'It is the most magnificent and consistent attempt to do away with the incessant passage of time as part of human fate by means of an architectural structure.'20
(18) Drawing of Temple of Fortuna
Whereas the Egyptian temples are based on one straight path leading 'in' towards a final but unreachable goal, the larger Roman layouts show a complex system of movements. In the Republican sanctuary of Fortuna at Praeneste (Palestrina) we are already finding a characteristic doubling of the paths on both sides of the main axis, while only part of the axis is used for real movement. Thus the perceiver takes possession of the total environment, and when he looks back from the fourth terrace, he almost has the feeling of flying like a bird over the plain below, towards the distant sea at Anzio.
The whole landscape becomes part of the architectural solution, and is formed by means of terraces, porches, stairs, ramps and fountains. The main direction is not inwards but upwards. 'This upward movement is a force in the structured space and is combined with a great freedom that reveals itself in the relation between the layout, its parts and the surrounding landscape.'21
The existential space symbolized here is different from the Egyptian. It is a space which is expansive and open to the world; it does not only express the success of its builder Sulla, but the general attitude of the Roman
20 D. Frey Grundleging zu einer vergleichenden Kunstweitsensahe, p. 82
21 H. Kahler 'Das Fortunaheiligtum von Palestrina Praeneste' Annales Universitatis Saravienus vol. VII, Fasc. 3, 4. 1958, p. 218
people. Other characteristic path structures can also be found in antiquity. The architecture of the ancient Orient, for instance, is based on circulating movements, which reinforce the dominating wish for static places, rather than forming real paths.
The character of a path is thus determined by its relation to places. It either leads towards a goal, away from a point of departure, or it forms a ring around the place, expressing that 'existence is round'. As any place lives from the tension between centripetal and centrifugal forces, place and path must be interdependent.
In the early Christian church the interior space is a 'place' apart and different from the world outside, but it is interpreted as a path. Like a colonnaded Roman street the nave leads towards the altar in the apse, expressing that the path is the essence of existence. The path of the Christian church, however, is not without hope, like that of the Egyptian temple; it has a beginning and an end. The end is represented by the altar, which tells us that the path of life has found, and continues to find, its end in Jesus Christ. 'People become part of a history that they
[19] King's College Chapel
Cambridge 1446-1515
[20] St Apollinaire in Classe
Ravenna sixth century AD
must live through again and yet which has already come to an end, and in that end overcame death and found salvation.22
The theme of the sacred path found its most splendid interpretation in the Gothic churches. The continuity in depth was no longer expressed simply by lateral columns or pillars, but by the interpenetrating ribs of the vaulting, whose complex movement searches constantly for a place to rest.
The horizontal integration which determines movement in depth, also characterizes old streets of historical towns. While the church represents an ideal movement, and therefore shows a geometrical structure, the street is a real path serving the physical and social actions of man, which are better interpreted in terms of topological relations. We will, however, return to the analysis of street structure when discussing the urban level.
22 R. Schwarz The Church Incarnate, p. 102
centre was developed by French architects during the seventeenth century, and came to dominate man's environment. A map of Paris and its environs from 1740 shows a system of centres and radiating roads which transform the world into a network of paths, expressing a new existential feeling of openness and expansion. A late, but particularly clear example of this intention is found in Schlaun's project for Clemens-werth. While the Baroque network really joins different foci, the modern network of motorways is a mere infrastructure, never leading to any goal but passing by everything.
We have already mentioned the bridge as a particular kind of path. A river may be said to separate and unify simultaneously. It divides the land, but also defines a space which is common to both shores. The unifying effect is usually strengthened by the land sloping down towards the water, and by the river serving as a means of communication. The bridge makes it possible for man to take possession of the 'river-space'. Here he feels
23 See E. N. Bacon
Design of Cities 1957.
pp. 180-181
outside and inside, free and protected at the same time, moving back and forth between two domains which are different, although belonging to the same totality. These tensions are beautifully expressed by the Charles Bridge in Prague (1353). Built on the remains of an older structure, it has a most unusual curved course which is experienced as a continuation of the narrow and crooked streets on both sides. The Charles Bridge is 'populated' by statues which make it a real civic centre. Other paths of a different kind.
(24) Charles Bridge
Prague 1353 (with statues from the eighteenth century)
(25) Charles Bridge
are the staircase and the urban flight of stairs. Built to conquer a difference of levels, they are basically vertical. Giving the feeling of victory over gravity, they have a strong expressive content. An unusual fascination has always been exercised by spiral staircases, where one really experiences rising up along the vertical axis. Urban stairs have often served as the link between a sanctuary at the top and a crowded piazza at the bottom, thereby concretizing the transition from one existential level to another. In the
(26) Jacapo Barozzi
Vignola Farnese Palace
Caprarola: spiral staircase
1558-73
(27) Francesco de Sanctis
Spanish Steps Rome 1723–25
24 See C. Norberg-
Schulz Intentions in
Architecture 1963, p. 143
25 K. Lynch The Image
of the City 1960, p. 47
(28) Le Corbusier
Carpenter Art Centre
Harvard University,
Cambridge, Mass.
Spanish Steps in Rome we also find a subtle tension between the axis and the pulsating movement of the two symmetrical flights of steps.
The examples mentioned above show that continuity in depth may be created by articulating the floor, the walls, or the ceiling, or any of these elements in combination. Continuity as such is independent of geometry. Rather it is determined by 'guiding elements' which simultaneously belong to two or more superior elements (buildings, spaces).
Domain and district
Kevin Lynch defines districts as areas 'which the observer can mentally go inside of, and which are recognizable as having some common, identifying character'. The physical characteristics that determine districts are thematic continuities which may consist of an endless variety of components: texture,
space, form, detail, symbol, building type, use, activity, inhabitants, topography. Together such properties lead to the formation of a 'characteristic cluster'. Defined boundaries reinforce the formation of districts. In our environment we may distinguish between natural domains, mainly determined by topography and vegetation, and those formed by man as an expression of a particular activity. In both cases boundary and texture are basic defining properties, the Gestalt principles of closure and similarity. While the boundary defines a domain in relation to its surroundings,
(29) Eero Saarinen
Colleges Yale University,
New Haven, Connecticut
texture gives us knowledge of the general character of the district, although we might never really have been inside. Man’s need for belonging to something he knows is thereby satisfied, as the character of ‘his place’ is repeated throughout. On such a general textured ‘ground’ special domains appear as distinct ‘shapes’ because of a change in scale, texture, or because of the introduction of particular boundaries. The transition from one domain to another is a critical problem when we want to concretize a system of existential domains. The gate, therefore, was given great importance during the his-
(30) Norwegian landscape
(31) Fishing near the Norwegian coast
tory of architecture. We find it in nature as a straight or a pass, and on the urban level as the city gate which symbolizes the transition from nature to civilization. The history of architecture illustrates man's physical and psychic need to define his environment as consisting of domains, and the science of geography to a high extent derives its content from the same source.
Elementary interaction
In architectural space, as in existential space, place, path and domain form an integrated whole. Together they constitute what we may call a 'field'. The concept of field is used in natural science to designate the spatial aspects of a system of interacting forces, and has been taken over by Kurt
27 The term campo has been introduced by P. Portughesi in his book Borromini, architettura come linguaggio 1967, p. 384
28 K. Lewin Principles of Topological Psychology 1936
Lewin to describe man’s location in a psychosocial context.
(33) Piazza dei Miracoli
Pisa, eleventh and twelfth century
(34) Hall near Innsbruck,
Austria
limiting case hardly exists in the modern world, and already in antiquity we encounter complex fields where a number of places and domains are interrelated by means of axes and paths. In Greek architecture, however, interrelation is less important than the pronounced individuality of each element, whereas in Roman architecture a strong wish for spatial integration is evident.
Hadrian's villa near Tivoli offers a characteristic example: rather than a group of single buildings, the layout consists of enclosures of varying character, which are organized by means of axes and linked by paths. The total system, however, is still additive, comprising many relatively independent sub-systems, and large areas are left over as almost blank spots on the map.
During the Middle Ages European architecture hardly went beyond this stage although single buildings, such as the great cathedrals, show a high degree of spatial integration. In Renaissance architecture the idea of integration by means of repeated, simple geometrical units, resulted in principle in the establishment of a continuous field of Euclidean character. Analysing the buildings of Brunelleschi, however, we find that organizing centres play a decisive role, thus contradicting the general
(35) Etruscan city gate
Saturnia, Tuscany
(36) Villa Adriana Tivoli
AD 118-138 (plastic reconstruction:
I. Glismondi)
29 See C. Norberg-Schulz
'Le ultime intenzioni di Alberti’ Acta Institutium Romanian Norvegiae, vol. I, 1962
30 See C. Norberg-Schulz
Michelangelo som arkitekt 1958
(37) St Peter’s Square and Basilica Rome 1506-1660. Architects: Bramante, Michelangelo, Maderno, Bernini
(38) Leone Battista Alberti S. Andrea Mantua, begun in 1472
Euclidean repetition. In the works of Alberti this becomes still more evident, not only because of a strong wish for rhythmization, but because of the marked tension between centralization and longitudinality. Rather than being a problem of the church alone, it is clear that this fundamental relation is the determining aspect of any existential space. No wonder, then, that those aiming to define by their buildings man’s total position in the world, throughout the centuries returned to centralization and longitudinality as their main themes. In S. Andrea in Mantua the longitudinal nave and the domed centre are geometrically integrated, but the two aspects do not unify to form one synthetic whole. The same, in principle, holds true for St Peter’s in Rome, in spite of Michelangelo’s strong attempt at a spatial unification of the church, and Bernini’s creation of a piazza which, simultaneously, has direction and is centralized. Its oval shape, in fact, illustrates the characteristic aim of Baroque architecture to arrive at a synthetic solution. Up to this point architectural fields consisted of relatively heterogeneous elements, a state of affairs which is still
normal. In the works of Borromini, however, we encounter a new approach: all his spaces are synthetic totalities, where it is impossible to single out individual units; by inflecting the bounding surfaces he created a new continuity stretching horizontally as well as vertically. As his curved walls are determined by centres, they constitute interpenetrating centralized fields. The dynamic zones where the fields interfere are used for movement, in particular for entrances.
The possibilities opened up by their works culminated in the works of the great Central European architects of the eighteenth century, Johann Lucas von Hildebrandt, Christoph and Kilian Ignaz Dientzenhofer and Balthasar Neumann. By transforming the massive wall into a system of pillars and filled-in 'membranes', Christoph Dientzenhofer arrived at an adequate 'materialization'
| (39) Francesco Borromini
| S. Ivo Rome, begun in 1642 |
|---|
| See P. Portoghesi |
| Borromini, architettura come linguaggio, pp. 384ff., also C. Norberg-Schulz 'Borromini e il barocco boemo' Accademia di S. Luca, 1970 |
| See C. Norberg-Schulz 'Lo spazio nell'architettura post-guarinana' Accademia delle Scienze di Torino, 1970 |
| Guarino Guarini |
| S. Filippo Casale Monferrato 1671: spatial system |
| Francesco Borromini |
| S. Carlino Rome: spatial field of facade 1667, after Portoghesi |
(42) Christoph
Dientzenhofer
St Margareth Brevnov near
Prague 1708-15
64
of Guarini's abstract concepts; his son, Kilian Ignaz, exploited the possibilities thereby created in a series of works where the same combinatory system allows of various central and longitudinal solutions, or syntheses. Kilian Ignaz also related the interiors to their exteriors, a condition that must be fulfilled if the architectural field is to be extended beyond the single building. An early example of this principle is found in Piazza S. Ignazio in Rome, where several buildings together form a continuous boundary for a system of interpenetrating urban spaces.
Late Baroque architecture thus arrived at integrated architectural fields, where centres, directions and zones work together to form a dynamic totality where any spatial expression is possible. Modern architecture has not gone much further beyond this. The main innovation is a new technology, which makes the extended, 'open' fields implicit in late Baroque architecture materially
(43) Kilian Ignaz
Dientzenhofer combinatory system of spatial elements early eighteenth century
(44) Kilian Ignaz
Dientzenhofer combinatory system of spatial elements early eighteenth century
(45) Filippo Raguzzini
Piazza di S. Ignazio Rome 1728
33 The solution has its origins in the late-Gothic Hallenkirche, See C. Norberg-Schulz Kilian Ignaz Dientzenhofer e il barocco boemo 1968
(46) Theo van Doesburg
system of horizontal and vertical planes c. 1920
(47) Paolo Portoghesi
and V. Gigliotti Casa
Andreis Scandriglia
1965–1967
34 S. Giedion was the first to point out late Baroque space as one of the 'constituent facts' of modern architecture. See Space, time and Architecture 1941
35 R. Venturi Complexity and Contradiction in Architecture 1966, p. 72
36 P. Portoghesi and V. Gigliotti 'Casa Andreis a Scandriglia, Rieti' L'architettura 137, March 1967
possible. In the 1920s the ideal was a continuous, flowing space almost completely freed from defined centres and from the distinction between inside and outside. Architects wanted to liberate the static spaces of conventional buildings, to express positively the new 'open' world. Recently, however, the need for defined places and interior spaces has again been felt. As Robert Venturi says: 'The essential purpose of the interiors of buildings is to enclose rather than direct space and to separate the inside from the outside.' In the Casa Andreis Paolo Portoghesi and Vittorio Gigliotti give a clear demonstration of the actual field concept in architecture, ingeniously exploiting man's previous experiences with architectural space. In accordance with the task set – to build a 'week-end house' – Casa Andreis shows a free and continuous space, with a strong contact between inside and outside. But the space does not float away, neither are qualitative differences wiped out. Casa Andreis collects and divides the surrounding land-
(48) Casa Andreis
(49) Casa Andreis
67
See C. Norberg-Schulz 'Die Architektur von Paolo Portoghesi und Vittorio Gigliotti' Hochschule für Bildende Künste, Hamburg, 1969
scape, bringing the parts together to form a movement which leads up through the tall living-room to the roofscape where it is again united with the environment. This spatial continuity is organized and 'kept' by five foci which define concentric series of circles. Thereby relatively quiet zones are created which capture the surrounding spaces. The circles, however, interfere inside the house, where space becomes like a dynamic stream. The main openings of the house are found in the branches of this stream. Only in the bedrooms is the flow halted by orthogonal walls. Casa Andreis demonstrates how domains may be densified into foci, and how several subordinate foci can interfere to create one complex and richly articulated place, with a particular capacity for rest and movement.
The genius loci is thus dependent upon the concrete architectural structure of the environment, which ought to be described in terms of places, paths and domains. Above
(50) Casa Andreis
(51) Casa Andreis
(52) Casa Andreis
(53) Casa Andreis
all, genius loci means a distinct character. Such a character is never simple, and in our time it is certainly full of complexities and contradictions, but this does not mean that it is without structure or meaning. Any character corresponds to a describable structure, we just have to develop the concepts necessary for its description. Architectural space as a concretization of existential space gives us the key to the problem. Architectural space concretizes man's being in the world.
The levels of architectural space
Hans Sedlmayr was the first to my knowledge to point out that structural analysis has to distinguish between several 'formal levels', which may be governed by different principles of organization. We have already discussed the levels of existential space in environmental terms, and therefore do not need to return to the general aspects of the problem. Rather we should ask how landscape, city, building and thing are able to concretize the existential levels. The cosmological level can be largely ignored; it cannot be concretized as such, but has to be represented by structures appearing at one of the 'lower' levels. The structure of the geographical level however can, to some
extent, be transformed by man to fit his environmental image and existential purposes: the Great Chinese Wall is a famous example illustrating man's need for giving a 'better definition' to geography. Obviously the psychic security created by the wall resulted from the widespread knowledge of its existence, rather than from individuals perceiving it as part of the landscape level. In the present world we find elements such as military bases which play a similar role. The same holds true for certain national and religious 'monuments' which, although they are architecturally uninteresting, may give structure to a geographic totality. The geographical level is in any case structured by man's economical and practical purposes, and thereby obtains a certain 'meaning'. The planning involved in transforming the geographical level would certainly profit from formulation in terms of places, paths and domains, and, in fact, modern geographical theory has arrived at analogous concepts.²
Landscape
The level of landscape concerns the architect more directly. From ancient times we
(55) Landscape Sogn, western Norway
(56) Landscape southern Norway (centre above)
can follow man's attempts to make the forms of 'his' landscape more precise, or transform them to fit his general environmental image. The Egyptian pyramids thus constitute an artificial row of mountains defining the boundary of the 'civilized' space along the Nile. Further south in Thebes, where real mountains fulfil the same purpose, pyramids were unnecessary. In general we may say that man, through his works, expresses the capacity of the landscape. As his life takes place in interaction with landscape, this is
- The temple of Mentuhotep III represents a transitory solution, while Queen Hatshepure abolished the pyramid altogether. The problem, certainly, also has to be discussed in terms of mortuary symbolism and general architectural development.
(57) Landscape central Norway
(58) G. B. Bellucci (?)
La Rocca Porto Ercole c. 1550
4 In certain zones where a port-population and an inland population live close together, a difference in character which is determined by two different existential spaces, becomes clearly evident. See 'Giglio Castello' Byggekunst 6/1969
5 Thus Luther said 'Eine feste Burg ist unser Gott'. See H. Sedlmayt Die Entstehung der Kathedrale 1950, p. 120
His settlements, therefore, usually articulate places given by nature, such as the fertile promontory surrounded by unsurmountable mountains, or the protecting harbour on the wind-beaten coast. The 'harbour', in fact, is one of the most generally recognized types of place, and in many languages the word is used as a synonym for security and belonging.
Whereas the settlement on a promontory will acquire its identity from clusterlike concentration, as is exemplified in countless Mediterranean villages, the port has the character of enclosure, usually consisting of a continuous row of houses around the water, the real core of this type of place. For people who grow up in a port, the boat, therefore, becomes the meaningful means of movement, offering great freedom in the choice of paths.
Through his activities man also articulates the domains implicit in the landscape structure. In farming areas, for instance, we find wonderful patterns of varying domains and sub-domains, with the buildings forming a counterpoint of places. All these examples refer to a naturally 'grown' environment, where physical activities form a constituent force, creating an environmental 'ground' on which man's culture blossoms like a plant. But the landscape level may also be determined from above, that is, by ideologies and beliefs, concretized throughout history by fortifications on the one hand and sanctuaries on the other, structures which express the two basic aspects of man's orientation: physical security and psychic identity. Paradoxically, both share a preference for inaccessible places. The spiritual pilgrimage is made just as difficult as the military conquest. The traditional European landscape was determined by these two elements: the powerful castle and the distant, heavenly sanctuary; sometimes they were unified, as in the famous Mont St Michel, to symbolize the fortified city of Jerusalem.
What interests us in this context, is the transformation of landscape these ideas achieved. In the Catholic countries, in fact, landscape became sacred by the systematic distribution of religious places, from the great sanctuary down to the small crucifix placed along the road. The pilgrimage 'paths' linked these elements to form a meaningful network.
(59) Assisi near Perugia,
Umbria 1228
73
(60) L. von Hildebrandt
Belvedere palace Vienna
1720-24
(61) Harildstad farm Heidal,
Norway. Houses from the
end of the eighteenth century
The Renaissance and Baroque periods aimed at a geometrization of landscape. This first led to the creation of small formal landscapes, which contrasted with the virgin nature around. Later a fusion of formality and nature was attempted (as in Villa Lante mentioned above) until the Baroque park realized a seemingly limitless taking possession of space by means of a system of geometrically organized paths. The structure of the Baroque landscape, however, is more than a geometrical network.
Any environmental structure presupposes a general continuity of landscape space. We have defined landscape as the ‘ground’ on
which the structures of the ‘lower’ levels appear. This basic condition was generally respected in the past: we may look at simple folk architecture, urban settlements or monumental schemes; they always form distinct figures in relation to the landscape. Today, however, a semi-scattered distribution of buildings has become normal and the landscape is broken into fragments, with general visual chaos as a result. Let us therefore stress that buildings either ought to be so scattered that they appear as individual figures, or so densely placed that they form clusters or groups. This principle of ‘scattered concentration’ seems to be the only possible way of preserving nature as such, rather than reducing it to isolated remains. At the same time we ensure that the settlements become ‘things’ to which we may have a clear relationship. Yona Friedman has stretched the idea to its extreme, by suggesting that the populations of Europe be concentrated in a limited number of very large cities forming a network of places and paths.
In this way the landscape regains its continuity and its character as background to the works of man. In principle, Friedman’s idea means re-establishing the settlement structure which was normal in Europe up to the nineteenth century, but on a different scale in accordance with the needs and the possibilities of our time.
The urban level
It has been maintained that the identity of settlements primarily depends on their figural character in relation to the landscape, and that the scattered concentrations reveal
(62) Yona Friedman
Europe c.1965
(63) Village near Luxor,
Egypt
(64) Pitigliano Tuscany
(65) Village of the Dogon tribe, central Africa
77
(66) Molster farm Voss, Norway. Houses from the eighteenth century
(67) Scattering, Cluster, Ring, Row
a basic environmental structure. But concentrations may be achieved in many different ways – a problem which demands more attention. It has been shown that any organization is based on the principles of proximity, continuity and closure, with the result that a collection of elements may be ordered to form a cluster, a row or a ring or a combination of these structures. We do not have to turn to psychology to acknowledge these principles. Any farm or village from any part of the world serves to illustrate them. In Central Europe, for instance, there are three basic types of village: the cluster-village (Haufendorf), the lineal village (Reiendorf) and the round village (Rundling). The same types are found in Africa, and the round villages of Sudan and Cameroun and the clusters of the Dogons have been widely published. A particularly rich structure is shown by the Batoufam village in Bamileke, Cameroun, where several functionally differentiated clusters are interrelated. Splendid linear villages are found in Indonesia and Japan. Even in countries where the individual farm acts as a substitute for the village, analogous types are normal. In Norway, thus, are found three basic farms:
the cluster-farm on the western coast, the linear farm in the central valleys, and the enclosed square farm in the eastern regions.
The three variations on the theme density are obviously determined by different regional and historical conditions. On the large open plains or in the extended forests where nature offers few distinct places, the
enclosed or square forms are usual. In directed valleys the settlements generally have a linear organization: it would anyway be unnatural to create centralized organisms in a space which only offers very particular and limited possibilities of movement. On the Italian hill-tops the cluster is the natural solution, often combined with linear branches of houses along the ridges where paths lead off. All these examples indicate that natural space is never enough to concretize man's existential space. Even the nomads group their tents.
Today these elementary structures seem to have been forgotten. Only quite recently have some architects brought them back to life, often inspired by vernacular architecture. Here we are confronted with a new attitude towards the past: instead of copying
(68) Jörn Utzon Birkehoj
(69) Atelier 5 Siedlung Halen Berne
its motives, one exploits its general principles. As we have seen, Kevin Lynch has applied analogous principles to the analysis of large cities, but a city is too complex to be defined as a cluster, a row or an enclosure. These basic structures are simply constituent elements of the totality. The district, thus may be considered a more or less defined cluster or group, the street is basically a linear formation, and the square is an enclosure. The acknowledgement that the basic elements of the city are the district, the street and the square, is in opposition to important trends in contemporary city-planning. The dense district is today generally replaced by a scattered distribution of slab-like buildings, which hardly can be recognized or imagined as a totality, except perhaps from an aeroplane. The modern street has become nothing but a means of communication, lacking architecture definition, and has accordingly been abolished by a theorist like Hilberseimer. Even if the pedestrian is separated from the cars, the general belief is that he ought to move freely among trees and flowers. And the square, Lynch’s ‘distinct and unforgettable place’, has become a parking lot. As a con-
(70) Manhattan aerial view
sequence, many talk about creating 'a new kind of city'. Our analysis of man's existential space, however, shows that the urban level has to be defined in terms of districts, paths and nodes. When this is forgotten, the city ceases to exist, nor can it satisfactorily be replaced by other means of environmental concretization.
Let us therefore take a closer look at the concrete elements of the human city. The main properties of districts have already been mentioned in the discussion of the elements of architectural space, and will only need a few supplementary remarks. Topographical circumstances such as a dividing river may, for instance, contribute to the definition of different districts. The seven hills of Rome are another well-known example of topographical differentiation. In any case, it is imperative that some kind of divisions and delimitations be present. If we took the river away from London, Paris or Rome, the formation of a city image would be much more difficult. Even an enormous city like New York presents a natural division in districts. The character of Manhattan is thus determined by its being an island. Its defined circumscription gives us a frame of reference which is basic to the formation of a satisfactory image. Manhattan also shows that districts may become very large without losing their image. It goes without saying that Manhattan itself is divided into several subordinate districts. Greenwich village is a well-known example. Here the crooked streets and the change in scale characterize the zone, and it is significant that it has become the favourite retreat of artists and intellectuals. In this way New York presents a hierarchical district-structure consisting of superior and subordinate parts. The varying character of city districts gives the townscape the most elementary kind of variation, and guarantees man's possibility of choice. So far, the neighbourhood has been considered a mere functional unit. The idea of characteristic districts, on the contrary, follows from understanding the basic structure of existential space.
The street is a form that is more easily imageable. In the past it was a 'small universe', where the character of the district and of the town as a whole was presented in condensed form to the visitor. The street represented, so to speak, a section of life – history had shaped its details. Today, however, the street is generally lost as a consequence of the current scattering of the buildings and the increasing motorized traffic. But the problem also has other aspects, such as the new immense scale which now tends to characterize the street-scape. We are hardly able to identify ourselves with such streets as Park Avenue in New York, and the lack of variation and
(73) Champs Elysées Paris
82
spontaneous details is depressing. In general the space-form of the street may be defined as longitudinal, but this does not imply that it ought to be straight. In the towns of the past, oblique angles and curved lines created a 'closed perspective' enlivening the prospect. It is decisive for the spatial character that the buildings appear as surfaces rather than masses. If the mass-effect dominates, the buildings attain figural character, and by joining the intermediate spaces between them the street is reduced to a subordinate 'ground'. To become a true form, the street has to possess 'figural character'. This is achieved by means of a continuous bounding surface, which not only presupposes a certain density, but that the houses belong to the same 'family'. The unification of the street space is furthermore accentuated by the omission of side-walks. The demand that the houses should belong to the same 'family' could obviously result in a dangerous monotony. In the past this was usually counteracted by the houses appearing as variations on the same 'theme'. Such a theme might consist in the repetition of certain proportions, or the emphasizing of properties common to several houses, such as a typical roof, or an arcade on the ground floor. The theme should, however, allow for full freedom in the details. To make the street wall appear as a varied repetition of the same theme, a subdivision into relatively small units is necessary. The large units common today, therefore, do not only destroy human scale, but prevent the street from preserving the varied continuity which is its essence. The principles outlined above were commonly employed up to the nineteenth century, when it became normal to use parallel building lines and uniform heights as ordering means. Historically this change is connected with the concept of the 'parade-street'. The street no longer was intended as an intimate milieu for the pedestrian. We have mentioned that the crossing has a particular significance in the network of streets, as it represents a choice rather than a goal. It is interesting that towards the end of the fifteenth century, when the city of Ferrara was extended, Biagio Rossetti had already recognized its importance. Thus he stressed the corners of the buildings in order to define the space
(74) B. Rossetti Renaissance extension of Ferrara
1492-1503
between them, rather than the buildings themselves.
The square, finally, is the most distinct element of the urban structure. As a clearly delimited place it is most easily imageable, and represents a goal for movement. Paul Zucker has characterized it as 'a psychological parking place within the civic landscape'.11
In the old city atlases two representations generally appear: the city in a bird's-eye view, that is, as a total organism, and the market-place, the core or heart of that organism. Only when reaching the main square had one really arrived, and in most old towns the streets lead towards this focal point in a natural way. Even in New York, a metropolis totalling sixteen million inhabitants, Times Square and Washington Square serve as focal points. Even under pronounced 'modern' conditions, thus, the square satisfies basic human needs.
The square is determined by the same formal factors as the street, with the difference that
(75) Einbeck Niedersachsen: aerial view
the buildings should form a continuity around the space. In other words, the effect of different masses has to be reduced in order to obtain a continuous surface. According to their form, many squares appear to be composed of different 'zones'. This facilitates the simultaneous presence of several activities, and also gives the experience a certain variation. Such subdivisions are accentuated by introducing elements such as fountains and monuments, by articulating the pavement, or even by placing a whole building within the space. Because of its size, the square provides the necessary perspective in which to admire main buildings of the town, whose functions as physical and psychological 'landmarks' are thereby accentuated. To remove important public buildings from the core of the urban structure is therefore to destroy it. Generally, the square is marked by a contrast of dimensions, which makes it the climax of the visual experience of the city. The different dimensions should, however, be related to each other in such a way that we may identify ourselves with the whole complex. This is for instance achieved when public buildings appear as particularly outstanding variations of the themes present in the simpler houses.
The elements discussed above and their interrelations, are of topological character. Cities of course are often 'geometrized', but the geometrization is hardly perceived as
such, rather it contributes to the image of certain topological properties (such as domain texture, path continuity or square enclosure). When summing up the general character of environmental images, Kevin Lynch says: 'However distorted, there was a strong element of topological invariance with respect to reality. It was as if the map were drawn on an infinitely flexible rubber sheet; directions were twisted, distances stretched or compressed, large forms so changed from their accurate scale projection as to be at first unrecognizable. But the sequence was usually correct, the map was rarely torn and sewn back together in another order. This continuity is necessary if the image is to be of any value.'
The house
While urban structures have a relatively abstract character, a building is something very concrete and palpable, which is, apparently, more easily imageable. The conscious interest of architects and public, therefore, generally centres on the individual building. To discuss the architectural level of the house thoroughly would mean to present a theory of architectural form. Such a discussion, however, is not possible within the limits of this book. Let us only say a few words about the 'essence' of the house. To find a common denominator for all houses (buildings) may seem futile. If it makes any
(79) R. Pietilà 'a cave of
wood' Dipoli, Otaniemi
87
sense to talk about the ‘level of houses’, however, it ought to be possible. In fact, all treatises on architecture from Alberti to Venturi in some way or other have attempted to solve the problem. It was pointed out above that essentially the house brings us ‘inside’. The essence of the house as architecture, therefore, is interior space. In the city we are still ‘outside’, although we have left the open landscape. In the house we are alone with ourselves, we have withdrawn. When we open our door to others, it is our free decision; we let the world come to us, rather than looking at it outside. ‘Domestic peace’ has been a basic right since remote times and in a certain sense this also holds true for a public building, which may be considered the home of a well-defined community.
Interior space is primarily thus defined by topological enclosure. But it has also been maintained that any enclosure has to communicate with the environment in varying ways, and that it has a particular interior structure. Thus Venturi says: ‘Designing from the outside in, as well as from the inside out, creates necessary tensions, which help make architecture. Since the inside is different from the outside, the wall – the point of change – becomes an architectural event. Architecture occurs at the meeting of interior and exterior forces of use and space. These interior and environmental forces are both general and particular, generic and circumstantial’. Venturi goes on to discuss the problem of the opening at length, and points out the interesting ‘double’ wall-structures which result when the bounding surface is determined both from within
13 R. Venturi Complexity and Contradiction in Architecture 1966, pp. 88f
(80) Villa Adriana Tivoli: ‘teatro marittimo’ c. 125
and from without. When we talk about the house as an interior, we do not, therefore, have a structure in mind which necessarily closes itself off from the environment, although the tendency towards isolating the house has been strong throughout architectural history. To be able to withdraw, Hadrian built himself a circular, enclosed house within the Villa Adriana. Significantly, the house is an island, surrounded by a moat and an engirdling wall. The Pompeian house, which still represents an unsurpassed solution to the private dwelling, is an enclosed organism. Its contact with the environment is provided for by an axis leading from the entrance to an exedra at the opposite end, but the 'opening' thus created is weak. Rather that creating contact, the axis unifies the interior units of the house, such as the centralized atrium, the tablinum and the peristylium. The Christian church, too, has always been dominated by enclosure: the centralized organisms of Byzantine and Renaissance architecture, for instance, are enclosed spaces, resting in themselves. In all these cases enclosure has been obtained by centralization or by a continuous, integrated bounding wall. Only the vertical is treated as a symbolic opening. In Borromini's S. Ivo centralization and a continuous engirdling
(81) House of the Silver Wedding Pompei fourth century BC
14 R. Venturi Complexity and Contradiction in Architecture 1966, pp. 68ff
(82) S. Maria della Consolazione Todi, begun in 1508, architect unknown
(83) Francesco Borromini
S. Ivo Rome, begun in 1642
90
surface are still present, but the concave-convex movement of the wall indicates that the interior thus defined forms part of a larger context. S. Ivo also shows a completely new vertical integration; the space form has been carried without change into the dome. Baroque architecture thus provides a convincing synthesis of the two fundamental aspects of architectural composition: separation and unification. Articulation, in fact, always consists in the interaction of these two aspects. Spaces, masses and wall elements are separated to express the fact that any building consists of different parts, functionally or symbolically determined. As these parts, however, are parts of an organism, they must be unified by continuity, repetition (similarity), interdependence or interpenetration.
In orthodox modern architecture the idea of interior space as the essence of the house was
(85) Mies van der Rohe
National Gallery Berlin
1962-65
(86) Mies van der Rohe
National Gallery: interior
92
(87) Frank Lloyd Wright
Robert F. Johnson residence
'Wingspread' Wind Point,
near Racine, Wisconsin
1937
93
When we exclude the early glass and iron buildings and projects of the nineteenth century, especially by Paxton and Horeau, abolished and replaced by a new ideal of 'flowing space', without distinction between inside and outside. Like most ideals, however, this was scarcely ever put into practice. Even the 'neutral' flowing spaces of Mies van der Rohe are 'anchored', firstly by the strong, regular construction, which often forms a complete centralized whole, and secondly by organizing axes and symmetries. Frank Lloyd Wright, who was the first to attempt a continuous transition between inside and outside, generally organized his directed and 'open' plans around a massive, static core, which was also expressed as a vertical axis. But recently flowing space has been given up as a theoretical ideal altogether. Le Corbusier marked the change in attitude with his wonderful interior at Ronchamp, which communicates with a real and an ideal environment by means of its hovering roof and ingenious openings. Like S. Ivo, the solution expresses a synthetic 'both-and'. In Scharoun's Philharmonic Hall in Berlin the core is a topologically centralized auditorium (a certain axial symmetry, however, is present), expressing the desire to surround the content of the building, that is, the performers. This
(88) Le Corbusier
Notre Dame du Haut
Ronchamp 1950-53
wonderfully concentrated interior is in turn surrounded by a labyrinthine foyer which, in a fascinating way, expresses the action of coming from outside in and being 'distributed'.
To discuss the variables of interior space in more detail is beyond the scope of this book, but it is worth recalling the primary factors of centralization and continuous boundary, direction, opening and guiding elements, and the secondary properties such as proportion, texture, colour and illumination, which can
(91) Norwegian hearth-cottage Aamli, Setesdal, eighteenth century
be used to reinforce or contradict the primary structure. We should, however, mention the ‘things’ which particularly help to define the character of the interior. We have already mentioned the fire-place, the bed and the family table as traditional foci of the house. These elements are usually scattered around in the house but in some of the best modern dwellings they are again related to it. The houses of Frank Lloyd Wright in particular offer inspiring illustrations of how to use such elements as functional foci. In a more general way ‘things’ contribute in giving a house a particular ‘atmosphere’, varying from the poetic joy of life of the Art Nouveau restaurant to the austere simplicity of the refectory at La Tourette. The existing split between architect and ‘interior decorator’ is therefore a meaningless ‘differentiation’.
The interaction of levels
The levels of architectural space form a structured totality which corresponds to the structure of existential space. As man’s identity is established in relation to the totality of existential space, all the levels of architectural space must have their defined identity. Without it, man’s image of his environment will be confused and his own personal identity threatened. The landscape level, thus, is regarded as a ground containing all the particular structures of life and
cont.
(93) Le Corbusier
La Tourette Eveux, near
Lyon 1952-60
97
action: its identity depends upon a general continuity. The urban level is distinguished by concentration and density. Men come together in the city and its identity depends upon this togetherness. The house, however, expresses a certain isolation, a private world which may be closed off at will. In order to satisfy these demands, all the levels ought to have adequate formal properties. Identity means that objects are 'what they want to be', to paraphrase a statement by Louis Kahn.
In general, the levels form a hierarchy. The house, for instance, is essentially interior space but, in relation to the urban level, it functions as a private or public 'landmark' or Mal, that is, its properties as a mass become relevant. The same holds true for the town itself, which although easily characterized as 'public interior space', in relation to the landscape becomes a concentrated 'form'. Even a whole continent appears as a figure or mass on the geographical level. (A figure, in general, has a higher density than its surroundings.) The twin aspects of space and mass thus recur on every level and we may recall Venturi's statement that 'architecture occurs at the meeting of interior and exterior'. The wall, in fact, defines space as
(94) Delphi sixth to fourth century BC
well as mass. It is the real concrete element of architecture, although it is determined by more abstract notions of mass and space.
In order to represent each other, the different levels may possess analogous formal characteristics. In principle, representation is achieved by means of 'structural similarity' (isomorphism). Talking about isomorphism the problem of the archetype ought to be mentioned. From what has been said above, it is clear that a correspondence between form and content is a necessary property of the world. Form and content are interdependent aspects of the same total experience, with the result that any form has limited possibilities for receiving contents. The archetype, hence, is a reality, but we do not have to introduce a 'collective subconscious' or to study brain processes for its explanation. We should, however, point out that the basic schemata consist of general relationships rather than particular wholes. They enter in ever new combinations and allow for changing interpretations. This tension between basic structure and circumstantial totality signifies that life is both 'constancy and change', to use the words of Giedion.
The 'field' of existential space is represented (concretized) by a corresponding architectural field. When the fields of the different levels interact, a very complex totality is formed. It may contain different structures on the different levels, and the interaction between them may vary in strength. In classical Greek layouts like Delphi, the landscape level is mainly decided by the meaningful choice of a place to settle. The urban level or grouping of the buildings is topologically structured on the basis of enclosure and proximity, whereas the buildings themselves are geometrized and carefully articulated. A Hellenistic town like Priene incorporates a landscape structure in the dual elements of sloping settlement and
(95) Priene Asia Minor, fourth century BC
17 For the problem of representation and isomorphism see the chapter on semantics in C. Norberg-Schulz Intentions in Architecture 1963, pp. 167ff
18 S. Giedion 'Constancy, Change and Architecture' First Gropius Lecture Harvard University 1961
19 What Venturi has called 'the difficult whole'. Complexity and Contradiction in Architecture 1966, p. 89
20 See V. Scully The Earth, the Temple and the Gods 1962
(96) Diocletian's palace Spalato (Split) 300
(97) Francesco di Giorgio Martini Ideal City 1451-64
21 This idea was still alive with Alberti, who maintained that private country houses could be rather informal, while the 'perfect forms' (ie circle and regular polygons) ought to be reserved for the church hill-top Acropolis. The urban level shows a topological circumscription, but orthogonal organization. A variety of structures appear on building level, such as the enclosed private house, topologically organized, the orthogonally articulated agora, and the symmetrical organisms of theatre and temples. A growth in precision from the private over the public to the cultural objects is thereby indicated.23 A Roman settlement like Diocletian's town palace Spalato (Split) incorporates a fundamental interaction between urban and landscape level by means of the symmetrically disposed arcade facing the sea; the cosmological level is represented by the two crossing streets defining the cardinal points, which divide the town into 'quarters'. The urban level is highly formalized and geometrically integrated but still contains individual, relatively independent buildings such as the temple and the mausoleum. In Renaissance architecture a still more complete interaction of levels was attempted, by basing every building on the same simple geometrical units, and integrating them in a continuous Euclidean space. Here the same structure is found on all levels and even nature is given geometrical
(98) Mies van der Rohe
Illinois Institute of Technology Chicago 1940
101
(99) Louis Kahn A. N.
Richards' Laboratories
Philadelphia 1957-61
102
form in the formal garden. This ‘classic’ ideal of uniform structure, expressing the image of a harmonious, ordered universe, has continued to haunt architects.
How then can we integrate the fields of the different levels, and concretize the ‘difficult whole’? The problem may seem overwhelmingly complex but at its core it is quite simple. Firstly, we have to accept the fact of architectural levels, and realize that each of them need a defined identity. Secondly we should remember that this identity is based on simple topological relationships. A false approach is today concealing these facts, which may consist in either a picturesque play with perceptual effects or in abstract combinatorial geometry. What we need is the true simplicity of the
(100) Louis Kahn A. N. Richards’ Laboratories Philadelphia 1957-61
(101) Paolo Portoghesi
project for office building
E.U.R. Rome 1961
104
basic structure of existential space, rather than the false simplicity propagated by orthodox modernism. This simplicity, however, when realized in a concrete situation, will often lead to a circumstantially determined complexity. When we analyse a situation in terms of centres, paths and domains, more or less 'open' and more or less complex systems result. Sometimes these systems will be topological in character, but often geometrization is necessary because of the regular repetition of functions or the demands put forward by technological realization. The chief problem, however, is to arrive at a
(102) Paolo Portoghesi and V. Gigliotti
apartment tower S. Marinella
1966
25 For a definition of the term 'capacity' see C. Norberg-Schulz Intentions in Architecture 1963 pp. 175ff
(103) Paolo Portoghesi and V. Gigliotti project for the extension of Parliament Rome 1967
system with an adequate 'capacity' to satisfy the more or less dynamic aspects of the situation. The capacity of a spatial structure, that is, its ability to receive contents, is determined by its degree of articulation; an inarticulate form can only receive inarticulate contents. If the articulation is 'general', creating a repetition allowing for changes in density, distribution and scale, the space will be capable of covering several contents with a certain degree of approximation. If instead, the articulation consists in the establishment of a particular form, the content has to be correspondingly special.
(104-105) P. Portoghesi
and V. Gigliotti project for
the extension of Parliament
Rome 1967
107
Contemporary architects are greatly preoccupied with these problems. Louis Kahn, for instance, was one of the first to succeed in bringing architecture back to its roots, meanwhile creating more or less open systems with an adequate capacity. Among the members of the younger generation there are those who concentrate their attention on circumstantial complexity, such as Robert Venturi, as well as others who try to develop a more general approach, such as Paolo Portoghesi. It has already been shown that the latter uses geometry to concretize existential space rather than playing with geometrical patterns for their own sake. Projects by Portoghesi and Gigliotti also demonstrate how fields belonging to different levels can be integrated. While the Casa Andreis represented an interaction between the topological structure of the landscape and the geometrically defined system of foci and paths of the house, the project for the extension of the Parliament in Rome illustrates the interaction between a building and the urban level. The complex functions of the building determine a field which has the capacity of receiving a variety of contents. This structure interacts with the environment, not only in the large spiral ramps where 'paths' from outside are let into the building, but mainly in the wall which in its articulation and scale is adapted to the character of Baroque Rome. In many other contemporary projects the building is absorbed by an urban system, without losing its identity. The danger of such a loss of identity seems to be present in the project for the new university in Berlin by Candilis, Josie and Woods. A good illustration is offered by Henning Larsen's scheme for the university in Berlin, where several building structures are integrated by means of a topologically defined urban path. The work of Yona Friedman, finally, differs from that of other 'utopists', as he gives identity to the levels of landscape, settlement and house at the same time as he realizes a general and open infrastructure with a great capacity.
(107) Georges Candilis, Alexis Josic and Shadrach Woods, with M. Schiedhelm project for the Free University West Berlin 1966-70
110
111
(108) Henning Larsen
project for the Free
University West Berlin 1965
112
(109) Yona Friedman
project for a city, possibly
Paris 1965
(110) Yona Friedman
project for a city, possibly
Paris 1965
113
Conclusion
I have tried to demonstrate that man’s existence is dependent upon the establishment of a meaningful and coherent environmental image or ‘existential space’. I have also shown that such an image presupposes the presence of certain concrete environmental (architectural) structures, refusing to accept that these principles lose their significance because of television and rapid means of communication. Architectural space may of course contain mobile elements, and its complex structure comprises levels and sub-structures which offer varying degrees of ‘freedom’. But it cannot as a totality become mobile. Its general speed of change has to be so slow as to allow for history. When history is not related to a stable system of places it becomes meaningless. And, as a matter of fact, a stable system of places offers more freedom than a mobile world. Only in relation to such a system can a ‘milieu of possibilities’ develop. As Louis Kahn said, ‘A city is a place where a small boy, as he walks through it, may see something that will tell him what he wants to do his whole life’.
What, then, must we demand from architectural space in order that man may still call himself human? Primarily we must demand an imageable structure that offers rich possibilities for identification. The value of great works of art consists in their allowing for different interpretations without losing their identity. The different ‘interpretations’ offered by a ‘chaotic form’, on the contrary, are only arbitrary projections of the self, which burst like soap-bubbles. In ambiguous, complex but structured architectural space we therefore see the alternative to the fatal ideas of mobility and disintegration. This ‘unity in plurality’ is certainly not a new idea, but it has recently found new interpretations. The task of the architect, therefore, is to help man to find an existential foothold by concretizing his images and dreams.
The concepts of ‘home’, ‘city’ and ‘country’ are still valid. They give a structure to the new ‘open’ environment and make it possible for us to become citizens of the world. The citizen of the world has his place in totality, but by recognizing that it is an element in a larger context, everything else becomes a continuation of his own existential space. The contribution of the individual to totality is to protect and articulate the place he has been given to take care of. This is the meaning of Heidegger’s statement: ‘Mortals dwell inasmuch as they save the earth...’
Before he can make a real contribution, man has to settle, he has to follow the dictum of Saint-Exupéry: ‘I am a builder of cities, I have stopped the caravan on its way. It was only a seed-corn in the wind. But I resist the wind and bury the seed in the earth, to make cedars grow to the honour of God.’
26 It is thus present in Venturi’s ‘difficult whole’, in van Eyck’s ‘intermediate spaces’, in Oskar Hansen’s ‘open form’ and in my own concept of ‘intermediary object’ (see Intentions in Architecture 1963, pp. 179ff)
27 M. Heidegger ‘Bauen Wohnen Denken’ 1954, p. 24
28 A. de Saint-Exupéry Citadelle (The Wisdom of the Sands) 1948
Photo-acknowledgements
The author would like to thank all the architects who so generously supplied illustrations of their own buildings, together with the following for permission to use their photographs in this book: Aftenposten 6; Rene Burri-Magnum 13; Widerøe's Flyveselskap A/S 30; A. Winkler, Zurich 69; Freed-Magnum 70; Alain Perceval 73; Hersteller und Verlag, Lubeck 75; Lucien Hervé 88; Norsk Folke-Museum 91; Cervin Robinson 100; and Oscar Savio 101-106.
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Spengler, Oswald The Decline of the West (trans by C. F. Atkinson) Allen and Unwin Ltd, London 1934; Alfred A. Knopf, New York 1945 (2 vols)
Vogt-Göknil, U. Architektonische Grundbegriffe und Umraumerlebnis Zürich 1951
von Dürckheim, Graf K. ‘Untersuchung zum gelebten Raum’ Neue Psychologische Studien 6 Munich 1932
von Uexküll, Jakob Streifzüge durch die Umwelten von Tieren und Menschen Hamburg 1956
Venturi, Robert Complexity and Contradiction in Architecture Museum of Modern Art, New York 1967
Webber, Melvin M. (ed) Explorations into Urban Structure University of Pennsylvania Press, Philadelphia 1963
Weiss, Richard Häuser und Landschaften der Schweiz Zürich 1959
Werner, H. Comparative Psychology of Mental Development New York 1957 (2nd printing)
Wertheimer ‘Laws of Organization in Perceptual Forms’ A Source Book of Gestalt Psychology (ed W. D. Ellis) London 1938
Wittkower, R. Architectural Principles in the Age of Humanism Tiranti Ltd, London 1949; revised ed. 1962; Random House, New York 1965
Zevi, Bruno Architecture and Space (trans by M. Gendel) Horizon Press, New York 1957
Zucker, Paul Town and Square Oxford University Press, London 1959; Columbia University Press, New York 1959
Index, persons
Alberti, L. B. 62, 88, 100
Alexander, C. 13, 35
Aristotle 10, 21
Bachelard, G. 15, 16, 21, 31, 32
Bandmann, G. 43
Bernini, G. L. 62
Bollnow, O. F. 14, 15, 16, 19, 20, 21, 22, 32, 34
Borromini, F. 63
Brinckmann, A. E. 12, 30
Brunelleschi, F. 61
Brunswik, E. 38
Candilis, Josie, Woods 109
Cassirer, E. 22
Descartes 9, 12
Dientzenhofer, C. 63
Dientzenhofer, K. I. 65
Dürckheim, Graf von 16
Einstein, A. 10
Eliade, M. 18, 19, 21, 32
Euclid 10
Eyck, A. van 15, 33, 114
Frankl, P. 12
Frey, D. 14, 15, 39, 40, 50
Friedman, Y. 75, 109
Giedion, S. 12, 99
Gigliotti, V. 66, 105, 106, 107, 109
Guarini, G. 63
Haan, H. 39
Haggett, P. 28, 29, 70
Hansen, O. 114
Heidegger, M. 16, 26, 27, 31, 34, 35, 36, 115
Hilberscimer, L. 80, 103
Hildebrandt, L. von 49, 63, 74
Ibsen, H. 21
Jantzen, H. 13
Jaspers, K. 20
Joedicke, J. 14
Jung, C. G. 31
Kähler, H. 50
Kästner, E. 21
Kahn, L. 98, 103, 109, 114
Kant, I. 10
Kantor, R. F. 33
Larsen, H. 109
Le Corbusier 94, 96
Leonard, M. 14
Leucippos 9
Lévi-Strauss, C. 30
Lewin, K. 22, 26, 29, 60
Lissitzky, E. 21
Lucretius 10
Lynch, K. 15, 23, 24, 30, 33, 34, 35, 39, 49, 56, 57, 80, 86
Merleau-Ponty, M. 15, 16
Michelangelo 46, 48, 62
Mies van der Rohe, L. 94, 103
Müller, W. 22, 23
Netsch, W. 13
Nieuwenhuis, C. 35
Nitschke, G. 13
Parmenides 9
Parsons, T. 9, 11
Piaget, J. 10, 15, 17, 18, 27, 33, 35
Plato 9
Portoghesi, P. 15, 59, 66, 104, 105, 106, 107, 109
Rapoport, A. 33
Rilke, R. M. 36
Rossetti, B. 83
Saint-Éxupery, A. 115
Scharoun, H. 94
Schlaun, J. C. 53
Schwarz, R. 14, 15, 20, 22, 25, 28, 30, 36, 39, 45, 52
Sedlmayr, H. 21, 34, 35, 37, 69, 72
Sinan 45
Venturi, R. 15, 33, 66, 88, 98, 109, 114
Vitruvius 22
Vittone, B. 46
Vogt-Göknil, U. 13
Webber, M. 35
Wilson, C. St John 46
Wittkower, R. 103
Wright, F. L. 94, 96
Zevi, B. 12
Zucker, P. 12, 30, 84
Index
accommodation 10, 27, 33
action 9, 19
archetype 11, 99
architectural space 11, 13, 37, 59, 69, 114
articulation 91
assimilation 10, 27, 33
axis 49, 89, 94
axis mundi 18, 21, 22
capacity 28, 106
caput mundi 48
cardinal points 22
centralization 20, 26, 62, 89, 94, 95
centre 16, 18, 19, 23, 33, 35, 40, 44, 49
character 69
centre of the world 18, 19
closure 18, 20, 22, 39, 57, 78, 88, 99
cluster 30, 39, 57, 75, 78, 79
cognitive space 9, 11
continuity 18, 22, 50, 78, 83, 85, 89, 95
density 27, 29, 63, 78, 98
direction 16, 20, 21, 22, 25, 31, 49, 63, 95
domain 18, 23, 24, 26, 27, 31, 33, 56, 74, 81
dwelling 16, 25, 31, 32, 36, 74
edge 24, 29
Euclidean space 10, 12, 13, 15, 21, 22
existential space 11, 15, 16, 17, 18, 21, 22, 24, 27, 32, 34, 37, 114
experience 11, 13, 15, 34
expressive space 11, 39
extension 21
field 33, 59, 99
figure 23, 28, 29, 75, 83, 98
genius loci 27, 28, 32, 68, 69
goal 14, 19, 22, 23
geometry 10, 13, 18, 31, 85, 100, 105, 109
Gestalt psychology 10, 18, 39, 50, 57
ground 23, 28, 58, 75, 83
home 19, 20, 22, 31, 34, 114
horizontal 21
human scale 30, 81, 83
identity 25
imago mundi 11, 23
image 15, 17, 23, 27, 37, 114
inside 20, 25, 45, 88, 94
intention 38
landscape 22, 28, 29, 70, 72, 75
level 27, 32, 69, 100, 103, 114
longitudinality 26, 62
meaning 38, 39
naive realism 12, 13, 14
network 28, 53, 75
object 9, 17, 32, 38
opening 25
outside 20, 25, 45, 88, 94
path 14, 18, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 31, 33, 35, 49, 50, 51, 52, 53, 81
perception 10, 11, 17, 34, 38
perceptual space 10, 11, 13, 14, 17
personal space 20
place 10, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 22, 23, 24, 25, 27, 31, 33, 35, 39, 46, 49, 84
pragmatic space 9, 11
proximity 18, 20, 22, 23, 39, 78, 99
ring 20, 78
role 39
row 78
sacred space 21, 34, 72
schema 10, 11, 12, 15, 17, 18, 19, 37
science 38
separation 91
symbol 39
territoriality 19, 20
texture 29, 56, 58, 95
topography 22
topology 18, 25, 29, 30, 85, 86, 88, 100, 103, 105
unification 91
value 38
vertical 21, 91
Architecture
Existence, space and architecture
by Christian Norberg-Schulz
The problem of architectural space has long demanded a new approach. Man must realize that he is not only the product of his environment, but its creator, and must learn to use this power with wisdom and imagination. The basic problem of space as a dimension of human existence is often ignored and the space-concept is discarded as outdated or even superfluous. The space concept, however, is particularly suited to the analysis of the human environment. Basing his argument on a theory of existential space, Professor Norberg-Schulz here provides new thinking on this question proposing the idea that architectural space can be understood as a concretization of the environmental schemata or images that form a necessary part of man's general orientation in the world. He hopes in this way to establish a simple and useful key to the architectural totality.
The author: Christian Norberg-Schulz is Professor of Architecture at the Oslo School of Architecture; he is also the author of Intentions in Architecture (1963) and the recently published Kilian Ignaz Dientzenhofer and the Bohemian Baroque.
Titles in this series include:
Architecture 2000
by Charles Jencks
Architecture versus housing
by Martin Pawley
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