The Ten Most Influential Buildings in History: Architecture’s Archetypes 9781317483250, 1317483251

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the WHQPRVWLQÀXHQWLDObuildings in history ARCHITECTURE’S ARCHETYPES

Even the most inventive and revolutionary architects of today owe debts to the past, often to the distant past when architecture really was being invented for the first time. Architects depend on their own imaginations for personal insights and originality but their ideas may be stimulated (consciously or subliminally) by particularly powerful buildings from history. The Ten Most Influential Buildings in History: Architecture’s Archetypes identifies ten architectural archetypes that have been sources of inspiration for architects through the centuries. Each archetype is analysed through distinctive examples, following the methodology established by the author in his previous books. The variety of ‘lines of enquiry’ each archetype has provoked in latter-day architects is then explored by analysing their work to reveal ideas inspired by those earlier buildings. Archetypes have a timeless relevance. In adopting this approach, The Ten Most Influential Buildings in History is as pertinent to contemporary practice as it is to understanding buildings from antiquity, and offers insights into the bridges of influence that can operate between the two.

Simon Unwin has helped students learn to think as architects for over three decades. He is Emeritus Professor of Architecture at the University of Dundee, Scotland, and teaches at the Welsh School of Architecture in Cardiff University, Wales. He has lived in the UK and Australia, and taught or lectured on his work in China, Israel, India, Sweden, Turkey and the United States as well as at other schools in the UK and Europe. Simon Unwin’s books are used in schools of architecture around the world, and have been translated into Arabic, Farsi, Japanese, Portuguese, Russian, Chinese, Spanish and Korean.

Some reviews of Twenty Buildings Every Architect Should Understand:

‘I read this on a Kindle and found that it was a pleasure to read… Although all the buildings are post 1900, Simon Unwin presents a wide selection of architectural styles and strategies. Some of the buildings are more famous than others. They are not presented chronologically, it seems they have been ordered to introduce the recurring themes in a clear way. Even a few unbuilt (but celebrated) projects are discussed and explained. The chapters are very short and readable. Unwin seems to be particularly well informed about Mies Van Der Rohe, and this book gave me some new insights into the Barcelona Pavilion and Mies’s LQÀXHQFHV8QZLQDOVRVHHPVWRKDYHDSUHRFFXSDWLRQZLWKLGHDOJHRPHWU\DQGFRPSRVLWLRQKHDQDO\VHV many of the buildings in this way acknowledging the varying success along the way. A great book for students of architecture (of all ages and stages). I’ll be looking out for “Twenty More Buildings…” ’ C. Mckenna, Amazon.co.uk website ‘What a wonderful book. I received this book as a gift for Christmas, and I must say it is a delight. The line drawings are clear and interesting, and the way the author moves through each building explaining design choices, such as the setting, form/shape etc. is wonderful. Recommended.’ Mike, Amazon.co.uk website ‘This book is a systematic study of basic architectural styles. It’s well organized and well written… I’d recommend to any architecture student.’ sojourner, Amazon.com website ‘A very interesting read indeed… really opens the mind about thinking of how space can work.’ Strider, Amazon.com website µ7KLVERRNLVUHDOO\DJRRGZRUNDQGHYHQLI\RXDUHDQDUFKLWHFW\RXFDQVXUHO\¿QGVRPHGHWDLOV\RX missed or forgot about these masterpieces. Simple, clear, but not an easy book…’ matteo f., Amazon.com website

Twenty-Five Buildings Every Architect Should Understand, a revised and expanded edition of Twenty Buildings Every Architect Should Understand, was published in 2015.

Some reviews of Analysing Architecture:

‘The most lucid and readable introduction to architecture I have read.’ Professor Roger Stonehouse, Manchester School of Architecture ‘What is striking about the book is the thoughtfulness and consideration which is present in each phrase, each sentence, each plan, each section and each view, all contributing to an overarching quality which makes the book particularly applicable and appropriate to students in their efforts to make sense of the complex and diverse aspects of architecture… Unwin writes with an architect’s sensibility and draws with an accomplished architect’s hand.’ Susan Rice, Rice and Ewald Architects, Architectural Science Review µ6LPSO\WKHEHVW,KDYHMXVWJRQHWKURXJKWKH¿UVWWKUHHFKDSWHUVRIWKLVERRNDQG¿QGP\VHOIFRPSHOOHGWR ZULWHWKLVUHYLHZ,FDQVLPSO\VD\LWLVWKHEHVWDQGD0867WRHYHU\RQHLQWKH¿HOGRIDUFKLWHFWXUH6WXGHQWV WHDFKHUVDQGSUDFWLWLRQHUVDOLNHZLOODOO¿QGLQVSLUDWLRQVIURPWKLVERRN¶ Depsis, Amazon.com website ‘The text has been carefully written to avoid the use of jargon and it introduces architectural ideas in a straightforward fashion. This, I suspect, will give it a well-deserved market beyond that of architects and architectural students.’ Barry Russell, Environments BY DESIGN ‘Probably the best introductory book on architecture.’ Andrew Higgott, Lecturer in Architecture, University of East London, UK ‘Analysing ArchitectureE\6LPRQ8QZLQLVRQHRIWKH¿QHVWLQWURGXFWLRQVLQSULQWWRDUFKLWHFWXUHDQGLWV technique.’ thecoolist.com/architecture-books-10-must-read-books-for-the-amateur-archophile/ (January 2013) ‘Simon Unwin’s Analysing Architecture is required reading – a primary textbook… Beautifully illustrated with drawings from the author’s own notebooks, it also manages to balance legibility with depth: this is a superbly lucid primer on the fundamental principles of architecture. I recommend this book wholeheartedly, for readers both new to architecture, and experienced architects as well. A joy to read, a thing of beauty.’ G.B. Piranesi, Amazon.com website ‘One would have no hesitation in recommending this book to new students: it introduces many ideas and references central to the study of architecture. The case studies are particularly informative. A student would ¿QGWKLVDXVHIXODLGWRLGHQWLI\LQJWKHPDQ\LPSRUWDQWLVVXHVVHULRXVO\HQJDJHGZLWKLQ$UFKLWHFWXUH¶ Lorraine Farrelly, Architectural Design

Books by Simon Unwin Analysing Architecture An Architecture Notebook: Wall Doorway Exercises in Architecture – Learning to Think as an Architect Twenty-Five Buildings Every Architect Should Understand ebooks (available from the iBooks Store) Skara Brae The Entrance Notebook Villa Le Lac The Time Notebook Simon Unwin’s website is at simonunwin.com (some of Simon Unwin’s personal notebooks, used in researching and preparing this and his other books, are available for free download from his website) Twitter

@simonunwin999

www.routledge.com/textbooks/9780415489287/

the WHQPRVWLQÀXHQWLDO buildings in history ARCHITECTURE’S ARCHETYPES

SIMON UNWIN

First published 2017 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2017 Simon Unwin 7KHULJKWRI6LPRQ8QZLQWREHLGHQWL¿HGDVDXWKRURIWKLVZRUNKDVEHHQ asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or UHJLVWHUHGWUDGHPDUNVDQGDUHXVHGRQO\IRULGHQWL¿FDWLRQDQGH[SODQDWLRQ without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data 1DPHV8QZLQ6LPRQDXWKRU7LWOH7KHWHQPRVWLQÀXHQWLDOEXLOGLQJVLQKLVWRU\ architecture’s archetypes / Simon Unwin.Description: New York : Routledge, 2016. | Includes ELEOLRJUDSKLFDOUHIHUHQFHVDQGLQGH[,GHQWL¿HUV/&&1_,6%1 (hardback : alk. paper) | ISBN 9781138898479 (pbk. : alk. paper) | ISBN 9781315708560 HERRN 6XEMHFWV/&6+$UFKLWHFWXUH_%XLOGLQJV&ODVVL¿FDWLRQ/&&1$8_''& 720/.4--dc23LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016015205 ISBN: 978-1-138-89846-2 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-138-89847-9 (pbk) ISBN: 978-1-315-70856-0 (ebk) Designed and typeset in Adobe Garamond Pro and Arial by Simon Unwin Publisher’s note This book has been prepared from camera-ready copy provided by the author.

dedicated to my mother and father

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CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

3

BASIC ELEMENTS OF ARCHITECTURE

7

MEGALITHIC ARCHITECTURE 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

STANDING STONE STONE CIRCLE DOLMEN HYPOSTYLE TEMPLE THEATRE COURTYARD LABYRINTH THE VERNACULAR RUIN

21 24 44 74 96 110 128 160 180 200 222

ENDWORD

238

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS BIBLIOGRAPHY INDEX

239 240 242

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the WHQPRVWLQÀXHQWLDObuildings in history

ARCHITECTURE’S ARCHETYPES

‘The most important assignment of life: to begin each day afresh, DVLILWZHUHWKH¿UVWGD\±DQG\HW to assemble and have at one’s disposal the entire past with all its results and forgotten lessons.’ *HRUJH6LPPHO±Posthumous Fragments and Essays (1923)

INTRODUCTION

Those familiar with my previous books – especially Analysing Architecture and Twenty-Five Buildings Every Architect Should Understand – will be aware that in analysing buildings by various twentieth- and twenty-first-century architects I have often found it revealing to draw out the influence on them of particular works of architecture from hundreds and even thousands of years ago. Mies van der Rohe, for example, was influenced by the Greek temple when designing the Farnsworth House (1950). And when Le Corbusier was designing the Villa Savoye (1929) he remembered ideas from the Parthenon as well as from the Roman town houses he had visited in Pompeii some years earlier on the return leg of his Journey to the East in 1911. In this book I look at the influence of ancient architecture on modern architects from the opposite direction. Each of its chapters focuses on a particular archetype and traces ways it has influenced the work of latter day architects. The temple, for instance, has influenced many more architects than Mies van der Rohe (including Le Corbusier). And the archetype ‘courtyard’, embodied in the Roman town house as well as much earlier buildings, continues to be used as an organising principle by architects in the twenty-first century. The basic plots of architecture The present book identifies ten powerful archetypes whose influence stretches through architecture’s history. Archetypes, in this context, may be considered as similar to Platonic essences. They are consistent (timeless) ideas (though not necessarily ideals) that may present in a promiscuity of different appearances. For example, the courtyard (as its simple single-word name implies) is an architectural idea that everyone recognises and understands. But, given a little thought and remembering the many courtyards we might have experienced, we would realise that ‘courtyard’, though a single archetype, is one that has multifarious presentations.

A comparison might be made between the present book and Christopher Booker’s The Seven Basic Plots: Why We Tell Stories. In his book (published by Continuum in 2004) Booker argues that all the stories in literature, through history and around the world, can be rendered down to seven basic plots (e.g. ‘Overcoming the Monster’, ‘Rags to Riches’, ‘Voyage and Return’…). If a plot constitutes the architecture (intellectual structure) of a story then the present book illustrates the most influential basic plots of architecture and examines how they have been retold, over and over, by storyteller architects, not in words but with the elements of architecture. It is not necessarily the case that the influence of past archetypes on the present is direct and acknowledged. It may be, as Booker remarks in regard to authors and stories, that architects in different circumstances (times and places) might come up with similar architectural forms independent of each other. Nevertheless, maybe because of the way in which an archetype addresses a common human need or aesthetic sensibility, it retains its claim to be an archetype even if it appears to have been invented a number of times in different places. Links of influence between more recent work and ancient archetypes can also remain unacknowledged because of a tendency amongst some architects to believe and suggest that their designs are always invented ab ovo. But often the egg from which their design developed can be found to have been laid many years, centuries, even millennia ago. Booker observes that stories are ubiquitous in our lives; they constitute narratives by which we make sense of the world in which we find ourselves and the ways in which it appears to operate. The products of architecture are equally if not more ubiquitous. They too, as I have argued elsewhere, weave the spatial narratives (expressed in non-verbal ways) by which we make sense of our world, responding to conditions and launching propositions for living. Architects are the philosopher-storytellers; and the basic plots they use are, as Booker argues is the case in verbal storytelling, remarkably few. 3

Chapters and analytical approach Each of the following chapters identifies and explores the influence of a particular archetype. Each archetype is first identified using ancient examples and maybe some of the precursors that contributed to its resolved or generic form. The archetypes are then analysed, using the broad and inclusive methodology outlined in Analysing Architecture (fourth edition, 2014), to draw out their key characteristics, elements, compositional ideas and strategies… Each of the identified archetypes provides later architects with a powerful model for emulation or strategy to be exploited in tackling the challenges of a brief (program). Having analysed each archetype and its genesis, I trace how later architects have interpreted and developed its characteristics and embodied its ideas and strategies in their own work. In each case these explorations could fill their own book. I have selected examples that I see as pertinent, and tried to come right up to date, in full awareness that many more could have been included to illustrate a finer grain of variation and possibility than has been possible in this book. The analyses explore the culture and operation of reference, influence and precedent in architecture across the ages. The approach is comparable to the ways other creative disciplines – such as literature, music and law – recognise the multivalent roles these factors play in creative movements and individual achievements through time. All creative people draw ideas consciously, and sometimes subconsciously, from what has been done by previous practitioners. The past informs and inspires the present’s vision of the future. In adopting this approach the present book is intended to be as pertinent to contemporary practice as it is to understanding buildings from antiquity, and to offer insights into the bridges of influence that can operate between the two. In addition to this Introduction there are two other introductory chapters. The first offers a reminder of the Basic Elements of Architecture – as an expansion of their description in the early pages of Analysing Architecture (2014, pages 35–46). These are the elements that inform all archetypes. The second provides a short introduction to the first three archetypes, all of which fall into the category Megalithic Architecture. Architects and archetypes There is a complex relationship between architects and archetypes. It is this relationship that the present book explores. 4

Architects do not necessarily choose, and certainly cannot invent, archetypes consciously; archetypes are part of the common firmament of architecture. But that is not to say that architects are unthinking cogs in some bigger machine. Writing one hundred years ago, the art critic Geoffrey Scott, in The Architecture of Humanism (1914), complained about the tendency of architectural historians to present individual architects as pawns in the grand plays of historical movements and trends, which were themselves presented (with historian’s hindsight) as evolutionary; i.e. operating less according to human will and more according to historical trend and some overarching progressive system. He called this tendency ‘The Biological Fallacy’. By exploring the influences latter-day architects have drawn from ancient precedents I am not contradicting Scott. The relationship between a conscious creative mind and what has gone before is a great deal more complex than constituting a mindless evolutionary process. We are not talking here about a natural process of evolution but a process by which creative minds, facing challenges and needful of ideas, are inspired by and learn from what they see in the work of others. Sometimes something that itself can be identified as an archetype emerges from this process. This then becomes available either as an authority influencing what subsequent architects do in particular circumstances, or provokes a fascination that leads architects to reinterpret, develop and maybe even contradict the fundamental ideas they encounter. Each archetype is like the trunk of a tree, with its own roots and branches. The branches are the later developments of ideas drawn from the archetype. The roots are precedents and prototypes, the partially developed or unrefined precursors of the archetype. Underpinning the archetypes and their precursors there is that fundamental gamut of formal compositional elements – the basic elements of architecture. These basic elements have their platonic forms too, which is the way they were illustrated in Analysing Architecture. But they may also be illustrated by representative primeval examples playing their part in the development of archetypes. The introductory chapter just mentioned provides a reminder of these with more precise examples than in the previous book and with expanded description. By drawing archetypes out of a range of diverse examples from different periods of history and different cultures in different parts of the world, those archetypes then become available for conscious consideration and open to inventive modification. I look at buildings of the past not as a historian seeking truth about history but as an architect and design

INTRODUCTION

teacher looking for ideas that might inform and inspire architectural creativity. This book is about the architecture of archetypes, and the influence of archetypes on architecture in what has been called the ‘eternal present’. Archetypes stand and exist in our imaginations as components in our repertoire of design, as inspiration and supporting forms for whatever we might do as architects. They are also open to challenge. This book aims to help student architects by exploring the origins of architecture not through the bifocals of historiography – which tend to make things seem remote and are at the same time reductive, consigning examples to classifications and labels that generalise and simplify general complexity – but as if those origins are always with us, as if we were engaged in them ourselves. Historical accuracy is of course essential in writing history; historians, though often thwarted in their efforts and distorted by their own partialities, seek truth about and complete accounts of what happened in the past. They say that the past is a foreign country where things are done differently. But the past is with us today and part of our world and those of us who take on the responsibility of designing parts of the future – architects – seek inspiration, ideas for ways of doing things… rather than to lend the past a restrictive authority over the present. Those who do not learn lessons from the mistakes of history may be doomed to repeat them. But if history assumes authority, it can limit as well as inspire what we do in the present. Architecture is so ubiquitous, so omnipresent in framing our lives, that we tend to treat it as part of what we call nature, as if it were provided without conscious input of a mind… when obviously it was not. In everyday life we tend to deal with works of architecture subliminally, not thinking about what they are doing for us and to us, nor about the thought processes and decisions that went into their design. Whether we are studying biology or history, literature or music, so many of the ways in which these things are discussed present them as things to be received, consumed, experienced… i.e. as separate from our own agency, creativity, decision-making imagination and open only to our perception. To appreciate works of architecture from a conceptual point of view (and see how we might appropriate their powers to use ourselves to affect others) we have to awaken a sense of what might be called existential awe – an impressed awareness of the achievement of what we do, the ingenuity and effort involved and the powers exerted. We need to become amazed at what we contribute to our world, how ideas born in our heads resonate and amend the physical world around us. This need is particularly acute in considering megalithic monuments

built so long ago when we were just discovering some of the powers that architecture brings into the world. To appreciate the concepts that emerge in the following analyses of some of the archetypal buildings of human history you will need to awaken from within yourself that existential awe. Briefly, this means to allow yourself to be aware of the wonder of things; as William Blake suggested, ‘to see a world in a grain of sand and infinity in an hour’. There are many powerful things that, because they are everyday and all around us, we take for granted as if they are part of nature (and nature itself is powerful enough). Works of architecture – the built environment and the places we human beings have made for our activities – fall into this category. Yet every one of the archetypes illustrated in this book emerged from a human mind. Every one has a powerful effect on how we relate to the world. Every one of them affects and conditions the sense we make of the world around us. Architecture is the mother of all the arts. All arts have their architecture and their archetypes. The architecture of a meal, for example, consists of the recipes followed for the dishes and the structure of courses by which the dishes are served and eaten. As an event in human social behaviour ‘the meal’ is an archetype. The place where a meal happens is a version of an archetype too. The table – a place around which people sit and eat – identifies the place of and frames the event of the meal. (See the chapter on the archetype Courtyard.) Together with its older siblings, this book offers a way of understanding architecture that is close to everyone’s experience of its products. In drawing out the immediacy of architecture to our lives, the following accounts of ten architectural archetypes reveal fundamental powers and possibilities that might be overlooked when architecture is thought of as being primarily a matter of appearance. This book is about architecture’s ancient underpinnings and their foundation in our attempts to take control of and make sense of the world in which we find ourselves. It is also about how ideas with ancient lineage still underpin architecture produced now. The book brings the past (in some cases the very ancient past) into the present to find ideas that have influenced architects through history and explore how those archetypal ideas remain relevant now. NOTE on the locations of examples cited Throughout the following pages I have tried to provide grid references for all the works of architecture mentioned. These PD\EHLQSXWLQWRWKHµVHDUFK¶¿HOGRI*RRJOH(DUWKZKLFKZLOO take you to the work mentioned.

5

Stonehenge, Salisbury Plain, England

BASIC ELEMENTS OF ARCHITECTURE a reminder

‘So that the house does not become a prison to man, it needs openings into the world, which link the interior of the house in an appropriate way with the outside world. They open the house to dealings with the world. 7KLVWDVNLVIXO¿OOHGLQWKHKRXVHE\WKHGRRU and the window. Both are connecting parts that place the world of inside to the world of outside.’ 2)%ROOQRZWUDQVODWHGE\6KXWWOHZRUWK±Human Space (1963), Hyphen Press, London, 2011, p. 147

All architecture, whenever built and however sophisticated, is composed of basic elements – wall, doorway, focus, roof, defined area of ground, etc. (see Analysing Architecture, fourth edition, 2014, pages 35–46). These basic elements are ideas that can be realised (built) in many (perhaps infinite) different forms; just think of the huge variety of doorways – from a drawbridge across a castle moat, to the propylaea of the sacred precincts of ancient Greek temples, to the simple rectangular opening of an ordinary house. The basic elements of architecture are instruments for organising space – parts of the spatial language we use to make sense of our world and amend it to our needs and desires. As a reminder, and as a foundation for the archetype analyses that make up the bulk of this book, the following pages illustrate some primeval examples of each. I have tried to illustrate the purest, the most primitive examples I can think of or find for each of the basic elements. It would be good for you to think of your own too. Mine are all examples that you (perhaps with the help of some strong collaborators) could make for yourself, as if you were a person living many thousands of years ago before the sophistications and technological paraphernalia of contemporary life. This is not intended as a romantic indulgence, a wistful reflection on how things were simpler, nobler, more truthful in those long gone times. It is more to make the point that basic elements and the places they help make are both ancient and eternally contemporary; though old, they remain and will always be available as powerful ideas for organising space. To the list of basic elements illustrated in Analysing Architecture, I have added one – realising it is the most important element of all – the person. As I have said elsewhere (in a number of places), the person is the essential participant/ ingredient/subject – as well as architect – of architecture, and its crucial basic element. Everyone is involved and affected; we are all architects of the world in which we live. Through architecture we make sense of our world just as powerfully as we do with verbal language, if not more so. Architecture’s products may act on our lives subliminally and generally without acknowledgement but they set the spatial frame for just about everything we do. 7

Setting 7KH¿UVWDQGIRUDOOWHUUHVWULDODUFKLWHFWXUH SUHUHTXLVLWHHOHPHQW of architecture is the setting, the local topography, the lie of the land. When traversed, experienced, inhabited… by a person (or other creature for that matter), topography becomes replete with possibilities. It offers (presents to the mind): places to settle; SODFHVWRSRVLWLRQWKLQJVSODFHV±SDWKZD\V±WRPRYHDORQJ DQGVRRQ8VXDOO\WKHVHDUHWKH¿UVWGHFLVLRQVRIDUFKLWHFWXUH where shall we establish a place; why shall we establish it here rather than there; how do prevailing conditions and the lie of the land affect our choice? All architecture derives from this placerecognising interaction between the conscious, sense-informed, VHHNLQJPLQGDQGWKHVHWWLQJLQZKLFKLW¿QGVLWVHOI

The world offers a variety of types of place to which we can relate. In some parts there is wide open prairie which gives us little to latch on to; in other regions there are multiple possibilities. The cave, for example, is the precursor of all rooms. When we choose it as a place (to hide, to live, for storage…) it becomes a work of architecture. But there are other, more subtle types of place to recognise in the landscape. 8

A crag protruding from a beach offers a variety of places. There is the highest point: which you can attain by effort; from which you have the best panoramic view; where you are on display to a wide area; and where, perhaps, you feel closer to ‘the gods’ of WKHVN\7KLVLVZKHUH\RXPLJKWSODQWDÀDJEXLOGDIRUWUHVVRU establish an altar. But there are places around the base of the rock too: sunny places and shady; sheltered places and breezy; crevices in which you might hide. Here you might rest leaning your back against the sloping rock, gazing out to sea.

The land around us is replete with possible places. Choosing WKLVGHOODVDQDWXUDOURRP±PD\EHWROLJKWDFDPS¿UHDQGFRRN DPHDO±LVDSULPDODUFKLWHFWXUDOGHFLVLRQ As we shall see in the following analyses, setting contributes much to architecture, and in many different ways. Architecture involves recognising and taking advantage of the opportunities setting offers.

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Marker We identify a (our) place merely by occupying it. Sometimes we leave behind a trace of our occupation, such as footprints or the impression of our backside after sitting on the side of a sand dune. These traces remain as reminders that we were there. All architecture, which is fundamentally about identifying place, begins with occupation. Its effects frame our presence and its traces frame our absence. We cannot identify a place permanently by occupying it. (The exception is a grave.) We have to move around to live. So if we want to claim a place as ours we have to mark it in some way ±ZLWKDODUJHVWRQHVWDQGLQJXSULJKW«RUSHUKDSVZLWKDWRZHO like a tourist claiming a sun lounger.

Since earliest times we have marked places to establish some sort of relationship with them, to show that we have been there or to identify (claim) them as ours. A menhir (standing stone) stands in the place of those of us who were responsible for erecting it. In ancient times lone menhirs stood as marks of possession, of identity, and maybe also as signposts marking routes across landscapes that would otherwise be without sense, i.e. in which we might get lost.

Australian Aborigine hand stencils on a rock face seem to reach out of the mists of time to press against the surface between past and present. We interpret them as poetic; their purpose was WRUHFRUGWKHLURZQHUV¶SUHVHQFHDWDVLJQL¿FDQWVSLULWXDOVLWHMXVW as Roman Catholic worshippers leave lit candles in church. All markers are architectural in so much as their purpose is to identify place, to attach person to place. Footprints and hand prints are at the most rudimentary extreme of our architectural interventions into the world.

More orthodox architecture (i.e. buildings) uses markers too. Many buildings are markers in themselves. The steeple of a church marks the place of the altar inside; the minaret of a PRVTXHLGHQWL¿HVLWVORFDWLRQPDNLQJLWYLVLEOHDFURVVDZLGH area. A lighthouse marks a place of danger or of arrival; a FKLPQH\WKHSODFHRID¿UHZKHWKHUWKHKHDUWKRIDKRPHRUD factory furnace. Skyscrapers mark the place of the corporations or institutions that own them. The mast of a ship makes its SRVLWLRQYLVLEOHIURPIDURII$QDWLRQDOÀDJLGHQWL¿HVDZKROH country. The marker is a basic element of architecture. A marker projects (injects, establishes, plants…) the identity of its creator into the world. Markers also tell us where things are, and where we are in relation to them. They help us make sense of the world around. 9

Defined area of ground µ$VSDFH«ZDVFOHDUHGRIJUDVVDQGGHEULVWRIRUPDGH¿QLWH ceremonial ground.’ In this quotation, the anthropologists Spencer and Gillen, writing at the beginning of the twentieth century, describe Australian Aborigine preparations for a ritual. The process involves no building, just the clearing away of clutter to make a smooth ground for the performance. You can imagine the ring of DEMHFWHGGHEULVGH¿QLQJLWVERXQGV6XFKJURXQGFOHDULQJKDV surely taken place (literally) through history. 'H¿QLQJDQDUHDRIJURXQGGLVWLQJXLVKHVLWIURPHYHU\ZKHUH else making it a special place where unusual (unnatural) things FDQKDSSHQ$GH¿QHGDUHDJLYHVSHUPLVVLRQIRUSHUIRUPDQFH ritual, ceremony… Many sports and games, from marbles to SRORWHQQLVWRIRRWEDOO«WDNHSODFHRQDSLWFKFRXUWJURXQG± DQDUHDGH¿QHGE\OLQHVWKDWFRQVWLWXWHVSDWLDOUXOHVZLWKLQZKLFK the game is played.

A magic circle (below) is an area where normality is suspended, ZKHUHVSHOOVFDQEHFRQMXUHG$OOGH¿QHGDUHDVRIJURXQGPLJKW be said to possess a sort of magic. Sometimes that magic is a ZRUNRIDUFKLWHFWXUH±DVSHFLDOUHDOPRUGHUHGDFFRUGLQJWRWKH mind of an architect (witch or wizard).

:KHUHDVDPDUNHUSUHYLRXVSDJH LGHQWL¿HVDSODFHE\ RFFXS\LQJLWDGH¿QHGDUHDLGHQWL¿HVRQHWKDWPD\LWVHOI be occupied. In occupying a place, a marker (like a cuckoo) prevents us from occupying that precise place ourselves; we can only occupy the place around (implied by) the marker. By FRQWUDVWDGH¿QHGDUHDRIJURXQGaccommodates; it frames UDWKHUWKDQXVXUSVRXUSODFH'H¿QLQJDQDUHDRIJURXQGLVWKH ¿UVWVWHSLQPDNLQJDKRPH

At its most rudimentary level, marking out an area of ground is a SV\FKRORJLFDODVZHOODVSK\VLFDODFWLRQ7KHOLQHWKDWGH¿QHVWKH edge (border, threshold) mediates between you (inside) and the world around (everywhere else). Even though on its own it is no real barrier to intrusion, the line is a reinforcement of presence and an assertion of possession. You would hesitate to enter someone else’s circle; and do so only when invited. One of the strongest powers in architecture is that of a threshold. While a GH¿QHGDUHDIUDPHVLWVSHUVRQ±RULWVSHUVRQ¶VWHUULWRU\±LWDOVR excludes others. In the case of a ritual place the line separates the performance area from audience (looking in).

The Magic Circle by J.W. Waterhouse, 1886 (detail)

In the case of a house a threshold separates family from strangers; in the case of a country, nationals from immigrants. Architecture sets down spatial rules not only for games but for social and political relationships too. 2QFH\RXVWDUWORRNLQJIRUGH¿QHGDUHDVRIJURXQG\RXZLOOVHH WKHPHYHU\ZKHUH±SDWKZD\VODZQVJDUGHQVSDUNLQJVSDFHV building plots… They are the primary way in which we organise the world spatially, and at all scales. Some you own if only temporarily; most belong to others; some are shared. Sometimes YDJXHDURXQGWKHHGJHVVRPHWLPHVFRQWHVWHGDGH¿QHGDUHD of ground is a fundamental architectural act. 10

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Platform (YHQLQWKHXQWRXFKHGODQGVFDSHSHRSOHFDQ¿QGDGYDQWDJHLQ occupying high ground. It offers a better view of the surroundings and seems, by its physical elevation, to lend its occupant a VXSHULRUVWDWXV+LJKJURXQGDOORZVLWVRFFXSDQW±ZKHWKHU SHUVRQRUDUFKLWHFWXUH±WREHVHHQEHWWHUWRR

6RPHHYHQEXLOWRSHQZRUNSODWIRUPVRYHUVORZVPRN\¿UHVWR SURYLGHUHOLHIIURPÀ\LQJLQVHFWV It might be said that a platform always creates a place with a special atmosphere; not necessarily a smoky one but a transcendent place, aloof, detached from the ground and WKHRUGLQDU\HYHU\GD\ZRUOG-XVWDVDGH¿QHGDUHDRIJURXQG establishes a magic realm where normality can be suspended, so too does a platform, only more so. In ancient Greece, the Delphic Sibyl stood on a natural rock platform (38.482016º, 22.501429º) to deliver her enigmatic prophecies to those eager to know the future. The rock was probably used for centuries before other sanctuaries and WHPSOHVZHUHEXLOWDURXQGLW7KHURFNSODWIRUPGH¿QHVLWVRZQ areas of ground: not only the elevated area where the Sibyl stood; but also, by implication, the area of even ground below where the crowd stood to watch and listen. The interaction between the Sibyl and the crowd was facilitated by the platform. Its choice and adoption as a place makes it a work of architecture with no other intervention. Since our earliest history we have built platforms for various purposes. Anthropologists Spencer and Gillen observed Aboriginal tribes in Australia building platforms out of male relatives as ‘operating tables’ for the circumcision of youths.

They also built platforms from branches, as altars to hold their churinga (sacred objects) during ceremonies.

Many ancient societies adopted high places as sacred sites. Some built high places for themselves. At Teotihuacán in Mexico (19.698526º, -98.845066º) around two thousand years ago, a Mesoamerican culture built large platforms to raise their temples high above the surrounding terrain. These platforms created plateaus of privilege for the ruling and religious classes. They also established places where unusual, we might think barbaric, WKLQJVFRXOGKDSSHQ±SODFHVIRUKXPDQVDFUL¿FH As a basic element of architecture, the platform has many SRZHUVGHULYHGIURPHVWDEOLVKLQJDGH¿QHGDUHDRIJURXQGOLIWHG above the surrounding terrain. A platform creates a place of superiority, of prospect, of display, of distinction… A platform separates a place from everywhere else not just by a boundary line (a threshold) but by levelling and lifting a ground to a higher stratum in space, above the ordinary, aloof from the lowly, closer WRWKHJRGVLQWRWKHUDUH¿HGDWPRVSKHUHRIKLJKVWDWXV 11

Pit Pit is the inverse of platform. A pit is a place of low status; a place of abjection. Pits are used as traps, as prisons, as FRQWDLQHUVIRUVXEVWDQFHVZDWHUUXEELVKHIÀXHQW« WKDW we do not want to spread freely across the land. Where a platform lifts into prominence, a pit contains, hides. Filled in, pits accommodate buried things: treasure, corpses… Pits have mystery, a supernatural strangeness. Many Scottish castles have dungeons into which enemies were thrown to rot. Gravity is an accessory of the pit. Fourth, if you dig a pit in the sand of the beach, the inattentive will fall into it; pits can be traps.

Why do we dig pits? First, to discover what might lie beneath the surface. We use the metaphor ‘digging’ for research. $UFKDHRORJLVWVGLJSLWVWRGLVFRYHUWKHSDVW:HGLJWR¿QGURRWV and grubs for food. A pit reaches into mystery, the unknown. Second, we bury things in pits: our Dad in the sand; our dead in graves; maybe something valuable that we want to keep secret; maybe rubbish that we want to forget. We use the metaphor ‘burying’ for hiding bad news.

,QWKH¿OPSonatine (1992, directed by Takeshi Kitano) a gang dig a pit in the beach on Okinawa to trap their ‘friends’. But not all the connotations of pits are negative. Pits can be places of refuge. In a lecture in Dundee (January, 2008), the architect and writer Juhani Pallasmaa recalled once digging a snow pit in Lapland.

6KHOWHULQJIURPWKHVWRUPDURXQGD¿UHZLWKIULHQGVKH remembered thinking ‘We are home’; and later feeling regret DVHQVHRIORVV ZKHQWKHSLWZDV¿OOHGLQ Pits can be places for contemplation and concentration, away from the world. The Anasazi tribes of south-western North $PHULFDGXJSLWVLQWRWKHURFNWRXVHDVWKLQNWDQNV±NLYDV± places for undistracted discussion.

Some Australian tribes bury their dead sitting upright facing their camping grounds. A shallow pit alongside the grave acts as a symbolic doorway by which the soul can revisit its body. Third, we can contain (or try to contain) things in pits. On the beach we try to contain water in pits in the sand, but it seeps away. Cockpits were where cockerels fought to the death. Snake pits keep venomous serpents in one place. A cesspit is dug to FRQWDLQHIÀXHQWDungeons are dug into the ground to imprison enemies. Sandpits are for children. 12

hearth

We tend to think of architectural ground as a level pavement. But the platform and pit offer possibilities for identifying places by changes in level, upwards and down.

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Focus 7KHJURXSRISHRSOHVWDQGLQJDURXQGDGH¿QHGDUHDRIJURXQG (page 10) was drawn from a photograph taken on a beach. The GUDZLQJVHHPVVWUDQJHEHFDXVHWKHGH¿QHGDUHDLVHPSW\ the crowd is watching nothing. But there was something there; something that made people keep their distance.

A swarm of bees had been attracted to the perfume on a woman’s cardigan draped over the back of a beach chair. This swarm was the subject of the crowd’s attention and concern. It is a clear and rudimentary example of the basic architectural HOHPHQWIRFXV±VRPHWKLQJWRZDUGVZKLFKDWWHQWLRQLVGUDZQ

A focus can itself be a place. The same natural room (below) would be transformed in a different way if we built an altar, a ORFXVRIFHUHPRQ\RUVDFUL¿FH$FDQGOHRQWKHaltar (generating a sphere of light) would be the focus of a focus, and we would be drawn to it like moths. The introduction of a focus changes the world. There are subtle differences between marker and focus but they are not mutually exclusive concepts. Sometimes a marker in the landscape is also a focus; whereas a hearth, a performer or

The word ‘focus’ is derived from the Latin for hearth. Both Pallasmaa’s pit and the kiva (opposite) have such a focus. Often DKHDUWKLVDQDUFKLWHFWXUDOIRFXV,PDJLQHPDNLQJD¿UHSODFH in the middle of the dell on page 8 (above). The natural room FKDQJHVIXQGDPHQWDOO\LWQRZKDVDIRFXV±DFHQWUHWKDWGUDZV attention, and around which we might sit and talk. An architectural focus may be something other than a hearth. It might be a person. A person performing in the same space (above right) would also give it a focus. A statue or sculpture would do the same. A focus draws attention to itself, generating or occupying a circle of presence (generating or UHVRQDWLQJZLWKDGH¿QHGDUHDRIJURXQG $IRFXVHQJDJHVXV dominating (diminishing) our awareness of the generality of a place.

an altar, whilst they certainly identify places, cannot quite be considered to be markers. Even so, beacons and smoke signals IURPD¿UHDUHPDUNHUV$IRFXVKDVPRUHSRWHQWLDOWRDOWHUWKH character, the atmosphere of a place and be seen as symbolic. A marker is normally more pragmatic (prosaic). The semantic differences between the two terms, however, are less important WKDQDZDUHQHVVRIWKHSRZHUVWKH\RIIHU$PDUNHULGHQWL¿HVWKH place of some thing (a steeple identifying the place of an altar, a chimney of a hearth, a headstone of a grave…); and it might indicate a direction or route. A focus is, in itself, more vital; it asserts its own central importance, establishing a place where VRPHWKLQJPLJKWKDSSHQD¿UHDQDFWDFHUHPRQ\« LWGUDZV a place about itself where people may watch, worship, witness… or just warm themselves. 13

Wall When building a ZDOORXU¿UVWWKRXJKWPLJKWEHZKDWPDWHULDOV WRXVH±WLPEHUVWRQHEULFN«%XWFRQVWUXFWLRQLVDFWXDOO\D secondary consideration. More fundamental are the questions: ‘why do I want a wall?’; ‘why here?’; and ‘what do I want this wall to do?’ There are many things a wall can do. When designing a building we might think its walls’ primary role is structural, to VXSSRUWLWVURRI%XWWKLVWRRWKRXJKLPSRUWDQWLVQRWWKH¿UVW reason for building walls. (Only some of the places we wall have roofs.) Walls are primarily for organising space. A wall (like all the basic elements of architecture) is an instrument for identifying place. A wall can screen and shelter, enclose and contain; it can identify a place by separating it from everywhere HOVHLWFDQGH¿QHDQGHQIRUFHWKHERXQGDU\EHWZHHQVSDFH that is ‘mine’ and space that is ‘yours’. Walls divide inside from outside, warm from cold, dark from light. Walls offer a surface for display. All the basic elements of architecture have their powers but wall is one of the most powerful. Whoever it was that invented the wall (a very long time ago) must have felt a sense of achievement. But, since each changes the world in its own way, every wall is an invention. 7KHZDOO±ZKHWKHURIEUXVKZRRGORRVHVWRQHHDUWK«± ZDVSUREDEO\¿UVWLQYHQWHGWRVXSSOHPHQWQDWXUDOGHIHQFHV :DOOVH[LVWLQQDWXUH±DFDYHKDVZDOOVWKHFOLIIVDURXQGD rocky headland are walls. As refuges from assault (by inclement weather or enemies) their walls surround and protect. But each has its weakness: the cave has a mouth open to the storm; and the headland’s land-link (which makes it more convenient for inhabitation than a completely detached island) allows access for marauders. A wall built across the cave’s mouth or the headland’s land-link completes the protection offered by the natural walls.

HOVHGH¿QLQJWKHERXQGDU\RID]RQHRIVDIHW\RIKRPHWHUULWRU\ for its occupants. For their enemies the wall was an instrument RIH[FOXVLRQVFUHHQLQJZKDWZDVRQWKHRWKHUVLGH±PDNLQJLW mysterious, a subject of envy, a challenge… (There are similar promontory forts on rocky coasts all around Britain and in other parts of the world.)

7KHLQWHULRURIDFDYHFDQEHSURWHFWHGDQGGH¿QHG±ZDOOHG± too. There are cave dwellings around the world. The Loire valley in France has been occupied by human beings for thousands of years. The troglodyte houses found there no doubt originate in similar dwellings made by predecessors building walls across the mouths of caves thousands of years ago.

Walls are instruments of psychological protection as much as physical. Beach-goers erect windbreaks, even on calm days, for privacy. Here someone has established a home amongst the URFNVZLWKWKHLUZDOO7KLVZDOOQRWRQO\GH¿QHVWHUULWRU\EXWDLGV relaxation by screening its occupant from others.

At St David’s Head (South Wales) a village of seven Iron Age round houses (just visible in the drawing) was protected from casual intrusion or attack by a wall and ditch supplementing the protection offered by the cliffs jutting into the sea. The wall (now ruined) separated the place of the village from everywhere 14

7RRSHUDWHDVVSDFHGLYLGHUV±SODFHLGHQWL¿HUV±ZDOOVXVXDOO\ work with natural barriers or link together to make enclosures. See also: 6LPRQ8QZLQ±An Architecture Notebook: Wall, Routledge, London, 2000.

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Openings – doorways and windows Of course you would not have been able to get into that troglodyte house in the Loire (opposite) without a doorway. It would have been rather dark inside, and you would not have been able to see out, without a window. Both are necessary FKLOGUHQRIWKHZDOO$QRSHQLQJLVDQRWKLQJ±DJDSLQWKHIDEULF RIDZDOO±EXWLWLVQHYHUWKHOHVVDSRZHUIXODUFKLWHFWXUDOHOHPHQW not just for how it might look but because of what it can do to our experience of space and place. The doorway can be said to be the antidote to (antithesis of) WKHZDOO:KHUHZDOOLVQHJDWLYH±LWSUHYHQWVIRUELGV DFFHVVRU HVFDSH±GRRUZD\LVSRVLWLYH±LWDOORZVSHUPLWV DFFHVVIURP one space (place), through the wall, into another. 7KHGRRUZD\KDVORWVRISURVDLFXVHV±OLNHOHWWLQJ\RXLQWRRU out of a room. But a doorway has other powers too: it punctuates our experience of space; it establishes a threshold that can be a challenge and affect us emotionally… A doorway also establishes an axis that may link us with the remote or a focus.

A doorway frames entrances and exits; it can also frame a scene as a picture, acting as a mediator between us and elsewhere. A window can frame a scene too. A window is a place of transaction. Light enters an interior while insiders can see out.

Because they reintroduce the weakness the wall addressed, GRRUZD\VDQGZLQGRZVDUHXVXDOO\¿WWHGZLWKWHPSRUDU\ PRYHDEOHPD\EHWUDQVSDUHQWFORVXUHV±GRRUVKXWWHUZLQGRZ casement… By its dynamic character a door (particularly) can be used as a device for personal expression: as when closed, or left ajar, or wide open; or slammed in anger. Doorway and window possess many subtle architectural powers. See also: 6LPRQ8QZLQ±Doorway, Routledge, Abingdon, 2007. 15

Columns A lone column may be a marker or a focus, but in lines and groups columns have more powers. They can, for example, mark WKHERXQGDU\RIDGH¿QHGDUHDRIJURXQGLQDZD\WKDWLVPRUH permanent and visible from a distance than a mere line drawn on the ground, and less excluding than a solid wall. $OLQHRIFROXPQV±VWDQGLQJVWRQHVIRUH[DPSOH±LVPRUH like a veil than a wall; we can see (inwards and outwards) and pass through it. A ring of standing stones, like that at Brodgar on 2UNQH\0DLQODQGDERYHžž LGHQWL¿HVD SODFH±DFLUFOHRIJURXQGIRUZKDWHYHUSXUSRVHSUREDEO\VRPH FHUHPRQ\RUVHDVRQDOFHOHEUDWLRQ ±DQGHVWDEOLVKHVDFHQWUH without separating it from everywhere else (as a solid wall would do). At the same time the stones make the place more visible from afar than would be possible with a mere line on the ground. Columns in gangs do different things from columns that VWDQGDORQH7KHVWRQHV±FROXPQV±FDQDOVREHLQWHUSUHWHG as permanent, vicarious, representatives of the people who established the place by raising the stones to the same verticality as their own. The ring of stones becomes a permanent manifestation of the ring of people that might surround a SHUIRUPDQFHDFHUHPRQ\D¿JKW« Columns can be people. They can be metaphorical trees too; and as groups become forests (like Woodhenge in England, ULJKWžž ±SODFHVZLWKIRUPEXWDOVRRI wandering and mystery.

16

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Roof Of course one of the powers of columns, which works alongside WKHLUSRZHUVWRGH¿QHVSDFHLVWRDFWVWUXFWXUDOO\±WRKROGXS a URRIIRUH[DPSOH$QGWKH¿UVWSRZHURIDURRILVWRVKHOWHURU shade: to shelter a place from the rain or shade it from the sun.

This Welsh hay barn (51.488452º, -3.275563º) has columns like ancient standing stones. Its roof is intended to shelter hay from rain whilst also allowing ventilation.

A roof can also lend status to what it shelters or shades. Since ancient times prominent people have chosen to have their apparent status enhanced by a canopy which nominally might shade them from the sun (in the hot climate of Egypt, Turkey or India for example) but also frames them, drawing attention to their (self-) importance.

But a roof can do other things too. A roof can be a marker, or even, in the case of the prominent roof of a church for example, the focus of a community. This is the cathedral at the centre of the city of Chartres in France (48.447803°, 1.487837°).

A roof can also be a platform, a stage for a ceremony or performance.

In 7RSNDSÕ3DODFH,VWDQEXOWKH6XOWDQKDGDVPDOOFDQRS\ supported by columns erected over a platform on the edge of a terrace (41.014006°, 28.984263°) overlooking the city, the Golden Horn and the Bosphorus. This was where he ate breakfast. The gilded roof provided the Sultan with shade; JOLQWLQJLQWKHVXQLWLGHQWL¿HGKLVSODFH7KLVDHGLFXOHSURYLGHG him with a refuge with a wide prospect over the city (empire) he ruled. It framed his presence before his subjects. Now it frames the ghost of his presence… and tourists, photographed admiring the view. 17

Path (and bridge) We move. By the means of architecture we identify not only static places (i.e. places where we and other things are still) but dynamic places too. A path is a line we walk (or drive, or ride…). Just by walking we establish a path, even if ephemerally. But by the means of architecture we make paths permanent. An ephemeral path might be no more than a line of footprints LQWKHVDQGRUWKHFUXVKHGJUDVVRID¿HOG0DQ\IHHWWUDFLQJ WKHVDPHOLQH±WKHLUURXWHLQÀXHQFHGE\H[LVWLQJIHDWXUHV EDQNVWUHHVVWUHDPV« ±PLJKWHVWDEOLVKDSDWKIRUFHQWXULHV maintained only by wear. But we also establish paths by building ±E\OD\LQJVWRQHJUDYHOWLPEHUZDONZD\V«±FUHDWLQJDKDUGHU wearing, more consistent, and hence more comfortable, surface. 7KHVHSDWKVDUHORQJDQGWKLQGH¿QHGDUHDVRIJURXQGSODFHV for moving from one place to another. All architecture involves the modifying element of time in various ways: the time of the diurnal and seasonal rhythms; the time of age and dilapidation; the time of of our own movement and exploration… Paths make evident this last involvement of time with architecture. With a path in prospect we can see our own movement projected ahead of us. A path introduces anticipation, progress, aspiration, the idea of a goal. %XLOWGH¿QHG SDWKVIDFLOLWDWHPRYHPHQWEXWLQGRLQJVRWKH\ also control (direct) movement (in one direction or its opposite). They can lead people in a particular direction, prevent them from straying into places they should not, orchestrate what they see and experience…

18

Paths (like other basic elements of architecture) can have hybrid forms too. A staircase, for example, is a series of small platforms leading, as a path, from one level to another.

And a EULGJHLVDSODWIRUPVXSSRUWLQJDQGGH¿QLQJDSDWKDFURVV an obstacle such as a chasm or river. In doing so it gathers pathways to it from both sides, so that all can take advantage of the crossing. This bridge then becomes a special, particular SODFHRQWKRVHSDWKZD\VDSODFHWRSDXVHDQGUHÀHFWD transition, a place in-between which is neither here nor there.

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The person Leonardo da Vinci’s drawing of Vitruvian Man (right) not only describes the geometry thought to be found in the perfect human form, it also illustrates the way we project our own geometry into the world around. We do this standing still; we do this walking along; we do this dancing.

Architecture frames, organises, makes sense of the space in which we live. We are always its essential ingredient. Our minds conceive it; our bodies inhabit it. Whether the owner of footprints on the beach, the boy describing a circle about himself in the sand, the Delphic Sybil berating an audience from her rock platform, the Sultan breaking his fast (or a tourist having their photograph taken) under a gilded canopy… the essential element in all architecture is the human being. We use the basic elements of architecture, illustrated in the previous pages, to identify places, places mainly for ourselves, for our activities, our possessions, our gods. Architecture frames our movements, our relationships, our identities… Without the SHUVRQ±DVXVHULQKDELWDQWPRWKHUIDWKHUFKLOGDFWRUGDQFHU audience, player, spectator, worker, manager, shopper, seller,

call-centre worker, patient, doctor, surgeon, worshipper, priest, worshipped ‘god’, ruler, politician, subject, insider, gate-keeper, outsider, friend, enemy, farmer [and animals], teacher, pupil, … corpse, spirit, ghost, memory) and as architect (or anti-architect ±WKHDUP\WKDWGHVWUR\V ±WKHUHLVQRDUFKLWHFWXUH

Terra Incognita, choreographed by Shobana Jeyasingh, danced by Rambert, Sadler’s Wells, November 2014 19

And so… there we have our challenge – i.e. amending the world according to the need for protection and security and a desire for comfort and meaning – and also the means we can use to address it – i.e. the basic elements of architecture. You (all of us) introduce architecture into the world just by being in it. You are the origin of the first house, the first temple, the first grave. Your relationship with the world around – your vertical relationship with gravity, with the horizon, your six directions, yourself as a mobile centre… – in itself begins the production of architecture. The basic elements of architecture are the means, the instruments, by which you begin to change the world, by which your mind can start to manage, to make sense of (give sense to) the world in which it finds itself – land, space, light, time, fellow human beings and other creatures, the weather, the gods… They are also the means by which you can demonstrate, to yourself as well as others, your power, your prowess. The mind can use those elements to give sense to the world in multifarious ways: fearfully, seeking protection from the storm and enemies; selfishly, asserting possession of space and keeping others out; magnanimously, wanting to make the world more beautiful or better organised for all (more pragmatically efficient, more comfortable, more aesthetically engaging…); with hubris, thinking the ways the world works (physically, socially) can be ignored; militarily, as a demonstration of force; politically, to subjugate people… 20

You can ‘say’ an enormous number of things using these basic elements of architecture. Just as philosophy and literature may be expressed in words so may propositions be offered, arguments forged, stories spun… without words… using the elements of architecture. You could, for example, start with straightforward assertions and invitations: ‘KEEP OUT!’; ‘come in’; ‘look at me’; ‘don’t look at me’… all of which may be ‘said’ non-verbally with the architectural elements of wall, doorway, window, roof… Architectural elements are also the means by which complex social organisations are ordered, religious principles set down, philosophical and polemical arguments proposed. Think of the ways in which the spatial organisation of a monastery frames (is an essential accoutrement to) the daily regime by which its monks live. Think of how the layout of a law court organises the identities of each of the ‘players’ in a trial: accused, witness, lawyers, reporters, judge… each in his or her own place (box). Think of the way the physical form and layout of a city (New York, Paris, London, Delhi, Tokyo, Istanbul…) frames but also contributes to the particular narratives of that city. Any novel shows that. All the archetypes discussed in the following chapters were built by ‘you’; they are all composed of the basic elements of architecture. They all manage your relationship with space. They are, in effect, all examples of your attempts to make sense of the world in which you find yourself.

MEGALITHIC ARCHITECTURE

µ7KHSODFHKDGDVWRQHFLUFOH±D*LOJDO± which marked it as a sanctuary, and here young Eliphaz, the highway robber, durst not have troubled him. In the centre of the Gilgal a peculiar stone was set upright, coal black and FRQHVKDSHG±REYLRXVO\IDOOHQIURPKHDYHQ and possessing heavenly powers. Its form suggested the organ of generation, therefore Jacob piously saluted it with lifted eyes and hand and felt greatly strengthened thereby.’ 7KRPDV0DQQWUDQVODWHGE\/RZH3RUWHU±Joseph and His Brothers (1933), Penguin, London, 1999, p. 90

7KH ¿UVW WKUHH archetypes, the subjects of the following three chapters, are not single particular works but belong to a way of building from the distant past. Ancient megalithic architecture belongs to a time before any of the great buildings we think of as constituting the history of architecture. It was, however, a period when many of the fundamental ideas (strategies, concepts, syntactical structures…) of architecture were generated or discovered. It was the time when we began to use architecture to make sense of the space of our world. The oldest surviving structures conceived and constructed by people are made of big stones – megaliths – and earth mounds. When they were built, thousands of years ago, these megalithic structures clearly played an important part in the rituals of those who spent significant amounts of time and effort building them. Evidence (and common sense) suggests they were components in a more extensive range of architecture, most of which was built from less permanent materials – timber, thatch, mud, skin, bone, maybe textiles… – and has now deteriorated, often leaving no more than the enigmatic evidence of post-holes, potsherds, bones and burnt patches of earth. Megalithic monuments have, over the centuries, tempted a great deal of speculation regarding how they were built and what they were used for. Though speculation about such 21

tantalising issues is understandable, much of it is inescapably and chronically inconclusive because there is a great deal that will never be known about these ancient works of architecture. They are usually interpreted as having framed rituals associated with the great thresholds and transitions of life – birth, marriage and especially death – and with ceremonies and celebrations punctuating the cycle of the seasons. Henges, dolmens, cromlechs, menhirs… (the names themselves are strange) are thought of as having been religious, spiritual, mystical… To us now they are impressive, powerful, redolent with romance; loud and affecting echoes of the origins of our efforts to make sense of and give form to the world in which we first found ourselves. They also persist, now perhaps no less than in ancient times, as works of architecture – ‘architecture’ defined in Analysing Architecture (fourth edition, 2014, pages 27–34) as the giving of intellectual structure to the identification of place. The three following chapters focus on the architecture of particular types of ancient megalithic structure, the main categories of which are illustrated opposite. The architecture of these structures is the basis onto which all the aforementioned historical speculation regarding construction and use is projected; but it is not itself a matter of speculation. The architecture may not survive complete in all its subtle details (in that some elements originally built of less permanent materials may have perished) but the underlying architectural ideas that originally informed such ancient structures remain as evident now as they must have been all those centuries ago. The effect the structures informed by those ideas had on people at the time may of course have been different from their effect on us now; it was probably more intense (they knew nothing of Greek temples, medieval cathedrals, modern skyscrapers, street-lighting, clocks…). The power of these now timeless (but once new) ideas has influenced latter day architects. It is intriguing to realise that many of the fundamental compositional (syntactic, grammatical… to use the linguistic analogy as described in Analysing Architecture) and space-organising ideas that have underpinned architecture for thousands of years were generated (discovered) during this time long ago when we grappled with very big and very heavy stones. It was a time when the landscape was a playground and laboratory for experimenting with architectural ideas. It was a time when the language of architecture, alongside the languages of words, was itself under development.

22

What sort of architecture would any of us produce if the main materials available were large boulders lying about where they had been strewn by the great glaciers of the Ice Age? This is a drawing of sarsens lying on the Marlborough Downs. They were the primary building material available for the builders of Stonehenge.

The following three chapters explore the architectural ideas associated with four of the basic megalithic compositions illustrated opposite: ONE the standing stone; TWO the stone FLUFOHDQG7+5((±XQGHUWKHWLWOH'ROPHQ±WKHGROPHQDQG burial chamber. These chapters consider the powers each DUFKHW\SHSRVVHVVHVWRLGHQWLI\SODFHDQGWKHLQÀXHQFHDQG evolution of those ideas through history. The powers and roles of the altar stone and stone row (mainly as focus and pathway) are discussed in relation to the others as and when appropriate. Together these basic megalithic structures can be used to produce a surprisingly large variety of architectural compositions.

MEGALITHIC ARCHITECTURE

Basic megalithic structures Here are some of the basic compositions of big stones we might make in the landscape. In prehistory, we probably tried them with pieces of timber, perhaps many times over many years, before committing and organising the communal effort needed to making them permanent with heavy boulders. All these compositions are concerned with identifying place, and as such constitute architecture. They are the sorts of arrangements that any of us might try (with smaller stones) idling away time on the beach, experimenting with their particular powers. These are no more than basic compositions; DOODUHRSHQWRPRGL¿FDWLRQDQGFRPELQDWLRQ9DULDWLRQVDQG possibilities will be explored in the following pages.

All architecture consists of ideas which, when realised in physical form, have consequences. At some time in the distant past someone somewhere had each of the basic compositional LGHDVLOOXVWUDWHGKHUH7KDWDUFKLWHFWDOVR±SHUKDSVEHIRUH SHUKDSVGXULQJSHUKDSVDIWHUEXLOGLQJWKHP±KDGVRPH appreciation of what the compositions could (be used to) do, especially their effects on and relationships with the landscape (context) and their abilities to contain and frame things and activities (content). They all identify place in one way or another, and as such mediate between the person (people) and the world around. They all change the world, making it more in our own image (even though they may be dedicated to gods).

$/7$56721(±DERXOGHUZLWKDÀDWWLVK top surface can be a table for some practical activity or an altar for performing a ritual. We might use a boulder where ZH¿QGLWRUGUDJDQGSXVKLWWRDPRUH convenient or auspicious location, where it would become a focus, a centre of activity or attention.

STANDING STONE – effort might be put into manhandling a boulder to stand it upright, making it stable and secure by planting it into the ground. We might do this merely to enjoy a sense of achievement, to demonstrate prowess; to mark a particular spot; or as a memorial.

6721(&,5&/(±DFLUFOHGH¿QHV an area of ground, distinguishing and separating it from everywhere else. If we arrange stones like this we become aware that we have done some special things: we have separated an inside from the general outside; we have established a centre by which we know where we are.

STONE ROW – a row implies movement – a guide along a pathway – but as a barrier it is permeable. We might arrange standing stones like this to mark a route leading from ‘here’ to ‘there’ and back DJDLQ2UZHPLJKWXVHWKHPWRGH¿QHD territorial boundary.

DOLMEN – building a dolmen – lifting a heavy capstone to rest on the tops of standing stones – involves enormous physical effort and organisation, and hence represents the greatest achievement and prowess. As a table with legs, a dolmen makes an aedicule and a platform at the same time.

BURIAL CHAMBER – if we cover a dolmen with a mound of earth we can create a place to hide things away from the world – a refuge, a womb, a tomb… DQDUWL¿FLDOFDYH«DVKHOWHUDJDLQVWWKH forces of the sky. A weight to hold down spirits.

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Avebury, England

1 STANDING STONE

S TA N D I N G S T O N E

‘It would be absurd for any great city to be without an obelisk. Rome has had them this great while and so has Constantinople. Paris has one. London has one. If New York was ZLWKRXWRQHWKH\ ZRXOGSRLQWWKH¿QJHURI scorn at us and intimate that we could never rise to any real moral grandeur until we had our obelisk.’ New York Herald (January 1881), quoted in -RQDWKDQ$GDPV±Columns, Academy Editions, London, 1998, p. 7

Look at the horizon in the drawing on the opposite page. All architecture begins with that creature silhouetted against the sky – the human being… you and me. The standing stone is our first significant and lasting rearrangement of the fabric of the world according to an idea, by the assertion of will and the commitment of effort. It may be simple (conceptually if not in the physical challenges involved) but dragging a heavy stone to a specific place and lifting it to stand upright in the ground is a primal architectural act. It is an act that depends on an idea that is quintessentially not natural; stones do not stand up on their own. The standing stone is a result of the human being thinking of and doing something of its own; not accepting what is there but altering (modifying) it; maybe for practical reasons but also just as an assertion of our human ability to change the world. The standing stone is our vicarious representative; it stands in for us; it stands in our place. In being quintessentially not natural it is quintessentially human. In that they constitute identification of place, the trees under which we sit, the caves in which we shelter and the hummocks of grass on which we rest are all rudimentary works of architecture. (We find they suit our needs and choose them as places to be.) Our motivation for erecting a standing stone is to identify place too; but, as well as recognising or determining the place and having the idea, this act involves physically rearranging the fabric of the world. That is no small thing. The erect monolith stands at the origins of architecture. In representing the power of an idea to change the world, it influences all that follows.

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A favourite exercise in schools of architecture is to ask new VWXGHQWVWRPDNHSODFHVLQZLOGODQGVFDSH±DGHVHUWPRRURU beach. It is an exercise that encapsulates the the germ of all architecture. It replicates what we were doing thousands of years ago. All architecture grows from a fundamental desire (need, impulse…) to identify place. Sometimes, in such exercises, a student might do no more WKDQ¿QGDODUJHSLHFHRIGULIWZRRG±SHUKDSVWKHWUXQNRID WUHHXSURRWHGE\VRPHVWRUPLQDGLVWDQWODQG±DQGSODQWLW upside-down in the sand. The idea is simple but the effects are powerful. It is the same with standing a stone. 7KH¿UVWHIIHFWLVPRUHSV\FKRORJLFDOWKDQIXQFWLRQDO The world is changed by the presence of something clearly unnatural. You feel a sense of achievement, maybe even

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slight guilt, at having changed the world. You experience that existential awe referred to on page 5. Perhaps this is, in itself, a good enough reason for doing it. The second, related, effect is that the standing tree trunk or stone catches the eye, even from a great distance. It gives the landscape a focus drawing attention from the general. Against it, all is measured. And third, the trunk or stone marks a particular place, a SRLQWRIUHIHUHQFHDGDWXP±DQD[LVPXQGL±WKHUHSUHVHQWDWLRQ of a permanent and stable friend to which you might return after wandering. It marks your place. And it remains, as your representative, even after you have gone. All architectural elements are instruments. On the next page are some of the things that may be done with a standing stone.

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With a standing stone we can… 1 establish a centre or point of reference in the landscape (see images on the opposite page); the standing stone might be the focus for a ceremony (see also page 28); or represent the (perceived, estimated, sensed…) centre of gravity of a territory, an axis mundi (axis of the world) around which the world is seen to rotate (as manifest in the rotating shadow it casts). A standing stone can exert a psychological force which LVERWKFHQWULSHWDODQGFHQWULIXJDO±LWDWWUDFWVEXWDWWKHVDPHWLPHLWPD\KROGXVRU strangers) at bay. 2 mark a spot (right) as a reminder or memorial; maybe the location of a grave of an LPSRUWDQWSHUVRQRUWKHSODFHRIDVLJQL¿FDQWHYHQW±DEDWWOHSHUKDSV 3 set an alignment, like the sight of a ULÀH$VWDQGLQJVWRQHPLJKWGRWKLVLQ various ways: it might mark the point on the horizon where the sun sets on DVSHFL¿FGD\RIWKH\HDUWKHZLQWHU solstice for example); or it might act as a IXOFUXPDOLJQLQJDVSHFL¿FSRVLWLRQZKHUH the person is standing in the drawing alongside) with something distant, perhaps the peak of a sacred mountain. In either case the standing stone establishes an alignment, and in doing so a linkage EHWZHHQDSDUWLFXODUVSRW±WKHSHUVRQ\RXRUPH VWDQGLQJKHUH±DQGVRPHWKLQJ UHPRWHEXWVLJQL¿FDQWWKHVXQDVDFUHGSHDN«  4 point – indicate a direction. Maybe by its shape or by some marking on its surface DVWDQGLQJVWRQHFDQEHDZD\PDUNHU±SHUKDSVRQHRIDVHTXHQFHVWUHWFKLQJRYHU PDQ\PLOHV±LQGLFDWLQJWKHURXWHWRDSDUWLFXODUO\VLJQL¿FDQWSODFH±WKHFHQWUHRISRZHU of a tribe, the goal of a pilgrimage, perhaps a port… or just home. 5 assert a territorial boundary (see also page 29). If set beside a pathway, a standing stone can indicate where that pathway crosses into a territory under the control of a particular person or tribe. It obviates the need to delineate the boundary in its totality; the boundary is implied by the stone. Contemporary examples are the gable walls in Northern Ireland that assert boundaries between Catholic and Protestant areas (far right). In the case illustrated, even though the rest of the house has been demolished, the gable wall survives as a boundary stone and memorial. 6 act as a symbolic representation (vicarious representative) of the presence or PHPRU\RIDSHUVRQ±WKHSHUPDQHQWUHVLOLHQWDQGXQFKDQJLQJHPERGLPHQWRID FKLHIWDLQRUSROLWLFDOOHDGHUIRUH[DPSOH±RURIDQLGHDVSLULWXDOFXOWXUDOSROLWLFDO«  Representational statues are a development from this, and may, architecturally, identify the place (territory) of a particular religious or political ideology (see page 30). A standing stone can do more than one of these things at the same time. Interpretation of meaning is dependent on circumstances. The circumstances of ancient standing stones in the landscape have changed and interpretation is uncertain. But the timeless architectural powers of a standing stone are clear.

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A primeval ceremony on the beach I am interested in the ways we make places on the beach. There the relationship between person and land is primitive; it seems timeless. Making places on the beach we draw on the fundamental rudimentary language of space that underpins all DUFKLWHFWXUH:HFODLPVSDFHIRURXUVHOYHV±PD\EHLGHQWLI\LQJLW ZLWKQRPRUHWKDQDWRZHO±DQGHVWDEOLVKDFHQWUHDUHIHUHQFH point, a home for our day by the sea. We orient ourselves to the horizon or to the sun. We might loop a line drawn in the sand around our space, anchor it to a cliff or rock, or maybe screen it from the eyes of others with windbreaks that also shelter us from the breeze. Sometimes we roof ourselves with a parasol that shades us from the sun, or hide away in the refuge of a simple tent or cave. All these are rudimentary architectural devices that involve one of more of the basic elements of architecture outlined in the previous chapter.

The places we make on the beach speak of the primal ways we manage our relationships with space, with the world around. One day, only a few years ago, I encountered something more curious than usual. Three boys (maybe ten years old) had planted a long pole of driftwood vertically in the sand. Around this, by digging shallow trenches and low banks, the boys had circumscribed a rough circle which spiralled out, anticlockwise, to form something like a head. You can see what they did in the drawing above. Inside the circle of the head was a small mound with another, much smaller, stick pushed vertically into its highest point. The neck, or umbilical cord, attaching the head to the circle around the pole was divided into two parallel pathways. While I watched, the boys, singly or in procession, walked along these pathways from the head towards the circle. When they reached it they walked clockwise around the pole, holding it 28

with their right hands. This was clearly a layout that was not representational (like a drawing or sculpture in the sand). It was not complete without the boys and involved movement, i.e. time. It was a frame for a ceremony, an instrument of personal engagement with the world. The meaning was far from clear but I felt I was witnessing something primeval; something Freud or Jung would identify as psychologically deep-seated (maybe even pubescent, about awakening sexuality); something that others might identify as mysterious if not mystical, a form of communication with hidden powers. I did not ask the boys about their installation on the beach. But I do not think they knew its meaning either. As far as they were concerned they were playing a game with a long piece of driftwood and some lines drawn in the sand. At times, when they were not processing, they stood around looking bemused, as if perplexed by the effect of what they had created. Presumably the boys had not studied prehistoric and religious ceremonial sites in cultures around the world. Presumably they knew nothing about the general religious practice of processing clockwise around a temple, altar, or other sacred focus. (In Romania, at Christenings, the father carries the baby three times clockwise around the font. In Buddhist countries monks process clockwise around stupas. In the UK it is considered unlucky to walk anticlockwise around a church. And so on.) Clockwise progression is considered in harmony with the passage of the sun around the sky from East to West. (I do not know whether there are traditions of anticlockwise procession in the southern hemisphere.) Presumably neither had the boys read anthropological accounts of the axis mundi or the uses of symbols by tribes in Africa or Australia. Nor were they acquainted with Freudian interpretations of such symbols or Jungian ideas of the collective unconscious. The boys had made this ceremonial layout according to some impetus originating in their own (subconscious) imaginations. It is not my purpose here to speculate on what the boys’ ceremony might mean in religious, anthropological or psychological (let alone mystical) terms. I am content, as an analyst of architecture, to be impressed by the powers such simple architectural elements possess. These powers are not a matter of speculation; they can be observed and experienced; they are real. Clearly the boys were proud; surprised by their own ability, in planting this long pole upright in the sand, to achieve VRPHWKLQJZKROO\XQQDWXUDO±VRPHWKLQJWKDWZRXOGQHYHU happen without their intervention, their idea, their action. So impressed were they by what they had done that they wanted to recognise it by elaborating it with a ceremony. By doing so they created a composition, subliminally generated, redolent with the suggestion of meaning (inviting endless interpretation) and mysteriously enigmatic. My sense that I had witnessed something primeval derived not only from the resemblance of the boys’ intervention on the beach to ancient ceremonial sites, but also from its evocation of the redolent enigmas that almost all prehistoric megalithic monuments similarly provoke.

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‘The past is never dead. It’s not even past.’ William Faulkner After a few miles walking north along the rugged west coast of the Waternish peninsula of the Isle of Skye off western Scotland, I encountered a vehicle parked in the path. Some tens of yards beyond, there was a battered caravan, against the back of which was an even more battered settee and a shirtless bearded man soaking in the warmth of the sun. I stopped short of the vehicle. In the far distance, beyond the caravan, I could see another vehicle parked very close to the pathway.

The vehicle parked on my path had stopped me. I could have easily squeezed past but it was clearly intended as an assertion RIWHUULWRU\±Dboundary marker. Boundary markers can sometimes seem little more than administrative, marking legal or merely traditional boundaries between parishes, territories, etc. But here was a boundary marker being instrumental in defending a territory from intrusion. Its power to deter was psychological more than physical. If I had carried on, I would have disturbed this solitary man’s privacy; I would have forced on him company which, however brief it might be, he clearly did not welcome. further vehicle

ocean

implied territory

caravan

close vehicle

The communication effected by that parked vehicle was subtle. That of the further vehicle was subtle in a slightly different way. Parked just off the path it marked a boundary but did not actually block the way. Maybe the man was aware that people approaching from that direction would be on their way home, DQGKHIHOWOHVVDEOHWRGHWHUWKHPIURPSDVVLQJ±QRWZDQWLQJWR LQFRQYHQLHQFHWKHPWRRPXFK±DQGZRXOGSHUKDSVUHOXFWDQWO\ submit himself to their passing intrusion. Having stopped most walkers from going up the path however, the number coming from the other direction was in any case reduced.

We all have our personal space, which is the seed from which any architecture we create for ourselves grows. By the means RIKLVSDUNHGYHKLFOHVWKHPDQKDGDVVHUWHGDQGJUHDWO\LQÀDWHG his personal space, marked out his territory. It did not matter that he had not drawn a line around the land over which he claimed ¿HIGRP7KHVWUDWHJLFSRVLWLRQVRIWKHYHKLFOHVWKHLUGLVWDQFH from his caravan carefully (but probably intuitively) judged and SRVLWLRQHGRQRUYHU\QHDUWKHSDWKZD\ZDVTXLWHVXI¿FLHQWWR deter intruders (reasonably polite intruders like me, who did not want to disturb the man’s solitude, at least). We can imagine the same sort of thing happening in ancient times too, and down all the ages. The drawing above converts the man’s caravan into an Iron Age house and the vehicles into standing stones (though such go a lot further back in time than the Iron Age). The components may be different but the architecture is identical to that of Skye’s recluse. The powers WRGH¿QHWRidentify place and to defend it against intrusion are the same too. In prehistory such boundary stones might have marked much more extensive territory. And the weight of the stone, indicating the effort involved in its erection, would have said something about the physical prowess and status of those whose land it was, further reinforcing the deterrent effect. A few months after I was there, the man was killed when his caravan was blasted by a violent coastal storm. If he had marked his boundary with a standing stone instead of a vehicle (now removed) that stone would most probably still be there; less as a boundary marker and more as a memorial (to him, his presence, his place). Every standing stone is someone’s. 29

Famously, in his ‘prisoner’ sculptures (above), Michelangelo found human forms imprisoned in blocks of marble. Auguste Rodin depicted Honoré de Balzac as a rough-hewn primeval (and phallic) standing stone in cast bronze (above right). But neither of these statues constitutes architecture; they do not

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in themselves identify place. But as standing stones, statues are able to identify place symbolically: the place of a distinctive culture, as on Easter Island (below left); or the territory of a political ideology, as represented by the statues of Lenin that stood in cities across the Soviet Union (below).

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Once you start looking, you can see standing stones everywhere. A steeple is a standing stone marking the place of the altar within the church. Not only does Nelson’s Column (right) commemorate the admiral’s naval victories in the early nineteenth century, it also acts as a standing stone identifying a VSHFL¿FSODFH±Trafalgar Square and the psychological centre of London. Visible from a distance it acts as a datum, helping \RXNQRZZKHUH\RXDUHDQGKRZWRJHWWRDVSHFL¿FSODFH0RVW cities have something similar: the Eiffel Tower is the standing stone for Paris; as is the Television Tower for Berlin. Standing stones have symbolic meanings supplementing their architectural powers. They act as advertisements for whatever it is that they stand for: a particular religion (the steeple advertises the church, the minaret a mosque); a particular political ideology (the statue of Lenin advertises Communism); a city (the Eiffel Tower advertises Paris); a particular historical HYHQWRU¿JXUH1HOVRQ¶V&ROXPQDGYHUWLVHVWKHEDWWOHRI Trafalgar and the square named after it, as well as the city of London); a particular commercial or public organisation (all corporations like to think their tower advertises their presence).

6WDQGLQJVWRQHVDUHDVVLJQL¿FDQWLQSUHVHQWGD\DUFKLWHFWXUHDV they were thousands of years ago. The effort involved in erecting WKHP±DOZD\VVLJQL¿FDQW±KDVLQFUHDVHGZLWKWKHWHFKQRORJLFDO capacity available. Contemporary standing stones express SURZHVVWRR2XUFLWLHV±/RQGRQ1HZ