Tools for Ideas: Introduction to Architectural Design [Expanded and updated ed.] 9783035622089, 9783035621747

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Tools for Ideas INTRODUCTION TO ARCHITECTURAL  DESIGN



Christian Gänshirt

Tools for Ideas INTRODUCTION TO ARCHITECTURAL DESIGN

Birkhäuser Basel

Expanded and updated edition

Translation of the new parts of the expanded and updated edition: Julian Reisenberger Translation of the parts of the first edition: Michael Robinson Layout, typography and cover design: nalbach typographik, Silke Nalbach Graphic design of the first edition: Atelier Fischer Editor for the Publisher: Andreas Müller Production: Heike Strempel Paper: 120 g/m² Magno Natural Printing: Beltz Grafische Betriebe GmbH

Bibliographic information published by the German National Library The German National Library lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie. Detailed bibliographic data are available on the Internet at http://dnb.dnb.de.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020945805

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This publication is also available as an e-book PDF (978-3-0356-2208-9) and in a German language edition (ISBN 978-3-0356-2173-0, e-book PDF ISBN 978-3-0356-2202-7).

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Contents 8 10

Acknowledgements Introduction to the expanded and updated edition

10

What does this new edition contribute?

12

How does one learn to Design?

13

Who is this book for?

13

When is this book worth reading?

14

Which chapters should be read first?

14

What sources does this book draw on?

15

What key findings does this book contain?

17

What’s new in the expanded and updated edition?

17

How can Tools for Ideas be used in design teaching?

19

How did this book come about?

20

Do we need other ways of design teaching?

20

What can be done?

22

PART A: FUNDAMENTALS

23

Design and research

26



TEACHING ARCHITECTURAL DESIGN

30



RESEARCH IN ARCHITECTURAL DESIGN

34

Architectural design

38



THE LITERATURE: EXAMPLES, PRINCIPLES, THEORIES

38

WHAT ONE CAN DESIGN

41

HOW ONE CAN DESIGN

48 54

HOW DESIGN CAN BE ACCOUNTED FOR

Terms and definitions

54

PLATO, ARISTOTLE, PLOTINUS: IDEA

57

VITRUVIUS AND ALBERTI: COGITATIONE AND INVENTIONE

59

VASARI AND ZUCCARI: DISEGNO

62

OSTENDORF, RITTEL, UHL: DESIGNING, PLANNING

66 71

AICHER AND FLUSSER: NEGATION AND TRANSCENDENCE

Ways of designing

73

PERCEPTION AND THOUGHT

79

DESIGNING AS A PROCESS

86

DESIGNING AS AN INDIVIDUAL ACT

93

THE DESIGN CYCLE

96

PART B: TOOLS

97

Design tools

98

SYMBOLS OF CREATIVITY

104

FLUSSER: THE GESTURE OF MAKING

106



THE AMBIVALENCE OF TOOLS

110



“DESIGN TOOLS” AS A METAPHOR

116



VISUAL AND VERBAL TOOLS

119



NEW RESEARCH WORK

130



A NEW TAXONOMY

133



FINDING THE RIGHT TOOLS

137



EXAMINING THE MEDIA TOOLS

139

Gesture

142



147

Sketch

148



PARCHMENT AND PAPER

151



CREATIVE IMPRECISION

155



VISUAL-SPATIAL THINKING

159

Language

160



TRAINING AND PRACTICE

163



CREATING METAPHORS, INTERPRETING, ABSTRACTING

168

Design drawing

168



GEOMETRY AND ABSTRACTION

174



MEDIA SWITCH

176



DESIGNING OR DRAWING

179



DIGITALIZATION OF DRAWING

183

Model

185



RELATIONSHIP WITH REALITY

188



THE IMPORTANCE OF MATERIALS

194

Perspective view

195



THE DISCOVERY OF THE WORLD

199



AMBIVALENT REALISM

202 207

PERSPECTIVE AS AN ATTITUDE Photograph, film, video

209



FROM RECORD TO RE-PRESENTATION

211



SIMULATING IMAGES DIGITALLY

215

Calculation

217



220

Computer

221



FROM CALCULATING MACHINE TO MASS MEDIUM

225



A META-TOOL

227



NETWORKING THE DESIGN TOOLS

232

Criticism

235



237

Criteria and value systems

237



FIRMITAS, UTILITAS, VENUSTAS

243



INNOVATION AND THE ENIGMATIC

STARTING FROM GESTURES

CALCULATION IS INTERPRETATION

A TEACHING TOOL

245

SUSTAINABILITY

249

Theory

253



THEORY AS A BASIS

258



THEORY AS A TOOL

262



SHORT THEOREMS

267

Otl Aicher: A theory of design

270



THEORY FROM BELOW

277



OPEN QUESTIONS

281



DESIGNING THEORY

284

Part C: PRACTICE

289

DESIGN ATTITUDE

292

A STANDARDIZED PROCEDURE

295 300

NEW CHALLENGES

Digital design

302

PRESENTATION

304

GENERATION

309

PROVIDING INFORMATION (BIM)

312

OPTIMIZATION

315

PRODUCTION

321 324

TECHNOLOGY OR CULTURE?

Research-based design

326

A FOUNDATION OF MODERNITY

329

ARCHITECTURE-RELATED SCIENCES

332

EXAMPLES AND MODELS

338 342

DESIGN RESEARCH

Social design

344

SOCIAL INNOVATION

348

PARTICIPATION

353

NOT SLUMS BUT ARRIVAL CITIES

356

SELF-BUILDING AND DESIGNING

364

Postscript to the new edition Appendix

BIBLIOGRAPHY, PART A: FUNDAMENTALS

376 384



BIBLIOGRAPHY, PART C: PRACTICE

388



ILLUSTRATION CREDITS

367

389 393

BIBLIOGRAPHY, PART B: TOOLS

INDEX OF NAMES SUBJECT INDEX

Acknowledgements

8

In all the years I have worked on this book, interrupted repeatedly by the necessities of everyday life, and distracted by an eight-year odyssey to North America, East Asia, and back to Europe, I received support and encouragement from many sides. To begin with, I would like to thank Prof. Jörg J. Kühn, who took me on for six years at the Institute of Design at Brandenburg University of Technology in Cottbus and gave me the freedom to embark on this work. Also among the first I would like to thank are the editors of the online architecture magazine Cloud-Cuckoo-Land, and especially its publisher Prof. Dr. Eduard Führ, who provided vital feedback and input for my work. Very special thanks go to the Berlin journalist Holger Wild, who taught me to write comprehensibly, and Prof. Ralph Johannes, who for many years spurred me on with suggestions for relevant literature and asked with untiring patience how I was progressing. At the invitation of Prof. Philipp Oswalt, the University of Kassel enabled me to develop the theses I had presented here into lectures and seminars. Other universities, among them Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University, Xi’an Jiaotong Liverpool University in Suzhou and the University of Hong Kong, also gave me the opportunity to continue teaching and researching about design. Individual pieces of work were also sponsored by the Jade University of Applied Sciences in Oldenburg, the architecture ­magazine of the Graz University of Technology GAM and the Zurich-based architecture magazine archithese. One of China’s leading architectural theorists, Prof. Guixiang Wang at Tsinghua University in Beijing, wrote the ­preface for the Chinese edition and reviewed the Chinese translation. Many ­universities in twelve countries, too numerous to mention here, invited me to conferences, lectures, seminars and guest reviews and I would like to thank them all for the opportunities they gave me. For their inspiring conversations, literature references, constructive criticism and encouragement, I thank all my friends, colleagues and students, especially: Ulrich Ackva, Florian Aicher, Karyn Ball, Raimund Binder, Peter Böke, Nicolau Brandafio, Axel Buether, Jorge Carvalho, Ariane Epars,

Christian Federmair, Matthias Gorenflos, Anton Graf, Tobias Hammel, Dagmar Jäger, Cornelia Jöchner, Christian Keller, Nico Knebel, Gereon Legge, Claudia Moddelmoog, Norbert Palz, Constanze A. Petrow, Jörg Petruschat, Ute Poerschke, Riklef Rambow, Hinrich Sachs, Eran Schaerf, Astrid Schmeing, Andreas Schwarz, Jürgen Schwinning, Melanie Semmer, Álvaro Siza,

9

Sandra Staub, Peter Testa, Yvonne Wuebben and Ulrike Wulf-Rheidt †. In the context of this new edition I would also like to thank Jane Anderson, Adam Brillhart, Terrence M. Curry, Christopher Dell, Jesko Fezer, Thomas Fischer, Eva Maria Froschauer, Susanne Hofmann, Shayne Jones, Hannes Meyer, Andreas Oevermann, Frits Palmboom, Martin Prominski, Judith Reeh, Alexander Römer and Udo Weilacher. My special thanks go to all those who allowed me to use their illustrations; they are mentioned in the respective captions or in the list of illustrations. As my editor for the publisher, Andreas Müller has assisted not only in the creation and distribution of the book but has also shown great farsightedness and commitment over the years and contributed decisively to its success. Without his ideas and vision and without his concentrated and productive criticism, this book would not have achieved the form and stringency you see now. His patience is to thank that this new edition has come to fruition. For their extraordinarily committed work in the graphic design of this book, I would like to thank Bernd Fischer for the first edition and Silke Nalbach for the new edition, who have done an excellent job of capturing its basic ideas. The lucid and precise translation into English we owe to Michael Robinson for the first edition and Julian Reisenberger for the new edition. Last but not least I would like to thank Maria de la Calle, who accompanied me for almost a decade, and my parents, Martin and Elfriede Gänshirt, who have always supported me and also made the first edition of this book possible. I would also like to thank the readers and the publisher for the opportunity to publish a second German edition in 2011, and now also this new, significantly expanded edition. Finally, I would like to thank all those researchers who have taken up the cause and pursued their own inquiries into the nature of the tools of design with dedication and commitment. Odysseus, the inventive polymechanos himself, would certainly have approved.

Introduction to the expanded and updated edition

10

Thirteen years have passed since Tools for Ideas was first published in 2007 in German and English. In 2011, a second German edition and a Chinese translation followed. At that time Tools for Ideas was the first publication on tools for designing. The book has achieved its first goal: “design tools” as a term and as a subject are now an established part of architectural discourse in research and teaching. Since the book was first published, a broad field of research has rapidly developed, giving rise to numerous research projects, dissertations, conferences and exhibitions as well as two junior professorships (at the Bauhaus-Universität Weimar and the RWTH Aachen). In the meantime, more than 25 books dedicated to individual or certain kinds of design tools have been published.

(see pp. 119 ff.)

The second, more important aim of the book is to offer fundamental suggestions for improving design teaching. For many students, learning to design is a long, often confusing and sometimes painful process. It can be made easier if, alongside the usual design assignments, students are also given a theoretical and historical grounding in this challenging activity. Students develop a better grasp of the many different methods and possibilities of design when they receive a good systematic introduction to the tools of design and how they work. Tools for Ideas has since been used in international teaching at universities in more than 15 countries. But there is still a way to go before we can say that design teaching has fundamentally improved. Some of the underlying reasons for this are discussed below. WHAT DOES THIS NEW EDITION CONTRIBUTE? When it was first

published, this book encouraged the reader to look at design from a new perspective. Embarking from the metaphor of “tools of design”, it concentrated not on the methods or the results but on the act or activity of designing and the media and cultural techniques that inform it. This was its horizon of inquiry. The new, significantly expanded edition picks up the cultural discourse and reflects on the most important new research findings. It also draws on the experience that I and many of my colleagues have

had in teaching this subject around the world. Both have helped me make this book even more useful and effective as an aid to teaching. The most significant addition to the book is a third part that looks at current practice. It covers forward-looking approaches such as digital, research-based, and social design, all of which contribute to more sustainable architecture.

11

The metaphor of “tools of design” that served as the starting point of this book remains a divisive term in current research: there is no agreed definition of the term, or even whether it can be understood as a metaphor. Some see it as relating exclusively to mental processes others relate it directly to the objects

(Krasny 2008)

(Hartmann 2016),

or media

while

(Wittmann 2018)

used for designing. Newer research even classifies complex activities such as collecting as a tool of design.

(Froschauer 2019)

To do justice to all these views

and provide a comprehensive overview, I have proposed a new, extended taxonomy in this new edition of the book. It consists of an open matrix that links the media of design with the possible forms of its use. The matrix shows the range of possible kinds of design action that actually exist and defines a structure within which to locate them.

(see pp. 134–135)

Architectural design differs from artistic, scientific, technical, economic or political design in that it takes all these perspectives into account and strives to do justice to them all. The aim is to find a balance that seems beneficial from all perspectives relevant to the task in question. The most direct way to describe design is through the individual activities carried out during the design process. However, this approach bears the risk of proposing recipe-like instructions that do not adequately reflect the fundamentally free nature of designing. Looking at the design process from the perspective of the “tools of design” and their various uses makes it easier to maintain the necessary distance from personal working methods. The term “design tool” used here refers to a medium that can be used for designing along with its associated ways of thinking, perspectives and cultural techniques, and the respective possible actions that this constellation enables. These are considered and described in the context of designing. The focus lies not on the perspective of an architect wishing to justify a particular design approach, or on presenting particular design methods, but on the interactions between the person designing, the tools at their disposal and the “materials” with which they work, i.e. the architectural conceptions, ideas and designs that the respective media convey.

HOW DOES ONE LEARN TO DESIGN? A key aim of this book is to offer

students guidance and support in learning architectural design. It takes an exploratory and inquiring approach because design encompasses so many overlapping areas of knowledge that it is hard to state any aspects with certainty. What skills and knowledge does one need to design? And how,

12

where and when can these best be acquired? First and foremost, designing requires creative and critical thinking and action, which are hard to impart through reading or lectures alone. These skills can only be learned through one’s own, often lengthy and frustrating practice. To use these skills in a directed way, however, requires the underlying knowledge also needed for designing. From a didactic point of view, it is therefore crucial to guide and support design exercises by conveying specific knowledge – about the task at hand, about comparable or exemplary solutions, but also about the processes, methods, tools and assessment criteria of design itself. The aim should not be to prescribe a particular methodology, stylistic attitude or design approach. Instead, the starting point for each design process should be the ideas, visions and aims of the students themselves, which should be discussed individually and supported wherever possible. Objects for “creating works” are fundamental to all human work, and this is the basis for our approach of investigating design through its tools The sculpture Balancing Tools, Claes Oldenburg and Coosje van Bruggen, Vitra Campus, Weil am Rhein, 1984. Photograph 2007

and media. The first part of the book provides an overview of contemporary knowledge and literature and discusses the process of designing. Is it a creative act, a creative process or a cycle of recurring actions? The second part then introduces the basic tools of design – their historical origins and specific characteristics, their mode of operation and current

13

significance as design tools – and concludes with a critical consideration of their use and future development, especially in the context of the ongoing digitalization and networking of all design tools. The intention is to make clear the many diverse levels of meaning that architectural decisions and actions can have. At the same time, the chapters on the different design tools can only serve as an introduction to each: many have since become the subject of entire, expansive books that provide a deeper understanding of the respective tool. The most useful publications are listed briefly at the end of each chapter, with further references in the appendix. WHO IS THIS BOOK FOR? Tools for Ideas aims to expand the existing know­

ledge on design, to give it a sense of comprehensible order and to make it accessible in a straightforward way. Written in the first instance for students, it is also for young teachers and researchers in all disciplines that involve architectural design and creation as a core competence. Alongside architecture and interior design, this also includes urban and regional planning, landscape architecture, industrial and graphic design, scenography and also engineering, although here there is often a different focus. WHEN IS THIS BOOK WORTH READING? Learning to design is a long

process to which a more or less random assortment of teachers may contribute, most of whom have different design approaches and architectural opinions, and usually know little about each other. All over the world, five years of study plus two years of professional practice are regarded as the minimum required to qualify as an architect or urban planner, and similar study durations apply for other design disciplines. The aim of this learning process is to train perception, thinking, design, expression and judgement skills in such a way that, over time, a design sensibility develops that makes qualified design possible in the first place. One difficulty when learning how to design is that certain aspects are not easy to grasp or master in the early stages. For example, when spatial

perception or critical thinking are not sufficiently developed, all other skills that build on them suffer as well. It can be hard to gain an overview or at least a sense of orientation in this long learning process. This book attempts to offer a mental framework that addresses the essential themes of this long-term learning process and relates them to each other. Those with little

14

or no experience in designing may feel overwhelmed by some of the topics at first but should find them easier to grasp as their training progresses. WHICH CHAPTERS SHOULD BE READ FIRST? For those in a hurry, this

book can be used like an encyclopaedia to directly look up the topic of current interest. The didactic principle of starting with the simple and progressing to the more complex only applies in the second part of the book (design tools). The first part discusses the scientific foundations – the search for a conception of science appropriate to designing, (Design and research, p. 23) a literature survey, (Examples, principles, theories, pp. 38 ff.) and a discussion of the

Terms and definitions fundamental to designing.

(pp. 54 ff.)

Students in earlier

semesters may skip this part for the time being and start immediately with Ways of designing.

(p. 71)

Likewise, the theoretical background to the

term “design tool” may also be skipped in favour of starting with the overview of Visual and verbal tools.

(p. 116)

WHAT SOURCES DOES THIS BOOK DRAW ON? This book pursues a line

of inquiry that draws on the philosophical method of phenomenology first developed by Edmund Husserl and subsequently applied to creative work by Vilém Flusser. This approach owes much to the latter’s texts on gestures, on design and on the philosophy of photography. A second key work is Otl Aicher’s writings on design theory, summarized in books such as die

welt als entwurf (“the world as design”) and analog und digital (“analogous and ­digital”), and a third is the design work of the Portuguese architect Álvaro Siza, which I was able to observe at close quarters over the course of several years. Taking the questions these posed as a basis, I consulted the literature on the theory and history of design and also relied on my own observations and findings from current research. A phenomenological inquiry of this kind would not be complete without a consideration of chronological and taxonomic questions, and these too are addressed here. As ethical and aesthetic

issues are also central to design, this approach is not purely descriptive, as is usually the case with phenomenology. By the same token, and like almost all applied research, the book makes no claims to being unbiased in its views. Its central motivation is directed towards finding better ways and possibilities of designing. Last but not least, the author’s extensive experi-

15

ence of twenty-five years of teaching, research and practice provides an additional but mostly implicit background to this book. WHAT KEY FINDINGS DOES THIS BOOK CONTAIN? Designers have a

much wider range of tools and instruments at their disposal than is generally assumed. In addition to the without doubt core set of visual tools, such as sketches, drawings and models, and the most frequently used verbal tools of description, discussion and criticism, designers have access to a far greater number of tools that address a range of possible applications and uses. This book aims to make clear the variety of tools available to designers and conveys how they can be employed productively. The book also proposes two approaches to ordering these in a taxonomy: a field of terms that was already in the first edition of this book

(p. 118)

and a new matrix

(pp. 134–135)

that reflects the wider use of the key term in research published since then. One of the results of this research is a reappraisal of verbal design tools. It draws on the insight that each design tool, including drawings or models, has its own distinct advantages and disadvantages, and that it is only through the intelligent combination of different tools that these can be compensated for. The importance of spoken or written verbalization in design is greater than generally assumed. Formulating hypotheses, concepts, descriptions, initiating discussions and voicing criticism is not just “fine words” nor is it just an accompanying extra to the “actual” design work of sketching, drawing or model making; these are design tools in themselves that must be used consciously and intentionally. To understand them better and use them in a more qualified way, they too require considered, scholarly reflection. The concept of architecture as a rational, theoretically founded discipline originated in antiquity but has only fully developed since the beginning of the modern era. Although design and building both have a long history, most of the professions whose core competence is architectural design only emerged during or after the Italian Renaissance. In a historically short period of time, they have become constituent factors of the modern way of life.

16

A well-ordered toolbox: drafting tools made by Clemens Riefler, Munich, before 1900. Photograph: Rama, 2016

The fact that we now spend most of our time in environments largely designed and created by humans means that design has become a determining factor for the quality of our living environments. At the same time, with the ever-advancing digital revolution, we are currently in the process of contantly redefining design through the continuous fundamental transfor­

17

mation of its most important tools. WHAT’S NEW IN THE EXPANDED AND UPDATED EDITION? In addition

to incorporating findings from new research into design tools published since the first edition and a series of improved illustrations, the book has been expanded through the addition of a third part dedicated to the topic of design practice. It focuses on three areas that have gained increasing import­ ance in recent years and have the potential to become seminal influences on 21st century architecture: digital, research-based and social design. Each of these design practices differs markedly from the conventional concept of architectural design practice, but in very different ways. All three are essential to achieving more ecologically, economically and socially sustain­ able architecture. HOW CAN TOOLS FOR IDEAS BE USED IN DESIGN TEACHING? The con-

tents of this book can serve as the basis for a didactic concept, but not ­without a degree of translation. Ideally, this would take the form of a lecture series accompanied by exercises on the individual tools as well as seminars in which students can discuss and reflect on their own design experiences. At present, however, most modern design curricula lack the time for such an extensive course. Merely recommending that students read this book as part of a design project has little discernible effect, as they are generally too busy with their own design work and meeting deadlines. Better results have been achieved through seminars with more experienced students who are able to discuss their own design experiences with regard to the basic processes and tools. The seminars were more effective if they were accompanied by a series of lectures that conveyed the contents of this book, enriched with further examples. Didactically, the most effective ­method, however, has been to embed individual lectures and seminar sessions across the entire curriculum to meet the respective level of knowledge and learning needs at that moment: for example, a lecture introducing the ­subject of

design at the beginning of the course, followed a little later by introductory lectures combined with design exercises on the basic design tools such as gesture, sketch or language. Other examples are an impulse lecture on the subject of critique as a tool before the first major interim ­presentation, or an introduction to the broad field of Theory as a tool of design as part of a

18

lecture series on architectural theory. Other chapters, such as Design and

research or Terms and definitions, are more relevant later, for example at the beginning of a master’s or doctoral programme.

HOW DID THIS BOOK COME ABOUT? This book arose out of a desire

to give greater clarity to the scientific basis of design teaching and theory. To begin with, it was also a reaction to the difficulties I had encountered in my own experience of learning to design, and to the considerable discrepancy I perceived between the content and methods of my training and

19

my first years of professional experience. In fact, many of my teachers were indeed highly respected and successful architects, urban planners and landscape architects. While they set us design tasks, gave lectures and criticized our proposed solutions (some too hesitantly, others too savagely), the process of designing itself – the knowledge of procedures, processes and methods, and the ability to use tools and strategies, media and evaluation criteria at the right moment and in a solution-focussed way – was tacitly assumed. It was not discussed, and no literature was recommended to us, although relevant textbooks were already available. (for an overview see e.g. Hassenewert 2006)

The university would have been a good place to think about the activity of design. The academic teachers came from a broad range of architectural backgrounds but, unfortunately, they were more concerned with outlining and defending their respective positions than with addressing more fundamental questions. Some were even of the opinion that design ability was a question of being suitably “gifted” and there was no point in trying to teach it: the “bad” students wouldn’t understand it anyway, and the “good” were already capable so didn’t need any further instruction.

Sketches, drawings, drafting tables, models, prototypes, photographs, texts, publications and videos in the exhibition Piece by Piece: Renzo Piano Building Workshop, Power Station of Art, Shanghai 2015

This derives perhaps from a popular misconception that skills that cannot be taught directly and only acquired through personal practice and learning are not something that teaching can address. The opposite is the case. The journalist Geoff Colvin evaluated a range of research papers and was able to demonstrate how “talent is overrated” and that it takes years of focussed

20

practice, guided by qualified professionals, to excel in a field.

(Colvin 2008)

In

music or sports, this is taken for granted; why should it be any different in architecture? DO WE NEED OTHER WAYS OF DESIGN TEACHING? This attitude is

­particularly unfair to those students who do not come from parents with an affinity for architecture or design. It fails to acknowledge people’s central learning abilities and their learning needs and contributes significantly to the much lamented and increasingly worsening lack of transparency and equal opportunities in higher education, and in turn in society as a whole. This attitude is as misguided as it is regrettable, and it also reveals the social mechanisms often described by sociologists such as Pierre Bourdieu and Didier Eribon that turn universities into institutions that actively promote social disparity and social privilege by failing to adequately support students from less privileged social backgrounds.

(cf. Eribon 2013, pp. 182 ff.)

The prejudice that all previous knowledge only hinders creativity also falls under this category. Teaching, like learning to design, is still presented as a purely practical activity based solely on personal experience. The foreword to a recently published book on design teaching, for example, says:

“Teaching is not theory, but practice. [...] because it depends on the practice, the ­experience of the teacher.” (Eberle, Aicher 2018, p. 10) But the way in which this experience is then actually passed on has little in common with the concrete practice of design. The majority of the actual design teaching is provided (at least at German-speaking universities) by so-called “assistants”, while the professors, whose experience is potentially most enlightening, restrict ­themselves predominantly to giving lectures and architecture criticism of the students’ work. WHAT CAN BE DONE? Many universities still restrict themselves to the

method of learning-by-doing, which often leads to students imitating well-known role models without a deeper understanding of the actual core

activity of designing or of the factors that contribute to a design. In many cases, a design method is taught (without reflecting on it), but not how to design. To learn how to design in a truly independent and innovative way requires a more enlightened approach to teaching. Students need both ­personal practice and the theory that underpins it. They need theoretically

21

sound knowledge of the prerequisites, processes, tools, media, methods and theories of design and the various avenues they can pursue when designing. They need not only the knowledge and skills to work successfully with the most important design tools, but also the necessary overview to choose a suitable tool at any given time and to use it inventively and appropriately. In digital design, they should also acquire the skills to develop their own design tools.

PART A: FUNDAMENTALS 22

Architectural design is one of the most demanding human activities. It lies at the heart of all professions that derive from the architekton of Antiquity: architects, urban designers, landscape architects as well as designers, set designers and also engineers of all kinds. Design connects practice and theory and requires both artistic skills and a solid scientific grounding. Its goal is to meet a need that has both philosophical and political aspects: the good design of the world we live in.

Design and research Ultimately, all theory means what points beyond it. Hans-Georg Gadamer (1986, p. 50)

23

Architecture has featured as a fully accredited faculty at universities for some time now. Given the centuries-old history of these institutions, this is a new phenomenon whose significance has not been thoroughly explored to date, either by architects or the universities. Until a few decades ago, architectural design and construction were mainly taught at art academies, engin­ eering schools, specialist colleges and technical colleges. In European countries where architecture has increasingly found its way on to university syllabuses since the mid-1980s, many art colleges and technical colleges that used to run such courses have developed into fully-fledged universities. This acknowledges the assertion by artists and architects since the beginning of the modern age that they should be treated not just as specialist craftsmen, as artists and engineers, but equally as scientists and academics. Unifying teaching by introducing bachelor’s and master’s courses is presenting some European countries with great challenges, especially in the field of architecture. The question arises in the universities about the extent to which the introduction of new, more strongly pre-structured courses restricts teachers’ freedom to teach and students’ freedom to learn. On the other hand, a longer period of practical experience between the bachelor’s and master’s courses, as is customary in the USA, makes it possible to accumulate the skills needed for design work. Making courses internationally compatible also promotes the mobility of both students and teachers. But it also demands new forms of design teaching devised to impart generally applicable subject matter, rather than ideas born of personal preference or local specifics. This process of unification necessitates the streamlining of study curricula, often at the expense of the “soft” subjects in architectural studies. Cultural and creative subject areas are gradually being displaced by technical and commercial subject areas. This tendency is a direct result of an economic climate that honours creative achievement only when money can be earned from it. The promise of creative self-realization inherent in all creative pro­ fessions is a fundamental myth within this economic order adhered to by

designers, authors, fine artists, musicians and film makers alike. It remains to be seen to what degree the notion of a creative profession will be reflected in future study programmes. Astonishingly enough, even today architects, and particularly those who see themselves as designers, make little of the original university idea of

24

combining teaching and research. They are sceptical about a systematic ­analysis of fundamental questions relating to design, especially as research approaches appropriate to this particular activity are not yet anywhere near to being in place. It is not considered usual to do a doctorate as a so-called design architect, indeed it may even be seen as counter-productive. What really counts for designers and design teachers nowadays seems to be winn­ ing competitions and realizing projects. There is a good reason for this: as many of the mental processes involved in design (or any other creative activity) happen subconsciously and can only be practised indirectly and in complex contexts, any research activity can only indirectly extend the skills needed for design. It creates knowledge that is of a fundamentally different kind to that of the design abilities of a particular person. For this reason, all architects working in academic fields should consider the objection raised by the German architect Egon Eiermann that in our profession academic achievement is of only little

Jaspers 1946 (The Idea of the University), Adorno 1971 (Education for Maturity and Responsibility), Bourdieu 1984 (Homo Academicus): an idealistic, a theoretical and a socio-ethnographic view of the university

importance compared with the basic human attitude that should inform this profession from start to finish.

(Eiermann 1994, p. 39)

Theoretical knowledge and

knowledge that informs actions are not the same thing, and one can often be applied to the other only with great difficulty. this “grey” knowledge

25

(Dörner 1989, p. 65)

However,

(loc. cit., p. 304)

can serve as a basis for talking about designing and building – it can pro­­­­ duce “communicable, verifiable, discussable”

(Karl Jaspers, after Saner 1970, p. 69)

insights that in their turn can provide a basis for teaching. Design is so ­cen­­­­trally significant in today’s society that research into it can no longer be neglected. The architect and journalist Wolfgang Bachmann wrote that

“­merely glancing out of the window shows us that we have reached a state of nearemergency regarding architectural design. Every expansion of the urban periphery, every business park reveals the absence of architectural design.” (Bachmann 2006)

TEACHING ARCHITECTURAL DESIGN

The position of architects at universities and other architecture schools is prim­arily that of teaching staff. This is problematic from the outset. In his l­ecture Taboos about the teaching profession, Theodor Adorno described typical deficits associated with being a teacher: it is quite obvious that the teaching

26

profession, compared with other academic professions such as lawyers or doctors, carries a certain aroma of something that is not wholly socially accepted. According to Adorno, teachers have perhaps subconsciously been perceived as cripples of a kind, as fundamentally immature people who have no function within actual life and the real reproductive processes of society. (cf. Adorno 1971, pp. 71 ff.)

Gregory Bateson is even more radical, expressing the

suspicion that many teachers don’t really have anything to say:

“Is it that teachers know that they carry the kiss of death which will turn to tastelessness whatever they touch or teach, and therefore they are wisely unwilling to touch or teach anything of real-life importance? Or is it that they carry the kiss of death because they dare not teach anything of real-life importance?” (Bateson 1979, p. 15) But Adorno sees university teachers as exempt from this odium. He says it is significant that the teachers who enjoy the greatest respect are in fact those academics who still pursue productive research, or at least the idea and public perception of what that is, in other words those who are not trapped in the educational sphere, which is suspected of being secondary and illusory. Adorno cites the example of a university teacher who reflects that he was only able to educate his students because he never acted like a teacher. What makes a successful academic teacher is obviously based on the absence of any desire to influence, on not attempting to persuade. Not only from this point of view is academic research a factor that makes ­university teaching particularly credible and relevant. In architecture faculties it is the teacher’s own designs and realized buildings that are generally regarded as being equivalent to academic research – rather than an analytical approach to the teacher’s own activities or a theory of design derived from this. The general view is that the status and esteem of a university design teacher is measured by built designs, which have thus proved that they can be realised, are functionally useful and culturally valuable. But the quality of design teaching does not derive solely from the quality of what teachers have designed and built, but also from their ability to reflect on

Leonardo da Vinci: Old man seated, with vertebra studies, c. 1513, pen and ink, 15.2 x 21.3 cm, Windsor Castle, The Royal Collection 12579r

their own practice and transform its implicit practical knowledge into

“com­mu­­nicable, verifiable, discussable” knowledge –as in Karl Jaspers’ previously quoted description of academic insight. Only this makes it teachable. In this respect, two deficits would signify a design teacher’s “immaturity”: not having proved the quality of their designs by building them, and not having ensured the quality of their teaching through systematic studies. Both have to be overcome, as “the demand for mental maturity seems evident in a

democracy”.

(Adorno 1971, p. 133)

Leonardo da Vinci had to overcome a comparable kind of – alleged or real – “immaturity” in his day. If in today’s climate it is a lack of academic reflection that often marks the limitations of design teaching, in the social hierarchy of Leonardo’s day, artists and architects were not rated much more highly than craftsmen, a status certainly not comparable with that of scholars. Leonardo’s wish to be acknowledged as a scholar and not just as little more than a craftsman, as a “huomo sanza lettere”,

(Arasse 1997, p. 69)

manifested

itself in extended scientific research that he saw as the basis for his artistic work, and at the same time reinforced his claim for a higher social status. As the personification of the combination of artistic work, technical and architectural design and scientific research, Leonardo da Vinci became a

“figure symbolizing modern man”. (Schumacher 1981, p. 41)

(Mittelstrass 1994, p. 159)

Leonardo the “projector”

can serve as a model for architects who see themselves

as generalists, as “specialists in not specializing” (Álvaro Siza) in a climate of an ever-increasing pressure to specialize. Leonardo, who as a left-hander was inclined towards spatial, pictorial, associative and simultaneous thinking, is worth re­newed study to examine how art and technology, design and research, architecture and science can once more be brought together in an up-to-date way.

28

Any teaching has an inherent tendency to simplify and abbreviate for the sake of presenting material more concisely, with the danger of consequently becoming dogmatic. If one follows the historic development of architecture teaching, it becomes clear that attempts were regularly made to break with this tendency and mount a counter-movement in order to return to reality. The attempts to incorporate current knowledge and working methods in teaching provided the most fruitful impetus for the further development of design teaching in the long term. One historic example is the English Arts and Crafts movement, which specifically linked art and craft, and still continues to be relevant today in the work of William Morris and John Ruskin as well as Hans Poelzig and the Bauhaus. The desire to create a direct and concrete link with reality became the basis for many innovations in Poelzig’s role-plays or the material studies that László Moholy-Nagy conducted at the Bauhaus. In the course of the enlightenment and industrialization, two parallel traditions with different focuses have developed in Europe since the French Revolution, one placing more emphasis on the artistic side of design and building, and the other on the engineering aspects. The artistic side was represented by the studios of the École des Beaux-Arts, which was founded in Paris in 1793 as successor to the Académie Royale d’Architecture. Design was taught at this school as an art, with each ­studio as a sworn company subordinated to an architectural personality and a hierarchy characterized by a traditional master-pupil relationship. This line of tradition can be traced via the art colleges of our day down to the units of the British Architectural Association.

Students’ workrooms in the faculty of architecture at Oporto University (FAUP), Álvaro Siza, 1986–1995

The other approach taught design from the perspective of the technical basis of architecture. This teaching was committed to the principles of enlighten­ ment, modern science and ultimately the modern university. The correspon­ ding institution, the École Polytechnique, was founded in 1794, a year after the École des Beaux-Arts, and thus also in the aftermath of the French

29

Revolution and with the unbroken enthusiasm of the Enlightenment. The teachers at this school were obliged to write down the subject matter they taught and to justify it scientifically.

(Pfammatter 1997)

This led to publications

including Jean-Nicolas-Louis Durand’s famous and influential Précis des

leçons d’architecture données à l’École Polytechnique

(Paris 1802).

Teaching no longer

took place only in the studio, but also in lectures and seminars, and an effort was made to underpin design teaching with theoretical work. Here the principle of academic research was set against the master-pupil relationship of artistic training. The students of the day were aware of the split into two educational systems, and thus also that they needed to concern themselves intensively with both aspects of building. Many trained under both systems, and occasionally, as in the case of Durand, also taught in both systems. This dichotomy between the artistic and technical-scientific aspects of architecture is still either poorly or wrongly understood and continues to be a cause of uncertainty in the self-perception of architects today. While some see themselves as functional-rational technicians at the service of their clients, with no responsibility for the wider context, others are happy to overlook the fact that scientific, technical and economic rationalities are part of the human culture with which we make this world habitable – or uninhabitable. Architecture should be more committed to concrete reality than to any theory. According to this notion, it is best placed at the opposite end of the scale to philosophy on the spectrum of faculties (what Jaspers terms the cosmos of the sciences and humanities). While philosophy sums up and evaluates the results of research work from a theoretical point of view, architecture is able to direct this summing up and evaluation towards concrete realization. Just as philosophy moves in a world of ideas beyond the exact ­sciences, architecture can make a contribution as an applied science to relating the exact sciences to the concrete world we live in. The idea of a Synthèse des Arts as formulated by Le Corbusier can therefore be extended as a Synthèse des Arts

et des Sciences. Architecture’s role in the university would then be not to

complete the totality of the sciences, but actually to bring such a totality into being from the ­perspective of concrete realization. In order to achieve this, systematic research – the precise meaning of which is still to be defined – needs not only to be rated much more highly in architecture faculties, but also needs to be anchored within the self-comprehension of designing

30

­architects. This is discussed in greater detail in the new chapters on Theory (pp. 249 ff.)

and Research-based Design

(pp. 324 ff.).

RESEARCH IN ARCHITECTURAL DESIGN

One of the most concise definitions of scientific research was proposed by the biologist Edward O. Wilson who says that natural science “is the organised, systematic enterprise that gathers knowledge about the world and ­condenses it into testable laws and principles”.

(Wilson 1998, p. 53)

The natural

­sciences represent ideal academic activity employing criteria such as ­methodological rigour, repeatability, predictability and conclusive general validity. Gregory Bateson identifies the limitations of this ideal:

“Whenever we pride ourselves upon finding a newer, stricter way of thought or exposition […] we lose something of the ability to think new thoughts. And equally, of course, whenever we rebel against the sterile rigidity of formal thought and ­expo­sition and let our ideas run wild, we likewise lose. As I see it, the advances in scientific thought come from a combination of loose and strict thinking, and this combination is the most precious tool of science” (Bateson 1972, pp. 116 f.) According to Bateson, the indispensable basis of scientific research is to be clear about the precise requirements when a problem is approached, as academic enquiry never proves anything. It simply sets up hypotheses that it either improves or refutes as the research proceeds

(Bateson 1979, p. 37).

It is

only when the researcher is aware of what is required that it becomes possible to question it. In the Book of Disquiet, which Fernando Pessoa, the modernist Portuguese writer, attributes to his heteronym Bernardo Soares, a ­fragment of a sentence suddenly crops up between two longer sections, and without any further comment. It says: “… o sagrado instinto de não ter teorias.” (… the sacred instinct to have no theories …).

(Pessoa 1991, p. 77)

These words

give a sense of the ideal view of an artist or scientist exposing him or herself to the entirety of human existence, in an attempt to absorb the world without the filter of theoretical categories.

Human freedom, which Karl Jaspers once characterized as an “existence of freedom inac-

cessible to all research”,

(Jaspers 1946, p. 50)

mani-

fests itself above all in the creative act of design. One aim of this book is to describe

31

the freedom of design, in the hope of making it more accessible, able to be experienced and communicable. What must be avoided at all costs is to constrain design in a predefined methodology. On the contrary, the world of design should be understood

Symbol of scientific research: the microscope

as open, and at the same time as complete in itself, as a realm containing a wide variety

of languages, and of forms of thought and work. This should contribute to a development that Wolfgang Welsch identifies in academic theory as a whole, where the artistic element is not just a programme for art, but also for its opposite pole, science itself.

(Welsch 1988, pp. 18 f.)

How do research and design relate to each other? What can research do for designers? Both activities produce knowledge, but of different kinds. Design, seen by many artists as a means of providing insight, can definitely not be replaced by research. Research, and scientific and technical research in particular, does contribute to the knowledge that may inform a design. But the process of design can claim to be scientific only to the extent that it is based on scientific insights. The relationship between design and science can be seen as analogous with the relationship between medical treatment and natural science: medical practice is based on scientific practices and insights, but itself is not a pure, but an applied science. Design is an art that is essentially compelled to rely on personal knowledge about actions and experience, one that goes beyond secured facts and beyond craft and technical knowledge. So, on the one hand, design is not a science in its own right, but draws on technical and scientific insights as well as artistic skill and ability. On the other hand design, although not a science, can be the object of systematic research. Any research that addresses design is not so much concerned with isolating and analysing existing objects or repeatable phenomena for detailed study. Rather, it addresses the relationship between the thoughts and actions of design, and the future, and inherently uncertain, realization of what has

been designed. Such a “design science” goes beyond the academic disciplines of art, culture and engineering, and encompasses a sphere in which both scientific and artistic approaches are relevant. The problems of design, and thus also of an academic discipline for design, are of a fundamentally different structure to those of traditional academic disciplines. Horst Rittel

32

also defined the categorical difference between an academic approach to design and traditional academic approaches by distinguishing between “tame” and “tricky” or “wicked” problems which because of their complex and contradictory nature can be neither unambiguously defined nor completely solved. A scientific argument is normally abandoned when an irresolvable con­ tradiction, a paradox is identified in its logical structure. In contrast to this, the activity of design is characterized by the problem that the designer is expected to devise acceptable solutions despite obvious contradictions. Any academic approach addressing design must therefore look for ways of identifying paradoxes, decoding their structure and significance and working with them productively. For example, it could do this, as Rittel suggests, by redefining the problems to be solved or as Vilém Flusser demonstrates, by looking for solutions on another level of meaning. Research of this kind can support design and design teaching by constructing theory. One of its essential aims would be to make implicit knowledge from actions and experience “communicable, verifiable, discussable”. The architect’s ability to bring together different disciplines, scales and levels of consideration when designing and building is increasingly in demand in the sciences. Jürgen Mittelstrass writes that science is no longer interested in recognizing what holds the world together in its innermost workings, but in the by no means less important and increasingly urgent task of holding the world together. (Mittelstrass 1994, p. 32)

In this context, nothing

less than a new translation of the Greek word architekton is proposed. The verb

arkhein is usually translated as “to take the lead”, but its original meaning is simply “to begin, to rule”. The term tekton does identify the carpenter, and tectonics is also “pertaining to building or construction”. (Onions 1996, p. 906)

36 research works on the subject of design. Brenda Laurel (Ed.), Design Research

But when these two concepts are related to architecture and science as a whole, their meaning is extended significantly. Being an architect would then mean not just being a master builder “lording it over the carpenters,” but means acting as an artist, engineer and scientist at the same time –

33

the architect is then someone who begins by fitting individual parts together to form a harmonious whole.

Architectural design Of course there’s a contradiction. It’s within the contradictions and ambiguities that we must find our work. John Cage (after Mau 2000, p. 427)

34

This book came into being as the result of a search for new ways of describing design. Design theories usually prescribe certain methods or systematic procedures, or they present the architectural elements from which a design could be devised. An attempt is made below to identify the aids and possible ways of acting available to design, to analyse them and to discover their potential for further critical development on a higher and at the same time more concrete level. The fact that it does not seem possible to formulate ­generally valid design methods – a dream of old, comparable with the medieval search for the philosophers’ stone, or Modernism’s search for a world formula that explains everything, or the search for software that would solve all communication problems – should not put us off trying to widen the boundaries within which design thinking can operate. In the “horizontal section” through various areas of knowledge we are undertaking here, the level at which we are directing our attention is defined by two questions: “What is design?” followed by “What are the tools of design?” This process is related to the way architects work. When designing and planning a building they link countless pieces of information from different disciplines without losing sight of the project as a whole. These thoughts started with approaches made to design theory by the designer Otl Aicher and the philosopher Vilém Flusser. Aicher’s writings in particular have set new standards for the systematic discussion of design. Flusser’s texts, above all his study of the Geste des Machens (Gesture of Making)

(Flusser 1991)

and of the

relationships between tool, machine and apparatus, can be read as complementary, theoretically well-versed and deeper explorations of Aicher’s less systematic approaches.

Architect drawing. Photograph: Stephanie Meyer

To a certain extent, this book follows the structure of many works on engineering, in which the first part is devoted to the theoretical basis for the tools, usually developed by the particular author, and these are then described in detail in the second half – with the difference that in this book none of the tools are new, instead existing ones are considered anew. Here

35

our fundamental concern is to see the historical and theoretical context. This corresponds with the approach taken by designers, who repeatedly make sure they have an overview of the context they are moving in, in order to set individual details and the whole, the design and its context, in a convincing relationship. Two sentences in particular caught my attention, because they suggest a new view of design, and one determined neither stylistically nor ideologically. The first comes from Álvaro Siza, who declared in an interview:

“One should not make oneself the slave of one tool only. That is why I always work with proper drawings from the drawing board, with sketches and with models at the same time.” (Bauwelt 1990, p. 1470) Doubts about the fitness of the tools available can be noted here, and as a response to this, the idea of relativizing these as part of the everyday design work, and thus compensating for their deficiencies. And a second sentence struck me in Otl Aicher’s book analog und digital (analogous and digital):

“we must move from thinking to making and learn to think in a new way by making.” (Aicher 1991/1, p. 76) Aicher talks about the cultural and ideological limitations of thought, and thus also of design, and at the same time shows how these can be questioned by actual work. Design processes are infinitely complicated and rich in detail, and hard to predict in terms of their crucial elements. Every individual designs differently. Everyone knows different things, sees things in different ways, thinks in ­different structures and follows different criteria, and expresses thoughts differently. Simple rules or compact theories of design, even if there were any, and even if they were right, would remain either too detailed or too general to be much help in day-to-day practice. But a theory is able to help formulate a range of questions, to think them through and differentiate them sufficiently in order to find appropriate answers to the questions raised in practice. A theory of this kind can place a large number of observed details in sensible contexts, make their mutual relationships and dependencies recog-

nizable and help to draw a picture of architectural design that can always be corrected and differentiated further. Each question is at the same time a challenge to readers to reflect on their own way of working and formulate their personal responses. Designers are working towards the future, looking at the relationship between what they are designing at a particular moment in the present and its future realization. Essentially the design process involves translating theory into practice. But the relationship between the original design idea and its future realization cannot be grasped with the same analytical rigour as problems in the natural or even the social sciences. On the contrary, the ability to deal with a lack of rigour reflectively is an essential skill for competent design. Architects use the factual knowledge – classified by Aristotle as episteme – they have gained from the natural sciences for their “One should not make oneself the slave of one tool only…”, Faculty of architecture at Oporto University (FAUP), Álvaro Siza, 1986 –1995

work, but the work itself is based on abilities that would be called poiesis (Greek: making, manufacturing, producing) and

praxis (Greek: acting, behaviour) in Aristotle’s terminology. While poiesis relates to the “skilful craft knowledge” (Gadamer 1998, p. 6) of techne, the basis of praxis is knowledge of another category that Aristotle calls phronesis and defines as “directive, true behaviour based on reasons in the sphere of what is good and bad for man”. (after Ebert 1995, p. 167) Aristotle clarifies the distinction between these two categories by taking the example of the craftsman whose expertise, restricted to his trade and manufacturing skills (poeiesis), he distinguishes from the architect’s good and reasonable behaviour (praxis); he still knows what to do for the best when

techne and its rules fail (cf. Nichomachean Ethics VI, 1141b 20). In this context, Aristotle mentions architektonike as a “supreme art of direction”. (Gadamer 1998, p. 12) The actual problem of design, it can be said now these definitions have been

established, is not just a question of poiesis and techne (expert manufacture), but above all of praxis and phronesis – that good and reasonable behaviour that grows out of empeiria (Greek: experience). Unlike the natural sciences, which see themselves as value-neutral, when dealing with design the question of value, whether the value of a piece of knowledge, of a skill, an action

37

or a tool, is of central importance. Designers addressing concrete problems thus find terse definitions by the book relatively unhelpful, what they need is differentiated knowledge of the possibilities for design action. In general, both classical architectural theory and current design theory discuss the role of criteria, examples and the results of design work. However, here we will discuss tools and cultural design techniques.

THE LITERATURE: EXAMPLES, PRINCIPLES, THEORIES

A broad spectrum of specific knowledge is required for design, differing according to subject. All disciplines share general knowledge about the activity of designing that is regrettably seldom exchanged outside the individual subject areas. This survey concentrates on the sphere of architecture,

38

and is complemented by references to related areas. The structure of the fields of knowledge laid down here also applies to other design disciplines. What literature is currently available about design, and what part of it is of particular relevance to designers? There are enough design-related publications to fill entire libraries. It is not just architects, designers and engineers who are concerned with questions of design, so too are town planners and landscape architects, historians of architecture, technology and art, mathematicians, psychologists and neurologists, fine artists, musicians, managers and philosophers. This may be why the discourse on the subject is so little ordered or generally just loosely linked. The wide range of research approaches available to design are presented for the English-speaking world by Groat and Wang in the book Architectural

Research Methods (2002) and Laurel in Design Research (2003). Groat and Wang examine seven different research methods in detail, while Laurel collects several dozen independent pieces of research on the subject. She uses a matrix in which categories of methods, contexts, objects and spheres available for research intersect with the subject areas of person, form, process and action to show

(Laurel 2003, pp. 8 f.)

that most of these studies touch on several

themes and several categories. In this book we have simplified this and distinguish between three categories: views based on examples, on principles and on theories. These are arranged in several sub-groups in each category, on a scale from the general to the personal. Those publications most ­important for the ongoing discourse1 are dealt with below, and some further 300 publications are listed in the bibliography. WHAT ONE CAN DESIGN

Design approaches that are informed by what can be designed use concrete, realized examples and are generally not seen as design doctrine or design theory. As a rule such publications stress the artistic and visual aspects of architectural design. Their predecessors are the 19th century’s portfolios and submissions. For many designers these are a favourite source of information.

1 This chapter does not consider publications published after 2007.

Based on examples (what one can design)

Based on individual buildings (the making of …) Based on typologies Based on styles, formal languages, genealogies, trends Based on regions, countries or periods Based on the œuvres of individual designers

Based on principles (how one can design)

Based on design teaching Based on the design process (methodology) Based on rules, standards, regulations Based on building materials or construction methods Based on graphic representation Based on formal design principles Based on an analysis of the architectural elements Based on individual designers’ working methods

Based on theories (how design can be accounted for)

Based on approaches from the natural sciences Based on approaches from the life sciences Based on approaches from the humanities or cultural science Based on social and political subjects Based on art, architectural and design theory

Approaches to design research (relating to architecture)

They are usually easy to consume, conveying straightforward and applicable examples that can be imitated without critical study and absorbed into the designer’s own work without difficulty. In the worst cases, such literature can lure practitioners into superficial imitation. At best, when coupled with other questions, they provide insight into the deeper motivations behind design solutions.

Working on the basis of individual buildings makes it possible to show a design emerging in full detail. Fiederling’s book (1975) does not do justice to its ambitious title Theorie des Entwerfens (Design Theory), as all it does is show how a design for a detached house is developed step by step. But Nägeli and Vallebuona (1992) demonstrate how a factory complex comes

40

into being in exemplary fashion. In The Making of Beaubourg, Silver (1994) examines the “biography” of the Centre Pompidou by Piano and Rogers over a decade after its construction. Books by Foster (2000) and Behnisch and Durth (2005) do not just introduce the story of the buildings they have converted and the institutions they house, but also the political background to their design work. In many cases, publications addressing individual buildings are little more then self-presentations by building firms, architects and their clients. Product design, for example, conducts intensive market and user-oriented design, both in advance of the design phase and afterwards as a subsequent evaluation by independent institutions. This is uncommon in the field of architecture. There are, however, studies based on typological questions, which select projects on the basis of certain functional criteria, impose some order on them and thus lay them open to comparison. For example, the

Floor Plan Manual: Housing

(Schneider 1994, 2004)

offers numerous floor plans

for homes at a scale of 1:200, complemented by sections, photographs and technical information to provide a good overview. Similar volumes are avail­ able for industrial buildings

(Ackermann 1988, 1993, 1994)

as well as for offices,

high-rise buildings and museums. The Bechers’ numerous books on the architecture of the mining industry, or Höfer’s (2001, 2005) on interior design for public buildings make valuable contributions using the resources of documentary photography. There are so many studies based on architectural trends, individual regions or particular periods that it would be go beyond the scope of this book to mention them individually. As with works on individual personal­ ities, they shed light on the cultural, geographical and political contexts of design.

Upper floor and stairs in the Lello & Irmão bookshop, Oporto

HOW ONE CAN DESIGN

The approaches discussed so far see design in terms of its results, while the second group’s approaches and publications are based on principles that are readily identified and can serve as examples. They ask how and by what means designs can be made and look at the methods followed, and the points of view, rules, regulations, standards and laws that have to be taken into consideration. They attempt to record the parameters and laws of design rationally. Almost all these contributions can be classified under one of the individual aspects mentioned below, and even if many publications discuss elements from several approaches, none of them successfully provides a comprehensive account of the wide range of specialist knowledge and the broad spectrum of different cultural techniques required for designing. Another difficulty lies in the fact that knowing and acknowledging these rules and principles is not always essential and in no cases a guarantee for producing good designs. Their sphere of validity is always limited, but these limitations are almost never indicated. An enlightened treatment should ­particularly stress the relativity of such rules. Rules for applying rules are seldom given, and according to a polemic by Francisco de Goya, “in art no

rules apply anyway”.

(after Hofmann 2003, p. 119)

In fact many of them are more

like recipes or rules of thumb that are now presented as universally valid.

Architecture faculty library at Oporto University (FAUP), Álvaro Siza, 1986–1995

One simple example: the formulae Neufert gives for staircase pitch 176)

(1992, p.

are certainly adequate for the dimensions of standard stairs in flats or

­offices, but of no use for stairs in prestigious public buildings, gardens or parks – or for that matter for double-decker buses. They take no account of the width of the stairs, which makes a crucial difference in terms of safety, nor of the speed at which they are usually climbed or descended. But above all they do not consider the architectural significance that a particular pitch can convey. Many of these books reduce architectural design to something technical. Artistic and cultural aspects are neglected, as are historical ones, and no attempt is made to prioritise methods. One positive aspect is the attempt to make generally valid statements about those aspects of design that are independent of a person, or of formal language. This approach originated in the Enlightenment and freed design teaching from the master-pupil relationship by developing rational design theory based upon scientific principles. It can be traced back to Durand and the early days of the École Polytechnique in Paris.

(Pfammatter 1997)

In the context of this approach, a first group of publications concentrates on the design process and its systematisation in design methodology. This approach was already the subject of study by the Design Method Movement in the 1960s whose story is recorded by Prominski in his dissertation on Komplexes Landschaftsentwerfen (Complex Landscape Design, 2003). The approach taken by Joedicke (1970, 1976) describes a functionalistic

Reading room in the Cottbus University library, Herzog & de Meuron, 1994–2005

design methodology based on process, using complex “evaluation and deci-

sion-making techniques”,

(1976, pp. 33 – 34)

but without adequately presenting

the procedures of design itself. In his book Creativity as an Exact Science, The Theory of the Solution of Inventive Problems (1984), the Russian academic Altschuller develops algorithms for solving invention problems that help to systematically determine the parameters of such tasks and suggest ways of solving them. His approach is now pursued in the engineering disciplines, but also offers many ideas for the sphere of design.

Design methodology is also still pursued today. For example, Engel (2003) uses numerous diagrams in his attempt to present “the methodology of architectural planning as a rational procedure, transparent and predictable”. (loc. cit, p. 230) By contrast, Gerkan suggests that “the assertion that design could be explicitly effected in terms of methodology is charla­ tanism”. (Gerkan 1995, p. 39) Kücker also criticizes the “so-called scientific approach to design”: he says that cutting the dimensions of design down to something comprehensible on the basis of a rational planning process is bound to fail, as designing is an artistic act. (Kücker 1998, p. 19, pp. 92 f.) Schön examines design processes, but without going back to the nebulous concept of the artistic. He decodes the involved and often unpredictable sequences by observing architects,

Reading room in the Aveiro University library, Álvaro Siza, 1988–1995

engineers and town planners in detail, but also includes scientists, psychotherapists and managers. He ends up with a description of design as a

“Reflective Practice”,

(Schön 1983, 1987)

which he says is characterized by a con-

stant reflective oscillation between rules and their evaluation. But above all, Schön shows the categorical difference between applying rules, to which he

44

also attributes scientific principles and theories, and a “reflective” design that cannot be enshrined in rules because of its complexity. Dorst (1997) also compares rational problem-solving strategies with the "reflective" practice described by Schön, as two fundamentally different ways of describing design processes. Starting out from the everyday practice and theory of design, his book Understan­ding Design (2003) collects 150 short essays, each one page long, to form a mosaic that provides a good overview and conveys a variety of inspiring insights. The rules, standards, regulations and laws of architectural design form the basis on which Neufert (1936, 2005) developed his design-oriented

Architects’ Data handbook, which is still very popular today. However, he devotes only few lines to the actual design process. In the German edition he describes design using the metaphor of a birth:

“And now the labour pains of the first house design begin, first in the mind, as a deep immersion in the organizational, organic intricacies of the task and the intellectual motivations behind them. Out of this, a shadowy idea of the intellectual approach to the building and its atmosphere as a set of spaces starts to emerge for the designer, and out of this the physical quality of its appearance in ground plan and elevation. A rapid charcoal sketch is the first result of this labour for one designer, a filigree scribble for another, according to temperament. The result may seem like just a scrawl for most people but for those who know how to read it, it is a living thing from which the design for the building is refined, becoming ever more trans­ parent and intelligible.” (Neufert 1992, p.42) Here the design process is rendered somewhat mystically a­s something in the mind, experienced almost passively. In this respect, the value of the book lies not so much in the way it presents design but in the abundance of technical data it offers in compact form – a similar function to the one fulfilled today by the volume Time-Saver Standards for Architectural Design Data by Watson, Crosbie and Callender or the Metric Handbook by Adler (1986, 1999).

The numerous publications, beloved of students, by the US classic Ching (1979, 1989, 1998, 2002) introduce design principles based on formal creative approaches, on presentation (especially drawing and perspective) and on building analysis. His books contain many examples inviting imitation, but little explanation, classification or analysis. A related but more analytical

45

approach is contributed by Ermel (2004) in German. His Grundlagen des

Entwerfens (Fundamentals of Architectural Design) presents design methodology using formal principles and the functional basis of architecture, but without going into any detail about design itself or its tools. Schricker (1986) and in particular Knauer in Entwerfen und Darstellen (Designing and Presenting, 1991, 2002), operate rather like Ching, focusing entirely on ­drawing as a me­dium. Despite its subtitle that refers to drawing as a means of architectural design, drawing is treated as a means of presentation rather than a design tool. As with Porter and Goodman’s Manual of graphic tech-

niques for architects, graphic designers and artists (1980), the account thrives on the numerous examples intended for imitation. But in practice certain spheres of presentation or “visual representation” have long been separated from the process of design. In addition to architectural draughtsmen, there are now also specialists for drawing perspectives, model-making and digital presentation. Rodrigues (2000) analyses drawing as a specific design tool for imposing order on architectural thinking. De Lapuerta examines sketches by Spanish architects (1997) in a similarly analytical way; Smith (2004) and Moon (2005) do the same for architectural models. Fonatti (1982) also takes formal design principles as his starting point, as do the above-mentioned publications by Ching (1979) and Ermel (2004, vol. 1). Fonatti analyses the basic design principles using basic geometrical forms and possible ways of dividing them up and exploring them creatively as ground plans for buildings. Von Meiss (1984) looks at general formal design principles such as order, contrast, proportion and symmetry, combining these with the architectural dimensions of path and place, material and space in his building type studies. As with Ching (1989) and Ermel (2002, vol. 2), building typology, seen as an analysis of architectural elements, is the starting point for Alexander, who makes analysing individual architectural situations the basis of his design theory in A Pattern Language (1977). Fuhrmann links functionalistic building analysis with a description of planning processes in Bauplanung und

Bauentwurf – Grundlagen und Methoden der Gebäudelehre (Architectural Planning and Building Design – the Basics and Methods of Building Theory, 1988). His book is more an examination of the general conditions that need to be adhered to, the physiological, sociological and ecological bases of building, rather than the process of design itself, which receives only mar-

46

ginal attention and is dismissed in five pages using some diagrams. Accounts of design that describe outstanding practice from the working

methods of individual architects may seem particularly promising. This requires the author to be very close to the designer’s everyday work. Unfortunately, such studies are often undertaken only posthumously. For example, Klaus-Peter Gast (1998, 2001) analyses the principles and methods underlying the works of Louis I. Kahn and Le Corbusier. In Der Sinn der Unordnung (The Meaning of Disorder, 1989), Michels researches the work forms in Le Corbusier’s studio. One exception is Rodrigues, who with Obra e Método (Work and Method, 1992) devoted a revealing study to the personal design methods of Álvaro Siza. Eames Demetrios, the grandson of Charles and Ray Eames, provides a detailed picture of work in the Eames Office in his book An Eames Primer (2001), based on conversations with family members and many former employees. Many authors explain their personal working methods in remarkable texts that admittedly tend to be more self-glorifications of the “brilliant designer” than precise studies. A large number of texts are worth reading in relation to design, including those by Alvar Aalto, (Schildt 1997) Buckminster Fuller, (Krausse 2001) Jean Prouvé (2001), Renzo Piano (1997), Norman Foster, (Jenkins 2000) Peter Eisenman (1995, 2005), Álvaro Siza (1997) and Otl Aicher (1991, 1993). The engineers Peter Rice and Cecil Balmond pass on many inspiring insights into their thought and work in their books An Engineer Imagines (Rice 1994) and Informal. (Balmond 2002) Designers also provide information about the rules and principles of design in interviews. Lawson (1984) asked architects including Santiago Calatrava, Herman Hertzberger or Ken Yeang about their design processes. Robbins pursues a similar approach: in Why Architects Draw (1994) he ­pres­ents interviews with eminent architects on their treatment of drawing as a central design process. A less convincing book is Lorenz’s Entwerfen: 25 Archi­tekten, 25 Standpunkte (Architectural Design: 25 Architects, 25 View­ points, 2004), which despite the sweep of its title scarcely achieves more than

an image-enhancing presentation of the featured architecture practices. Although not directly related to architecture, the conversations and photographs that Koelbl uses to present the working methods of well-known German language authors in her volume Im Schreiben zu Haus. Wie Schriftsteller zu Werke gehen (At Home in Writing. How Writers Approach

47

Their Work, 1998) reveal much about creative work. Last but not least, the rules and principles of design can also be presented from the point of view of teaching. The two most important 19th century institutions, the Paris École des Beaux-Arts and its opposite number the École Polytechnique are described by Cafee (1977) and Pfammatter (1997). Wick (1982) examines teaching at the Bauhaus and Blaser (1977) introduces Mies van der Rohe’s teaching. Since Lindinger’s publication in 1987 there have been numerous publications about the hochschule für gestaltung in Ulm.

(including Spitz 2002, Form+Zweck no. 20/2003, Ulmer Museum / hfg-Archiv 2003)

The

volume edited by Jansen (1989) gives a detailed account of Bernhard Hoesli’s modernistic courses in the architecture department of the Swiss Federal Institute of Technology in Zurich. Kleine and Passe (1997) provide a record of Positionen zur Entwurfsgrundlehre (Positions on the Fundamentals of Architectural Design) as practised in Germany in the 1990s.

Design textbooks like Schricker’s Raumzauber (Spatial Magic, 1999) are aimed directly at students. Schricker discusses the design of rooms and products for the teaching of interior design taking a conceptual approach based on presentation methods and design methodology. In Open(ing) Spaces (2003) Loidl presents a series of design principles derived from analysing the elements of landscape architecture. Dominick’s Tools and Tactics of Design (2000), a textbook for engineering students, offers a detailed description of tools and procedures, but restricts itself to engineering design.

HOW DESIGN CAN BE ACCOUNTED FOR

The approaches discussed above deal with concrete donnés. The authors in the third group draw on artistic or scientific theories as a basis for design. They ask how design can be given a conceptual basis, and look for the premises and theories, criteria and paradigms that should be used for

48

design. Most practitioners find these texts too abstract and too little suited to ­practical application. As such they are primarily the subject of discussion and development in the context of research, teaching and criticism.

Scientific approaches like mathematics, cybernetics, model theory, ­complexity and chaos theory and information technology form the basis for the works of authors like Broadbent (1973), Rittel (1992) and Kalay (2005). Broadbent introduced a wide variety of new approaches to discussing design methodology in the 1960s in the rich material included in his study

Design in Architecture – Architecture and the Human Sciences (1973). This ­discussion is driven by the tendency to transfer new methods developed in the sciences and space travel to architectural design. Broadbent combines a broad thematic spectrum including statistics, cybernetics, model theory, Computer-Aided Design and “New Maths” with general design practice ­questions and methodology, user needs and the environment. However, with all of these approaches the problem still remains that some key para­ meters of architectural design cannot be either quantified or predetermined. Horst Rittel taught at the hochschule für gestaltung in Ulm and later at the universities of Berkeley and Stuttgart. He was a trained mathematician and theoretical physicist, and published numerous essays on planning and design theory, touching on various specialist areas. The most important of these were collected in a single volume posthumously. It contains a number of remarkable theoretical approaches, even if no over-arching theory of design is formulated. As a mathematician, Rittel successfully identifies the categorical differences between the “tricky” and “wicked” nature of design problems and the comparatively simply structured problems faced by the exact sciences. Relating to Rittel to an extent, Kalay (2004) offers a very detailed and comprehensive design theory, focused on CAAD, presenting the “Principles, theories and methods of computer aided design” using mathematic­ al or methodological approaches. Despite this Kalay, like the two authors mentioned previously, touches on design tools only cursorily.

There are numerous studies that are relevant to design, although of course seldom written by or for designing architects, that are based on life science

49

approaches as pursued by psychology and neurology, on the subjects of mental strategy, emotionality, creative techniques or game theory. Neurological insights by Sperry (1968), Eccles (1966, 1973) and others show that different thought patterns predominate in the two halves of the human brain. In Lateral Thinking, De Bono (1970) describes a series of mental ­strat­egies complementing traditional thought structured according to linear and analytical logic, which he classifies as vertical, with lateral thinking, i.e. thinking using generative, speculative patterns that employ mental leaps, a method particularly suitable for solving design problems. He uses this method very successfully to develop teaching methods, which he presents in numerous subsequent publications. The neurologist António Damasio examines the meaning of emotions for rational thought in his acclaimed works (1994, 1999). His case studies make it clear how emotions are fundamental to rational behaviour: the patients’ intelligence is entirely uncompromised, but they are unable to feel emotions – and as a consequence are no longer capable of rational thought and action. One central theme of design is dealing with complexity. The psychologist Dietrich Doerner has published a great deal of material on thinking and problem-solving (1974, 1976, 1983, 1989), and Schönwandt related this to architects’ activities and developed it further in Denkfallen beim Planen (Thought Traps for Architects, 1986). Vester also published on these subjects (1975, 1980, 1988): in Die Kunst vernetzt zu denken (The Art of Networked Thinking, 1999) he describes tools for a systematic treatment of complexity, combining cybernetic, ecological and computer-oriented approaches. Lawson’s much-read volume How Designers Think (1980, 1990, 1997, 2006) relates to the activities of architects in particular. It examines the thought processes involved in design from the point of view of psychology and design methodology. In this way he creates a comprehensive account of design that also addresses the most important design tools. His key topic is “Design Thinking”, and complements the approach followed here of presenting design from the point of view of tools. Lawson develops the themes of his first book further in Design in Mind (1994), analysing concrete design processes by contemporary architects, and in What Designers Know (2004), an account of selected designers’ specific knowledge.

The perception and communication processes through which all information incorporated in a design is ultimately acquired are also fundamental to design. Two works by Arnheim, Art and Visual Perception: A Psychology of the

Creative Eye (1974), and Visual Thinking: About the Unity of Image and Concept (1969) are indispensable here. Wiesing’s Philosophie der Wahrnehmung

50

(Philosophy of Perception, 2002) examines the difficulty of defining the concept of perception satisfactorily – comparable with the difficulty of defining design. Spengemann’s Architektur wahrnehmen (Perceiving Architecture, 1993) presents “experiments and studies of the many areas of interplay between man, architecture and the environment” (subtitle), but this is directed more at the reception of towns and architecture rather than their design. The same applies to Seyler’s Wahrnehmen und Falschnehmen (Perceiving and Mis-per­ ceiving, 2003), which develops “formal criteria for architects, designers and art educators” (subtitle) on the basis of Gestalt psychology. However, focusing as exclusively on this aspect as this author does would mean ignoring the complexity of design problems. The theme of contradictory demands emerges particularly clearly in the communication between laymen and experts, which the psychologist Riklef Rambow examines taking practising architects as examples (2000). Studies based on the humanities’ and cultural science’ approaches consider design from the point of view of philosophy, sociology, media and ­culture theory, and the history of architecture, technology and art. The works of the designer and theoretician Otl Aicher and the philosopher Vilém Flusser, which are seen as complementary to each other, contribute to the fundamentals of the approach developed here. Related to these are some of the texts addressing tools and cultural techniques in the volume Bild – Schrift

– Zahl (Image – Text – Number, 2003) edited by Krämer and Bredekamp, as is the fine seminar report compiled by Adamczyk Rezeptfreies Entwerfen: Auf der Suche nach persönlichen Gesichtspunkten im Entwurfsprozess (Design without a Recipe: Looking for Personal Viewpoints in the Design Process, 1998). In contrast, the collection of essays edited by Mattenklott and Weltzien

Entwerfen und Entwurf: Praxis und Theorie des künstlerischen Schaffensprozesses (Designing and Design: Practice and Theory in the Artistic Creative Process, 2003) remains bogged down in academic meticulousness driven by a series of highly specialized, usually historical studies, without linking them to any broader discussion. Ferguson (1992) offers an account of the history of

design from the point of view of the engineering sciences that is well worth reading. The conference volume Bauplanung und Bautheorie der Antike (Building Planning and Building Theory in Antiquity, DiskAB 4, 1984) from the German Archaeological Institute brings together a series of remarkable contributions.

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The great interest in design shown by philosophers and sociologists ­indicates that the subject is by no means a special ability shared only by ­artists, architects, engineers and designers, but a fundamental human activity. The French sociologist Pierre Bourdieu provides some valuable insights in Homo Academicus (1984) and Les Règles de l’Art (1992) which, although they do not relate specifically to design, do contribute a great deal to understanding individual aspects. Making reference to John Dewey and the philosophy of pragmatism, the sociologist Hans Joas lays down the principles of a “pragmatic action theory” with creativity at its core in Die Kreativität des Handelns (The Creativity of Action, 1996). Lenk also devotes himself to this subject matter in Kreative Aufstiege (Creative Ascents, 2000), in which he writes about the “philosophy and psychology of creativity”. He combines the concepts of creativity and metaphor to make “creataphor”, which he uses to define the human urge “to keep on creating, to keep transcending boundaries and

strata symbolically”

(p. 338).

These themes are extended into a differentiated

spectrum in the two wide-ranging volumes on “Creativity” that form the report, edited by Günter Abel, on the 20th German Philosophy Congress.

(Abel 2005)

Astonishingly, design as an activity is seldom a central them in the theory

of art and architecture, presumably because it was long felt to be unsus­ ceptible to theory. But a number of texts provide valuable information about the motivation and reasoning designers employ. Publications in which authors expound and defend their own artistic and theoretical positions ­regularly influence architectural debate to a considerable extent. The significance of architects like Adolf Loos, Le Corbusier, Robert Venturi, Aldo Rossi, Oswald Mathias Ungers, Rem Koolhaas or Peter Eisenman derives not least from the way their theoretical work is linked to what they have built. A good view of this is provided by the numerous collections of texts that have appeared in recent years, including Kruft (1986), Nesbitt (1996), Jencks / Kropf (1997), Neumeyer / Cepl (2002), Evers / Thoenes (2003), Moravansky / Gyöngy (2003), De Bruyn / Trüby (2003), Lampugnani / Hanisch / Schumann / Sonne (2004).

Text collections on the theory of architecture

Although none of the above-mentioned anthologies address design in particular, the topic is of greater importance to theory in the field of graphic

and industrial design. This is presumably due to the influence of the hochschule für gestaltung Ulm. The theoretical studies undertaken there are continued in work including that by Aicher (1991), Rittel (1992) and Bense (1998). Schneider (2005) combines a design history of the 20th century with theoretical ideas about design, while Thackara in his book In the Bubble – Designing in a Complex World (2005) addresses predominantly the criteria for future design. Fischer and Hamilton (1999) have published a collection of basic texts. A forum for the subject of design research in the German-speaking countries is largely non-existent, there being a lack of specialist institutions and of academic periodicals devoted to the subject. As well as this, the individual research areas are not linked to any extent, even though an interdisciplinary approach to the subject would seem to be urgently needed. Trade journals do devote individual articles to the subject of design, and sometimes even entire issues (see Thesis no. 2/1999: Architektonisches Entwerfen, Cloud-Cuckoo-Land no. 1/1999: Design and no. 2/2000: Design Teaching, Graz Architecture Magazine GAM 02/2005: Design Science, Form & Zweck 21/2005: Entwerfen). In Great Britain there is the Design History Society, founded in 1977, which publishes the Journal of Design History (London: Oxford

University Press), as well as the Design Research Society which arose from the Design Methods Movement of the 1960s and organises bi-annual international conferences. The magazine Design Issues (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press) has appeared on a quarterly basis since 1984, dealing with “design ­history, theory, and criticism”. The Architectural Research Quarterly (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press) has been published since 1995, and ­contains numerous articles discussing fundamental architectural research questions. The Journal of Architectural and Planning Research (Chicago: Locke),

Design Studies (Oxford: Elsevier) and the Harvard Design Magazine should also be mentioned here. Architectural Design (London: Wiley) devotes ­occasional issues to design (no. 176, 4/2005: Design Through Making). The European Association for Architectural Education (EAAE) addresses questions of design education, and publishes a quarterly Newssheet, and the American Association of Collegiate Schools of Architecture (ACSA) ­publishes the Journal of Architectural Education (JAE). Networks have come into being in countries including Switzerland (Swiss Design Network, SDN) and Germany (Netzwerk Architekturwissenschaft).

Terms and definitions Terms are programmes.

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Horst Rittel (1992, p. 249)

Terms in design are often bandied about with a considerable lack of precision. Only the context makes it clear what an author actually means by designing, developing, inventing, creating, making, shaping, modelling, drawing, planning, conceiving, projecting, presenting, calculating, describing and so on. Each of these terms emphasizes particular aspects of design that seem to be essential from a particular point of view; it is only when seen as a whole that this conceptual field indicates the broad range of possible design actions. One reason for this may be that the term design in the sense of architectural design is not widely used in everyday language, and thus scarcely defined by habitual usage, while at the same time it is used in very different ways in various professions – architecture, interior design and engineering, landscape architecture, town planning, IT, graphics and industrial design, but also fine art, theatre direction and design, writing, science and polit­ics. Another reason for the lack of precision in the term is the fundamental ambiguity of design itself. It is not possible to determine from the outside whether some­­one is only scribbling or tinkering at a particular moment, or “really designing”, and often the person doing it will not know either. As Flusser shows, designing is a gesture, an arbitrary act that can be “true”, but also “untrue”. It is only by its future conse­quences – solving a single design problem, winning a competition, a completed and approved design, difficulties that occur or do not occur during the building phases, the qualities of the completed building, the cultural quality accruing to it – that the quality of such a gesture can be gradually measured. PLATO, ARISTOTLE, PLOTINUS: IDEA

The concept of what design is, and how and by whom it should be practised, has been formulated differently in every epoch. The art historian Erwin Panofsky attempts to show by studying the history of the term “idea” that every notion about what design is can relate to two opposite positions. (Panofsky 1924)

The first of these draws on empirical reality, where ideas

emerge as mimesis and a perfecting force of nature; for example, Socrates

says that “the painter should be obliged and enabled to combine the most beautiful parts from a number of human bodies in order to make the figure to be represented appear beautiful”. (loc. cit., p.15) This view, which is influenced by a sensual perception of the world, was criticized in Plato’s counter-argument as being merely imitative, based on deceptive appearances. His theory of ideas is

55

based on the hypothesis that the fluctuating, deceptive appearances of the sensual world are confronted by an unchanging world of perfect ideas as the

“true reality”. These serve as “immutable models and causes for the imperfect objects of the world of appearances”. (after Metzler, p. 249) Both points of view are problematical in terms of the relationship bet­­ween mimesis (imitation) and poiesis (creation). The dualism between the world of ideas and the world of appearances postulated by Plato is toned down by Aristotle to a “synthetic interaction

between form and material”. (loc. cit., p. 17) He argues that everything comes into being “by the entrance of a definite form into a definite substance”, so works of art differ from works of nature only in that their form is in the soul of man before it enters the material.

(loc. cit., p. 17)

In Plotinus, the Platonic idea becomes the “living vision of the art,” 26)

(loc. cit, p.

and as such claims metaphysical validity and objectivity as it is identical

with the principles in which nature originates and “that reveal themselves to the

artist in an act of intellectual contemplation”.

(loc. cit., p. 26)

In the early Middle

Ages a shift of accent was enough to make what for antiquity was a “philosophy of human reason” into a “logic of divine thinking”, and to establish the idea as a theological concept. Augustine defines the concept in almost the same way as Plato, but with a crucial reversal:

“For they [the ideas] are the original forms or principles of things, constant and unchangeable, that themselves have not been formed. They are therefore eternal, persisting in one and the same condition and contained in the divine intelligence, and while they themselves do not arise and perish, everything that can and does arise and perish is said to be formed according to them.” (Augustine, after Panofsky, pp. 38–39)

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Title page of Walter Ryff’s German translation of Vitruvius: Vitruvius Teutsch, Nuremberg: Johan Petreius, 1548

Thus it was scarcely possible any longer to speak of an artistic idea in the actual sense. And beyond the doctrines of the philosophers and theologians, the master builders of the Middle Ages did not see themselves as designers either, but identified their task as building on the basis of existing predecessors. Once a building type was established, its basic idea often remained unchanged for a long time:

“Thus the building pre-existed in the mind of the architect; and this can be designated as the Idea of the house because the artist tends to assimilate the real building to the same form that he has conceived in his mind.” (St. Thomas Aquinas, after Panofsky, p. 41)

VITRUVIUS AND ALBERTI: COGITATIONE AND INVENTIONE

Design was not a central theme for classical architectural theory. Thus Vitruvius may not seem substantially important for the philosophical discourse presented by Panofsky. In his De architectura libri decem (Ten books on architecture) the Roman author devotes himself exclusively to the questions

57

of how and what is to be built, but the activity of design itself is discussed only in passing. He manages it in just two sentences, albeit very fine ones. He does not yet use the Latin term for design projectare at this juncture; in the context of drawing he speaks only of “analysis” and “invention”.

“The species are produced by analysis and invention. Analysis is devoted concern and vigilant attention to the pleasing execution of a design. Next, invention is the unravelling of obscure problems, arriving through energetic flexibility, at a new set of principles.” (Vitruvius I, 2,2) By “forms” Vitruvius means “the forms of Dispositio, which the Greeks call µdeas (ideas)”: by this he understands the ground plan largely reduced in scale, the front view and the perspective view – in other words not “immut­

able primal forms” in Plato’s sense, but representations created by individual reflection and individual invention. So Vitruvius is not moving back to ­“eternally valid” ideas, but basing himself on the possibility of being able to create something new. Another remarkable feature is the reference to a feeling of happiness, suggesting the emotional side of design. More careful reading of Vitruvius Ten books on architecture will detect many more scattered hints and statements about individual aspects of design, for example the story of Callimachus, who was inspired to design the Corinthian capital by the sight of a basket standing on acanthus leaves:

“Callimachus [...] passed by this monument and notices the basket and the fresh delicacy of the leaves enveloping it. Delighted by the nature and form of this novelty, he began to fashion columns for the Corinthians on this model, and he set up symmetries and thus he drew up the principles for completing work of the Corinthian type.” (Vitruvius IV 1,10) Here transferring a formal principle from the sphere of biology into architecture by imitation becomes a kind of primal design narrative. Vitruvius describes architects knowledge and tools in many other places, formulates fundamental criteria, criticizes working on models and describes, often in

Callimachus designing the Corinthian capital, from: Roland Fréart 1650 (detail)

anecdotal form, how design problems are solved. His descriptions are often succinct and substantial, and they show how little the problems he deals with are anchored to a specific time. In the English translation of Leon Battista Alberti’s De re aedificatoria libri decem (Ten books on architecture) few pages are in fact devoted to the subject of design in the broadest sense. One must, he writes “weigh up repeatedly and examine, the work as a whole and the individual dimension of all the parts”. (Alberti 1485, p. 34)

Alberti is concerned to remind us that design decisions should be weighed up carefully to avoid mistakes when realizing the building. Unlike Vitruvius, he considers that building models is very important. Ultimately Alberti says very little about design itself, but simply recommends considering, over and over again, the whole building and the dimensions of each ­individual part, and

”by the time-honoured custom, practised by the best builders, preparing not only drawings and sketches but also models of wood or any other material”. (Alberti 1485, p. 33 ff.)

His book De pictura (On Painting), completed in 1435 and first published in 1540, contains the first description of perspective, which will be discussed in a later chapter. VASARI AND ZUCCARI: DISEGNO

59

The term disegno acquired its central significance in theoretical discourse in Florentine and Roman art theory in the second half of the 16th century. As Wolfgang Kemp explains in his study of conceptual history,

(Kemp 1974),

an

argument flared up about the form that the seal should take for the Accademia del Disegno founded in Florence c. 1562. A definition that Giorgio Vasari had formulated shortly before this emphasizes two aspects: he says that design is “the father of our three arts, which emerges from the intel-

lect”, but at the same time, whether its quality is recognized “depends on hands that have been practised for years in drawing”. (Vasari 1568, after Kemp 1974, p. 226) Benvenuto Cellini, a member of the academy, put forward several designs based on this definition, including one that embodied design in the figure of Apollo. According to Cellini, just as Apollo represented illumination, disegno is the light of all human actions. He adds that disegno is the father of all fine arts, painting, sculpture and architecture, and of the goldsmith’s art. (Cellini, after Kemp 1974, p. 222)

Kemp shows how at that time a second meaning was added to the original meaning of the term, and this was soon accorded considerably more importance than the first. Disegno originally means drawing or plan, and relates to forma and pratica, to the visible form of the drawing, and the practical ability to draw. It was understood as the scienza delle linee, Kemp 1974, p. 225)

(Vasari, after

as the knowledge of reproducing nature correctly. But on a

second level, disegno means design, and is seen as disegno della mente, as an intellectual ability, related to concetto, idea and inventione. Now disegno is nothing less than the ability of inventione di tutto l’universo 1974, p. 225).

(Doni, after Kemp

Cellini identifies this double meaning by speaking of disegno

primo as the intellectual ability to design, and disegno secondo, which deals with everything that can be represented with the aid of dots, lines and fields.

(Kemp 1974, p. 231)

Federico Zuccari brought discussion of the term to a provisional conclusion at the Roman Accademia di San Luca, founded in 1593. He now makes a clear distinction between disegno interneo (which Cellini called disegno

primo), which he sees as the ability to form “a new world in one’s self”. (Zuccari, and disegno esterno (which Cellini called disegno secondo), which relates to the practical execution of immagine ideale. (Kemp 1974, pp. 231 ff.)

after Kemp 1974, p. 232)

A possible reason for this division of artistic work could, according to Kemp, be the artists’ socioeconomic situation. Only a few of them were

60

granted major commissions; when this happened, they concentrated on the design, and then called upon a large number of colleagues to help with the realization. On the other hand, artists who won very few commissions were forced to restrict themselves to design. Thus it was of interest to both groups to emphasize design. Kemp describes two different ideas from that period of designing. Vasari sees design as active mediation between nature and art. The designer draws his ideas from the observation of nature, on the basis of his general judgement. Here Vasari is drawing on the ancient legend of the painter Zeuxis, who chose the most beautiful parts of the body from five selected models and used them for a painting of Helen.

(after Kemp 1974, p. 229)

But Zuccari

sees design as a God-given creative activity. He says that nature can be imitated because it is driven by a spiritual principle, and art follows this same principle. Man should

“produce countless works of art, to a certain extent imitating God and competing with nature, and be able to create new paradises for himself with the aid of painting and sculpture”. (Zuccari, after Kemp 1974, p. 232) Kemp deals with the design and working practices of those days only peripherally. He also does not ask the obvious question of why the term dis-

egno acquired two meanings, rather than creating a new term, especially as this double meaning has survived to the present day in some languages (English design, Portuguese desenho). It is in fact generally remarkable how many of the views developed at that time still apply. For example, the person who has invested the most intellectual work in a project is not seen as the author of a design; the author is the person who formulated the basic ideas and prescribed the direction the project should follow subsequently. Many people successfully put into practice the insight that qualified designers can practise their creative abilities in various artistic disciplines. But

“… to form a new world in one’s self”: Design for the Quinta da Malagureira development, schematic sketch of the silhouette of Évora, with a note on the clandestinos settlements, Álvaro Siza, sketchbook no. 23, May 1978

Zuccari’s view that ultimately design means the ability and responsibility to “form a new world in one’s self”

(after Kemp 1974, p. 232)

is no longer generally

held. This is one reason for the often lamented short-sightedness and superficiality of many designs, and not just architectural ones.

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OSTENDORF, RITTEL, UHL: DESIGNING, PLANNING

Current definitions of design are often either circular (“design is shaping”) or simply replace the term with another one (“designing means making decisions”). Statements like “design means …” are made by designers to express their view of design strikingly, but they are not definitions. This way of talking about design is often found in the accounts architecture practices publish about themselves. Among such one-dimensional definitions is that formulated by Jürgen Joedicke: an architectural design, in other words the result of designing, is “the experimental and ultimately drawn solution of a building prob-

lem”.

(Joedicke 1976, p. 13)

The author shows how unsatisfactory he finds it

himself in the sentence that follows: “Very different situations occur within a design process, and they require different resources” – although he does not explain what these situations could be and what resources they require. Here at least the inadmissible limitation Joedicke is imposing is made clear, which cannot be said of Aicher’s equally one-dimensional statement that “designing means

constructing models”, an assertion based on a very general, science-based concept of the model. The assumption that “designing means deciding” also forms the basis for more complex accounts of the design process. The Viennese architect Ottokar Uhl sees drawing up a draft as “deciding about the basic features of the project,” and continues:

“In a rational design method, the complex overall decisions that are customary for an intuitive approach can be broken down – at least in principle – to the smallest unit of decisions between one of two things (“bit”), a unit in information theory” (Uhl 2003, p. 261)

Decisions are indispensable steps in a design process, but this applies to any reasonable activity. Equating design with decision-making neglects the cre­ ative element in favour of hierarchical argument. It is assumed that it is not the person devising the ideas who is designing, but the person who makes the decisions. But if decisions are to be made, there must be alternatives

about which way they can be made. It is the quality of these alternatives that fundamentally determines the quality of the decisions to be taken. In any case, the necessity of making decisions should be sufficient reason for devising more sophisticated evaluation processes ing about fundamental decision theories.

63

(Joedicke 1976, pp. 33–34)

and think-

(Rittel, pp. 245 ff.)

There is a second group of definitions that is already much more com­ plex in its structure, but ultimately reflects nothing more than the personal approach to design taken by the particular authors. The German architect and theoretician Friedrich Ostendorf starts the foreword to the first volume of his Sechs Bücher vom Bauen (Six Books on Building) by lamenting that a great deal has been written about architecture “in old and modern times,” but never a book that talks seriously about design; never had “one of the many

architectural theorists come up with the idea of expressing himself on this theme clearly and in detail”. Ostendorf goes on to say that if one were to ask (in 1913) a number of contemporary German architects what they understood design to be, they would all come up with a different answer, if they produced one that was comprehensible at all.

(Ostendorf 1913, p. 2)

For Osten­dorf,

design means “formulating one or several or many ideas for the building in one’s

mind, on the basis of thorough thought about and processing of the building programme, including situation and spatial requirements”. (loc. cit., p. 129) He feels that the essential criterion here is the clarity and simplicity of the design idea. He describes the design process – in a single paragraph – as formulating an idea

“in the mind of the building artist”. This is then captured on paper as a sketch, and revised as the process continues. For Ostendorf the crucial criterion is that the design idea should first be thought through “in the mind’s eye” and only recorded on paper as a second step.

(loc. cit., p. 4, p. 129)

Only in this way

can one arrive at “clear artistic ideas”, as everything else comes into being “in

an inartistic and senseless way on paper” and is “absolutely impossible to grasp as an idea in its tangled complexity”. (loc. cit., p. 4) Consequently, Ostendorf defines design as “the search for the simplest appearance for a building programme”, (loc. cit., p. 12) “as only that which is simple and legitimate, and nothing that is convoluted and arbitrary, can be clearly grasped within the idea”. (loc. cit., p. 129) Restriction to the plane of thought is intended to avoid complex and less striking designs. When he postulates that only this is real design, everything else is mere drawing

(loc. cit., p. 129)

he is confusing a criterion with the activity itself.

Essentially Ostendorf is interested in disciplining design.

Architects like Günter Behnisch can make very little of Ostendorf’s view. Behnisch sees designs as “complex and complicated structures, influenced by count-

less forces from numerous disciplines”,

(Behnisch 1996, p. 30)

developed in long-term

design processes. He replaces Ostendorf’s somewhat dramatic expression

“mind of the building artist” with the dry words “my head”. “I did not find advice of this kind helpful, maybe because such demands were not sufficient for my head, or that I felt that the head alone could grasp architecture only imperfectly, that there were also dimensions lying outside the realm of the rational, or that I had recognized that we are not intended to be able to grasp many dimensions of reality in our heads at once.” (Behnisch 1996, p. 29) The close link between such definitions of terms and personal ways of working is made clear, for example, by Ottokar Uhl who finds the term “architectural design” questionable in itself because it suggests isolation, intuition (in German, Entwurf suggests “der grosse Wurf”, the successful pitch, the big achievement), immediacy and a complete lack of effort. He says that the term “planning” could possible replace “architectural design”, but would mean a methodically conducted decision-making process for preparing external actions. Uhl consequently demands that design and realization should not be seen as separate actions, but that planning and building should be considered as a continuous process.

(Uhl 2003, p. 63)

This view clearly

reflects Uhl’s own participatory planning and building practice, without making any major contribution to explaining what design is. Within functionalistic discourse, the term “architectural design”, which has something of an artistic ring to it, is frequently replaced by the seemingly more rational expression “planning”. Planning, seen as merely technical design, dealing with a manageable set of quantifiable qualities, is well suited to formulation in terms of methodological procedures. For a functionalistic approach to architecture it would make sense to define procedures of this kind for the design as well. Otl Aicher criticizes the concept of planning, which he sees as a “concretized, targeted projection method”

(Aicher 1991/1, p. 133),

which simply extends general principles into the future as a chain of causality according to the respective planning logic. But as the world does not ultimately follow logical principles, he feels that planning should be replaced by the more economical method of cybernetical control, whose field of action is concrete reality within the perceptible environment.

(Aicher 1991/1, p. 143)

Horst Rittel on the other hand describes planning as “solving tricky or wicked

problems,” a description that, with some restrictions, also applies to larger design tasks. In contrast to “tame” problems, there are no definitive formulations of the task in hand for “tricky” problems (which elsewhere he also calls “wicked” problems), and no definitive solution either. The solutions are not 65

right or wrong, but at best good or bad, usually just better or worse. He feels that there is neither a direct nor a final possibility of checking the quality of a solution, and furthermore there can only be one attempt at a solution – large public buildings for example are almost irreversible. So each

“wicked” problem is unique. But he says that at the same time planners do not have the right to be wrong, on the contrary they are responsible for the consequences of their actions, which are often far-reaching. He continues that each “wicked” or “tricky” problem can be seen as a symptom of another problem, and one can never be sure of tackling a problem the right way or of seizing a problem by the roots rather than just curing a symptom. There are several or many explanations for this kind of problem, and the choice of explanation determines the nature of the solution to the problem.

(Rittel 1992, pp. 20 ff.)

Rittel makes a fundamental contribution to understanding design by describing how it differs categorically from the realms of technology and ­science, that concern themselves with clearly defined “tame” questions. He sums up the differences in the “paradoxes of rationality”: if rational behaviour is seen as an “attempt to predict the consequences of intended actions,” then one would arrive at an infinite series of consequences and consequences of consequences. The more time and energy devoted to investigating the consequences, the less there is left for concrete action. A model for describing consequences must contain itself, as it determines the consequences that should be considered. (loc. cit., pp. 40 ff.) Thus Rittel sets out the boundaries of the concept of rational planning. A third category is formed by definitions of design that are formulated so broadly that their constituent concepts cannot themselves be expressed in a conclusive definition. By way of example, we can cite Aicher’s statement that design is “making technical, constructive organization forms and implementing

a programme in the form of an organization”.

(Aicher 1991/1, p. 101)

He completes

and explains this technical sounding approach in the same text in this way:

“design is a process of intellectual ordering, clarification of connections, defining of dependencies, creation of weightings and requires of the designer a special ability to see and to fix analogies, connections and fields of reference.” (Aicher 1991/1, p. 102) This description too fails to consider large areas of design activity, empha-

66

sizing intellectual abilities but neglecting creative production. The question “What is design?” turns out to be a fundamental one, to which there is no conclusive answer, something Flusser would call a “riddle to be deciphered” – in contrast to a soluble problem. It would certainly be a worthwhile task to examine the use of individual terms more carefully in ­relation to certain persons or discourses, but this would be primarily of ­philological interest, rather than of interest for design theory. In the following section, the lack of precision in the term will be seen as a characteristic whose meaning is to be deciphered as far as possible. The term “design” relates to three fundamental areas of activity that are sometimes simply identified by the terms “seeing, thinking, doing”. Further differentiation of these terms helps us analyse it more precisely, but describes it rather than defining it. An attempt is made to explore design as an activity, to make it accessible, comprehensible, open to experience, not so much reflecting on the meaning of the term, but on the activity itself. AICHER AND FLUSSER: NEGATION AND TRANSCENDENCE

Otl Aicher’s and Vilém Flusser’s published work on design theory con­ verges in the somewhat utopian and anti-academic belief in the possibility of liberation through new, radical approaches to design thinking and activity. They think in completely different ways, but refer to common core elements. They correct and complement each other in essential points and when considered together point to the beginnings of a comprehensive design theory. Both Aicher and Flusser question Modernism from its very roots. While Aicher, however fragmentarily and unsystematically, addresses a broad ­spectrum of design-theoretical questions in his writings, developing realistic ideas, Flusser’s statements remain too general and abstract to offer any chance for concrete analysis in many spheres. Aicher develops concrete ideas, coherent in themselves, that are nevertheless also open to attack. Both ­writers’ works make an important contribution to design discourse. Both men are discussed in detail in the chapters on theory

(Aicher, see p. 209),

and

on tools and gesture

(Flusser, see p. 88, 105).

Their basic attitude to design is

discussed below. Both Aicher’s call to see the “world as design”

(Aicher 1991/2)

desire to find fresh hope moving “from Subject to Project”

and Flusser’s

(Flusser 1994)

are root-

ed in the emancipative canon of Modernism. For both of them, this is

67

thwarted by the experience of “apparatuses” that have become uncontrollable for both individuals and society. This is a topos that appears even in the early 20th century in Franz Kafka or Kurt Tucholsky, and was developed by writers like Max Horkheimer and Theodor Adorno in relation to the culture industry. But while Aicher proclaimed the world as an object to be designed, Flusser sees himself as a subject to be designed. Comparing the two positions reveals a fundamental difference in the way the two authors think: Aicher tends to respond negatively to subject areas he finds problematical, but is unable to overcome these problems intellectually. He remains in their thrall simply because he rejects certain positions so vehemently. Flusser on the other hand overcomes difficulties by moving to higher planes of contemplation, and so can make contradictions work for him productively by turning them into something he sees as positive. Thus for example Aicher’s radical criticism of the digital leads him to conclusions that are similar to Flusser’s. While Flusser acknowledges that digitalism is unstoppable, and looks for ways of dealing with it positively alongside its negative consequences, Aicher rejects everything digital in principle. The same applies to his rejection of art with reference to Modernism. The fact that he makes the criterion of functionality an absolute, his self-sufficient thinking, the general claim to a “world as design”, but also his dogmatic ­language and impatience with other ideas seem to make him captive within a way of thinking that is opposed to his own claims about his political and cultural position. Flusser also addresses the problem of theory that has become an instrument of power, the cause of which he sees in the need to provide explanation derived from the natural sciences and which is not appropriate for many questions. He then develops another concept of theory: theory is no longer to

Otl Aicher: Entwurf der Moderne (Designing Modernity). Arch+ no. 98, 1989

explain, but to analyse meanings, not remove problems from the world, but to describe possibil­ities, not shut off, but to open up. This example makes it clear: something that is fully acceptable as a ­designer’s personal approach, even if it becomes idiosyncratic, turns into a restrictive ideology if it is combined with a claim to general validity. Here it

68

is essential to distinguish between general and special design theory. Formulating individual design approaches has fundamentally different aims from a theory that has the right to claim general validity. Designers have to reach a single solution that can hold its own in competition, and they should also develop an identifiable way of working. To achieve this, they have to make precise, concrete suggestions, and convey these convincingly, backed up by consistent arguments. Hence in many cases, essentially for rhetorical rather than objective reasons, they negate everything that questions their personal approach to a solution. They are then no longer conducting an open discussion, but making an authoritarian gesture by demanding that their own ideas be accepted without reservation. But a general design theory should aim to indicate a broad spectrum of design possibilities. Two questions are fundamental for any design theory: how do forms emerge? And from what do they derive their meaning? Flusser describes how artificial forms created by people emerge from addressing the material through gestures of making that are ultimately based on arbitrary decisions. Form and meaning are connected in this process, but without being mutually dependent. There can therefore be no compelling logic explaining how forms and their meanings emerge. On the other hand Aicher’s approach of rationalizing design processes describes the attempt to restrict the proportion of arbitrariness in order to make design decisions more rational and easier to understand. Flusser realizes from a position of concrete powerlessness that there are certain forms he cannot change himself, but that he can manipulate their meaning. Aicher describes designing a concrete world on a small scale as a strategy of survival in a society dominated by apparatuses. Here both abandon an obsession with a common and authoritative future for us all, offering instead

“… the artistic task of endowing with form, which always selects, cuts away, renounces: no form without refusal.” (Adorno 1970, p. 216) Photograph: Marianne Kristen

a picture of a world in which isolated individuals communicate with each other freely. They are looking for the open, non-repressive society that they each had re-established for themselves on several occasions, either by withdrawing or by emigrating from a society that had become repressive. Aicher’s thinking turns out to be that of a craft designer who strives for a concrete “good” and “correct” form, which he derives from its function. He does this through clarity and negation, and these also become his preferred intellectual strategies. On each occasion he looks only for a single solution, but a realistic and convincing one, reaching it by a process of selection and negation of all other possible solutions. But Flusser’s question is: how can I as an individual lend meaning to my personal gestures? He views Vilém Flusser: Virtuelle Räume – Simultane Welten (Virtual Rooms – Simultaneous Worlds). Arch+ no. 111, 1992

this as a central aspect of designing that as an intellectual act has no or only limited practical impact on the world, indicating

instead possible changes symbolically. In his last, unfinished work Vom Subjekt

zum Projekt (From Subject to Project, 1994) he tries to rethink design fundamentally by addressing areas not normally accessible to designers, either because they are taboo or because they are obscured by customary practices. Here Flusser is arguing as a philosopher opening up new areas of intellectual possibility without having to be particularly concrete about it. He is a designer here in the more profound sense of the concept, thinking a long way into the future without knowing precisely what it is supposed to look like. In his search for gestures that confer meaning by going beyond fulfilling existing functional programmes, he finds truth in aesthetic appearance. Meaning can emerge from form, but also from quite different factors. By asking how he can endow his gestures and actions with future meaning he is trying to transcend concrete givens.

Ways of designing All I ask is method, never mind what method.

71

Denis Diderot (1751, keyword Encyclopédie)

We learn to design and give form to things by doing so. But what are we doing when we design? Design developed out of the anticipative consideration of making something. Designing means devising a form for an object without having that actual object in front of you. Giving form or shape to something relates to a concrete object that exists and can be worked on directly. By comparison, designing relates to the future form of an object that can be depicted only in an abstract or reduced form when it is being designed. Given the lack of any direct feedback through trial and error, designing therefore differs from the artistic work of painters or sculptors as well as from the working method of craftsmen, who as a rule are all able to manipulate their artefacts directly. Essentially this is a question of scale and the complexity of the object to be made. A characteristic of architectural design is the great distance in terms of both space and time between the design and the realization of what has been designed. There is always something uncertain, daring, utopian about designs. Designers have the respons­ ibility of recognizing the requirements and consequence of a design and ensuring that they are considered in the design itself. The possibilities, but also the consequences of design are now more fundamental and far-reaching than ever before. But above all, designs have acquired a scale and a degree of complexity that the question arises as to whether they are still manageable. In his analysis of the “apparatus”, Vilém Flusser has identified the paradox that the meaning of every design decision can be precisely its own opposite on other levels of consideration. In the early 21st century we live mainly in worlds that were made and shaped by human beings, but they were not necessarily designed, at least not in a sense that recognizes and considers the requirements and consequences of a design.

72

Greek: methodos: the way towards something; Chinese: dào (道): the way, the path, the method, the manner, daostic, saying, expressing, explaining. Landscape on the banks of the River Douro, west of Oporto

PERCEPTION AND THOUGHT

Perception is the first and at the same time the fundamental step in any design work. It arises from the sum of the observations made as an individual, as a single person relying on his or her own individual sensibility. The perception of something real as well as the perception of something that has

73

just been designed is based on the ability to perceive a place, a situation, a building, but also a project in all its different phases of development, with all one’s senses. The sum of the architectural situations we perceive creates a stock of memories, and we draw on these when designing. In August 1963, the 74-year-old Le Corbusier, looking back on a life rich in experience as an architect, product designer, urban planner, painter and writer, in brief, as a designer in the broadest sense, noted in one of his famous sketchbooks: “La clef, c’est: regarder... regarder, observer, voir, imaginer,

inventer, créer.” (“The key is looking … looking, observing, seeing, imagining, inventing, creating”).

(Le Corbusier, after Croset 1987, p. 4)

Perception is fundament­

al to designing. Conversely, designing turns out to be a specific training in perception that sensitizes designers to certain phenomena and leads to an enhanced ability to perceive. Our sensual organs translate visual, acoustic, tactile stimulation into electrochemical signals that the brain processes as meaningful information. The processing and interpretation of these signals is a fundamental creative process, the deliberate disruption of which can be used to stimulate the imagination, a process that Leonardo da Vinci was already aware of and used. The tricks and dodges he described would now be called creative techniques and illustrate how closely perception and creative thinking are connected. In this context, Leonardo mentions a “new kind

of speculative invention which though apparently trifling and almost laughable is nevertheless of great utility in assisting the genius to find variety for composition”. This “invention” involved “looking attentively at old and smeared walls, or stones and veined marble of various colours”: “You may fancy that you see in them several compositions, landscapes, battles, figures in quick motion, strange countenances, and dresses with an infinity of other objects.” (Leonardo 2005, p. 62) The fact that Leonardo took advantage of these possibilities is confirmed elsewhere by his admission: “I have already seen shapes in the clouds and on

walls that stimulated me to beautiful inventions of the most various things.” (after Chastel 1987, p. 386)

Human perception operates in the field of tension between what is identified by the saying “One sees what one knows” and the question: “How can we see and recognize something that we do not yet know?” All perception takes place against the background of what is already known. New information is compared with existing memories, and classified among them. Seeing

74

something really new requires perception in the form of patient observation, and this is a creative act that needs time and concentration. All our senses are involved in this, our ability to recognize and remember, as well as our expectations, permanent impressions and prejudices. All design tools are both means of perception and also means of expression, a connection that the architect El Lissitzky illustrates succinctly with a photo­gram (Self-portrait: The Constructor, c. 1924) by overlapping head, hand, eye, compass and circle against a millimetre grid. In an autobiographical note under the heading Eyes, Lissitzky suggests how his self-portrait should be viewed:

“Lenses and eye-pieces, precision instruments and reflex cameras, cinematographs which magnify or hold split seconds, Roentgen and X, Y, Z rays have all combined to place in my forehead 20, 2,000, 2,000,000 very sharp, polished searching eyes.” (after Lissitzky-Küppers 1967, p. 325)

The essential function of design tools is to make internal ideas perceptible for the designers themselves and for others, and thus to make them an object for possible reflection. One of the ways in which design tools can work is by reducing a complex state of affairs to a few manageable aspects that can easily be manipulated. Each and every design tool influences perception and design thinking in a characteristic way through this way of working.

El Lissitzky: Untitled (Hand with a Compass), 1924

El Lissitzky: Self-portrait, the constructor, 1924

The mental processing of information provided by perception and memory is certainly the part of design thinking that is most difficult to grasp. It involves both rationality and emotion, it is characterized by personal memory and imagination, and happens in the form of conscious and unconscious mental processes. Edward de Bono’s insights are particularly revealing in this context. In his book Lateral Thinking (1970) he describes the contrast between logical and intuitive-creative thinking. Starting with an analysis of the dominant perception processes, he identifies a kind of logical-analytical

(“vertical”) thinking that is predominant in Western culture, whose counterpart is intuitive-creative (“lateral”) thinking. He says that the latter is particularly suitable for generating ideas and solving problems. This view, which was considered somewhat esoteric at first, has been confirmed by research by neurologists like Sperry (1968, 1973) and Eccles (1973).

The specialization of different areas of the brain for certain functions has been thoroughly researched since the discoveries by Broca, who located a “language centre” in the left hemisphere

(after Linke 1999, p. 54)

and

Wernicke, who discovered that the upper temporal gyri are essential for the understanding of language.

(after Eccles 1973, p. 258)

The term “centres” is no longer used today; instead the organization of the brain is seen as a complex interwoven arrangement of linked systems that accommodate individual functions. The location of most language functions in the left hemisphere applies to 98 % of all people, regardless of whether they are left or right-handed.

(Eccles 1973, p. 259)

But the essential spatial organizers are ­located in the parietal lobe of the right half of the brain. Early depiction of the lateral distribution of functions in a surgically separated human brain. Roger W. Sperry, 1968

(Linke, p. 76)

Johanna Sattler sums

up the fundamental difference between the way the two hemispheres function by saying that the left hemisphere of the human brain

(which controls the right-hand side of the body in terms of sensors and motors) deals with analytical, logical-linguistic thinking and operates in a linear fashion, i.e. with one mental step following another, while the righthand hemisphere prefers visual-spatial, synthesizing and holistic thinking, which is highly connective and functions in simultaneous mental steps. (Sattler 1998, pp. 33–42)

This distinction is to be found in the work of a number of authors who characterize the two ways of thinking with different pairs of concepts. (e.g. Eccles 1973, pp. 275 f., Edwards 1979, pp. 39 f., Sattler 1998, pp. 33–42)

Western culture

traditionally tends to be dominated by linear-analytical, verbal thinking from the left hemisphere, while the visual-spatial thinking of the right hemisphere is more important for architectural design. Perhaps the most impressive plea for this kind of thinking comes from Rudolf Arnheim in his book Visual

Thinking

(Arnheim 1969).

A similar approach is taken by the writer Italo Calvino

Right hemisphere

Left side of body

Left hemisphere

(Broca, Wernicke, Sperry)

Right side of body Dominant

Subordinate

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Visual pictorial

spatial

Verbal

(Sperry, Eccles) (Sattler, Rorty, Mitchell)

verbal

temporal

(Eccles, Sattler)

geometrical

arithmetical

(Eccles, Linke)

illustrative

(Arnheim)

abstract

analogous

(Aicher, Bateson)

digital

simultaneous

(Eccles, Sattler)

associative erratic

lateral

synthetic

comparative intuitive

emotional pessimistic

successive

(Sattler, Jenny)

logical

(De Bono, Sattler)

linear

(De Bono)

vertical

analytical

(De Bono, Sattler)

inferential

(Aicher) (Damasio) (Eccles, Damasio) (Sattler, Linke)

intellectual

rational optimistic

Various authors allocate pairs of terms that describe the two complementary ways of thinking; the terms overlap in a common field.

in his lecture on Visibility (Calvino 1988, chap. 4) and Otl Aicher, who argues for

analogous thinking and inveighs against digital thinking,

(Aicher 1991/1, pp. 34–52)

as does Peter Jenny, who defends associative, pictorial thinking as a ­necessary extension of linear thinking. Jenny argues that we should take the process of learning to think in images just as much for granted as we do the process of learning to read and write.

(Jenny 1996, p. 220, p. 228)

It is not surprising that the two ways of thinking are seen as competing with each other and evaluated very differently in individual fields of study. For example, architects and fine artists like to condemn verbal thinking as “grey theory”. Cultures that consistently reject images are thus suppressing the

­visual-spatial thought of the right hemisphere in favour of the linguistic-linear thought of the left hemisphere. They rate order, abstraction and hierarchy very highly, and resist anything comparative, associative and emotional. But it seems to make better sense to avoid this confrontation and see the two ways of thinking as complementary, and to use the possibilities of mutual

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suggestion and stimulation on the one hand and reflection and observation on the other. One approach would be, for example, to assess the result of a rational calculation holistically and emotionally, or to analyse the outcome of a pictorial synthesis by linguistic means. In design, this can be controlled by systematically changing tools.

DESIGNING AS A PROCESS

Architectural design developed from building, and was and is closely linked with the processes of building. For architects it represents the mental preparation for producing a building. One of the major difficulties of designing lies in understanding what the designed object will mean in reality.

79

Designers are therefore often driven by the desire to leave decisions about the design as late as possible, so that they can apply large quantities of information to making them. Designing is a process of approaching concrete reality laboriously and gradually: working from the large to the small scale, starting with the abstract and becoming more and more concrete. The term process is derived from the Latin procedere, literally continuous operation (Onions 1996, p. 712)

and we associate it with something difficult and protract-

ed, brought under control by a gradual, methodical and rational approach in which certain procedures have to be followed as in a court of law, so that the interests of all those involved are accommodated. Many approaches to describing the process of design are also attempts to structure design processes according to specific examples. An important step was made when designing was no longer perceived just as a mysterious creative act, but as a development process that can be grasped rationally, at least within certain limits. The understanding of the term design has since shifted from that of the unquestionable creative “act of genius” to a sense of developing something. Industrial products such as cars, aircraft or computers are developed in long-term processes, not designed. Even Mies van der Rohe preferred to use the term “development”:

“We do not produce designs. We consider what could be done, and we then try to develop it, and then we accept it. We always develop from a critical point of view.” (after Blaser 1977, p. 14)

Aicher describes the design method in Norman Foster’s office in terms that are also more appropriate to gradual development than design. The most elaborate part consists of

“reaching the distillate of the best possible solution in trials, experiments and studies, in numerous iterative cycles of investigation and evaluation using models and prototypes […] with the help of one’s own work and consultation with others”. (Aicher 1991/1, p. 101)

Design processes can be described in terms of sequences of different forms depending on the level of observation. Horst Rittel’s diagrams show four basic possibilities for structuring the design process. He calls designing an

“iterative process of generating variety and reducing variety”. (Rittel 1992, pp. 75 ff.) The individual iterative steps could be seen as a circular, constantly recurring

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sequence of the work stages described above, which take the form of a spiral curve. Rittel suggests that idealizing the design process as a linear sequence would describe how a “great master” works, who already knows in advance what is to be done, and essentially no longer has to involve himself in the design adventure. He has already solved comparable design problems successfully, and can simply work his way along a tried and tested design path step by step. Rittel’s testing or scanning describes an approach in which the first solution that happens to occur to the designer is used as an attempt to master a design problem. If further work shows that this approach is not going to produce the desired result, then the designer goes back to the beginning and tries a different route to the solution. Rittel calls the formation of alternatives the systematic production of several alternative approaches to a solution and the selection of the best one using an evaluation filter that covers all relevant aspects. It can also be done by forming alternatives in a multi-step

process. In order to eliminate as many nonsensical alternatives as possible from the outset, Rittel recommends working with constraints (self-imposed limitations) for this process, which help to cut down the variety of possible design solutions to a sensible and manageable number.

Horst Rittel: design processes of generating variety and reducing variety a) linear sequence b) testing or scanning c) systematic production of several alternative approaches d) forming alternatives in a multi-step process

The sequences of events that Rittel describes are essentially simple and selfexplanatory. His analysis raises them to a level of abstraction that permits ­systematic comparison. However, more appropriate to the complexity of design processes is the image of a spiral searching movement that Marshall McLuhan uses in his writings on media theory. McLuhan criticizes the con-

81

tradiction between the usual linear approaches to dealing with objects and the objects themselves, which are not linear, on the contrary:

“all these subsist together, and act and react upon one another at the same time. […] The entire message is then traced and retraced, again and again, on the rounds of a concentric spiral with seeming redundancy. […] But the concentric with its ­endless intersection of planes is necessary for insight. In fact, it is the technique of insight, that is necessary for studying media, since no medium has its meaning or existence alone, but only in constant interplay with other media.” (McLuhan 1964, pp. 28 ff.) Applied to designing, this means taking each design problem and considering in what medium or combination of media it can best be processed. The architect Konrad Wachsmann developed comparable ideas as many as ten years earlier in his seminars at the Institute of Design in Chicago and as part of the Salzburg Summer Academy. From 1951 onwards, Wachsmann conducted experiments in team design, systematically alternating between the technical and the personal perspective for devising a design. He describes this way of working as

“a team-work system in which work is conducted on a problem selected by the group, using a combination of basic skills, more advanced studies and research, using direct experiments and subsequent development work”. (Wachsmann 1959, p. 204) Wachsmann says that the design team, which corresponds with a seminar group, should “ideally [have] 18 to 24 members, and is divided up into working

groups each with three participants”.

(loc. cit.)

Each group of three works on a

particular aspect of the brief for a particular period of time from its own specialist perspective “in an interplay between found information, laboratory experi-

ments, continuous development work on the model and at the drawing board, and in internal discussions among themselves”. (loc. cit.) The result is then presented to the whole team for discussion. After each discussion, the work is passed on to the next group, until each group has worked on each design approach once, from its own point of view. At the end of the design phase the results of the work are revised for presentation. This procedure may well be very

Structure of an experimental team design process, Konrad Wachsmann, 1959

suitable for breaking down fixed ways of thinking and for initiating interdisciplinary projects as part of experimental design exercises, but the amount of time and effort needed and the rigidity of this method would be difficult to apply in architecture practices. The German regulations for architects’ and engineers’ fees (Honorarordnung für Architekten und Ingenieure, HOAI) is indeed based on an idea of design as a process. It divides the design and building sequence into nine working phases. Each phase is described verbally, pictorially and in the form of fee calculations. By prescribing certain results for certain design phases (for example, a set of design drawings at a particular scale) but not others (for example building working models, which counts as a special service), it is standardizing the process of design in a form that leaves little room for innovation. Deductive work from the large to the small scale is certainly appropriate for most building briefs, provided that conventional building methods are employed. But developing technically or aesthetically innovative (or even merely industrially prefabricated) buildings is more likely to be based on detail or on developing new combinations of materials. What is more, the actual design phases account for only 18% of the full fee (WP 2: preliminary planning 7%, WP 3: design planning 11%), which leaves little scope for devising truly innovative ideas.

Structure of a traditional design process, Heino Engel, 2003

The various dimensions of designing can be presented as a sequence of comprehensible steps in decision-making to differing degrees. The more holistic, innovative or personal a design is, the less it can be predetermined. From this last point of view, the above-mentioned presentations seem like abstract half-truths and idealized positions that fail to connect with the

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essence of design. There are crucial moments when the design process does not move in a straight line or from the large to the small, and also not in a spiral, but simultaneously, and not infrequently in unpredictable, chaotic quantum leaps. Only technical, engineering-based design, managing and project controlling tends to follow more generally applicable rules and can therefore be summed up better in terms of methodical steps. Even outside of this differentiation, the attempt to break designing down into a more or less linear sequence of rationally comprehensible decisionmaking steps will also founder when faced with the complexity of design briefs. Günter Behnisch describes the design of a building as a “complex and

complicated structure, influenced by countless forces from countless disciplines.” He compares this structure to a “gearbox with thirty to a hundred gearwheels, indi-

visibly enmeshed”. If just one of these wheels is turned, the whole structure will move. It is in motion throughout the planning and building period, which means that the appearance of the building is constantly changing. Realizing the building fixes the structure in a particular state, and if one were to go on designing, other solutions would arise.

(Behnisch 1996, p. 30)

Complex designs can be evaluated only simultaneously, not consecutively. Otl Aicher explains in this context that a design decision does not mature in a straight line, but by considering a field, by comparing a whole variety of values; connections are being created, and a balanced judgement has to be made, not a balance sheet.

(Aicher 1991/2, p. 161)

As a rule, several design fac-

tors overlap in every design decision, and a choice has to be made about what is more or less appropriate from the chosen point of view, a touch better or worse, a tiny bit more aesthetic or less appealing, as well as what consequences this decision may have for other areas of the design. Numerous attempts have been made at systematizing and rationalizing the evaluation of projects and buildings. (e.g. Rittel 1992, Musso et al. 1981, Weiss 1975, Sanoff 1970) But the decision as to which factors should be included in such an evaluation, and how the various aspects are weighted, cannot be summed up in points or percentages. The choice of the standards to be followed and of the

Work process for planning the urban renewal of Hattingen 1966–1970, from Conrads 1984, p. 37

arguments that will ultimately carry the greatest force in reaching a decision has to be made again and again for each individual case. However rational a description of designing as a process may seem at first, this representation remains less than satisfying. Processes can be differentiated between those that are strongly determined, weakly determined and undetermined.

(Bense 1998, p. 423).

Strongly determined processes can be

described so precisely step by step that they can be repeated or understood by others if they follow this description. This includes design processes for technically defined objects which, for example, can be “calculated and designed” in engineering terms. The solution of architectural design problems, which as a rule fall into Rittel’s category of “wicked” problems, must be described as weakly determined processes that can be fixed only vaguely in advance. They can be described in retrospect, but this description either remains general and imprecise, or becomes so specialized and detailed, that it is difficult to apply to other problems and cannot be repeated with any sure promise of success.

DESIGNING AS AN INDIVIDUAL ACT

In ideal terms, design could be described in two opposite ways: as a linear or spiral searching movement, in the course of which all the development steps of a design process are worked on in a logical sequence, or as working simultaneously on all aspects of a design. Whilst the second notion appears

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more suitable due to the range of complex and mutually interdependent factors involved, it is naturally bounded by our limited ability to do, or think about, several things at once. Alvar Aalto’s synoptic working methods, as described below, perhaps comes closest to this ideal.

(see p. 121 f.)

All design processes culminate in concrete design acts. There is nothing very mysterious about the act itself; we are all familiar with the situation from our own work. We see a problem, try to solve it, are dissatisfied with the solution, try again, set up variants, compare possibilities, until an acceptable solution is found. The designer’s entire knowledge and skill are realized at that singular moment when someone makes a sketch, changes a model or formulates an idea. Only at higher levels of consideration can designing be represented as a continuous process. The smallest step in the design

Álvaro Siza, sketchbook no. 300, Nov. 1989

process, which designers can break down no further, is the individual act of designing in which all their knowledge and skill comes together at once and they are present as a full person, with all their senses, all their abilities, all their experience and all their cultural characteristics. This act of designing can be a moment of inspiration, but it can also be an idea that was devised

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over a particular period of time, it can be a gesture, a thought, a word, a sentence, a conversation, an observation, a judgement, a mouse click. It can be an act of perception, an act of thought, of linguistic or gestural expression or of criticism, or, very probably, all these things at once. Emotions rank very highly in design, especially in the act of designing. Their importance can be measured by the fact that in certain situations, when no solution for a problem seems to be on the horizon despite intensive work, design seems extraordinarily oppressive emotionally, while at other moments it can make people particularly happy. In the context of design, Günter Behnisch speaks of a “creative process that is often painful even today”.

(Behnisch 1986, p. 31)

In his study of some particularly creative people’s

biographies, Howard Gardner discovered that periods of heightened creative exertion are often accompanied by phases of depression, leading to mental and psychological breakdown in all seven of the cases he examined (Freud, Einstein, Picasso, Stravinsky, Eliot, Graham, Gandhi). (Gardner 1993, p. 436) And close relationships with one or more people who understood what they were doing and supported them were important for all seven subjects in these creative breakthrough phases. (loc. cit., p. 438, pp. 455 ff.) Since ancient times, designing has been seen as related to emotional elements, and the idea of creativity is lined with emotions. Looking at melancholy as part of the theory of the four temperaments, Aristotle asks:

“Why is it that all men who have become outstanding in philosophy statesmanship, poetry or the arts are melancholic, and some to such an exent that they are infected by the diseases arising from black bile?” (Problems, XXX, 1) The gesture of melancholy, the bowed head resting on a hand, expresses both reflection and mourning. Albrecht Dürer’s famous copperplate engraving Melencolia I shows this temperament personified as a female angel sitting on a stone step, surrounded by tools which could be seen as attributes of design. The figure is resting her head, with its wreath of little leaves, on her left hand, her right hand is resting on a closed book and is holding a

compass inattentively; its hinge is shifted somewhat to the right, and is placed just above the centre of the picture. Her face is in deep shade. But the angel’s expression is not downhearted or depressed, as might be expected. In fact a slight smile is playing round her lips, and the raised eyes are looking with interest and expectancy at something that seems to be not far

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beyond the left-hand edge of the picture. Dürer brings an abundance of detailed and highly artfully and precisely drawn items together in his picture to create a mysteriousallegorical symbol, using a draughtsman’s resources to show the irreducible complexity and complex simultaneity that can be felt by a person exposing him or herself to the totality of human existence in the world. Overwhelmed by contradictory, mysterious and alarming phenomena, and at the same time incapable of resisting its fascination, the seated angel lets the hand holding the compasses drop. Among the many interpretations of Dürer’s engraving,

(Schuster 1991)

two

are particularly interesting in relation to this book: firstly, the interpretation as a programmatic image of artistic activity,

(Schuster 2005, p. 101)

that a series

of tools are used as attributes, and secondly the interpretation as representing a person committed to creativity with a “melancholy emotional structure” who “is subject to an abundance of psychological tensions as a requirement and as

a tribute to his or her virtue”. (loc. cit., p. 100) The following chapter

(see p. 85)

shows that the woodcut of Virgil Solis that Walther Ryff published – first as the frontispiece for the book Von der geometrischen Messung (On geometric measurements, Nuremberg 1547) and then in his German translation of Vitruvius Ten books on architecture: Vitruvius Teutsch (Nuremberg 1548) – is conceived as a kind of counter-image or antithesis to Dürer’s engraving. Another example of the iconological combination of melancholy and cre­ ativity is an engraving that Andreas Vesalius published in 1543 in De

Humani Corporis Fabrica

(On the fabric of the human body, Basel 1743, p. 164).

It shows

a skeleton leaning in a thoughtful-melancholy pose on the top slab of a tomb and with its hand on a skull that has been placed on the slab. The sentence “Vivitur ingenio, caetera mortis erunt” (Creativity survives, every-

thing else belongs to death) is engraved on the front of the tomb in somewhat clumsy capitals. The author of the picture had made an effort to represent all the “tools” that belong to the body, and also identified them meticulously with letters and numbers, thus forming a link with the legend, where

Albrecht Dürer: Melencolia I, 1514, copperplate engraving, 23.7 x 18.7 cm, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, Kupferstichkabinett, inv. no. 352–1902 (detail)

all the bones are listed and described individually. At the same time the skeleton’s re­­ flective and melancholy pose refers to man’s intellectual capacities as his actual tools. By contrast Vitrivius, in his description of design, emphasizes the positive emotions when speaking of a “feeling of happiness” accompanying “solving dark problems”. (Vitruvius, I 2, 2)

Elsewhere he recounts the

anecdote about Archimedes, who leaps out of the bathtub “in a transport of joy” shouting the Greek words “Eureka! Eureka!” (I found it! I found it!), and “rushed home naked” because he had just had such a wonderful idea. (Vitruvius IX, preface, 10)

The contemporary term

heuristics, the “theory of ways of interpretation”, literally the means serving to find out 1996, p. 439) also

(Onions

refers to this story.

In the 20th century, designing is still seen as being dependent on emotion, despite all the arguments about objectivity and functionality. Bruno Taut, for example, sees rational Andreas Vesalius: Human skeleton, from: De Humani Corporis Fabrica, Basel 1543, p. 164

and intellectual elements as the basis of designing, but they have to be controlled and refined by “feelings”. Taut writes that

when designing one has to wait “until one stops thinking and actually only

feels”.

(Taut 1936, pp. 38 f.)

He describes his approach to design as follows in his

book Architekturlehre (Foundations of architectural design):

“First one thinks through all aspects of the thing in purely intellectual terms, the orientation, the situation in the landscape, in brief everything that influences the thing as a whole, and draws up a scheme. […] Then, ideally at night, when one will not be disturbed, one concentrates one’s feelings on the matter in hand, but without drawing at first. […] One has to wait until what was hitherto just a scheme starts to fill up with life, until one stops thinking and actually is only feeling. […] Something one calls the “idea” grows very unclearly in the emotions. The emotions are like a filter; they capture only the experiences and the knowledge that are useful for this new task. Then at last the hand starts to draw, almost automatically, or unconsciously. The mind is switched off.” (Taut 1936, p. 38 f.)

But if this is the case, how can we talk about designing without introducing a sense of mystification? Is design, as one could conclude from this view, something emotional at its core, and thus irrational? Does emotional have to be equated with irrational, or can we talk about the intelligence of the emotions? Our thinking is best equipped to solve problems of great complexity

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with emotional decisions. This corresponds to the fact that we tend at first to feel rather than to analyse the complexity of both spatial and aesthetic experiences. Emotional evaluation is holistic, exposing itself to the totality of a situation. The brain processes far more information subconsciously than it does consciously. Decisions that we make “intuitively” or “emotionally” are based on things not consciously perceived and for which rational justifications are often sought after the event. In recent years these processes have been the subject of considerable research and have led to a reappraisal of the role of intuition and emotions as sources of inspiration.

(Traufetter 2006)

Emotion represents the sum of experiences undergone in our consciousness. It encompasses expert knowledge, implicit knowledge from actions and a designer’s general knowledge of the world and condenses these into a feeling that something is “better” or “worse”, “more correct” or “less correct”, a feeling that inherently appears inadequately justified. The emotions provide a necessary corrective for the rational, which can lead people astray, particularly in the field of design. Rational thought, being linear, tends to reduce a broad spectrum of relevant factors to a few that are manageable. A rational argument can seem perfectly conclusive, but yet follow a onedimensional logic that fails to consider crucial factors and does not consider the complex interplay of the various levels of meaning within a design. The Portuguese neurologist António Damásio found indications in his studies that emotions form the basis for everything that we think. People who have lost their ability to respond to things emotionally, who have lost their feelings, says Damásio, also lose the ability to plan ahead and act with an eye to the future. Given that their intelligence is otherwise intact, these people are no longer in a position to relate their actions to a wider context. (Damásio 1999)

Designers need something that could be called an éducation

sentimentale, which enables them to be aware of their emotions and interpret them correctly. Conversely, the many buildings that evoke only unpleasant feelings show how much emotion is neglected in training.

The simultaneity of different levels of action in one and the same act of designing makes it difficult to analyse further. The fact that designing is often mystified as something brilliant, intuitive and purely emotional is therefore not without reason. By comparison, the view of designing as a process discussed earlier orders its procedures chronologically and thus

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reflects the way in which our activity is tied to time. In the process it contradicts the simultaneity of the overlapping and interdependent aspects of a design problem. Both approaches sum up essential aspects of design, but contradict each other and each remains unsatisfactory in its own right. A third approach, combining the two approaches, sees design as a cycle of recurring steps. It breaks down the act of designing into its component parts, but also describes the temporal structure of design processes.

THE DESIGN CYCLE

The exhibition curator Jean-Christophe Ammann answers the question “What does an artist actually do?” with an explanation that essentially applies to all designers:

“He works on something whose end product he can discern only very vaguely. […] He has some idea, but he is constantly confronted with failure. For it is possible that what is emerging does not fit in with his idea. He either changes what he is doing, or he changes the idea. One can also say that doing constantly changes the idea, because doing is more important than the idea.” (Ammann 1998, p. 18) The interplay of seeing, thinking and doing, the reflection of one in the other through perception and expression, forms the basis for all design activity. Both the act and the process of design can be described using the metaphor of a cycle – a cycle of inextricably interwoven thoughts and actions, broken down into a constantly recurring sequence of three areas of activity (A1–3) or six working steps (W1–6). The “design cycle” links thinking and doing, practice and theory and can be traced back to the theory of reflective practice as described by Donald A. Schön (Schön 1983). It starts with perceiving the task and situation (A1/W1), followed by their mental consideration, which leads to the first questions, hypotheses and vague ideas of the object or building to be designed (A2/ W2). These design ideas are first expressed through simple gestures or words, but later also with the aid of external tools (A3/W3). What has been expressed is then perceived again (A1’/W4) and compared with the initial idea. Both the idea and its expression are the subject of further consideration, they are criticized and subsequently changed (A2’/W5). These changed ideas are in turn expressed again (A3’/W6) and the cycle begins again. Step by step an ever more concrete, precise and more complex representation of what has been designed ­gradually emerges in spatial-pictorial and linguistic form. This sequence of recurring steps is just as much a part of long-term design process-

The design cycle

es as the individual act of designing. The three named spheres of activity that characterize the “design cycle” – perception, mental consideration and the expression of inner ideas – can sometimes be distinguished very clearly in the consecutive working steps, but often they are so tightly interwoven that the individual elements can scarcely be isolated any longer

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and fuse into a single action – an act of designing. The design process in its turn is made up of countless large and small “design cycles”. It is a ­continuous interplay of perception and expression, of working out “inner” ideas and presenting them “outwardly”, of creativity and criticism. Therefore a general theory of design must treat the five themes (I) per-

ception, (2) creative and (3) critical thinking, as well as (4) expression of the idea with the help of (5) design tools on an equal footing, as each of these steps builds on information that arises in the preceding step. Such a theory should be portrayed in a form that does not constrain but opens things up, that does not determine and define but identifies possibilities, that does not proclaim “eternal” values but reflects the structures of value systems, that does not prescribe methods but supports the development of individual working methods and strategies, that does not argue solely from top to ­bottom but also from ­bottom to top. In the following section an attempt will be made to develop an appropriate theoretical framework with a view to examining the subject of design tools in more detail. Part C of this book then discusses the interplay of these tools in practice.

PART B: TOOLS 96

Design tools Each tool must be used with the experience that created it. Leonardo da Vinci (Codex Arundel, 191R)

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Architectural design as a complex activity that is difficult to define can also be approached and described by means of the tools and cultural techniques deployed in the design process. Looking at it from this point of view helps achieve an appropriate degree of detachment from personal working methods, and makes it possible to see the fundamental relations between the individual activities. Starting with gesture and language as the primary design tools, the tools that developed from them can then be introduced: on the one hand, sketch, schematic outline, design drawing, perspective view and model as visual tools, and on the other description, criticism, theory, as well as calculations and computer program as verbal tools. The design tool is such a central issue because ideas, thoughts and visions cannot be conveyed directly; they can be expressed only with the aid of “tools”, “instruments” or “media”. We have to communicate our ideas through gestures, by talking about them, drawing them, writing them down or presenting them in some other way. There is a danger with any of the possible “tools” that their innate tendencies may alter or even falsify our ideas. Each has their own rules and ways of working, their limitations and possibilities, and they always force those who use them to move in a particular direction. If designers do not develop an awareness of this, there is a risk that their tools will take on a life of their own and push their users towards results that may be far removed from their original ideas. Today’s segmented design processes exacerbate this danger further. A design that may seem entirely convincing in a particular medium, i.e. conforms exactly to its rules, can turn out to be completely unsuitable in reality. Experienced designers know how to accommodate this discrepancy. They know the particular qualities of their tools well enough to be able to compensate for them where necessary.

Collection of Roman bronze tools from Pompeii

SYMBOLS OF CREATIVITY

Tools is the general terms for equipment used for working with materials. But what are the “tools” of design, and what are its “materials”? Medieval images show master builders and architects with items like compasses and set squares, which are to be read as attributes of their activities. What do

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these devices convey about the nature of design? Tools have been understood as attributes of craftsmen and master ­builders from time immemorial. Ancient Roman tombstones and excavations in Pompeii show entire collections of appropriate tools, though they are more properly associated with building than design: yardstick, set square, plumb line, level and compasses, and also hammer and chisel. (Zimmer 1984, pp. 265 ff.; Hambly 1988, p. 20, ill. 10)

The Babylonian ruler Gudea is portrayed seated, with the ground plan of a large building on his lap. This statue, called “The Architect with the Plan”, was created in Mesopotamia around 2125 BC; the drawing concerned is a ground plan on a reduced scale of the walls around the temple precinct, Gudea’s “Holy City”.

(André-Salvini, in: Las Casas 1997, pp. 74 f.)

It shows a masonry

structure with external abutments and six gates, each reinforced on both sides by projecting walls. What aids were available to Gudea and his architects?

Statue of the Babylonian ruler Gudea, c. 2125 BC, and the plan on the statue’s lap

Leonardo da Vinci: Shower of a variety of tools, Windsor Castle, The Royal Collection 12698

An allegorical drawing by Leonardo da Vinci illustrates one set of problems raised by the tools available. He depicts a threatening storm with tools of all kinds falling from the heavens, and with the caption: “O mise­

ria umana di quante cose per danari ti fai servo.” (Oh human misery: for how many things do you enslave yourself for money.) (after Hermann-Fiore 2002, pp. 332 f.)

In the

Enlightenment one of the greatest challenges faced was to manage and order the flood of tools, the respective activities, their effects and significance, taming the ever re-emerging chaos of possibilities. Albrecht Dürer’s famous copperplate engraving Melencolia I (see p. XX)

also shows a row of tools in the foreground that are clearly related

to building and designing lying scattered and apparently useless on the ground. Only a few decades later, Walther Hermann Ryff (or Rivius; 1500–1548) and Virgil Solis (1514–1562) put forward a different image that contrasts markedly with these oppressive visions.

“Vivitur ingenio, caetera mortis erunt” (Creativity survives, everything else belongs to death) is the title of a woodcut by Virgil Solis

(Röttinger 1914)

that

Ryff in Nuremberg published on two occasions: in 1547 as the frontispiece to his book Von der geometrischen Messung (Of geometrical measurement) Grote 1966, p. 5)

(after

and a year later on page XI of the second German edition of

Vitruvius’s Ten books on architecture (Vitruvius Teutsch, Nuremberg 1548, see p. 40),1 which Ryff translated, commented and illustrated. The picture shows a collection of equipment and tools that are associated not only with the work of master builders and architects but also with science, scattered around the floor: we see a level, various compasses and pincers, hammer, chisel, plane and saw, set square and gauge, books (as a reference to architectural theory?), two different levelling devices, a geometry textbook, ­bellows and crucible on a burning brazier, a bottle of chemicals, mallet and 1 There the title is “Circkels/Richtscheid/und aller gebreuchlichen Geometrischen Instrument/künstliche fürbildung” (Compass, straightedge and all other useful geometric instruments and artificial guides).

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chisel, a ruler, pen and inkwell, paintbrush and palette, tweezers, two compasses and a clamp with plumb line. In the middle of the page, on a double plinth raised above this collection of equipment, stands a genius (symbolizing the architect?) barefoot and portrayed as a putto, holding a sponge or stone hanging on a cord in his left hand which points downward, and in his

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raised right hand two wings (as a symbol of inspiration?). The plinth and the little boy are in correct perspective, but the floor is tilted upwards into the plane of the picture, so that the figure is effectively framed by the tools it should actually be standing over, and is keeping his head above them only with difficulty. Obviously Solis borrowed a number of pictorial elements unchanged from Dürer’s engraving Melencolia I. But the structure and mood of the picture is entirely different: it appears as a pointed antithesis to Dürer’s engraving. The personification of melancholy is omitted, and so are the bell, scales, hourglass and sundial as reminders of our mortality. The figure of the putto also suggests that Solis based his version on Dürer’s engraving, as the shape of its body, clothing, face and hairstyle is very similar to its predecessor. But while Dürer’s figure is sitting on a millstone writing on a slate, Solis places his putto dominant in the centre of the picture. Standing on a solid, cubic plinth, and holding up a pair of wings triumphantly in his right hand, he has clearly overcome all doubts and melancholy. Against this background, Virgil Solis’ woodcut published by Walther Ryff seems like an optimistic and now positive reinterpretation of creativity, which had previously been permeated with the idea of melancholy. Full of childlike happiness the boy, taking the wings of inspiration into his own hands and dominating the tools that are raised around him, is presented as symbolizing the architect in Ryff’s translation of Vitruvius. Perhaps this is modern Homo Faber’s first expression of optimism, throwing all caution to the winds. This optimism, as Dürer’s picture reminds us, can be achieved only at the price of a degree of simplification that suppresses all the contradictory, puzzling and alarming aspects of design. Yet Solis’ woodcut can also be seen as the starting-point for a view of architecture based on the tools, on the sense of making. Soon after, the goldsmith and sculptor Benvenuto Cellini (1500–1571) posed the question of what objects can be considered as “design tools”. He was an eminent member of the Accademia [dell’Arte] del Disegno, founded in

Attributed to Virgil Solis: woodcut, published as frontispiece to the book Von der geometrischen Messung (Of geometrical measurement), Walther Ryff: Nuremberg 1547, and to Walther Ryff’s translation of Vitruvius, Vitruvius Teutsch, Nuremberg 1548 (ill. p. 56)

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Benvenuto Cellini: Diana Ephesia, design for the seal of the Accademia del Disegno in Florence (detail), c. 1564. London, British Museum

Florence in 1563 by the architect, painter and art historian Giorgio Vasari (1511–1574) together with Agnolo Bronzino and Bartolomeo Ammanati. In a design for the seal of the newly-founded Accademia dating from c. 1564, Cellini suggests using an image of the many-breasted, all-nourishing goddess of nature Diana Ephesia to embody design. He understands disegno as the “origin and beginning of all human activities”.

(Cellini, after Kemp 1974, p. 222)

Quite casually, just below the middle of the page, Cellini introduces an alphabet in capital letters. A tool resembling its particular shape is allotted to each letter – a first, sketchy attempt to list and classify design tools, here consisting of tools for crafting and drawing. The analogy Cellini draws between the shape of the letters and the shape of the tools suggests that the individual tools can be chosen in the same way as the letters of the alphabet. Designers have to learn how to use them properly in the same way as writers use the ABC. Once proficient with their tools, designers can be just as expressive as writers who have a good command of the alphabet. Staying with this image, we soon see that a writer still needs a lot of other things before he or she can be creative: vocabulary,

grammar and rhetoric, a capacity for invention and story-telling. At any rate, in the new Renaissance understanding, tools are no longer primarily used in man’s struggle against nature, injuring and destroying it, but for creating “a new, artificial world, which man and nature work on together”. The art historian Horst Bredekamp sees Cellini’s drawing as a “snapshot of positively

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exuberant optimism about art and technology”.

(Bredekamp 2003, pp. 130, 137)

This drawing marks the first steps towards describing creative activities. The path leads us on to one of the major projects of the French Enlightenment: the Encyclopédie, ou dictionnaire raisonné des sciences, des arts et

des metiérs, published from 1751 to 1771 by Denis Diderot and Jean-Baptiste le Rond d’Alembert in Paris; the first edition encompassed 17 volumes of text and 11 of plates. The aim of the enterprise was to present all the tools and working techniques known at the time, arranged by profession. Knowledge that until then had been a closely guarded professional secret in the guilds was thus systematically structured and made available to the ­public. The impressive work records the sum of technological knowledge of its day, in texts and elaborate, detailed illustrations, at a time when the art of the Baroque overlapped with the early days of the industrial revolution. Information about natural science is juxtaposed with explanations of technical processes from agriculture, craft and military warfare. Articles on wood, metal, chemistry, ­textiles, ceramics and glass are accompanied by representations of artistic techniques from architecture, fine art and music, writing and book printing. Tools are no longer seen as mere aids; from this point on they are the centre of attention.

Tools relating to Architecture, Maçonnerie (architecture and stonemasonry), from the Encyclopédie by Diderot and d’Alembert

FLUSSER: THE GESTURE OF MAKING

All design is embedded in the entire sequence of actions involved in making. This was a key term for both Otl Aicher

(cf. p. 212)

and Vilém

Flusser. It can be traced back via the Old Saxon verb makon and the English

to make to the Greek mag– to knead, 104

(Onions 1996, p. 547)

which indicates a

remarkable connection with the original model-making material, clay. Otl Aicher attributes a central role to making, but defines the term only cursorily, whereas Flusser analyses making in detail. Neither author relates it to some indifferent activity, as in colloquial phrases like “making do” or “making yourself unpopular”, but understand it as concretely designing and making objects and thereby shaping reality. According to Flusser, the aim of all making is “stamping form on the objectified world”. He sees making as a particular working gesture, directed not at other people but at material. He starts by looking at the movements of our hands to analyse the gesture of making.

(Flusser 1991, pp. 49–70)

He defines making as the attempt to put theory

into practice. This is achieved in his view “when what should be has become objective and concrete, the object has become valuable and the value an object”. (loc. cit., p. 57)

The metaphorical dimension of his account is revealed when in

this context Flusser speaks of the two hands as “theory” and “practice” having to be brought into agreement by the gesture of making. Flusser tries to sum up the infinitely complex procedure of making in simple images. Here the theme of thinking is almost completely ignored. But his metaphoric­ al images show how much the process of thinking is shaped by the concrete movements of our hands, and supported by concepts that are shaped by these movements, abstracted, drawn off from them in the truest sense of the words. In his systematic analysis, Flusser identifies a sequence of ten distinct active steps that are so submerged in everyday habit that they are scarcely perceived as being separate. For him, the gesture of making starts with a gesture of perception (1), described as a gesture of grasping and understanding that is active and in a very particular sense violent; it selects and isolates an object. This is followed by a first step towards an evalu-

Making as kneading: pizza dough

ation gesture (2): a suitable form for this object is chosen, and an attempt is made to imprint this form or this value upon it, to “inform” it. This phase begins with the gesture of Herstellung, meaning both physical creation and the act of putting something somewhere (3); a gesture in which the object is detached from its context that has to be negated, and placed in an affirmed

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context. In the process it is possible to sense the resistance or the raw nature of the material. In the gesture of examination (4) the hands then penetrate the object and thus compel it to reveal its inner structures. They grasp how the object is to be changed, and they can now use the gesture of deciding (5) to determine what value and what form they want to impose upon it before starting with the gesture of production (6). But given the resistance of the unshaped material, the hand finds itself compelled to adjust the form it wants to imprint upon the object. Flusser calls this “constant reformulation of the form under counter-pressure from the object” the gesture of creation (7): “Creation means devising ideas during the gesture of

making.”

(loc. cit., p. 64)

In contrast with the classic Platonic idea of eternal,

unchangeable ideas, that can be realized only imperfectly, Flusser stresses

“that new ideas emerge in the midst of theory’s struggle with the raw, resistant world” (loc. cit., p. 65) It is not creative to impose prefabricated ideas on prepared material by force, as happens in the case of industrial production, nor to create virtual stereotypes in the laboratories without coming to terms with the raw material. Flusser sees the gesture of creation as a struggle in which weak human hands are threatened with injury and destruction. In this case they can either give up, or reply with the gesture of tool-making (8). The hands withdraw ­temporarily from their resistant object to find another one that can serve as a simplified and more effective extension of them. However, preparing tools is in itself a gesture of making. According to Flusser, in order to make tools, one has to make other tools, ultimately resulting in a practically infinite recursive sequence of toolmaking. The danger is that by focussing attention on making tools and tools for tools, the original object of the gesture of making may be forgotten entirely, and consequently it may no longer be possible to tell an object from a person: everything becomes open to ­treatment. This, according to Flusser’s critique, is the situation in today’s industrial society.

In the gesture of realization (9) the hands, now provided with tools, return to their original object – provided they have not forgotten it. The product subsequently produced is thus shaped less by the hands than by the tool. The form that is finally realized is influenced by three factors: the form originally intended, the resistance of the object and the work done by the tool.

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But as the two hands – practice and theory – can never be made to agree completely, and so the work is never completed, the gesture of making is an infinite gesture. Flusser says that it does not come to an end until the hands withdraw from the object, open up and present their work. This can happen with a degree of resignation if it is apparent that every continuation of the gesture of making would be of no significance for the work. In contrast with the gesture of making, which differentiates, excludes, violates and changes, its conclusion in the gesture of handing over (10) changes this into a gesture of opening, of giving, of love for others. Flusser’s analysis shows how far designing and shaping – the gesture of creation – are tied into the context of multiple gestures of making. The possib­ ilities and meanings inherent in creation are largely determined by this connection. The gesture of making can change the direction in which it is moving in any phase of the creative process, to the point of changing into its opposite. A simple change of direction for an individual gesture can appear as something else, something completely new. If the hands choose a different object, a different form, a different context, a different tool, a different course for the gesture of creation or the gesture of handing over, it is possible that a completely different piece of work will emerge, or the one that is ­coming into being will acquire a completely different meaning. THE AMBIVALENCE OF TOOLS

The basic understanding that Flusser elucidates suggests that tools are “every­

thing that moves in gestures and thus express a freedom”.

(loc. cit., p. 222)

Tools do

not only shape our concrete actions, but also our thinking. “Tools change our

behaviour, and thus our thinking, feeling and wanting. They are experience models.” (Flusser 1989, p. 2) They are objects made to serve a particular purpose. The question: “What is that and what can I make with it?” is generally governed by how they have always been used in the case of traditional tools. According to Flusser, new tools are particularly fascinating precisely because, more than any other thing, they contain a hidden virtual potential, and

because of their as yet not completely fixed form, we can liberate ourselves from the intentions of those who created the tools

(Flusser 1991. pp. 193 f.).

By

examining the conditions of expression and articulation, thus elaborating a theory of gestures, a theory of design, we can identify the limitations of our thinking in order to liberate ourselves from them.

“The oppressive dominance that tools exercise over our thinking takes place on many levels, and some of them are less obvious than others. We must not allow the tools to take the reins and ride us.” (loc. cit., p. 102) Flusser also says that tools are not instruments of freedom in every case. In the modern age, his analysis runs, tools no longer serve to solve problems, but start to become problematical in their own right. Once they become objects of research, and not just traditional models, but are made through scientific innovations, this leads to “bigger and more expensive” machines. These raise the question of who owns them and what they should do with them. Flusser says that in the course of the Industrial Revolution the relationship between man and machine was reversed. Man is no longer the constant and the machine the variable, but man has become an attribute of the machine, as one man can be replaced by another one in the course of the work.

(loc. cit., pp. 26 f.)

Flusser also says that the pre-industrial relationship

between man and tool is reversed, the new tools no longer function for man, but man functions for the machines.

(Flusser 1998, p. 240)

He also points

out that the machine can be much more creative than a human being if it is programmed appropriately. It does not liberate man from work in order to leave him room for creative activity, but overtakes him in this sphere as well. (Flusser 1991, pp. 28 ff.)

Tools become critical for Flusser when they manifest themselves as “apparatuses” that are difficult to comprehend fully, and which he defines as “com-

plexes of machines synchronized and coupled together in complex feedback systems”. (loc. cit., p. 26)

It is in dealing with these “apparatuses”, says Flusser, that design

becomes a central question of human existence. In his book Vom Subjekt zum

Projekt (From Subject to Project) he develops the idea that we could overcome our “subservient existence as subjects” in designing, and start to “recover from submissiveness and straighten into design”. (Flusser 1994, p. 27) Flusser sets a new view of design against a pessimistic approach that sees the world dominated by industrial and state apparatuses that exist only for their own sake. Flusser

Tools. Photograph: Christian Pieper, 2005

asserts that hitherto we have changed thanks to our tools, yet without anticipating how we are changing: “We are subject to our tools, even though we design

them ourselves.” But he says that now we are in a position to design their “repercussions” on ourselves as well.

(Flusser 1989, p. 3)

The ability to design the consequences and effects of the tools, machines and apparatuses that we have created has foundered hitherto on the limited scope of our imagination, on the tight boundaries within which we can think our way through complexity, and above all on the difficulties of predicting

Flusser describes apparatuses as “opaque black boxes”, taking the camera as an example.

the behaviour of complex systems. As programmable apparatuses, today’s computers allow a depth of processing that can reveal the consequences of a design decision much earlier, and through a user interface adapt these to our design abilities. They can simulate new tools and show us the “repercussions” of these tools before they become reality. Once we have discovered the structure of the apparatus, then there is hope of getting a grip on it.

(Flusser 1993/2, pp. 78 f.)

If this succeeds then we are

“no longer subject to our design but we become conscious designers of the changes that this design is bringing about for us”. (Flusser 1989, p. 6)

Hand-operated concrete mixing machine by Heinrich Strube and Co., c. 1900

“DESIGN TOOLS” AS A METAPHOR

“Design tools” are not tools in the same sense as a hammer or a screwdriver. The term (as defined more precisely on p. 130) is a metaphor, transferring the image of a hand tool to complex states of affairs. Using this metaphor causes a shift of perspective that makes it possible to consider certain con-

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nections between effect and significance “objectively”, as if they were objects, in order to describe their qualities without being dominated by personal opinions, but from the point of view of the designer. The term “design tools” thus implies linguistic objectification. In a similar way to how Flusser describes the gesture of making, i.e. analysing not the making itself but its meaning in the form of gesture, we are not so much focussing on design per se as on certain connections, their effect and significance: on a complex structure of material and immaterial relationships between objects and the cultural techniques developed for their use. In order to better understand the meaning of the metaphor of “design tools”, we shall return to the craftsman’s tools. A shoemaker has a large number of different tools, and he stores them in a precise order at his workplace. As a rule, these tools have two ends: the soft handle, often made of wood, which transfers the force of the hand into the tool, and the hard head, usually made of metal, which is used to work on the item concerned. Each tool’s shape is adapted to the special job it has to do. But here certain tools are used in a way that is quite contrary to their usual function, for example when the wooden handle of a hammer is used to smooth a leather sole. Experienced craftsmen resist the suggestive effect of tools, consisting, as can often be seen in children, of working on everything with the particular tool that happens to be to hand. An intimate and exclusive relationship, similar to the kind that many ­musicians develop with their instruments, is rarely to be seen in designers. They tend to maintain an essentially objective relationship to their “design tools”, especially as they use several as a rule, so that specific qualities can be exploited on the one hand and compensated for on the other. But the double value of tools expressed in the soft handle and the hard, metallic end is also found here, on a different level of meaning.

A cobbler’s tools

Every design tool both acknowledges external circumstances (grasping and holding) and also expresses inner ideas (stamping internal ideas of design on a material support). Every design tool can be used descriptively, i.e. illustratively, to describe a given, or prescriptively, i.e. creating a design, to represent something new. The shift from the descriptive to the prescriptive

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mode can be freely decided by the designer: a copied detail can be declared to be a model for a new work in no time. Each hand tool reduces the wide range of all possible movements to a few select movements, enabling us to deploy them more effectively. Design tools are both suitable for reducing complexity and also for creating complexity as the design process proceeds. But the mechanisms for reducing and creating complexity are different for each tool, and themselves problematical. It is particularly true that the question always arises as to whether one is actually dealing with a successful abstraction or just with a plain simplification whose consequences are being neglected. So the Swiss sociologist Lucius Burckhardt reproaches designers for solving problems “intuitively” by reducing their complications to “so-called essentials”. The sum of what is deemed inessential and gets lost in the course of this process is liable to create new and greater problems.

(Burckhardt 2004, p. 26)

But the tension in the “design tools” metaphor in fact arises from the relationship between similarity and difference inherent in it. The concept suggests that inner images and ideas can be processed as directly as the material objects of a craft. Unlike simple tools, which follow simple mechanical principles that are easy to grasp and control, the effect of “design tools” is based on complex mechanisms for perceiving and thinking, and for expressing what has been thought out. Their primary role is not to work on material items, but to influence individual and collective inner ideas we have of designs, and to make it possible to represent them more or less materially. They are not equally direct, immediate and easy to control as hand tools, but create a less than transparent complex of different direct and indirect mechanisms. These follow the principles of geometry and abstraction, logic and meaning, and raise questions about the possibilities of representation and communication.

“The hammer forges the smith”– the way in which design tools strike back at the designer has not be addressed so far. The nature and qualities of the design tools do not just make their mark on what has been designed, but prior to this also on the reflection about the design. The individual “design

Peter Jenny redesigned Alfred Neweczeral's 1947 Rex peeler as a drawing tool.

tools” have certain inherent structures and tendencies which, if they are not taken into consideration, are reflected in the form of characteristic deficits of the realized designs. The interplay between thinking and making is of fundamental significance to design. The structures and tendencies upon which the effect and use of the individual design tools are based have to be identified, to make it possible for readers to detach themselves gradually, as their awareness increases, from the spell, from the “oppressive dominance”

(Flusser)

exercised on our thinking by tools and machines organized as apparatuses. The use of digital technologies once again suggests an answer to the question of how we design, as both the boundaries of feasibility and the pathways of imposing material form that characterize the traditional design tools have been completely redrawn by the digitalization of those tools. An early use of a term that could be translated as “design tool” is to be found in the Baroque period. The young architect Balthasar Neumann used the name Instrumentum Architecturae for a pair of proportional dividers he

had “invented and made”; it enabled him to measure out the dimensions and proportions of the Tuscan, Doric, Ionic, Corinthian and composite column orders on any scale with dividers and transfer them to a design drawing. When fully open the two arms of the divider are the same length as the Nuremberg Shoe, i.e. 30.3 cm.

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(Hansmann 1999, pp. 9 f.)

The term “tool” is repeatedly used in connection with design. For example, in his essay The Tools of Art – Old and New (1979) the art theorist Rudolf Arnheim discusses how the particular characteristics of each tool affect the result of artistic work. In their extensive analysis Architectural Representation

and the Perspective Hinge (1997), Alberto Pérez Gómez and Louise Pelletier show that the “tools of representation” often influenced the conceptual development of a design. The volume Bild – Schrift – Zahl (Image–Text – Number, 2003), edited by Sybille Krämer and Horst Bredekamp, also addresses the relationship between culture and technique and the use of tools in a number of essays. Otl Aicher declares, without further explaining the term: “the

designer knows nothing. he has only his tools with which to approach a matter.” (Aicher 1991/2, p. 194)

He explains the significance of models and criticism, dis-

cusses the advantages of the pencil and the disadvantages of the computer, reflects about the nature of photography, but it remains unclear whether and to what extent he sees these as design tools. Finally, in his Incomplete Manifesto for Growth, the designer Bruce Mau recommends:

“Make your own tools. Hybridize your tools in order to build unique things. Even simple tools that are your own can yield entirely new ­avenues of exploration. Remember, tools amplify our capacities, so even a small tool can make a big difference.” (Mau 2000, p. 89) Thrilled by his discovery of how effectively an upper thigh bone can be used as a club, a hominid throws the bone high in the air with a roar of triumph. The bone spins ever more slowly in slow motion and is then transformed by a match cut into a gigantic space ship, continuing the movement majestically in the earth‘s orbit. This key scene at the beginning of Stanley Kubrick’s film 2001: A Space Odyssey, dating from 1968, relates the discovery of the first tool (in the same instance used as a weapon) to the design of a space ship. Kubrick’s match cut jumps over hundreds of thousands of years, and suggests that designing a journey in space is driven by the same primeval instincts as the use of a club. But above all Kubrick is addressing

the close connection between tool and design. In a certain sense, tools are designs themselves: the hammer sketches out a powerful blow that can be precisely controlled; compasses and ruler sketch out circles and lines; linear perspective sketches out a particular way of perceiving space, and the reduced scale drawing sketches out the architect surveying the entire building site, emancipated from his Balthasar Neumann: Instrumentum Architecturae, Würzburg 1713, Mainfränkisches Museum

daily drudgery. Buckminster Fuller, one of the most ingenious of 20th century

designers, analyses tools as “externalizations of originally integral functions”. (Fuller 1969, p. 112)

Shifting what were originally functions of the body outside

of it, using non-living material, extends the boundaries of a tool’s use until it eventually acquires independence as a machine.

“Tools do not introduce new principles but they greatly extend the range of conditions under which the discovered control principle may be effectively employed by man.” (Fuller 1969, p. 112)

But to what extent are the tools that have already been discussed “design tools”? It is true that the craft and drawing tools used in design are tools in the actual, direct sense, but they do not convey anything about our ideas of design. Conversely, a sketch or drawing is not a tool in the same, direct sense as the pencil used to create it. The original, essentially endogenous, design “tools” are intellectual abilities: perception and memory, imaginative skills and a sense of form, the ability to think, inventiveness and judgement. But as the design process moves forward, design ideas develop in dialogue and constant interaction with their material manifestation. The design cycle, as we have seen, is a

sequence of intimately entwined ideas and actions. It is possible to use the term design tools for all the aids that support the design process in any way: the above-mentioned intellectual and physical skills, just as much as the tools of the trade, for measuring and drawing, related to science and to art; tools in the more literal sense like pencil, compasses and ruler, and also in

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the extended sense like sketches, schematic outlines, design drawings and models, texts and calculations and not least tools in the figurative sense, the techniques, methods and strategies that form the basis for all these tools. But when defined so broadly, the meaning of the term can hardly be grasped. Conversely, design tools like the sketch, design drawing, model or perspective view, design description or calculation can all be seen as media, the study of which is informed by the work of Marshall McLuhan, Vilém Flusser and Friedrich Kittler. But in the cycle of designing, the sender of a message is also its first recipient and critical assessor. In this way the message becomes the design, the medium a design tool. Seen from the point of view of designing, the media become tools, as they no longer primarily serve the purpose of communication, but above all the development of design ideas. Tools in the more literal sense, like pencil, compasses and ruler, say next to nothing about the designs devised with their assistance. Therefore if we understand the medium-related, more or less material tools as “design tools”, then it is reasonable to object that as a rule they are seen either as completed artistic works or as meaningless waste products of the design process. And yet in the design process, combined with the appropriate cultural techniques, they are the essential tools for developing, giving material form to and communicating design ideas. If we use the formulation “more or less material” for these tools, this expresses a fundamental characteristic of design: intellectual ideas taking material form. The increasingly material quality of the design tools employed in the course of the design process is an essential prerequisite for the ability to gradually materialise design ideas. In the specific relationship between material quality and inner ideas, design tools are distinct from many other factors that influence design. The original tools for conveying design ideas are first of all gesture and language. Both express inner ideas, fleetingly but already physically, and in

Jean-Jacques Lequeu: Architecture Civile. Des instruments à l’usage du bon dessinateur, 1782

a way that can be documented. All the other design tools can be described as further developments and increasingly precise formulations of these two: the physical gesture becomes concrete via sketch, drawing, perspective and model, down to the full material manifestation of the complete building. But the spoken and written word creates, to use an expression by Joseph Beuys, the “social sculpture” that is the prerequisite for the emergence of buildings. VISUAL AND VERBAL TOOLS

Design tools can be divided into two groups that complement each other. Tools that create images and form emerge from the physical gesture, and ­verbal tools from the written and spoken word. If these tools are arranged according to their complexity, then at the same time the emerging order follows their historical development, confirming McLuhan’s thesis that any new medium contains the older one: the sketch captures the designer’s first gestures, and these acquire geometrical precision in the initial plan; to-scale design drawings relate all the working plans needed for a building to each other, while a model in its turn sums up all the drawings as an object. A ­perspective view represents the spatial quality of the model, and becomes automatic in photographic form. Models and perspective drawings are objects of a comparable degree of complexity, but the model is much older than the perspective drawing as a design tool, and the geometrical operations used for creating a perspective drawing are clearly more complex than those needed for building a model. For this reason, the model should come

before the perspective drawing in the sequence of design tools. Films and video recordings are created in their turn by creating a series of analogue or digital photographs. The series of verbal tools follows the same principle: a sentence contains words, a descriptive text sentences. The text is then criticized, and several

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criticisms lead to a discussion whose results can be summed up in a theory. Formulae or algorithms can be derived from the theory, and these make it possible to calculate. Finally, a series of algorithms make up a program. Last of all, the computer brings both groups of tools together, the visual and the verbal, to create a meta-tool for design. Visual tools that produce images make it possible to express inner ideas in a visual form, so that these can be looked at critically and conveyed to others, while the verbal design tools that produce texts are there to describe, analyse and criticize design ideas. Or put briefly: the visual tools are used primarily for devising form, and the verbal tools for developing the meaning of a design. If the two series are placed side by side, some interesting parallels can be drawn: for example theory, which can be defined as the formalization of a perspective, stands alongside the visual tool of the perspective view. Photography, which can be described as an algorithm for creating perspectives that has become an apparatus, stands alongside the verbal algorithms. Schematic outline and design drawing as precise scale representations of a design correspond with description and criticism, whose job is to formulate scales (of criteria, of values) verbally. The division into verbal and visual tools corresponds with two complementary ways of thinking: verbal, linear, logical thinking on the one hand and visual-spatial, concrete, simultaneous, associative thinking on the other. It also corresponds with the allocation of different thought structures to the two hemispheres of the human brain, as described by Eccles, Edwards and Sattler, among others, and the distinction between lateral and vertical thought structures made by de Bono, and also Aicher’s division into analogous and digital thinking.

(see p. 77)

simultaneous, comparative, associative,

visual verbal

successive, rational, logical, rational,

temporal, vertical, digital emotional, spatial, lateral , analogous action, staging gesture

word

concept, metaphor, neologism sentence statement, phrase, text message dot, line, area sketch schematic outline description letter, e-mail, minutes report,

movement,

elevation,

ground plan, section,

detail, working plan drawing module, exemplar, mould,

building description, Baubeschreibung, tender

criticism

invitation

distinction, evaluation,

contradiction, consultation, revision,

devastating assessment sample, prototype, isometric drawing,

model

axonometric drawing,

discussion dialogue, conversation, dispute, jury meeting

building meeting,

perspective view theory hypothesis, acceptance, insight, attempted explanation, discourse light drawing, photogram, slide collage, montage, photograph algorithm equation, formula linear

still, adaptation projector, clip

calculation, model calculation

film, video program beamer keyboard, screen, processor

hardware

sequence, process,

simulation, control saved data

software

computer PC Notebook PDA internet mobile Server

The two groups of visual and verbal design tools, 2007

NEW RESEARCH WORK

What design tools are, how they work and how they can be used for architectural design was originally the subject of two essays by Christof Ehrlich

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and myself presented at the conference “Entwerfen – Kreativität und Materialisation” (Design – Creativity and Materialization), held at Branden­ burg University of Technology in Cottbus in 1999.

(Ehrlich 1999; Gänshirt 1999)

These questions became the focus of my research over the following years, resulting in a dissertation

(Gänshirt 2008)

and the first edition of this book

in 2007. While the two essays went largely unnoticed, since the publication of Tools for Ideas the topic of design tools has become an important subject of research in German-speaking countries as well as beyond. A review of the research conducted and published since then, however, offers some fresh insight into our initial question. To better understand the initial question, let us look at the drawing utensils on an architect’s desk. Arranged neatly on a white tabletop, we see wood and plastic set squares, some French curves, a two-sided and two triangular scale rules, a wooden proportional divider, a drafting broom, pencil, eraser, propelling pencil leads, ink bottle, technical or construction drawings on tracing paper, an Anglepoise lamp and a tabletop telephone. Even when these objects are from a museum – it is Alvar Aalto’s small workspace in his own home – and may not entirely accurately reflect the actual historical situation, they correspond more or less to a typical architect’s workspace around the middle of the 20th century. Even in the 1980s, when I was studying in Karlsruhe, or in the early 1990s, when I was a young architect working in Oporto, my own work desks and utensils still looked very similar. When I embarked on my research into the tools of design, these objects didn’t seem particularly revealing to me – an assumption that would later prove to be wrong. Instead, it seemed better to take a step back and look at what could be made with these physical tools. In Alvar Aalto’s office, for example, we see sketches, paintings, scale drawings, models, prototypes, photographs, and much more. These could be seen as the principal media or design tools that architects use to find ideas and develop their projects. Since then, new research has been published that has caused me to challenge my understanding of design tools as the media for expressing and communicating design ideas in different ways. It is, therefore, time to revisit the question. Back in November 2007, students and tutors at the architecture

department of the TU Dortmund put on an exhibition entitled Die Medien der Architektur (The Media of Architecture) accompanied by a three-day symposium and a catalogue.

(Hnilica, Sonne, Wittmann 2007)

A year later, the

exhibition was shown in the Haus der Architekten of the Chamber of Architects of North Rhine-Westphalia in Düsseldorf, and in 2011 the

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­contributions to the symposium were published in a book of the same title. (Sonne 2011)

Another large exhibition entitled Architektur entsteht im Kopf –

The Making of Architecture (published in English as The Force Is in the Mind) opened in October 2008 at the Architektur­zentrum Wien (Az W) in Vienna. The impressive exhibition showed a wide range of objects and ­artefacts, collected and curated by the cultural theorist Elke Krasny together with Gudrun Hausegger and Robert Temel. Accompanied by a richly ­illustrated catalogue,

(Krasny 2008)

the exhibition presented an amazing range

of objects that architects had used for design purposes, from drawing tools

Drafting table in Alvar and Aino Aalto’s home, Helsinki 1935–1936. Photograph 2017

and design media (mainly sketches, drawings and models) to more ­unexpected things such as a bed or a rifle whose shots were used to deform unkilned blocks of clay. The Architektur­zentrum Wien explained:

“Documentary photographs show what it really looks like in the studios while working. A concrete project by the respective office illustrates their design process and the specific design tools that informed it.” (AzW 2008) This new research demonstrated two things: first, that from an empirical standpoint, field research on the tools of design and their use can be much more revealing than I had assumed. Observing how architectural design is practised and which physical tools and processes are actually used in contemporary practice in offices and archives can tell us more about the possibilities these offer designers when developing their designs. The second aspect is that the tools and processes used in leading architectural

Workspace in Alvar and Aino Aalto’s home, Helsinki 1935–1936. Photograph 2017

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The exhibition The Making of Architecture, at the Architekturzentrum Wien, 2008/2009. Photographs: Peter Kubelka

practices are much more diverse, and therefore more interesting, than I expected. Krasny’s descriptive research approach also helped me understand the extent to which my own approach was based on methods from the field of architectural history and theory and aimed more at formulating a theory

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than direct field research. In the following years, Krasny undertook similar research projects in Canada, the results of which were used to expand the exhibition. It was later shown in Halifax and Montreal, again accompanied by a symposium, and it was last shown in 2011 at the Haus der Architektur in Graz, Austria. These exhibitions, as well as the catalogue accompanying them, showed that, alongside tools for drawing and designing that have been used since the Renaissance, designers can be very inventive in finding or making highly specialized tools themselves, some of which serve only one particular design task. Perhaps the most charming response to the issue of which tools of design to use is a thin, approximately A4-sized piece of plywood with laser-etched drawings. They show a series of everyday objects at roughly life size, ­numbered from 1 to 5 and labelled with unusual names: there is a question

extractor (which looks like a corkscrew), an idea catcher (a fishhook), a concept sharpener (generally used for pencils), an eye-opener (also usable as a bottle opener) and, the largest, a carpenter’s hammer, which is called an innovation hammer. A scale along the bottom edge of the rectangle adds to the impression of a set of tools of the trade. The “Toolkit”, as it was called, was sent out by Zurich University of the Arts in 2010 to advertise their Master of Arts

in Design programme. The design process that this “Toolkit” suggests by numbering the tools and arranging them accordingly is also interesting: starting with (1) good questions, you can (2) catch an idea whose concept (3) needs to be sharpened to open our eyes (4). Finally, it is hammered into shape or forged with a (5) powerful innovation. All the results can be precisely measured and compared. None of the objects shown are typical drawing or design tools, but they represent a sequence of fundamental design actions. A more tangible example is the subject of a dissertation on the design tools used by carpenters in China for traditional carpentry.

(Brillhart 2018)

When a building is designed, the builders produce a four-sided wooden scale, which in Zhejiang Province is called “Zhàng Ga-n” (丈杆, literally: measuring

stick) but can have other names in other provinces. Based on a traditional system, markings are made on all four sides of the stick that indicate all the measurements needed to build a traditional wooden house at a scale of 1:1. This one stick therefore embodies all the construction drawings necessary to build a traditional structure comprising columns, cantilevered brackets,

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the beams that rest on them and the roof. A quickly drawn plan, often consisting of just a few lines, serves as a basis from which the dimensions that determine the size of each construction frame are carried over onto the stick. The stick is then used during the construction process to determine the sizes of all the structural parts of the building:

“The Zhàng Ga- n is essentially a preliminary full-scale realisation of the drawing (whether imagined or materialised) in one dimension. Each structural frame is ­‘projected’ onto a face of the Zhàng Ga-n.” (Brillhart 2018, p. 77)

Toolkit advertising the Master of Arts in Design program at Zurich University of the Arts. Photograph 2010 (see also https://designtools.zhdk.ch)

Such scales are still used today in rural areas of the eastern Chinese ­provinces of Zhejiang and Fujian. The carpenters there prefer them over the scale drawings commonly used today, which they see as being not reliable enoughfor their purposes. Their design tool embodies a remarkable combination of pure craftsmanship and the drawings of the European tradition.

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A number of doctoral dissertations have been written on topics such as

Designing (tools (for designing (tools (for ...)))), (Fischer 2008) and individual design tools such as models, (Wendler 2013 and Couto Duarte 2016) colour and architectural drawing, (Moutinho 2016) concepts and diagrams, (Stapenhorst 2016) or a data-based floor plan design tool called Space Index.

(Dillenburger 2016)

The ethnologist Albena Yaneva has described the model-based design ­practices at the Office for Metropolitan Architecture in Rotterdam. She draws on Bruno Latour’s actor-network theory, in which things can also be so-­ called “actants”, i.e. non-human actors.

(Yaneva 2009a & b)

Other dissertations

that relate to the topic of design tools and methods include Wiederkehr und

Mehrdeutigkeit. Entwurfswerkzeuge der Architektur (Repetition and Ambiguity. Design Tools of Architecture), (Hartmann 2016) Theorie der Städtebaumetaphern. Peter Eisenman und Stadt als Text (The Theory of Urban Metaphors. Peter Eisenman and City as Text), (Gerber 2012) Entwurfsdinge. Vom Sammeln als Werkzeug moderner Architektur (Entwurfsdinge – Collecting as a Tool of Modern Architecture), (Froschauer 2019) and intriguingly, Landschaften auf

Simple elevation drawing showing how to realize a Zhàng Ga¯ n (video still from Lu 2014)

Some of the books on design tools published since 2007

den Grund gehen. Wandern als Erkenntnismethode beim großräumigen Land­ schafts­­­entwerfen (Experiencing Landscapes. Walking as a Creative Practice of Large-­Scale Landscape Design). (Schultz 2014) In her dissertation Gestik des Raumes. Zur leiblichen Kommunikation zwischen Benutzer und Raum in der Architektur (The Gesture of Space. On the Physical Interaction between User 128

and Space in Architecture), Angelika Jäkel investigated architectural gestures as an instrument of spatial analysis.

(Jäkel 2013)

Caroline Hummels also dealt

with the same topic in Gestural Design Tools: Prototypes, Experiments and

Scenarios in 2000, but at the time it had escaped my attention. Richly illustrated monographs on design tools have also been published with titles such as Der Bauplan. Werkzeug des Architekten (The Working Drawing. The Architect’s Tool), (Spiro, Ganzoni 2013) Das Architekturmodell – Werkzeug, Fetisch,

Kleine Utopie (The Architectural Model – Tool, Fetish, Small Utopia), (Schmal, Elser 2012) or Planbilder: Medien der Architekturgestaltung (Blueprint Images: Forms of Architectural Design).

(Hillnhütter 2015)

The principle of “thinking in models”, practised by Frei Otto in a variety of ways, was presented in a large exhibition and an extensive catalogue curated by Georg Vrachliotis at the ZKM Karlsruhe. Kunz, Kurz 2017)

(Vrachliotis, Kleinmanns,

The use of architectural photography as a design tool

was discussed in Vom Nutzen der Architekturfotografie (Architectural Photo­ graphy and its Uses) (Fitz, Lenz 2015) and partly also in Architektur Fotografie.

Darstellung – Verwendung – Gestaltung (Architectural Photography. Representation – Use – Design).

(Locher, Sachsse 2016)

Writing as a design tool

was examined in Archiscripts, the 11th issue of the architecture magazine of Graz University of Technology, GAM.

(Gethmann, Eckhard, Wagner 2015)

and Wind: Climate as an Architectural Instrument,

(Krautheim et al. 2014)

City

written

at the TU Berlin, discusses how ­climate is used to determine a building’s design. The volume The Hard Life is a book of objects and items of everyday rural life in Portugal, collected and photographed by the British designer Jasper Morrison, that shows traditional hand tools, not in the sense of design tools, but as inspiration for design.

(Morrison 2017)

In 2018, the

Canadian Centre for Architecture (CCA) in Montreal began inviting small teams each year to develop new tools “which can be physical, digital, or

­somewhere in between – and rapidly begin to address a specific opportunity or need.” (www.cca.qc.ca)

Last but not least, since 2007, more than a dozen symposia

on the subject of design and its tools have been held in Europe, almost

Global Tools was a network of designers founded in 1973 which included, among others, Archizoom, Superstudio, Ettore Sottsass and Gaetano Pesce. Front and back cover of the Global Tools Bulletin I, Edizioni L’uomo e l’arte, Milan, June 1974. Design: Remo Buti

all of which have been accompanied by a book publication.

(see Gänshirt 2018,

pp. 108 f.)

The research topic has also garnered recognition in the academic realm with the establishment of two junior professorships. At the Faculty of Architecture of RWTH Aachen University, Carolin Stapenhorst was appointed junior professor for “Tool Cultures” in 2014. A second position was created at the Bauhaus-Universität Weimar for the “Tools of Design” research programme: over a period of two years, the art historian Barbara Wittmann led an interdisciplinary group of seven researchers with backgrounds not just in architecture but also in the fields of philosophy, art and architectural history, and cultural theory. The results were published in 2018 as a collection of essays on the subjects of thinking and working tools, animations, diagrams (of diagrams), experiments, creativity techniques, models, drawing

the new, notations, orthogonal projections, participation, grids, reconstruction and collecting.

(Wittmann 2018)

However, the most comprehensive list of design tools can be found in a book first published in 1985: Sun, Wind and Light. Architectural Design

Strategies. 130

(DeKay and Brown 1985, 2000, 2014)

Although the book doesn’t express-

ly discuss design tools, the third edition at least contains a fifteen-page index of Design Tools

(pp. 399–413)

that lists all kinds of tables, diagrams, design

guidelines, building elements, etc. As the authors see it, anything that bears any reference to building or design can be called a “Design Tool”. Given the book’s origins in the 1960s US environmental movement and counterculture, this broad conception of the term could be influenced by the famous

Whole Earth Catalog published by Stewart Brand.

(Brand 1968)

Its cover

showed the first photograph ever taken of the earth in its entirety along with the slogan “access to tools”, and the term “tools” covered everything from books to carpenter’s hammers. A NEW TAXONOMY

The research described above looks at the topic of design tools from very different perspectives, all of which are revealing in their own way. In the end, however, it is probably more the use we make of something that defines it as a tool of design. Linguistically, the term can be used both as a metaphor without any specific scientific definition and to literally denote a physical tool used for designing. Its linguistic openness underlines the potential usefulness of all things in relation to all manner of design activities. In recent years, therefore, the term has been used for such diverse things as simple objects, media used for design purposes, cultural techniques, materials, artefacts, computer programs, design actions, or at a more abstract level, formal principles, concepts or thought strategies. But when a term can stand for so many things, is it still meaningful to us? When we see it used for activities as diverse as collecting or walking, it is not surprising that we begin to question its definition. Nevertheless, we should retain it. The term emphasizes the specific perspective of the designer who employs a wide variety of activities to develop his or her ideas. If we metaphorically designate an activity as a tool, we implicitly also ask what that activity – be it sketching or collecting or wandering – can contribute to designing, and how. In addition, the term implicitly challenges us to better

understand and describe the multitude of possible design tools and their uses. Theoretically, we must conclude that everything can become a design tool, and in many different ways. Even a simple pebble from the side of the road can be used in an infinite number of different ways: we can use it to

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sketch or draw on a surface, in a gesture of giving or threatening, we can throw it forward (projecting), use it as a hammer (i.e. as a medium that conveys an energetic impulse), for cutting (if its shape allows it), as a model (or as part of it), as a symbol, for aesthetic contemplation (like a Chinese scholar’s rock, Go-ngshí, 供石, or a Chinese Dali dreamstone), as a sample of a colour, material or texture, as a stepping stone, as part of a mosaic, a rock garden, a pavement, a wall, an arch, a building, a city. In practice, we have far greater freedom in the choice of a design tool and how we use it than we first thought, but there are also many restrictions to consider, whether practical and pragmatic, moral and legal, ethical and aesthetic, or economic, ecological and social. If everything can potentially be used for design, the next question is how to order, categorize, or classify the range of available design tools, in other words, whether we can imagine something like a comprehensive taxonomy of design tools. A difficulty with the research conducted in recent years is the arbitrary nature of the topics they deal with. On the one hand, this make it hard to embrace and fully understand the concept of design tools, and on the other, it is difficult to identify which areas may have been overlooked, where there are contradictions and overlaps in research, what the relationships between the different classes of tools are, or whether things that are called design tools should perhaps be classed under another name for the sake of clarity. A taxonomy could also help clarify the significance of this type of research for the wider field of design research. The new research reveals that the original taxonomy published in 2007 (see p. 118)

can be extended in several directions. In addition to the categories

of visual and verbal tools, further groups that address the other senses can be introduced, e.g. haptic, acoustic and even olfactory and gustatory, although the latter have little relevance for architecture. One could term these synaesthetic tools that span all the senses and deal with a comprehensive architectural and atmospheric experience. The most important of these synaesthetic tools would be the human body and its organs, which perceive

a situation simultaneously through the five Aristotelian senses. To this one could in theory add all the other senses that have been described since. In the proposed taxonomic matrix these tools are arranged in columns which represent media that can be used in many different ways. The individual classes would need further subdivisions, for example the drawings into floor

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plans, sections, views, and these again according to the different scales and functions they serve in the design process. In the proposed matrix, the media are now cross-referenced against their possible modes of use, arranged in rows. These range from the immaterial to the medial to the most basic material forms of use. Without intending to define a resulting hierarchy, this continuum begins on the immaterial side with the philosophies, theories, concepts, ideas and narratives that influence or give rise to the ways of conceptual thinking, such as critical, creative, visual or verbal thinking. After this follows the paths of design action, on an abstract level the cultural techniques and more concretely the media on which they are based, and thereafter all kinds of apparatuses, machines and physical tools. The artefacts and works of art produced using these means are the next category, followed by simple objects (such as bricks, boards or beams) and the available raw materials. Again, only the “parent” classes are shown, which can then be further subdivided. Design tools can thus be arranged in an open matrix, in which the columns are defined by groups of media tools according to the senses they address, and rows of functional tools that indicate their possible uses. The media tools can be seen as relating more to the architectural project and the various ways in which it can be (re)presented. The functional tools, on the other hand, relate more closely to the designers, and represent the material, medial and immaterial possibilities of dealing with the media tools. For the sake of completeness, each conceivable tool, whether media or functional, should have its own column or row but this has been omitted here due to space limitations. In future research, the proposed matrix needs to be tested, refined and extended. It can serve both to map existing design tools as well as to identify future fields of research. In design processes, it can provide an overview of the different activities and help to determine the next steps.

FINDING THE RIGHT TOOLS

In a conversation about the use of drawings, models, sketches and com­­­­­­puter-generated representations, Álvaro Siza explained that design tools need to be used in complementary ways, because each of them can be misleading:

“There must be a dialogue. All the means we use are also means of deception; they are very deceptive. […] The computer […] is also indispensable. It has greatly changed the way we work on architecture.” (Couto Duarte 2016, Anexo B, p. 34) How these were used in his architectural work can be seen in the various archives that are now kept in Oporto, such as that at the Serralves Foundation, which includes:

“correspondence with his clients, photographic documentation of the places where something was to be built, exchanges with regulatory authorities and the opinions of the numerous actors involved in the construction processes, the models that helped to convey the proposals, the minutes of meetings and reports of tensions that arose on the construction sites.” (Tavares 2017) How does one find the right tool for a given task? The taxonomic matrix makes it possible to systematically find the most promising combinations of functional and media tools. Even a very general overview, such as that shown here, reveals more than 1200 possible combinations, some of which are common, some perhaps rather absurd and others that although unfamiliar could potentially be promising for certain tasks. We can use this matrix to map the possible combinations of functional and media tools, for example, that are useful or potentially interesting for the design of the conversion and reuse of a modernist building. In the matrix shown here, they are marked in grey. The orange fields are those combinations that are typically used when designing new buildings. They are often the first choice for architects because they are readily available and fit the habits and conventions of the architectural profession. These “standard tools” are mostly found in the group of visual design tools and are used in many different ways, along with verbal descriptions and calculations. These tools correspond to a way of thinking that is directed at developing ideas for buildings that do not yet exist, and therefore employs rather abstract and reductive forms of representation.

Media design tools (media used for repr

Photograph

Photomontage

Axonometric

Perspective

3D model

2D drawing

Diagram

Map

Sketch

Visual Scale drawing (1:1)

...

Gesture

Human body

Movement

9

...

8

Atmosphere

7

Material sample

6

Physical space

5

Building

4

Building element

…

3

Landscape

Smell sample

2

Garden

Category of smell

Texture

…

Thinking Tools Works Raw

Material

Devices

Mass media

Medial

Actions

Immaterial

Philosophy

Functional design tools (things or activities used or considered as tools)

Synaestheticphysical

Synaesthetic-spatial

Olfactory

Surface sample

Haptic

Metaphysics Epistemology Ethics Aesthetics Logic ... Memory Creative thinking Critical thinking Theory Concept, idea Strategy Narrative … Research Cultural technique Process Method Formal language / style Expression Perception … Internet Radio, TV Exhibition Collection Book Magazine, journal AR glasses Monitor, Projector Computer Printer, scanner Camera, video camera Loudspeaker Audio recorder Machine Presentation tool Crafts tool Artwork Product Workpiece … Object Material 1

10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 2

Audio recording

…

Noise

Sound

Speech, lecture

Silence

...

Word, sentence

Conversation

Program

…

Algorithm

Acoustic

Verbal (spoken)

Calculation

Formula, equation

Discussion

Theory

Description

Term, Metaphor

Sentence

...

Slide presentation

Comic strip

Critique

Verbal (written)

Visual + Verbal

Film, video

…

resentation when designing)

29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53

1 2

Legend

3

Combinations of functional design tools and media…

4 5 6 7 8

commonly used in architectural practice

9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19

of special interest for the specific application (conversion of a modernist building)

20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44

Open matrix of design tools showing a possible mapping of potentially useful design tools for the conversion and reuse of a modernist building, 2020

When designing the conversion or reuse of an existing building, however, other design media and functional design tools come into play that are much more concrete and complex, and correspond more closely to the real, multi-di­mensional situation at hand. The matrix shows that, alongside the usual visual and verbal tools, synaesthetic media such as the building itself,

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the atmosphere it creates, and the physical bodily experience of it can be additional design tools. They lend themselves both as tools to use as well as a basis for discussion, critique and theoretical consideration of modernist architecture itself. For a designer, an existing building represents both a challenge as well as an opportunity. It already contains a wealth of information and opportunities that can be explored using a range of common and also less usual tools. The most difficult constraints to work with are those imposed by the existing load-bearing structure, the intended future use and sometimes also the history of the building. Using the existing building itself as a design tool requires a different way of thinking: one that willingly embraces the experience of the built space and the atmosphere it creates, and one that uses one’s own body and senses as an exploratory tool to actively take in and process synaesthetic impressions. While the existing building will need alterations to accommodate its new use, it also has a pre-existing design that must be respected. One must learn to design in close connection with what is already there. It is also an invaluable source of information to be experienced, discussed, criticized, sketched, drawn, photographed, or 3D scanned and transferred to BIM software. In addition, the building comes with its own history and (possibly long forgotten) narratives that refer to its origins and original uses. Such intangible elements of the building can become an important resource for the design of its reuse. They offer the possibility of using verbal design tools to develop a narrative based not only on its history and previous uses, but also on the discourse, critique and theory of modernist architecture itself – a narrative that could help lend reason to the direction and meaning of the design.

EXAMINING THE MEDIA TOOLS

The following chapters will analyse a number of media from three different points of view. These correspond to three fundamental planes of meaning that overlap in every design tool: the historical, the medium-related and the design theoretical.

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The development of tools and especially the time when they came into being are considered from a historical point of view, as the qualities of ­individual tools can often be identified most clearly in the early stages of their existence. An analysis in terms of media theory is based on Marshall McLuhan’s thesis that simpler, older media are always contained in the more complex, more recent medium.

(McLuhan 1964, p. 22)

Design tools are now

seen as media representing the subject matter of our thinking, starting with ­ gestures and words and moving on to films, videos and computer programs as the most complex and hitherto most perfect representations. A series of questions arise: what aspects of a design are representative, in what way does it achieve this and what aspects does it not represent? What are the fundamental mechanisms by which a tool reduces and creates complexity? From the point of view of media theory, each tool represents levels of meaning within a design that have to be determined more precisely. At the same time, each of the individual tools represents certain aspects of the world in the designer‘s work. Thus they offer the appropriate instruments for answering certain questions relating to these aspects and levels. The available tools and cultural techniques have to be used precisely and at the right moment, not to reduce the design question to ground plan, elevation and section, but to reflect on which problems can be worked on and solved when and in what medium. This approach can also help reinterpret many of the obstacles that crop up in the course of the design work, so that they do not just stimulate the designer’s own work, but also help to justify it. From the point of view of design theory, it is assumed that each of the design tools mentioned would be suitable, if used extensively enough, for representing a design in its entirety, and that all the tools are potentially contained within each other. The specific ways in which the individual tools function will be described with a view to their double aspect whereby each

design tool serves to represent and to aid perception. What are the mechanisms by which the individual tools reduce the complexity of what is repres­ ented to a scale that the user can handle? And conversely, how do they make it possible to create complexity? What specific possibilities, opportun­ ities and dangers are characteristic of the individual tools? In what respect

138

are the cultural techniques corresponding to the individual tools suitable for influencing the form and/or meaning of a design? What is the “tendency”, the “ideology” inherent in a tool? What, for example, makes a “good” sketch or drawing, or a “good” criticism? For further literature on the subject, see the Appendix pp. 376 ff.

Gesture The concept of the tool can be defined to include everything that moves in gestures and thus expresses a freedom. Vilém Flusser (1991, p. 222) 139

The gesture is the simplest and most primitive of all design tools, and analysing it addresses all the fundamental questions of design. The gesture provides an ideal example for examining fundamental questions: the relationship between inner ideas and what is actually expressed in a gesture, the problems of designing form and of allocating meaning, and also the structure of the various levels of meaning. This section first explores Vilém Flusser’s view of the gesture and then applies this approach to design as a whole. Flusser analyses a series of different gestures without formulating an explicit design theory. But his study, subtitled Versuch einer Phänomenologie (Attempt at a phenomenology)

(Flusser 1991),

contains key elements of a

methodical analysis of designing. In a series of essays, Flusser considers the gesture as man’s active being-in-the-world, something that characterizes all “genuine” activities, activities that aim to express freedom. Flusser sees a broad spectrum of human acts as gestures in this sense: communicative ges-

tures such as speaking, writing or telephoning, working gestures such as mak-

Vilém Flusser, gesticulating. Photograph: Michael Jörns, 1986

ing things or manufacturing tools, interest-free gestures that are an end in themselves like a lot of games, and ritual gestures that can be as everyday as smoking a pipe or shaving.

(loc. cit., p. 223 ff.)

These are all born of the

fact that we are unable to express ourselves through thought alone, only through gestures and with the aid of tools. In the context of the gesture of

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writing, Flusser says:

“There is no thinking that would not be articulated by a gesture. Thinking before articulation is only virtual, in other words nothing. It realizes itself through the gesture. Strictly speaking one cannot think before making gestures.” (loc. cit., pp. 38 ff.) Flusser develops his understanding of the concept, derived from the Latin gestae (literally: deeds), in several steps. At the beginning he defines gestures as “body movements expressing an intention”. erate movements

(loc. cit., p. 235)

(loc. cit., p. 7)

These are delib-

for which there is no causal explanation, as

causal explanations could not define the essence of a gesture: “Why do some

people smoke a pipe?” He feels that the difference between cause and motive, between conditioned movement and gesture, suggests that causal explanations, however right they may be, miss what is meant by the question. cit., p. 161)

(loc.

He says that gesture is a symbolic movement, articulating and

expressing meaning. Man uses the emotionally charged play of gesture, the

“symbolic representation of moods in gestures” in an attempt to give meaning to his life and the world he lives in.

(loc. cit., ppp. 8–12)

Thus works of art should

be seen as “frozen gestures”. So, he continues, a mood represented by a gesture can be true, but also untrue. In order to determine the truth of gestures, Flusser asserts that they should not be judged by ethical or epistemological criteria, but by aesthetic ones: the question is not whether a gesture represents truth or a lie directly, but the extent to which whatever it represents is truth or kitsch. A measure for this is the degree to which the mood is able to move the viewer. However, as Flusser notes, without a theory for interpreting gestures, it is not possible to make generalized judgements about this, and so it remains a matter

Photograph taken at the shooting of the film Designing Truth by Hinrich Sachs. Photograph: Ralf C. Stradtmann, 2005

of de gustibus non est disputandum, there’s no accounting for tastes; something that one person may see as kitsch could be perfectly suited to another. (loc. cit., pp. 12 ff.)

Given this problem of objective differentiation, Flusser finally

defines the gesture as ”a movement through which freedom is expressed, in order

to reveal or conceal the gesticulator for others.“ 141

(loc. cit., pp. 220 f.)

Seen as a “free” movement, the gesture is “reaching from the present into the future”, and can therefore only be adequately explained in terms of its meaning, its future. So for Flusser it must essentially be analysed in terms of meaning, as if deciphering an enigma or solving a puzzle. Problems are ­analysed in order to make them comprehensible, and therefore open to solution. But enigmas are analysed in order to penetrate them more deeply, to experience them more richly.

(loc. cit., pp. 90 f.)

This distinction is fundamental to the analysis of design. Flusser demonstrates this by taking the gesture of painting as an example. Analysing painting does not address this gesture from the outside, but itself becomes an element of the gesture under analysis. And even in the gesture of painting itself it is possible to observe a plane of meaning on which it is analysing itself critically. Hence the gesture of painting is

“not just reaching from the present into the future, but also anticipating the future into the present, and throwing that back to the future: constantly checking and reforming its own meaning.” (loc. cit., p. 92) Observing a gesture of this kind thus reveals the concrete phenomenon of freedom: “having meaning”, “giving meaning”, “changing the world” and “being there for others” are formulations that Flusser sees to express the same state of affairs: being free, really living.

(loc. cit., p. 98)

Just how closely

gesticulating is related to designing is shown in statements such as the following:

“The gesture of painting as an interpretative movement is not “work” in itself, but a design for work. And yet the interpretative movement aims at changing the world, and brings this about as a consequence.”(loc. cit., p. 97) All design is expressed and articulated in gestures as well, so Flusser’s study of gestures can be seen as a contribution to basic design research. It is also true of design that like every gesture, it is not subject to direct causality as understood by science. Nevertheless, Flusser feels that it is useful and desir-

able to formulate a design theory. His thinking on gestures can be summed up and applied to the field of design like this: we design without having a theory of design, indeed without being aware of the lack of such a theory, as our implicit knowledge of how to act is sufficient to meet the demands of practice. But a theory of this kind would allow us to “step outside the gesture of

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design”, to make our design a more conscious act and to change our behaviour with that in mind. A theory of this kind would not be intended to explain direct causal circumstances, but to describe and interpret design gestures and the tools we use to execute them. It would be an instrumental, tool-oriented theory, a theory that does not formulate rules and norms, but describes options. Its aim would be to discover the possible, often hidden semantic contexts determining the value of a gesture executed with certain tools. It would help to establish the factors influencing the value and meaning of design acts, thus creating an orientation instrument that would make it possible to design in a different, more deliberate way. STARTING FROM GESTURES

In the posthumous collection Vermischte Bemerkungen (Culture and Value) the philosopher (and architect) Ludwig Wittgenstein speaks of the “impression

one gets from good architecture, that it expresses a thought.” And he continues: “Architecture is a gesture. Not every purposive movement of the human body is a gesture. And no more is every building designed for a purpose architecture.” (Wittgenstein 1980, p. 22, p. 42)

But how does an idea come to be expressed in

architecture? And to what extent can we use gestures, or the cultural technique of gesticulating, as a design tool?

Gestures as expressive movements: the violinist Julia von Hasselbach. Photograph: Christian Pieper, 2006

Gestures in the sense of bodily movements that aim to express something form the basis of all design. Both everyday and design gestures fulfil a certain purpose, but point beyond this by the way they do it. This other, which even everyday gestures are intended to express, is closely related to what we mean by design. Something concrete, a handshake, a drawing, indicates

143

future fulfilment: a promise kept, a new building. The English synonym for gestus is action, going back to the Latin gesticulare, meaning both giving attitude and carriage.

(Onions 1996, p. 396)

As such this term has always con-

tained the idea of creativity. The sign languages that have evolved from gestures show how closely gesture is related to language. Unlike a merely instrumental act, in which the end is not form, but simply to fulfil an everyday purpose (like cutting a stone), and unlike ritual, which is essentially concerned with the formally correct execution of actions creating meaning (e.g. baptizing someone), a gesture definitely expresses the mood and attitude at the moment someone makes it. What makes a gesture, a design so convincing that the idea it contains can be realized in future? Every gesture contains complex superimposed layers of meaning in a more or less tense relationship with each other, whether the gesture is one of casual everyday conversation, an actor’s theatrical gesture, the designer’s gesture, seeking form and meaning, or the architectonic gesture expressed in a building. The gesticulator’s intentions (1) overlap with the ideas actually expressed (2) and with the way they are endowed with form (3), which in its turn is read in relation to the conventions (4). Each gesture conveys a meaning pointing to a future state of affairs (5) that as a rule is doubted by the observer (6) to whom the gesture is addressed. The temporal (7) and spatial (8) context provide an additional framework within which the gesture is read as appropriate or inappropriate. The ways these eight planes relate to each other join to form a level of meaning that determines whether we perceive the gesture as coherent or contradictory. A gesture has succeeded if the observer not only understands what it is expressing, but accepts that it is credible. In relation to expressive movements by the body as a whole, an individual gesture is already an abstraction. It is precisely at the beginning of the design process, when the aim is to develop a design approach from the specific features of a location, that it is important to experience a situation physically. It is only the body’s senses and movements that make spatial exper­

ien­­ce possible in all its complexity. When we observe the body’s movements, sensations and reactions to a space or a place, the body and its senses becomes an instrument of perception. It becomes an expressive tool only when we are able to address all the countless superimposed sensory impressions, to filter out the significant ones and to derive movements from them.

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One of the earliest design forms involves developing a design idea on the spot from one’s own movements, working on a natural scale when walking, so to speak. This process is present in city foundation rituals from classical antiquity as well as in contemporary site inspections. In this context, design becomes physical sensations of space projected on to a particu­ lar place. When Le Corbusier bases a design on the promenade architecturale, he is developing his spatial ideas from the movement sequences the ­building offers its users. By translating physical movements into ideas of space and architecture he is getting away from a static, object-related view of architecture. The Swiss designer Peter Jenny demonstrated in his exercises at the Swiss Federal Institute of Technology in Zurich what an inexhaustible formal repertoire is contained simply in the hands and the space between the two hands: “We are literally reaching into a sketchpad full of visual finds.” p. 39)

(Jenny 1996,

But gestures and body movements are not fully finished designs.

Whether the movements used to actually make an object can be regarded as gestures or just instrumental processes is governed by whether they convey a meaning beyond the object’s mere purpose. If they lead directly to its actual shaping and creation, as is the case for some kinds of craft and art, then design and manufacture are identical. This is not the case if the movements represent an object that is to be manufactured later, or by other people, i.e. they anticipate it in a simplified form. The first essentially spontaneous and intuitive attempts make an idea perceptible for the first time, both for the person gesturing as well as for those who are watching. Shifting inner ideas into the outside world makes it essential to articulate what has been thought out, thus shaping our awareness of it in a new and different way. It establishes critical distance and reflection and marks the beginning of the design cycle.

36 gestures. Photographs: Axel Buether, 2004 –2005

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Digitally recorded, three-dimensional gestures are turned into furniture. Sofia Lagerkvist and Anna Lindgren of the Swedish design agency Front designing the Sketch Furniture series. © Front, 2020.

FURTHER READING: Hummels, Caroline (2000): Gestural design tools: prototypes, experiments and scenarios. (Dissertation), Almelo: Eigen beheer [Selfpub.], 2000, https://www.researchgate.net/publication/254907643_Gestural_design_tools_Prototypes_experiments_and_scenarios For further literature on the subject, see the Appendix p. 378.

Sketch Creation must take place between the pen and the paper. Gertrude Stein (1935, after Bergeijk 1998, p. 49)

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In its origin, the sketch is nothing other than a gesture that has been ab­­­ stracted and fixed. In the sketch both the temporal and the spatial dimension of the gesture’s motion have to be translated on to a two-dimensional plane in the form of dots, lines and surfaces. A pencil and a piece of paper make it possible to present, “with rapidly executed gestures”, inner images, most of which would be forgotten after a few minutes, to the designer himor herself or to a second viewer, thus capturing and remembering them. Sketches, whether they are pictorial or verbal, are extremely close to the original idea, which makes them particularly valuable to designers. But it is not just this: shifting the inner image outwards into an “expanded working memory” turns the image into an object from which one can distance oneself again, in order to consider it “objectively”, examine it, criticize it and subsequently work on it again. What is the difference between a sketch and a drawing? The keyword drawing covers all two-dimensional images consisting mainly of lines, whether they are sketches, preliminary drawings or working drawings, perspectives or other graphic images. pp. 304 ff.)

(Koschatzky 1977,

It is hard to pin down the term

sketch precisely, it covers a broad spectrum of expressive graphic possibilities extending from a quick note to an ambitious artistic drawing. So artists call a freehand sketch a drawing if the format is somewhat larger, while as a rule architects distinguish between the small, imprecise rapid freehand sketch and a geometrically precise plan or preparatory drawing, made with compasses, ruler and set-square (or with a computer and ­plotter), usually in a large format.

Tobias Hammel: Sketch for House of Yagaah III, pencil, black felt pen on cardboard, 29 x 23.5 cm

Even though sketching may sometimes seem unassuming and casual, it is often the most important tool for many designers. Architects like Norman Foster or Álvaro Siza fill up hundreds of sketchbooks or pads with “personal

scribbles and jottings”

(Foster 1993, p. 5)

in the course of their lives, using them

to flesh out their ideas, then handing over the working out of precise draw-

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ings, models and calculations to their colleagues, or to specialists. The sketch is the intimate medium, largely kept from the eyes of a critical public, in which design ideas – left plain and unprotected at first – are developed and shown to the designer’s close friends and colleagues. This applies to all phases of the design process. Sketches are made during early discussions with the client, at site visits, as a response to designs that have already been worked out more precisely or in dialogue with engineers and builders on the building site. PARCHMENT AND PAPER

Sketches can be drawn or scratched with a sharp object on any flat surface that happens to be available. The speed and ease of this gesture – the term comes from the Italian word schizzo and means a brief account or description, literally, jab

(Onions 1996, p. 1996) – requires

materials that are both readily

available and sufficiently durable. The lack of cheap and at the same time non-perishable drawing surfaces may be a reason why no sketches have survived from the pre-Renaissance period. One famous exception is Villard de Honnecourt’s 13th century portfolio of drawings in the French Bibliothèque Nationale. It contains 325 individual sketches drawn in ink on both sides of 33 pages of fine parchment, often with short explanations. These consist mainly of views and ground plans from existing buildings, drawings of figures and ornaments, but also design sketches and technical drawings.

(Hahnloser 1935, Binding 1993)

Freehand design sketches have survived in large numbers only since periods when paper became a cheap and durable material. It remains to be established to what extent qualitative changes in design thinking in the Renaissance were driven by the emergence of new drawing materials. If sketches by an artist like Leonardo da Vinci or Michelangelo are compared with freehand drawing in the Middle Ages, we are struck by a new intellectual freedom and openness, as well as the precision of the drawing, which is also a characteristic of medieval miniatures and book illuminations. Things

are being looked at in a completely new way. To our eye, spoiled by perspective and photography, the medieval way of drawing sometimes looks flat and formulaic, but we are still astonished today by the vivid clarity of this work. Drawing and sketching is now at the service of researching reality, trying out new ideas, representing proportions, details and spatial connections precisely. Michelangelo explains the fundamental importance of drawing and sketching as a design tool in a conversation with the Portuguese painter and writer Francesco de Hollanda. His words give us a sense of how enthusiastic the designers of his day were about these new possibilities:

“Drawing, which in other words can be called designing, is the source and epitome of painting, sculpture, architecture and of every other kind of painting. It is the root of every science. Anyone who is master of this great art should acknowledge that he has incomparable power at his service. He will be able to create forms greater than any tower in this world.” (from de Hollanda 1550, p. 59) Rapid elaborations of formal relationships that break off as fragments as soon as the draughtsman thinks of something new; Sheet 29 from Villard de Honnecourt’s Portfolio, 13th century. Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale

exploratory variations of ideas; rapid changes of presentation forms and of drawing device and a lack of concern about the aes-

thetic effect of a page distinguish design sketches from art sketches. Naïve viewers often feel sketches like this are inept and unprofessional, which can have an entirely liberating effect. Erich Mendelsohn reports that as a young student he

“flicked through Michelangelo’s sketchbooks in Rome: pilasters, capitals and all that kind of thing: all scribbles. It was a revelation to me. […] If Michelangelo can do it, so can I.” (after Posener 2004, p. 364) Because they are largely indeterminate, sketches can be entirely meaningless to

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outsiders. Precisely because they are so fundamentally random, individual designers must develop a high level of discipline and particular skills when using this tool themselves. Sketching does not become a communicable cultural technique until it is consciously used as a design tool, until the high degree of freedom it affords is so contained by a personal choice of expressive devices that third parties can also discern not only personal handwriting but also reflective treatment, individual expressiveness and ultimately individual thinking. This requires the ability to read one’s own sketches and decode their various levels of meaning. One paradox of this tool lies in the fact that in order to be useful as an expressive device it needs a certain lack of inhibition, but also practice and discipline if it is to become recognizable as personal expression. CREATIVE IMPRECISION

The most important qualities of this design tool are that it should be rapid, imprecise, open and direct. They are interdependent. A fleeting thought can be recorded directly in a sketch, without further aids. Often sketching is the first step towards the materialisation of an idea. This can happen quickly because the resources used are simple, but the result is less precise than other means of representing things. In the early stages of the design process a certain lack of precision makes it possible to articulate ideas experimentally without needing to have a precise solution in mind. Designers are often accused of unduly generalized and careless thinking because of this inclination towards imprecision. But it is essential to the design process. Günter Behnisch explains that “thoughts that we did not yet know we had can emerge

from imprecise sketches.”

(Behnisch 1987, p. 40)

It is the ambivalence of the sketch

that opens up space for the imagination. Behnisch talks about

“apparently slovenly sketches, very imprecise, in which one […] suddenly saw things shining out through several layers of tracing paper […] things one had not drawn, they simply came about […]” (Behnisch 1996, p. 29)

Design sketches by Michelangelo, c. 1525. Florence, Casa Buonarroti, 92 A (recto)

The ability of our perceptive faculties to create an image rich with information from only a few hints is an automatic feature of subjective creativity. One way of triggering it is by making sketches that indicate something with very few lines. The rapid nature of sketching makes it possible to change very nimbly

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between different presentation methods and to combine them at will. All the other design tools also offer sketching modes, in other words the ability to use them rapidly, imprecisely yet allusively and in a simple, reduced form. The ground plan, elevation and section as a quick exploration of variants, alongside it the obsessive elaboration of a particular detail; axonometric views drawn from a model or perspectives that examine how the designer’s own body relates to a particular space. This can be used to provide rapid illustrations in a discussion, and include sketched-out texts and calculations. Thus the sketch becomes a special design tool, containing all the others within a meta-plane. This tool creates complexity through imprecision, through superimposition, by creating connections, variants and sequences of sketches, through hints and by intensifying atmosphere. Thus the sketch is an excellent device for developing the imagination. Its agility means that success can be achieved rapidly, and helps towards handling forms effortlessly, and three-dimensional thinking in particular. Like every design tool, a sketch can be both descriptive, i.e. illustrative, describing something that is already there, or prescriptive, i.e. creative, used to represent something new. The interplay between perception and expression corresponds with the two complementary modes of design thinking. How does sketching affect our own perceptions? It guides and intensifies them, especially when dealing with existing forms and spaces. Descriptive, acquisitive sketching compels us to engage more deeply than simply ­absorbing a global impression of an object or a spatial situation, especially as this comes about largely because of pre-shaped mental pictures and less through sensory expressions. We have to look so precisely, detail by detail, that we can reproduce them in drawing. Just as we pay better attention if we take notes during a lecture, sketching sharpens our eye when we are observing a spatial situation. Sketching is therefore a particular way of training our perceptive skills. The simplicity of the tool compels us to reduce to essentials. On a second plane, it draws our attention to something that is not or cannot be represented, to the things that are left out and the way

Design sketch for the Schilderswijk West apartment block, The Hague, variants A, B, C, Álvaro Siza, single sheet, December 1985

the abstraction highlights what is already there, to deliberate “falsifications” and distortions. Both acquisitive and creative sketching mean translating a spatial idea or a spatial impression into a two-dimensional one, thus consciously or subconsciously carrying out an abstraction process that a camera would handle automatically. This can happen in various ways. The time dimension can become the movement of a line, or be presented as a superimposition or as a sequence of individual sketches. The spatial dimension can also be represented as individual overlapping forms, as a combination of ground plans, views and sections, as an isometric drawing or a perspective.

Creative sketching requires speed and agility, while acquisitive sketching requires a slowing down and intensification of perception processes. If it is deliberately used as a means of observation it opens up stretches of time in which perception becomes possible not just as reproduction of what is known, but as a creative process. By identifying hitherto unknown struc-

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tures, new forms and unexpected connections, passive reception becomes active, creative observation. What are we shown when we draw or look at our sketches? VISUAL-SPATIAL THINKING

The example of sketching makes it clear how little creative design thinking needs language or concepts when forms are to be developed. In a muchquoted text dating from 1947, Alvar Aalto describes his approach to design as deliberately switching from logical-verbal to intuitive-pictorial thinking. He says that first of all he addresses the numerous, often contradictory demands made by a design commission intensively, so that he can then distance himself and find a solution in another mode of thought by painting or sketching:

“I forget the whole maze of problems for a while, as soon as the feel of the assignment and the innumerable demands it involves have sunk into my subconscious. I then move to a method of working that is very much like abstract art. I simply draw by instinct, not architectural synthesis, but what are sometimes quite childlike compositions, and in this way, on an abstract basis, the main idea gradually takes shape, a kind of universal substance that helps me to bring the numerous contradictory components into harmony.” (Aalto 1947, from Schildt 1998, p. 108) The psychologist Edward de Bono identifies two different and complementary ways of thinking in the human brain in his book Lateral Thinking (1970), in a very similar way to Aalto. Starting with an analysis of dominant perception processes, he identifies a logical-analytical way of (“vertical”) thinking that is predominant in Western culture, complemented by intuitive-creative

(“lateral”) thinking. The latter is particularly suitable for generating ideas and problem-solving. Bono describes sketching by designers as a technique that is particularly suited to and supportive of intuitive and generative (“lateral”) thinking.

(De Bono 1970, pp. 100 ff., pp. 246 ff.)

Design sketch for the new faculty of architecture at Oporto University (FAUP), top view of the various buildings. Álvaro Siza, sketchbook 252, June 1987

Insights from research into the function of the brain 1973, Damásio 1994)

(e.g. Sperry 1968, 1873, Eccles

confirm Bono’s approach. The two human cerebral hemi-

spheres are dominated by different, but complementary, thought patterns. The left hemisphere handles language and time, and it is dominated by linear, sequential, logical-analytical, rational thought processes. The right hemi-

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sphere handles spatial and visual matters, and is dominated by non-linear, simultaneous, intuitive-synthetic, emotional thought processes pp. 56 ff.).

(Edwards 1999,

To put it briefly, the left hemisphere thinks in a verbal logic, the

right hemisphere thinks in a visual logic, or in Aicher’s terms: in a digital vs. an analogous logic. A number of teaching methods have been developed on the basis of these insights, aiming to use the different thought structures in the two hemispheres effectively. The drawing teacher Betty Edwards suggests using certain forms of sketching to change from the linguistic-rational to the visualemotional mode of thought. She describes exercises like drawing facial profiles freehand in mirror-image, or drawing portraits upside-down. She says that sketching exercises of this kind suppress the input of the otherwise dominant left hemisphere, so that the other one can develop its spatial-visual abilities more fully

(Edwards 1999, pp. 80 ff.).

Different reasonings lead Aalto, de Bono and Edwards to similar results. For them all, sketching is a favourite means for changing consciously from the verbal-logical to the visual-spatial mode of thinking. Numerous publications have appeared in recent years featuring design and travel sketches by well-known architects that allow us to look over the author’s shoulders as they draw (see bibliography). In most cases only aesthetically successful sketches are published presenting an idealized picture that has limited use as an example for other designers. The countless unassuming, searching, only half-convincing, failed and rejected sketches, which in fact represent the majority of daily work in many cases, are very rarely printed. This also applies to the myth of the “first sketch”, which is usually preceded by numerous “preliminary sketches”. Erich Mendelsohn, who set particular store by his “first sketches”, tried out a number of variants before committing himself, distinguishing between “preliminary sketches” and the “first design

sketch”

(Mendelsohn 1930, p. 150).

Hans Scharoun’s famous “Urskizze” (lit. “primal

sketch”) of the Philharmonie in Berlin was drawn after three weeks in closed conference; it too was anything but a “first sketch”.

(Wisniewski 1991, pp. 10 ff.)

Sketches help to direct the attention of third parties to particular aspects of a design. We do not perceive architecture simply as what it is, but also as what its authors intend it to be. Even if the difference is as great as that between Aldo Rossi’s atmospheric sketches and the lucidity of his completed buildings, the sketches are powerful enough to confer a very different,

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far-reaching significance on the simple reality of what has actually been realized. In this case they illustrate a poetical Utopia that has not been realized, which thus becomes part of this architecture’s cultural dimension. Experiments in digitalizing this tool have met with little success. The normal drawing programs are too precise and thus too slow and informationpoor. High-resolution graphics tablets with flat screens that respond to the pressure of a stylus are a digital form of sketching paper. They make it possible to input more precisely and rapidly than with a mouse and keyboard. They are effective tools in combination with drawing and image-processing programs, though considerably more expensive than pencil and paper. Certainly digital intervention loses the simplicity and directness of freehand sketches on paper. Specialized sketching programs offering menus with a selection of “personal” handwritings can only simulate what a freehand sketch really achieves. But the rapidity of the sketch can be achieved digitally in a variety of other ways, using photographs, photomontages and sketch models as 3D presentations. In everyday practice, the sketch, along with language discussed in the next section, remains a very effective way of quickly articulating and communicating ideas in conversations with clients, colleagues and contractors. FURTHER READING: Jones, Will (2011): The Architect’s Sketchbook. London: Thames & Hudson, 2011 Serrazanetti, Francesca; Schubert, Matteo (Ed.): Inspiration and Process in Architecture. (Book series) Milan: Moleskine SpA, 2012– For further literature on the subject, see the Appendix p. 379.

Language He predicted the future form of this shapeless heap of masonry and beams that lay about us. Paul Valéry (1921, p. 65)

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The spoken word as the first material manifestation of our inner ideas is certainly the most ephemeral of all design tools. It is closer to the fleeting thought than to the physical gesture and its primary record, the sketch. However, linguistic design ideas are not codified in forms, but in the sounds of the voice, in words and sentences. Thus language as a design tool operates on a different plane of abstraction from the sketch. The logos supports logical thinking, rationality and calculation, social interaction, the attribution of meaning, theory and criticism. Vitruvius counts the emergence of language from gestures and the sounds of breathing among the historical prerequisites for the emergence of architecture. (Vitruvius, II 1.1) He sees language as a basis for architecture in two respects: a society that builds and for which building can take place was first constituted through speaking, and Vitruvius insists that the architect must be a fluent writer “so that he may strengthen his own memory by reading what has been written in the field”. (Vitruvius I, 4) Adolf Loos also sees the linguistic element as one of the fundamentals of architecture when he defines the architect as a “mason who has learnt Latin”, and explains: “Good architecture, how something is to be built, can be written.” (Loos 1924, p. 210) But it would be hasty to assume that this is allotting equal status to verbal and visual design tools. Ludwig Wittgenstein pointed out the fundamental difference between zei-

gen (showing) and sagen (saying): there are things that cannot be expressed clearly in language, but that can be shown. They show themselves between the lines of a text, but more clearly in works of art, in a drawing or a building. Wittgenstein also places the

Letterpress type. Photograph: Christian Pieper, 2005

spheres of ethics and aesthetics, crucial for architecture, in this category. (Wittgenstein 1921, Propositions 6.421, 6.522)

The fact that all design tools originally belonged together in the “de-sign-

ing” of inner ideas becomes clear when looking back at the first written texts by the old high cultures: they consisted of signs, i.e. sketches of ideographic

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characters from which hieroglyphs and the alphabets we are familiar with developed later. This original unity is still echoed even in late medieval sources, when the Latin word designatio can mean description as well as drawing and model. Likewise, the Italian term desegno could originally mean description as well as drawing.

(Binding 1993, pp. 187 ff.)

The German verb reißen

in the sense of drawing (as in Reissbrett, drawing board, for example) is derived from the same root as the verb to write in English.

(Onions 1996, p. 1015)

Verbal “de-signing” has become more and more sophisticated in the course of history. A whole variety of different kinds of texts have emerged from the first description of buildings and the early days of architectural ­history via the orally transmitted secret knowledge of the ancient and medieval stonemasons’ guilds to state building regulations, and they have acquired completely different meanings as design tools. Even the scientific engineering calculations that started to come into being in the 18th century can be considered as texts in the sense of linking concepts that follow strict mathematical logic. In the computer age, the original unity of design tools can also be seen in the drawing programs (that are themselves also generated from text). TRAINING AND PRACTICE

It is fairly unusual for architects to see language as a design tool. Regardless of the diversity and meaning of linguistic forms of expression in their daily work, architects like misusing the saying ascribed to Goethe “Bilde, Künstler!

Rede nicht!” (Create, artist! Do not talk!) – either to justify an aversion to language and theory that is typical of the profession or simply to shut each other up by quoting the classical writer. In fact these words have had their original meaning reversed by not being quoted in full. They form the first line of a motto that Goethe placed before the “Art” section in the 1815 edition of his works: “Bilde, Künstler! Rede nicht! / Nur ein Hauch sei dein Gedicht” is how the complete two-liner goes (Create artist, do not talk! Your poem is but a breath.) Goethe is addressing lyric poets like himself with his

succinct challenge to abandon talking, in other words rhetoric, and to make a poem a carefully-formed trace of a structure. In design education, linguistic modes of expression are neglected, at least in German higher education institutions, while in the Anglo-Saxon countries in particular more attention is paid to discussion in essays. Architects are not

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infrequently surprised in their early professional years to find out what a major part the verbal element of their work plays. Conversations and discussions in the office, working meetings, conferences and negotiations with the various people involved in the project; telephone calls, e-mails and letters, minutes; formulating descriptions of buildings, tendering requirements and contracts make up a large proportion of the work of a designing and building architect. Public presentation and discussion of ideas, concepts and designs is a standard situation in both degree courses and professional practice, where success depends on the speaker’s oratory abilities. But what does it mean to understand and use the forms of expression described above as tools in the design process, to recognize their creative potential and make them useful when designing? Formulating the task in hand is one of the first verbal design steps at the beginning of any piece of design work. It describes the problems to be solved, the resources available to do this, the demands made on the solution and the criteria to be used to judge them. Every design problem can be defined in a different way, and the chosen definition determines the directions to be taken and the requirements on which the search for solutions is based. The critical reflection of a design task set by third parties and the reformulation of that problem can often open the way to innovative approaches. Hence every problem as posed should be constantly interrogated by those working on it, and tested for consistency and reasonableness. A modification or a complete reformulation of a design problem can be a first step towards solving it, for example by developing a fresh perspective, a previously unconsidered but particularly appropriate approach to the problem. This can happen simply because of the words chosen for describing the task in hand. There is a differ-

An architect writing. Photograph: Marianne Kristen

ence between designing a “wardrobe” or a “mobile container system for ­storing textiles”, between “building a house” or “constructing a machine à

habiter”. Design often demands things or connections to be named for which everyday language has no terms. Or a state of affairs has to be described in

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such a way that it is perceived differently from the norm. For this reason designers develop their own terms, like every profession, their jargon and technical language. Language’s general tendency to be normative, abstract, to generalize, to be conventional and ultimately conservative means that in this context any banning of images is a reflex resistance to anything new. While a photographer has only to press the shutter release on his camera to capture something that has not been seen previously, and a draughtsman with his pencil or a modelmaker with his lump of clay can make new forms visible in a trice, designers also need ways of naming things that are new, still unknown, not yet named, things that have only just developed. To this end they use language in a particular way that can be disturbing for out­ siders, following several strategies. The most immediate is extending the meaning of concepts, as Alberti does for example with the Latin term velum, which actually means cloth or sail, but which he applied to the gridded veil he used to help him draw perspectives from nature.

(see pp. 163 f.)

One exam-

ple of newly coined terms is the word Dymaxion, which Buckminster Fuller often used. Waldo Warren, a “merchandising namesmith” who had made a name for himself by coining the term radio to take the place of wireless, was looking for a term to characterize Fuller’s ideas. Warren took the words

dynamic and maximum and put them together to form Dy(namic)Maxi(mum)on. Fuller used this coinage as a kind of trademark, applying it to many of his projects and concepts, such as the Dymaxion House, the Dymaxion Car or the

Dymaxion Chronofiles.

(Krausse 1999, p. 132)

Fuller himself was responsible for

the term tensegrity, formed from tensile and integrity, applying it to structures made up of compression and tension ties whose forces were dissipated largely by tensile stresses.

(Krausse 2001, pp. 240 –256)

CREATING METAPHORS, INTERPRETING, ABSTRACTING

Creating metaphors is another strategy for naming previously unknown things. Here a familiar expression is detached from its usual area of applicability and transferred into a new, hitherto strange sphere and related to different expression. Metaphors are understood on the basis of a previously

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unnoticed similarity between the two areas. But it needs this tension between similarity and difference to open up new and surprising perspectives and create the power of suggestion that is the key feature of innovative metaphors. Le Corbusier combines the spheres of housing and industry in his machine à habiter metaphor, thus suggesting that housing can be designed as rationally and effectively on the same basis as an industrial production plant. The creative tension contained in this metaphor, to which generations of architects have succumbed, arises from an image that introduces polemic by neglecting the aesthetic, emotional and prestigious aspects of housing. In the metaphor Stadtkrone (City Crown), Bruno Taut combines the decorative, honorific, valuable but also hierarchical aspects of the crown with the urban notion of an elevated city centre. Referring to Earl MacCormac and his book A Cognitive Theory of

Metaphor (1985), the philosopher Hans Lenk sees the metaphor as a way of creating new meanings, without which “[n]ew ways of thinking and new expres-

sions for those thoughts cannot emerge” so that “neither knowledge nor language can grow” (MacCormac, p. 206). Lenk identifies a fundamental pattern of creative processes in the development and use of innovative metaphors, valid not only in the linguistic sphere, but artistically as well. He therefore suggests Johann David Steingruber, Architectonisches Alphabet, 1773

that MacCormac’s theory of metaphor, originally applied only to language, should be extended to a general theory of creative action. In order to define his concept of a creatively continuous principle going beyond the linguistic sphere, Lenk links the terms creativity and metaphor to coin the “creataphor”, which he defines as

“metaphors embracing perspectives, bridging layers, or metaphors that leap to create and maintain tension, playing in a stimulating way between similarities and dissimilarities”. (Lenk 2000, pp. 279 ff.) Just as sketching makes us look at and represent a form or a space accurately, writing a text forces us to clarify our thoughts, order them logically and test them for correctness. Describing a building makes us identify and name its form, structure, qualities and hidden associations. The word text – derived from the Latin textus, which literally means “tissue”, and is traceable back to the verb texere, which means both “to weave” and “to plait” 1996, p. 913) – probably

(Onions

comes from the same root tek – as the Greek tekton,

used to define the craftsman and the master builder. In the meaning of the common root tek-, (translated as to shape, to make), we find a reference to the concept of making which Otl Aicher and Vilém Flusser valued so highly in their design thinking.

(see p. 88, 212)

Translating a design idea from the visual to the verbal sphere demands a radical change of perspective. Formal logic is now replaced by linguistic logic. This requires the interpretation and abstraction of a design idea, which should then be described in generally comprehensible terms. This triggers cognitive processes that sometimes surprise the writers themselves, because they are compelled to make themselves aware of circumstances that they would not have considered otherwise. It is precisely when a text has grown vigorously over some length, and the writer begins to wonder whether a design idea really has been captured that surprising insights can occur. While pictorial thought sometimes tends to fix a certain idea, a certain inner picture, in a situation like this, the switch to verbal thinking can help to break down fixed ideas and overcome them by taking a new perspective. The Brazilian architect Oscar Niemeyer is one example of someone who uses writing as a form of self-interrogation in which the medium of language is deployed to check the conclusiveness and comprehensibility of an architectural concept. Before concluding the first studies for a project he

adds a textual commentary to it which provides a “necessary description” of his concept. He says that for him this works as a “prova” – in Portuguese this word means both examination and proof – of his design. If he cannot find sufficient arguments, and is unable to explain his ideas convincingly with the help of the text, he knows that the design is not yet good enough.

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(Niemeyer 1993, p. 9, p. 43)

Once a concept has been formulated, then it can be “worked on” with another linguistic design tool, by subjecting it to criticism

(see pp. 198 ff).

This

means changing the perspective again, distancing oneself from the empathetic description of what has been designed and questioning it in a spirit of doubt. The interplay of positive description and negative questioning produces dialogues, conversations and discussions in the course of the design process. Ever since Socrates, situations of this kind have been seen as partic­

Fashion designer Isabella Blow. Photograph: Pascal Chevallier, WIB Paris 1991

And God saw that it was good.

Then God said, "Let us make man

in our image, in our likeness,

and let them rule over every beast.»

So God created male

and female

and created him in the image of God.

And God blessed them

and said to them, «Be fruitful

and increase in number;

fill the earth and subdue it.

Rule over every beast.»

Then God said, «I give you

every plant and fruit. They will be yours for food.

And to all the beasts, I have given every green plant.»

And it was so.

God saw all that

he had made, and it was very good.

ularly suited to producing new insights. Socrates developed his method, also known as the “art of midwifery”, with the aim of showing his pupils the limitations of their knowledge. He systematically asked questions in order to bring out the ideas his pupils were pregnant with, and to test whether they were “a false phantom”, or something with “true instinct with life and truth”.

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“I cannot myself give birth to wisdom,” Plato has him say in one of his dialogues, but “the many admirable truths [his pupils] bring to birth have been dis-

covered by themselves from within.”

(Plato, Theaetetus, 150 c, d)

This chapter has by no means discussed the verbal design tools exhaustively. Two other chapters are devoted to examining the linguistic tools of criticism and those of criteria and value systems. The chapters on calculation and computers will discuss the extent to which engineering calculations and digital programs can be used as design tools in the sense of complex, ­rationally shaped texts. Part B of the book introduces the use of theory as a tool and discusses Otl Aicher’s writings as an example of how theory can be deployed as a verbal design tool.

The text of Genesis communicated using logos, symbols and pictograms. Juli Gudehus: Genesis (detail), 1992

Design drawing But drawing [il disegno] is so outstanding that it not only explores Nature's works, but produces infinitely more than nature […] and from this we conclude that drawing is not only a science but a deity, whose name should be duly commemorated, a deity which repeats all the visible works of God the highest. Leonardo da Vinci (after Maiorino 1992, p. 90) Can we still understand what Leonardo da Vinci meant by these words? The Christian idea of an almighty God as the creator of the world presented the designers of Leonardo’s day with a problem: they were creating something new as well, but were ordinary human beings entitled to do this? When he credits drawing with creating something new (and in this case he is using it to mean the lines – and not the paint – that provide the outlines for the bodies in painting), he shifts the problem of creativity away from the person to the tool, “a deity which repeats all the visible works of God the highest”. In this way he avoids presenting himself as creative – and thus divine. GEOMETRY AND ABSTRACTION

We now take reduced-scale, geometrically precise design drawings so much for granted as a design tool that we are scarcely aware of their function as such. But what principles are they following when they “teach the master builder to create a building that is pleasing to the eye,” as Leonardo puts it in another place? (after Chastel 1990, p. 136) The drawing, called forma in Latin, disegno in Italian, changes the relationship between designer and designed in many respects. By making the object that is depicted smaller, it increases the draughtsman's ability to manipulate it to the same extent. If the ground plan of a cathedral is reduced to the size of a hand, it is not only easy to gain a complete impression of it, but also to modify it according to the draughtsman’s ideas. Reducing the size of the object that is being worked on makes it into a toy, and the designer into an all-seeing, powerful creator. When the draughtsman draws what seems essential to him, he analyses the object drawn at the same time, and decides what factors his design work should relate to. As each abstraction makes the drawing less vivid, many can only be read by experts. As with writing, drawings need to be interpreted. But at the same time drawing is a fiction that allows the draughtsman to allocate any meaning he wishes to a line.

The geometrical precision that drawing allows cannot be achieved by any other design tool. Vitruvius succintly remarks: “The difficult issues of symmetry

are resolved by geometric principles and with geometrical methods.”

(Vitruvius I,4)

This suggests that drawing makes it possible to check the proportions and the geometrical structure of the design precisely. That is why it is still the

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most important design tool for many people. The question of whether disegno or colore is the most important element in painting, much discussed in 15th and 16th century art theory, was never a matter of debate in architecture. The control it permits, as mentioned above, promoted drawing to the status of the preferred medium for academic training. If this is also linked

Drawing with ink on tracing paper using a 0.25 mm Rapidograph. Photographs: Stephanie Meyer

with a view of architecture determined by regularity and right angles, it can become the design tool that dominates everything else, as at the École des

Beaux-Arts in the 19th century. Experts take this medium so much for granted that they often forget how rarely laymen are able to read ground plans or sections. Verbal or written

explanations certainly make drawings more intelligible, but laymen cannot usually imagine three-dimensional effects and connections on the basis of two-dimensional diagrams. They are also not familiar with the technical conventions, unspoken because they are taken for granted, according to which drawings are created and read. Laymen are usually able to read perspective

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drawings better, but the statements such drawings make are less transparent to understanding. Accurate drawing can also be used as a device for perceptual analysis. Just as writing a text demands clear thinking, with ideas placed in a logical order and checked for correctness, drawing requires a shape or a space to be measured out and presented precisely. It forces the draughtsman to be discip­lined about structuring and reducing what is seen, and establishing hierarchies within it. But designing with the aid of drawings, ground plans, elevations and sections can also over-emphasise the role played by sets of graphic rules. Plan graphics quickly become a point of argument when architectural decisions are being discussed. But graphic and spatial laws rarely

Expressive drawing by Tobias Hammel: House of Yagaah III, pencil, Indian ink, acrylic on cardboard, 17.05 x 2.7 m, exhibition, Berlin 2006

correspond precisely. “Are the drawing and the project the same thing?” asks the Portuguese artist Joaquim Vieira, who teaches in the architecture faculty at Oporto University, and then shows how greatly the one can differ from the other. (Vieira 1995, pp. 38 ff.) Drawing’s most important modes of operation are geometry and abstrac-

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tion. But there are limits to the clarity and rationality so valued by academic classicism that are not noticeable at first glance. This medium has a graphic logic of its own. Something that looks sound and impressive as a drawing may very well not be like that in reality. Only architecture that bases all its elements on the Cartesian system of three perpendicular axes can be represented without distortion in ground plans, elevations and sections. In addition, the reduction to two dimensions removes a fundamental aspect of architecture: space. The consequence of this is that a structure that has been considered in terms of space rather than graphically often seems shapeless as a drawing; the three-dimensional qualities of a design are difficult to convey in a two-dimensional drawing. Drawing ground plans, elevations and sections is still based on the assumptions of Euclidian geometry. Buckminster Fuller, the architect of the geodesic domes, questioned these assumptions in his studies of the geometry of the sphere:

Design for a school building, ground plan and elevation, Friedrich Ostendorf, 1913

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Faculty of architecture at Oporto University (FAUP), ground plan, Álvaro Siza, 1986–1995

“In his theories on construction and proof Euclid restricted himself to three tools – ruler, compasses and pen. But he in fact used a fourth tool, without taking it into account, and that was the surface on to which he inscribed his diagrammatic constructions.” (Fuller 1944, p. 175) So the starting-point for Euclid’s proofs is “in the special and abstract realm of

an imaginary planar geometry”. If geometry is translated literally as “measuring the earth”, then according to Fuller Euclid’s conditions make sense only if one works on the basis that knowledge about the spherical nature of the earth had been lost in his day.

(Fuller 1944, p. 175)

There are quite a few architectural failures that can be ascribed to the seductive lure of drawing. The removal of the third dimension combined with a reduction in scale and increased clarity makes drawing such an effective tool that handling it can be difficult. The more abstract a drawing becomes, the more ways there are of interpreting it, and the more difficult it also becomes to predict how the building will work in reality. One funda-

mental difficulty of using any tool is its inherent tendency towards abstraction and oversimplification. This produces problems of the kind that Vilém Flusser is addressing here:

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Geometry versus nature: beach promenade near Oporto, Manuel de Solà-Morales, 2000–2001

“But hands equipped with tools do not have the sensual quality of bare hands. They cannot distinguish a person from an object. […] So the danger in the tool-making gesture lies in forgetting the original object and thus the difference between an object and a person as well.” (Flusser 1991, p. 68)

MEDIA SWITCH

Ground plans drawn on clay tablets, with measurements in cuneiform script, have survived even from the days of Babylon.

(Pevsner 1966, p. 622)

We are

also familiar with architectural drawings on papyrus from Egypt, organized on a strict grid. It is not known what part these played in the design pro-

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cess. The working drawings from ancient Greece previously mentioned have survived. It is assumed that these came into being as detailed plans based on an overall plan on a reduced scale, presumably drawn on parchment. All that survived in Rome too were working drawings in real scale on stone, of the Pantheon pediment, for example; there is only written evidence of drawings on parchment. Fragments of ancient plans on marble have also been found in Rome, but these were made for presentational purposes, not as part of the design process

(Hesberg 1984, pp. 120 ff.).

Vitruvius makes it clear how highly drawing was thought of in the ancient world in his description of a master builder’s basic knowledge: he must “have knowledge of draughtsmanship so that he can more easily illustrate

examples at will to represent the appearance of the work he proposes”.

(Vitruvius, I,4)

Vitruvius makes a distinction between three different kinds of architectural drawing in the following:

“Ichnografia is the skilled use, to scale of compass and rule, by means of which the on-site layout of the design is achieved. Orthografia is a frontal image, one drawn to scale, rendered according to the layout for the future work. Scaenografia is the shaded rendering of the front and the receding sides as the ­latter converge on a point.” (Vitruvius I, 2,2) Even though these techniques have been in use in Europe since antiquity, the early Middle Ages, when Vitrivius text was by no means unknown, adopted a different, more direct approach to its design practice. There are reports of drawings on wax tablets, and some schematic ground plans on parchment have survived, but they do not seem to have been very important in design terms. Design was mainly carried out using drawings on a natural scale scratched on to the floor or walls, with existing buildings of the same type serving as a pattern and model. This changed only from the first half of the 13th century, when drawings, first of all in the form of drawings on a reduced scale, started to be used more frequently again.

(Binding 1993, p. 172)

Ground plan of a medieval monastery with modern extension. Arraiolos, Pousada dos Loios, José Paulo dos Santos, 1993–1999

The profound changes that led from medieval to modern thinking can also be seen in the newly developed design tools from the beginning of the early Italian Renaissance. This seminal change was marked, among many other things, by a fundamental transformation in the way design was seen, manifested in the development and use of new design tools. Sketch, drawing, perspective and model came into being in the form in which they are still used today in the first half of the 14th century, in northern Italy. A new way of perceiving things was developed, no longer driven by prescribed “eternally valid ideas”, but by direct sensual experience. And it was also at this time that public discussion and criticism of prestigious church and state building projects started to emerge again.

A prerequisite of this development was the replacement of feudal society by an early form of mercantile bourgeoisie that started to establish itself in the northern Italian cities. In the course of this, the technical administration of the masons’ craft associations moved out of the clergy’s hands to the guilds. Building became a public matter, with the consequence that more and

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more laymen were involved in decision-making. This in its turn compelled the designers, who now came from the fine arts rather than the building trade, to find much more vivid ways of presenting things than they had before. The symbolic medieval way of looking at things, now seen as formulaic, was replaced by illustration methods that came much closer to reality. Artistic and technical competitions were institutionalized as a decisionmaking device.

“It was for the building of the Duomo in Florence that ‘open’ competitions seem to have made people realize for the first time what artistic potential could be stimulated and used in this way.” (Lepik 1995, p. 12) The first competition for this building project was held in 1355, to determine the shape of the pillars in the nave. A competition for the overall form of the cathedral was held in 1367. The competition for the building of the dome, won by Filippo Brunelleschi, was held after 1417, followed by invitations to tender for the form of the lantern (1436), the façade (1490) and the dome gallery (1500)

(Lepik 1995, p. 13).

The media switch that took place at this time – from a life-size drawing to a reduced scale drawing and to perspective, from prototype and template to model, also on a reduced scale – did not only lead to building and designing being more separated from each other, but it also meant that people who had been trained in a quite different way were responsible for the designs: goldsmiths (Brunelleschi), painters and artists (Michelangelo) who had mastered what were then new media, replaced the stonemasons organized in guilds. DESIGNING OR DRAWING

Drawing, seen as the classical design tool as it were, works with geometrical-mathematical abstraction: designing– for a draughtsman – means imposing geometry. The process of representing a project with mathematical precision, drawing as the “language of the engineer”, is rational and functional,

not an atmospheric painting. The idea is objectivized and can be criticized using rational arguments, and so the drawing became the most popular academic tool for the classical Beaux-Arts tradition as well as for rational technical training. Its disadvantage is a high degree of abstraction; it is hard to make out spatial relations. Le Corbusier devoted a whole chapter to these

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problems in Vers une Architecture, using the polemical title “L’Illusion des

Plans”.

(Le Corbusier 1963)

Le Corbusier does expressly accept design based on

the ground plan, as this determines the organization and structure of the building, but vehemently criticizes the act that ground plans are designed according to the aesthetic requirements of the Beaux-Arts tradition. He takes the town plan of Karlsruhe as an example, which he calls the “most lamentable

failure of an intention, the perfect ‘knock-out’”: “The star remains only on paper, a poor consolation. Illusion. The illusion of fine plans. From any point in the town, you can never see more than three windows of the castle, and they always seem the same ones; the most humblest everyday house would produce as much effect. From the castel, you can never look down more than a single street at a time, and any street in any small market town would have a sim­ ilar effect.” (Le Corbusier 1963, p. 184) Jean Prouvé, originally trained as a smith, preferred designing in a workshop in his own practice, and also criticizes academic design practice relying entirely on drawing as a design tool. Many of his designs emerged directly from work on prototypes determined by the material and by the efficiency of the devices and machines available. It was only when a form had been found that drawings were prepared retrospectively, as a record. In a conversation, he says he feels sorry for young architects who, because they work exclusively with abstract drawing, are deprived of the important stimulus provided by realizing a project:

“There they discovered what actual architectural inspiration can be, that the lines they drew on Monday can be realized on Tuesday. They knew at once what they would actually see. But now young architects mainly draw things that are not built at all. Do you not think that this is fatal for their minds and spirits?” (Prouvé 2001, p. 29)

The specific resistance that drawing as a design tool confronts the designer with lies on the one hand in the confinement to simple geometrical constructions, as only these make it possible to construct and convey a

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form precisely, and on the other hand in the limited number of drawings that can be prepared for a project. Ostendorf’s criticism of drawing has already been mentioned. He says that it leads to developing something

“on paper in an inartistic and meaningless way” that “simply cannot be grasped as an idea in its

confused complexity”.

(Ostendorf 1913, p. 4)

When

we look at today’s working drawings, prepared according to the conventions and rules of drawing regulations, packed so full of information, like a pattern chart, that it is impossible to discern an intelligible form, it is easy to understand Ostendorf’s argument. But then he fails to point out that only that which is portrayed parallel to the plane of the two-dimensional drawing appears undistorted. A normal set of drawings, made up of ground plans, elevations and sections, makes anything that does not correspond with the three axes of Cartesian space seem distorted or even nonsensical. It is therefore entirely justified for Ana Leonor Rodrigues to describe drawing as a design tool that

“imposes order on architectural thinking”. (Rodrigues 2002)

The question is whether we

are content with this order. Peter Eisenman drew a radical conclusion from this:

Geometry of the Hysolar Institute building, Stuttgart University, Günter Behnisch und Partner, 1987

“Anything that you can draw that does not relate to the three-dimensional reality must be drawn on a computer. […] plans, sections and elevations return one to the space of vision, to projective space. That’s why I no longer draw.” (Eisenman 1992, p. 108)

179 DIGITALIZATION OF DRAWING

Eisenman continued to pursue this idea elsewhere by saying that only things one already has some idea about can be drawn by hand. However, he feels that images can be created digitally that one has never seen or had in one’s mind before

(Eisenman 1992).

Digitalization translates all representations of a

design into a uniform code, but one that can be read only by machines. The boundaries between the different ways of representing ideas are becoming more permeable. This means that it is possible to link the individual presentation modes and bring them together in a common data base. Once this base has been established, little additional effort is needed to switch from one way of representing things to another, presenting the design simultaneously as a perspective, ground plan and section or as a room finishing schedule and quantity survey at the same time, automatically, so to speak. Long before PCs began to appear in architecture practices the mainframe computers of the 1960s were used by universities and local authorities for undertaking calculations, for example, to draw up site plans and for determining shapes. For example, a mainframe computer at Stuttgart University was used to determine the shape of the roof structure for the Munich Olympic Stadium

(Nerdinger 2005, p. 267).

In the early 1980s, when the first PCs

started to appear in universities and architecture practices, they were usually not able to cope with graphic design. However, only ten years later computers, monitors and plotters replaced drawing boards in many architecture practices. Scarcely any other design tool has changed so much as a result of digitalization as the drawing. The traditional two-dimensional drawing has literally acquired any number of extra dimensions. Transparent sketching paper has become layers and links that can be faded in and out, pencil and ink lines become areas of colour that can be structured at will, the torment of scraping and hatching disappears, and so does meditation about a delicate pencil drawing. The simple drawing becomes a complex, polydimensional data

Wire geometry diagram for the IUHEI library, Geneva, Peter Eisenman, 1996

structure that can be linked with other data at will and presented in a whole variety of ways – as a ground plan, section, elevation or perspective, as a moving 3D model that the mouse can “walk about in”, as a video or mechanically produced model on a freely chosen scale, but also as a room finishing schedule, quantity survey, loadbearing or climate simulation; or as a cost analysis and tendering list. Something that was one project in the mind of the person who created the design, presented in different ways with the aid of the various design tools, now comes together again as one digital data structure. The three-dimensional computer model has replaced the conventional drawings of ground plan, section and façade as a database for this poly­ dimensional structure. Just as drawings, models or calculations represent a design idea only in terms of the possibilities afforded by the particular medium, this database too is an imperfect representation only, though on a higher plane, as it can be presented in various media. Complex geometrical

connections no longer have to be laid down in absolute dimensions, but can be given as parameters, so that it is sufficient to change one of them to produce a new form. Representation by parameters opens up a great deal of new scope for designers, as variants can be drawn up with much less effort and very much more quickly. But on the other hand it means that conceptu-

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al questions have to be addressed more intensively in order to be able to program parametric models at all. And the elements of the drawing themselves change their quality when working to parameters: the previously neutral line becomes a vector, with direction, size and intensity

(Eisenman 2005, p. 226).

While the limitations of the first drawing programs forced one to use the simplest possible geometry (which is probably a reason for the “boxes”, the simple, rhomboid building volumes of computer-designed architecture’s first decade), the PC soon became a prerequisite for designing complex geometrical structures. The second decade of computer-designed and generated architecture, by contrast, was characterized by a counter-movement using freer forms. The architecture critic Hanno Rauterberg called this “digital

Modernism”: architecture no longer only drawn on the computer, but using parametric algorithms to generate forms and geometries that could not ­previously be represented without considerable effort, leading to envelopes and spaces that until then were considered impossible to build. 2005, p. 54)

(Rauterberg

Patrik Schumacher goes a step further and sees “Parametricism”,

on which such architecture is founded, as the “epochal style for the 21st century”

(Schumacher 2012, pp. 622 ff. See also p. 301)

Inner courtyard in a bank, Berlin, Pariser Platz, Frank Gehry, 1994–1999

The obviously hand-made nature of traditional drawing is suppressed by digitalization in favour of representation devices that can lay claim to be more professional and at the same time more objective because of their perfection and the amount of detail they offer. As they look less (hand)made, they also seem less artificial and arbitrary. As they increase in perfection,

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they increasingly acquire the natural and convincing quality of photographs. Expressing individuality and formulating a personal, recognizable way of drawing and representing ideas has possibly become obsolete at this level. FURTHER READING: Spiro, Annette; Ganzoni, David (Eds) (2013): The Working Drawing. The Architect’s Tool. Zurich: Park Books, 2013 Meuser, Natascha (2014): Drawing for Architects. Construction and Design Manual. Berlin: DOM, 2014 For further literature on the subject, see Appendix p. 38o.

Model Models are traps for capturing the world.

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Vilém Flusser (1993 / 2, p. 14)

The architectural model can be used for a large number of purposes, which makes it a highly effective, but also problematical design tool. It appears in forms extending from toys to burial objects, from souvenirs and artistic sculptures to religious objects. The latent fetishist character of the model inherent in such manifestations contrasts with its pragmatic applications: it is just as well suited to scientific experiments as it is to designing structures and buildings. It offers the most direct approach to dealing with spatial, structural and sculptural questions. Seen as a design tool, the model makes it possible “to think with one’s hands”, as it were, and at the same time to work conceptually. As a vivid means of communication, models help to bridge the gulf between laymen and experts. If we see design as a gradual approach to built reality, then models, samples and prototypes are the tools closest to three-dimensional, material reality. Samples make it possible to compare building materials and the ways in which they can be handled, and then to make choices. Prototypes are parts of a building completed as an experiment, and their dimensions can extend

Max Bill looking at a model of the Swiss Pavilion for the Venice Biennale. Photograph: Ernst Scheidegger, 1951

to trial structures. Both are clearly defined ways of presenting ideas, constructed lifesize, and with the materials intended for the actual project. But our linguistic usage is not so clear-cut in its implications when it comes to the concept of the model. The words model, modulation, modem and

mode all come from the same linguistic root “m.d.”, which originally means “measure”. (Flusser 1993/2, p. 62)

Derived from the Latin

modellus, small measure, and from the Italian modello, example, we use the word model for two kinds of things today: three-dimensional, simplified and reduced-scale representations of an object that both serve to develop its form, like a drawing, or objects as specimens which serve as a pattern for a piece of work that is to be produced. One and the same object can have two fundamentally different meanings: a representation of a menTop: diagram for the representation of model and original, bottom left: labyrinth drawing as original, right: graph model for the labyrinth drawing, Herbert Stachowiak, 1973

tal image, or an example for something that is to be made. The ambiguity of the concept is not a chance piece of linguistic imprecision. The

possibility it contains of an arbitrary yet fleeting change of meaning – from the vague image of a design idea to a definite pattern for a concrete building, worked out in detail and sometimes seeming very real – is a modus operandi common to all design tools. But in the case of the model this shift of meaning from the vague to the concrete bridges a comparatively large difference, and so we can see it as a particularly effective tool. Vitruvius absolutely refused to work on models because they meant that a great deal could be represented that could not be realized in reality (Vitruvius X 16,3 ff.) – an

argument that would mean rejecting all representation –

but Leon Battista Alberti did accord them some value. He uses two Latin terms to define architectural models: “modulus et exemplar”. Instead of choosing the expression modello, which was already current in his day, in the sense

of the pattern that was to be followed precisely, he introduced a pair of concepts that explain the ambiguity of this concept. Modulus actually identifies the scale or the recurrent basic dimensions (module), and exemplar the example or pattern. By using these expressions invoking Vitruvius, Alberti is emphasizing, as Werner Oechslin has shown, first the “theoretical side, the con-

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ceptual and intellectual nature of architecture”, and secondly the pattern function of the model.

(Oechslin 1995, pp. 40 ff.)

When Otl Aicher states categorically “designing means constructing models”, he does not mean any of the model concepts discussed so far. He sees a model first and foremost, excluding any idea of a three-dimensional object, as “a construction made up of statements, concepts and conceptual operations”. (Aicher 1991/2, p. 195)

Here he is alluding to a model concept as used in the sci-

ences. The scientist Herbert Stachowiak describes this in his General Model Theory on the basis of three characteristics: Illustration: Models are always models of something, representations of natural or

artificial originals that could be models themselves. Abbreviation: Models generally do not record all the attributes of the original they represent, but only those that seem relevant to the particular model-maker and/or model user. Pragmatics: Models are not unambiguously assigned to their originals per se. They are made for a particular user, within a given period and for a particular ­purpose. (Stachowiak 1973, pp. 131 ff.) RELATIONSHIP WITH REALITY

The architectural model shares the mechanisms of abstraction and scale reduction with the drawing. Beyond this it offers the three-dimensional quality of its representation, which gives it its particular vividness, and the possib­ility of choosing the materials for making it freely – unlike samples and prototypes, which are made of the same material as the finished object. Models can show buildings using simple, soft materials, and it is their difference from the real building materials that shows the theoretical range of this design tool. This is also clear in the difference between a model intended to show an idea, or intended as a working or presentation model. We would put the former together spontaneously from anything that came to hand, and give it new meaning, as in a child’s game – a pocket calculator

becomes a model railway station “in no time”– but for working models we choose cheap, soft materials like wax, clay or plaster, and later cardboard, glue and balsa wood as well, all of which are easy to work with. Whereas abstract models illustrating ideas and imprecise working models restrict themselves to the essential lines of a design, presentation models are made with a great deal

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of time and effort from materials that are difficult to work like wood, plastic and metal, and worked out in detail. Combining all these approaches – abstraction, reduction, changes of material and meaning – permits observations and experiments, but also manipulations that go well beyond the possibilities of drawing. The greater precision and ease of reproduction of the drawing is being increasingly cancelled out by modern model building methods using computer-controlled precision milling. Various planes of meaning can overlap in one and the same model in a way that makes it into an object onto which a whole variety of different ideas can be projected. Its apparent closeness to reality makes the model into a means of communication that seems convincing at first glance, but whose ambiguity is often neglected. The capacity of models of different sizes for conveying an image is not linear, but exponential: a model on the scale of one to two is certainly “half the size” it is in reality, but it has only an eighth of the volume. At a scale of one to one hundred the volume is only a millionth of the true size. So the spatial quality of architectural models is subject to a particularly high degree of abstraction. Frei Otto analysed the problem of scale more precisely. If models are used for loading experiments, which was a method used for dimensioning structural elements before the development of structural calculation procedures, different exponential ratios have to be used according to the structural system. Furthermore, the theory of mechanics of materials state that in order to establish the load-bearing capacity the per-unit “overall

load in the model” must equal “that load in the realized design”. (Otto 1989, p. 209) As the spans in the model are already proportionally reduced by the reduction in scale, loading experiments should not

”An object of the same material and equal shape breaks at the same load.“ Load experiments using a model, Frei Otto, 1989

reduce the overall load per unit area by the same scale as the dimensions of the structural elements. “An object in the same material of equal shape breaks at

the same load.”

(loc. cit.)

For this reason, the load in the model should even be

increased where necessary to compensate for the lesser self-weight of the structural elements. As Frei Otto has shown, a lack of familiarity with these

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relationships can lead to serious miscalculations. This may explain why some architects are sceptical about this particular design tool. The deceptively convincing nature of models can easily mislead one into ignoring their essentially fictitious representational character as well as their inherent high degree of abstraction. When design models built to defined scales were used for the first time in the early Renaissance, these were properly speaking “prototypes on a reduced scale”, as they were not made in cheaper materials, or materials that were easier to work, but actually built from bricks. These first models originated in Florence as preliminary studies for building the cathedral dome. Their function did not relate to design alone: Filippo Brunelleschi also used them to test the building methods and load-bearing capacity of his design. (Lepik 1995, pp. 84 ff.)

Competitions and public debate meant that these presen-

tations had to be vivid: model and perspective were developed almost simultaneously, as forms for “discursive” tools that are also comprehensible and accessible to laymen. The ambiguity of the model, its toy-like and fetish aspects, the combination of vividness and good load-bearing capacity make it a particularly seductive medium. Even the Italian Renaissance architect and theoretician Vincenzo Scamozzi compared models with young birds whose genus was as yet scarcely discernible, but which could grow into eagles or ravens. From this he concludes that “it is easy to deceive the client under the cover of the

model”

(from Oechslin 1995, p. 48)

Alberti also points out:

“The presentation of models that have been coloured and lewdly dressed with the allurement of painting is the mark of no architect intent on conveying the facts; rather it is that of a conceited one, striving to attract and seduce the eye of the beholder.” (Alberti 1485, p. 34)

Alberti’s next demand is still valid today:

“Better then that the models are not accurately finished, refined and highly decorated, but plain and simple so that they demonstrate the ingenuity of him who conceived the idea, and not the skill of the one who fabricated the model.” (Alberti 1485, pp. 33/34) This is to be taken all the more seriously as Alberti sees the model as an important instrument for predicting the consequences of design decisions:

“For this reason I will always commend the time-honoured custom practice by the best builders, of preparing not only drawings and sketches but also models of wood or any other material. This will enable us to weigh up repeatedly and examine, with the advice of experts, the work as a whole and the individual dimensions of all the parts.” (loc. cit., pp. 33/34) “The model is lying!” or “The perspective is distorting!” or “The film is manipulative!” are reproaches that designers still hear today. As we have already seen in the analysis of the gesture, we are confronted here with a fundamental problem that applies for all design. Design is “lies” to a certain extent – in the sense that it is representing something that does not yet exist in reality and that may or may not be open to realization. In this fundamental respect, design is different from creative work on a concrete object. THE IMPORTANCE OF MATERIALS

Jim Drobnick calls Peter Eisenman’s early work “cardboard architecture”. (Eisenman 1995, p. 320)

Günter Behnisch too constantly pointed out how much

the material used for the model helps to shape the design. If a soft, formless material like clay or plaster is used, he feels that it creates a different formal language from the use of slender rods, for example:

“Every planning step has its own materials and techniques. […] Cardboard models give rise to stodgy, flat, incorporeal buildings: wooden blocks produce wooden block architecture, and plasticine produces relatively free plastic structures.” (Behnisch 1987, p. 40)

In fact it is scarcely possible to prove such direct effects. It is true that every material shows recognizable tendencies, but there is no inevitable link between building or model-building material and formal language. On the contrary, some designers feel challenged to wrest an expressive quality

­different from the expected one out of a particular material. They see it as an artistic challenge to work against its specific resistance, for example by trying to make stone look soft or plaster look hard. But it is certainly appropriate to seek out a suitable model-making material for every design task. Behnisch reports:

“The design for the Olympic Park in Munich was developed largely using a sand model. This sand was the closest we could get to the deep gravel we had to work with on site; it had acquired very little shape from its own structures, so was open to landscape designs.” (Behnisch 1987, p. 40) Clay as the first and archetypal model-making material – fired clay models have survived from prehistoric times – indicates the original meaning of the central concept of making that is so important for both Otl Aicher and Vilém Flusser, and its etymological origin in kneading.

(see p. 88)

This mal­

leable material still influences the idea that some architects have of design. Álvaro Siza does not use clay for model-making as a rule, but explains that when designing he imagines his buildings are made of a lump of clay, and

Dome and extensions for the Duomo in Florence, working model in wood on a scale of 1:60, Filippo Brunelleschi and Lorenzo Ghiberti, c. 1420

Faculty of architecture at Oporto University (FAUP), working model on a scale of 1:50 (detail), finnboard and adhesive tape, Álvaro Siza, 1986–1995

that he shapes this and adapts it to the various conditions until the final form is established. Michelangelo used clay models to design the dome of St. Peter’s; it was only when the form was fixed that the wooden model, still in existence today, was constructed to present his design to Pope Paul IV. (Evers 1995, p. 385, p. 391)

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In current architecture training, clay or similar easily shaped materials like plasticine or wax tend to be neglected for model-making, but this material plays an important part in designing car bodies. Here a special clay mixed with plastics is used, as this has better drying and shrinkage qualities than pure clay. In contrast with clay, which is formless and thus permits any form, industrially prefabricated semi-finished products like light- or heavy-weight cardboard and wooden or metal rods have a certain geometry inscribed in them from the outset. This geometry is just as subliminally present in the surfaces and lines of cut cardboard illustrating the structural behaviour of concrete

Competition model for the Grounds and buildings for the Munich Olympics, Günter Behnisch und Partner, 1967. Photograph: Ewald Glasmann

slabs as it is in the lines of the rods representing timber beams or steel girders. Glass is a material that is particularly difficult to represent in models, as its sheen and reflective qualities, its differing degrees of translucency and colouring in light and counter-light are difficult to achieve with model-mak-

Ancient models in fired clay, used as a burial object

ing materials. The resistance that the selected materials offer to the designer can be seen as a source of discipline, but also as a constraint – a selfimposed limitation that inhibits yet at the same time stimulates the designer’s creativity and has to be overcome, as if in sport. Sensing the resistance of a particular material and overcoming it is a sensual experience that is naturally experienced differently for every material. The ability to “crawl into a model” in one’s mind in order to imagine the model’s full-size potential can be enhanced by building oneself as a “model” on the same scale as the one present or – astonishingly – by looking at models through a sheet of white paper with a peephole in it. Feeling and understanding, perceiving with the fingers and thinking with the scalpel make it possible to get to know the qualities of the materials directly, to explore their formal language, but also to assess the load-bearing capacity of a structure or anticipate difficulties in joining elements together at an early stage. Given the complexity of these questions, it is once again clear that it is entirely reasonable to see model-making, scorned by many people as

Life-size clay models are used when designing car bodywork.

mechanical and banal, as an intellectual discipline, in the spirit of Alberti. It was taught as such by the Dutch model-maker Paul Verberne, for example, who worked in Israel. For him cutting material is a symbolic act he equates with writing. He feels that model-making means finding out “how material­ isations of space in a model can interfere with your thinking about space when you build a house”. (after Schaerf 2002, p. 125) Digitalizing models and model-making loses the sensual experience of material and space, and with that the experience of the directness with which half-finished models can be manipulated. As long as they remain

Model-making. Photograph: Marianne Kristen

­digital, 3D models are visible on the screen only as single, flat perspectives. They can be selected at will, but they do not convey any real impression of space, a shortcoming that is now easily overcome using 3D glasses. For Rapid Prototyping, many different kinds of laser cutters, CNC mills and 3D printers are available with which one can digitally produce models to a

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high degree of precision. FURTHER READING: Schmal, Peter Cachola; Elser, Oliver (Eds) (2012): Das Architekturmodell: Werkzeug, Fetisch, kleine Utopie/The Architectural Model: Tool, Fetish, Small Utopia. (Exhibition catalogue of Deutsches Architekturmuseum, Frankfurt am Main) Zurich: Scheidegger & Spiess, 2012 Mindrup, Matthew (2019): The Architectural Model. Histories of the Miniature and the Prototype, the Exemplar and the Muse. Cambridge, Mass.: The MIT Press, 2019 For further literature on the subject, see the Appendix p. 380.

Perspective view …the purpose of geography is to provide a view of the whole. Claudius Ptolemaeus (after Edgerton 1975, S. 101)

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We take perspective illustrations so much for granted today that one often hears the need expressed to resist the dominance of linear perspective (Rudolf Arnheim). What does linear perspective achieve as a design tool? Many architects see it even more than the model as a way of presenting the completed design, and not as a tool for devising it. It is certainly too simple to assume that it is a realistic mode of three-dimensional representation whose problems lie only in ensuring that all the points in the construction will still fit on the drawing board. Other architects see perspective–in the form of rapidly made small sketches, or large scale drawings–as their most important working tool. Their question would be another: how does perspective show the designer his design? What new factors does it introduce, which elements of architecture does it reinforce, and which does it undermine? Every design tool, according to the way in which it works, means that some aspects are emphasized and others neglected. A drawing asks for scale and geometry, a perspective requires an individual observer and reflects the three-dimensional effect of a design. As it makes the drawn area into pictor­ ial space, and thus represents the primal image of virtual space, it functions entirely differently from architectural drawing, which is restricted to two dimensions. The story of its rediscovery contains numerous indications of how important it is as a design tool. The Latin term perspectiva (ars), literally translated as “the art of looking through”, was generally used in the Middle Ages to define optics, the “theory of seeing” that was studied at all major universities. It was only after the mid 15th century that it started to be used in its current sense for depictions of illusory space. (Edgerton 1975, p. 59)

This geometrically comprehensible representation of spaces

and three-dimensional objects on a flat pictorial surface developed during the transition period from the medieval Aristotelian idea of space to modern space: the transition from the idea of a finite space characterized by places with ­different qualities and in which there are no voids to space understood as a

“continuum of infinite dimensions […], as a motionless void ready to accept matter,” as the Jewish philosopher Chasdai Crescas put it c. 1400.

(after Gosztonyi 1976, p. 197)

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The principles of perspective projection, from: Daniel Fournier: A Treatise on the Theory of Perspective, 1761

THE DISCOVERY OF THE WORLD

The (re-?)discovery of linear perspective is attributed to the Florentine master goldsmith and architect Filippo Brunelleschi, who conducted two experiments in representing three-dimensional space in perspective on a twodimensional plane in the years 1425/26. Here he was able to fall back on artistic and optical experiments made in the course of the 14th century. Painters like Lorenzo Ghiberti and Jan van Eyck had come very close to solving the problem. They had already used vanishing points in their paintings, though several of them, arranged on a common axis. Edgerton assumes that when preparing his experiments, Brunelleschi took advice from a Florentine scholar called Toscanelli, who later also encouraged Christopher Columbus to embark on his great journey across the Atlantic. This shows the profound change that the new ideas of space were triggering, not just in art, but in many other areas. In fact, Brunelleschi’s experiment: a perspective drawing is viewed in a mirror through a hole in the centre of the drawing.

Brunelleschi’s experiments looked quite simple. Standing in the doorway of the Duomo in Florence, he painted a central-perspective view of the baptistery on a square panel, but added silver mirror foil in place of the sky. In order to be able to compare the original and the copy with each other accurately, he drilled a small hole in his painting at eye level. Looking through

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this hole, it was now possible to see a painted perspective copy in another mirror, with the real sky and its clouds reflected above it. He painted a second picture of the Palazzo Vecchio, which he shows in an oblique view, as a perspective with two vanishing points. Leon Battista Alberti finally described the theoretical bases of linear central perspective in his book De Pictura/Della Pittura (On Painting) in 1435/6. Starting with the idea of a “visual pyramid” made up of sight rays, with its apex in the viewer’s eye, Alberti defined perspective as a “section through the

visual triangle”. The apex of the pyramid is reflected in the perspective vanishing point. The central ray, or “the Prince of Rays”, as Alberti calls it elsewhere, is the only ray that runs unbroken from the viewer’s eye to the vanishing point. The horizontal drawn through the vanishing point becomes the picture space horizon. The centre of vision, “the apex of the pyramid within the

eye of the viewer” is shown in side view in an explanatory drawing, and here it becomes the centre of projection in the construction. The “section through

the visual triangle” becomes the perspective plane, and its position between the object portrayed and the centre of projection can be chosen at will. The positions of the horizontal divisions can now be read at the points where it intersected the sight rays. But Alberti goes even further. In the Libro Secondo of Della Pittura he describes a second, simple and pragmatic aid for drawing perspectives, also based on the definition of the image as a “section through the sight pyramid”. This makes it possible to draw perspectives from nature and thus to test the “theory” of their geometrical construction empirically. Alberti calls this simple device velo or velum (Lat. cloth, sail), and adds that among his circle of friends he usually called this the “section plane” (Lat. “intercisio”). Alberti describes this aid, first published in a picture by Albrecht Dürer, as follows:

“It is like this: a veil loosely woven of fine thread, dyed whatever colour you please, divided up by thicker threads into as many parallel square sections as you like, and stretched on a frame. I set this up between the eye and the object to be represented, so the visual pyramid passes through the loose weave of the veil.” (Alberti 1540, para. 31)

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Alberti’s method for constructing a perspective of a floor with a square tile pattern

Through simple measurement, the forms and lines from the grid woven into the semi-transparent veil can be transferred to the drawing surface, which has the same grid drawn on it. This is a useful aid for seeing perspective foreshortening and distortions. Seen obliquely, a rectangle becomes shortened in perspective to an irregular parallelogram, a trapezoid, and a circle becomes an ellipse. Our visual perception is structured in such a way that we do in fact see a trapezoid or an ellipse, but perceive it as a rectangle or parallelogram at first. This becomes clear when children or untrained adults try to draw a three-dimensional situation. The velum is an aid that makes it easy to detach oneself from the perceived form and master the difficulties inherent in tricking our perceptual apparatus and recognizing perspective foreshortening and distortions as such. Conversely, the ability to read a perspective three-dimensional illusion is not a gift of nature, but has to be learned. Children until the age of 8 to 12 and adults with certain backgrounds are not in a position to recognize the three-dimensional illusion of a perspective.

(Gosztonyi 1976, p. 809)

The velum is still used for teaching draw-

ing today. A simplified version of the principle is the practice, used by many draughtsmen, of measuring and sighting with a pencil in an outstretched hand. This method means that angles and proportions can be assessed without difficulty, and transferred to the drawing.

(Edwards 1979, chap. 8)

Central perspective is a key discovery of the modern age. It formulated generally valid, empirically sound rules that allowed anyone applying them to depict three-dimensional situations. Seeing in perspective became the

basis of a completely new understanding of space and landscape that shaped the art, architecture and science of subsequent centuries. The principle of perspective already contains all the essential elements of photography, with the exception of the photochemical imaging process. In combination with the woodcuts that were starting to appear in Germany

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after 1400 and the technique of copperplate engraving developed around 1440, perspective presentation became a widely cultivated pictorial medium. (Klotz 1997, pp. 182 ff.)

In the engravings and paintings of the 17th and 18th

centuries, the images had already achieved a degree of precision in repre-

Albrecht Dürer (workshop): Draughtsman drawing a recumbent woman, 1538, showing how the velum is used

senting light and space, structure and proportion, that is scarcely inferior to photographs, at least as far as architecture is concerned. Before Talbot and Daguerre invented photography, images were still created by hand, but even Leonardo da Vinci had used a predecessor of the photographic camera, the Camera Obscura, as an aid. Seen in this light, the invention of photography was merely a further step towards automating the imaging process which has progressed via cinematography to the modern video camera.

AMBIVALENT REALISM

Perspective integrates the geometrical information from ground plan, elevation and section and translates it into a vivid three-dimensional image. It follows precise rules that anyone can understand. The most important innovation introduced by perspective is that it represents spatial situations with

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all elements relating to a uniform three-dimensional system.

“The strength of a grid-network measuring system lies in its ability to provide an abstract image of the space governed by an immutable framework of horizontal and vertical coordinates.” (Edgerton 1975, p. 103) As a tool for rationalizing space, it paves the way for the Cartesian system of three coordinate axes arranged perpendicular to one other and intersecting at a single point. As a geometrical instrument, perspective creates an illusion of depth that makes it possible to represent the continuity and infinity of space. The aim formulated in the Ptolemaic projection method of showing the whole world can be realized by perspective. In order to be able to perceive this spatial illusion, the viewer must ignore the drawn or painted surface of the image, and he must stand at the point intended. Care must be taken “that no objects in a painting can appear like real

objects, if it is not viewed from a certain distance”.

(Alberti 1540, para. 19)

The viewer

is rewarded for this by the impression of being included in the picture space, the sense that he is standing on the same ground as the scenery depicted. Perspective, like no other medium, establishes a direct link between the space depicted and the viewer’s body. It creates a picture space characterized by a suction, a dynamic movement into the depth of the space. Precision in depicting three-dimensional situations is combined here with a shortening of all the lines that do not lie parallel with the picture plane, and that can make even the calmest space look dynamic. The spatial dynamic of perspective indicates that our experience of space is linked with movement, and with this invocation of movement in space, perspective points to the other, to areas that are not depicted in the selected detail. This promotes a holistic view of the world that also relates to a subjective observer’s individual point of view. Here details can be presented in a special way, because perspective views show the different planes of depth within a space with the same sharpness of focus on a single plane, and do this even in cases where neither the eye nor photography could bring this

off. And yet perspective, unlike drawing or isometric views, tends towards a holistic effect including the context. Its dual function, with theoretical-mathem­ atical image construction on the one hand and a practical-artistic depiction of spatial contexts on the other, makes it possible to achieve powerful realism as well as completely illusory portrayals. The actual excitement of per-

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spective derives from the question of the extent to which something depicted realistically is true or untrue in reality. This duality enshrines the medium’s great possibilities, as well as its dangers. Every tool has its advantages and disadvantages, but things are rather more complicated in the case of perspective, which Erwin Panofsky called a

“two-edged sword”.

(Panofsky 1924)

Drawings like ground plans, elevations or

sections follow an unambiguous reference structure that always creates images of a building in the same way. But perspective’s relationship with the image is determined by three factors: first by the choice of the viewer’s position (centre of projection), then by the direction in which the viewer is looking, which defines the position of the vanishing point, and finally by the choice of the distance point, which fixes the distances between centre of projection, picture plane and the object depicted. All three operations are not immediately comprehensible to the viewer of the completed picture, but greatly influence the way it is presented. Shifting the distance point leads, similarly to altering the focal length of a lens, to a different field angle and also a different impression of spatial depth. It is rare for a perspective to correspond with the human visual angle of 180° in a horizontal and 120° in a vertical direction. Then there is the choice of time of day, which determines the incident light and the position of any people who may be included. Perspective forces the viewer to see a situation from the same viewing angle and distance as its author selected, at the same time, and in the same light. It is thus a design for a piece of precisely determined perception. This fourfold “inscrutability” of perspective needs to be borne in mind all the more as its geometrical principle also forms the basis for photography, film and video, and thus our most important visual communication media. Like all these media forms, perspective is a highly expressive medium that depicts the world with “scientific” precision, but for precisely the same reason can convey convincing illusions. Its synthesis creates images with a high degree of complexity that can no longer be seen as a geometrical construction by the viewer, and thus are not read analytically and rationally. They

Giovanni Battista Piranesi: Carceri d’Invenzione, plate XIII, The Well, second version, c. 1761 (detail)

are instead viewed as images that our perceptual apparatus processes holistically and emotionally. Such images can be extremely powerful because they are so vivid and have such a direct emotional impact. PERSPECTIVE AS AN ATTITUDE

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This multiple range of options makes perspective a highly flexible tool that has served a variety of purposes since its invention. The Renaissance emphasized its rational, objective, static character, but the artists of the Baroque period did precisely the opposite. They made particular use of the illusory possibilities afforded by the medium, its dynamic quality, its emotional content. The strict perspective grid, adopting the Cartesian idea of

Upper hall in the Neue Nationalgalerie Berlin, with the installation "OH" by Jenny Holzer, seen diagonally and parallel to the grid

space, and the ensuing precise spatial perceptions formed the backdrop against which its Baroque spatial concepts first became conceivable. A perspective can depict a single view only. It is thus bound to one of the basic conditions of human existence, and compels its author to address the viewer and his location. The artist has a free choice between a worm’s-eye, normal or bird’s-eye view, but this choice has consequences: it defines the viewer’s relationship with the situation as represented, it allocates him a role. In a bird’s-eye view he becomes monarch of all he surveys, in total command of the situation, and in a worm’s-eye view a defenceless admirer of it.

A normal view makes him, according to viewing position, an uninvolved onlooker or the protagonist to whom the whole situation relates. But above all it can show the space from the point of view of the individual user. Here the relative nature of any chosen viewpoint can still be discerned. Perspective’s realism makes it possible to depict Utopias, but it questions

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them at the same time. Every perspective claims to relate to the reality of the visual space, and even the most Utopian presentation is measured against this relationship with reality in terms of plausibility. The way perspective depicts its subjects may range from abstract to photorealistic, but a perspective’s degree of abstraction, unlike that of drawing, remains fundamentally recognizable because of its relation to reality. Drawing works on the basis of the abstract

New faculty of architecture at Oporto University, perspective view, Álvaro Siza, 1986 –1995

line, but perspective works with concrete visual perception. So drawings that are kept abstract seem much more natural than highly abstract perspectives. Unlike drawing, which is abstract from the outset, perspective, which works on a concrete basis, makes every abstraction into a problem. So any abstract element will always appear stronger in a drawing than in a perspective. We can discern clear tendencies in perspective both as a means of perception and as a representational tool. Architecture is known as “perspectivist” if its design is clearly dominated by the use of perspective – whether in the form of sketches, constructed drawings or photomontages – and when it

addresses the elements this tool reinforces. Just like photography, film and video, perspective tends to be concrete rather than abstract, dynamic rather than static, spatial rather than surface-bound, contextual rather than objectrelated, aimed at the individual rather than the general viewer, realistic rather than Utopian, holistic, complex and emotional in its perceptions rath-

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er than analytical, rational and inclined to simplify. So it is not surprising that perspective was denigrated and resisted from all directions that run counter to these tendencies. Perspective was subject to many attacks by classical Modernism in the first half of the 20th century. Rejected as a tool of humanism and absolutism, decried as subjective and irrational, it was (and is) sometimes forbidden even by architects. In painting, the dominance of the perspective view was questioned by artists including Cézanne, and subsequently by Picasso and Braque:

“Scientific perspective is nothing but eye-fooling illusionism […] which makes it impossible for an artist to convey a full experience of space, since it forces the objects in a picture to disappear away from the beholder instead of bringing them within his reach, as painting should.” (Braque, after Richardson 1964) The De Stijl and Bauhaus architects preferred axonometry and isometry, which seemed more objective, as they change only the angles in the solids depicted, without any perspective distortion of length. But we should examine the extent to which we have this same a-perspectivist modernist thinking to thank for an undue number of autistic designs that do not consider either the built neighbourhood or the natural environs; they still shape our modern towns, and not just on the outskirts. Discussion within Postmodernism

A space that questions our viewing habits regarding perspectives: stair in the foyer of Casa da Música in Oporto, OMA/Rem Koolhaas, 1999–2005

led to a new assessment of perspective introduced by the works of Samuel Edgerton (1975) and David C. Lindberg (1976). This is a position that Otl Aicher again criticized vehemently:

“it was a misapprehension with dire consequences to believe that the eye sees like a camera, to believe we live in a world of perspective. the consequence was the comprehension of the world as a sum of surfaces, as a full shot that offers me nothing but views. the consequence was a culture of the façade, of prestige, of show, of outward effect.” (Aicher 1986, p. 16) Certainly perspective ceased to be the dominant principle behind the cre­ ation of images early in the 20th century, but in the form of technically produced images – photographs, films, television pictures, videos, computer ­animations – it is now more than ever the undisputed basis of our visual communication. The high degree of manipulability inherent in perspectives justifies their being rejected in many contexts. One piece of resistance this tool confronts designers with is the rigidity of the viewpoint, which once chosen restricts and confines both the viewer and the author of a perspective. Digitalization has made perspectives considerably easier to create. Many different viewing angles can be tried out rapidly using digital 3D models. Designers are no longer confined to a fixed viewpoint; eye level, focal length, viewing point and viewing angle can now be moved freely and changed with ease. Elaborate renderings achieve the quality of photorealistic simulations, and can represent any surface structure and any light source with all their shadows and reflections. In this way, digitalization has completely changed our habitual way of looking at things within only a few years. Hand-drawn perspectives have become perfect-looking simulations, and often also combinations of photomontages and simulations that no longer look “made”, no longer seem like the result of an artistic effort, but intend to be as natural and convincing as photographs, from which, in well executed cases, they are retrospectively scarcely distinguish­ able. In the process photographs have lost much of their credibility.

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An orchestrated perspective: window in the Serralves Museum of Contemporary Art in Oporto, Álvaro Siza, 1991–1999

Photograph, film, video We are slowly becoming aware that we cannot just photograph reality with a camera, but that it can actually create reality. Neil French (after Vaske 2001, p. 112)

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The tools introduced so far have been mainly tools for expressing inner ideas, but photography is seen almost exclusively as a tool of perception. Even though it is one of the most important means of communication today, and has also become a powerful tool for presenting design ideas because of the opportunities offered by digital image manipulation, designers give very little thought to photography’s potential. It seems to work in a perfectly simple and obvious way, but in fact knowledge of the possibilities of this tool has been masked by everyday practice. The reasons for this lie in the history of its emergence and in our everyday reception of photographs, which despite the fact that we know better are intuitively seen as a convincing image of reality, completely faithful to the truth. The photograph as a perspective view created by technical means goes back to the Camera Obscura, an aid used for drawing perspectives from nature. Everything that applied for the perspective as a design tool therefore also applies to the “automatically” created technical images. Photography was born partly out of a desire to avoid the need for laborious drawing work, the results of which were still often unsatisfactory. But “photorealistic” images had existed long before photography, even though the development of photography was welcomed as an epoch-making breakthrough in the 19th century. Meticulous water-colours by artists like Albrecht Dürer or brilliant still lifes by 16th and 17th century Dutch painters show that a perspective view, faithfully representing form, light and details, had been established since the Renaissance.

A version of the Camera Obscura reflecting the incident light on to a ground glass screen on the top of the box. International Museum of Photography, The George Eastman House, Rochester, New York

One of the first negatives ever taken with a camera: William Henry Fox Talbot: Looking up to the Summit of Sharington’s Tower at Lacock Abbey, negative on paper, light-sensitive silver nitrate ­solution applied with a paintbrush, 10.5 x 11.7 cm, presumably summer 1835. International Museum of Photography, The George Eastman House, Rochester, New York (74:047:32)

FROM RECORD TO RE-PRESENTATION

If we regard perception as an essential, constantly recurring step in the “design cycle”, it becomes clear that even a tool that merely records an image can be highly significant. For designers too, the descriptive-recording aspect is the most important function of photography, and still dominates its

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use today. As Rolf Sachsse shows in his wide-ranging study Bild und Bau –

Zur Nutzung technischer Medien beim Entwerfen von Architektur (Image and Building – On the Use of Technical Media for Architectural Design, 1997), architects started using photography shortly after it was discovered, mainly to record existing buildings. They set up collections and archives whose stocks first complemented and then replaced 19th century pattern collections and drawing portfolios. Architectural photography was used for analysing form (and later colours as well), structure and typologies, for documenting historical and contemporary models and also for architects’ own creative work. Because photographs can be reproduced as needed, they soon became a key means of communication, particularly so in advertising and propaganda to convincing effect. Even if photographs are seen primarily as copies and records of something that already exists, the reduction from four to two dimensions opens up a large number of creative possibilities, which means that photographs cannot necessarily be regarded as objective and neutral depictions. Every photograph is a work of art in its own right, and should be understood as distinct from the works it depicts. Like perspective, photography attracts its viewers’ attention to the author’s conscious or subconscious agenda. This manipulation of the view is the realisation of a subjective perspective perception. Thus for example viewing angles are selected that make a building look larger or more dynamic, or unusual lighting conditions that convey a particular atmosphere. Colour and light have a far greater physical presence in photographs than in reality.

Corner detail of a Baroque building in Oporto

Perspective view and photomontage: proposal for an extension for the Palast der Republik in Berlin, aNC Arquitectos, Jorge Carvalho, 2005

The precision and richness of detail that photographs offer make it easy to forget how much they distort and highlight. Photography shares one problem with cartography: the problem of reproducing a spherical, in fact approximately hemispherical field of view on a flat surface.

(Dechau 1995, pp. 19–33)

Any zoom lens can demonstrate the resultant dilemma. It is possible to show either the angle of view (at about 28 mm focal length for a 35 mm camera) or the focal depth (at about 50 mm focal length) correctly for the view selected, but never both at the same time. And only those rectangles that are parallel to the plane of the image appear as rectangles, all the rest are distorted in perspective. Even if panoramic views and stereoscopic photography are used to compensate for these defects, the impression remains that fundamentally it is not possible to photograph architecture satisfactorily. The complexity of a complete spatial and temporal experience cannot be reduced to a two-dimensional image without losing something. Certainly photographs are better suited than most media to representing every aspect of the atmosphere and mood of rooms, but the continuity of time and space is reduced to a two-dimensional vignette whose boundaries will always be arbitrary.

On the other hand, it is precisely this arbitrary aspect that makes photography a possible design tool, not just for producing passive records, but active re-presentations. How can this tool be used in a prescriptive and creative way? Of course it does not have the same immediacy and directness as a sketch or a drawing. However, on a first, receptive level, a photograph (or a

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series of photographs) is itself a sketch, a sketch of a particular way of perceiving an object and its context, in other words, a design for an aesthetic way of looking. But a change of perspective is required if a photograph is to be used as a prescriptive tool. On a second level, the depiction of a way of perception becomes the projection of a model for a future design. Simply by re-presenting the depiction, by fitting it into a different context we already create a new reality. Photographs can be modified and mounted into other shots or media. They can be used as a source for sketches or drawings, or the basis for drawing up a perspective. Likewise, perspectives that have been drawn or created digitally can be fitted into photographs. Photographs of models preserve delicate and unique objects that are difficult to transport, and can themselves be manipulated digitally in a variety of ways and then inserted back into shots of the surroundings. Mies van der Rohe’s design presentations were characterized by a combination of constructed perspective drawings with photographs fitted into them. SIMULATING IMAGES DIGITALLY

Creating and manipulating images digitally make it much easier to work like this. Digital photographs, in combination with digitally produced and mounted perspectives, are now among the most important design tools. Complex situations can be presented rapidly and convincingly with composed, digitalized photographs manipulated in image processing programs. Such presentations are so vivid that laymen can understand them as well. Images are stored digitally as a combination of mathematical parameters that are thus available in the form of individual data that can be changed individually.

“Digital technology relating to images could also be understood like this: we have penetrated into the nuclear physics of the image, as it were, and can now split and dissect every image right down to its atoms, and then reassemble the atoms, the pixels just as we wish.” (Wim Wenders, after Maar 2004, p. 300)

Looking back at the time when architectural drawings were still done by hand shows how greatly the coloured, photorealistic presentations that are customary today have changed the way we look at things. If we compare Frank Lloyd Wright’s atmospheric perspectives or the enchanting sketches by an architect like Aldo Rossi with computer-generated renderings, it is clear that today’s presentation scarcely give a sense of personal expression. They are intended to look objective and realistic, and not to be seen as subjective artistic ideas. These photo-realistic simulations of a future reality, usually prepared by neutral specialists, are not intended to be artistic drawings any longer. The best of them can scarcely be distinguished retrospectively from photographs of the real building. The atmosphere of a room, the impact made by a building, is no longer conveyed in the context of relatively abstract drawings with a personal style, but can be simulated with increasing precision. These techniques make it possible to make the complex interplay of many factors into a subject for discussion. Hence they are tending to make individual expression superfluous, and draw attention to concrete realization. But most of all, digitalization has increasingly removed the boundaries between perspective, photography, film, television and video. These media, which used to be considered very different, if not antagonistic to each other, have fused into one as a result of technical qualities becoming equivalent and the possibilities of digital transmission. Film in particular was technically and financially far too demanding to be used as a design tool by architects. Now digitalized videos can be recorded, manipulated and duplicated at very little effort and cost, in comparison with film. Even though we become aware of a building’s essential architectural qualities only when we move around inside it, our ideas and thinking about architecture today are shaped by static images like the drawing, perspective, model and above all photography. Even a hundred years after the

invention of film and fifty years after the introduction of tele­ vision our idea of the world and of architecture in particular is still dependent on it: stills cut out of the flow of events reify what is happening, “capture” it and reduce its complex sequences to a single perspective, a single image, condensed into an icon. Still images are there for us to perceive for as long and as often as we like, and of course this means that they are much easier to retain: “Memory is a still” says Susan Sontag. (after Maar 2004, p. 10) Even today, architecture is still mediated above all via photographs in magazines, books or on slides. The spaces and sequences of movement that these generate are neglected, and so are the processes that an architectural object stimulates or prevents. Even Le Corbusier’s promotion of the promenade architecturale was unable to change this. Rem Koolhaas describes his work as that of a filmmaker, thinking through his buildings as a sequence of scenes and cuts that he arranges along an elaborate path. But even films about architecture often work with fixed cameras or even with filmed photographs, and manage without zooms, pans or tracking shots. Viewers are often quickly disoriented by tracking shots, as a camera has a much narrower field of view than the human eye. The sense of movement at the edge of the image is missing, and a feeling that one’s body is moving and acoustic spatial perception are cut out as well. Pans with a wide-angle lens are also problematical for optical reasons. They stretch and distort the image of the architectural space so much that it no longer looks like a solid structure, but gives the impression that it is made up of some elastic material that can be stretched at will. Now that video recording is one of the stand­ard functions of digital cameras and mobile phones, and professional video editing software is available at acceptable prices, a new design tool of the highest technical standard is present that unlike film can be used directly and personally. It is

Sequence of movement when visiting the swimming pool on Leça de Palmeira beach, Álvaro Siza, 1959–1973

scarcely possible to anticipate the implications for design. It is possible to show movement through digital 3D models in video form, without undue effort or expense. Digitalization has made it considerably easier to produce, process and especially to simulate moving images, so it is now possible for the first time to shift ideas about architecture away from being static and towards movement and dynamics, processes of use, and spatial experience.

Dutch Embassy in Berlin, promenade architecturale. OMA / Rem Koolhaas, 1999–2005

FURTHER READING: Longwell, Alicia G. (Ed.) (2018): Image Building: How Photography Transforms Architecture. London: Prestel, 2018 Troiani, Igea; Campbell, Hugh (Eds) (2020): Architecture Filmmaking. Bristol: Intellect, 2020 Fitz, Angelika; Lenz, Gabriele (Eds) (2015): Vom Nutzen der Architekturfotografie/Architectural Photography and Its Uses. Basel, Berlin: Birkhäuser, 2015 For further literature on the subject, see Appendix p. 381.

Calculation The bird is an instrument that works according to a mathematical law. Leonardo da Vinci (Codice Atlantico, 434 recto)

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There are two fundamentally different views of design. Architects and designers talk generally about “designing and presenting”, and engineers about “designing and calculating”. Formulae and algorithms, derived from mathematical, physical and economic theories, can be the basis for calculations that permit predictions about a design’s future physical and economic performance. These formulae and algorithms and the statements derived from them count as verbal design tools, as we are dealing with texts (even though they are highly formalized) made up of logical combinations of verbal content. Designing architects tend to concentrate on visual design tools and are happy to neglect the fact that as a rule it is only statical and financial calculations that make it possible to realize a design, and that these can crucially influence the creative process leading to a building. Even Vitruvius criticized such behaviour, and demanded that architects should be

“more careful and thorough in reckoning and declaring their estimates, so that heads of households would proceed with their buildings within the budget they had prepared, or adding only a little more,” and avoid “hope renounced and money squandered, financially and spiritually bankrupt.” (Vitruvius X, Preface, 2) Design as an activity always involves working things out and calculation to some extent. As a design tool, calculation provides access to a commercial and scientific view, a rational sphere. Engineers and scientists use calculations just as much as businessmen, who often have the last word when it comes to realizing a project. But even at the beginning of a piece of design work, for a competition, for example, calculating the building’s functional programme has an important control function. It is not possible to arrive at proportions, figures like floor area, statical dimensions, building science, technical serv­ ices etc. without calculation. In the early

Calculating and drawing in the medieval stonemasons’ guild

stages of a design, it is relatively straightforward to estimate building costs in terms of area or building volume, but as a project develops, such matters become increasingly important. Most projects still fail because of problems here, ending with the terse argument: it doesn’t add up. Building costs do directly affect the volume and material quality of a project, but they influence its form only indirectly. Bernd and Hilla Becher’s copious published documentations of industrial structures show how much scope is actually left for creative design, even if buildings are planned purely from an economic and functional point of view.

(e.g. Becher 2003)

The concept

of economics itself, formed from the Greek word oikos, meaning house, relates to a central architectural theme. Even the radical approach developed by the architect Adolf Loos in the early 20th century was carried by economic arguments, as Fedor Roth was able to show in his book Adolf Loos und die

Idee des Ökonomischen (Adolf Loos and the Idea of Economy, 1995). Calculating building costs becomes a key factor in a design approach if the resources available are particularly tight, as is often the case for socially committed building projects. The concept of an Architecture for the Poor developed by the Egyptian architect Hassan Fathy

(Fathy 1969)

consists essen-

tially of meticulous costings that make it possible to help village dwellers with very restricted resources to put a roof over their heads on an extremely tight budget. The rule of economic dominance also extends to urban development paradigms. The crucial argument that enabled the Berlin architect Hardt-Waltherr Hämer to persuade people to follow his sensitive urban renewal concept

Reconstruction of the first Z1 computer built by Konrad Zuse in Berlin in 1938: input keyboard  Calculating mechanism  Memory unit

rather than the predominant seventies practice, vehemently promoted by both local authorities and the building industry at the time, of “area refurbishment” (i.e. demolishing, plot clearance and rebuilding), was based on model calculations showing that refurbishing late 19th century blocks could be just as cost-effective and economically viable – and much more socially sustainable.

(Rosemann, in Hämer 2002, pp. 157–173)

CALCULATION IS INTERPRETATION

These examples show that working out building costs is anything but a mechanical activity. It requires intelligent interpretation of given facts, conceptual architectural thinking and a high degree of creativity if ambitious designs are to be realized. Few designers are aware how fundamentally the statical calculation approaches pioneered in the 18th and 19th century extended architecture’s formal scope. As modern science developed, people started to research the properties of materials more precisely and to measure them systematically. From the mid 18th century, design and calculation methods emerged on the basis of these insights. Today’s statics and strength theory developed from these methods to form the basis of modern engineering science, and have had an epoch-making impact on building design. (Straub 1949, pp. 191 ff.)

Similarly to the way in which the central competence of

designers shifted from craft production to representing the design by means of drawing, perspective and models in the early Renaissance, in the 18th century scientific methods and insights came to form the basis of a new kind of design that was logically no longer practised by architects, but by

the emerging profession of engineers, as it still is. Representing a building’s statical behaviour with mathematical formulae and working out its form by calculation is fundamentally different from the architects’ approach to design as a method, as the architect concentrates on functional and aesthetic premises. All modern building materials, such as cast iron, steel, glass, reinforced

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concrete, aluminium, plastics, paints and the way they are extracted, manufactured, processed and designed have been subject to optimization processes since these methods were developed, processes that in their turn make more and more new forms possible, and open up new technical and aesthetic scope. Today, building materials are just as much invented, designed or developed as the buildings themselves. The results of calculations are often presented as exact figures and accepted in discussion as “hard facts”. But as a rule they merely seem to be incontrovertible statements, and can certainly not be treated as absolutes, as they offer only limited certainty. Once designers have analysed such calculations in detail they often find plenty of reasons for questioning them. Here critical attention often has to be paid to the unspoken assumptions on which every calculation is based, precisely addressing those factors that cannot be expressed in figures and thus have not been accounted for in the calculations. These can include excessive safety factors for example, theories that apply only under certain conditions, and cost assumptions that are not based on current market conditions. Calculations, like most entirely rational ways of looking at things, can lead to one-dimensional thinking. This too taxes the designer’s ability to keep an eye on the bigger picture, and to weigh up ethical, aesthetic and general factors against technical, functional and particular interests. Digitalization has made all calculations considerably easier through automation. We must not forget that the first computers were built by a civil engineer from Berlin, Konrad Zuse, who wanted to make hours and days of laborious calculation easier; at the time that still had to be done with paper and sliderule. Since then, calculation possibilities have expanded exponentially. Calculations and the arguments derived from them play an ever increasing role in discussions.

Pocket calculator. Photograph: Stephanie Meyer, 2002

Prestructured table calculations, some of which can be linked directly to digital design drawings, make it possible to sketch out calculations that are rapid but still have a high degree of precision. Simply changing one or two parameters can create new variants and calculate their consequences at the same time. Acoustics, energy consumption, the effect of daylight and

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artificial light, fire behaviour, visitor footfall and much else can be digitally simulated and optimized (more on this in the chapter on Digital Design). And it is possible to demonstrate the ecological, social and economic ­sustainability of design decisions only through extensive calculations; here graphic simulations can help to visualise calculations more clearly. But at the same time, such approaches make design less easy to grasp in full. The challenge lies in structuring – and using – tables, programs and ­simu­lations in such a way that it is possible to see how the results have been arrived at, as only then can their significance be correctly assessed. FURTHER READING: Kohler, Niklaus; König, Holger; Kreißig, Johannes; Lützkendorf, Thomas (2009): A life cycle approach to buildings. Principles, calculations, design. Munich: Detail, 2010 For further literature on the subject, see Appendix p. 381.

Computer Now that computers have become omnipresent a tool-ology seems more necessary than ever. Peter Jenny (1996, p. 229) 220

The imploring undertone alone in the statement that the computer is only a tool suggests that this is not the whole truth. Strictly speaking, this device is neither a tool nor a machine in the traditional sense, as it always needs peripheral devices to process material objects. Clearly the metaphor of the tool is stretched to its limits when considering computers. On closer ­exam­ination, the computer appears very different when examined at various levels of abstraction. At the personal level it has become a fashion accessory and an indispensable means of communication, and at a global level it represents a medium that reduces any kind of data imaginable to a new and universal language. “The computer” was originally a system made up of linked pieces of ­apparatus used for inputting, processing, saving and outputting data. In the early days they were not called computers but calculating machines. The first freely programmable computer, the Z1, constructed by Konrad Zuse in 1938, was actually just a purely mechanical device driven by an electric motor. It presented and processed datasets using 35mm film repurposed into tickertape read by two approx. 2 cm wide metal strips crossing over each other.

(Zuse 1970)

A little later the terms computer system or electronic

data processing system were used for devices made up of large numbers of very expensive and room-filling components. Each individual component was an a­ pparatus the details of whose way of working were opaque to the majority of its users, as were the structure and content of the programs controlling it. Computers became objects recognizable in their entirety only in the very late 1970s, when the Personal Computer was introduced. The first was the Altair 8800 in 1975, the Apple II came on the market in 1977. The PC introduced by IBM on 12 August 1981 still had three components, the computer (with two built-in disk drives), the screen (which displayed figures and letters glowing in monochrome green) and the keyboard. Seeing the computer as a single object was then further reinforced by Notebooks, which combined computer, screen, data memory and keyboard together in one man-

Reconstruction of the first Z1 computer built by Konrad Zuse in Berlin in 1938: memory unit

Program reading unit

ageable object. Now, computers have been miniaturized to the point of invisibility – at least in terms of their technical components if not as design objects. Smartphones with internet connectivity now serve a vast range of purposes: they are notebook, wallet, camera and video ­camera, multilingual dictionary and general information device and TV transmitter in one – none of which surprises us any more as we have grown completely used to them. FROM CALCULATING MACHINE TO MASS MEDIUM

Seeing computers merely as tools because they are so useful and object-like would be to underestimate them completely. The computer pioneer Alan Turing formulated the idea in 1936 of a “universal discrete machine that can

perform the tasks of any other machines.”

(after Davis 1958)

Computers realize this

idea as universal devices for processing electronic data. They do this on the basis of a code that is also universal, in which data are presented and ­processed according to any logical connection required. These connections form a system of mutually dependent mathematical languages in which all programs are written. In the meantime, they are able to simulate all tools, machines, apparatuses, systems – and also all design tools – or to control them. Programming languages and operating systems translate each program into the appropriate machine language, which in its turn converts

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Designing Truth. As Hinrich Sachs’s guest: Dr. Ansgar Philippsen, structural biologist. Stills from the film by Hinrich Sachs (2005)

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it into binary code. This works on the basis of connecting the figures zero and one logically; they are represented by positive or negative electric charges, and as it were form the lowest common denominator, reducing ­language to a single symbol: on or off. The universal nature of this mathematical language can be seen in the

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fact that all data, anything that can be described, defined and quantified, numbers, texts, drawings, images, music, films and so on, can be translated into binary code. Here the data are transformed from analogue to digital, from the atomic plane to the electronic plane, which although also a material plane is subject to quite different physical laws as atoms and molecules. Conversely, digital data can be turned back into analogue data by reversing the processes. Hence Friedrich Kittler appositely defines computers as “general interfaces

between systems of [mathematical] equations and sensory perception”. (Kittler 2002, p. 319) What changes in this switch to the electronic plane? The basic change lies in the fact that the dimensions of the atomic plane no longer apply here. In this sense, it is possible to see the electronic plane, on which neither time nor space follow the same rules as on the atomic plane, as a fifth dimension that is largely detached from human perception. Consequently, the data and their processing have to be made accessible to human perception via interfaces. But above all they can be manipulated in a quite different way that functions according to its own rules. They no longer offer any material resistance to the designer, but they do offer mathematical resistance: they are limited by the commands that can be used in any particular program, and the ways in which they can be connected, and they are subject to the limited capacities of the processors, memory and data transmission paths available in each case. The telegraph and the telephone, as electromechanical media, made it possible to overcome spatial borders by the late 19th century, and so did radio and television, and then the electronic media developed in the first half of the 20th century. But these early electronic mass media remained bound by the common time linking broadcaster and receiver, and they had to use analogue media like gramophone records, tape or film in order to convey the temporal dimension. Digitalization has meant that the dimensions of space and time can now be represented and transmitted, simulated and controlled at the same time.

For a long time the flaws in the first computer generations concealed the fact that the computer is not just a tool, but actually is a new medium, whose qualities and possibilities we are still far from fully comprehending. The first devices were still conceived purely as calculating machines that slowly developed into clumsy drawing machines and typewriters. It was not until

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the mass distribution of high-frequency processors in the 1990s that it became possible for the computer to establish itself as a mass medium. What does it mean to treat the computer as a new medium? What content could be expressed in other ways with this aid? According to Marshall McLuhan, the “content” of a new medium is the previous medium:

“The content of writing is speech, just as the written word is the content of print, and print is the content of the telegraph.” (McLuhan 1964, p. 8) According to this, the “content” of the computer as a medium would be television, the mass media of the past which in turn reaches back to the media of film and then radio. But this analysis does not quite work when applied to the computer. In fact the computer realizes for the first time an indissoluble combination of visual and verbal media: the networks of lines created by photographic exposure form the circuits on the silicon chips on the one hand and the program texts written in figures and letters on the other hand. This connection of visual and verbal elements is present in its most reduced form as screen and keyboard. But the computer is also the first medium that not only can store and present data but can process them, i.e. read, analyse and modify them automatically according to sequences that can be programmed at will. The actual new “content” of this medium is the data sets, equation systems and programs by means of which all other media, visual and three-dimensional as well as verbal, can be taken back to a ­universal system of languages and on this basis can be combined with each other, linked and controlled as wished. A META-TOOL

How has the introduction of the computer affected design? Above all, ­the widespread adoption of computers has resulted in the digitalization of all design tools. This upheaval is of epochal proportions and is comparable with the media changes at the beginning of the Renaissance. At that time, reduced-scale drawings and models, the use of central perspective and the

rise of competitions and public criticism increased the dynamics of design to a hitherto unknown extent. Today it is new and constantly growing dataprocessing possibilities that are opening up untrodden pathways for design and communication, and these are in their turn producing new forms of work and public life.

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Now if we consider computers, or a super-medium based on computers, as a design tool, what we have is a meta-tool that combines all other design tools within itself, both verbal and visual-spatial. The ways in which this meta-tool works are naturally considerably more complicated than the individual design tools simulated by the various programs. Two different planes for looking at this should be distinguished: the plane of the individual design tools simulated digitally by various specialized programs, and the media plane, on which it is possible to communicate data sets that are very much more complex, detailed and precise. At a time when all design tools are being redefined digitally, it is therefore necessary to continually reappraise the nature of design. This question was not posed so acutely in the first phase of the transition to digital tools, as the program writers were mainly concerned with imitating analogue design tools as directly as possible. On this level, the computer was nothing more than a manageable typewriter, or a drawing tool that made laborious work easier. The above-mentioned specific resistance that digitalized design tools offer to their users is not immediately apparent; it emerges only in the experience of using them. This resistance is fundamentally differently structured from that of analogue tools. There is no longer any resistance by the material, which in many respects represents a great liberation and speeds up the ­process. But this means that the sensual quality and directness of the material is lost as well – both factors that can be crucial in delicate design phases. In addition, every program implies a more or less concealed “ideology”: Neither the authors nor the users of the programs may be aware of this

“They [the programs] contain latent styles and ideologies that powerfully condition every object constructed with them.” (Eisenman 2003, p. 30) latent ideology; it reveals itself only in systematic analysis. All design content is translated into figures, algorithms and mathematical equations, in other words, into the computer’s language. This makes it

­possible to change complex data structures without a great deal of effort – though only to the extent that the equations upon which they are based will allow. The digital world’s remorseless precision makes it possible to copy electronic data sets that are identical to the original. Data is much easier to manipulate, it can be copied, changed, moved around or deleted without

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trace; it is no longer “real”, and no longer has the “aura” of an original. Photography had already questioned the concept of the original, and in the digital sphere it loses its meaning completely. This not only calls into question many of the economic aspects on which creative work was based until recently but it also changes our relationship as a whole to what we call “reality”. Computer programs are a special form of text that creates reality directly by “automatically” absorbing and processing data, and setting concrete processes in train. Digital networking brings design and production together directly if digital data is used to control production plants. Expert workers are no longer needed to read the plans and translate them for practical application, thus deploying their specialist knowledge and implicit skill. These working steps are omitted, so the appropriate knowledge and skill has to be transferred to programs and machines. Handling complexity is getting easier. It is possible to program simple, readily intelligible, user-friendly interfaces that still contain great depths of information. It is becoming increasingly difficult to understand their structure because of increasing complexity, but it is also much easier to represent it, if desired. This facilitates handling complex design tools like the perspective view, the calculation or film and video, or makes it possible for the average user to gain access to such tools in the first place. NETWORKING THE DESIGN TOOLS

Verbal design tools are now available, in the form of program texts that can describe complex sequences of events step by step, and capture highly detailed spaces point by point. Programs do not just make it possible to ­represent objects, but also to simulate events in time. Thus “meaning” in the sense of the future effect of design decisions can be represented, and consequently also examined and monitored. It is only with these tools that it is possible to work on topics like sustainability. Simulating load-bearing ­patterns and response to fire, acoustics, aerodynamic flow, insulation

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Ceramic Constellation Pavilion, Christian J. Lange, Donn Holohan, Holger Kehne, et al., Robotic Fabrication LAB, The University of Hong Kong. Photographs: Christian J. Lange, 2017

and artificial lighting and the resultant energy balance, winter heat loss, use ­patterns and visitor footfall make it possible to optimize in cases where ­specialist experience and knowledge used to be required. Architects classify di­gitalized, photorealistic perspective views as simulations or ­renderings; these can represent surface structures and light with all its mirror effects,

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reflections and degrees of diffusion much more realistically than a hand-drawn perspective view could achieve with the same amount of effort. So the appearance of a room or a building no longer has to be “represented”, in fact programs are now conceivable that can simulate appearance according to objective standards. Simulations of this kind are tending to render the ­artistic, hand-made qual­ities of a sketch or a perspective drawing superfluous. Can computers design? Computers have been stimulating designers’ imagination ever since they were invented. Even the computer pioneer Konrad Zuse, who had originally been a civil engineer, believed that the ­calculating machines he had constructed would soon be able to draw up automatically complete working plans for a bridge, including all the detailed drawings, static calculations and tendering documents.

(Zuse 1970)

The

­example of the computer in particular suggests the question of what designing is. Is the computer’s processor the ideal tool for carrying out design ­processes? Is a computer designing when it executes a program that processes hundreds of parameters, combining and varying a certain number of modules for long enough until it arrives at an optimal solution? What is the ­difference between this and human design? If we see design tools as representations of inner ideas that have moved ever closer to perfection in the course of technical development, then theor­ etically we could expect that these tools would become more and more like our brains as development progresses. But if we try to grasp the computer and its programs as an almost perfect copy of our thinking or even of the human mind, we realize that pretty much the opposite is the case. Even though we often use metaphors from the computer world when talking about our brain, the computer in fact provides a radical counter-image of the human brain: it can “calculate”, i.e. carry out, store and reproduce logical operations with unimaginable speed and precision, but it is not capable of thinking in complex interrelationships, remembering or understanding, and thus also cannot develop consciousness. Discussions about artificial intelligence have sharpened our awareness of what actually sets human intel-

ligence apart: “calculators” can beat a grandmaster at chess, but they can’t understand a single sentence in a five-year-old’s reading book. Until ­recently, the structure of computers differed entirely to that of the human mind: a linear succession of processor semiconductors as opposed to ­innumerable intricately networked neurons. But more recent developments

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such as Parallel Computing and self-learning algorithms have made enormous inroads into realms such as speech and facial recognition, translation or playing “go”. But digitalization makes it possible to link all visual and verbal design tools together. Rapid communication, better and automated link-ups for individual tools and the automation of many processes make it possible to design on the basis of a database that is networked to a high degree of complexity. As ultimately all design tools share a common code, the boundaries between the tools blur, and become transparent. It is no longer possible to decide for certain whether a particular image presentation is based on a film or a video, a photograph or a perspective view, a drawing or a 3D model. And the boundaries between the professions and specialist disciplines are also becoming more transparent. The effects of this extend as far as the way we see the role of architects. The hierarchical idea of an orchestral conductor directing everyone involved in the project is increasingly obsolete. It is being transformed, writes Norman Foster, into the image of a jazz musician in a “jam session“: spontaneously and flexibly interacting with clients, architects, specialist engineers, local authorities and building firms. (Jenkins 2000, p. 774)

The specific implications this has for current and future practice are ­discussed in greater depth in the chapter on Digital Design.

(pp. 300 ff.)

FURTHER READING: Fankhänel,Teresa; Lepik, Andres (eds) (2020): The Architecture Machine. The Role of Computers in Architecture. Basel: Birkhäuser, 2020 For further literature on the subject, see the Appendix p. 384.

Criticism It is only by practicing constant comparison that we can achieve a highly sophisticated ability to make distinctions. Jean-Christophe Ammann (1998, p. 21)

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Clearly formulated criticism not infrequently offers a starting-point for a new design approach, and criticism, whether in the form of self-criticism or criticism from others, has a fundamental part to play within the design process. Leon Battista Alberti identifies “sound judgement and counsel” as the most important prerequisite for an architect’s work: “The greatest glory in the art of

building is to have a good sense of what is appropriate.”

(Alberti 1485, p. 518)

Criticism as the principal instrument for further progress (Popper) and judgement as its basis are what help designers decide for or against a particular design idea. Criticism can be described as “negative design”. It works subtractively, like a sculptor using his chisel to remove everything that does not belong to his sculpture. Criticism is “no” as a necessary counter-pole to the countless times we hear “yes” to our ideas: the ability to make distinctions, to weight, balance, create connections, see the broader picture. An ability to make ­distinctions and powers of judgement are skills that form the basis of any criticism. When Immanuel Kant chose the title for his Critique of Judgement he is also drawing attention to the fact that these two terms mean different things. Criticism is first of all a verbal expression of a judgement, just as a sketch or drawing expresses a design idea. But the word criticism, derived from the Greek kritike techne, literally translated as “art of distinction, art of judgement”, implies more than this first meaning. Since Socrates it has been associated with the idea of enlightenment and science. Criticism means not just examining an achievement for its significance and value, as Mies van der Rohe suggests,

(Neumeyer 1986, p. 371)

but rather “the enhancing, inspiring, upward-driving principle, the principle of

insufficiency”, says Thomas Mann (Reich-Ranicki 1994, p. 201) and thus the basis of modern, competitive thinking (Popper). If deployed cleverly and at the right moment, it becomes a Golden Axe, in the words of the landscape architect Hermann Pückler-Muskau, tidying up by imposing order on the undue proliferation of ideas. p. 71)

(Pückler-Muskau 1834,

The problem with self-criticism, which is so central to design, is com-

bining designer and critic in a single person without constantly getting in one’s own way. The psychologist and thinking instructor Edward de Bono pointed out the danger of being blocked by criticism in the phase when ideas are being sought. He says that new ideas are present in our imagination for approximately ten minutes, and if they are not captured at this time

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they disappear again, rather like images in a dream. At the moment they come into being, ideas are as helpless as newborns. To begin with, they need shielding from direct criticism: they have to be tended and nourished for a while, treated kindly and with understanding, before they are exposed to the cold wind of criticism. So a central rule of brainstorming is: no ­criticism! Where a designer’s creative faculties and sense of self-worth do not match their critical aspirations, a creative block is almost inevitable. (De Bono 1970, pp. 31 ff.)

Switching criticism off, suspending it, is one way of

getting round these blocks. The creative element of criticism can be found in the fact that new design ideas are often first expressed in the form of criticism. As an example, let us take volume 1

of the leading German series in architectural theory, Bauwelt-Fundamente, entitled

Programme und Manifeste zur Architektur des 20. Jahr­hunderts (Programs and Manifestos on 20th-Century Architecture, 1970) edited by Ulrich Conrads.

(Conrads 1964)

Many of

the essays published in this volume are hard, forthright criticism. Starting with Adolf Loos’ Ornament und Verbrechen (Ornament and Crime) and moving on via Walter Gropius’ tirade against “these grey, hollow

and insipid shams in which we live and work” to Friedensreich Hundertwasser‘s “rotting ­manifesto against rationalism in architecture”, critiques and analyses are collected here that became the starting-point for developing new ideas.

Ben Shahn: Portrait of the physicist J. Robert Oppenheimer. Ink on paper, 1954

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Giovanni da Bologna: Buontalenti presents the Grand Duke Francesco de Medici with a model for the façade of the Duomo in Florence.

If we see criticism as a design tool, we treat it differently, and perceive it differently. Like all verbal tools, it dissects the complex simultaneity of a design into a logical sequence of individual terms. It abstracts and reduces simultaneity in order to describe it with the aid of a linear series of terms on a time axis; it is therefore better suited to analysing and breaking down complexity than to creating it: “If one says something, one is killing it at the same time” declares the French designer Philippe Starck.

(Vaske 2001, p. 253)

Criticism is a

predominantly linguistic tool, but language alone is not sufficient on its own for the design practice. There is a “sound barrier between theory and practice” (Hinrich Sachs)

that designers can overcome only on their own and with their

own practical abilities. But criticism does not have to be conveyed in language. If those criticising decide not to use language but to express themselves with the help of visual tools, then all they can do is intervene in the creative process itself. By doing so, they relinquish the critical distance that qualified their standpoint, and the creative element of criticism shifts into the foreground. While this option is not available to written criticism, it provides teaching critics with an outstanding opportunity to overcome the distance to their students.

A TEACHING TOOL

Design is usually taught by setting tasks and then attempting to explain to students what they have done wrong and, far less frequently, what they have done right – a frustrating process for both sides. First-year students are often well aware of design problems, are able to identify them clearly as

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well, but do not yet have the creative resources needed to solve them. In a situation like this, harsh criticism from outside is debilitating rather then motivating. Criticism is always a double-edged sword. It is both an instrument of might, and an instrument of promotion. But given the central importance of criticism as a design tool, it is impossible to do without it altogether. To quote the German classic author and critic Theodor Fontane:

“Bad is bad, and it has to be said. Others can come with explanations and mitigating factors afterwards.” (Reich-Ranicki 1994, p. 124) The dilemma is that criticism is necessary and frustrating at the same time. Hence one topic that appears constantly in architectural discussions is the absence, the lack of good criticism: genuine criticism is as rare as genuine art, says Mies van der Rohe.

(after Niemeyer 1986, p. 371)

The Brazilian architect

Paulo Mendes da Rocha states:

“Genuine criticism of architecture is always lacking. […] It gets lost in questions about context, about meaning, about questions that are very specific to architecture, and thus imposes a systematization that is fundamentally senseless. It fails to acknowledge that architecture is in fact a discourse that cannot be independent of human knowledge and conscience.” (Spiro 2002, p. 250) But what should criticism talk about? What are the essential criteria of ­architecture? Our first sense of criteria is that they are exclusive, negative and constraining. In some cases, however, they can develop into rules in the course of design work that can be formulated as positive instructions. If such rules finally become common property, and thus banal, like the academic Beaux-Arts approach in the early 20th century, or the functionalism of the building industry in the 1960s and 1970s, they become merely restrictive and prevent any further development. But paradoxically, very tightly formulated contraintes, self-imposed and rigid rules, can become inspiring triggers of creativity. The criteria formulated for film-making by Lars von Trier and Thomas Vinterberg that became

familiar as Dogme 95,

(Hallberg 2001)

prescribe the use of hand-held cameras

and filming in original locations, banning among other things the use of studio buildings and properties, alienation through time or geography, subsequently added sound, artificial lighting and optical tricks and filters. This questioned the essential mechanisms of current film production, especially

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its well-nigh boundless ability to manipulate, and the resultant low reality content of many films. At first it was still possible to dismiss the publication of the Dogme 95 theses as an advertising gimmick by young Danish directors, but in 1998 the first film shot according to these criteria, Festen (The

Celebration), showed how thoroughly they had laid down the conditions for independent work. In an interview, Vinterberg said these criteria were like

“walls to play against,” representing a sporting challenge and with a liberating effect, unlike others that are as constricting as “a large, heavy duvet that you can’t throw off”. (Hallberg 2001, p. 104) The ability to imagine the world as a whole and to relate the design to be evaluated to this whole – which, in itself, is never comprehensible in its entiret y – is a requirement for critics even more than for designers. Making distinctions and passing judgements is closely linked to questions of perceptual ability, of awareness and of the horizon of experience on which a judgement is based. Anyone who takes criticism to heart would do well to consider the critics’ viewpoint. Comparing several criticisms of the same design relativizes the various points of view and makes it clear how the individual authors are approaching things. It is only then that the educational function of criticism can develop fully. FURTHER READING: Parnell, Rosie; Sara, Rachel, et al. (2000): The Crit: An Architectural Student’s Handbook. Oxford: Architectural Press, 2000, 2nd ed. 2007 For further literature on the subject, see Appendix pp. 381 ff.

Criteria and value systems What is good about good architecture?

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Hanno Rauterberg (2003)

The title of a famous drawing by Francisco de Goya is a play on words based on the ambiguity of sueño, which can mean both sleep and dream in Spanish: El sueño de la razon produce monstruos. In English the title is usually translated simply as “The sleep of reason produces monsters”, without mentioning the second possible reading. Given the obvious catastrophes – ­architectural, urban and others – of Modernism, the second possibility, calling it the “dream of reason”, which also produces monsters, can be equally significant. Most designers are convinced that the world would be a better place if it were run according to their ideas. They are surprised when their suggestions meet with resistance, and not infrequently provoke bitter disputes. What are the essential criteria for “good” architecture? It is rare for the value systems underlying the work of architects or architecture critics to be stated explicitly. Journalistic criticism usually does not have the space to do so, and expert academic criticism, as practised for example in Edward Said’s literature studies

(Said 1983)

or André Bazin’s work on film

(Bazin 1958)

is

scarcely to be found in architecture colleges and universities. FIRMITAS, UTILITAS, VENUSTAS

The fundamental criteria in architecture are “that it works, and that I like it” – a throwaway line from a colleague. Mies van der Rohe identified two classes of criteria: he talked about “good reasons”, in which he included the technical aspects of building that are open to rational explanation, and “real reasons”, by which he meant the cultural and artistic aspects of architecture. Since Vitruvius, the three classical architectural criteria have been seen as firmitas,

utilitas, venustas (lat. solidity, usefulness, grace). They are now as generally correct as they are vague when it comes to dealing with specific design questions. None of the three terms can be clearly defined, and yet these ­criteria are not obsolete. It is much more valuable to shed light on the structure of the impossibility of defining them precisely. If we think about archi-

tecture on the basis of these three criteria, firmitas, utilitas and venustas become categories that each sum up a central architectural theme.

Firmitas, the “solidity” of a building is scarcely an architectural problem any longer today, but rather one for building science, left to engineering experts as a rule. Seen as a category, firmitas becomes a matter for construc-

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tion work, a question of right and wrong. Authors like Theodor Fontane and Otl Aicher have spoken in favour of returning to the category of what is “correct” in case of doubt.

(Reich-Ranicki 1994, p. 122)

A construction holds

together or it doesn’t, it is watertight or it isn’t. Questions of firmitas, because they can be considered objectively, seem to be the simplest to decide. But the scientific and technical insights on the basis of which they are decided are in a constant state of flux. We only seem to be dealing with “hard facts” here, as they usually apply only under certain conditions and for a specific timeframe. Criteria for assessing architectural designs according to Jürgen Joedicke et al. The three vertical columns could also be headed utilita, firmitas and venustas, after Vitruvius.

FUNCTIONAL CONCEPT

URBAN DEVELOPMENT LEVEL

BUILDING LEVEL

TOPIC LEVEL

INNOVATION 

1. ACCESS (TRANSPORT) - ACCESSIBILITY BY PUB. TRANSPORT - DELIVERY ACCESS (LORRIES) - VEHICULAR ACCESS/PARKING - PEDESTRIAN ACCESS - TRAFFIC NOISE INSULATION - BUILDINGS AND OPEN SPACES - ARRANGEMENT (ORIENTATION, SHADE, OVERLOOKING 1 INTERNAL TRANSPORT SYSTEM - FOR STAFF/VISITORS (ORIENTATION) - INTERNAL ORIENTATION (HORIZONTAL AND VERTICAL 2. FUNCTION STRUCTURE AND FUNCTION ALLOCATION 3. CONSIDERATION OF EXISTING TRAFFIC CONDITIONS 1. INTERNAL PATHWAYS (ALLOCATION AND ARRANGEMENT, DIMENSIONS) 2. FUNCTION AND ROOM ALLOCATION 3. ASSESSING USE POSSIBILITIES - TYPE AND SIZE OF USE AREAS - DIFFERENTIATION OF USE AREAS - ALLOCATION OF USE AREAS (COMBINATION AND EXTENSION POTENTIAL)

STRUCTURAL CONCEPT

1. BASIC TECHNICAL CONCEPT FOR CONSTRUCTION AND SERVICES: SYSTEM, COLUMN SPACING, CEILING TYPES, HEATING VENTILATION 2. SUNSHADING 3. PLANNING VALUES a) AREA RATIOS GROSS AREAS, CIRCULATION AREA/ USE AREA/FAÇADE AREA/USE AREA b) VARIABILITY - POSSIBILITY OF USE CHANGE WITH EXTRA BUILDING c) FLEXIBILITY - POSSIBILITY OF USE CHANGE WITHOUT EXTRA BUILDING 1. EXTENSION POTENTIAL (MICRO) 2. RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN PRIMARY/ SECONDARY CONSTRUCTION AND FINISHING ELEMENTS 3. FLEXIBILITY AND VARIABILITY FOR TECHNICAL AND SANITARY SERVICES

CREATIVE CONCEPT 1. ACCESS ORIENTATION 2.OPEN SPACES - STRUCTURE AND EXPLOITATION - RELATIONSHIP TO PREV. DEVELOPMENT 3. SURROUNDINGS: - DESIGN COMPATIBILITY (MASS DISTRIBUTION, SCALE, SHAPE), SILHOUETTE, SIGHTLINES) 1. STRUCTURE, DISTRIBUTION AND HEIGHT FOR BUILDING MASSES 2. A  RCHITECT. DESIGN AND CONSTRUCTION PRINCIPLE 3. IMAGE OF BUILDING (APPEARANCE AND EFFECT OF FORM) 4. INTELLIGIBILITY OF FUNCTION AREAS AND THEIR CONNECTIONS 5. CLARITY AND ARTICULATION OF INTERNAL ROUTING 6. ORIENTATION FOR VISITORS AND STAFF 1. ELEMENTS CREATING SPACE: SHAPE, TYPE, NUMBER AND RELATIONSHIP WITH EACH OTHER 2. OVERALL SPATIAL EFFECT, INTERIOR, CHARACTERISTICS, FUNCTIONALITY 3. SPATIAL STRUCTURE - SPATIAL LINKS (HOR./VERT.) - LIGHTING, LIGHT MANAGEMENT 4. MATERIAL, COLOUR CHOICE

E.G. TREND-SETTING INNOVATIONS, NEW CONCEPTUAL IMPULSES OR PLANNING IDEAS, SUGGESTIONS FOR FUTURE DEVELOPMENT

Utilitas, seen as a category, addresses function and use, how the building relates to people; is the building good or bad? Good or bad for whom, or for what? A building impacts upon the interests of all parties involved in its manufacture and use: the client and his wife, the neighbours and their child­ ren, the architects, construction workers, experts at the planning permission

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authorities and at the bank, building caretaker, occupants, users and visitors, which occasionally also include firefighters, photographers and finally architecture critics. The question of usefulness is ultimately an ethical one, and its answers come from the sphere of politics. To begin with, it is all about the spatial organization of a building, the size and qualities of the rooms created, the way they relate to each other and to the outside world. The concept of “good architecture” has a ring of political correctness to it, usually describing worthy, uncontroversial mainstream architecture. But “the

good cannot be defined” (Aristotle, Nichomachean Ethics), and questions about the relationship between “utility value” and “artistic value” need constant readdressing. But in everyday life the use is often thrust one-dimensionally into the foreground, while the act of using is assessed only trivially. The business concept of return on investment is an attempt to express the usefulness of a building in figures. This is a calculation that is often based on factors that have little to do with the functional qualities of a building. The result of this calculation represents an abstraction that tells us little about the actual usefulness of a building – reducing it to an exclusively financial perspective. Ultimately, insisting that a building has to fulfil certain functions is too trivial to be relevant as a criterion. The question is not “whether”, but “how”. How does the design strike a balance between the many different demands made on it? How, with what degree of wit, charm and elegance does it meet these, and what does it achieve over and above that?

Venustas finally, the category of beauty, of subjective feelings includes the whole sphere of aesthetics. Erich Mendelsohn describes why it is impossible to define it conclusively as follows:

“Our aesthetic evaluation – evaluation in terms of beauty – is based only on requirements that appear to have become laws through traditional and categorical education. Because concepts of this kind are determined according to the state of human culture, to the particular moment in human cultural and historical development, and thus are variable, they cannot be set up as yardsticks of value.” (Mendelsohn 1961, p. 22)

But to derive an appeal for a “taste dictator” from this would be to show a lack of political taste. Aesthetics often turns out to be social convention, a demarcation device, and an imposition of taboos on value judgements. Proclaiming that something is “beautiful” often means actually finding it merely “good” but not wanting to enter into any discussion about this evalu-

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ation. The question “Don’t you think that’s beautiful?” all too often implies that the person being asked does not have “good” taste if he says not, and consequently “doesn’t fit in”. The close connection between ethics and aesthetics, between politics and art, explains the great interest shown by polit­ ical groups, which can be observed in all historical epochs, for manifesting their views aesthetically as well. Vitrivius’ criteria are therefore relevant, but not open to fulfilment in absolute terms. Ultimately it is not just about fulfilling them, but on a higher plane about the balance with which these requirements are registered, about the consistency of the decisions made on various planes. Alberti’s key criterion of concinnitas, of the harmony of the parts with the whole (Grafton 2000, p. 28),

is based on a definition of beauty as “that reasoned harmony of all the

parts within a body […] so that nothing may be added, taken away, or altered, but for the worse”. (Alberti 1485, p. 156) This criterion is also to be found in Vitruvius, although stated considerably more moderately, who demands that

“should something need to be subtracted from or added to the proportional system, […] it will seem to have been designed correctly with nothing wanting in its appearance.” (Vitruvius, VI 2,1) What Vitruvius and Alberti present here as an aesthetic criterion, which as such has long been contradicted by additive and

“The completed model of the design problems”, Bryan Lawson, 1997

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What scale are we measuring architecture by? Juli Gudehus: Precision work (detail). Poster for the ZEIT Wissen scientific magazine, 2005. Photograph: Annette Schuler

deconstructive formal languages, goes back to a general ethical maxim that had already been formulated by Aristotle:

“Thus a master of any art avoids excess and defect, but seeks the intermediate and chooses this – the intermediate not in the object but relatively to us. […] so that we often say of good works of art that it is not possible either to take away or to add anything, implying that excess and defect destroy the goodness of works of art, while the mean preserves it.” (Nichomachean Ethics, II, 5, 1106 b) In a design, technical, ethical and aesthetic questions fuse into a unit that, if it is successful, belongs to the sphere of art and not to that of science. When ­science is good, it is “clear and distinct”, but a good design is “complex and contradictory” (Venturi), eschewing both scientific clarity and the general validity claimed by scientific pronouncements. The complex, contradictory, paradoxical demands made on a design can be listed, but they include far too many mutual dependencies, “if-then”, “both-and” and “either-or” connections for the list of criteria to be formulated as a conclusive algorithm. Charles Eames produced the most convincing image of this set of problems with a diagram representing the superimposed forms, difficult to grasp, of design criteria.

(Demetrios 2001, p. 177)

The overlap between three areas denoting design criteria identifies an area where the interests of client, office and society intersect. Charles Eames, 1969

INNOVATION AND THE ENIGMATIC

Now there are two essential criteria for the value system within our culture that are not included in those postulated by Vitruvius and Alberti: the requirements that a work of art should be innovative and enigmatic. Rules can enshrine only the rationally accessible aspects of a design; only that can

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be enshrined about which we know enough to enshrine in rules. The new, the original, the innovative features of a design create their own rules. And it is precisely this that since the start of the modern age has been the essential criterion of a design: making inventio more important than imitatio, invention more important than imitation.

(Groys 1992, p. 10)

The criterion of

the new also introduces the utopian element into a design. Designing something new means designing something that does not yet exist; at the time the design is made it is questionable whether this element can ever be realized at all. The frequently heard reproach that a design idea is “utopian” turns out to be a misunderstanding when seen against this background: designs are always utopian, and remain utopian until they are realized. The criterion of the enigmatic includes the question of the meaning of a piece of work. This identifies a major part of the fascination a work of art exercises. Theodor Adorno (and also Vilém Flusser) talks about the “enigmat-

ic character” of art: “all works of art, and art as a whole, are enigmas”, (Adorno 1970, p. 182)

and he states categorically:

“But this characteristic of enigma can be identified as constitutive at the point where it is lacking: works of art that reveal themselves to contemplation and thought with nothing left, are not works of art.” (Adorno 1970, p. 184) At this point we come back, via Wittgenstein’s definition of architecture as a gesture,

(see p. 108)

to Flusser’s analysis of gestures–constituting the basis

of designing – as enigmas. Deciphering them makes it possible “to penetrate

them ever more deeply, in order to be able to experience them ever more richly”. (Flusser 1991, pp. 90 f.)

Only simple regular things can be grasped rationally. The complex, ­multi-layered, holistic aspects of a design, which are ultimately the key to it, are accessible only to feeling, to instinct, to individual sensibility: “love and

hate cannot be calculated, and neither can functionality or aesthetic quality.” (Aicher This is actually why criticism “will not work with principles and a

1991/1, p. 182)

code of paragraphs”.

(Theodor Fontane, after Reich-Ranicki 1994, p. 122).

The role of

criticism is to verbalize these aspects, to convey them, and thus make them accessible to rationality. Regarding the criticism of buildings and designs as an artistic, scientific and political act is certainly a provocation for all who believe to know what “good architecture” is. The relativity of all criteria and

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paradigms, the anything goes approach, forms a striking contrast with the uniformity and lack of ideas found in the great majority of today’s designs and buildings. It seems that it is precisely this openness that frightens us, a fear that unfortunately means that today the principle of imitatio remains stronger than that of inventio. The continuous analysis and discussion of criteria and values is more important in an open society than fixing them. The question of what factors are crucial for the tasks we face today has to be constantly asked and answered again. The key factor here is the individual’s and indeed the whole of society’s ability to learn. In design teaching, the students’ ability to criticize should be trained, rather than simply subjecting them to criticism. Design becomes a process of arbitrating over conflicts of interests that are mediated by criticism. Enlightened design teaching does not restrict itself to postulating paradigms, but conveys the ability to reflect upon criteria and their significance. There are no rules or recipes for this. Every generation and every designer has to redefine what is good, true and beautiful.

SUSTAINABILITY

Few terms have been similarly overused in recent years as the concept of sustainability. It was coined by Hans Carl von Carlowitz (1645–1714), a Saxon forester and chief mining officer of the Ore Mountains, who spoke out against the overexploitation of forests and proposed the maxim that

245

the “cultivation of wood” should be done in such a way “as to make possible a

­continuous, steady and sustaining use”.

(Carlowitz 1713, p. 105)

It was not until 1987,

however, that the term became part of international discourse. Sustainable development was the subject of the Brundtland Report, which was published simultaneously in six languages by the United Nations World Commission on Environment and Development, and is named after its chairwoman, Gro Harlem Brundtland. In her foreword to the report, titled Our Common

Future

(WCED 1987),

she voices the concern that the increasing consumption of

resources and accompanying environmental damage and pollution endanger the development of the entire human race and prevents people from escaping poverty. A central demand of the commission is therefore to make development sustainable to ensure that it “meets the needs of the present without compro-

mising the ability of future generations to meet their own needs”.

(WCED 1987, p. 15)

The problems of sustainability are caused by three factors: the enormous growth of the world population, which has tripled since 1950, rapid technological progress, and the resulting prosperity and consumption by an ever-larger proportion of the population. The interaction of these factors has led to an unprecedented consumption of biological and fossil resources, with concomitant massive interventions in ecosystems. These have in turn had serious and, in some cases, irreversible consequences, ranging from the extinction of species to local and global climate change. Today we can no longer assume that “Spaceship Earth”, as Buckminster Fuller called it, has inexhaustible resources and that its biosphere can absorb everything that mankind and its dwellings, its farm animals, machines and industrial plants produce. The goal of sustainable development is to preserve the conditions for human life on earth. To this end, a balance must be found between the interests of all parties with regard to the long-term effects of their actions. It is necessary both to ensure equity between generations and, in the context of the present, to guarantee equity within a generation. The exploitation of resources primarily benefits the powerful and wealthy, since

they have the means and opportunities to do so, but the consequences are ultimately borne by everybody. Global sustainability is therefore a problem of the commons, which potentially can lead to a so-called “Tragedy of the Commons” (Hardin 1968) which can only be solved through a joint political approach, because some groups accord specific individual interests far

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­greater importance than the interest of protecting everyone. How can this goal be achieved? Historically, these problems are so new that classical architectural theory, for example, and even the discourse of classical modernism offer little advice. The situation is further exacerbated by the refusal of some parts of society to acknowledge the existence of a problem at all, despite scientific evidence to the contrary. The political scientist Jörg Tremmel undertook a study of 60 scientific definitions of sustainable development and identified that most concepts commonly rest on three ­pillars: ecological, economic and social development. (Tremmel 2004, p. 32)

Ecological sustainability protects and conserves the

­ecosystems of the biosphere and regenerates them where necessary. Economic sustainability develops economic practices that are socially and environmentally compatible in the long term and whose returns benefit everyone in the long run. Finally, social sustainability ensures social balance, with the aim of securing the needs of all people. Applied to the design process this means that architecture can no longer be appraised solely in terms of conventional criteria that relate to the building itself. A building’s long-term ecological, economic and social effects must also be taken into account. The construction, operation, maintenance, dismantling and disposal of buildings require considerable resources. The construction industry in the USA consumes about 75 % of all raw materials,

(US Geological Survey 2017)

and the operation of buildings consumed 28 %

of the entire energy consumption in the country in 2019.

(US Energy Information

Administration 2020)

The concept of sustainability encompasses many quite different and often wide-ranging meanings. It is easy to claim that a project or building is sustainable, but it is harder to verify or prove it. Often the term is invoked to mean only one of the three aforementioned pillars, and then only in a superficial way. A project may be deemed economically sustainable, for example, when it pays off for the investor. In everyday language, the term is often used simply to mean “having an appreciable impact over a long

period of time”. One consequence of the erosion and blurring of the term is that much could and can be said, but little has been achieved. Greta Thunberg states:

“We’ve had 30 years of pep-talking and selling positive ideas. And I’m sorry, but it doesn’t work. Because if it had, emissions would have gone down by now. They haven’t.” (Thunberg 2019, p. 36) If we truly want to strive for sustainability, it becomes the task of both designers and critics to uphold the original meaning of the term. Projects can only be deemed sustainable if they demonstrably promote ecological, economic and social development in the long term and compensate for any environmental damage they may cause. There are enough possibilities and examples of how this can be done. Various methods for measuring and evaluating sustainability have since been developed that are sufficiently specific and transparent. A collection of methods for sustainability assessment recently published on the internet by Lisa Andes and her team provides an overview of the current debate and compares 25 assessment methods. Especially relevant are the “Bewertungs­ system Nachhaltiges Bauen” (Sustainable Building Rating System) used for federal buildings in Germany, as well as life – cycle costing, environmental performance assessment and the calculation of the carbon footprint.

(Andes et

al. 2019)

LEED (Leadership in Energy and Environmental Design) is a “green building” certificate awarded by the private US Green Building Council (USGBC).

(www.usgbc.org)

It pays particular regard to the ecological aspects

of buildings, such as location and traffic, position, the efficient use of water, energy and climate conditioning, building elements and raw materials, indoor qualities, as well as the criteria of innovation and regional priorities. However, as an assessment method it says little about the economic ­sustainability of a project, and nothing at all about its social sustainability. In 2008, the United Nations Working Group on Statistics for Sustainable Development presented a report that outlines a wide range of indicators for all three areas.

(United Nations 2008)

New approaches and tools are now available for designing sustainable architecture, many of which are explained in the third part of the book devoted to practice. Research-based design provides us with the data and

helps us to find new ways to apply our ever-better knowledge of the long-­ term environmental, economic and social impacts of our decisions. Digital design in turn enables us to manage the large amount of relevant data, and to evaluate and optimize designs with regard to their sustainability. Social design, finally, allows us to do better justice to the social aspects of design

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and construction. FURTHER READING: Andes, Lisa, et al. (2019): Methodensammlung zur Nachhaltigkeitsbewertung. Grundlagen, Indikatoren, Hilfsmittel. Karlsruhe: KIT, 2019, http://www.oew.kit.edu/downloads/ Methodensammlung%20zur%20Nachhaltigkeitsbewertung.pdf United Nations (2008): Measuring Sustainable Development. Report of the Joint UNECE/OECD/ Eurostat Working Group on Statistics for Sustainable Development. New York, Geneva, 2008, https://www.oecd.org/greengrowth/41414440.pdf WCED, World Commission on Environment and Development (1987): Our Common Future. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1987 https://sustainabledevelopment.un.org/ content/documents/5987our-common-future.pdf For further literature on the subject, see the Appendix pp. 381 ff.

Theory θεωρία is not so much the single act of a moment, but an attitude, a state and a

condition in which one keeps oneself. Hans-Georg Gadamer (1983, p. 44) 249

Architectural theory is the global, public and open-ended discourse through which interested parties explore an understanding of what “architecture” is. Anyone can take part in this process, especially in the age of the internet. Hypotheses and arguments are put forward, criticized, rejected, taken up again and thought through, canonized, and then sometimes called into question again years later. Over the course of this discourse, some arguments and positions will endure for a certain time or a certain geographical or cultural context and some will be rejected, or alternatively developed further. The discourse on architecture theory began more than 2500 years ago in ancient Greece, where people were required to present and explain their ideas publicly so that democratic decisions could be made on which proposals to carry out. The first ­comprehensive, systematic formulation of architectural theoretical discourse was set out in De architectura libri decem – (Ten books on architecture), the work of the Roman architect Vitruvius, who in turn refers to some 70 authors who preceded him (see, for example, the preface to Book 7). Their texts, however, have largely been lost or at best only survived in fragments.

(Vitruvius c. 22 BC)

Vitruvius’ encyclopaedic Ten books were read, copied by hand as was customary at the time, and kept in libraries, but for many centuries, their impact was comparatively limited. It was Leon Battista Alberti who substantially resumed the discourse. During the Italian Renaissance, he had begun by attempting to translate Vitruvius’ text, but finding it too “dark” he set about writing his

Frontispiece of the Ludovicus Elzevirium (Ludovic Elzevir) edition of Vitruvius, Amsterdam, 1649

own reformulation of it: De re aedificatoria

libri decem (On the Art of Building in Ten Books).

(Alberti 1485)

A principal task of theory is to clarify and determine the terms and concepts central to dis-

250

course. These often prove to be problematic in everyday, typically unreflective use. Whether architecture is “art” or only “one of the arts”, namely the “art of building”, or whether it has nothing to do with art at all, also depends, for example, on how the concept of art is understood, and this has changed fundamentally over the course of the 20th century. The same applies to the relationship between architecture and science. This has profound implications not only for the way architects see themselves, but also for the way they are educated. The focus of architectural education has consequently shifted several times in the past 200 years: from art schools to polytechnics, later to technical colleges, and, relatively recently, to academic universi-

Title page of the anonymously published first edition of René Descartes: Discourse on the Method for Rightly Directing One’s Reason and Searching for Truth in the Sciences, Leiden: Ian Maire, 1637

ties. Given the long history of universities, the fact that architecture is now taught in that academic realm is a comparative novelty. These clarifications are also necessary because

languages themselves are constantly evolving. Both their historical development as well as a shift in the dominant language in which discourse is ­conducted can lead to misunderstandings. Vitruvius, who wrote in Latin, also fell foul of this, as he frequently drew on terminology derived from the Greek. The term and concept of theory itself originates in Greek philosophy, where sensorial phenomena were held to be illusions, the underlying reality of which could only be grasped through theory. The investigation and formulation of such theories is the primary motive of modern academic endeavour. Most European languages use the same term, with slight variations, which derives from the ancient Greek word θεωρία (theoria). In other cultural spheres, such as the Chinese, such terms are hard to translate

whenever no directly analogous philosophical, scientific or theoretical concepts have developed. At the same time, Chinese, Arab and Indian cultures have made fundamental contributions to the development of modernity, which has long since become global, and not least in areas that are fundamental to its theory.

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The ancient Greek θεωρία (theoria) goes back to the words θέα (théa) “a view” and ὁράω (horáo-) “I see, I look”. It refers first to looking or looking at, and then, in a figurative sense, to the contemplative or even speculative understanding of the nature of something. This echoes Plato’s notion of ­theory as a mental vision of that which is not accessible to sensual perception, which he illustrates in his allegory of the cave as told by Socrates at the beginning of Book 7 of Republic. In his tale, Socrates likens us people to prisoners in a cave shackled to a wall so that they can only look ahead. In front of them they see shadows that they take to be real, although they are actually produced by figures passing in front of a fire behind them. One of the prisoners manages to escape from the cave: initially blinded by sunlight (the power of theoretical insight), he then begins (as a philosopher)

Plato’s allegory of the cave, print made by Jan Saenredam, 1604, after a painting by Cornelis van Haarlem (detail)

to see the shadows for what they are. He returns to the cave to explain to his compatriots but they do not believe him. Today, we distinguish between two uses of the term. In the natural ­sciences, theory in the strict sense is understood as a systematic series of theorems about a subject area which are completely true and from which

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predictions can be made. In the humanities, which includes architectural ­theory, such a strict conception is not possible. Because ethical and aesthetic aspects cannot be grasped with absolute certainty, theory is understood merely as a well-considered, rational explanation of the general nature of the facts in question. Both discourses, the natural sciences and the humanities, (re-)emerged in their present form at the beginning of the modern era and are central pillars of the project of modernity. Vitruvius’ work was certainly systematic in its approach: the table of contents reveals a progression from the basic and general to the detailed and specific; from building materials and foundations to the walls and roof; from urban planning to temple buildings; from public and private buildings to the design of interiors, and then of clocks; and finally in the tenth book to machines for construction and warfare. Vitruvius ­nevertheless repeatedly deviates from his systematic structure, which makes entertaining reading but often hinders comprehension and orientation within his system. Vitruvius was, it seems, himself doubtful of quite a few of the assertions he makes and felt the need to supply additional supporting argumentation. In this respect, he leaned more towards the Cartesian doubt that shaped scientific thought in modern times than to a medieval belief in authority. Alberti largely adopted the systematic structure established by Vitruvius but focussed more on the subject of ­building and adhered

Prologue to Leon Battista Alberti: De re aedificatoria, in a manuscript from the Biblioteca Estense Universitaria (ms. Lat. 419), Modena, 15th century

much more strictly to his themes. With his forthright criticism of Vitruvius, he reignited the discourse on architecture, which has been continued vigorously ever since. Not every epoch was equally important in architectural theory. For example, there are comparatively few writings on architecture from the Gothic

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period, none of which can be considered a comprehensive theory of architecture. Similarly, relatively little theory has been handed down by the ­master builders of the Baroque. In the course of the history of architecture, theory became important whenever architecture was understood as something to be discussed publicly. This is particularly true of classicist and ­neoclassicist architecture which referred back to the work of Vitruvius and Alberti. Their claim to rationality was carried over almost without interruption into the architecture of modernism (now called “classical modernism”). It was propagated by architects such as Sullivan and Wright, Loos, Le Corbusier, Gropius and Mies van der Rohe, Asplund and Aalto who in their early years almost exclusively used neoclassical forms, rather than forms from Art Nouveau or Historicism. The most recent attempt to present a comprehensive theory of architecture was made in 2011 by the architect Patrik Schumacher, then a senior member of Zaha Hadid Architects and now its director, with the two-volume work The Autopoiesis of Architecture. (Schumacher 2011, 2012)

THEORY AS A BASIS

Architecture, as a concept as well as a discipline, is based on theory. Vitruvius’ definition already recognized that architecture is necessarily made up of two components: fabrica and ratiocinatio, doing and thinking, in other words practice and theory.

(Vitruvius I 1.1)

In contrast to purely practical

­building, which is based on craftsmanship and tradition (or individual constructional or artistic endeavour), and which produces buildings but not ­necessarily architecture, architecture is dependent on public theoretical discourse and defines itself through it. Its narrative serves both as a basis and as ­justification. It refers to theorems that can be described and discussed rationally, and that can claim general validity. In everyday language, the ­difference between ordinary buildings and architecture is obscured by our habit of understanding both terms as being synonymous. All manner of structures can be described as a building, but strictly speaking, architecture

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The exhibition Bernhard Tschumi – Architecture: Concept & Notation, at the Power Station of Art, Shanghai, 2016

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encompasses only those that meet the criteria of architectural theory and are grounded in its discourse. Vitruvius summarized these in the famous triad of firmitas, utilitas and venustas discussed earlier, which can ultimately be traced back to Plato’s three branches of philosophy: logic, ethics and aesthetics.

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Architectural theory is therefore not merely an aesthetic pursuit whose

“advantages and disadvantages” with respect to practical building activity are vague and hard to determine.

(as argued by Neumeyer 2014)

Rather, it represents

the narrative that justifies the very existence of architecture, as opposed to mere building. The function of this narrative – or in other words the ­functioning of architectural theory as a design tool – can be illustrated by drawing an analogy with two theses discussed by the historian Yuval Noah Harari. He argues that in the course of history, homo sapiens developed two abilities that gave them a decisive evolutionary competitive advantage: the so-called Cognitive Revolution was triggered by the ability firstly to firmly believe in fictions, and secondly to spread these fictions by means of language, thus influencing and coordinating the actions of wider groups of people who do not personally know each other. These fictional notions make it possible for collective behavioural patterns to change and adapt to new circumstances much more quickly than would have been the case, for example, through evolution.

(cf. Harari 2011, pp. 22 ff.)

The ideas that consti-

tute the concept of architecture that first became generally accepted in Western culture, and then also in global modernity, can certainly be regarded as such fiction: there is no other proof that something is “architecture”, outside of the theory – the linguistically mediated, discursively clarified and generally accepted narratives – that justifies and defines what “architecture” is and who can be considered an “architect”. The advantages of such a theory become clearer when we consider cultures that managed without architects, such as the European Middle Ages or Imperial China. In the Middle Ages, design was tabooed as “divine inspiration”, and professional knowledge of design and construction was largely kept secret by the guilds and masonic lodges. Important decisions were made by the ruling nobility or clergy, and as a rule they were neither rationally justified in public nor put up for discussion. Consequently, the role of the architect in the modern sense did not yet exist. Although there were master builders who usually worked directly on the building site, they were –

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Facsimile of the commented and coloured new edition of Li Jie: Yíngzào Faˇshì (first printed 1103), published in 1925 by Tao Xiang, Beijing: Zhonghua 2018

with few exceptions – considered to be craftsmen and were therefore not accorded a high public, artistic or even academic status. A discourse on architectural theory could not develop under such circumstances. Residential or farm buildings were generally built by master craftsmen according to existing models. In the China of the Song Dynasty (960–1279) there were detailed state building regulations, which were reproduced and distributed as a comprehensive and richly illustrated, multi-volume work entitled Yíngzào Fashì

(營造法式, literally: Camp Building Method Style, meaning: Treatise on Building Methods or State Building Standards).

(Li Jie 1103)

This treatise,

which was essentially a pattern book of templates and regulations and has not yet been translated into any Western language, served during the later years of the Southern Song Dynasty (960–1279) as a mandatory basis for private and state building projects. The craftsmen who carried out the work had only a subordinate rank in the social order of the time, which was

dominated by Confucianism, and the construction method was prescribed and regulated by the central authorities and was therefore not up for discussion. In contrast to European tradition, public space also played a secondary role in this society. The necessary circulation space between residential buildings was simply the space that remained. Consequently, representative

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façades facing public spaces were largely superfluous: residential buildings opened onto an inner courtyard or garden and a white wall with a door ­sufficed as the interface to the outside world. The role of the architect, whose work relates to public space and public discourse and their ongoing development, would have been of little relevance in this social order, just as it was in the European Middle Ages. THEORY AS A TOOL

As a design tool, architectural theory is a highly effective instrument that can be applied at different levels. Its possibilities range from a single theorem guiding certain aspects of a project, to a personal design approach, to the establishment of universal principles or even an epochal style. Its uses are limited only by one’s own imagination. It functions through the development of logically connected arguments into comprehensibly justified design ideas. The difficulty lies in making one’s reasoning clear (or even just comprehensible) and convincing as well as in its logic, or more precisely the necessary multi-dimensional nature of its interconnections: as a predominantly linguistic-rational tool of design, architectural theory has a linear, step-by-step line of argumentation, whereas in projects multiple levels of consideration interact in parallel, or arise through other sequential structures. Non-linguistic forms of expression such as sketches, drawings, diagrams or photographs can become part of the theoretical discourse, provided they are included in it by appropriate linguistic means (even if only by referencing a picture number). An unspoken aspect of every architectural theoretical statement is that it is open to criticism, to independent reflection and ongoing development of the discourse. Even when one considers building to be a predominantly local and practical activity – albeit one that today unavoidably draws on ­current academic and technical knowledge and calculation methods – all architectural design, urban planning, landscape architecture or design in ­general that strives to achieve something of value, does so in the context of

a global audience. Without theoretical consideration, the challenges involved can no longer be overcome. This does not mean that all architects and designers have to contribute something to architectural theory. Critics, theoreticians, curators or historians often support certain movements or protagonists through their writings. But anyone working within a certain paradigm

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should be aware of its theoretical foundations. Where these are not called into question, there is no obligation to push them forward. At the same time, few architectural paradigms in the recent past have remained unchallenged for more than a decade. In this respect, designers would do well to concern themselves with architectural theory, not just to identify where they stand in the global discourse but also to be able to develop new positions of their own and defend them with viable arguments. Probably the most effective architectural theory to date is the history of architecture. The idea that the development of architecture is based on a ­critical comparative discourse that leads to evolutionary progress was already put forward by Vitruvius. In the first chapter of his second book, he describes how, in the beginning, people made roofs out of leaves, dug caves or imitated the nests of swallows, and continues:

“Then training their own spirits and reviewing the most important ideas […] they began to complete, not houses any longer, but real residences. […] Because people […] by nature […] take pride in creation, so that by daily exercising their ingenuity in competition they achieved greater insight with the passage of time. […] On the basis of observations made in their studies, they progressed from haphazard and uncertain opinions to the stable principles of symmetry.” (Vitruvius II, 1, 2-7) Vitruvius cites the discovery of fire and the development of languages as being instrumental for this development. Even though these are ultimately just anecdotes, they do portray an idea of civilizational progress brought about through observation and reflection, improvement, competition and open-ended discourse. The same ideas underly the concept of the avant-garde, which is central to modernity and on which Patrik Schumacher, for example, bases his theoretical position.

(Schumacher 2011, p. 95 ff.)

Evolutionary Tree 2000: The six streams of 20th century architecture, copyright Charles Jencks

SHORT THEOREMS

Personal contributions to architectural theory do not necessarily have to take the form of long, elaborate treatises to have an impact on discourse. In the internet age, a video of a lecture, an interview or conversation ­distributed via social media may also be appropriate. Individual theorems

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on specific subjects can also have significant impact. Sometimes, it is enough to simply pose a question: Heinrich Hübsch, on his appointment as a ­member of the Karlsruhe State Building Directorate, asked “In what style should we

build?” (Hübsch 1828) His own answer – “In round-arch style” – was almost immediately rejected by contemporary critics, but the question itself still occupies designers today. Schumacher 2012, pp. 617 ff.)

(e.g.

Adolf Loos’ famed

polemic Ornament and Crime, written in 1908, was first presented orally in 1910 and comprised only a few pages. It was later reprinted in the magazine L’Ésprit nouveau, co-edited by Le Corbusier, and since then has continued to shape the aesthetics of modernism to this day and can probably be considered one of the most momentous texts in architectural theory. Ulrich Conrads’ Programs and Manifestoes is an anthology of such short, concise texts or excerpts of texts from the first two thirds of the 20th century that very clearly convey the positions of the respective authors. Poster announcing the lecture “Ornament and Crime”, Adolf Loos, 1913 (colours have been modified)

(Conrads 1964)

“Architecture is a void; it’s your job to define it.” With just a few, concise sentences, the Ticinese architect Luigi Snozzi (one of my teachers)

elaborated a ­comprehensive architectural worldview. At the beginning of his teaching activity in 1973 he formulated 24 aphorisms, which he used as a basis for teaching and design.

(Snozzi 2013)

Together they form a complete set

of design tools. The oldest remaining undated transcript, originating from his architecture office in Locarno, is written in German and bore the title “Unser architektonisches Brevier”.

Nature only tolerates the truth, as, I think, Adolf Loos already said.

Every intervention implies destruction: destroy intelligently!

A true meadow extends to the centre of the earth.

There is nothing to invent; everything is rediscovery.

Architecture is “VOID“; it’s up to you to define it.

Unser Architektonisches Brevier, page 2, typescript from the office of Luigi Snozzi, early 1970s, from: Snozzi 2013, p. 96

(loc. cit., p. 94 f.)

The name derives from the Latin brevis (meaning short) but

refers to its older meaning of “a short, practical guide”, which today has been superseded by the “breviary” for the Catholic Liturgy of the Hours. Each of these “memoranda”, as Snozzi also called them, was illustrated with a single illustration and outlined an architectural ­standpoint that set him apart

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from what was common practice, both then and now. Their usefulness as design tools stems, among other things, from the fact that they rarely formulate any direct prescriptive guidance. Had that been the case, they would almost certainly have been rejected in any academic teaching context (1968 was only five years prior). Instead they are inspiring or provocative and invite further consideration. The illustrations added a further level of meaning, showing how his understanding of ­architecture derives from his relationship to the history, nature and historical cities of northern Italy. The “Brevier” is anchored in the discourse of post-war modernism and at the same time questions its excesses.

“Architecture is something that always surrounds realms, and then opens them.” The Japanese architect Sou Fujimoto gets by with even less text. His explorations are as poetic as they are theoretical and relate closely to ­everyday, one might even say student design ­practice. They combine small, barely more than hand-sized models made of everyday, sometimes even waste materials, with human-scale figures and brief questions or reflections. Through the combination of several dozen such models, these works achieve the quality of a broader theoretical investigation. The verbal and the visual act together in a laconic yet ­striking way and convey the basic themes of an architectural way of thinking, and, despite their succinctness, also manage to make reference to the positions of other architects. A white figure stands, apparently somewhat perplexed, in front of a mountain of red, crumpled paper along with the question: “Is this architecture?” This could be read as a dig at Frank Gehry’s working method were it not for the fact that other models pick up the theme and illuminate it from new standpoints. A comment written on a corner of crumpled wrapping paper says: “These wrinkles are terrain,

flows, structure, and space. And yet it is also trash.” Individual theorems, and sometimes also entire theories can also be shortened to formulas, slogans and catchphrases. While they risk reducing the complexity of a topic to a shallow slogan, their succinct brevity can make them an enormously powerful way of influencing discourse. Probably

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Models from the exhibition Sou Fujimoto: Futures of the Future, at the Power Station of Art, Shanghai 2015

the most notorious of these is form follows function, taken from a quotation by Louis Sullivan, which claims to derive a universal law from nature, but is, in fact, nothing more than a polemical generalisation.

(Sullivan 1896)

Its c­ atchiness is due not least to the alliteration of the three words which turn a fundamental hierarchy of architectural values on its head. Another

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famous catchphrase is Mies van der Rohe’s less is more, a criterion derived from mathe­matical elegance, to which Venturi later added a rhyming riff:

less is a bore. The next chapter takes a closer look at the work of Otl Aicher and shows how fundamental his theoretical thinking was for his way of designing. The chapter on Research-based Design,

(pp. 324 ff.)

written for this new edition,

also discusses further design approaches based on theoretical or scientific ­investigation. FURTHER READING: Spector, Tom; Damron, Rebecca L. (2013): How Architects Write. New York, London: Routledge, 2013 Mallgrave, Harry Francis; Goodman, David (2011): An Introduction to Architectural Theory, 1968 to the Present. Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell, 2011 Kruft, Hanno-Walter (1985): Geschichte der Architekturtheorie. Von der Antike bis zur Gegenwart. Munich: Beck, 1985, 6th ed. 2013. English edition: A History of Architectural Theory: From Vitruvius to the Present. New York, London: Princeton Architectural Press, 1994 For further literature on the subject, see the Appendix p. 383.

Otl Aicher: A theory of design “converting this into concrete designs was another story, but it was inconceivable without a comprehensive working hypothesis ...” (Aicher 1991/2, p. 160) 267

A design theory emerges as a set of statements that attempt to explain how designs come into being, as systematically and with as few contradictions as possible. A distinction should be made between general and special design theories according to a theory’s degree of abstraction and the area in which it claims to be valid. Special theories apply only to limited sets of designs, for example to designs by a particular individual, school or movement, or also to a particular design phase or a single design. The relevance of such theories – the central question for practicing designers – would be measured by the extent to which they can be applied and the quality and cultural importance of the designs that result from applying them. Their flaws show up in the contradictions that occur between design theory and practice, and also in the aspects of designing and designs produced that they cannot explain. A satisfying design theory, or even just a pathway towards one, is not in sight at the time of writing for the architecture and other design fields. The existing approaches contain flaws, gaps, logical contradictions and inconsistencies with practice. Given the complexity of the subject matter, this is entirely to be expected. But if progress is to be made towards a theory of design, then it is precisely the flaws in the existing theories that are of interest. Analysing them can provide indications as to how a theoretical approach can be improved and developed further. All design activity is based on voluntary gestures. There are no causal explanations for these, as they are an “expression of human

freedom”

(Flusser).

And yet there is a great

deal to be known about design, there are

Otl Aicher in May 1990

more or less illuminating ways of talking about design. Among these, the approach taken by the German designer and theoretician Otl Aicher (1922–1991) stands out both because of the breadth of the themes considered and the radical nature of the position he adopts. His writings were hailed by architects and designers as an important contribution to design

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theory.

(Kuhnert 1989, Foster 2002, De Bruyn 2003, Rathgeb 2006)

But it is not easy to

ascertain what this contribution constitutes and what makes it so significant. Aicher did not formulate his ideas as a systematic theory, but simply as collections of independent essays. Most of his texts were written in the 1980s; the first was published in 1978, and the most recent in 1991, the year of Aicher’s death. They were brought together in two volumes in 1991, analog

und digital (analogous and digital, 1991/1) and die welt als entwurf (the world as design, 1991/2), complemented by the volume schreiben und widersprechen (writing and contradicting) published posthumously by his wife Inge AicherScholl in 1993. Aicher’s texts are first and foremost statements by a designer, justifying his personal standpoint and relating it to his philosophical and political thinking. In the same period, Aicher published various other books containing further explorations of his design thinking, for example gehen in

der wüste (walking in the desert) and Die Küche zum Kochen, with the ambitious subtitle Das Ende einer Architekturdoktrin (The Kitchen for Cooking. The End of an Architectural Doctrine, both 1982 – Aicher was not always able to insist on the lower case type he was so fond of), kritik am auto (criticising the car, 1984), innenseiten des krieges (inside the war, 1985), Wilhelm von Ockham:

Das Risiko modern zu denken (William of Ockham: The Risk of Thinking Modern, with Gabriele Greindl and Willhelm Vossenkuhl, 1986) and the extensive basic work typographie / typography (1988). Otl Aicher grew up in a family of Catholic craftsmen in Ulm in Swabia, and spent most of his life in Ulm, Munich and the Allgäu. He was a young man in the National Socialist period, and a friend of Hans and Sophie Scholl, but without being involved in the White Rose campaigns. He served as a soldier from 1941–45, briefly studied sculpture in Munich after the war and then started work as a graphic designer. In 1952, he married Inge Scholl and the two of them founded the hochschule für gestaltung in Ulm, together with Max Bill. Aicher became one of the most important designers in postwar Germany with his corporate identity for Lufthansa and his designs for the 1972 Munich Olympics. He set up his home and office in an old mill

Books by Otl Aicher

in the Allgäu, proclaiming the estate as the “autonomous republic of rotis”, after the Celtic place-name. Despite all his travels, his friendship with Norman Foster and also despite his philosophical thinking, Aicher ultimately remained rooted to his native soil and region and worked mainly in the Germanspeaking countries. His major writings have been translated into English and

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Chinese, and a comprehensive biography of his life and work was published in 2012.

(Moser 2012)

THEORY FROM BELOW

Aicher developed his theories from opposition to great ideas, generally valid truths and abstract higher theories. However, he did not entirely avoid becoming involved in principles himself; Aicher asks for the world to be seen as a “world from below”: education from the point of view of children, the state from the point of view of its citizens, the economy from the point of view of workers and consumers. Aicher concludes from this that “geist” (spirit, mind) is “geist from below, from making”. (Aicher 1991/1, p. 147) From this perspective, making became the central theme for Aicher, as “the world we

live in is the world we have made”.

(Aicher 1991/2, p. 185)

By making, he says,

by the achievements of science and technology, industry and commerce, the world we live in is no longer nature embedded in the cosmos, but has become a design, a “made model, one that even includes nature”. (loc. cit., p. 188) But Aicher feels that making is in danger itself. He senses that our civi­ lization, above all its industrial economy, has a tendency to drive us out of all forms of work in favour of automated production. In this way we are ­losing not just a relationship with things, an understanding of cause and effect, of design and consequence, but also our own self-determination, which is reduced to making consumer decisions. As a result of this we are losing our trust in ourselves, our security in acting, making and saying, and becoming increasingly trusting of authority. Making, defined by Aicher as

“an action for which responsibility is taken by an individual, who participates in concept, design, execution and testing” and from which “insights are gained for correcting concept and design,” (loc. cit. pp. 190 ff.) is the prerequisite for freedom, which Aicher understands as a “condition aris-

ing from making”. (loc. cit., p. 154)

Aicher does not see design as creative work, as endowing prescribed ideas with material quality, but as developing them actively in a cycle of experiment, evaluation and modification, in a sequence of “practical model experi-

ments”. This development process is not based on predetermined planning logic according to Aicher, but on working with models:

“model situations are designed, models are made, and the model shows whether the approach is correct, whether new questions arise, to be replied to by new models.” (Aicher 1991/1, p. 148)

Aicher is not describing an architectural model concept here, but a scientific one, which also, for example, includes sketches and drawings as “graphic

models”. He defines models as “structures made up of statements, concepts and conceptual operations”. (Aicher 1991/2, p. 195) Within the design process, Aicher allocates so much importance to comparing alternatives and evaluating them that he equates this with design: “the

designer’s activity lies in creating order in a conflicting field of heterogeneous factors, evaluating them.” (loc. cit., p. 67) The difficulty with evaluation lies in the contradictory nature of criteria. The object to be designed should function technically, appeal formally, prove itself in use, be economical, and intelligible in its function, meaning and origin. These are qualities that are not prerequisites of each other, and are not causally interdependent; they are in a state of tension with each other, and create differences and conflicts that the designer has to resolve. In order for this to succeed, comprehensive working hypotheses and programmes have to be created, a whole philosophy has to be developed, according to Aicher, that makes it possible to make decisions not just as a question of taste, or drawing on a trend, for example, but to justify them with precisely derived arguments: “the designer is the philosopher

in the enterprise.” (loc. cit., pp. 160 ff.) Aicher juxtaposes the “reason of acting and making” with “logical deduction, with its claim to total truth”. He makes a case for “analogous thinking”, which is visual and comparative, in contrast with “digital thinking”, which is verbal, strictly logical and based on precise numerical values.

(Aicher 1991/2, pp. 198 ff.) He

illustrates the

difference with a clock face, whose hands

Examples of analogue and digital time displays

make it possible to read the time clearly and directly, while the numerical readout on a digital clock has first to be read and then translated into a time. This position is both philosophical and political: “analogous thinking” means not just preferring the concrete phenomenon for Aicher, the individual case, but also abandoning absolute systems for explaining the world.

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Rather than a general order determined by abstract logic, which always leads to subordination and domination, and whose culture is nothing more

Posters for events at the Volkshochschule Ulm, founded by Inge Scholl in 1946

than distraction by the good, the true and the beautiful, Aicher chooses the idea of a “world as design”.

(loc. cit. p. 191)

The anarchic element that can be heard here condenses into a criticism of the state in Aicher’s writing. He feels that anything defined by the abstract concepts of right and freedom can only be experienced as concrete right and concrete freedom. In most cases, he argues, the concrete is everyday and ordinary. Aicher sees this as the most important task of the designer:

“what is hard work is the completely ordinary. and it is in the completely ordinary that life pays. culture develops in the ordinary. as form which one gives to one’s life.” (Aicher 1991/1, p. 171)

For Aicher, according the everyday such importance leads to the pre-emi-

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nence of the criteria of use, manufacture and functionality. Here he does not mean abstract ideals like Vitruvius firmitas or utilitas; using is also not to be seen in the technical sense as value-free, like the concept of function, but

Poster for the sport of wrestling, designed for the Munich Olympics in 1972

derives from concrete experience of dealing with a particular object or building personally. So Aicher’s principle of functionality is not exclusive; on the contrary, it leads to a decentralization of the claim to truth, as “much is func-

tional, and much is functional in a variety of ways”.

(Aicher 1991/2, p. 191)

Rather

than the general category of truth, Aicher takes what is right as the truth

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that is possible for mankind: “it is concrete. it has circumstances, it is managea-

ble, it is object-like, concrete, can be tested and discussed.”

(Aicher 1985, p. 251)

The

correct is distinct from the merely opportune if it meets a criterion “outside

the case”,

(loc. cit., p. 252)

for example when a technical solution also meets cri-

teria that do not come from the technical sphere. But ultimately a substantive system of requirements and consequences of the individual case has to be built into its evaluation. Aicher also subjects aesthetics to these criteria. He agrees that it is important to identify aesthetic concepts such as proportion, volume, progression, penetration or contrasts and understand them experimentally, so that a grammar, a syntax of designing can be derived from them and conceptual control of aesthetic phenomena achieved.

(Aicher 1991/2, p. 92)

But he says that

in aesthetics there are no generally valid rules, each aesthetic proposition is legitimate in its own right in the first place. As a consequence, freedom in our society is often reduced to the aesthetic, which is then used as a pretext for and obfuscation of real power.

(loc. cit., p. 35, p. 88)

His scepticism about the

instrumentalization of the aesthetic radicalizes Aicher to the extent of completely rejecting art. He says that art is unfit for functional design work. cit. p. 23)

(loc.

It is also an escape, an obfuscation of the everyday, based on sepa-

ration into mind and matter. (loc. cit., p. 88) Aicher’s rejection of art, however, is based on a concept of art that is reduced to the “aesthetic experiment”, to the

“incomprehensible”,

(loc. cit. p. 31)

that should “remain outside work”.

(loc. cit., p. 24)

An attitude of this kind can be better understood if one considers that it came into being in the years of crisis during and after the Second World War. Aicher started to study sculpture at the Akademie der Bildenden Künste in Munich in 1946, but gave it up in the following year. He had come to think that any concern with art meant neglecting the ordinary. The vehemence of his rejection gives a sense of the resistance he had to overcome in order to give up his original motivation. This was the situation that led to his postulating a “culture of the everyday”, became fundamental to his subsequent work:

(Aicher 1991, pp. 15 f.)

which

“the real culture would be everyday culture and high culture merely one of its forms. thinking in this way would be a reversal of all values […] artistic creativity would have to benefit everyday things, life as it is lived.” (loc. cit., pp. 17 f.) Aicher reflects on the design methods of outstanding designers in the same

275

way as he relates his theoretical thinking to philosophical positions. One of his early enthusiasms was for the architect Le Corbusier, whose work was banned by the National Socialists and seemed to Aicher at the time like a

“manifesto for the freedom of behaviour”, with the free ground plan and the free façade as an “inevitable expression of a liberated mode of living”. (Aicher 1985, pp. 206 f.) Here design’s political dimension is clearly demonstrated.

Aicher’s sport pictograms, designed for the Munich Olympics in 1972, were also used in Montreal in 1976. All the pictograms are based on the same grid. © 1976 by ERCO Leuchten GmbH Grid serving as a basis for the sport pictograms

Aicher sees certain architecture practices as “cognition workshops” that draw their insights from making, from manufacturing and from comparing concepts, designs and models.

(1991/1, pp. 106 f.)

Thus he describes the design

methods in Norman Foster’s practice (with whom he worked on several occasions, and who was a personal friend), whose special feature lies in

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working out alternative designs so thoroughly in terms of structure, organization and services that the results can be compared directly. The most labour-intensive part of a design process consists of

“reaching the distillate of the best possible solution in trials, experiments and studies, in numerous iterative cycles of investigation and evaluation using models and prototypes […] with the help of one’s own work and consultation with others”. (Aicher 1991 / 1, p. 101)

The designers whose work Aicher analyses also include the architect and designer Charles Eames, whom he calls the “first modern non-ideological

designer”. He says that Eames develops his products thinking like a process engineer, without any stylistic guidelines, but with high aesthetic ambitions, from their function, from material and manufacturing methods, and from use.

(loc. cit, pp. 54, 63 f., 92)

He sees similar qualities in the designer Hans

Gugelot, who saw style as the “beginning of the corruption of design”,

(loc. cit. p. 71)

and Johannes Potente, who designed door handles as an anonymous factory worker in the 1950s.

(loc. cit., p. 130)

Aicher also notes the aircraft engineer

Paul McCready, who established several world records with aircraft driven by muscle power or by solar cells around 1980, and then devoted himself to questions of thought, culture and politics with the insights he had gained. (loc. cit., pp. 79 ff.)

In philosophy, Aicher refers particularly to William of Ockham and Ludwig Wittgenstein, and also addresses the work of philosophers including Plato and Aristotle, Descartes, Kant, Buridan and Peirce. In the work of Wittgenstein, and particularly in his linguistic philosophy, Aicher finds a way of thinking that addresses the everyday and the ordinary, with use as the highest criterion. But this is not seen simply as a touchstone for distinguishing the true from the false, but as an activity for making what is right – as in a game, in which rules are established as a basis for developing a new reality. Aicher says that Wittgenstein sees language as action, as making that creates a life form.

(loc. cit., p. 121)

OPEN QUESTIONS

So how can we answer the above question about Aicher’s contribution to design theory? Unlike thinking as such, which would not be thinking if it did not move between contradictions, we expect a theory to provide the most systematic statements possible, free of contradictions and with a grip

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on realistic potential that can be tested. We can define Aicher’s design theory as consisting of what can be derived from his texts as a conclusive set of statements. When summing up, it becomes clear that his theoretical approach definitely follows a logical structure: starting with the postulate that the world is to be considered as a “world from below”, Aicher’s theory develops from the everyday, the concrete, from making that becomes design by becoming increasingly complex. Here again he sees the supreme criteria as use and functionality, and the aesthetic is also one of use, art being rejected as an obfuscation of the ordinary. Perception is based on an analogue approach, insight derives from making. If like Aicher we opt for use and functionality as the supreme criteria, these must be distinguished from the one-dimensional criteria of sheer functionality. The argument of functionality was also used to justify the architectural deserts of a trivialized Modernism, and Aicher provides no appropriately differentiated definition of these terms. But in his own work,

Lettering for the Lufthansa corporate image

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Logo for the ERCO corporate image

Lorry with the ERCO logo

Aicher was never in danger of going beyond the boundaries of the human. He was very well aware that every design, even the worst, would be “functional” for some of the people involved in realizing it. The question is much more whether the design is acceptable to all those affected by its implications. This also conveys Aicher’s point that designers have to reconcile the

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differences and conflicts that a design brings with it.

(Aicher 1991/2, pp. 68 f.)

While Aicher’s writings do certainly reveal his design theory to us, we can only form conclusions about his thinking as a whole by relating his many texts, design activities and his biography to each other critically. Seen from this distance, of course there are large numbers of contradictions, and he must have been strongly aware of this himself. They reflect the conflicts from which he developed his position. Thus the unresolved contradiction between Aicher’s rejection of comprehensive theories and the theoretical content of his texts with their schoolmasterly didacticism, between his personal anarchy and the absolutist claims of a “world as design”, between use as the supreme criterion and an entirely engaging aesthetic, between his initial enthusiasm for and subsequent rejection of art, describes the field of tension in which Aicher operates. His theoretical utterances represent an attempt to articulate a radical position in this field, and to secure it by argument. Here Aicher is not ultimately concerned with creating a sophisticated theory, but with the clarity and sustainability of a position as a prerequisite for his abil­ ity to act as a creative designer. His texts are not to be read as incontrovertible dogma, which their tone definitely suggests, but as the voice of a designer assuring himself by argument. Here Aicher arrives at an attitude that is characterized by ideological abbreviations and simplifications, but one that emerges from thought and action that always perceives the correspond­ing counter-position as an option and includes it in the process of thought. The relationship between theory and practice remains ambivalent for him. In both his writings and his work Aicher makes clear that, as soon as there are more demanding problems to be solved, a theoretical horizon is required that very few designers are able to present explicitly, while at the same time design practice creates insight in a way that is often well ahead of any theory.

The Rotis typeface family consists of four fonts: a serif, a semi serif, a semi sans and a sans-serif, each available in four weights, from thin to bold, with the exception of the semi-serif, which is available in normal and bold only.

DESIGNING THEORY

Despite all the open questions, Aicher’s thoughts on design theory imply new standards for what a design theory would have to achieve. Not so much in the position he takes up personally as in the breadth of his thinking, Aicher identifies a theory of design that redefines the range of questions

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to be answered. His texts show that a design theory cannot be reduced to problems of methodology or defining terms. Questions of perception, of creative and critical thinking, of production and evaluation, have to be placed in a logical context and should be related to practical questions as much as to political and philosophical positions. A theory of design would have to describe a meta-plane directed towards concrete action:

“design transcends theory and practice and opens up not just a new reality, but also new insights.” (loc. cit., p. 196) Starting with Aicher’s statement that evaluation is a fundamental element of design, the question of what the essential elements of a design process are would have to be investigated, what they mean and how they relate to each other. The most important design tools would have to be identified, and it would be necessary to establish the sense in which they are to be perceived as design tools. To this end, the story of how they emerged would have to be told, the way they work analysed, and ultimately they would have to be discussed in relation to the questions Aicher raises about perception, thinking, production and evaluation. Then the problems of evaluating design would have to be set out, and the field of possible design criteria examined, with their common links, dependencies and hierarchies. On one occasion, Aicher quotes these words by the philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein: “we are not permitted to set up any theory. all explanation must go,

to be replaced only by description.”

(Aicher 1991/1, p. 125)

A general theory of design

would have to describe the whole field of possibilities and conditions of design action, beyond ideology and dogma. But it would not be possible to reduce a theory of this kind, which would also have to contain a theory of thought and perception, to a catchy formula. Such a theory would be difficult to imagine as a more or less compact theory, but would have to consist of extensive, detailed descriptions. The task of a special theory would then be to define and justify certain positions in this field by selecting appropriate elements from a general theory and relating them to each other logically. In this

Aicher’s “autonomous republic of rotis” in the Allgäu consists of an old mill and modern studio buildings designed by Aicher. Photograph: Otl Aicher

way it would ultimately create the prerequisites for a designer’s ability to act in a considered and reasoned way. FURTHER READING: Rathgeb, Markus (2006): Otl Aicher. London, New York: Phaidon, 2006 For further literature on the subject, see Appendix p. 383.

PART C: PRACTICE 2 84

We employ the tools of design with the aim of changing reality for the better. We analyse them to understand how they work and how we can improve on them. To elevate practice above theory would therefore be as wrong as the opposite. Only the combination of practical skills and theoretical reason paves a path to the more sustainable design of the built environment.

Are scientific theories of design practice at all possible? One reason why for a long time relatively little research was conducted on design could possibly be traced back to Aristotle. According to his conception, there can be no theory of a prâxis, which is what design is, as the two belong to different realms of knowledge: the epistêmê of science, which applies only to immuta-

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ble things, and the techne of practical skills. The expression theory of practice would therefore be a contradictio in adiecto, a contradiction in itself. But Aristotle’s verdict is only valid for the strict scientific concept of theory. The notion of theories that arose much later in the humanities – that of a systematic, generally valid explanation for a state of affairs – could ­con-­­­ ­­ceivab­­­­ly serve as a basis for considering design activities, tools and approaches. To understand design better, it is certainly instructive to examine outstanding or interesting examples of past and current architectural design practice, and to subject them to theoretical consideration. Let us start with a photograph that is now about 155 years old. The ­picture, taken around 1865 by the French architectural photographer

Charles Garnier (second from right) and colleagues in the drawing room of Agence Garnier, with drawings of the Paris Opera House. Photograph: Louis-Émile Durandelle, approx. 1864

­Louis-Émile Durandelle (1839–1917), shows a group of nine men in a drawing atelier. One of them, resting his head on his left hand, is Charles Garnier, the architect of the new Paris Opera, which was under construction at the time. This not particularly large room was located in a simple twostorey building that had been provisionally erected on the site of the Opéra

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and was known as Garnier’s office d’agence (literally, the agency or site office). Having won the competition, it was here and in similar neighbouring rooms that the architect and his staff drew up the design for what would become one of the most important buildings of its era: the Paris Opera House, the Opéra Garnier.

Charles Garnier. Photograph: Antoine Samuel Adam-Salomon, 1876/1884

The building that served as the Agence Garnier on the site of the Paris Opera House. Photograph: Louis-Émile Durandelle, approx. 1866

What does this work environment say about the practice of designing at the time? The photo shows the collective way of working that the École des Beaux-Arts cultivated in its ateliers as well as the more informal habitus of the people involved. On the walls are plaster casts of architectural ornaments, a T-square, two framed pictures and two large drawings: a floor plan and an elevation of the Opéra. The tables are simple but large with paper and drawings spread on them or in rolls, as well as a book and some simple drawing instruments such as rulers and triangles. It is notable that, in contrast to today’s offices, no models of the building are to be seen. In fact, a

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The atelier as a social construct: students at the atelier of Pierre André (1860–1930), École des Beaux-Arts, Paris, around 1903

model was only made in plaster at a scale of 1:50 at the request of the client, Napoléon III, who immediately took the opportunity to request some changes.

(Mead 1991, pp. 149 ff.)

Apart from the absence of any lighting (electric

light did not exist at that time), the simplicity of the tools and materials used is striking, particularly given the pomp and ceremony of the building they were designing. This contrast between the simple working environment and the decidedly opulent and detail-rich architecture being designed shows how little one must have to do with the other. Although not every detail was designed by the architects themselves – they were assisted in numerous aspects of decoration by painters, sculptors, stucco masons, blacksmiths, gilders, mosaic layers, cabinetmakers, carpet weavers, decorators and other craftsmen, but also engineers – the significant distance between the simplicity of the design tools used and the complexity of what was being designed is surprising. In everyday practice, the designer’s workplace, with its particular work desk and selection of tools (as per the respective age), certainly plays a not inconsiderable role. It is, however, precisely the great distance between the tools of design and the actual design that makes them so effective. While elegantly furnished architectural offices can certainly convey important messages to employees and business partners, they do not necessarily have to bear any relation to the objects being designed. The proverbial

Perspective drawing of the grand stair of Paris Opera House. Drawing: Riquois, engraving: Jean-Joseph Sulpis, approx. 1880, from: Garnier 1880, Vol. 2, Fig. 8

Boxes in the auditorium of the Paris Opera House. Photograph: Scarletgreen, 2007

kitchen table is a prime example: Daniel Libeskind quipped that his inclination towards non-rectangular geometries derives from the fact that the Formica kitchen table in his parents’ apartment, on which he began drawing, had rounded corners. His T-square could sit at any angle and not just draw parallel lines as intended.

(Libeskind 2016)

Today, in the world of digital tools,

certain programs can provide very specific functions that greatly influence the project being designed. All the same, this does not change the fact that it is ultimately up to the designers to decide whether and to what extent to use them.

DESIGN ATTITUDE

The ultimate and simultaneously most complex design tool is the social and economic construct within which designers work. This can range from individuals working alone, drawing on a network of consultants, supporters, engineers and construction companies, to highly complex, globally

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operat­­ing companies with hundreds or in some cases several thousand employees with a wide range of qualifications, specializations and cultural backgrounds. One of the achievements of the École des Beaux-Arts in Paris was to create a sense of strong social cohesion in the individual ateliers, each of which was headed by an architect. For the annual competition for the Prix de Rome, each atelier selected the most promising “sketch” by one of their students and then worked together to develop his or her project. Charles Garnier, who won the Prix de Rome in 1848, was able to draw on such a network when designing the Opéra. Such social constructs can take a variety of forms depending on their size, structure and focus, and have accordingly acquired quite different names: there are more artistically oriented studios, craft workshops, technical engineering offices, service-oriented agencies, academic studios, scientific laboratories or institutes, internet-based networks, or commercial companies. The name of the chosen form of organisation may already convey basic information about the design attitudes practised there. In modern professional practice, design no longer seems to be the dominant activity, at least not in terms of the time spent on it, or the primary tasks that individual members of a larger team undertake. It is, however, crucial for the success of a project that the work is guided by a design awareness, by an understanding of the conditions, objectives and criteria of design action. The always difficult balance between the technical and functional and economic and aesthetic aspects of a project must not only be established during the design process, but must also be maintained over a planning and construction process that often takes years, and may need to be sought anew should unavoidable changes shift the balance. Sometimes the aesthetic and the functional subtleties that make all the difference to the end result are only decided at a very late stage in construction when the final, outwardly visible and technically functional surfaces are applied and finished.

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Entrance to the drawing atelier in Alvar and Elissa Aalto’s studio, 1954–1955, Helsinki. Photograph 2018

Every step of a design process involves decisions that impact on the design. (Schumacher 2011, p. 199)

In everyday design practice, making decisions is of

such central importance that some authors equate one with the other: “The

entire design process is characterised by a sequence of decisions: Designing means deciding.” (Polónyi 1987, p. 138) Károly Polónyi also confirms: “Designing means deciding, choosing among different alternatives.” (loc. cit., p. 146) While this does not adequately describe the process of designing – viable alternatives need to be designed before decisions can be made about them – it does raise a central question: on what basis and in what way do we make design decisions? Our decision basis at the point of departure is the knowledge we have of a given design task in relation to our knowledge of the world and of our profession. By considering the context, what has previously been built, what ideas have previously been elaborated and how these aspects relate to the general

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Drawing atelier in Alvar and Elissa Aalto’s studio, 1954–1955, Helsinki. Photograph 2018

design criteria described earlier,

(see pp. 237–248)

we begin to determine the

criteria specific to our design project that will help us assess and select the variants that seem most promising to us. But how can we preserve the internal logic and coherence of the project while we make the myriad decisions necessary during the design, planning and construction process? For this we need methods and procedures that ideally allow adjustments to be made for as long as possible. A matrix that holds the relevant criteria and their respective weighting can serve as a decision-making aid and as a means of visualizing and discussing design considerations for a larger group of participants. On the one hand such a matrix provides a more transparent and differentiated basis for comparing variants, but at the same time it reveals how difficult it is to quantify aesthetic and ethical considerations, or also developments that may happen in the future.

To achieve a convincing and coherent end result that corresponds to the original design intention, it is often necessary to coordinate a larger number of participants over a long period of time. This can only be achieved by developing a – more or less – consciously articulated attitude to design. It is the product of clarifying the fundamental questions, and in turn of the preferred

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design assignments, methods, strategies and tools, and not least the ethical and aesthetic convictions of the designers. It touches on scientific and artistic, social, economic and political aspects and is often referred to as a design phi-

losophy. A design attitude or philosophy can be described as the sum of all the essential factors, attitudes and evaluations, including their reciprocal dependencies and conditions, which together characterize the respective personal working methods of designers at a given time. Design approaches will only be successful in the long term when these various aspects have been brought into relation to one another in a way that eschews major contradictions. A STANDARDIZED PROCEDURE

Those designers who work in the mainstream need spend the least time considering and elaborating their design attitude. They can adopt the values and aesthetic preferences from their studies or from the offices or companies they work in, often without questioning them. There they also learn which magazines, newsletters and websites to consult in order to stay up to date. They employ the usual design methods and tools, work with the typical materials and construction techniques and, willingly or not, conform to and thus cement current standards. The enormous importance of the mainstream is to define a normality that determines the level of quality that can be achieved at a given time in a given culture by the majority of protagonists without extraordinary efforts. One such precisely elaborated standard for the approach to designing is set out, for example, by the German HOAI, the official scale of fees for ­services by architects and engineers (whose upper and lower fee limits violate European law according to a ruling by the European Court of Justice in 2019). It prescribes certain work phases and design tools (drawings at precisely defined scales, descriptions and calculations) while ignoring others or defining them as special cases (e.g. models, perspective representations, videos, colour and material collages, digital terrain models or digital 3D or 4D building models / Building Information Modeling). It assumes a precise

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Desks in an architecture office in Berlin. Photograph 2015

sequence of work stages, divided into nine so-called “service phases” (“LP”) that are familiar to all architects practising in Germany: (LP 1) Basic evaluation (2 % of the total fee) (LP 2) Project preparation and preliminary design with cost estimate (7 % of the fee) (LP 3) Design planning (1:100 drawings) and cost calculation (15 %) (LP 4) Building permission application (3 %) (LP 5) Detailed design (construction drawings, 1:50 to 1:1) (25 %) (LP 6) Bill of quantities and specifications, preparation of tender ­documents for construction companies, including cost control (10 %), (LP 7) Participation in the contract awarding process, including cost ­control (4  %) (LP 8) Construction site supervision, auditing and documentation, cost determination (32 %) (LP 9) Project control and documentation (2 %)

The scope of work in each of the “basic services” is described in detail in the appendices to the HOAI, along with other services that are considered “special services”. (HOAI 2013, pp. 48 ff.) One consequence of such classification is that in everyday practice many architectural firms or their clients limit themselves to employing only the prescribed design tools and the fewest

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possible drawing scales in their design, and work almost exclusively using (usually digitally created) drawings, calculations and descriptions. One should not complain about a lack of “building culture” when the corresponding “design culture” on which it is founded is so rigidly regimented. What role do models of the urban context play in this scope of services? Or photomontages in approximately realistic colours? Perspectives of the interior? Calculations of the net present value of building use, taking its entire life cycle into consideration? This kind of ordinance ignores the central role that the use of ­models plays for many designers, or the importance of working in parallel at different scales in the early design phases, or ­examining spatial relationships through perspectives, perhaps even validating the massing of the building on site or taking into account the projected costs for the use, operation, maintenance and disposal of a building at the design stage. The definition of percentages of the total fee for the different work stages accords comparatively little remuneration to the problem definition phase, ascertaining basic information, the preliminary design and even the actual design proposal. To improve the situation for designing architects, the fixed percentage allocation across the nine work stages, as well as the fee scale itself, needs to be rethought. More innovative designs frequently entail more time and resources in the early work phases. After Charles Garnier was commissioned to build the new Paris Opera in 1861, he began by embarking on a research trip to study the most important European opera houses of the time and even visited the quarries that could potentially provide the requisite stone for the construction.

(Lardet 2010, pp. 66 ff., pp. 69 f.)

The funda-

mental problem with the HOAI is that it defines standards and procedures that channel everyday practice, hindering the development of advanced digital design techniques or the use of approaches based on innovative, projectrelated research or social interaction. Limiting everyday practice to a bare minimum of prescribed design tools is also questionable given the complex­ ity of the tasks we face and the growing importance of design.

NEW CHALLENGES

In the foreseeable future, designing, i.e. shaping the world we live in, will not just become increasingly important because more and more people spend more and more time in man-made environments. It will also become more and more difficult. Design projects have become larger and more com-

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plex than they were just a few decades ago, and they are also expected to fulfil more complex needs in terms of functionality, comfort, sustainability, innovation and aesthetics. At the same time, the scope within which designers operate has expanded considerably: the range of materials, technologies and tools available (or being newly developed), as well as the budgets and scale of projects can be of an entirely different order of magnitude. While this is potentially a positive development, it is also a cause for great concern. While there are always individual outstanding works of architecture, the broad mass of what is designed and built around the world is anything but satisfactory. In many respects, we seem to have pushed beyond the ­limits of what is feasible and sensible, and what designers are still able to ­manage. The 20th century alone has turned the cities of many countries into sprawling masses of suburbs that have consumed and destroyed huge swathes of landscape and given rise to buildings and urban environments that border on the unliveable. The fact that such a small proportion of buildings can be classed as successful is reason enough to question conventional design practices and their underlying design doctrines. The challenges facing the next generation of designers, planners and builders are enormous, of that there is no doubt, and whether they will be able to meet them is far from certain. The buildings and infrastructure ­necessary to house and transport the ever-growing number of city dwellers in future is – in the current approach to building – more likely to contribute to the mounting environmental and climate problems than solve them. Their construction, operation and maintenance consume vast amounts of resources that in turn have diverse environmental implications to produce and dispose of. In addition, metropolitan agglomerations are emerging on an unprecedented scale, with several tens of millions of inhabitants and all the accompanying environmental consequences that such a size entails: excessively long and congested traffic routes, local urban overheating due to a lack of vegetation, increasing energy requirements for cooling buildings and vehicles, and unbearable air pollution from industry,

traffic and power stations, resulting in air that is sometimes almost un­­ breathable outdoors, etc. All these are among the downsides of rampant global modernity. Movements such as postmodern, deconstructivist or ecological architecture can be seen today as thoroughly justified but ultimately failed attempts to

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overcome the paradigms of modernity through an architecture that is more liveable and humane. While parametric architecture provides interesting new tools, it is unclear how it differs in its concept and construction methods from the paradigms of modernism. From its claim to be avant-garde, to its concept of space, the use of the most advanced materials and techniques, and its abstract aesthetics, whose flowing forms have a long tradition in modernism, there are no really fundamental differences to the values and goals of modernism, except that it employs digital techniques. Ultimately, parametric architecture is only another, albeit interesting, variant of the existing paradigm; it further expands the broad repertoire of formal languages modernity has produced. As the global population continues to grow, along with its ever-increasing material needs and expectations, we will, in the not too distant future, reach the limits of available resources. It remains to be seen whether our current civilization will develop sufficient skills and technologies to adapt in time. But perhaps we should instead ask another question: can we even overcome the all-pervasive global modernity, i.e. the artistic-scientific-political-economic system in which design plays a central role? Has modern ­civilization become a runaway system that has produced the globally intertwined culture in which we live, and with which we will disappear again once its resources are exhausted? Will this epoch simply come to an end in the foreseeable future as vital resources dwindle, or will it even collapse ­dramatically due to ecological, climatic or political crises? The Corona crisis has recently shown us how quickly this can happen. Or perhaps it will be ­transformed, presumably with the means of digital technology and artificial ­intelligence, into something new that allows precise and absolute control, but is only understood, and thus controlled, by a select few? The desire for an autonomous discipline of architecture called for by some architects

(cf. Hays 1998, p. 124)

is entirely in keeping with the tendencies

of modern, ever more functionally differentiated societies. But by artificially articulating divisions between social groups that are, ultimately, dependent

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Toplit wall for presentations in the conference room in the Aalto studio, 1954–1955, Helsinki. Photograph 2018

on each other, it runs the risk of exacerbating rather than addressing the problems discussed above. What is needed is decisive, far-sighted commitment (not from individuals, but from the discipline as a whole) in all areas that are essential to architecture: the arts and sciences, (building) policy and (building) industry, along with all those who depend on or benefit from

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them, e.g. the crafts and trades, the industry, the media, and philosophy. Likewise, the same applies to all those areas that are so closely related to architecture that one could consider them components of a wider shared design discipline, e.g. urban and landscape planning, civil engineering and industrial design. Not only do these disciplines have comparable means and tools, but they also work towards the same goal: to shape the world we live in. It is such fundamental questions, alongside the manifold implications of digitalization, that require us to constantly question, debate and rethink the process of design and its tools. How can we design better? In everyday practice, the time we have to avail ourselves of the knowledge and tools required for the respective design task is always limited and often extremely constrained. What can we learn, rethink, present and achieve within a certain period of time? Which working techniques, tools and strategies are most suitable for a certain task and to achieve the desired goals? How can we understand this activity, its tools, strategies and processes better in order to be able to practise it more successfully and teach it in a more qualified way? In the following chapters, we shall discuss three design approaches that have the potential to influence the course of architecture in the 21st century: digital, research-based, and social design. Each of these design practices contributes towards a more ­sustainable development. All three are quite different to current standard practices, and also in very different ways. FURTHER READING: de Graaf, Reinier (2017): Four Walls and a Roof: The Complex Nature of a Simple Profession. Cambridge, MA: Harvard, 2017 Pool, Matthew; Shvartzberg, Manuel (2015): The Politics of Parametricism. Digital Technologies in Architecture. London, New York: Bloomsbury, 2015 For further literature on the subject, see the Appendix p. 384.

DIGITAL DESIGN 3 00

Digital workflows in the design, planning, production and construction of buildings differ in many ways from conventional methods.The balance of power between once simple tools and the once powerful designer has been reversed. Digital tools are becoming ever more capable, but also more dominant and less transparent. Designers, on the other hand, are becoming increasingly dependent on the latest technology.

The debate in which Otl Aicher could still vehemently advocate the analogue

(Aicher 1991/1)

seems long over: today, the digital is omnipresent in cur-

rent design practice, and indispensable in everyday life. Technology has become ever smaller, faster and more invisible, and has long been able to simulate the analogue for our eyes and ears. The shadows that flickered

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grey and indistinct across the walls of Plato’s cave we now hold in our hands – on smartphones, tablets or notebooks – in colour and in 3D, their fleeting nature now felt beneath our fingertips. As we have seen in the chapter on Digital Research

(see pp. xxx),

the digital revolution has opened up

­fundamentally new ways of designing, producing and building, and although it has been underway for several decades, it is far from over. Today’s digital designers have access to much more storage capacity and computing power, and much more sophisticated programs and faster data connections than just ten years ago. The same statement was also true ten or twenty years ago and will probably hold true for some time to come. The great potential of digital design tools was discussed earlier in the individual chapters on tools in the preceding part of the book. Designers have access to much more information than ever before, and are able to process it more quickly. As this development continues, it will open up further new possibilities in the foreseeable future. But the initial enthusiasm has long since given way to a certain degree of scepticism. After several years of expectantly trusting in the promise of digitization, people are becoming increasingly disillusioned. Experience has shown that every new technology not only gives but also takes: it opens up new possibilities and makes others less accessible. The digital technologies long hailed as enabling participation and fostering empowerment by facilitating new, global forms of communication are now concentrated once again in the hands of a few corporations, in the East and in the West alike. The promised benefits are not quite as easy to achieve as expected, and the costs of their use not always apparent from the outset. And even then, things may be completely different in a few years’ time when new technical advances Robot playing go in the exhibition accompanying the 2050 Conference in Hangzhou. Photograph 2018

such as artificial intelligence, machine learning and quantum computers bring about the next developmental leap. While digitization in design focussed first on technical engineering calculations and then the graphical presentation of projects, it can now support, at least potentially, all phases of the design, planning and construction pro-

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cess from research, conception, analysis, shape generation, multi-dimensional data management, performance simulation, optimization and production to the construction process and building operation, maintenance and disposal. Each of these phases generates information which, in principle, could be relevant, or at least useful, for any other phase of the project. Whether and how this data is made available and usable could potentially facilitate a more intelligent future of design and construction. That is one view; another is that an exponentially growing flood of data will be unleashed that will become impossible to manage. Another fear is then that a repressive program structure would be prescribed to which everyone would have to ­conform. PRESENTATION

In current practice, one can identify a first level of digitization in the use of software for calculating, writing, drawing and modelling, using office applications, ArchiCAD/AutoCAD, Photoshop or similar software to digitally reproduce the functionalities of conventional, analogue design tools. The ability to more easily manipulate presentation material comes at the expense of having to use hardware and software tools that are much more complex and elaborate than the ruler, pen and paper of the past. The representations produced using analogue design tools such as sketches, drawings or 3D models but also calculations and texts are now digitally generated, recorded, stored and processed for further use. This first level of digitization already fundamentally changes the nature – or if you will the ontological status – of the digitalized media. In place of tools composed of atoms and molecules, one now works with tools that consist only of electrons. The shift from working at the molecular and atomic to the electronic level entails a fundamental change in the rules of physics by which one works. The physical mass of the tools used (now called programs or apps) and the objects being worked on (in the form of electrons) is no longer tangible. In addition, they work at the speed of light and with absolute precision, and

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Walt Disney Concert Hall, Los Angeles, Frank Gehry, 1988–2003. Photograph: Carol M. Highsmith, 2005

the results can be communicated over huge distances without any loss of quality. The only prerequisite is that all data, texts, images, models and so on are translated into ones and zeros with the help of algorithms (at present at least; this may change with quantum computers). This ontological shift entails that one no longer works with material but rather with abstract, mathematical data. For the most part, designers are largely unaware of this, especially when their attention is absorbed by the projects they are working on. Theoretical reflection on the implications of this is therefore rare, at least where the media and tools of design are concerned. The relative simplicity and immediacy of use of the first generation of digital tools was lost as software programs grew increasingly complex. In this context, quickly produced freehand sketches and notes have gained renewed appreciation as tools for rapid exploration and communication unhindered by the distractions of adhering to the software’s working method. Even the first CAD programs were far too complex to be developed from scratch by architects themselves. The office of Frank Gehry was a pioneer in

this regard, adapting software from the aircraft industry to the field of architecture. CATIA is a software package developed by engineers at the French aircraft manufacturer Dassault since the late 1970s and is now used in aircraft construction (Airbus, Boeing), automotive engineering (Peugeot, Renault, Volkswagen, Toyota, etc.) and many other areas. It employs a vir-

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tual 3D model that is used by the designers and by the engineers for calculations but above all serves as a basis for production. Gehry’s office adapted this software to be more suited to the needs of architects, adding improved visualization, tools for managing communications between architects, engineers, consultants and construction companies, and a data exchange system for providing producers with the necessary data for the production of individual components.

(cf. Goldberger 2015, p. 385)

The first major project to be

planned and built this way was the Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao, which was thus also one of the first examples of Building Information Modeling. (loc. cit., p. 298)

Frank Gehry himself, however, did not use computers at all and based his designs entirely on analogue tools such as sketches and working models. Only in the next step were the resulting shapes transferred into the digital realm, which was indispensable for realizing the projects. It was with the help of digital tools that these buildings could be calculated and produced at reasonable cost. Here, computers were used exclusively as tools for planning and execution, but not for creative design.

(loc. cit., p. 292)

GENERATION

A second developmental step in the digitization of design takes the possibilities offered by digital means as its starting point. Rather than merely representing or manipulating form by digital means, it explores the generation of form using corresponding scripts and algorithms. These do not describe the form itself but the respective mathematical logic by which a program generates the individual aspects that make up the form, relating them to each other by rules determined in each case. Design in this respect is the generation, linking and control of electronic data, more commonly described as generative, parametric or computational design. Conceptually and methodologically, this is a completely different approach. Rather than dealing directly with the form of the resulting object, a designer must first identify the mathematical parameters that the program uses to generate the resulting form.

By linking and varying these parameters, design variants can be generated until a satisfactory solution is found. Parametric design practices can be traced back to Greek antiquity and the Song Dynasty in China. Vitruvius, for example, describes the design method for temples in which a “base unit” (or “modulus”) is first determined

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that then serves as a basis for calculating all the other dimensions of the building:

“The composition of a temple is based on symmetry, whose principles architects should take the greatest care to master. Symmetry derives from proportion, which is called ἀναλογία [analogia] in Greek. Proportion is the mutual calibration [modulus] of each element of the work and of the whole, from which the proportional system is achieved. No temple can have any compositional system without symmetry and proportion, unless, as it were, it has an exact system of correspondence to the likeness of a well-formed human being.” (Vitruvius III, 1,1)

Drawing showing how to calculate the proportions of an Ionic capital according to Vitruvius. In: Walther Ryff: Vitruvius Teutsch, Nuremberg, 1548

This “unit of mutual calibration” is therefore the first parameter – the “base dimension” from which all other parameters for the temple’s design are derived. Using the example of the human body, this method aims to ensure that all parts of the structure are well-proportioned in relation to each other. A further parameter that Vitruvius names is the measure of space between

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the columns, which he uses to define different types of temples. In the case of the Eustylos, which he called the “beautiful-column” temple type, the inter-

columniation dimension was 2 ¼ column thicknesses. He describes the calculation of this temple as follows:

“The front of the site to be occupied by the temple, if it is to be tetrastyle, should be divided into 11 ½ parts, not counting the steps and the projection of the bases; if there are to be six columns across, divide into 18 parts. If it is to be octastyle, divide it into 24 ½. […] One of these units should be adopted, and it will be the module [modulus]. This module is equal to the thickness of a column. The individual ­intercolumniations, except for the central one, measure 2 ¼ modules. The central intercolumniation, both front and rear, is 3 modules in breadth. The height of the individual columns is 9 ½ modules.” (Vitruvius III, 3.7) From this we can identify a third parameter for the design of a temple: the number of columns across the front. Vitruvius goes on to give precise ­specifications for calculating the shape of further details such as the base, plinths and capitals of the columns. Always starting from the base dimension, these are calculated using integer fractions (e.g. 3/16 column thickness). (cf. Vitruvius III, 5,1-3)

One could almost describe Vitruvius’ method as being

digital as all his forms can be precisely determined by calculations. The same applies to the modular timber construction methods of the Song Dynasty described by Li Jie (李誡; 1065–1110) in Yíngzào Faˇshì (the Chinese equivalent of Vitruvius’ Ten books), which employ two key basic dimensions called

Cái [材] and Fèn [分]. Cái refers to the cross-section of the main cantilever arm of a structure, which is 15 Fèn high and 10 Fèn wide. The Fèn unit of measurement is then used to determine the other dimensions of the construction.

(see Fu 2017, pp. 209 ff.)

Digitalization has transformed the practice of parametric design and given it a whole new meaning. While Vitruvius or Li Jie used parameters to set out predefined design rules, they are now used to create forms that cannot be represented with reasonable effort using analogue design tools or could

not otherwise be determined with sufficient precision for the production and construction of a building. The number of parameters and the degree to which they are interlinked is also incomparably greater than in the past. The primary difference, however, is that designers who were previously only users of predefined program functions are now becoming programmers of

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their personal digital design tools. Parametric design techniques are used predominantly by larger, global architecture and engineering firms with the resources to develop and use complex digital design tools for highly industrialized and automated calculation, production and construction methods. The scripts and algorithms in programs such as Rhino/Grashopper or Revit often produce visually impres-

Exterior view and interior of the Boolean Operator Pavilion, Marc Fornes, Jinji Lake Biennale, Suzhou, 2018

sive, iconic buildings on a large scale, whose formal language appeals to an international audience and continues the modernist narrative of the artistic avant-garde. In conjunction with digitally controlled production techniques that permit the manufacture of individually varying components, these design tools

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enable softer and more fluid, but also more expressive formal languages. Significantly more complex results can be produced with a reasonable amount of effort, and one no longer has to rely on the repetition of geometrically simple, identical elements. Patrik Schumacher, who has consistently explored these possibilities, has described a style of building that he calls “parametricism” and which has both functional and formal aspects. At a functional level, it avoids the rigid declaration of fixed usage clichés in favour of creating spaces for simultaneous, overlapping uses that can accommodate a range of coexisting activities. At a formal level, it avoids rigidly geometric forms such as squares, triangles or circles, as well as the simple repetition or arbitrary arrangement of unrelated volumes, favouring instead soft forms composed of elements that are formed according to parametric rules. These rules are systematically varied in accordance with the specific needs and circumstances and combined to form subsystems that relate to each other in a variety of ways.

(see Schumacher 2012, pp. 656 ff.)

As varied and promising as the tools of generative and parametric design are, and as impressive as some of the resulting works are, it is hard to say whether this truly constitutes a new style or can justifiably even claim to be the “epochal style of the 21st century”.

(loc. cit., pp. 622 ff.)

On the one hand, its

­attendant desire to represent a global avant-garde has strong echoes of the progressive thinking of modernity. And on the other, its formal and functional criteria are perhaps a little too simple to be sustainable for an entire century. For example, forms composed of varying triangles are just as “parametric” or “digital”. The discourse on modernity, postmodernity, regional and deconstructivist architecture asserted the right to a plurality of positions that still corresponds most closely to the different social and cultural groups in the world’s society. This cannot simply be thrown overboard. Is there such a thing as “digital” architecture? The term is sometimes used to denote buildings whose geometry could not have been designed and whose construction would not have been possible without certain software. But can the digital itself be represented by architectural means? The solid

materiality of buildings and their very permanence would seem to oppose this. To convey the electronically flowing character of the digital, we must turn to means other than steel or concrete. The first convincing visualization of the digital in my view is the installation “OH” by Jenny Holzer in the large hall of Mies van der Rohe’s Neue Nationalgalerie in Berlin in 2001. It

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comprised bands of LED tickers of the kind used commonly for advertising at that time. Attached to the undersides of the steel beams on the ceiling, they turned the huge roof into a projection surface for her work. The tickers were programmed to produce different patterns generated by texts every few minutes, transforming the space into a large-scale visualization of electronic simultaneity. The ticker streams, which accelerated towards the centre, looked like a data highway that emitted sudden orange lightning bolts at unexpected moments. In the evening, the boundaries of the space appeared to dissolve with darkness and the increasing reflections. Standing in the building as it grew darker, the ribbons of moving letters shone not just from their emitters but seemed to continue on out into the night sky. 2001)

(cf. Gänshirt

Jenny Holzer’s installation cast a new light on the mathematical

­elegance of Mies van der Rohe’s late work.

(see fig. p. 202) In

the big cities of

Southeast Asia, one now sees whole clusters of high-rise buildings ­illuminated at night by individually programmable LEDs. They have in effect become screens at an urban scale, albeit mostly bearers of commercial advertising. PROVIDING INFORMATION (BIM)

The concept sounds promising: all the data of a project is linked via a threedimensional model in such a way that everyone involved in a project can work with it. A third developmental step in the digitization of design is BIM, which stands for Building Information Modeling. BIM also uses para­ meters to efficiently organize data, but its central premise is to organize all the information and communications pertaining to a planning and construction process on the basis of a central 3D model. From a theoretical per­ spective, that immediately raises some questions: doesn’t the linking of all the data require additional work, and will that not increase exponentially with the level of detail recorded? One way of avoiding, or at least reducing this work, would be to parameterize the data. However, in the early design phases in particular, where changes are more frequent and substantial, it can

be helpful to work with the abstraction of a simple drawing. At this stage, it is desirable to deal with only a few data sets that can be changed quickly and easily without having to switch from conventional visual to parametricalgorithmic thinking. The principle of BIM sounds simple, but in practice it is anything but.

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To ensure the coherence of multi-dimensional project data across the various parties involved in the numerous work stages that can sometimes span several years requires a great deal of effort. The fact that professionals from different disciplines work with very different software programs, updated at different intervals, and use numerous different data formats, creates ­problems of adaptation. A range of different interfaces are required, and countless detailed questions need to be resolved. At its core, BIM is about ensuring communications between participants with varying needs for the purposes of planning, costing and legal conformity in which precision and reliability are indispensable. This applies both horizontally, between designers and other planning partners and specialist engineers, and vertically between the building owners, its future users and project managers, the lead design architects, planning approval authorities, contract-awarding partners, construction managers, contractors, producers, site management companies and finally the operators of the building. A central aspect of every tool is the relationship between what one can achieve with it and the ease or difficulty of its handling. In Gehry’s case, parametric working methods functioned because the CATIA program used by his office supports all the essential functions from shape generation to engineering machining and the production of individual components in a linear workflow. The same program can be used by all the other participants in the process: the engineers as well as the producers and construction ­companies. However, BIM can become an information technology nightmare when the number of project participants and the various programs or program versions they use increases but the interfaces for exchanging data do not perfectly meet the requirements. Although the concept of BIM has been discussed for a long while and consistently promoted by software vendors, clients and government agencies, the designers themselves, as well as the construction industry, are ­clearly reluctant to adopt it. According to a study from 2019 involving interviews with directors of design, construction and plant engineering compa-

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Inner courtyard and façade of the Galaxy Soho building in Beijing, Zaha Hadid Architects, 2008–2014. Photographs 2014

nies, only 9 % of all projects in Germany employed BIM in the period from from around 2017 to 2019; even in the field of design the figure was no greater than 12 %.

(PwC 2019, p. 11)

This is especially revealing, when one con-

siders that most do believe that BIM promises more efficient workflows, shorter planning and construction times, and better cooperation and coordination between all parties.

(loc. cit., p. 4)

There are several possible reasons: the cost of the programs and training, the additional workload that complicates the actual design process, or the perception that the benefits are reaped mostly in the later stages of planning. BIM is perceived as being technically challenging and time-consuming to implement. (loc. cit., p. 3) Specialized BIM modellers and BIM coordinators are needed who have the necessary expertise. Where the benefits are most likely to outweigh the additional effort is for large projects and in large offices with the requisite specialists. For many, however, it remains unclear which

programs, tools, data formats and workflows BIM stands for. The simplicity of the catchy abbreviation belies the complexity of the topic. BIM aims to be nothing less than a comprehensive solution to the many problems of data traffic between all project participants. But does this mean a linear workflow in which everyone works with the same program, or a communi-

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cation platform that can be accessed by multiple participants using the ­programs commonly used in their respective disciplines? As the complexity of projects, programs and data formats increases, the difficulties are likely to increase rather than decrease. Nor can solutions developed in one country be simply transferred to another: aside from the language barrier, planning processes, building and public procurement law conditions, units and dimensioning rules, as well as building standards differ from country to country. At the same time, if the practice of design is to embrace the requirements of ecologically, economically and socially sustainable development, it must consider the environmental life-cycle consequences, economic efficiency and social implications of each design decision. The amount of data and life-­ cycle assessment calculations this entails would probably not be manageable without BIM. OPTIMIZATION

Design can also be described as the generation and evaluation of data that, taken together, represent all the essential characteristics of a project. Today’s digital techniques make it possible to control large amounts of data with great accuracy, in turn opening up new possibilities of particular interest to designers and builders (not to mention totalitarian regimes). The quantity of information available is greater than ever before, but its value is not always easy to determine. A fourth step of digitization is therefore to simulate ­different aspects of a design in order to analyse, compare and subsequently optimize the potential and fit of the generated variants. Originally, these work steps were (and still are) undertaken by consulting engineers from various disciplines. They concern everything from the structural performance and dynamics of the load-bearing system to aspects ­related to building services such as heating, cooling, energy consumption, heat gain and CO2 balance, shading, solar exposure, lighting and ventilation, acoustic and thermal comfort, along with building physics characteris-

Floor plan and stress analysis diagram of a proposed 3D-printed bridge made of stainless steel, MX3D with Joris Laarman Lab, Amsterdam, and Arup with the Alan Turing Institute, London, 2018

tics such as diffusion behaviour, heat recovery, thermal insulation and energy balance. Further areas include compliance with planning laws and building regulations, e.g. length and width of escape routes, evacuation time, fire protection and urban design parameters. In addition, the planning and ­construction process itself can be optimized: the construction time and construction costs along with economic efficiency across the phases of construction, use, maintenance and demolition and disposal. To optimize the sustainability of a design, the effects of many such factors must be considered over the entire life cycle of a building and weighed up against each other. Scientific and technical advances over the past decades have given rise to much more efficient materials and construction methods and with it to much higher demands on the performance and sustainability of a building. Bringing all these requirements into a practicable balance without contradicting the functional and aesthetic goals of a design is challenging, especially when the individual disciplines are very specific and insular. A fundamental challenge in this respect is firstly to translate all these questions into algorithms that can help identify optimal solutions for the individual factors and secondly to then weigh up and weight multiple, often competing or even conflicting objectives.

Various optimization tools are available as plug-ins for programs like Revit or Rhino/Grasshopper. Thomas Wortmann has investigated which algorithms are best suited for mathematical optimization, how to combine different criteria and how to present the results in a way that supports designers in their visual thinking. Using a black-box algorithm suitable for optimiza-

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tion, he developed a graphical interface for Grasshopper for visualizing the results. The program called Opossum, which is freely available and can be used without programming knowledge, generates interactive, multi-dimensional “fitness landscapes” which allow designers to independently explore the so-called solution space. (Wortmann 2018) While mathematical optimization methods have long been developed for specific aspects such as load-bearing characteristics and lighting or energy patterns, there is not yet a transparent means of weighing up and weighting the various factors. Similarly, it remains unclear how one can represent actual architectural tasks using such methods. Because all digital working methods are ultimately based on quantification, they tend to shift the focus towards technical and quantitative aspects. Also, as the programs needed become increasingly complex, there is a danger that such systems will focus only on those phenomena that can be expressed in numbers and algorithms to the exclusion of other equally valid considerations. Central architectural values

Perspective view of the stress analysis diagram of the proposed 3D-printed bridge

such as usability or aesthetics are, however, qualitative. Aspects that are fluid, such as the appropriateness or relative feasibility of a solution, its aesthetic qualities, or even its pioneering contribution to architectural discourse, are difficult to model with such systems. That does not mean that these techniques are not a great help. In the

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design phase, they may obviate the need to first seek the advice of consulting engineers, or at least shorten the process. They also make it easier to weigh up and coordinate multiple requirements. In combination with artificial intelligence and machine learning, they can open up completely new ways of designing. If the results of optimization can feed back directly into the parameters of a generative design process, then parts of the design ­process can actually be automated. The task of the designer then shifts from devising forms to establishing digital workflows from which forms, optimized according to multiple criteria, are automatically generated. PRODUCTION

Digitalization in the production sector has opened up new technical possibilities for producing building components and constructing buildings and with them new design potential. Alongside the more well-known subtractive production methods such as CNC-milling and laser cutting, a variety of ­digitally controllable production tools now exist that employ additive principles to produce forms: 3D printers can process all materials that can be pressed through nozzles, from plastics and clay to fibre-reinforced concrete, glass and even chocolate. Robotic arms can also be equipped with tools ranging from gripper arms and glue applicators to milling tools and nozzles or even electric welders. In addition, many other factory machines used for fabricating carpets or printing façade elements are now also digitally controllable. The concept of IPD – Integrated Project Delivery – is an attempt to coord­inate the often conflict-laden interactions between all those involved in the design, planning and construction process so that they act more as a team. By linking elements from the production phase more closely to the design and especially the detailed construction design phase, it aims to improve efficiency and precision: data generated by programs such as CATIA and Revit can be used directly, or with a few automated intermediate steps, to control the machines. The constraints imposed by each production pro-

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“Fitness landscape” for optimizing design variants according to multiple criteria shown as different axes (after Wortmann 2018, p. 183, colours have been modified)

cess can be made available to the parametric design process, improving the technical feasibility and buildability of the design. Similarly, time constraints in the construction process – e.g. the production of individual components in the correct sequence and their just-on-time delivery to the site – can be considered right from the design phase. The great economic advantage of digitally controlled production ­processes is that (within certain limits) different-shaped components can be produced at almost the same cost and to the same precision with which comparable elements were produced in the pre-digital age. The resulting mass ­customization permits designs to be better adapted to local conditions, both in general and in detail, and expands the range of technical and formal possibilities significantly. The 3D printing of entire buildings, however, will remain an illusion. The variety of materials and technical systems that together constitute modern buildings cannot all be 3D printed to the required quality, let alone by a sin-

gle machine. While fibre-reinforced concrete can be used to print walls, the resulting surfaces are of a quality well below that of usual construction ­standards. Ceiling elements can also be produced in the same way, but only installed after they have hardened. Freeform steel components can, however, be produced using additive welding processes. But even when a building

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shell can be printed, there is still the weatherproofing, thermal insulation and fitting out to be done. Digitization has also changed the components and buildings themselves: light switches have been replaced by sensors, doors have card readers that register everyone who passes through them, and surfaces can become photographs or projection surfaces, screens or even cameras. By breaking down a surface into individually controllable brick-sized pixels, walls can become transmitters of images. Alternatively, individual wall elements can be controlled directly, transforming surfaces into screens. Large buildings that act as urban-scale screens displaying moving images are an increasingly common sight in large cities. And when all the technical functions of a building are digitally accessible, whether it be door or window openings or the air conditioning, the data this generates can in turn be used to optimize its operation.

3D-printed wall element made of fibrous concrete. Photograph 2015

A 3D-printed bridge made of stainless steel, MX3D with Joris Laarman Lab, Amsterdam, and Arup with the Alan Turing Institute, London, 2018 top: View from above: Joris Laarman Lab middle: Detail: Adriaan de Groot bottom: Welding robot: Olivier de Gruijter next page: Overall view: Thijs Wolzak

Roof landscape and façade constructions made of historical roof tiles. Folk Art Museum at the China Academy of Art, Xiangshan Campus, Hangzhou, Kengo Kuma & Associates 2015. Photographs 2016

TECHNOLOGY OR CULTURE?

In the European tradition, buildings, at least those with architectural aspirations, are usually designed to be unique and as individual and innovative as possible. Because the degree of repetition is comparatively low, the resources available for their design and planning are limited, even if only for

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reasons of economy. Digital technologies, however, make planning and constructions more efficient and this can, in an ideal world, benefit the quality of the designed and built object. But in an economic order where profit is absolute, it is far from certain whether this will be the case. The fear is that the trend towards standardization will instead continue, which in turn hinders the innovation and local adaptation necessary to produce more sustainable architecture. As programs become increasingly complex, and their black-box algorithms start to be generated by artificial intelligence and machine learning, they will become increasingly indispensable in everyday life but also no ­longer intelligible to normal users. Apps can then do everything in the background without the knowledge or permission of their users, and business models arise that are based on monopolizing information or undermining existing laws. As a result, economic and political power becomes concentrated in fewer hands, a development that risks bringing democracy and the project of enlightenment to an unintended end. In architecture, a possible consequence is that digital technologies will increase the distance – spatial and mental – between the designer and the designed object. Because the digital multiplies the flow of information and the amount of available information many times over, it is pushing itself between ourselves and direct experience. We are already seeing vast ­buildings being created that are perfectly and seamlessly integrated into the non-places of global modernity but bear little relation to the culture or everyday life of the place they are built in. Architectural creation that instead refers to cultural tradition, that draws on and references cultural and local particularities, that values collective memory, that refers to and reflects the history and character of the place where it is to be made, that consciously takes into account the past rather than positing an abstract “clean-sheet” future, does not necessarily have to be mired in the past. Quite the opposite: in today’s global modernity, we need the specific, the local and the characteristic as a necessary counter-

weight to the demonstrative universality of contemporary architecture, regardless of its formal language. Even a country like China, which during the Cultural Revolution and long thereafter vehemently repressed all that was deemed handed down from the past in its unconditional striving for modernity, has since come to the

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realization that there is nothing to be gained by eradicating all historical structures so that all cities become more and more alike. In a good city, one wants both: buildings that are forward-looking and progressive and that embrace the latest developments, and others that embody the singular qualities, culture and history of the place. For it is precisely these that make an unmistakable contribution to global society. FURTHER READING: Bohnacker, Hartmut; Groß, Benedikt; Laub, Julia (2009): Generative Gestaltung. Entwerfen, programmieren, visualisieren. Edited by Claudius Lazzeroni. Mainz: Hermann Schmidt, 2009. English edition: Generative Design. Visualize, Program, and Create with Processing. New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 2012 Marble, Scott (Ed.) (2012): Digital Workflows in Architecture. Designing Design – Designing Assembly – Designing Industry. Basel: Birkhäuser, 2012 For further literature on the subject, see the Appendix p. 384.

RESEARCH-BASED DESIGN 3 24

The relationship between architecture and science is not clear-cut, as discussed in the chapter on “Design and research”. Design is in many respects the subject of scientific research, but designers also use scientific methods, concepts and findings from a wide range of disciplines for their work.

When Filippo Brunelleschi won the competition in 1418 to build a dome over the central octagon of the Cathedral in Florence, he could not draw on an existing building tradition, or on techniques or design tools handed down over the ages. After all, a structure of this shape and size had not been built in Europe for about 1300 years. There were no engineers to

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advise him, nor any research institutes, not to mention faculties of architecture. At that time, the libraries in Europe had only one book on architecture and it was 1440 years old and available only as a Latin manuscript. Nobody could tell Brunelleschi what to do or how to do it; he had to find out for himself. But he was used to that. Brunelleschi had spent several years in Rome studying the buildings and ruins from antiquity. What techniques and materials had been used to build the Pantheon? He examined ruins to see how the parts were put together and saw which types of construction had survived the centuries well and which had not. But he did not restrict himself to observing and analysing alone. Back in Florence he conducted experiments, developed new methods of representation, surveying and building, built models from a wide variety of materials and constructed the first known perspectives in art history, which were later described by Leon Battista Alberti. Alberti, a generation younger than Brunelleschi, came to architecture not, as was more usual at the time, by working as a craftsman but through research. Following Brunelleschi’s example, he also studied the Roman buildings and ruins. Later he studied Vitruvius’ Ten books and, based on them, wrote the first book of the

Details of Roman ruins that reveal how they were ­constructed. Photographs 2017

modern age on the craft of building. (Alberti 1485)

Most of his major works of

architecture only followed after its publication. For architectural practice in the Renaissance, the study of ancient buildings and texts became a vital source of information. Filippo Brunelleschi and Leon Battista Alberti mark the beginning of a new age of architectural practice no longer based solely on the transmission of practical and artistic craftsmanship, as

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­embodied by the medieval guilds and masonic lodges, but also on a new, emerging kind of research that combined on-site investigations of actual ­historical buildings, experimentation and the articulation of theory. It made a decisive contribution to the development of our modern scientific view of the world. A FOUNDATION OF MODERNITY

These two “architects” of the Renaissance were not yet architects in today’s sense – Brunelleschi was trained in literature and mathematics and then as a goldsmith and in drawing, while Alberti was a lawyer – but their example created the conditions for the emergence of both the profession and the discipline. Following the new path they had embarked on, many others have since based their design work on research and rationality. For generations of European architects, a period of several years spent in Rome exploring the ancient buildings was the most formative part of their training, as institutionalized by the Prix de Rome of the Paris École des Beaux-Arts, which each year awarded scholarships to its most successful students to do just that. Many German architects of the 18th and 19th centuries – Langhans, Schinkel, Klenze, Weinbrenner, Hübsch, Semper – likewise spent several years in Italy. Rome’s position as the pre-eminent source of inspiration was first called into question by Le Corbusier, though he stood by the principle of research. Instead, Le Corbusier and his friend August Klipstein embarked on a research trip “to the Orient” in 1911, setting off from Berlin via Prague, Vienna and Budapest to Istanbul and from there via Greece and Italy, where he finally visited Rome and Florence, back to La Chaux-de-Fonds.

(Gresleri 1991)

The young Robert Venturi, too, used a research grant for a stay in Rome to write Complexity and Contradiction, which was later published by the Museum of Modern Art and became one of the foundational texts of postmodernism. (Venturi 1966) A few years later, Learning from Las Vegas was written, based on the results of a research seminar that Venturi had taught with Denise Scott Brown and Steven Izenour at the University of Pennsylvania,

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Floor plan and section through the dome of Florence Cathedral, Lodovico Cardi da Cigoli (1559–1613)

which included a study trip to Las Vegas.

(Venturi et. al. 1972)

Rem Koolhaas’

research interest, on the other hand, sprung from a master’s thesis he had begun in the early 1970s under Oswalt Mathias Ungers at Cornell University and focussed on the most dynamic city of the time. The resulting book Delirious New York – A Retroactive Manifesto for Manhattan

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1978)

(Koolhaas

also went on to become a seminal text. In it he outlined the concept of

a functional “Culture of Congestion” which many years later would serve as the basis for Koolhaas’ design for the CCTV Tower in Beijing. If we look at some of the most important architects not just of the 20th century but also of the entire modern era, we find that many of them began writing and publishing at the beginning of their careers, undertaking both theoretically and practically oriented research work that developed and ­substantiated their design approach and subsequently went on to form the basis of their design work. Several of these works of research, whether by Brunelleschi, Le Corbusier or Rem Koolhaas, take buildings from a particular characteristic city as model to examine and learn from. Created in the early years of their respective careers, the authors used them to pursue the goal of developing an independent basis for their design approach. Each of these works achieved fame as being paradigmatic for an entire direction. The same is true for the research work of Jane Jacobs, Aldo Rossi or Rafael Moneo, Frei Otto or Thomas Herzog, Christopher Alexander and Peter Eisenman, all the way to Wang Shu and Kengo Kuma. Unfortunately, the majority of today’s students see these publications more as models of architecture to emulate rather than as motivation to embark on their own line of enquiry. In view of the considerable number of renowned architects who can attribute their success to their own research, it is regrettable that many schools of architecture still see research or even writing a dissertation as an unusual way of qualifying prospective architects. While designers who only operate within established standards can without doubt get by with less research, they should still be aware of the best current examples of buildings for the task they are facing, as well as the properties of the latest relevant materials and technical systems, and the current status of local building regulations. Design-related research can take many forms, and should be understood as being different from highly detailed research projects which would be liable to ­narrow a designer’s horizon.

Research-based design means not only relying on existing knowledge when designing, but also on actively generating new knowledge as part of a design process or for one’s own design practice. The knowledge gained can be incorporated into one’s designs or they can be based on it. Aside from that, data is constantly being generated during the design process itself that

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can be analysed and evaluated using scientific methods with a view to ­translating it into applicable knowledge. While digitization has multiplied the volume of available information, it has also made it harder to determine what is relevant and current. As such, the ability to independently validate received knowledge is becoming increasingly important. For this reason alone, it is essential to familiarize oneself with scientific working methods: How meaningful is a study? On which data is information or a hypothesis based? How comprehensible and conclusive is an argument, and to what extent can it be transferred to other areas? The tools provided by the sciences – or rather the knowledge, concepts, theories, methods and instruments as well as the information they generate – are all based on the principles of transparency and reproducibility, and thus in the broadest sense, on empiricism and rationality. They contribute to a better understanding of architecture as a cultural phenomenon and as a technical challenge, and help us design buildings more precisely tailored to the many different requirements. Likewise, the ecological, economic and social sustainability of a design cannot be measured or assessed without scientific knowledge and methods. Today, research-based design employs diverse methods from the cultural and natural sciences as well as practical or artistic research to develop a methodological basis, supporting argu­ mentation, a narrative, inspiration or a guiding idea for a design approach or ­process. ARCHITECTURE-RELATED SCIENCES

Which sciences are relevant to research-based design? At the broadest level, design articulates our spatial and cultural ways of being in the world and can relate to any aspect of human existence, and thus to any science. The duality of sciences versus humanities is of little help to designers as they depend on knowledge from all kinds of disciplines that cannot be reduced to one or the other of these two categories. It is more important to be familiar with the most relevant disciplines, at least to the extent that one can rec-

ognize the theories, concepts and methods on which they are based and, where necessary, investigate and apply them. Which subject areas are most important depends on the design task and approach. In terms of the “formal” sciences, the fields of mathematics, especially geometry, logic, statistics and, for a while now, also the computer sciences are fundamental, as are

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physics, chemistry and biology from the natural sciences. From the social sciences, the fields of communication, economics and anthropology are relevant; from the humanities, philosophy, especially ethics and aesthetics, history, art and ­cultural studies and gender studies; and from the applied sciences all design disciplines and the engineering sciences. To be equally familiar with all these sciences and their latest developments is not feasible, especially for an individual designer. But it is also not necessary. While it is true that the quantity and quality of the knowledge that informs a design can make a vital contribution to the success of a project, in architectural design a lot of scientific knowledge is implicit. It can influence a design and construction without the designer being fully aware of it. Designers can employ materials and techniques, but also cultural codes, without knowing exactly how they are produced, why they work or how they affect us. Nevertheless, designers cannot do entirely without the scientific perspective. Knowledge of the various forms and possibilities of scientific work serves as a basis for critically assessing the value of information. In the case of architecture-related research, this is no easy task because the methods commonly used in the respective fields to ascertain, acquire and evaluate knowledge overlap and contradict each other. To do justice to the different aspects of designs, one approach is to combine different, complementary research perspectives in such a way that, when taken together, they produce a balanced, coherent picture of the topic in question. pp. 441 ff.)

(Groat & Wang 2013,

It is useful to understand the various epistemologies – i.e. theories

on the preconditions for cognition and how we acquire knowledge – so that we can gain a better idea of how they relate to one another and to architectural practice. Part of the widespread uncertainty about how to deal with science is also a product of the ideas designers have about themselves and their work. Those whose leanings are more artistic may be more averse to research and perhaps even cultivate the prejudice that knowledge represents an obstacle

to individual creativity. This has historical origins. As an academic discipline, architectural design was long assigned to the arts. Today, the National Center for Education Statistics (NCES, USA) classes it, along with all other design disciplines, as a profession and as an applied science, just like law, medicine, agriculture, forestry and business administration or journalism

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and engineering. What all applied sciences have in common is that they use knowledge from all available fields, from physics and chemistry to mathematics and computer science or history and philosophy and apply it to their respective practice. If basic research is about general knowledge of universal interest that each science produces (including architecture), then applied research is about developing new knowledge in relation to a specific problem and combining it with relevant existing knowledge until a practicable solution is found. New findings are analysed and evaluated in a systematic feedback loop against the respective scientific method until they can serve as new knowledge for the next work stage. This process of “Research & Development” (R & D) is widely used in the industrial sector as a means of arriving at new or improved products, and is also becoming increasingly important in architecture. The similarity between the “design cycle” described in the first part of this book, and the so-called “scientific method”, i.e. the ideal underlying all scientific research in the natural sciences, is remarkable. It, too, is a circular process that begins with the definition of a task or research question. Once sufficient information has been collected or observations made to provide a preliminary answer, an initial hypothesis is formulated. On the basis of this, experiments are then conducted to verify the assumptions made. The resulting data is then systematically recorded, analysed and interpreted in order to draw conclusions about the validity of the experiments and the correctness or incorrectness of the hypothesis. The results may confirm the assumptions made and lead on to the formulation of a corresponding theory, or they may call them into question, necessitating critique and the formulation of a new, revised and better hypothesis. The cycle then starts over with a fresh series of further experiments. In this context, one can see a scientific hypothesis as being analogous to an initial design idea. Once presented, it can be analysed and interpreted so that it may be subjected to critique and improved in the next design cycle. Not every design idea turns out to be worth pursuing, just as every hypothesis

does not lead to new scientific knowledge. Both science and design share the goal of making reliable statements about the future behaviour of ­systems. How they differ lies less in the circular, iterative approach than in the methods and criteria by which the results achieved are presented and evaluated. The sciences are concerned with questions of measurability or at

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least observability, of true or untrue. In the architectural design cycle, the first instance is about valid or invalid and the second then about whether the results can be seen as being more feasible, more functional or more ­aesthetically appealing than earlier variants and to what extent it is fair to assume that a project realized according to the current idea, for example a building, will retain its characteristics in the long term. Architectural design cannot be reduced to questions of correctness in terms of “right” or “wrong”. Many decisions entail weighing up several factors and deciding between several only slightly different variants, between what’s “good” and “that little bit better”. EXAMPLES AND MODELS

Research-based design is predominantly practised in universities and its associated institutes. Not only do they have the necessary facilities and resources, but it also aligns with their role in society. A model in this respect, albeit now historical, was the Institute for Lightweight Structures (IL), which Frei Otto headed at the University of Stuttgart from 1964 to 1991. As students, we were impressed at the time by the experimental IL building constructed on Vaihingen campus as a test for the German pavilion at the Expo 67 in Montreal, but also by the symposia he held there. His doctoral dissertation Das hängende Dach. Gestalt und Struktur (Suspended roofs – form and structure), published in 1954, set the direction of his research, and was soon followed by further publications. In 1958, Frei Otto founded the Development Centre for Lightweight Construction in Berlin, and in 1961 the interdisciplinary Biology and Construction research group at the Technical University of Berlin together with the biologist Gerhard Helmcke, before being appointed to TH Stuttgart in 1964. In a speech given in his honour, Rainer Barthel described his working methods:

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Frei Otto. Thinking in Models. Exhibition at the ZKM Karlsruhe, curated by Georg Vrachliotis, 5 November 2016–19 March 2017

“For Frei Otto, the physical experiment is the most important tool in his work. His models are also experiments. Models made of elastic fabrics, foils and rubber membranes are used to study the shape of tents and air-supported structures, ­suspended models to study branching constructions, vaults and shells [... The experiment] also allows him to playfully handle unexpected constellations, the inclusion of chance and surprising results. The results are always selected also according to aesthetic aspects [...] The goal of his research is basically synthesis, only secondarily scientific analysis. He thus always remains an architect in his research.” (Barthel 2005, p. 6)

As mentioned earlier, cultural studies also offer an informative research perspective for architects and designers, especially as architecture itself can ultimately also be seen as a cultural and not just a technological or economic phenomenon. The Chinese architecture practice Amateur Architecture Studio is an example of how a new way of thinking can be successfully established in a market dominated by large state-run engineering-focussed “design ­institutes” and commercial investors, and how extraordinary projects can be realized on a large scale. Wang Shu, who founded the studio together with his wife Lu Wenyu in 1997 in Hangzhou, was already familiar with European art and architecture from his master’s thesis Notes from Underground. 1988)

(Wang

His doctoral thesis, Fictionalizing City (虚构城市), begins with a reflection

on modernism and postmodernism and proceeds through the work of Italo Calvino’s Invisible Cities and the theories of Aldo Rossi as well as structuralism and semiotics, the writings of Claude Lévi-Strauss, Michel Foucault and Roland Barthes before culminating in a fundamental critique of urban planning in the 1990s.

(Wang 2000)

Prior to these theoretical investigations, Wang

Shu worked together with local craftsmen and experimented with traditional building techniques while Lu Wenyu gained experience in the implementation of large building projects as an employee at a design institute. The two went on to combine traditional Chinese and modern industrial building techniques and materials, testing their implementation in a series of experimental buildings before applying them at a large scale in projects such as the Ningbo Museum and the Xiangshan Campus of the China Academy of Art in Hangzhou. One of the oldest, pre-scientific research methods that designers also use and have used for a long time, is collecting. Be it books, drawings, photo-

1127 1840 1850 1860 1870 1880 1890 1900 1910 1920 1930 1940 1950 1960 1970 1980 1990 2000

Paul Cézanne Van Doesburg De Stijl

Lux 19

Le Corbusier Surrealism

Constructing Reality

Marcel Duchamp

Anti-Cube Wang’s Critque of Modernism

Sainte Marie de La Tourette

Aldo van Eyck

Refuse of Preconceived Idea

Place Form

From functionism to classicism

Structuralism

Complex of Memories

Robert Venturi

Prototype

Complex of Inhabitation

Aldo Rossi

Image

Sign and Signified

The Architecutre of City

Norberg-Schulz

The Image of City

Ernst Cassirer Rhetoric

Ludwig Wittgenstein Peter Eisenman Le città invisibili

Linguistics thinking of Architecture

Collage City

Colin Rowe

What is City? Le Corbusier’s Citiy

Roland Barthes

Piceturesque

Criticism and Truth

Claude Levi-Strauss

Morhology of City Collage City Semiotics

Tiled Brick Wall

Typology

Chinese Craftship

Social Structure

Reconstruction of Memories Fictionalizing City The City where time stands still

Build a House

Building a Different World

Imagining the House

Illegal Architecture

Tiles Garden

Zhongshan Road

Expo Shanghai Pavilion

Geometry and Narrative

Tiles Garden

Thinking by Hands

Beginning of Design

Stagnating City

Fictionalizing City

Uninhabitable Houses

Record of Making Garden

Space Poetry

Master Thesis

Born 1963 1988 1990 1992 1994 1996 1998 2000 2002 2004 2006 2008 2010 2012 2014 2016

Mapping of the relationships to Western theories of architecture in publications by Wang Shu, Wu Hao, 2016

graphs, postcards, samples of building materials or product catalogues, collecting is in many ways part of architectural ­practice. In addition to those collections found in many architecture offices, which

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typically have a more direct use-related function, architects also specifically employ the method of collecting when designing. Eva Froschauer sees this as a distinct tool of design and discusses in her comprehensive study how designers collect data and objects as a means of visualizing various aspects of a design task or

Construction details of the Wa Shan Guesthouse on the Xiangshan Campus of the China Academy of Art, Hangzhou, Amateur Architecture Studio, Wang Shu and Lu Wenyu, 2013. Photograph 2016

design approach, ordering them and relating them to one another so that the resulting collection can serve as a basis for discussion, as source material, stimu-

lus or orientation during a design process.

(Froschauer 2019)

The verbal equivalent of this is the practice of collecting notes of ideas and thoughts in index boxes, which the German Literature Archive in Marbach has celebrated as “machines of the imagination”. 2013)

(Gfrereis & Strittmatter

The sociologist Niklas Luhmann took this a step further, adding a

­decisive element that immediately multiplies such a collection’s scientific use considerably. By linking his notes together with the help of a special open system, which combines the possibility of ever more extensive subdivisions with cross-references, keyword indexes and a bibliography, he transformed a simple card index into an outsourced memory. But it was also more than that: it was a thinking tool that enabled him to link a great deal of information according to his research interests and thus to constantly discover new connections and contexts.

(Schmidt 2016)

While research-based design can theoretically be based on any scientific knowledge, whatever discipline it may come from, the exploration of new architectural possibilities, innovative spatial programs, structures and formal languages requires the use of design itself as a research method. But, as Patrik Schumacher has pointed out, there are very few research institutions that explicitly address this topic:

“Neither as publicly funded university research nor in the form of research departments within the big architectural firms does there exist a clearly demarcated domain of architectural research distinct from design as the application of such research. Instead the discipline relies on two substitutes for explicitly institutionalized research: high profile architecture schools and practising avant-garde architects.” (Schumacher 2011, p. 133)

Two prominent examples are the Research Laboratory at the University of Tokyo, headed by Kengo Kuma, or the Arch Tec Lab at the ETH Zurich. The Design Research Lab, which Schumacher founded together with Brett Steele at the Architectural Association in London in 1996, is also dedicated to this type of research. Here he draws on the analogy of a scientific research programme for his concept of architectural style, while maintaining the distinction between the two: “The potential purpose of an architectural experiment is

often discovered in retrospect. Goals are the outcome rather than the starting point of a research.” (loc. cit., p. 135) For Schumacher, teaching in graduate programmes offers the best possible approach to a coherently structured research programme. He names two areas that it should address: firstly, to expand the task space, i.e. to explore new architectural problems with a view to formulating

Collections of colour and material samples in Alvar Aalto’s studio. Photograph 2018

new design goals that no client has as yet expressed; and secondly, to expand the solution space, i.e. by exploring new design media and modelling techniques with a view to developing innovative formal languages.

(loc. cit., p. 138)

To the latter one could also add the development of better materials and construction technologies.

338 DESIGN RESEARCH

Finding an appropriate position within the broad field of sciences is not easy for designers, as the above examples show. This is due in part to the historical development of the discipline and in part to its specific epistemological characteristics: on the one hand, several different sciences coincide in the design discipline, and on the other, the individual sciences were not as developed as they are now when the design discipline first emerged. The new subject of architecture was, therefore, initially assigned to the fine arts and taught at art academies, of which the most famous is the École des Beaux-Arts in Paris. In the Renaissance, too, this was an obvious consequence as there was no clear differentiation between the fine arts and the modern sciences, which were only just emerging. In the age of the Baroque, this classification was also a natural result of the close proximity of architecture, painting and sculpture. But after the French Revolution, the first École Polytechnique was founded in Paris in 1794, where the teaching of architecture acquired a stronger engineering focus and natural science perspective. This concept was then adopted by many newly founded schools in the 19th century from Vienna (1815) to Karlsruhe (1825), Delft (1842), Zurich (1855), Turin (1859), Milan (1863) and the MIT in Cambridge, Massachusetts (1865). Many of today’s most renowned schools of architecture stem from this concept of the polytechnic. The Technical Universities and Institutes of Technology of the 20th century were likewise derived from this tradition. By the mid-20th century, the methodologies of the natural sciences had become the model for all sciences, and the conception of art had also ­undergone a fundamental shift. Buckminster Fuller, who had made significant theoretical as well as practical advances in the field of research-based design, launched the World Design Science Decade in 1961, together with the Union Internationale des Architectes (UIA).

(www.bfi.org)

The Design Methods

Move­ment also began around the same time. The first conference on design ­methodology, held in London in 1962, led four years later to the founding

of the Design Research Society (DRS), which is still very active today. (www.designresearchsociety.org)

While in research-based design, the designer uses scientific knowledge and methods to test, justify and support design decisions, the concept of “Design Research” has quite different objectives and working methods:

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it aims to (1) formulate theory: to better explain design (as this book does), (2) conduct basic research: to draw on and synthesize knowledge from potentially relevant areas so that it can serve as the basis of a design (or a design methodology or approach), (3) be evaluative: to communicate, assess and optimize the suitability of created design alternatives using scientific methods, (4) be interpretative: to better understand the functional, aesthetic, social or cultural relevance of a design, as well as (5) retrospectively: to ­document, examine and compare designs that have already been completed, or (6) speculatively: to work out scenarios for future developments, to examine them with regard to their probability and desirability and, following on from that, to ascertain how certain outcomes can be avoided or encouraged. The growing pressure on today’s universities has also led to the practice of designing being declared a method of research, known variously as “Research by Design”, “PhD by Design” or “Artistic Research”, among other terms. This has led to a degree of uncertainty and confusion as the activities of architectural design and scientific research, although similar in some respects, also have clearly different working methods, intended results and assessment criteria. A contributing factor here is also that different discip­ lines define central concepts – such as “research”, “experiment” or “theory” – differently. In the natural sciences, for example, phenomena are observed and measured to the highest degree of precision, while in other no less important fields, observations and experiences are highly subjective and discussed with a view to finding a degree of intersubjective validity. The underlying question: “Is design and research the same thing?” is the focus of a detailed investigation by Linda Groat and David Wang, pp. 21–57)

(Groat and Wang 2013,

who conclude that:

“Design and research are neither polar opposites nor equivalent domains of activity; instead, subtle nuances and complementarities exist between the two. At their respective poles, yes, research tends to be more conceptually systematic; whereas design activity makes episodic uses of research.” (loc. cit., p. 57)

The Berlin-based philosopher Sabine Ammon has identified clear methodological, ontological and epistemological differences between architectural design and scientific experimentation: while a central criterion of scientific experiments is their reproducibility, the reproduction of a design would be disqualified as plagiarism. In fact, the multitude and complexity of the fac-

340

tors that inform a design and their different weighting in each respective case make it unlikely that two different designers would arrive at such similar designs. Where scientific experiments analyse existing, observable ­phenomena, the aim of design is to envisage something that does not yet exist and, in the course of this process, to acquire reliable knowledge as to ­whether the design, if realized, would meet the respective requirements. Ammon describes designing as an independent “epistemic practice” that employs a range of techniques and methods, each with its own tools and media – she mentions sketching, drawing, projecting, modelling, calculating and verbalizing – that serve as different “milieus of reflection”, which complement each other and can also be used in combination to verify the validity of the respective design ideas they give rise to. (cf. Ammon 2017, pp. 16–20) For this reason, universities would be well advised to accord more prominence to the practice of design and to recognize it as a method of investigation alongside scientific research. As an “epistemic practice”, design has the unique capacity to enable us to acquire knowledge about the future design of our environment that is reliable enough to successfully realize highly complex, large-scale designs. Ammon is right, however, in saying that building itself should not be seen as an experiment to test a design. (loc. cit., p. 20) That would be far too risky: one needs to be sure prior to construction that a design is buildable and will meet the envisaged expectations. This is why design is as central to the design disciplines as research is to the natural sciences. In the case of research projects in the applied sciences, these at least can be compared to designs. Designers for their part – at least those working in university environments – should endeavour to make the results of their work available to the public in the same transparent and comprehensible way that is self-evident in scientific disciplines. They should disclose the data and assumptions on which a design is based, cite all references used, explain their chosen approach in a reproducible manner, justify all essential decisions, and critically reflect on what has been achieved – ideally with a view to distilling this into transferable knowledge for others.

FURTHER READING: Ammon, Sabine; Froschauer, Eva (Eds) (2013): Wissenschaft Entwerfen. Munich: Fink, 2013 Borden, Iain; Rüedi Ray, Katerina (2000): The Dissertation. An Architecture Student’s Handbook. Oxford: Architectural Press, 2000, 2nd ed. 2006 Groat, Linda N.; Wang, David (2013): Architectural Research Methods. 2nd ed. New York:

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Wiley, 2013, 1st ed. 2002 For further literature on the subject, see the Appendix p. 385.

SOCIAL DESIGN 3 42

Society forms the framework for design and is also ultimately who we design for. This applies to the smallest detail as it does to urban planning or landscape architecture. Socially oriented design concerns the social function of what is designed, whether it be a community facility or social housing. It addresses disadvantaged users or social groups in society and involves the ­shaping of social processes and contexts or collective and participatory forms of designing and building.

Every design has a social component as soon as it involves or affects more than one person. As a design approach, however, social design looks for new, forward-looking ways of tackling design tasks that are primarily determined by social issues. It is informed by new research findings, by digital networks and better design tools but also by a new awareness of the social

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role of designers. Its overarching aim is to promote social sustainability. As such, it is as relevant for the design of community facilities and public buildings as it is for urban planning tasks, open spaces or the design of products and interiors. The practice of social design requires both a deeper understanding of social structures and contexts as well as a willingness to explore new ways of communication and designing, because, ultimately, the ideas that designers have of society and its future path of development influence consciously and subconsciously the decisions they make. Social design requires an understanding of what social privileges are, how and why they arise and what opportunities exist to allow socially less privileged people to participate in social life and receive a fair share of the resources available to society. The French sociologist Didier Eribon, for example, has shown how educational systems are systematically biased against children from socially disadvantaged families by expecting know­ ledge, resources and networks, as well as a habitus, that they do not have given their family backgrounds. Their chances of success are much lower, even if they have the same skills and motivation.

(Eribon 2009, Chapter IV)

Eribon also describes the social and psychological mechanisms of self-exclusion that in many cases hinder people from disadvantaged backgrounds developing the necessary motivation to overcome these hurdles.

(loc. cit.,

pp. 151 ff.)

For some, the social aspect is so fundamental to the activity of designing that they define their own practice entirely from this perspective. Patrik Schumacher, for example, bases his comprehensive theory of design discip­ lines on a theory of society. He describes architecture – his collective term for the design disciplines (Schumacher 2011, p. 25, note 40) – as an autonomous, autopoietic, i.e. independent, self-generating subsystem of world society. Here he is referring to the sociologist Niklas Luhmann’s systems theory that sees modern society as an increasingly differentiated number of distinct functional subsystems. Each of these systems is autonomous and self-reproducing according to its own rules, and interacts via clearly defined interfaces

with other subsystems of society. The most important of these, according to Luhmann, are the fields of economy, law, science, education, medicine, mass media, art and politics. Schumacher takes this a step further and suggests that rather than being classed under the arts, the design disciplines should be a separate autonomous subsystem of society. Following Luhmann’s

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systematic approach, Schumacher formulated a comprehensive theory, which he published in a two-volume work entitled The Autopoiesis of Architecture. (Schumacher 2011)

Schumacher identifies the framing of social communication as the unique social task that designers undertake. It is their way of “contributing to the

c­ontinuous provision and innovation of the built environment as a framing system of ­organized and articulated spatial relations.” (loc. cit., p. 371) The sheltering function of buildings, by contrast, he sees as the remit not only of architecture, but also of other subsystems such as those of engineers or building contractors.

(loc. cit., p. 367)

The ongoing design and development of the world

around us, and the task of giving form to social and technological progress, are certainly central aspects of all design professions. But for Schumacher, the most ­crucial drivers of innovation are the global avant-garde, the most innovative designers and the most progressive universities, who generally have sufficient resources and wide-ranging networks. SOCIAL INNOVATION

Schumacher’s focus, however, disregards a second important source of ­innovation: that of local subcultures. While these generally have to make do with fewer resources, they are more in touch with current social problems and developments. An example of the duality of the avant-garde and subcultures as sources of social innovation is the International Building Exhibition (IBA) in Berlin in the 1980s. It comprised two parts, the so-called IBA Neubau, led by Josef Paul Kleihues, that focused on new buildings designed by the international avant-garde architects of the time, and the IBA Altbau, which under the direction of Hardt-Waltherr Hämer focussed on the regeneration of existing quarters. At that time, this approach was innova­tive in that it completely broke with the usual practice of razing old, dilapidated buildings and replacing them with new buildings for social housing. A key benefit was that it avoided disrupting the social networks of the residents as well as the jobs of the small commercial enterprises whose

345

Design and building as a social event. Members of the ConstructLab group with their project The Arch, realized in summer 2017 in Thor Park in Genk, Belgium. Photograph: Julie Guiches, © OST collective, 2017

diversity contributes to the districts’ vibrant character to this day. But as an approach, it contrasted so fundamentally with the modernist urban renewal practices of the previous generations that it had taken nearly fifteen years – from 1968 to 1983 – for it to become politically accepted. The starting point for this innovation was a wave of squats that began

346

occupying the numerous empty apartment buildings. Before long, many were forcibly evicted by the police. However, the ensuing demonstrations and street battles resisting the police operations brought about a change in public attitude that, according to Hämer, marked the beginning of a shift in political thinking and the emergence of the concept of “gentle urban regeneration”.

(Hämer 1984, p. 16)

This approach, which Hämer had been devel-

oping in West Berlin since 1968 and had already successfully trialled in practice, took the form of an “urban repair toolkit” based on twelve principles. (cf. Eichstädt 1984)

Of these, the most important was that modernization should

be prioritized over demolition and that wherever possible all measures should be discussed with residents and local businesses and decided on jointly in an open-ended process. The renovation of apartments and houses was to be undertaken successively and gradually, making sensitive alterations to the floor plans where necessary to accommodate different living constellations. Public facilities as well as streets, squares and green areas were to be renewed and augmented as part of the same process and the block interiors were to be greened. A central principle was that technical and social measures go hand in hand and were to be designed for the long term. (loc.cit.)

For the mostly young squatters, many of whom justified their occupation as self-organized restoration, this was, after some initial hesitation, recognized as welcome assistance for their self-help approach. A number of ­projects, which had set out to explore new forms of housing and living, and were in effect social experiments, were legalized through the introduction of rental agreements.

(Laurisch 1984)

However, the measures benefited all the

inhabitants of the quarters, not least the mostly Turkish Gastarbeiter (guest workers), as they were called at the time, and their families, who made up about half of the population. The IBA therefore also contributed to another social innovation, the integration of migrant populations as residents of the city, many of whom had initially been forced to live in slum-like conditions. Just how difficult this was in the context of the official discriminatory

347

Bonjour Tristesse: the building at the corner of Schlesische Straße and Falcken­ steinstraße in Berlin was part of the IBA Altbau exhibition. Álvaro Siza with Peter Brinkert, 1980–1983. Photograph: Georg Slickers, 2005

policies, but also how resourceful the protagonists of gentle urban regen­ eration were in undermining them, can be seen in a series of illuminating ­interviews and reportages by the architect Esra Akcan, who teaches at Cornell University. She has since distilled her findings into the theory of an accessible and adaptable, solidarity-based and hospitable “Open Archi­ tecture”.

(Akcan 2018)

After German reunification, the concept of cautious urban renewal was adopted widely. Although the results are usually less obviously visible than those of other design approaches, they have considerable benefits for the lives of the people living there. After the IBA was over, Hämer and his team founded S.T.E.R.N. as a company dedicated to sensitive urban regeneration, which went on to carry out similar projects in the eastern part of the city, for example in the district of Prenzlauer Berg where I lived at the time. S.T.E.R.N. is still active today and now undertakes projects throughout the Federal

Republic of Germany. The principle of cautious urban renewal has since become a widely recognized approach that is now also being applied to large post-war housing estates.

(www.stern-berlin.com)

PARTICIPATION

348

What should be designed and how, and who decides which designs will be put into practice? In every society these questions are negotiated and decided according to the social, political and economic conditions. Even Vitruvius recounts an event that one might today describe as an act of civic participation: the inhabitants of a town whose residents had suffered ill-health due to the surrounding marshland asked their ruler M. Hostilius (c. 200 BC) as “representative of the state” to relocate their town. Impressed by his prompt reaction, Vitruvius writes:

“He made no delay, but after an immediate, penetrating inquiry purchased a promising property along the seashore and asked the Senate and the People of Rome for permission to relocate the town.” (Vitruvius I, 4:12) The social, cultural and spatial distance between the designer and what they design can become problematic when it risks impacting on the quality or appropriateness of the results. Participation is a tool that can help overcome this distance. As a central instrument of social design, it empowers those directly affected to influence the shaping of their own environment. It enables their insider knowledge to flow into the design process and contribute to the social sustainability of the projects. The role that the designer plays here in the context of the social group for which they work, and the image they have of themselves, is quite different to a conventional design situation. They are no longer autonomous creators but well-informed moderators and mediators who facilitate design processes with many different participants without dominating them. The approach of participatory design goes back to the cooperative and reform movement of the 1920s, the situationism of the 1950s and the ­architecture of structuralism. One of the pioneers was the Dutch architect Nikolas John Habraken, whose book De dragers en de mensen – het einde van

de massawonigbouw, written in 1961 and published in English as Supports: An Alternative to Mass Housing in 1972, is considered the founding manifesto of participatory design. The approach gained momentum with the student

movement of the 1960s and the alternative subcultures that emerged from it. The aim was a democratization of society through the direct participation and empowerment of those affected by a building project. Their call for greater participation in the decisions affecting them called into ques-

349

tion the authority and socially elevated position of the designers, as well as what they saw as the exploitative and inhumane architecture of standardized industrial production methods. They likewise rejected the aesthetic premises of post-war modernism with its strict regularity and serial repetition resulting from the use of mass-produced components. As a method of social design, participation is particularly well-suited for projects that impact significantly on the daily lives of many people, for example, the conversion, renova-

N. John Habraken: De dragers en de mensen – het einde van de massa­ wonigbouw, Amsterdam, 1961, cover of the original edition. Scan: N. John Habraken, 2020

tion or extension of buildings or districts that are inhabited, or new buildings designed for a large number of disparate groups of people with unclear or highly diverse needs. These needs must first be articulated for them to be recog-

nized by society. A designer must identify the needs, interests and sensitivities of the various residents and stakeholders and deal even-handedly and without bias with the complexity of information gained. For a project to be socially sustainable in the long run, the compromises found must be acceptable to all parties. When designing a school, for ­example, one must identify the needs of the pupils, the teachers, the ideas of the parents and the groups who use the building after school hours, the operator, the neighbours and the school and licensing authorities. All these must be weighed up against each other and negotiated in the course of the process in such a way that ultimately everyone involved is satisfied with the result. A complicating factor here is that many of those involved in the consultation process are ordinary laypeople or children and have little idea of the building process and no experience of design. They feel overwhelmed when faced with professional planning discourse, such as when they are expected to read and assess planning documents. Participation procedures require designers to pay particular attention to the processes and tools of design, especially where communications between experts and laypeople are involved. For non-experts, the abstractions of pro-

fessional plan drawings are hard to read, quite aside from the arguments of architectural theory and criticism. Design tools should be chosen that relate better to people’s everyday world of experience, using means everyone understands, uses and has a good command of, tools that are “convivial”, that are oriented towards finding common ground and the art of living

350

together.

(Illich 1973)

These could be photographs and photo-collages, conver-

sations and discussions, supported by gestures and sketches, later also ­physical models, material samples and mock-ups. Most people can comprehend diagrams and simple calculations, but care should be taken to avoid reducing the complexity of design decisions to solely financial aspects. In public projects or projects involving a larger group, the use of social media can allow numerous participants to be involved in the design process. But, whichever method is used, it is indispensable that the moderator is able to deal constructively with conflicts, to engage in disputes and to turn them into productive discussion. Playful methods of getting to know each other’s standpoints, of developing ideas together and solving problems can be a way of structuring social group processes so that laypeople and children can also participate. Construction games using building blocks, Lego bricks or Meccano construction kits are familiar to everyone, as are computer games for simulating urban planning or model making as a hobby. With her architecture office Die Baupiloten, the Berlin-based architect Susanne Hofmann has developed a series of games that structure the individual steps of the design process into manageable action sequences that can be undertaken jointly. For ­example, the “School Vision Game”, which she uses as “a tool for negotiating

changes to pedagogical concepts and school spaces”, makes it possible to identify ­different users’ wishes and the functional connections within a school. Other games are used to explore the atmospheric qualities of spaces, to evaluate design variants, to develop urban outdoor areas and neighbourhoods or the joint use and design of interiors.

(Hofmann 2014, pp. 44–115)

The “Living with Children” project, developed by Ottokar Uhl, a pioneer of participatory planning in Austria, between 1979 and 1984 with 16 young families, could have benefitted from some of these playful methods. For Uhl and his staff, it was important to as far as possible meet the wishes of the individual families in all decisions concerning building materials, building

Next page: The School Vision Game is “a tool for jointly deciding on changes to pedagogical concepts and spatial needs” developed by the Baupiloten BDA, Berlin 2018, funded by the Hans Sauer Stiftung, Munich

services, floor plans, room heights, communal facilities, façades, etc. To ensure a minimum degree of geometric coordination, they employed a 10 plus 20 cm grid, a conceptual tool based on Habraken’s SAR planning methodology. In all, some 120 communal meetings and 130 one-on-one meetings were needed to reach a design for the housing complex specially

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adapted to the needs of families with children. In the end, the project, which was monitored as a research project by the sociologist Maria Groh, (Groh et al. 1987)

had 90 different windows and certainly exceeded the bounds of what

is generally practicable in both planning and construction. And this despite the fact that the designers were content with an open aesthetic concept based on use that accorded greater weight to the needs and wishes of the individual than to a coherent overall appearance. Frei Otto took this idea a step further with his “tree houses” project in Berlin’s Tiergarten. Originally designed for high-rise buildings and based on Le Corbusier’s model of the

immeuble-villas, he eventually realized three smaller concrete structures, each with double-height storeys. Begun as part of the IBA Berlin in 1987, they were not completed until 1991 and Design discussions between future residents and the architect Erich Müller (standing on the right), Wohnen mit Kindern, Ottokar Uhl with Franz Kuzmich, Erich Müller and Martin Wurnig, Vienna 1980–1984. Photograph: Johann Klinger, approx. 1982

were then fitted out by the residents, either on their own (in the end only two of the 27 were self-build initia-

tives) or with the help of an architect but always according to ecological ­criteria. To contribute to their social sustainability, a third of the dwellings were built as a social housing project.

(Förster 2015)

While these projects were unusual and controversial for their time, such approaches are more widespread today. Over the past two decades,

numerous people in Germany have pooled their resources to jointly realize inner-city housing projects. The book Selfmade City, published by Kristien Ring, listed more than 120 projects in Berlin alone in 2013.

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(Ring et al. 2013)

These

projects, however, have a slightly different premise. In most cases the building structure, façade and communal spaces are designed by the principal architects and the residents are free to a greater or lesser degree to design their apartments according to their own needs and wishes. As the participants have only a limited degree of influence, the buildings are generally no different externally to other building pro­ jects, but the scope of the projects can be much larger. On the site of Berlin’s former flower market in the vicinity of the Jewish Museum, for example, the architecture group ifau and Heide & von Beckerath, together with the Selbstbaugenossenschaft Berlin built the IBeB

Detail of an axonometry from Wohnen mit Kindern, Ottokar Uhl with Franz Kuzmich, Erich Müller and Martin Wurnig, Vienna, 1980–1984

Integrative Building Project as a cooperative initiative for 86 parties.

(Meyer 2018)

NOT SLUMS BUT ARRIVAL CITIES

Social design approaches are most needed where social problems in society are most pressing. As with the terms “green” or “sustainable”, not all projects that carry the label “social” make an actual social contribution. There are “social” housing projects that exclude, isolate or banish their residents to the outskirts of cities, and “social design” projects that make use of social media, crowdfunding and other platforms to generate attention and social capital for the project initiators more than for the target group for which the project is ostensibly intended. It is, however, important to understand the principles of this type of design, not least because social problems invariably affect a great many people who do not have the necessary skills and resources to solve them on their own. In 2018, over one billion people worldwide were living in slums or informal settlements, and by 2030, the United Nations

estimates that three billion people will need adequate and affordable housing.

(United

Nations 2019, p. 44)

In his ground-breaking study Arrival City, the Canadian-British journalist Doug

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Saunders describes 30 quarters of large cities inhabited largely by “socially disadvantaged” people. He visited the suburbs of Paris and Istanbul, the East End of London and ­Berlin-Kreuzberg, the slums of Nairobi, Caracas, Chongqing and Mumbai, and also the immigrant quarters of North American cities. He identified enormous differences in the social and economic development of these places: some neighbourhoods stagnate for decades, while others evolve over the years into prosperous districts. Saunders argues that these neighbourhoods, which are obviously places of poverty with all the

The Kibera Slum in Nairobi is estimated to be the largest slum in Africa. Photograph: Michael E. Arth, 1998

problems that go with it, should not be regarded as a static problem that needs eradicating or, as is often the case, is side-

lined and effectively excluded from the life of the city. These places, Saunders observes, play an important role in the process of urbanization. The successful quarters among them act as “arrival cities”, enabling those who have moved from the countryside to build networks, acquire skills, participate in urban life and, if they are successful, over the years move up into the urban middle class and thus contribute to the economic success of the city. (Saunders 2011) Saunders transfers urban planning and economic concepts that Jane Jacobs (whose neighbour he had been in Toronto) had developed in relation to the inner-city areas of New York to the precarious periphery. 1:02:20 ff.)

(Saunders 2015,

To enable such optimistic visions to succeed, cities must themselves

create the appropriate legal and infrastructural conditions. These include public safety, educational opportunities, public utilities and urban transport connections, internet and health care, but also the possibility of acquiring

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Favela not far from the Copacabana, Rio de Janeiro. Photograph: Leon Petrosyan, 2013

civil rights and ownership of land and buildings, along with the ability to take out mortgages on them to finance education or set up a business. While this entails significant initial investment, it pays off when the poverty-related problems of the districts diminish, their inhabitants develop skills and ultimately contribute to the prosperity of the city itself.

(loc. cit.)

It would be naive to expect that the solutions are simple. Design can do little alone when essential prerequisites, which can often only be achieved by political means, are lacking because the city lacks the will or, in poorer countries more likely, the means to provide them. The same applies if the laws and institutions of a country excessively restrict such development. (Acemoglu & Robinson 2012)

Social design can then only alleviate symptoms

without addressing the underlying causes. Only when those factors most important for promoting urban life act together in the right mixture can a district really develop well. For designers, it is hard to assess from afar which of these factors need urgent improvement and which are most crucial for the successful interplay of beneficial factors. A decisive step, according to Saunders, is therefore to establish a functioning self-government that is able to identify and articulate the needs of those living there and can weigh up which are the most urgent measures and how they can best be implemented. (Saunders 2011, p. 439)

The participation of the residents is crucial, not just

because they are the ones most affected by design decisions, but also because, despite their limited means, they have the greatest power to act locally.

Social design is challenging because it has to get by with very limited resources and has to deal with complex problems that are often existential for those involved. If the local social and economic contexts are not properly understood or even ignored, there is a real risk that projects will fail, however well-intentioned they may be. A further risk that Saunders mentions

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is that the growth that a neighbourhood experiences as a result of urban ­structural investments can also lead to land prices becoming unaffordable for its original inhabitants. Value appreciation must therefore be distributed in such a way that it benefits the residents themselves, with part of the ­surplus being siphoned off to finance further urban measures – an important factor that is also relevant to the current debate on land prices. (loc. cit., pp. 503 f.)

Saunders’ studies reveal just how much research and individual commitment is needed in such situations in order to make the right interventions and facilitate socially, economically and ecologically sustainable development. While the design process inevitably requires a certain simplification of the complexity of a situation in order to be able to act at all, those functions most essential to the well-being of a community must not be neglected or ignored. We need to develop tools and ways of acting that enable us to do so. SELF-BUILDING AND DESIGNING

While digital design increasingly employs ever more sophisticated tools and often takes place spatially and socially far removed from the place where the project is built, many bottom-up projects in the social design sphere are designed using simple means that laypeople can use, and built by or with the help of the designers themselves along with the future users. Such constellations are typically called self-build projects, or live projects. The similarsounding term design-build, on the other hand, is mainly used to denote projects run by a general contractor (see https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Design-build) and should not be confused with educational design-build, which refers to selfbuild projects in the academic field. Even those with limited financial means can collect cheap, used or leftover materials, develop ideas for their architectural use and construct ­inspiring buildings from them. An office that exemplifies this way of working is Rural Studio, which was founded by Samuel Mockbee and later

­continued by Andrew Freear. Students at Auburn University spent part of their studies in rural, impoverished Hale County in West Alabama. There they design buildings for needy residents and local communities and then build them themselves. The goal is to train “Citizen Architects” whose work is guided by social values alongside their technical and aesthetic skills.

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(http://ruralstudio.org)

Social design necessitates that designers engage with a concrete reality. By becoming part of the social situation in which they intend to work, designers themselves collect site-specific knowledge and experience that in turn informs their design. The same applies to self-building. Compared with the usual modes of representation using drawings or models, one learns much more about the conditions and characteristics of a design when building one’s own structures. It reveals problems with the spatial geometry, difficulties in handling materials and tools, as well as the obstacles the builders and users themselves face. Much like a scientific experiment, the plausibility and soundness of design ideas can be tested against reality. Proof of the feas­ibility, usefulness and also beauty of a design is gained through the process of making, then using and ultimately also demolishing and disposing of a building. Direct exposure to the problems and insights of building and the users of the completed structure provides feedback that one would not have in an architecture office, drawing studio or from behind a screen. The importance of actual making for design thinking was a core aspect of the Bauhaus where all students were required to undertake a craft apprenticeship in the school’s workshops. This in turn goes back to the Arts and Crafts Movement and John Ruskin’s idealization of medieval crafts, which he contrasted with the industrial principle of division of labour and which also had a social component: “Now it is only by labour,” he writes in the second volume of The Stones of Venice, “that thought can be made healthy, and only

by thought that labour can be made happy, and the two cannot be separated with impunity.” (Ruskin 1853, p. 29) This approach to design challenges a Platonic notion on which many design philosophies are founded: that thinking, and thus also designing, is a predominantly intellectual activity, that it is about pursuing an ideal that risks being falsified and corrupted by contact with reality. An alternative conception draws on the philosophy of pragmatism: thinking arises from making, from the active and often physical contact with concrete reality. The

experiences we gain through working with people and things, with spaces, materials and tools help us take ideas further. Far from distorting the original ideas, they make them more realistic, more precise and more correct. They inspire and motivate thinking precisely through the confrontation with the specific characteristics and difficulties that only become apparent through

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concrete action. The knowledge we gain from this approach is becoming more and more valuable today because it provides a necessary counterbalance to the pro-

Members of the group EXYZT during an enaction of Metavilla in the French Pavilion at the 10th Architecture Biennale in Venice. Photographs: © Julie Guiches, 2006

gressive digitalization and virtualization of design. The mathematically constituted space of digital information is, in a sense, comparable to the Platonic realm of ideas. However, architects and designers are charged not just with formulating ideas but also with turning them into reality. If we understand designing as a gradually ever more concrete process of the development and realization of architectural ideas, any distinction between designing and producing becomes arbitrary. The process is then about coming as close as possible to reality in the design and construction process, about experimenting directly with the requisite materials and working methods. Everything that concerns the human scale can be tried out directly in relation to one’s own body, which is itself a measuring tool. Likewise the shell of a building is comprehended as a further large design model at life-size scale. One gains most through experiencing the entire architectural production and utilization cycle in its logical context, by seeing how an idea changes during realization, what it loses in the process, but also how much it can gain.

From this, an entirely different way of practising designing is emerging in which designers directly immerse themselves in the social and spatial situation that needs to be designed. Groups such as Assemble, raumlaborberlin, Exyst, or ConstructLab employ methods of direct, collaborative design and construction on site in immediate contact with the given social and structural

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reality. The use of simple or even second-hand building materials and of more artisanal design and construction techniques makes it possible to meet the needs and wishes of less privileged members of a community without

requiring large budgets. It is remarkable how these groups manage to combine elements of subculture and high culture: they take part in architecture biennials and feature in professional publications but are equally at home in socially demanding environments. This way of working renders the conventional division between design and building irrelevant and with it also the question of authorship: the myth of an individual creator is debunked and made transparent as a mere social construct. One of these groups is ConstructLab, an international network of around 60 people, comprising architects, craftsmen and women, graphic artists, designers, photographers, curators, sociologists and urban planners, in short: social and design-related professions. It was founded by Alexander Römer, who is a trained carpenter and architect. Working together in different constellations, they design and realize projects as a team and also through the act of living (and sometimes gardening) together, cooking and discussing, eating and enjoying themselves at the place where something new will be created.

“We always start by inhabiting a space: our practice is based on the ground on which our projects are located. We are present, on site. We take time to develop ideas, relationships and networks. We gather resources, we involve local energies, we invite people to pass by, stay, appropriate, propose, act.” (ConstructLab 2019, p. 7) 360

Each project has a strong conceptual framework that indicates a common direction but without going into too much detail. The participants are expected to attentively gather and integrate locally available information and local resources into the project in a rapid, improvised manner, using conflicts constructively and even creatively, while remaining open to surprises and unexpected results. This dynamic climate makes it possible to use working methods that give rise to both built and social structures that offer new scope for previously unused places. The ConstructLab teams work with two specific tools of social design: large tables that are a common space for working, eating and discussing, and for larger groups, circular, theatre-like configurations that they call “agora”.

(loc. cit., p. 18)

Both tools are architectural expressions of their search

for new, post-industrial forms of living and working together. The theo­ retical background of their work is the concept of convivialism (from the Latin “convivere”, to live together), as “a mode of living together that values

human relationships and cooperation and enables us to challenge one another ­without resorting to mutual slaughter and in a way that ensures consideration for others and for nature.” (Convivialist Manifesto 2014, p. 25)

The main hall of the Osthang Project at the Mathildenhöhe in Darmstadt, ConstructLab with Atelier Bow-Wow. Photograph: Kristof Lemp, 2014

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The “agora” of the project Mon(s) Invisible, ConstructLab, program for young people during the European City of Culture in Mons 2015. Photograph: © Fondation Mons, 2015

This refers in turn to the radical critique of civilization by Ivan Illich, whose remarkable deliberations on the theory of tools describe and critique their social implications. Starting from a broad concept of tools, which encompasses, for example, industrial plants and motorways, and technologies and institutions, he argues that the technocratic industrial society of the 1970s incapacitates individuals and robs them of their ability to shape their environment according to their own ideas. This, Illich argues, should be replaced by a “convivial” society dedicated to the art of living together that resists the ever more pervasive dominance of these industrial tools.

“An individual relates himself in action to his society through the use of tools that he actively masters, or by which he is passively acted upon. To the degree that he masters his tools, he can invest the world with his meaning; to the degree that he is mastered by his tools, the shape of the tool determines his own self-image. Convivial tools are those which give each person who uses them the greatest opportunity to enrich the environment with the fruits of his or her vision. Industrial tools deny this possibility to those who use them, and they allow their designers to determine the meaning and expectations of others.” (Illich 1973, pp. 29 f.) A convivial society should guarantee each individual full and free access to tools,

(loc. cit., p. 29)

and enable him or her to employ tools as autonomously

as possible that are subject to the least control by others.

(loc. cit., p. 40)

Such

tools should contribute to the improvement and “graceful playfulness” of personal relations.

(loc. cit., p. 9)

The deep structure of tools should be changed

so that they allow people to work independently with high efficiency and help them to make the most of their energy and imagination.

(loc. cit., p. 26)

Industrial tools, on the other hand, should be reduced to the minimum consistent with what is needed for survival. (loc. cit., p. 12) Illich’s critique picks up themes from the Do-It-Yourself movement and the Whole Earth Catalog, the title page of which bears the slogan “access to tools”,

(Brand 1968)

and

his proposals also had a direct influence on the development of one of the first personal computers. The designer of the

Osborne 1, Lee Felsenstein, looked for ways to design computers expli­citly as convivial tools. At that time, Felsenstein was the ­moderator of the Homebrew Computer Club, to which Steve Jobs and Steve Wozniak also belonged.

(Crosby 1995)

The discourse on limits to economic growth that arose in the context of the sustainability debate can also be traced back to Illich. In the last ten years, Illich’s ideas have been taken up anew by a group of thinkers associated with the French sociologist Alain Caillé who call themselves “Les

Convivialistes” Ivan Illich, Tools for Conviviality, New York: Harper and Row, 1973, cover of a later edition

(http://convivialisme.org)

and have published two

manifestoes directed towards the goal of a sustainable ­society:

“a solid basis – ethical, economic, ecological, and political – on which to build a shared existence.” (Convivialist Manifesto 2014, p. 25)

FURTHER READING: Sheffield School of Architecture (2013): A Handbook of Live Projects. Sheffield: The University of Sheffield, 2013 Jenkins, Paul; Forsyth, Leslie (2010): Architecture, Participation and Society. London, New York: Routledge, 2010

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Verderber, Stephen; Cavanagh, Ted; Oak, Arlene (Eds) (2019): Thinking While Doing. Explorations in Educational Design/Build. Basel: Birkhäuser, 2019 http://www.designforcommongood.net https://socialdesign.de https://www.partizipation.at For further literature on the subject, see the Appendix pp. 385 f.

Postscript to the new edition

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The space of action within which the various activities of design take place encompasses everything from the raw material to philosophy. We typically use verbal and visual tools to formulate design ideas, but architectural exploration also draws on haptic, acoustic, olfactory and synaesthetic means. Using the term “tools for designing” has allowed us to discuss design without prescribing specific methods or falling back on dogmatic definitions. As we have seen, the activity of designing encompasses an extraordinarily wide range of possible actions that all have a common goal: to acquire reliable information about a project and to put these together in such a way that we can use them to make our environment “better” and “more beautiful” –  whatever that means in the respective context – but also ecologically, economically and socially more sustainable. The fundamentally open nature of designing does not, however, imply that it is by any means arbitrary. As the astonishingly breadth of recent research has shown, the spectrum of possible tools and design actions is almost limitless. In this context, the talk of designers as generalists is a claim that has been elevated to a near mythical status but in practice is largely unrealistic. No one can master all the possible tools of design to a high or professional degree of proficiency. And no one can be truly competent in the numerous different fields of expertise, let alone keep track of the current level of knowledge around the world. Likewise, one cannot assume – and I can tell that much from my own personal odyssey – that one’s own culture, or that of one of the dominant languages of the world, already encompasses everything worth knowing or that is relevant. Architectural practice has long been aware of this. Complex projects draw on the expertise of numerous disciplines and international teams to cover the breadth of knowledge required and the necessary skills and qualifications. An individual designer must choose a precise selection of tools that both reflect their personal inclinations and abilities and take into account the professional requirements as well as personal and general social values. In ideal cases, the tools and possible actions used will crystallize into a

coherent design approach or attitude that can lead to successful outcomes. A number of these were shown in the previous chapters, and many others are also possible or will be discovered and cultivated in the future. In this new edition, the intention of this book to serve as an introduction to the topic has become even more apparent. On the one hand, a consider-

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able number of research papers, exhibition catalogues and monographs have been published on specific aspects of this topic, and on the other a comprehensive theory of design and its tools is still not in sight. The book discusses many topics only cursorily and others are not mentioned at all. The question that now arises is how the knowledge gained so far can be expanded on, evaluated, collated and made useful for practice and teaching. Design and its tools have a long history and studying them helps us to understand the practice of design. But for designers, that is only the beginning: the question they face is that of the future, of the next possible step they will take in their work. Designing requires critical thinking and action as much as it does creative thinking and action. Many central terms used when discussing design denote high standards, for example scientific, experimental, social or sustainability standards. In everyday practice, however, such terms are often employed without great thought. It is the task of all those committed to shaping a better environment to uphold what these terms stand for and work against their dilution. The relationship between practice and theory has been a recurring theme in this book. Architectural designers operate in the field of tension between theoretical knowledge and the concrete possibilities of practical realization in a given situation. This tension is both a constant condition and a driving force of designing. Vitruvius, in his day, already warned against using lead for water pipes for health reasons

(Vitruvius VIII, 6.10–11)

but in the 21st century

we still have not entirely eradicated the problem of lead-based conduits. This tension between theory and practice is a condition that designers must endure without committing prematurely to one or the other. It is a productive force that can be used to strive for a better, more sustainable design of the built environment.

APPENDIX 366

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Welsch, Wolfgang (Ed.) (1988): Wege aus der Moderne. Schlüsseltexte der Postmoderne- Diskussion. Weinheim, 1988, 2nd ed. Berlin, 1994 Wick, Rainer K. (1982): Bauhaus-Pädagogik. Cologne: Dumont, 1982, 4th ed. 1994 Wiesing, Lambert (Ed.) (2002): Philosophie der Wahrnehmung. Modelle und Reflexionen. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 2002 Wilson, Edward O. (1998): Consilience. The Unity of Knowledge. New York: Knopf, 1998 Wittmann, Barbara (Ed.) (2018): Werkzeuge des Entwerfens. Schriften des Internationalen Kollegs für Kulturtechnikforschung und Medienphilosophie, vol. 30. Zurich: Diaphanes, 2018 Zwoch, Felix; De Michalis, Marco; Nicolin, Pierluigi; Oechslin, Werner, Werner, Frank; Kohlmeyer, Agnes (Eds) (1984): Idee, Prozess, Ergebnis. Die Reparatur und Rekonstruktion der Stadt. Internationale Bauausstellung Berlin 1987. (Exhibition catalogue) Berlin: Frölich & Kaufmann, 1984 Part B: Tools (pp. 96–282, arranged according to chapters) Publications mentioned in several chapters have been included in the general part (Part A: Fundamentals) of the bibliography. Arnheim, Rudolf (1979): “The Tools of Art – Old and New”, in: Technikum. University of Michigan, 1979, quoted from Arnheim 1986, pp. 166 ff. AzW (2008): Architektur beginnt im Kopf. The Making of Architecture. (Website), Vienna: Architekturzentrum (AzW), 2008, www.azw.at/en/event/architektur-beginnt-im-kopfthe-making-of-architecture-2/ (accessed 22 July 2020). See also Krasny, Elke. Bredekamp, Horst (2003): “Kulturtechniken zwischen Mutter und Stiefmutter Natur“, in: Krämer, Bredekamp 2003, pp. 117–142 Brillhart, Adam (2018): The Boundless Workshop: Tools and the Representational Framework of Construction. (Dissertation) Hangzhou: China Academy of Art, 2018 DeKay, Mark; Brown, G. Z. (1985): Sun, Wind & Light: architectural design strategies. Hoboken: Wiley, 1985, 2000, 2014 Couto Duarte, João Miguel (2016): Para uma Definição de Maqueta: Representação e Projecto de Objectos Arquiectónicos. (Dissertation) Lisbon: Universidade de Lisboa, 2016 Diderot, Denis; d’Alembert, Jean-Baptiste le Rond (Eds) (1751– 72): Encyclopédie, ou dictionnaire raisonné des sciences, des arts et des métiers. Paris, 1751–72 Dillenburger, Benjamin (2016): Raumindex. Ein datenbasiertes Entwurfsinstrument. (Dissertation No. ETH 23596) Zurich: ETH, 2016 Ehrlich, Christof (1999): “Die Konstruktion der Idee und ihre Werkzeuge”, in: Cloud-CuckooLand – International Journal of Architec­tural Theory, no. 1, 99, www.cloud-cuckoo. net/openarchive/wolke/deu/Themen/991/Ehrlich/ehrlich.html (accessed July 2018) Fehrenbach, Frank (Ed.) (2002): Leonardo da Vinci. Natur im Übergang. Beiträge zu Wissenschaft, Kunst und Technik. Munich: Fink, 2002 Fischer, Thomas (2008): Designing (tools (for designing (tools (for ...)))). (Dissertation) Royal Melbourne Institute of Technology (RMIT) University, Melbourne, 2008, https:// researchbank.rmit.edu.au/view/rmit:9761 (accessed July 2018) Fitz, Angelika; Lenz, Gabriele (Eds) (2015): Vom Nutzen der Architekturfotografie/Architectural Photography and Its Uses. Basel: Birkhäuser, 2015 Fuller, R. Buckminster (1969): Operating Manual for Spaceship Earth. New York/Carbondale: Simon & Schuster / Southern Illinois University, 1969 Gänshirt, Christian (2008): Werkzeuge des Entwerfens. Untersuchungen zu Praxis und Theorie

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Moutinho, Natacha Antafio (2016): A Cor no Processo Criativo – O espaço da cor no desenho de arquitetura. (Dissertation) Lisbon: Universidade de Lisboa, 2016 Müller, Karl (1905): Kunststeinbau. Stummer Lehrmeister für die gesamte Kunststeinbranche. Gommern, 1905, 2nd reprinted ed. Holzminden: Hennig, no date Reichle, Ingeborg; Siegel, Steven; Spelten, Achim (Eds) (2008): Visuelle Modelle. Munich: Fink, 2008 Röttinger, Heinrich (1914): Die Holzschnitte zur Architektur und zum Vitruvius Teutsch des Walther Rivius. Studien zur deutschen Kunstgeschichte 167, Strasbourg, 1914 Schmal, Peter Cachola; Elser, Oliver (Eds) (2012): Das Architekturmodell: Werkzeug, Fetisch, kleine Utopie/The Architectural Model: Tool, Fetish, Small Utopia. (Exhibition ­catalogue Deutsches Architektur Museum Frankfurt am Main), Zurich: Scheidegger & Spiess, 2012 Schmitz, Thomas H.; Groninger, Hannah (Eds) (2012): Werkzeug – Denkzeug. Manuelle Intelligenz und Transmedialität kreativer Prozesse. (Conference proceedings) Bielefeld: Transcript, 2012 Sonne, Wolfgang (Ed.) (2011): Die Medien der Architektur. Berlin, Munich: Deutscher Kunstverlag, 2011 Schultz, Henrik (2014): Landschaften auf den Grund gehen. Wandern als Erkenntnismethode beim großräumigen Landschaftsentwerfen. (Dissertation) Berlin: Jovis, 2014 Spiro, Annette; Ganzoni, David (Eds) (2013): The Working Drawing: The Architect’s Tool. Zurich: Park Books, 2013 Stapenhorst, Carolin (2016): Concept. A Dialogic Instrument in Architectural Design. (Dissertation) Berlin: Jovis, 2016 Tavares, André (2017): Matéria-prima: Um olhar sobre o arquivo de Álvaro Siza. Série da Coleção, 7. Oporto: Serralves, 2017 Vrachliotis, Georg; Kleinmanns, Joachim; Kunz, Martin; Kurz, Philip (Eds) (2017): Frei Otto: Denken in Modellen. (Exhibition catalogue) Leipzig: Spector, 2017 Wendler, Reinhard (2013): Das Modell zwischen Kunst und Wissenschaft. Munich/Paderborn: Wilhelm Fink, 2013 Yaneva, Albena (2009a): The making of a building. A pragmatist approach to architecture. Bern, Oxford: Peter Lang, 2009 Yaneva, Albena (2009b): Made by the Office for Metropolitan Architecture. An ethnography of design. Rotterdam: 010 Publishers, 2009 Zimmer, Gerhard (1984): ”Maßstäbe römischer Architekten“, in: DiskAB 4, 1984, pp. 265–276 Gesture Flusser, Vilém (1991): Gesten. Versuch einer Phänomenologie. Bensheim and Düsseldorf: Bollmann, 1991, 2nd ed. 1993 (for publications in English see Bibliography Part A) Gänshirt, Christian (2003): ”Geste und Sprache als grundlegende Entwurfswerkzeuge“, in: Architekturjahrbuch des Instituts für Entwerfen, BTU Cottbus, 2003, pp. 34 – 39 Hummels, Caroline (2000): Gestural design tools: prototypes, experiments and scenarios. (Dissertation) Almelo: Eigen beheer [self-published], 2000, www.researchgate.net/ publication/254907643_Gestural_design_tools_Prototypes_experiments_and_scenarios Jäkel, Angelika (2013): Gestik des Raumes. Zur leiblichen Kommunikation zwischen Benutzer und Raum in der Architektur. (Dissertation) Tübingen-Berlin: Wasmuth, 2013 Sturm, Hermann (Ed.) (1998): Geste & Gewissen im Design. Cologne: DuMont, 1998 Verschaffel, Bart (2001): Architektur als Geste. With a foreword by Ákos Moravánsky. Lucerne: Quart, 2001

Wittgenstein, Ludwig (manuscripts 1914–1951) (1977): Vermischte Bemerkungen. Complete works vol. 8., Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1984, 6th ed. 1994. Quoted from the English edition: Culture and Value, translated by Peter Winch. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1980.

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Sketch Bergeijk, Herman van; Hauptmann, Deborah (1998): Notations of Herman Hertzberger. Rotterdam: NAI Publishers, 1998 Edwards, Betty (1999): The New Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain. A Course in Enhancing Creativity and Artistic Confidence. New York: Tarcher/Putnam 1999 Foster, Norman (1993): Sketch Book. Edited by Werner Blaser. Basel, Boston, Berlin: Birkhäuser, 1993 Hahnloser, Hans Robert (1935): Villard de Honnecourt. Critical complete edition of the Portfolio ms.fr 19093 of the Bibliothèque Nationale, Paris. Vienna: Schroll, 1935, 2nd revised ed. Graz, 1972 Hollanda, Francesco de (c. 1550): Dialogos em Roma. German edition: Vier Gespräche über die Malerei zu Rom 1538. Originaltext mit Übersetzung, Einleitung, Beilagen und Erläuterungen von Joaquim de Vasconcellos. Vienna 1899 Koschatzky, Walter (1977): Die Kunst der Zeichnung. Technik, Geschichte, Meisterwerke. Salzburg: Residenz, 1977, Munich: DTV, 1981, 7th ed. 1991 Jones, Will (2011): The Architect’s Sketchbook. London: Thames & Hudson, 2011 Mendelsohn, Erich (1930): Das Gesamtschaffen des Architekten. Skizzen, Entwürfe, Bauten. Berlin: Mosse, 1930 Posener, Julius (Engl. manuscript 1957) (2004): Heimliche Erinnerungen. In Deutschland 1904 bis 1933. Translated into German by Ruth Keen. Edited by Alan Posener. Munich: Siedler, 2004 Serrazanetti Francesca; Schubert, Matteo (Eds): Inspiration and Process in Architecture. (Book series) Milan: Moleskine SpA, 2012– Siza, Álvaro (1994): City Sketches / Desenhos urbanos. Edited by Brigitte Fleck, foreword: Norman Foster, texts by Brigitte Fleck, Álvaro Siza and Wilfried Wang. Basel, Boston, Berlin: Birkhäuser, 1994 Wisniewski, Edgar (1993) Die Berliner Philharmonie und ihr Kammerkonzertsaal. Der Konzertsaal als Zentralraum. Berlin: Mann, 1993 Language Birnbacher, Dieter; Krohn, Dieter (Eds) (2002): Das sokratische Gespräch. Stuttgart: Reclam jun., 2002 Fuller, R. Buckminster (1944): “Dymaxion Comprehensive System. Introducing Energetic Geometry”, unpublished manuscript 1944, pp. 1–15, in: Krausse 2001, pp. 169–181 Gudehus, Juli (1992): Genesis. Baden: Lars Müller, 1992 Krausse, Joachim; Lichtenstein, Claude (Ed.) (1999): Your Private Sky: R. Buckminster Fuller. The Art of Design Science. Baden: Lars Müller, 1999 Loos, Adolf (1924): “Von der Sparsamkeit“, in: Wohnungskultur (journal) no. 2/3, Vienna, 1924. Quoted from Loos 1983 Loos, Adolf (1983): Die Potemkinsche Stadt. Verschollene Schriften 1897–1933, edited by Adolf Opel. Vienna: Prachner, 1983 MacCormac, Earl (1985): A Cognitive Theory of Metaphor. Cambridge, Mass., 1985

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Niemeyer, Oscar (1993): Conversa de arquitecto. Rio de Janeiro: Revan, 1993. Oporto: Campo das Letras, 1997, 1999 Steingruber, Johann David (1773): Architectonisches Alphabet, Schwabach, 1773 Valéry, Paul (1921): “Eupalinos ou l’Architecte – Dialogue des Morts“, in: La Nouvelle Revue Française, 90, Paris 1921, pp. 237–285. Quoted from the English edition: Selected Writings of Paul Valéry, New York: New Directions, 1950 Wittgenstein, Ludwig (1921): “Tractatus logico-philosophicus. Logisch-philosophische Abhandlung“, in: Annalen der Naturphilosophie. No place: Ostwald, 1921, Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1963, 22nd ed. 1989 Design drawing Hesberg, Henner von (1984): “Römische Grundrisspläne auf Marmor“, in: IstMitt 30, 1980, pp. 120 –136 Le Corbusier (1923): Vers une Architecture. Paris, 1923, quoted from the edition Librairie Arthaud, Paris, 1984, and from the English edition: Towards a New Architecture, translated by Frederick Etchells. London and New York: Architectural Press, 1927, 1963 Meuser, Natascha (2015): Drawing for Architects: Construction and Design Manual. Berlin: DOM, 2015 Nerdinger, Winfrid (Ed.) (2005): Frei Otto – Das Gesamtwerk. Leicht bauen, natürlich gestalten. Edited by Winfrid Nerdinger, Irene Meissner, Eberhard Müller and Mirjana Grdanjski. (Exhibition catalogue) Basel, Boston, Berlin: Birkhäuser, 2005 Pevsner, Nikolaus; Honour, Hugh; Fleming, John (1966): Penguin Dictionary of Architecture. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1966 Rauterberg, Hanno (2005): “Barock aus dem Rechner“, in: Die Zeit, no. 45, 2005, 3 November 2005, p. 54 Spiro, Annette; Ganzoni, David (Eds) (2013): The Working Drawing: The Architect’s Tool. Zurich: Park Books, 2013 Vieira, Joaquim (1995): O Desenho e o Projecto São o Mesmo? Outros Textos de Desenho. Oporto: FAUP, 1995 Model Evers, Bernd (Ed.) (1995): Architekturmodelle der Renaissance. Die Harmonie des Bauens von Alberti bis Michelangelo. (Exhibition catalogue) Munich, New York: Prestel, 1995 Graefe, Rainer (Ed.) (1989): Zur Geschichte des Konstruierens. Stuttgart: DVA, 1989 Lepik, Andreas (1995): “Das Architekturmodell der frühen Renaissance. Die Erfindung eines Mediums“, in: Evers 1995, pp. 10 – 20 Mindrup, Matthew (2019): The Architectural Model. Histories of the Miniature and the Prototype, the Exemplar and the Muse. Cambridge, Mass.: The MIT Press, 2019 Oechslin, Werner (1995): “Das Architekturmodell zwischen Theorie und Praxis“, in: Evers 1995, pp. 40 – 49 Otto, Frei (1989): “Was könnten die alten Steinbaumeister gewusst haben, um entwerfen und bauen zu können?”, in: Graefe 1989, pp. 196 – 210 Schaerf, Eran (2002): Blue Key. Journal for Demographic Design. (Exhibition catalogue) Cologne: Walther König, 2002 Schmal, Peter Cachola; Elser, Oliver (Eds) (2012): Das Architekturmodell: Werkzeug, Fetisch, kleine Utopie/The Architectural Model: Tool, Fetish, Small Utopia. (Exhibition catalogue Deutsches Architektur Museum Frankfurt am Main) Zurich: Scheidegger & Spiess, 2012 Stachowiak, Herbert (1973): Allgemeine Modelltheorie. Vienna, New York: Springer, 1973

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Perspective view Alberti, Leon Battista (manuscript 1435) (1540): De Pictura. Basel: Bartholomaeus Westheimer, 1540. Quoted from the English edition: On painting, translated by Cecil Grayson, with an introduction and notes by Martin Kemp. London: Penguin, 1991 Edgerton, Samuel Y. (1975): The Renaissance Rediscovery of Linear Perspective. New York, San Francisco and London: Icon, 1926, 1975 Fournier, Daniel (1761): A Treatise on the Theory and Practice of Perspecktive, 1761 Gosztonyi, Alexander (1976): Der Raum. Geschichte seiner Probleme in Philosophie und Wissenschaften, 2 vols. Freiburg, Munich: Alber, 1976 Klotz, Heinrich (1997): Der Stil des Neuen. Die europäische Renaissance. 2nd ed. Stuttgart: Klett-Cotta, 1997 Lindberg, David C. (1976): Theories of Vision from Alkindi to Kepler. Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press, 1976 Panofsky, Erwin (1927): “Die Perspektive als symbolische Form“, in: Vorträge der Bibliothek Warburg 1924 –25. Leipzig: 1927, pp. 258 – 330 Richardson, John (1996): A Life of Picasso. New York: Random, 1996, Quoted from the German edition: Picasso. Leben und Werk, vol. 2, 1907–1917. Munich: Kindler, 1997 Photograph, film, video Dechau, Wilfried (1995): Architektur abbilden. Stuttgart: DVA, 1995 Fitz, Angelika; Lenz, Gabriele (Eds) (2015): Vom Nutzen der Architekturfotografie/Architectural Photography and Its Uses. Basel: Birkhäuser, 2015 Flusser, Vilém (1983): Für eine Philosophie der Fotografie. Göttingen: European Photography, 1983, 8th revised ed. 1997. English edition: Towards a Philosophy of Photography. London: Reaktion, 2000 Longwell, Alicia G. (Ed.) (2018): Image Building: How Photography Transforms Architecture. London: Prestel, 2018 Maar, Christa; Burda, Hubert (2004): Iconic Turn. Die neue Macht der Bilder. Cologne: DuMont, 2004, 3rd ed. 2005 Sachsse, Rolf (1997): Bild und Bau. Zur Nutzung technischer Medien beim Entwerfen von Architektur. Bauwelt-Fundamente, vol. 114. Braunschweig, Wiesbaden: Vieweg, 1997 Schaaf, Larry j. (2000): The Photographic Art of William Henry Fox Talbot. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2000 Troiani, Igea; Campbell, Hugh (Eds.) (2020): Architecture Filmmaking. Bristol: Intellect, 2020 Calculation Fathy, Hassan (1969): Gourna: A Tale of Two Villages. Cairo: Ministry of Culture, 1969, Quoted from the edition: Architecture of the Poor. Cairo: The American University in Cairo Press, 1989, 3rd printing 2000 Hämer, Hardt-Waltherr (2002): Stadt im Kopf. Edited by Manfred Sack. Berlin: Jovis, 2002 Kohler, Niklaus; König, Holger; Kreissig, Johannes; Lützkendorf, Thomas (2010): Life Cycle Approach to Buildings: Principles – Calculations – Design Tools. Munich: Detail, 2010 Roth, Fedor (1995): Adolf Loos und die Idee des Ökonomischen. Vienna: Deuticke, 1995 Straub, Hans (1949): Geschichte der Bauingenieurkunst. Ein Überblick von der Antike bis in die Neuzeit. No place, 1949, 4th enlarged ed., edited by Peter Zimmermann, Nikolaus Schnitter and Hans Straub Jr. Basel, Boston, Berlin: Birkhäuser, 1992, 1996

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Barzon, Furio (2003): The Charter of Zurich. Basel, Boston, Berlin: Birkhäuser, 2003 Eisenman, Peter (2003): “A Matrix in the Jungle”, in: Barzon 2003, pp. 28–37 Fankhänel, Teresa; Lepik, Andres (Eds) (2020): The Architecture Machine. The Role of Computers in Architecture. Basel: Birkhäuser, 2020 Foster, Norman (2000): “Design in a Digital Age”, in: Jenkins 2000, pp. 773–785 Fu Xinian (2017): Traditional Chinese Architecture: Twelve Essays. Edited by Nancy S. Steinhardt, Princeton, Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2017 Gänshirt, Christian (2001): “Das Instrument neu schärfen. Zur großen Halle der Neuen Nationalgalerie in Berlin”, in: Bauwelt 39, 2001, pp. 34–37 Goldberger, Paul (2015): Building Art: The Life and Work of Frank Gehry. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2015 Kittler, Friedrich (2002): Short Cuts. Short Cuts series, edited by Peter Gente and Martin Weinmann, vol. 6. Frankfurt am Main: Zweitausendeins, 2002 Marble, Scott (Ed.) (2012): Digital Workflows in Architecture. Designing Design – Designing Assembly – Designing Industry. Basel: Birkhäuser, 2012 PwC (2019): Digitalisierung der deutschen Bauindustrie 2019, PricewaterhouseCoopers GmbH Wirtschaftsprüfungsgesellschaft Deutschland, 2019 Wortmann, Thomas (2018): Efficient, Visual, and Interactive Architectural Design Optimization with Model-based Methods. (Dissertation) Singapore: Singapore University of Technology and Design, 2018 Zuse, Konrad (1970): Der Computer mein Lebenswerk. Munich, 1970 Research-based Design Ammon, Sabine (2017): “Why designing is not experimenting: Design methods, epistemic praxis and strategies of knowledge acquisition in architecture”, in: Philosophy & Technology, 2017, pp. 1–26. Ammon, Sabine; Froschauer, Eva (Ed.) (2013): Wissenschaft Entwerfen. Munich: Fink, 2013 Barthel, Rainer (2005): Laudatio anlässlich der Verleihung der Ehrendoktorwürde an Frei Otto durch die Fakultät für Architektur der TUM. Munich: TUM, 2005 Borden, Iain; Rüedi Ray, Katerina (2000): The Dissertation. An Architecture Student’s Handbook. Oxford: Architectural Press, 2000, 2nd ed. 2006 Gfrereis, Heike; Strittmatter, Ellen (Eds) (2013): Zettelkästen. Maschinen der Phantasie. Marbacher Katalog 66, Marbach am Neckar: Deutsche Schillergesellschaft, 2013 Gresleri, Giuliano (1991): Le Corbusier, Reise nach dem Orient. Unveröffentlichte Briefe und zum Teil noch nicht publizierte Texte und Photographien von Édouard Jeanneret. Zurich: Spur, 1991 Koolhaas, Rem (1978): Delirious New York. A Retroactive Manifesto for Manhattan. New York: Oxford University Press, 1978 Michel, Ralf (Ed.) (2007): Design Research Now. Essays and Selected Projects. Series: Board of International Research in Design BIRD, Basel, Boston, Berlin: Birkhäuser, 2007 Schmidt, Johannes (2016): Der Zettelkasten als Zweitgedächtnis Niklas Luhmanns. (Video) https://vimeo.com/173128404, Hanover: Kunstverein, 30/04/2016 Venturi, Robert (1966): Complexity and Contradiction in Architecture. New York: The Museum of Modern Art, 1966 Venturi, Robert; Scott Brown, Denise; Izenour, Steven (1972): Learning from Las Vegas. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1972 Wang Shu (1988): Notes from Underground. (Master thesis) Nanjing: Southeast University, 1988 Wang Shu (2000): Fictionalizing City (虚构城市). (Dissertation) Shanghai: Tongji University, 2000

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Social Design Acemoglu, Daron; Robinson, James A. (2012): Why Nations Fail: The Origins of Power, Prosperity, and Poverty. New York: Crown, 2012 Akcan, Esra (2018): Open Architecture. Migration, Citizenship, and the Urban Renewal of BerlinKreuzberg by IBA-1984/87. Basel: Birkhäuser, 2018 Arbter, Kerstin (2012): Praxisbuch Partizipation: Gemeinsam die Stadt entwickeln. Vienna: Magistratsabt. 18, Stadtentwicklung und Stadtplanung, 2012, https://www.wien.gv.at/ stadtentwicklung/studien/pdf/b008273.pdf Banz, Claudia (Ed.) (2016): Social Design. Gestalten für die Transformation der Gesellschaft. Bielefeld: Transcript, 2016 Diogo Brito (2019): Toolbook: Addressing Design Process. Matosinhos: AMAG, 2019 ConstructLab (Ed.) (2019): How Together. Edited by Joanne Pouzenc, Carla Rangel, Alexander Römer. Barcelona: dpr-barcelona, 2019, www.constructlab.net Convivialistes, Les (2013): Manifeste Convivialiste. Déclaration d’interdépendance. Lormont: Bord de l’Eau, 2013, English: Convivialist Manifesto. A declaration of interdependence. Duisburg 2014: Käte Hamburger Kolleg/Centre for Global Cooperation Research, https://www.gcr21.org/fileadmin/website/daten/pdf/Publications/Convivialist_ Manifesto_2198-0403-GD-3.pdf Crosby, Kip (1995): “Convivial Cybernetic Devices, From Vacuum Tube Flip-Flops to the Singing Altair, An Interview with Lee Felsenstein (Part 1)”, in: The Analytical Engine. Computer History Association of California, 3 (1), November 1995, https://web.archive.org/ web/20050825165932/http://opencollector.org/history/homebrew/engv3n1.html Eichstädt, Wulf (1984): “Die Grundsätze der behutsamen Stadterneuerung”, in: Zwoch et al. 1984, pp. 111–113. Eribon, Didier (2009): Retour à Reims. Paris: Arthème Fayard, 2009, English: Returning to Reims. Los Angeles, Ca.: Semiotext(e), 2013 Förster, Kim (2015): “Wie bauen, wie weiter leben? Frei Ottos Vision vom ökologischen und gemeinsamen Bauen”, in: Bauwelt 20, 2015, pp. 28 f. Groh, Maria; Haider, Ernst; Krenn, Conny; Kuzmich, Franz; (Red.) Uhl, Ottokar; Winkelhofer, Walter; Wurnig, Martin (1987): Ein Weg zum kindergerechten Wohnhaus – Wohnen mit Kindern Wien 21. Wohnbauforschungsbericht (F 821). Vienna: Arge Wohnen mit Kindern, 1987 Habraken, Nikolas John (1961): De dragers en de mensen – Het einde van de massawoningbouw. Amsterdam: 1961, English: Supports – An Alternative to Mass Housing. London: 1972 Hämer, Hardt-Waltherr (1984): “Die Kunst der Proportionen”, in: Zwoch et al. 1984, pp. 13–19 Hofmann, Susanne (2014): Partizipation macht Architektur. Die Baupiloten – Methode und Projekte. Berlin: Jovis, 2014 Illich, Ivan (1973): Tools for Conviviality. New York: Harper and Row, 1973. Jenkins, Paul; Forsyth, Leslie (2010): Architecture, Participation and Society. London, New York: Routledge, 2010 Laurisch, Bernd (1984): “Instandbesetzer. Die Zweite”, in: Zwoch et al. 1984, pp. 106–109 Meyer, Friederike (2018): Berliner Prozessarchitektur. Wohn- und Atelierhaus von ifau und Heide & von Beckerath. Berlin: Heinze 2018, www.baunetz.de Museum für Gestaltung Zurich; Sachs, Angeli (Eds) (2018): Social Design. Participation and Empowerment. Zurich: Lars Müller, 2018 Ring, Kristien (Ed.) (2013): Selfmade City Berlin. Stadtgestaltung und Wohnprojekte in Eigeninitiative. Edited by Kristien Ring and the Berlin Senate Department for Urban Development and the Environment, Berlin: Jovis 2013

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Ruskin, John (1853): The Stones of Venice Volume the Second. The Sea-stories, London: Smith, Elder & Co., 1853, cited in: William Morris (Ed.) (1892): The Nature of Gothic. A ­chapter of the Stones of Venice by John Ruskin with a Preface by William Morris. Hammersmith: Kelmscott Press, 1892, https://warburg.sas.ac.uk/pdf/cih1150b2210146v9.pdf Saunders, Doug (2011): Arrival City. The Final Migration and Our Next World. Toronto: Knopf, 2011 Saunders, Doug (2015): Arrival Cities: The Final Migration & Our Next World. (Video) www.youtube.com/watch?v=ICaksZs1Ry0 Sheffield School of Architecture (2013): A Handbook of Live Projects. Sheffield: The University of Sheffield, 2013 Verderber, Stephen; Cavanagh, Ted; Oak, Arlene (Ed.) (2019): Thinking While Doing. Explorations in Educational Design/Build. Basel: Birkhäuser, 2019

ILLUSTRATION CREDITS Entries with year and page ­number refer to sources mentioned in the bibliography. Every effort has been made to trace all copyright ­holders. In the case of unintentional omissions we would ask the copyright holders to contact the publisher or the author. The rights of all illustrations not mentioned below are either held by the author or the illustrations are in the ­public domain. Aicher, Florian  271, 272, 273, 277, 278, 280, 282 Alvar Aalto Foundation  120, 121, 290, 291, 297, 337 Arch+ Nr. 98, 1990, p. 25  267 Arch+ Nr. 137, 1997, p. 23  195 (below) Arch+ Nr. 137, 1997, p. 27  197 Architekturzentrum Wien  123, 352 Arth, Michael E. (CC BY-SA 4.0) 354 Audi AG  192 (above) Baupiloten BDA  351 Behnisch, Günter  178, 190 Buether, Axel  145 Carvalho, Jorge  210 Chevallier, Pascal, WIB Paris  165 Clair 2005, p. 136  88 Clair 2005, p. 190  90 Conrads 1984, p. 37  85 Demetrios, Eames  242 Eccles 1973, p. 264  76 Eisenman, Peter  180 Engel 2003, p. 52  83 ERCO Leuchten GmbH, © 1976  275 Evers 1995, p. 265  189 Evers 1995, p. 285  234 Evers 1995, p. 312  150 Fondation Mons, © 2015  361 Front, © 2020  146

ILLUSTRATION CREDITS

Fuhrmann 1998, p. 67  238 Fujimoto, Sou  265 Grote 1966, p. 74  215 Gudehus, Juli  166, 241 Guiches, Julie, © OST collective, 2017 345 Guiches, Julie, © 2006  358–359 Habraken, N. John  349 Hambly 1988, p. 20  97 Hammel, Tobias  147, 170 Illich 1973  362 International Museum of Photography, The George Eastman House, Rochester, New York  207, 208 Jencks, Charles  260–261 Jenny, Peter  112 Jörns, Michael  139 Kristen, Marianne  34, 68, 161 Lange, Christian J.  228–229 LasCasas 1997, p. 208  191 LasCasas 1997, pp. 74, 75  98 Lawson, Brian  240 Lemp, Kristof  360 Lindinger 1987, p. 146  277 Lu 2014  126 Meyer, Stephanie  169, 192 (unten), 218 Müller 1905, p. 35  109 (unten) MX3D, Joris Laarman Lab  313, 314, 318, 319 Otto 1989, p. 209  186 Petrosyan, Leon (CC BY-SA 4.0) 355 Pieper, Christian, www.jp3. de  108, 142, 159 Rama (CC BY-SA 3.0 FR)  16 Rittel 1992, pp. 75 ff.  80 saai | Archive for Architecture and Civil Engineering  333 Sachs, Hinrich, © VG BildKunst  140, 223 Santos, José Paulo dos  175 Scarletgreen (CC BY 2.0)  288 Scheidegger, Ernst, © Neue Zürcher Zeitung, 2007  183 Siza, Álvaro  61, 86, 153, 154, 172, 189, 203

Slickers, Georg (CC BY-SA 2.0) 347 Snozzi, Luigi  263 Sperry 1968  76 Stachowiak 1973, p. 131  184 The Royal Collection, © 2006, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II  27, 99 Uhl, Ottokar  353 Vitra Services GmbH  12 VG Bild-Kunst, © 2007  233 Wachsmann 1959, p. 204  82–83 Wortmann, Thomas  316 Wu Hao  335 Zurich University of the Arts  125

INDEX OF NAMES Aalto, Aino  120f. Aalto, Alvar  46, 86, 119ff., 155f., 253, 290f., 297, 337 Aalto, Elissa  290f. Abel, Günter  51 Acemoglu, Daron  355 Adamczyk, Grazyna  50 Adler, David A.  44 Adorno, Theodor W.  24, 26f., 67, 68, 243 Aicher, Florian  20 Aicher, Otl  14, 34f., 46, 50, 52, 62, 64–69, 77, 79, 84, 104, 113, 117, 156, 164, 167, 185, 189, 205, 238, 243, 266, 267–282, 301 Aicher-Scholl, Inge  268, 272 Akcan, Esra  347 Alan Turing Institute  313, 318 Alberti, Leon Battista  58, 162, 184f., 187f., 192, 196f., 199, 232, 240, 243, 249f., 252f., 325f. Alembert, Jean Baptiste le Rond d’  103 Alexander, Christopher  45, 328 Altschuller, Genrich Saulowitsch 43 Amateur Architecture Studio  334, 336 Ammanati, Bartolomeo  102 Ammann, Jean-Christophe  93, 232 Ammon, Sabine  340f. aNC Arquitectos  210 Andes, Lisa  247f. André, Pierre  287 André-Salvini, Beatrice  98 Aquinas, Saint Thomas  56 Archimedes 90 Archizoom 129 Aristotle  36, 55, 87, 132, 194, 293, 242, 276, 285 Arnheim, Rudolf  50, 76f., 113, 194 Arth, Michael E.  354

INDEX OF NAMES

Arup  313, 318 Asplund, Gunnar  253 Assemble 359 Atelier Bow-Wow  360 Augustine 55 Bachmann, Wolfgang  25 Balmond, Cecil  46 Barthel, Rainer  332, 334 Barthes, Roland  334 Bateson, Gregory  26, 30, 77 Baupiloten BDA  350 Bazin, André  237 Becher, Bernd and Hilla  40, 216 Behnisch und Partner  178, 190 Behnisch, Günter  40, 64, 84, 87, 151, 178, 188ff. Bense, Max  52, 85 Blaser, Werner  47, 79 Blow, Isabella  165 Bohnacker, Hartmut  322 Bologna, Giovanni da  234 Bono, Edward de  49, 75, 77, 117, 155f., 233 Borden, Iain  341 Bourdieu, Pierre  20, 24, 51 Brand, Stewart  130, 362 Braque, George  204 Bredekamp, Horst  50, 103, 113 Brillhart, Adam  124f. Brinkert, Peter  347 Broadbent, Geoffrey  48 Broca, Paul  76f. Bronzino, Agnolo  102 Brown, Denise Scott  326 Brown, G. Z.  130 Brundtland, Gro Harlem  245 Brunelleschi, Filippo  176, 187, 189, 195f., 325f., 328 Bruyn, Gerd de  51, 268 Buether, Axel  144 Burckhardt, Lucius  111 Buridan, Johannes  276 Buti, Remo  129 Cafee, Richard  47 Cage, John  34 Caillé, Alain  362

Calatrava, Santiago  46 Callender, John Hancock  44 Callimachus 57f. Calvino, Italo  76f., 334 Cardi da Cigoli, Lodovico  327 Carlowitz, Hans Carl von  245 Carvalho, Jorge  210 Cavanagh, Ted  363 Cellini, Benvenuto  59f., 101ff. Cepl, Jaspar  51 Cézanne, Paul  204 Ching, Francis D. K.  45 Colvin, Geoff  20 Columbus, Christopher  195 Conrads, Ulrich  85, 233, 262 ConstructLab  345, 359ff. Couto Duarte, João Miguel  126, 133 Crescas, Chasdai  194 Crosbie, Michael J.  44 Crosby, Kip  362 Daguerre, Louis Jacques Mandé 198 Damasio, Antonio R.  49, 77, 91, 156 de Graaf, Reinier  298 de Groot, Adriaan  318 de Gruijter, Olivier  318 DeKay, Mark  130 Demetrios, Eames  46, 242 Descartes, René  250, 276 Dewey, John  51 Diderot, Denis  71, 103 Dillenburger, Benjamin  126 Doerner, Dietrich  49 Dominick, Peter G.  47 Doni, Antonio Francesco  59 Dorst, Kees  44 Durand, Jean-Nicolas-Louis  29, 42 Durandelle, Louis-Émile  285f. Dürer, Albrecht  87, 89, 99, 101, 196, 198, 207 Durth, Werner  40 Eames, Charles and Ray  46, 242, 276

Eberle, Dietmar  20 Eccles, John C.  49, 75ff., 117, 156 Eckhard, Petra  128 Edgerton, Samuel Y.  194f., 199, 205 Edwards, Betty  76, 101, 117, 122f., 156, 197 Ehrlich, Christof  119 Eichstädt, Wulf  346 Eiermann, Egon  24f. Eisenman, Peter  46, 51, 126, 178– 181, 188, 226, 328 Elser, Oliver  128 Elzevir, Ludovicus  249 Engel, Heino  43, 82 Eribon, Didier  20, 343 Ermel, Horst  45 Evers, Bernd  51, 190 EXYZT 358–359 Eyck, Jan van  195 Fathy, Hassan  216 Felsenstein, Lee  362 Ferguson, Eugene S.  50 Fiederling, Otto  40 Fischer, Thomas  126 Fischer, Volker  52 Fitz, Angelika  128 Flusser, Vilém  14, 32, 34, 50, 54, 66–69, 71, 104–110, 112, 115, 139ff., 164, 173, 183f., 189, 243, 267 Fonatti, Franco  45 Fontane, Theodor  235, 238, 244 Fornes, Marc  307 Förster, Kim  352 Foster, Norman  40, 46, 79, 148, 231, 268, 270, 276 Foucault, Michel  334 Freear, Andrew  357 French, Neil  207 Froschauer, Eva Maria  11, 126, 336, 341 Fu Xinian  306 Fuhrmann, Peter  45 Fujimoto, Sou  264f. Fuller, R. Buckminster  46, 114, 162, 171f., 245, 338

INDEX OF NAMES

Gadamer, Hans-Georg  23, 36, 249, 267 Ganzoni, David  128 Gardner, Howard  87 Garnier, Charles  285f., 288f., 294 Gast, Klaus-Peter  46 Gehry, Frank  181, 264, 303f., 310 Gerber, Andri  126 Gerkan, Meinhard von  43 Gethmann, Daniel  128 Gfrereis, Heike  336 Ghiberti, Lorenzo  189, 195 Goldberger, Paul  304 Goodman, David  266 Goodman, Sue  45 Goya, Francisco de  41, 237 Greindl, Gabriele  268 Gresleri, Giuliano  326 Groat, Linda  38, 330, 339, 341 Groh, Maria  352 Gropius, Walter  233, 253 Gross, Benedikt  322 Groys, Boris  243 Gudehus, Juli  167, 241 Guiches, Julie  345, 358 Gyöngy, Katalion M.  51 Haarlem, Cornelis van  251 Habraken, Nikolas John  348f., 352 Hämer, Hardt-Waltherr  216f., 344, 346f. Hamilton, Anne  52 Hammel, Tobias  147, 170 Hanisch, Ruth  51 Harari, Yuval Noah  256 Hardin, Garrett  246 Hartmann, Jonis  11, 126 Hasselbach, Julia von  142 Hassenewert, Frank  19 Hausegger, Gudrun  120 Hays, K. Michael  296 Heide & von Beckerath  353 Helmcke, Gerhard  332 Hertzberger, Herman  46 Herzog, Thomas  328 Herzog & de Meuron  43 Highsmith, Carol M.  303

Hillnhütter, Sara  128 Hnilica, Sonja  120 Hoesli, Bernhard  47 Höfer, Candida  40 Hofmann, Susanne  350 Hofmann, Werner  41 Hollanda, Francesco de  149 Holzer, Jenny  309 Honnecourt, Villard de  148f. Horkheimer, Max  67 Hostilius, M.  348 Hübsch, Heinrich  262, 326 Hummels, Caroline  128 Husserl, Edmund  14 ifau und Heide & von Beckerath 353 Illich, Ivan  350, 361f. Izenour, Steven  326 Jacobs, Jane  328, 354 Jäkel, Angelika  128 Jansen, Jürg  47 Jaspers, Karl  24f., 27, 29, 31 Jencks, Charles  51, 260f. Jenny, Peter  77, 112, 144, 220 Joas, Hans  51 Jobs, Steve  362 Joedicke, Jürgen  42, 62f., 238 Joris Laarman Lab  313, 318 Kafka, Franz  67 Kahn, Louis I.  46 Kalay, Yehuda E.  48 Kant, Immanuel  232, 276 Kemp, Wolfgang  59f., 62, 102 Kengo Kuma & Associates  320 Kittler, Friedrich  115, 224 Kleihues, Josef Paul  344 Kleine, Holger  47 Kleinmanns, Joachim  128 Klenze, Leo von  326 Klinger, Johann  352 Klipstein, August  326 Knauer, Roland  45 Koelbl, Herlinde  47 Koolhaas, Rem  51, 213f., 328 Krämer, Sybille  50, 113

Krasny, Elke  11, 120, 124 Krautheim, Mareike  128 Kristen, Marianne  34, 68, 161, 192 Kruft, Hanno-Walter  51, 266 Kubelka, Peter  122 Kubrick, Stanley  113 Kücker, Wilhelm  43 Kuhnert, Nikolaus  268 Kuma, Kengo  320, 328, 337 Kunz, Martin  128 Kurz, Philip  128 Kuzmich, Franz  352f. Lampugnani, Vittorio Magnago 51 Lange, Christian J.  228 Langhans, Carl Gotthard  326 Lapuerta, José María de  45 Lardet, Olivier  294 Latour, Bruno  126 Laub, Julia  322 Laurel, Brenda  32, 38 Laurisch, Bernd  346 Lawson, Bryan  46, 49, 240 Lazzeroni, Claudius  322 Le Corbusier  29, 46, 51, 73, 144, 163, 177, 213, 253, 262, 275, 326, 328, 352 Lemp, Kristof  360 Lenk, Hans  51, 163f. Lenz, Gabriele  128 Leonardo [da Vinci]  27f., 73, 97, 99, 148, 168, 198, 215 Lepik, Andres  176, 187, 231 Lequeu, Jean-Jacques  116 Lévi-Strauss, Claude  334 Li Jie  257, 306 Libeskind, Daniel  288 Lindberg, David C.  205 Lissitzky, El  74f. Lissitzky-Küppers, Sophie  74 Locher, Hubert  128 Loidl, Hans  47 Loos, Adolf  51, 159, 216, 233, 253, 262 Lorenz, Peter  46 Lu Chenchen (吕晨晨) 126

INDEX OF NAMES

Lu Wenyu  334, 336 Luhmann, Niklas  336, 343f. MacCormac, Earl  163f. Mallgrave, Harry Francis  266 Mann, Thomas  232 Marble, Scott  322 Mattenklott, Gundel  50 Mau, Bruce  113 McCready, Paul  276 McLuhan, Marshall  81, 115f., 137, 225 Mead, Christopher Curtis  287 Meiss, Pierre von  45 Mendelsohn, Erich  149, 156, 239 Meyer, Friederike  353 Meyer, Stephanie  169, 218 Michelangelo [Buonarroti]  148f., 151, 176, 190 Michels, Karen  46 Mies van der Rohe, Ludwig  47, 79, 211, 232, 235, 237, 253, 266, 309 Mockbee, Samuel  356 Moholy-Nagy, László  28 Moneo, Rafael  328 Moon, Karen  45 Moravansky, Ákos  51 Morris, William, 28 Morrison, Jasper  128 Moutinho, Natacha Antafio  126 Müller, Erich  352f. Musso, Arne  84 Nägeli, Walter  40 Napoléon III.  287 Nesbitt, Kate  51 Neufert, Ernst  42, 44 Neumann, Balthasar  112, 114 Neumeyer, Fritz  51, 232, 256 Neweczeral, Alfred  112 Niemeyer, Oscar 164, 165, 235 Oak, Arlene  363 Ockham, William of  268, 276 Oechslin, Werner  185, 187 Oldenburg, Claes  12

Ostendorf, Friedrich  62–64, 171, 178 Otto, Frei  128, 186f., 328, 332–334, 352 Panofsky, Erwin  54–57, 201 Parnell, Rosie  248 Passe, Ulrike  47 Peirce, Charles Sanders  276 Pelletier, Louise  113 Pérez-Gómez, Alberto  113 Pesce, Gaetano  129 Pessoa, Fernando  30 Petrosyan, Leon  355 Pfammatter, Ulrich  29, 42, 47 Philippsen, Ansgar  222 Piano, Renzo  19, 40, 46 Picasso, Pablo  87, 204 Pieper, Christian  108, 142, 159 Piranesi, Giovanni Battista  201 Plato  54f., 57, 105, 167, 251, 256, 276, 301, 357f. Plotinus 54f. Poelzig, Hans  28 Polónyi, Stefan  290 Popper, Karl R.  232 Porter, Tom  45 Prominski, Martin  42 Prouvé, Jean  46, 177 Ptolemaeus, Claudius  194 Pückler-Muskau, Hermann von 232 Rambow, Riklef  50 Rathgeb, Markus  268 raumlaborberlin 359 Rauterberg, Hanno  181, 237 Reich-Ranicki, Marcel  232, 235, 238 Rice, Peter  46 Riefler, Clemens  16 Ring, Kristien  353 Riquois 288 Rittel, Horst W.  32, 48, 52, 54, 62f., 65, 80f., 84f. Robinson, James A.  355 Robbins, Edward  46 Rocha, Paulo Mendes da  235

Rodrigues, Ana Leonor  45, 178 Rodrigues, Jacinto  46 Rogers, Richard  40 Römer, Alexander  359 Rossi, Aldo  51, 157, 212, 328, 334 Rüedi Ray, Katerina  341 Rural Studio  357 Ruskin, John  28, 357 Ryff [Rivius], Walther Hermann  56, 89, 99, 101, 305 Sachs, Hinrich  140, 222, 234 Sachsse, Rolf  128, 209 Saenredam, Jan  251 Said, Edward  237 Sanoff, Henry  84 Santos, José Paulo dos  175 Sara, Rachel  248 Sattler, Barbara Johanna  76, 117 Saunders, Doug  354–356 Scamozzi, Vincenzo  187 Scharoun, Hans  156 Schinkel, Karl Friedrich  326 Schmal, Peter Cachola  128 Schmidt, Johannes  336 Schneider, Beat  52 Schneider, Friederike  40 Scholl, Sophie and Hans  268 Scholl, Inge see Aicher-Scholl, Inge Schön, Donald A.  43f. Schönwandt, Walter  49 Schricker, Rudolf  45, 47 Schultz, Henrik  128 Schumacher, Patrik  27, 181, 253, 259, 262, 290, 308, 336f., 343f. Schumann, U. Maximilian  51 Semper, Gottfried  326 Seyler, Axel  50 Shahn, Ben  233 Silver, Nathan  40 Siza, Álvaro 14, 28, 35f., 42f., 46, 60, 86, 133, 148, 153, 155, 172, 189, 203f., 206, 213, 347 Slickers, Georg  347 Smith, Albert  45 Snozzi, Luigi  262–264 Socrates  54, 165, 167, 232, 251

INDEX OF NAMES

Solà-Morales, Manuel de  173 Solis, Virgil  89, 99, 101 Sonne, Wolfgang  120 Sontag, Susan  213 Sottsass, Ettore  129 Spengemann, Karl-Ludwig  50 Sperry, Roger W.  49, 75f., 156 Spiro, Annette  128 Stachowiak, Herbert  184f. Stapenhorst, Carolin  126, 129 Starck, Philippe  234 Steele, Brett  337 Stein, Gertrude  147 Steingruber, Johann David  163 Straub, Hans  217 Strittmatter, Ellen  336 Sullivan, Louis  253, 266 Sulpis, Jean-Joseph  288 Superstudio 129 Tao Xiang  257 Talbot, William Henry Fox  198, 208 Taut, Bruno  90, 163 Tavares, André  133 Temel, Robert  120 Thackara, John  52 Thoenes, John  51 Thunberg, Greta  247 Toscanelli, Paolo dal Pozzo  195 Tremmel, Jörg  246 Trier, Lars von  235 Trüby, Stephan  51 Tschumi, Bernard  254–255 Tucholsky, Kurt  67 Turing, Alan  221 Uhl, Ottokar  62, 64, 350, 352f. Ungers, Oswald Mathias  51, 328 Valéry, Paul  159 Vallebuona, Renzo  40 van Bruggen, Coesje  12 Vasari, Giorgio  59f., 102 Venturi, Robert  51, 242, 266, 326, 328 Verberne, Paul  192 Verderber, Stephen  363

Vesalius, Andreas  89f. Vester, Frederic  49 Vinterberg, Thomas  235 Vitruvius  56–58, 89f., 99, 101, 159, 169, 174, 184f., 215, 237f., 240, 243, 249f., 252f., 256, 259, 273, 305f., 325, 348, 365 Vrachliotis, Georg  128, 333 Wachsmann, Konrad  81f. Wagner, Anselm  128 Wang, David  38, 330, 339, 341 Wang Shu  328, 334–336 Warren, Waldo  162 Watson, Donald  44 Weinbrenner, Friedrich  326 Weiss, L.  84 Weltzien, Friedrich  50 Wenders, Wim  211 Wendler, Reinhard  126 Wernicke, Carl  76 Wick, Rainer K.  47 Wilson, Edward O.  30 Wittgenstein, Ludwig  142, 159f., 243, 276, 281 Wittmann, Barbara  11, 129 Wittmann, Regina  120 Wolzak, Thijs  318 Wortmann, Thomas  314, 316 Wozniak, Steve  362 Wu Hao  335 Wurnig, Martin  352f. Wright, Frank Lloyd  212, 253 Yaneva, Albena  126 Yeang, Ken  46 Zaha Hadid Architects  253, 311 Zuccari, Frederico  59f., 62 Zuse, Konrad  217f., 220f., 230

SUBJECT INDEX 2001: A Space Odyssey  113 3D model  180, 193, 205, 214, 231, 302, 304, 309 3D printer  193, 315 Abstraction  78, 81, 111, 143, 153, 159, 164, 168, 171, 173, 176f., 185–187, 203, 220, 239, 267, 310, 349 Académie Royale d’Architecture (Paris) 28 Accademia del Disegno (Florence)  59, 102 Act  55, 69, 105, 139, 142, 192, 249, 348, 355f., 360 artistic 43 creative  74, 79 individual 86f. of designing  31, 86f., 92ff., 94 political 244 Action  11f., 37f., 49, 64f., 92, 94, 132, 143, 164, 270, 276, 279, 281, 289, 350, 358, 362, 364f. theory 51 Actor-network theory  126 Aesthetics  160, 239f., 256, 262, 274, 295f., 315, 330 Akademie der Bildenden Künste (Munich) 274 Algorithm  43, 117, 181, 215, 226, 231, 242, 303f., 307, 310, 313f., 321 Allegory of the cave  251 Aphorism 262 Apparatus  34, 67f., 71, 107–109, 112, 117, 132, 197, 202, 220f. Architects’ and engineers’ fees regulations (HOAI, Germany)  82, 292ff. Architectural Association (London)  28, 337 Architectural photography, see: Photography Architectural theory  18, 37, 57, 99, 233, 246, 249, 252f., 256– 259, 262, 266, 350

SUBJECT INDEX

(term) 249, 256 as a design tool  18, 256, 258 Architecture  Baroque  202, 253 deconstructivist 296, 308 digital  181, 308 ecological 296 Gothic 253 modern  136, 253, 308 neoclassical 253 parametric  181, 296 participatory 348 postmodern  296, 308 regional 308 Renaissance  15, 202, 326 structuralist 348 Architecture critic 20, 181, 237, 239 Architecture teaching, see: Teaching Art  28, 31f., 36, 38, 41, 50f., 54f., 59f., 67, 103, 113, 115, 129, 132, 140, 144, 149, 155, 159f., 167, 169, 195, 198, 209, 232, 235, 240, 242f., 250, 274, 277, 279, 325, 330, 334, 344 works of  132, 140, 159, 209, 242f. rejection of  67, 274, 277, 279 Art academy  23, 338 Art college  23, 28 Art of living together  350, 361 Arts and Crafts movement  28, 357 Association of Collegiate Schools of Architecture  53 Atelier  286, 287, 289–291 Authorship  60, 359 Avant-garde  259, 296, 308, 337, 344 Awareness  97, 112, 144, 230, 236, 289, 343 Axonometry  152, 204, 353 Bachelor’s course  23 Balance  11, 84, 227, 232, 239f., 245f., 289, 300, 312f. Baroque  103, 112, 202, 209, 253, 338

Bauhaus  28, 47, 204, 357 BIM (Building Information Modeling)  136, 309–312 Black-box algorithm  314, 321 Brain  49, 73, 76, 91, 117, 155f., 230 Brainstorming 233 Brief 81 Brundtland Report  245 Building costs  180, 216ff., 293f., 310, 316 Building programme  63 Cái [材] 306 Calculation  97, 115, 133, 159f., 167, 215, 217–219, 227, 230, 302, 304, 306f., 312, 350 Camera  74, 109, 153, 162, 198, 205, 207f., 210, 213, 221, 236, 317 Camera Obscura  198 CATIA (program)  304, 310, 315 Celebration, The (Festen) 236 Central perspective  196f., 225 Chaos theory  48 Civic participation  348 Clarity (see also: Vividness)  19, 63, 69, 131, 149, 171f., 242, 279 Climate change  245 CNC mill  193, 315 Code, binary  221, 224 Cogitatione (it.)  57 Collecting  11, 126, 130, 334, 336 Commerce 270 Commons, Tragedy of the  246 Communication  34, 50, 111, 115, 183, 186, 201, 205, 207, 209, 220, 226, 231, 301, 303, 312, 330, 343f. Visual  201, 205 Competition  24, 54, 68, 176, 187, 190, 215, 225, 259, 286, 289, 325 Complexity  44, 48–50, 63, 71, 81, 84, 89, 91, 108, 111, 116, 137f., 144, 152, 178, 191, 201, 210, 227, 231, 234, 264, 267, 294, 312, 326, 340, 349f., 356 Computer  48f., 79, 97, 109, 113, 117, 130, 133, 137, 147, 160,

167, 179–181, 186, 205, 212, 217f., 220f., 224–227, 230f., 302–304, 330f., 350, 362 as medium  225f. Osborne 1 (PC)  362 Z1  217, 220f. Computer-aided design  48 Concept  15, 17, 43, 50, 54f., 62, 64f., 67, 69, 111, 124, 131, 139f., 164f., 184f., 189, 216, 227, 239, 245f., 250, 253f., 256, 259, 270f., 273f., 285, 296, 309f., 315, 328, 337–339, 346f., 352, 360f. Concinnitas (lat.)  240 Consideration, levels of  32, 71, 86, 258 Constraint  80, 136, 191, 315f. Contradiction  32, 34, 67, 81, 131, 267, 277, 279, 285, 292, 326 Conversation  46f., 87, 133, 143, 149, 157, 161, 165, 177, 262, 350 Socratian 165f. Convivialism  360, 362 Cost analysis, see:  Building costs Craft  28, 31, 36, 69, 103, 111, 114, 144, 176, 217, 289, 325, 357 Craftsman  27, 36, 110, 164, 325 Craftsmanship  126, 253, 326 Creataphor  51, 164 Creative block  233 Creative process  13, 50, 73, 87, 106, 155, 163, 215, 234 Creativity  20, 43, 51, 87, 89, 94, 98f., 101, 119, 129, 143, 152, 164, 168, 191, 217, 235, 275, 331 Criteria  12, 19, 30, 35, 37, 40, 48, 50, 52, 57, 117, 140, 161, 167, 235–238, 240, 242–244, 246f., 256, 271, 273f., 277, 281, 289, 291, 308, 314–316, 332, 339, 352 Criticism  15, 20, 48, 53, 67, 84, 94, 97, 113, 117, 138, 159, 165, 167, 175, 178, 225, 232–237, 243f., 253, 258, 272, 350

SUBJECT INDEX

Critique of civilization  361 Cultural studies  330, 334 Cultural techniques  10f., 41, 50, 97, 110, 115, 130, 132, 137f., 142, 151 Culture theory  50 Cybernetics 48 Data sets  225–227, 310 Data structure  180, 226 Database  180, 231 Decision-making  43, 62, 64, 84, 176, 291 Description  15, 27, 44f., 47, 59, 65f., 85, 90, 97, 115, 117, 148, 160, 165, 174, 281 Design (term)  54, 79 digital  21, 219, 231, 248, 294, 301, 307, 356 research-based  30, 247, 266, 324, 329, 332, 336, 338f. generative  304, 308, 315, 322 negative 232 parametric  305–308, 316 social  11, 17, 248, 298, 342, 343, 348f., 353, 355–357, 360 Design approach  11–13, 38, 68, 81, 143, 216, 232, 258, 266, 292, 298, 328f., 336, 343, 347, 353, 365 Design attitude  289, 292 Design cycle  93f., 114, 144, 209, 331f. Design decision  58, 68, 71, 84, 109, 188, 219, 227, 290, 312, 339, 350, 355 Design disciplines  13, 38, 298, 330f., 338, 340, 343f. Design drawing, see: Drawing Design History Society  52 Design idea  36, 63, 93, 114f., 117, 119, 144, 148, 159, 164, 180, 184, 207, 232f., 243, 258, 331, 340, 357, 364 Design media  121, 136, 338 Design method  11, 21, 34, 46, 62, 79, 275f., 292, 305

Design methodology  42f., 45, 47–49, 338f. Design Methods Movement  42, 53, 338 Design practice  17, 48, 50, 174, 177, 234, 264, 279, 285, 290, 301, 329 academic 177 digital s. Design, digital research-based, s. Design, research-based parametric s. Design, parametric social s. Design, social Design principles, formal  45 Design process, see: Process of designing Design research  32, 38f., 52, 131, 141, 337–339 Design Research Society 53 Design task  69, 65, 124, 161, 189, 290, 298, 330, 336, 343 Design teaching  10, 17, 19f., 23, 26–29, 32, 42, 52, 244 Design team  81 Design tools  10f, 13–15, 17f., 45, 48f., 94, 96f., 101f., 110–119, 126–128, 130–133, 135–139, 142, 149, 151f., 159f., 165, 167–169, 225–227, 230f., 281, 287, 289, 301f., 350 (definition)  74, 110f. (matrix)  132f., 135f. (table)  120, 288 (term)  11, 14, 110 classes of  131 verbal/visual  116f., 133, 136, 167, 215, 231 of the Renaissance  103, 124 Designatio (lat.)  160 Desk  119, 287, 293 Development  13, 28, 31, 34, 48, 60, 73, 79, 81, 86, 94, 113, 115f., 137, 163, 175f., 186, 207, 216, 230, 235, 239, 245–248, 250f., 258f., 271, 294f., 298, 301, 312, 321, 326, 331f., 338, 343f., 354–356, 358, 362



ecological  246f., 312, 356 economical  246f., 312, 356 social  246f., 312, 356 sustainable  245–248, 298, 312, 356 Diagram  43, 46, 80, 126, 129f., 170, 172, 180, 184, 242, 258, 313f., 350 Digital  11, 13f. 67, 112, 117, 156f., 179–182, 192f., 205, 207, 211– 214, 218f., 224–227, 230f., 298, 300–304, 306–309, 312, 314– 316, 321f., 356, 358 Dimensioning  186, 312 Discourse  10, 38, 57, 59, 64, 66, 136, 235, 245f., 249f., 252f., 256–259, 262, 264, 308, 315, 349, 362 Discussion  14f., 34, 48, 50, 59, 68, 81, 117, 136, 148, 152, 161, 165, 175, 204, 212, 218, 230, 235, 240, 244, 256, 258, 336, 350, 352 Disegno (it.)  59f., 102, 168f. (definition) 59f. Dissertation  10, 42, 119, 124, 126, 128, 328, 332, 341 Dogme 95 236 Do-It-Yourself movement  362 Doubt  35, 101, 143, 165, 238, 252, 295 Drafting broom  119 Drawing  15, 34f., 45f., 54, 57, 59f., 62f., 81, 90, 97–99, 102f., 112–120, 124–126, 128f., 138, 143, 147–149, 152f., 156f., 159f., 168–172, 174–179, 181f., 184–186, 194–198, 201, 203, 207, 209, 211f., 215, 217, 225f., 230–232, 237, 256, 271, 285f., 288–291, 294, 302, 305, 310, 326, 340, 357 Drawing program  157, 160, 181 Dymaxion 162 École des Beaux-Arts (Paris)  28f., 47, 169, 286f., 289, 326, 338

SUBJECT INDEX

École Polytechnique (Paris)  29, 42, 47, 338 Economics  216, 330 Education s. Teaching Educational system  29, 43 Emotion  49, 57, 75, 78, 87, 89–92, 140, 156, 163, 202, 204 Empowerment  301, 349 Encyclopédie (fr.)  71, 103 Engineering school  23 Enigmatic, the  243 Enlightenment  28f, 42, 99, 103, 232, 321 Environmental damage  245, 247 Epistemology  140, 330, 338, 340 Ethics  36, 160, 239f., 242, 256, 330 European Association for Architectural Education (EAAE) 53 Eustylos 306 Evaluation  29, 40, 43f., 63, 79f., 84, 91, 239f., 271, 274, 276, 281, 292f., 312 criteria 19 Everyday culture  275 Everyday, the  35, 44, 273f., 276f. Exercise  12, 17f., 82, 107, 112, 144, 156, 243 Experience  10, 14f., 19f., 23, 31f., 37, 66f., 73, 87, 97, 106, 131, 136, 141, 143, 175, 191f., 199, 204, 210, 214, 226, 230, 236, 243, 274, 301, 321, 334, 349f., 357 Experiment  15, 62, 79, 81f. 128f., 151, 157, 183, 186, 195f., 271, 274, 276, 325f., 331f., 334, 337, 339f., 346, 357f., 365 Social 346 Experimental building  334 Expression  13, 64, 74, 87, 89, 93f., 101, 107, 116, 151f., 160f., 163, 184, 212, 232, 258, 267, 275 Feeling (see also: Emotion)  90f., 106, 191, 213, 239, 243 of happiness  57, 90 Fèn [分] 306

Field research  121, 124 Film  113, 140, 188, 201, 204, 207, 212f., 220, 222, 224–225, 227, 231, 235–237 Firmitas (lat.)  237f., 256, 273 Floor plan, see: Plan Focal length  201, 205, 210 Form  33, 38, 44, 55–60, 62, 65, 68f., 71, 80, 82, 94, 104–107, 110, 112, 114–117, 138f., 143f., 147, 152, 157, 159, 164, 174– 178, 181, 184, 190, 194, 197, 203, 205, 207, 209, 214, 216, 218, 224f., 252, 262, 266, 273, 276, 289, 304, 332, 344, 346 Formal language  42, 188, 191, 242, 296, 308, 322, 336, 338 Formula  34, 281 Function  26, 44, 69, 74, 107, 110, 137, 168, 185, 187, 201, 209, 215, 236, 239, 256, 266, 271, 273, 276, 336, 342, 344 Functionality  67, 90, 243, 273f., 277, 295 Game  49, 140, 185, 276, 350 Geometry  99, 111, 168, 171f., 173, 176, 178, 180f., 190, 194, 308, 330, 357 Euclidian 171f. Gestalt psychology  50 Gesture  14, 18, 34, 54, 67–69, 87, 93, 97, 104–107, 110, 115, 128, 131, 137–142–144, 157–159, 173, 188, 243, 267, 350 architecture as  128, 142, 243 as enigma  243 communicative  97, 139 of making  34, 68, 104–106, 110, 173 of melancholy  87 theatrical 143 Grasshopper (program)  307 Green Building Council (USGBC) 247 Grid  74, 174, 197, 199, 202, 275, 352 Ground plan, see: Plan

Hemisphere  76–78, 117, 156 hochschule für gestaltung (Ulm)  47f., 52, 268 House  40, 44, 56, 125, 147, 162, 170, 177, 192, 216 Hypotheses  15, 30, 55, 93, 243, 271, 329, 331 Idea  24, 26, 29, 54–56, 59, 63, 82, 86f., 90, 124, 147, 151, 153, 155, 177–180, 216, 231f.,  358 (definition) 54f. theory of (Plato)  54 of university  24 Ideology  35, 68, 138, 226, 276, 279, 281 Image manipulation, digital  207 Images, banning of  162 Imitatio (lat.)  243f. Imitation  39, 45, 55, 57, 243 Imprecision  151f., 184 Index box  336 Inner ideas  94, 111, 115, 117, 139, 144, 159f., 207, 230 Innovation  28, 82, 107, 124, 199, 243, 247, 295, 321, 344, 346 Inspiration  87, 91, 101, 128, 177, 256, 326, 329 Institute of Design (Chicago)  81 Instrumentum Architecturae (lat.)  112, 114 International Building Exhibition (IBA) Berlin  344 Interview  35, 46, 236, 262, 310, 347 Intuition  64, 91 Invention  43, 57, 73, 103, 198, 202, 213, 243 Inventione (it.)  57, 59 IPD – Integrated Project Delivery 315 Isometry  153, 201, 204 Iterative  79f., 276, 332 Judgement (see also: Decision) 60, 84, 87, 114, 140, 232, 236, 240 Judgement skills  13

SUBJECT INDEX

Language  18, 42, 45, 47, 54, 67, 76, 97, 115, 143, 155–157, 159f., 162–164, 176, 188, 191, 220f., 224, 226, 234, 246, 250, 253, 256f., 276, 308, 312, 322 Laser cutter  193 Learning  10, 12–14, 17, 19f., 77, 231, 302, 315, 321, 326 Learning needs  17, 20 Learning-by-doing 20 Lecture  12, 17–20, 26, 29, 77, 152, 262 LEED (Leadership in Energy and Environmental Design) 247 Life cycle  294, 312f. life-cycle assessment calculations 312 Linear perspective  114, 194f. Loading experiments  186 Logic  49, 55, 64, 68, 91, 111, 156, 160, 164, 171, 256, 258, 271f., 291, 304, 330 Machine  34, 107, 109, 112, 114, 132, 162f., 177, 179, 220f., 225, 227, 230f., 245, 252, 302, 315, 317, 321, 336 universal 221 Mainframe computer  179 Making  23, 31, 34–36, 39f., 51, 53f., 87, 71, 101, 104–106, 110, 112, 120, 122, 124, 140, 152, 164, 168, 173, 185, 243, 270f., 276f., 346, 357 (definition)  51, 104f., 164, 270f. Manifesto  113, 233, 262, 275, 328, 348, 360, 362 Master’s course  23 Master-pupil relationship  28f., 42 Material  28, 45, 48f., 55, 58, 68, 104f., 110–112, 114–116, 131f., 148, 159, 177, 183, 185–192, 213, 216, 220, 224, 226, 271, 276, 292, 296, 302f., 336f., 350, 364

Materialization, Material form  112, 115, 119, 132, 151, 192 Meaning  13, 30, 32f., 46, 49, 59f., 66, 68f., 71, 81, 91, 105f., 110f., 115, 117, 136–144, 151, 159f., 162, 164, 168, 184–186, 189, 227, 235, 243, 247, 264, 271, 306, 362 change of  184 level of  13, 91, 137, 139, 151 Media  10f., 13, 19, 21, 50, 81, 97, 115, 119–121, 130, 132f., 136f., 174, 176, 180, 201, 209–212, 224–226, 262, 298, 302f., 338, 340, 344, 350, 353 design  121, 136, 338 social  262, 350, 353 Media theory 36, 81, 137 Medium  11, 45, 81, 97, 115f., 131, 137, 148, 164, 169, 171, 180, 187, 198f., 201f., 220f., 225f. Melancholy  87, 89f., 101 Mental strategies  49 Metaphor  10f., 44, 91, 93, 104, 110f., 126, 130, 163f., 220, 230 theory of  163f. of the tool  10f., 110f., 130, 220 Method  10–12, 19, 21, 28, 34, 38, 41f., 46–49, 53, 82, 86, 94, 97, 115, 124, 126, 152, 156, 169, 176, 186f., 217f., 247, 257f., 275f., 291f., 296, 300, 306f., 310, 313–315, 324f., 329f., 332, 334, 338–341, 349f., 358–360, 364 scientific  217, 324, 329, 331, 339 Methodology  12, 30f., 42f., 45, 47–49, 64, 281, 304, 329, 338– 340, 352 Mimesis (lat.)  54f. Model  15, 19f., 54f., 57f., 65, 79, 81f., 86, 97, 115f., 128f., 131, 160, 162, 174–176, 180f., 183– 194, 211f., 214, 217, 231, 234, 240, 270f., 292, 294, 302–304, 309, 311



(definition)  62, 183–185, 271 and original, representation of 183–185 digital 3D  180, 192f., 205, 214, 231, 292, 302–304, 309 material used for  104, 185f., 188–190, 325, 334 photographs of  211 sketch 157 theory  48, 185 Moderator  348, 350, 362 Modernism  34, 66f., 181, 204, 237, 246, 253, 262, 264, 277, 296, 334, 349 Modernity  67, 251f., 256, 259, 296, 308, 321f., 326 global  256, 296, 321f. Narrative  57, 132, 136, 253, 256, 308, 329 Negation  66, 69 Network  49, 53, 126, 129, 199, 225, 231, 289, 343f., 354, 359f. Networking  13, 227 Neurology  38, 49, 75, 91 Norms 142 Objectives, conflicting  313 OH (art installation)  309 Oikos (gr.)  216 Olympics (Munich)  179, 189f., 268, 273, 275 Opossum (program)  314 Optimization  218, 302, 312, 314f. Osborne 1 (PC)  362 Paradox  32, 65, 71, 151, 235, 242 of constraints  235 of meaning  71 of rationality  65 of the sketch  151 Parameter  41, 43, 48, 181, 211, 219, 230, 304–307, 309, 313, 315 Parametricism  181, 298, 308 Participation  130, 293, 301, 348f., 355, 363 Pebble 131

SUBJECT INDEX

Perception  13f, 26, 50, 55, 73–75, 87, 93f., 104, 114, 138, 144, 152, 155, 197, 201, 203, 207, 209, 211, 213, 224, 251, 277, 281, 311 (definition)  50, 73 Perceptual apparatus  197, 202 Periodicals 52 Perspective view  57, 97, 115–117, 194, 196, 199, 203f., 207, 210, 227, 230f., 314 Perspective, three-dimensional illusion of  197 Phenomenology  14f., 139 Philosophy  14, 29, 50f., 55, 87, 129, 250, 256, 271, 276, 292, 298, 330f., 357, 364 linguistic 276 Photogram 74 Photography  14, 40, 113, 117, 128, 149, 198f., 201, 204, 207– 212, 227 digital  117, 211 Photomontage  157, 203, 205, 210, 294 Pictorial / picture space  93, 194, 196, 199 Pitch (stairs)  42 Plan  40, 44, 57, 59, 98, 116, 125f., 137, 147, 152, 168, 170–172, 174f., 177, 179f., 199, 275, 286, 313, 327, 350 Planning  34, 43, 45f., 48, 51, 53f., 62, 64f., 82, 84f., 188, 239, 271, 289, 291, 293, 298, 300, 302, 304, 309–313, 315, 321, 349, 350, 352 (definition) 64f. Poiesis (gr.)  36f., 55 Politics  54, 239f., 276, 298, 344 Portfolio of drawings  148 Postmodernism  204, 326, 334 Practice  11–13, 15, 17, 20–22, 27, 31, 35f., 44–46, 48, 50, 60, 64, 93f., 104, 106, 121, 128, 131, 142, 151, 157, 160f., 174, 177, 188, 197, 207, 217, 231, 234, 247, 253, 264, 267, 276, 279,

281, 284–87, 289f., 294, 298, 301f., 306, 310, 312, 326, 329– 331, 334, 336, 339f., 343f., 346, 348, 360, 364f. and theory  36, 93, 104, 106, 234, 253, 267, 279, 281 epistemic 340 of design  48, 174, 177, 234, 264, 284–286, 290, 301, 312, 329, 339f. reflective  44, 93 theory of  104, 253, 285 Pragmatism  51, 357 Praxis (gr.)  36f., 285 Prescriptive  111, 152, 211, 264 Principles  14, 29f. 38, 41f., 44–48, 51, 55, 57, 64, 111, 114, 130, 168f., 195, 243, 258f., 270, 305, 315, 329, 346, 353 Prix de Rome  289, 326 Problem  30, 32, 36, 44, 48f., 54, 62, 65–67, 80f., 86f., 92, 141, 155, 161, 168, 186, 188, 195, 203, 210, 233, 238, 246, 294, 331, 354, 365 wicked and tame  32, 48, 65, 85 Process  10–14, 36, 38, 42–46, 62–64, 66, 68f., 73, 77, 79f., 82, 84–87, 92–94, 104–106, 114f., 151, 153, 155, 232, 234f., 271, 329, 331, 346, 348–350, 354, 356–358 as in court of law  79 determined, strongly weakly, undetermined 85 iterative 80 linear sequence  80 of designing  42, 44–46, 79f., 82, 84–86, 92–94, 114f., 232, 271, 329, 336, 348, 350, 356, 358 of designing, simultaneous  84 of urbanization  354 Processor  224f, 230f. Production  66, 80, 105, 155, 163, 186, 217, 227, 236, 270, 281, 300, 302, 304, 307f., 310, 315f., 340, 349, 358

Programme  31, 54, 65, 271 functional  69, 215 study  18, 24, 337 to program  181, 227 Promenade architecturale (fr.)  144, 213f. Prototype  19, 79, 119, 128, 176f., 183, 185, 187, 276 Psychology  49–51, 87, 89, 343 Pyramid, visual  196 Quantum computer  302f. Rapid Prototyping  193 Rationalism 233 Rationality  65, 75, 159, 171, 244, 253, 326, 329 Realization  23, 29f., 36, 60, 64, 71, 106, 188, 212, 322, 358, 365 Reduction  171f., 185f., 209 Reflection  15, 27, 57, 74, 78, 87, 93, 111, 144, 161, 258f., 303, 334, 340 Renaissance  15, 103, 124, 148, 175, 187, 202, 207, 217, 225, 249, 326, 338 Rendering  174, 205, 212, 230 Representation  45, 85, 93, 111, 113, 128, 133, 140, 180–182, 184f., 194, 325, 357 by parameters  181 Research (see also: Science)  10f, 14f., 17f., 20, 23–33, 38, 48, 52f., 75, 81, 91, 107, 119, 121, 124, 129–132, 141, 156, 217, 247, 266, 285, 294, 298, 301f., 324–326, 328–332, 334, 336– 341, 343, 352, 356, 364f. Research perspective  330, 334 Research program  129, 337 Research project  10, 124, 328, 340, 352 Resistance  105f., 162, 178, 189, 191, 205, 224, 226, 237, 274 mathematical 224 of digital tools  226 of material  105f., 191, 226

SUBJECT INDEX

Resources  40, 62, 89, 151, 161, 216, 235, 245f., 294–296, 307, 321, 332, 343f., 353, 356, 360 Revit (program)  307, 314f. Revolution French  28f., 338 Industrial  103, 107 Rhino (program)  307, 314 Rotis  270, 280, 282 autonomous republic  270, 282 Rules  35f., 41, 44, 46f., 84, 97, 119, 142, 170, 178, 197, 199, 224, 235, 243f., 274, 276, 302, 304, 306, 308, 312, 343 Sample  131, 183, 185, 336f., 350 SAR planning methodology  352 Schematic outline  97, 115, 117 School Vision Game  350 Science (see also: Research)  14, 28–33, 36f., 43, 48–52, 54, 62, 65, 67, 99, 103, 115, 141, 149, 168, 185, 198, 215, 217, 232, 235, 238, 242, 250, 252, 270, 285, 298, 324, 329–332, 338– 340, 344 of design / design science  32, 52, 338 Script  174, 304, 307 Self-build projects  356 Sensibility  13, 73, 243 Service phase  293 Shape, shaping, giving shape  54, 71, 101f., 104, 106, 110, 124, 131, 144, 155, 164, 170, 176, 179, 186–189, 204, 295, 298, 302, 306, 310, 325, 334, 342, 348, 361f., 365 (definition) 62 Simulation  180, 205, 212, 219, 230, 302 Situationism 348 Sketch  18, 44, 60, 63, 86, 97, 114– 116, 131, 138, 147f., 151–153, 155–157, 159, 175, 211, 219, 230, 232, 289 (definition) 147

first 156 Slum  346, 353f. Sociology  20, 46, 50f., 111, 336, 343, 352, 359, 362 Song Dynasty  257, 305f. Space  45, 48, 71, 113f., 126, 128, 132, 136, 144, 151f., 164, 170f., 178f., 192–196, 198f., 202–204, 210, 213, 224, 237, 258, 264, 296, 306, 309, 314, 337f., 358, 360, 364 Specialist college  23 Squatters 346 Stairs 41f. Standards  34, 41, 44, 64, 230, 257, 281, 292, 294, 312, 317, 328, 365 Stereoscopic photography  210 Stonemasons  103, 160, 176, 215 Strategy  19, 44, 49, 68f., 94, 115, 130, 162f., 292, 298 Study programme  18, 24, 337 Style  181, 212, 226, 257f., 262, 276, 308, 337 Subculture  344, 349, 359 Sustainability  11, 17, 217, 219, 227, 245–248, 279, 284, 295, 298, 308, 312f., 321, 329, 343, 348f., 352f., 356, 362, 364f. (term) 245 ecological  219, 246f., 312, 329, 356, 364 economic  219, 246f., 312, 329, 356, 364 measuring and evaluating 246f. social  217, 219, 246f., 312, 329, 343, 348f., 352, 356, 364 Symposium  120, 124 Synthèse des Arts 29 Systematic  10, 24, 27, 30f., 34, 43, 49, 66, 78, 80f., 103f., 133, 167, 217, 226, 249, 252, 267f., 277, 285, 308, 331, 339, 343f. Systems theory (society)  343 Table calculation  219 Taxonomy  11, 15, 130f.

Teaching  10f., 15, 17, 19–21, 23– 29, 32, 42, 47–49, 52, 156, 197, 234f., 244, 262, 264, 337f., 365 Techne (gr.)  36f., 232, 285 Technical college  23, 250 Tectonics 32 Tekton (gr.)  32, 164 Tendering  161, 180, 230 Tensegrity 162 Textbooks  19, 47 Theorem  252f., 258, 262, 264 Theoria (gr.)  250f. Theory  18–23, 29–32, 34–40, 48–53, 55, 57, 59, 62, 77, 81, 87, 90, 93f., 99, 104–107, 124, 126, 129, 132, 136f., 139f., 159f., 167, 169, 185f., 194–196, 217, 233f., 284f., 326, 331, 339, 343f., 347, 350, 361, 365 architectural, see: Architectural theory as a design tool  18, 97, 117, 249–266 as instrument of power  67 from below  270, 277 media, see Media theory model, see: Model theory of design  14, 26, 42–46, 48, 66–68, 94, 107, 142, 267– 281, 343, 365 of metaphor 163f., of practice 285 of society  343 Thinking  11–14, 28, 30, 45, 55, 63, 66f., 69, 73–78, 82, 90f., 93f., 104, 106f., 111f., 117, 128f., 132f., 136f., 140, 142, 151f., 155f., 159, 163f., 170, 175, 178, 191f., 204, 212f., 217f., 230, 232f., 264, 266, 268, 270–272, 275–277, 279, 281, 308, 310, 314, 333f., 336, 346, 357f., 363, 365 analogous/digital  77, 117, 271f. creative/critical  73, 75, 94, 132, 281, 365 design  34f., 49, 66, 74f., 148, 155, 164, 268, 357

SUBJECT INDEX

in models  128, 333 intuitive  75, 155 lateral/vertical  49, 75, 155 linear  77, 117 verbal  77, 117, 132, 164, 271 visual  50, 132, 271, 314 visual-spatial  76f., 117, 155f. with the scalpel  191 Thought  30f., 35, 46, 49, 63, 73, 78, 87, 91, 117, 130, 140, 142, 151, 155f., 159, 164, 207, 243, 252, 276, 279, 281, 357, 365 mode of  155f. rational  49, 91, 156 traps 49 Tool Cultures  129 Tools (see also: Design tools) ambivalence of  106–109 convivial  350, 362 industrial  361, 362 making of  105 of drawing/of drafting  16, 112, 114, 119f., 226 of a shoemaker  110 social implications  361 Trade journals  52 Transcendence 66 Typeface 280 Typology  40, 45, 209

United Nations  245, 247f., 353f. University  19, 23f., 26, 29, 337, 340 original idea of  24 Urban planning  252, 258, 334, 342f., 350, 354 Urban regeneration, gentle  346f. Use  11–13, 19, 21, 36, 38, 57, 66, 78, 97, 102, 105, 110, 112–114, 119, 121, 124, 128, 130–133, 136, 142, 152, 156, 161–163, 167, 174f., 181, 188, 190, 202f., 209, 214f., 224f., 227, 230, 234, 236, 239, 245, 247, 250, 271, 273, 276f., 279, 288, 294, 296, 301–304, 307, 310, 313, 324, 331, 334, 336, 349f., 352f., 356, 359f., 362, 364

User  40, 48, 97, 109, 128, 138, 144, 185, 203, 220, 226f., 239, 307, 310, 321, 342, 350, 356f. Users’ wishes  350 Utilitas (lat.)  237–239, 256, 273 Utopia  66, 71, 128, 157, 203f., 243 Value system  94, 167, 237, 243 Vanishing point (Scaenografia)  195f., 201 Velum (lat.)  162, 196–198 Venustas (lat.)  237–239, 256 Video  19, 117, 126, 137, 180, 198, 201, 204f., 207, 212–214, 221, 227, 231, 262, 192 Visual  14f, 38, 45, 50, 73, 76, 78, 97, 116f., 131–133, 136, 144, 155f., 159, 164, 196f., 201, 203, 205, 215, 225f., 231, 234, 264, 271, 310, 314, 364 Vividness (see also: Clarity)  185, 187 Walking  128, 130, 144, 268 White Rose  268 Whole, the  35, 58, 194, 199, 220, 239, 240, 244, 305 Working drawing  128, 147, 174, 178 Working model  82, 186, 189, 304 Writing  47, 54, 97, 101, 103, 128, 139f., 161, 164, 168, 170, 192, 225, 249, 267f., 272, 302, 328 Yíngzào Faˇshì (營造法式) 257, 306 Zhàng Gan (丈杆) 124–126