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Team 10, Perspecta 10, and The Present State of ArchitecturalTheoryDenise Scott BrownPublished online: 26 Nov 2007.

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can be enjoyed. Areas which have attracted tourists in previous decades are now becoming centers for immigra- tion. An economic study of the Upper Midwest at the University of Minnesota found a strong pattern of urban dispersal into the distant countryside. It concluded that:

Urban dispersal is a natural part of the phenomenon of urbanization in the automobile era. It is physically and economically feasible and meets a demand both for the amenities or open space and scenery which the older city has not been able to meet. Land for dis- persed urban development-both seasonal and year around-may be one of the major resources of the Upper Midwest.

Richard Meier found: Areas which have amenities that successfully lure tourists have also the capacity to convert some of them into sojourners-persons who stay awhile en- tering marginally into the local production system. The sojourners may very well bring enough new enterprise and capital with them to produce full time employmen t.

(An example of this can be found in Raton, N.M., where the owner of an electronics firm moved his business there from Chicago after visiting the town several times on vacations.)

In Eastern Kentucky, with its growing proportion of marginal and dependent people, the creation of the social

and environmental conditions to attract a healthy influx of sojourners and new residents could also provide the leadership and political strength to break the entrenched courthouse-welfare-patronage web that has stifled real improvement there.

In the meantime, the real problem is one of individuals not economic sectors. In designing aid programs for these people, perhaps it’s time to start respecting their strong preference for keeping their roots in the home community. While relocation to a more accessible location may be desirable now that no one is dependent on creek bottom corn any more, the deliberate depopulation of whole sec- tions of the countryside is too inhumane, no matter what physical advantages are held out as a lure. If human resources are properly developed, the population distribu- tion problem could be remedied in a few decades. Mean- while the challenge to create an environment that has grace, vitality, and meaning in our static and shrinking communities remains. We must shed our fixation on seeing all gains as coming from growth and more money. We need to develop a set of ideals with muscles that can grapple with unoptimistic truths effectively and con- sistently.

In Hellier, there is a little frame church beside the railroad tracks which bears a sign whose message is prob- ably the best advice these remnants of an industrial peonage system ever got. It says, “Ye must be born again.”

Review Article

TEAM 10, PERSPECTA 10, AND

THEPRESENTSTATEOF

ARCHITECTURAL THEORY Denise Scott Brown

Most planners meet only two kinds of architect: the “physical planner” and his close relative, the “urban designer.” The “physical planner” produces “master plans,” composed chiefly of neighborhood units where the kids can walk to school. He hopes to save the CBD, using two-dimensional land-use planning, viewing the city as a whole as a problem in land use design. The “urban designer” produces architectural projects for down- town renewal, hoping to save the CBD with greenways and cobblestones and concrete flowers pots. Working at the project scale, he is largely concerned with surface

Denise Scott Brown is a studenr of planning and architecttire and Acting Associate Professor at the School of Architecture and Urban Planning ot the Unirwsi iy of Cnliforiiirr, Los Angeles.

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appearance, with cosmetic improvements of existing cen- ters. When he designs a new town, his aim is to produce centers which are “truly urban”-that is, dense and active, following medieval and Jane Jacobs ideals.

It may come as a surprise to some planners to learn that many architects think of the “physical planner” described above, as a planner, not an architect, and call for his abolition as heartily as do some planners. And as for the “urban designer,” his philosophies have been viewed with suspicion by several generations of architects-since 1951, when the “townscape” approach to urban design was reborn in the cobblestoned cuteness of the Festival of Britain?

Other trends in architectural thought do exist, al- though they do not often come into the planner’s range

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of attention. Some of these are more pertinent to the needs of cities and more fruitful for the continued col- laboration of architects and planners than the ones de- scribed above. This review will deal with a line of architectural thought likely to be more interesting to today’s planners than that which they usually encounter in urban design offices and the design sections of public agencies. The works of two architectural groups, one English and one American, will be discussed in some detail. Both have emerged since the end of World War 11; they will be shown in their historical context as de- veloping out of both the architecture of the nineteenth century and the revolutionary architecture of the early twentieth century. They are shown too as grappling with the problem of complexity of the late twentieth century and the past industrial era.

Parallel Trends in Architectural and Planning Thought

The development of architectural thought since World War I1 has paralleled trends in planning thought dur- ing the same time. Both fields have seen the bounds of their concern widen beyond the limits of individual capacity, and both, when faced with the complexity of their redefined task and with the often conflicting and contradictory requirements it has made of them, have gone in essentially two directions. One is toward methodical rigor: toward the evolving of concepts and theories of method-planning method or design method 3-and the use of systems analysis, mathematics, and the computer, to make complexity manageable. The other direction is toward the partial and incom- plete: toward philosophies of the circumstantial and incremental, and notions of how to live with complexity and contradiction. The approach of the architects in this tradition resembles that of the disciples of Lind- blom in planning. It is with this group that I intend to deal here,5 since I feel that they and their opposite numbers in planning could have mutually helpful con- tact, but that this contact is unlikely to come about in the normal course of professional life, since these plan- ners consider themselves anti-“architecture’’ (i.e. anti- “physical planning” and “urban design” as described above) and these architects believe they are anti-”plan- ning” (i.e. anti-‘‘physical planning” and “urban design” as described above).

Early History of Modern Architecture In order to understand this movement in architecture it is necessary to go back first to the architectural revolu- tion of the ’20s and ’ ~ O S , and to the “International Style,” C.I.A.M. and the Bauhaw6 The “Modern Movement” is still too close to us for an objective view, but it can be said that it was a far more complex affair than the epithets “International Style” and “functional- ism” suggest; that it was a wildly exciting, and sometimes traumatic, experience for the architects who participated in it, and that i t has left its mark on much of the architecture of the world. In addition, because it was itself composed of many currents and cross-currents, its lines of influence have been many and different and have given rise to subsequent architectural actions and reactions often in opposition to each other. For example, the movement’s narrow definition of “functionalism,” as that which allowed for physical accommodation of spe-

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cific and measurable actions in space, and often in mini- mum space (Le Corbusier recommends to students that they get to understand how a train kitchen is planned or how a large liner docks) was salutary and cleansing for an architecture which had recently emerged from an excess of bombast; but it is dubious if it was followed as a doctrine even by its originators, who were content (and perhaps rightly) to speak about function and let the other, very significant, elements of their work speak for themselves.

Postwar Trends After the War, this functionalist doctrine gave rise to two new trends. One was a simple reaction to its own austerity and the austerity of the War and was based on what had been happening in the only Euro- pean country in which building construction had con- tinued during the War, Sweden. Its supporters called it humanist (as opposed to functionalist). Humanism was bricky, woodsy, and often tricky and whimsical. Another, and possibly more important, reaction was the attempt by some architects, notably Mies van der Rohe and Louis Kahn, to broaden the notion of function to include immeasurables not to be found in train kitchens; and at the same time to generalize it (since hu- man functions themselves are myriad, changing, and subjectively rather than objectively assigned) and to design spaces suitable for general categories of function yet rich enough to evoke the more specific, personal ones.

The narrow structural vocabulary of the functional- ist, the stress on industrial production, and the use of machine technology (or, in many cases, a hand-made imitation of the architect’s impressions of a machine technology) caused many to look upon the movement as a dead end. Especially of Mies’ work it was asked, Where do we go from here? Most went in the “hu- manist” direction discussed above. In America, the architects Yamasaki and Stone come first to mind, but there were many others, and “decorated modern” or “Savings and Loan modern” could be considered the most pervasive result of the influence of functionalism on American architecture. It is this style that graces most of our urban renewal projects, ofice buildings, and hotels; and, if we have in any way a modern architectural vernacular, this is it.

Ironically, the architect the most vigorously limited in structural vocabulary, Mies, may also turn out to have been one of those most influential in suggesting the way out. Not only because he paved the way for the Skid- more-Owings-and-Merrill vernacular of the Lever building (a far finer model than “decorated modern”) but also because of his profound influence on architects working in other idioms, such as Kahn in America and Peter and Alison Smithson in England.

New Movements: 1. The “New Brutalists”

After World War 11, then, the modern movement, al- ways a disparate affair, split into several, sometimes antagonistic, sub-movements. One of the most interest- ing of these is the English group, the “New Brutalists,” which later joined with a small number of European

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and a very few American architects to form “Team 10.” How the name New Brutalism came about is uncer.

tain, but Banhani suggests that it was in answer to the title the “New Humanism” applied to British archi- tecture of the late ’40s. It is true that the architecture of the Festival of Britain and of the early new towns was a first target of the Brutalists. They shared with the architects of the prewar modern movement the desire to be “direct,” and turned away as they did from conventional standards of architectural beauty, toward a “machine aesthetic.” They also shared a certain cam- paigning fervor which made their utterances and writings reminiscent of the futurist and constructivist manifestos of the ’20s (and of some of today’s planning polemic~) .~

But soon, while maintaining respect and admiration for the achievements of the architects of the earlier generation, the New Brutalists began to question certain of the tenets of the modern movement. One of these was the primacy of technology: “Today we are in a period where in many cases there is no longer an economic argument in favour of using mass-produced building components-we can machine-produce exactly what we want even for small runs-and we may soon be in a period when there will no longer be a social argument . . . This removed, the responsibility for exact form de- cisions is back with the architect.” lo Technology must not become technocracy.

At the same time there was a growing fascination with “architecture without architects”-the architecture of primitive peoples, and the English nineteenth cen- tury industrial vernacular, This was admired for its “directness” and for the fact that its makers were aesthetically untramelled. Le Corbusier in Vers Une Architecture had talked of “eyes which will not see.” The Brutalists’ liking of the ugly-liking what they did not like-was an attempt to keep fresh eyes and to stay out of aesthetic ruts. A commonly used adjec- tive at this time (the early ’50s) to describe a “good ugliness” or a shocking directness in the solving of a problem was “terrific.” Buildings have been described by Brutalists as “terrific but not good” or “good but not terrific.” This same quest turned them appreciatively toward mass culture long before it became popular to be pop. A few black sheep of CIAM were reassessed- Haering, Duiker, Aalto?‘

Most important to us, however, Team 10 hit full tilt against CIAM’s city planning philosophy as stated in the 1933 Athens Charter and embodied in the city plans of Le Corbusier from Ville Contemporaine to Chandigarh; and in Brasilia and in later plans such as the megastructures of Tange for Tokyo. Their criticism of these plans is the same criticism which is made of them by city planners: the CIAM grid of work, living, circulation, and recreation is an over-rigid and over- simple way of categorizing the activities of a city; time, change-with-time, and process are ignored, and so is multiplicity. The Brutalists argue that one-man unitary concepts don’t make a city. “Who can imagine a town one man deep or one ‘team’ deep?” asks Smithson, one of the movement’s leaders.

Who has the energy to initiate or even arbitrate over the whole design process? Nobody. Central- ized design control does not work.

Change made by any one generation to the general scene in terms of building and engineering works

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is relatively small, and no matter how large the area of development may be, it cannot stand alone, and its effectiveness must also be measured in its inter-actions with what exists and with what it calls into being, both socially and plastically . . . Buildings should be thought of from the beginning as fragments; containing within themselves a capacity to act with other buildings;. be themselves links in systems of access and servicing.

What is proposed is the abolition of planning as we know it . . . the disappearance of the ‘master- plan’ . . . municipal pre-planning cannot create the form of a new community.12

Of Tange’s Tokyo plan Smithson says,13 My immediate reaction to the plan: that of fear. That, whatever may be explained, it is above all, centralized, absolutist, authoritarian . . . The inevita- bility of cities of 10,000,000 and over rests on the thesis that interlocked governmental, political, tech- nological, and communication activities involve an increasing proportion of all effort, and that these ‘tertiary productive functions’ are the source of energy of a city . . . [But] . . , it would seem that one of the advantages of affluence could be that everyone need not meet their ‘production norms’ . . . One should be free to opt out .’ . . That would be a real open society.

Smithson favors a more dispersed city. Cities are already too knitted-up and too dense, what they need is to be loosened up, and the points of intensity of use spread about more, so that things can become themselves without so much artifice and struggle.

But not Los Angeles. In Los Angeles, you’ve got excellent communica- tions, but nowhere to go. All you can do is visit very nice middle class houses. Of course, if that’s what you like doing, it’s a marvelous place.‘.’

Nor Ebenezer Howard, The image left in the mind by his book is one of a railway architecture for clean but bewildered working men.15

Team 10 sees the role of the architect as the spatial expression of human conduct, or the making of the physical counter-form, or counterpart-form, to societal form. Aldo Van Eyck says: “What you should t ry to accomplish is built meaning. So get close to the meaning and build!” But, he asks, “If society has no form-how can architects build the counterform ?” Smithson says that new modern architecture is “prag- matic rather than old-style rational. Its basis is a sort of active socio-plastics.” And, “New is always social.”

But social structure is much more complex than ever before, and simplification through the setting up of false alternatives between polarities, such as part-whole, many- few, individual-collective, is dangerous. These, the move- ment says, are “twin phenomena” and cannot, according to Van Eyck, be “split into incompatible polarities with- out the halves forfeiting whatever they stand for.” ’’ And finally, it is the function of the architect to make “space” into “place” and “time” into “occasion.” (These comments may be compared with Me1 Webber’s call for a planning approach “in which space is distin- guished from place, in which human interaction rather than land is seen as the fruitful focus of attention.”)lg

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The Brutalists criticize the sociologists and social anthropologists for their too static view of society and culture and say that have not found them helpful in dealing with change or in making judgments for the future. They criticize the European planners for lack of ideas to go with the considerable powers they have. They criticized CIAM for having become, they said, a resting place for second-rate journalists, and brought about its demise. With this action the aging Le Corbusier, target of Team 10’s praise and blame, surprisingly con- curred, in a letter to the organizers of the 1956 CIAM convention ceding leadership to the new generation; though through his own postwar architecture he is en- titled to a place in this new generation.

Louis Kahn is the only living American architect (apart from Mies) whom the New Brutalists seem to treat with respect and consider as their confrtre.” Kahn was recognized among young architects in Europe seven to ten years before he became known in America out- side Philadelphia and New Haven. His concepts of servant and served spaces and his philosophical state- ments on movement in cities and the “architecture of the street,” 21 are noted by the Smithsons as having had a profound influence on their thought and work.

The combination of Kahn and Team 10 is probably the most forceful influence on young architects in Europe and America today and one which all other philosophies have somehow to take into account, includ- ing the philosophies of planning.

New Movements: 11. An American Group

But there are other movements afoot in America. In 1965 Yale’s architectural journal, Perspecta,22 brought out an issue which catches the spirit of a moment in what may or may not be a new point of departure for American architecture. (It is somehow typical of the group whose work is covered that one should be unable to tell whether it is or not. In contrast, the Modern Movement and Team 10 proclaimed their birth from the roof tops). The members of the new move- ment are not a group, but a series of individual heads of small firms and part-time teachers whose work has something in common.

Pride of place and about a third of the volume is devoted to the work and writing of three architects, two of whom have previously been associated with Kahn under the (again, disclaimed) rubric “Philadelphia School.” Much of the rest of the volume is made up of writing by Yale-connected architects and historians on subjects which are germane to or elaborate upon the themes set out in the first three essays. And at the end are “Remarks” by Louis I. Kahn, who thereby seems to be placed, probably inaccurately, in the role of father- figure or eminence grise to the movement, much as was Le Corbusier to Team 10.

VENTURI

Robert Venturi has his practice in Philadelphia; he taught for eight years at Penn and has recently been named Davenport Professor at Yale. Charles Moore, Chairman of Yale’s Department of Architecture, de- scribes him as “one of the world’s leading architectural intellectuals as well as a superb designer.” 23 Perspecta

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here publishes selections from his book, Complexity and Contradiction in Ar~hitecture,2~ to appear this year.

He starts, in approved traditional fashion, with a manifesto. But it is a “Gentle Manifesto” intentionally different in style from its ancestors of the ’20s and ’50s. Elsewhere he has called it “a modest manifesto mainly for myself”: “I like complexity and contradiction in architecture-not the incoherence or arbitrariness of in- competent architecture and not the precious intricacies of picturesqueness. I speak of a wider and solider mat- ter; a kind of complexity and contradiction based on the need to consider the richness of experience within the limitations of the medium.”25 Venturi feels that since life is complex, there is no reason why architecture shouldn’t be. But the complexity of the building should not be phony or merely decorative. Not all problems, he feels, can be solved; since goals are in conflict, archi- tecture, to serve the goals, will have to be ambiguous.

Orthodox modern architects, according to Venturi, avoid the complexity and ambiguity of life through being highly selective of which problems they solve. Mies, and here Venturi quotes Rudolph,26 “makes wonderful buildings only because he ignores many as- pects of a building. If he solved more problems, his buildings would be far less potent.” And though Venturi finds Mies’ statement “less is more” intriguing, for its paradoxical and therefore unsimple meaning, he believes “where simplicity cannot work, simpleness results. Bla- tant simplification means bland architecture. Less is a bore.”

But picturesqueness, false complexity for the sake of effect, must be eschewed. Subsequent chapters of Venturi’s book illustrate this thesis through the dis- cussion of different themes or problems which are common to all architecture, historical and modern. The chapter published in Perspecta, “The Inside and the Outside,” deals with the problems, practical and philosophical, of relating these two elements of a building and the dif- ferent needs they must satisfy; and with how they have been approached at different times and in different places. H e criticizes modern architecture’s philosophical stance that a building should be designed “from the inside outward,” pointing out that there are a great many forces, especially in cities, that impinge from outside upon a building and could legitimately cause the outside to be very different in character from the inside, and that in this difference-contrast, contra- diction-lies great potential richness and excitement. He gives some seventy-five examples of how this may be done, ranging from the truli at Puglia to Aalto’s dor- mitories at MIT. Sometimes, as at Le Corbusier’s Villa Savoye, or Sir John Soane’s Bank of England, or in the walled mediaeval town, a strong, simple and rigid outer skin, civic in scale and answering to communal needs, enfolds an intricacy of spaces, private and public, formal and informal, serving the needs of the buildings’ users, whose presence can be detected, above, around, and through the frame. At other times the inside space may be encased by a second envelope within the en- velope of the outside walls, where these walls are lined much as a coat is lined with an inner skin of wall or columns. This is the case at the Temple of Edfu at Karnak, where each successive space in the procession to

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the holy of holies is more encased than the last with outer protections. Often, between the inner lining and the outer walls, since each is answering to different needs, there will be leftover spaces which may be used for less important functions, such as the housing of utilities and services, or simply for private and informal functions. These ‘‘residual’’ spaces have a great fascina- tion for Venturi and they sometimes, paradoxically, be- come the dominant elements in his own work. For him, in the city, they represent the bending of the indi- vidual and the community to accommodate to each other.

This description does not do the complex thesis justice, but it brings out enough to show the difference between Venturi’s thought and that of the other groups we have discussed. First, the plea for “directness” (often ob- served in the breach by the others) is abandoned. Archi- tecture need be no more straightforward than life is, nor need all problems be res0lved.2~ Next, history, bounced out by the Modern Movement, is readmitted, and given precedence over all moderns except for Aalto, Kahn, Le Corbusier, Mies, and Wright. Venturi’s other heroes are Michelangelo, Soane, Lutyens, Louis Sullivan, and the Philadelphian, Frank Furness. For the first time in a long while the American architectural past is allowed to inspire the present. Sullivan is at least as important as Le Corbusier. Historical examples are used, not chronologically but comparatively for the light they throw on today’s problems. And intellect is used in the service of creativity, not feared as an inhibition on creative powers.

Although it does not come out here, Venturi shares with the Brutalists their early enjoyment of pop and perversity, and of the uncomfortably direct solution which breaks the architectural rules and makes other architects exclaim “But you can’t do that!”

His work has been difficult for his colleagues to understand, and his own written explanations in Peispecta of the buildings and projects illustrated there depend for their comprehension upon a prior reading of the selec- tions from his book, and preferably the whole book. But Venturi is one of the few architects searching for genuine bases for a civic architecture in the needs of our own times.

MOORE

Another is Charles Moore, whose article, “You Have to Pay for the Public Life,” follows Venturi’s. Moore was Chairman of the Department of Architecture at Berkeley when this piece was published; now he is chair- man at Yale. His theme is a search for the bases of a public monumental architecture, now lacking, in Cali- fornia, His thesis is that, once the lack of an “Establish- ment” (i.e ., a public sector actively involved in commu- nity life and power, and in public building) is recognized and accepted, a permissive attitude toward commercial culture can form the basis for an approach to monumental urban architecture. Moore wants to look at existing modern development in all its messiness, to see what is in it, to describe before he prescribes. He refuses to simply view with alarm. His attitude is analogous to that of the planners’ emerging acceptance of the value of, say, Levittown, to the people who live in it and use it: he insists that we understand what people need and can use from the buildings that the commercial market has produced.

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For him the word “urban” involves “the individual’s giving up something, space or money or prominence or concern, to the public realm.” And so does the word “monumental.” A monument is “an object whose func- tion i s to mark a place,” and monumentality is “a func- tion of the society’s taking possession of or agreeing upon extraordinarily important places on the earth‘s sur- face, and of the society’s celebrating their pre-eminence.” *’ This can only happen “when something is given over by people to the public.”

Moore has some crotchety things to say about planners: they “have a way of starting every speech by articulating the (private) discovery that the public body’s chief con- cern is people.” The planner’s speech, Moore continues, “then says unrelatedly that it’s too bad the sprawling metropolis is so formless,” and he concludes: “It might well be that if the shibboleths about people were turned inside out, if planning efforts went toward enlarging people’s concerns-and sacrifices-for the public realm, that the urban scene would more closely approach the planner’s vision, and that the pleasures of people would be better served.” (Moore may have his planners a little mixed up. Today those who care about “people” say they don’t care about urban sprawl.)

In the new cities of the West, and particularly Los Angeles, Moore says, “in the terms of any of the tra- ditions we have inherited, hardly anybody gives anything to the public realm. Instead, it is not at all clear what the public realm consists of, or even, for the time being, who needs it.” “Civic amenities of the sort architects think of as ‘monumental,’” are out. He con- siders “where one would go in Los Angeles to have an effective revolution of the Latin American sort . . . If one took over some public square, some urban open space in Los Angeles, who would know? A march on city hall would be equally inconclusive . . . The only hope would seem to be to take over the freeways, or to emplane for New York to organize sedition on Madison Avenue; word would quickly enough get back.” Well, the Watts riots happened on a main m e e t , where place and structure seemed to have certain symbolic (as well as, at the time, practical) significance. This adds fuel to Moore’s later argument.

The suburbs are like the sea; with separate houses like islands, “alongside which are moored the auto- mobiles that take the inhabitants off to other places.” But the islands are adrift too: “The houses are not tied down to any place much more than the trailer homes are, or the automobiles.” In this floating world “one need almost never go ashore. There are drive-in banks, drive-in movies, drive-in shoe repair.” And in Marin County, Frank Lloyd Wright’s drive-in Civic Center; which might have been “a sort of dock to which our floating populace might come, monumental in that it marked a special place which was somewhere.” But it is “just another ship, much larger than most, to be sure, and presently beached (wedged, in fact) between two hills.”

An earlier tradition, Hollywood-based, had inspired a different image for California-and an architecture, Hollywood-Spanish, “which was exotic but specific, deriv- ative but exhilaratingly free” based on the roving camera’s eye and on the “assurance supplied by Holly- wood that appearances did matter.” The public realm of that time brought forth buildings such as Spanish

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Santa Barbara County Court House, Romanesque Stan- ford, and particularly the early movie houses: Grauman’s Chinese Theatre in Hollywood and The Fox in Santa Barbara, where a series of patios and arcades of the theatre and surrounding stores merge in the mind’s eye “to form a public realm filled with architectural nuance and, even more importantly, filled with the public.”

Today’s large-size architectural projects, even when they belong to the public realm, have not been con- ceived of in this manner. Foothills College is “Equali- tarian . . . every tree and every building is as important as the rest.” Cabrillo College has a “rigid domestic idiom.” Even the space before Berkeley’s Saither Gate, debat- ably the sine qua non of the Free Speech Movement, lacks the diverse moods of the city-“it is cheerful, unremittingly cheerful.”

In the days when nature’s wonders, bay, sea and hills, could form the public shared delight, a domestic architecture was all that was required, and in California, particularly in the Bay Region, domestic architecture achieved near perfection. But when topographically non- descript areas are settled man must make the public realm if there is to be one at all. As Scully, later in the volume, puts it, the Bay Region domestic architecture (including Moore’s work illustrated here) could go only “about as far as a small church.” The paucity of vision of those energetic strivers after the monumental, the “Savings and Loan” moderns, is hardly worth mention. It is illustrated in passing by three banks, one resembling Niemeyer’s Palace of the Dawn, one Ronchamp, and one Mussolini’s gallery to the achievements of man at E.U.R.

So Moore turns elsewhere. First to the Nut Tree, a roadside restaurant in open country near San Fran- cisco. I t offers “a miniature railroad, an airport, an extensive toy shop, highly sophisticated gifts and notions, a small bar serving imported beers and cheeses, a heartily elegant-and expensive-restaurant, exhibitions of paintings and crafts, and even an aviary . . . This is an entirely commercial venture, but judging from the crowds, it offers the traveler a gift of great importance.”

This “by al- most any conceivable method of evaluation that does not exclude the public . . . must be regarded as the most important single piece of construction in the West in the past several decades.” Disney claims he built it because he found “nowhere to take the kids on a Sunday afternoon” and millions appear to agree with him. Moore suggests it is successful “because it recre- ates all the chances to respond to a public environment, which Los Angeles particularly does not any longer have. H e claims that its location in an “unchartable sea of suburbia . . . (is) . . . as unlikely a place as could be conceived.” About fifteen pages of photographs of Disneyland are included. For some reason they do suggest a greater permanence than do Moore’s shots of city and suburbs, which give the fleeting quality he attributes to them.

So Disneyland becomes a monument in a society which has no Establishment and no need of one; and Disneys, that is, “men willing to submerge their own Mickey Mouse visions in a broader vision of public interest, and who are nonetheless willing and able to focus their at-

The other monument is Disneyland.

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Review Article: Brown

tention on a particular problem at a particular place,” must help create the public realm.

And so must the State Highway Department. Moore makes the same discovery made by Kahn, Smithson, and Crane that streets and highways are big physically and financially, seem important to many, and are beauti- f u l too, if our eyes will but see it. “The freeways could be the real monuments of the future, the places set aside for special celebration by people able to experience space and light and motion and relationships to other people and things at a speed that so far only this century has allowed.”

Moore sees “computer and operations research methods” as a means of increasing the architect’s analytical under- standing of the program and thereby avoiding the “sameness forced upon us by the blindness of our analytical tools and our tendency as architects to gen- eralize on an insufficient base.” Finally: “There is no need and no time to wait for a not-yet-existent Establish- ment to build us the traditional kind of monuments or for a disaster gripping enough to wake the public con- science to the vanishing Places of the public realm we got for free. Most effectively, we might, as architects, first seek to develop a vocabulary of forms responsible to the marvelously complex and varied functions of our society, instead of continuing to impose the vague gen- eralizations with which we presently add to the grayness of the suburban sea. Then, we might start sorting out for our special attention those things for which the public has to pay, from which might derive the public life. These things would not be the city halls and equestrian statues of another place and time, but had better be something far bigger and better, and of far more public use.”

Moore, like Venturi, is trying to relate form to social needs and forces, trying for a wide-eyed understanding of what is really happening, at the same time as he is hoping for an improvement. H e too examines the non- architect-designed parts of cities that few architects, ex- cept the Brutalists, seem to notice. And now even “Holly- wood Spanish” is O.K.

But the notion of freeways as monuments must be placed under suspicion. Freeways are big and can be powerfully impressive and moving, like Roman Aque- ducts and Medieval walls, but they have their own mean- ing, which is not a “monumental” one in Moore’s terms. In the Medieval city the walls were not the monuments, the churches were. The freeways should be a framework for a new monumentality, hopefully to be found in com- munal buildings and spaces and streets held in its web.

GIURCOLA

Romaldo Giurgola was Professor of Architecture at Penn until this year, when he took the departmental chair at Columbia. His essay, “Reflections on Buildings and the City,” is subtitled “The Realism of the Partial Vision.” It is the most extreme statement of the segmental approach so far.

Unfortunately, Giurgola’s language at times defies understanding; not because of jargon-the Perspecta writ- ings all appear to be jargon-free-but because it is basically Italian written in English, and thought patterns change with language patterns, making thought in one

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language difficult to transfer to another. An example: “The building rising alone, colloquial with the landscape,” or “In form the city is the direct revelation of meaning rather than an agglomeration of plastic figurations around hypothetical values expressed with illusory, defunct sym- bology, seeking the demonstration of a theory.” But it is worth the effort of concentration.

Designing a city, Giurgola says, is different in nature from designing a building, because for the city the de- signer must provide physical structure “capable of generat- ing urban fabric.” This was done in the past through the building of important parts of the city, “squares, harbors, acropolises and the like,” which acted as pivots for the growth of work places and housing areas. “These last grew voluntarily confused, thus retaining the secrecy of their private life. As a consequence they were highly habitable.” But today demands are made for the develop- ment of large areas all at once, and a t the same time there has been a great multiplication of theories of urban design-City Beautiful, City Social, Ville Radieuse, Gar- den City, Cluster City, Megastructure. Giurgola says we should be careful not to confuse general principles or statements about essences with real designs arising from specific situations, and if we do, the pedantic, schematized plans which result “reduce design to a search for evidence of predetermined theories,” and the city becomes a demonstration, “destroying the human phenomena within it . . . and the very idea of a city . . . and mak[ing] the architecture an end in itself rather than a means.” “Order” can and should exist in a city but it can be “mysterious as a labyrinth, where the principle is secret, hidden, to be r-euealed rather than dernonstr-ated.” *’ In some cities “an over-all global image is impossible to grasp, but the visual experience inside them is human in scale. They mirror complex emotions.”

When we limit our concern to the city as seen from the air, or seen as a series of visual experiences, like a painting, “in which buildings [become] abstractions, capable of filling a part of an organized scheme,” we are removed from the “substances of architecture, which, like human phenomena, is complex, infinite, poetic, tangible, dramatic, intimate, the results of both conscious and unconscious activities.” Buildings and cities must be appreciated in their economic, technological, and ex- pressive functions all at once, since all are part of one architectural experience.

The architect who accepts the partial vision and the limits on his knowledge and intuition, and, turning away from attempts at global understanding, addresses himself to the reality of measurable conditions, can produce a building which is not an anonymous box, and which does not need to “become involved in an arid game of plastic acrobats in order to assert its presence.” The growing, changing city is beyond the comprehension and the a priori schematizing of the individual.

The core of the city is not “abstract space with build- ings arranged in a geometric relationship.” It is height- ened interaction. Given the automobile, it may spread out: “a larger discipline of city structure is needed.” But buildings, not water tanks or parking garages, make the essential city: “Movement may be the framework of a city, but it is far from being its essence” (nor, presum- ably, to his way of thinking, its new monuments).

It is unfortunate then that the Tel Aviv Yafo com- petition entry 30 which follows this discussion should

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be an example of the very type of architecture Giurgola is criticizing. It starts well with the setting out of impor- tant elements around which “urban fabric” can be ex- pected to form-highways, crossings, harbors-and these are suitably extended to suit the “larger discipline” of the automobile. But what of the buildings? These are good examples of abstractly schematized, “a priori” generalizations, designed too early and designed to fit a theory (and an over-simple one at that). Perhaps the architects should not be blamed-the terms of the com- petition probably would not have allowed them to submit a set of focal points and connections and a set of alter- native development patterns with buildings shown for no more than two years ahead. Nevertheless, this failure seems to say something about the limits of the partial vision.

Giurgola’s parking structure for the University of Pennsylvania, illustrated here, seems also to contradict his ideas. For all its massiveness it is designed as a piece of architecture, not an “object,” and seems self-conscious and mannered. This is a danger which Venturi and Moore face too: the architecture of complexity wobbles dangerously at times on the edge of the precious and the mannered. Especially when the buildings are small one building may be too frail to take the weight of so much philosophy. Each of these architects needs (and deserves) a job the size of the Bank of England.

In all three of these articles, although there is much talk of the building on the site, on the road, in the city, there is not one photograph of any of the buildings illus- trated which adequately shows its relation to its sur- roundings. Venturi’s house makes a suburban lot feel like the Salisbury Plain; but all the pictures are taken close up. His nurse’s office cleverly includes the parking area as part of the architecture to give a small but impor- tant building a civic scale. But the parking lot is cut out of the picture. Giurgola’s parking building sits on a main district artery, but the traffic doesn’t show. Old habits die hard.

The rest of the Perspecta volume elaborates on the themes of complexity, the modern movement in history, the public realm and building in the city. There are writings and works of architects and scholars: H. Russell Hitchcock, Philip Johnson, Paul Rudolph, Vincent Scully, Edward 1,. Barnes.

KAHN

Then Kahn. He has had a part in the development of the architectural philosophies and idioms of both the British and American groups discussed here. H e has not had the sole part, however, and he is not of any one of them, but follows his own paths. He looks deep into himself to try to.understand the nature of man, and the nature of the institutions of man which his buildings must harbor. H e hopes in this way to discover an order and a belief from which to design, where this order and belief are not the quirks of one designer but are shared by all because they are “in man’s nature.”

Everything that an architect does is first of all answer- able to an institution of man before it becomes a building. You don’t know what the building is, really, unless you have a belief behind the building, a belief in its identity in the way of life of man . . . It isn’t you that you’re making. It isn’t just a ques- tion of believing something yourself, because the real-

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Review .4rticle: Brown

AIP JOURNAL JANUARY 1967

ity you believe isn’t your belief, it’s the belief of every- one: you are simply the radar of this belief.

Kahn’s buildings have the archaic quality of something new-born, not yet well-formed, still struggling with the meaning of its existence-not yet beautiful. “Something which didn’t quite express itself in all its beauty, but had such power of existence that others did not change its spirit but worked towards its emergence in beauty.” They have been milestones in the lives of other architects; and they have made great mistakes. These have brought down such violence of criticism upon his head that one begins to suspect other causes than the functional ones in whose terms they are couched. After all, expedient aluminum foil is not an unknown sight in the western windows of other buildings. Why is it elsewhere shrugged of3 as a fact of architectural life and what you get for going with architects? Kahn, I think, hits people some- where deeper and more vulnerable. The righteous indig- nation in their tone sounds more like the protests heard over new art forms from Beethoven to Picasso.

Conclusion This has been a review of the philosophies of just a few architects. But they are an influential few, especially on the generation now in school. Please note: nowhere have we talked of “neighborhood units,” “pedestrian scale,” “traffic separation,” or “townscape.” These so- called (by planners) 31 “principles of urban design” don’t seem to interest these architects.

By attacking all architects as proponents of shallowly. conceived beautification schemes, socially-minded planners are avoiding the reality: it is not the “urban designers” in planning commissions and agencies who block plans for social improvement of the cities, but far more power- ful forces engrained in the social fabric itself. It is time these planners realized that architecture has its own socially-minded critics, and began reading their works and talking to them. Such communication might spell hope for a better collaboration between planners and architects one day, and real hope for an urban architecture.

But incrementalism and the partial vision are not enough, either for planners or architects. They are excellent antidotes to overly-global thinking; nevertheless,

NOTES 1Its antecedents, of course, go back to Camillo Sitte and the nineteenth-century Romantic revival.

2Paul Davidolf and Thomas Reiner, “A Choice Theory of Plan- ning, “AIP lournal, XXVIII (May, 1962).

3 Christopher Alexander, Notes on the Sypthesis of Form (Cam- bridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1964).

4 Robert A. Dahl and Charles E. Lindblom, Fofziics, Economics, and Welfare (New York: Harper, 1953).

5 Notes on the Synthesis of Form, probably the most important published work to date of the “methodical rigor” school, was reviewed by E. J. Kaiser, ALP lournaf, XXI (February, 1965).

6 T h e “International Style” was the epithet given the strange new architecture of plain, undecorated surfaces and large windows by which young architects of the ’20’s announced an architectural revolution. C.I.A.M. (Congrks Internationale d’Architecture Mod- ernC) was the group they formed for the support and furtherance of modern architecture and to which most of the great architects of our day, Le Corbusier, Mies, Gropius (but not Frank Lloyd Wright) belonged. It held meetings every few years between 1920 and 1960, to which flocked architects from all over the world and from which were issued manifestoes. Of these the best known is probably the Athens Charter of 1933, a statement on city planning and urbanism (documented in Can Our Cities Survive? by Jose Luis Sert). The Bauhaus was a school for architects and designers founded by Walter Gropius in Germany in 1919. It ended in Germany with the advent of Hider but its influence has been felt in architectural education throughout the world, and particularly through Gropius at Harvard, Mies at M.I.T., and Moholy-Nagy at the Institute of Design in Chicago.

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we cannot do without broad-scale, prototype thinking or middle and long-range planning and programming. For this kind of work, in its physical aspects, we need physical planners and urban designers. And we shall have to turn to the schools of urban design to get them. To these come young architects disillusioned with the role of the individual professional on the single lot, and looking for other tools and philosophies for the making of urban form.

The position of a student of urban design in a school of architecture and planning is a confusing one. He is called “that planner” by the architects, and “that archi- tect” by the planners. But urbanists such as David Crane at Penn, and hopefully we a t UCLA, try to bring to bear the exciting thought in both disciplines, and in our own philosophies, on evolving a new discipline and theory for physical planning and urban design. This discipline will be much more tied to the realities of city life than the so-called “principles of urban design” discussed in the introduction to this review. It will help to revive a much swatted-at and somewhat demoralized profession. Then let us hope for a new collaboration between architects and planners.

We should call for an end to iconoclasm. A young movement, while its future is insecure, will often, because it must to survive and grow, try to destroy its past. This is easy to do when the pendulum has swung too far in one direction. The modern movement in architecture, an affair of men under thirty, reacted against “the styles” and nineteenth century extravagance. The distortions of history necessary at that time can now be set straight. Let us hope that the pure young spirit of reform in planning, so righteously (and rightfully) indignant about the over-emphasis of things. physical in planning, will find itself soon firm enough to admit the value of some physical planning. For iconoclasm is always a narrowing thing. To end with Scully: “In the ’40s our minds were small, our perceptions limited by iconoclastic dogma, our comprehension shrivelled thereby. None of that is any good. Instead we are obliged to open eyes and minds in all our fields.”

‘Alison and Peter Smithson were the first (and most vocal) Brutalists. Team 10 members: J. B. Bakema and Aldo van Eyck (Holland), G. Candilis and S. Woods (France), A. & D. Smithson and Johd Voelcker (England), J. Soltan (Poland), Gier Grung (Norway), Ralph Erskine (Sweden), J. Coderch (Spain).

Work and writing of and about the New Brutalists and Team 10 are to be found in the English magazines and professional journals (particularly, Architectural Design) and in the Dutch Forzirn, since the early ’50s. In particular, see Reyner Banham, “The New Brutalism,” Architecturd Review, December, 1955; A. Smithson (editor), “Team 10 primer,” Architectural Design, December, 1962; J. Baker (editor), “A Smithson File,” Arena, the Architectziral Association lournal. February, 1966.

8 “The New Brutalism,” op. cit. 9 “Europe is lost . . . it cannot free itself any more. I t is

going to rack and ruin. We look on calmly. Even if we were able to help, we would not want to help. We do not wish to prolong the life of this old prostitute . . . We do not call to the nations, ‘Unite’ or, ‘Join us’. We do not call anything to the nations. . . . We know: Those who join us already belong to the new spirit. Only together with them is it possible to form the spiritual body of the new world. . . . Work!!” (from Manifesto 111 of ‘De Stijl,’ 1921, “Towards the formation of a new world.” Reprinted in De Stijl, Catalog 81, Amsterdam Stedelijk Museum, 1951.)

“We refuse to recognize problems of form, but only problems of building. Form is not the aim of our work but only the result. Form, by itself, does not exist.” (Mies van des Rohe, 1923)

“We have no time to waste. Better supply the right fruits a

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littlc unripc than supply nonc at all or thc wrong sort over-ripe. . . . Hurry, switch on thc stars bcfore the fuscs go!” (Van Eyck, 1959, rcprintcd in “Team 10 Primcr,” op. cit.)

“I am flatly rcjccting thc contention that thcrc is an overriding univcrsal spatial or physical aesthetic of urban form. . . . Thc task is not to ‘protcct our natural heritagc of opcn spacc’ just becausc it is natural, or open, or bccausc we scc ourselves as Galahatls defcntling thc gr~(itl form against thc evils of urban sprawl. This is thc mission of cvangclists, not planncrs.” (Mclvin Webbcr “Ordcr in Divcrsity,” in Cities and Spuce: The Future Ure of Urban Land, Lowdon Wingo, cd., Haltimorc: Johns Hopkins Prcss, 1963).

Thc tonc is thc samc, and. when you come right down to it, thc contcnt too.

10 Peter Smithson, “Thc Rocket,” Archifecfural Design, July 1965.

11 C. St. 7. Wilson, “Open and Closed,” Perspecta 7, The Yale Architectural [ournal (New Haven: Yale University School of Art and Architecture, 1961). At about this time (the latc ’~OS.), Kahn met Team 10, and the influence of Duiker’s opcn-air school in Amsterdam can be seen on the Richards Medical Laboratories. Duiker, in my opinion, was a great architect who has still to receive his clue. He died in 1935.

1zPeter Smithson, 1960, quoted in “A Smithson File,” op. cit. passim.

13 Ibid. 14 Ibid. 15 “Team 10 Primer,” op. n’t., p. 591. 16 -41~0 van Eyck, “Team 10 Primer,” op. Cit., p. 564. 17 Zbid., p. 600. 18 Ibid. 19 “Order in Diversity,” op. cit., p. 25. The two should not

really be set up as alternatives. These two quotations don’t mark a valid dilferenre between architecture and planning; rather they give an interesting insight into yet one more “twin phenomenon” to be found in both architecture and planning.

20There should be others, notably David Crane at Penn, whose concerns parallel and could enrich theirs, but, pace Webber, spatial separation (and language differences) do seem to play a part in hindering professional communication.

21 See Vincent Scullv. Tr. Louis I . Kahn (New York: George Braziller, 1962), and L&i; Kahn, “Toward a Plan for Midtown Philadelphia,” Perspecta 2 , 1953.

ZzPerspecta 9-10, R. Stern (ed.), 1965. This issue is dedi- cated to Robert Ernest, a young architect who got to build two houses and a swing for his children before he died.

23Yale University News Bureau, press release for March 16, 1966.

24 By the Museum of Modern Art in association with the Graham Foundation for Advanced Studies in the Fine Arts.

25 H e continues: “This is acknowledged everywhere from Godel’s proof of ultimate inconsistency in mathematics to Eliot’s

analysis of “difficult” poctry. And litcrary critics espccially have pointcd out thc inhcrcntly paradoxical quality of thc language of art. . . .

“Hut is not architccturc similarly complcx in its vcry inclusion of commodity, firmncss and dclight? And arc not thc wants of program, of structure and mcchanical cquipmcnt, and of exprcs- sion, cvcn in singlc buildings in simple contexts, divcrsc and con- flicting in ways prcviously unimaginablc not to mention thc broatlcr s c q x o f city planning? I wclcomc thc problems and exploit the unccrtaintics. By cmbracing contradictirins as well as complcxity, I aim for vitality as wcll as validity. I am not intirnidatcd by the puritanical, moral language of modern architcc- turc. I likc forms that arc impurc rathcr than ‘pure,’ compromising rathcr than ‘clean,’ distortcd rather than ‘straight-forward,’ am- biguous rather than ‘articulated,’ allusive rathcr than simple, pervcrse rathcr than impersonal, accommodating rather than cx- cluding. . . .

“I prefer ‘both-and’ to ‘either-or,’ black and white, and some- times gray, to black or white. Contradictory rclationships express tension and give vitality. A valid architecture evokcs many levels of meaning; its space and its elements become readable and workablc in several ways at once.

“But an architecture oE complexity and contradiction has a special obligation toward the whole: its truth must be in its total- ity or its implications of totality. It must embody the sort of unity Cleanth Brooks tlcscribed in poetry: ‘A unity (not) of the sort to be achieved by the reduction and simplification appropriate to an algebraic formula. It is a positive unity, not negative: it repre- sents not a residue but an achieved harmony.’ More is not less.”

26 Paul Rudolph, “Rudolph,” Perspecta 7, 1961. 27 But Puritanism still holds on+omplexity must arise from

thc program (“from inside outside”?) and not from esthetic preference, or expressive aim. And inconvenient parts of the pro- gram may not be ignored for the sake of simplicity.

28Here again the distinction is made, as it is by van Eyck, between “space” and “place,” “place” being important to people- i.e. symbolically. I t is interesting that Webber, whom we have noted as feeling space, not place, is important to plannevs, was Moore’s colleague at Berkeley. Did they ever discuss it? Academic life proves that propinquity does not induce communication.

29Italics mine. For me this is the difference between San Francisco and Los Angeles. In San Francisco order is demonstrated by topography; in Los Angeles it is revealed, and you understand only slowly.

30For a central portion of Tel Aviv. Those associated were D. Crane, R. Giurgola, E. B. Mitchell, A. Regenstreif, I. Schlapo- bersky, M. Verman, T. Vreeland.

31 For example, Herbert Gans in “Social and Physical Planning for the Elimination of Urban Poverty,” Washington Unimrrity Law QzJarterly, February 1963, and Jesse Reichek “On the Design of Cities,’’ AIP lournal, XXVII (May 1961).

L e t t e r t o the Editor

The thesis of “Planners’ People” which appeared in the July issue of the /ournaZ was that “planner’s people . . do not occur as a series of unrelated decisions on the part of the draftsman, but rather that there exists a widely accepted basis for their selection of suitable character types.”

Various hypotheses were put forward by the three authors which suggested that the planner’s people were selected because they were easy to draw, or reflected the planner’s concern for order, the saleability of his project, or the particular social group he is a part of and serving.

This last hypothesis was discussed at some length since it really is not “questioning the effectiveness or suitability of a commonly used graphic device [but rather] is presenting a serious criticism of current planning prac-

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tice.” The authors ask that since a range of planners’ people from various levels of the socioeconomic scale are not portrayed in each illustration, “are planners actually guilty of ignoring or overlooking the existence of different groups and of the variety of values that should be common to a democracy?”

To oblige the authors’ request for response, I submit two additional hypotheses for their consideration.

Hypothesis 1. The planner has become infatuated with and has adopted a particular style of illustrative design much in the same manner as one adopts a particular style of writing or printing.

This suggests simply that the planner likes to draw in a particular way. A quick look through an individual’s work over time will reveal a certain consistency in representing a person, a tree, a rock, a leaf, and so forth.

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