Empty Shells - The Life of Dwellings
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Transcript of Empty Shells - The Life of Dwellings
Euan Gray
Thesis:
Empty Shells: the life of dwellings
March 2008
“I can see my lifetime piling up reaching from my bedroom to the stars, I can see the house where I was born when I was growing up”
David Byrne, Talking Heads
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empty shells: the life of dwellings
The title ‘Empty Shells: the life of dwellings’ is a working one. Previous titles
considered include “Fullness/Emptiness”, “Forms within the void”, “Skin and Bones
House” and “Templates”. These previous titles are all included here as sub-headings under
the broader theme “The Life of Dwellings”. Likewise, I almost see this title becoming a
sub-heading itself as it unfolds and reveals its own footing or foundations.
This revealing of foundations, or examination of a things’ roots perhaps denotes
a belief that to understand one must examine not only the present object or state, but
one must also consider from where it has arrived. Everything must exist in context. This
theme is recurring throughout in several aspects of this work. As a title, for now, this one
remains.
It would be beneficial at this early point to explain my interests in creating this
work - my relationship to architecture in brief perhaps. This is not to say these are my only
interests in the field, but to perhaps state my current interests reflected in this writing. For
now, I am not interested in ideas of style, or in creating a critique regarding the works of
one particular architect, or movement of architects. I am neither interested in the procure-
ment nor realistic practices of modern architecture, nor the politics. For this exercise, I am
interested solely in generics, simplicity and fundamentals - the undertones seen in facets
of architecture, regardless of the implementing individual, yet entirely influenced by the
collaboration of collective thought. Essentially, I am interested in the architectural ideas of
the ‘human condition’ or collective being.
“Now my aim is clear: I must show that the house is one of the greatest powers of inte-
gration for the thoughts, memories and dreams of mankind.” - Gaston Bachelard, The
Poetics of Space Ref 01
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If art is the manifestation of our need to express - our recollections that ‘we
feel’ expressed in the ether - it exists as a solidification of abstract ideas in an essentially
concrete or tangible way. Architecture also does this, sometimes deliberately, often by
accident, but it also serves us with an additional functionality not required of works of art.
While art is defined only by the need to express, architecture must also answer to the hu-
man needs - for shelter, for containment, as a ‘modification’ of the natural environment to
suit our bodily needs and desires. In doing so, it is and becomes a marker and map of our
mental processes, bodily skills and cultural aspirations.
As with any rule or generic statement, there will be exceptions. Some art en-
closes or shelters, some architecture does not. At this point one becomes acutely aware of
the dangers of terminology and categorising, but one also begins to see the manifestation
of the idea of ‘truths’. This is specifically why I have chosen to refer not to architecture
or ‘houses’, but to dwelling. To me the idea of dwelling is a more specific notion than the
term ‘architecture’, as attached to it are certain truths. My reasoning behind this statement
comes from the notion that ‘dwelling’ is not born primarily from intellect, but comes from
the functions (and in a sense vulnerabilities) of the human body. This is examined more
closely in the section ‘Duty of the dwelling’.
At this point, one should consider the importance of the word ‘primarily’, as
there is a duality in this relationship between functions of the body and functions of the
mind. Certainly, dwelling comes as an answer to the basic, primal and bodily needs, but
being ‘an answer’ it also inseparably becomes a function of the mind. It is within these
expressions of body and mind that we define ourselves as ‘being human’, and never is this
more reflected than in the places that we ‘dwell’. The house is a true extension and reflec-
tion of our ‘human condition’.
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1: Fullness/Emptiness
Absent Dwelling
2: Duty of the dwelling
Design for shelter
3: Life of the dwelling
4: Empty Shells
Appendices:
1. Sketches for a bothy
2. Castle at Loch an Eilean - Hearths, chambers, traces.
3. Furniture, template & method
sections
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Fullness/emptiness
Form and void, object and meaning
By suggesting everything that is not there, a space is left, not empty space
but full. Objects are de-emphasised, their fabric dissolves into nothingness but the
shape and meaning remain. In a way, it is a form of true anonymity, the lack of spe-
cifics, a space where objects should be or once stood. In anonymity, we are left to find
only generics and ideals - non specific motions that represent not one table, one chair
but all tables, true forms left inhabited by imagination and meaning more than mate-
rial truths and tectonic forms.
The ideal that one can describe something by describing everything it is not is
not new, it has been grasped by philosophers and artisans alike for centuries. Early theo-
logians suggested ‘god’ could perhaps only be described by stating everything it was not,
an attempt to describe the indescribable by an eliminatory process. Such a theory might
seem awkward - that surely a process of describing infinite non-entity is as problematic
as describing the indescribable - but in it we might also find some interesting ideas. This
theme is central to Arthur C Clarkes’ short story ‘Nine billion names of God’. ref 02
Applying a similar thought process to our perception of objects - those which
are tangible to the senses - has been a central theme to artist Rachael Whitereads’ work.
Her castings in rubber, resin and concrete take everyday objects as positive forms, from
which she casts ‘abstract’ spatial forms. What is immediately engaging about Whitereads’
art is the intricate forms suddenly exposed by this process of positive becoming negative,
void becoming solid, surface details reversed, indentations becoming extrusions. In this
sense, the work immediately challenges the viewer’s preconceptions of the positive form
of the subject - seeing these seemingly mundane everyday items in a negative form has an
immediate impact on one’s perception and spatial awareness. However, there is another di-
Plate 02 & 03 Orange bath, Rachael Whiteread. Castings of a bath in orange tint resin.
Plate 01 Untitled (ten tables), Rachael Whiteread.
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mension of understanding in the work - this focusing on a more abstract theme of specific
objects and their implied ‘platonic’ meaning.
When one is faced with the imprint of a bath in a solid form - a bath-like ‘gap’
essentially, one sees two things. One sees ‘a bath’ by seeing the a lack of a bath, a space
where a bath should be. With the lack of a specific object to inform us of this ‘baths’
nature, we are left to fill the space with our imagination, into it filling our own memories,
visions, ideals of what a bath might be.
In his book ‘Concept of dwelling’ Shultz makes a similar point analysing Boccio-
ni’s sculpture ‘Development of a bottle in space’. The sculpture itself shows a bottle-like
form rising from its base in a fragmented state, a collection of facets rather than a com-
plete and typical cylindrical object, yet still maintains a recognisable identity: the bottle.
Shultz suggests this is a musing on the idea of object identity and ’meaning’ whereby the
sculpture portrays both the physical nature of a bottle - suggested in its slender, loosely
cylindrical form - but also the notion that the bottle is a man-made ‘gathering of ideas’ or
piece of work. Represented by the various facets that form a complete object both ‘mean-
ing’ and ‘thingness’ are explained, and as such the complete idea of the bottle is realised.
Quoting Shultz:
“In making a thing such as a jug, man intentionally gathers a world, or in Heideggers’s
words, “sets a world into work.” The twofold nature of dwelling thus appears: first the
faculty of understanding the given things (natural or man-made), and second the mak-
ing of works which keep and “explain” what has been understood. Ref 03
Relating the work of Rachael Whiteread to this point Norberg-Shultz makes, we
see themes of human understanding arising. Perhaps in Whiteread’s work this is more akin
to the idea of ‘remembering’ or recalling;- although regardless of terminology both denote
plate 04: Development of a bottle in space, Umberto Boccioni
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methods of understanding. By suggesting objects in this absent manner, Whiteread is forc-
ing the viewer away from seeing a single, specific object, but instead to seeing the generic
object - the object of memory. In this, we might see that much of Whiteread’s work is
preoccupied with ‘memory’ - this evoking of the remembered, the traces, the now unseen.
‘House’ was one of Whitereads’ largest works - a project in which she cast the
interior form of a south London tenement house in concrete before the exterior ‘shell’ was
demolished. The piece was deemed both aesthetically and conceptually unpopular - its
brooding, grey concrete mass raised difficult issues of dereliction, social decline, poverty
and abandonment, perhaps all contributing to the uneasiness of the local community. The
confrontational, avant-garde nature of ‘House’ ensured its ‘second’ demolition in 1994,
having stood for one year. Interestingly, the piece won Whiteread both the Turner prize
for best British Artist, and the K-foundation prize for worst British artist in the same year,
echoing the decidedly mixed public response. Conceptually, however, the piece is still
significant - commenting on the work, Whiteread states:
“The space between the floorboards is like the intestines of a house, containing the
vestiges of those that have lived there. I’m interested in traces. Also there’s always a
bodily relationship between the viewer and the work.... the work is to do with absence
not presence.” Ref 04
Architecturally, what might be seen as engaging in regard to Whiteread’s artworks is the
role of ‘the architecture’ in relation to the idea of ‘the life contained’. In absence, we see
the architecture - the concrete, the tangible - as a initiation or a device, not as a result-
ing product. The walls do not create the room, but simply a space in which a room might
happen. The real idea of ‘the room’, or the home, happens within, almost by chance, and it
is to this place we become most attached. A house does not necessarily equal a home. On
evaluating the wall in his apartment, Georges Perec writes:
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“I put a picture up on a wall. Then I forget there is a wall... it is nothing more than the
support for the picture.” Ref 05
In creating dwelling, architecture is first and foremost responding to the most
primal of needs - for warmth, shelter and protection. This represents the ‘thingness’ of the
dwelling, its ’physical truth’ in other words. In response to needs, it creates spaces, forms,
tectonic arrangements that bound and define voids. Within this void, the idea of the room
is formed - ‘the home’ is eventually created. Without a bed, a bedroom loses meaning,
without dwellers, a house is not a home. Architecture must allow for these human inter-
ventions to happen - it must eventually loosen its control and allow the house to become
the dwelling. Equally, however, it must realise it is the basis upon which these axioms of
living are formed - if the architecture itself is fundamentally flawed, the effect upon the
lives of the inhabitant will be negative.
What might be seen here is the development of architecture from an initial act of
response, to the creation of an entity of its own being - the development of enclosure into
the animated dwelling or home. Essentially, this process of inanimate becoming animate
is the manifesting act of ‘house becoming home’, and perhaps the best way to see this
relationship is to see it deconstructed from fullness (completeness) through its component
state, towards emptiness, or the state which precedes being. (this state ‘emptiness’ might
also be thought of as the ideal stage - where the house exists in the human mind but not
yet the world). As in Whiteread’s work, we are looking for the inner ‘truth’ or purpose in
the object - in this case the idea of the dwelling.
Whiteread does not interest herself with the fabric of the objects or buildings
she casts, only the surface traces of it upon the edges of the castings. She does not aim or
Plate 06 House, Rachael Whiteread. Casting of a South London terraced house in concrete.
Plate 05 Ghost, Rachael Whiteread. Casting of a front roon in plaster
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intend to examine the construction of its’ materials, the way in which it has been joined
together or the hardness of its fabric. Instead, these are removed entirely from the work,
discarded, leaving only the trace of the object upon the world - of the pure, ideal object.
As such, her intentions are different to that of the architect - to whom those matters of tec-
tonics and materials are vital in implementing ‘the idea’ into being in the world. However,
the while the architect cannot dismiss the idea of fabric, or the act of building, nor can
they dismiss the importance of understanding the inner purpose behind that which they do.
The architect must first identify and understand the problem to which they respond.
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Belsay hall & Ruthven barracks
Photo: Belsay hall, Northumberland. With the floors removed, the traces of rooms still hang hauntingly from its walls. The idea of ‘the contained life’ remains in the relief of its walls. One is able to see the rooms still hanging in thin air, stacked like transparent cubes.
Photo: Ruthven Barracks, nr Aviemore.
Absent dwelling
a house without form
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Project 1; Fullness/emptiness - Absent dwelling
In response to this idea of the duality of dwelling, of metaphorical and physical
meanings, I began creating a twofold project. The initial part of the project is the ‘absent’
house - one which is devoid of all materiality, a response to the metaphorical ’parts’ of a
home. It exists only as the isolated and implied ‘meaning’ of rooms, from which is first
drawn a hierarchy or order, and after which a physical ‘house’ might appear. These ‘mean-
ings’ of rooms become the ‘pieces of dwellings’ as are later discussed. The basis is the
idea that the life contained creates the dwelling, around which the architecture bounds.
Identifying the ‘pieces’ of dwelling in context.
Instead of creating a building through the pulling and extrusion of walls and
solids to create voids into which rooms are placed, I wished to create it essentially back-
wards, in so much as I wish to first create the rooms then fill the gaps in between these
with the solid parts of the house. Two rooms not quite touching creates a wall, two rooms
touching creates an doorway.
Sketched opposite, the ‘pieces’ of living - that is, the deemed required human
functions within a home, are labelled opposite. Sit, See, Rest (retreat), Eat, Wash, Store.
This is not an extensive list by any means, but simply a starting point from which to base
study. I intend to return to each ‘piece’ throughout this study in greater detail, and examine
not only the physical actions described here, but also the associated actions of the mind
attached to each (i.e. ‘sitting’ can almost certainly be related to ‘day-dreaming’ or ‘social-
izing’ for instance). This is essentially an initial exercise for a continuing project.
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Each living ‘piece’ is cast, stacked and arranged, the gaps are filled and the house appears. Focusing on that which is void or negative creates positive forms.
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2: Duty of the dwelling
Dwelling is not born primarily from intellect, but comes from the functions
(and in a sense vulnerabilities) of the human body. Dwelling is primarily concerned
with the modification of the natural environment to suit the needs of the human be-
ing, to adapt and control the extremities of temperature, moisture, light and wind.
Secondarily, it serves the inhabitants with ‘places’ in which our human activities can
take place.
In the last section, the project titled ‘Absent Dwelling’, a number of basic human
activities were identified. At the most basic level, these could be said to be Rest, Retreat,
Eat, Wash, Store and Interact, each of which essentially titles a more diverse set of activi-
ties that generally form the basis of day-to-day human activities - and it could be stated
that the main duty of the dwelling to provide these activities with places in which to hap-
pen, or ‘sites of living’ as Pallasmaa states Ref 10. However, before one begins to apply
these anthropological or sociological ideals to the act of ‘dwelling’, there is a primary duty
of the house to be considered - namely, the protection of the inhabitant from the environ-
ment.
If we look at the human from a purely biological point of view, the naked ho-
mosapien is an essentially fragile, albeit adaptable organism. Our blood sits at an almost
exact 37 degrees constant, yet we inhabit a huge range of geographical temperatures, from
-50C to +50C, and an equally diverse range of humidity. Our ability to adapt to such rang-
es is a testament to our bodies’ ability to adapt, both through biological mechanisms and
through our problem solving abilities - effectively through our capacity to utilise tools.
Here ‘tools’ refers to a broader sense of the word than simply the idea of the hand tool, but
instead refers to a device utilized to solve a specific problem. In this case the tool is ‘the
dwelling’, and the problem is set out by the differences between the natural environment
and our ‘comfort environment’. (In ‘Towards a New Architecture’ Corbusier famously
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referred to the modern house as a ‘machine for living’) Ref 06.
Stating the obvious, the type of dwelling (tool) used in response varies globally
as much as the ranges of the environment itself - from the baked earth huts of Africa,
through towering urban apartment blocks to the igloos in the most northerly stretches of
the globe, the diversity is staggering. Each location presents its own set of environmental
factors, materials, technological possibilities and social influences, and the resulting diver-
sity is truly beautiful. At this point, it is perhaps important to root these observations back
to something generic, rather than to physical attributes, as such a study of physical diver-
sity becomes a somewhat meaningless exercise. Instead, it is the similarities between each
type of dwelling - the truths or ideal found in each, regardless of form that are the focus
of this study. The question to be asked is one of unity - what factors define ‘the dwelling’,
regardless of climate, topography and culture.
Here, we return to a point already made - the idea of the house as protector, the
modifier of environments, the housing of the human condition. Globally, this is always
true, it is the very root of the dwelling. As said, the typology, form and ‘functions’ vary
incredibly, but the ideal is almost universally the same - the dwelling is an extension of
the human - a protector for the body and a reflection of the mind and life within. In many
ways the house can be seen as the acting ‘shell’ of the human being, the exoskeleton that
houses the vulnerable inner being. In this way the home is very much the protector - we
take refuge, seek privacy in our homes, turned away from the eyes of the earth. There is
a fundamental, primal need within humans for some form of seclusion, a need to not be
seen, to be enclosed within something else.
This might or might not have a base in the idea and protection of the womb, or
equally in the need to close our eyes and shut out the world. Whatever the basis, the reality
is often similar, manifesting itself in the enclosing nature of architecture and the dwelling
mentioned earlier. Houses such as Farnsworth House by Mies van der Rohe directly chal-
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lenge this, offering little or no seclusion behind vast expanses of glass, instead exhibiting
the human activities within. Such an approach might be interesting, technologically or
experimentally, but one wonders if this unique idea of ‘dwelling’ (where dwelling becomes
an almost visual exhibition to the exterior world) really address one of the fundamental
needs of the human being. As has been said in the past, can one imagine having flu in
Farnsworth house? (source: lecture, dundee uni, 2002). It is known that Edith Farnsworth
thought Van der Rohe’s creation was decidedly uncomfortable to inhabit, and eventually
sued the architect for both economic reasons and for not providing a suitable ‘home’. Ref
07
Such exposure in dwelling manifests itself now and then across the globe, in
unique, severe glass houses - such is the nature of human diversity - but these are inevi-
tably short-lived, yet interesting experimentations by architects, usually for showcase
purposes foremost and as ‘dwellings’ second. It might be interesting to note how many
of these ‘glass houses’ were designed and inhabited by the architect in the long term, the
answer is probably very few.
My dismissal of these ‘houses’ here is personal, simply for the reason that the
ideal of the glass house invariably misses the point of dwelling. One can appreciate the
interest in reversing the role of ‘the retreat’ - challenging the perceptions of this aspect
of dwelling through the nature of opposition - but the results simply seem too stark, too
conceptual, too inhospitable to really think of these buildings as ‘dwellings’. Architectural
experiments certainly, and often beautifully executed experiments, but as dwellings, they
might be less appropriate. One might equally challenge our perceptions of comfort by not
including a roof, the question being is the result quite what we would call ‘a dwelling’?
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Plate 07 Mies Van der Rohe - Farnsworth House. While offering little in the way of seclu-
sion to the dweller, Farnsworth House is still an undeniably fascinating piece of archi-
tecture, both in conception and execution. It is notably one of the earliest buildings to
group the functional ‘pieces’ of the home into a central unit -something also explored by
architects such as Shigeru Ban, as is explored further towards the end of this thesis.
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If the idea of the house as a retreat is occasionally challenged by architects, the
other functions are challenged less so, although they may or may not be included within
the dwelling for other reasons, be it social or economic. The inclusion of washing facili-
ties, or cooking facilities (those functions we might deem as given in an affluent western
context) are not necessarily fundamental to the definition of a home - economic reasons
might not allow such luxuries - yet this does not categorically stop the building being ‘a
dwelling’.
Cooking for instance - in more basic houses, especially those in warmer regions -
will often be carried out outside the family dwelling in the public areas. This might reflect
the particular societies attitude towards cooking, which might be one of great sociability
and interaction, or might be rooted in more pragmatic reasons of removing cooking smells
from the sleeping areas. Whatever the particular reasoning, the idea here is that while
certain activities might not strictly be housed within the walls of the dwelling, they are
housed within the containment of ‘the group dwelling’ or village, and could still be seen as
part of the individual home, albeit a shared part.
Washing, again in hot regions, often moves from the private realm onto the
public, usually due to the difficulties of supply in these sun baked regions, and due to the
complexities of irrigation. As such, a single tap may well serve an entire village (and not
even always), which again moves certain ’functions’ out with the private dwelling and into
the communal dwelling. Again this might happen for other reasons elsewhere in the world,
so it might be stated that although certain ‘functions’ have been identified, they may be-
long to the communal dwelling, which is itself an extension of the private home. The only
function, it seems, where this is almost categorically never the case is the function of rest,
or sleep. This ties in closely with the idea of seclusion mentioned earlier - the sleeping
area of any dwelling is usually out of public sight and reach. Much like the blanket that
protects against the cold, the house has a duty to protect the vulnerable dreamer from the
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world whilst sleeping.
Categorically, we might then state that the pivotal ‘duty’ of any dwelling is that it
provides the inhabitant with a secluded place to sleep, a place in which they are protected
from the natural world and the public eye. Without a bed, it is hard to imagine a build-
ing being described as ‘a home’. Other functions, although equally important, are more
loosely tied to the central ideal, as they may be somewhat detached in nature from the
actual, physical structure of the dwelling, although they are almost certainly still part of
it. Sleep, however, could be the exception, although sleep itself is a twofold task - the first
task is physical rest, the second function is dreaming. This seems to draw a unique parallel
with the duality of dwelling.
“If I was asked to name the chief benefit of the house, I should say: the house shelters
daydreaming, the house protects the dreamer, the house allows one to dream in peace.”
Bachelard. Ref 08
In order to provide this protection, the dwelling must accomplish certain tasks.
It might be necessary here to tie ‘the dwelling’ to a geographical location, and talk of
Scottish dwellings rather than generic. Here, we experience cold temperatures, high winds
and frequent rain - all of which become primary factors dealt with by the dwelling, and
more specifically by its’ skin. The skin, or external fabric, is the primary modifier of the
environment, as it acts as first line of defence against the inclement elements. The primary
task of the roof, for instance, could be said to be the shedding of water, the protection from
wind, and the retention of heat. Now this is true for roofs across the globe, but the domi-
nance of these specific elements will dictate the form of a Scottish roof as different to that
of say, an Australasian roof, which will be primarily concerned with shading the intense
sunlight. Local materials and construction too will play a huge role here, again, returning
to the earlier point regarding the diversity of the dwelling tool. It is this ability to isolate
and respond to specific geographical problems that outlines one of the true strengths of the
human condition - our ability to adapt through dwelling.
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Plate 08 Tents in the wilderness, 1970. Photo: Eric Hemery
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Design for Shelter
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Relating to the conclusion that a dwelling must, at a most basic level, provide
the inhabitant with a safe place to rest, this project attempts to isolate these functions and
create a dwelling of utmost simplicity. The singular role of this dwelling is much like that
of the bothy - a traditional Scottish hut found in remote areas, often used for shelter in the
case of emergency. These huts usually comprise of a single room, an unlocked door and a
hearth for warmth - with little else in the way of home comforts. The purpose of the bothy
is simple - to provide protection for the inhabitant when the natural environment becomes
severe (emergency use), or as a passing refuge for the adventurous traveller (recreational
use). Facilities are sparse on account of maintenance (most bothies are un-maintained, or
at best minimally looked after by authorities etc), but this also emphasises the temporary
nature of the bothy - it is a passing destination on a journey, rather than a final one - it is
not the place to set up home.
My reasoning for focusing on these most basic of functions - warmth and shelter
(the privacy to sleep and dream) - is to simplify the act of dwelling to its most primal
roots. If one imagines reaching the bothy, while caught in a raging highland storm ap-
proaching dark, one can perhaps imagine the simple joys of a sheltering roof, a place
tucked out the wind and the warmth form a protected hearth. By de-emphasising all other
functions, these most primal needs can be fully appreciated for all that they are, and their
true importance can be felt.
The methodology here is to create something accessible - not simple accessible
in terms of freedom of use, but accessible economically and practically. This is the tem-
plate design for something extremely accessible - something cheap, long-lasting, easy to
construct, elegant and protective. While an approximate site has been chosen in this case,
this is intended to be an adaptable design that can be applied in principle to a variety of
rural sites - essentially it is a template design for a bothy. It can also perhaps be thought of
Also see Appedix 1: Sketches for a Bothy
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as a kind of permanent tent for the wilderness explorer - an aide and assistance to a longer
journey.
In conjunction with that which can be seen from the drawings, the shelter’s material nature
is intended as such:
1; A stone or concrete base foundation plinth, securely anchoring the structure to
its location and surroundings. The stone might be quarried on site if possible, or in other
eventualities, a casting system could be used to pour concrete ‘stones’ in-situ.
2; A stone fire slab, upon which to place a cast iron hearth. This stone, like the
plinth, etches the belonging and purpose of the bothy to its place on the earth. A full stone
hearth and chimney would be ideal but tricky to construct, so the more ‘accessible’ option
has been chosen here, although this issue of the pragmatic approach was discussed and
later de-emphasised in importance, as is discussed further at the end of this section.
3; A timber frame anchored to the stone plinth. The frame’s tectonic arrangement
(jointed) is significantly different to the stereotomic (stacked) arrangement of the base,
my reasoning for such is twofold. Pragmatically, this use of spanning and framing is less
material intensive than a entirely stacked building, and as such is more ‘accessible’ to
construct - i.e. less labour intensive and easier to install with a small workforce (the idea
behind the bothy is that it would require no more than two people in its creation, and that
neither would require previous experience). The second fold reasoning for the differing
constructional styles is more theoretical - basing itself in the previously mentioned idea
of the buildings’ ‘place in the world’. This however, refers not only to its anchoring to a
place physically, but also in time. The idea is essentially that the foundations outlast the
frame, leaving a trace upon the earth of the fireplace and layout, and as such might ‘tell
the story’ of the bothy, and provide a reusable platform to future generations. This reason-
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ing however, has not yet been explored by the thesis, and these ideas of permanence and
decay are explored in the next section ‘Life of the dwelling’.
4; A wrapped skin around the frame. Drawn here is corrugated iron, although the
preference is to leave this ‘skin’ unspecified - the ideal is that a variety of materials can
perform this task - different locations will provide different indigenous materials - and a
material should be sourced locally, or easily, to suit. The primary and secondary timber
frames provide a stable base to anchor on, potential materials include felt, sheep wool in-
sulation, corrugated plastic, plywood, tongue and groove boards and leather/animal hides.
In review, my personal favourite is corrugated plastic, with sheep wool beneath, as I like
the idea that the skin of the building might have a slightly translucent quality that reveals
its constructional makeup, and allows a degree of luminance in the interior during daytime
- so the inhabitant is aware of, but protected from, the outer world. Daylight, raindrops,
the wind and the glow of the hearth would be at once realised and altered by the skin.
This alluding to four basic architectural elements unwittingly followed Gottfried
Sempers’ writings in his text ‘Four Elements of Architecture’, a passage from which is
included here. While this was initially accidental, in hindsight Sempers’ work concludes
this ‘elemental’ approach to a primative dwelling (or ‘hut’) perfectly:
‘The first sign of human settlement and rest after the hunt, the battle, and wandering in
the desert is today, as when the first men lost paradise, the setting up of the fireplace
and the lighting of the reviving, warming and food preparing flame. Around the hearth
the first groups assembled; around it the first alliances formed; around it
the first rude religious concepts were put into the customs of a cult. Throughout all
phases of society the hearth formed that sacred focus around which the whole took
order and shape. It is the first and most important, the moral element of architecture.
Around it were grouped the three other elements; the roof, the enclosure and the
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mound, the protecting negations or defenders of the hearth’s flame against the three
hostile elements of nature’ (Semper, 1989: 102) Ref 08A
Mentioned earlier, and as can be seem from the timber node construction draw-
ings, a quite pragmatic approach was taken in designing the ‘D.I.Y Bothy kit’, and this
prompted much discussion. My intent was to make a ‘template’ design, one which could
be followed from paper to tools to building, and as such the design - particularly of the
timber frame - became overly prescribed and ‘overly designed’. This highlighted a basic
‘problem’ in this project - the task of designing something, that by its own reasoning of
basics and simplicity, required not to be “designed“. Partially, the point I was attempting
to illustrate here was the primal need for shelter, and the ease by which a solution can be
achieved. Many people in the western world seem to hold the idea that they themselves
could simply never ‘build their own home’, or shelter, and I think I was trying to challenge
this with the idea of the D.I.Y kit. However, this became a quite specific set of instruc-
tions, with some overly complex carpentry required for the frame, and as such was self-de-
feating in the scope of ‘an easy build’. The pragmatic nature of this building had become
a sidetrack to its actual purpose in conception - as an illustrator of ideals, and a highlight
of primal needs and desires. Perhaps the difficultly comes from trying to force an overly
pragmatic building project from an oneric idea.
If one looks at the design, one notices the stark simplicity of the bothy - there is
a hearth, for warmth, a raised bench for sleeping on, a skin to protect and a base to anchor.
All other facets of dwelling (washing, a toilet) have been removed - the fire can be used
to cook on, the bench could be a table, but these are ‘accidental’. This is a dwelling that
fulfils its pivotal function of protection and warmth, but in absence highlights the need
for home. Although the bothy is a refuge in the storm, and the fire is a welcome sight, it
is also a place in which to miss home, the comforts, the attachments, the personifications
of one’s surrounding. My hope is that while one is warmed and sheltered in the bothy (in
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imagination and the world) and can rest, one feels that nostalgia for the true idea of the
home. A reduction to such simplicity highlights that which is being shown, but also forces
one to question that which has been removed (as in fullness/emptiness). The next section,
Life of the Dwelling, comes from examining the parts and depths to the issue of dwelling
that are not vital to survival, but vital to living.
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corrugated skin
Inner skin and frame
Stone Plinth founda-tion
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hearth
sleeping plat-form
(perforated)
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3. Life of the dwelling
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“Architecture is what makes beautiful ruins.” Auguste Perret Ref 09
“the task of architecture is to show how the world touches us, and how we touch the
world” Juhani Pallasmaa, lecture Existential Homelessness at Dundee University. Ref 10
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If the basic physical need of the dwelling answers to the vulnerabilities of the
body, then one has a shelter. However, if one wishes to truly ‘dwell’, and by which I refer
to an act more permanent than the temporary inhabitance of the bothy, then the dwelling
must answer to much more than physical requirement. Dwelling is as much an act of the
mind as it is of the body. If earlier we examined a few of the physical acts that might take
place in dwelling, (resting, eating, sitting etc), we might now look at the emotional acts to
which the dwelling responds.
Speaking in his lecture on Existential Homelessness at Dundee University, Ju-
hani Pallasmaa described the nature of the home as “a place from where the world feels
organised and safe….. From where we can make correct judgements.” Ref 10 There are
a number of ideas contained in this statement, the first being the idea of the house as the
centre of the world, the universe, the cosmological existence. In the foreword to Gaston
Bachelards Poetics of Space, John R. Stilgoe makes a similar point, asking “if the house is
the first cosmos for its young children, how does its space shape all subsequent knowl-
edge of any larger cosmos?”. Ref 11
The idea of the house as centre is both conscious and subconscious, it is the place
to which we always return, from where the day starts and ends, the part of the world over
which we reign, organise and define. These acts surely reflect far more than the basic
process of resting - they reflect an emotional need to feel attached to the earth (place), to
define the inhabitant as an individual in the world, to belong somewhere. With a centre we
have belonging, with the centre removed, we become lost, or ‘existentially homeless’ as
Pallasmaa puts it.
If we look again at the bothy plans, we see a bed and a hearth. Although the
bothy is a shelter in which to rest, the main ‘event’ is not the bed - it is the hearth. The
hearth retains a primal place in our hearts as ‘the original centre’ around which we huddle
Life of the dwelling
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in the cold, receive warmth, light, we cook and we interact. Throughout history, this has
held fundamental importance, from the humblest of cottages and stone-age settlements
as seen in Skara Brae, to the stone and brick hearths of Frank Lloyd Wright that take up
centre stage in the majority of his domestic projects. Equally, this central location of the
heavy hearth in many residences makes great architectural sense - the warmth reaches
outwards in all directions, heating the home, the stone or brick retains heat and provides a
warming element throughout the structure. This is equally apparent in Scottish tenement
housing, where kitchen and living room fireplaces rise through the building in great stone
chimneys, heating the adjacent rooms and floors above. In the bothy, the hearth echoes this
primal need to place the fire in the centre of our world - the fire slab acts as an altar to the
primal fire, mankind’s first discovery. Around it, we, and the dwelling, bask in its ‘sphere
of influence’ (Ref 12 S. Unwin, Analysing Architecture). See illustrations in appendice 2:
Hearths, Chambers, Traces.
Memory and Nostalgia in dwelling:
If the hearth unites us in a primal understanding of our roots, the house continues
this tradition of nostalgia and reverie. As much as the items we place in it, both mundane
and priceless, the house is etched into our memories, and we into its’. As the main char-
acter Andrei Gorchakov in Tarkovsky’s ‘Nostalghia’ dies, his alien surroundings become
filled with a dreamlike vision of his childhood home - it is a vision etched into his primal
subconscious - this idea of the home, as it is, as it exists within us. However, this relation-
ship is mutual - as much as we remember the home, it too remembers us - we change its
appearance, scratch its surfaces, wear out the stairs with our feet. It too has a memory, a
physical and lasting marking of the inhabitants upon its walls. This echoes back to Rachael
Whiteread’s ‘House’ and ‘Ghost’ pieces, when she talks of how her plaster and concrete
castings lift greasy marks and scratches from the walls, recording and remembering the
previous lives of the room.
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Plate 09 Andrei Tarkovsky’s classic film ‘Nostalghia’ powerfully links the idea of dwelling, and in this case the image of the home, to a primal place in the psyche. Here, the architecture is immaterial - its fabric is one of sentiment, nostalgia and memory rather than of material ‘things’. It is the home as it is remembered rather than as it stands. (Ref 10 Juhani Pallasma, lecture).
“Of course, thanks to the house, a great deal of our memories are housed, and if the
house looks a bit elaborate, if it has a cellar and a garret, nooks and corridors, our
memories have refuges which are all the more clearly defined.” Gaston Bachelard, The
Poetics of Space. Ref 13
This quotation by Bachelard makes one important grammatical observation
- the changing inflection of the word house [noun: the home] to house [verb: to contain]
reiterates this fundamental link between memory and the places in which we dwell. If one
marries this idea of ‘the life contained’ to the idea of timescales, one also sees another
important link. If one takes the idea of a human timescale (a lifetime), which we shall call
around 80 years, and compares this to the idea of an architectural timescale (the potential
lifespan of a building) which often ranges into the hundreds of years, one sees the dif-
ference. This architectural lifespan increases further still when one considers the role of
the ruin, or archaeological traces of human constructions, which in a sense ‘document’ a
human activity over thousands of years.
Essentially put, architecture often outlasts the human life, but in containing mem-
ories, traces, purposes, it can be seen as a human endeavour that has the potential to carry
our ‘knowledge’ further than death. The house becomes a semi-tombstone, not necessarily
in a morbid sense, but in sentiment to its users. The ruin lies in the landscape, or hidden in
the earth, as a record of its purpose and past life like a high watermark left by the tide on
the walls of a pier.
Materiality plays an important part in remembering, with different materials
each containing a ‘lifespan’ of their own. Stone will last indefinitely, if protected from the
weather, whereas wood will disintegrate far sooner. Steel will rust, and eventually return
to its mineral state, some man-made synthetics such as plastics will potentially outlast
concrete. It could be observed that all materials are continuously trying to return to their
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original state - the inert, or mineral state, and that any entity is subject to an endless cycle
of formation and decay. However, where this relates to architecture, and specifically to
the dwelling, is the tactility of the materials used. Timber will last for a shorter time than
stone, but is also softer, and more malleable. If one compares the ‘memories’ etched into a
old wooden desktop - the immediate scratches of pens, the shuffle of books, the movement
of the users arms across its edge - to the slow, erosive decay of a stone staircase down its
centre, one sees how ‘memory’ is as indigenous to material as it is to the human mind. The
desk records a different type of memory, more immediate and shorter lived, than the step,
which documents the averaging effect of a million feet upon it.
Whether this ‘etching’ is a conscious decision in the architectural design process,
or simply a by-product of a building’s use is never clear, nor usually important. It is more
important as an observation than an as a designed ‘intent’ - the prompted musings of the
past by such mundane or inert materials is enough to remind us of our place in the world,
and our place in the universal timescale. To myself, these small marks upon our buildings
are some of the most humble connections between our human condition and the places we
inhabit.
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Plate 10: Frederick Evans’ photo “Sea of Steps” shows perfectly the aging process of stone steps, in this case in Wells Catherdral.
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In contrast, these timber steps will survive for a much shorter period of time, subject to their own aging processes. photo - authors own.
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Adaption of the Dwelling:
See Plate 10, Stewart Brand, How builings Learn - Ref 14
If this process of ‘etching’ is an issue uncovered in time, a record of the past
life, the issue of adaptation belongs to the idea of ‘the future’ life. If we discussed the idea
of the human/architectural timespans’ differing, often with the latter outlasting the former,
then we are forced to see that the original ‘intended purpose’ of the building will most
likely also change. Re-use and adaptation is as vital to architecture as the idea of creation,
and this is fundamentally important to the dwelling - the closest echo of life by architec-
ture. Our lives are in a state of constant flux, our conditions continuously changing, and
this is reflected in our dwellings, as we extend them outwards, alter rooms, shuffle furni-
ture and decorate. When we can no-longer alter a dwelling to suit our current needs, we
pack up and move on, leaving empty places for others to inhabit, but with our own story
etched firmly into the fabric. This is often a traumatic experience - leaving behind these
places to which we have deep emotional attachments - and as such the house (or memory
of the house) remains seated in our mind with an immense sense of nostalgia for these
intimate, deeply specific places.
It is hard to root these ideas, or fundamentals, of dwelling to a concrete place
in the design process. One cannot design for future nostalgia, for one does not know for
what we will become nostalgic, just as one does not decide upon specific ’traces’ to be
left. Adaptability too, is difficult to impose upon a design - the question arising “to what
will we need to adapt?” Obviously, this is not something that belongs to the conceptual
stages of the dwelling, these are the products of time, of life passing, rather than deliber-
ate movements. Adaptation and memory perhaps belong to ‘the life of the dwelling’, and
are dictated by the passage of time and the actions of the human living within. However,
this suggests another importance to the issue of dwelling - the issue of the dweller as
designer, and the idea that the design process is a continual one, rather than one that stops
upon ‘completion’ (which may be a misnomer in itself). More and more does the dwell-
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ing seem less like a final, complete object (arising out of a closed process), but as a ‘work
in progress’ in a state of continual flux and adaptation. Rather than fulfilling the role as
a final article, the dwelling acts as a framework upon which we can build. This role is
discussed further in the next section.
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Plate 11: In his book “How builings learn” Stewart Brand illustrates this point of the changing use and adaption of specific spaces through this sequence of photos. Although the space in the image is a workshop, rather than a dwelling, the idea is applicable to all buildings.
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4. Templates/Empty Shells
“in every building, even the richest, the first task of the phenomenologist is to find
the original shell.” Gaston Bachelard Ref 15
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Templates/Empty Shells:
As has been discussed already, the role of the ‘skin’ of the house is to primarily
protect the inhabitant from the world, to provide a shell in which one can dwell. The fol-
lowing projects work upon this basis - the uninhabited house begins as an ‘empty shell’,
into which interventions are made by the architect/dweller as are required. In doing so,
the relationship between architect and inhabitant is explored, as is the interplay between
the house’s skin and its contents. Influences for these ideas come from architects such as
Walter Segal, Allan Wexler, Shigeru Ban, self-build projects by Phillipe Starck and the
book/TV series ’How buildings learn’ by Stewart Brand, the relevance of each will be
discussed in due course.
Role of the inhabitant/architect:
For the sake of these projects, an idealised ‘inhabitant’ is assumed - his needs
change, his house flexes and adapts to his whims, changes with his age. The inhabitant
is proactive rather than passive - they involve themselves by immersion in the life of the
dwelling - they are the architect, master builder, designer and occupant all at once. A
mutual relationship is assumed between dweller and dwelling - the dweller needs, the
dwelling gives, or can be altered to accommodate. The dwelling is empty until the dweller
fills it - it is a vessel for his life.
For this reason, adaptability in the dwelling is key. As discussed in the previous
section, the adaptations of the dwelling reflect the passage of time - the continual flux of
the human condition. Parts are added, subtracted, moved, displayed or hidden over time
- over the course of a day, a weekend, a generation. The house itself remembers each
change, its fabric marks spaces with activities, its shell expands and contracts to accom-
modate new uses as older spaces fill up.
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Role of the Shell: Skin and Frame
One aspect common to each of these dwellings is the idea of the structural shell -
the framework for the house is treated as part of this layer, the second part is the cladding
system or covering skin. The reason for separating these two functions - structuring and
covering - is pragmatic, and in keeping with the idea of adaptability. If one creates a truly
structural shell, whereby covering and supporting are done by the same material, there
comes a difficulty in making changes to the exterior fabric. If the inhabitant wishes to
make changes to the dwelling, for instance inserting a new opening, or extending the foot-
print, he or she would be required to cut into the structural element of his or her dwelling
- a job potentially full of pitfalls and dangers. However, if skin and structure are kept as
separate elements, as in the case of a cladding system, then the skin might be more easily
removed, altered and returned, without disruption to the structural framework.
Repeating sections: Expandable framework
Another thing that might be noted in the following projects is the use of a simple,
iconic ‘house’ section - again this idea roots itself to the issue of expansion and adaptabili-
ty. By establishing a modular section, the house may be easily expanded upon its long axis
without damage to the existing sections. This might be made clearer using the analogy of
a railway carriages being added to a train engine - the size of the train is increased without
disruption to the existing units. It also seemed important to allow extensions to be made to
the dwelling without changing the roof profile - the integrity of the roof being paramount
to the ‘health’ of the dwelling. The repeating section allows for extra, identical roof units
(see cladding panels) to be clipped or joined in place without disruption to the existing
fabric.
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Project A: Skin & Bones House
The vessel for exploration in this project was to create an initial framework
- in this case a simple, archetypical house form constructed from timber. The model then
received a skin, a plywood composite panelling around its frame.
An empty shell is achieved, and the process of dwelling may begin.
A hearth unit is inserted, followed by the basic, pragmatic functional spaces required in a
home - a place to prepare and cook food, and a bathroom. Also at this stage, a boiler room
is placed. These three functions require the same servicing - water supply and drainage,
and as such are located at one end of the house.
The client needs a place to sit, he places a sofa and a small table by the hearth. He needs
a secluded place to sleep, so he installs joists above the utility/kitchen spaces and places a
floor, accessed by a ladder.
After time, the inhabitant needs storage for his possessions, a collection of books, clothes,
the objects he accumulates throughout the days.
A more substantial staircase/bookcase unit is made and installed, as are storage stacks,
some of which become walls dividing the spaces further.
The upper floor is extended, the space is divided into two sleeping areas rather than one,
shelves are build, more furniture is added. The final image shows the house in its ‘full’
state - units have been created, the plan has increased in complexity and diversity, the
house has adapted to changing needs.
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The framework for the house shown below allows for easy manipulation of the skin ‘panels’ (shown right), upon a modular frame-work. Each segment, or combination of seg-ments within the golden section panel may be removed and replaced with a window, door or services unit. Each of these units would cor-respond to the modular sizes of the panel to allow easy alterations to the buildings’ skin.
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Photo of the model - interior space, full.
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The role of furniture:
One observation in creating this model and series of images was the creation
of specific ‘units’ in response to the different aspects of living (see back to the ‘absent
house’ project). Rather than creating cellular rooms, and further dividing the space within,
the functional elements of each ‘living piece’ are grouped together into units that in turn
define the spaces around them. This allows the skin and internal plan to remain as separate
elements, allowing greater ease of adaptation. The idea of this grouping of functions into a
central unit is shared by Florien Beigels’ work in his own London flat, whereby he creates
steel framed units for cooking and washing within the cellular plan of the building. His
reasoning is again that this allows freedom in defining spaces - the functions within can be
upped and moved as deemed necessary. An observation in a Building Review article is that
the actuality of moving these units is restricted by the provision of water services (plumb-
ing), and that the easy manipulation of these spaces might be more of an ideal than an
actuality. However, the principle of creating ‘units’ is a sound one. The following photo-
graph of Allan Wexlers crate house shows a delightful solution to this problem - a simple
flexible hosepipe to connect the unit to the mains.
Crate house by Allan Wexler follows a similar philosophy of furniture‘s role in
the house, as a functional piece, a definition of space and instigation of theatre. Quoting a
passage in the GG Portfolio series, Wexler talks of his intentions in crate house:
“I divided the house into its parts. A bedroom, bathroom, kitchen and living room each
has a function that is isolated and studied. Each is contained in its own crate on wheels.
When a room such a kitchen is needed, that crate is rolled in through one of the door
openings. When the occupant is tired, the entire house becomes a bedroom, and when
the occupant is hungry, it becomes a kitchen. These basic activities that take place in the
home… are pared down to those essential artefacts needed and desired at the end of the
20th century. What defines a kitchen? What objects do we choose for each function?”
Ref 16
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Shigeru Ban is another architect who has shown interest in the dramatic and
defining role of ‘furniture’ within the dwelling. The term furniture here is used even more
loosely, as several of Ban’s houses blur the definition between ‘furniture’ and ‘architec-
ture’ beyond definition - Furniture house actually uses the pieces of furniture as primary
structural support for the roof. Naked house is similar to Wexler’s crate house, in its use of
movable units, pulled into the main space as function requires.
The drama involved in the use of the movable units in Crate House and Naked
house contain the essence of the ‘adaptable dwelling’. The life of the occupant changes
the immediate use and form of the house, while each furniture piece in turn contains the
memories of that activity - Wexler himself likens each crate to “a diorama in a natural his-
tory museum”.
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Plate 12: Shigeru Ban - Furniture house 2
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Plate 13: Allan Wexlers Crate House. Note the connection of services to the kitchen unit.
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Plate 14: Florian Beigel’s ‘Mobile washing unit’.
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Project B: Shell and Furniture House
The interplay between house and content, dweller and dwelling, activity and
spatial definition prompted a second house project - borrowing ideas more directly from
Ban and Wexler. This house contains the same idea of the shell, although the crucial differ-
ence here is that the second/mezzanine floor is supported on top of a series of movable,
modular furniture units, rather than from the shell of the house. The span and form of the
shell would dictate a steel frame here, rather than the timber frame seem previously.
This dwelling takes the idea of the furniture unit, seen in Wexler and Biegels
work, and creates an expanding central core of ‘units’ within the repeating section of the
house. Each unit fits into a modular 1m x 1m grid, and forms the structure of the floor
above. Services are located under the raised floor, allowing ease of access and connection
to other units. These units may be moved around the house, with aide from a palette trol-
ley, and aligned with other units. Some units have a specific function, others are more seen
as undefined spaces, dictated by the proximity of the units surrounding them.
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Bibliography
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Ref 01 - p6, Gaston Bachelard (1994) The Poetics of Space, Boston: Beacon PressISBN 978-08070-6473-3
Ref 02 - Arthur C. Clarke (1967) Nine billion names of god, New York: Harcourt, Brace & World,ISBN 0-8488-2181-5
Ref 03 - p17 Christian Norberg Schultz (1985) The concept of dwelling, New York: Rizzoli International Publications Inc.ISBN 0-8478-0590-5
Ref 04 - p34 Rachael Whiteread (1997) British Pavillon XLVII Venice Biennale, London: British CouncilISBN 0 86357 369 9
Ref 05 - p38 Georges Perec (1999) Species of Spaces, London: Pengiun GroupISBN 0-14-018986-6
Ref 06 - Le Corbusier (1986) Towards a New Architecture, London: Dover publicationsISBN 10-0486250237
Ref 07 - http://jsnfmn.net/writing/farnsworth.html
Ref 08 - p6, Gaston Bachelard (1994) The Poetics of Space, Boston: Beacon PressISBN 978-08070-6473-3
Ref 08A - Jonathan A. Hale (2005) ‘Gottfried Semper’s primitive hut as an act of self-creation’, arq . vol 9 . no 1, Cambridge Original reference - Semper G. (1989). The Four Elements of Architecture, trans by Mallgrave and Herrmann, Cambridge
Ref 09 - p163 Peter Collins (1959) Concrete: The Vision of a New Architecture, A Study of Auguste Perret and his Precursors, New York: Horizon Press. LC 59-1958. NA4125.C6
Ref 10 - Juhani Pallasmaa, lecture Existential Homelessness at Dundee University
Ref 11 - foreward John R. Stilgoe, Gaston Bachelard (1994) The Poetics of Space, Boston: Beacon PressISBN 978-08070-6473-3
Ref 12 - Simon Unwin (2003) Analysing Architecture (2nd Ed.) UK: RoutledgeISBN - 9780415306850
Ref 13 - p8 Gaston Bachelard (1994) The Poetics of Space, Beacon Press: BostonISBN 978-08070-6473-3
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Ref 14 - Stewart Brand (1994) How Buildings Learn, New york: Penguin booksISBN 1-670-83515, also BBC TV series
Ref 15 - p4 Gaston Bachelard (1994) The Poetics of Space, Boston: Beacon PressISBN 978-08070-6473-3
Ref 16 - p42 Gustavo Gili (1998) GG Portfolio: Allan Wexler, Barcelona: Grup3ISBN 84-252-1753-9
Additional References:
Juhani Pallasma (2005) Eyes of the Skin, UK: Wiley-AcademyISBN 0-470-01578-0
Eugina Bell (2001) Shigeru Ban, London: Laurence King Publishing ISBN 1-856693-01-5
Eric Hemery (1970) Wilderness camping in Britain, London SBN 7091 1302 1
The Photo Book (2000) London: Phaidon PublishersISBN 0714844888
Rachael Whiteread (1997) British Pavillon XLVII Venice Biennale, London: British CouncilISBN 0 86357 369 9
Dirk Lohan, (2000) Global Architecture Detail: Mies Van Der Rohe: Farnsworth House, Plano 1945-1950, Japan: ADA EditorsISBN 978-4871402514
Nostalghia, Andrei Tchakovski (1983) Production company: Radiotelevisione Italiana (RAI), DVD release: Artificial Eye distribution, UK 2003
empty shells 65
Bibliography
01: Untitled (ten tables) - Rachael Whiteread (1997) British Pavillon XLVII Venice Biennale, London: British CouncilISBN 0 86357 369 9
02 & 03: Orange bath - p34 Rachael Whiteread (1997) British Pavillon XLVII Venice Bien-nale, London: British CouncilISBN 0 86357 369 9
04: Boccioni’s ‘Development of a bottle in space - p16 Christian Norberg Schultz (1985) The concept of dwelling, New York: Rizzoli International Publications Inc.ISBN 0-8478-0590-5
05: Ghost - Rachael Whiteread (1997) British Pavillon XLVII Venice Biennale, London: British CouncilISBN 0 86357 369 9
06: House - Rachael Whiteread (1997) British Pavillon XLVII Venice Biennale, London: British CouncilISBN 0 86357 369 9
07: Dirk Lohan, (2000) Global Architecture Detail: Mies Van Der Rohe: Farnsworth House, Plano 1945-1950, Japan: ADA EditorsISBN 978-4871402514
08: Wilderness camping in Britain, Eric Hemery, SBN 7091 1302 1
09: Nostalghia, Andrei Tchakovski (1983) Production company: Radiotelevisione Italiana (RAI), DVD release: Artificial Eye distribution, UK 2003
10: Frederick Evans ‘Sea of steps’ The Photo Book, Phaidon Publishers, ISBN 0714844888
11: p30 Stewart Brand (1994) How Buildings Learn, New york: Penguin booksISBN 1-670-83515, also BBC TV series
11: Shigeru Ban - Furniture house 2, Eugina Bell (2001) Shigeru Ban, London: Laurence King Publishing ISBN 1-856693-01-5
13: p43, 44, Gustavo Gili (1998) GG Portfolio: Allan Wexler, Barcelona: Grup3ISBN 84-252-1753-9
14: Florian Beigel ‘Mobile washing unit’, Building Design, July 18 2003
PlatesAll unmarked images are the authors own
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