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.

Functional comedy

Functional comedy 

What people call "function" in architecture (a term I consider quite misleading) is a frequent sort of bemusement and frustration. It's not surprising, therefore, that it is a frequently used source of comedy: many comedic situations arise from mismatches between what users want to do and what a building affords. The combination of architects and "function" in not as common; in fact, I'm aware of only one instance: Monty Python's The architects sketch, where Cleese proposes to design an apartment block as a slaughterhouse as if it were the most normal thing for a residential building. To the apparent disbelief of the clients he responds in a similarly matter-of-fact manner: he hadn't fully divined their attitude towards the tenants. 

This is textbook comedy, based on the displacement of an activity in an alien context with disastrous results. It's a pity that architects don't realise that they also produce comedic moments when they dare propose new-fangled ways for doing things without properly appreciating the consequences. At least, we should laugh more at many proposals architects make in the firm belief that they know better than their users, that they can shape and better the users' lives.

Audiences

Audiences

Architecture manages to affect us all in profound ways. We live in architecture, work in architecture, recreate in architecture, spend at least one third of our life income on architecture. Still, most people don't seem to take architecture seriously enough. In comparison to other design and construction products, we tolerate too much in architecture and we are willing to pay too much for what it has to offer. Perhaps we are used to low performance and high costs, so a little more or a little less hardly matters.

Maybe that's why many architects pay little attention to the users of their designs. They pay more attention to their clients but often treat them too as a necessary evil and simply tolerate them because they are paying for their services. Their true audience is other architects: with every design they want to impress other architects, outdo them and improve their standing (perhaps we should have rankings for architects, just like in tennis; it could be fun). Even worse, I often have the feeling that the main part of this audience consists of students; neophytes and novices hungry for knowledge and success. Architectural education remains a matter of imitation rather than apprenticeship.