Architecture

Earl Young’s Imprint on Charlevoix
Exterior view of Earl Young’s Weathervane Inn

As a young man from the rural north of Michigan, Earl Young aspired to produce ‘natural houses’ in the spirit of Frank Lloyd Wright, his inspiration and model for what became his own vocation. Young never studied with Wright, but the latter’s design spirit influenced him throughout his life. Though Young’s impact as an architect was essentially local (he designed only one house outside of Charlevoix), the present-day promotion of Charlevoix as a cultural destination is much in his debt for the way this community has come to be known as the home of the “mushroom houses.”

Earl Young

Earl Young studied architecture for one year at the University of Michigan. From the beginning he was impatient with a curriculum shaped by the kind of slavishness to European precedents that FL Wright also criticized. Young then returned to his hometown of Charlevoix to build houses, practice real estate in the family business, and sell insurance. He left the university program with his independent vision and architectural vocation intact, from which he never seemed to waver.

The Weathervane Inn adjacent to the Pine River channel and lift bridge

One recent appraisal of Young’s portfolio of buildings has suggested a neologism with which to describe his work, lithotecture, based on the Greek word for stone. For Earl Young did not simply value the utility of stone; he loved stone, and especially large boulders. He is remembered for having had a remarkable memory for the exact location, size, and texture of examples he had seen, collected, or stored away for future use. His profound appreciation for these materials, and the creative possibilities toward which they might be employed, is much in evidence throughout the older portion of Charlevoix in the many houses and other buildings he built and or designed, as well as in those influenced by them.

One of Earl Young’s Boulders Park homes (more of which are to be featured in a future post)

Earl Young’s impact upon the visual character of Charlevoix might be compared to a rather different example in architecture and in community design, the near-universal adoption of ‘the adobe style’ in Santa Fe, which has become a predominant approach to restoration, renewal, and original architectural creations. In the parallel example of Young’s case, his impact was through his way of being true to context by his use of stone, especially in highly creative ways. So pervasive has become his influence upon the development of Charlevoix that many other and more recent builders have been drawn to imitate Young’s extensive and sometimes whimsical use of locally available natural geologic materials. Given my own experience of living in south Louisiana, where hardly any naturally-occurring stone is to be found, I am struck by the abiding evidence of Young’s legacy as a community-based builder.

Two long-ago initiatives by Earl Young in particular serve to distinguish Charlevoix in the eyes of visitors, the Weathervane Inn, and the waterfront park adjacent to the city marina. Young replaced an aged mill along the edge of the Pine River channel with an attractive inn of his own design and construction, and he convinced town leaders to replace obsolete warehouses along the waterfront with what has become a four acre rolling green expanse of lawn. Both locations have become popular and much used gathering places for visitors as well as for Charlevoix residents.

The terrace overlook above the marina office – modern stonework in the Earl Young style

The marina waterfront as it has been developed in recent years demonstrates Earl Young’s lasting influence upon Charlevoix’s economic and cultural development. Realizing some of the potential latent within Young’s prescient inspiration for the land clearing that enabled the new park, several notable new structures have been built, among them a new marina office and locker rooms, and a dancing or synchronized fountain by its door.

Part of the natural-look landscaping surrounding the marina office

Landscaped around the marina office is a northern Michigan nature garden incorporating a human-made stream flowing between several shaded pools that contain rainbow trout. Also gracing the open green space of the park is a bandshell for weekly summer musical events, where concert-goers overlook the harbor docks and boat slips. Each of these structures, though constructed well after Young’s lifetime, reflects his vision for the beauty of stone laid up in asymmetrical curving walls.

The Earl Young influenced bandshell overlooking the marina and Round Lake harbor

Earl Young’s profound attachment to working with local geological material evinces a lifelong devotion to what can be accomplished through building with massive boulders, each weighing multiples tons. The best place to begin to appreciate this is by a visit to the previously mentioned Weathervane Inn, the earliest of his few public buildings. The massive fireplace assembled from a seeming heap of boulders, has one large stone that weighed 9 tons, so heavy that it caused a dislocation in the foundation prepared for it.

Exterior view of Earl Young’s massive Weathervane fireplace
Interior view of the Weathervane fireplace

In a subsequent post I plan to present and offer a brief reflection upon Earl Young’s Charlevoix residential design and construction projects, most commonly known as his ‘mushroom houses.’ In all of his work, Earl Young showed himself to be something of an unforgettable local genius, whose endearing and wonder-producing legacy of unique work has transformed his community over the decades.

Denver’s New Train Platforms
The 2012 Denver Train Station train shed, adjacent to the historic Denver Union Station

I have had a lifelong love of trains and of the stations where we board them. My love for them is partly inherited. My grandfather worked his whole career on the Soo Line RR, having retired as a Conductor on the overnight “Winnepeger,” running from his home in the Twin Cities to the city of the train’s namesake. And my father worked on the same railroad while in college. Of course, having spent my younger years in Japan, riding trains was an everyday occurrence.

And so I am delighted this week to feature the ‘new’ (2012) open-air train shed built adjacent to Denver’s historic Union Station (now beautifully repurposed as the Crawford Hotel). What especially pleases me about the new station’s addition to the opportunities available to rail travelers in the U.S. is the apparent intention for this project to reflect a harmony with Denver’s tensile-structure airport terminal (featured in my prior post).

SOM Architects Transportation Hub site plan
The new station awning structure with the historic Union Station in the background

These train station platforms and their exuberant rooflines at the heart of the city, designed as part of a new transportation hub, were the creation of the long-successful and ‘big name’ architectural firm, Skidmore, Owings, and Merrill (now generally known as SOM). The awning-like structures over the platforms recall the translucent glass and steel train platform awnings familiar to rail travelers in the U.K. A difference here from the also-white structures at Denver Airport is the predominant use of steel beams as principal supports for the awnings, rather than a primary reliance upon tensile cables and poles. A greater resemblance to bridge structures results from this design choice, while also retaining the stretched fabric layers of weather protection, which like those of the airport are translucent. A lyrical building for public use once again has been provided for travelers to and within Denver.

Interior view showing the translucent fabric awning panels and support beams

One other significant connection between Denver Airport and the city’s new transportation hub has been established by the construction of a rail line directly linking the two. Adjacent to the tracks employed by Amtrak’s cross-country trains, Denver now has a rail line dedicated to the needs of those who wish to get to the airport, saving time as well as parking and or shuttle costs.

Station interior showing the Regional Transportation District (RTD) airport train platforms (foreground)
An RTD airport train arriving at its destination

Denver’s new transportation hub serves as an attractive inner city renewal project, and provides a similar sense of uplift and visual ‘joy’ as does the airport. Along with the nearby 1995 Coors Field baseball park, the hub further enhances the visitor-appeal of the city’s downtown area, and serves as a central point for the region’s light rail network (RTD / Regional Transportation District).

The Station Complex with the Union Station Crawford Hotel and Denver downtown skyline

Increasingly we are recognizing the continuing implications of America’s significant distances between cities, the relatively low population density of areas between them, and how our reliance upon our cars and our expansive interstate highway system has reduced the financial viability of railroads as a primary resource for our passenger transportation needs. Nevertheless, it is pleasing to see that where new or revitalized rail stations and terminals are contemplated, there has been a demonstrated growth in awareness of their significance as public spaces not only through which we meet our travel needs, but as places where we meet and share meaningful time with others.

Evening at the station

SOM’s Denver Station and the design of its open-air train awnings reminds me of another building, one I have loved since childhood, Kenzo Tange’s 1964 Tokyo Olympics aquatics building, which my family passed by on many family Sunday train trips to church. Tange’s employment of catenary cables for the suspension of the sweeping curved rooflines serves in a similar way as Denver Station to lift our awareness above ourselves. Design achievements like these move us to contemplate beauty as a noble goal of architecture and in engineering, a goal just as important to us as utility and efficiency.

Kenzo Tange’s catenary cable supported roofline for his 1964 Olympics aquatic center
What the new Denver Train Station replaced

Note: My prior post featuring Tange’s Olympics aquatic center can be viewed by clicking here.

Denver Airport ‘s Beautiful Tensile Architecture 
Some of the tensile structure canopies over the Denver International Airport terminal (DIA)

In order to appreciate the beauty of tensile architecture, we need to remind ourselves of how most traditional buildings, from the ancient pyramids and China’s Great Wall through to the tallest modern buildings, have been built. Familiar architectural structures rely upon compression, the stacking of weighty materials upon others in a stable way to achieve height. Whether those materials are heavy, like the massive stone blocks supporting the Temple Mount in Jerusalem, or as in the first modern reinforced steel ‘skyscrapers’ such as the former Home Insurance Building in Chicago, traditional architecture has relied upon the compression of forces created by their materials to attain successively higher elevations over the course of time.

The tensile structure roofline of the Denver International Airport terminal building

Tensile architecture relies upon what its name suggests in order to attain stable and enduring structures – the dynamic of tension between the various materials and structural elements that are employed. The way that tensile structures achieve what appear to be daring results can be explained by reference to the poles and cables with which they are constructed.

Cable-supported columns, poles, and awnings, at Denver International Airport (DIA)

Though the name for this type of structure may be new to many of us, those who enjoy viewing sporting events set in large public spaces have seen and become visually familiar with tensile structures at least since the 1972 Olympics in Munich, Germany. Designed by Frei Otto and Gunther Behnisch, the imaginative canopy protecting much of the crowd seating was seen by millions on television and in news reports.

1972 Olympic Stadium designed by Frei Otto and Gunther Behnisch

Tensile architectural design continues to be used widely throughout the world to erect buildings for public purposes. Denver’s 1995 International Airport Terminal building, designed by Curtis Fentress and Fentress Architects, provides a compelling example. The architects’ achievement represents a stunning contrast to Denver’s former and very conventional Stapleton AirPort buildings.

Those who travel through DIA have an opportunity to experience firsthand what such structures can inspire. They provide occasions on which we can pass through public spaces filled with light, that feel open and uplifting, and which have the capacity to capture our attention. Buildings of this kind expand our sense of the moment in community with others, and lift us above our personal concerns by reminding us – literally- of more expansive imaginative horizons. As the venerable great dome of the US Capitol building gives convincing evidence, these are qualities to which all public architecture should aspire.

Three thematic sources of inspiration for Curtis Fentress’s design for the DIA terminal include Denver’s well-known reputation for being the ‘mile high city,’ the profile of the Rocky Mountains visible from the terminal and the city, as well as the heights to which modern aviation take us. As the images included here demonstrate, the airport’s tent-like awnings create a dramatic roofline, as well as soaring translucent interior ceilings, delighting both visitors and passengers, as well students of architecture who have never traveled to encounter these structures.

A still from a video showing the architect sketching the Rocky Mountain skyline from the vantage point of the air terminal, in a possible allusion to the terminal’s canopy structure

Since my first visit, the Denver Airport has been one of my favorite examples of modern public architecture, both because of the vision and notable aims of its principal architect, as well as because of the experientially transformative results he and his team of designers and builders were able to achieve. Like the pleasing effect of arriving at London’s St Pancras or one of the other luminous Victorian train sheds, the DIA terminal is the kind of humane environment that can ameliorate the stress of modern-day air travel.

Departure and Arrival areas at DIA

Note: I hope to feature Denver’s new (2014) canopied train platforms, perhaps inspired by the DIA terminal, in a future post.

A Tao of Seeing: Reflections Inspired by Feng Shui
Michael Pollan’s writer’s hut, intentionally situated by a boulder on the brow of a hill

Recently, I observed my middle son moving a black plastic pond module around in a small space in his New Orleans courtyard. As he moved the container that would soon have fish in it, he tried situating the vessel in various ways, in relation to a tree, a fence, some potted plants, and an existing low stone wall. He is not a student or practitioner of feng shui, but I believe I was seeing some of those principles at work in his decision-making.

Western readers may have heard of feng shui, the Asian philosophical approach to discerning the unseen forces that affect objects and their balance in nature. It gives attention to the metaphysical or non-material energies thought to be at work upon or within the world around us. We might say that this approach provides a Tao of seeing, or a natural way of perceiving within and around surface phenomena to the underlying dynamisms that are believed to affect what happens in nature.

This notion that there are unseen forces at work in the world is an idea that is receiving something of a revival in Western Christian spirituality. This is noticeable when people refer to a concept attributable to the Celtic tradition, in which it has become common to refer to “thin places. “ These are places where the veil between the material and the ethereal or the heavenly seems temporarily dissolved. Another parallel here between East and West may lie in the quest within Christian spirituality for the goal of harmony and balance between people and the created world.

However, my reflections here constitute an aesthetic rather than a philosophical or historical inquiry. I am interested in the dynamics of movement we perceive in the circumstances that we encounter, and less in the metaphysical forces or energies that may be present within them. At the outset, however, I want acknowledge how a nuanced Asian approach can be an authentic route toward a culturally-informed appreciation of the phenomena we encounter, especially from a historically Asian perspective.

As we look at paintings in the context of Western culture, one factor we discern assesses composition and attends to the way our seeing is drawn from one part of a larger image to another. This dynamic is often an artist-intended aspect of an overall composition. Sight lines in garden design and arrangement provide another example, as does the architectural arrangement of space in buildings.

Attention given by Western designers to feng shui is sometimes criticized as being a superficial application of historically and philosophically nuanced ideas. But I want to give credit to ways in which our sensitivity toward perceiving movement and direction is a genuine factor that is available for analysis and articulation. We notice this when we encounter both two dimensional compositions as well as three dimensional spaces and the objects we find in them. We can always come to know more about what we see.  Because what we see is something that is there, not simply what we believe, or are disposed or inclined to see.

An Asian garden said to be designed according to feng shui principles

Motion, balance between forces, spatial arrangement of objects, and the dynamic relationships that are visible because they exist between and among these variables, continue to grab my interest. Contrasts between colors and textures, as well as between sizes and shapes, play a significant role.  Additionally, the perceived difference between what is natural and things that are humanly fashioned is equally significant, as is our perception of the criteria for what constitutes that which we consider to be natural. These are among the factors that help account for our sensitivity towards and interest in these many observable variables, and our common quest for purpose and meaning in the contexts where we find ourselves.

Motions and balance as we find these factors in Wassily Kandinsky’s painting, Several Circles

Painters, sculptors, and architects, seriously consider these factors within visual and spatial compositions. The painter, Wassily Kandinsky, and the architect, Frank Lloyd Wright, provide two examples of those who also perceived a spiritual dimension within their creative work.

If so, we –  as caring lay observers of the world and of the things and places among which we find ourselves – should give deference to this evident fact. For we can all be thoughtful, as people often are inclined to be, about what we see, touch, and experience when we interact with visual phenomena.

I find myself increasingly sensitive to these aspects of our appreciation for Beauty, and endeavor to be more mindful about them. I am intrigued by possible parallels that may exist between Eastern metaphysical interpretations of visual phenomena and more familiar approaches to what we see that are shaped by Western aesthetics. Especially as these familiar approaches are described and developed within our artistic and architectural best practices.

The Kelpies: Canal-Side Art and Engineering

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The Kelpies sculptures by Andy Scott

The Kelpies in evening light

 

If ever there was a reason to take a narrow boat journey, especially in Scotland, an engineering marvel will reward those who travel in that region by such means. Two magnificent large scale sculptures called the Kelpies commemorate the horses that once pulled cargo canal boats along what are still called towpaths. This monument straddling the Firth and Clyde Canal, northwest of Edinburgh, is comprised of twin large scale structures that are said to be the largest equine sculptures in the world. Just under 100’ tall, and each weighing over 300 tons, the structures were built of steel, partly in deference to the historic steel industry in Scotland.

With an interior armature made of construction-steel beams prefabricated elsewhere, the sculptures were assembled on site with the assistance of large cranes and then clad with stainless steel plates. Aside from their resulting durability and their efficient use of materials, the Kelpies’ engineering design permits dramatic interior lighting, especially effective in the evening and early morning hours.

The Kelpies sit adjacent to a newly created canal lock and basin in the Helix Park, and serve as symbolic sentinels in a newly created juncture between the Union Canal and the River Carron.

Boats can be seen on the River Carron in the background

A lighting engineer adjusts an interior light in one of the Kelpies

Stainless steel plates being added to the structural armature

Some people have suggested that the two sculptures are based upon a pair of draft horses of the type that may once have been used on the Firth and Clyde Canal. In my observation, Clydesdale and other draft horses tend to be gentle and of a mild temperament. They are rather stocky in appearance, not only in their bodies but also in their necks and heads. Draft horses are certainly capable of running, and I am sure that some have been known to kick, especially if they have been mistreated. But draft horses can also look as if they embody a spirit of docile resignation to their tasks.

The artist’s design for these Kelpies reminds me not of those lovable working companions, the Clydesdales, but instead look like Arabians or the Mustangs and other wild horses one sees in the American West, spirited, lean, and untamed. I am glad the Kelpies appear this way, as I think they are inspirational, rising up hugely as they do at Helix Park. These horses, especially the one on the right, look as if they have not only been ‘given their head,’ they seem never to have surrendered themselves to our governance. This is only fitting, given the mythological source of the Kelpie name. Kelpies were said to be the spirits of streams that when ridden, might carry their riders down to a tempestuous demise in the depths. As such, we can not only admire their beauty, but these Kelpies can remind us of the canals and those who died building them, the canals’ unromantic industrial past, and those who toiled at canal-side factories in what William Blake – in his poem commonly known as “Jerusalem” – memorably termed Britain’s “dark Satanic Mills.”

Nina Akamu, The American Horse

Another large scale equine sculpture may come to mind when viewing the Scottish Kelpies, inspired by Leonardo da Vinci’s drawing of a large horse monument, designed for the Duke of Milan. A modern day sculpture, based on Leonardo’s drawings, can be found at the Meijer Gardens, in Grand Rapids, Michigan, as well as one cast for the city of Milan. Nina Akamu’s, The American Horse, expresses a similar kind of energetic vitality such as we find in Andy Scott’s great figures along the Firth and Clyde Canal. 24 feet high, Akamu’s strong and vigorous impression of a horse has something of the bone structure and mass of a Clydesdale, and every bit of the spirit that we find in Scott’s two stirring examples.

 

 

Le Corbusier’s Villa Savoye: A House as Sculpture?

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Le Corbusier, a pioneering contemporary of Frank Lloyd Wright, articulated part of his architectural philosophy with these words, “the house is a machine for living in.” Wright, by contrast, designed domestic buildings more easily described as desirable homes.

Despite Le Corbusier’s modernist statement regarding his approach to design, his Villa Savoye, completed in 1931, was and is once again a beautiful work of what I would call architectural sculpture. This stunning and now restored project has the distinction of having been France’s first modernist building officially designated as an historical monument.

The adjective “iconic” may be overused in contemporary social culture, but the label fits Villa Savoye. So memorable are its lines, curves, and stunning white exterior, that the building has inspired both architectural model kits, as well as two notable tribute structures. The better known of the latter two was an installation by the Danish artist, Asmund Havsteen-Mikkelsen, in a fjord (below).

Another work inspired by Villa Savoye is an almost exact reproduction, but an ‘antipodean shadow’ of the original with its dramatically contrasting black facade (see below). Set in the Southern Hemisphere, it was created as an academic building, a purpose for which Corbu’s design might have been more suitable:

Ashton Ragatt McDougal’s building for the Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Straight Islander Studies, Canberra, Australia

A recent rendering of the plan for the main floor of Villa Savoye

Comparison with Wright’s houses is apt in another sense, for both Le Corbusier and Wright gained well-deserved reputations for prioritizing innovative design features before relying upon time-tested construction methods. One result was that Villa Savoye, like Wright’s famous Wingspread in Wisconsin, suffered from leaks. Leaks throughout the house bedeviled the Villa’s first occupants. While I join others in admiring the formal and visual beauty of Villa Savoye, its practical suitability for a home is questionable.

For me, Villa Savoye’s kitchen focuses the ‘livability’ concern (see photo below). Imagine using this room to prepare aesthetically pleasing meals. This kitchen is not likely to inspire cooking a festive Christmas dinner, looking as it does like an industrial food preparation area. Instead, with the kitchen’s inadequate lighting, I think the expansive windows looking out and away from this part of the building are more likely to attract a cook’s interest.

Yet, Villa Savoye has long been an object of fascination for many architects and members of the public, especially with its marvelous facade where the structure appears to float above the site. In sharp contrast to F.L. Wright’s consistent effort to situate his houses within their locations, employing local materials and integrating the structures with their settings, Le Corbusier set Villa Savoye on the site, just as a classical statue might be set up on a pedestal in the context of a formal garden. All natural landscaping has been cleared well back from the structure, which stands upon the billiard table-like surface of a trimmed lawn.

This deliberate juxtaposition of the building and its setting, where the structure’s design elements contrast so deliberately with the surrounding environment, visually marks the Villa as functioning more like a sculpture rather than as a practical dwelling place. The most successful parts of this house, and perhaps the most beautiful aspects of its design, may actually be those least suited to enhancing actual domesticity. These include the curving walled stairwells and ramped walkways, attractive transition zones through which the residents simply pass.

The main floor’s atrium-like terrace, as well as the curving wall elements on the ground and roof levels are immensely appealing to look at. They draw attention to themselves as objects of visual interest as much as they function as places in which to spend time. Yet, it may be ironic that these are primarily exterior parts of the building.

What I have characterized as the sculptural quality of this building is also evident from the vantage point of the principal living area (see below). This living room strikes me as austere rather than as compelling. Despite its modest fireplace, the room might be better imagined as a gallery space – especially for small scale sculptures – than as a room in which to relax with family or friends. As designed, it and the rest of the house may have been theoretically suitable for its location in north central France, but it is hard to imagine the large room, with its original pre-modern windows, being comfortable on a hot day or during the winter without a modern and adequate HVAC system installed (steam radiators are still evident).

Le Corbusier clearly loved and felt at home on the southern rim of France, in the Cote D’azure, and may have seriously misjudged the suitability of this building for the north central region of his country. But there it sits, no longer a home, and now once again an object for all to admire.

Though I have indicated the likely reasons why I would not want to live in Villa Savoye, I am delighted that the building has been preserved as a focal point for our appreciation of modernist architecture and the International Style. The photos below indicate how near this beautiful place came to demolition after abandonment by its frustrated owners, and its subsequent abuse during the Second World War.

 

Additional note: Readers who are intrigued by this stunning building may wish to become familiar with some of Le Corbusier’s other notable projects, including his chapel at Ronchamp (featured in a prior blog post), his Marseilles block building, and his theoretical Modular system intended to facilitate human-scale architectural design. The latter may have been inspired by Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man, reimagined in a metric system of measurement. The following image demonstrates the way in which Le Corbusier’s modernism was in part based on mathematical theory, and how it played a role in his design for Villa Savoye.

 

Special thanks to my daughter in law, Laure Le Coq Holmgren, for helping me with the French terms for aspects of Villa Savoye’s plan, and for the correct pronunciation of the building’s name.

The Beauty of Philip Simmons’ Charleston Ironwork

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Gate to the Philip Simmons Memorial Garden, Anson Street, Charleston (featuring a Simmons design)

 

Philip Simmons, was a blacksmith who spent his life and working career in Charleston, SC, where much of his work is preserved by homeowners, collectors, and a foundation dedicated to honoring his legacy. Along with his lifelong body of ironwork, he has been described as a national treasure. Born in 1912 in the Old South, he received a very limited education and apprenticed himself at an early age to blacksmiths he saw in his Charleston neighborhood. Eight decades of work in a blacksmith’s shop followed as he pursued what some might call a trade craft, and which in his hands was truly an art.

Mary E. Lyons has written a book about Simmons for young persons, which includes some compelling photos of his work. She offers this introduction to the artist: “Philip Simmons began his career as an untrained boy. Now he is called the Dean of Blacksmiths by professional smiths across the country. His memories show that skill and patience take years of work. They also prove that everyone can achieve both. An honored artist, teacher, and businessman, Philip Simmons is the working person’s hero.”

Though the circumstances in which he lived and worked were modest, he is warmly remembered by his home city, and he has been commemorated by a marker at the Fort Sumter and Fort Moultrie National Historical Park (shown above), by the preservation of his home and studio, as well as by a high school named in his honor. Numerous examples of Simmons’ ironwork can be seen on walking tours in Charleston, in the course of which one can enter, through a gate fashioned by Simmons, a memorial garden for named for him maintained by the Garden Club of Charleston.

An egret, one of Simmons’ favorite motifs in his ironwork

In addition to representations of egrets, other images such as palmetto fronds, hearts, fish and serpents, number among those images often featured in Simmons’ ironwork. The artist’s choice of these images reflected his sensitivity to the locale in which he was raised, both Daniel Island where he was born, and then Charleston and its low country and aquatic surroundings.

A major turning point in Simmon’s life’s work came with an unexpected opportunity brought to him when he was 64, an age when many contemplate retirement. He was invited to participate in the 1976 Bicentennial commemorative Festival of American Folklife to take place on the Mall by the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C. Asked to craft a gate onsite during the event, Simmons wondered about the imagery that he might select for the project. Thinking about images that would reflect where he was from, he settled on the moon, stars in the sky, the rolling surface of water, and fish. This combination of images reflected, in his mind, the night sky sparkling upon the waters of the two rivers that form Charleston Harbor. The resulting gate, which has come to be known as the Star and Fish Gate, was purchased by the Smithsonian Institution (image below).

Philip Simmons’ crafting of the Star and Fish Gate in a temporary workshop set up on the Washington Mall, complete with a portable foundry and anvil, attracted a great deal of attention during the festival, and resulted in the artist gaining national attention. Among those taking an interest in Simmons’ work, and then helping bring it to a wider audience, was John Michael Vlach, a professor at George Washington University. Vlach published a biography of Simmons in 1981, which may have helped those at the National Endowment for the Arts to take note of Simmons’ lifetime of achievement in the field of blacksmithing. In 1982, the NEA awarded Simmons with a National Heritage Fellowship, the United States government’s highest honor in the folk and traditional arts. Other honors followed, including the Order of the Palmetto, his home state’s highest honor, as well as induction into the South Carolina Hall of Fame. During his lifetime, he was referred to as “a living national treasure.”

Simmons’ iron work incorporating the medical symbol of a caduceus, and a fish representing an aspect of his home region as well as the Christian faith

In spite of all of the accolades and honors he received later in life, Philip Simmons continued with humility to devote himself to his art, and to teaching younger aspirants and apprentices who wished to become proficient themselves in creating beautiful yet also functional ironwork. Despite the very significant cultural differences between his approach and those of Japanese craftspeople, I find Simmons’ approach to his life’s work characteristic of the best of what is often described as folk art, work that is appreciated for its beauty without necessarily calling attention to the artisan who made it.

Displayed below are images of a number of Simmons’ creations as a blacksmith.

A Simmons gate for St. Philip Episcopal Church, Charleston

The cover of Mary Lyons’ book for young persons, featuring Philip Simmons at work on a piece of scrolled iron

 

The full title of John Michael Vlach’s book, mentioned above, is: Charleston Blacksmith: The Work of Philip Simmons. The book includes a map of Charleston showing the location of Simmons’ works, as well as brief descriptions of them.

Japanese Thatched Roof Farm and Country Houses

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Those who watched the Winter Olympics broadcast from Nagano, Japan, may have gained some familiarity with a region sometimes referred to as the Japanese Alps. While living in Japan, my parents developed a deep interest in Japanese folk art (Mingei). Through this, they became acquainted with Sanshiro Ikeda, a recognized authority on Mingei, who built craft furniture. Through our trips to Nagano-ken (or prefecture), we visited Ikeda’s small furniture factory and the country farm house he had restored, and in which he lived. Through these visits, we became familiar with Matsumoto, its beautiful many hundred year old castle, and the surrounding Nagano countryside. My strongest memory, though, is of Ikeda’s restored traditional farmhouse, and those like it in the area.

The choice of Nagano prefecture as a location for the Winter Olympics was based on the fact that that region regularly receives a good deal of snow. As a consequence, the historic pattern for the design of farm and country houses involves very steep roofs which are quite often thatched. The combination of these two characteristics in the resulting roofs renders them amenable to heavy snow loads, which also help provide additional insulation against the seasonal cold weather.

These farm and country houses are typically built from wooden posts and beams, with plaster or stucco walls, and wooden plank floors if not otherwise covered with tatami mats made of straw and rice husks. The equivalent of what we refer to as rafters, and the lath cross pieces or straps supporting the thatched roof material, are typically beams made from tree branches or thick and thin pieces of bamboo, lashed together with rope, something that surely would not pass building codes for contemporary construction.

Traditional house with beams lashed together (above) and stucco walls above sliding shoji (lattice door and window panels), seen in the lower photo.

Instead of any form of central heating, generally unknown in Japan until modern times, many of the rooms on the ground floor would have a footwell in the floor, at the base of which traditionally there would have been a small charcoal brazier (charcoal kotatsu). Those in the room sitting on the floor, with their legs dangling in the footwell, managed to stay warm with the benefit of a small table over their thighs and knees, above the footwell, along with a lap blanket suspended from the low table.

A kotatsu blanket (with table top removed)

Kotatsu design (traditional charcoal and contemporary electronic patterns)

A similar but very shallow well-like indentation in the floor provided a place for cooking at the floor level.

Quite often these houses would feature one or two successively smaller floors above the ground floor in a way that will recall Western A-frame ski lodge houses. Typically, the sleeping areas would be on the upper floors with futon beds laid out on the tatami mats, thick quilts provided, and pillows stuffed with uncooked rice grains.

Interior of a traditional farmhouse showing a futon (or Japanese mattress), and a quilt covering, set above tatami mats.

Below, I am including a selection of photos of various examples of traditional Japanese country houses and related buildings, which demonstrate the consistency with which this approach to domestic architecture was adopted and practiced through the centuries. The first three photos show what appear to be contemporary structures built in the historic farmhouse style (followed by photos of historic structures).

The following photos feature historic structures.

The same village area (as in the photo above it) on a winter’s evening

The well-preserved historic examples of Japanese farm and country houses in the photos above, as well as the contemporary reproductions employing this historically-informed approach to domestic architecture, attest to the heightened appreciation that Japanese people have for their ancient culture. It may be that, as in some other parts of the world, the highly advanced technological developments characterizing the urban areas where most of their people now live, has nurtured a deep and latent regard for aspects of their nation’s social, artistic, and spiritual heritage.

 

From Dream to Reality: Michael Pollan and His Writing House

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In an updated preface to his book, A Place of My Own: the Architecture of Daydreams, Michael Pollan laments how some readers approach his book expecting something like a “how to” guide to building their own writer’s hut or shack. Though he does provide a wealth of detail concerning the construction methods he used, the book’s richness lies in its thoughtful engagement with the idea of human shelter and its function in architecture. Of particular note is the attention he gives to the French writer, Gaston Bachelard, whose book, The Poetics of Space, prompts a good deal of reflection by Pollan. The author quotes Bachelard with words that obviously inspired the subtitle of A Place of My Own: “I should say: the house shelters daydreaming, the house protects the dreamer, the house allows one to dream in peace.”

Michael Pollan dreams of building and inhabiting what we might call his own writer’s studio in the woods behind his Connecticut home. As he muses about its possibilities, he considers potential designs in dialogue with his chosen site for the small building. From a book by the English geographer, Jay Appleton, he gleans the insight that ideal human shelters provide two dialectically interconnected values, ‘prospect’ and ‘refuge.’ A shelter conducive for human flourishing provides both the opportunity to view and appreciate one’s surroundings while at the same time providing a secure resting place. Achieving these twin goals becomes one of Pollan’s priorities for his little writing hut.

At the same time, while embarking upon this project to build his place for writing, he acknowledges that the endeavor also provides the occasion for him to examine the idea of architecture, and its contemporary role in Western society. He discovers – through a gift subscription to Progressive Architecture magazine – that the field has increasingly become focused on the exploration and expression of ideas, leaving behind a principal focus upon providing beautiful yet practically useful spaces and structures for human habitation and work.

The interior of Michael Pollan’s writing house (note the daybed in the foreground)

Pollan realizes that what he wants to build is not something that points to something else, or to a set of ideas and concepts (as is the case with some contemporary practitioners in the field of design). Instead, he wants a structure that he can use for everyday work, for reading, and as a place where occasionally he can have a nap. With his aversion to the little building becoming an artistic statement rather than something truly useful, Pollan’s book reminds me of a principal theme in Tom Wolfe’s splendid little book, From Bauhaus to Our House.

Especially in the first two chapters, Michael Pollan offers a set of thought provoking and historically informed reflections on the nature and purpose of architecture, which are shaped in a writerly way. As much as I was drawn to the concrete aspects of his project – as in his account of his search for the ideal design of the window through which he would look while writing – I found his engagement with the theoretical aspects of the project to be very compelling. A good example of the latter is his reflection on our conscious experience of form and pattern in buildings, and our unconscious experience of the spaces we encounter and through which we move. Other examples include the role of feng shui in his selection of a site for his project, as well his explanation of the function of the Golden Section (or Divine Proportion, 1/1.618) in deciding the parameters of the rectangle for his floor plan.

Most of all, I appreciate Pollan’s delineation of the difference between the 20th century modernist or International Style approach to architecture, which abstractly stressed universality of form and consistent design elements regardless of a building’s context, with the architecture of someone like Frank Lloyd Wright, who focused on the connection between his buildings and their location within their chosen sites and his intentional employment of local materials. Pollan offers an insightful two-columned table to illustrate the difference between the two, with the first (stressing universality) labeled, “There,” and the second (stressing locality) labeled, “Here.”

All in all, he has given us a finely written book.

 

David Macaulay and Mosque Architecture

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Recently I became reacquainted with a book I discovered some years ago, by an author whose work I greatly admire – David Macaulay. It is his book on Islamic mosque architecture, based on a historically informed but fictional mosque erected in Istanbul in the 16th century. Macaulay’s great skill lies in his ability to provide the reader with insights gained from his use of drawing with pen and ink, frequently with color overlaid, in such a way as to unfold the often complex inner structure of the buildings he wishes to explore and explain. For a primer on traditional mosque design and construction, complete with a glossary of terms, the book is invaluable.

The project featured in this book is a mosque commissioned by Suha Mehmet Pasa, a fictitious high official in the early Ottoman period who engages in a charitable act inspired by his Islamic faith and the five pillars of Islam (faith, prayer, charity, fasting, and pilgrimage). He funds the design and construction of a complex of buildings that includes both a grand mosque and its accompanying courtyard and related structures, as well as a mausoleum for himself upon his death. The influence of the historical architect, Mirmar Sinan, as well as Sinan’s breathtaking Süleymaniye Mosque in Istanbul (depicted below), are plainly evident in Macaulay’s composition of the book.

Because of my own fascination with domes incorporated within mosque architecture, I will focus here on that aspect of Macaulay’s book, though he provides a comprehensive account of the construction of almost every feature of a traditional mosque from the early Ottoman period. I find most helpful the following diagrammatic illustration of the basic building components which together support the dome on such a mosque as the Süleymaniye Mosque, featured in a prior post.

The above illustration corresponds to the following floor plan for the same hypothetical structure.

Now, how did that imaginary 16th century architect, his masons and carpenters, manage to build the magnificent dome featured in this project, and as we find in the actual Süleymaniye Mosque? Macaulay unfolds the mystery with a series of instructive drawings that give us insight into the process. Once the proper height of the walls and support piers was attained, a semi-circular structure of wood was constructed to provide the proper curvature of the intended dome (as seen below).

This structure was then lifted up and placed upon a kind of spindle, so that it could revolve horizontally around the perimeter of what would become the brick structure of the dome.

With the rotation of this semi-circular wooden form, the builders could stack up the bricks according to the intended proper curvature of the inside of the dome, while allowing the exterior of the dome to be wider at its base, for greater strength and stability.

A final step in the construction of the main and other domes was the preparation of sheets of lead, cut in precise patterns so that they would sheath the dome with a series of overlapping panels, to avoid water intrusion:

The smaller domes covering areas of the courtyard and entrance portico were constructed in a similar fashion, but on a smaller scale, as seen in the following illustrations. A simple swinging pendulum-like wooden arm was employed rather than the more elaborate semi-circular structure used for the large main dome.

Completion of the construction of the main dome was followed by the finishing of the interior surfaces with plaster, and then with elaborate paint work, which of course involved the need for scaffolding and platforms.

Macaulay then provides two evocative interior views of the finished interior of the mosque, and from two unique perspectives.

These drawings and my primary focus upon the dome aspect of this hypothetical mosque project provide just a hint of the richness to be found in this evocative book. Though it may appear to be a ‘picture book’ intended for middle school students, it is actually a rich source of information for adults who wish to become familiar with the basic elements of historical mosque architecture, and the construction methods used to produce such buildings in the early Ottoman period. In addition to the highly instructive drawings, the glossary at the back of the book is also of significant value.

As readers might guess, I highly commend this book.