In accordance with the deduction given in the text of the pure æsthetics
of architecture from the lowest grades of the objectification of the will
or of nature, the Ideas of which it seeks to bring to distinct perception,
its one constant theme is _support and burden_, and its fundamental law is
that no burden shall be without sufficient support, and no support without
a suitable burden; consequently that the relation of these two shall be
exactly the fitting one. The purest example of the carrying out of this
theme is the column and entablature. Therefore the order or columnar
arrangement has become, as it were, the thorough bass of the whole of
architecture. In column and entablature the support and the burden are
_completely separated_; whereby the reciprocal action of the two and their
relation to each other becomes apparent. For certainly even every plain
wall contains support and burden; but here the two are still fused
together. All is here support and all is burden; hence there is no
æsthetic effect. This first appears through the separation, and takes
place in proportion to its degree. For between the row of columns and the
plain wall there are many intermediate degrees. Even in the mere breaking
up of the wall of a house by windows and doors one seeks at least to
indicate that separation by flat projecting pilasters (_antæ_) with
capitals, which are inserted under the mouldings, nay, in case of need,
are represented by mere painting, in order to indicate in some way the
entablature and an order. Real pillars, and also consoles and supports of
various kinds, realise more that pure separation of support and burden
which is striven after throughout by architecture. In this respect, next
to the column with the entablature, but as a special construction not
imitating it, stands the vault with the pillar. The latter certainly is
far from attaining to the æsthetic effect of the former, because here the
support and the burden are not _purely separated_, but are fused, passing
over into each other. In the vault itself every stone is at once burden
and support, and even the pillars, especially in groined vaulting, are, at
least apparently, held in position by the pressure of opposite arches; and
also just on account of this lateral pressure not only vaults but even
mere arches ought not to rest upon columns, but require the massive four‐
cornered pillars. In the row of columns alone is the separation complete,
for here the entablature appears as pure burden, the column as pure
support. Accordingly the relation of the colonnade to the plain wall may
be compared to that which would exist between a scale ascending in regular
intervals and a tone ascending little by little from the same depth to the
same height without gradation, which would produce a mere howl. For in the
one as in the other the material is the same, and the important difference
proceeds entirely from the _pure separation_.
Moreover, the support is not adapted to the burden when it is only
sufficient to bear it, but when it can do this so conveniently and amply
that at the first glance we are quite at ease about it. Yet this
superfluity of support must not exceed a certain degree; for otherwise we
will perceive support without burden, which is opposed to the æsthetic
end. As a rule for determining that degree the ancients devised the line
of equilibrium, which is got by carrying out the diminution of the
thickness of the column as it ascends till it runs out into an acute
angle, whereby the column becomes a cone; now every cross section will
leave the lower part so strong that it is sufficient to support the upper
part cut off. Commonly, however, one builds with twentyfold strength,
_i.e._, one lays upon every support only 1/20th of the maximum it could
bear. A glaring example of burden without support is presented to the eye
by the balconies at the corners of many houses built in the elegant style
of the present day. We do not see what supports them; they seem to hang
suspended, and disturb the mind.
That in Italy even the simplest and most unornamented buildings make an
æsthetic impression, while in Germany this is not the case, depends
principally upon the fact that in Italy the roofs are very flat. A high
roof is neither support nor burden, for its two halves mutually support
each other, but the whole has no weight corresponding to its extension.
Therefore it presents to the eye an extended mass which is entirely
foreign to the æsthetic end, serves merely a useful end, consequently
disturbs the former, of which the theme is always only support and burden.
The form of the column has its sole ground in the fact that it affords the
simplest and most suitable support. In the twisted column
inappropriateness appears as if with intentional perversity, and therefore
shamelessness: hence good taste condemns it at the first glance. The four‐
cornered pillar, since the diagonal exceeds the sides, has unequal
dimensions of thickness which have no end as their motive, but are
occasioned by the accident of greater feasibleness; and just on this
account it pleases us so very much less than the column. Even the
hexagonal or octagonal pillar is more pleasing, because it approaches more
nearly to the round column; for the form of the latter alone is
exclusively determined by the end. It is, however, also so determined in
all its other proportions, primarily in the relation of its thickness to
its height, within the limits permitted by the difference of the three
columnar orders. Therefore its diminution from the first third of its
height upwards, and also a slight increase of its thickness just at this
place (_entasis vitr._), depends upon the fact that the pressure of the
burden is greatest there. It has hitherto been believed that this increase
in thickness was peculiar to the Ionic and Corinthian columns alone, but
recent measurements have shown it also in the Doric columns, even at
Pæstum. Thus everything in the column, its thoroughly determined form, the
proportion of its height to its thickness, of both to the intervals
between the columns, and that of the whole series to the entablature and
the burden resting upon it, is the exactly calculated result of the
relation of the necessary support to the given burden. As the latter is
uniformly distributed, so must also the support be; therefore groups of
columns are tasteless. On the other hand, in the best Doric temples the
corner column comes somewhat nearer to the next ones, because the meeting
of the entablatures at the corner increases the burden; and in this the
principle of architecture expresses itself distinctly, that the structural
relations, _i.e._, the relations between support and burden, are the
essential ones, to which the relations of symmetry, as subordinate, must
at once give way. According to the weight of the whole burden generally
will the Doric or the two lighter orders of columns be chosen, for the
first, not only by the greater thickness, but also by the closer position
of the columns, which is essential to it, is calculated for heavier
burdens, to which end also the almost crude simplicity of its capital is
suited. The capitals in general serve the end of showing visibly that the
columns bear the entablature, and are not stuck in like pins; at the same
time they increase by means of their abacus the bearing surface. Since,
then, all the laws of columnar arrangement, and consequently also the form
and proportion of the column, in all its parts and dimensions down to the
smallest details, follow from the thoroughly understood and consistently
carried out conception of the amply adequate support of a given burden,
thus so far are determined _a priori_, it comes out clearly how perverse
is the thought, so often repeated, that the stems of trees, or even (which
unfortunately even “Vitruvius,” iv. 1, expresses) the human form has been
the prototype of the column. For if the form of the column were for
architecture a purely accidental one, taken from without, it could never
appeal to us so harmoniously and satisfactorily whenever we behold it in
its proper symmetry; nor, on the other hand, could every even slight
disproportion of it be felt at once by the fine and cultivated sense as
disagreeable and disturbing, like a false note in music. This is rather
only possible because, according to the given end and means, all the rest
is essentially determined _a priori_, as in music, according to the given
melody and key, the whole harmony is essentially so determined. And, like
music, architecture in general is also not an imitative art, although both
are often falsely taken to be so.
Æsthetic satisfaction, as was fully explained in the text, always depends
upon the apprehension of a (Platonic) Idea. For architecture, considered
merely as a fine art, the Ideas of the lowest grades of nature, such as
gravity, rigidity, and cohesion, are the peculiar theme; but not, as has
hitherto been assumed, merely regular form, proportion, and symmetry,
which, as something purely geometrical, properties of space, are not
Ideas, and therefore cannot be the theme of a fine art. Thus in
architecture also they are of secondary origin, and have a subordinate
significance, which I shall bring out immediately. If it were the task of
architecture as a fine art simply to exhibit these, then the model would
have the same effect as the finished work. But this is distinctly not the
case; on the contrary, the works of architecture, in order to act
æsthetically, absolutely must have a considerable size; nay, they can
never be too large, but may easily be too small. Indeed _ceteris paribus_
the æsthetic effect is in exact proportion to the size of the building,
because only great masses make the action of gravitation apparent and
impressive in a high degree. But this confirms my view that the tendency
and antagonism of those fundamental forces of nature constitute the
special æsthetical material of architecture, which, according to its
nature, requires large masses in order to become visible, and indeed
capable of being felt. The forms in architecture, as was shown above in
the case of the column, are primarily determined by the immediate
structural end of each part. But so far as this leaves anything
undetermined, the law of the most perfect clearness to perception, thus
also of the easiest comprehensibility, comes in; for architecture has its
existence primarily in our spatial perception, and accordingly appeals to
our _a priori_ faculty for this. But these qualities always result from
the greatest regularity of the forms and rationality of their relations.
Therefore beautiful architecture selects only regular figures composed of
straight lines or regular curves, and also the bodies which result from
these, such as cubes, parallelopipeda, cylinders, spheres, pyramids, and
cones; but as openings sometimes circles or ellipses, yet, as a rule,
quadrates, and still oftener rectangles, the latter of thoroughly rational
and very easily comprehended relation of their sides (not, for instance as
6:7, but as 1:2, 2:3), finally also blind windows or niches of regular and
comprehensible proportions. For the same reason it will readily give to
the buildings themselves and their large parts a rational and easily
comprehended relation of height and breadth; for example, it will let the
height of a facade be half the breadth, and place the pillars so that
every three or four of them, with the intervals between them, will measure
a line which is equal to the height, thus will form a quadrate. The same
principle of perceptibility and easy comprehension demands also that a
building should be easily surveyed. This introduces symmetry, which is
further necessary to mark out the work as a whole, and to distinguish its
essential from its accidental limitation; for sometimes, for example, it
is only under the guidance of symmetry that one knows whether one has
before one three buildings standing beside each other or only one. Thus
only by means of symmetry does a work of architecture at once announce
itself as individual unity, and as the development of a central thought.
Now although, as was cursorily shown above, architecture has by no means
to imitate the forms of nature, such as the stems of trees or even the
human figure, yet it ought to work in the spirit of nature, for it makes
the law its own, _natura nihil agit frustra, nihilque supervacaneum, et
quod commodissimum in omnibus suis operationibus sequitur_, and
accordingly avoids everything which is even only apparently aimless, and
always attains the end in view in each case, whether this is purely
architectonic, _i.e._, structural, or an end connected with usefulness, by
the shortest and most natural path, and thus openly exhibits the end
through the work itself. Thus it attains a certain grace, analogous to
that which in living creatures consists in the ease and suitableness of
every movement and position to its end. Accordingly we see in the good
antique style of architecture every part, whether pillar, column, arch,
entablature, or door, window, stair, or balcony, attain its end in the
directest and simplest manner, at the same time displaying it openly and
naively; just as organised nature also does in its works. The tasteless
style of architecture, on the contrary, seeks in everything useless
roundabout ways, and delights in caprices, thereby hits upon aimlessly
broken and irregular entablatures, grouped columns, fragmentary cornices
on door arches and gables, meaningless volutes, scrolls, and such like. It
plays with the means of the art without understanding its aims, as
children play with the tools of grown‐up people. This was given above as
the character of the bungler. Of this kind is every interruption of a
straight line, every alteration in the sweep of a curve, without apparent
end. On the other hand, it is also just that naive simplicity in the
disclosure and attainment of the end, corresponding to the spirit in which
nature works and fashions, that imparts such beauty and grace of form to
antique pottery that it ever anew excites our wonder, because it contrasts
so advantageously in original taste with our modern pottery, which bears
the stamp of vulgarity, whether it is made of porcelain or common potter’s
clay. At the sight of the pottery and implements of the ancients we feel
that if nature had wished to produce such things it would have done so in
these forms. Since, then, we see that the beauty of architecture arises
from the unconcealed exhibition of the ends, and the attainment of them by
the shortest and most natural path, my theory here appears in direct
contradiction with that of Kant, which places the nature of all beauty in
an apparent design without an end.
The sole theme of architecture here set forth—support and burden—is so
very simple, that just on this account this art, so far as it is a fine
art (but not so far as it serves useful ends), is perfect and complete in
essential matters, since the best Greek period, at least, is not
susceptible of any important enrichment. On the other hand, the modern
architect cannot noticeably depart from the rules and patterns of the
ancients without already being on the path of deterioration. Therefore
there remains nothing for him to do but to apply the art transmitted to
him by the ancients, and carry out the rules so far as is possible under
the limitations which are inevitably laid down for him by wants, climate,
age, and country. For in this art, as in sculpture, the effort after the
ideal unites with the imitation of the ancients.
I scarcely need to remind the reader that in all these considerations I
have had in view antique architecture alone, and not the so‐called Gothic
style, which is of Saracen origin, and was introduced by the Goths in
Spain to the rest of Europe. Perhaps a certain beauty of its own kind is
not altogether to be denied to this style, but yet if it attempts to
oppose itself to the former as its equal, then this is a barbarous
presumption which must not be allowed for a moment. How beneficently,
after contemplating such Gothic magnificence, does the sight of a building
correctly carried out in the antique style act upon our mind! We feel at
once that this alone is right and true. If one could bring an ancient
Greek before our most celebrated Gothic cathedrals, what would he say to
them?—Βαρβαροι! Our pleasure in Gothic works certainly depends for the
most part upon the association of ideas and historical reminiscences, thus
upon a feeling which is foreign to art. All that I have said of the true
æsthetic end, of the spirit and the theme of architecture, loses in the
case of these works its validity. For the freely lying entablature has
vanished, and with it the columns: support and burden, arranged and
distributed in order to give visible form to the conflict between rigidity
and gravity, are here no longer the theme. Moreover, that thorough, pure
rationality by virtue of which everything admits of strict account, nay,
already presents it of its own accord to the thoughtful beholder, and
which belongs to the character of antique architecture, can here no longer
be found; we soon become conscious that here, instead of it, a will guided
by other conceptions has moved; therefore much remains unexplained to us.
For only the antique style of architecture is conceived in a purely
_objective_ spirit; the Gothic style is more in the subjective spirit. Yet
as we have recognised the peculiar æsthetic fundamental thought of antique
architecture in the unfolding of the conflict between rigidity and
gravity, if we wish to discover in Gothic architecture also an analogous
fundamental thought, it will be this, that here the entire overcoming and
conquest of gravity by rigidity is supposed to be exhibited. For in
accordance with this the horizontal line which is that of burden has
entirely vanished, and the action of gravity only appears indirectly,
disguised in arches and vaults, while the vertical line which is that of
support, alone prevails, and makes palpable to the senses the victorious
action of rigidity, in excessively high buttresses, towers, turrets, and
pinnacles without number which rise unencumbered on high. While in antique
architecture the tendency and pressure from above downwards is just as
well represented and exhibited as that from below upwards, here the latter
decidedly predominates; whence that analogy often observed with the
crystal, whose crystallisation also takes place with the overcoming of
gravity. If now we attribute this spirit and fundamental thought to Gothic
architecture, and would like thereby to set it up as the equally justified
antithesis of antique architecture, we must remember that the conflict
between rigidity and gravity, which the antique architecture so openly and
naïvely expresses, is an actual and true conflict founded in nature; the
entire overcoming of gravity by rigidity, on the contrary, remains a mere
appearance, a fiction accredited by illusion. Every one will easily be
able to see clearly how from the fundamental thought given here, and the
peculiarities of Gothic architecture noticed above, there arises that
mysterious and hyperphysical character which is attributed to it. It
principally arises, as was already mentioned, from the fact that here the
arbitrary has taken the place of the purely rational, which makes itself
known as the thorough adaptation of the means to the end. The many things
that are really aimless, but yet are so carefully perfected, raise the
assumption of unknown, unfathomed, and secret ends, _i.e._, give the
appearance of mystery. On the other hand, the brilliant side of Gothic
churches is the interior; because here the effect of the groined vaulting
borne by slender, crystalline, aspiring pillars, raised high aloft, and,
all burden having disappeared, promising eternal security, impresses the
mind; while most of the faults which have been mentioned lie upon the
outside. In antique buildings the external side is the most advantageous,
because there we see better the support and the burden; in the interior,
on the other hand, the flat roof always retains something depressing and
prosaic. For the most part, also, in the temples of the ancients, while
the outworks were many and great, the interior proper was small. An
appearance of sublimity is gained from the hemispherical vault of a
cupola, as in the Pantheon, of which, therefore, the Italians also,
building in this style, have made a most extensive use. What determines
this is, that the ancients, as southern peoples, lived more in the open
air than the northern nations who have produced the Gothic style of
architecture. Whoever, then, absolutely insists upon Gothic architecture
being accepted as an essential and authorised style may, if he is also
fond of analogies, regard it as the negative pole of architecture, or,
again, as its minor key. In the interest of good taste I must wish that
great wealth will be devoted to that which is objectively, _i.e._,
actually, good and right, to what in itself is beautiful, but not to that
whose value depends merely upon the association of ideas. Now when I see
how this unbelieving age so diligently finishes the Gothic churches left
incomplete by the believing Middle Ages, it looks to me as if it were
desired to embalm a dead Christianity.