The birth of a door

The birth of a door

When I see a floor plan sketch, there are two things I recognise: the spaces and visual elements that denote some attempt at arranging the spaces. If the spaces are clear enough, then I can imagine the doors that connect them: where two spaces touch each other, there is a possibility for a door. Sometimes the doors that are coming out of the sketch are all of the same kind, like office doors along a corridor or classroom doors around a hall: all clearly identifiable, dominant features in that space. In other cases, they're not evident in the way spaces touch but I know they're there, like the entrance to a building. Quite often it's easy to see which space could connect the undefined outdoors to the emerging indoors. These are often special doors, sometimes one of a kind, like the entrance to a castle or a cathedral.

So, I'm not surprised when I see a finished floor plan with some door missing. The designers may feel embarrassed that they've drawn a space without an entrance but I sympathise: it's easy to forget what already exists in one's mind, a thing so obvious as a door. At the same time, I wonder: how could they forget it? Do they have a complete picture of the design, of how people move around in it without all doors clearly marked and at least mentally connected into networks and flows? But then, architecture isn't always about how people use a building. That's why some doors are born only after people occupy a building and realise that they're missing something, that there are doors there waiting to be born.

Architectural productivity

Architectural productivity 

Some time ago a colleague observed that our school had excellent connections with industry. I reacted with puzzlement and he explained: we have excellent connections with architects in practice. I bonneted that we shouldn't consider that -a service- as industry. If there's a building industry, it has more to do with those who finance, construct, operate and use buildings and less with the ones who design them.

With hindsight, I was wrong: architects are the industry because they're the true product of architecture. More than buildings, we produce architects; our factories are the schools of architecture. Even in countries with high unemployment, schools of architecture keep on producing architects, many of whom continue with postgraduate and even doctoral studies. And what happens next? Is there a market for architects holding PhDs on typical architectural subjects? Not outside architectural education: most architects with a doctorate want to become teachers, too, and produce even more architects and doctors. It's an impressive recursive system that manages to make money, despite the absence of a real product.

The 3D-printing race

The 3D-printing race

Practically every week there is news of the latest success in 3D printing in building construction. Every weeks someone else claims to have solved the problem for good. But when one reads the details of the announcement, it turns out that the solution tends to be partial. There's some clever stuff like adapting design and production to the capabilities of the machinery but the entire production of even a small house is not something one can solve in an elegantly compact manner. One can 3D print concrete components but what about wood, glass, metal, brick - windows, doors, wiring, plumbing etc?

Could it be so that 3D printing is more suitable for high-end customisation, i.e. bespoke buildings? That's a completely different goal to making the mass-produced, affordable housing that seems to be the main ambition of building 3D printers; arguably one that agrees more with the capabilities and costs of the technology. The problem is that finding a way to manufacture concrete panels with complex shapes at a great height with minimal scaffolding isn't as appealing as the production of a complete dream house in a single day. So, the mass media will probably stay focused on that interminable race and bombard the public with more fantasies, wet dreams and marketing stunts.

Architecture as something else

Architecture as something else 

Peter Collins's Changing ideas in modern architecture, 1750-1950 has been a favourite of mine since my student years, not in the least for a hilarious bit about cooking in comparison to architecture - the gastronomic analogy. By looking at architecture through such analogies, Collins managed to make me aware of the dangers of the easiness with which we compare what we do to something else in order to produce arbitrary statements that might even not qualify as hypotheses, let alone truths (as often assumed). This extends to viewing design as problem solving and information processing, which I consider legitimate yet treat with caution. Metaphors, analogies, similes and the like are excellent ways of explaining some particular aspects of a phenomenon through a clear picture of something else. One shouldn't take them literally or for granted.

It follows that I worry not only about expressions like "architectural vocabulary" and "architectural grammar" but also about the misguided attempts by architects to use their discipline as something else. It's bad enough to believe that architecture can shape lives in a deterministic or utopian manner, we don't need architects playing anthropologist, sociologist, philosopher etc. and try to analyse, study and explain by making designs (precedents by cursory, selective observations that simply act as justification or inspiration, although the latter term seems to be out of favour now). Architects often seem to believe that they have some special right to develop solutions for everything and anything. The only thing they demonstrate is the urgent need for a clear scope and sound methodology for their own discipline.

Continuity and architecture

Continuity and architecture

Architectural design focuses primarily on discontinuity. In terms of process, it is applied to change states of the built environment in rather drastic and often quick ways, as with the design and construction of a new building on an empty plot or the refurbishment of a dilapidated room. Other changes, such as the deterioration of paint or plaster on a wall, are treated as continuous and hence a matter of use or maintenance rather than design. Maintenance bears an interesting relation to design: it's not just that it aims at keeping the building as close as possible to its design, the small steps it involves are considered trivial, even though they can change the building to a larger extent than people assume. Think, for example, of changes in the lighting fixtures in an office: they may render the relation with natural lighting to a degree that contradicts the intentions of the design. Nevertheless, if they're part of facilities management rather than refurbishment, they may go unnoticed and unconnected to design.

In terms of space, too, architectural design focuses on discontinuities, e.g. walls that interrupt space to create different spaces, locations for specific activities or with a particular character. Even within a single element, architecture focuses on discontinuities, e.g. those that concern morphology. Continuity in space (including on a building element) is considered boring - a non-issue. In effect, architecture is about the salient parts in our perception of the environments, the data that determine recognition and correlation of discrete objects (including spaces). One of the strongest examples of that is repetition, a favourite architectural device. This powerful combination of discontinuity and continuity results into patterns like a colonnade that are not merely recognisable but also demonstrations of what architectural design can achieve.

Intelligent stairs - can it be done?

Intelligent stairs - can it be done?

Yesterday I wrote about local intelligence and the possibilities doors have in this respect. Today, reading yesterday's note, my mind turned to stairs - another building element that fascinates me. Why do I expect intelligence from doors and not from stairs? Why do I assume that stairs are to remain passive or even unyielding? Is it just that I'm used to dynamic behaviour in doors? There are automatic stairs, too; escalators that detect that someone is approaching and start rolling. Why does this impress me less than a door automatically opening to admit authorised persons on a biometric basis? Could it be so that I see stairs as a danger, something to be feared and treated with caution - and for that reason prefer them to be passive? 

It could be because intelligence in stairs may be far more demanding than in doors. Automatically adjusting the stair dimensions to the size and mobility of every user would certainly impress me but it wouldn't be easy to achieve, even if it were about a single user at a time. Stairs that could accommodate several users simultaneously in this manner would be a feat worthy of the highest praise for its ingenuity but, as societal or technological priorities go, not of the same order as a cure for any persistent illness. So, I fear that stairs are to remain relatively unintelligent, passive and a bit menacing - beautiful but rather dangerous. 

What every door should know about itself

What every door should know about itself

Doors have a fascinating duality. Open they become space, part of the 'voids' of architecture: a hole that connects two spaces. Closed they are 'solids': building elements that separate the two spaces. Their interactionwieh humans can be complex, allowing first of all change between the two states of open and closed, as well as recognisable variation in between: ajar, half open, half closed - many recognisable states, often with specific maning.

This duality and interaction makes doors critical for the behaviour and performance of a building. It also makes them prime candidates for intelligent behaviour of the kind that delights me: local, practical, modest. Such intelligence can be observed both n real life, with automatically opening doors and similarly smart recognition of the user, and in design representations, with doors sticking to their walls or otherwise becoming attuned to their context.

What delights me above all is that such intelligence, certainly in a design representation, can be made possible by collecting all constraints on a door and using them to determine the behaviour of the door symbol. It's an interesting perspective: when the door knows enough about itself, it can become intelligent.

The perils of introversion

The perils of introversion

For some time now I've been coordinating and compiling a research proposal concerning some extension of traditional architectural activities - let's leave it as cryptic as that. The first hing that struck me was that there was no reason why this extension hadn't been realised yet; in many respects, it's just an additional service architects could offer, a simple extra application of stuff they do anyway.

The second thing was the number of unsolicited telephone calls and emails I received from people from other disciplines who insisted they should join the project. They were not exactly offering their capacities and asking whether we could use them, they were actually quite insistent they should be included, often on the basis of an earlier, fuzzy acquaintance or some unhappy past collaboration. Their key argument was that we needed them, that the project would not succeed without their contribution.

I tried to be polite and explain that it would be a primarily architectural project, implying that their own discipline was outside its scope, but soon realised that they felt strangely at home in the architectural domain. They saw proposing what architecture should do within their remit - not as clients or users of the built environment but as experts with some authority.

This prompted a question in mind but did not ask it: would they behave in the same manner towards someone with a proverbially high skill or high knowledge level, like a brain surgeon or a nuclear physicist? I doubt that. Architecture is one of those areas where almost everyone feels at home, usually for the wrong reasons and with wrong intentions. That everyone knows buildings as a user, that many can arrange furniture in a room, that some can build or even plaster a wall doesn't mean that they all know architecture, that they may dictate its scope and direction.

Regrettably, architects may be at least partially to blame for that. If other architects remain the main audience of architects if architects do not know more than the rest about the schools, hospitals, offices and other types of buildings they design, if they don't care to demonstrate their mastery of not just form and style but also use and utility, people may assume that there isn't much in this architecture lark and other scientists may believe that architecture has little knowledge of its own to offer on matters they may know themselves or just be interested in from their own perspective.

Old worlds

Old worlds

I was watching the European Athletics Indoors Championships when I heard the commentators on the BBC mention the Commonwealth record. That was a word I hadn't heard for years and was struck by its colonial and imperial connotations. I know of the Commonwealth Games and I'm sure that athletes competing in them take them seriously but the records are a different thing. They refer to a view of the world that seems quite outdated. Even the geographic subdivision in continents means little nowadays with the high mobility of athletes who may train in two or more different continents every year and can easily catch a flight to hop around the globe in order to compete in various games and meetings in rapid succession.

The same seems to apply to architects, as more and more are not bounded by countries and continents in their work. The great ones in particular often get the chance to descend like demigods from some airplane to enlighten and amaze the locals with their genius. Mobility among architects seems to have its own commonwealths, networks around established names, cities and countries of acknowledged prominence. Even in our networked world that claims to offer opportunities to all, the old worlds appear to retain much of their old cultural power.

Failing the physical

Failing the physical

A fellow architect and university professor was talking to me about a lecture she'd attended. It was by some big shot from the museum world, whom she had found extremely knowledgeable and intelligent but at the same time irritating. I listened to her account and counterarguments why the big shot had it wrong but soon I drifted off. All I was hearing was differences of opinion concerning symbolic interpretations, semantic aspects, digitisation and various meta-matters. I compared these to my own recent experiences at museums and realised that this particular architectural debate was far removed from the physical reality and human interaction with it. It felt as if architecture had abandoned the physical environment, as if it no longer posed a challenge, as if everything there had been solved and architects had to move on to higher things.

Unfortunately, that's not the case and quite probably will never be. The built environment is far from what it should be in terms of behaviour and performance. It costs too much and delivers comparatively little. In museums, engineers may have managed to solve lighting, humidity and other technical problems but interaction with the resulting environment is often disappointing. Visitors may still experience glare when viewing a painting, may even have trouble finding a decent point from where to view a painting (just try to do so in front of one of the major masterpieces in any museum), circulation can be irritating, orientation can be a problem etc. Architecture hasn't moved on from those issues, it has failed them.

How to recognise a building

How to recognise a building 

It happens all the time: while driving through some unknown part of the Netherlands, in the periphery of my vision, some building catches my attention and immediately I know it's a school, a civic building or something other than the housing that dominates the urban environment. I don't have to think about it, I just directly know it. Scale, proportions, fenestration and other features make it evident that the building belongs to a particular use type.

So I wonder how far this goes, whether most people can recognise buildings like than and where it comes from: from earlier experiences with different buildings or from fundamental differences in form. This is an intriguing subject, especially because quite a lot doesn't seem to come from direct personal experience: if you ask a Dutch child to draw a house, they'll most probably draw an outline they've learned from books, with the roof pitch visible from the side rather than the front, as in the usual Dutch row housing.

Open and closed

Open and closed 

Now that research is so much about grants, one gets confronted with conflicting ideas about research output. Open access and open data are deemed essential for the dissemination of knowledge - and rightly so: even with the vast expanses of the Internet, there's a lot of scientific knowledge that remains inaccessible to the people who should be able to use it, like students, especially at poorer universities that cannot afford all subscriptions to all journals. Naturally, if everything is open and digital, I wonder what's the use of publishers any longer. Editors, reviewers etc. are almost always academics who deliver services just to further their area or career. Any colleague who asked for something like that would have my cooperation and of course any colleague can set up a website for accommodating publications and datasets.

At the same time, we're asked to be careful about intellectual property (IP), both our own and that of others. We have to register background IP when we enter a collaborative venture, administer foreground IP produced in such a venture, note side ground IP produced alongside the venture, and monitor postground IP that is produced afterwards thanks to the venture. Neologisms aside, I accept that IP is important as an asset and we have to protect our institutes' rights, even if we're not talking about formal IP like patents. We have to earn money nowadays and safeguarding IP is a good way of guaranteeing that.

Obviously there's a conflict between opening the door for others to access our publications and data and closing it to protect the IP that's in these publications and data. If one reads a text of mine and learns how to do something as well as I do, what prohibits them from using this knowledge? Or should I obscure some critical details in order to have exclusive rights to the real IP? Sharing knowledge and learning from each other have been hallmarks of science and research, and I'm unwilling to change that.

Even worse is that these issues are sidetracking us from our core business to legalese and managementspeak topics that contribute nothing to the main reasons why one does research: learn and explain. I don't want to spend my days like that; I don't even want to pay managers and lawyers to protect me from that. I prefer a simpler, perhaps naive world where research is an integral part of an academic's work, regardless of grants and IP. And yes, any publication provides open access to knowledge. Free access to the publication is a different matter; as I expect students to pay tuition fees, even if only to treat the education they receive as a privilege, I expect that one pays at least a small sum to be able to read a scientific book or journal. It's not different to any other book or journal.