architecture

So, that cool lifestyle and entertainment site Refinery 29 put together a list of 23 of the most "inspiring interiors and drop-dead gorgeous ambiance [to enjoy] whilst noshing."

And on that list? Well, one of ours. Check it out here.

At first glance the buildings of Venetian architect Carlo Scarpa appear severe and nearly monolithic, a kind of Brutalism meets Deco by way of Japan with a few splices of Russian Constructivism and Italian sensuousness.

Only upon closer study are the delicacy and detail of his buildings revealed. It's those meticulous watchmaker-like details that draw us in.

For his Brion Tomb the Japanese Ensō intersects the long plane of a poured stone wall: Under Scarpa's delicate hand they are like two bullet holes of zen enlightenment artfully blasted into a military bunker.

The stroke of the chisel above and the caress of the sandpaper below.

Below, a riff on the Fibonacci sequence: Curves, spirals, and triangles mingle with the quadrilinear while neutrals and colors converge with wood and stone.

What is now a dying art was once the artist's telescoped message to the observer of the designer's mysterious process: Another unfortunate artifact in the age of computers, Scarpa's drawings are as distinguishable to the master's work as were Frank Lloyd Wright's to his own.

Below, Scarpa's drawings for Olivetti Design Camp competition, 1956.

Below, studies for the Gavina store mosaic, 1961-63:

Below, drawings for a holy-water stoup (left) and constructional details for a candelabrum:

Images and quotes below taken from the book Carlo Scarpa: The Complete Works by Francesco Dal Co & Guisseppe Mazzariol.

Scarpa's work is made up of fragments without being fragmentary. Vittorio Gregotti

... these fragments are both the remains of a completed construction and the uncompleted and unplaced elements of a construction yet to be built. But they are not fragments of history, nor are they splinters of the future. These fragnemts are the remains of a solitude, that of a master who had the courage not to desire pupils. Franco Purini

Built-in seating (table optional) can give a project a more formal, architectural look. It can also provide an architectural point of interest for luring guests outside. The orderliness and permanence of it contrasts nicely with plantings and other organic materials surrounding it.

Sean has designed and built seating fixtures for various Knibb Design projects over the years, some of which can be seen in this newsletters, here and here.)

Note the rough natural edge to the underside of both the table and the bench:

Constructions can offer a zen-like appearance to a garden as well, with their resolute lines, boundaries, and geometry. A built planter can also achieve this to a degree but seating adds the human component. By inviting us in it makes us another aspect of the garden of the garden itself.

For want of a garden a new view helps:

Originally designed most likely as a way to extend the use of precious timber, pergolas—going back at least as long as the Egyptians, say 3000 years give or take—were in their earliest forms coverings with spaced slats. Over these slats were grown vines or fruit trees. These covered seating areas would used in the more temperate regions as a cool respite for the sedentary pursuit of watching the wildlife from your back porch, de rigueur for the noble class of 17th century England.

Here, paradise and cocktails under the logs:

If their design began as a practical matter we've so long ago grown enamored by their sheer object beauty of the things that their essential function hardly matters anymore. We just love to look at them. Most of the great gardens have at least one if not more.

A stone cold rush of rustic with a mixer of Mediterranean:

Wine and pyramids under the shady green:

Detached from the natural garden and incorporated into the paved one, pergolas are often used as a poolside shelter.

The word pergola, originally from the Latin, literally refered to a "covered eave." It is part of a tradition that traveled the world. Moroccan style, below:

It's been argued that it was the Italians during the Renaissance who first  incorporated the shelters as free standing elements in their formal gardens. In Italian pergola means "a close walk of boughs."

Here, a constructed forest featuring roses and waterlilies.

As interpreted by Andrea Cochran:

Cloth will work nicely, too.

A more finished rendition from architect Daniel J. Lieberman:

Small is also good.

The room without walls:

The entry is the first impression. It prepares the viewer and guides them into the experience that follows.

(Photo below by David Lauer:)

As an architectural experience the entry can also effect those who may only ever pass by. It's the most important opportunity for establishing a home's brand.

Below, trees behind the house establish a setting while two smaller ornamentals in front create the illusion of the home being in a deep forest.

An Eero Saarinen house:

A UCLA study of Los Angeles middle class home culture found that the only leisure time residents spent in their yards, especially the fronts, tended to be involved in yard work. Yards tend not to fulfill their intended purpose in the stressed working lives of many. (They also found that few people park their cars in their garage, instead they use the space for storage of items they most likely will never use.)

Proof of how important maintaining the illusion is to us.

Orange welcomes among the cacti, heat, and rocks of Palm Springs.

We've tread this flooring path before and again two years ago. At the time, plank floors were on an ascent as a design trend and well covered amongst the designer literati. Since then, choices have evolved and expanded. We offer some of the more noteworthy.

Three examples of a more straight ahead vision of the wood plank floor: Shiniest and straightest above with increases in rusticity as it goes down.

We've established the theme; below are the variations:

The Bolefloor, hardwood cut along the curves of the natural grain:

A plank floor with coordinated colors streaked into the grain:

Violet, here:

Rustic herring bone:

And a super tarted-up version:

Yet another approach to wood:

Not entirely sure if this floor is even wood, there was no corroborating information given with the image. (There appears to be no seams like you find with tiling.) Whatever it is, it's a bold statement.

Mafi features a line of natural wood flooring in a variety of 3-d textures:

Another Mafi offering: Carving Grunge 1.

A medley of grains: This patterned wood floor is reminiscent of rusted iron, playing with the perception of the material.

An interesting mix of textures: In a design by designer Waldo Fernandez a wood floor overlayed with a rug that has the appearance of a wood floor.

Often in Sean's garden designs, he has used patterns of stone dissolving into lawn or greenery. Here, similarly, tile and wood visually melting together:

A medley of tiles: Different tile patterns and styles blended for impact.

In this design, as seen in the plans below, the medley was executed from room to room so that every room had its own bold tile patterns. Examples follow:

And even bolder:

Not tile but concrete with random gum spots:

Pools: We're still waiting for the summer weather to come to us in West LA but we can sympathize with our planetary comrades who've been enduring some of the worst summer weather ever. Of the last 17 years, 16 have been the hottest on record. If the trend continues—and why wouldn't it?—a backyard swimming pool may become more necessity than luxury.

A cocktail in a hammock with a nap: Bring it on.

The first swimming pool is believed to have been built in present day Pakistan in the 3rd millennium BCE (it was lined with bricks and a tar-based sealant). By the 19th century pools became popular on private estates, cities wanting to flaunt their social and urban modernity coveted indoor public pools. By 1837, six were built in London. They were also viewed as safe alternative to rivers where many bathers were known to drown.

By the sixties, the pool was the symbol of affordable suburban luxury. Kidney shaped pools inhabited the cul-de-sac backyards of the middle class along with their brick barbecues, wet bars, and electric kitchens.

The provenience of the image below is forgotten but it may've been from a hotel in Mexico, somewhere.

Brazilian architect Marcio Kogan's Casa Araras:

An indoor pool by the great Danish designer Verner Panton from the Hotel Astoria in Trondheim, Norway, 1960.

Below, one of the world's more famous indoors, the Roman pool at Heart Castle, San Simeon: Styled after the Baths of Caracalla in Rome c. 211-17 CE.

From the design of Eva Harlou, Denmark's architectural version of Kelly Wearstler. The Z House on the eastern coastline of Jutland: First below, the indoor pool; second below, as it appears from the outside.

The Sheats-Goldstein house by John Lautner with its semi-covered pool, 1963: The docents call it "probably the most dangerous house you've ever been in" because of its sheet glass walkway over a water feature with no handrails. Guests cross at their own peril.

Raymond Loewy, the designer extraordinaire who masterminded the Avanti ("the car that never dies"), had this Palm Springs house created for him by architect Albert Frey in 1947. Note how the pool intersects the threshold of the house.

This isn't an indoor pool but a room below the pool deck that looks into the pool. The house itself overlooks Hout Bay in Cape Town, South Africa.

Afternoon shadow play:

Designers design. Clients expect something designerly and magical. In the process a designer is often tempted to leave some of him/herself behind. Actors might call this chewing up the scenery. For a designer it's more like a spitting out, leaving his/her DNA all over the place. It's an affliction that effects young designers especially. It's not necessarily a bad thing, the only test worth considering is whether the work is good. In making the case for restraint, great industrial designer Dieter Rams said: "Good design is as little design as possible." (See here for Rams's Ten Principles of Good Design.) Interior designer Ettore Sottsass said the best decoration is a kind of "ritual whisper."

But not everyone is looking for a whisper. For those who prefer their design with a louder voice, there's plenty of support for that too.

The image above from Elle Decor's A-list of Top 25 Decorators. (See more here.) Not to decry design that is designerly, minimalism and reductivism present a different ambiance. As a vibe it's a whole other frequency. There are always many possible solutions for good design, Dieter Rams aside.

A room from legendary interior decorator Albert Hadley:

Hadley creates a spirited conversation with texture, bold patterns, shocks of color, and material contrasts: Like a family discussing politics during a holiday dinner.

Now, for something completely different: The infamous Lower East Side apartment of MoMA curator Klaus Biesenbach.

The color scheme is black and white and his decor is nearly non-existent. "Empty" and "vacuum" are some of the words critics have used to describe it. Biesenbach believes the room should frame the spectacular views outside his window, no obstruct it with decoration. The above mentioned Hadley might not agree: “So many people arrange furniture in order to see what’s going on outside. But why? The view isn’t going anywhere.”

It brings to mind the movie cliché of the brilliant scientist who fills his closet with copies of one essential outfit. Here, the quiet, minimal approach seems also to be attempting an ambiance to save valuable brain resources like the brilliant scientist's closet. A piece in the New York Times put it this way:

"I hate design," Mr. Biesenbach will tell you emphatically. When he travels he has the habit of stripping his hotel room of anything that moves (furniture, colored pillows, desktop accessories) and stuffing it all into the closet. "It's a little bit of a curatorial disease," he said. "I like to reduce everything to its surface."

Biesenbach's closet, not unlike the scientist's:

An overview of the space including balcony garden:

After living in an mostly empty apartment, Biesenbach lent an artist friend his apartment for a summer. The friend brought in a white sofa and table and chairs. To offset the potential "clutter," one supposes, the friend painted every other remaining non-white surface white, including the TV and microwave (the TV survived the painting, the microwave didn't).

More on this story here.

Interesting how controversial the apartment is on the interwebs. Some have the called the project "anti-design." Well, if that's what it is it's hostile territory

CBS Sunday Morning spoke with Biesenbach about the apartment:

Humans first experiments with color go back to the caves. The earliest known paintings in caves can be dated to the pre-Neolithic era of 40,000 years ago in Australia and 35,000 in Europe. (The examples below are from Painted Cave in Santa Barbara, CA on the left—earliest sections thought to be 335 years ago—and Lascaux on the right—about 17,300 years ago.)

Colors used were based on whatever could be locally found—charcoal from fire and burnt bones for black, grounded calcite for white, and red and yellow from earth pigments like limonite, hemotite, red ochre, yellow ochre, and umber. Those materials were meaningful: Early painters trekked as much as 25 miles to obtain them.

Interesting to note how committed to style the cave painters were, their vernacular style remained unchanged for 22,000 years.

Forward to the Bronze Age, 1,330 B.C.E. and thereabouts, in Egypt and Greece colors were brighter if still subdued, earth tones still abound. The palette was limited but heavy on the reds and blues.

Below, a rendering of the Megaron at Pylos, Greece: Destroyed in 1,200 BCE the use of primary colors is seen in the tile work. The palette of the frescoes is still limited but the color all around is much bolder.

The Ajanta caves show the early roots of the use of striking color in India. Work on the caves occurred in a period from 100 BCE to 480 CE.

The caves reveal a long relationship of Indian culture to unsubdued color and restrained use of earth tones.

A relationship also reflected in their food.

From 600 - 900 CE tomb painting in China, heavy on the black with red accents, and Bird Man from Mexico and the Toultec who saw bold color as representative of the gods' realm.

Following the long dreary spell of the dark ages, and possibly inspired by the plague, the Renaissance brought the color back in a big way. Left, the early period of Giotto, and right, the high Renaissance of Titian.

In 1613, Jesuit mathematician Françios d'Aguilon published a definitive exploration of color theory that would be of particular interest to painters of the time (Peter Paul Rubens would provide the illustrations). He endorsed the medieval view that yellow, red, and blue were the basic or "noble" hues from which all other colors derived. He also believed that the three "noble" hues were themselves created from a mysterious blending of white and black, or light and dark so that light and dark were the two "simple" or primary colors. The "composite" hues green, orange (gold) and purple (lower curved lines) were mixed from the "noble" triad colors. Many components of this theory were inherited from Greek philosophers.

Optics and color, as was much of the knowledge of the time, was an mysterious admixture of reason, esoteric thought, and magic.

And then later, with Modernism, the rules changed again. Mondrian, Broadway Boogie Woogie, 1943:

Joan Miró, The Nightengale's Song at Midnight and the Morning Rain, 1940:

It seems that many folk art traditions have long understood the power of bold primaries.

An Alebrije, first imagined by Pedro Linares in the 1930s:

In its fashion, primary color swings on a pendulum that often vacillates between the bold and the black and white. Below, a House & Garden pation for the 50s; psychedelic patterns from the 60s; Bowie bulging glam in the 70s; and George Sowden's Pierre Memphis table from the 80s:

The interaction of the primaries creates an energy of its own. Theoretically, color is nothing but the bouncing of light from of a surface and into our retina.

That explains the science but says nothing about the emotional impact or psychology. Why is yellow the irritating color and why does blue calm? And what do they all say when they collaborate together?

A chair pair from Allesandro Mendini, 1978:

Manarola, Italy (and 8 other colorful places here):

Altogether, they're a circus.

Nothing says modern quite like glass.

Maybe its the transparency and illusion of space it offers or its paradox of fragility and strength. It's smooth fetish-able surface. Taken altogether, they're qualities that make glass architecturally irresistible. Not to mention its sustainability and cost effectiveness when compared to other building materials. And not least: It's completely recyclable.

Maybe, as home dwellers we're a little dog-like; once inside we always crave to look out. We love our shelters but we don't want them to feel like a cages. Glass appeals to that.

Glass has origins going back to the ancient Rome. By the middle ages, stained glass was used to glorious artistic effect in churches, temples, etc; As architectural historian Arthur Korn said, stained glass allowed "a glimpse of paradise in luminous colors from the shadow of the grave."

The Industrial Revolution of the 19th century made glass practical for more than just window panes. In 1851 The Crystal Palace provided both the first extensive use of glass extensively as a construction material and presager for modernist architecture to follow. Created by conservatory designer and head gardener at Chatsworth House Joseph Paxton, the Palace also foreshadowed Modernist architecture. Originally built to stand in London's Hyde Park for The Great Exhibition (later renamed The World's Fair), the Palace, the project was also the first major installation to feature public (pay) toilets. Amazingly, three years later the Palace would be disassembled and relocated to suburban Sydenham Hall in South London. The Palace would eventually be destroyed by fire in 1936.

The Bauhaus, and most significantly Walter Gropius and Mies van der Rohe, would begin a love affair with new Industrial Revolution materials that would feature glass in both architecture and furniture in a big way. As you see from the images posted here, it was an affair that still shows no signs of waning.

The quintessential Bauhaus campus building by Walter Gropius, 1926:

The Kluczynski Federal Building, Chicago, by Mies van der Rohe:

The iconic Glass House by Philip Johnson: According to its website, the structure "is best understood as a pavilion for viewing the surrounding landscape." the Wikipedia page calls it "an essay in minimum structure": Bauhaus by way of Japan.

Sadly, the house has fallen into a state of disrepair necessitating millions of dollars in repairs. Described in its present condition as a mold sponge, its various ailments include peeling tiles, crumbling fixtures, and damage from humidity. Frank Lloyd Wright may've said something once the falling apart being proof of its superior aesthetics but unfortunately I couldn't find any Google corroboration.

In any event, the Glass House helped usher in the International Style to America and influence much of what is posted here.

Natural light is a part of our biological need. Intuitively, we prefer daylight to electric light. It is a perfect white light. And it is, of course, plentiful. Marilyne Andersen, MIT Department of Architecture

Architect Arthur Erikson's Fire Island house:

A glass house in a forest in Thailand:

A school in Japan:

It's been said that a glass exterior can lead to a building’s forming a religious attachment with the environment.

Recent research has shown natural light not can not only have a positive effect on energy consumption but on human well being and productivity as well. Technological advances have made glass more efficient, sustainable, and practical than ever.

It appears glass is no less modern than it ever was.