Author: Darryl Bird

Leonardo’s Last Supper and Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel are both well know examples of works of art that have been visited by millions of viewers. But public access to great works of art is a relatively new phenomenon. Until the modern era most significant collections of art were commissioned by religious institutions or wealthy patrons, and were normally housed in religious facilities or private residences.  On rare occasions the collections may have been open to the public for limited viewing, but this was the exception rather than the rule. 

In 1817 the Dulwich Picture Gallery was opened in England. Designed by Regency architect Sir John Soane, it has the distinction of being the oldest public art gallery in England and it ushered in a new building type – the Art Museum. The building was specifically designed to display artwork. Here, visitors could traverse a series of gallery spaces containing long expanses of walls for hanging art. The location of windows and skylight were carefully considered, due to their potential negative impact on the artwork. This prototype was largely followed throughout the 19th and into the early 20th centuries, with the building serving as a backdrop for the art.

This commonly accepted idea, that the architecture should be subservient to the art, was all but abandoned by Frank Lloyd. A different idea, that the art should be subservient to the architecture was exemplified in his last major work – the 1959 Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum in Manhatten. This was a museum in which visitors entered a grand multi-level atrium space, proceeded to the top via elevator, and spiraled down by way of a continuous ramp.  The art was placed on the spiraling outside walls and viewed from the sloped floor of the ramp.  The artwork, when hung plumb, appeared askew. This was a major point of contention throughout the design process. Baroness Hilla von Rebay, the Guggenheim’s director, felt that this approach placed more importance on the architecture than the artwork it was meant to exhibit. Wright did not argue this point. He simply stated that “Architecture was the mother of all Arts”, implying that the architecture need not be subservient to mere artwork.  Ultimately Wright proved to be ideologically the more tenacious and his design was realized as designed.

The more recent 1997 Guggenheim Museum, that in Bilboa Spain, designed by Frank Gehry, continues the debate. Here the architecture is even more radical and the artwork more subservient. So, which should be given the higher priority – art or architecture? This question continues to be debated today, although I would contend that the wrong question is being asked. Perhaps we should ask if art and architecture can co-exist? I believe that they can, and I will offer an example in which I believe the architecture actually enhances the art and vice versa.

In 1972 the Kimball Art Museum, designed by Louis Kahn, opened its doors in Ft. Worth Texas. Kahn skillfully crafted a series of linear vaults which are designed to capture and redistribute the just the right amount of light in which to view the artwork. The minimalist design and spare material palate of concrete, travertine, and wood offer a non-disruptive background.

When expansion became necessary a few years ago, it proved to be difficult task to find an architect who could provide an equally enticing venue in which to display art without compromising Kahn’s design.

Renzo Piano’s Building Workshop was ultimately selected for the commission. As explained in Architectural Record, “Curators like the firm’s work because it “lets the art speak.” Their addition opened to the public in 2013. Piano chose to build a separate building and connect to Kahn’s museum through an underground tunnel. Piano’s layout takes cues from Kahn, with its linear galleries and floating partitions. He also mimics the way Kahn used natural and artificial light, as well as his material choices. These building are not twins, but brothers, separated by years, but definitely sharing DNA. Kahn’s and Piano’s buildings complement and reinforce each other. Each building is architecturally significant in its own right, with a simple sophistication that also allows the artwork to shine unchallenged. As a result, artists and exhibitors love to show at the Kimball. For me, this is museum architecture at its finest.

Museums are a complex building type, requiring collaboration between the architect, engineers, consultants, end users, and most importantly, the client.  The connection of architecture to the client will be the topic we explore next. Join me next time for Hosanna! A Client!

Design inspiration can strike out of the blue. We have all heard stories of musicians waking in the night with the perfect melody, a writer suddenly breaking through her block while in the middle of a conversation, or an architect grasping the concept for a new building while waiting at the cafe for his order. In all cases the creative individual frantically retrieves a pen and paper – maybe a notepad, or a receipt, or the back of a napkin. They doodle a few chords, scribble a few words, or sketch the genesis of a building. These are methods of capturing the fleeting inspiration. Such scenarios serve as a reminder that, despite advances in technology and documentation, the most fundamental of tools of pen and paper still play a vital role in the creative process.

Since I began architecture school in 1981, there has been a paradigm shift in the tools architects use to represent their works, due primarily to the computer. While digital output from sophisticated programs now account for most of the architect’s deliverables, they have not completely replaced hand drawn sketches and drawings, nor will they. There is room in the toolbox for both. Computer generated drawings offer high-tech precision and accuracy. Hand drawn sketches offer a quick and intuitive form of communication that simply cannot be replicated.

A work of architecture begins in the head of the architect. There, the big idea is formed and (to some extent) developed; however, unless the idea can be transformed to something tangible, it cannot be communicated. And if it the idea cannot be communicated, it can never be constructed and will never become a work of architecture. It will simply remain as an unresolved idea. The process in which architects convey this “big idea” is (to slightly paraphrase Christopher Knight) “to allow it to flow from the brain, through the hand, to the pencil, and onto paper”. The resulting sketch is called a parti. As we’ve noted, this process of design can happen virtually anywhere, at any time. An architect may sketch out the parti on a napkin while discussing the project over lunch. He may awaken in the night and scratch out the parti on the back of the first piece of paper he finds. If all else fails, a scheduled client meeting usually provides the necessary incentive for inspiration! So, the seed of architecture may be planted in the brain, but it sprouts as ink on paper.

Beyond the parti, other types of drawings are used by architects to communicate ideas. Hand drawings give the impression that the project is still evolving, which is usually the reality. A crisp CAD plan or computer generated model gives the impression that the project is complete, which is usually not the reality. In meetings with consultants or clients, the ability to pull out tracing paper and sketch over previous iterations of the design allow the architect to develop and advance the project on the fly. A picture is worth far more than a thousand words.

Most believe that drawing and sketching is a God-given talent. While there is some truth to that, it is also a skill which can be learned and mastered. With a little instruction and a lot of practice, anyone can become proficient in drawing.

Let’s carry the tool metaphor out a little further. You may have heard the old saying that when you’re a hammer, everything looks like a nail. With the tools of sketching and drawing in your toolbox you will soon find all kinds of places to use them. I have drawn not only buildings and houses but everything from our firm logo to the bed I sleep in at night. You’ll find a lot of nails too!

Many of us who once spent our days drawing and lettering on our boards sometimes find ourselves reminiscing about the “good ole days” of hand drawing and lettering almost everything. We’ll delve into that subject in the next post – To the Letter. Apparently there are enough of us out there that a museum has been constructed to cater to this nostalgia. The Museum for Architectural Drawing opened in Berlin in 2013. It promotes and displays collections of architectural drawings, primarily from the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. The building itself contains both subtle and conspicuous references to architectural drawings. The form created by the five levels of the building reminds one of stacks of drawings (subtle), while enlarged portions of historic drawings are transposed to the exterior skin. It may be because I am an architect, but I find the concept of a museum in which the “art” within is really architecture, truly intriguing. Sounds like a good idea for a future blog post – Art or Architecture?!

As we’ll discover in this blog, there are a myriad of topics to which architecture connects. There is one connection, however, that is more significant than all the others – the connection of architecture and nature. This connection goes back….. way back….. back to the beginning.

“In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth.” So begins the Genesis story of creation. Next, God separated the land from the water, then created plant and animal life. Man and woman were then created and given dominion over the earth. They were placed in the Garden of Eden and commanded to tend it.

This connection of man to nature is foundational to the Christian faith.  It is, however, not unique to Christianity.  The connection, in one form or another, is found in all major world religions, and even in Evolution. This connection is innate. It is in our DNA.

As a means of survival, humankind has always sought protection from the elements.  Early hunter-gatherers constructed transient dwellings, grass huts really, partially dug into the earth.  For thousands of years humankind has constructed forms of shelter from whatever nature provided them.  Eskimos constructed igloos from ice, the Souix erected tepees composed of saplings and animal skins, and the Pueblo Indians carved their shelter into the sides of the canyons. In our area of Alabama the Mississippian Indians constructed large communities built around large earthen mounds. This connection with nature continued even as humankind moved into sedentary agricultural societies.  The connection may have changed form but it remained none the less.

With advances in technology and transportation, humankind has sometimes veered away from nature as the primary motivator of form and function in architecture. Some of the resulting works had little in common with the nature. The architect LeCorbusier designed the Villa Savoye, which was competed in 1931. He famously describe it as a “machine for living in”.

Faye Jones’ Thorncrown Chapel in Eureka Springs, Arkansas is an example of architecture re-embrasiong nature. As one follows the path from the parking lot, the chapel slowly reveals itself, growing from the forest floor, stretching for the sky, and branching out, like the surrounding trees. It has much in common with the nature of which it is a part.  The stone floors, transparent walls, and thin wooden frame are derived from the land and artfully arranged so as to mimic the nature from which they were extracted. Experiencing nature from within its confines takes mankind full circle, in appreciation of the creator of the chapel, but even more, in awe of Nature.

As an Architect, the process of design begins with a sketch. We’ll look at that connection in the next blog post – Drawing on the Imagination.

These are very unusual times. As I edit this post, the vast majority of Americans are tucked away in their homes, trying desperately to avoid the coronavirus. As an architect, I am curious as to the impact that their dwelling places are having. Are we more aware of our surroundings? What kind of emotions are their spaces evoking? Are some spaces in high use while others remain abandoned? What are the reasons for this?

I think it can be safely said that different spaces elicit different emotions. The architect and academic Grant Hildebrand conducted extensive research on this topic.  He identified a handful of qualities that are evident in successful works of architecture. In my view the two most significant qualities he identified are prospect and refuge. Our desire for these qualities is embedded in our DNA and dates back to mankind’s beginnings. Hildebrand uses the noun tense of these words.  Prospect refers to an extended or expansive view.  As a counterpoint, Refuge refers to a small, intimate space.  Frank Lloyd Wright was aware of these qualities as well.  He referred to refuge as nesting and to prospect as perching.

A successful work of architecture will inevitably contain both of the qualities. The ideal ratio of one to the other is elusive. It varies depending on pragmatic parameters, such as the location of the building site, and individual characteristics, such as one’s gender and personality traits.  Generally women tend to favor more  nesting (refuge) while men tend to prefer more perching (prospect). Spaces within the work of architecture normally contain a balance of both qualities. Let’s explore how these qualities are used in the hands of a Master.

Florence Alabama boasts the only Frank Lloyd designed house in the southeastern United States that is open to the public – the Rosenbaum House.  It is the second in his series of Usonian Houses (for the common man) and was completed in 1939.  I take my students on a pilgrimage to this house every year and have “experienced” it dozens of times.  It still impresses me!  The qualities of nesting and perching are used throughout, in a variety of ways and in various combinations.

Stanley Rosenbaum’s Study exemplifies the quality of nesting. The Study is right off of the Living Room.  It is is tucked (not buried) into the ground, giving it a feeling of separation.  The low ceiling and small size make the space feel cozy.  The wood walls and the small fireplace (out of view) add warmth to the mix.  The upholstered chair tucked into the corner surrounded by books provide creature comfort.  The desk provides a space for study and reflection.

Wright provided both interior and exterior spaces which allow for perching.  The rear of the house (which Wright called the front) unfolds to the exterior and directs the occupant’s view to the meadow and, before adjacent development, the Tennessee River beyond.  Full glass doors provide views from both the public and private areas.  Screen doors allow for breezes.  A small perch  is placed off the Master Bedroom where the Rosenbaums could stand outside, drink their morning coffee, and enjoy the view.

The late architect Paul Rudolph once called the Rosenbaum’s Living Room “one of the most sublime spaces in American architecture.”  With a raised ceiling over clerestories, full glass doors, and concrete floors that extend to the exterior, this room is definitely a perching space.  Note that the Study, a nesting area, is only loosely separated from the Living Room.  No door here.  The floor pattern, light fixtures, and bookshelves link these two very different spaces.  An understanding of the link between psychology and architecture allows the skillful designer to create, differentiate, and link spaces, thereby creating successful works of architecture.

Next time we’ll take a look at the connection of man to nature, and the subsequent connection of nature to architecture.  It all begins……In the Beginning.