Aesth | ethics

The anniversary marking one year since the Grenfell Tower disaster has now been and gone. Most survivors have yet to be permanently rehomed[1]. The cladding material that transformed the 23-storey government housing tower into a chimney, well, it is still used in construction today.[2],[3] Seventy-two dead and yet, no culpability? Despite lodged complaints regarding fire escapes and accessibility, the government pressed forward with the superficial refurbishments, not only catalysing the death trap, but ignoring the actual issues, favouring instead a band-aid solution to cover up the ‘eyesore’ of the dilapidated façade[4] (Fig. 1). An emblem of how 20th century design permitted socioeconomic status to dictate living conditions, this tale unfortunately is not new. We all now know profit margins have replaced fundamental civil rights. Yet, it does not have to be this way.

Aesth | ethics demands a rebrand; a new architecture. There must be an educational reform to challenge the ethical character of every tertiary student come future-architect. What is architecture? What should architecture do? Should these not be questions we interrogate prior to being given the green light for creating a public development, addition or revision that ultimately shapes the way we live? Through an understanding of good intention and right action, Aesth | ethics does not shy away from such questioning. Imagine an architecture that helps society; Aesth | ethics does. However, first it is necessary to hear the story of how we arrived at Grenfell. Without recognising this history, acknowledging too our own complicity, the architect is at risk of merely becoming an execution artist for the corrupt. We are all culpable.

Since the Age of Enlightenment, Western thought has been globally colonising the deepest recesses of society. However, when brewed with the second wave of industrialisation at the turn of the century and unshackled from the preordained traditions of neoclassicism and Beaux-Arts, architects soon fell into an existential crisis. Consequently, some, captivated by ideas of utopianism took to redesigning modern life, as can be seen in Le Corbusier’s Ville Contemporaine in 1922[5], followed by Yona Friedman’s Ville Spatiale in 1958.[6] Despite neomorphic in design and futile in built outcomes, this deep-dive into fantasy resemblant of science-fiction futurity created an unprecedented desire to reimagine the city of tomorrow. Whilst opening a field of discussion regarding urban growth and the role of modern capitalism, as well as environmental degradation, both projects essentially boiled down to one solution: build vertically.[7]

And we did, no matter the cost. The skyscraper itself has long been equated to progress and economic status, beginning well before Mies van der Rohe’s futuristic sketches of Friedrichstrasse in 1921.[8] In medieval Edinburgh, aristocrats occupied only the upper floors of tenement buildings, above tradespeople and commoners, avoiding the stench from the street sewers below, potentially, one of earliest historical references of vertical segregation of upper and working classes.[9], [10] Hundreds of years later, Grenfell Tower’s burning façade besmirching the architectural discipline reminds us we have yet to address issues of inequality and indifference within social, political and economic facets of design. Where are our ethics? Architecture must regain its duty.

Architectural theory has long borrowed conceptual ideas and terminology from Western philosophy, albeit, rarely in the branch of morality. In the early 1920s, Edward Bernays, inspired by Sigmund Freud’s psychoanalytical theories of the unconscious, believed it was possible to harness the biological drivers and desires of society for corporate economic benefit.[11] Bernays converted free-thinking individual citizens into passive mass consumers by carrying forth manipulation and persuasion techniques formulated in wartime propaganda into peacetime.[12] Architecture soon became concerned with selling a lifestyle, not a building.

Moral philosophy on the other hand, or the study of what is right or just, good or virtuous supplies a neutral lens of critical inquiry and reasoning in attempt to answer central questions concerning how ought we to live?

According to Michael Sorkin, Phillip Johnson, one of the first to embody the pseudo-role of architect-come-marketing-executive, created a “deluge of well-orchestrated publicity” to deflect from the rather derivative and lifeless design of his AT&T Building, yet nevertheless garnered acclaim as radical, provocative and daring.[13] Johnson, in the wake of Bernays’ public relations-led society, commercialised the idea of architecture (Fig. 2). Architectural representation, especially the perspective render, became pivotal in selling to the public a lifestyle. Yet, as Sorkin highlights, such illustrations became tools of immoral deception, with Johnson’s AT&T rendering depicting a “monumental vista that real life would never offer.” [14] 

So, it follows the generation of architects trailing the legacy of Johnson, concerned with unearthing a new stylistic movement with an influence akin to modernist or post-modernist epochs, became shamelessly egoic. Educated in the art of self-promotion, they pursued concepts of architecture-as-brand and architecture-as-logo, fashioning what we now refer to as starchitecture. Yet, despite having some element of fame, starchitects have failed to deliver a voice outside their own echo-chamber. In fact, the work of this generation, of the Bjarke Ingels’, Zaha Hadid’s and Frank Gehry’s (Fig. 3), will not only be considered passé in years to come, but will be branded culturally insensitive, responsible for gentrification and ‘whitewashing’ on a global scale. Starchitecture has become the self-appointed disciple of contemporary architectural colonisation.

Preoccupied by career trajectories and corporate backed Pritzker Prizes, the notion of property development slid into the crevices of the architectural discipline, siphoning power away not only from the architect, but so too from governing bodies[15]. With almost no push back, architects began to design for warranty and administrate for corporations. Greed ensued, and supply began to predate demand. Unfortunately, a sentiment still alive in the Ghost Towns of China today (Fig. 4).  And, in a reaction to this diminishing power, governments globally have added more bureaucratic red-tape, whilst regulating only bare minimums. Corporate architecture and development overlords capitalising on this weakness continue to request dispensations on such short standards, usually related to accessibility, safety or emergency.

Clearly, we are not able to trust a revolution will synthesise in the hands of officials or policy makers, a sentiment Grenfell knows personally. In fact, much like Alexei Yurchak’s anthropological theories of hypernormalisation in the Soviet Union during the late-half of the twentieth century, architects, unable to imagine a real alternative to the failures of the built environment and the aftermath of modern industrialisation resigned to the delusions of a functioning society.[16] The complexity of issues ensured the preference of a ‘fake world’ over the real. In fact, today individuals are disconnecting from reality at an alarming and unparalleled rate, favouring their own architectural builds in the virtual sandbox cyber-realities of Minecraft or Second Life, over our own built environments. Yet, in order to avoid all future Grenfell’s, the revolution must be real.

Aesth | ethics will be just that; a revolution. From the ashes of Grenfell Tower arises a new definition of architecture. No longer solely the summation of design and construction, architecture must ask how ought we to design? Currently, tertiary architectural education teaches us how to rationalise not rethink. And so, Aesth | ethics will be implemented here. It will not be a one-hour professional development seminar you can half-attentively consume to gain annual currency for registration. It will be a complete educational reform. History, design and codes of conduct embodies the extent of what we are currently taught. If you are lucky, maybe you have skim-read construction technologies. Aesth | ethics does not care how you design. Nor what you design. It is an introduction to the why of designing architecture; an epistemological inquiry.

So, why design architecture? Aesth | ethics posits architecture is created to shelter, not just physically, but conceptually also. Architecture must move beyond the political and economic issues of the time, and not be a direct embodiment of them hindering social progress. Let us think ethically. However, to do so we must embrace the findings of applied ethics, one of the major divisions of the ethical landscape, analysing the application of moral norms to specific issues.[17] More specifically, let us borrow lessons from the three major normative theories[18]; utilitarianism, deontology and virtue ethics.   

Utilitarianism, coined first by Jeremy Bentham and developed further by John Stuart Mill, affirms the right decision is the one that directly produces the greatest happiness for the greatest number.[19] A form of consequentialism, classic utilitarianism posits morality ought to be judged by consequences alone.[20] Good effects colour an action right, no matter the will. Despite rarely overlapping with the fundamental workings of the justice system, granted this isn’t necessarily a praiseworthy benchmark, utilitarianism compels the intellect to think more altruistically.[21] With impartiality at its core, Bentham’s ethics offers not only an antidote to discrimination, considering the interests of all beings equal, it also promotes beneficence and human welfare.

Corners cut that permitted the approval of Grenfell’s external cladding bereft of fire performance test evidence (Fig. 5), well, they surely wouldn’t have passed any sort of utilitarian ethical considerations; the risk would have overshadowed almost any justification. Not to mention that the same risk would have been adopted by the body corporate who silenced tenants concerns prior to the tragedy. 

So it goes, utilitarianism offers architecture an unbridled dedication towards social-egalitarianism. Designing for accessibility would no longer be reduced to an afterthought given to gain compliance certification. Granting the simplicity and accessibility of this theory it remains however, that the time taken to calculate the right course of action could deter most. And unfortunately, standing alone it does not offer a solution to our current failings.

The second and potentially more well-known ethical theory, in direct opposition to consequentialism, deontology, introduced by German philosopher, Immanuel Kant, centres around the duty and obligation of an individual to follow the moral law.[22] Kant believed right is achieved through goodwill alone.[23] And yes, the rules, principles and imperatives intertwined in Kantian ethics are demanding and unyielding. Yet, no matter the typology, architecture is a mass public intervention and should not be approached lightly.

Stating that “it is our duty to better ourselves,” deontology extends a lens to rethink our hedonism.[24] Say goodbye to the self-interests of starchitects. Universal by nature, deontology would overwrite cultural and subjective relativisms throughout architecture harbouring unfairness and inequality. No, you will not receive dispensation; such a notion doesn’t pass either utilitarian or Kantian reasoning. Nevertheless, goodwill itself cannot defeat the tyrant. Nor will consequentialism kill corruption. 

Aesth | ethics rests between both frameworks. It argues for good intention expressed through right action. Asserting the Confucian adage, “Don't do unto others what you don't want done unto you,”[25] this framework asserts non-attachment (balancing individual needs with those of others), benevolence and knowledge. More than rules to be followed, it hopes to create right motivations and reasons behind the decisions of architects. But how is one to know what the right action is? True, there will never be just one answer to this question. For Alejandro Aravena and his collective ‘Elemental’, the idea of half-completed incremental social housing (Fig. 6) meant a solution to the financing problems of Chile.[26] Yet, unfortunately, such a project has “paradoxically reproduced what it tries to fight,” [27] rendering the welfare-dependent inhabitants as second-class citizens.[28] However, Aesth | ethics importantly also calls upon teachings from the third prong of ethical inquiry, virtue ethics. Stating “the unexamined life is not with living,” Socrates, one of the founding fathers of virtue ethics, advocates for self-education, asserting morality is achieved through the transformation of character, or rather, virtuous actions stem from a virtuous person of virtuous character. [29] As such, Alejandro Aravena’s project has in fact highlighted the very failings of Grenfell; we can no longer expiate our mistakes onto the needy. From the fires of Grenfell, we must rebirth a new ethical pheonix; may Aravena learn from his mistakes. Blending the philosophies of utilitarianism, deontology and virtue ethics the new Aesth | ethics framework calls for a revolution within tertiary architectural education, schooling students in how to express good intention through right action. Aestheticism will take a backseat to ethical considerations, and architecture will regain its morality through the transformation of the character of to-be-architects.

Allowing ideas such as architecture-as-product, -as-logo and -as-brand to dilute our duty, we are now facing a “disillusioned, disenfranchised and despondent underclass.” [30] In pursuit of the Pritzker bronze-medallion we have alienated our own public and segregated communities through ignorant design and the creation of architecture-for-architects-sake. Aesth | ethics ethical architecture offers an answer not only to social reform and economic division, but many other areas not yet explored such as resource depletion, environmental degradation, sustainability and urban growth. 

The revolution must be morally woke.

Fig. 1. Grenfell Tower Fire, 4:43am

Fig. 2. Time Magazine Front Cover

Fig. 3. Frank Gehry Giving a Symbolic Gesture

Fig. 4. Ghost Towns of China

Fig. 5. Close Up Grenfell Facade Fire

Fig. 6. Award Winning Architecture? Or, Ethical Failure?

[1] "Four out of five Grenfell families still need homes, says support group," The Guardian, last modified December 7, 2017, https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2017/dec/07/grenfell-families-need-home-support-group.

[2] "Grenfell Tower: fire-resistant cladding plan was dropped," The Guardian, last modified May 8, 2018, https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2018/may/08/grenfell-tower-more-costly-fire-resistant-cladding-plan-was-dropped.

[3] Seraphima Kennedy, "Grenfell was a foreseeable, entirely preventable, tragedy. Here’s the proof," The Guardian, published August 4, 2018, https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2018/aug/04/grenfell-tower-prentable-tragedy-proof-warning-combustible-cladding.

[4] Kennedy, "Grenfell was a foreseeable, entirely preventable, tragedy.”

[5] "Le Corbusier, Ville Contemporaine," MoMa, last modified 2018, https://www.moma.org/collection/works/558.

[6] "Yona Friedman, Spatial City Project," MoMa, last modified 2018, https://www.moma.org/collection/works/800.

[7] "Spatial City," Architectuul, last modified February 12, 2017, http://architectuul.com/architecture/spatial-city.

[8] "Friedrichstrasse Skyscraper Project, Berlin-Mitte, Germany," MoMa, last modified 2018, https://www.moma.org/collection/works/787.

[9] "Scotland's History: Tenement Housing, Carnegie Street, Edinburgh," National Records of Scotland, last modified 2018, https://www.scotlandspeople.gov.uk/article/tenement-housing-carnegie-street.

[10] Stana Nenadic, "The Rise of Edinburgh," The BBC, published February 17, 2011, http://www.bbc.co.uk/history/british/civil_war_revolution/scotland_edinburgh_01.shtml.

[11] Hypernormalisation, directed by Adam Curtis (United Kingdom: BBC Films, 2016), DVD.

[12] Ibid.

[13] Michael Sorkin, Exquisite Corpse: Writing on Buildings (London: Verso, 1991), 12.

[14] Sorkin, Exquisite Corpse, 13.

[15] Hypernormalisation, directed by Adam Curtis.

[16] Alexei Yurchak, Everything Was Forever, until It Was No More: The Last Soviet Generation. (New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 2006), 79.

[17] Lewis Vaughn, Beginning Ethics: An Introduction to Moral Philosophy (New York: W.W. Norton & Company, Inc. 2015), 17.

[18] Vaughn, Beginning Ethics, 103.

[19] William M. Taylor and Michael P. Levine, Prospects for an Ethics of Architecture (New York: Routledge, 2011), 19.

[20] Ibid.

[21] "The History of Utilitarianism," Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, published March 17, 2009, https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/utilitarianism-history/.

[22] Vaughn, Beginning Ethics, 120.

[23] Ibid.

[24] "Immanuel Kant," Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, published March 20, 2010, https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/kant/.

[25] "Confucius," Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, published July 3, 2002, https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/confucius/

[26] “Inequality is Elemental,” Fabian Barros, ARKRIT, last modified November 28, 2015, http://dpa-etsam.aq.upm.es/gi/arkrit/blog/la-desigualdad-es-elemental-conjeturas-ideologicas-para-una-critica-a-quinta-monroy/

[27] Ibid.

[28]Sukjong Hong, “Can Half a Good House Become a Home?,” New Republic, last modified June 15, 2016, https://newrepublic.com/article/134223/can-half-good-house-become-home

[29] Vaughn, Beginning Ethics, 155.

[30] McNair, Brian et al. Politics, Media and Democracy in Australia. (New York: Routledge, 2017), 62.

Zen & Japan-ness; A theological reading of the architecture of Tadao Ando

Academic critique of the architecture of Tadao Ando to date has struggled to ascertain the central thesis behind his work, limited by a formal analysis into the use of concrete, light, geometry and water. Potentially due to his biographical account of self-education of both Japanese and Western architecture, and the synthesis of occidental physicality and oriental conceptualism, Ando’s work has been conceptually manipulated into the boundaries of Japanese minimalism, critical regionalism, modernism or brutalism. Despite Ando himself refuting such labels, such critiques employing a fragmented reading of Ando’s work consequently miss the opportunity to define exactly what makes Ando’s work profoundly Japanese. Through a historic review of Zen Buddhism, this study will elucidate how Zen aesthetics, evident within temple design and teahouse architecture have become pertinent to understanding a Japanese Japan-ness within the arts. The present study will argue that in order to garner an essentialist conceptual ethos of the work of Tadao Ando, a theological lens of the teachings of the Buddha, and more specifically, the Four Noble Truths must be applied within a metaphysical analysis. Calling upon the seven Zen aesthetic phenomena evident within teahouse architecture, the following conceptual analysis will first compare Tadao Ando’s Buddhist projects before arguing the shared Zennisms found within are present also within Ando’s entire portfolio.

According to Arata Isozaki, there has long been an objectified search, albeit coloured by occidental “gaze,” to ascertain what essentially makes Japanese architecture, Japan-ness.[1] Potentially a sociocultural response to the aftereffects of the US Allied Occupation and the nationwide assertion of voice led by the 1968 Zengakuren student protests,[2] the 1970s witnessed a reclamation of a more percipient oriental understanding of Japan-ness within modernist and postmodernist architecture.[3] Interestingly, such a time also coincided with Tadao Ando’s establishment of Tadao Ando and Associates in 1969.[4]

However, prior to this Ando spent several years abroad travelling to Europe and the United States in the pursuit of studying Western Architecture, citing this chapter as his single most important teacher, believing that formal-education rarely prepares students for the realities of the profession, and hence wouldn’t have allowed for the experiential learning of space acquired.[5] In rejecting traditional training, the design ethos behind Tadao Ando and Associates was born from an unorthodox autodidactic education and a resume containing just a few brief apprenticeships with local merchants and craftsman.[6] Yet, this may just be the very reason Ando’s architecture embodies a causa sui and innate Japanese Japan-ness.

Born and raised in Osaka, Ando spent much of his early teens gaining an appreciation for materiality and craft of traditional Japanese woodworking from local carpenters, visiting the wooden temples, shrines and teahouses in Kyoto and Nara as well as the traditional minka residences around Takayama.[7] In contrast to his travels abroad, Ando connected with the austere application of materiality and restrained beauty of shoin-zukuri and sukiya-zukuri architectural styles expressed within the temples of Ryōan-ji and Ginkaku-ji, stating such built interventions not only complimented the ‘natural’ surroundings, but completed it.[8]

Current critique on the work of Ando either tries to establish a polarity between the occidental and oriental, purporting what is and isn’t ‘Japan-ness’, or attempts to separate Ando’s conceptual ethos either thematically, chronologically or through typology. The writings of architectural historian, Kenneth Frampton falls within the former category, suggesting Ando’s biography has led to a continual tension, pluralism and dyad of western and eastern ideals.[9] Suggesting Ando employs metaphysical Japanese concepts of ma[10] and yugen[11] within circumscribed and particularised formal elements, Frampton’s critique becomes vulnerable to the pitfalls Isozaki highlights in his disapproval of Western collection, collaging and appropriation of Japonaiserie.[12] Despite formally analyzing how ideas of “the gap” or “naturalness” can be traced back to traditional Japanese architecture, Frampton fails to question why such formal elements are innately instilled with the qualities of Japan-ness. Such a sentiment can be witnessed within Frank Lloyd Wright’s Imperial Palace. Despite Isozaki’s harsh stance against this Western product vis-à-vis its beaux-arts composition, Palladian typology and modern construction technologies[13], it is within Wright’s application of the misinterpreted concept of ma as a teleological state rather than a container of temporality and phenomena that renders the form alien within Japanese architectural grammar. Kakuzo Okukura illustrates this polemic within his seminal text ‘The Book of Tea,’ “the reality of the (tea) room itself is found in the space enclosed by the walls and roof, not the walls and roof itself.” [14]    

Masao Furuyama falls into the second category of Ando critique, separating his work via typological study as well as thematically into ideas of monistic, dualistic and pluralistic architecture.[15] Consequently, such review limits the readings of a holistic and guiding ethos or doctrine behind the entirety of Ando-anthology. Furthermore, Furuyama theorises Ando’s projects exhibit an architecture of negation, suggesting the removal of social standards and conveniences has been decided upon due to their unessential nature to the creation of architectural space.[16] Consequently, Furuyama joins Frampton in reducing the work of Ando into an analysis void from answering the why. Is the architecture of negation within Ando’s work an ascetic renunciation in pursuit of space that inhabits reflection and spirituality? And so, to understand what essentially makes Ando’s architecture Ando-esque, we must ask what makes it Japan-ness?

It would be almost impossible, however, to understand the essence of Japan-ness without understanding Zen Buddhism and the role it has played throughout history in permeating Japanese secular daily life, culture and the arts. Whilst there have been many major traditions of Buddhism within Japanese history, Zen moreso than any other sect influenced Japanese society through Zen-inspired arts such as sumie ink painting, ikebana flower arranging, tea ceremonies and haiku poetry.[17]

Whilst the introduction of Buddhism to Japan from the Korean Peninsula dates to 552 A.D.,[18] it wasn’t until the 12th century that the Mahayana sect of Buddhism, of which Zen is a school transferred over the Japanese borders with great voracity.[19] Originating from Chinese Chan Buddhism, Zen is thought to have developed from a blend of Chinese Taoist and Indian Buddhist ideals during the Kamakura Period (1192-1333).[20] The school of Zen Buddhism emphasizes a surrender to ‘what is’ via the salvation of oneself and a subscription to the middle-way of life through the practice of zazen meditation. Unlike other Buddhist sects, such as Pure Land, Zen is not about the external or the superadded. An austere and conceptual teaching, it promises no afterlife or heaven, but in fact the very opposite; enlightenment or ‘buddahood’ is achieved only through the acceptance of life’s suffering and the discovery of the reality of life.[21]

During the Muromachi period (1338-1573) under the influence of Zen teachings, two major forms of architecture developed; shoin-zukuri architecture employed in Zen monasteries, Abott’s quarters, temple design and pagodas following strict kiwari planning, and a less formal sukiya-zukuri style developed under the shoin-canon seen within teahouse design.[22] Ginkaku-ji (Fig. 1.)[23], a temple in Sakyo, Kyoto and the final resting place for Zen monk Ashikaga Yoshimasa, represents not only the oldest example of shoin-style architecture but an embodiment of true Zen aesthetics.

According to the Zen school there are seven aesthetic pillars to follow in the creation of traditional space so to form a place best suited for the work of a Zen student; fukinsei (asymmetry and irregularity), kanso (simplicity), koko (austerity), shizen (naturalness), yugen (subtlety), datsuzoku (imperfection) and seijaku (stillness).[24] Such physical aesthetical embodiments are also evident within the metaphysical Zen teachings, doctrines and way of life; kanso and koko can be seen in middle-way moderated life between hedonism and asceticism, seijaku aesthetics draws parallels with the contemplation and reflection sought in zazen meditative practice, and fukinsei, datsuzoku and shizen can be witness within the Zen student’s renunciation of control, and acceptance of ‘what is’ in order to find their own ‘true nature.’  Yet, for the Westerner it is potentially easier to read how such aesthetic principles have played out within the small-scale sukiya-zukuri architecture, rather than Zen temple designs.

According to Okakura, the sukiya (Fig. 2.) is described as nothing more than a cottage, unimpressive in appearance, fragile in structure, imperfect and unsymmetrical in design, sober in colour and materiality, subdued in light and devoid of ornamentation, yet detailed with an acute precision and refined workmanship.[25] The teahouse consists of four main elements, a garden path (roji), a waiting room (machiai), a utility room (midsuya) and the tea-room proper.[26] According to E. Dale Saunders, these elements are physical manifestations of Buddha’s teachings of the ‘Four Noble Truths’ of life; the roji and surrounding garden representing the teaching of impermanence, the machiai teaching Buddha’s lessons of suffering, the midsuya representative of the teaching of selflessness and the tea-room proper the teaching of nirvana.[27]

Despite aging weathering, the hut is not neglected, in fact, you will not find dust in any corner or recess, with the ritual of ‘cleanliness’ inbuilt into the monastic life of Zen-masters.[28] A parallel can be drawn here between the care and maintenance of the sukiya-zukuri hut and the refined poverty of Ando’s trademark concrete construction.

Despite Frampton arguing Ando’s use of concrete continues the universal language of 21st century technology,[29] the application of this material refutes such a claim. Calling upon traditional Japanese knowledge of timber craft within temple design, as well as his early education in carpentry, Ando applies a high-quality timber formwork achieving a uniformity in colour and surface appearance (Fig. 3.).[30] Through a painting and varnishing treatment of the timber, Ando reduces the wood grain transferred to the concrete form, creating a smoothness in texture, “no one but Japanese could produce.”[31] As such, the finished concrete refracts and reflects light from the surface in a manner akin to the traditional gold leaf expressions of traditional Japanese screens catching the light to illuminate the darkness of the Japanese house.[32]

Despite the modernist critique of concrete being “inhumane” and “un-Japanese” due to the material’s short history within traditional Japanese craft, the virtuosity and acute craftsmanship needed to create the restrained beauty and monotone expression of Ando concrete exhibits the Zen tenets of koko austerity and kanso simplicity originating in Zen teahouse architecture. Yet despite Ando’s application of concrete embodying an essence of Japan-ness, much like the straw-hut, the significance of Ando’s architecture is found not within the physical form itself but the metaphysical, ontological space in-between.

The following analysis of Tadao Ando’s Buddhist projects aims to reveal that in the experience of Tadao Ando’s architecture, the visitor traverses a metaphysical journey of Buddha’s teachings of the Four Noble Truths, impermanence, suffering, nirvana and selflessness, originating from Zen philosophies and sukiya architecture.[33] Through a comparison with Tadao Ando’s other works, whether residential, commercial or civic in nature, commonalities of procession, descension, emptiness and interconnectedness are revealed. 

The Honpukuji Water Temple (Fig. 4.), located to the northeast of the island of Awaji, built in 1991, marks Ando’s first Buddhist project.[34] Arriving at the entrance of the temple, a large concrete planar wall conceals the design, forcing the user to embark on a procession around the site along a wavering path lined with white gravel reminiscent of the Zen dry-sand gardens surrounding the roji path at Ginkaku-ji.

The floating planes of the thin concrete guiding the procession (Fig. 5.), irregular and incomplete in form, are comparable to the Zen aesthetic pillars of fukinsei and datsuzoku, expressing the imperfection of our existence. To proceed through this labyrinth is to embark on a transition from the ‘outside’ world of attachment and avoidance to the inner world of the sacred. This journey, akin to the circumambulation or jendo, of Zen monks prior to meditation, also draws similarities with the enso ‘Zen circle’ found in traditional ink paintings. Within the doctrines of Zen, the roji path is representative of Buddha’s first teaching of the impermanence of life; everything changes from moment to moment, and our attachment to the ‘permanent’ is the causation of our suffering and unhappiness.

At the end of the roji procession, the visitor stands tall above the still waters bounded by an elliptical pond of waterlilies reflecting the mountainous surrounds, prior to descending a staircase into a momentary darkness below (Fig. 6.). A Buddhist symbol of purity, the lotus, or waterlily floats gestures detachment and lightness, prior to the visitor entering a phenomenologically ‘dark’ space confronting one with their own suffering, and metaphysically embodying the second Noble truth and teaching of the Buddha. Within this successive space, Ando connects with the Zen aesthetic principles of seijaku through the stillness and flatness of water, and yugen through the subtle unveiling of the inner sanctuary of the temple, without revealing the entirety of design within a single impression.

This graduated perspective or Oku, is not dissimilar to the concealment of form experienced when first arriving at Honpukuji. Once inside the womb of the temple, one must again complete a circumambulation prior to arriving at image of the Buddha.    

Within the temple proper one is able to find a space of quiet, stillness and reflection. However, the differing quality of this space in comparison to other sectarian buildings lies with the centripetal focus and essence of ma, that begs one to look inwardly. Best translated as the notion of emptiness, yet not to be confused with the western contrast to notions of nothingness, the in-between space of ma is indicative of an omnipresent, impermanent, every-changing condition. Within Zen philosophy, such a meditative space can be paralleled with Zen formal qualities of shizen and yugen, as well as Buddha’s third noble truth and teaching of nirvana (Fig. 7). Notions of impermanence are manifest within the varying light illuminating the statue of the Buddha, ranging from gentle diffusions to bounded and dynamic movements dependent upon the time of day, season or year.

The concept of selflessness, the last teaching of the Buddha in the Four Noble Truths, not to be confused with an erasure of identity or ‘ego’ but rather with an acute awareness of the interconnectedness of life, forms the last stage in the succession through Ando’s Water Temple. An openness to the ‘external’ conditions and elements, via void, atria and window allows a disintegration of boundary and threshold between ‘interior’ and ‘exterior’ as well as ‘nature’ and non-nature’ dualities. Zen philosophers would argue they are one of the same; interconnected. The concrete walls allow for an interplay of light that forms a space of ma, emptiness, with the realisation of impermanence allows for an ascension into nirvana. As such, the phenomenological essence of interconnectedness within the inner sanctuary allows one to reflect not only upon cyclical-esque, albeit imperfect in nature, journey of the path of enlightenment, but draws the visitor to return via their original journey, around the cyclindical volumes, up the staircase, through the waterlily pond and around the roji path. Ascending through Ando’s geometric forms, the visitor revisits the seven Zen aesthetics of irregularity, simplicity, austerity, naturalness, subtlety, imperfection and stillness that manifest metaphysically within successive spaces of selflessness, nirvana, suffering and lastly impermanence. In leaving the Water Temple, it is the hope the visitor walks away with a greater ontological awareness and acceptance of self.  

The experience of the Honpukuji Water Temple and the journey through the metaphysical manifestation of the teachings of the Buddha is not dissimilar to the path one takes through Ando’s latest Buddhist work, The Hill of the Buddha.[35] Built within the Makomanai Takino Cemetery in Sapporo, over twenty years after the Water Temple (Fig. 8.),[36] the work reiterates central tenets of Ando-isms; procession, descension, emptiness and interconnectedness.

The journey into the cave-like tunnel begins first with a procession around a monolithic concrete planar boundary wall, before circling a water garden bordered with an austere gravel-bed (Fig. 9.). The journey to the temple is lengthened so to create a circumambulation of the still and simple water installation. At this point, only the top of the Buddha statues’ head can be made out; the temple slowly revealed in a successive manner as the journey progresses.

Visitors must pass through a dark and shadowy 40-metre underground tunnel prior to meeting the base of the monolithic statue of the Buddha (Fig. 10.). Whilst this ‘descension’ through the tunnel cannot be formally assimilated to the downward journey of the Water Temple, the phenomenological encounter with the darkness and coolth of the subterranean space creates a similar connection to Buddha’s teaching of suffering.

A further circumambulation, similar to the Water Temple is encouraged around the image of the Buddha. Buddha’s head, first seen at the entrance of the temple’s roji path, can now be understood as piercing a circular opening at the top of the verdant mound, welcoming the natural and ever-changing elements of light, weather and sky into the space (Fig. 11.). As such, an experience of emptiness, meditation and ma is created within the sacred temple, and an understanding of the impermanence of life. Much like Honpukuji, visitors retrace their steps made on the journey into the temple, however, this time, contemplating the interconnectedness and oneness between Western notions of interior and exterior, natural and unnatural, self and non-self (Fig. 12.).

The journey through impermanence (procession), suffering (descension), nirvana (emptiness) and selflessness (interconnectedness) however, is not limited to Ando’s Buddhist projects, and are manifest within all of Ando’s work, creating an ethos that creates a linkage between diversifying elements of typology, location and form. Whilst delivering an analytical comparison between the Zennisms of Ando’s Buddhist works with the rest of his portfolio is beyond the scope of this study, it is important to acknowledge that such concepts have in fact played a role within other typologies.

The notion of procession has been repeated in many of Ando’s works, and can be found within the residential projects of Kidosaki and Kishino houses, the Christian chapel designs of Chapel on the Water and Church of Light, and more recently in the gallery and site design of Chichu Art Museum (Fig. 13.). Whilst the length, degree of privacy or openness, and formal properties vary within each project, the allowance of this procession akin to the roji paths of traditional sukiya architecture, allows not only an extended distance and transition from the ‘outside’ world but an acknowledgement of the evanescence of the immediate surroundings. Limited vectors and vistas concealing the design are formally manifest in irregularly placed windows within residential work, or slits within concrete geometries, linking again with the Zen tenets of incompleteness and imperfection.

The notion of descension is manifest within the immediate downward stairways of 21_21 Design Site, TIME’s 1 Commercial Complex and Natsukawa Memorial Hall, or the cave and womb-like corridors of Row House and Koshino House and the underground burial of structure evident in the likes of Chichu Art Museum (Fig. 14.). However, many of Ando’s projects reverse the formal execution of descension, into an upward journey, as in Kidosaki House or Church on the Water. However, such formal expressions, still embody a space of dark, inward reflection reached through a comparison of self with the world and a realisation of one’s suffering.

The notion of ma within the work of Ando has been commonly applied by turning his architecture inwardly with a centripetal vector forming quite an austere and ‘whole’ reading of an exterior geometry in contrast to an atria, double-height space or labyrinth or open interior. This is best experienced within Ando’s residential work of Row, Ito and Yamaguchi Houses, as well as the enclosed spaces of Chichu Art Museum (Fig. 15, 16.). Seijaku stillness and meditation and the use of water within Ando’s designs have also been repeated in projects such as Awaji Yutembai and Langen Foundation. Such spaces invite naturalness from the ‘outside’ world, whether climate, sky, or plantlife, into the space to exhibit an omnipresent emptiness. As such, these spaces allow for visitors or users to realise the interconnectedness of Ando’s architecture, and consequently, of life.

The architecture of Tadao Ando has long begged for a critical account that delves deeper into the phenomenological experience of his aesthetics, rather than the formal arrangement of geometry, as such arrangements themselves exist only for the benefit of the space created in-between. Acknowledging his early connections to the Zen temple designs of Ginkaku-ji and Ryōan-ji as well as teahouse architecture, it is evident how Zen aesthetics has played a major role in not only the treatment of concrete, but the creation of existential successions of space,  procession, descension, emptiness and interconnectedness, consequently finding a Japanese Japan-ness within his art.  Whilst this study has been able to follow the journey of the user from the roji path to the inner sanctuary of the design of Ando’s Buddhist projects, scope has been restricted with regard to the comparison and conclusions with Ando’s non-religious works. As such, a larger study into the phenomenological, metaphysical, and existential journey within Ando’s non-religious works would do well to further elucidate how Japan-ness has been exemplified through Zennisms in the architecture of Tadao Ando.  

Fig. 1. Dingy, View of Ginkakuji temple with rock garden, 2009.

Fig. 2. IPFS, Yugao-tei, 2010.

Fig. 3. Langen Foundation, 2011.

Fig. 4. ArchTravel, Water Temple, 2013.

Fig. 5. ArchTravel, Water Temple, 2013.

Fig. 6. ArchTravel, Water Temple, 2013.

Fig. 7. ArchTravel, Water Temple, 2013.

Fig. 8. Dezeen, The Hill of the Buddha, 2017.

Fig. 9. Dezeen, The Hill of the Buddha, 2017.

Fig. 10. Dezeen, The Hill of the Buddha, 2017.

Fig. 11. Dezeen, The Hill of the Buddha, 2017.

Fig. 12. Dezeen, The Hill of the Buddha, 2017.

Fig. 13. Benesse, Chichu Art Museum, 2017.

Fig. 14. Benesse, Chichu Art Museum, 2017.

Fig. 15. Benesse, Chichu Art Museum, 2017.

Fig. 16. Benesse, Chichu Art Museum, 2017.

[1] Arata Isozaki and David B. Stewart, Japan-ness in architecture (Cambridge, Massachusetts: The MIT Press, 2011), 3.

[2] Bharne Vinayak, "Manifesting Democracy: Public Space and the Search for Identity in Post-War Japan." Journal of Architectural Education 2 (2010): 42.

[3] Isozaki and Stewart, Japan-ness in architecture, 3.

[4] Tadao Andō, “Tadao Andō: 1983-2000.” El Croquis Editorial, July 2000.

[5] Ibid.

[6] Tadao Andō and Matthew Hunter, eds., Tadao Andō: conversations with students (New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 2012), 20.    

[7] Ibid., 18.

[8] Kenneth Frampton and Stuart Wrede and Tadao Andō, Tadao Andō (New York: Museum of Modern Art; Distributed by H.N. Abrams, 1991), 11.

[9] Ibid., 14.

[10] Ibid.

[11] Ibid., 12.

[12] Isozaki and Stewart, Japan-ness in architecture, 3.

[13] Ibid., 9.

[14] Kakuzo Okakura, The Book of Tea (New York: Fox Duffield and Company, 1906), 91.

[15] Masao Furuyama, Tadao Andō: The Geometry of Human Space (Los Angeles: Taschen, 2006), 12.

[16] Furuyama, Tadao Ando, 14.

[17] E. Dale Saunders, Buddhism in Japan: With an Outline of Its Origins in India (Tokyo: Charles E. Tuttle, 1972), 225.

[18] Ibid., 91.

[19] Ibid., 185.

[20] Ibid., 218.

[21] Daisetz Teitaro Suzuki, What is Zen? (New York: Harper & Row Publishers, 1972), 12.

[22] Saunders, Buddhism in Japan, 227.

[23] Commonly referred to in modern times as The Silver Pavilion, Ibid., 232.

[24] Okakura, The Book of Tea, 77.

[25] Ibid.

[26] Ibid.

[27] Saunders, Buddhism in Japan, 227.

[28] Kenya Hara, White (Baden, Switzerland: Lars Müller Publishers, 2010), 67.  

[29] Frampton, Tadao Andō, 10.

[30] Tadao Andō, “Tadao Andō: 1983-2000.” El Croquis Editorial, July 2000.

[31] Ibid.

[32] Jin Baek, Nothingness: Tadao Andō's Christian Sacred Space (London: Routledge, 2009), 12.

[33] Dōgen and Kazuaki Tanahashi, Treasury of the True Dharma Eye: Zen Master Dogen's Shobo Genzo (Boston, Massachusetts: Shambhala Publications Inc., 2010), 501.

[34] Tadao Andō, “Tadao Andō: 1983-2000.” El Croquis Editorial, July 2000.

[35] https://www.dezeen.com/2017/08/08/tadao-ando-hill-of-the-buddha-lavender-mound-makomanao-takino-cemetery-sapporo-japan/

[36] "Tadao Ando Envelops Giant Buddha Statue in Lavender-Planted Hill Temple," Patrick Lynch, ArchDaily, last modified August 8, 2017, https://www.archdaily.com/877329/tadao-ando-envelops-giant-buddha-statue-in-lavender-planted-hill-temple 

Book Review: Tarzans in the Media Forest, by Toyo Ito, selected & with an Intro by Thomas Daniell

Beginning in 2010, the Architecture Association AA Publication’s Architecture Words series, edited by the AA London School director, Brett Steele, attempts to depart from the ocularcentric domination of the discipline, reorienting the fundamentals of debate from critique of form and the favouring of images to the thought experiments behind contemporary built environments.

Following previous foci on artists such as Detlef Mertins, Bernard Cache and Max Bill, Toyo Ito, with his career long critique of consumerist culture, likening 21st Century inhabitants to “autistic robots,” was fittingly chosen as the interest of the eighth edition in the series, offering a polemic discussion to counterbalance normative architectural discourse[1]. First published in 2011, ‘Tarzans in the Media Forest’ represents the second exposition into Japanese architecture in the series, continuing from Kengo Kuma’s Anti-Object.

Thomas Daniell, a western architectural PhD scholar with a critical interest in what he calls “post-bubble” Japan, curatorially selected 17 seminal individual essays and architectural writings, in addition to authoring a foreword in hope of elucidating the nexus between the ever-evolving theories of Ito’s 40yr career[2]. Daniell, having issued critique on Ito prior to this compilation, departs from English translated pieces originally published in the likes of GA Japan and JA (Japan Architect) magazines, re-translating many texts himself in an effort to better capture the poetics of Ito’s prose and rhetoric[3]. A step potentially made to bridge the loss of accompanying imagery from previous publications. Despite predominantly acting as an anthology of republished texts, the addition of 2009 ‘Learning from a Tree’ as well as 2011 ‘Instead of an afterword’, act as a welcomed bookend compendium of Ito’s theories hitherto.

Just larger than a6 in size, and digestible in under a day, the Architecture Words series resembles the aesthetics of a guide book (sans images), a potential critique on the dynamism and global movement of the 21st Century architect. As such, apart from Thomas Daniell’s introduction, content, arrangement and scale, allow for editions to be read in the manner of a reference work, rather than beginning to end.

Moreover, whilst Daniell offers dates of original publication alongside the title of each essay to contextualise Ito’s writings with historical events in Japanese culture, essays are arranged thematically rather than chronologically, with the 1989 essay ‘Silver Hut’ appearing prior to 1988 works ‘What is the Reality of Architecture in a Futuristic City?’ and ‘Dismantling and Reconstituting the ‘House’ in a Disordered City.’ Consequently, Daniell creates more of a manual to Toyo Ito, able to be returned to or read in-consecutively depending on the area of interest along Ito’s trajectory.

Organised into what Daniell identifies as the four distinct theoretical developments in Ito’s career, unreferenced and seemingly detached contour drawings demarcate each “chapter”, offering the only differentiation from text[4]. Designed predominantly utilising the Palatino font family for assumed legibility and logistics (the condensed nature typeface allows for more characters per page, thus reducing the page count and maintaining the pocket-size ideology), contrast in content is made through the bolding and variation of typeface when referencing external information sources. Consequently, an imbalanced typographic hierarchy is formed that favours historical content, ranking referenced viewpoints over Ito’s own. Yet, the oddities of graphic presentation do not conclude here. 

The block silver book jacket, of what one can only assume is an arbitrary choice of colour, once removed (a crucial step if wanting to read the preface by Brett Steele printed on the inside front page) further displays the extent of condensation. Every spare inch of 187 pages has been utilised, with hardly any par breaks between conventional paragraphs, a potential satirical statement on the prolific digestion of content by the 21st Century architectural academic.

Despite offering a thoughtful contextualisation of Ito’s writings by examining the political, economic and sometimes cultural phenomena in Japan at the time (utilising first-hand knowledge from residing in Osaka during the economic recession and “Lost Decade” of the 1990s), to grasp the idiosyncrasies of Daniell’s analysis requires a considerable amount of prerequisite knowledge on architecture in Japan, and more specifically the difference of thought between the Kenzo Tange-led-Metabolist generation of architects and the Shinohara school[5].

Furthermore, creating a thematic divide of ‘Robot, City, Body and Nature’ coinciding, albeit forcefully, with Ito’s four decades of practice, suggests a mutually exclusivity between themes of ‘robot’ and ‘city.’ Yet, in URBOT-002 Useless Capsule House paper architecture, the “spacelike capsule” that permitted inhabitants to “survive in the city” becomes an extension of the urban environment upon the owner’s death, suggests reciprocity between themes[6].

A potential counter analysis separates Ito’s evolving discourse into concepts, rather than themes, of ‘critique,’ ‘abstraction’ and ‘return to origin,’ allowing for a thematic discussion of ‘city’ to be revisited throughout the entire span of Ito’s career.

In the 1971 article ‘The Logic of Uselessness’ coinciding with the opening of his own practice, URBOT and the commencement of the 1970s-1980s ‘critique’ conceptual period, Ito challenges the role of ontology in 21st Century, highlighting existential notions of emptiness, isolation and meaninglessness by portraying humans as “urban robots”, utilising dwelling-come-information terminals to “have sex, eat and sleep.” [7] Contrary to the theories of Le Corbusier, for Ito, the dwelling isn’t ‘a machine for living’, the inhabitant is the machine. So then, what becomes of the dwelling?

It is notably evident within Ito’s earlier writings he attempts to breakdown his own analysis of “future city” and “capsule-as-dwelling” philosophies adopted from the Metabolist school of thought during his time as an apprenticeship in the office of Kiyonori Kikutake. An era engrossed in introversion, led by the likes of Japanese architect, Kazuo Shinohara, claimed architecture should be a critical statement on society. Yet, Ito’s early attempts at finding his own critical-eye were yet to translate into successful physical applications, with the Aluminum House materialising as a diluted crosspollination of Shinohara’s theories of miniature utopias and Kikutake’s ‘future city.’

Unsurprisingly, the core argument of Ito’s writing is found within his evolving critique of Japan, or ‘city,’ used interchangeably in his anecdotal accounts. Although hyperbolic in nature, Ito characterises Japan during this period as a “smog covered,” “anarchic,” “bizarre urban forest,” enveloped with “concrete rubble,” somewhere between “natural or artificial.” In ‘Dismantling and Reconstructing the House in a Disordered City,’ Ito attempts to answer previous questioning around the design and program of a dwelling for the 21st Century android [8]. Conjuring an image of the ‘Tokyo nomad girl,’ Ito suggests the lived experience of urban spaces has become more fragmented, with contemporaries substituting conventional living and dining rooms for cinemas and bars, consequentially, creating a liberation from the modernist functions of a house. Unfortunately, the physical execution of such analysis is evident only in the reduction of furniture.  

Ito’s ‘abstraction’ period, seen in his essays of the 1990s sees a further development of theory by utilising tools of analogy, metaphor and diagram. Inspired by the iconographies of neo-futurist groups such as Archigram, Ito begins to overlay multiple abstractions of the microchip to stand in for the ‘city,’ distilling what he classifies as the cross-over characteristics of fluidity, multiplicity of layers and phenomenality[9]. Similarly, Ito calls upon the analogy of saran wrap to address concerns of homogeneity and consumerist pseudo-culture within the urban fabric.

Moving away from a “desire to replicate the tumultuous spaces of the city,” [10] Ito posits a dual concept of city-of-substance and city-as-phenomenon, an idea centred upon the understanding of two coinciding parallel existences – the physical alongside the virtual/illusory realm that transcends time and space[11]. A concept Ito utilises to comprehend the “android-like” population of the 21st Century, apparently sharing commonalities with the replicants of Philip K. Dick’s Blade Runner, Ito suggests it is in the superimposition of these two realms the design of a dwelling appropriate for the “new bodies” or “new real” of this era can be realised.

The third conceptual period, denoted as the ‘return to origin’, sees the maturation of Ito’s critique and abstraction of ‘city.’ Stating “architecture must be based on relativistic relationships with the environment” seems a far-cry from his previous portrayal of a dwelling as a survival suit[12]. Ito’s original descriptions of Tokyo as a chaotic labyrinth, seem to have softened and morphed into a sympathetic understanding of the legacy of the Edo period. Yet, Ito successfully finds a way of channeling his original critique of chaos by challenging the cartesian grid and Euclidean geometries within the tectonic expression, preferring architecture ‘composed with a complex order.’ 

In the 7 years since publication, the issue has sold-out virtually everywhere, with the edition now on back order by the publisher. Through his iterative analyses on the autistic ‘city’ of Japan, attempting to bridge the divide between the physical and virtual worlds, Ito has found liberation from the prescriptive pre-conceived adages of modernist architecture. The present review of Tarzans in the Media Forest seems lacking in formal analysis, absent itself in any imagery of Ito’s built works. However, to include photographs in the review of a series edition with the aim of quieting the emphasis on image rather than content would seem sacrilegious at best. The question of whether the Architecture Words format successfully fit with the writings of Ito an only be answered by the subjective reader.

However, it seems detrimental and reductive to have read Ito’s architectural writings through the lens of thematic divide, potentially missing an opportunity to further distill complex notions of ‘city’ throughout all four decades of work. Neglected by Daniell, it may have also rendered pertinent to link Ito’s childhood in Japanese-occupied Korea and Japan during the Allied Occupation to his allure to the Metabolist themes of ‘city,’ and ‘technology’ as well as his interest in neo-nomadism that has coated the majority of his work.

[1] T. Daniell, ed., Tarzans in the Media Forest (London: Architectural Association, 2011), 178.

[2] Thomas Daniell, After the crash: architecture in post-bubble Japan (New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 2008)

[3] Daniell, Tarzans in the Media Forest, 17.

[4] Ibid., 15.

[5] Daniell, After the crash.

[6] Daniell, T., 29.

[7] Ibid., 22.

[8] Ibid., 69.

[9] Ibid., 103.

[10] Ibid., 57.

[11] Ibid., 93.

[12] Ibid., 175.

NAZI Germany; Fascist Italy: How architectural built form was used as a weapon to coerce allegiance of the people to Fascist ideals

After the devastation of the First World War, many countries were left to reconsider their position in the global ranking of power, many impregnated with a desire to rectify the disappointment, anger and destruction that was felt by nations. Germany and Italy were left economically scarred and as a result felt as though a ruling government was needed that, above all else, prepared and supported the people through armed conflict and economic downturn. It was during the 1920s that Fascism came into prominence in Europe, creating a new form of authoritarian nationalism, placing importance on uniting class systems under the shared allegiance of interest in the success of the nation.[1] Conversely, Walter Benjamin radically claimed that, Fascism could better be described as an “aesthetisation of politics.[2] Such sentiment is not without value, as architecture became a tool to project the ideals of Fascist political parties, recreating national identity and allowing a backdrop for political processions and congregations. Subsequently, building became a therapy which helped to house those who were dislocated from the war as well as persuasive utensil to reaffirm fidelity to the political elite.

Both Germany and Italy aligned in their artistic views to reject the international style of modernity, which ultimately saw a disconnect from traditional roots, and, instead looked to re-embody neo-classical architectural elements vivid in the architecture of Ancient Rome and Greece. During both dictatorships, classical architectural elements were stripped back and simplified to create a new reinterpretation, somewhere between traditional and modernist. Critics however, have suggested that monumental stripped classicism was the international architecture typology of the 1930s, and therefore not a new invention of totalitarian Germany or Italy. Whilst this may be the case, the present study does not take interest in who, or what country initiated the styles evident in Fascism regime architecture, however, argues that such built forms were used as weapons to create a united front to subscribe to the bureaucracy of the dominant totalitarian power. More importantly, by deconstructing and contrasting the House of German Art and Zeppelinfeld built during NAZI control with Casa Del Fascio and Palazzo della Civilta Italiana under Fascist Italy, it is concluded that there is no one set fascist architecture, despite there being similarities between each architectural regime.

The National Socialist German Workers' Party or Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei, (NSDAP) came to power in 1933 when Adolf Hitler became Chancellor of Germany.[3] NAZI Germany differed greatly from other Fascist regimes, with the main ideology of the party focused on racial theories of Aryan Greek-Nordic superiority and anti-Semitism, pushing far-right politics into syncretic territory[4].     

However, it was prior to his chancellery, and rather veritably during imprisonment in the 1920s that Hitler wrote Mein Kampf, a manifesto-come-biography, which began to outline his future architectural intentions for Germany.[5],[6] Hitler himself declared in 1935 that art is “the greatest direct influence upon the masses of people.”[7] Successively, Hitler obsessed in the notion that rule over the arts and architecture would lead to rule over the people and nation (Fig. 1).[8]

Such ideologies emanated during an opportunistic period when the German people had an inferiority complex from defeat in the First World War, sensitive towards a disposition of distrust, irresolution and weakness.[9]  The word propaganda has popularly become synonymous with the NAZI regime, and rightfully so, as Hitler intelligently played on the instability of the people in order to strengthen the recruitment of people to aligning political views[10]. Furthermore, Hitler outlined his aspirations of world domination stemmed from an immense attachment to the Roman Empire.[11],[12] hoping to employ political propaganda in order to create a magnitude fitting for historicism, emulating the rule of Caesar.[13]                

In line with the sentiment that there is no one true Fascist architecture, there is also no definitive Nazi architecture of the 1930s.[14] This study proclaims that there are two clear discourses of architecture during the NAZI regime juxtaposed in order to visually represent a clear hierarchy of power (Fig. 2 & 3) [15]; the monumental neo-classicism deployed for political and civic building typologies, which will be the focus of this study and Volk architecture, which ties the vernacular German language into residential typology.

Hitler’s hatred for the Modern Movement was expressed from the early 1930s onwards and saw the closure of the Bauhaus School in 1933, with the emigration of Modernist Architects such as Erich Mendelsohn, Walter Gropius and Ludwig Mies van de Rohe to England and the U.S.A. [16],[17] His critisms against the Modern movement ranged from the impermanence of design which engaged flat leaking roofs and peeling white plaster, to the unsuitability of modernism for large civic spaces and procession.[18] Fortunately, the stance against Modernism was an easy sell to the people of Germany who were also afraid of the Modern Movement’s capability of reducing labour due to the inherent industrialised style.[19]

Rather, the NAZI regime employed a neo-classical vocabulary as it was believed this style had pre-embedded notions of eternalisation, dominance and stability due to affiliation with alternative political powers, especially the rule of Julius Caesar and Augustus in the rise of the Roman Empire, as can be seen in the works of the Pantheon (Fig. 4).[20],[21] Imported German stone was used to convey this typology, additionally creating a permanence to the materiality of buildings and increasing the German determination, strength and confidence in the employment of skilled workers during extraction.[22]

It was in the simplification of the classical elements such as columns and porticoes that the NAZI architectural style gained clarity, for Hitler believed that “to be German, is to be clear”.[23] A design language was developed which heralded the use of repetition, symmetry, rectilinear and verticality, to elucidate a visual representation of power, strength, importance and rule (Fig. 5).[24] Ornamentation and function became one of the same, with pillars reduced to structural members, in order to again reinforce clarity and stability in the political party.[25]

As previously mentioned, buildings also took on the role as backdrops to processional celebrations and political rallies, and as such, architecture was designed to integrate axial alignment for parade, solidity and permanence in materiality, clarity through plan, power through verticality and discipline through repetition.[26]

Yet another fundamental in the design of political NAZI architecture was the central and elevated position of the Fuhrer so as to assimilate Hitler with God (Fig. 6).[27] It isn’t a stretch to suggest that Hitler saw himself in this light either, as in many plans of Berlin and Munich, he replaced church buildings with political administrative buildings, metaphorically suggesting that nationalism was equal to religion.[28]

The House of German Art, or Haus der Deutschen Kunst, in Munich was the Third Reich’s first civic building to embody NAZI monumental architecture (Fig. 7). Designed by Paul Ludwig Troost prior to his death in 1934, many of the aforementioned elements of design were incorporated including a stripped classical Doric order for the 22 frontal columns, a flat roof, restrained ornamentation, repetition, symmetry and a perpendicular axial processional.[29] Horizontality and verticality are stressed so as to ensure that the power of the party is seen to be both vast and immense.

However, when in comparison to Zeppelinfeld Arena, built in 1934 by architect Albert Speer, who also oversaw the completion of Haus der Deutschen Kunst after Troost’s death, NAZI insignia takes a prominent central position with either the use of the Swastika or Reichsadler, both symbolic of victory, courage and ruling dominance (Fig 8).[30]

Holding over 340,000 spectators, the grandeur of the building could be felt by all. Moreover, interestingly, it was during Mussolini’s visit that the arena was transformed into a cathedral of light, where upwards of 130 shafts of light were projected over 25,000 feet in the sky to create an overpowering spiritual aura, much like light was used in the cathedrals of the Gothic period.[31] In this sense, Hitler again was linking allegiance to the party with religion. 

Whilst it is not the focus of this study, it is highlighted that Volk architecture was in complete contrast to the monumental civic buildings of Germany, instead rooted in NAZI Regional Vernacular “blood and soil” design to encourage healthy family life and reinstall faith in the nation. It is important to note that such decisions were not free of political motif, as it was believed that if a purity was maintained in residential and small scale community buildings, with the machine aesthetic being dropped for fear of dislocation of families, there would be an encouragement to procreate and ensure further Aryan generations.[32]

Benito Mussolini, leader of the Party Nazionale Fascista (PNF) began his career as the democratic elected Prime Minister of Italy from 1922, if only shortly, until 1925 when he adopted a dictatorship regime for the country.[33] Much like Germany after the First World War, Italy was left in economic uncertainty and spiritual upheaval, and as such, Mussolini soon personified the beacon and saviour of Italy.[34]

Much like Hitler, Mussolini too connected with Ancient Rome and more personally with Augustus, and as such had no intention to break with tradition like international Modernists, as he respected classical architecture thoroughly.[35] Much later than the appearance in Germany, it was 4 years into Mussolini’s reign that the Modernist style swept through Italy, bringing a refined simplification and abstraction to the designs of the neo-classical past.[36] Unlike Hitler however, Mussolini expressed no interest in the arts or architecture and instead relied heavily on the designs of commissioned architects. It is argued that due to Mussolini’s disconnect with the arts and the dislocation of wartimes, a consistent and clear Italian Fascist Architecture was never founded. In fact, Mussolini never truly defined Fascism in any finite manner.[37],[38]  

In 1920s there was much debate over what language would best underpin the ideologies of Italian Fascist party.[39] Contrary to Hitler, since Mussolini did not seem to favour either Traditionalism or Modernism, Fascist Italian architectural discourse generally centred on the classical abstraction of form, and the simplification of elements such as arches, columns and pilasters, fostering a link between traditional Italy and progressive modernism.[40],[41],[42] Much like Germany, the use of emblems such as insignias, murals and fasces, was encouraged to create a brand and identity of the party.[43]

Whilst there wasn’t one clear style of the Fascist regime in Italy, The Italian Rationalist movement was the most successful architectural style evident during this time. Beginning with 7 graduate architects who were overwhelmingly dissatisfied with the schooling programme, and who together united in their desire to return to the order of neoclassicism.[44] The group was largely influenced by the work of Le Corbusier in the 1920s, seeing his work through a traditional lens, and as such, Rationalism was fashioned from the combination of classical symmetry, with the anti-decadent reinterpretation of arches, columns, cornices and trabeation. This, they believed represented a continuation from history, and a progression for the Italian people.[45],[46] Designs that Mussolini agreed to commission under the Fascist regime aimed to regain national pride and patriotism, with the logic of structural and functional elements elucidating a sense of order and clarity.[47] Materiality, such as the use of locally quarried travertine and marble, like the architecture of the Third Reich, created a linkage to the permanence, durability and stature of the governing body.[48]   

In 1932 Guiseppe Terragni won the commission to design a Casa Del Fascio (headquarters of the local Fascist party) in Como (Fig. 10). Terragni’s plan incorporated Modernists ideals of light, centrality and connection to the urban, and played with notions of openness and enclosure, completely rethinking the classical portico.[49] Of his own design, Terragni writes he considers the, “Mussolinian concept that Fascism is a glasshouse into which everyone can peer…no barrier, no obstacle, between the political hierarchy and the people.” Much alike the transcendental display of light during Mussolini’s visit to Zeppelinfeld Arena, Casa Del Fascio utilises decoration to create an enlightened ambience and a feeling of power and distinction.[50] Furthermore, Mussolini cleverly restricted cultural activities such as newspaper, radio and film to the usage of patrons at the Casa Del Fascio, and as such created more reasons for civilians to subscribe to party ideals.[51] 

It was in 1935 that steel supply drastically depleted and as such the Modern aesthetic was again reinterpreted in Italy to return to tradition methods of construction.[52] As such the 1938 Palazzo della Civilta Italiana, designed by Giovanni Guerini, Ernesto La Padula and Mario Romano, was faced in stone, however, still utilised the modernist invention of reinforced concrete structure (Fig. 11). The building had strong frontality, displaying the Rationalist style through the abstracted arch form that repeated over 6 levels.[53]

19 July 1944 marked the end of the Fascist regime in Italy and the liberation of the people. Fortunately, the buildings of the reign survived the end of the regime, unlike those built during NAZI occupation in Germany.

When considering the work of Rationalist architects in the Fascist Italian rule or official appointed NAZI regime architecture during Germany occupation, both styles exuded a sense of stripped classicism, blending influence from Ancient Rome with the progressive simplicity and clarity of Modernist design.

Whilst at difference stages both Mussolini and Hitler declared their apathy or distaste for the modernist movement, respectively, Fascist architecture during these two dictatorships had a definite sense of modernity imbued into the designs. It is also evident that both regimes employed design strategies such as monumentality, materiality and scale to create a sense of power and dominance as the overruling political party. One set Fascist architectural style cannot be concluded upon, as the styles evident in both regimes were reliant upon their views of the political parties’ stance in the greater global discourse. As such, the architectural style emerging from NAZI Germany tried to emulate social utopia, set for exponential expansion, where Italy’s model however, was more concerned upon restoring patriotism and a greater sense of Italian-ism.  

Both Hitler and Mussolini in their later years began to rework plans for Berlin and Rome respectively, seeing the complete remodel of the city based on the blend of the new style of architecture with the ancient relics of the nation. Unfortunately, plans were never materialised as the concentration of war took a greater toll on the people, political parties, and as such, architecture also.

Fig. 1: Adolf Hitler & Albert Speer looking at plans

Fig. 2: The German Pavilion, International Exposition, Albert Speer, Paris, 1937

Fig. 3: Nazi Youth Hostel, Karl Vesser, Urfeld, 1935

Fig. 4: Pantheon, (unknown architect), Rome, 125 CE

Fig. 5: The Zeppelinfeld, Albert Speer, Nuremberg, 1934

Fig. 6: Hitler addressing political procession atop balcony

Fig. 7: House of German Art, Paul Ludwig Troost, Munich, 1937

Fig. 8: Detail of Reichsadler holding Swastika in claws

Fig. 9: Light sculpture at The Zeppelinfeld, Albert Speer, Nuremberg, 1934

Fig. 10: Casa del Fascio, Guiseppe Terragni, Como, 1932-1936

Fig. 11: Palazzo della Civilità Italiana, Ernesto Bruno Lad Padula, Giovanni Guerrini & Mario Romano, Rome, 1938

[1] Clark, Toby. Art and propaganda in the twentieth century : the political image in the age of mass culture, (New York : Harry N. Abrams, 1997), 48.

[2] Ibid., 49.

[3] Curtis, William J. R. Modern architecture since 1900, (Oxford : Phaidon, 1987), 352.

[4] Clark, T., 51.

[5] Ibid.

[6] Welch, David. Nazi Propaganda: The Power and the Limitations, (Florence : Taylor and Francis, 2014), 49.

[7] Curtis, W. J. R., 351.

[8] Adam, Peter. Art of the Third Reich, (New York : Thames & Hudson, 1992), 207.

[9] Thies, Jochen. Hitler's Plans for Global Domination: Nazi Architecture and Ultimate War Aims, (Berghahn Books, 2012), 33.

[10] Ibid., 35.

[11] Adam, P., 209.

[12] Thies, J., 65.

[13] Adam, P., 211.

[14] Curtis, W. J. R., 351.

[15] Ibid., 357.

[16] Adam, P., 214.

[17] Curtis, W. J. R., 352.

[18] Ibid., 354.

[19] Adam, P., 212.

[20] Ibid., 225.

[21] Curtis, W. J. R., 356.

[22] Thies, J., 73.

[23] Adam, P., 227.

[24] Curtis, W. J. R., 353.

[25] Adam, P., 227.

[26] Curtis, W. J. R., 353.

[27] Adam, P., 236.

[28] Thies, J., 79.

[29] Clark, T., 51.

[30] Adam, P., 234.

[31] Ibid., 279.

[32] Ibid.

[33] Kirk, Terry. The architecture of modern Italy (New York: Princeton Architectural, 2004), 69.

[34] Ibid., 71.

[35] Curtis, W. J. R., 360.

[36] Schumacher, Thomas L. The Danteum : architecture, poetics, and politics under Italian fascism, (New York, N.Y.: Princeton Architectural Press, 1993), 31.

[37] Kirk, T., 73.

[38] Ghirardo, Diane Yvonne, "Italian Architects and Fascist Politics: An Evaluation of the Rationalist's Role in Regime Building," Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians, 109, (1980): 109.

[39] Ibid., 110.

[40] Schumacher, T, L., 33.

[41] Kirk, T., 713.

[42] Curtis, W. J. R., 360.

[43] Kirk, T., 75.

[44] Ibid.

[45] Ghirardo, D, Y., 118.

[46] Kirk, T., 77.

[47] Ibid., 75.

[48] Curtis, W. J. R., 360.

[49] Ibid., 361.

[50] Ghirardo, D, Y., 118.

[51] Curtis, W. J. R., 364.

[52] Kirk, T., 100.

[53] Ibid., 100.

Sustainable Construction & Post-war Melbourne

This report has been compiled in order to assess the current sustainable qualities of 23 Temby Street in Watsonia, Victoria. Sitting 20km North-East of Melbourne this 578sqm allotment comfortably houses a 138sqm north-facing dwelling. An evaluation of pre-existing energy efficient and passive design features of the residence was conducted and was referenced in order to make sufficient recommendations to enhance the inherent usefulness of the dwelling. Sustainable retrofitting technologies have been explored and leveraged in order to formulate a proposal.

Watsonia reaches a maximum of 43 in the summer, with a minimum of -3 in winter, with average temperature ranging from 5-27 yearly (Bureau of Meteorology 2014). Currently the residence relies heavily on electrical or gas heating and cooling, however, conditioned air is lost and leaked due to poor insulation, draughts under doors and poorly covered windows. Whilst this residence may be labeled sustainable for the 1960’s due to a lower embodied energy in construction phase than today’s standards, it consumes large amounts of in-use operational energy to combat design flaws.  

Owners of the dwelling were consulted to gather feedback on their priorities for the retrofit to ensure a holistic approach towards the balance of environmental outcomes, energy efficiency, thermal comfort properties and costing of installation and labouring of modifications. Resulted recommendations included a Do-It-Yourself draught sealing of the residence using locally bought hardware add-ons, insulating the ceiling and walls to increase thermal comfort as well as investing in floor-length lined drapes for all exposed windows in replacement of venetian blinds. Whilst together these measures resulted in an immediate outlay of costs, an approximate return on investment has been calculated to assure long-term savings and an increase of market value to the property. 

Introduction

Currently, residential housing accounts for approximately one fifth of Australia’s greenhouse gas emissions and over 17.5% of our total energy use (State Government of Victoria 2013). Of this, more than three quarters remains acquired from fossil fuels, assisting in the pollution of our atmosphere and contributing significantly to global climate change (Cunningham & Cunningham 2010, p16). The fears of a warming planet bring to light topics of food security, uninhabitable land, agricultural burdens and health threats. It is imperative that individuals in life and living try and reduce their carbon footprint. A simple and effective way to make a difference is through the retrofit of housing to reduce energy consumption and water usage. Post WWII mass production became increasing favourable, which by design, highlights the end result and marginalises the process or consequences of said production. It is now a common thought that mechanically driven results are not a suitable substitute for good design. This has drastically improved the passive design properties of newly built homes, however older generational dwellings continue to present issues of energy inefficiency. Luckily, there is a plethora of retrofitting measures that can be taken to improve the thermal properties, comfort and sustainability of older homes.

Discussion

Evaluation of House

Built in the 1960’s post war period the front facing cream brick veneer dwelling in question served as a cheap and easy production option for the mass economic class. This contemporary 3-bedroom single storey residence on a 578sqm allotment boasts for its era a double garage to the rear of the block, wide front yard and timber floor coverings. Refurbished in the last ten years additions have been made to include gas cooking/heating and timber blinds, with the entire interior repainted/redecorated. Original features include working brick chimney, wire mesh doors, single glazed top hung awning windows with wooden framing, interior plasterboard walls and a medium pitched terracotta tiled roof, with low brick fencing and a narrow parameter garden to enclose the block. The north facing orientation of the house, external retractable heavy canvas awnings and surrounding eaves assign themselves to current environmental features that aid in the reduction of energy consumption. Whilst the concrete foundation lends to an increase in the thermal mass capacity of the dwelling, the deciduous tree blocks summer sun from the main indoor living space and energy saver light bulbs are installed to save energy and reduce greenhouse gas emissions, additional home energy retrofitting measures are to be analysed to increase the passive solar design potentiality.

Retrofitting Ideas & Measures

Heating/Cooling

Latest statistics suggest that heating and cooling are together responsible for using over 40% of household energy in the average Victorian home (Milne et al. 2013). Australian Bureau of Statistics (2012) states that 34% of Victorian’s use air conditioning for cooling less that one month per year compared to 29%, which use main heating for over six months annually. It is clear from this data alone that there is inherent need for passive heating solutions. Whilst thermal comfort is subjective, passive design elements can be utilised to capture solar gain, increase the natural resilience of the dwelling to exterior climate, reduce the need for electrical or gas heating, and as a result cut energy bills. It is also estimated by Milne et al. (2013) that for every degree of extra heating or cooling from mechanical devices, energy bills can increase by up to 10%.

A north facing design with surrounding eaves will enable rewards from drawing in low winter sun heat energy, assisting also with blocking high summer sun. However, a lot of passive heating or cooling can be allied with behavioural decisions. Using doors to create air locks in winter or drawing blinds or curtains prevents the escape of warmer air, while opening windows and external doors during summer attains cross ventilation and assists the dwelling to naturally cool. This disadvantage of such a behavioural solution is that it relies on the attention and care of an individual or tenant.

Windows & Doors

Up to half of all heat loss from a dwelling can be due to air leakages across the building fabric (Morgan 2006, p. 4). It is vital to create an airtight building in order to resist unwanted air infiltration without, of course, compromising the ability to ventilate the dwelling. Air leakage can decrease the thermal effectiveness of a property by up to 70%, generating a huge cost to owners (Baker 2008, p. 17). Existing older properties can minimise the aforementioned by ensuring airtightness by draught sealing and weather striping all windows and below and around all doors. Upfront capital costs are low and are drastically offset by long-term savings on energy bills, sometimes as high as 40% (Morgan 2006, p. 7).

Whilst it is preferable in Victoria for windows to be located on the north of the residence to capture the lower winter sun, existing dwellings with east or west facing windows, capturing the undesirable early or late summer sun are able to make retrofitting measures in order to counterbalance the affects if necessary. Internal window coverings and an increase in tinting or glazing can reduce winter heat loss by approximately 40% (Sustainable Energy Authority Victoria 2014, p. 20). For east or west facing windows lined or double thickness curtains, draped to the bottom of the window frame, can reduce this even further.

In addition, external shading can block up to 80% of summer heat with options such as external awnings, eaves, pergolas, verandas, shade sails, or the planting of deciduous trees (Sustainable Energy Authority Victoria 2014, p. 20).

External Shading

Acting essentially as a glass house, windows create a path of least resistance for heat loss or gain with energy inefficiency properties sometimes senselessly overlooked in favour of aesthetics. Eaves that extend one metre on the north wall and external awnings can block out up to 70% of heat gain during summer individually (Sustainable Energy Authority Victoria 2014, p. 27). Eaves are an extremely practical way of shading windows and external walls from the high angle summer sun. This feature is of even further importance to brick homes, which act essentially like a heat sink during summer months and need to detract direct sunlight. In addition to boasting passive energy properties, eaves also aid in waterproofing and can slow down the ageing process of a property.

Broad leaf deciduous trees correctly placed in front of exposed windows are an effective way of letting light in during winter months with the shedding of foliage, blocking excess solar light during summer months due to absorption and photosynthetic reactions. While this option might incur ongoing maintenance it will also value add to the property aesthetically.

Water Tanks

Melbourne, and specifically Watsonia with a yearly rainfall of 582mm, exhibits seasonal rain dominant weather and as a result is fit for capturing rainwater runoff from roofs (Melbourne Water 2014). Installation of a 2000L water tank can save up to 50,000L of water per annum and help to reduce water consumption for clothes washing, toilets and use in the garden (Environment Victoria 2014). Whilst up front costs are steeper than other retrofitting measures, costing upwards of $2,500 including installation costs, the Victorian and Federal governments offer rebates beginning at $900 (Department of Environment and Primary Industries 2014). Ongoing maintenance is also required to ensure rooftop catchment areas are kept clean and free from debris or sludge. Whilst this proactive approach will also ensure the upkeep of your property, water tanks are also known to reduce the impact of storm water on drainage infrastructure (Environment & Heritage 2014) This measure can direct the property towards self-sufficiency, eradicating water bills long-term.

Insulation

Whilst regulations for newly built homes in Australia stipulate the need for insulation, a large proportion of older homes remain un-insulated. In addition to this, older generations of homes present minimal insulation with low thermal resistance (R-values.) Uninsulated or poorly insulated ceilings and walls can account for dramatic heat loss, decreasing the thermal comfort of occupants and the energy efficiency of the dwelling. An improvement in thermal performance due to insulation can amount to $478 of savings on yearly energy bills and over 1.48 tonnes of greenhouse gas emissions (Energy Efficient Strategies Pty Ltd 2011). Creating a barrier for heat energy, a fully insulated home reduces the need for space conditioning and as a by-product can improve health outcomes for tenants. Insulation for Melbourne dwellings, requiring a ceiling rating of R3.5 or higher, can cost approximately $1750 for glasswool or polyester batts and double-sided foil insulation (to help keep the summer heat out) (Environment Victoria 2014). Whilst upfront costs are high, with payback periods commonly of 3 years (assuming 40% Do-It-Yourself), the return on investment neutralises initial capital by increasing the energy star rating of the property, and in consecutively the worth. (Energy Efficient Strategies Pty Ltd 2011, p. 25).

Lighting

Lighting represents approximately 6% of electricity usage in the Australia household. (Living Greener 2014). Effective and thoughtful lighting design aids to direct natural daylight sun where desired, shading and glazing unwanted light and heat during unfavourable conditions, decreasing overall energy usage. Do-It-Yourself cheap and easy measures can be taken, for example, painting the interior walls a lightly coloured cream or white to reflect incoming light and reduce the need for artificial lighting. Choosing appropriate light fittings can also radically affect energy bills with LEDs proving to almost halve the energy consumption and double the expectant lifetime 20 times over of halogen lights (Barrett, S 2012). Although LEDs can cost upwards of ten times the price of Halogens, rebates can be claimed via the Victorian Energy Efficiency Target (VEET) scheme.

Solar & PV Cells

Water heating is known to be the second largest energy consuming appliance accounting for 23% of residential energy use, with solar heating or solar hot water presenting as recommended sustainable retrofitting measures (Energy and Resources 2010). Energy and Resources (2010) illustrates that currently electrical heating is costing the average Victorian household yearly running costs of up to $732. Whilst installation for a solar hot water system may typically cost $2300 more than electric heaters, Commonwealth rebates of $1600 likens the gap fee to replacement costs of an electric water system.

Water Conservation Measures

The most effective water conservation measures include the use of a greywater system or low-flush toilets. However, both measures are relatively expensive upfront with the need of experienced tradespersons. Much similar to rebate schemes set up by the federal government to enhance energy efficiency through light bulb upgrades, the Showerhead Exchange Program allows Victorian households to swap two old showerheads per house for free 3-star rated water-efficient showerheads. This measure not only helps to reduce over one tonne of greenhouse gas emissions but can also save over 50,000L of water annually (Environment Victoria 2014).

Unfortunately, a lot of water-conservation-techniques are reliant heavily on behavioural decisions and attitudes towards sustainability issues. Easy, cost-free and effective ways to save water around the house include shorter, 3min showers, turning running taps off when not in use and eradicating the use of water dependent plants in gardening. Approximately 50L of water can be saved by only washing dishes when the dishwasher load is full (Sarac, K 2013). Correcting behavioural mannerisms, whilst resting on the performance of individuals, is a cost-free measure to reduce residential carbon outputs.     

Energy Sources

Currently 87% of Australia’s energy supply is generated by fossil fuels, increasing the Carbon Dioxide levels in the atmosphere and in turn creating a self-perpetuating feedback cycle triggering devastating global environmental impacts (Cunningham & Cunningham 2010, p16). Cunningham et al. (2010, p. 447) describe renewable or sustainable energy as energy that can be used from a source at a rate that enables usage to continue indefinitely. Alternative energies include solar energy, hydropower, wind power, wave power and geothermal power. Presently the only efficient commercially available renewable option for city-based residential dwellings is solar power and the use of PV cells. (Cunningham & Cunningham 2010, p453). A simpler and cheaper option to solar, creating an immediate impact on a residential carbon footprint of a dwelling, is to purchase a percentage of your energy from GreenPower® through your electricity provider, investing in the renewable energy industry and potentially offsetting the electricity the dwelling expends. GreenPower®, a Government accredited renewable energy source, for 10-25% of the total of a households electricity bill, can potentially cost just $1 per week (GreenPower 2014). GreenPower (2014) suggests that purchasing 100% of the household energy bill from GreenPower®, the average Australian household would be roughly outlaying just $1.50 per day for 15-18kWh usage.

Chosen Retrofitting Measures

The owners of 23 Temby Street, Watsonia have communicated that near-future retrofitting measures should cover the criteria of a) are reasonably priced, maximizing the potential of return on investment and b) limit labour intensiveness. Considering the owners have only occupied the dwelling for the last 6 months it is understandable that they wish to avoid further dramatic outlays of costs so soon after the purchase of the house.

Unfortunately, the dwelling at 23 Temby Street is part of the Australian statistic of uninsulated homes. Whilst committing to correctly insulating the ceilings and walls might see outlays in costs of $1750 the occupants are expected to see savings in the first year of between $300-$475 on energy bills (Energy Efficient Strategies Pty Ltd 2011). Payback period’s range can range from between 3-8years with 6-7 year payback attributing a 5% discount. (Energy Efficient Strategies Pty Ltd 2011, p. 9) Energy Efficient Strategies Pty Ltd (2011, p. 28) suggests that the decision to retrofit ceiling and wall insulation could add 2 stars to the energy rating to this dwelling and could see a 10% return on investment. Sitting just slightly higher than the median house prices of Victoria (The Real Estate Industry of Victoria 2014), each energy star rating could potentially add over $11,000 to the sale price. (Energy Efficient Strategies Pty Ltd 2011, p. 28) With energy prices continuing to increase it can be estimated that the market might even respond more favourably to energy efficiency than this proposed figure. It is also important to acknowledge that commonly the outcome is more than a sum of its parts, with insulation contributing more than thermal performance, combatting noise pollution from the neighbouring Greensborough Highway.

Currently the property exhibits poor airtightness with doors and windows far from draught sealed. In order to create an airtight residence the occupants must commit to a Do-It-Yourself project, fitting weather strips, draught seals and stoppers to all doors and windows. Permanent weather strips and door sweep fixtures are recommended to seal gaps beneath and around doors and help to meet stiles of double doors in the living areas. To combat air leaking from beneath doors, door sweeps can be purchased from a local hardware shop for $12-$15 per door, totaling a maximum $60 for all interior bedroom and living room fix-ups (Bunnings Warehouse 2014). For uninhabitable rooms such as the kitchen, laundry and bathroom Do-It-Yourself door snakes (lightweight, removable stuffed strips of fabric) can be used, costing less than $5 each (Environment Victoria 2014). With an outlay cost of less than $300 to draught seal the entire house (including approximately $100-$150 to draught seal all windows) with labour Do-It-Yourself taking less than one day for installation, the immediate benefits of a reduction in energy bills (up to 25% off) and increase in thermal comfort far outweigh any out-of-pocket expenses (Living Greener 2014).  

There is a potentiality of up to 40% of thermal heat escaping from the Temby residence during winter due to the poor window coverings (Environment Victoria 2014). Currently, the residence relies on interior timber venetian blinds to create thermal resistance during winter. Unfortunately, this would have little to no effect on the thermal properties of windows during winter. Fortunately however, the installation of heavy, lined drapes inside a pelmet box, reducing heat loss by up to 47%, is a cheap option in order to combat this problem (Sustainable Energy Authority Victoria 2014, p. 20). Relying on Do-It-Yourself labour work to install pelmet boxes and hang curtains costs are estimated at $180 per window for ready to hang, lined and double thickness curtains (Environment Victoria 2014).  However, if wanting to cut costs even further, curtains can be recycled from Opportunity Shops or Garage Sales. When associated costs can be afforded, Sustainable Energy Authority Victoria (2014, p. 20) indicates thermal properties can be improved again by up to an additional 17% through double-glazing of windows.

Conclusion

The ever-increasing population of developed and non-developed countries alike has fashioned an enormous amount of pressure on the limited global resource supply of fossil fuels to aid in development both commercially and residentially. To avoid the catastrophic consequences of resource depletion we must align with sustainable development models and revolutionise our way of thinking.

Since May 2011 all new homes built within Australia have had to comply with a 6-Star Energy Standard, however many residential buildings erected or renovated prior to 2005 currently have Energy Star Ratings of below 2 (Sustainable Energy Association of Australia 2011, p 6). There is enormous potential to leverage from these energy-inefficient dwellings to reduce national carbon output and in turn lessen greenhouse effects. The Federal Government and Victoria Government alike has responded by sufficiently subsidising energy efficient retrofits and allowing such dwellings to improve thermal comfort levels, provide cost savings on energy bills and increasing the overall resilience to climate change.       

The three recommended retrofits for the 3-bedroom residence at 23 Temby Street, Watsonia include a Do-It-Yourself draught sealing of the residence, ceiling and wall as well and investment in floor-length lined drapes for all exposed windows in replacement of venetian blinds. Immediate costs for this retrofit would sum to just under $3000, however comfort benefits would be identified almost instantly with a saving of approximately $600 on energy bills in the first year. An improvement of 2-3 Stars on the energy rating of the property would also show a substantial return on investment of roughly $22,000 on market value of the property (Energy Efficient Strategies Pty Ltd 2011, p. 28)  

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Consolidate or Spread?: What urban form should Melbourne develop in the future?

Urban consolidation is the process of increasing housing stock and population density in controlled urban areas by limiting sprawl, often by the implementation of multi-family housing (McCrea & Walters, 2012). Urban sprawl, comparatively, is the decentralisation of the urban center, allowing for continued outward spread from the metropolitan area into suburban developments (McCrea & Walters). The present study will investigate the positive and negative impacts of both the consolidation and spread models whilst contextually considering the application of urban consolidation in Melbourne and the complexity of implementation in the area of Templestowe.

The consolidated city model conjures the concept of “economies of scale”, whereby as the population size of the city escalates the proportionate need for infrastructure and amenity costs are reduced. It has been suggested that a city double the size can use approximately 15% less infrastructure than two cities with a divided population (Glaeser, 2011). Conclusively, larger cities make more efficient use of infrastructure, reducing the cost and carbon outlay produced through embodied and in-use energy, and subsequently reducing the ecological footprint of the region (Vella & Morad, 2011). Currently, cities occupy just 1.5% of the total Earth surface, aiding in the protection of valuable agricultural land needed to sustain food security for population growth, biodiversity and ecosystem conservation (McCrea & Walters, 2012).  Cities, moreover, offer solutions for the post-WWII car-centric society, with Newman (2006); Newman (2010) suggesting densification can lead to a reduction in half of residential car reliance, with households saving upwards of 20% income, in turn reducing GHG emissions and oil-reliance. According to Newman and Kenworthy (2012), sustainable urbanisation promotes walking, cycling and an acceptability of public transport methods, due to an increase of proximity between home, work life and amenities. Additionally, Glaeser (2011) argues that densification of population can ironically lead to creative partnerships facilitated through forced interaction, potentially manifesting solutions to global problems such as global warming.

Conversely, however, while the compact city may catalyse future answers to environmental complexities, currently, Walsh et al. (2005) argues that heightened density has led to drastic degradation of the morphology and ecological importance of urban streams including loss to riparian vegetation, reduction in nutrient uptake and alterations to species richness. Accordingly to Walsh et al. (2005) and Searle (2004) alike, increased imperviousness in urbanised locales can lead to heightened pressure on stormwater infrastructure, creating runoff overflows and increased water pollution from sewer leakage, as well as alterations to the biological composition and ecosystem processes of urban streams. Comparing the areas of inner city Southbank and suburban Templestowe in the region of Melbourne, findings reveal that the proportion of impervious surfaces to land area is 30% to 90% respectively (FindLotSize.com, 2014). Conclusions drawn from this data would suggest inner city urbanisation would face drastically higher implications to local infrastructure systems.

Moreover, evidence suggests an intimidate relationship between city built form and altered local climatic conditions including humidity, precipitation, temperature and wind patterns (Jankovic & Hebbert, 2012). Oke (1997) states reserved latent heat in centralised building stock and the urban canopy, creates an urban heat island responsible for temperature variances up to 10°C in comparison to the hinterland equivalent. Kennedy, Cuddihy, and Engel-Yan (2007) continue to suggest that such temperature variables can indirectly influence a higher need for conditioned air to elevate heat stress symptoms, in turn increasing electricity consumption and consequently contaminant emissions. 

Despite evidence suggesting consolidation of urban form can mitigate against multi-scaled environmental degradation, Yates (2001) demonstrates that Australian occupants are still in preference of detached suburban dwellings. In the late 1990’s, urban sprawl in Melbourne accounted for growth upward of two and a half times the urban equivalent. Yates (2001) suggests that contrary to national data, urban consolidation has yet to prove affordability of households. In effect, densification and the regenerative characteristics of urbanisation limit low income housing and can raise rents due to higher construction costs (McCrea & Walters, 2012). In addition, urban spread has also gained interest by rejection of the “high-rise” building, which successively limits exposure to daylight sky creating a need for artificial lighting, causing negative mental health impacts as well as visual compromise (Zhang et al., 2012). Holden and Norland (2005) offer a continuation of this argument by suggesting that urban spread increases livability through access to private and public green space, inclusive communities and less congestion.

Contrary to Yates (2001) arguments, Goetz (2013) offers a holistic approach to household costs including the considerable transport costs linked to urban sprawl, especially for car-based residents as well as greater water consumption and associated costs for maintenance of private green spaces. Sprawling development and increased distance from central conveniences limits accessibility by major public transport services, creating a reactionary push toward car ownership and dependence, with new residential developments in Melbourne 36 kilometers from the CBD (Crawford, 2011). Newman and Kenworthy (2012); Goetz (2013) substantiate that lower density developments are mostly car dependent, increasing the extent of carbon emissions from fossil fuel reliance. Whilst the average Australian in the past half century has benefitted from the livability of a doubling in house size (Crawford, 2011), the embodied energy in order to create such building stock has been neglected, increasing gradually over the past few decades. ABS community data highlights the average size of a dwelling almost quadruples between inner city Southbank and the Templestowe area (Australian Bureau of Statistics, 2013a); (Australian Bureau of Statistics, 2013b). Furthermore, Holden and Norland (2005) propose a relationship between house size and in-use energy, concluding that detached dwellings use approximately 50% more energy than multifamily housing.

McCrea and Walters (2012) offers an alterative to the relationship between urban sprawl and livability, suggesting that such a model can lead to isolation of community members such as the elderly, constricting their mobility and accessibility to the confinements of local amenities. This is further supported by Newman (2006) who reasons over half the population of Australia is unable to drive due to age, disability and income.         

Australian growth, and many could argue global growth, has operated in the past half decade independent from considerations of the ecological carrying capacity of the Earth (Vella & Morad, 2011). Presently, Melbourne metropolis houses 4.3 million people over a span of 10,000 kilometers. Plan Melbourne, a strategic and visionary outline, for the growth of Melbourne, suggests that this population is set to grow to approximately 7.7 million by the year 2051 (Victoria, 2014). To maintain current average density of 430 people per square kilometer and a 60% suburban preference, Melbourne urban land area would need to increase nearly 80% in order to accommodate projected growth. Whilst it has been elucidated that a model of spread can offer greater livability with larger plot sizes, access to private green space, and increased health, such a model posses threats to environmental sustainability, creating larger ecological and social costs from infrastructure, transport, and the loss of agricultural land. It is therefore recommended that Melbourne restrain endless urban sprawl, better defines the urban growth boundary and consolidates growth within the main metropolitan area (MMA) (Whitzman, 2013).  

Beattie and Haarhoff (2014) indicate that to achieve urban consolidation, such as in the area of Templestowe, with a current population around 17,000 (Australian Bureau of Statistics, 2013b) and located North-East of Melbourne MMA be developed into a higher density, mixed-use, activity center area. To concentrate the density of this area it is recommended that redevelopment be encouraged to replace low-density detached dwellings with higher density multi-family, multi-level construction. Representing concepts by Jacobs (2002), it is suggested heritage buildings are preserved in order to inject aesthetic and social diversity, increase building stock variety and to avoid the standardization of the urban landscape. In the greater MMA of Melbourne a process of infill and compact development will aid in population growth, preventing urban sprawl. It is envisaged that transport in the area of Templestowe will increase in permeability, creating a walkable or cyclable neighbourhood for residents, with access to central Melbourne by highly improved public transit systems, eliminating car-dependence. Such recommendations align with Plan Melbourne’s proposal for 20-minute pedestrian-friendly neighbourhoods. Whitzman (2013); McCrea and Walters (2012)  suggest however, that such methods will not be successful without State Governments matching infrastructure commitments to service increasing populations in order to alleviate congestion and aid in intra-city mobility. Downs (2005) expands on this idea by suggesting that increased transit systems to promote ridership alone is not sufficient, and a complete transport redesign is necessary to avoid the consequences outlined by McCrea and Walters (2012).    

Yates (2001) argument surrounding resistance of the Australian occupant to adopt multi-storey housing concepts is substantiated further by Downs (2005), who demonstrates that residential home owners will be reluctant to permit high density housing in fear of decreasing market values. Downs (2005) further illustrates that the implementation of increasing density in existing neighbourhoods, such as Templestowe in the present study, is ‘very unlikely.’ In order to support future population growth whilst maintaining sustainable development it is therefore suggested that implementation must be facilitated at a State Government level, as public participation at Local Government scale may inhibit consolidation planning being pursued into action.           

Research into the implementation of consolidation elucidates that this model is not without pitfalls. Walsh et al. (2005) demonstrations that restorations efforts towards the health of urban streams can be successful given adequate retrofitting of stormwater management systems coupled with community education to induce behavioural changes to water resource management. To counteract the findings by Searle (2004) and improve perviousness within urban communities, a solution inspired by Le Corbusier (Hall, 2000), is the addition of green-pockets of open space surrounding higher density built form to relieve pressure on water management systems. Additionally, to combat positive feedback in association with energy use and urban warming (Kennedy et al., 2007), it is recommended that Plan Melbourne’s proposal to concentrate efforts on Dandenong’s Cogeneration Precinct Energy Project is prioritised in order to produce low-carbon electricity and thermal heating and cooling. 

It is lastly recommended that government policies be configured to offer tax incentives for investment into new green-building technologies as well as subsidies for urbanites to better manage sustainable resource usage (Newman, 2010). It is believed that this coupled with claims made by Glaeser (2011) that densification generates creative partnerships and answers to global issues, will produce a forward-thinking, solutions-based urban Melbourne community.

The present study provides some interesting insights into future Melbourne planning but is not immune to limitations. Whilst the planning options of consolidation and spread have been examined, Holden and Norland (2005) offer an alternative solution by the means of decentralised concentration, and could be an area for consideration in the context of Melbourne. Whilst Plan Melbourne offers correlating solutions to the projected population growth as this study does, it is important, as Downs (2005) suggests, to put into development such theories prior to increased population influx.

Australian Bureau of Statistics. (2013a). National Regional Profile: Southbank (Statistical Area Level 2) - Population/People (cat. no. 206041126) from http://www.abs.gov.au/AUSSTATS/abs@nrp.nsf/Previousproducts/206041126Population/People12007-2011?opendocument&tabname=Summary&prodno=206041126&issue=2007-2011&num=&view=

Australian Bureau of Statistics. (2013b). National Regional Profile: Templestowe (Statistical Area Level 2) - Population/People (cat. no. 207021159). from http://www.abs.gov.au/AUSSTATS/abs@nrp.nsf/Previousproducts/207021159Population/People12007-2011?opendocument&tabname=Summary&prodno=207021159&issue=2007-2011&num=&view=

Beattie, L., & Haarhoff, E. (2014). Delivering quality urban consolidation on the urban fringe: A case study of University Hill, Melbourne, Australia. Journal of Urban Regeneration and Renewal, 7(4), 329-342.

Crawford, R. (2011, 30 May). Inner city housing more energy efficient than 7 star suburban homes: study. The Melbourne Newsroom. Retrieved from http://newsroom.melbourne.edu/news/n-533

Downs, A. (2005). Smart Growth: Why we discuss it more than we do it. Journal of the American Planning Association, 71(4), 367-378.

FindLotSize.com. (2014). Map Measurement of area around templestowe.   Retrieved 18/10/2014, 2014, from http://findlotsize.com/?place=templestowe&submit=Go&r=e

Glaeser, E. (2011). Engines of Innovation. Scientific American, 305(3), 50-55.

Goetz, A. (2013). Suburban Sprawl or Urban Centres: Tensions and Contradictions of Smart Growth Approaches in Denver, Colorado. Urban Studies, 50(11), 2178-2195. doi: http://usj.sagepub.com/content/by/year

Hall, P. (2000). The centenary of modern planning (Chapter 2): E&FN Spon.

Holden, E., & Norland, I. (2005). Three challenges for the compact city as a sustainable urban form: Household consumption of energy and transport in eight residential areas in the greater Oslo Region. Urban Studies, 42(12), 2145-2166. doi: 10.1080/00420980500332064

Jacobs, J. (2002). The death and life of great American cities / Jane Jacobs: New York : Random House, 2002.

Jankovic, V., & Hebbert, M. (2012). Hidden climate change - urban meteorology and the scales of real weather. Climatic Change(1), 23.

Kennedy, C., Cuddihy, J., & Engel-Yan, J. (2007). The Changing Metabolism of Cities. Journal of Industrial Ecology, 11(2), 43-59.

McCrea, R., & Walters, P. (2012). Impacts of Urban Consolidation on Urban Liveability: Comparing an Inner and Outer Suburb in Brisbane, Australia. Housing, Theory & Society, 29(2), 190-206. doi: 10.1080/14036096.2011.641261

Newman, P. (2006). The environmental impact of cities. ENVIRONMENT AND URBANIZATION, 18(2), 275-295.

Newman, P. (2010). Sustainable Cities of the Future: the Behavior Change Driver. Sustainable Development Law & Policy, 11(1), 7-10.

Newman, P., & Kenworthy, J. (2012). Urban Sustainability and Automobile Dependence in an Australian Context (pp. 227). East Lansing, MI: Michigan State University Press.

Oke, T. R. (1997). Urban climates and global environmental change (Chapter 21). London: Routledge.

Searle, G. (2004). The limits to urban consolidation. Australian Planner, 41(1), 42-48. doi: 10.1080/07293682.2004.9982332

Vella, A., & Morad, M. (2011). Taming the metropolis: Revisiting the prospect of achieving compact sustainable cities. Local Economy (Sage Publications, Ltd.), 26(1), 52.

Victoria, T. S. o. (2014). Plan melbourne - Metropolitan Planning Strategy.  1 Treasury Place, Melbourne, Victoria 3000: Victorian Government Retrieved from http://issuu.com/planmelbourne/docs/plan_melbourne_-_may_2014.

Walsh, C. J., Roy, A. H., Feminella, J. W., Cottingham, P. D., Groffman, P. M., & Morgan, R. P. (2005). The urban stream syndrome: current knowledge and the search for a cure. Journal of the North American Bethological Society, 24(3), 706-723.

Whitzman, C. (2013, 26 October). How to make Melbourne even more marvellous. The Age, p. 3. Retrieved from https://ezp.lib.unimelb.edu.au/login?url=https://search.ebscohost.com/login.aspx?direct=true&db=edsgov&AN=edsgcl.346877047&site=eds-live&scope=site

Yates, J. (2001). The rhetoric and reality of housing choice: The role of urban consolidation. Urban Policy & Research, 19(4), 491.

Zhang, J., Heng, C. K., Malone-Lee, L. C., Hii, D. J. C., Janssen, P., Leung, K. S., & Tan, B. K. (2012). Evaluating environmental implications of density: A comparative case study on the relationship between density, urban block typology and sky exposure. AUTOMATION IN CONSTRUCTION, 22, 90-101. doi: 10.1016/j.autcon.2011.06.011

Vernacular Landscape Language: An investigation into preference for native or imported vegetation in suburban residential front yard gardens

Over the next decade it is anticipated that Melbourne will have to accommodate over 620,000 extra houses in suburban growth corridors (Melbourne 2030: planning for sustainable growth, 2002; State Government of Victoria, 2014), seeing not only the respective ecological footprint of Australian cities increase to an unprecedented level, but subsequent sociological impacts towards the liveability of the city (Peterson et al., 2012; Seto et al., 2014; State Government of Victoria, 2014). Whilst Victorian Government based sustainable growth management schemes have been considered in Plan Melbourne and Melbourne 2030 strategies, Zheng, Zhang, and Chen (2011) acknowledge the importance of understanding current cultural norms in order to further influence policy making and implementation.

Scientific research inquires as to whether homeowners with residential gardens are able to mitigate against land clearing by actively replanting native vegetation (Helfand, Sik Park, Nassauer, & Kosek, 2006; Kendal, Williams & Williams, 2012; Nassauer, 1988, 1993; Nassauer et al., 2009; Peterson, Thurmond, Mchale, Rodriguez, Bondell, & Cook, 2012; Purcell & Lamb, 1998; van den Berg, & van Winsum-Westra, 2010; Zheng et al., 2011), creating favourable habitats to influence native fauna to remain in the region (Kendal et al., 2012).      

However, according to current research, residential landscape design rarely integrates indigenous species since ecological quality isn’t commonly associated with attractiveness (Nassauer, 1995). Leading accounts from Nassauer (1988, 1993, 1995) and subsequent research studies (Cary et al., 2000; Helfand et al., 2006; Nassauer et al., 2009; Peterson et al., 2012; Zheng et al., 2011) suggest underpinning landscape language, including elements of neatness, stewardship and naturalness, constitute cues to care, recognisable to localities, regions or cultures, which heavily guide preference for environments. Cues to care can be defined as symbols, germane to cultural, social or local norms, which signify human intention, communicating a landscape as under caretaker supervision (Nassauer, 1993). Additionally, cues to care assist to package unfamiliar environments that have large ecological value, such as native ecosystems, in an attractive and culturally acceptable manner.

Current studies however, have heavily concentrated on successful cues to care of formal landscapes and as a result highlight unsuccessful readings of informal (native) ecosystems, but, as such fail to inquire about alternative reasons behind successful informal topologies.

The present study aims to investigate whether there is a preference for imported plant species in suburban residential front yard gardens over indigenous species, and as such intends to strengthen research introduced in studies by Nassauer (1988, 1993, 1995). It is hypothesised that front yard gardens with a higher percentage of indigenous vegetation will have lower preference amongst participants due to a lack of understanding of underpinned language (cues to care) in regard to natural environments. Results from this study will be examined to elucidate whether there is a current successful vernacular language that can support cultural groups better understand the ecological services of native garden typologies.

Method

Participants

An invitation to partake in the present study was sent to a convenience sample of 12 residents of Metropolitan Melbourne, with 3 respondents selected to participate. Participants were chosen to represent an age range of 26 to 64, with a mean age of 42.3 years, across both gender orientations consisting 33.3% male, 66.6% female, varying educational backgrounds, occupations and ethnicity. Place of residence was taken into account to ensure participants covered urban, suburban and rural settings. Participants were asked to record their background information as seen in Table 1, including educational background, and additionally respond to a knowledge question to ascertain whether they recognised the difference between imported and native plant species.

Materials

The stimuli consisted of 4 colour photographs showcasing the front gardens of four different lots on Temby Street in the northern suburb of Watsonia, Victoria. Photographic sites were selected in close proximity to one another to maintain similar neighbourhood socioeconomic standing (Figure 1). Individual sites were chosen based on the percentage of vegetation of imported or native species in the front yard, and ranged from 100% imported species to 100% native species, as well as varying degrees of neatness, stewardship and naturalness as per Nassauer’s (1995) landscape care descriptors. Photographs were chosen with similar front garden plot sizes and similar background architectural house styles (one storey, front facing, plainly coloured, austere post-war style). Photos were both comparable in quality and perspective, and were taken using a smart phone on the same day within an hour time period to ensure similar lighting conditions.   

Procedure

Prior to commencing the survey, participants were read a set of preliminary instructions verbally during a face-to-face interview (Appendix A). Participants were then shown four sample colour photographs one at a time in a random order on a laptop computer with a 1080p resolution screen. After viewing an image for 30 seconds participants were asked to respond to a series of five questions verbally, before continuing onto the next photograph. Participants were asked to rate their preference for each photograph on a 10-point scale from 1 = strongly do not like to 10 = strongly like. Only after responding to the 6-part questionnaire for each photograph, participants were asked a knowledge question (see Appendix B). Questionnaires were recorded digitally and transcribed after the event (Appendix C – E).

Results & Discussion

Results, on average, are consistent with previous studies by Nassauer (1988, 1993, 1995) and Nassauer et al. (2009), indicating that neatness and stewardship cues to care are intimately linked with preference for environment. Photograph 1 (100% imported species) and 3 (100% native species) rated highest amongst participants, averaging 5.5 and 6.6 respectively, whilst Photographs 2 and 3 (mixed imported and native species sites), both with an average preference rating of 3 out of 10, were least preferred by all study participants (see Table 2). Whereas preference ratings for photographs 2 and 3 support the hypothesis that front yard gardens with a higher percentage of indigenous vegetation will have lower preference amongst participants due to a lack of understanding of underpinned language (cues to care) in regard to natural environments, photograph 4, with 100% native vegetation, challenges this theory, displaying the highest average preference ratings of all four sites.

As seen in table 3, participants defined photograph 1 with strong neatness descriptive indicators, suggesting that the level of attractiveness of the garden was understood through intentional stewardship. Supporting previous studies by Nassauer (1993) and Zheng et al., (2011) suggesting that attractiveness, care and neatness and interrelated, participant 3 commented that photograph 1 “looks so alive”, “…people must spend a lot of time in the garden watering”, “appears as though someone cares” and “…everything fits into a section, everything has a border”. Nassauer et al. (2009) proposes formal cues (see Table 3 for neatness descriptors mentioned during interviews) (Cary & Williams, 2000; Nassauer, 1988; van den Berg, & van Winsum-Westra, 2010) described in the aforementioned comments by participants regarding site 1 (see Table 3, Appendix C, D, E), together symbolise acts of labour and respect for the neighbouring community. This is further illustrated when participant 3 identifies that caretakers of photograph 1 “care about a space that makes me happy not just them”, signifying the prominence of neighbourhood views on the choice of vegetation for front-yard gardens for landowners. 

Subsequently, participant interviews support Nassauer’s (1995) research regarding the sense of neighbourliness with landscape language, suggesting that representations of front-yard gardens have a two-fold effect of representing personality traits of the caretaker themselves and additionally, their position in a broader community. This can be seen in comments such as “looks like they could be people you want to know living here” (Participant 1, Photograph 1) and “doesn’t make me want to be friends with them” (Participant 3, Photograph 2), where either positive or negative personality traits are associated with cultural readings and preferences of environments.

Table 2 indicates that there were similar patterns of preference between photographs 2, 3 and 4, however, displays photograph 1 as having a split of predilection. Participant 2 described site 1 as “…clinical and…lacking any character. It makes me feel like a show home.” A key to account for the difference in preference can be found in the research of Nassauer (1995) and Peterson et al., (2012), where it is noted that neighbourhood norms can have a strong influence on the intricacies of language communicated through cues to care. Subsequently, it is argued that either the Greek heritage or the rural residency in Lara, Victoria, (See Table 1 for participant characteristics) or potentially a combination of both cultural attributes of participant 2, could explain the variance of preference of site 1.  

Results from the study further suggest an intimate relationship between neatness and naturalness. Whilst Zheng et al., (2011) suggests that there is commonly a preference for neatness over naturalness, results more convincingly indicate that photographs with high attractive neatness indicators also display unattractive naturalness indicators (see Table 4). Furthermore, photographs with mixed native and imported species (sites 2 and 3) display high unattractive neatness values and medium naturalness indicators. Such landscapes, participants commented looked as though “…the garden they had when they moved in and have kept it the same since then”, where naturalness principles were mistaken for lack of care. Conversely, consistent with research results by Nassauer (1995), photograph 1, with 100% imported vegetation, displayed the highest value of attractive neatness, however, represents the site with the least natural ecological significance. Such observations indicate that there exists a clear paradox between neatness and naturalness.

Interestingly, whilst native elements in photographs 2 and 3 were viewed by participants as “overgrown” (Participant 1), “neglected” (Participant 2) and “cluttered” (Participant 3), naturalness in photograph 4 (exhibiting the highest attractive naturalness values – see Table 4) was described as “represent(ing) some sort of authenticity” (Participant 1) and creating a “balance between natural and garden” (Participant 2). Furthermore, site 4 also resulted in the most consistent preference scores from participants (see Table 2). Considering participants were sourced to ensure differences in ethnicity, cultural backgrounds and place of residence were accounted for, these results may suggest that there is a more general native landscape language that is exclusive of cultural or neighbourhood norms. With that said, results do however correlate with studies by Nassauer (1995); Purcell & Lamb, (1998); Zheng et al., (2011) suggesting natural landscapes are more easily read when packaged within an understandable framing system, demonstrating medium attractive neatness attributes.      

As such, this study has highlighted implications for research into environment preference of front yard garden typologies. Findings from this study clearly demonstrate that attractive neatness indicators are commonly read through the lens of cultural, social or neighbourhood norms, as is demonstrated by the negative reaction of participant 2 to photograph 1. Nevertheless, it is important for research to focus on successful readings of natural landscape typologies, in order to determine if there is a landscape language that operates independent from cues to care, as is indicated by unanimous preference for site 4.  

This research has not been immune to limitations. In order to elucidate clear elements of successful attractive naturalness language a larger study is needed with higher participant numbers. This research was conducted with participants across naturalised or first generation Australian English speaking backgrounds, and as such, represented a generalised minority of environmental preferences. Further research sampling a larger variety of participants as well as exhibiting larger photographic scope of varying Australian suburbs, native garden typologies and styles is needed.

Conclusion

The present study has provided further evidence which suggests attractiveness, care and neatness are interrelated concepts in preference for imported or indigenous plant species in suburban residential front yard gardens. Whilst is was revealed that neatness and naturalness may have an inverse relationship, cultural or neighbourhood norms had stronger implications towards preference of environment, as results did not give a clear indication of preference for or against native vegetation. However, results did contrast current research which suggests higher native vegetation landscapes correlate to lower preference ratings, as was seen in photograph 4, with 100% native vegetation cover and the highest preference scores amongst all participants.

Current research results into this field of study have concluded that in order to create understandable native landscapes, neatness indicators must work with naturalness, rather than against, for example mowing areas into borders around indigenous plants (Nassauer, 1993), planting native trees into a formal patterns (Nassauer, 1993) or most commonly suggested, increasing the knowledge of cultural groups to translate the function of ecological spaces into an recognisable language (Nassauer, 1993, 1995; Purcell: Zheng). It is strongly recommended from observations in this study that cultural or neighbourhood norms will continue to place higher value on landscape preference, and as such, solutions should be implemented on neighbourhood and cultural scales. More research into alternative reasons behind successful informal typologies is needed in order to ascertain a landscape language that will serve to improve ecological services amongst environmental preference.

Cary, J. W., & Williams, K. (2000). The value of native vegetation: urban and rural perspectives. Canberra: Land and Water Resources Research and Development Corporation, 2000.

Helfand, G. E., Sik Park, J., Nassauer, J. I., & Kosek, S. (2006). The economics of native plants in residential landscape designs. Landscape and Urban Planning, 78,229-240. doi:10.1016/j.landurbplan.2005.08.001.

Kaplan, R. (2007). Employees’ reactions to nearby nature at their workplace: The wild and the tame. Landscape and Urban Planning, 82,17-24. doi:10.1016/j.landurbplan.2007.01.012

Kendal, D., Williams, K. J., & Williams, N. S. (2012). Plant traits link people's plant preferences to the composition of their gardens. Landscape and Urban Planning, 105,34-42. doi:10.1016/j.landurbplan.2011.11.023.

Melbourne 2030: planning for sustainable growth. (2002). Melbourne: Dept. of Infrastructure, 2002.

Nassauer, J. I. (1993). Ecological Function and the Perception of Suburban Residential Landscapes. United States Department of Agriculture Forest Service General Technical Report Nc, (163), 55-60.

Nassauer, J.I. (1995). Messy ecosystems, orderly frames. Landscape Journal, 14 (2), 161-169.

Nassauer, J. (1988). The aesthetics of horticulture: neatness as a form of care. Hortscience (USA), 23(6), 973-977.

Nassauer, J. I., Wang, Z., & Dayrell, E. (2009). What will the neighbors think? Cultural norms and ecological design. Landscape and Urban Planning, 92,282-292. doi:10.1016/j.landurbplan.2009.05.010.

Ode, Å., Fry, G., Tveit, M. S., Messager, P., & Miller, D. (2009). Indicators of perceived naturalness as drivers of landscape preference. Journal of Environmental Management, 90, 375-383. doi:10.1016/j.jenvman.2007.10.013.

Peterson, M. N., Thurmond, B., Mchale, M., Rodriguez, S., Bondell, H. D., & Cook, M. (2012). Predicting native plant landscaping preferences in urban areas. Sustainable Cities and Society, 5(Special Issue on Third Global Conference on Renewable Energy and Energy Efficiency for Desert Region - GCREEDER 2011), 70-76. doi:10.1016/j.scs.2012.05.007.

Purcell, A. T., & Lamb, R. J. (1998). Preference and naturalness: An ecological approach. Landscape and Urban Planning, 42, 57-66. doi:10.1016/S0169-2046(98)00073-5.

Seto K. C., S. Dhakal, A. Bigio, H. Blanco, G. C. Delgado, D. Dewar, L. Huang, A. Inaba, A. Kansal, S. Lwasa, J. E. McMahon, D. B. Müller, J. Murakami, H. Nagendra, and A. Ramaswami. (2014): Human Settlements, Infrastructure and Spatial Planning. In: Climate Change 2014: Mitigation of Climate Change. Contribution of Working Group III to the Fifth Assessment Report of the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change [Edenhofer, O., R. Pichs-Madruga, Y. Sokona, E. Farahani, S. Kadner, K. Seyboth, A. Adler, I. Baum, S. Brunner, P. Eickemeier, B. Kriemann, J. Savolainen, S. Schlömer, C. von Stechow, T. Zwickel and J.C. Minx (eds.)]. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, United Kingdom and New York, NY, USA.

State Government of Victoria. (2014). Plan Melbourne (p. Chapter 5). Melbourne: State Government of Victoria.

Ulrich, R. S. (1986). Human responses to vegetation and landscapes. Landscape & Urban Planning, 13(1), 29-44.

Ulrich, R. S. (1979). Visual landscapes and psychological well‐being. Landscape Research, 4(1), 17-23. doi:10.1080/01426397908705892.

van den Berg, A. E., & van Winsum-Westra, M. (2010). Manicured, romantic, or wild? The relation between need for structure and preferences for garden styles. Urban Forestry & Urban Greening, 9,179-186. doi:10.1016/j.ufug.2010.01.006.

Zheng, B., Zhang, Y., & Chen, J. (2011). Preference to home landscape: wildness or neatness?. Landscape and Urban Planning, 99, 1-8. doi:10.1016/j.landurbplan.2010.08.006.

Maj-Maj/ Wiltja, Owa & Bolim Gar & social patterns in far north Australia & New Guinea

Whilst the majority of primary knowledge of both Aboriginal and Papuan architecture has been piecemealed together from the drawings and writings of early explorations from colonial expeditions prior to colonization, it hasn’t been until more recently when such dwellings have been reframed as vernacular in replacement of primitive. The present study argues that Aboriginal and Papuan shelter construction has predominantly evolved through a response to climate as well as availability and abundance of environmental resources, in turn affecting resultant social patterns and relationship with land amongst each culture.

Through methods of comparison and contrast, the following argument will discuss construction practice as a response to environment (climate and land) as well as social structures and finally, relationship with land, between the Maj-Maj/Wiltja dome structures of northeastern Aboriginal rainforest district of Australia and Owa (common house) and Bolim Gar (ceremonial hut) of the Ekari tribe of Kapauku, Western Highlands, New Guinea. Such structures have been chosen as representations of the selected areas due to the populous of information, as there is generally a paucity of research into vernacular architecture of Australasia. 

Architectural construction practice among vernacular and pre-colonial cultures such as the tribal groups of the rainforest district, northeast of Queensland, and the Ekari people of the Western Highlands of New Guinea, relates strongly to the surrounding environment, utilising available resources and protecting inhabitants from climatic extremes.[1]

The pre-colonial rainforest zone of northeast Australia located in the vicinity of modern day Cairns, stretching north to Cape York, comprises of 12 distinct clan groups[2] residing amongst altering ecosystems of coastal and open-woodland, however was covered predominantly with riverine-rainforest.[3] 

Whilst the majority of the continent adopted windbreaks as the principal shelter type[4] [5] (Fig. 1), the aboriginal clan groups residing in the rainforest zone stretching 325km along and near the coast[6] employed architecture unique and endemic to the area. Although windbreaks were occasionally utilised, the prevalent type of shelter were dome huts in order to protect inhabitants from inclement weather.[7] Prolonged rainfall during the wet season from December to March, where locals experienced a mean annual rainfall between 1200mm to 4000mm[8] meant that clans became less mobile and were more persuaded to adopt a sedentary or semi-sedentary lifestyle[9] [10], occupying more permanent shelters for months at a time[11].

Northern aboriginal clans followed a local calendar entailing five seasons including the cold southeast wet season, the dry transitional season, the first storms season, the wet season and the second transitional season.[12] Berndt (1974, 41) and Roös (2015, 17) both acknowledge the responsiveness of the aboriginal culture to adapt to the changing climate, adopting more temporary windbreaks during wind seasons, shaded shelters during dry seasons and the aforementioned dome structures during the remainder of the calendar year.

There are at least four types of Maj-Maj[13] (Fig 2: dome structures; also referred to as Wiltjas) recorded, ranging from elliptical to circular in shape[14] depending on the need and number of inhabitants. Dome structures reached up to 9m in diameter, often housing polygynous families of up to 30 members.[15]

The construction process of Maj-Maj shelters is intimately related to the longevity and permanency of occupancy. Locally sourced lawyer cane from Calamus palm[16] [17] covered a skeleton of sticks interwoven and tied to branches with split cane for rigidity to form the structural framework.[18] [19] Depending on availability and closeness of the campsite to resources[20], wild banana palm, fan palm and Melaleuca bark were also employed for thatching and cladding materials, overlapped to ensure warmth.[21] [22] [23] In peak times of storm, cladding was replaced with plaited grass thatching in order to further reinforce the structure. [24] Moreover, irrelevant to the season, dome huts were fashioned in order to withstand the weight of rain during the heaviest of seasons. Memmott (2007, 85) notes that heavy stones were also occasionally utilised in order to anchor the frame at the base of the dome structure during high winds. Design considerations also extended into the formation of small entrance openings that aided in warding off mosquitos during wet weather months. Rainforest dome structures were also uniquely higher than the rest of the continent, so as to facilitate ease of movement and standing, allowing the hut to also be utilised for diurnal gender activities during long periods of occupancy as a result of inclement weather.[25] [26] [27] Consequently, larger base camp (Fig. 3) and communal huts were constructed in order to support the weight of an adult in order to conduct maintenance to the roof thatching after a destructive storm.[28] [29] [30]  

The Ekari people, residing in Kapauku in the Western Highlands of New Guinea, are surrounded by tropical forest covering nearly 70% of the island[31]; New Guinea too sees excessive rainfall almost 260 days per annum on average.[32] New Guinea, much like the north of Australia in proximity to the equator, experiences warm temperatures during the daytime, however the Western Highlands encounter rapid night time temperature drops due to the greater elevation.[33] Dissimilar to the astute calculations of the aboriginal five-season calendar, inhabitants of New Guinea acknowledge just two seasons of 6-month periods, the clear sky and afternoons showers of October to March and the cloud and rain of April to September.[34]

Much like aborigine culture of the rainforest zone, inhabitants of the Western highlands of New Guinea require dwellings to shelter from constant rainfall for extended periods of time. Conversely, Kapauku Papuans build dwellings directly on the ground, unlike surrounding cultures of the Central and Southern highlands, where buildings are erected upon pilotis to ensure safety from flooding. Due to the mountainous region and typography of the area, such considerations aren’t factored into construction practice.

The Owa (Fig 5: common house) hut, unlike the Aboriginal Maj-Maj, is rectangular in build (approx. 7m x 5m) with a gabled roof and elevated flooring to shelter farmed animals underneath.[35] In order to build shelters large enough for an extended family as well as supporting the load of a densely thatched roof, a column is erected in the centre of the dwelling.[36] Referred to as a karap or bande in local tongue, this column is said to embody aged or deceased ancestors dousing traditional and spiritual significance on the hut.[37] [38] Whilst the plans and size of the hut may depend largely on the wealth of the family[39], the structure and aesthetic of the Owa remain unchanged between tribal domiciliary groups.

Bamboo poles were wedged into the ground, forming the structural framing[40] to support densely layered Pandanus leave, reed or kunai grass thatched roofing.[41] Similar to the Maj-Maj, the Ekari people utilised locally sourced Hoya vines for tying of the structural elements together.[42]

In addition to the excessive of roof thatching, warmth inside the Owa was created through maintaining the height of the shelter and by reinforcing the interior with cladding from conifer and softwood trees.[43] [44] Similar to the Aboriginal Maj-Maj, the Owa had several small openings, however, unlike the Australian example, the Ekari people thought such design intent could assist in quick escape if threatened by warfare from surrounding tribes.[45]

During the cloud and rain season, Ekari men would hunt in the surrounding area for game animals descending to land in order to forage on ripened berries of the Ficus tree.[46]  Much like the aborigine men, who, at the end of the wet season, would become more mobile and regularly disperse from base camp on fishing day trips, both the Ekari and Aborigine clans would experience a gender fluctuation at camp during hunting months.[47] [48]

Comparatively, the clan groups in both examples of northeastern Australia and Kapauku, New Guinea construct common shelter types dependent on the gathering of local resources for structural and cladding elements to ensure thermal performance as well as refuge from sustained periods of rainfall due to local climatic and environmental conditions, albeit with aesthetic variances due to functional differentiations.

Due to the permanency of structures built in both Aborigine and Ekari camps as a result of inclement weather conditions, social interactions on site were considerably communal and closely knit.[49] In the rainforest zone of north Australia, and the rest of the continent alike, kinship relationships are the foundation of social structure.[50]  Kin relationships not only stipulate interactions at camp, but also govern diurnal activity groups, sleeping arrangements, sharing policies and marriage arrangements.[51] [52] Furthermore, kinship avoidance relationships, for example between a man and his mother-in-law, also guide the spatial arrangement of shelter at camp. [53] Although campsites contained nearly 20-30 dome structures[54], shelters commonly sat adjacent to one another, creating intimacy amongst nuclear families. [55] Furthermore, Aboriginal clans across the Australian continent chose the location of campsites based on spiritual connectedness with the place of birth inherited through the fathers’ line, again illustrating ideals of “family.”[56]

Oliver (1997, 1075), Eckermann (1999, 3) and Memmott (2007, 84) outline three main domiciliary groups at aborigine campsites, the nuclear family shelter, single men’s shelter and marriageable girl’s shelter. The relation between nuclear families further determined the arrangement and spatial construction of huts, with plural marriages (polygyny) maintained through interconnected clustered domes, housing several wives and children[57]. Such domiciliary groups had a sizeable impact on the diurnal activities of gender groups as sleeping arrangements commonly separated women from men due to the presence of polygyny.[58] [59] [60] Additionally, movement around camp was gender restricted helping to divide activity zones.[61]

Diurnal activities of women generally included gathering of vegetable food and the making of plaited dilly bags and baskets from Panadanus fibre.[62] Conversely, men concentrated on making weapons and tools, as well as hunting during optimal seasons.[63] Besides this apparent gender split at campsite, no evidence of hierarchy between members of the tribe has been recorded, attested in the spatial arrangement of domiciliary groups. In saying this, elders of the tribe were respected above others, as they were believed to be the bearer of sacred histories and knowledge passed down by ancestors, guiding and educating the uninitiated on the preparation of sacred grounds, choosing a site based on the knowledge of weather and abundance of resources and furthermore, how to find underground water with ease.[64] [65] [66] Women and men of the tribe displayed their respect for this generation through supporting elders, as they grew weak and unable to hunt or participate in domiciliary activities. Furthermore, such generational tribe members’ shelters were located on site in the most shaded areas to allow more ideal temperatures in drier months.[67]

The Western mountainous highlands of New Guinea during pre-colonial times was one of the less populous places on the island.[68] The history of New Guinea is synonymous with warfare between neighbouring tribes, restricting travel to a close diameter surrounding camp, amplifying the effects of inclement weather on domestication even further.[69] As a result, and dissimilar to Aboriginal culture, Ekari people chose place of site based on defensibility from attack from surrounding tribes, as well as ease of making day trips for hunting.[70] Moreover, such self-made isolation created larger diversities between tribal groups (i.e. language), initiating a positive feedback loop that further intensified disputes between groups.[71]  Conversely, alliances were often made between differing tribes, and although marriage was preferable in the same clan, up to 13 different village clan members could be present at traditional gathering events in the ceremonial Bolim Gar shelters (Fig. 6).[72] Interestingly, research into comparable events in Aboriginal culture suggests rituals were performed largely outdoors rather than in exclusively erected ceremonial huts.[73]

Much like the aboriginal camps of the rainforest district of Northern Australia, Ekari people also divided amongst genders at camp, with men sleeping in common dormitories alongside other married or single men, whilst women separated into single shelters shared by children.[74] [75] Men’s houses centrally located on the highest point of the site facilitated in watching over the tribe, whereby the “big man” (an honour judged by the other men of the tribe based on his wealth, status and fighting ability) would sleep closest to the entryway.[76] Such shelters were also commonly utilised diurnally to discuss social elements, politics and ceremonial arrangements.[77] Whilst women’s’ Owas were built in close proximity to the male dwellings for security,[78] unlike aborigine tribes, the Ekari people did not only participate in a gender split, but also gender inequality. Ekari men, entrusted to house the important artifacts and relics of the tribe,[79] were also privileged to gender specific ceremonial huts (Haus Tambaran) for ritual purposes, excluding women from participation in ceremony and general decision making of the tribe.[80] Furthermore, except during ritualistic pig killings performed in the Bolim Gar ceremonial hut every 10-15 years to establish alliances with neighbouring tribes,[81] the Ekari people seldom interacted in communal dwellings with gender mixes besides sexual conduct.[82] 

Whilst the aborigine tribes of the rainforest district generally only utilised domiciliary domes during the night for sleeping, commonly spending the majority of time outdoors, Ekari tribes conversely utilised the Owa hut for diurnal activities.[83] Furthermore, the two cultures also differed in views of privacy, with aborigines actively living in the open eye of the community (except for excretory or sexual occasions), while Ekari members tended to be much more nonpublic in their actions.[84]

Whilst social patterns between the two example clan groups of Australia and New Guinea differ considerably, it is clearly evident that forced domesticated has aided in the formation of diurnal and domiciliary groups, and a result structure and hierarchy within camps.    

The word for ‘camp’ is used traditionally throughout Indigenous Australia interchangeably to express elements such as a hearth, country, home, an individual or nuclear family domestic living area or even a social space.  With such an analogy the idea of a rich interdependent relationship between land and shelter is introduced. By nature, aborigines are hunter-gatherers, relying on the land for sustenance, shelter and water.[85] [86] [87] The vocabulary of Yidiny, one of the common tongues of clans located amongst the rainforest region of North Australia, reveals a holistic and interconnected relationship with the land. Aborigines make no division between sea and land, whilst also referring to “country” as both occupancy of land and the place of the dreaming.[88] [89] As such, aboriginal tribes worshipped ancestors rather than “gods”, with dreamtime stories becoming the core of their belief system, and ancestors, the spiritual essence of all cultural secrets.[90] [91] Dreaming time refers to the creation period when earth, a living female, gave birth to all living things and life on earth.[92] Consequently, it is evident why aboriginal clans do not believe in ownership of land, building their sites close to areas of spiritual attachment to employ the regenerative qualities of a “womb” like shelter, calling on ancestors to deliver sacredness upon the tribe.[93] As a result, even though aboriginal tribes presented as nomadic dwellers, travel was somewhat restricted by territorial rules due to neighbouring tribes sacred sites.[94]

Reliability of resources, in particular nuts and fruits, meant that inland sedentary camps were able to host large scale gatherings, corroborees and ceremonies, housing travelling aborigines on long hunts.[95] [96] On this occasion, more temporary overnight structures were erected for travelling clan members.[97] Such events led to alliances and development of trade opportunities between inland and coastal tribes.[98] The combination of song, dance and shelter was said in this instance to enrich the campsite with ancestral presence and power.[99]

The Ekari people of the Western Highlands of New Guinea, much like the aborigines of northern Australia have an interconnected relationship with land and agriculture. Evidence of cultivation and crop production amongst New Guinea tribes is said to date back over 9000 years, farming predominantly taro and sweet potato in the Western Highlands.[100] [101] As a result, wild pigs were attracted to the production of agriculture, in particular sago[102], and soon the Ekari people seized the opportunity to develop pig husbandry.[103] Raising pigs as semi-domesticated, allowing the animals to stray free and forage within campgrounds, allowed for non-labour intensive farming, supplying tribes with an unwavering supply of protein during the calendar year.[104] As a result, shelters amongst the camp were spatially dispersed in order to herd pigs for grazing.[105] In Addition to the benefits of farming towards sustenance, pigs were also used for ritual, bridewealth payment, witchcraft and trade with neighbouring tribes.[106] Whilst Pospisil (1960, 188) states that pig husbandry was not used as a means to gain prestige or social status amongst the tribe, he also demonstrates that wealth was established on the success of pig breeding. Live pigs were traded amongst the Ekari clan and the Huli people of the Southern Highlands in exchange for weaponry and oil of the Campnosperma brevipetiolata (body decoration painting oils).[107] [108] Markedly, such trades would occur during pig killing ceremonies, in the ceremonial Bolim Gar with allied tribes, in order to secure prestige among the community and cement trade network relationships.[109]  

Domestication and sedentary lifestyle amongst villages of Aborigine rainforest clans and the Ekari people of Western Highlands New Guinea alike were principally shaped through the combination of abundance and reliability of local palatable vegetation as well as prolonged inclement weather. Whilst further isolation was created amongst the Ekari people due to threat of warfare, both tribes unknowingly created a positive feedback loop, whereby domiciliary diurnal activities increasingly surmounted domestication and the ability to survive sustained periods of settlement during undesirable weather. Locally sought materials helped aid warmth and protection during such events. In the case of the Kapauku Papuans, cultivation and agricultural practices help catalyse pig husbandry and as a result increased wealth and success amongst villages. Both the Aborigines and Papuans alike displayed complexed social systems of kinship and sib respectively, as well as common notions of polygyny.  Present research suggests that such results could have been created by prolonged domestication and the design layout of camp villages. As aforementioned, limitations to study included a paucity of primary sources due to the natural of chosen subject (pre-colonial). More research into settlement patterns of both Aborigine rainforest clans and Ekari people is needed to elucidate whether historical migration likewise impacted shelter type or social structure.   

Fig. 1: Aboriginal Windbreak shelter (left) and shade structure (right)

Fig. 2: Maj-Maj dome structure of far northeastern Australia

Fig. 3: Encampment of Aborigines at Rockingham Bay, Queensland

Fig. 4: Cross Section of village tribe in Western Highlands, New Guinea

Fig. 5: Owa house of Kapauku, New Guinea

Figure 6: Bolim Gar of Western Highlands, New Guinea

[1] Paul Oliver [ed.], Encyclopedia of vernacular architecture of the world. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), xxiii.

[2] Richard Cosgrove, “Origin and Development of Australian Aboriginal tropical rainforest culture: a reconsideration,” Antiquity 70, 270 (1996): 903.

[3] Paul Memmott, Gunyah Goondie + Wurley: the Aboriginal Architecture of Australia, (St Lucia: University of Queensland Press, 2007), 86.

[4] "Cultural issues in architectural design of Indigenous custodial facilities," Paul Memmott and Karl Eckermann, (The University of Melbourne Library, 1999, OAlster), 4.

[5] Herbert Basedow, The Australian Aboriginal (Adelaide: The Hassell Press, 1925), 101.

[6] Oliver, Paul, 1069.

[7] Ibid.

[8] Ibid., 1074.

[9] Tim O’Rourke, “Aboriginal Camps and Villages’ in Southeast Queensland,” Open 30, 2 (2013): 855.

[10] Basedow, Herbert, 103.

[11] O’Rourke, “Aboriginal Camps,” 855-850.

[12] "Positioning the Traditional Architecture of Aboriginal Australia in a World Theory of Architecture," Paul Memmott, (The University of Melbourne Library, 2005, OAIster), 23.

[13] Memmott, P., 93.

[14] Oliver, P., 1070.

[15] Ibid., 1075.

[16] Ibid.

[17] Catherine Laudine, Aboriginal Environmental Knowledge: Rational Reverence, (Burlington: Ashgate Publishing Company, 2009), 85.

[18] “Traditional Architecture in the Pacific,” Balwant Saini and Alison Moore, (The University of Queensland Library, 2007, School of Architecture Publications), 2.

[19] Memmott, P., 84.

[20] "Positioning the Traditional," Paul Memmott, 8.

[21] Ibid., 100.

[22] Laudine, Catherine, 85.

[23] Basedow, H., 104.

[24] Memmott, P., 85.

[25] Oliver, P., 1075.

[26] Memmott, P., 92.

[27] Laudine, C., 77.

[28] Oliver, P., 1075.

[29] "Positioning the Traditional," Paul Memmott, 8.

[30] Memmott, P., 92.

[31] Oliver, P., 1172.

[32] R. B. Milani, Traditional Architecture of Western Highlands Papua New Guinea, (Lae, Morobe Province: PNG University of Technology Printery, 1998), 3.

[33] Milani, R. B., 3.

[34] James F. Weiner [ed.], Mountain Papuans: Historical and comparative Perspectives from New Guinea Fringe Highland Societies. (USA: The University of Michigan Press, 1988), 12.

[35] Oliver, P., 1181.

[36] Ibid., 1180.

[37] Milani, R. B., 23.

[38] “The Importance of Space in Traditional Papua New Guinea Architecture,” R Manandhar, (The Papau New Guinea University of Technology, 1990, IAPS), 191.

[39] Oliver, P., 1180.

[40] Ibid.

[41] “Traditional Architecture,” Balwant Saini and Alison Moore, 2.

[42] Milani, R. B., 20.

[43] Ibid.

[44] “The Importance of Space,” R Manandhar, 190.

[45] Oliver, P., 1175.

[46] Weiner, James. F [ed.], 113.

[47] Memmott, P., 87.

[48] W.H. Edwards, [ed.]. Traditional Aboriginal Society. (South Yarra: MacMillan Education Australia, 1998), 66.

[49] "Positioning the Traditional," Paul Memmott, 4.

[50] Oliver, P., 1069.

[51] Edwards, W.H. [ed.], 216.

[52] Paul Memmott [ed.]. TAKE 2: Housing Design in Indigenous Australia, (Red Hill, ACT, The Royal Institute of Architects, 2003), 29.

[53] Edwards, W.H. [ed.], 216.

[54] Oliver, P., 1069.

[55] Memmott, P., 89.

[56] Edwards, W.H. [ed.], 65.

[57] "Positioning the Traditional," Paul Memmott, 4.

[58] Ibid., 3.

[59] "Cultural issues," Paul Memmott and Karl Eckermann, 3.

[60] Peter Turbet, The Aborigines of the Sydney District Before 1788, (Kenthurst: Australian Print Group, 1989), 16.

[61] Oliver, P., 1075.

[62] Ronald M Berndt and Catherine H Berndt. The First Australians. (Sydney: Ure Smith, 1974), 41.

[63] Memmott, P., 106.

[64] "Positioning the Traditional," Paul Memmott, 3.

[65] Memmott, P., 108.

[66] Berndt, Ronald. M. and Berndt, Catherine, H., 120.

[67] Memmott, P., 88.

[68] Milani, R. B., 2.

[69] Ibid., 5.

[70] Weiner, James. F [ed.], 10.

[71] “The Importance of Space,” R Manandhar, 190.

[72] Weiner, J. F [ed.], 130.

[73] Memmott, P., 84.

[74] Leopold Pospisil, “The Kapauku Papuans and their Kinship Organization,” Oceania 30, 3 (1960): 188.

[75] Oliver, P., 1175.

[76] Pospisil, “The Kapauku Papuans,” 189.

[77] “The Importance of Space,” R Manandhar, 190.

[78] Ibid., 191.

[79] Ibid., 190.

[80] “Traditional Architecture,” Balwant Saini and Alison Moore, 1.

[81] Ibid.

[82] “The Importance of Space,” R Manandhar, 190.

[83] "Cultural issues," Memmott and Eckermann, 3.

[84] Ibid., 9.

[85] Berndt, Ronald. M. and Berndt, Catherine, H., 42.

[86] "Positioning the Traditional," Paul Memmott, 1.

[87] Cosgrove, “Origin and Development,” 902.

[88] R.M.W. Dixon [ed.], Words of Our Country: Stories, Place Names and Vocabulary in Yidiny, The Aboriginal Language of the Cairns-Yarrabah Region, (St Lucia: University of Queensland Press, 1991), 149-150.

[89] Phillip. B. Roös, "Indigenous Knowledge and Climate Change: Settlement Patterns of the Past to Adaptation of the Future," International Journal Of Climate Change: Impacts & Responses 7, 1 (2015): 14.

[90] Roös, "Indigenous Knowledge," 15.

[91] Edwards, W.H. [ed.], 214.

[92] Bruce Pascoe, The Little Red Yellow Black Book. (Canberra: Aboriginal Studies Press, 2008), 8.

[93] "Positioning the Traditional," Paul Memmott, 9.

[94] Ibid., 3.

[95] Ibid.

[96] O’Rourke, “Aboriginal Camps,” 855.

[97] Memmott, P., 91.

[98] Berndt, Ronald. M. and Berndt, Catherine, H., 37.

[99] "Positioning the Traditional," Paul Memmott, 9.

[100] Milani, R. B., 5.

[101] Oliver, P., 1172.

[102] Weiner, J. F [ed.], 118.

[103] Pospisil, “The Kapauku Papuans,” 189.

[104] Ibid., 188.

[105] Milani, R. B., 8.

[106] Weiner, J. F [ed.], 123.

[107] Ibid., 2.

[108] Milani, R. B., 18.

[109] Ibid., 8.