FILIP MATTENS
The Aesthetics of Space: Modern Architecture and Photography
i. introduction: introduction: architecture architecture and space space
In his his essay essay “Mod “Modern ernist ist Pain Painti ting ng”, ”, Clem Clemen entt Greenberg Greenberg situated the “essence of Modernism” Modernism” in each art’s duty to establish effects exclusive to itself.1 By exhibiting what is unique and irreducible in each artistic discipline, each particular art, Greenberg maintained, would ensure the possess sessio ion n of its its prop proper er area area of comp compet eten ence ce.. One One may may feel suspicious about reading certain motives into historical developments, but in the case of architecture, a critical reflection on its principles led to a sudden shift from within. If one listens to the forerunners of architectural modernism, it appears pears that that they they sought sought to retriev retrieve e their their creati creative ve autonomy and to preserve their artistic uniqueness by claiming a new mission for themselves: in 1908, Hendrik Hendrik Berlage proclaimed proclaimed that “the aim of arar2 chitec chitectur ture e is the creati creation on of space space.” .” The AustrianCalifornian architect Rudolph Schindler declared in his 1912 Manifesto that the architect had “finally discovered the medium of his art: Space.”3 And in 1916, Theo Van Doesburg explained that spac space e “det “determ ermin ines es the the aest aesthe heti ticc valu value e of the the 4 building.” Architects and architectural theorists immediately appropriated this discovery. For example, Geoffrey Geoffrey Scott declared that architectur architecture e “has the monopoly of space,” while Erich Mendelsohn identified identified space as its essential essential nature: nature: “ArchiArchi5 tecture is space itself.” In order to preclude a possible relapse into an impure state of interdisciplinary confusion, Herman S ¨ S ¨ orgel argued that “architecture is not the art of space, volumes, and
Early modernist architects, however, did not have the conceptual tools necessary to capture what is unique and delightful in experiencing how the voids that surround us interlock. They could have availed themselves of the late nineteenthcentury aesthetic theories of Adolf Hildebrand, August Schmarsow, or Theodor Lipps, but they did not. It is remarkable that even the standard bearer of modernist architectural theory, Sigfried Giedio Giedion, n, who was a former former pupil of Heinri Heinrich ch W ¨ olfflin, did not mention these theorists in his classic Space, Time and Architecture. Even now, the discourse on spatial experience in architecture remains theoretically ungrounded. As a consequence, the suggestion that space itself would be of aesthetic interest still proves to be easy prey for opponents of the modern in contemporary architecture. Noneth Nonetheles elesss, the idea idea that that archit architect ecture ure is intrin intrin-sically related to spatiality has long since become commonplace. To give just one example, when Steven Holl describes his Helsinki Museum for Contemporary Art, saying that it provides a variety of spatial experiences, this sounds familiar— even self-evident. However, when these sorts of statements were advanced shortly before WWI, it was the first time in history that architects themselves explicitly appropriated space as the principle of their art. As architects aimed at securing their “peculiar province,” the idea arose that architectural spatiality should be accompanied by “a pleasure which is typically its own.”7 The ability to shape the voids around us is what uniquely characterizes architectural design, and “whatever
106 thus needs to be conceived as the correlate of an aesthetic experience. In the first sections of this article I show that the very idea of an aesthetic experience of space faces three difficulties. The first two difficulties arise from the nature of architectural space. While I can point to any object in space, I cannot do that with interior space itself. Nor does the representation of that space allow me to communicate that space toothers, as I would any objectin it. I call the first kind of showing “direct demonstration” and the latter “indirect representation.” Thus, the first difficulty is that architectural space does not allow direct demonstration (Section II). The second is that architectural space escapes indirect representation (Section III). A third difficulty is that space came to be associated with a negative image of modernist views (Section IV). Against the background of the third difficulty, I will juxtapose three observations concerning space, the modernist rationale, and architectural photography. The latter concerns the remarkable fact that, from the outset, architectural spaces were depicted as desolate places, mostly free of human traces. At first sight, architectural photography may seem to confirm the negative image of the modernist aesthetics of space. However, my analyses show that matters are more complex. Starting from the relation between perception and depiction, I will investigate the interplay between the apperception of living spaces and the way they have typically been depicted. The results of this analysis indicate that the effects proper to the manner of depiction may have sustained certain ideas and expectations about modern architecture (Section V). Finally, I will argue for a more positive interpretation of the relation between space and depiction, showing that the effects proper to architectural photography and the effects proper to photography as a medium reinforce each other in bringing out the compositional qualities of spatial design. This will be shown by means of a concrete example (Section VI).
ii. space and aesthetics
What can be meant by an aesthetic experience of architectural space? The notion itself suggests that
The Aesthetics of Architecture that the origin of this aesthetic pleasure lies in the spatial nature of the composition. The quality of such an architectural composition can be judged according to two different aspects: (a) its ability to enhance our sense of space and (b) the ingenuity of the way in which encapsulated voids interlock. Such compositions are most likely to be found where separate rooms, or spaces, connect or intersect with other spaces. When we divert our attention from the material elements of the building, such compositions enhance our sensory perception of their spatial qualities as we imaginatively grasp the interlocking voids themselves. This means that (b) generally implies (a). A building in which different spaces connect in complex ways is more likely to draw our attention to architectural spatiality than a building consisting of strictly separated rooms. However, this relation does not work in the opposite direction. In order to enhance our awareness of architectural space, a building does not have to be complex; a modest and subtle elaboration of boundaries and transitions can also result in a building that engenders a sense of space. Well-known examples of buildings in which a certain organizational complexity results in intriguing spatial compositions can be found in some of Adolf Loos’s houses or in the connection between the sacristy and main chapel of Le Corbusier’s La Tourette. A beautiful example of a building that does not seem to need such complexities in order to engender a subtle sense of space can be found in the Wittgenstein House. Clearly, if the perceptual experience of spaces can be a source of aesthetic delight or architectural interest, this might just as well be a matter of ingenious geometry, organic fluidity, or elegant sobriety as of playful complexity. A first major obstacle for the art-theoretical reflection on the aesthetic experience of space is the fact that space is not a deictic object; one cannot simply point at space in order to explain what is meant. While a building’s overall shape, decorations, color, and material can easily be identified—no less by those who do not find aesthetic enjoyment in them—the very idea that spatiality can be a source of aesthetic enjoyment risks remaining unrecognized by many, because voids are intangible, and space is, in a certain sense, invisible. Moreover, decoration, form, and use of materials enable us to place a building in the history of
Mattens The Aesthetics of Space than the experience of its space. From Schmarsow to Giedion and Zevi, several theorists have tried to rewrite the history of architecture in terms of different eras of space. Yet, this has only brought out the weakness of the concept of space as an arthistorical criterion. The claim that space would be the essence of architecture inspired opponents to point out that space does not explainmuchof what matters in architecture. A common strategy has been to argue that space certainly cannot explain everything that matters by posing rhetorical questions like whether, if the colonnades of a historical building were rebuilt in a different material, this would affect their aesthetic value. However, such questions actually focus on what is not spatial in architecture rather than on what is.9 In order to focus attention on the importance of the spatial aspects of a building, I propose another question: is it conceivable that architecturally fascinating compositions would remain largely unaffected as far as their spatial quality is concerned if they were rebuilt in a different material or covered with different colors? No doubt, a change in surface color or texture of a given interior space will influence how we feel about it. Yet, it is perfectly imaginable that a certain interior space is intriguing and remains fascinating no matter how drastically its colors and materials are modified. Imagine that the colors, materials, and textures of Gerrit Rietveld’s Schr ¨ oder House and Mies van der Rohe’s Barcelona Pavilion could be exchanged. Anyone who appreciates either building may find this experiment repulsive. Yet, obviously, each building’s interior would retain its own specific spatial character. Similarly, it would be a ridiculous undertaking, say, to rebuild a copy of the Barcelona Pavilion entirely in red plastic—but the point of this imaginary experiment is that it cannot be denied that something of its interior qualities would still be present and that our red plastic pavilion would still have certain spatial qualities that the vast majority of other buildings lack. It follows that the tangible aspects of a given building do not exhaust our aesthetic interest in architectural interiors. iii. perception and representation
The extent to which the qualities of a given ar-
107 thetic importance of its spatial nature. Therefore, the aesthetic value of a given design can be said to reside in its spatiality insofar as the real perceptual experience of its interior volumetric proportions is indispensable for the experience of its architectural qualities. Obviously, only relatively few buildings do fulfill this aesthetic criterion. Still, these few buildings do succeed in making us attentive to the void encapsulated in between the material architectural elements. In a word, they succeed in making us susceptible to spatiality. Such buildings thus realize an experience that only architecture (and monumental art) can evoke. Only our interest in experiencing spatiality can explain the point of the recent “preview” of Zaha Hadid’s art museum in Rome on completion of the construction and before any exhibits were installed. Only an interest in the immediate experience of a building’s spatiality can explain the opening up of empty exhibit spaces to the public in the middle of an open-air museum. There is, however, no need to contend that space is the only criterion upon which buildings should be judged; nor would it be desirable that all buildings should be designed in order to enhance our sense of space; neither is there a reason why a building should be designed entirely in order to fulfill this objective. Conversely, however, criticisms that refuse to consider spatiality because it is intangible or indefinite throw away the opportunity for a unique source of aesthetic delight. Nevertheless, no element in the aesthetics of architecture has ever provoked such fierce opposition. For example, a recent neofunctionalist treatise by Christoph Feldtkeller is entitled Architectural Space: A Fiction.10 It is so easy to deny its existence because architectural space not only escapes deictic reference but also indirect representation. If someone refuses to recognize its value, one cannot rely on other means to demonstrate it. Just as it is impossible to explain in words to someone born without sight what is pleasing about the juxtaposition of certain colors, words will never suffice to capture what can be exciting in contemplating or moving through a spatial composition. Moreover, insofar as the real experience of depth and the nexus of various perspectives are required for taking delight in a spatial composition, architectural space even escapes photo-
108 That real perception provides an experiential surplus over (a series of) photographs indicates the aesthetic relevance of spatiality, while, on the other hand, the fact that space cannot be properly represented in photography takes away the opportunity to show it indirectly. This is a major disadvantage, because the appreciation of twentiethcentury architecture already has to deal with a peculiar problem. Someone who does not even see the difference between a neoclassical fac¸ade and a frivolously decorated postmodern imitation might still like both. But someone who does not see the difference between contemporary architecture and mere commercial construction will probably dislike both. Because of the first obstacle, the possible value of space is easily overlooked, while this second difficulty implies that one cannot draw attention to it indirectly. Hence, it might be too much to hope for a shift of the observer’s attention from the physical partitions to the enveloped spaces. This even seems to shine through some early reflections by proponents of architectural spatiality. In “Space Architecture,” Schindler situates the development of modern architecture “in the minds of the artists who can grasp ‘space’ and ‘space forms’ as a new medium for human expression.”11 Even more striking is the description of Adolf Loos’s buildings by the composer Arnold Sch ¨ onberg: “Here I see . . . an uncompound, immediate, tridimensional conception, that maybe only someone who is equally gifted can fully grasp. Here things are thought, invented, composed, designed in space.”12 Spatial compositions are “abstract” because, in order to appreciate them, it is necessary to shift one’s attention from what the building consists of materially toward how it enfolds empty volumes. Generally, we do not perceive a building’s interior in this way, as we have not learned to look at it this way. According to Bruno Zevi, there has been a “lack of spatial education.”13 What defines architecture in contrast to the other arts, Zevi argues, is its inner space, the voids that we inhabit. Hence, the aesthetic value of a building should be determined by how its interior space affects a visitor. What Zevi holds responsible for our lack of spatial education is precisely “our methods of representation” (for example, floor plans, cross sections, photographs, and the like); these representations
The Aesthetics of Architecture On this account, it is not just a disadvantage that spatial qualities cannot be fully represented in pictures; rather, photography forms an obstacle to the appreciationof spatialitybecause it distracts our attention from what is unique to real perceptual experience. Nevertheless, insofar as buildings are spatial objects, photography has a unique relation to architectural design. Architectural photography is different from the photographic representation of most art in one key respect: whereas art books generally only wish to provide neutral reproductions, a spatial design does not allow for any such neutrality. While one could argue that a catalogue containing one (and only one) reproduction of all 182 paintings by Felix Nussbaum somehow captures his oeuvre, it does not even make sense in principle to say that Daniel Libeskind’s museum for Nussbaum’s work could be captured in a book with one or two or even 182 pictures. When a painter’s oeuvre is shown in a book, pictures of paintings are selected, ordered, juxtaposed, and given “name-plates.” In this respect, traditional art books are actually like museums. This is so because there is typically only oneproper way to photograph a painting; namely, in such a way that the process of depiction disappears as much as possible. To a certain extent, this was also the case for sculpture. Traditionally, art books portray sculptures in neutral light, individually, and frontally, or, if necessary, from different sides but according to the same principles. The majority of historical buildings require a similar treatment because they were meant to be contemplated from a particular point of view. The force of the symmetric conception of historical architecture is precisely that a reference to the frontal view is implicit in any possible perspective. When a symmetric fac¸ade is seen obliquely, it is still “apperceived” rightly. As is well known, the pioneers of modern architecture explicitly rejected the principle of a dominant perspective. Traditionally, the front side, facing the public domain, was designed around the building’s entrance. The fac¸ade was meant to be a building’s only aspect most of the public would ever see. Modernist architects, however, wanted to eliminate the traditional front side in favor of a free development of each individual building’s in-
Mattens The Aesthetics of Space its interior spaces, the more the building becomes a three-dimensionally articulated whole. When a building is designed as a spatial whole, even a photographer who merely wants to register such a building is forced to choose an angle. Most remarkably, it appears that many buildings seem to invite onespecific perspective. As a consequence, few buildings are “shown” from all sides, while many buildings are only “known” from one side. A well-known case in point is Frank Lloyd Wright’s Fallingwater , a house with no traditional distinction between fac¸ade and side walls, but a truly spatial composition offering surprising silhouettes from all possible angles. The vast majority of pictures in books or available online, however, show Fallingwater from almost exactly the same angle. Hence, everybody knows this house from below the cascade. But few people have seen the entrance. The case of Fallingwater illustrates that, today, a specific photographic view is often more widely known than the building itself in its totality. Despite the modernist attempt to get rid of the traditional one-sided design logic, the dissemination of pictures nearly all showing the same view tends to reinstate the earlier role of the fac¸ade. By reducing a complex spatial design to one well-known view of it, such pictures counteract the architect’s efforts to replace the traditional fac¸ade with a truly three-dimensional whole.
iv. portraying modernism
Apart from the problems deriving from the fact that space can neither be shown directly (Section II) nor represented indirectly (Section III), the idea that architectural space should be recognized as a possible source of delight contends with an even more obstinate difficulty, a difficulty of a theoretical naturerelatedto thefact that architectural spaces are always also spaces that people inhabit. Those who fail to appreciate modernist or contemporary architecture tend to lump together the most divergent problems as all originating in the invention of modern architecture. Without distinguishing the naive intentions of its pioneers from the practical failures of their inheritors, they uphold a caricature of the modernist spirit, which
109 monotony in urban planning to excessive use of concrete in commercial towers.16 In this way, the very idea of an aesthetics of space characteristic of modern architecture is absorbed in the general picture of an inhuman, or even antihuman, architectural ideology and then dismissed. A more nuanced approach to the elements involved, however, reveals a remarkable intrigue between modernism, space, and photography. At the intersection of the following three observations, a new question arises that will be addressed in the remaining sections. i. Architectural modernism was consciously de-
veloped as a programmatic movement. In its program, we find dwelling—the traditional inhabitation of space—to be an issue of high priority. This, however, is not trivial; it is symptomatic of an important development. Dwelling had become a part of the agenda of architects because it had lost its naturalness. There is no need to deny that several modernists’ visions and practices display a blatant misjudgment of the nature of dwelling. However, this does not imply that modernist architecture itself created the disintegration of the natural relation between building practices and traditional life. To the contrary, faced with this problematic situation, early twentieth-century designers set themselves the task of providing an architectural solution. Moreover, the origin of what has become the aesthetics of modernism lies in a reaction against those movements that did not truly address the issue of dwelling, most notably, the many “aestheticisms” that tried to cover up the problematic conditions of life with decorative profusion. Rudolf Schindler’s 1912 Manifesto is one of the clearest examples of the connection between the repudiation of stylistic artistry, the advancement of space as an architectural category, and a growing awareness of dwelling. Schindler, who calls structural functionalism a “hollow slogan,” developed a program that centers on the shifting conditions of dwelling. Much later, Schindler considered himself the first to have consciously abandoned stylistic sculptural architecture in order to develop space as a medium of art. But this has never kept him from a clear view of the proper role of architecture. On the contrary, for Schindler, space to reside in is what the architect
110 arrives only at formal harmonies, and these have little to do with living.”17 There are several passages in the writings of influential architects indicating that they believed— or at least hoped—that the new aesthetics of space and sobriety would contribute to a form of living adapted to a rapidly changing world. For example, in 1927, Gustav Platz wrote: “It is beyond doubt that abstract space without any decoration, and living in it with well-designed household goods represents the noblest, highest cultivated form of our time.”18 Likewise, S ¨ orgel discerned a “selfevident connection” between “space” and “the sober and fundamental demands of function inherent in the essence of building and living.”19
The Aesthetics of Architecture architect who prefers machines to people. From the drawings made by Waugh himself for Decline and Fall , it appears very likely that Otto Silenus represents Walter Gropius, the architect and former Bauhaus director who untiringly tried to substantiate spatial experience with a theoretical foundation. Waugh further underscores the antihuman disposition of the modernist architect, adding this unnecessary biographical detail: “His only other completed work was the d´ ecor for a cinema film of great length and complexity of plot—a complexity rendered the more inextricable by the producer’s austere elimination of all human characters.”21 iii. Against Waugh’s persiflage I would like to
ii. Against the widespread but idle criticism that
the ‘modernist style’ flows from a blindness to the true purpose of buildings, I have pointed out that the forerunners of contemporary architecture reacted against the decline of architecture’s integrity. The very origin of the modernist aesthetic lies, at least partly, in this reaction against those movements that had themselves neglected to respond to the question of dwelling. But, even though an awareness of the crisis of human dwelling lies at the origin of the modernist movement and its aesthetics, from the beginning, modernism was portrayed as misanthropic. Already by the 1920s, the British novelist Evelyn Waugh had begun to parody modernist architects. In his novel Decline and Fall , he introduces the character of a young man who graduated from the Bauhaus and prefers to be called Professor Otto Silenus. In a conversation with a journalist, Silenus says: The problem of architecture as I see it is the problem of all art—the elimination of the human element from the consideration of form. . . . All ill comes from man. . . . Man is never beautiful. . . . Why can’t they sit still and work? Do dynamos require staircases? Do monkeys require houses? What an immature, self-destructive, antiquated mischief is man! 20
Waugh’s message leaves little room for interpretation. The modernists and their aesthetics are hostile to whatever may be of concern to man. He accentuates the insufferability of the modernists’
set the following observation. The emergence of modern architecture coincided with the popularization of photography. For the first time in its history, architecture could be depicted by those who were not gifted aquarellists. Whereas previously the great majority of architectural drawings were presentations made before realization, in order to please the patron or client, architects could now record the result of their imagination at will so as to produce truthful depictions of unprecedented accuracy. However, there is something remarkable about the origin of architectural photography. Given the modernists’ fascination with the metropolis, the bustle of crowded streets and busy traffic, and given the typically modernist visions of the orchestration of the crowds, it is striking to see how desolate their interior spaces are when photographed. Schools, cinemas, houses, and the like are almost always shown as deserted, devoid of people, and often even completely cleared out, with no furniture or other signs of human occupation. This characterizes a great deal of architectural photography from its origin to the present day. A striking example can be found in photographs of L’Aubette, the famous dancehall designed by Theo Van Doesburg, one of the earliest authors to claim that “the visual consciousness of the architect must ground itself on space.”22 Many have described how the diagonal spatial composition of the walls and ceiling of L’Aubette reflects the dynamics of dancing people. However, it proves to be impossible to find a single picture of this interior space that shows people dancing. One could easily relate this third observation
Mattens The Aesthetics of Space the “elimination of all human characters” from a film (compare Section IV.ii) and add it to the list of incriminating evidence against the modernist spirit. However, the tension between modernist architecture’s own mission statement (compare [Section IV.i]) and its self-portrayal (compare Section IV.iii) shows that matters are more complex. Here, a question arises that touches upon the relation between photography and the aesthetic status of architectural space: what is the purpose of the ‘emptiness’ that so strongly characterizes architectural photography? Is it that (a) the emptiness of these depicted spaces merely serves the purpose of rendering a neutral photographical representation? Or is it that (b) this emptiness fulfills a specific role in that it influences—or has come to influence—our appreciation of the spatiality of architecture? Regarding the first alternative, there can be no doubt that when a building is emptied, it allows for an optimal photographic depiction of its interior and of the condition of its material components. But the second option sheds a different light on the putative subservience of photography to architecture. It suggests that photography developed a manner of portraying architecture that has come to determine the way we look at architectural space. In the following section, I outline how pictures influence the perception of objects in general and, subsequently, how depicting living spaces through photography can interfere with our perceptual grasp of spatiality in particular. v. space or emptiness
Despite the necessary correspondence of visual content, a photograph of an object is fundamentally different from a direct perceptual experience of the same object. A photograph leaves out the spatial horizon of possible views on the object’s surroundings as well as the temporal horizon of previous and subsequent experiences of the perceiver. By freezing a moment and framing a perspective, photography isolates objects, events, and situations from their original spatiotemporal context. Thus, by capturing something in a frame, a photograph offers an uncommon presentation of common things. Art photography can further exploit this and make one look differently at familiar things. To give just one example, the unusual
111 Even though I do not modify the object itself when I take a picture of it, my relation to the ob ject is mediated and modified in several ways. An art photograph of, say, a utensil does not merely “show” a utensil—at least, not in the same way as a picture in a store’s catalogue. Furthermore, the utensil I see in the picture is not physically connected to the picture’s immediate surroundings, and hence, I am disconnected from its purposefulness. Finally, the utensil depicted is, technically speaking, not identical with the depicted utensil, for I cannot ascribe all the properties of the utensil itself to the utensil as it is depicted and vice versa. A viewer must separate the visual properties of the picture itself from those of what the picture represents; this is a well-known necessary condition for seeing pictures. Moreover, I believe that the depiction interferes with the viewer’s relation to the real object in a less retrievable way. For example, looking at a picture of a tower, I take the tower’s shape to be true, but not the smaller size it has in the picture; thus, I correctly separate depicted properties from properties of depiction. And yet it is possible that, in the photograph, the tower ap pears much larger than it really is (or than I would judge it on the basis of another picture in which it has the same metrical size). It follows that the apparent size is neither a property of the material picture nor a property of the real object; it emerges in the way the depicted object is presented. These principles concerning the relation between objects, perception, and photography extend to the depiction of architecture. Architectural photography can present familiar buildings and living spaces in a specific way and, in doing so, influence our view of them. Given that so many buildings of interest are distantly located and closed to the public, photographs remain the only way to view a vast ma jority of them. As a consequence, the way we know buildings (especially from the inside) is often mediated by photography. Most likely, this determines what we expect to find when we occasionally visit these buildings. Our way of seeing is inevitably influenced by the way interior spaces are presented in books and journals. Let us therefore reformulate the question under consideration: how might the emptiness that so strongly characterizes architectural photography alter our apperception of the spatial qualities of buildings?
112 in which a great deal of our lives takes place. In everyday life, however, buildings remain to a large extent in the background. Buildings cannot sustain our practical occupations while simultaneously compelling our attention. Rather, the way we perceive interior spaces is fundamentally determined by our understanding of their purposes. We do not see rooms; we see dining rooms, living rooms, staircases, and so on. We see these rooms in their functional connection with the adjacent rooms, which, in turn, are also not just indeterminate spaces. This means that the way we perceive the concrete spatial nexus of the interior of a building is a function of how we spontaneously apperceive its practical organization. It is precisely due to our spontaneous apperception of a functional spatial nexus that it is sufficient for a film or television series to be recorded on sets with only three walls, with no direct connection between them. The purposive, functional setup and the behavior of its “inhabitants” perfectly cover up the fact that there is no real connection between the different rooms. The furnishing, the narrative, and the players enact the logic of a space that is not really there. Architectural photography seeks to do the opposite. It is strongly characterized by a tendency to remove inhabitants along with any object referring to their occupations from the image it presents. However, with the removal of functional references, the support for a spontaneous understanding of the spatial organization also disappears. When functionality and its significance vanish, so too does the purposive nexus that grounds our spontaneous spatial interpretations. As significance recedes, abstract spatial compositions come to the fore. Hence, it is plausible that the initial “idea” of architectural space has been further elaborated through the way in which interior spaces have typically been depicted in photographs. As they are usually seen in pictures, architectural interiors exert a certain attraction on us because they no longer appear as part of a functional, purposeful whole. This attraction might thus have its origin in the absence of significance. If so, then it is likely that this absence of significance is a mere by-product of emptiness, which, in turn, is deceptively expounded in terms of spatiality. When a place is emptied out and familiarity disappears, an atmosphere that intrigues
The Aesthetics of Architecture the modernist tenet that the proper aesthetic value of a building, as Van Doesburg put it, originates in its spatiality. The advent of illustrated magazines as a means to propagate tendencies in architecture coincides historically with architecture’s reorientation toward interior space. What manifests itself in the early self-portrayal of modern architecture is a craving for lucidity and sobriety. Pictures present rooms that are cleared out, as if architecture were essentially about empty spaces. The atmosphere in these pictures—which is appealing for different reasons—seems to reflect and sustain the theoretical discourse of architectural space. In any case, since designers, students, and critics get to know buildings through photographs, the aesthetics of architectural photography helped to establish a certain image about what architecture is or should be. According to this scenario, the mutual influence of photography and architectural space may be little more than a confusion of the aesthetics of sobriety with a plea for spatiality, a confusion due to a superficial affinity between emptiness and spatiality cultivated by pictures. To a certain extent, this must be the case. There are, however, good reasons to draw a different, more nuanced conclusion from this scenario, one which grants a more direct, positive role for architectural photography. According to Zevi, our lack of a sense for space is due to the common techniques of representation like floor plans, elevations, sections, and photographs. These are said to be “abstract” in that they present a view that no one actually experiences. The problem with adding photography to the list of such abstract representations of experiential space is not so much that it seems wrong to say that photographs would show a view that no one can actually see. To the contrary, what matters, I believe, is that photographs bring out what we fail to see in normal perceptual experience. Precisely here the artificial vision of a photograph can play a positive role. In the following I will explain how the interplay between different aspects of pictorial space can contribute to the development of a sense for architectural spatiality. vi. flatness, pictorial depth, and real spatiality
Mattens The Aesthetics of Space changes. Nevertheless, we perceive them throughout the entire day as, say, simply white walls. Actually, it is extremely difficult to tell what color one sees when one is already familiar with the tint in “neutral” daylight. Similarly, we perceive a tomatoas red while, actually, at any given moment, an enormous variety of shades can be discerned in it, many of which we might not even call red if we saw them separately on a sample sheet. Seen on a photograph, however, most people can readily determine the colors they see. When viewing an object in a picture, people can effortlessly discern different shades. When, in addition, the photograph is framed in such a way that it does not give away what kind of object is depicted, the variety of apparent shades can be determined even more accurately. Pictures change a perceiver’s visual relation to an object. As they are materialized in a picture, the qualities of a visual appearance literally intervene between the perceiver and the object depicted. Hence, it is much easier in photographs than in perceptual experience to focus on the way an object appears, rather than on what the object is known to be. In this way, seeing pictures can alter one’s way of looking. Similar effects occur with respect to the spatial qualities of what is depicted. Making a frame with one’s hands and then looking through it helps one to see a real scene as if it were a picture. This is a time-honored technique for drawing and painting from nature, for it enables one to focus on objects’ profiles. This is the case because “framing” seems to flatten the scene. As the frame narrows the scene, and more of the context is cut out, visual depth and relief decrease. As a result, the profiles of objects at different distances appear as juxtaposed patches of color, and their shapes and mutual proportions can more easily be transposed to a flat canvas. Instead of framing a real scene with one’s hands, a far easier method is to draw from a photograph of the scene. It is precisely this effect of pictorial representation that helps us to see an architectural interior as a composition. As it frames and literally flattens the scene, a photograph turns a perspective on an architectural interior into a composition, which, paradoxically, brings out the spatial qualities of the design. In leaving out the functional context as well, much architectural photography reveals a formal
113 more spatiality is brought into relief. This effect can easily be tested by turning pictures of architectural spaces upside down: as the basis for a normal apperception is lacking, one looks spontaneously into the depth of the depicted spatial environment. The spatial nexus becomes visible as a whole that also extends in the direction of view. This phenomenon turns pictorial depth into a constitutive moment of depicting architectural space. Pictorial framing—literally—cuts out the outer context, while the reduction of significance has the same effect from within the frame. The cutting out of significant context, which is effectuated by framing and reinforced by the “emptiness” that so strongly characterizes architectural photography, brings out architectural spatiality as a quality on its own. How the physical partitions encapsulate the void becomes manifest, showing the interlocking volumes as a spatial composition, the full perception of which would also involve the real experience of depth. How emptiness and pictorial space reinforce each other can easily be demonstrated where reframing further reduces significance. For example, in Architecture and Modernity, a black-and-white picture of the staircase from the cloakroom to the central hall in Loos’s Moller House is reprinted.23 This picture hardly provides any support for an apperception of its functional organization. Apart from three tread boards and a door’s hinges in the lower left corner of the picture, there is no clue as to the normal orientation and function of the depicted interior space. The picture palpably illustrates the tendency in architectural photography that I pointed out; the design beautifully exemplifies the idea of a spatial composition. It is hard to tell whether Loos anticipated this visual effect, but as it is captured in this picture, this image leads the eye into the depth depicted and manifests the whole as a complex spatial nexus of interlocking rooms. Now, opposite the title page of the same book, there is an inset showing a smaller fragment of the same picture; the smaller frame eliminates the last significant elements from the image (namely the tread boards and hinges). As there is not a single clue for orientation and apprehension left within this frame, this picture perfectly demonstrates the suggested effect of photography on spatial vision. In fact, this spatial design, or,
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The Aesthetics of Architecture
be due to the delight involved in looking into the ingenious composition of spaces. At the beginning of this article, I pointed out that photography cannot fully capture the unique qualities of spatial architecture. Rather, photographs can become an obstacle to recognizing the aesthetic importance of a given design’s spatial nature. Nevertheless, I argued, the way interior spaces have typically been presented through photography indicates that there is a peculiar relation between photography and the aesthetics of space. My analysis of the normal apperception of spatiality explains the appeal proceeding from architectural photography; however, it follows that this appeal does not originate in the spatial qualities themselves, but in the absence of what grounds our usual apperception of living spaces. In the final section, I have argued for a more direct and positive contribution of photography to the aesthetics of space. My analysis of the interplay between pictorial flatness and real space showed that photographs and the way spaces are typically presented in them can have a similar and mutually sustaining effect in making us see the compositional qualities of architectural design. The suspension of sound and movement, the removal of orientation, the reduction of full-blown experience to a merely static, two-dimensional image— paradoxically—increases our sensitivity to space. This appears to be a fortunate side effect of the representation of architecture in photography.24 FILIP MATTENS
Institute of Philosophy University of Leuven B-3000 Leuven, Belgium internet:
[email protected]
1. Clement Greenberg, Collected Essays and Criticism 4. Modernism with a Vengeance, 1957–1969, ed. John O’Brian (University of Chicago Press, 1995), p. 86. 2. Hendrik Berlage, Grundlagen und Entwicklung der Architektur (Berlin: Bard, 1908), p. 46.
3. David Gebhard, Rudolph Schindler (New York: Viking, 1971), p. 191. 4. Theo Van Doesburg, Drie Voordrachten over de Nieuwe Beeldende Kunst (Amsterdam: Maatschappij voor goede en goedkope lectuur, 1919), p. 46 (my translation). 5. See Geoffrey Scott, The Architecture of Humanism. A Study in the History of Taste (Gloucester, UK: Smith, 1965), p. 168; Erich Mendelsohn, Structures and Sketches (London: Ernst Benn, 1924), p. 3. uhrung in die Architektur6. Herman S ¨ orgel, Einf ¨ ¨ Asthetik (M ¨ unchen: Piloty und Loehle, 1918, repr. 1921), p. 184 (my translation). 7. Scott, The Architecture of Humanism , p. 172. 8. Scott, The Architecture of Humanism , p. 172. 9. The example is taken from Roger Scruton’s argument against the idea of architectural space. See Roger Scruton, The Aesthetics of Architecture (London: Methuen, 1979), p. 44. See also Bruno Zevi, Apprendre a` voir l’Architecture ´ (Paris: Editions de Minuit, 1959), p. 25. 10. Christoph Feldtkeller, Der Architektonische Raum: eine Fiktion. Ann¨ aherungen an eine funktionale Betrachtung
(Braunschweig: Vieweg, 1989). 11. Rudolph Schindler, “Space Architecture,” Dune Forum (February, 1934): 44–46. ¨ Adolf Loos (Wien:L ¨ 12. Burkhard Rukschcio, Fur ocker, 1985), pp. 60–61 (my translation). 13. Bruno Zevi, Apprendre a` voir l’Architecture (Paris: ´ Editions de Minuit, 1959), p. 9. 14. Zevi, Apprendre a` voir l’Architecture , p. 9. 15. See, for example, the design principles noted down by Van Doesburg between 1916 and 1923 in Theo Van Doesburg, Naar een Beeldende Architectuur, Een architectonisch onderzoek naar De Stijl (Nijmegen: SUN, 1983), pp. 91–98. 16. See also the critical analysis of Venturi’s argument from diversity in David Goldblatt, “The Frequency of Architectural Acts: Diversity and Quantity in Architecture,” The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 46 (1987): 61–66. 17. As quoted in Esther McCoy, Five Californian Architects (New York: Praeger, 1975), pp. 173–175. 18. Gustav Platz, DieBaukunst derneuestenZeit (Berlin: Mann, 2000), p. 80. ¨ uhrung in die Architektur- Asthetik 19. S ¨ orgel, Einf ¨ , p. 164. 20. Evelyn Waugh, Decline and Fall (London: Chapman and Hall, 1962), p. 141. 21. Waugh, Decline and Fall , p. 144. 22. Van Doesburg, Drie Voordrachten over de Nieuwe Beeldende Kunst , p. 45 (my translation). 23. Hilde Heynen, Architecture and Modernity: A Critique (MIT Press, 1999), p. 87. 24. I thank the editors and an anonymous referee for their helpful comments.
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