Excerpt from Ong, B. L. (2013). Biophilia Topophilia and House. In B. L. Ong (Ed.), Beyond Environmental Comfort. London: Taylor and Francis.
The root word of both ecology and economics is a Greek word, οἶκος, meaning house. Ecology is thus the study of our home while economics is the study of the management (nomos) of the home. Ecology is defined as a study of the relationship between living things and the natural environment (including other living things and each other). Strangely enough, the study of ecology often does not include the built environment as part of its central concern [1]. Urban ecology in most texts refers to the wild animals and plants that survive in the built environment rather than the built environment itself. Indeed, often in spite of our efforts rather than because of them. Even human ecology, as a field of study, is concerned with our relationship with the natural environment rather than with how the built environment itself functions as a system. On the other hand, economics is not at all interested in the natural world. And, in our current state of environmental crisis, ecological concerns seem to be in conflict with economic ambitions. Is not the house of ecology also the house of economics?
In approaching the design of a house for a friend, I was concerned with the idea of place-making. This in itself is no great revelation as all good architecture should be good places as well. As the design developed, I became aware of the ecological metaphors that the house acquired in relation to the land upon which it sits. Here was a waterfall, there a bridge, a cave and tunnel, steps like branches spiralling up the trunk into the shade of a canopy and views out into the distance. I realized then that these are archetypal forms that are found in nature and resonates in us even when encountered in the built environment. The house isn’t just an ecosystem, it is an aggregation of ecosystems albeit perhaps more metaphorically than biologically.
Waterfall
One of the most powerful and poignant natural landforms is the waterfall. Often a scared site, the waterfall beckons with its gentle refrain, like the soothing hushing of a mother. Up close, natural waterfalls are often loud enough to be threatening and a conscious effort has to be made to get up closer. Big or small, they are always a natural attraction capable to drawing people from quite a distance away to come and enjoy the water. They are quite the most persistent of all natural places.
Perhaps the most famous image of a house of the 20th century is the waterfall view of Frank Lloyd Wright’s Fallingwater. Here, you do not actually get a view of the waterfall unless a deliberate trip is made to the bottom of the falls and you look back. The entrance to the house is from the back and the waterfall makes itself known through its sound, and hence its name. The hiding of the waterfall from view is of course deliberate and necessary – not just to emphasize the essential nature of a waterfall but also to respect its visual beauty. You respond to the call of a lover before you see her.
In my case, the perching of the house at the top of the slope meant that the waterfall is seen upon arrival at the house (Figure 1). Fortunately, there is a turning before the entrance and there is still an element of surprise in the encounter. Also, the modern practice of coming home in an enclosed air-conditioned car means that acoustical fancies like the pink noise of a waterfall will go unnoticed until one has parked the car and gotten out.
Paradise
Above the waterfall is a suspended garden. Cantilevered out about 20 meters, the living room is designed as an indoor garden. The living room itself is set back 2 meters from the edge so that it may be surrounded by greenery. The two meters setback helps to provide shade while floor-to-ceiling glazing allows for a full view of the surrounding terrain. From here, the client can see people arriving at the front gate, look back at the pool, the garden courtyard, the rest of the house and then beyond into the distance. A panoptic perch, the cantilevered living room symbolises the nest, a ‘coming home after a hard day’s work’. It is the soul of the house.
For many people, paradise is not just a garden but the ideal home. It is place par excellence where we need no artificial shelter and feel no threat. Different myths of paradise exists in the imagination of all cultures and harks back to our primordial past where we once lived in total dependence on the providence of nature. In our imagination, our difficulties are forgotten and seem insignificant in the light of current worries. To be successful, our homes must be a paradise, an escape from harsh reality, the best of all dreams. Properly then, paradise as the centre and symbol of home is here both a garden and suspended from the ground.
The entrance to the house is to the right, as you turn in the driveway and stop beneath an overhanging bridge (Figure 2). The garage is to the back and the entrance to the house just beneath the bridge and to the left.
Cave
The cave is most likely our first home. The cave is the only natural structure that will afford us substantive protection from the elements (rain, snow, wind) and from wild animals. There is only the cave opening to defend once we have cleared the inside of all threats and unwanted material. Its darkness is our hiding place and the air, though dank, is still likely cooler than a warm tropical night and warmer than a cold temperate winter. Though few amongst us can remember back quite so far, we think of the cave as a womb where we lie protected in its warm and wet darkness.
The entry hall to the house is in the lowest floor – part basement because it lies beneath the main level of the house and part ground floor because it lies on the same plane as the roadway that leads into the house. On this floor is the games room and a home spa, both of which open into a sunken garden. It is a meditative garden, full of flowers and other ornamental plants (the owner has a love for bonsai plants) where one might linger to pore over a leave or a flower. Tuan says of a Chinese garden:
“To walk into a Chinese garden and be aware of even a fraction of its total meaning is to enter a world that rewards the senses, the mind, and the spirit.” (1974:146)
This lowest floor is a place of repose, of contemplation, of getting close to the earth. The materials here are dark and rough, with just enough light carefully positioned to accentuate the mystery.
Bridge
If the cave is our first home, the bridge is likely our first structure. Encountered sometimes as trees that fell across a stream or a ravine, our intelligent forefathers will be quick to recognise the potential of building bridges to get across physical breaks in their paths. When trying to explain the phenomenology of dwelling, Heidegger used the bridge as an example. The bridge sets off the environment around it, the banks of either side, the water, the sky and even the earth and the water. The bridge allows the impossible to happen: for the water to run its course and for people to cross the river at the same time. In Heidegger’s account, the bridge “leads” by enabling transport and trade, linking the village to the world beyond, the farmer to his market. “Always and ever differently the bridge escorts the lingering and hastening ways of men to and fro, so that they may get to other banks and in the end, as mortals, to the other side.” (Heidegger 1971:152-3)
The bridge over the ravine created by excavating the existing landform provides a natural archway to welcome the homeowner – a porch or portico. According to Heidegger, “where the bridge covers the stream, it holds its flow up to the sky by taking it for a moment under the vaulted gateway and then setting it free once more.”
Verticality
Both Bachelard (1969) and Tuan (1974) emphasize the vertical as a dimension in nature that is fraught with meaning. The verticality takes form in Bachelard in his oneiric house where the middle ground is made for living, the attic a place of dreams and positive memories and the basement a place of fear and negativity. These meanings of vertical space are not restricted to the house but influence the house because of the significance of earth, sky and abyss in nature. If we fall, we fall to our death, injury or some equally distressing fate. If we climb, we climb to higher ground, a better view and safety. The light is brighter as we climb up and darker as we move down.
Usually, verticality is traversed in nature by slopes but we also climb trees to reach a higher plane. Climbing a tree is perhaps the primordial equivalent of climbing a spiral straircase. In the Bible, it is a stairway that leads Jacob to heaven (Genesis 28:10-22). As in Heidegger’s bridge, the stairway links (leads and enables) two otherwise separated places. Climbing a stairway, like Jack and the Beanstalk, leads from one world to a different other world.
In the house, a spiral staircase leads from the dark earthy basement/ground floor to the bright middle/main floor. It is this light that shines at the end of the tunnel of the entrance hallway.
Clearing
The forest is rich with possibilities but too crowded for ideal human dwelling. Invariably, we make a clearing upon which to live. Orians and Heerwagen (1993) argue that we have a preference for clearings because we evolved from the Savannah. Certainly, the open spaces of courtyards, grass lawns and flat plains are attractive not least because it is harder for threats to lie hidden. A flat plain is also better suited to our bipedalism. Tuan (1974:79-80) provides further evidence that in the all-enveloping closeness of the forest, there are no horizons, views to distant landmark, mountain or isolated tree to distinguish an object from the rest. Consequently, the mythology of the Pygmies, for example, are little concerned with “the creation of the world, with the stars and sky”. Even their perspective of time is short, concerned more with the present than the past. With open space, the skies are revealed and with it the diminutive scale of human life and reach compared to the space-time of the universe. It is in the open space that we develop our cosmological awareness and schemata.
The paradise garden is such a clearing. It encapsulates the fundamental elements of ecology – the stream, plants and animals – in a schema that points to the four directions and the four quarters of the earth. Vita Sackville-West was quoted by Brookes (1987:13-14):
“Imagine you have ridden in summer for four days across a plain; that you have then come to a barrier of snow-mountains and ridden up the pass; that from the top of the pass you have seen a second plain, with a second barrier of mountains in the distance, a hundred miles away; that you know that beyond these mountains lies yet another plain, and another; and that for days, even weeks, you must ride with no shade, and the sun overhead, and nothing but the bleached bones of dead animals strewing the track. Then when you come to trees and running water, you will call it a garden. It will not be flowers and their garishness that your eyes crave for, but a green cavern full of shadows and pools where goldfish dart and the sound of a little stream.”
Arrival, Dwelling and Home
The sense of place is felt as a sense of arrival. The site and space invites you to stay. This can happen in many ways: with the hint that there is more to discover, perhaps a sense of abundance just for the taking, perhaps a vague familiarity and perhaps with a simple feeling that it is a good place to rest. The thesis forwarded here is that the sense of place in architecture is related to the kinds of places we find in nature and that these places reflect our ecological relationship with natural environments.
In many ways, these places work through metaphors. Metaphors are generally understood today as just references or representations that are at best, symbolic or poetic. In practice, though, metaphors imbue the object with the properties of the metaphoric reference. To the ancient and receptive mind, to say that a particular mountain is a dragon is not so much a self-delusional statement but attributing properties of the dragon to the mountain, and instigating the same fear for the mountain that one might have for the dragon. The power of the horoscope in many cultures relies on metaphor to translate inherent characteristics of people born under particular stars and constellations. These metaphors are not just convenient comparisons but guides to reading the constellations and interpreting its meanings. To recognise a face in the shape of the mountain does not just make the mountain visually interesting but lifts it into the realm of the supernatural, gives it magical properties and protect it as sacred landscape. Metaphor in architecture does not simply refer to another but helps create place by imparting properties of metaphorical place into architectural space.
The construction of the spaces described here includes the more technical concerns of ensuring enough light, providing thermal comfort and the other aspects of environmental comfort. Yet, these concerns are like parts of a recipe. Both the cook and the diner are interested in the food at the end rather than the recipe itself.
Footnotes
[1] This comment arose because when I tried to research into the study of the city, and hence of architecture, from an ecological standpoint, there were very few studies to find. The most startling discovery I had was when I chanced upon a book titled Urban Ecology in the library and found that it studied wild animals and plants in the urban context rather than how the city itself, like a forest or the ocean, may be understood as an ecosystem. Ken Yeang's PhD thesis, publish as a book, Design with Nature, is a notable exception. But one book, no matter how good, does not a discipline make.
References:
Bachelard, Gaston (1969) The Poetics of Space. Translated by Maria Jolas; foreword by Etienne Gilson. Beacon Press.
Brookes, John (1984) Gardens of Paradise: the history and design of the great Islamic gardens. Weidenfeld and Nicolson.
Orians, G.H. & Heerwagen, J.H. (1992) Evolved responses to landscapes. In Barkow, J., Tooby, J., and Cosmides, L. The adapted mind. Oxford University Press.
Tuan, Yifu (1974) Topophilia: A Study of Environmental Perception, Attitudes and Values. Prentice-Hall.
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