Architectural Story with Introduction

What if buildings could respond to us?

Road Speed

Ste. Elena, Costa Rica, near Monte Verde

Costa Rican engineers design streets so cars go slow.  No need for speed limits or patrol officers because the streets let you know how fast you can go.   In the center of the town, brick streets make tires rumble, parked cars on both sides narrow the lanes, so getting through requires some delicate navigation.  And people walk in the street as well as on the sidewalk.  Just outside the center paving smooths into asphalt, but the streets are narrow and people often walk along the side of the road, or ride bikes.  Drivers need to be cautious.  'Suave un toque' (easy does it)

Here's the best example that the engineers are designing road speed deliberately:  The steep roads up the mountain slopes are unpaved and rocky, even as they are generally well-maintained.   Go too fast and you get a very rough ride.   Therefore cars tend not to careen off the road into the abyss, even without guard rails, or emergency lanes, or concrete barriers.   Yeah, it's dusty, but no one dies. 

 

Salt Life

On vacation here in Marathon, in the Florida Keys, sitting on the patio facing a canal, I feel like Jimmy Stewart in Hitchcock's Rear Window as I watch the neighbors across the canal hefting a cooler onto their boat, leaving, and returning with their catch. They celebrate a big wahoo, clean it, grill it and eat it all the while in full view.  Of course, they also see my family and I while we eat our meal on the patio. 

In Marathon every house has a boat.  The car is parked in the driveway in front and the boat is parked in the canal behind.  The house faces neighbors across the street and the back yard faces the neighbors across the canal.  No one expects privacy in either direction.  Perhaps that is part of the spirit of the salt life.  A fantasy of leisure, fishing, and socializing, without the hard edges of trying to make a living.  I imagine that salt life is lived almost in quotes, as a demonstration of the good life, a spectator sport that invites others to watch.

A circular sense of time

Here’s a hypothesis…

Is it possible that sustainability will give back to us a sense that time moves cyclically, and give us a new idea of “progress?”

“Progress,” the idea that human society advances ever forward into a better future, is tightly associated with modern thinking.  In particular the brave-new-world notion that progress in technology will always make our lives better and will always leave the past behind to be remembered but not repeated, is now almost a caricature.  The forward thrust of modern ‘progress’ mirrors the cradle-to-grave manufacturing model of making new things (out of ‘raw materials’ or ‘natural resources’), using them up and throwing them away (where they disappear).  The process moves always ahead toward the new.  Several squirrelly ideas and a fatal irony are embedded.  First, what’s new about something new? I’ll just leave that one to ponder.  Second, using things up suggests that nothing is left behind, an obvious falsehood – even food eaten up leaves poop behind and fuel used up leaves CO2 at least.   Thirdly, throwing things away doesn’t get rid of them, just takes them out of sight.  We clearly know by now that there is no ‘away,’ everywhere is somewhere and the more we insist on an ‘away,’ the more it crowds in on us.  In Freud’s terms, denying things or feelings by putting them out of sight or “foreclosing” them simply embeds them more deeply in our mind and body, until they infect our every action.

And the irony… progress implies a utopia or state of perfection always ahead like a mirage.  There, presumably everything is perfect, progress stops and time becomes cyclical again.    Hmmm.  So cyclical time is the goal.

Sustainability however proposes that we live in the world without diminishing it.  No graves.  No ‘away.’  No using things up.   It embraces the fact that everything exists before we ‘use’ it and continues to exist after.  Technology may transform materials and move them from place to place, but nothing is left as waste. Everything is recaptured and returned to the cycle.  Progress means innovation that improves the cycle in all its phases, not just the ‘making stuff for our use’ part of the cycle.  Life can be excellent, and everything returns, so that it can go around again and again.  

Thinking of materials in this way implies a cyclical sense of time: that all things return, in different forms, with an accumulation of memory perhaps, but always already present.  Same, same, but different.  We are part of the cycle of the natural world, and progressively innovate new ways to keep it strong and healthy, year after year, century after century, and millennium after millennium, always changing and, if we do our jobs well, always the same.

Ode to a Plastic Bag

Rooftop Solar could generate half of Miami-Dade County's Electricity

Solar panels on the roof power both house and electric car

The solar train is leaving the station (with or without FPL).

Here are some back-of-the-envelope calculations.

The total area of roofs in Miami Dade County is:  116 million square meters. Or 1.244 billion square feet.  Or 44.6 square miles. Thanks to Jeffrey Onsted, an FIU colleague, who wrestled this figure out of the Miami Dade County Property Assessors map of 2011.

Electricity use in Miami Dade county in 2008 was about 27.3 billion KWh.  Here's the source: Greenprint
I’m sure it’s more now, but that’s a figure I could find.

A solar panel in Miami generates about 216 KWh per square meter per year, more or less. 
This figure comes from from the universal formula for solar yield:  E = A * r * H * PR

E = Energy (kWh)
A = Total solar panel Area (m²)
r = solar panel yield (%)  (usually about 15%)
H = Annual average solar radiation on tilted panels (shadings not included) (Miami is about 5.25 kWh/ sq m/day, or 1916kWh/square meter/year)
PR = Performance ratio, coefficient for losses (range between 0.5 and 0.9, default value = 0.75)

Therefore, take the total square footage of the roofs, 116 million sq. meters then reduce it by about 40% (I’m guessing) because panels must be 3’ back from the edge and roofs are populated with air conditioners and stuff.  That comes to about 69 million sq. meters

Multiply by 216 KWh/sq.m/yr.  Equals 14.9 billion KWh.

Therefore, Miami Dade County could generate about half of its electricity use from rooftop solar.  Hmmm.

I did a similar calculation for all of Florida’s energy use, including electricity, gas, oil, jet fuel etc, to figure out the area of solar panels needed.  It came out to about 2,200 square miles (47 miles per side of a square)  Here’s the map:

Area of solar panels needed to power all of Florida at current energy usage

Creative Maintenance

Friedrich Hundertwasser, Residential building of the
City of Vienna 1983-5 (Photo: Schwingenschlögl)
http://www.hundertwasser.com/arch/view-44

 A building usually looks its best on opening day, or perhaps a few weeks later when the final punch list is complete.  Then the photographers are called in, the people are cleared out, and images created for publication.  That’s the best and freshest, and most stylish the building will ever be.   All that’s left after that is maintenance.  

The life of a building, however, takes some time to emerge, years even for people to adjust their habits and discover new patterns and relationships.  Some say it takes twenty years or so for a neighborhood to mature until it has older families and young people and a broadly-recognized identity in the larger community – not just as ‘that new development.’   When the life of the place comes into focus as the goal of design, then maintenance takes on an entirely different meaning.

If the life of a building were considered primary, then maintenance would require looking after the health and well-being of the occupants, community and ecosystem.  To that end the physical object would not only only accept modification but welcome it.  Maintenance would be a continuing process of adjustments to respond to changing conditions of the city, and inhabitation by creative people who build their lives there. 

The best example I can summon is artist Friedrich Hundertwasser’s apartment buildings in Vienna.  He wrote in 1983, “Only a building which grows organically after the occupants have moved in and steadily changes through the constant alterations of the occupants is the alternative to the concentration camps in which we live…”   He went on, “Everyone must have the right to lean out of the window and redo the third skin, the outer wall, as far as his arm reaches, so that people on the street can see from far away, “There lives a human being”.

Was Hundertwasser’s artistic vision diminished by inviting residents to modify the building?  Hardly.  His design strategy is strong enough to welcome change and become richer for it.

Notes:

Jacques Derrida considered the issue of maintaining the ‘maintenant’ or the ‘now’ in an essay on Bernard Tschumi’s design for Park de la Villette.

Friedrich Hundertwasser, “Concrete Utopias for the Green City” delivered at the International Gardening Association symposium in Munich July 27, 1983 http://www.hundertwasser.com/text/1.3.2.5/hl/69.

Half of Urbanism

 

Last Friday I went to dinner with some colleagues to Wynwood Kitchen at Wynwood Walls, the original group of warehouses painted in changing murals.  Always spectacular.  To walk from courtyard to courtyard surrounded by mammoth-sized Art is both stunning and urbane.  And lots of people walking around, filling restaurants and galleries that have moved into the raw warehouse spaces.  It's as much of an urban scene as Miami can produce, like Lincoln Road used to be.  

However, no one lives there.   Everyone drives in to participate in in urban life, then they drive home again.  Is that really urbanism?  Perhaps not yet.  The scene in Wynwood is just a half of city life, adrift with neither infrastructure nor a residential population, like one of Miami's many attractions invented by clever investors.  However Wynwood is now sparking development that will bring housing and perhaps offices and transit and the other elements that fill out a city, bit by bit, by popular demand.  Some residential towers are planned but none are under construction now.

Some of us in front of "Codo a codo" (elbow to elbow) by INTI

Here's the irony.  Some people drive to Wynwood from their apartments in new high-rise buildings on Miami Beach or Biscayne Boulevard.  Bus service is miserable, walking is unpleasant, and transit non-existent.  In fact, they drive everywhere, pouring out of the parking garage in the morning on their way to work and returning at night.  The towers have a few amenities around them, but not much.  They are the other half of city life, detached and adrift, tethered only by traffic.

In the fullness of time both Wynwood and Biscayne Boulevard might accrue enough of the qualities of the other to become fully urban.  But can Miami wait that long?

Expensively Empty

Last week a group of Italian students and I were chased off of the property of the "Apogee" condominium tower in the southernmost tip of South Beach.  The security guard told us it was a "private, very private building."  In fact we were not allowed to step off the sidewalk onto the circular driveway.  Geeez.  Four condo towers stand between the urban grid of Miami Beach and South Pointe Park, a beautiful terminus to the island designed by Hargreaves and Assoc. Landscape architects.  The public has access via two streets that cut between the towers, a beach walk and a bay walk. 

Entrance to Apogee, a very private residence

What struck me was that this well-defended private property, standing so aloof from the city, was also empty.  Luxury condos are often kept as pieds-a-terre for wealthy people who live elsewhere.  The buildings remind me of multi-story boat storage scaffolds, which hold hundreds of boats that people rarely use.  The condo towers similarly stand waiting for their inhabitants to return. 

The city responds in kind, offering very little to the zombie towers.  A few pricey restaurants have set up either inside the towers or nearby, but one cannot find a cup of coffee or slice of pizza short of several blocks away.  The location is so exclusive that almost everyone goes elsewhere.

Bethesda and Balzac

One puzzling thing about Bethesda Row, a short alley converted to a pedestrianized shopping street, is how much it recalls much older urban types.  It feels more like a nineteenth-century French passage than like an American main street or mall or marketplace.  The form of the street as well as the look of the buildings seems to roll back to a nostalgic past, when window-shopping first became an urban pastime and the streets of Paris became characters in the novels of Balzac.  It all seems quaint, albeit expensive.

Just down the street, the metro station built in the 1970s opens onto the requisite urban plaza with a fountain, surrounded by scaleless highrises with sealed strip windows and a concrete ‘arcade.’   Even when the plaza is full of people, it seems empty.  

Here’s my question: Why do we seem stuck between these two options? Nostalgia or modernistica? 

Of course we are not.  Clever architects are out there working to remake the city once again.  The challenge is to design buildings with character that make a street street worth walking.

Questions of Scale - Bethesda Row and Sunset Place

Bethesda Row on a rainy morning in winter

Indoor-outdoor dining

In Maryland during the holidays, Philip and I toured Bethesda Row on a rainy day with two developers from Federal Properties, which owns the project as well as a significant part of the commercial downtown.  Federal recently bought the Shops at Sunset Place, South Miami’s faltering mall, and will renovate the building to make it more urbane (good for us) and more profitable (good for them). They described the process of transforming Bethesda’s tatty suburban downtown into a thriving, walkable shopping/residential district centered on a metro stop of the Washington DC system.  South Miami holds a similar position with a commercial main street on the metro line, serving a large, well-heeled, suburban population.

The two developers spoke of how the design of the ground floor of the buildings of Bethesda Row establishes a human scale for the street, creating the ambiance of the place, which invites people to walk, and linger, and shop.  As good urbanists, they study questions of scale carefully and worked with their architects to be sure that the street felt right for pedestrians, shoppers, and residents in apartments above.  On narrow Bethesda Row, formerly an alley, Italian lights are strung overhead define the street as a public room, with doors and windows that open generously to create places for people.   The developers teach urbanism to their architects.

They criticized Sunset Place for its lack of scale.  OK.  But, in truth, it took me until I went back there yesterday to really understand what they meant.

Sunset Place is a stage set.  We know this already.  Its preposterously grand staircase overlooks a “street” decked out in Classical/Mannerist/Who Knows What? trim and leads to upper level walkways that cross the street on picturesque bridges.  It has plenty of architectural decoration.  The entire panorama, which unfolds as one walks, was designed to be seen from a certain distance like a set, not up close. Indeed, the scenery of Sunset Place looks best from the distance of an architectural drawing - an elevation - to be specific, which notoriously has little sense of material or joinery.  Inhabiting the mall, one feels like a figure added by the draughtsman to an architectural rendering.  Up close, the “details” of Sunset Place are ridiculous. 

That's what the developers meant by human scale: real details that do something useful and interesting, developed thoughtfully in real materials that reward the eye and the touch of the hand.  Good.

Now that they own Sunset Place, I look forward to seeing what the developers of Federal Properties will do with it.

Sunset Place, South Miami

Why the Bataclan Theatre?

The Bataclan theatre, where the worst of the Paris attacks was staged, is a nineteenth-century music hall embedded in a block facing Boulevard Voltaire in a dense, culturally-mixed neighborhood.    It couldn’t be more classically Parisian in design or in use.  Most of the façade is inhabited by Café Ba’ta,clan that offers patrons a sidewalk salon of wicker chairs and tables on the boulevard.  The theatre entry is modest, facing the street so the queue forms outside.

Why did ISIS choose that place, a low-rent music hall, among all the gilded theatres of Paris?  Some speculate that the owner’s support for Israel brought down the wrath of murderers. http://historybuff.com/paris-terror-attacks-killers-target-bataclan-theatre/.  Maybe.  Was it American heavy metal?  Or Parisian nightlife? Perhaps.

I’m struck by the cruel irony that the architectural openness of the Bataclan made it vulnerable, while the same openness is our best defense against intolerance.  The Bataclan (meaning the whole caboodle) embraces the city and makes the boulevard into a public space – not just a street.  Its café turns outward to welcome all those who drink and chat.  The theatre has two entrances that flank the café, but only one is used.  They lead up to a foyer that looks back over the street with tall French doors and a long balcony where concert-goers might perch at intermission, or go for air when the music gets too thick.  The façade is bright and decorative.  Originally it had a Chinese kick to the roof, just to make it exotic, and three circular windows at the top.   The historybuff has an early picture showing the chinoiserie inside and out.  The Bataclan embodies the best French tradition of  urban architecture, with joy, urbanity and good humor.

Perhaps that also offends those who would control us.   

A good night at the Ba'ta,clan Café

Lincoln Road Oval Redesign: Kids and Parakeets

The Lincoln Road Oval (at Euclid Ave) is a Miami parterre covered in an astroturf carpet where kids romp and parakeets chatter overhead, even Discoman is there.
Here's a link to a video:  Listen for Parakeets

James Corner and Field Operations have proposed a new design to renovate Lincoln Road including changes to the oval.  Back in the summer, they proposed turning the oval into a fountain. Here's a link.   A number of people including me spoke with the designers about how popular the oval has always been as public space.  In particular we told them that about the children who love to race around and do their tricks on the astroturf where everyone can see them.   I also spoke of the parakeets that nest in the date palms surrounding the oval.

In late September Field Operations presented a revised scheme showing a play area for children backed by a much smaller fountain.  Better.  They listened.  Another link. 

However Lapidus, the master of designing spaces for people watching, still has some lessons to teach.  His oval is raised up about two feet higher than the pavement like a stage that is facing outward to Lincoln Road.  Someone on the oval can see whatever else is going on and can be seen by everyone passing by.  This is a thrill for kids who are suddenly at eye level with adults.  It also works for teenagers who like to lounge or picnic on the oval in a position where they can sit and still be at eye level with passersby.  The height makes adults sit down, usually on the rim with their feet on the steps.  Public space as an equalizer.  Sitting, they look outward toward passersby or turn around to watch their kids, sitting sideways on the rim.  This double view knits the space together, looking out and looking in, and it makes kids happier to play when they are watched only casually.

And parakeets chatter overhead.  They are the other residents who need to be considered.  Monk parakeets are the only parrots that nest communally.  They chose the grove of date palms for specific reasons: they can be together but spread among several trees; they are safe from ground predators; they are high enough to watch out for hawks; they are close to a ready food supply, the palm nuts, berries, and bird feeders of South Beach gardens.

I'm sure we can learn to design for all the animals, including kids and birds.



  

Old Ivy

Sunset Place about a year ago. 

The management at Sunset Place shopping mall in South Miami recently removed a creeping fig from the walls facing Route 1.  This kind of fig is an aggressive vine that can swallow up whole buildings in a season, but nevertheless I am sorry to lose that bit of subversive green.  The newly, sadly clean walls make me miss the romance of ivy-covered halls, which runs so deep in the academic tradition that only the most venerable schools bear the name.  Most of the League has long since banished the Ivy, but retains the hoary memory of a picturesque ancestry in the architecture.  The older buildings often have a rough surface that already suggests overgrowth, perhaps in overloaded detail, perhaps in the gnarliness of stone or the mottledness of brick.  In imagination, this roughness retains a natural condition, as if the building were only slightly removed from its origins in the rock and mud below it.  When ivy (or creeping fig) grows, it carries living part of the earth up the walls as if to reclaim them.  Building maintenance supervisors fight back with keen eye and sharp blade.  To let plants advance unchecked suggests an exquisite negligence or perhaps tolerance that remains part of the collegiate imagination.  Deep in ivy-covered walls, perhaps scholars like St Jerome in his study have more on their minds than pruning, and perhaps willingly make room in their world for other living things. In the presence of big thoughts, clean buildings seem rather shallow, and all the pruning and trimming obsessive, even violent.  When you think about it, a smooth surface doesn’t offer much to think about and requires a lot of repetitive work to keep it that way.