Judging from the nature of the correspondence on architecture and the
duty of architects which is frequently seen in the columns of the daily
papers, the _Times_ especially, it would seem that the popular notion of
architecture now is that it is a study mainly of things connected with
sanitary engineering--of the best forms of drain pipes and intercepting
traps. This is indeed a very important part of sound building, and it is
one that has been very much neglected, and has been, in fact, in a
comparatively primitive state until very recent times; and therefore it
is not surprising that there should be a reaction in regard to it, and
that newspapers which follow every movement of public opinion, and try
to keep pace with it, should speak as if the drain pipe were the true
foundation of architecture. I have a great respect for the drain pipe,
and wish to see it as well laid and "intercepted" as possible; but I
think, for all that, that there is something in architecture higher than
sanitary engineering. I wish to consider it in these lectures as what I
think it essentially is, what it has evidently been in the eyes of all
those of past days who have produced what we now regard as great
architectural monuments, namely, as an intellectual art, the object of
which is to so treat the buildings which we are obliged to raise for
shelter and convenience as to render them objects of interest and
beauty, and not mere utilitarian floors, walls, and roofs to shelter a
race who care nothing for beauty, and who only want to have their
physical comfort provided for.
Architecture, then, from the point of view from which I am asking you to
regard it--and the only point of view in which it is worth the serious
regard of thoughtful people--is the art of erecting expressive and
beautiful buildings. I say expressive _and_ beautiful, and I put
expressive first, because it is the characteristic which we can at least
realize even when we cannot realize what can fairly be called beauty,
and it is the characteristic which comes first in the order of things. A
building may be expressive and thereby have interest, without rising
into beauty; but it can never be, architecturally speaking, beautiful
unless it has expression. And what do we mean by expression in a
building? That brings us to the very pith of the matter.
We know pretty well what we mean when we say that a painted or
sculptured figure is expressive. We mean that, while correctly
representing the structure of the human figure, it also conveys to our
minds a distinct idea of a special emotion or sentiment, such as human
beings are capable of feeling and expressing by looks and actions.
Expression in this sense a building cannot be said to have. It is
incapable of emotion, and it has no mobility of surface or feature. Yet
I think we shall see that it is capable of expression in more senses
than one. It may, in the first place, express or reflect the emotion of
those who designed it, or it may express the facts of its own internal
structure and arrangement. The former, however, can only, I think, be
said to be realized in the case of architecture of the highest class,
and when taken collectively as a typical style. For instance, we can all
pretty well agree that the mediæval cathedral expresses an emotion of
aspiration on the part of its builders. The age that built the
cathedrals longed to soar in some way, and this was the way then open to
it, and it sent up its soul in spreading vaults, and in pinnacles and
spires. So also we can never look at Greek architecture without seeing
in it the reflection of a nature refined, precise, and critical; loving
grace and finish, but content to live with the graces and the muses
without any aspirations that spurned this earth. We can hardly go
further than this in attributing emotional expression to architecture.
But in a more restricted sense of the word _expression_, a building may
express very definitely its main constructive facts, its plan and
arrangement, to a certain extent even its purpose, so far at least that
we may be able to identify the class of structure to which it belongs.
It not only may, but it ought to do this, unless the architecture is to
be a mere ornamental screen for concealing the prosaic facts of the
structure. There is a good deal of architecture in the world which is in
fact of this kind--an ornamental screen unconnected with the
constructional arrangement of the building. Nor is such architecture to
be entirely scouted. It may be a very charming piece of scenery in
itself, and you may even make a very good theoretical defense for it,
from a certain point of view. But on the whole, architecture on that
principle becomes uninteresting. You very soon tire of it. It is a mask
rather than a countenance, and tends to the production of a dull
uniformity of conventional design.
For we must remember that architecture, although a form of artistic
expression, is not, like painting and sculpture, unfettered by practical
considerations. It is an art inextricably bound up with structural
conditions and practical requirements. A building is erected first for
convenience and shelter; secondly only for appearance, except in the
case of such works as monuments, triumphal arches, etc., which represent
architectural effect pure and simple, uncontrolled by practical
requirements. With such exceptions, therefore, a building ought to
express in its external design its internal planning and arrangement; in
other words, the architectural design should arise out of the plan and
disposition of the interior, or be carried on concurrently with it, not
designed as a separate problem. Then a design is dependent on structural
conditions also, and if these are not observed, the building does not
stand, and hence it is obvious that the architectural design must
express these structural conditions. It must not appear to stand or be
constructed in a way in which it could not stand (like the modern shops
which are supposed to stand on sheets of plate glass), and its whole
exterior appearance ought to be in accordance with, and convey the idea
of, the manner and principle on which it is constructed. The most
important portions of the interior must be shown as such externally by
the greater elaboration and emphasis of their architectural treatment.
If the general arrangement of the plan is symmetrical, on either side of
a center (which, however, it cannot often be except in the largest type
of monumental or public buildings), the architectural treatment must be
symmetrical. If the building is necessarily arranged, in accordance with
the requirements of the plan, unsymmetrically, the architectural
treatment must follow suit, and the same principle must be carried out
through all the details.
Now this dependence of architectural design upon plan and construction
is one of the conditions which is often overlooked by amateurs in
forming a judgment upon architectural design; and the overlooking of
this is one reason of the uncertainty of opinion about architecture as
compared with such arts as sculpture and painting. Few people know or
care much about the structure and planning of buildings except those
whose business it is to care about this; and consequently they do not
realize what it is which they should look for in the architectural
design. They like it or do not like it, and they regard this as what is
called a mere question of taste, which, according to the proverb, is not
to be disputed about. In fact, however, the good or bad taste of an
architectural design, say, if you like, its correctness or
incorrectness, is to a considerable extent a matter of logical
reasoning, of which you must accurately know the premises before you can
form a just conclusion. But there is another reason for this prevalent
uncertainty and vagueness of opinion, arising out of the very nature of
architectural art itself, as compared with the imitative arts. A
painting of a figure on a landscape is primarily a direct imitation of
the physical facts of nature. I do not for a moment say it is only that,
for there is far more involved in painting than the imitation of nature;
but the immediate reference to nature does give a standard of comparison
which to a certain extent every eye can appreciate. But architecture is
not an art which imitates natural forms at all, except as minor
decorations, and it then does so, or should do so, only in a
conventionalized manner, for reasons which we shall consider later on.
Architecture is, like music, a metaphysical art. It deals with the
abstract qualities of proportion, balance of form, and direction of
line, but without any imitation of the concrete facts of nature. The
comparison between architecture and music is an exercise of the fancy
which may indeed be pushed too far, but there is really a definite
similarity between them which it is useful to notice. For instance, the
regular rhythm, or succession of accentuated points in equal times,
which plays so important a part in musical form, is discernible in
architecture as a rhythm in space. We may treat a cottage type of
design, no doubt, with a playful irregularity, especially if this
follows and is suggested by an irregularity, of plan. But in
architecture on a grand scale, whether it be in a Greek colonnade or a
Gothic arcade, we cannot tolerate irregularity of spacing except where
some constructive necessity affords an obvious and higher reason for it.
Then, again, we find the unwritten law running throughout all
architecture that a progress of line in one direction requires to be
stopped in a marked and distinct manner when it has run its course, and
we find a similarly felt necessity in regard to musical form. The
repetition so common at the close of a piece of music of the same chord
several times in succession is exactly analogous to the repetition of
cross lines at the necking of a Doric column to stop the vertical lines
of the fluting, or to the strongly marked horizontal lines of a cornice
which form the termination of the height or upward progress of an
architectural design. The analogy is here very close. A less close
analogy may also be felt between an architectural and a musical
composition regarded as a whole. A fugue of Bach's is really a built-up
structure of tones (as Browning has so finely put it in his poem, "Abt
Vogler"), in accordance with certain ideas of relation and proportion,
just as a temple or a cathedral is a built-up structure of lines and
spaces in accordance with ideas of relation and proportion. Both appeal
to the same sense of proportion and construction in the brain; the one
through the ear, the other through the eye. Then, in regard to
architecture again, we have further limiting conditions arising not only
out of the principle of construction employed, but out of the physical
properties of the very material we employ. A treatment that is suitable
and expressive for a stone construction is quite unsuitable for a timber
construction. Details which are effective and permanent in marble are
ineffective and perishable in stone, and so; on and the outcome of all
this is that all architectural design has to be judged, not by any easy
and ready reference to exterior physical nature, with which it has
nothing to do, but by a process of logical reasoning as to the relation
of the design to the practical conditions, first, which are its basis,
and as to the relation of the parts to each other. Of course beyond all
this there is in architecture, as in music, something which defies
analysis, which appeals to our sense of delight we know not how or why,
and probably we do not want to know; the charm might be dissolved if we
did. But up to this point architectural design and expression are based
on reasoning from certain premises. The design is good or bad as it
recognizes or ignores the logic of the case, and the criticism of it
must rest on a similar basis. It is a matter of thought in both cases,
and without thought it can neither be designed nor appreciated to any
purpose, and this is the leading idea which I wish to urge and to
illustrate in these lectures.
You may say: May not a design satisfy all these logical conditions, and
yet be cold and uninteresting, and give one no pleasure? Certainly it
may. Indeed, we referred just now to that last element of beauty which
is beyond analysis. But, if we cannot analyze the result, I rather think
we can express what it is which the designer must evince, beyond clear
reasoning, to give the highest interest to his architecture. He must
have taken an interest in it himself. That seems a little thing to say,
but much lies in it. As Matthew Arnold has said of poetry:
"What poets feel not, when they make
A pleasure in creating,
The world, in its turn, will not take
Pleasure in contemplating."
The truth runs through all art. There are, alas, so many people who do
not seem to have the faculty of taking pleasure, and there is so much
architecture about our streets which it is impossible to suppose any one
took "pleasure in creating." When a feature is put into a design, not
because the designer liked it, but because it is the usual thing and it
saves trouble, it always proclaims that melancholy truth. But where
something is designed because the designer liked doing it, and was
trying to please his own fancy instead of copying what a hundred other
men have done before, it will go hard but he will give some pleasure to
the spectator. It is from this blessed faculty that a design becomes
inspired with what is best described as "character." It is not the same
thing as style. I have something to say in my next lecture as to what I
think _style_ means, but it is certain that a building may have _style_
and yet want _character_, and it may have a good deal of _character_ and
yet be faulty or contradictory in _style_. We cannot define "character,"
but when we feel that it is present we may rely upon it that it is
because the designer took interest and pleasure in his work, was not
doing it merely scholastically--in short, he put something of his own
character into it, which means that he had some to put.
[Illustration: Figs. 1 through 3]
Now, coming back to the axiom before mentioned, that architectural
design should express and emphasize the practical requirements and
physical conditions of the building, let us look a little more in detail
into the manner in which this may be done. We will take, to begin with,
the very simplest structure we can possibly build--a plain wall (Fig.
1).[2] Here there is no expression at all; only stones piled one on
another, with sufficient care in coursing and jointing to give stability
to the structure. It is better for the wall, constructively, however,
that it should have a wider base, to give it more solidity of
foundation, and that the coping should project beyond the face of the
wall, in order to throw the rain off, and these two requirements may be
treated so as to give architectural expression to our work (Fig. 2). It
now consists of three distinct portions--a plinth, or base, a
superficies of wall, and a coping. We will mark the thickening at the
base by a moulding, which will give a few horizontal lines (at B), and
the coping in the same way. The moulding of the coping must also be so
designed as to have a hollow throating, which will act as a drip, to
keep the rain from running round the under side of the coping and down
the wall. We may then break up the superficies by inserting a band of
single ornament in one course of this portion of the wall--not half way,
for to divide any portion of a building into mere "halves" has usually a
weak and monotonous effect, but about two thirds of the distance from
the base line; and this band of ornament not only breaks up the plain
surface a little, but also, by carrying another horizontal line along
the wall, emphasizes its horizontality. Always emphasize that which is
the essential characteristic of your structure. A wall of this kind is
essentially a long horizontal boundary. Emphasize its length and
horizontality.
[Footnote 2: The dark shaded portion in this and the next two
diagrams show the "section" of the wall as seen if we cut it
through and look at it endwise.]
If we are millionaires, and can afford to spend a great deal on a wall,
we may not only (Fig. 3) carry further the treatment of the coping and
base, by giving them ornamental adjuncts as well as mouldings, but we
might treat the whole wall superficies as a space for surface carving,
not mechanically repeated, but with continual variation of every
portion, so as to render our wall a matter of interest and beauty while
retaining all its usefulness as a boundary, observing that such surface
ornament should be designed so as to fulfill a double object: 1, to give
general relief to the surface of the wall; 2, to afford matter of
interest to the eye on close inspection and in detail.
That is the double function of nearly all architectural ornament. It is,
in the first place, to aid the general expression and balance of the
building, and give point and emphasis where needed; and, in the second
place, to furnish something to the eye for study on its own account when
viewed more closely.
[Illustration: Figs. 4 through 9]
We will take another typical and simple erection, a stone pillar to
support the ends of two lintels or beams. This may be simply a long
squared piece set on end (Fig. 4), and will perform its constructive
functions perfectly well in that form; but it is not only absolutely
expressionless, but is in one sense clumsy and inconvenient, as taking
up more space than need be, presenting an unwieldy-looking mass when
viewed at an angle, and shutting out a good deal of light (if that
happen to be a matter of practical consequence in the case). Cutting off
the angles (Fig. 5) does not weaken it much, and renders it much less
unwieldy-looking, besides giving it a certain degree of verticality of
expression, and rendering it more convenient as taking up less room and
obstructing less light. But though the column is quite strong enough,
the octagonal top does not make so good a seat or bearing for the ends
of the lintels. We will therefore put a flat square stone on the top of
it (Fig. 6), which will serve as a bed for the lintels to rest on
securely. But the angles of this bed plate, where they project beyond
the face of the column, appear rather weak, and are so actually to some
extent--a double defect, for it is not enough in architecture that a
thing should be strong enough, it is necessary that it should appear so,
architecture having to do with expression as well as with fact. We will,
therefore, strengthen this projecting angle, and correct the abruptness
of transition between the column and the bed plate, by brackets (Fig. 7)
projecting from the alternate faces of the column to the angles of the
bed plates. As this rather emphasizes four planes of the octagon column
at the expense of the other four, we will bind the whole together just
under the brackets by a thin band of ornament constituting a necking,
and thus we have something like a capital developed, a definitely
designed finish to our column, expressive of its purpose. This treatment
of the upper end, however, would make the lower end rising abruptly from
the ground seem very bare. We will accordingly emphasize the base of the
column, just as we emphasized the base of the wall, by a projecting
moulding, not only giving expression to this connection of the column
with the ground, but also giving it the appearance, and to some extent
the reality, of greater stability, by giving it a wider and more
spreading base to rest on. We have here still left the lines of one
column vertically parallel, and there is no constructive reason why they
should not remain so. There is, however, a general impression to the eye
both of greater stability and more grace arising from a slight
diminution upward. It is difficult to account for this on any
metaphysical principle, but the fact has been felt by most nations which
have used a columnar architecture, and we will accept it and diminute
(so to speak) our column (Fig. 8). We have here taken a further step by
treating the shaft of the column in two heights, keeping the lower
portion octagonal and reducing the upper portion to a circle, and we now
find it easier to treat the capital so as to have a direct and complete
connection with the column, the capital being here merely a spreading
out of the column into a bracket form all round, running it into the
square of the bed plate.[3] The spreading portion is emphasized by
surface ornament, and the necking is again emphasized, this time more
decisively, by a moulding, forming a series of parallel rings round the
column. If we wish to give our column an expression of more grace and
elegance, we can further reduce the thickness of it (Fig. 9), and give
more spread to the capital, always taking care to be sure that the
strength of the column is not reduced below what the weight which it has
to carry requires. In this case a bracket is shown above the capital,
projecting longitudinally only (in the direction of the lintel bearing),
a method of giving a larger bearing surface for the ends of the lintels,
shortening their actual bearing[4] (in other words, widening the space
which can be bridged between column and column) and giving a workmanlike
appearance of stability to the construction at this point. The idea of
the division of the column into two sections, suggested in Fig. 8, is
kept up in Fig. 9 by treating the lower portion up to the same height
with incised decorative carving. The dotted lines on each side in Fig. 9
give the outline of the original square column as shown in Fig. 4. The
finished column was within that block; it is the business of the
architectural designer to get it out.[5]
[Footnote 3: This is the feature called "abacus" (i.e., "tile")
in Greek architecture, but I am here considering it apart from
any special style or nomenclature.]
[Footnote 4: "Bearing," in building language, is used in a double
sense, for the distance between the points of support, and the
extent to which the beam rests on the walls. Thus a beam which
extends 20 feet between the points of support is a beam of 20
feet bearing. If the beam is 22 feet long, so that 1 foot rests
on the walls at each end, it has "1 foot bearing on the wall."]
[Footnote 5: None of the forms of column sketched here have any
existence in reality. They are purposely kept apart from
imitation of accepted forms to get rid of the idea that
architecture consists in the acceptance of any particular form
sanctioned by precedent.]
Let us see if we can apply the same kind of process of evolving
expression in regard to a building. We will take again the very simplest
form of building (Fig. 10), a square house with a door in the center and
uniform rows of windows. There cannot be said to be any architectural
expression in this. There is no base or plinth at all, no treatment of
the wall. The slight projection at the eaves is only what is necessary
to keep the rain from running down the walls, and facilitate the
emptying of the gutters, and the even spacing of the windows is
essential for constructive reasons, to keep the masses of wall over each
other, and keep the whole in a state of equally balanced pressure. The
first thing we should do in endeavoring to give some expression to the
building would be to give it a base or plinth (Fig. 11), and to mark
that and the cornice a little more decidedly by mouldings and a line of
paneling at the plinth.
[Illustration: Figs. 10 and 11]
The house being obviously in three stories, we should give it some echo
externally of this division into horizontal stages by horizontal
mouldings, or what are called in architectural phraseology "string
courses," not necessarily exactly at the floor levels, but so as to
convey the idea of horizontal division; observing here, as in the case
of the wall and column, that we should take care not to divide the
height into equal parts, which is very expressionless. In this case we
will keep the lower string close down on the ground floor windows, and
keep these rather low, thus showing that the ground floor apartments are
not the most important; while the fact that the first floor ones are so
is conversely made apparent by keeping these windows rather higher,
putting a double string course over them, and a slight extra depth of
moulding, forming a kind of cornice over each.
The space left between these and the roof, in which the attic windows
are placed, is treated with a series of mullions and panelings, into
which the attic windows are worked, as part of the series of openings;
this gives a little richness of effect to the top story, and a
continuity of treatment, which binds the whole series of windows
together. To have treated the whole of the walls and windows in this way
would have been merely throwing away labor; what little effect it has
consists in the "character" given by the contrast of this top story
treatment with the plain wall surfaces below.
The last thing is to emphasize the door, as the principal opening in the
walls, and quite distinct in use and meaning from the other openings, by
giving it a little architectural frame or setting, which may be done in
many ways, but in this case is done by the old fashioned device (not
very logical certainly) of putting a little entablature over it, and a
column on either side; there is, however, this to be said for it, that
the projecting tablature forms a semi-porch, protecting those at the
door somewhat from rain; it must be carried in some way, and columns are
the readiest and most seemly manner of doing it, and they also form,
practically, something of a weather screen; the bases on which they
stand also form a framework or inclosing wall for the steps, which are
thus made part of the architectural design, instead of standing out as
an eyesore, as on Fig. 10. We have now given the house a little general
expression, but it still is vague in its design as far as regards the
distribution of the interior; we do not know whether the first floor,
for instance, is one large room, or two or more rooms, or how they are
divided; and the little house is very square and prim in effect.
Let us try grouping the windows a little, and at the same time breaking
up the flat surface of the front wall (Fig. 12). Here, as before, we
have divided the building by a horizontal string, but only by one main
one on the first floor level, keeping the same contrast, however,
between a richer portion above and a plainer portion below; we have
divided the building vertically, also, by two projecting bays finishing
in gables, thus breaking also the skyline of the roof, and giving it a
little picturesqueness, and we have grouped the windows, instead of
leaving them as so many holes in the wall at equal distances. The
contrast between the ground and first floor windows is more emphatic;
and it is now the more evident that the upper floor rooms are the best
apartments, from their ample windows; it is also pretty evident that the
first floor is divided into two main rooms with large bay windows, and a
smaller room or a staircase window, between them; the second floor
windows are also shifted up higher, the two principal ones going in to
the gables, showing that the rooms below them have been raised in
height. Windows carried up the full height of these rooms, however,
might be too large either for repose internally or for appearance
externally, so the wall intervening between the top of these and the
sill of the gables is a good field for some decorative treatment,
confined to the bays, so as to assist in separating them from the
straight wall which forms the background to them.
[Illustration: Fig. 12]
So far we have treated our building only as a private house. Without
altering its general scale and shape we may suggest something entirely
different from a private house. On Fig. 13, we have tried to give a
municipal appearance to it, as if it were the guild hall of a small
country town. The plain basement and the wide principal doorway, and the
row of three very large equal-spaced windows above, render it
unquestionable that this is a building with a low ground story, and one
large room above. A certain "public building" effect is given to it by
the large and enriched cornice with balustrade above and paneling below,
and by the accentuation of the angles by projecting piers, and by the
turrets over them, which give it quite a different character from that
of a private house.
[Illustration: Fig. 13]
If, on the other hand, the building were the free library and reading
room of the same small country town, we should have little doubt of this
if we saw it as in Fig. 14, with the walls all blank (showing that they
are wanted for ranging something against, and cannot be pierced for
windows), and windows only in the upper portion. Similarly, if we want
to build it as the country bank, we should have to put the large windows
on the ground floor, bank clerks wanting plenty of light, and the ground
story being always the principal one; and we might indulge the humor of
giving it a grim fortress-like strength by a rusticated plinth (i.e.,
stones left or worked rough and rock-like) and by very massive piers
between the windows, and a heavy cornice over them; the residential
upper floor forming a low story subordinate to the bank story. It is
true this would not satisfy a banker, who always wants classic pilasters
stuck against the walls, that being his hereditary idea of bank
expression in architecture.
[Illustration: Figs. 14 and 15]
Now if we proceed to take to pieces the idea of architectural design,
and consider wherein the problem of it consists, we shall find that it
falls into a fourfold shape. It consists first in arranging the plan;
secondly, in carrying up the boundary lines of this plan vertically in
the shape of walls; thirdly, in the method of covering in the space
which we have thus defined and inclosed; and, fourthly, in the details
of ornamentation which give to it the last and concluding grace and
finish. All building, when it gets beyond the mere wall with which we
began, is really a method of covering in a space, or, if we may put it
so, a collection of spaces, marked out and arranged for certain
purposes. The first thing that the architect has to do is to arrange
these spaces on the ground so that they may conveniently meet the
necessary requirements of the building. Convenience and practical
usefulness come first; but in any building which is worth the name of
architecture something more than mere convenience has to be kept in
mind, even in the arrangement of the plan upon the site. It is to be a
combination of convenience with effectiveness of arrangement. We shall
probably find that some one compartment of the plan is of paramount
importance. We have to arrange the interior so that this most important
compartment shall be the climax of the plan.
The entrance and the other subsidiary compartments must be kept
subordinate to it, and must lead up to it in such a manner that the
spectator shall be led by a natural gradation from the subsidiary
compartments up to the main one, which is the center and _raison
d'etre_ of the whole--everything in the lines of the plan should point
to that. This is the great _crux_ in the planning of complicated public
buildings. A visitor to such a building, unacquainted with it
previously, ought to have no difficulty in finding out from the
disposition of the interior which are the main lines of route, and when
he is on the line leading him up to the central feature of the plan.
There are public buildings to be found arranged on what may be called
the rabbit warren system, in which perhaps a great number of apartments
are got upon the ground, but which the visitor is obliged laboriously to
learn before he can find his way about them. That is not only
inconvenient but inartistic planning, and shows a want of logic and
consideration, and, in addition to this, a want of feeling for artistic
effect. I saw not long ago, for instance, in a set of competitive
designs for an important public building, a design exhibiting a great
deal of grace and elegance in the exterior architectural embellishment,
but in which the principal entrance led right up to a blank wall facing
the entrance, and the spectator had to turn aside to the left and then
to the right before finding himself on the principal axis of the plan.
That is what I should call inartistic or unarchitectural planning. The
building may be just as convenient when you once know its dodges, but it
does not appear so, and it loses the great effect of direct vista and
climax.
An able architect, who had given much thought to a plan of a large
building of this kind, said to me, in showing me his plan, with a
justifiable gratification in it, "It has cost me endless trouble, but it
is a satisfaction to feel that you have got a plan with backbone in it."
That is a very good expression of what is required in planning a
complicated building, but few outsiders have any notion of the amount of
thought and contrivance which goes to the production of a plan "with
backbone;" a plan in which all the subordinate and merely practical
departments shall be in the most convenient position in regard to each
other, and yet shall all appear as if symmetrically and naturally
subordinate to the central and leading feature; and if the public had a
little more idea what is the difficulty of producing such a plan, they
would perhaps do a little more justice to the labors of the man who
contrives the plan, which they think such an easy business; and no doubt
it may appear an easy business, because the very characteristic of a
really good plan is that it should appear as if it were quite a natural
and almost inevitable arrangement.
Just as it is said in regard to literature that easy writing is hard
reading, so, in regard to planning, it is the complicated and rabbit
warren plans that are the easiest to make, because it is just doing what
you please; it is the apparently perfectly simple and natural plan which
springs from thought and contrivance. Then there is the next step of
raising the walls on the plan, and giving them architectural expression.
This must not be thought of as an entirely separate problem, for no
truly architectural intellect will ever arrange a plan without seeing
generally, in his mind's eye, the superstructure which he intends to
rear upon it; but the detailed treatment of this forms a separate branch
of the design. Then comes the third and very important problem--the
covering in of the space. Next to the plan, this is the most important.
All building is the covering over of a space, and the method of covering
it over must be foreseen and provided for from the outset. It largely
influences the arrangement of the plan. If there were no roofing, you
could arrange the walls and carry them up pretty much as you chose, but
the roofing of a large space is another matter. It requires extra
strength at certain points, where the weight of the roof is
concentrated, and it has to be determined whether you will employ a
method of roofing which exercises only a vertical pressure on the walls,
like the lid of a box, or one which, like an arch, or a vault, or a
dome, is abutting against the walls, and requires counterforts to resist
the outward thrust of the roof. We shall come upon this subject of the
influence of the roof on the design of the substructure more in detail
later on. Then, if the plan is convenient and effective, the walls
carried up with the architectural expression arising from the placing
and grouping of the openings, and the proper emphasizing of the base and
the cornice, and the horizontal stages (if any) of the structure, and
the roof firmly and scientifically seated on the walls; after all these
main portions of the structure are designed logically and in accordance
with one another and with the leading idea of the building, then the
finishing touches of expression and interest are given by well designed
and effective ornamental detail. Here the designer may indulge his fancy
as he pleases, as far as the nature of the design is concerned, but not,
if you please, as far as its position and distribution are concerned.
There the logic of architecture still pursues us.
We may not place ornament anywhere at haphazard on a building simply
because it looks pretty. At least, to do so is to throw away great part
of its value. For everything in architectural design is relative; it is
to be considered in relation to the expression and design of the whole,
and ornament is to be placed where it will emphasize certain points or
certain features of the building. It must form a part of the grouping of
the whole, and be all referable to a central and predominating idea. A
building so planned, built, and decorated becomes, in fact, what all
architecture--what every artistic design in fact should be--an organized
whole, of which every part has its relation to the rest, and from which
no feature can be removed without impairing the unity and consistency of
the design. You may have a very good, even an expressive, building with
no ornament at all if you like, but you may not have misplaced ornament.
That is only an excrescence on the design, not an organic portion of it.
I have thought that it would be of use to those who are unacquainted
with architectural procedure in delineating architecture by geometrical
drawings if I took the opportunity of illustrating very briefly the
philosophy of elevations, plans, and sections, which many
non-professional people certainly do not understand.
[Illustration: Figs. 16 through 25]
A simple model of a building, like that in Fig. 16, will serve the
purpose, as the principle is the same in the most complicated as in the
simplest building. It must be remembered that the object of
architectural drawings on the geometrical system is not to show a
picture of the building, but to enable the designer to put together his
design accurately in all its parts, according to scale, and to convey
intelligible and precise information to those who have to erect the
building. A perspective drawing like Fig. 16 is of no use for this
purpose. It shows generally what the design is, but it is impossible to
ascertain the size of any part by scale from it, except that if the
length of one line were given it would be possible, by a long process of
projection and calculation, to ascertain the other sizes. The
_rationale_ of the architect's geometrical drawings is that on them each
plane of the building (the front, the side, the plan, etc.) is shown
separately and without any distortion by perspective, and in such a
manner that every portion is supposed to be opposite to the eye at once.
Only the width of any object on one side can be shown in this way at one
view; for the width of the return side you have to look to another
drawing; you must compare the drawings in order to find out those
relative proportions which the perspective view indicates to the eye at
a glance; but each portion of each side can be measured by reference to
a scale, and its precise size obtained, which can only be guessed at
roughly from the perspective drawing. Thus the side of the model is
shown in Fig. 19, the end in Fig. 17; the two together give the precise
size and proportions of everything outside to scale, except the
projection of the pilasters. This has to be got at from the plan and
section. Everything being drawn on one plane, of course surfaces which
are sloping on one elevation are represented as flat in the other. For
instance, on No. 17 the raking line of the sloping roof is shown at N.
So we know the slope of the roof, but we do not know to what length it
extends the other way. This is shown on Fig. 19, where the portion
showing the roof is also marked N, and it will be seen that the surface
which is sloping in Fig. 17 is seen in the side elevation only as a
space between a top and bottom line. We see the length of the roof here,
and its height, but for its slope we go to the end elevation. Neither
elevation tells us, however, what is inside the building; but the
section (Fig. 18) shows us that it has an arched ceiling, and two
stories, a lower and a higher one. The section is the building cut in
half, showing the end of the walls, the height and depth of the window
openings, the thickness of the floor, etc., and as all parts which are
opposite the eye are shown in the drawing, the inside of the cross wall
at the end of the building is shown as a part of the section drawing,
between the sectional walls. In Fig. 23 the section is sketched in
perspective, to show more clearly what it means. Another section is made
lengthwise of the building (Fig. 20). It is customary to indicate on
the plan by dotted lines the portion through which the section is
supposed to be made. Thus on the plans the lines A B and C D are drawn,
and the corresponding sections are labeled with the same lines. As with
the elevation, one section must be compared with another to get the full
information from them. Thus in Fig. 18, the ceiling, M, is shown as a
semicircle; in Fig. 20, it is only a space between the top and bottom
lines. It is, certainly, shaded here to give the effect of rotundity,
but that is quite a superfluity. On Fig. 18 the height of the side
windows is shown at F, and the thickness of the wall in which they are
made. In Fig. 20 (F) their width and spacing are shown. In Fig. 18 some
lines drawn across, one over the other, are shown at H. These are the
stairs, of which in this section we see only the fronts, or risers, so
that they appear merely as lines (showing the edge of each step) drawn
one over the other. At H on the plan, Fig. 21, we again see them
represented as a series of lines, but here we are looking down on the
top of them, and see only the upper surfaces, or "treads," the edges
again appearing as a series of lines. At H on the longitudinal section,
we see the same steps in section, and consequently their actual slope,
which, however, could have been calculated from Figs. 18 and 21, by
putting the heights shown in section with the width shown in plan. The
plan, Fig. 21, shows the thickness and position on the floor of the
pillars, G G. Their height is shown in the sections. The plan of a
building is merely a horizontal section, cutting off the top, and
looking down on the sectional top of the walls, so as to see all their
thicknesses. I have drawn (Fig. 24) a perspective sketch of one end of
the plan (Fig. 22) of the building, on the same principle as was done
with the section (Fig. 23), in order to show more intelligibly exactly
what it is that a plan represents--the building with the upper part
lifted off.
Returning for a moment to the subject of the relation between the plan
and the exterior design, it should be noted that the plan of a building
being practically the first consideration, and the basis of the whole
design, the latter should be in accordance with the principle of
disposition of the plan. For example, if we have an elevation (shown in
diagram) showing two wings of similar design on either side of a center,
designed so as to convey the idea of a grand gallery, with a suite of
apartments on either side of similar importance--if the one side only of
the plan contains such a suite, and the opposite side is in reality
divided up into small and inferior rooms, filled in as well as may be
behind the architectural design--the whole design is in that case only
a blind or screen, giving a false exterior symmetry to a building which
is not so planned. This is an extreme case (or might be called so if it
were not actually of pretty frequent occurrence); but it illustrates in
a broad sense a principle which must be carried out in all cases, if the
architecture is to be a real expression of the facts of the building.
In this lecture, which is concerned with general principles, a word may
fittingly be said as to the subject of _proportion_, concerning which
there are many misapprehensions. The word may be, and is, used in two
senses, first in regard to the general idea suggested in the words "a
well proportioned building." This expression, often vaguely used, seems
to signify a building in which the balance of parts is such as to
produce an agreeable impression of completeness and repose. There is a
curious kind of popular fallacy in regard to this subject, illustrated
in the remark which used to be often made about St. Peter's, that it is
so well proportioned that you are not aware of its great size, etc.--a
criticism which has been slain over and over again, but continues to
come to life again. The fact that this building does not show its size
is true. But the inference drawn is the very reverse of the truth. One
object in architectural design is to give full value to the size of a
building, even to magnify its apparent size; and St. Peter's does not
show its size, because it is _ill_ proportioned, being merely like a
smaller building, with all its parts magnified. Hence the deception to
the eye, which sees details which it is accustomed to see on a smaller
scale, and underrates their actual size, which is only to be ascertained
by deliberate investigation. This confusion as to scale is a weakness
inherent in the classical forms of columnar architecture, in which the
scale of all the parts is always in the same proportion to each other
and to the total size of the building so that a large Doric temple is in
most respects only a small one magnified. In Gothic architecture the
scale is the human figure, and a larger building is treated, not by
magnifying its parts, but by multiplying them. Had this procedure been
adopted in the case of St. Peter's, instead of merely treating it with a
columnar order of vast size, with all its details magnified in
proportion, we should not have the fault to find with it that it does
not produce the effect of its real size. In another sense, the word
"proportion" in architecture refers to the system of designing buildings
on some definite geometrical system of regulating the sizes of the
different parts. The Greeks certainly employed such a system, though
there are not sufficient data for us to judge exactly on what principle
it was worked out. In regard to the Parthenon, and some other Greek
buildings, Mr. Watkiss Lloyd has worked out a very probable theory,
which will be found stated in a paper in the "Transactions of the
Institute of Architects."
Vitruvius gives elaborate directions for the proportioning of the size
of all the details in the various orders; and though we may doubt
whether his system is really a correct representation of the Greek one,
we can have no doubt that some such system was employed by them. Various
theorists have endeavored to show that the system has prevailed of
proportioning the principal heights and widths of buildings in
accordance with geometrical figures, triangles of various angles
especially; and very probably this system has from time to time been
applied, in Gothic as well as in classical buildings. This idea is open
to two criticisms, however. First, the facts and measurements which have
been adduced in support of it, especially in regard to Gothic buildings,
are commonly found on investigation to be only approximately true. The
diagram of the section of the building has nearly always, according to
my experience, to be "coaxed" a little in order to fit the theory; or it
is found that though the geometrical figure suggested corresponds
exactly with some points on the plan or section, these are really of no
more importance than other points which might just as well have been
taken. The theorist draws our attention to those points in the building
which correspond with his geometry, and leaves on one side those which
do not. Now it may certainly be assumed that any builders intending to
lay out a building on the basis of a geometrical figure would have done
so with precise exactitude, and that they would have selected the most
obviously important points of the plan or section for the geometrical
spacing. In illustration of this point, I have given (Fig. 25) a
skeleton diagram of a Roman arch, supposed to be set out on a
geometrical figure. The center of the circle is on the intersection of
lines connecting the outer projection of the main cornice with the
perpendiculars from those points on the ground line. This point at the
intersection is also the center of the circle of the archway itself. But
the upper part of the imaginary circle beyond cuts the middle of the
attic cornice. If the arch were to be regarded as set out in reference
to this circle, it should certainly have given the most important
line--the top line, of the upper cornice, not an inferior and less
important line; and that is pretty much the case with all these
proportion theories (except in regard to Greek Doric temples); they are
right as to one or two points of the building, but break down when you
attempt to apply them further. It is exceedingly probable that many of
these apparent geometric coincidences really arise, quite naturally,
from the employment of some fixed measure of division in setting out
buildings. Thus, if an apartment of somewhere about 30 feet by 25 feet
is to be set out, the builder employing a foot measure naturally sets
out exactly 30 feet one way and 25 feet the other way. It is easier and
simpler to do so than to take chance fractional measurements. Then comes
your geometrical theorist, and observes that "the apartment is planned
precisely in the proportion of six to five." So it is, but it is only
the philosophy of the measuring-tape, after all. Secondly, it is a
question whether the value of this geometrical basis is so great as has
sometimes been argued, seeing that the results of it in most cases
cannot be judged by the eye. If, for instance, the room we are in were
nearly in the proportion of seven in length to five in width, I doubt
whether any of us here could tell by looking at it whether it were truly
so or not, or even, if it were a foot out one way or the other, in which
direction the excess lay; and if this be the case, the advantage of such
a geometrical basis must be rather imaginary than real.
[Illustration: Figs. 26 through 28]
Having spoken of plan as the basis of design, I should wish to conclude
this lecture by suggesting also, what has never to my knowledge been
prominently brought forward, that the plan itself, apart from any
consideration of what we may build up upon it, is actually a form of
artistic thought, of architectural poetry, so to speak. If we take three
such plans as those shown in Figs. 26, 27, and 28, typical forms
respectively of the Egyptian, Greek, and Gothic plans, we certainly can
distinguish a special imaginative feeling or tendency in each of them.
In the Egyptian, which I have called the type of "mystery," the plan
continually diminishes as we proceed inward. In the third great
compartment the columns are planted thick and close, so as to leave no
possibility of seeing through the building except along a single avenue
of columns at a time. The gloom and mystery of a deep forest are in it,
and the plan finally ends, still lessening as it goes, in the small and
presumably sacred compartment to which all this series of colonnaded
halls leads up. In the Greek plan there is neither climax nor
anti-climax, only the picturesque feature of an exterior colonnade
encircling the building and surrounding a single oblong compartment. It
is a rationalistic plan, aiming neither at mystery nor aspiration. In
the plan of Rheims (Fig. 28) we have the plan of climax or aspiration;
as in the Egyptian, we approach the sacred portion through a long avenue
of piers; but instead of narrowing, the plan extends as we approach the
shrine. I think it will be recognized, putting aside all considerations
of the style of the superstructure on these plans, that each of them in
itself represents a distinct artistic conception. So in the plan of the
Pantheon (Fig. 29), this entrance through a colonnaded porch into a vast
circular compartment is in itself a great architectural idea,
independently of the manner in which it is built up.
[Illustration: Figs. 29 through 34]
We may carry out this a little further by imagining a varied treatment
on plan of a marked-out space of a certain size and proportion, on which
a church of some kind, for instance, is to be placed. The simplest idea
is to inclose it round with four walls as a parallelogram (Fig. 30),
only thickening the walls where the weight of the roof principals comes.
But this is a plan without an idea in it. The central or sacred space at
the end is not expressed in the plan, but is merely a railed-off portion
of the floor. The entrance is utterly without effect as well as without
shelter. If we lay out our plan as in Fig. 31, we see that there is now
an idea in it. The two towers, as they must evidently be, form an
advanced guard of the plan, the recessed central part connecting them
gives an effective entrance to the interior; the arrangement in three
aisles gives length, the apse at the end incloses and expresses the
_sacrarium_, which is the climax and object of the plan. The shape of
the ground, however, is not favorable to the employment of a long or
avenue type of plan, it is too short and square; let us rather try a
plan of the open area order, such as Fig 32. This is based on the
short-armed Greek cross, with an open center area; again there is an
"advanced guard" in the shape of an entrance block with a porch; and the
three apses at the end give architectural emphasis to the _sacrarium_.
Fig. 35 is another idea, the special object of which is to give an
effect of contrast between the entrance, approached first through a
colonnaded portico, then through an internal vestibule, lighted from
above, and flanked by rows of small coupled columns; then through these
colonnaded entrances, the inner one kept purposely rather dark, we come
into an interior expanding in every direction; an effect of strong
contrast and climax. If our plot of ground again be so situated that one
angle of it is opposite the vista of two or more large streets, there
and nowhere else will be the salient angle, so to speak, of the plan,
and we can place there a circular porch--which may, it is evident, rise
into a tower--and enter the interior at the angle instead of in the
center; not an effective manner of entering as a rule, but quite
legitimate when there is an obvious motive for it in the nature and
position of the site. A new feature is here introduced in the circular
colonnade dividing the interior into a central area and an aisle. Each
of these plans might be susceptible of many different styles of
architectural treatment; but quite independently of that, it will be
recognized that each of them represents in itself a distinct idea or
invention, a form of artistic arrangement of spaces, which is what
"plan," in an architectural sense, really means.
* * * * *