Engineer Arthur Kay seeks to explain how architects have been losing their influence, but shouldn't be. In short, it's the problem of a world of specialists in which the generalist might best be the best guide. "We need less specialisation in architecture," he argues, "and more big-picture thinking."
In 1953, the philosopher Isaiah Berlin took an ancient Greek proverb, attributed to Archilochus, and used it to divide the world into two kinds of thinkers: “The Fox knows many things, but the Hedgehog knows one big thing.”
He described a chasm between people who see the world through a “single central vision” and those who “pursue many ends, often unrelated and even contradictory.”
...
Architecture is a Fox’s discipline. It sits between capital, politics, infrastructure, climate, design, engineering, art, psychology, and economics. Its task is to hold these domains together, manage complexity, and, at its best, make spaces and places in which we can live better together.
...
The architect is an integrator. That is the architects's speciality. S/he is a conductor, not a soloist.
The Fox-like architect can cross over domains, lead public debate on the most pressing issues of the day, and work with the greatest power in the land to shape the future of our cities.
They can do that because they do know, and need to know, many things. That's a good thing.
Between 1984 and 2003, psychologist Philip Tetlock, led an extensive study comparing the predictions of 284 experts, who he categorised as either Foxes or Hedgehogs. He found that a Hedgehog is “more likely to be overconfident … and slow to change their minds when they are wrong,” whereas a Fox “uses a variety of analytical tools, is more likely to be self-critical, and more likely to update their beliefs in response to new information.”
After 20 years and 28,000 predictions, Tetlock was forced to conclude that Hedgehogs’ predictions were “no better than a dart-throwing chimpanzee,” and in some cases, they actually performed worse than random chance because they would systematically ignore events that didn’t fit their narrative.
Responding to wider trends in professional services, architecture [however] embraced specialisation. In doing so, it has lost influence by steadily narrowing its scope. The discipline has allowed, and at times encouraged, scope to be subsumed by adjacent professions: transport planners, urban designers, cost consultants, interior designers, fire safety consultants, project managers, and a multitude of engineering disciplines. Today, the architect is one consultant among many. Foxes squeezed uncomfortably into Hedgehog costumes. ...
Medicine gives us a sense of how specialisation can be beneficial, and at the same time, risk missing the bigger picture. Few people would choose a generalist to perform critical heart surgery. But narrow specialism also comes at a cost, as it can leave no one answerable for the whole.
We probably all know someone with a complex condition who passed through a maze of excellent specialists and still received poor care as there was no one there to join the dots. The body is an interconnected system, not just a collection of mechanical or biochemical parts. Complex cases sometimes need a Fox able to see the bigger picture, and cross between specialties.
Like human bodies, cities are complex. ... Over-specialisation, especially in professions such as architecture, means the value of the Fox is overlooked and undervalued. We continue to break down our cities into component parts and give each of those parts to Hedgehogs to optimise: housing driven by yields, streets by flow of traffic, buildings by fire safety codes, public space by maintenance costs.
Parking requirements provide an example of Hedgehog thinking at its worst. Codifying minimum parking provision for housing, offices, shops, and restaurants seems reasonable in isolation. In aggregate, however, they use vast amounts of space in our cities, inflate the cost of housing, and encourage driving.
In the U.S., there are up to two billion parking spaces, creating the surreal situation in many places where more land is devoted to parking cars than to housing people. This is what can happen when Hedgehogs optimize parts and forget the whole.
Architect Kongjian Yu was an example of the Fox-like thinking at its best. Typically, water management is the narrow domain of drainage engineers and flood risk consultants: Hedgehogs aiming to flush water away as fast as possible through pipes and sewers.
Yu brought together ideas from landscape architecture, Daoist philosophy, urban planning, drought and storm water management, traditional Chinese terraced farming practices, and from nature itself to develop the “Sponge City” concept.
Instead of seeing rain as a nuisance to be expelled, a Sponge City follows the flow of water and where it ends up creates wetlands, swales, and swamps. By using the land to soak up and store water, the city creates a landscape that slows water down during wet periods and releases it during dry periods, like a sponge.
What appears as an obvious insight has upended previous ways of thinking and launched a new discipline.
Yu’s skill as a Fox was not just to make this technical and philosophical leap, but to then have the architectural skill and political influence to turn it into hundreds of new sponge-like public spaces, breathing new life into cities around the world from Chongqing to Copenhagen, Bangkok to Karachi.
Cities are too large, too complex, and too important to be left to Hedgehogs alone. Architects matter not because they have mastered a specific instrument, but because they can bring the orchestra together, and in doing so make our cities better places to live.
I have to confess that I get very little out of TV architecture programmes. The "Grand" of the design(s) too quickly becomes Grandomania.
But this snippet of five architectural "must-haves" that just popped up on Youtube has some very good points. Architect Steven Harris calls them his "non-negotiables," and he talks about them here in the context of his own house. It's not about their house's style—which you may or may not admire—it's about some simple principles on which it's based.
I've pasted the tips below, with my comments underneath each:
No. 1: Refine the entry experience: The first of architect Steven Harris’ 5 non-negotiables when designing his own home is determining the sense of approach. Rather than abrupt thresholds, the journey into the house is articulated as a gradual transition. From the initial glimpse across a golf course to the curved courtyard entry, each spatial reveal is calibrated. Inside, a stepped sitting room draws the eye to distant mountain views. This sequence generates anticipation, framing experience through a procession that’s both psychological and physical.
It's a truism to say that first impressions count. Because they do. As marketers say, "There's no second chance to make that good first impression"—or to be introduced to the landscape a better way.
So the way you (and your guests) are introduced to your home and the landscape beyond is critical, since it will leave a lingering impression. Most important here is to hold the important view until it achieves its maximum impact, so it will resonate deeply. To help this, use containment and release: masking the view until the right time, containing the space at the entrance, so that the view explodes once you're place into it.
No. 2: Create a strong link to nature: A seamless relationship between indoors and out is integral to the home, and the landscape design by David Kelly of RRP enables an easy flow between each domain. The architecture dissolves boundaries with landscaped berms and exterior gathering spaces that extend the footprint into the garden. At this site, the feeling is less like a house on a golf course and more like a pavilion in a park. By designing the contours of the land, the team create depth and intimacy, reinforcing a connection to the broader terrain while encouraging everyday interaction with nature.
This is crucial. Human physiological needs are as important in a building as their structure. And as numerous researchers have confirmed, “The inherent human inclination to affiliate with nature, even in the modern world, continues to be critical to people’s physical and mental health and wellbeing.” This intense human need to have ‘nature near,’ as architect Richard Neutra explained — to interweave structure and terrain — is not just a frivolous extra in our buildings, but a vital need.
No. 3: Consider the flow of movement: Flow and circulation are the third non-negotiable. Architect Steven Harris’ 5 non-negotiables when designing his own home emphasise the importance of reducing unused space. Hallways are minimal or absent, with rooms leading into one another in a sequence that promotes daily engagement. The guestrooms are detached, accessed through the garden, allowing the house to function as a single-bedroom retreat when unoccupied by visitors. This planning prioritises experience over expedience, ensuring all areas of the home are lived in and appreciated.
Space that flow make a more comfortable place. In the best houses, you don't spend wasted minutes crossing and re-crossing hallways—you find yourself in the best places as the day progresses. Spaces interlink and interlock, sharing space and making the most of it. Every square metre used in a hallway is a wasted square metre. So use them sparingly.
No. 4: Understand your clients’ lifestyle: Fourth is programmatic clarity. Spaces are designed to reflect actual living patterns rather than ideals. Rooms often serve dual functions, like dining areas that double as workspaces or libraries. Television is integrated into the living room to ensure its frequent use. This principle stems from understanding daily rituals and designing around them. Architect Steven Harris’ 5 non-negotiables when designing his own home place emphasis on functionality that doesn’t sacrifice sophistication.
It's absolutely essential to know what spaces your clients use most often, and when. Which means you must know in detail how they actually live. So do ask them to list what they're doing the house each day, and what time of day, and for how long. "The best way for a client to really think about what they need for a house," they say, "is to think about the process of each day and how they live it." Very true.
Not in agreement there with the television however [2], since reducing its frequent use is more important (and smaller devices mean the "family television" now gets less use anyway). But the point is a good one: design for the way you live, not the way a magazine or TV show thinks that you should. Build in the daily rituals that give your life meaning. (And do be open to lettin the architecture suggest better ways to live.)
The final principle centres on scale and proportion. Rather than equating size with importance, the design treats intimacy as a metric of success. Volumes are generous without being overwhelming, with seating arranged to foster ease of conversation. The dressing room and bathroom are given as much attention as the bedroom itself.
This perhaps is most important. There's a luxury in good design in that you're not making spaces bigger: you're making them just the right size. There are important human dimensions that we must build in, and fail at our peril. A conversation space, for instance, calls for a 3m radius from eyeball to eyeball. Make it bigger or smaller, and we're making a wasted space. Build in these human dimensions, and we're making a home that just feels right.
* * * *
There are other "non-negotiables" we all might have, but these are a good start.
PS: Looking at Harris's beautiful home, one commenter quipped that the sixth non-negotiable would be an unlimited budget. Which is funny to say, but not truly necessary to have: because none of these elements require an extensive budget; they simply require thought. As Steven Harris says, if you don't get these things right—most especially the human dimensions—then "all the fancy materials in the western world aren't going to help."
It really is all about thinking it through.
* * * *
[1] Stephen Kellert & Elizabeth Calabrese, The Practice of Biophilic Design (2015): 3
[2] Of course, their point here is that so many homes now offer a "media room" that takes folk away from the main living space on which you've lavished so much care. Now, clearly Americans watch too much television anyway, but I do think there's a good argument for the media room. When you just want to watch "the news" or a TV series, then a smaller screen is fine, and can be in lounge or dining space or wherever. But when a film director relies on a big screen (as any director should) or a sports broadcast demands much bigger screen real estate, then it's good to repair to a place dedicated to that function of enjoying the film (or the sports broadcast) on a dedicated big screen.
House in Mt Eden. Existing sunroom opened up to lounge, home office created in new sunroom extension (at rear of picture). Pic by Organon Architecture.
SO YOU'VE BEEN FORCED to work from home, and we're all pretty clear nothat it's likely to be for a very long time.
You can only work from the kitchen table for so long. And using a laptop on your lap for any length of time will quickly leave you with neck pain and feelings of frustration.
Having had my own office at home for many years now, I've learned a thing or two so that I can help you setting up your own.
We all know the usual tips for working from home: get dressed, have a regular routine, don't work in any kind of pants that have a drawstring....
But what about how to set up your home office, now that you know you may be using it for some time.
I don't know much about drawstring pants, but I do know a bit about spaces and how best to arrange them. So here are a few tips ...
Four major don'ts:
Don't work from your master bedroom. You need your regular bedroom for sleep, especially when (like everyone at the moment!) you really need that sleep to heal. There are ways to make it work architecturally (if no other option are available) but, in general, don't confuse your subconscious by mixing work and sleep -- especially if you're the sort of person whose desk isn't clear at the end of every day!
Keep away from the fridge! It's too easy to graze all day when you're at home, without realising the message your mirror is sending you. So try to keep to a regular schedule of breaks and meals instead of being ongoing. And if you do lack the won't-power, then set up a kettle in your workspace so you can avoid the temptation. (A good idea anyway of your house has too many other distractions.)
Don't spend all day in your pyjamas. Yes, it is a cliche. That's because it is too easy: throw off the bed-clothes, stumble into the kitchen, rub sleep out of your eyes as you drink your first coffee at your kitchen-table desk ... and then realise several hours later that those online quizzes and twitter chats aren't going to get your work done, and you're already full of aches and pains from sitting badly for too many hours. So do make sure you have a place that tells your subconscious "I'm going here to work!" and then get dressed for it and ready for it as if it's a regular work day. Because it is. (And then make sure you separate yourself from your work once the work day ends too. I recommend a martini.)
Don't stay inside! One of the great things about working from your neighbourhood is (hopefully) access to gardens, trees and open spaces. Use them! Get outside regularly. Take regular walks, have lunch in the open air, talk to other people (from a suitable distance!). In short, avoid cabin fever and keep yourself linked into the outside world. (Especially important is to spend at least thirty minutes, early in the day, out under the open sky. Sleep researchers tells us this is the single most important thing we can do to lock in the circadian rhythms that support healthy sleep.)
Another thing: with the possibility of schools and daycare closing soon, your children may be in the house with you. Which makes it even more important to carve out your own special space away from all the hubbub so you can focus. If your partner is home too, maybe you rotate shifts keeping an eye on anyone who needs it, but do make sure you can carve out three-hour blocks of time (minimum) to focus on your work. [I'll make a few comments in a few days about home-schooling, if anyone's interested.]
And you are going to need that quiet uninterrupted space too when you get into all those online work meetings. Who can forget this now-famous TV interview -- you (possibly) don't want this happening to you!
So, some Architectural Tips. This may be your workstation for some time. Do it properly. You may need to do some minor (or major!) renovation to your home; or you may be able to think laterally and only move around a bit of furniture -- it's amazing how a bit of lateral thinking can free up space! - but you have to make sure that its going to work so that you can enjoy working there. It has to be ergonomic, have decent shelving so your stuff is all to-hand, it is has to work efficiently and productively.
And it has to feel right, to support you psychologically. Especially now, when everyone's an emotional mess. It has to be a place of your own.
You don't necessarily need to use a whole room either. Try to get your spaces do double duty. Think about how much space you can make in a boat or a caravan -- often with things that easily hide away. That's the kind of thinking you might need to use.
Look for a spot you don't use -- an attic, behind a chimney space, part of a wide hallway or passage, large wardrobes ... there's more room available than you think, especially if you're thinking laterally.
You have to make the lighting work for you too. No shadows across your work from lights or windows in the wrong place (so you'll have a totally different arrangement depending on whether you're right or left-handed). No high-reflective surfaces. Proper visual weight to the lighting arrangement. No looking directly into light fittings (see the effect of the light, not the light source). No glare on your screen from either lights or late-afternoon sun, enough light on your paperwork so you don't hurt your eyes. In the right place so it supports your work rather than hinders it -- and makes you look good in online meetups too!
And remember: add delight. You are going to be here for many hours, possibly for many months. Make sure you have a view, or some art, or some plants -- or all three! Any place in which you spend this much time has to feed your soul just as much as you are busy feeding your out-box.
[Pic from Not So Big Remodelling: Tailoring Your Home For the Way You Really Live]
Some principles to think through:
*** A PLACE OF YOUR OWN (POYO)
Some people can work with things going on around them. Most can't. Especially in these difficult times, the space needs to feel like it's your own. Like a kind of private daily retreat that feels good to be in -- light filled and pleasant to be in so that you want to be there. Otherwise you won't be.
If you do want to keep yourself linked into family activities when you need to, then perhaps keep the space close to the main loop of family activity, but with doors you can close off for acoustic privacy when you need to.
Better to make a space that is totally separate and private, that doesn't become the family control centre. These are two different functions; don't confuse them!
** MAKE SPACES DO DOUBLE DUTY
Your new home office or "away room" can be anywhere and, like the fittings in a boat or caravan, can be tailored to adapt or change or fold away -- to be hidden when not in use. A "transformer space."
Or the space may be a lesser part of a multi-functioning space, one that won't create interruptions for you while working, of course. Perhaps there's a handy alcove that will accommodate a desk, into which you can add doors to close it away when you're not working.
Or you could convert a space you rarely use, like that garden shed, garage, or large formal dining space (which can do triple duty as your library!), or the media room (which you only use when you're not working, right?) into a home office cum social space. Or that extra-large wardrobe. (Just re-shelve some of those shoes!) Or the guest room which, unfortunately, you may not be using so much (and when you do, a foldaway bed can work).
If you're using a foldaway bed, try to keep at least 750mm between bed and computer when the bed is down. That may mean a moveable desk, perhaps on a cart.
** PERMANENCE
Double-duty doesn't mean things should look temporary. Your workspace should feel as interesting and comfortable as the rest of your house, and have the same feeling of permanence.
** VISUAL ORGANISATION
Visual organisation is more than just organising your space so it works well. It's making sure the underlying visual order works to support the space -- this place in which you are going to spend many hours every day. So we need to bring visual order to the space to avoid the perception of chaos. So think through points of focus, pattern and geometry, alignments and the composition of the space, so that the space directs you to your work and reduces the apparent visual clutter around it. ** LEADS!
Speaking of visual clutter! The bane of many a workspace is your leads to power all your 'puter stuff. Lots of leads under your feet makes you feel cluttered, so think through lead placement and the installation of enough plugs and plug boxes to make your space work. (If you're installing a lot of equipment, then maybe make a call to an electrician to set you up properly, or just to ensure your system can take all the new loads without blowing all your fuses!)
** BATHROOMS
You don't really want to be adding new bathrooms. But especially with more hand-washing going on, you need to make sure your home office has easy access to bathrooms, without distractions en-route. Think that through.
** ERGONOMICS
Ergonomics is more than just the study of efficiency in working environments: it's about making sure the human body meshes organically and efficiently with your work tools for comfort, efficiency and to avoid long-term bodily injury. At a basic level, it's making sure seat, desk, keyboard and screen are set up perfectly for your body dimensions. At a deeper level, it's ensuring the whole space and its dimensions works the way you work: seating, shelving, screens, desks and reference table. Get your seat right (don't skimp on this one!) and get the work arrangement and all its associated dimensions right, and you will feel physically better working there, and your workspace will takes up only as much floor area (and no more) than it needs to. ** SHARED OR SEPARATE ENTRANCE?
Your new home office doesn't need to be accessible from inside the house, or even in the house at all. If you make it weather-tight , moisture-proof and insulated, and get reliable power there, then a garden shed, garage or basement can do the job. Or a rent-a-cabin. A separate entrance may be best anyway to give you that feeling of mental separation from your work: strolling to the (former) sleepout in the morning could be just the thing you need to refresh yourself before work each day.
Or a combined entrance, sharing the same entrance hall, giving that little necessary feeling of extra separation.
** VIEWS
Views out and/or long views within a space are important. When we grasp a thought, we often find ourselves staring into the middle distance. If that view is pleasant and plant-filled, or connects us to the wider world without distracting us, or throwing us into it, that's ideal.
** DELIGHT: COLOUR, PLANTS, ART ...
Last but very far from least: feed your soul.
Be bold with colour: don't be scared to paint the space your favourite colour -- or maybe just a feature wall. (It's easy to change again if you get sick of it. Or just change it every season just for variety.
Have as many plants around you or in there with you as you can reasonably manage. Living things keep us connected and help clean the air in our workspace.
And have art in there! Do have all your friends' and family photos in there, but make sure to leave room for art: for colourful prints, small and engaging sculpture, even mementoes or things that remind us of important events, people or ideas in our lives.
Now, more than ever, we need to remember and connect with what's important.
Especially in that space in which, for months or even years, we are now going to have to spend many hours every day.
Hope this helps!
PS: I'm gearing up to consult on the installation of your new home office -- anything from a few hours conversation and advice, right through (if needed) to working drawings and tracking down a builder. If that interests you, drop me a line here at peter@organonarchitecture.nz or peter.organon@gmail.com to talk more.
Cheers
Peter Cresswell
O R G A N O N. A R C H I T E C T U R E
[Source: All pics from Not So Big House and Houzz, except where noted.]
I named Organon Architecture after two of my heroes.
"Organon" itself comes from Aristotle's Organon -- his collection of books on logic and induction that, when rediscovered, led to the led to a rebirth of knowledge and science."Organon" being defined as a tool or instrument, in this case an instrument of knowledge ...
And "organon" also refers to the principles of Organic Architecture -- sometimes called The Other Modernism -- that I try to practice and that Frank Loyd Wright was the first (and the best) to espouse.
Over the decades, Wright and others gave many explanations of what this Organic Architecture consists:
architecture perfectly integrated with its site; a free architecture ... architecture that belongs where you see it standing, and is a grace to the landscape instead of a disgrace
recognising that nature and materials, machinery, and technologies are allies, not antagonists
understanding the higher truth that form should not simply follow function -- that outward appearances should reflect inner purposes -- but that form and function are one
an interpretation of nature’s principles manifested in buildings that are in harmony with the world around them
architecture used to make human life more natural, and nature more humane
an architecture from within outwards ... where the whole is to the part and the part is to the whole.
a building that functions like a cohesive organism, where each part of the design relates to the whole.
an architecture in which a building is allowed to develop in relation to the forces and context that generated it in a manner analogous to the way a tree (for example) develops according to its generating forces and site context -- a reinterpretation of nature's principles as they had been filtered through the intelligent minds of designers
an architecture recognising the human need for order, pattern, nature, prospect and refuge
an architecture in which space and time become place and occasion, and reason and self-esteem are embodied in the expression of motion and purpose
a building that complements its environment so as to create a single, unified space that appears to “grow naturally” out of the ground
choosing one dominant form for a building and integrating that form throughout (often in a fractal manner)
using natural colours: “Go into the woods and field for colour schemes”
don't simply imitate nature, but understand and emulate nature's abstractions of geometry, form, colour, pattern, texture, proportion, and rhythm
respect and reveal the nature of materials
open up spaces, using nested, overlapping and interlinked spaces
integrate natural foliage in the inner spaces and wider views of the outer spaces -- "capturing those views alive"
Integration is the key word: of site and landscape and colour and material with the life within.
Bruce Brooks Pfeiffer worked with Frank Lloyd Wright for many years. This conversation brings the ideas home ....
"So to a definition: ... [architecture] is a building based on a concept of good living conditions... building conceived from an idea or vision of good living... "This vision, then is translated into reality by qualities of surface, space, structure and psyche. I could be more fashionable and even more alliterative by calling the last item 'soul.' Perhaps it is best to average it out and settle on 'spirit'..."
~ Australian architect Robin Boyd, writing in his manifesto Living in Australia
“A house is not a machine to live-in. It is the shell of man, his extension, his release, his spiritual emanation. Not only its visual harmony but its organisation as a whole, the whole work combined together make it human in the most profound sense... The poverty of modern architecture stems from the atrophy of sensuality.”
~ Eileen Gray, architect and designer .
The great Colin Chapman -- founder and designer of Lotus sports cars -- was once wrestling with a design problem: he had the world's most beautiful car on his drawing board, "a racing car for the road" he called it, yet early testing had indicated the roof needed to be raised 1 1/2 inches to fully accommodate most drivers. "I'm not doing that," Chapman famously shouted, "that's a bloody compromise!"
I had a similar discussion with some clients recently, listening to them bewail their need to compromise their dreams for their house because of their small site. "But we don't want to bloody compromise," they said.
It's said that all designers need to learn to compromise: sometimes dimensionally, like Chapman; often aesthetically -- if, say, your two favourite colours won't go together on the same page; frequently functionally -- when you wind up with your kitchen, with all its plumbing, near the plumbing (and smells!) of your bathroom; and almost always financially, when the client's champagne tastes won't come anywhere near their beer budget.
But is compromise really the right word for what designers really need to do when weighing up all the myriad factors that influence a design?
Spoiler alert: No, it's not.
It's not even the right way to think about it.
A compromise is "an adjustment of conflicting claims by mutual concessions" -- a process beginning in conflict, and usually leaving all conflicting parties unhappy when they finally leave the table.
What a designer needs to learn to do is not to compromise, but to harmonise. Two ways to help a designer harmonise the competing claims of any design involves two concepts coming from outside the field of design: a notion from economics called marginal utility, and something from philosophy called teleological measurement.
Let me explain the last one first.
Teleological measurement simply means measurement with a purpose, measurement that is "performed in and against an enormous context: it consists of establishing the relationship of a given choice to all the other possible choices and to one's hierarchy of values."
We do this all the time in the real world. The simple fact in any real-world situation is that doing one thing always precludes doing another. If I go out to a party on a Saturday night I can't also stay home and study. If I use my truckload of wood to burn during winter for heat, I can't also use it to build my house. If I spend my last few dollars on beer I can't also spend it on the bus home. What we do decide what we do in each of these cases reveals our own ultimate standard behind decisions like these, and our own hierarchy of values that informs these choices. Even subconsciously.
Every designer must do the same, establishing a clear brief for their design and, in many cases, testing the design over several iterations in order to discover the ultimate value of that which she is designing, -- and also all the several lesser values that contribute towards these ultimate values, and how precisely all these values are ranked.
Teleological measurement deals, not with cardinal, but with ordinal numbers—and the standard serves to establish a graded relationship of means to end... This requires that [an individual] define his particular hierarchy of values, in the order of their importance, and that he act accordingly. Thus all his actions have to be guided by a process of teleological measurement.
In any project, it may take some time and many iterations to uncover these things (this is after all one of the key aims of every period of concept design) but ranking in order of their importance the values associated with a design project is (or should be) a key part of every design process.
Ranking them properly means that the final design need not be a compromise, but instead comes as a result of weighing up these values according to their place in our hierarchy.
Sounds great, you say. But just how the hell do we do that?
That's where the economists' idea of marginal utility comes in.
The theory of marginal utility begins with this recognition that the values of each good are best ranked in order of their importance to the acting individual, the ranking providing a basis for these values to be harmonised:
All action involves the employment of [finite] means to attain the most valued ends. Man has the choice of using the [finite] means for various alternative ends, and the ends that he chooses are the ones he values most highly. The less urgent wants are those that remain unsatisfied. Actors can be interpreted as ranking their ends along a scale of values, or scale of preferences. These scales differ for each person, both in their content and in their orders of preference. Furthermore, they differ for the same individual at different times.
(First)
1. Going for a drive
(Second)
2. Going to a concert
(Third)
3. Playing bridge
(Fourth)
4. Continuing to watch a baseball game
The choice of which ends to include in the actor's value scale and the assignment of rank to the various ends constitute the process of value judgment. Each time the actor ranks and chooses between various ends, he is making a judgment of their value to him.
Marginal valuation recognises that humans value goods according to our ends -- to be precise, according to the individual units of those goods, and each of these units themselves fits into our values scale. (We value our afternoon's first ice-cream cone more than our first coffee, our first coffee ahead of our second cone, our first beer ahead of our second coffee...)
Discovering this sort values scale in each of our design projects allows us to avoid compromise, and instead to harmonise our project's values based on each unit of the finite means available -- trade-offs between goods happening "at the margins."
The recent discussion with my clients offers a good example of how we might do this.
My clients have a small site. Simplifying things enormously for the sake of illustration, they like lawn. And they want five bedrooms. How does marginal utility theory harmonise these apparently competing wants? Simple: by testing each unit of these goods against their position in the clients' values scale.
The house's first bedroom (their master bedroom), is clearly more important than any patch of lawn.
The house's second bedroom and third bedrooms are still more important to them than any amount of lawn. (And on a tiny site, might preclude any lawn at all -- hence, they would be living in an apartment.)
The house's fourth bedroom is probably more important to them than that same area of lawn (although on that one, they are still deciding).
The house's fifth bedroom, they decided (when put to them this way) is definitely less important to them than that same area of lawn.
Thus, our quick discussion reveals that on this site and for these clients that the fourth bedroom is probably "the marginal bedroom" -- and they now have a framework within which to go home and think through whether that's truly the case.
The framework of marginal utility has allowed the clients to easily determine for themselves the likely number of bedrooms in their future house, and I will soon have a much clearer brief that better harmonises their wants with their site.
In a very simplified way, this is what I try to do in every briefing meeting. And it is what every period of concept design with every client tries to uncover.
Furthermore, it is precisely what every good designer does every single day, either consciously or subconsciously, when it looks like they're just pushing around lines on a page: they are seeking a way to bring together all the apparent conflicting values of a design into one harmonious whole. This framework of marginal utility allows the designer a way to think about that process explicitly, and to talk it through with their clients.
I often liken the design process as being, first, to uncover all the elements and inputs important to a design, and then to throw all these balls up in the air to see where and how they land. (And then doing that all over when we discover the need for a new ball.) That's essentially what happens when applying these two notions of teleological measurement and marginal utility in design. The first essentially gives us the relative size of our balls. The second explains how the balls bounce off each other to best effect.
Together they offer a designer a way out of any bloody compromise, and towards a more harmonious outcome.
Colin Chapman and his car's stylist produced one of the era's most beautiful cars, but there was never very much room inside and in the end only 1,000 of the cars were made, and on every one they lost money. Lotus however went on to take the hard lessons learned in producing the Elite and apply them to the Elan, which did make money -- and went on to become one of the most successful small sports cars of all time (a model of design that still survives today in the watered-down example that is the MX5).
We can only speculate how different things may have been if the great man had learned about marginal utility at an early age?
[Pic of 1961 Lotus Elite Tye 14, designed in 1957, from the Mk14 Restorations website] .
"The complete architect is master of the elements: earth, air, fire, light, and water. Space, motion, and gravitation are is palette: the sun his brush. His concern is the heart of humanity." ~ Frank Lloyd Wright, 1949
Floor Plan, Malcolm Willey house, 1933, by Frank Lloyd Wright (with then-radical integration of kitchen and living spaces highlighted)
What is the ideal relationship of architect to client?
I like to quote architect Bruce Goff, who said he "liked to do what they [his clients] would do if they were a good architect." Each client being as unique as every individual, Goff would devise a unique house for every client, spending as much time discovering who they really were, in order to discover how best to make their home best fit them -- as if they had been able to produce it out of themselves.
Architects Charles & Ray Eames had a somewhat similar approach, based upon a conversation with Eero Saarinen on the subject of the Guest/Host Relationship, saying:
One of the things we hit upon was the quality of a host. That is, the role of the architect, or the designer, is that of a very good, thoughtful host, all of whose energy goes into trying to anticipate the needs of his guests—those who enter the building and use the objects in it. We decided that this was an essential ingredient in the design of a building or a useful object.
I think that's a great way to think about it.
Building upon that idea, designer Steve Sikora sees designer and client as "dancers in a complicated tango of wills"--the better clients helping produce a greater architectural response.
My partner, Lynette and I shared the mixed blessing of leading a design and branding firm for over 30 years. One of the lessons you take from that, is the understanding that the quality of your work is significantly determined by the quality of the clients you work with. Notice, I said work with, rather than work for. When a designer is able to ally as equal partner with a client of vision and courage, it creates fertile ground for optimal results in every endeavour. Doubtless, in our practice, our greatest achievements would not have been, were it not for the engagement, faith and occasional challenges presented by our clients.
In the case of the Willey House, Nancy presented Wright with enough constructive resistance to lift her dance partner above the prevailing paradigms of domestic architecture.
Wright's approach demands a demanding but open client.
As John Sergeant observed, “The relationship between client and architect was for Wright a thing of joint intent.” To achieve clear focus and gain permission, even “In large projects he always sought out one person and never a committee, to represent the client.” That, as they say, is easier said than done, but it was a prerequisite that governed his creative and persuasive processes...
When [his son] John Lloyd Wright considered a career in architecture, his father gave him this advice, “You’ve got to have guts to be an architect! People will come to you and tell you what they want, and you will have to give them what they need.” “Don’t you take the wants of the client into consideration?” John asked. “If you consider the house first, you will supply the needs of the client. The wants change from day to day, but a house must embody the needs of those who live in it. The architect must be aware of those needs, the client seldom is. An architect must have the courage to turn away a commission even if he is hungry if his work will not represent the highest ideals….Think it over, John: to be an architect is no light matter.”
The Willey House was a small masterpiece that helped re-set Wright's residential thinking for the rest his career; a new form that flourished in the creative tension between a responsive architectural genius and a demanding yet sympathetic client.
Consider this, a client will typically select an architect based upon their past artistic expressions. Nancy Willey was certainly a case in point. Yet the same client will judge their architect by how well their needs are met, once the design is implemented. This too, is evident in the correspondence between Nancy Willey and Frank Lloyd Wright. In her initial letter she asked “What do you think are the chances of my being able to have a – creation of art?” She repeatedly expressed wanting to follow his instructions to the letter. But when pressed into a corner, having to decide between high art and pragmatism, she was willing to fight for what she knew she needed and could afford. On November 17, 1933 frustrated with construction bids coming in at two times over budget on scheme 1, she penned a terse letter to Wright. In it she wrote, “I do not want a seventeen thousand dollar house even at twelve or ten thousand dollars. I want an eight to ten thousand dollar house at eight to ten thousand dollars. Can I have it?” We have Nancy’s red line and assertive pushback to thank, for what inspired Wright to cast aside his initial ideas and ultimately seek a more appropriate solution. Once the water broke, something new and wonderful was born, relieving the tension between clients and architect. From that point forward, in full alignment, both parties strove to advance the project with renewed enthusiasm. In Nancy’s own words from her Oral History interview with Indira Berndtson “…and how he responded, once he accepted it!!
Dance partners -- host and guest -- interpreter of true needs -- discover of a client's inner person. The good architect is all of these in one. And the ideal client is the ideal reciprocal to all these. But as Steve Sikora summarises, there is one quality above all that is required of a good client:
I had the chance to meet a life-long graphic design hero of mine, Milton Glaser. It was at a conference in New Orleans, where we both presented. An idea from his presentation became indelibly inscribed into my memory. While discussing his long career, Milton spoke about clients. He said, “I could never work for anyone who I did not have a genuine affection for.” His words were profound, because they implied two things; he could only do his best work for people he liked, but also, in a professional context, he gave permission for designers to understand, appreciate and embrace clients as fellow humans, even potential friends. He believed in collapsing formal, professional barriers. I instantly related his sentiment to my own client relationships.
“Man takes a positive hand in creation whenever he puts a building upon the earth beneath the sun. If he has any birthright at all, it must consist in this, that he, too, is no less a feature of the landscape than the rocks, trees, bears or bees of that nature to which he owes his being.”
~ Frank Lloyd Wright, 1937
[Top pic of Frank Lloyd Wright's 'Fallingwater,' by photographer Andrew Pielage; bottom pic of Frank Lloyd Wright's 'Tirranna' House, by Houlihan Lawrence via Cottage and Garden]
"There is a crack, a crack in everything That's where the light gets in."
~ Leonard Cohen
Weeds abound. Weeds can be found in every suburb, and every magazine. Weeds are what we get out of the system when we all try least hardest. But why live in a weed for twenty years or more just because the system makes building and buying weeds easier than it is to produce a flower? And why go to the effort of building yourself if the final result of all that angst and energy is just another weed.
We use this frequently as a slogan -- getting a flower out of the system instead of a weed -- but it's a slogan that we really mean. The weeds the system throws up don't interest us. The flowers we can grow out of it do. Immensely.
This is what we do every day here at Organon Architecture: work to get a flower out of the system instead of a weed. With the system now more grotesque now than it's ever been, it's never been more important.
It means we place as much emphasis in designing your home on the process of design and discovery as we do in the final product -- much of the design process involving finding out who you are and your ideal place in which to live.
It means we're designing your special place, not just something that suits every passer-by -- we do what you might do if you were a good architect.
That means that we don't know when we start where, and how, the process will end up -- it's always an open exploration, with the discovery and construction of your dream the final goal!
It means we know the rules (and there are many of them!) not simply to blindly follow them, but in order to find and exploit the loopholes -- to let the light get in through those cracks; because in this system it's not the weeds that the grow up within the cracks and crannies (they're everywhere, and in industrial quantities) -- it's the flowers. And they need careful tending.
It does mean the whole process may take longer -- but flowers always do need more care and attention than a weed.
And a weed you can get anywhere, every day of the week.
“The house is a machine for living.”
~ a banality from the very banal Le Corbusier
“Oh yes, young man; consider that a house is a machine in which to live, but by the same token the heart is a suction pump. Sentient man begins where that concept of the heart ends. “Consider that a house is a machine in which to live, but architecture begins where that concept of the house ends. All life is machinery in a rudimentary Sense, and yet machinery is the life of nothing. Machinery is machinery only because of life.”
~ Frank Lloyd Wright, from his lecture ‘To the Young Man in Architecture' "A house is not a machine to live in. It is the shell of man — his extension, his release, his spiritual emanation. Not only its visual harmony but its organisation as a whole, the whole work combined together, make it human in the most profound sense… The poverty of modern architecture stems from the atrophy of sensuality.”
~ architect Eileen Gray, designer of the house that Le Corbusier could never have designed, but nonetheless fell in love with “A house is not an object but a universe we construct for ourselves – not a garage where we park ourselves.” ~ architect Claude Megson, on 'making a home for man'
"[Louis] Sullivan’s ornament never feels as though it is imposed from without. It does not feel applied.
Instead, his ornament really does manifest what 'organic' is actually supposed to feel like, 'as though the outworking of some beneficent agency had come forth from the very substance of the material and was there by the same right that a flower appears amid the leaves of its parent plant.'”
"This greatest feature of [Louis Sullivan's] work was esoteric. Is it any the less precious for that?
"Do you realise that here, in his own way, is no body of culture evolving through centuries of time but a scheme and 'style' of plastic expression which an individual working away in this poetry-crushing environment ... had made out of himself? Here was a sentient individual who evoked the goddess whole civilisations strove in vain for centuries to win, and wooed her with this charming interior smile -- all on his own, in one lifetime too brief.
... Although seeming at time a nature-ism (his danger), the idea is there: of the thing not on it; and therefore Sullivanian self-expression contained the elements and prophesied organic architecture. To look down on such efflorescence as mere 'ornament' is disgraceful ignorance. We do so because we have only known ornament as self-indulgent excrescence ignorantly applied to some surface as a mere prettification. But with the master [Sullivan], 'ornament' was like music; a matter of the soul..."
~ Frank Lloyd Wright writing in his book Genius and the Mobocracy about the only man he ever called his Master
Listening in this weekend to the Wright Society Virtual Summit (you all could be too, you know), I'm really enjoying hearing Frank Lloyd Wright's clients talking about their homes, and their lives in and around them.
Roland Reisley was just 26 years old when he joined a housing cooperative in Pleasantville, New York, able to commission Wright to design the community and several of the houses, including their own. "We didn't dream of approaching Frank Lloyd Wright, ordinary people don't do that," smiles Reisley today, 67 years later. But when the community founder showed Wright the site thus began "a wonderful, long, productive and happy relationship with him."
Asked what he has learned after a lifetime of living in and enjoying his Frank Lloyd Wright Usonian home — enjoying every day the nature of the design, seeing the seasons change, how the light passes through the home, Reisley sums up with a very important observation about what essentially makes good architecture:
I came to realise after many years … a pinch-me realisation, that after many years there had not been a single day of my life, even the bad days that happen in every life, where I was not aware of seeing something beautiful. I always, every day of my life, [am saying] ‘isn’t that lovely’ — whether it’s … in the morning I look up and see the way the wood is mitred in certain places, and how it contrasts with the light through the window which is either nice and green fro the trees or white with snow; and I could go on with similar awareness.“We sit outside (in summer-time) … and look around and say ‘isn’t it beautiful!,’ ‘isn’t it wonderful!’ — every day, every time… Neuroscientists have observed … that living with a sense of awareness of beauty brings a sense of comfort, a reduction of stress, and these other kinds of things, that may contribute to physical and emotional health, possibly even longevity. I’m 93 years old! I’m in verygood shape for 93 years old. I like to attribute that to this sense of beauty that I’ve lived in all my life. It also has made me very conscious, as I talk about this house and the architecture and how it makes me feel, of the importance of the built environment generally.“I remark these days not just to visitors but to architects as well: ’You know, these buildings are just objects. We may like how they look, we may not like how they look, but what matters is how they make us feel. When we’re in this environment, does it feel good, does it [make us] feel better, does it feel enriching. And that may or may not coincide with whether we like the way it looks. I think Wright understood that, and he created environments in which people feel good.
