Modes of communication provided
by the Internet have threatened the exclusivity of architectural spaces as the
arena for social interaction. This threat has gained even greater momentum with
the introduction of the digital camera, which has opened up a new and wondrous
world to amateur photographers. The relative simplicity in documenting social
situations has greatly broadened the photographers circle, almost totally
canceling out the advantages (and disadvantages) of the professional
photographer. One of the positive aspects of this change is the extinction of
the institutionalized dependence on long exposure shots, which had prevented
professional photographers from including moving objects "that may blur
and diminish the quality" of their photographs, thereby contributing to an
architectural reality lacking human presence.
In
"consensus" many architects have convinced themselves that they even
prefer photographs of their buildings empty, prior to tenant
"invasion" - believing their buildings truest representations to be
thus revealed. Consequently, many architects have been preoccupied, at best,
with the relation between the buildings components, and that of the structure to
its surroundings, while the human dimension has been entirely marginalized.
The
human aspect of architecture is multifaceted; this article does not relate to
the central one - ergonometrics, which concerns the
application of human dimensions to architecture, but rather to the human aspect
as a productive element of architecture, that is: the ways in which
architectural spaces gain their true meaning in the presence of their
inhabitants.
On
this background, two questions are eminent. The first: does the architect’s
role end with the completion of the built structure, or is he also responsible
for its future experience?
The
second: how can architects create an ongoing interaction between the building
and its inhabitants?
The
first question is almost rhetorical. The assumption that the tenant plays an
important role in socio-spatial artifact is irrefutable. Moreover, the true
test of a plan’s success is in its ability to realize its goal. That is, a
designated purpose must be fulfilled by a planned solution. If the tenant feels
the need to make "cultural changes" in the early stages of his
inhabitance, it’s probably safe to say the architect’s plan failed to succeed,
at least partially.
The
second question, of how we can promote a fertile interaction between the
building and its inhabitants, is strongly related to the first, and thus
central to this discussion.
A
change in a good building’s purpose does not necessarily mean it will lose its
structural qualities. There are numerous successful examples: a prison that
becomes a hotel, a Fascist regime capital populated by a democratic society, or
a historical building occupied by modern offices. Every one of them contains
sustainable elements that facilitate adaptation to future changes. Moreover, in
all such examples, not only does the building continue to function properly,
but its previous purpose and embedded symbolism actually grant the new ones an
added value and accumulative connotations.
The
relation between these two factors is in fact the driving force of
architecture. It is no secret that the most impressive architectural
achievements can be found in religious structures. This is due to their having been
properly built, and to their natural reliance on substantial expressions of
deep passions and exalted thoughts. Temples,
cathedrals, mosques, and to a limited extent, synagogues, are built not only
out of the theological need to explain the forces of creation (as is
customarily believed), but also as arenas for social encounters.
However,
although in the religious milieu everything is apparently predetermined, even
there there is ongoing stress between what we believe
and what others try to cause us to believe. This is evident in every symbolic
building, but particularly in religious structures in particular.
This
is so since religious rituals are aimed directly at our senses: the preaching,
the choir accompanied by the organ, the religious attire, the clergy’s movement
amongst the audience, the ornamentation, the spatial dimensions and prominence.
All these are not simply decorative impression-making stage props, but rather
active elements designed to promote an emotional dialogue between the
architecture and its occupants. As such, when a Jew or a Muslim visits a
church, he interprets its architecture in an entirely different manner to a
Christian, who understands and believes in its iconography.
History
The
process of rationalization of emotions began during the Renaissance when the
status of religious authority was called into question. At that time,
architecture was considered a subliminal art, and the architect - an artist who
was expected to attach rational explanations to the experience of space.
However, although scientific perspective (introduced at the time) enabled
artist and architects to draw three-dimensional buildings, the personae that
occupied them were still portrayed conceptually in the spirit of the medieval
times.
Exceptional
is the German/Flemish artist Albrecht Dürer -
who was capable of expressing human thoughts and feelings, incorporating buildings
in his compositions. Previous to his arrival in Bologna, to study the "secrets" of
scientific perspective from Luca Pacioli, Dürer had already studied the proportions of human
body organs from Vitruvius writings and the Venetian
painter Jacopo de Barbari. Particularly relevant to
this discussion are three of his woodcarvings: "The Knight, Death and
Satan", "Saint Hieronymus", and "St. Jerome’s Melancholy". The
three-piece opus represents three good measures of the medieval agenda:
meditation, determinism, and education. In the three depicted scenes
architectural space and the human dimension are joined in harmony. At that
time, "Melancholy" represented the artists spiritual portrait after
his mothers death. However, since then works of art that portray empty
buildings have been identified as expressions of melancholy.
It
is interesting to note that the need to defend a plan with a theory is
especially prevalent when the relation between the building and its function is
not clear. This case was best depicted by the Surrealist painter Giorgio de Chirico, in "Mystery and Melancholy of a Street",
1914. The painting of the small girl playing by herself in the empty street, heralded in modern architecture, which placed the
building in the center, while often failing to create a fertile arena for
social interactions.
From
then on, twentieth century architecture is rich with melancholic building
styles, most prominently of the deconstructive French, who endeavored to
deconstruct the basic principles of language in general, and that of
architecture in particular. While presently in decline, it has left behind many
buildings whose meaningless forms are not meant for human interaction.
Summing up
There
is nothing new in the claim that one of architecture’s central tasks is to
organize interaction in space (AI, issue #58). Accordingly, architecture void
of humans does not build interactions and may be perceived a failure, while
conversely, architecture filled with people may be perceived as an accomplishment.
Nonetheless, quantity does not imply quality, and the number of people present
in a given space is not a true measure of its success.
Speaking
of quality,however, there is no need to venture as
far as Dublin (although we couldn’t resist) to understand that what
distinguishes an Irish pub from an English one is not the design, but rather
the reciprocal interactions taking place there between the building and its
inhabitants.
In
human absence a town square is nothing but a paved area, a street without
pedestrians is only a route, and an uninhabited building - melancholy.
