The Portfolio and the Diagram: Architecture, Discourse, and Modernity in America

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The Portfolio and the Diagram

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The Portfolio and the Diagram ARCHITECTURE, DISCOURSE, AND MODERNITY IN AMERICA

Hyungmin Pai

The MIT Press

Cambridge, Massachusetts

London, England

© 2002 Massachusetts Institute of Technology All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means (including photocopying, recording, or information storage and retrieval) without permission in writing from the publisher. Some of the artworks used in this book contract copyright with ADAGP and VAGA through SACK. They are protected by international copyright law: no part of these artworks may be reproduced or reprinted in any form without permission. This book was set in Adobe Caslon by Achorn Graphic Services Inc. and was printed and bound in the United States of America. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Pai, Hyungmin. The portfolio and the diagram : architecture, discourse, and modernity in America / Hyungmin Pai. p. cm. Based on author’s thesis. Includes index. ISBN 0-262-16206-7 (hc. : alk. paper) 1. Communication in architecture—United States—History—20th century. I. Title.

NA2584 .P35 2002 724´.6´01—dc21 2001059645

to my father and mother

Contents

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Introduction

(viii) (xviii)

(2)

PART ONE

The Portfolio and Academic Discourse: Formation and Crisis 1

Discourse, Mass Architecture, and the Academic Profession

(12)

The Discursive Formation of Mass Architecture and the Academic Profession 2

The Portfolio and the Architectural Journal

(25)

The Portfolio and the Academic Discipline

(40)

Seeing, Reading, and Drawing: The Discursive Practice of the Portfolio Composition and the Paradox of Academic Theory 3

Planning and the “Theory of the Plan”

(64)

The Crisis of the Academic Profession

(74)

(41)

(56)

The Architectural Profession in the 1910s: Crisis and Response Business, Efﬁciency, and Functional Planning

(13)

(75)

(83)

PART TWO

The Search for a New Discipline 4

The Fragmentation of the Academic Discipline

(94)

The Changing Ideas of Composition and the Demise of the Analytique Form versus Function: The Debates of the 1920s

(106)

(95)

5

Frederick Ackerman, Lewis Mumford, and the Predicament of Form Frederick Ackerman and the Logic of Regressive Rationality Lewis Mumford and the Search for Authentic Form

6

(117)

(129)

The Cognitive Project of the Architectural Journals The Consumerist Project of American Architect

(116)

(142)

(143)

The Cognitive Project of Architectural Record

(148)

PART THREE

The Discourse of the Diagram 7

Scientiﬁc Management and the Discourse of the Diagram

(162)

Scientiﬁc Management and the Birth of the Functional Diagram

(163)

From Scientiﬁc Management to Architecture: The Discursive Formation of the Architectural Diagram 8

(176)

New Genres and New Formations

(198)

Architectural Graphic Standards and the Modern Reference Manual The Reconﬁguration of the Architectural Journal 9

(218)

The Dislocation of the Architectural Discipline The Diagram as Plan, the Plan as Diagram

(237)

The Displacements of Photographic Discourse Epilogue: The Instrument of Modern Architecture

NOTES

(291)

ILLUSTRATION CREDITS INDEX

(371)

(370)

(236)

(253)

(278)

(199)

Illustrations

1.1. Prefabricated cast-iron columns from Buffalo Eagle Iron Works, Catalogue of (16) Architectural Design, 1859. 1.2. Plate of cottage house, “Design 16,” from Palliser’s New Cottage Home and Details, (17) 1876. 1.3. Tuscan order from Asher Benjamin, The American Builder’s Companion, 1826.

(18)

1.4. “Design XX: Bracketed Country House” from Andrew Jackson Downing, The (19) Architecture of Country Houses, 1850. 1.5. Page from “Plumbers’ Specialties and Supplies” section in “Sweet’s” Indexed Catalogue

of Building Construction, 1906.

(24)

1.6. Perspective view and plans of Palazzo Farnese from Paul Letarouilly, Édiﬁces de Rome

moderne, 1825–1860.

(26)

1.7. Ground-ﬂoor plan of Palazzo Farnese from Paul Letarouilly, Édiﬁces de Rome moderne, 1825–1860. (27) 1.8. Plan details of Palazzo Farnese from Paul Letarouilly, Édiﬁces de Rome moderne,

1825–1860.

(28)

1.9. Front elevation of Palazzo Farnese from Paul Letarouilly, Édiﬁces de Rome moderne, (28) 1825–1860. 1.10. Photograph plate of doorway in Morden College from Marvyn E. Macartney, The (31) Practical Exemplar of Architecture, 1907. 1.11. Measured drawing of doorway in Morden College from Marvyn E. Macartney, The

Practical Exemplar of Architecture, 1907.

(31)

1.12. Opening page of letterpress section from American Architect and Building News, July 7, 1900. (33)

Illustrations

ix

1.13. Double-page drawing of “Detention Hospital” from American Architect and Building News, July 7, 1900. (33) 1.14. Photograph plate of “House of A. G. Hyde” from American Architect and Building News, July 7, 1900. (34) 1.15. “Rolling Venetian Blinds,” advertisement from American Architect and Building News,

July 20, 1878.

(35)

1.16. Classiﬁed advertisement page from the international edition of American Architect (35) and Building News, July 7, 1900. 1.17. Table of contents for Architectural Forum, April 1917, showing clear division between

plate and letterpress sections.

(36)

1.18. Architectural library in the Pierce Building at Massachusetts Institute of

Technology, late nineteenth century.

(38)

1.19. Atelier in the Pierce Building at Massachusetts Institute of Technology during the

late nineteenth century.

(38)

2.1. Analytique of doorway by Désiré Despradelle, conducted as a student at the École

des Beaux-Arts, 1885.

(42)

2.2. “Comparison of the Orders” from William Robert Ware, American Vignola, 4th edi(43) tion, 1904. 2.3. Esquisse of plan layout for new campus of Massachusetts Institute of Technology, by

Désiré Despradelle, ca. 1911.

(44)

2.4. “The Nine Stages in the Indication of a Caryatid” from David Varon, Indication in (47) Architectural Design, 1916. 2.5. Levels of indication in the progression of an analytique from Ernest Pickering,

Architectural Design, 1933.

(48)

2.6. Analytical study of the Palazzo Farnese from David Varon, Indication in Architectural (49) Design, 1916.

Illustrations

x

2.7. Worm’s-eye axonometric drawing of Sainte-Geneviève church from Auguste Choisy,

Histoire de l’architecture, vol. 2, 1889.

(52)

2.8. Plan of auditorium for the Phoebe Hearst Competition, University of California,

Berkeley, by Désiré Despradelle, ca. 1899.

(53)

2.9. “Analytical Sketch of a Roman Plan: The Thermae of Caracalla” from David Varon,

Indication in Architectural Design, 1916.

(55)

2.10. Examples of optical effects adopted from Helmholtz and their applications, from

John Van Pelt, A Discussion of Composition, 1903.

(60)

2.11. Analysis of massing from John Robinson, Architectural Composition, 1908. 2.12. Quick sketch by Désiré Despradelle, date unknown.

(61)

(63)

2.13. Ernest Flagg, plan and parti diagram of St. Luke’s Hospital, from Brickbuilder, June

1903.

(68)

2.14. Ernest Flagg, comparison of parti diagrams of hospitals, from Brickbuilder, June

1903.

(69)

3.1. Advertisement of Modern Homes Department, Sears, Roebuck and Company,

1914.

(76)

3.2. Example of house design offered by the Mountain Division of the Architects’ Small

House Service Bureau, 1923.

(81)

4.1. “Plans Dealing with Groups Having Fore and Interior Courts” from John Haneman,

A Manual of Architectural Composition, 1923.

(96)

4.2. “Colonnades” from John Haneman, A Manual of Architectural Composition, 1923. (96)

4.3. “The Use of the Dominant to Provide Unity in Composition of Plural Elements”

from Howard Robertson, Principles of Architectural Composition, 1924.

(99)

4.4. Examples of the principles of “conjugation” and “punctuation” from Trystan

Edwards, Architectural Style, 1926.

(101)

Illustrations

xi

4.5. “A Composition of Geometrical Shapes and Simple Forms” from Howard Robertson,

Principles of Architectural Composition, 1924.

(108)

4.6. The basic geometrical shapes that build toward the architectural principle of mass,

from Ernest Pickering, Architectural Design, 1933.

(112)

4.7. Illustrations of modern buildings that exemplify the principle of mass, from Ernest

Pickering, Architectural Design, 1933.

(112)

4.8. Sketches of the evolution of the setback skyscraper from Howard Robertson,

Principles of Architectural Composition, 1924.

(113)

5.1. Analysis of “Site Plan Relatives” from Frederick Ackerman, “A Note on Site and

Unit Planning,” New York Housing Authority, 1934.

(127)

5.2. “Nature and the Machine” from Lewis Mumford, Technics and Civilization, 1934. (136)

5.3. “Esthetic Assimilation” from Lewis Mumford, Technics and Civilization, 1934.

(137)

5.4. “Modern Machine Art” from Lewis Mumford, Technics and Civilization, 1934.

(139)

6.1. Robert L. Davison, “Sketches Illustrating Effect of Style on Cost,” Architectural (156) Record, April 1929. 6.2. “1937 Small House Preview” from Architectural Forum, November 1936. 7.1. Movement ﬁgure from Jules Amar, Le moteur humain, 1914.

(157)

(166)

7.2. “Chart of Functional Foremanship under Scientiﬁc Management” from Frank and

Lillian Gilbreth, Applied Motion Study, 1917.

(167)

7.3. “Organization Chart and Functions of Production Departments” from Arthur G.

Anderson, Industrial Engineering and Factory Management, 1928.

(168)

7.4. Diagrammatic plan of Jeremy Bentham’s Panopticon, devised 1787. 7.5. Example of Panopticon building proposed by Bentham.

(170)

(169)

Illustrations

xii

7.6. Plant layout of mill from Carle M. Bigelow, “The Organization of Knitting Mills,”

Management Engineering, November 1921.

(171)

7.7. Adjustable stenographer’s desk from Lee Galloway, Ofﬁce Management, 1919.

(172)

7.8. Typist’s chair designed to promote proper posture, from William Lefﬁngwell, Ofﬁce Management, 1927. (173) 7.9. Lamp attached to the hand and the cyclegraph record of its movement path, from

Frank and Lillian Gilbreth, Applied Motion Study, 1917.

(174)

7.10. Micromotion studies on ﬁlm from Frank and Lillian Gilbreth, Applied Motion Study,

1917.

(175)

7.11. Routing diagram of proper work ﬂow in an ofﬁce, from William Lefﬁngwell, Ofﬁce

Management, 1925.

(176)

7.12. “The Thoroughfare” from Charles F. Osborne, Notes on the Art of House Planning,

1888.

(177)

7.13. Hoosier Kitchen Cabinets advertisement with circulation diagram, from House

Beautiful, November 1911.

(178)

7.14. Routing diagrams comparing efﬁcient and inefﬁcient movement of the houseworker,

from Christine Frederick, Household Engineering, 1915.

(179)

7.15. Circulation diagrams from Bruno Taut, Die neue Wohnung, 1924.

(180)

7.16. Alexander Klein’s diagrams in “Illustrations of German Efﬁciency Studies,”

Architectural Record, March 1929.

(181)

7.17. Lillian Gilbreth, “Application of Motion Study to Kitchen Planning: Making a

Cake,” from Architectural Record, March 1930.

(183)

7.18. Charles G. Ramsey and Harold R. Sleeper, study of typical kitchen layouts, from

American Architect, July 1933.

(184)

7.19. George Howe, diagrams and plans of Maurice J. Speiser House, from Architectural Forum, February 1936. (185)

Illustrations

xiii

7.20. Parti sketches from David Varon, Indication in Architectural Design, 1916.

(186)

7.21. “The Country House Chart, Room by Room,” from Architectural Forum, March

1933.

(188)

7.22. “Space Relation Diagram” from William W. Caudill, Space for Teaching, 1941. (189)

7.23. “Method for Plotting Heights of Work Surfaces and Kitchen Arrangement” from Architectural Record, January 1932. (190) 7.24. Lawrence Kocher and Albert Frey, page from “Dimensions” illustrating “minimal

kitchen,” Architectural Record, January 1932.

(190)

7.25. Ernest Irving Freese, plate from “Geometry of the Human Figure,” American (191) Architect, July 1934. 7.26. Photographic measurement of “Headroom above the Sleeping Surface” from Jane

Callaghan and Catherine Palmer, “Measuring Space and Motion,” 1943.

(192)

7.27. “Space shapes” of man dressing from Jane Callaghan and Catherine Palmer, (193) “Measuring Space and Motion,” 1943. 7.28. Photographic technique of recording a puppet walking diagonally across miniatur-

ized room, from Jane Callaghan and Catherine Palmer, “Measuring Space and Motion,” 1943. (194) 8.1. Dimensions of furniture used in museums and libraries from “Architectural Forum

Data and Details, Number 3,” Architectural Forum, June 1932.

(200)

8.2. Plate from Clarence A. Martin, Details of Building Construction, 1899.

(203)

8.3. “Entrance Doorway and Palladian Window, I” from Philip G. Knobloch, Good

Practice in Construction, 1923.

(205)

8.4. Photograph of cottage house exterior from Walter C. Voss and Ralph C. Henry,

Architectural Construction, 1925.

(206)

8.5. First-ﬂoor plan from Walter C. Voss and Ralph C. Henry, Architectural Construction,

1925.

(206)

Illustrations

xiv

8.6. Details of interior ﬁnish from Walter C. Voss and Ralph C. Henry, Architectural

Construction, 1925.

(207)

8.7. “Floor Construction—Light Rolled Steel Joists” from Charles G. Ramsey and

Harold R. Sleeper, Architectural Graphic Standards, 1st edition, 1932.

(209)

8.8. “Dimensions of the Human Figure” from Charles G. Ramsey and Harold R. Sleeper,

Architectural Graphic Standards, 3rd edition, 1941.

(210)

8.9. “Average Dimensions of Bath Room Fixtures” from Charles G. Ramsey and Harold

R. Sleeper, Architectural Graphic Standards, 1st edition, 1932.

(211)

8.10. “Architectural Terra Cotta” from Charles G. Ramsey and Harold R. Sleeper,

Architectural Graphic Standards, 1st edition, 1932.

(212)

8.11. Double-page spread on service areas of the general hospital, from Architectural

Record, December 1939.

(215)

8.12. Anthropometric data in the 1946 edition of Time Saver Standards adopted from (216) American Architect, September 1935. 8.13. Double-page layout from Benjamin Betts, “. . . And Still We Call It a Profession!,”

American Architect, January 1931.

(219)

8.14. Table of contents for American Architect, February 1930. 8.15. Table of contents for Architectural Forum, September 1933.

(220)

(222)

8.16. “Functional Chart for Fire Stations” from Architectural Forum, September 1933. (222)

8.17. Sample illustration of ﬁre station from Architectural Forum, September 1933.

(223)

8.18. Construction details for ﬁre station from Architectural Forum, September 1933.

(223)

8.19. Example of “tailing” from American Architect, April 1930.

(224)

8.20. Double-page layout between advertising and Design Trends section from

Architectural Record, January 1937.

(225)

Illustrations

xv

8.21. Advertisement for Chase Brass and Copper Company from Architectural Forum, May 1935. (227) 8.22. Double-page advertisement for Owens-Illinois Insulux Glass Blocks from

Architectural Forum, October 1936.

(228)

8.23. Double-page layout from Herbert Matter, “Display Presentations for Architects and

Other Designers,” Architectural Record, January 1938.

(230)

8.24. Page layout from Douglas Haskell, “The Modern Nursery School,” Architectural (231) Record, March 1938. 8.25. Plan of hospital admission area from John A. Hornsby and Richard E. Schmidt, The Modern Hospital, 1913. (233) 8.26. Hospital plan types from John A. Hornsby and Richard E. Schmidt, The Modern Hospital, 1913. (233) 9.1. Paul Nelson, “Museum of Science” (or Palace of Discovery), from Architectural (238) Record, February 1939. 9.2. Method of design using unit plans and block models, developed by the Housing

Division of the Public Works Administration, from Architectural Record, March 1935. (240)

9.3. “T-plans” developed by the Housing Division of the Public Works Administration,

from Architectural Record, March 1935.

(241)

9.4. Page from “Apartment House Planning Requirements, Including Basic Dimensions,”

Architectural Record, March 1935.

(242)

9.5. “Minimum Sizes for Compact Bathrooms and Toilets,” American Architect, 1934. (243)

9.6. Bubble diagram from Oleg Devorn, “Low Cost City Housing Units,” MIT thesis,

1934.

(244)

9.7. Basic functional units provided with dimensions from Oleg Devorn, “Low Cost City

Housing Units,” MIT thesis, 1934.

(245)

Illustrations

xvi

9.8. Thesis drawing of plan and axonometric from Oleg Devorn, “Low Cost City

Housing Units,” MIT thesis, 1934.

(246)

9.9. Thesis drawing of elevation from Oleg Devorn, “Low Cost City Housing Units,”

MIT thesis, 1934.

(246)

9.10. Thesis drawing of construction system from Oleg Devorn, “Low Cost City Housing

Units,” MIT thesis, 1934.

(247)

9.11. Summary chart for Allman Fordyce and William I. Hamby, “Small Houses for

Civilized Americans,” Architectural Forum, January 1936.

(248)

9.12. “Scientiﬁc Stages in Solution of an Architectural Problem” from Henry Wright,

“The Modern Apartment House,” Architectural Record, March 1929.

(249)

9.13. View of curved gallery, La Roche-Jeanneret house, from Howard Robertson and

Frank Yerbury, Examples of Modern French Architecture, 1928.

(256)

9.14. Interiors of La Roche-Jeanneret house, from Howard Robertson and Frank Yerbury,

Examples of Modern French Architecture, 1928.

(257)

9.15. Juxtaposition by Sigfried Giedion of New Mexico pueblo, California bungalow, and

house designed by Irving Gill, from Architectural Record, May 1934.

(260)

9.16. Double-page layout of Neubuehl housing from Sigfried Giedion, “The Status of

Contemporary Architecture,” Architectural Record, May 1934.

(261)

9.17. Double-page spread with photomontage of Rockefeller Center and high-speed pho-

tograph by Harold Edgerton, from Sigfried Giedion, Space, Time and Architecture, 3rd edi(262) tion, 1954. 9.18. Désiré Despradelle and Stephan Codman, composite view of grand auditorium

building, part of entry for Phoebe Hearst Competition, University of California, Berkeley, (265) ca. 1899. 9.19. Elevation and details of Boston Public Library from Masterpieces of Architecture in the (266) United States, 1930. 9.20. “Behold!!!” Désiré Despradelle and Stephan Codman, bird’s-eye view of overall lay-

out, Phoebe Hearst Competition, University of California, Berkeley, ca. 1899.

(267)

Illustrations

xvii

9.21. Double-page spread of interiors in the Capitol from “The Restoration of Colonial

Williamsburg in Virginia,” Architectural Record, December 1935.

(268)

9.22. Double-page spread of exterior views of the College of William and Mary from

“The Restoration of Colonial Williamsburg in Virginia,” Architectural Record, December 1935. (269) 9.23. Lawrence Kocher and Gerhard Ziegler’s Rex Stout house, double-page spread from

“House of Rex Stout, Fairﬁeld County, Connecticut,” Architectural Record, July 1933. (270)

9.24. Double-page composite layout with plans and photographs of interior from “House

of Rex Stout, Fairﬁeld County, Connecticut,” Architectural Record, July 1933.

(271)

9.25. Double-page spread of interiors in Frederick Kiesler’s Space House, from (275) Architectural Record, January 1934. 9.26. Double-page spread of straw matting used in Frederick Kiesler’s Space House, from

Architectural Record, January 1934.

(276)

Acknowledgments

This book is the result of my labor in two cities—Cambridge, Massachusetts, in the United States and Seoul, Korea. In this age of globalized networks, it would seem anachronistic to talk of geographical distance, but with this kind of work they are two cities that can sometimes seem worlds apart. Though it is based on my dissertation written at MIT during the early 1990s, much of the thinking and writing in this book were done in a quite different environment. If there is any merit to this kind of separation, it is that somewhere hidden between the lines, perhaps to be made visible in some later work, lie those links and hinges to different, possible worlds. I have been fortunate to receive the help of many people, but most of all I must extend my gratitude to Stanford Anderson and Mardges Bacon. Without their understanding and support, I am quite sure that this book would not have seen the light of day. Professor Anderson, since my days as a student at MIT, has guided me with an intellect and character that continue to be part of my growth as a teacher and scholar. Professor Bacon has become not only an advisor but also a cherished friend. I must also thank Francesco Passanti, whose criticism was crucial in the formation of the basic concerns of this book. At the MIT Press, I must ﬁrst thank Roger Conover for having patience and belief in such a belated project. I am also grateful to Matthew Abbate for his thoughtful editorial work, to Emily Gutheinz for her sensitive design, and to Lisa Reeve for her assistance throughout the publication process. I am indebted to numerous libraries and archives for providing resources and assistance: Rotch Library, Institute Archives, and MIT Museum, Massachusetts Institute of Technology; Avery Library and its Special Collections, Columbia University; Department of Manuscripts and University Archives and the Fine Arts Library, Cornell University; The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation Library; Widener Library, Frances Loeb Library and its Special Collections, and Schlesinger Library, Harvard University; New York City Housing Authority Archives, La Guardia Community College; and Special Collections at the Van Pelt Library, University of Pennsylvania. I would also like to thank Rotch Visual Collections at

Acknowledgments

xix

MIT and Visual Resources at the Graduate School of Design, Harvard University, for the production of the illustrations. I must thank my colleagues here in the Department of Architecture at the University of Seoul, especially Kim, Sung Hong and Song, Inho, who willingly provided their valuable time when I needed someone to talk with. I am grateful to my graduate students, now and before, here and abroad, who helped me with documentation and resources. Special thanks to my sister, Hyung Il, whose editorial assistance helped me reach a better understanding of the way I write. To my wife Myung Uhn, I do not have the words to express my gratitude because she has become so much part of my being, the happiness of my existence. To our three children, Kyu Hyun, Kyu Sung, and Kyu Jin, I offer my hope that in a few years they will understand why their dad was missing on those summer trips. This book is dedicated to my father and mother, for I know that this has all been possible because of their love and care.

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The Portfolio and the Diagram

Introduction

So here we have them before us; the dainty line engraving of the First Empire neatly reproduced photographically in a clear black line. The charm of the luxurious old linen paper, is, of course, no longer there, and the line is hard, oh, very hard! But how much more easily our dividers slide over the polished surface, and how much more clearly we see the drawings under our tracing paper! Lloyd Warren, Foreword to the American reprint of Durand’s Recueil et parallèle des édiﬁces de tout genre, 1915 Photographs always have dominated the pages; there was a long period, in all architectural magazines, when photographs were “plates,” and each took a full page; frequently the page opposite was left blank, doubtless to heighten the pictorial effect. In those days, the text, if any, was isolated from the pictures. The concept of pictorial journalism that we know today came later (if in fact it has fully come to this date). I mean the consideration of photographs, plans, sections, captions, text as a uniﬁed communication effort, in which one element complements, not repeats, the others. Emerson Goble, editor of Architectural Record, writing on the occasion of the journal’s seventyﬁfth anniversary, 1966 Writings are imbedded between projects not as cement but as autonomous episodes. contradictions are not avoided. The book can be read in any way. Rem Koolhaas and Bruce Mau, S, M, L, XL, 1995

Introduction

3

When we pick up the latest issue of Architectural Record or El Croquis, or when we ﬂip through the pages of S, M, L, XL, what do we look at, and what do we read? Or perhaps the more important question would be, how do we use these words and images? Obviously, the buildings that ﬁll the pages of these books and magazines have changed in the course of the momentous events of the early twentieth century. Equally obvious but less clearly understood is the fact that the way we see, read, and use these documents has also changed. We do not use the glossy photographs of Frank Gehry’s recent museum project, or its form-Z-generated drawings, in the same way that architects and students of the nineteenth century mobilized the latest winner of the Prix de Rome. Would one place a tracing paper over the illustrations and plans, trace the contours, consider and analyze the details, and perhaps use the “type” in one’s next project? Or does one search for the project’s “concept,” retracing a process that is most often hidden but at times made intentionally explicit? Or do we now approach our architectural books as if they were pieces of a collage, to be recycled in any way we please? As Emerson Goble pointed out nearly forty years ago, the relation between the reader and the text has changed since the days when architectural illustrations took the form of “plates.” That is, a fundamental change has taken place in the status of architects and their images. It is this transformation in architectural discourse, as it occurs in America during the ﬁrst decades of the twentieth century, that will be explored in this book. This book then proceeds on the basic notion that modern architecture is a discursive practice. It assumes that its place in society—what it does, how it functions, and the way it is perceived—is conditioned and mediated by a specific set of discourses: drawings, books, journals, manuals, specifications, and contracts that are produced within the architectural community. As the built artifact is never just a mirror to its age, so books and magazines are more than just reflections of a new architecture, of transformed minds and changing modes of production. They are themselves, together with the monuments, what constitute architecture’s modernity. We may therefore speak of a “discursive formation” of the architectural profession and discipline; an institutional site where its authors—architects and scholars, teachers and students—work within existing genres, develop new ones, organize concepts and objects into theories, and bring certain modes of discourse into play.1

Introduction

4

The interest in discourse, then, is not merely a monumentalizing of the text but is an interest in the institution of architecture, that is, architecture as a profession and discipline.2 The profession and the discipline, both thoroughly modern concepts, both essential to grasping architecture’s value in modern society, must nonetheless be distinguished. The former refers not only to the historic organization of experts that emerged in the nineteenth century but, more importantly, to those aspects of the institution that make it possible for individuals to participate in architecture as a recognizable and legitimate social practice. As much as architects are enabled by their participation within a larger social construct, they are also constrained by these same external conditions. Though the history of the profession and the discipline are irrevocably intertwined in the construction of the architectural institution, they do not run parallel. The discipline, like the profession, is formed within its social boundaries and resources but sustains a relatively autonomous ﬁeld of practice. It is the body of knowledge and skills, to borrow Stanford Anderson’s deﬁnition, that “cannot be reduced to the constructs of other ﬁelds.” The discipline “can be known without tracing every work realized by the profession” and is the “possession of a wider set of actors than is the profession.”3 It is simultaneously an open and closed system: open in the sense that it can be taught, learned, and transmitted, and closed in the sense that it requires a commitment to a conventional system of knowledge and practices. Though I inevitably deal with the profession, it is the discipline that is my central concern. The idea of discipline is an acknowledgment of a body of skill, knowledge, and experience that enables architects to perform something very valuable that those without it cannot—that is, they are able to design buildings. There are certainly good architects as well as bad ones; and there are those exceptional individuals that are capable of producing profound work. Yet as much as their talent, there is an underlying discipline that enables these particular subjects to function as architects. I imagine, however, that this commonsensical statement will invite doubts even among those who have gone through a rigorous architectural training, or those who have tried to convince a client of the worth of their design. Though the discipline is taught at our schools and practiced as a profession, many will confess that it is difﬁcult to deﬁne, and perhaps some will even question whether there is any such thing. The question of discipline is not only a historical and philosophical problem but one that

Introduction

5

architects face in their everyday practice. It is a question of beginning and process, of what one sees, reads, and draws. In the historical formation of modern architecture, the indeterminacy of the answers to these basic questions is a condition made explicit with the demise of the Beaux-Arts discipline, the last instance in which a speciﬁc system of architectural design was dominant in the Western world. In the case of the United States, the French system was codiﬁed into the country’s architectural institutions in the late nineteenth century. After this system reached the peak of its inﬂuence at the turn of the century, the First World War triggered a process that would fundamentally alter the profession and discipline of architecture—a history full of ﬂuctuations, but one that witnessed, by the late 1930s, the disruption, transformation, and ultimate dissolution of the academic system. It is in these interwar years that I trace the vicissitudes of two modern yet distinct discursive formations in American architecture: what I have respectively called the discourse of the portfolio and the discourse of the diagram. While the portfolio was the central genre in the discursive formation of the Beaux-Arts discipline, the diagram is most often identiﬁed with that confused modernist tenet referred to as functionalism. However, contrary to certain conventional expectations, this story of the changing nature of architectural discourse cannot simply be described as the demise of the portfolio and the birth of the diagram; nor should it be understood as a parallel reﬂection of the fall of academism and the rise of modernism. Clearly, we have long since departed from the notion of the Beaux-Arts as the adversary of modernism. With the nineteenth-century Beaux-Arts system in America, we must remind ourselves that we are in a post-Durand, postromantic pensionnaire era, that is, in a fully secularized and rationalized classical tradition. I would underscore that Beaux-Arts-trained architects were designing hospitals, train stations, ofﬁce buildings, and museums, often providing innovative designs for difﬁcult, complex, and thoroughly modern building programs. I would in fact subscribe to Alan Colquhoun’s observation that the academic tradition was “the beginning of a revolution rather than the end of a period of decline.”4 Yet at the same time, one must also acknowledge that there is a fundamental gap between a discipline that accepts a set of conventional forms as given and one that does not. Twentieth-century modern architecture was neither the inevitable successor to a dead academic architecture,

Introduction

6

nor simply an undisturbed extension of a positivistic paradigm predetermined in the nineteenth century. Its emergence was a historical process immanent to the demise of the academic discipline. Much of what we understand as modern architecture was born not as a separate entity, but on the ruins of the academic system. As an essential part of understanding the basic conditions of modern architecture, we must look more carefully at what has been lost, what remains, and what has been altered in this process. If the Beaux-Arts system was the last instance of widely shared conventions holding a discipline together, then it is clear that we cannot assume a singular discipline of modern architecture but must speak of it in the plural. At the same time, we may identify, discuss, and criticize the conditions in which architects have constructed their different approaches to architecture. This understanding is consistent with Michel Foucault’s argument that disciplines are organized in opposition to individual authorship. According to Foucault, “disciplines are deﬁned by groups of objects, methods, their corpus of propositions considered to be true, the interplay of rules and deﬁnitions, of techniques and tools” that constitute an “anonymous system.”5 The boundary of this anonymous and discursive system is admittedly difﬁcult to delineate, particularly when it embraces a wide range of texts produced outside of the profession to be part of its intellectual makeup. Since its discursive ﬁeld is always larger than the direct products of the architectural community, it is never a homogeneous formation. For example, in order to work in a particular social milieu or to attain a certain kind of patronage, architects may feel the need to be acquainted with a set of texts that may not be essential to their disciplinary skills. On the other hand, there may be a body of knowledge, though basic to the architect’s competence, that is nevertheless regarded as external to the discipline, and thereby deemed marginal to the architect’s social deﬁnition. In other words, there is a hierarchy within the discursive ﬁeld of architecture, one in which distinctions between core and marginal texts can be made. And even though this study has few aspirations to being an exhaustive survey, it can thus stake claim to certain key genres of the ﬁeld. To reiterate, these texts are neither the innocent tools of practice nor merely its end product, but the very constituents of practice. This is why I have chosen discourse as the central term of this study instead of other possible terms such as representation, text, or sign. Discourse, simply put, is language and signs in use. To approach

Introduction

7

architectural representations as discourse is not to examine them as reﬂections of consciousness or objective conditions but to inquire into the power of their utility and materiality. Within the productive relations of architecture and its adjacent institutions, documents are not only read but are acted upon as material artifacts, almost always involving transformations from one mode of representation to another. The term discourse is particularly pertinent to architecture because of the social and productive use of signs necessarily entailed in architectural documents. The transformation of the discipline is therefore to be approached as a history of modes of knowledge and a history of discursive practices. The nature of this kind of history can be more clearly understood when contrasted with a “developmental” history of modern architecture.6 By the latter I mean a history of selected architects, monuments, and texts that are programmatically woven together and driven by a preﬁgured “necessity.” Perhaps the most widely recognized example of this teleological history is Nikolaus Pevsner’s Pioneers of the Modern Movement. The modern, for Pevsner, was the result of an evolution toward a congruence between the subject and the objective conditions of modernity. Modern architecture is the product of this synthesis, the canonic monuments deemed the genuine reﬂection of a mechanistic civilization.7 The reverse of Pevsner’s narrative can be seen in the “negative dialectics” of Manfredo Tafuri’s Architecture and Utopia. In the latter, the trajectory of capitalism drives architecture to a series of projects that can only be compensations for the loss of “those tasks which capitalist development has taken away from architecture.”8 In both cases, the notion of contradiction becomes the basis of a history of resolutions. For Pevsner, the resolution was manifested in the stylistic coherence of buildings. For Tafuri, all attempts at resolution, as much as they reﬂect a certain truth of capitalist society, were ultimately false. And hence he approached his history as an ideological critique of those attempts at negation and synthesis. The primary materials in this kind of narrative are buildings, projects, and drawings, seen as reﬂections of a historical condition; in the case of Pevsner, of resolutions in cultural forms, or in the case of Tafuri, of false resolutions at the level of ideology. As Fredric Jameson pointed out in his comment on the latter, a key feature of dialectical historiography was “the restructuring of the history of an art in terms of a series of situations, dilemmas, contradictions, in terms of which individual works, styles, and form can be seen as so many responses or determinate symbolic acts.”9

Introduction

8

Consequently, developmental history concentrates on those texts produced speciﬁcally for their symbolic function—on polemical drawings and avant-garde gestures—rather than documents produced within everyday practice. More significantly, in selecting those documents that conform to a predetermined line of development, such a narrative must distinguish between genuine and false representations of consciousness, experience, and objective conditions. The modern is then sewn together by the threads of those representations that are deemed true to its conditions. A Beaux-Arts drawing, an avant-garde project, a catalogue of standard products is neither a true nor a false representation of the twentieth century. I am here concerned less with what they symbolize, and certainly not with whether that symbol is true to its age, than with how they are used. The concern with discourse originates neither from a hermeneutic quest for truth nor from its corollary, the indeterminate play of textuality. We must not lose sight of the simple fact that the distinct character of architectural representation resides in the assumption of building, or the projection of that possibility. The way we look at, read, and transform texts is manifestly linked to how we understand and practice modern architecture. Furthermore, I would propose that this discursive instrumentality of modern architecture is not an inherent cause to lament the loss of its value, poetic or otherwise. Even if an architectural drawing is self-consciously unbuildable or has little or no chance of being built, its peculiar power lies in the basic assumption of projection. These conditions of architectural discourse require us to look at its materiality; at its ability to make, substitute, and link worlds; at its wayward power that so often moves in different directions from intentions and concepts. Representation includes not only the reﬂected image on the mirror but the mirror itself. If functionality is what characterizes discourse, it would seem a concept propitious to the study of the diagram, whose deﬁning quality lies also in its instrumentality.10 As I shall argue in the following pages, this does not necessarily mean that the discourse of the diagram is solely the domain of rationalist ideologues and narrowminded functionalists. What I pursue is a critical understanding of how the notion of function is constructed and what it means for architecture to be an instrument. The discourse of the diagram is more than the diagram itself. For though the diagram is the key element, the discourse is a wider formation, a condition in which architects

Introduction

9

construct the discipline in divergent ways. Whereas the Beaux-Arts-trained architect fashioned the discipline through the portfolio, the discourse of the diagram provides a new range of possibility in the architect’s relation to words, images, and buildings. This book is then a historical inquiry into a basic condition of modern architecture. I stress this deﬁnition because the book deals with an era and a concept— modernity in American architecture during the 1920s and 1930s—that have traditionally been difﬁcult to narrate. The absence of an identiﬁable avant-garde, of buildings that conform to established canons, and the apparent paucity of polemical literature have contributed to the difﬁculty of writing the story of modern architecture in America. In its simplest forms, there have been two poles of narrative approaches to the subject. At one end, there is the history based on the architect as the authorial subject of modern architecture—a history of winners and losers. At the other end, there is the image of America as the locus of “modernization without modernism”—a naive modernity of grain elevators, engineers, and Fords. In an attempt to rectify the exclusive nature of this subjective and developmental framework, to rescue some viable notion of modernism, one may add and distinguish different forms of modernism by inserting multiple actors into the stream of architectural history. One may also extend the inquiry into the spheres of mass culture and the vernacular. The discussion, however, is often conﬁned within the framework of a transcendent subject or an autonomous unfolding of the architectural object. This study attempts neither to recover some hidden avant-garde nor to present modernity as a purely objective condition. Instead, it constitutes some ﬁrst steps toward understanding the formation of modern architecture in terms of changing disciplines and discursive practices. And for this to be possible, one must accept the historicity of the subject and object, departing from the authorial and representational basis of developmental history. I thus approach the discourse of the diagram not as a subjective invention, but rather as a historical condition of the subject. It is not too difﬁcult to understand that, in charting a history of the diagram, the important issue is not whether it was Walter Gropius or Lillian Gilbreth who invented the architectural diagram. My project is to construct a “ﬁeld of regularity for various positions of subjectivity” in modern architecture.11 It is a kind of history that Foucault has called the study of “practical systems”:

Introduction

10

Here we are taking as a homogeneous domain of reference not the representations that men give of themselves, not the conditions that determine them without their knowledge, but rather what they do and the way they do it. That is, the forms of rationality that organize their ways of doing things . . . and the freedom with which they act within these practical systems, reacting to what others do, modifying the rules of the game, up to a certain point.12 I propose that modern architecture is not just a set of monuments, ideas, and modes of expression but a quasi-autonomous discipline that participates in and, in certain ways, transforms the social and material structures of society. In this narrative, modernism loses much of its privileged position as the creative force of modern architecture. At the same time, I must stress that this approach does not entail a devaluation of individual work. This is not a position, as it has often been misunderstood, that does away with the problems of intention, ideology, and individual intervention. As much as this work seeks to deﬁne the role of texts in the constitution of knowledge, it involves the constant inquiry into the role of subjectivity or, to use Foucault’s expression, the “function of the author.”13 The study seeks to understand the boundaries and structures of the possible—conditions that are basic to architects but do not determine what they can do. It is an inquiry into the historical conditions in which modern architecture strives to become a viable discipline.

Part One THE PORTFOLIO AND ACADEMIC DISCOURSE: FORMATION AND CRISIS

1 DISCOURSE, MASS ARCHITECTURE, AND THE ACADEMIC PROFESSION

Article II. The objects of this Institute are, to unite in fellowship the Architects of this continent, and to combine their efforts so as to promote the artistic, scientiﬁc and practical efﬁciency of the profession. Article III. The means of accomplishing this end shall be: regular meetings of the members, for the discussion of subjects of professional importance; the reading of essays; lectures upon topics of general interest; a school of education of Architects; [exhibitions] of architectural drawings; a library; a collection of designs and models; and any other means calculated to promote the objectives of the institute. Constitution of The American Institute of Architects, as amended 1867

Discourse, Mass Architecture, and the Academic Profession

13

The Discursive Formation of Mass Architecture and the Academic Profession One of the fundamental characteristics of the institution of architecture is that it is constituted by discourse. As the 1867 charter of the American Institute of Architects (AIA) illustrates, drawings and books, exhibitions and lectures were indispensable to the institutional settings and practices that composed what society and the AIA deemed to be “architecture.” In contrast to older trades such as carpentry and land surveying, architecture was established as an institution through the agency of an array of texts and images. During the latter half of the nineteenth century, in concert with its claim to the status of high art, both architectural drawing and the literary practice of history, theory, and criticism began to grow in volume and complexity. In terms of the profession, contracts, construction documents, and speciﬁcations codifying the relation between architect, client, and contractor gradually emerged as essential components to its constitution as a legitimate social practice. In America, the historical formation of this architectural discourse was particularly complex because the social and material conditions in which the profession strove to establish its identity were themselves undergoing radical change. Coinciding with new developments in technology and changes in the building industry, there was a radical change in the way printed discourse was produced and distributed. The building of a vast railroad network, favorable legislation on postal rates, and innovations in technical processes provided the impetus for an explosion of printed matter. This mass-circulation discourse was to be absorbed and consumed by a new kind of reading audience: an educated, urban middle class eager for cultural identity. In many cases, its themes overlapped with those of the architectural community, and consequently from the beginning of its development architecture had to struggle to deﬁne its legitimacy within and against a ﬂood of competing discourses on building, decoration, and domesticity. After initial difﬁculties during the early decades of the nineteenth century, the architectural profession managed to consolidate its position during the postbellum period. The movement toward professionalization—the establishment of an educational system, architectural journals, and licensing laws—was led by architects trained at the École des Beaux-Arts or at American schools under its inﬂuence. More importantly, training at a prestigious European institution lent an aura of cultivated expertise to the architect.1 From the late nineteenth century to the early 1930s, it was in

The Portfolio and Academic Discourse: Formation and Crisis

14

fact possible to identify the discipline of architecture with the pedagogical principles of the Beaux-Arts. Through individual activities and agencies such as the American Academy in Rome and the Beaux-Arts Society of Architects (later renamed the Beaux-Arts Institute of Design), an inseparable link was formed between professional practice and architectural education. By the end of the nineteenth century, the École des Beaux-Arts came to signify a clearly deﬁned method and philosophy of architectural design. Indeed, one could attribute the “Renaissance” of American architecture to the “inﬂuence of a deﬁnite system by which all the young architects [were] trained.”2 It is in this sense that I characterize the architectural institution of this era as an “academic profession.” The emergence of architecture in nineteenth-century America can thus be described in terms of a dialectic of mass culture and autonomous art. When speaking of a mass culture of architecture, one may ﬁrst think of the new building types of the nineteenth century—department stores, arcades, museums, railroad stations, and so on. These architectural environments surely provided the setting for new modes of spatial, visual, and social experiences peculiar to a developed capitalist society. My interest in “mass architecture,” however, lies not in the experience of environments produced within the domain of “high architecture,” but in a type of building institution characterized by its internal logic, mode of social appropriation, and speciﬁc audience. My focus is on the relationship between the discursive formation of mass architecture and the academic profession, a dichotomy that would be maintained until its disruption in the early decades of the twentieth century. The birth of this discourse of mass architecture was signaled by the circulation of a new set of books, magazines, and catalogues concerned with a variety of domestic and architectural matters. These texts were not conﬁned to the internal use of the building industry but drew their audience from a growing middle class. The discursive formation of mass architecture followed two distinct nineteenth-century genres: the “advice” book and the catalogue. The former consisted of books and magazines aimed at enlightening a mostly female audience on a wide range of literary, scientiﬁc, and artistic subjects.3 Topics related to architecture—ranging from household management, interior decoration, and gardening, to problems of sanitation and plumbing—were central to the genre’s goal of cultivating middle-class norms of domesticity. Among its many types of literature, the “house pattern book” was the most architectural, addressing architects and builders as well as lay audiences.4

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15

Catalogues, on the other hand, were already in widespread use by the midnineteenth century. As the key medium for advertising and distributing massproduced goods, catalogues and advertisements constituted the dominant discursive modes of a nascent consumer society—the critical link between industrial production and mass consumption. The catalogues related to building dealt mainly with prefabricated ornament, structural elements, and mechanical devices. And in the selection of these materials and components, they were used not only by architects and builders but also by homeowners.5 During the late 1870s, another type of architectural catalogue appeared in the form of “plan books.” Created by ﬁrms such as Palliser, Palliser and Company and Robert Shoppell, they mark the birth of what is called the “stock plan” or “mail-order architecture” business in America.6 This was a system in which the prospective homeowner would ﬁrst acquire a catalogue—typically illustrated with standard plans, perspectives, and elevations—at a very low price (twenty-ﬁve cents for a copy of Shoppell’s Modern Houses in 1887). The owner would then select one or several design items and order them by mail, whereupon a full set of blueprints, speciﬁcations, and contracts would be delivered at a price often lower than one-ﬁfth of an architect’s design fee for a comparable house. Often accompanied by discussions of architectural style, renovation, and furnishing, the plan book could also function as an advice book. It is generally acknowledged that the catalogue and pattern book superseded the builder’s guide.7 Widely consulted during the ﬁrst half of the nineteenth century, the builder’s guide consisted primarily of plate illustrations of classical orders and other ornamental details. There were few plans and elevations, and even less text. On the other hand, the pattern book, like most advice books, was composed mostly of text accompanied by plans and perspective views of rural detached houses. Architectural historians, approaching these texts as a reﬂection of changing styles and tastes, have viewed this transition from the builder’s guide to the pattern book as a phenomenon that paralleled the decline of the Greek revival and the rise of the picturesque.8 Adding to this interpretation, we should note that there was a fundamental break between the discursive practices of the builder’s guide and the pattern book. If the former was used in a preindustrial era when the carpenter and architect were independent designers, builders, and supervisors of a handicraft process, most pattern book houses built after the Civil War were based on balloon frame construction embellished with prefabricated details. While the builder’s guide assumed that the

The Portfolio and Academic Discourse: Formation and Crisis

1.1

16

Prefabricated cast-iron columns from

Buffalo Eagle Iron Works, Catalogue of Architectural Design, 1859.

carpenter, housewright, and architect were interchangeable concepts, the pattern book emerged amidst a more complex and fragmented industry, one that was increasingly involved in speculative developments. Mobilizing an array of unskilled labor, the new industry evolved a building process that brought about the decline of the local carpenter’s role as planner and the emergence of a competitive relationship between architect and mass builder.9 In effect, the pattern book and catalogue provided the prospective middle-class consumer with a cultural and economic medium of architectural patronage. On the one hand, the pattern book supplied an authoritative cultural and architectural program. In its inﬁnite and repetitive varieties, the Victorian idea of moral and social reform, within the uncertainties and decadence of industrial capitalism, was the thematic constant of this genre. Like most advice books, the pattern book emphasized the physical environment as a medium of reform and functioned as a key agent in the

Discourse, Mass Architecture, and the Academic Profession

1.2

17

Plate of cottage house, “Design 16,” from Palliser’s New Cottage Home and Details, 1876.

The Portfolio and Academic Discourse: Formation and Crisis

1.3

18

Tuscan order from Asher Benjamin,

The American Builder’s Companion, 1826.

cultivation of this moral program. On the other hand, the catalogue provided a mode of architectural service realized through the act of consumption. Through this “characteristically American kind of book,”10 a mass architectural patronage in tune with populist notions of industrial democracy was secured. In summary, while the pattern book provided the program, the catalogue provided the plans. The mail-order stock plan business, a logical development of the pattern book, was thus successful in exploiting two sets of contradictory practices and ideologies: ﬁrst, the passive and contemplative reading of the advice book was joined with the catalogue, a visual medium that required the participatory act of consumption; and second, a preﬁgured and authoritative social program of domesticity was combined with the democratic logic of choice and assemblage. Simply put, the advice genre provided the plan book with a built-in moral and aesthetic program. Interdependent and inextricably linked

Discourse, Mass Architecture, and the Academic Profession

1.4

19

“Design XX: Bracketed Country House” from

Andrew Jackson Downing, The Architecture of Country Houses, 1850.

in forming a mass culture of architecture, they established a comfortable marriage of architectural form and cultural meaning. Following nineteenth-century ideals of professionalism, the academic profession strove to maintain its autonomy in the midst of this mass industrial society. According to Burton J. Bledstein, the mid-Victorian professional identiﬁed himself as a “self-governing individual exercising his trained judgment in an open society” and thus endeavored “to achieve a level of autonomous individualism, a position of unchallenged authority heretofore unknown in American life.”11 This ideal of autonomy permeated through all the diverse aspects of architecture’s institutional formation. It was evident ﬁrst and foremost at the level of professional jurisdiction.12 As the movement toward professionalization intensiﬁed in the 1860s, architecture was consciously presented as a cultural institution detached from the political and economic

The Portfolio and Academic Discourse: Formation and Crisis

20

constrictions of capitalist society. Accordingly, the profession rejected mass architecture as its other. On the one hand, claiming superiority over popular builders in their ethics, expertise, and artistic credentials, architects argued for exclusive jurisdiction over the building process. On the other hand, the new mass builders and older building trades, while staking claim to the title of architect, attacked the elitism of the academic profession. Consequently, throughout the nineteenth century, the proper substance and boundary of “the architect” became a key issue, a problematic and unstable term at the center of intensely competing cultural programs. It could be and often was used to gain authority in various activities such as land surveying, speculative building, carpentry, design, and of course, the production of cultural texts. Despite their appeal to populist sensibilities, mass discourses still relied on cultural authority, and the authors of pattern books and plan books quite logically coveted the title of architect. Great controversy and consternation resulted, and the architectural profession promptly condemned them as popular builders unﬁt to hold the title.13 In order to establish exclusive legal jurisdiction over the terms architecture and architect, it was necessary for the academic profession to distinguish its role from those of the traditional trades and mass builders. In the ﬁrst standard AIA contract of 1868, it was taken for granted that the architect would oversee construction, or the job of “superintendence.” However, by 1884, a revised contract began to distinguish superintendence from supervision, and consequently architects have until recently been forbidden from engaging directly in construction.14 During the same years, another type of document that gained wide usage was the speciﬁcation. Though the history of its development is unclear, the use of the speciﬁcation became a general practice as the scale and complexity of building began to grow.15 Along with the contract, the speciﬁcation deﬁned the architect’s jurisdiction over the tradesman in the ﬁeld and in part marked the transformation of the latter into a construction laborer. With the instigation of architectural licensing laws, ﬁrst passed in 1897 in Illinois, many of the jurisdictional disputes among builders, craftsmen, engineers, contractors, and architects found a legal compromise. Thus, the advent of licensing led to a clearer deﬁnition of the architect’s speciﬁc domain. The key effect of this institutional discourse was the distancing of the architect from the material process of building. It not only implied that the architect was detached from business interests but, furthermore, demonstrated his superior ethical and cultural qualiﬁcations.

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21

As much as architects strove to attain an elevated status in American society, they also hoped to bring a sense of autonomous value to the architectural monument. For the academic profession, architecture was most clearly deﬁned by its capacity to express the highest ideals of America. Though assuming an industrial society of diverse cultures, it nonetheless believed that this ephemeral and contingent formation of modernity, to borrow Baudelaire’s terms, did not produce a permanent diffusion of values. Convinced that a clear cultural hierarchy could still be established, the architect’s task was to transcend the vagaries of American society toward “the eternal and the immutable.”16 In other words, architecture and its monuments were deﬁned in antithesis to the mundane realities of capitalist society. The most conspicuous though certainly not the most successful exemplars to this deﬁnition of architecture can be found in the numerous expositions of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries—from the Philadelphia Centennial, through the World’s Columbian Exposition of 1893, to the Panama-Paciﬁc Exposition of 1915. The Columbian Exposition was particularly signiﬁcant as a cultural text that exempliﬁed what Lawrence Levine has called the emergence of cultural hierarchy in America. The physical structure of the exposition—the division between the classical Grand Basin and the popular carnivals of the Midway Plaisance—was an emblematic display of the dichotomy between the academic profession and mass architecture. As Alan Trachtenberg observed, the exposition was itself a proclamation that “reality must be sought in the ideality of high art. The Court of Honor provided the center around which the rest of White City was organized in hierarchical degree.”17 The culture of the academic profession, embodied in the uniﬁed language of the central Court, was reafﬁrmed by the Midway Plaisance—the space of overt consumption and exotic pavilions. If the Midway was symbolic of the undisciplined use of eclectic images, the uniqueness of the Basin’s architecture was secured through the continuity of the classical tradition. In a world of changing fashions and ﬂeeting experiences, the uniﬁed style of the Basin provided a constant principle that Beaux-Arts architects applied to their design of modern institutions. The center represented what America ought to be; and its realization was possible only through the disciplined intervention of architecture. As Henry Van Brunt, fully conscious of his role in the fair, pointed out, “the high function of architecture is not only to adorn this triumph of materialism, but to condone, explain and supplement it.”18

The Portfolio and Academic Discourse: Formation and Crisis

22

This “high function” of adorned and supplemented representation found further patronage in the City Beautiful movement, so profoundly inﬂuenced by the image of the White City. The worldly aspirations of an imperial America and the search for an internal civic order provided the perfect political and cultural context for the values of the academic profession to be projected into the reform of the city. In other words, the pursuit of a uniﬁed architecture concurred with the ideological needs of businessmen, politicians, and an enlightened middle class. According to Charles Moore, the biographer of both Daniel Burnham and Charles Follen McKim, architects had found receptive clients who no longer thought that they “spoke a foreign language.”19 As Elihu Root, secretary of state in Theodore Roosevelt’s cabinet, remarked in 1905, “the architects now for the ﬁrst time are beginning to have the nation with them.”20 The architect’s capacity to embellish public institutions such as museums and libraries with noble forms, and consequently to provide a monumental vision of a uniﬁed civic culture, was what separated high architecture from the unmediated representations of mass builders. Thus, in the two decades between the Columbian Exposition and the beginning of the First World War, architecture reached the height of its prestige—the era deemed the American Renaissance. Finally, the idea of autonomy permeated the body of knowledge and skills that formed the discipline of architecture. As mentioned in the introduction, the boundary and substance of the discipline cannot be easily and clearly delineated. This was also true in the nineteenth century, when the jurisdiction of the architect covered a wide and contentious ﬁeld of practice. Nevertheless, from the late nineteenth to early twentieth century, a representative sample of genres constituting the discursive ﬁeld of architecture can be identiﬁed. The list would consist of history texts, treatises, encyclopedias and dictionaries, journals, sketchbooks, builder’s guides, construction handbooks, speciﬁcations, and catalogues.21 Within this discursive field, we may further outline a hierarchy of core and marginal genres. One example of the latter would be the construction handbooks, among which Frank E. Kidder’s Architect’s and Builder’s Pocket-book was the most popular. This manual was referred to by diverse groups that included not only architects but also carpenters, mechanics, civil engineers, and other laypersons. Therefore, despite its wide use among architects and students, it was not considered essential to the academic profession’s self-definition. Moreover, Kidder’s Pocket-book was published

Discourse, Mass Architecture, and the Academic Profession

23

in duodecimo and smaller formats, designed specifically for portable reference when working on site. In distancing itself from the construction process, the academic profession relegated this kind of manual to the outer fringes of architectural knowledge. The catalogue was another essential yet marginal genre in the discursive ﬁeld of architecture. Even toward the end of the century, a period when architects came to rely heavily on standardized building components, the catalogue carried little significance for the discipline. Though architects were already grappling with what was called the “catalogue problem,” they regarded the catalogue as merely a means to an end, having no effect on the integrity of the design process. The trade catalogues that were sent to the architect’s ofﬁce came in various sizes and formats—from pocketsize to folios, from thin leaﬂets to hardbound books hundreds of pages thick. As far as the architect was concerned, the catalogue problem was one of sheer quantity and variation of information. The profession’s position concerning this problem was succinctly expressed in the “Sweet’s” Indexed Catalogue of Building Construction. When it was launched in 1906, Sweet’s was published by The Architectural Record Company (merged into Dodge Corporation in 1912), which also owned Architectural Record, Real Estate Record and Builder’s Guide, and Dodge Reports. In the introduction to the ﬁrst single volume edition of Sweet’s, Thomas Nolan, professor of architecture at the University of Pennsylvania, repeatedly emphasized that the catalogue was not “reading material” but information for reference, belonging in the “same category of the dictionary, or the telephone book.” Its guiding principle was the “reference idea,” the “logical way of escape from this muddle.” In other words, though the information in the catalogue was necessary to architectural design, it was not treated as an integral part of the discipline. The issue was simply one of organizing the information in a “concise and systematic way.”22 There was no sense that the proliferation of catalogues could somehow affect the nature of architectural practice. Instead, the notion of a “scientiﬁc standard catalogue and index of building materials” was established to reinforce the ethical dimensions of professional practice. From the producer’s standpoint, the catalogue was a form of advertising. Based on this deﬁnition, the architectural profession made it clear that it would not be susceptible to the manufacturer’s coercive techniques and would follow strict ethical and architectural standards in the selection of materials and components. In spite of the catalogue’s central role in a

The Portfolio and Academic Discourse: Formation and Crisis

1.5

24

Page from “Plumbers’ Specialties

and Supplies” section in “Sweet’s” Indexed Catalogue of Building Construction, 1906.

design process permeated by the conditions of industrial production, architects were not obliged to reassess the nature of their discipline. In the ﬁrst decade of the twentieth century, there was little doubt that they were the subjects of an architectural process detached from the contingencies of mass production. If the catalogue was reluctantly accepted as a marginal part of architectural discourse, the pattern book and plan book were ﬁrmly rejected by the profession. As noted, for pattern books and others in the advice genre, the physical environment was important primarily as a medium for social reform. The internal principles of architecture were not the central concern. Or in the case of its most famous author, Andrew Jackson Downing, the principles of architectural design should not be sought internally but in architecture’s relation with social and natural conditions. Though historians such as Vincent Scully have convincingly demonstrated the relevance and depth of architectural thinking contained in the pattern books of Downing and his

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25

followers, authors like Downing and Calvert Vaux were exceptions, individual talents able to articulate their principles of design.23 In the catalogue and plan book, architecture retained its value as a commodity for consumption, thus contradicting the central concept of the academic profession: that its practice and product existed outside of the market. For the academic profession, neither culture nor architecture could be perceived as a commodity. “Architecture,” claimed Barr Ferree in the ﬁrst issue of Architectural Record, “is not an article of manufacture that can be produced on demand. It is one of the things not affected by supply and demand.”24 Thus, despite Scully’s central observation that Downing’s pattern books were origins of an important line of architectural thinking that ﬂowered in the work of Frank Lloyd Wright, the pattern book and plan book, as genres and discursive forms, were never an integral part of the academic profession. The commodiﬁcation of architecture, the logic of choice, assemblage, and the preﬁgured program, all ran against its professional and disciplinary ideals. The fragmented nature of this design and building process was rejected as an antithesis to the autonomous and uniﬁed discipline of architecture.

The Portfolio and the Architectural Journal If contracts and construction documents deﬁned architecture in relation to the exterior world, genres such as the portfolio, the theoretical treatise, and the historical textbook structured its internal epistemology. The latter constituted a body of knowledge exclusive to the architectural discipline, and in terms of architectural design, the portfolio was the most important genre of the academic profession. The history of the portfolio can be traced back to the ﬁrst illustrated architectural treatises—to Palladio, Serlio, and Vignola. The classic textbooks for students and architects of the nineteenth century were Vignola’s Regola delli cinque ordini d’architettura, Letarouilly’s Édiﬁces de Rome moderne, and Durand’s Recueil et parallèle des édiﬁces de tout genre, anciens et modernes. Unlike the coarse and fragmented display of architectural elements in the catalogue, the modern portfolio, using gravure and collotype techniques, displayed intricate full- and double-page reproductions of monuments and their

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1.6

26

Perspective view and plans of Palazzo Farnese from Paul Letarouilly, Édiﬁces de Rome mo-

derne, 1825–1860. The whole publication consisted of three volumes, containing 355 line drawings engraved on copper plates. Palazzo Farnese commanded twenty-ﬁve plates of its second volume.

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1.7

27

Ground-ﬂoor plan of Palazzo Farnese from Paul Letarouilly, Édiﬁces de Rome moderne, 1825–1860.

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28

Plan details of Palazzo Farnese from Paul Letarouilly, Édiﬁces de Rome moderne, 1825–1860. Front elevation of Palazzo Farnese from Paul Letarouilly, Édiﬁces de Rome moderne, 1825–1860.

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details. The original large-format folios were rare and expensive, which spawned numerous reduced-size reprints and student editions that could be acquired at a much cheaper price. Along with these grand publications, periodicals that carried contemporary work from Europe, such as the Croquis d’Architecture (1866–1898), Architektonisches Skizzenbuch (1852–1886), and Architectural Association Sketchbook (1867–1923), were also widely deployed as portfolios. The earliest of American architectural journals, such as Architectural Sketchbook and New York Sketch Book were in fact modeled after these European portfolios. As I shall later examine in detail, the ability to use the portfolio in the analysis and production of design was a key part of the architectural discipline. The basic purpose of the portfolio was “to place before Architects an absolutely reliable and correct reproduction of all that pertains to the practice of Architecture, so that an Architect, or for that matter anyone, could reproduce a given subject from a chimney-stack to a door knob.”25 Though not all reproductions were meant to be used in analytical fashion, the “plates” in many folios and periodicals could be detached from the binding to be studied and traced. In these plates, plan, section, and elevation were the dominant modes of representation; the plan, in particular, was considered the quintessential Beaux-Arts drawing. As we see in Letarouilly’s illustrations of the Palazzo Farnese, these orthographic projections framed their object as an identiﬁable and clearly delineated element (the classical orders, entranceways, vestibules, etc.), including the largest single element, the building as a whole. In the portfolio, this objectcentered system was the privileged, if not necessary, mode of architectural illustration. Compared to the plan and section, the perspective occupied a secondary position in the academic discipline. For example, a survey of the presentation requirements of MIT’s design studios, even until the mid-1930s, shows that students were almost never required to present perspective drawings.26 In ofﬁce practice, the perspective was regarded as an important sales tool in competitions and presentation drawings for clients. Usually executed by professional draftsmen, its appeal was to the layman rather than to the disciplined architect. Like the terse statement by Theodore Wells Pietsch that “no building is or can be composed in perspective,” one encounters countless warnings against the limits and dangers of the perspective.27 In the BeauxArts system, the perspective was considered an extroverted discourse rather than a medium essential to the internal construction of the discipline.

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In this context, the emergence of photography presents an interesting set of issues. Photography, in comparison with architectural drawing, undoubtedly had an immediacy that expanded the audience of architectural representation. As Mary N. Woods has shown, the peculiar power of the photographic image was already understood by astute architects such as H. H. Richardson.28 Yet when photography ﬁrst began to be widely used in the late 1880s, it was used less to explore its own qualities than to emulate architectural drawing. When photography aspired to the requirements of veracity and correspondence, when its function was simply to record the immobile dimensions of buildings, in the physical as well as historical sense, it stirred little controversy. The assumption was that the new technical apparatus did not affect the viewer’s traditional relation with the object of the camera. From John Ruskin to Viollet-le-Duc, photography, in continuing the object-centered mode of representation, was praised for providing accurate reproductions that eliminated the difﬁcult job of measurement and archaeological rendering.29 When the photograph was asked to do the same job as the measured drawing, the issue remained one of reproductive quality. We shall later see, however, that during the ﬁrst half of the twentieth century the function and perception of photography would change quite radically. In the nineteenth century, another genre of equal importance to the architectural profession was the architectural journal. Unlike the builder’s magazines that ﬂourished throughout most of the nineteenth century, an architectural periodical aspiring to the elevated notions of professionalism was ﬁnancially difﬁcult to maintain. Furthermore, because of the unsatisfactory quality of reproductions and fears of plagiarism, architects were often unwilling to display their work in this new medium. Despite such difﬁculties, by the turn of the century several architectural journals were established through the intervention of large publishers: American Architect and Building News (AABN), Architectural Record, Architectural Review, Brickbuilder (later Architectural Forum) in the Northeast, and Inland Architect in the Midwest. These journals became the major source through which the architectural community familiarized itself with the most recent projects and issues; consequently, the architectural community came to view the journals as a crucial medium in consolidating the profession.30 Because acquiring the proper portfolios was so difﬁcult, the most important function of the journals was to provide illustrations. As Mary N. Woods has accurately stated of the AABN, its illustrations were the magazine’s reason for existence,

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31

Photograph plate of doorway in Morden College from Marvyn E. Macartney, The Practical

Exemplar of Architecture, 1907. The photograph has the same function and mode of representation as the elevation drawing in ﬁgure 1.11. In the original edition of this publication, all the illustrations came in separate plates in a book cover that functioned more as a container box. 1.11

Measured drawing of doorway in Morden College from Marvyn E. Macartney, The Practical

Exemplar of Architecture, 1907. The plate is organized as a combination of elevation, plan, section, and detail.

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an observation that would apply to most American journals of the period.31 For example, Architectural Reprint, a short-lived journal dating to 1901, provided edited versions of foreign books, selecting “such material as will be of especial use in the drafting room.”32 Architectural Record was the exception in that it originated as a literary medium. As a verbal discourse, Record became the key medium through which the American architectural community came into touch with a literary culture of architecture. In most cases, however, the architectural journal functioned as a portfolio. In these journals, the portfolio was part of a well-ordered format characterized by the clear separation between different modes of discourse. There were generally three distinct sections in each issue: the portfolio, letterpress, and advertising. To get a sense of how the journal was typically organized, let us examine one typical sample from the turn of the century—the July 7, 1900, number of AABN. The issue began with a mostly verbal letterpress section comprised of brief reports on recent events and an installment of a travelogue serial (“A Day in Provence”) containing small sketches and photographs of buildings mentioned in the text. As was usually the case, the portfolio was placed separately from the letterpress section. In some instances, full-page illustrations could also be inserted between articles without having any association with the text. In this July 7 number, in connection with the travelogue, several pages of the portfolio were devoted to the ancient buildings in Arles. There were also drawings and photographs, such as a double-page spread of a “Detention Hospital” (ﬁgure 1.13), a photograph of a house (ﬁgure 1.14), and several other illustrations, all without connection to the letterpress section. Their verbal descriptions were not to be found in the plate but in a separate section within the letterpress. The text was generally kept to a minimum, and in this issue just the architect and title of the projects were mentioned, information already imparted in the plate. In other words, based on its quality as a designed artifact and a reproduction, each plate had to stand for itself without the aid of text. Advertisements were generally presented in two kinds of format: the full-page illustration, in which the object was usually presented as part of a complete environment, and the classiﬁed format. While the former could be inserted within the main text, the latter was placed either in the ﬁrst pages before the table of contents, or, as in the July 7 number, at the end of the magazine. Since its January 1884 number,

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1.12 1.13

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Opening page of letterpress section from American Architect and Building News, July 7, 1900. Double-page drawing of “Detention Hospital” from American Architect and Building News, July 7, 1900.

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Photograph plate of “House of A. G. Hyde” from American Architect and Building News, July 7, 1900.

AABN had grouped its advertising into a separate section, organizing its format and providing a list of advertisers. In the case of Architectural Record, F. W. Dodge’s original intent was to exclude all advertisements and trade notices and place them in Sweet’s, hence freeing the journal to pursue its loftier goals.33 Before the late 1920s, not only in AABN and Record but in almost all of the architectural journals, advertising was separated from the main text and paged separately. Until this time, the architectural periodical would be dominated by a segregated organization in which the portfolio, letterpress, and advertising each possessed its own distinct format. It is true, however, that the emergence of the architectural journal cannot simply be regarded as an extension of the traditional portfolio. At a basic level, one may agree with Beatriz Colomina that “architectural magazines, with their graphic and photo-

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35

1.15

“Rolling Venetian Blinds,” advertisement from American Architect and Building News,

1.16

Classiﬁed advertisement page from the international edition of American Architect and

July 20, 1878.

Building News, July 7, 1900.

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36

Table of contents for Architectural Forum, April 1917, showing clear division between plate and letterpress sections.

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37

graphic artillery, transform architecture into an article of consumption.”34 But at the same time we must also keep in mind the ambiguities of the nineteenth-century journal, for the new technologies that increased the mobility of images were both the engine of commodiﬁcation and the means of professional consolidation. Though the architectural journal was certainly part and parcel of the expanding commercial market of the nineteenth century, it also served as the vehicle in consolidating a discipline and profession that had to withstand the forces of commodity. The lack of institutional control over the access and distribution of discourse made it difﬁcult to form a community of shared knowledge and interests. The small community of educated and trained architects in America was convinced that the establishment of a professional journal would be crucial in the formation of a common discipline. They were in agreement with Charles Follen McKim, entrusted with editing H. H. Richardson’s New York Sketch Book of Architecture, in his belief that it was the journal’s role to supply “brother professionals” with the “means of keeping themselves and each other informed in regard to what is going on in their special world.”35 We must remember that, by the late nineteenth century, this special architectural world was one among many others, and indeed was competing with some of these others for recognition as a viable institution. In this increasingly complex world of competing discourses, the portfolio was the central medium in securing the academic profession’s autonomy. If the institutional locus of blueprints and manuals was the construction site, the portfolio’s place was in the more reclusive spaces of the atelier and the library. Though we may detect the spirit of the nineteenth-century atelier even in today’s digitalized studio, we must also understand the changing role of the architectural library. One of the most important tasks in forming a viable educational system was establishing an architectural library replete with the requisite folios, treatises, and journals. As the following account of architectural training at Columbia University at the turn of century reveals, the portfolio had formed an inseparable link between the atelier and the library—that is, between design and the book. The most engrossing part of the freehand course consists in the tracing, copying, analysing and designing incidental to the study of architectural history. This work continues throughout the four years, with a parallel course

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Architectural library in the Pierce Building at Massachusetts Institute of Technology, late nineteenth century.

1.19

Atelier in the Pierce Building at Massachusetts Institute of Technology during the late

nineteenth century. A series of ateliers were connected directly to the library shown in ﬁgure 1.18.

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in ornament under Professor Hamlin. The thoroughness of the attention given to it and the magniﬁcent library equipment that makes this thoroughness possible, may, we think, be designated as the chief characteristic of the school. If draughtsmenship be the portal, so to speak, to the Temple of Architecture, then the library for historical research may be considered as the inner cella or holy of holies.36 As we see in ﬁgures 1.18 and 1.19, atelier and library were interlocked in forming the institutional site of academic education in the late nineteenth century. As one historian has noted of the nineteenth century, “the monument was regarded as a recollection of the past and a reminder of the future; and in that sense it was also the residuum of the historical continuity of architectural meaning.”37 The portfolio, as the repository of past monuments and the source of future designs to be sketched along its pages, reproduced this continuity. Like most architectural drawings, the portfolio was not a unique work of art but a form of notation. In other words, like the musical score, it was produced to provide the means for its “performance” in another medium. Following Nelson Goodman’s distinction between autographic and allographic forms of representation, it clearly possesses the characteristics of the latter.38 But in contrast to working drawings, a special status can be awarded to the portfolio. While working drawings, like contracts and speciﬁcations, work within representational conventions shared with the building industry, the portfolio was not meant to be transposed into a different ﬁeld of discourse. It functioned as a productive agent of the same discursive medium that circulated within the architectural community. It is then not surprising that Paul Philippe Cret could state that, as far as architectural exhibitions were concerned, “it is not the public which is to be appealed to and beneﬁted but the architects themselves.”39 The portfolio, as I shall discuss in more detail in the following chapter, was constructed as a self-referential yet productive system of representation. It functioned, to use Bruno Latour’s term, as an “immutable mobile.”40 That is, the portfolio presented architectural objects that could be moved from Paris to New York without losing any of their objective power as usable norms. In the portfolio, an autonomous and internal history of architectural monuments was formed, reinforced rather than deprecated—at least for several decades—by modern reproduction.

2 THE PORTFOLIO AND THE ACADEMIC DISCIPLINE

Independence, courage and power of conception, apart from books and precedents—that is what the sketch in the loges signiﬁes, the bottom stone of the foundation of the Ecole system;—knowledge and skill, alive within a man’s own personality, yielding self-dependence and ability to bring the imagination to bear. . . . And then observe the care, the persistency, with which the organic character of the conception is insisted upon. This is not a question of mere aspect; of superﬁcialities, which may or may not be beautiful, according as a man is rich or poor in the more feminine qualities of the mind, the qualities whose search is for mere external beauty—this is a question of the very body and blood, the enduring substance and the living stream of the work of architecture,—the beauty which inheres in the structure itself. This is a question of the quality by virtue of which all great work has been great, by which the parts have been wrought into a whole of harmony and unity. What is a plan, a section, an elevation? They are nothing but technical symbols of the thing itself, which they shadow forth and check, and show to be harmonious, logical and right and otherwise. And this is what the School strives constantly to teach, and what thousands of our architects today, and yesterday more even than today, have been forgetting, and even virulently denying. John Galen Howard, “The Spirit of Design at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts,” Architectural Review, 1898

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Seeing, Reading, and Drawing: The Discursive Practice of the Portfolio For American architects of the late nineteenth and early twentieth century, the École des Beaux-Arts not only was a prestigious academic institution but represented a speciﬁc method and philosophy of architectural design. Though the Beaux-Arts is often identiﬁed with its exuberant historicism and elaborate renderings, its central pedagogical goal, as it was formulated in the latter half of the nineteenth century, was to train students to integrate the complex programs of modern building into a uniﬁed composition. Increasingly large numbers went to Paris to study the “modern French methods” and returned eager to apply and spread the fundamental lesson of the Beaux-Arts system, that is, the discipline of architectural design. In order to understand this complex system of pedagogy, theory, and practice, we must ﬁrst grasp the two essential components of its method—the analytique and the esquisse. The analytique, as a codiﬁed design problem dealing with the basic elements of architecture, provided the foundation for all subsequent training in design. It consisted of exercises in the design of relatively small architectural elements, either constituting part of a building—as in the case of a door, balcony, or loggia—or as a structure by itself, such as a small pavilion or ceremonial arch. In the Beaux-Arts system, style was a problem of the analytique—the study of architectural elements and their proper combination (disposition) into an integrated design. With Durand’s Précis des leçons d’architecture providing its extreme manifestation, the nineteenth century saw style deprecated into a secondary matter that did not appeal to the real achievements of architecture. Yet at the same time, even a glimpse through Durand’s Recueil (the “Grand Durand”) or William Robert Ware’s American Vignola, for many years the standard American textbook on the classical elements, would show that style remained basic to the discipline.1 As American Vignola’s summary plate on the classical orders succinctly shows, the ability to manipulate their proportion and modules was essential to all scales of design. If the analytique was concerned with the part, the esquisse dealt with the whole. Composition, another key Beaux-Arts concept that referred to the whole design, may also be considered a counterpart to the analytique.2 However, for reasons to be discussed later, it was the esquisse that more accurately represents the discipline of taking hold of the total architectural scheme. Through the esquisse, the student was

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Analytique of doorway by Désiré Despradelle, conducted as a student at the École des BeauxArts, 1885.

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“Comparison of the Orders,” summary plate of the proportional rules of the classical orders, from William Robert Ware, American Vignola, 4th edition, 1904.

trained to produce the quick sketch for the “parti” of the analytique or the larger Class B and A problems. The term parti derives from the phrase prendre parti (to take a side, make a decision) and to say a parti was well “found” (trouvé) was to praise a design for the integration of the whole. Quite simply, the esquisse was the critical founding act of design. To reiterate John Galen Howard’s statement prefacing this chapter, it was “the bottom stone of the foundation of the Ecole system.” With the student secluded from reference material, teachers, and other students and given only a short amount of time, the production of the esquisse was the most difﬁcult aspect of academic training. Moreover, students were not allowed to deviate from the original sketch, working with the original parti and, in the case of larger projects,

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Esquisse of plan layout for new campus of Massachusetts Institute of Technology, by Désiré Despradelle, ca. 1911.

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45

developing it into a rendered design that satisﬁed the requirements of the program. In the French concours system, departing from the original sketch would make the design hors de concours, allowing no credit toward advancement. Producing an esquisse that could be submitted to the concours was in itself difﬁcult; it required even greater skill to produce one that could be worked out successfully into a complete detailed project. Most American schools did not follow the competition method of accruing credits toward a diploma and maintained programs with a ﬁxed design curriculum. Nevertheless, the discipline of committing oneself to the original esquisse persisted within this framework. Furthermore, compensating for the absence of competitions within the curriculum, most schools participated in the competitions sponsored by the Beaux-Arts Institute of Design, which adhered strictly to the École’s concours system.3 The logic of the esquisse was also central to ofﬁce practice. As the following account of Stanford White’s approach to design illustrates, the esquisse was the foundation of design work in the hierarchically organized architectural ofﬁce. White’s designs were conceived spontaneously; and he was little bothered by precedent or formulas. In directing his draughtsmen he expressed his thought always with a pencil rather than discussion. After covering, often times, yards of tracing paper with alternative solutions for work under consideration, he would eliminate all but two or three of the most pleasing and turn these over to his draughtsmen to “do something”—which he would either reject at sight or (if this “something” was found favorable) use as the basis of future study.4 It was Stanford White’s responsibility and capacity in producing the quick sketch of the parti that distinguished him from his subordinates, who simply worked out his basic schemes. In another revealing statement concerning the status of the parti, Montgomery Schuyler stated that George B. Post had fulﬁlled his role as an architect as “the maker of the ‘parti,’ or the ‘layout’ which he devised with a view not only to convenience but also to dignity and impressiveness.” For Schuyler it was essentially the discipline of the parti that deﬁned the architect: “the man who does that, call him what you will, is an architect, even though he should leave all his buildings in the rough.”5

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Together, the analytique and the esquisse provided the basis for conceiving architecture as a whole in which all the parts were harmoniously integrated. The essence of Beaux-Arts teaching, so aptly summarized by A. D. F. Hamlin, was in “thinking of the building as an artistic unity . . . an object of artistic design in plan, composition and detail.”6 It was an understanding that elements exist as part of a whole, and that the whole can again be an element. To quote an example provided by Marco Frascari: “A column is a detail as well as it is a larger whole, and a whole classical round temple is sometimes a detail, when it is a lantern on the top of a dome.”7 In the Beaux-Arts system, a new design was conceived as a harmonious piece of an existing condition: an element of an architectural conﬁguration, as in the analytique, or more conceptually, part of an architectural type or urban fabric. The analytique was then not only a piece of the whole but also its miniature. That is, it was part of an analogical system rooted in the persistent tradition of classical mimesis. The function of the portfolio must therefore be understood within this mimetic system. As mentioned, Beaux-Arts training consisted of rigorous exercises in tracing and manipulating the illustrations of the portfolio, particularly those in plan, section, and elevation. Indication in Architectural Design, published in 1916 by David Varon, a former student in Julien Guadet’s atelier in Paris, provides an explicit elaboration of the way the portfolio was used in this process. Indication, the key term of the book, denoted the graphic and visual skills required in “training the eye and hand.”8 As a technique, indication was the skill of drawing at different levels of abstraction, whether the object was the scale of a sculptural column, a portal, or the plan of a large building. Cultivating the ability to move from simple diagrammatic lines to detailed form—a process that may be called ﬁguration—and the complementary skill of drawing simple lines with a generative idea in mind—the capacity for abstraction— were essential to academic pedagogy. Drawing had always been a crucial part of the academic discipline, and indication was not merely a static method of redrawing but a mechanism of altering and transforming. It is thus not surprising that a contemporary review of Varon’s book, essentially a manual on architectural representation, could consider it a “practical treatise in the theory of architecture.”9 In other words, indication was not merely a drawing technique but a process of seeing, reading, and drawing that underlay the Beaux-Arts logic of architectural creativity. The term itself contains the sense of drawing as an act of revealing something that is hidden, some-

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“ The Nine Stages in the Indication

of a Caryatid ” from David Varon, Indication in Architectural Design, 1916.

thing that is not immediately visible. An effective drawing revealed its basic idea— the parti—while simultaneously facilitating the further development of sections, elevations, and details. Placing a tracing paper over a plate and following the lines of the underlying plan, one was not merely copying, or in Beaux-Arts slang, “cribbing”; rather, it was an act of searching for the many lines already encrusted in the drawing. The nature of this process may be more precisely understood by following Varon’s description of how the Palazzo Farnese should be analyzed. We may easily imagine Varon using Letarouilly’s meticulous renderings of the Palazzo’s plan (ﬁgures 1.6, 1.7, and 1.8). Naturally the start must be made with the plan. In order the better to understand the grouping of the masses, and their relation, the student must disregard small details and, no matter how elaborate the plans he consults may

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Levels of indication in the progression of an analytique: from simple sketch to rendered project, from Ernest Pickering, Architectural Design, 1933.

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Analytical study of the Palazzo Farnese from David Varon, Indication in Architectural

Design, 1916. Refer to the Farnese engravings in Letarouilly, Édiﬁces de Rome moderne, in ﬁgures 1.6, 1.7, 1.8.

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be, his ﬁrst sketch will be like Figure 1, Plate XXIV [ﬁgure 2.6 in this book] which shows what is called the block plan, where only the courts and circulations are indicated in white, while the rest is hatched. He will observe that the rear parts are thicker than the sides; and that the circulation vestibules are likewise more generous in the former than in the latter. He can easily read the plan at least in so far as concerns the relationship of the parts to one another and to the whole. He remarks at a glance the thickness of the front wing, which with its monumental access constitutes the most important part of the structure, involving the reception halls and galleries, while the sides are assigned to functions of comparatively lesser importance. He also notes that the circulations on either side are proportionate to the thickness of the structure.10 In this passage, Varon is asking the student to look carefully at the Farnese plan and reconstruct its basic parti. In the ﬁrst sketch, the student must read and draw the basic outline of the plan, its circulation system and the distribution of inner and outer space. Even at this scale, we can see that the parti drawing indicates the relative size of the column elements in key areas of the plan. Varon then asks the “analytical student” to consider the same plan in detail. The ﬁrst story being the most important, he sketches it, (Figure 2) still on a rather small scale, where he can not do more than indicate the component parts, yet, thanks to the delicate sense of touch which has developed, he can present a fair idea of this plan in spite of the simpliﬁcation and the smallness of the scale. For instance, the piers of the court are merely indicated by dots which, however, are heavier than those representing the columns of the front vestibule. The student, being struck by these interesting piers, sketches the plan of one in detail, as in Figure G. The same process of detailing is used in case of all parts offering a peculiar interest.11 The next step is then to read the elements in relation to the parti, and subsequently to visualize the whole three-dimensional mass and space through the plan and its details. In this move to detail, Letarouilly’s plate of the plan elements in ﬁgure 1.8

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would have been the constant source of reference. As one can see from drawings A to F in Varon’s plate, the orders and piers are either hatched or shadowed in such a way that ornament is read as part of the wall mass. There is no distinction between structure and ornament, and it is irrelevant whether the surface is cladding or part of the structural mass. As Marco Frascari pointed out, “the analytique as graphic analysis of details had its development in a period in which architects did not have to prepare working drawings showing the construction of details.”12 The wall and its ornament—the poché—are treated not as a tectonic entity but as a gestalt, a visual mass seen in section. For example, in the half-column section G, the outline of the order not only is clearly delineated but is extended into the wall mass, indicating the diameter of this hypothetical cylindrical mass. Though that is not the way the vestibule structure is physically constructed, that is the way it must be visualized: a planar mass that can be extended vertically into a three-dimensional geometry, through which the height, elevation, and spatial quality of the inner court can be visualized. The architect must be able to pull up the plans and push through the sections and, along the way, determine the contours of space and movement. As John Galen Howard noted, the properly trained student “has above all achieved the power to see things in the round, as it were, objectively and of three dimensions, not ﬂat upon paper.”13 With its possibility for simultaneous views of plan, section, elevation, and vaulting, Choisy’s worm’seye axonometrics in his Histoire de l’architecture are perhaps the best-known drawings that demonstrate this visual and structural principle, a mode of vertical and horizontal extension based on the principles of descriptive geometry.14 Hence in the BeauxArts system, it is clear that we are dealing with geometrical masses and voids, organized primarily as a visual experience. As was often stated, with both derogatory and positive intentions, the student of the École was “taught to plan with his eyes.”15 Yet at the same time, it must also be underscored that the object of the architect’s gaze was not the bare and “valueless” lines of geometric ﬁgures but a densely encoded mass of conventional ornament. In other words, within the lines of these drawings, particularly in the plan and section, there was a depth accumulated through the history of architecture, the interpretations of a building’s “character,” exemplary solutions to thematic problems in architecture, and variations within the norms of classicism. Furthermore, the plan was synchronically associated with the different

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Worm’s-eye axonometric drawing of

Sainte-Geneviève church from Auguste Choisy, Histoire de l’architecture, vol. 2, 1889.

aspects of the project, such as its construction, space, and facade. To follow Guadet, one must “read” a plan as one reads a book or a musical score: “Yes, there are beautiful plans and I ﬁnd this a legitimate expression—but in the sense that good books are good because we read them or a musical score is good because of its content and not because of the arabesque look of the calligraphy with which it is written.”16 A good plan sustained a depth and transparency achieved through the dessin techniques of entourage, poché, and mosaïque—graphic codes that made the plan legible to an architectural audience. Echoing Guadet’s analogy with the musical score, J. Stewart Barney offered the following assessment of the Beaux-Arts plan: By the French teaching, the plan is an assemblage of symbolic indications, and when rendered in accordance with their rules of shades, tones, values, etc., is as perfectly understood by their judges as would be a musical score to the leader of an orchestra, and establishes between them and the student a

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Plan of auditorium for the Phoebe Hearst Competition, University of California, Berkeley, by Désiré Despradelle, ca. 1899.

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perfect medium of communication. The student, if he is a master of the art, can at will suggest to the judges gayness, sadness, light and air, or the absence of both—a beautiful view or a dense forest.17 Without these dense visual codes of “shades, tones, values,” the extension from plan to the three-dimensional structure, as demonstrated by Le Corbusier and Mies during the 1920s, must involve a different set of parameters. Beaux-Arts practice not only involved such analytical vision, but design was itself realized within the density of its lines and markings. Let us imagine that a BeauxArts architect is working on a project with a large central rotunda. Following Guadet’s suggestion that the Baths of Caracalla be carefully studied, he may turn to Durand’s Recueil to analyze the plan of the Baths while at the same time searching out his own solution. Our architect may produce drawings similar to David Varon’s varied indications in ﬁgure 2.9. Perhaps with a tracing paper placed directly over the plate, he will leave a set of dark markings, at ﬁrst tentative but gradually growing bolder, over the printed lines of the portfolio. In effect, the search for a new composition would result in another set of traces, hidden within the lines of the Grand Durand. The product of this search, if acknowledged by the profession as a work worthy of publication, will ﬁnd itself in the pages of another portfolio. Another architect may then discover the Baths of Caracalla encrusted in the lines of this new work. Like the notational system of music, architectural representation was not a mere repetition of identical performances. Each performance of a typical score adds to the abstract “thickness” of the notations. The design process was therefore a search within and over these dense traces, reading into and drawing out architectural ideas. A line could be “sensitive, even tentative, feeling its way and clinging on to the idea, as it were, in order to suggest it in all its multifarious complexity.”18 This simultaneously analytic and synthetic procedure could be applied to all stages of design, and was a practice essential to the progressive development of a project. Architectural design was then a discursive practice in which the plan functioned as the visual fulcrum of an overlapping process of hermeneutics and transcription. This process involved a kind of “planar vision” that must be distinguished from pictorial percep-

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“Analytical Sketch of a Roman Plan: The Thermae of Caracalla” from David Varon, Indication in Architectural Design, 1916.

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tion. Though the latter provides the illusion of being in the space, its “perspective” is isolated and static. The plan and section can never actually be experienced, but through their privileged status as a visible object, they simultaneously represent and generate the whole. In the sense that the plan makes visible knowledge and information that is not present in the “optical world,” it approaches Ernst Gombrich’s deﬁnition of “a map.”19 It was, furthermore, a map that could generate other maps. To borrow an axiomatic phrase by Paul Philippe Cret, “the sections are the diagram of the whole composition and should be its sources.”20 The Beaux-Arts plan was then a diagram; not only in the sense of being a reduction or abstraction of reality, but also because it was an instrument of creating something else. At the same time, it was a diagram within an analogical system of part and whole, past and present. The lines, dots, and shades of the plan were to be read as an analogue, a notation dense with differences and transformations. Through the cultivation of a planar vision, as John Galen Howard so aptly stated, the Beaux-Arts student was taught to “solve his problems in space and thence to derive his solution in diagram.”21 If we deﬁne the diagram as a kind of drawing that possesses instrumental relevance within a system of relations, the Beaux-Arts plan was the diagram par excellence.

Composition and the Paradox of Academic Theory The discourse of the portfolio, the mimetic practice of transcribing past monuments toward the present, may very easily be understood as a phenomenon of historicism. It would seem logical to assume that architectural history formed a harmonious relation with the practice of the portfolio—the history a primarily verbal discourse that would legitimate the use of the visual in the portfolio. The relation, however, was not so simple. In the Beaux-Arts tradition, architectural history had always been emphasized as a key component of the architect’s education. However, during the latter half of the nineteenth century, it was not history that provided the theoretical basis for the practice of the portfolio. In France, the difﬁcult relation between history and design was most dramatically manifested in what David Van Zanten and Barry Bergdoll have argued was the “historicist challenge” of Labrouste, Vaudouyer, Duban, and

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Duc to academic idealism. History was no longer perceived as a “cyclical return to an ideal” but a phenomenon of progress and change, of “distinct cultures, each necessary and characteristic of its time and place.”22 The Beaux-Arts had thus entered the era of “critical history,” and its courses in architectural history no longer sought or validated absolute norms. History therefore did not provide the theoretical basis for the practice of the portfolio, and the portfolio was not used to understand history. It in fact could be berated for having little consequence in the practice of design. Cret, for example, dismissed history as “a science extremely interesting, but powerless to stimulate the mind toward the creation of new works of Art.”23 In America, the most publicized incident in the conﬂict between history and design can be found in William Ware’s resignation as director of Columbia’s architecture program. As John Chewning, Richard Plunz, and Mary N. Woods have demonstrated in their studies on McKim, Ware, and Hamlin, the conﬂict was certainly one of different roles, backgrounds, and goals.24 In terms of the themes of this book, the conﬂict can also be characterized as one between theory and practice, between history and design. Ware never fully accepted the formalist assumptions of the Beaux-Arts method and could never agree to the “idea of regarding a ﬂat architectural drawing as a delectable thing in itself, rather than as a help toward a work of art in the solid.”25 And when McKim ﬂatly stated that “it’s not so much what’s in the books, it’s what you see in them,” we can see that it was also a conﬂict between word and image.26 If not through history, how does one legitimate a practice that relied so heavily on conventions, on the authority and correctness of past monuments? To understand the theoretical underpinnings of Beaux-Arts practice, we must turn to the idea of composition, another key term in nineteenth-century architectural discourse. In the French academic tradition, composition had a long and complex history of shifting connotations. During the latter half of the nineteenth century, it subsumed the concepts of distribution and disposition and thus, according to David Van Zanten, became an extremely inclusive term signifying “the essential act of architectural design.” Composition denoted a process as well as the ﬁnal design in which aesthetic, historical, and practical issues were drawn together.27 Though the discourse on composition begins in earnest with Durand, the literary culmination of nineteenthcentury composition is widely considered to be Julien Guadet’s Éléments et théorie de

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l’architecture, the four-volume compilation of his lectures published between 1901 and 1904. Guadet’s Éléments can be understood, on the one hand, as a study of the basic elements of architecture—walls, porticoes, orders and columns, vaults, vestibules, stairways—and on the other, as a discussion of the practical and historical aspects of building types. Thus, Guadet had identiﬁed the two basic components of academic discipline—the architectural element and the building type. Though Guadet stressed the importance of composition, he did not engage in an extensive exposition of the term. Terse statements of principles were scattered in what was essentially a study of speciﬁc and practical problems in the construction and organization of buildings. In fact, just three short chapters of book 2, volume 1 were devoted to a general discussion of composition and principles. As Van Zanten accurately pointed out, Éléments was more a book on building types than a theory of composition. The purpose of architectural composition was not to generate new types but to provide a process of checking and reﬁning existing ones; to borrow Van Zanten’s expression, it was “a way of phrasing them architecturally with clarity and elegance.” Hence for the French, knowledge of type was far more important than knowledge of method and technique.28 For Guadet, composition was less a theory than the practice of design: in his words, it was something that “cannot be taught; one learns it through multiple trials, by example, through advice, and by one’s own experience building on that of others.”29 Composition in the French tradition, at least until Umbdenstock, Gromort, and Ferran, was then not something to be theoretically explained. Though one ﬁnds the same kind of synthetic sense in its Anglo-American usage, the situation is somewhat different in that composition emerged around the turn of the century as a method of design and the key term of theoretical discussion.30 In 1898, John Beverly Robinson contributed a series of articles on composition to Architectural Record, published the following year as Principles of Architectural Composition. The book was used in his lectures at Columbia University and in 1908 was revised and republished. In 1902, based on his lectures at Cornell, John Van Pelt published A Discussion of Composition. In effect, Robinson and Van Pelt, who had both attended the École in Paris, initiated a line of discourse on composition that would extend into the 1930s in America and England.31 Like Guadet’s Éléments, the American texts on composition possessed the dual function of theoretical treatise and pedagogical text. As suggested by the subtitle

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to Robinson’s book—“An Attempt to Order and Phrase Ideas which hitherto have been only Felt by the Instinctive Taste of Designers”—Van Pelt and Robinson sought to make explicit the basic ideas of architectural design, particularly the notion of composition. The American discussion of composition, rather than being a pure reﬂection of Beaux-Arts concepts, indicated an assemblage of inﬂuences. A vague but nonetheless powerful Ruskinian ethic pervaded both texts, in particular A Discussion of Composition. In this work, Van Pelt distinguished two levels of “laws” that governed the arts, one “artistic” and the other “technical.” Relying heavily on The Seven Lamps of Architecture, Van Pelt presented sincerity and truth, character, frankness and decisiveness, simplicity, carefulness, and thoughtfulness as the ﬁrst laws that made composition an artistic endeavor. According to Van Pelt, the technical principles of composition—balance, contrast, character, style, color, and scale—were merely the means through which the loftier purposes of art were to be achieved.32 In Robinson’s study, we discover the attempt to assimilate certain picturesque elements of Victorian architecture into a more formal idea of composition. He was engaged speciﬁcally in a debate between the notion of architecture as a “representative art,” akin to painting and literature, and as a “pure art,” aligned with music. Robinson was decidedly on the side of the latter: As music is the art of sound, so architecture is the art of form. Not representative form, not garlands and metopes and inhabited niches, but walls and roofs and columns. . . . We must therefore think of true architecture, not as the development of economic planning, not as the expression of construction, not as adherence to historic or contemporary precedent, but as the fundamental art of inventing and constructing objects that please by their intrinsic form and color, addressing itself to buildings in the largest sense of the word, whether inhabited or built only to be looked at, as triumphal arches, mausoleums, domes, towers and spires.33 As this quotation clearly indicates, his interest in composition has led Robinson toward the question of perception and psychology. And in a similar effort to provide an optical and psychological, as opposed to a “judgmental” basis of architectural

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Examples of optical effects adopted from

Helmholtz and their applications, from John Van Pelt, A Discussion of Composition, 1903.

composition, Van Pelt employed the contemporary theories of Titchener and Helmholtz. Providing examples of illusionistic effects illustrated in Helmholtz’s Die physiologischen Optik, he argued for basic patterns of arrangements and adjustments in the indication of architectural elements. Though such applications of perceptual theories were at best tenuous, the direction in which Van Pelt wished to take the discussion on composition was clear: “we are thus asserting the great truth, namely, what is needful in art is that which will satisfy human perceptions, not mathematically determined conglomerations of lines or forms.”34 For Van Pelt, the important thing was less the true measurements and proportions of the object but its perception. To grasp the basic composition of a design, he suggested the trick of putting one’s eyes out of focus when viewing an architectural object; the “blurred shapes” would then be the “fundamental elements” that had

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Analysis of massing from John Robinson, Architectural Composition, 1908.

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to be composed.35 For Van Pelt, composition as an artistic achievement had to be based on composition as a visual experience, through which “all the faculties of the observer” were brought into play.36 During the early twentieth century, this formalist conception of composition became so pervasive that the most mundane of academic texts could claim that composition had “nothing to do with the origin, history, or symbolism of any form,” and that it dealt solely with “the outline of mass and the general effect, exclusive of detail, ornament, and ﬁnish.”37 To reiterate, architectural design in the Beaux-Arts system was a visual practice. Hence such a formalist concept of composition would, at ﬁrst glance, seem a consistent theoretical foundation for design practice. However, we must remember that the essence of Beaux-Arts vision was in the ability to see and draw through the density of overlapping traces, to envision the possibilities within the lines and surfaces. Subsequently, the reductive theories of Robinson and Van Pelt, unilaterally diminishing architectural form to bare geometrical ﬁgures, could not support the practice of the portfolio. The theory of composition must then be distinguished from its practice, of which we must again underscore the creative act of the esquisse. In contrast to the formalist orientation of composition, the idea of the esquisse was based on the notion of artistic intuition. Though the ability to produce the esquisse was based on long and arduous training, the moment of creation was to be short, intuitive, and almost magical. As the sketch by Désiré Despradelle in figure 2.12 so powerfully shows, the process of Beaux-Arts design was anything but the cautious, rationalized, and gradual combination of elements, a notion often attributed to Durand’s definition of composition. As Werner Oechslin pointed out, the quick sketch of an idea signified the opposite of holding and finishing an idea, and in order to capture the “quickness of a brilliant thought . . . the fire of the artist” was required. Quoting from Lacombe, Oechslin correctly noted that the sketch functioned as the “première idée . . . the guide and model for further development.”38 Lacombe’s sentiments were repeated by Guadet, for whom the creation of the parti consisted not of “a deliberate piling-up of logically derived elements” but of a “bold and fleeting idea”: “[this idea] will be a synthesis, springing suddenly complete in your mind. This mode of creation, contradicting the methods and theories of

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Quick sketch by Désiré Despradelle, date unknown.

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traditional logic, denying Bacon and Descartes, is intuition—the very genesis of artistic ideas.”39 In this passage, we see that Guadet no longer maintained the classical notion of architecture as the imitation of nature, arguing instead that architectural creation lay in the “conscience” of the individual architect. It is thus not surprising that the commitment to the esquisse was considered the key “mental discipline” of the design process.40 The quick esquisse was therefore the quintessential romantic act of invention and creation. As Panofsky, Wittkower, and Foucault have shown in their different but persuasive ways, classical mimesis was based on the resemblance of words and things— a world in which architecture resembled the human body, music, and nature. With the Beaux-Arts system, we have long since departed from this cosmological world. Yet the analytique and esquisse were both based on the old mimetic tradition of classical architecture, and it is in this sense that Alan Colquhoun’s characterization of the Beaux-Arts as a “codiﬁed survival” of a traditional relation between man and the world is so perceptive.41 We thus see that within the Beaux-Arts system, there remained an internal conﬂict between its mimetic practice and the romantic notion of intuition—that art and architecture are the creation of the mind and that they begin from and represent ideals. Furthermore, academic discourse never attempted to deﬁne this “intuition,” the founding idea of design, in any theoretical fashion. Beauty and origins have always something to do with it, but it would seem that the creative idea was considered so synthetic that it could not be explained reasonably. It is always vague, and we are never sure of its content. Hence the theory of the Beaux-Arts was ultimately a fragile and inherently paradoxical construction, easily criticized by the modernists of the early twentieth century as merely an arbitrary method.

Planning and the “Theory of the Plan” If the theoretical construction of the Beaux-Arts system was full of ambiguity and uncertainties, there was little doubt that the core of its design practice lay in the archi-

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tectural plan. Even the harshest critics of the Beaux-Arts, such as Ralph Adams Cram, admitted to the strength of this aspect of the discipline, which consisted “not in its theory of style, but in its logical planning and its insistence on unity and integrity in every architectural scheme.”42 In a similar vein, A. D. F. Hamlin stated that the fundamentals of design were “independent of the historic styles,” concluding that the foundation of all design consisted in “planning.”43 As we see in their assertions, the key word for both Cram and Hamlin was “planning.” As an AngloAmerican term that gained wide usage during the late nineteenth century, it was employed by these critics to mean the manipulation of the architectural plan.44 The use of the term approximated the French distribuer, meaning “to apportion between several,” and disposer, “to arrange, to put things in a certain order.” Underlying this act of dividing and arranging was the assumption of a basic plan shape, or “parti type” and “plan type,” as it was often called by American architects. Thus a short chapter at the end of Van Pelt’s A Discussion of Composition claiming to deal with planning could actually be a discussion on building types. According to Van Pelt, this chapter was based on the teachings of Guadet and accordingly followed the sequence of volumes 2 and 3 of Éléments. However, by the early years of the twentieth century, Guadet’s discussion of building types was considered by many to be irrelevant to American conditions. In the same article in which Hamlin emphasized the importance of planning, he also argued that, though Guadet’s discourses were “stimulating and suggestive” for American students, “what he has to say of the planning of theatres and libraries, hospitals and schools and churches, is either so far removed from American ideas and practice or so far behind them as to be a detriment rather than an advantage to the American.”45 These sentiments reflect the widely held belief that the complexities and scale of American building required a different type of discourse on planning, one capable of dealing with its vast array of technical and organizational requirements. In tune with this demand, planning acquired another range of meaning that was primarily associated with the practical matters of the program. In this usage, planning was conceived as a practice based less on general principles and more on the varying requirements of each building type. Though it is difficult to find a

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French equivalent for this notion of planning as the acquisition of information concerning the program, étude, with its passive connotations, seems to be the closest. The books that responded to the technical and practical problems of the increasingly large and complex building programs of American cities may then be called planning manuals.46 Such manuals, generally organized according to institutional building types such as schools, offices, and hospitals, began to proliferate in America around the same time the discussion on composition emerged. Targeted toward architects as well as institutional practitioners, planning manuals were generally concerned with technical problems and matters of institutional organization, and excluded discussions on the historical development of the building type so central to Guadet’s Éléments. In these manuals, planning was allied to a process in which the practical requirements of design were resolved. The process itself, however, was never made explicit. In this context, planning involved a specialized form of knowledge: the acoustics of a theater, the provision of sunlight and sanitation in a hospital, the ventilation of schools, the mechanical and structural engineering of tall buildings. Architects could be involved in its production, but its principal author was generally an engineer, an experienced practitioner within the institution, or the emergent “management expert.” In addition to the manuals, information concerning planning and building types could be culled from the publications of institutional societies such as the American Association of Museums and the American Hospital Association. In the case of the hospital, for example, the secondary role of the architect was particularly evident because of advances in pathology and theories of disease transmission.47 Planning was therefore less a process and more a passive accumulation of knowledge derived from disciplines external to architecture. The important matter for the architect was not its epistemological structure, organized outside of the architectural community, but the bits and pieces of information that it provided. As far as architects were concerned, these manuals were just books for reference. To grasp the subtle yet important differences in the notion of planning, we must understand the status of the program in academic discourse. Peter Collins has noted that it was with the French Prix de Rome competitions of the mid-eighteenth cen-

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tury that the idea of the program as a list of design requirements ﬁrst evolved.48 Regardless of the historical accuracy of this observation, it is clear that the academic system had institutionalized a particular form of discourse into the design process. As a pedagogical medium, the typical Beaux-Arts program was extremely vague in its indication of size and required facilities. Though programs employed in American schools tended to be less grandiose, the discursive form was basically identical to that of the French École. For example, in the ﬁrst Paris Prize program drawn up by the Beaux-Arts Institute of Design in 1904, the only quantiﬁed requirements listed were the dimensions of an imaginary site and the seating capacity of a “large” lecture room.49 The appropriate size of rooms were described with the adjectives “large,” “small,” and “ample,” leaving their interpretation to the judgment of the student and the jury. The student certainly had to satisfy the quantitative requirements of the program, but emphasis was placed on suggestive phrases about the building’s character (for example, monuments to be named “Civilization bringing peace to uncivilized countries”) and its physical organization. When the program stated that the building should “consist of three distinct groups of buildings, not necessarily disconnected,” it was already a depiction of form. The Beaux-Arts program was then not the social origin of architectural form, but a verbal bridge between precedent and the new project to be designed. This glimpse of the Beaux-Arts program indicates that the academic discipline demanded that the project be more than just the fulﬁllment of its quantitative and technical requirements, which were in any case secondary aspects of the program. This did not mean that the architect controlled the program or that it was within his jurisdiction. Guadet, for instance, wrote that the architect should be a consultant to the client but also stressed that he was “the servant of a programme which does not emanate from him.”50 Though modern programs were complex and certainly required careful study, the foundation of design in the Beaux-Arts system did not lie in the program—that is, architectural form did not emanate from the program. Rather, the Beaux-Arts architect had to seek the different ways in which the program could be staged. There were good and bad designs and, as in mathematics, one solution could be more elegant than another. But there was no notion that “one best solution” necessarily followed from the requirements of the program. The discipline was

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Ernest Flagg, plan and parti diagram of St. Luke’s Hospital, from Brickbuilder, June 1903.

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Ernest Flagg, comparison of parti diagrams of hospitals, from Brickbuilder, June 1903.

centered not on the solution to the problem but on the method and manner in which it was solved. Here we return once again to the importance of the parti. In academic discourse, the parti took precedence over the speciﬁc requirements of a building type. In other words, the basic conﬁguration of the plan did not gradually evolve from the requirements of the program but was the result of a synthetic decision at the early stages of design. This kind of procedure is evident, for example, in an article on hospital planning by Ernest Flagg, in which he discusses his plan for St. Luke’s Hospital.51 For Flagg, the decision on the parti was in fact the decision on how the program would be resolved. Each parti had an inherent set of programmatic qualities, and in this article we see that Flagg has analyzed different types of parti diagrams for their economy

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and advantages in ventilation. Only after the parti had been speciﬁed as a diagrammatic plan did he engage its technical and organizational issues. For Flagg, it was in the parti plan that the aesthetic and visual concerns of composition, on the one hand, and the practical problems of the program, on the other, were synthesized. The parti could not be subsumed by composition or planning; it was the embodiment of the synthetic idea that was to be the foundation of architectural design. According to Flagg, the parti was “the logical solution of the problem, and as every true architect must have two natures, the practical and the artistic, the parti must be the logical solution of the problem from his dual standpoint as constructor and artist.”52 In this instance, planning involved knowledge of the sanitary requirements of the hospital and, at the same time, signiﬁed the actual process of ﬁlling in and dividing the initial parti. It is here used in the sense of “small scale sketching from any good composition.”53 To reiterate, planning possessed a wide range of connotations within academic discourse. It could be used to denote the act of design, as encountered in the statements of Hamlin and Cram, the acquisition of technical knowledge associated with reference texts, or, as with Flagg’s comments above, the subdivision of a basic parti. It was therefore not only possible but appropriate to say that one “composed a plan” or “planned a composition.” In other words, in the Beaux-Arts system, planning was less a procedure that preceded the plan than an inseparable part of the visual process of manipulating the plan. In a recollection of his brief experience at the École, Louis Sullivan, the great mythological victim of American academism, offered the following assessment of its discipline of the plan: He familiarized himself thoroughly with the theory of the School, which, in his mind, settled down to a theory of plan, yielding results of extraordinary brilliancy, but which, after all, was not the reality he sought, but an abstraction, a method, a state of mind, that was local and speciﬁc; not universal. Intellectual and aesthetic, it beautifully set forth a sense of order, of function, of highly skilled manipulation.54 Here, in Sullivan’s characterization of the “theory of plan,” we ﬁnd a most succinct description of the ethic, method, and philosophy of the Beaux-Arts system. Sullivan

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acknowledged the plan’s privileged status as a special visual, aesthetic, and intellectual experience, and understood that this theory was less about planning and more about the formal manipulation of the plan. We may also observe that his discontent with the École was articulated in the most philosophical of terms. The Beaux-Arts system, particularly in the United States, had demonstrated its capacity for using innovative technology and solving the most complex of modern programs. Sullivan, who maintained a basic respect for the rigors of its discipline, did not criticize the Beaux-Arts because it produced a cadre of incompetent architects; rather, his discontent lay with the conventionality and arbitrariness of the system. Even an advocate of the Beaux-Arts system would not, in principle, object to Sullivan’s statement. As we have already underscored, the system was admittedly a formalism—one, however, that continued to rely on the authority of a ﬁgurative tradition. A. D. F. Hamlin characterized this conventional marriage of form and ﬁgure in the following way: Design in architecture, is a form of expression. It is a language, of which the words and letters are the structural and decorative features and details; the thoughts to be expressed are the ideas and conceptions in the designer’s mind. . . . But in order to express these he must have suitable means of expression. He cannot invent a new language out of hand any more than he can invent a new language or a new alphabet. Even if he could, the new language or alphabet could never serve his purpose as the old ones can, not only because no one but he could understand it, but also because it takes long periods to perfect a language as a means of expression. . . . The historic styles are the perfected languages of architectural expression, the forms and details of these styles its words and letters.55 As Hamlin’s analogy with language illustrates, the Beaux-Arts discipline shared with structural linguistics the basic premise that signs are arbitrary and that meaning is derived from a system of relations. If words are conventional yet necessary signs, for Hamlin, style was a necessary convention. And as language is a necessary means of communication, the Beaux-Arts system was not “local and speciﬁc” but a “method of

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attacking and studying any problem in architectural design.”56 Therefore, the goal of architectural training, as emphasized by Paul Philippe Cret, was “not to arrive at the best solution of any particular problem, but to learn how to study any problem.”57 Based on this conviction of its universality, the system could be regarded as the “science” of design. For its proponents, it was exactly the artiﬁciality rejected by Sullivan that formed the kernel of the system. The nature of the academic profession was then something quite different from the science-based professions that emerged in America during the same years. The historian Burton J. Bledstein has argued that Victorian professionalism had been based on two principles: ﬁrst on “a special power over worldly experience,” and second on “a command over the profundities of a discipline.” In the case of the sciences, medicine, and engineering, the professions could claim a natural world, constant and exterior, that only the discipline could “excavate . . . for its principles and theoretical rules.”58 As Michel Foucault has noted, disciplines in the modern world must maintain “the possibility of formulating—and of doing so ad inﬁnitum—fresh propositions.” Contrary to this modern rule of discipline, the academic discipline was rather a system based on the older principle of “commentary”—the idea that there is “some meaning which must be rediscovered . . . an identity to be reiterated.”59 The world with which the academic profession strove to cultivate its discipline was not natural and external, but an artiﬁce constructed through an internal history of its own past— that is, a history of and in architecture. As a closed analogical system, the discipline had to be accepted with an element of faith. Whatever the vagaries of modern society, the discipline assumed a set of convictions that were deemed necessary and consistent. Architecture was justiﬁed neither by the program, constructed by the needs of society, nor by a “natural” law, as in that other great tradition of modern American architecture culminating in the work of Frank Lloyd Wright. The sense of superiority over the Beaux-Arts shared by Sullivan and his most famous disciple was based on the idea that their architecture was in tune with nature and therefore universal.60 The Beaux-Arts discipline, on the other hand, was constructed within its own historical and epistemological structure, a system in which it was perfectly logical for architecture to emulate architecture. However, as we have just seen, the theoretical basis of this analogical system that sustained the mar-

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riage of idea and mimesis, ﬁgure and form, was tenuous. It therefore comes as no surprise that its harshest critic was one who had gone through the system and rejected it as absurdly arbitrary. When the authority of convention is denied and conviction collapses, however efﬁcacious the method may have been, the discipline loses its persuasion. When the strings of the analogical circle are cut, the thick, entwined braid that was the Beaux-Arts plan begins to unravel into spindly threads that we can only call diagrams. And when these diagrams do not refer to themselves, the question of their origins must inevitably be renewed.

3 THE CRISIS OF THE ACADEMIC PROFESSION

We know what he was before the war: an idealist, an individual whose mission was to make over the world in what he considered the most beautiful guise, a man entrusted with large opportunities coming in often faster than he could master them and striving his best to keep up with the tremendous increase in the requirements and the possibilities of modern construction, a dreamer and strictly a professional man. It was a splendid ideal and all honor to those who strove so nobly to uphold this exalted plane, but that the architect of after the war is a different man is evident on every hand. The point of view is changed not only because of the war but because it was in process of changing before. C. H. Blackall, “What Is an Architect?,” American Architect, 1919

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The Architectural Profession in the 1910s: Crisis and Response In the decades that preceded World War I, American society was willing to accept and indeed eager to promote the notion of the architect as an elevated artist. Even as the most prominent ofﬁces of academic architecture, such as McKim, Mead and White and Daniel Burnham, grew into large business enterprises, the discourse of beauty, vision, and scale continued to shape the ideology of their practice. Ironically, during the same period in which the architectural profession reached the height of its prestige, the building industry was undergoing a transition that would undermine the status of the architect.1 In the last decade of the nineteenth century, there was a radical change in the way housing and commercial building was organized, produced, and distributed. Speculative builders, general contractors, construction companies, and emerging real estate developers started to design, engineer, ﬁnance, and sell whole urban environments. Landowners, developers, and real estate brokers were beginning to organize into interest groups such as the National Association of Building Owners and Managers and the National Association of Real Estate Boards. By the 1910s, large-scale construction-contractor ﬁrms were established such as Thompson Starrett, George A. Fuller, and Todd, Robertson and Todd, where the in-house architect was often a minute part of a complex organization. Supported by large capital, utilizing new construction technology, and imbued with the ethos of efﬁciency, these companies dominated the building industry and pushed forth the notion of architecture as business. Within the complex structure of this modernizing industry, the architect could barely claim an autonomous position or remain impervious to what had traditionally been considered exigencies of his discipline. The nature of mass architecture was also changing. The stock plan business of selling and distributing documents continued to ﬂourish and develop more efﬁcient and proﬁtable systems. Around the turn of the century, companies were established to supply not only architectural documents but also made-to-order building components. Furthermore, with the establishment of the Aladdin Company of Michigan in 1904, and the entry of Sears, Roebuck and Company into the business a few years later, the scale and nature of the mail-order house market had changed.2 Sears, along with Montgomery Ward, was one of the ﬁrst companies to sell nationwide through catalogues. Adding to their already successful mail-order business, Sears began the

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Advertisement of Modern Homes Department, Sears, Roebuck and Company, 1914.

“Modern Homes Department,” which provided standard plans and speciﬁcations and eventually became directly involved in construction and ﬁnancing. Through its book department, Sears also published its own builder’s manual, Radford’s Practical Carpentry. Utilizing precut systems of factory-made components, Sears was able to engage in large-scale projects such as the construction of company towns in Illinois, Pennsylvania, and Ohio. With Sears, Roebuck and Company, the design and building process—from the provision of plans, drawings, manuals, and documents to construction and finance—was subsumed within the commercial mail-order catalogue. In effect, a whole architectural institution in tune with a system of mass production and distribution had been formed. With good reason, Sears, the “vendor of stock plans based upon catalogs,” was regarded as a serious threat to the architectural profession.3

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Along with the growing complexity of the building industry, changes in city planning and the social milieu of the war years further undermined the idea of autonomy. During the 1910s, in contrast to their exalted role in the City Beautiful movement, architects began to be criticized as unrealistic dreamers. By 1916, with the instigation of the ﬁrst comprehensive zoning law in New York and the emergence of the concept of the “city functional,” issues of controlling the city through municipal power became the central agenda of urban planning. Subsequently, the ability of the architect to project a visual image of an ordered city became incommensurable with the idea of city planning as an exact science. The key concepts of the City Beautiful— the vague yet essential ideas of style, beauty, and civic art—no longer served as valid criteria in the projection of urban order. As George B. Ford pointed out, the word “beauty” had become taboo in planning circles, and moreover, zoning based on aesthetic considerations was now rejected as an “unconstitutional and an improper exercise of police power.”4 In 1931, Henry Wright, looking back at the changing relation between architecture and city planning, summarized the situation of the mid-teens: The period from 1912 to 1917 was one in which new problems arose in the city so quickly that men concerned with the municipal machinery had a difﬁcult time to keep abreast of the immediate developments. It was not surprising that the fundamental meaning of city planning was temporarily clouded or that these men turned to those who offered the most immediate practical results. . . . The architect who insisted upon better form as well as movement was either ignored or considered an idealist. To add the weight of public pressure to the heavy program of corrective measures, it became popular to disparage previous planning activity by referring to it as the “City Beautiful Period” of city planning. . . . Thus city planning, as practiced today, has acquired a deﬁnite technique in which architectural expression is of incidental importance.5 On top of this hostile milieu against the traditional architect, the inﬂationary economy and World War I dealt a critical blow to the profession. In May 1918, President Wilson announced a moratorium on all building construction unrelated to the war effort, basically eliminating any opportunity for conventional architectural

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practice. In a nation that had ceaselessly expanded its need for the services of the architect, the total number of architects suddenly declined. Serious doubts were raised about the profession’s survival, leading to a real sense of crisis. For Albert Kahn, the war was like an “electrical storm” that cleared the atmosphere surrounding architectural practice, laying bare the architect’s true position in American society. In his assessment, “that it is not altogether what it should be is very evident, and that remedies to correct the situation must be found is equally apparent.”6 The war had revealed the discrepancy between the values of American society and the institutional logic of the academic profession. Architects had difﬁculty obtaining employment and supposedly had to present themselves as construction experts or structural engineers in order to gain work in war-related industrial building.7 It quickly became apparent to many architects that the traditional strategy of autonomy had become ineffectual amidst a social agenda maximizing efﬁciency and production. With the exception of federally funded war housing, the one area in the war effort that architects were directly involved in, very few architects were awarded contracts. However, even the designs of the war housing villages were deemed a failure. Though studies on war housing have pointed out that it was “the ﬁrst attempt on any signiﬁcant scale to apply the emerging doctrine of ‘scientiﬁc planning’ to worker’s housing,”8 contemporary observers considered the designs to be “fancy” and of “unnecessary excellence.” On December 1919, the Senate Committee on Public Buildings and Grounds submitted a widely publicized report on the work of the United States Housing Corporation. The report blamed architects for a number of failures including delays, high construction costs, and the method of remuneration. The central indictment, however, was that rather than following the government policy of providing minimum and temporary shelter that could be erected quickly and inexpensively, architects were concerned with perpetuating their own values of beauty and the “model home.” When the report stated that the houses were “excellent in speciﬁcations” and “beautiful beyond words,” it was intended as criticism rather than praise.9 The war housing merely reinforced the notion that architects were impractical and rehashed stereotypical comparisons between the efﬁcient engineer and the aesthetic-minded architect. During the war years, divergent individuals and groups within the architectural community began to call for changes in the profession and discipline. Invariably, they

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believed that this institutional crisis was caused by the irrevocable changes in the social and economic conditions of America. In 1920, Richard Tudor, following Thorstein Veblen’s analysis of the pervasive encroachment of capitalism, sounded the alarm that “the larger and more aggressive business organizations are taking over not only the operation of ﬁnancing and constructing but also are performing the architectural services involved.” A “sacred area” previously marked off by the architectural profession was now being seized by the forces of industrial capitalism.10 These sentiments were not limited to Tudor’s Veblenian worldview and reﬂected the concerns of many architects during this time. The crisis had been foreseen for several decades by Arts and Crafts ideologues such as Arthur J. Penty and the Gothic revivalist Ralph Adams Cram. Anxieties over the future of the architectural profession were now shared by the architectural community as a whole. The most emblematic changes in the profession during these crisis years are to be found in the reforms pursued by the American Institute of Architects (AIA).11 Centered on the leadership of Thomas Kimball, the ofﬁcial organ of the profession set out to redeﬁne the position and role of the architect in America’s new system of production and consumption. In 1918, as its key initiative, the AIA established the Post-War Committee on Architectural Practice, “the most important movement ever started by architects in this country,”12 After two years of research on a wide range of issues, the Post-War Committee concluded that for the academic profession to tackle the problems of modern society, the reorganization of not only the AIA but the whole professional and educational system was urgently required. Its subcommittee on education, led by Frederick Ackerman, made it clear that the Beaux-Arts system had to respond to the “reality” of a rapidly changing society: The almost universal practice of teaching design without any contact whatever with the world of reality, and of imposing purely academic judgements upon the work accompanied by the student, develops a set of utterly false values with respect to architecture and the function of the profession in the community. The majority of problems do not even represent genuine situations, they are not related to actual experiences; and the student thus engaged is never afforded the opportunity of actually testing his ideas by application, in order to determine for himself their validity. . . . In general,

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what is known as “subject matter” used in the problems represents situations which are remote from any immediate social interest of the student. Thus architecture is made to appeal to the student as an arrangement of forms rather than an expression, in form, of a dynamic society having social aims and purposes. Is it not reasonable to assume that this condition in education shows largely why, in practice, the architectural profession seems somewhat isolated?13 As a way of overcoming this isolation, the committee proposed that the AIA “set up machinery for the establishment of deﬁnite afﬁliations between all national organizations in the building industry.”14 This position stood in stark contrast to the nineteenth-century idea that “painters, carvers, carpenters and others whose pursuits [were] connected with the art of architecture,” should not be given any kind of membership to the AIA on the grounds that “it would amount to a confession that the Institute members were in need of the information supposed to be imparted by the technicians and craftsmen.”15 William Haber, in a study of the building industry published just a decade after these changes, could thus state that the AIA had begun to realize that it was just one part of a larger industry. Its structure was “made more ﬂexible and its program broadened,” establishing a “policy of cooperation” with the larger building industry.16 One speciﬁc example of this cooperation was the establishment of a new organization within the AIA called the Structural Service Department. With the goal of maintaining close contact with engineers, technicians, and manufacturers, a section of this department was reorganized in 1923 as the Producers’ Council, “an organization of manufacturers and associations of manufacturers of materials and appliances used in building construction.”17 By the end of the twenties, close to seventy private companies and trade associations became afﬁliated with the council, an organization that continued to work closely with the AIA. One of the most interesting reversals in AIA policies was the group’s endorsement of a stock plan service called the Architects’ Small House Service Bureau (ASHSB). The ASHSB is notable as the most extensive attempt by the architectural profession to assimilate the discursive practice of the stock plan. Unlike most stock plan services that operated with a large manufacturer of building materials, the ASHSB was organized independently by licensed architects. It was set up as a response to the

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Example of house design offered by the Mountain Division of the Architects’ Small House Service Bureau, 1923.

commercial mail-order business—or in the words of one of its sponsors, established by the profession “in self defense.”18 First begun in 1919, the ASHSB was expanded into a national organization and ofﬁcially endorsed at the annual convention of the AIA the following year.19 The AIA’s endorsement of the ASHSB was emblematic of the profession’s departure from earlier attitudes toward the problem of the “small house.” The advocates of the ASHSB reversed the older antagonistic stance toward the stock plan, claiming that Sears, Roebuck and Company’s long involvement in the small house was an “invasion” of what had always been the architect’s jurisdiction.20 It was, however, extremely difﬁcult for the bureau to distinguish its “service” from the “merchandising proposition” of commercial mail-order ﬁrms. Proponents of

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the ASHSB argued that, unlike the commercial builder that combined the functions of the architect and the builder, the bureau provided only design documents. According to the ASHSB, design and construction were two functions that should be properly separated to ensure an economical and ethical practice: “the interests of an owner and an architect must be identical, whereas the relation of an owner and a contractor are those of buyer and seller.”21 This logic, however, could never assuage the discontent over the stock plan. As pointed out, the commodiﬁcation of architectural documents and the stock plan logic of choice, assemblage, and the preﬁgured program were clearly antithetical to the academic profession. This fact was not lost on the many architects who opposed the bureau and the AIA’s sponsorship. Responding to a challenge to AIA’s endorsement, Robert T. Jones, technical director of the ASHSB, argued: “The Bureau does not cater to popular taste in the design of its houses. If it had been willing to design houses to meet popular taste, it should have sold many, many more plans. Its main endeavor is to educate the public to a desire for better designed houses.”22 Invoking the traditional notion of the architect’s detachment from construction, the ASHSB fell back on the ethical argument of the architect’s superiority over builders. Rather than acknowledging itself as a constituent part of mass culture, the bureau continued to retain the idea of autonomy. In 1932, a nationwide referendum held by American Architect showed that an overwhelming majority of registered architects polled disapproved of ofﬁcial AIA sponsorship.23 Two years later the AIA withdrew its endorsement, and the ASHSB was eventually dissolved in 1942. We thus see that this “ofﬁcial” opening of the profession to a mass industrial society was not without its vicissitudes. In fact, when the building industry recovered and surged during the 1920s, the general sense of crisis quickly dissipated. As a rule, crisis theories tend to be most persuasive in times of economic hardship and then to disappear when prosperity returns. Not surprisingly, the Post-War Committee noted that while it had had much support during the difﬁcult years, it was all but forgotten immediately after the building industry began to recover. Nevertheless, the committee had clearly placed its ﬁnger on a momentous shift in the architectural profession. As Paul Bentel, who has produced the most detailed study of its history, so aptly observed, “professional ethics had been twisted, conventional practices abandoned or fundamental principles of work transformed.”24 Triggered by the new social, eco-

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nomic, and cultural conditions of industrial production and mass consumption, the crisis was not just one of temporary unemployment but a signal of an irrevocable disruption of the profession and discipline. The dichotomy between mass architecture and the academic profession began to be blurred, compromised, and in certain cases fundamentally rejected. The terms of architectural discourse had begun to change.

Business, Efﬁciency, and Functional Planning The depression has made many architects think with a new seriousness about their professional position and its relation to the whole sociological and economic present. During boom years, architects, particularly in the larger ofﬁces, became imbued with the psychology of their clients. All the Hooverian dogmas of individualism, salesmanship, proﬁt-making, were swallowed unquestioningly. Architectural magazines were full of articles on the money making side of the profession; the architect was often a promoter and a businessman rather than a designer. As he became immersed in ﬁnancial schemes and details, his professional position was weakened; the architect was merely a cog in the machine of corporate and individual proﬁt chasing.25 Thus did Talbot Hamlin reﬂect on the notion of “architecture as business,” as it had become such a prevalent part of the architectural discourse of the 1920s. As we have just seen, the war years had forced the architectural profession to face new kinds of problems. For a time, the factory and worker’s housing were the only projects available to architects, and as a result issues of economy and engineering rose to the forefront of architectural discourse. Even in the ensuing period of recovery, commercial building dominated the market, thus continuing to drive architectural discourse toward the goals of business, efﬁciency, and engineering. In stark contrast to Hamlin’s conservative position, William Starrett could bluntly state that architects were serving “business and not ethics.”26 In fact, the profession largely viewed the pursuit of efﬁciency as a way of strengthening its position in the building process. As

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Paul Bentel noted, it was none other than the AIA’s Post-War Committee that had presented “the technical expert and industrial manager seeking greater efﬁciencies in industrial production” as the role models for architects to emulate.27 The 1920s was a period driven by Hooverian ideology, further spurred on by scientiﬁc management and its many variants. The “cult of efﬁciency” had become a national phenomenon, spreading into all aspects of American life and bringing architecture too under its sway. Among the professional journals, Architectural Forum was the ﬁrst to embrace the notion of business and efﬁciency. In 1917, Forum changed its title and format. Whereas its predecessor, The Brickbuilder, had been a portfolio-oriented journal, printed on a 103/4-by-133/4-inch page, Architectural Forum introduced a letterpress section in equal standing with the portfolio.28 In a similar vein, with its October 17, 1917, number, American Architect launched a separate Department of Architectural Engineering. Echoing the concerns of the Post-War Committee and the prevailing sense of crisis of the war years, both journals began to emphasize issues of business and engineering. Forum was the more aggressive, pushing the notion that architecture could no longer be a viable profession unless its scope of services was broadened to incorporate a wider range of commercial and industrial building.29 To function in these modern operations, architects had to broaden their knowledge to include matters outside their traditional domain. And in specifying this new ﬁeld of architectural concerns, Forum relayed the recommendations of the Post-War Committee: “[the architect] must provide a service greater than designing buildings; he must be aware of the sociological questions inﬂuencing our civilization; he must recognize the economic conditions of the present and devote his energy to securing the most efﬁcient use of labor and material.”30 Responding to the call to expand the scope of architectural discourse, Forum initiated a series of changes within its letterpress section. In its June 1919 number, it began a separate section called the Department of Architectural and Building Economics, followed the next month by the inauguration of a Department of Engineering and Construction.31 In 1921, the journal formed the Forum Consultation Committee of engineers, building managers, and ﬁnancial controllers who would write on subjects ranging from building management to safety engineering.32 The main contributor to these new installments was an engineer, C. Stanley Taylor, who

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was in charge of both the real estate section of the Consultation Committee and the Department of Building Economics. According to Taylor, the new department was instituted to meet the growing demand for information on the increasingly dominant business factors of architectural practice. It would present articles dealing with the various phases of building and ﬁnance: “promotion of building operations, maintenance, insurance engineering, efﬁciency of design from the business point of view, and similar subjects of constructive value in assisting the architect to meet the demands of modern business conditions and the competition of encroaching interests.”33 From Taylor’s “business point of view,” buildings were tools of a ﬁnancial program that promoted the maximum efﬁciencies of production. Forum thus made it abundantly clear that efﬁciency was inextricably linked with business. As indicated by the following passage from an advertising brochure of a prominent design and engineering ﬁrm, these efﬁciencies for proﬁt were to be gained through the implementation of a rational and instrumental concept of planning: Service buildings—industrial and institutional—are different from speculative and investment types in that such building space is created for speciﬁc use—not for sale. Because of this fact the problem of the service building is greatly complicated. Not only must economies of original investment cost and maintenance be considered, but the building must be planned as a machine which will function with the highest degree of efﬁciency for a speciﬁc purpose.34 The metaphor of the building as machine, a discursive trope that will be examined in the following chapters, is here used to promote the application of scientiﬁc principles to the design and planning of the physical environment. This notion of planning as a rational intervention into the workplace has its roots in the management and engineering discourses dating to the ﬁrst years of the twentieth century.35 During this period, scientiﬁc management emerged as just one of many organized attempts— such as “human engineering,” the “industrial betterment” movement, and the “systemizers”—to place industry under the control of scientiﬁcally based principles.36 Though the speciﬁcs of each program differed, their ideology was often aligned with Progressivism, sharing the view that social reform was essentially a problem of control and regulation.

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In the development of the discourse of modern management, planning emerged as the key concept, one that Frederick Winslow Taylor used to specify the work of the management expert. Based on the authority of scientiﬁc knowledge, Taylor assumed that a radical separation of thinking and doing, planning and labor could be realized in the management of the factory. The power of institutional control would be awarded to a new center of the workplace, referred to as “the planning department.” The department was to be a “repository of the science of production,” whereby the authority of control would be shifted away from the self-interested owner, employer, and worker to the industrial engineer.37 With the purpose of procuring maximum efﬁciencies of production, planning was thus inscribed into managerial discourse as the act of providing and executing the social and physical program of the factory. The rational program in scientiﬁc management was a body of documents that controlled the function of the organization: “a plan for doing work, the plan which the planning department lays out and hands over for the performers, or the workers, to do.”38 In Taylorism, the idea of social control was crystallized into a concept of planning; subsequently, the physical design of the workplace came under its jurisdiction.39 For example, in the organization of the factory, “control of plans for new construction as relating to ventilation, plumbing, heating, lighting, lavatories and dressing rooms, lunch rooms, rest and recreation rooms, and hospital facilities, medical care of employees during work hours” could all be placed under a “department of human engineering.”40 College courses in industrial engineering included subjects such as the “construction of industrial buildings, the layout of buildings, installation and arrangements of facilities and equipment, etc.”41 The rational design of the factory was one of the most important tasks of the industrial engineer, and as the following passage from a manual on factory management demonstrates, it was not a task properly handled by the architect. The employment of an architect usually provides for the preparation of plans and speciﬁcations, the letting of contracts, and the supervision of construction. In this way much of the responsibility is delegated to qualiﬁed men. Strictly speaking, however, the design of factories has little relation to architecture. To handle the task requires a thorough knowledge of the production processes to be cared for, and an understanding of factory management and

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production control, including an appreciation of the reaction of the workers to the equipment and facilities provided. The human factor is the biggest single factor in production and must be considered accordingly. These subjects are foreign to the training of the typical architect. It is scarcely possible that he will look upon the task as that of ﬁtting a housing scheme to a production machine—which he has also designed or at least analysed and checked carefully—so that it will function as a part of the machine itself. This is a decidedly prosaic, utilitarian, dollars-and-cents balancing job, calling for a wide range of engineering and production talent, and an understanding of the psychology and needs of labor. Architectural design will prove to be a minor feature.42 Architects were disqualiﬁed not because of their lack of expertise in structure and construction—the traditional area of conﬂict between engineers and architects—but because of their ignorance of the commercial aspects, institutional processes, and “human factor” of the project. Before the war, this rationalist notion of planning had been disseminated by manuals related to factory management and home economics (so-called domestic engineering), and by periodicals concerned speciﬁcally with industrial production, such as the Bulletin of the Taylor Society, System, Management Engineering, Factory, and Industrial Management. These management texts introduced new subject matter and new modes of discourse not found in the traditional planning manuals mentioned in chapter 2.43 Take, for example, a manual called Hotel Planning and Outﬁtting, coedited by Vincent R. Bliss and C. Stanley Taylor. Taylor, in addition to his duties at Forum, was a member of the editorial board of Hotel Management and was considered an expert on hotel planning. He provided a detailed elaboration of the procedures of planning for efﬁciency and proﬁt, centered on the notion of the “functional plan.”44 The ﬁrst step in the planning process consisted of the “scientiﬁc study of community needs and possibilities,” a survey to be conducted by the American Hotel Association, hotel accounting ﬁrms, and ﬁnancial organizations. Based on this study, the site was selected and a proﬁtable ﬁnancial plan established.45 In the next step, a “schedule of space functions” was formulated. The commercial hotel would have six general divisions: public, concession, subrental, food service, guest room, and general service.

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The ﬁrst step in planning should be the listing under each of these divisions of the actual functions or purposes for which each space unit will be required in the speciﬁc project. The next step should be to assign approximate sizes, numbers of spaces required, and general plan data on each. In this manner the architect is really provided with a mixed group of space units, which if put together intelligently under the established requirements, should provide a satisfactory and successful plan. Of course, as the plan develops under this system, there will be adjustments, new suggestions, and changes in the functional plan to meet the limitations of the physical plan, but at the same time the ﬁrst draft of ﬂoor plans developed in this manner will quite clearly interpret the business requirements of the project.46 Thus Taylor’s functional plan was a systematic formulation of the architectural program. In the speciﬁcity of the divisions of space and their dimensions, and in the exclusion of all qualitative statements of the project, there was a break not only with the Beaux-Arts program but also with the conventional building programs of the period.47 In effect, the functional plan assumed a fundamentally different conception of the design process from that of the academic system. First of all, the unit of manipulation was no longer deﬁned as a combination of architectural elements but as divisions of “space functions,” each charged with a speciﬁc square or cubic footage of area. This “method of allotting space from a functional viewpoint” produced a series of “space units or plan units,” which the architect had to place in “proper inter-relationship.”48 Second, in contrast to the academic assumption that there may be different solutions to one program, the notion of a one-to-one correspondence between the program and architectural plan was established. This idea was reiterated in the following passage by Sydney Wagner on “The Statler Idea in Hotel Planning”: Too much stress cannot be laid upon the vital importance of planning and equipment, and upon the fact that the architectural treatment of the facade and interior is of secondary importance in a problem which is essentially one of service. Any able architect can evolve at least half a dozen radically different yet entirely satisfactory schemes of facade; yet there may be, and usually is, but one adequate scheme of plan.49

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Ideally, the architectural plan was now a logical product of a linear process beginning with the program. In this procedure, which C. Stanley Taylor called “scientiﬁc predetermination,” the functional plan was to “gradually unravel itself” into the physical plan. For Taylor, establishing a systematic program as the basis of design was clearly superior to traditional methods that started with “hazy ideas as to a general plan” and then had to work “backward in a maze of alterations.”50 In this framework, the architectural procedure was deﬁned as a sequence of discrete stages: Research must precede planning as planning must precede design before design drawings can be prosecuted efﬁciently. Systematic and well-directed research prosecuted by those equipped for the task will result in substantial ofﬁce economies, as against methods—too often in evidence—where attempt is made to carry on research, planning and design coincidentally.51 This formulation of a linear and rational architectural process would thus seem antithetical to the academic discipline. Yet during the 1910s and 1920s, it was not the purpose of this functionalist discourse to contradict or attack traditional academic practice, as is evident in the way Architectural Forum formulated its new editorial policy. According to C. Stanley Taylor, the expansion of the services of the architect did not mean that art had to be sacriﬁced to commerce: “The aesthetic interests of the community are to be maintained on a scale never before known. There will be no deviation from the sound principles and traditions of an honored profession; but a broadening of service consistent with modern progress.”52 Such sentiments toward traditional values of design hence coexisted with the functional plan and can also be found in the Statler Idea. In the article on Statler hotels, Wagner immediately qualiﬁed his statement on the importance of planning by adding that “as a matter of course . . . any scheme of plan, to be really adequate, must, in addition to meeting service requirements, conform to the established principles of good design.”53 Further evidence pointing to the persistence of academic concepts is the fact that the plan type was not considered incommensurable with a linear and deterministic design process. For example, a 1923 Forum article on bank planning could argue for beginning with a systematic program while simultaneously presenting an array of “typical plans.” In this program, the “working organization” of the building could be

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clariﬁed by diagrams that deﬁned the interrelations of departments. The author argued that even if the requirements thus stated did not ﬁt the speciﬁc conditions of the project, this procedure would still be better than planning the building ﬁrst and packing the organization into it afterward, “simply because the diagrams show the best solutions that can be evolved, and every move is toward that rather than being an attempt to install as nearly as possible a development of the existing arrangement.”54 However, the organizational diagrams that the author promoted never did appear, and the article continued to follow the format of the traditional planning manual. The coexistence of functional planning and the plan type was particularly evident in the museum, an emblematic building type for academic design that was immediately affected by the rationalist approach to planning. According to Laurence Coleman’s 1950 study of American museums, “buildings realistically planned for the whole organism known as the present-day museum” began to appear around the late teens, speciﬁcally with the studies for the Cleveland Museum of Art.55 This “realistic” approach is evident in articles by Benjamin Ives Gilman, the secretary of the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston. Published during the teens, Gilman’s essays appeared in a variety of magazines such as Scientiﬁc Monthly, Architectural Record, and institutional journals within the museum ﬁeld. These articles were gathered together in 1918 (with a second edition in 1923) and published as Museum Ideals of Purpose and Method. In what would become, for a time, the most important manual for museum design, “scientiﬁc” approaches to minimizing “museum fatigue,” circulation, and lighting, all coexisted with a set of codiﬁed plan types.56 Functional planning, then, did not immediately usurp academic discourse. However, it sustained a logic that would eventually bring about the demise of academic discourse. It assumed that the foundation of architectural design lay in the functional plan—a rational and systematic architectural program—that remained outside the province of the architect’s discipline. In the early twenties, the consulting services for what is now called “programming” were offered not by architects but by organizations involved in building management. For example, in 1923, the National Association of Building Owners and Managers created the Building Planning Service Committee, whose role was to aid owners and architects in planning ofﬁce buildings to obtain maximum “efﬁciency and economy.” Through the association’s journal,

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Skyscraper Management, and similar journals such as Hotel Management and Building and Building Management, the concept of functional planning gained wide use. Though the concerns of the architect had to extend to the predesign stages of research and planning, the practice of institutional planning was itself under the jurisdiction of the industrial engineer and the management expert. Planning the kitchen with accessories, the laundry, as well as power units for a metropolitan hotel, in the main are industrial rather than architectural problems. Institutional planning, the modern hospital, the sanitarium, reformatory and welfare groups, call for study and analysis by the industrial engineer who sees in the institution a plant for processing material. He evolves determinations for planning fundamental to architectural design.57 In the Pencil Points article from which this passage is quoted, planning was considered part of the architect’s discipline only in those aspects where the requirements developed by the management expert had to be translated into some form of schematic design and then handed down to the draftsman. The article deﬁned planning as “the preparation of tentative scale designs, from grouping to details, concise in substance and compact in form, with necessary explanatory notes and schedules which shall direct the draftsman in no uncertain manner.” This statement has reverted to the traditional Beaux-Arts deﬁnition of planning, and in its view of the formmaking duties of the architect nothing seems to have changed. But the article now presents form as the product of the program—and this notion has the effect of reducing the architect to one merely “occupied with pencil and scale.”58 In its initial formulation during the early twenties, functional planning was not a programmatic attempt to supersede academic discourse. However, the idea that architectural design begins from the program, as distinct from the sense of responsibility that architecture must meet its requirements, irrevocably triggered the ﬁrst step toward the demise of the academic discipline.

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Part Two THE SEARCH FOR A NEW DISCIPLINE

4 THE FRAGMENTATION OF THE ACADEMIC DISCIPLINE

The architecture of today must be tested by its adherence to the true principles of design—rather than by its likeness to the details of historical precedent. It is the spirit rather than the precise form which is of supreme importance. AIA Report of the Board of Directors, 1929

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The Changing Ideas of Composition and the Demise of the Analytique If one were to survey the architectural publications of the 1920s, not only in America but also in England, the reviewer would be struck by the great expansion of literature on academic design. As I just pointed out, the emergence of the discourse of business and efﬁciency did not lead to the immediate downfall of academic discourse. In fact, far from revealing a collapse, this survey would point to a virtual resurgence of BeauxArts inﬂuence. Following a tendency already evident in David Varon’s Indication in Design, texts that codiﬁed the classical elements into a catalogue of simple readymade forms were immediately established as popular manuals among students and practitioners.1 Between 1921 and 1924, Pencil Points featured an extensive serial by John Harbeson on the methods of the Beaux-Arts Institute of Design. In 1926, the articles were published in book form as The Study of Architectural Design, which was revised in a new edition the following year.2 Even more than Varon’s Indication, Harbeson’s serial provided a step-by-step exposition of the academic system of design. Other noteworthy publications in this tradition of pedagogical texts include Nathaniel Curtis’s Architectural Composition (1923), Howard Robertson’s The Principles of Architectural Composition, and Robert Atkinson and Hope Bagenal’s Theory and Elements of Architecture (1926).3 Inaugurated in 1920, the journal Pencil Points was itself part and parcel of the revival of the Beaux-Arts. Serving as a key medium for academic discourse—for example, Harbeson’s exposition on academic design, summary translations of Guadet’s Éléments and Viollet-le-Duc’s Dictionnaire, and Raymond Hood’s series on “A Vocabulary of Atelier French”—it quickly came to command a circulation that was second only to Architectural Record.4 The ﬁrst comprehensive histories of American architecture were also published during the twenties: Lewis Mumford’s Sticks and Stones (1924), Talbot Hamlin’s The American Spirit in Architecture (1926), Thomas Tallmadge’s The Story of Architecture in America (1927), George Edgell’s The American Architecture of Today (1928), and Fiske Kimball’s American Architecture (1928). With the exception of Sticks and Stones, these texts all valued the Beaux-Arts not only for its past inﬂuence but also as a continuing tradition relevant to contemporary American architecture.5 Coming on the heels of the postwar crisis, the resurgence of academic discourse may seem a sudden reversal of fortune. However, it is actually not too difﬁcult to

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“Plans Dealing with Groups Having Fore and Interior Courts” from John Haneman, A Manual of Architectural Composition, 1923. 4.2

“Colonnades” from John Haneman, A Manual of Architectural Composition, 1923.

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understand the reasons for this turnabout. First, the economic boom of the twenties created an unprecedented growth in construction and, subsequently, an enormous demand for the services of the architectural community.6 Second, formal architectural education continued to expand. After the founding of the ﬁrst architectural schools in the late nineteenth century, nineteen new schools were established in the decade after 1912. By 1930, despite the ﬂuctuations of the economy and the crisis of the war period, the number of students enrolled in architecture schools had tripled that of 1912.7 The third reason was the resurgence of eclecticism, in particular the popularity of the colonial revival. From the “period houses” to the “Beaux-Arts apartments,” the building boom of the twenties provided the impetus for a second coming of the portfolio and pattern book. Ironically, the renewal of Beaux-Arts inﬂuence would mark the beginning of the internal rupture of this grand tradition. Whereas the ideas of business, efﬁciency, and functional planning had begun to disrupt the discipline from its outer fringes, we shall see in the changing ideas of academic discourse the formation of subtle yet irreparable fault lines within its internal construction. Let us ﬁrst examine the transformations in the idea of composition. Though the new theoretical texts of the 1920s continued to present composition in the formalist rubric of Van Pelt and Robinson, it was now a concept that programmatically rejected the value and efﬁcacy of style. In other words, composition became a theory antithetical to the notion of architecture as a combination of elements. Without actually mentioning the term composition, the key Anglo-American text that initiated this new attitude with a full-blown theory of architectural formalism was Geoffrey Scott’s The Architecture of Humanism (1914). John Harbeson could in fact recommend the book as a “very sane exposition of the underlying principles of architectural composition.”8 The Architecture of Humanism was a survey and critique of the “fallacies” of various architectural theories, beginning with the Renaissance and ending with “academic theory.” Though Scott placed high value on the “academic tradition” that ﬂowed from the Renaissance, he believed academic theory to be “at all times barren.” According to Scott, the latter consisted of a conventionalism, the view that “because certain forms were used in the past they must therefore be used without alteration in the future.” He insisted that the true elements of architecture did not lie in a “canon of form,” meaning “the meticulous observation of ‘pure styles,’” but in mass, space, and line.9 Adopting Theodor Lipps’s theory of empathy, Scott claimed that through

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their perception of basic forms—as appearances related to fundamental human functions—humans were able to identify themselves with the built artifact: hence, his notion of “humanistic” architecture. He believed that the “tendency to project the image of functions into concrete forms” provided the basis of creative design, of “an architecture which by Mass, Space and Line responds to human physical delight, and by Coherence answers to our thought.”10 Though his formalism had the effect of debunking the status of historical style as a constituent element of architectural theory, Scott had little intention of justifying innovations in architectural design. His goal was to reorient the validity of the classical tradition, in particular Greek and Renaissance architecture, away from the framework of stylistic continuity, thereby providing it with ahistorical principles rooted in human psychology. Widely read on both sides of the Atlantic, Scott provided an exemplary logic that could be employed to reconcile the academic discipline with the emerging debates concerning composition, eclecticism, and modernism. The second edition of The Architecture of Humanism came out in 1924, the same year that Howard Robertson’s The Principles of Architectural Composition was ﬁrst published.11 Like Van Pelt and Robinson, Robertson believed that composition was something that could be analyzed. One could invoke a set of “principles of composition,” or what Colin Rowe referred to as a “formal common denominator” of past, present, and future monuments.12 Robertson’s book was actually just one of several Anglo-American texts of the 1920s that set out to elaborate these architectural principles. Though the speciﬁc terms of these principles differed from author to author, they typically included contrast, proportion, scale, balance, rhythm, massing, and surface—concepts similar to those already offered by Van Pelt and Robinson. As Robert Atkinson’s foreword to The Principles of Architectural Composition illustrates, they were invariably considered to be universal and permanent: Composition is the keystone of architectural design. Whilst primarily the plan of a building dominates its external expression, yet devoid of a sense of “Composition” the external effect may be dull and uninteresting despite a good plan; and with a proper appreciation of contrasts and values of mass the same work may be masterly. Detail is secondary, and may be bad or entirely omitted, on a building the mass of which is effective and even spectacular.13

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“The Use of the Dominant to Provide Unity in Composition of Plural Elements” from Howard Robertson, Principles of Architectural Composition, 1924.

With the exception of the comment that detailed ornament could be completely excluded, The Principles of Architectural Composition would seem to continue the arguments of the turn of the century. As with Van Pelt and Robinson, contrast and mass were considered principles independent of the plan and style of the building. Furthermore, for Robertson, the plan remained within the realm of architectural form and thus subject to the control of formal principles: it was an “image on paper which shows the scheme as a pattern of walls, rooms, corridors, etc., all laid out ﬂat as are the ﬁgures on a painting, and therefore, regarded as the elements of a piece of design, affecting each other according to the laws of abstract composition.”14 Robertson, however, was careful to distinguish his treatise from Guadet’s Éléments as well as the American texts by Robinson, Van Pelt, and Nathaniel Curtis. He

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claimed that while these texts dealt with composition from a “functional” point of view, his study considered it from the “abstract standpoint.”15 This binary opposition between the functional and the abstract provided Robertson with the central distinction on which he based his exposition on composition: that which regards the question of design in the abstract and considers the aesthetic effect of a building without special regard to its function and structure; and that which deals with the practical requirements of purpose, the elements which go to form the complete building, the methods of construction utilized, all matters which are related to what we may call, for the sake of brevity, functional design.16 Robertson went on to argue that only through a “comprehension of the laws of composition, through knowledge of the grammar of design” could functional design be “satisfactorily translated into an architectural creation.”17 The phrase “grammar of design” was adopted from The Things Which Are Seen, a general treatise on aesthetics by Trystan Edwards, another widely read British architect and critic. As the basis of beauty in both natural and artiﬁcial objects, Edwards had proposed the canons of number, punctuation, and inﬂection—formal principles he would later apply to architecture in Architectural Style (1926). In the same vein as Robertson, who had stated that good architecture was “entirely independent of so-called ‘styles,’” Edwards insisted that style was “expressional” and secondary to the compositional rules of architecture.18 As Alan Colquhoun stated in his perceptive analysis of The Principles of Architectural Composition, the search for permanence in formal principles became synonymous with the “collapse of ‘stylistic conviction.’”19 Another aspect common to Edwards and Robertson was their complete separation of planning and composition: The practical requirements of buildings, systems of planning designed to satisfy the conditions of particular architectural “programmes,” even the expressional function of architecture, so far as this is manifested in the character and status of a building, or in the disposition of parts in accordance with utilitarian needs, has nothing to do with the present theme, which is the language of architecture.20

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Examples of the principles of “conjugation” (drawings 1 to 6) and “punctuation” (drawings A to D) from Trystan Edwards, Architectural Style, 1926.

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The corollary to the exclusion of practical matters from the composition book was the planning manual’s proposition that form and style were not part of its subject matter. As Edward F. Stevens stated in his manual on hospitals, While many exterior designs are here shown, no attempt has been made to discuss architectural style, forms of construction or building material, since these may not differ from those of other classes of buildings. While the presence of beauty, either in architectural forms of decoration or sculpture, has its psychological effect upon the patient, the arrangement of the plan is really of prime importance in meeting the hospital problem.21 We encountered this kind of dualistic logic in our discussion on functional planning. Paralleling the rise of functional planning as a rational process of linking program and plan, composition became disengaged from the Beaux-Arts theory of the plan. The earlier more implicit distinction between planning and composition had now become an explicit separation of form and function. With the fragmentation of the theory of the plan, the supplementary relation between the analytique and the esquisse, so central to the discipline of the BeauxArts, could no longer be retained. According to Robertson, the problem of architectural elements was an issue of “functional design.” He ﬁrmly believed that the proper understanding of architecture was achieved through the “analysis of principles rather than of the elements of building.”22 Robertson thus separated “abstract composition” from the study of the “elements,” relegating the latter to a secondary position in the design process. Consequently, the idea of composition was categorically detached from the productive process of design and was deﬁned either as a visual effect or as a set of analytic concepts. Composition was now completely separated from the discipline of the analytique, the study and design of architectural elements, and in turn the analytique relinquished its essential status as the link between part and whole. The collapse of the analytique brought about an internal rupture in academic discourse that was manifest in the academic texts of the 1930s. We may read it in a portfolio, such as Charles Scribner’s 1930 publication of Masterpieces of Architecture in the United States, and a pedagogical text, Ernest Pickering’s Architectural Design of

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1933. In the same spirit of Letarouilly’s careful rendering of the great monuments of Rome moderne, Masterpieces was meant to be a culmination of the development of American architecture. Paul Philippe Cret, the most prominent of the elevenmember selection jury, proudly distinguished the portfolio from the many publications of the 1920s that had “based the selection of their material solely upon its exempliﬁcation of the canons of the ‘new’ art.”23 Yet even in the pages of this ambitious publication, it was evident that the analytique was coming under severe criticism—so much so that in its preface, Cret was obliged to defend the principles of mimesis: to provide an “Apology for Imitation, showing, by example drawn from every period in the history of art, how forms have been evolved by the countless small efforts of the individual, adopting and modifying to his particular uses and tastes the discoveries of his predecessors.”24 Cret, however, was ﬁghting a losing battle, and though he had hoped that the reception of Masterpieces would encourage a second volume, by the mid-thirties the chances for such a publication had all but disappeared. Despite Cret’s noble defense of mimesis, even within the academic discipline the analytique was now considered a detriment to the proper training of the architect. This was evident in Pickering’s Architectural Design, one of the last specimens in the genealogy of composition textbooks. According to Pickering, his book had the goal of “bringing the study of architectural design into harmony with the twentieth century.” And for this purpose, he believed that the design process had to dispense with the study of architectural elements, a position summarized by Rexford Newcomb’s foreword to his book: For years, books on architectural design and composition have presented the “elements” of architecture—orders, windows, walls, columns, stairs, pediments, and the like—as though they were the fundamentals out of which designs are “composed” in much the way that we put words together to form sentences in our lingual expression. This approach was perhaps all very well in a world of ﬁxed categories where it appeared that most of the “words” and “grammar” of architecture had been perfected by our predecessors and that about the best we could do was to recompose these “elements” to meet the demands of the day.25

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We may contrast this statement with Lloyd Warren’s foreword to Harbeson’s The Study of Architectural Design, written just a decade before Architectural Design. Warren, the first American to receive a diploma at the École, wrote that the analytique was essential to ensuring “that a student, before he enters the veritable study of architecture, has at his command a certain knowledge of things necessary to express acceptably a proposed edifice.”26 For those who held on to the older notion of composition, the traditional relation between the part and the whole would still be maintained throughout the twenties. Van Pelt, for example, continued to believe that “the production of good detail” was the necessary basis of “the whole field of architectural composition.” However, his conviction that “the qualities of a building are those of its parts” was quickly becoming an old-fashioned sentiment.27 In 1930, under the aegis of the Association of Collegiate Schools of Architecture, a critical survey of architectural schools was conducted by Frank H. Bosworth and Roy C. Jones, published two years later as A Study of Architectural Schools. This precocious study revealed many facets of the changing architectural pedagogy of the late twenties and early thirties, but what is most striking is its overt criticism against beginning design education with the analytique: [The analytique] as a device to inculcate a realization by the student of threedimensional architectural forms, this type of work and the usual instruction that goes with it would in the great majority of cases seem very questionable. Perhaps that is not its objective. What its real purpose is, beyond the facility in pictorial representation, no school was prepared to say with any great conviction or deﬁnition.28 The study pointed to a growing number of schools that had begun to forgo the study of elements, approaching the ﬁrst stages of architectural education with problems that “involve the totality of architecture in simpliﬁed form rather than artiﬁcially amputated parts of a complex whole.” The essential difference between the two methods involves a difference in point of view as to the fundamental nature of architecture. The common

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method has stressed the external and decorative phases of architecture by centering the student’s attention on them in his formative stages. The new one stresses the primary concern of architecture with the grouping and proportioning of enclosed spaces for human need. The movement has a signiﬁcance far greater than is implied in its bare mention as an educational experiment. It is a direct reﬂection of a new tendency in architecture which has been strongly evidenced in recent years,—so strongly evidenced, indeed, that many people hail it as not merely a tendency, but a revolution, whereby sentimental subservience to stylistic formulae bequeathed by the past is to give place to an enthusiastic acceptance of the realities of present-day materials and needs.29 In other words, despite the collapse of the analytique, the idea of the schematic ﬁrst sketch, originally predicated on the study of the elements, was retained within the schools. This lingering of an emaciated esquisse, even after the demise of the analytique, can also be detected in Pickering’s Architectural Design, which maintained the Beaux-Arts method of beginning a project with the sketch problem. Despite retaining a section on the analytique (see ﬁgure 2.5), Pickering now claimed that he was dealing with “mass” and “space” rather than the conventional elements of the classical tradition. In Bosworth and Jones’s study, they were called the “enclosed spaces for human need,” a concept clearly compatible with the predetermined “space functions” that comprised C. Stanley Taylor’s scheme of the functional plan. Detail was now an application to be taught in the latter stages of the curriculum and conducted in the ﬁnal stage of the design process. Consequently, style became associated solely with ornament, a shift that was understandably regarded as a revolutionary moment in architecture’s evolution toward a new reality. By the early 1930s, what had once been a tightly knit system based on the “theory of the plan” was fragmented into separate discursive units. Composition and planning, esquisse and analytique, form and function were now regarded as epistemologically exclusive categories that constituted discrete stages in the design process. In these dualisms, there was an absence of a dialectic because each concept claimed a different set of objects and conceptualized its unity in different ways. While planning was regarded strictly as a function of the program, composition sustained its own

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set of internalized rules. Though the notion of “unity” was universally claimed as a principle of composition, it was a concept internal to the formal categories of the system: “if a structure has unity, it must have contrast, rhythm, and scale.”30 Composition, as a set of analytical categories and perceptual effects, could thus avoid being entangled with the rationalized procedure of planning.

Form versus Function: The Debates of the 1920s During the 1920s and early 1930s, the schism that had formed between composition and planning, form and function, began to surface in the many architectural debates of the period. The most notable was the debate on modernism between the “modernists” and the “traditionalists,” two camps that actually shared similar Beaux-Arts backgrounds. The modernists, particularly during the late twenties, were identiﬁed with the architects of the New York skyscrapers, namely Raymond Hood, Ely Jacques Kahn, Ralph Walker, and Harvey Wiley Corbett. Simultaneously maintaining the aura of academism and the mantle of architecture as business, they represented that peculiar 1920s ﬁgure of the Beaux-Arts commercial architect.31 Corbett, the most vocal of the group, persistently strove to bring business, art, and modernism together. The following comments from his article on Raymond Hood’s Radiator Building present a typical Corbettian proposition: There is no reason why the term “commercialism” should ever be considered as opposed to art. Perhaps a new type of commercial architecture will be developed. Perhaps architecture will make a great forward step in interpreting commercialism in its new and higher relation to human welfare. . . . Commercialism in its present signiﬁcance spells gradual freedom and liberty for the average man.32 The traditionalists, on the other hand, comprised architects such as William Adams Delano and John Russell Pope. Though less deﬁned as a group, they were steadfast in their loyalty to the classical tradition.

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The discursive strategies of the modernism debate revolved around two basic conceptual formations of the composition books. The ﬁrst, as many contemporary observers recognized, was the common assumption that there were many styles of architecture. Louise La Beaume, an active but somewhat cynical participant in the debate, remarked that the difference between this debate and previous stylistic battles was that the traditionalists were defending a variety of historical styles.33 The traditionalists argued that the crux of the issue was not the replication of historic styles per se, but that the historical must be the authoritative point of departure.34 The parallel to this claim was the modernist tenet that consisted not of a positive projection of a particular style but of an opposition to the use of historical motifs. In this pluralist framework, the modern was treated as one alternative among numerous available styles: to quote Henry-Russell Hitchcock, “contemporary design, whether as ‘style,’ or ‘styles,’ is admitted on a par with the ‘style’ of the past.”35 The second conceptual formation shaping the debate involved Howard Robertson’s distinction between what he deemed the two basic approaches to architectural theory—the “abstract” and the “functional.” In the debates of the 1930s, either could be employed to defend the modernist or traditionalist position. First of all, according to the abstract, formalist position, buildings were to be judged not by style but by the formal qualities of mass, color, and line. On the one hand, for an eclectic like Trystan Edwards, this was a formalism that could provide the rationale for any and all styles. Whether classic, Gothic, or Oriental, the important matter was that the style conform to the “Grammar of Design.”36 Robertson, on the other hand, following his predilection toward “simple shapes” and “geometrical ﬁgures” already evident in The Principles of Architectural Composition, eventually became an enthusiastic advocate of modernism.37 Both Edwards and Robertson were in fact quite conscious of the formal inventions of modernism that came to the attention of the academic profession after the 1925 Paris Exposition Internationale des Arts Décoratifs et Industriels Modernes. By presenting nonstylistic principles as the fundamentals of design, architects could straddle the two sides of the debate on the appropriate style for the modern age. Indeed, Trystan Edwards proclaimed that his grammar of design provided a “resolution of the conﬂict between tradition and modernity.”38 Second, according to the “functional” argument, architecture’s essential role in modern society was to incorporate the most up-to-date methods of construction and

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“A Composition of Geometrical Shapes and Simple Forms” from Howard Robertson, Principles of Architectural Composition, 1924.

to solve the complex programs of modern institutions. It was in these terms that architects such as Raymond Hood and Ely Jacques Kahn proclaimed themselves as modernists: The modern movement does not concern itself with looks at all. It does not care whether we abandon or follow precedent, nor is it interested as to whether the new rules of art are derived from the machine, nor even whether there are to be any rules at all. . . . The artist or critic who tells you that tempo, rhythm, dynamic symmetry, color discordance, motion, pattern, or the inspiration of the machine are the basic qualities of the new art, is passing out the same old hypocrisies that the new art is trying to overcome.

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These qualities may occur in modern art, but they are incidental and not essential to it. Modern involves a sincere attempt to be honest.39 For the Beaux-Arts modernists in the functionalist camp, “honesty” meant the explicit acknowledgment of architecture’s immersion in the commercial structures of modern society. For Hood, unlike Corbett, there was no need to elevate commercialism into a discourse of form and representation. By the same token, traditionalists could also appropriate the functionalist position. They argued that by incorporating modern methods of construction and dealing successfully with complex building programs, they more than met the needs of modern society and hence were as up-to-date as those who would willy-nilly apply untested forms of decoration.40 Architects can, by working with a vocabulary based on our classical heritage, surpass the architecture of earlier years, if they ﬁrst solve the function of the building. This is in part the argument of the functionalist or modernist, but it is equally true of modern architecture based on the cultural traditions of the past. In other words, one should not copy an old existing building and adapt life to that building, but, with a vocabulary that study gives, should envisage the contemporary problem and clothe it in traditional architecture.41 The negative logic of the traditionalists converges with Karl Popper’s characterization of “conventional traditionalism . . . as the belief that, in the absence of an objective and discernible truth we are faced with the choice between accepting the authority of tradition, and chaos.”42 This logic denied any rational system in which the use of historical style could be justiﬁed, thus making style, for the traditionalist, a province of convention, and to the modernist, a matter of arbitrary taste. Another interesting debate of the 1920s, based on this dichotomy between form and function, involved the theme of the “new” skyscraper. Since its entrance into the theoretical discourse of architecture, one of the key issues with the skyscraper was the expression of structure.43 By the mid-twenties, however, many came to regard this issue as irrelevant. This attitude is evident in Fiske Kimball’s American Architecture,

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where in a chapter titled “What is Modern Architecture?” the two poles of modernism were ﬁrmly deﬁned: on the one hand, the functional, scientiﬁc, and objective; and on the other, the formal, aesthetic, and abstract.44 Kimball viewed the former as essentially a nineteenth-century phenomenon of Pugin, Viollet-le-Duc, and Semper—a tradition that culminated in the American work of Louis Sullivan. The latter was a reaction to this functionalism, best exempliﬁed by McKim, Mead and White, who provided “an interpretation of architecture, as they tacitly conceived it, in terms of mass and space, instead of structure.”45 For Kimball, it was in the underlying formalism of this overtly classical architecture that true modernism would be found. Accordingly, he believed that “the struggle to express the steel frame, so burning in the nineties,” had become a dead issue. “The vital and really ‘modern’ movement in American architecture,” he concluded, was “the effort to organize form irrespective of structure.”46 Though Kimball’s own sympathies were with a simpliﬁed form of classicism, he could write that “we are all together on what Harvey Corbett said to me the other day: ‘I have only one God, beauty of form.’”47 For Kimball and the formalists, the emergence of the setback skyscraper after New York’s comprehensive zoning ordinance of 1916 was the prime example of a modern architecture based on the principles of form. More precisely, “mass” was appropriated as the central concept in the aesthetics of the new skyscraper. Talbot Hamlin for instance, regarded Ralph Walker’s Barclay-Vesey building, built between 1923 and 1926, as an exemplar of this formal principle: “Here at last traditional design has been forgotten; masses, carefully studied, and emphasized vertical lines have been left to tell their own story and create their own beauty. . . . The whole building is destined to be a monument of American progress in architecture.”48 Ernest Pickering, noting that the zoning laws of New York had established a new design trend, went further, designating mass as the primary aesthetic principle of modern architecture: More and more does modern architecture depend upon mass, rather than detail, for its effect. However, the mass of a structure must follow the rules of composition—just to have a conspicuous mass or volume is not sufﬁcient. Mass can be vigorous or weak; it can have vitality and strength, or it may be indecisive and faltering. If it is correctly composed in an arresting manner, mass alone will arouse a deﬁnite emotional reaction. It will stimulate the

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observer with the sense of its completeness. Many of the tall buildings of our cities, with their properly related masses, are examples of the use of sheer weight and bulk with little detail.49 In a similar vein, Howard Robertson redrew Hugh Ferriss’s sketches of the developmental stages of setback design as an example of how “simple geometrical shapes form the basis of the ﬁnished architectural conception.”50 Ferriss and Harvey Wiley Corbett were the chief ideologues who appropriated the restrictions of zoning into spectacular images of a new architecture of the future.51 For them, the setback skyscraper represented the coming of a distinct American style. As Corbett proudly stated, “What we are getting now is something utterly new and distinctive. And its effect will be felt on the architecture of the whole world. The setback style will go down in history along with the Gothic, the Classic and the Renaissance.”52 Here was an instance where conditions external to the architectural discipline virtually determined the basic design of the building. The combination of the new zoning regulations, the imperative of securing maximum ﬂoor space, plus the rigid geometry of the New York grid had in effect ﬁxed the mass of the skyscraper. Rather than viewing this phenomenon as a loss of architectural autonomy, Corbett and other Beaux-Arts architects engaged in high-rise building regarded the zoning regulations as an inspiration to pursue a modern American style based on new formal principles. By the late 1920s, “the moulding of the conception of architectural design to meet the exigencies of zoning laws, building codes and the like” could be considered a form of modern architecture.53 The setback skyscraper was thus transﬁgured into a formalist and aesthetic discourse of “mass.” Perhaps the most publicized modernist project in America entrenched in the dualism of the aesthetic and the functional was the 1932 “Modern Architecture: International Exhibition” at the Museum of Modern Art and the companion book by Henry-Russell Hitchcock and Philip Johnson.54 In particular, the formulation of the “International Style” can be understood within the framework of the modernism debate of the 1920s and 1930s. On the one hand, Hitchcock and Johnson followed the traditionalists’ argument that if one rejected the discipline of stylistic restraints, a vacuum was opened in which anything would be possible, resulting in the loss of a communal discipline of architecture. On the other hand, they could not accept the

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The basic geometrical shapes that build toward the architectural principle of mass, from Ernest Pickering, Architectural Design, 1933.

4.7

Illustrations of modern buildings that exemplify the principle of mass, from Ernest Pickering, Architectural Design, 1933.

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Sketches of the evolution of the setback skyscraper from Howard Robertson, Principles of

Architectural Composition, 1924. These were redrawings of Hugh Ferriss’s “The Fourth Stage,” ﬁrst exhibited in the Architectural League of New York’s annual exhibition in 1922, and “The Final Stage,” published in Pencil Points, April 1923.

eclecticism of both the traditionalists and the modernists. Hitchcock had in fact begun to pursue the notion of a singular modern style several years before the exhibition. In 1930, he stated that “Modern architecture cannot be served by syncretist acceptance. Either it is a new way of light which demands conversion, or it is merely an impediment in the growth of taste in revivalism.”55 For Hitchcock, functionalism did not provide a theory on which a new discipline could be based; it could not ﬁll the void because form could not be generated:56 Technical perfection . . . is not in a complicated problem—and every building is a complicated problem and increasingly so—exact in the sense that

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four is the exact as well as perfect solution of two times two. Thus the sum of free choices among equally satisfactory solutions of details within the technical perfection of the complex whole is another and separate complex whole. These choices may be left to chance—or economics, which is historically the same thing—in which case the separate complex whole is unintelligent and disordered, or it may be entirely controlled by the consciousness of the designer, in which case it is intelligent and ordered. In the ﬁrst case there is no architecture, in the second there is.57 For Hitchcock, between building and architecture there was a point where “consciously or unconsciously the architect must make free choices before his design is completed.”58 And in The International Style, the proper choices were provided. Its three principles—volume, regularity, and the avoidance of applied decoration—were basically reactions to and speciﬁcations of the formal principles of composition that had been established during the twenties: volume was formulated as an antithetical principle to mass, regularity as a speciﬁc form of rhythm, and avoidance of decoration as a principle of surface. By insisting that one adhere to a speciﬁc set of formal qualities, Hitchcock and Johnson hoped to negate the arbitrariness of style that accompanied the commitment to formalism. By recuperating the stylistic imperative lost in the fragmentation of academic discourse, they hoped to reassert the cultural authority of an “aesthetic discipline.” By the end of the 1920s, it had become clear that the autonomy and disciplinary unity of academic professionalism could no longer be maintained. The emergence of functional planning had already laid the foundations for the separation of form and function, a schism that was internalized by academic discourse. The International Style and the debates on modernism and setback aesthetics, as well as the Architects’ Small House Service Bureau discussed earlier, were all accomplices to the dissolution of the unity between the profession and the discipline. They were also symptoms of the fragmentation of what was once an integrated discipline—a breakdown into the separate domains of style, composition, and function. In formulating the aesthetics of the skyscraper, the profession revised its ideology while maintaining traditional representational strategies. According to the logic of the Architects’ Small House Service Bureau, the profession retained the idea of autonomy while simultaneously

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appropriating the discourse of mass culture. In The International Style, Hitchcock and Johnson realized that the attempt to encompass all styles with the concept of composition was much too vague, latching onto the nineteenth-century nostalgia for a singular style. Its advantage over the other debates on modernism was its insistent recuperation of stylistic conviction. These strategies consisted not of detachment but rather of what Manfredo Tafuri has called the bourgeois tactic of warding off “anguish by understanding and absorbing the causes.” And to those, to continue with Tafuri’s critique, “it matters little if the conﬂicts, contradictions, and lacerations that generate this anguish are temporarily reconciled by means of a complex mechanism.”59 However, there were also those dissatisﬁed with such temporary reconciliations, and we shall next turn to a cultural critic, Lewis Mumford, and a technocrat-architect, Frederick Ackerman, as we begin to delve into the social critique of architectural representation, undoubtedly one of the keys to understanding this “anguish” of modern architecture.

5 FREDERICK ACKERMAN, LEWIS MUMFORD, AND THE PREDICAMENT OF FORM

It so happens that Mr. Ackerman lives and does his work from another point of view. This point of view requires that things be measured. The Continental Committee on Technocracy, foreword to Frederick L. Ackerman, “The Facts behind Technocracy,” 1933 The true symbol of the modern age in architecture is the absence of visible symbols. Lewis Mumford, The Culture of Cities, 1938

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Frederick Ackerman and the Logic of Regressive Rationality For those who found the academic discipline and its traditional forms to be inadequate, the inevitable problem was to envision and produce a new architecture. If the International Style was comfortably formulated on the ruins of academic formalism, it was neither the only nor necessarily the exemplary approach to the difﬁcult tasks of modern architecture. In the 1932 MoMA exhibition, a separate section on housing was set up in part by the involvement of Lewis Mumford, Catherine Bauer, Clarence Stein, and Henry Wright. Often portrayed as the social conscience of America’s architecture of the period, Mumford, Bauer, and the architects associated with the Regional Planning Association of America (RPAA) might plausibly be contrasted with the shallow aesthetics of the International Style and the de facto commercialism of Beaux-Arts practice. An examination of the concerns of the “social architect,” then, would certainly broaden the horizon of our examination of architectural discourse in the 1920s and 1930s.1 However, to view this group as somehow exempt from or transcending the conditions and difﬁculties of the period would be to lose our grasp of the present task of understanding the basic conditions of architectural discourse. Furthermore, it would be erroneous to think of Mumford as the spokesperson of the architectural concerns of the RPAA.2 Mumford is of course the monumental critic of American architecture and culture, the most recognized and vocal ﬁgure of the RPAA. At the same time, however, the architects of the RPAA, particularly Wright, Stein, and Frederick Ackerman, must also be recognized as no less the intellect than their younger colleague. Frederick Ackerman, though a relatively unknown ﬁgure compared to Mumford, produced a substantial body of writing on architecture, housing, city planning, and economics that was profoundly inﬂuenced by Thorstein Veblen. It is Veblen who provides the speciﬁc intellectual link between Ackerman and Mumford: like Veblen, who pioneered an institutional framework of economic analysis, both Mumford and Ackerman contributed to an institutional critique of architecture. Due in part to the conventional nature of his architectural designs and his often difﬁcult Veblenian language, Ackerman has never been studied in depth. Nonetheless, he is important as one of the few theorists of rationalist architectural discourse in America. Without extending to the great range of issues that Ackerman and Mumford

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addressed, I present their divergent thinking and attitudes in terms of their search for a new architectural discipline. By the mid-1910s, and well before his involvement with the RPAA, Ackerman had established himself as a highly respected architect in New York. He had studied at Cornell and at the École des Beaux-Arts, had taught at Columbia, and had built up a decade of architectural practice in partnership with Alexander Trowbridge.3 During this period, he began to be increasingly concerned with city planning, housing, and social issues related to architecture. An admirer of John Dewey and Walter Weyl and imbued with the Progressive ideals of civic responsibility and democracy, Ackerman hoped to bring architecture, planning, and housing into harmony with the larger goals of social reform. His involvement with city planning laws, wartime housing, and the reforms of the AIA—in particular his work with the Post-War Committee—can all be understood within this progressivist framework. The architects of the RPAA—Kohn, Ackerman, Stein, Wright, and Charles Whitaker—were all a generation older than Mumford, and had in fact shared similar experiences in housing and city planning during the 1910s and 1920s.4 Their efforts often coalesced into organizational activities, the RPAA being one of the more informal of several institutional settings. For example, their interest in housing and city planning found a common forum in the AIA’s Committee on Community Planning (CCP), formed in 1919. Roy Lubove has correctly pointed out that the CCP and RPAA were linked by ideology and personnel, the latter carrying out the programs outlined in the CCP through limited-dividend housing projects.5 The CCP reports during the twenties, to quote Lubove, outlined a “new institutional framework for city building, enlarging the role of the architect, planner, and welfare expert in determining urban physical structure and social organization.”6 The architect was projected as part of a body of “community planners” that would place the whole environment into “the province of social design and control.”7 Ackerman and the architectural wing of the RPAA thus became aligned with the political and economic thought of the “social intellectuals”—a label that the historian Donald Stabile gave to the new postwar intelligentsia who believed that “the appropriate policy for the nation as a whole was to consider carefully the beneﬁts gained by continuing the wartime organization of the economy into peacetime society.” Accordingly, Ackerman took the position that a centrally planned economy was the only way in which the problems of city planning and housing could be solved.8

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It thus comes as no surprise that even before the crisis of the war years, Ackerman had already taken a critical view of the Beaux-Arts system. Inspired by John Dewey’s notion that art involved “an idea, a thought, a spiritual rendering of things,” Ackerman pursued the issues of education and practice in terms of the expression of ideals, of architecture as a “spiritual structure.”9 In this respect, he maintained the academic ideal of architecture’s role of transcendent representation. For Ackerman, however, it was not aesthetic values that had to be expressed, but rather the entire culture of a community. He rejected the notion that society’s ideals were embodied in architecture by distancing the discipline from its external realities. As we have already encountered in a passage from his report to the Post-War Committee (see pp. 79–80), he centered his often harsh criticism of the academic system on its isolation from the economic, physical, and political conditions of society. According to Ackerman, the aspiring architect just out of school ﬁnds out that in ofﬁce practice, “the entire set of values by which he was taught does not apply”: In the new problems, the “conditions” are to him restrictions; there is even a sort of arrogance about him when he attacks a real problem. In it he sees not the possibilities, but the hampering conditions. His inspiration is to be found in the past, and there he goes for his material; and his endeavor is to warp the conditions of the problem into standard forms and arrangements. . . . I assert without hesitation that [students of architecture] do not look to the conditions of the present for their inspiration; they do not recognize these as the actuating forces in architecture.10 The problem of architecture’s isolation from society lay in the nature of the program and its relation to the design process. Instead of presenting programs that were “rigidly set and unrelated to life and existing conditions,” Ackerman proposed that students be required to participate in the program’s creation: “Focus his attention upon the social ideal of the program, rather than upon a physical compromise established by tradition.”11 Speciﬁcally, this meant widening the concerns of the program to include problems of transportation, sanitation, housing, and the natural landscape. Within the educational curriculum, it meant that architecture and art should be taught as “elements of town planning.” It should be stressed, however, that Ackerman’s criticism of academic education at this time was not a rejection of the system as a whole.

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In fact, he did not hesitate to praise it as “a splendid system of logical thought in regard to the subject of plan.”12 His criticism was thus focused on those aspects of the system that provided the link to social goals and values. By the end of the 1910s, Ackerman had begun to move away from the ideas he himself had been instrumental in forming. As an era of reform came to a close, he could no longer retain the hope that the institutions of centralized control established during the years of the First World War would be extended to society as a whole. After the war, he studied with Veblen at the New School of Social Research in New York and quickly became not only one of his most loyal followers but a leading theorist of the technocratic movement. Veblen was convinced that capitalism, or what was called the “price system”—as it was based on an artiﬁcial monetary system— would ultimately be abolished. Like Marx, Veblen believed that the internal contradictions of modern society would eventually bring about its downfall. However, if a revolution were ever to come about in America, he believed it would occur through the agency of a “Soviet of Technicians.”13 Accordingly, Ackerman’s vision of the architect approximated Veblen’s notion of the technician who has “learned to think in the terms in which technological processes act.”14 Furthermore, the role of this architect-technician within the problematic conditions of the price system became the central theme of his organizational activities. Again with Kohn and Whitaker, Ackerman became involved with the Technical Alliance, an organization formed in 1919 at the New School of Social Research just as Veblen was being appointed to its faculty.15 Coinciding with the formation of the Technical Alliance was that of the Inter-Professional Conference, whose goal was “To Discover How to Liberate the Professions from the Domination of Selﬁsh Interests. Both Within and Without the Professions, to Devise Ways and Means of Better Utilizing the Professional Heritage of Knowledge and Skills for the Beneﬁt of Society, and to Create Relations between the Professions Leading to this End.”16 Chaired by Kohn, who served as treasurer of the latter organization, a conference was held in late November 1919 in which the AIA participated as part of the activities of its Post-War Committee. If the central theme of the Veblen circle was “The Social Function of the Engineer” (the title of another set of meetings directed by Guido Marx in 1920), Ackerman was concerned with the social function of the architect-technician. Veblen thus provided a body of theory on which Ackerman could reorient and reconstruct his previously liberal view of society.

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Ackerman’s Veblenian analysis of architecture hinged on two key concepts. The ﬁrst was Veblen’s notion of the “instinct of workmanship”: an inborn human propensity for constructive and efﬁcient work.17 To understand Veblen’s concept of instinct is to grasp the basic premise of his overall project. As Wesley C. Mitchell pointed out, unlike most orthodox economic philosophies based on the premise of the rational man, Veblen assumed that man was a creature of instinct and habit. It was then quite logical for the economist to be concerned with “the evolution of mind,” which is “controlled primarily by what men do.”18 The second concept Ackerman drew upon was Veblen’s deﬁnition of the machine: In its bearing on modern life and modern business, the “machine process” means something more comprehensive and less external than a mere aggregate of mechanical appliances for the mediation of human labor. It means that, but it means something more than that. . . . Wherever manual dexterity, the rule of thumb, and the fortuitous conjunctures of the seasons have been supplanted by a reasoned procedure on the basis of a systematic knowledge of the forces employed, there the mechanical industry is to be found, even in the absence of intricate mechanical contrivances. It is a question of the character of the process rather than a question of the complexity of the contrivances employed.19 Like the concept of the instinct of workmanship, Veblen conceived the machine in terms of a history of the mind. He believed that though human nature was not suited to the machine process, the latter compelled, to quote David Riesman, “an orientation to the external environment, impersonal as nature itself, capable of creating in men a ‘second nature’ entirely methodical and workmanlike.”20 The kernel of the Veblenian deﬁnition of the machine consisted of a “matter-of-fact” outlook, instrumental habits and methods of work, and the formation of impersonal social relations. Hence, the machine came into conﬂict with the institutional and mental processes rooted in the instinct of workmanship, and subsequently became a destructive force of feudal society. According to Veblen, the machine accommodated one central aspect of the instinct of workmanship—the human predilection for productive work.

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Coinciding with the advent of the machine, another historical break in the institutional character of economic distribution had occurred: the introduction of credit economy and the rise of absentee ownership. Veblen warned that despite their simultaneous appearance, one should not think that there was a necessary connection between the two. In the Veblenian scheme, it was a matter of pure coincidence that the machine became enmeshed in the capitalist system. As Ackerman wrote, It was by historical accident that the machine came into the case during that short interval of time when the workman was losing control of his tools through the operation of the new institutional factors referred to. The upshot of this conjuncture of events was the utilization of the machine from the very outset under the guidance of “business principles” rather than under the guidance of the instinct of workmanship.21 The advent of capitalism then disrupted what would have been a logical transition toward a civilization based on the machine. At this point in history, a disjunction between cultural and material evolution occurred. What seemed on the surface to be progress were in fact symptoms of a retrograde civilization alienated from the deeper currents of a stalled human evolution. This was in fact the central point of The Theory of the Leisure Class. In one of the most perceptive analyses of Veblen’s philosophy, Theodor Adorno described his notion of a retarded and incoherent historical process: According to Veblen the very features which seem to prove that modernity has escaped the principle of unvarnished necessity and become humane are relics of historical epochs long past. For him, emancipation from the realm of utility is nothing but the index of a purposelessness arising from the fact that cultural “institutions” and anthropological characteristics do not change simultaneously and in harmony with the means of production but rather lag behind them and at times come into open contradiction with them.22 Or to use a more simple characterization by John Patrick Diggins, Veblen’s theory of instincts postulated “an antagonism between natural man and the culture which he himself has erected.”23 In Veblen’s theory and historiography, modernity was deﬁned

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as a condition of conﬂict between the inborn human instinct of workmanship, a system of production and a rational worldview spawned by the machine, and the pecuniary institutions of capitalism. It was in this inherent discordance of modern civilization that Ackerman sought to deﬁne the institutional role of architecture. Following Veblen’s view that the rise of the machine provided the single great schism in the history of civilization, Ackerman designated the Georgian period as the “ﬁnal paragraph of a long chapter of history that ran back into a dim and remote past during which the processes of handicraft had served to shape the approach to every problem of design, to condition and establish the entire range of criteria by which performance was judged and to give direction and character to secular events.”24 Prior to the advent of the machine, all architectural production was “characterized by the technique of handicraft, the apprehension of phenomena in terms of workmanship, and deliberate action.”25 Because of his place in this long tradition, the architect, as compared with the engineer, was entangled in a more complex and difﬁcult situation. The engineer was a direct product of the “modern point of view and of scientiﬁc method,” and thus had “no vocational forebears.” To the engineer “trained in the scientiﬁc method, thinking always in terms of the machine process and machine production, the forms and techniques of handicraft, that is to say, the architectural forms of the past are almost as meaningless as the hieroglyphics of the Egyptian tombs.” The architect, on the other hand, was a “direct lineal descendant of the master builder and the craftsmen,” and consequently carried the heavy baggage of the past, of knowledge and practices based on handicraft, relying on them, despite the fact that craft-based production was no longer tenable:26 “The material embodiment of his concept and his effort is expressed in terms which, by inheritance, are associated with the art of handicraftsmen and artists; but the intellectual processes involved derive their character from business rather than workmanship and their quality from the outlook of engineering and science rather than the ideology of the artist.”27 What Ackerman is saying, in his idiosyncratic language, is that the machine and the price system destroyed the unity between material reality and ideology, a synthesis long sustained in the handicraft mode of production. His thesis of the schism formed between “character” and “quality” was in fact another way of characterizing the Veblenian disjunction between institution and mind. While character denotes the institutional framework in which

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the mental processes ﬁnd their effect, quality is the substratum of biological characteristics, the fundamental level of instincts. At this substantive level, “appraisal of things architectural waits upon the conclusion of ‘scientiﬁc’ analysis and the calculations of engineering.” At the institutional level, however, the social effects of architectural production were controlled by business and pecuniary criteria. For Ackerman, “an event of architectural creation” was thus viewed as a “synthesis of a wide range of conﬂicting aims and purposes,” that is, an uneasy conﬂuence of the instinct of workmanship, the machine, and the price system.28 Within this Veblenian scheme, Ackerman continued his criticism of the BeauxArts system, but now he came to reject academic theory in toto. Ackerman now viewed the development of academic methods as a corollary to the collapse of a handicraft-based system of training. While “competence was derived from experience” in the handicraft system, academic methods were “drawn upon to lay the foundation and provide what [was] no longer to be gained through employment under a master.” Once again, the architectural program was the target of his attack: Under the academic view of architecture the point of departure ordinarily assumed in Design is a formulated Program. The expression of the Program in appropriate color and form constitutes what is referred to as the “Problem.” The academic program consists ordinarily of a simpliﬁed statement of aims with respect to use or function accompanied by sufﬁcient detailed information to enable the designer to proceed without further inquiry into the subject. In other words, the Program, it is assumed, contains all that the designer needs by way of information and stimulation. The Subject of Design, under the academic point of view, may or may not have reference to reality. The essential point is that the purpose or aim expressed in the Program shall be consistent with the stated requirements as to matters of detail. . . . The Program, no matter how derived, constitutes the point of departure in design and it is not ordinarily deemed the function of the architect to look behind the stated terms of his programs or to question their relevancy, adequacy or validity as factors which should control the design of the elements which in total constitute our architectural environment. And it

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is ordinarily assumed that the ends of architectural design are served when a logical expression of the Program is achieved. A brilliant performance in design is often, in ﬁnal analysis, nothing more than a clever expression or dramatization of a socially undesirable event.29 During the 1910s, Ackerman had criticized academic design because its programs had no connection to social reality. A decade later, now immersed in his Veblenian worldview, he reversed his position by claiming that the academic program was a direct expression of a capitalist society. What had changed was less Ackerman’s conception of the program than his understanding of social reality. The factual reality that he pursued was now hidden under the institutional mechanisms of the price system. The program was therefore determined not by “competent rules of economic planning” but rather by “ﬁnancial exigencies”: Architecture that is derived from the acceptance of any and all “conditions” that surround a problem as constituting an adequate program holds but a meager claim to be so rated: it is merely an expression—its creators, tools. For the architectural environment, derived from such a point of view guiding practitioners, would expose merely the meager, tentative, shifting grounds of compromises established from time to time as between the conﬂicting interests within the community.30 Ackerman found the work of Beaux-Arts commercialism to be the prime symptom of the subservient nature of the academic system.31 In fact, the clearest expositions of his Veblenian thesis on architecture were published in the context of a debate on modernism in the Journal of the AIA. For Ackerman, the claim that modernism involved “the discovery of new forms and new arrangements of color that would expose the industrial processes and express the functions involved in modern building” was symptomatic of architecture’s immersion in the pecuniary values of capitalism.32 He believed, ﬁrst, that modernism’s purported formal inventions were part and parcel of the proﬁt-inducing logic of “fashion,” and second, that their alleged “functionalism” and commitment to modern technology were merely the architectural adjunct to the speculative logic of obsolescence. According to Ackerman, “this new theory of

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architecture which postulates the need for stimulating the rate of obsolescence and replacement is merely a rationalization of the necessity, as viewed by ﬁnancial business, of providing an outlet for an excess industrial capacity which had been created under the guidance of the same speculative urge that gave rise to an excess of commercial structures, hotels, multifamily habitations, land subdivisions, and others.”33 The celebrated “functionalist” buildings of the time—the pavilions of the Century of Progress expositions and Rockefeller Center—“express[ed] more accurately than [had] heretofore been expressed the aggressive character of modern competitive selling.”34 They were merely examples of “the makings of a perfectly servile art.”35 For Ackerman, then, the basic issue was how to practice architecture within a dominant capitalist system that was to be rejected and somehow transformed. He once again sought the answer in the program. First, in terms of criticism and research, the program had to become the primary concern of the architect. The “conditions” of a program, he argued, should be the legitimate domain of architectural criticism. As an example, he cited Mumford’s treatment of the Barclay-Vesey Building in his Sticks and Stones. Like Mumford, the architectural critic should provide insight into the external conditions of building: to the conﬁguration and location of the plot, the surrounding street system, building codes that determined setback planes and density, and the larger ﬁnancial exigencies of the project. “It would be distinctly within the scope of architectural criticism,” Ackerman insisted, “to question the intrinsic value and relevancy of facts that constitute a given program and to treat them as causal factors in the architectural outcome, and hence due to be brought under the same critical handling as the effort of the architect.”36 Second, in terms of research, the architect was responsible for developing scientiﬁc data as steppingstones toward the construction of a rational program. Accordingly, Ackerman and his ofﬁce actively engaged in the development of data on planning and design. He provided assistance for numerous journal articles,37 and it was through the work of his ofﬁce that Architectural Graphic Standards, which will be examined in detail later, was put together and published in 1932. In 1934, when the New York Housing Authority was established, he was appointed its technical director and produced some of the most signiﬁcant research in housing during the 1930s. Ackerman, however, perceived this work neither as scientiﬁc progress nor as a search for a new discipline, but as an excavation of those isolated facts that remained uncontaminated by pecuniary goals. For Ackerman, the formulation of scientiﬁc data did

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Analysis of “Site Plan Relatives” from Frederick Ackerman, “A Note on Site and Unit Planning,” New York Housing Authority, 1934.

not build up to a holistic body of architectural theory. A fully rational program could not be formulated because, under the price system, there was only a small area in the program that the “Technician under the procedures of science” could actually control. For instance, in the design and planning of housing, this area was limited to “the determination of what types of three dimensional site patterns yield, in respect to light value in rooms, sunlight exposures, acknowledgement in disposition of rooms of the direction prevailing breezes, vistas, etc. . . . purely technical problems subject to metrical analysis.”38 In contrast to his colleagues of the RPAA, Ackerman regarded planning as a utopian delusion, an impossibility in the price system: Under our economy, actual planning under the guidance of the methods of the science is conﬁned to the unimportant factors of design. Sovereignty

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over geographical location, quantity, quality, and relation of units to families is exercised under the rights of ownership in the interest of shortage, price and proﬁt. This is not appreciated by sponsors of Planning and hence they assume responsibility for results in a domain in which they have neither authority nor the remotest chance of gaining it. . . . Still Planners continue to live in the hope that their plans may be turned directly to account of greater utility, rather than to the extension of control through the rights of absentee ownership.39 No proper theory of architecture or planning, which he used in the sense of a “scientiﬁc” theory constituted by “facts, data and criteria,” could be developed until the price system was overturned. For Ackerman, technique could be developed but not applied. In the absence of any theory of architecture, Ackerman thought that there was no basis for judging issues of form and aesthetics. According to his historiography, this had not always been the case; there had been valid criteria of taste in which the beauty of forms—the various “expressions” of past architectural periods, from Egyptian to the Renaissance—could be recognized. These criteria had been sustainable because the biological foundation of all the various cultural forms—the factor of handicraft and workmanship—comprised a coherent relation with artistic ideology.40 As noted, Ackerman was convinced that the power of these forces was broken by the advent of the machine and the price system, creating a fundamental confusion in aesthetic sensibilities. He was, therefore, extremely hesitant to ascribe formal and aesthetic relevance to the machine: We are now and again made conscious of the satisfaction, the sense of exhilaration, the thrill which accompanies the attainment of a hoped-for goal that seemingly lies entirely within the realm of this new technology and scientiﬁc point of view. And while we may not acknowledge that such activities and accomplishments bear any relation to aesthetics, it does not follow that they are of an altogether alien order. For it may be that what we now treat as the gratiﬁcation of aesthetic interest is, at bottom, no more than the gratiﬁcation of our ever-shifting pecuniary canons of taste. It may also be that out of a prolonged period of cultural borrowing we have lost the ability to compre-

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hend and appreciate a truly creative experience. And our ability to discriminate between an aesthetic and technological achievement has become so confused and contaminated, by aims and purposes that are alien, that we cannot clearly differentiate between “accomplishments” of intrinsic aesthetic value, and those which yield a purely technological satisfaction.41 Ackerman questioned whether a machine aesthetic could ever exist; and even if such a thing could be formulated, he believed that, within the existing price system, it would have little hope of escaping the pervasive logic of business.42 Within his Veblenian scheme, the relevance of representation was itself questioned, resulting in the evasion of the whole question of form and aesthetics. For his own architectural work, he returned to Veblen’s instinctual absolute, to the ideal of workmanship: “Durability and permanence call for an architectural expression more deeply rooted in reason than the extremes of fashion which pass in a day.”43

Lewis Mumford and the Search for Authentic Form Lewis Mumford’s architectural criticism belongs to the tradition of Ruskin and Morris, an approach that he called “sociological.” From his earliest essays to his proliﬁc production of the 1960s, Mumford’s statement in 1921 that “‘style’ is fundamentally the outcome of a way of living, that it ramiﬁes through all the activities of a community, and that it is the reasoned expression, in some particular work, of the complex of social and technological experience that grows out of a community’s life” remained constant.44 Following the Ruskinian search for the synthesis of art and life, he believed that beginning with the mid-eighteenth century and continuing throughout the nineteenth century, architecture experienced a “modern transition” that resulted in a “breakup of form.” For Mumford, “form in building is in essence the form of a particular society,” and hence in “a divided society, a divided mind—and in consequence a disrupted sense of form.”45 Uttered in the early twentieth century, this is not a particularly original statement, and with Mumford we must understand that this is also Veblen speaking. Mumford became acquainted with Veblen through his books and lectures at the New School of Social Research and

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through personal contacts when they were both at the Dial. Though he never truly acknowledged Veblen as a major inﬂuence, Veblen emerged as a central force in Mumford’s work toward the late twenties and early thirties.46 In Veblen’s The Theory of the Leisure Class, Mumford read a conﬁrmation of his thesis concerning architecture in the Western world after the eighteenth century: that, with the new conditions of modern society and the subsequent displacement of old habits and modes of thought, a uniﬁed social expression in architecture had collapsed. Veblen’s analysis, according to Mumford, provided the key to the “difﬁculties in the industrial and decorative arts.”47 It exposed the bourgeois obsession with conspicuous appearances, verifying his distinction between truly expressive “form” and inauthentic and spurious architecture. In terms of how architecture and society may be reintegrated, Veblen is an even more central inﬂuence. During the 1930s, the key to Mumford’s demand for the integration of architecture and society lay in the idea of the machine. There are of course a variety of sources, from Ralph Waldo Emerson and Patrick Geddes to Louis Sullivan, but Mumford’s machine followed most specifically its Veblenian deﬁnition as an autonomous force of human civilization. This is evident in Technics and Civilization (1934), where Mumford deﬁned the machine not just as a mechanical device but also as “the entire technological complex”: “This will embrace the knowledge and skills and arts derived from industry or implicated in the new technics, and will include various forms of tool, instrument, apparatus and utility as well as machines proper.”48 This conception of the machine as catalyst in the reintegration of modern community can also be found in the writings of Catherine Bauer, Mumford’s companion and protégé during the early 1930s. In her Modern Housing, also published in 1934, she echoed Mumford’s view of The Theory of the Leisure Class, writing that Veblen had stated “the philosophy of modern architecture, in its relation to the architecture of the nineteenth century.”49 Bauer began the chapter titled “Architecture” with a long passage from Veblen’s most famous work: The canon of beauty requires expression of the generic. The “novelty” due to the demands of conspicuous waste traverses this canon of beauty, in that it results in making the physiognomy of our objects of taste a congeries of idiosyncracies. . . .

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This process of selective adaptation of designs to the end of conspicuous waste, and the substitution of pecuniary beauty for aesthetic beauty, has been especially effective in the development of architecture. It would be extremely difﬁcult to ﬁnd a modern civilized residence or public building which can claim anything better than relative inoffensiveness in the eyes of anyone who will dissociate the elements of beauty from those of honoriﬁc waste. The endless variety of fronts presented by the better class of tenements and apartment-houses in our cities is an endless variety of architectural distress and of suggestions of expensive discomfort. Considered as objects of beauty, the dead walls of the sides and back of these structures, left untouched by the hands of the artist, are commonly the best feature of the building. . . . The underlying norms of taste are of very ancient growth, probably far antedating the advent of the pecuniary institutions that are here under discussion. Consequently, by force of the past selective adaptation of men’s habits of thought, it happens that the requirements of beauty, simply, are for the most part best satisﬁed by inexpensive contrivances and structures which in a straightforward manner suggest both the ofﬁce which they are to perform and the method of serving their end.50 Bauer understood Veblen’s term “the generic” as a set of shared conventions, and went on to claim that architecture was “the social art, the expression of those forces which keep people together and not of those which separate and individualize.”51 Interestingly enough, exactly the same sentence appeared in her article in Creative Art on the International Style exhibition. In the article, published two years earlier, the sentence appeared in the context of how the common style, so convincingly exhibited, implied “the common acceptance, conscious or unconscious, of a basic norm of design.”52 Whereas in 1932 the “forces that keep people together” had not yet been deﬁned, Bauer was able in Modern Housing to specify the machine as the most important communal force. She shared this position with Mumford, who reiterated throughout the late twenties and early thirties, in rather dramatic fashion, this socializing function of the machine:

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The machine levels, spreads, vulgarizes: that is its great boon to humanity. As our machine economies become more effective, the goods of the world will tend to be distributed more and more like sunshine and rain, falling on the just and unjust, the snobs and the democrats. It threatens to ruin the spurious “values” of our predatory leisure class culture. Whatever the politics of a country may be, the machine is a communist.53 Indeed, in Mumford’s Geddesian historiography, it was a historical imperative of the impending “neotechnic” synthesis that the universal form of the machine aesthetic be established. In the “paleotechnic” phase, the “technical importance of shape” had gone unappreciated. With the introduction of the organic world into science and technology, a new logic was introduced in which machines were now forced to recognize the “superior economy of nature.”54 Machines thus provided an inherent principle of a new collective economy as well as a new aesthetic: “modern technics, by its own essential nature, imposes a great puriﬁcation of esthetics. . . . We cannot intelligently accept the practical beneﬁts of the machine without accepting its moral imperatives and its esthetic forms.”55 Here one begins to see the parting of ways between Mumford and Veblenian regression. The difference becomes clear when Mumford’s statement that “the machine levels, spreads, vulgarizes” is contrasted with its probable source in The Theory of Business Enterprise, where Veblen wrote, “The machine is a leveler, a vulgarizer, whose end seems to be the extirpation of all that was respectable, noble, and digniﬁed in human intercourse and ideals.”56 This was Veblen’s typically sardonic manner of describing the destructive effect of the machine. As David W. Noble pointed out, this statement was a radical demand for the destruction of history and of culture as it stood at the present.57 It is telling that the idea appeared in the context of Veblen’s description of the disruptive effects of the machine on modern communities, particularly on the working-class family. In contrast to Mumford, he did not limit the object of the machine’s destructive force to the culture of the leisure class. Whereas Mumford viewed the machine as the key to the reintegration of form and society, Veblen, as well as Ackerman, refused to envision society cleansed by the machine. Veblen’s future was an ultimate regression to a ground zero civilization in which there was no paradox between a complex industrial environment and the instincts of an ideal “prehistoric”

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man. Veblen saw in the present the machine compromised by pecuniary culture; he could not imagine, however, the form of a future machine culture. A speciﬁc manifestation of the schism between Mumford’s ideas and the Veblenian project was their divergent perceptions of the role of industrial design. Mumford set up a contrast between the principle of conspicuous waste dominant in bourgeois culture and the principle of conspicuous economy inherent in machine production. Though Mumford was critical of the consumerist logic of existing industrial design, he believed in the potential of the designer to fulﬁll “the great principle of machine production, that of conspicuous economy”: If the decision against conspicuous waste cuts the designer off from the single wealthy patron, let him be consoled by this: the community as a whole is a much wealthier patron, and once it begins to be well-housed and furnished—even a “prosperous” country like the United States is far from such a general goal—once it begins to demand modern and well-designed houses, as it now demands its 1930 model car, there will be more work for the artist in the factory than he has dared to dream of for many a century, as he waited in the ante-rooms of the well-to-do.58 In a letter responding to these optimistic sentiments, Ackerman sketched out his view of the institutional development of industrial design.59 For Ackerman, industrial design emerged as a form of mediation in the conﬂict between the machine and pecuniary culture. This deﬁnition followed Veblen’s warning that “when the question is cast up as to what will come of this conﬂict of institutional forces—called the Social Problem—it is commonly made a question of remedies: What can be done to save civilized mankind from the vulgarization and disintegration wrought by the machine industry?” According to Veblen’s analysis, the answers would be sought within the framework of “business trafﬁc,” presented in “some appeal to philanthropic, esthetic, or religious sentiment, some endeavor to conjure with the name of one or another of the epiphenomena of modern culture.”60 For Ackerman, industrial design was merely a palliative, a subterfuge amid the fundamental contradictions of modern civilization. In turn, Mumford would later write that Ackerman’s “revolutionary premises had the effect of making him, in practice, a thorough conservative: since he expected nothing good of the existing system, he took it as it was.”61

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In contrast to Ackerman’s evasion of form, we are more familiar with Mumford’s aggressive and sincere pursuit—in his role as historian-critic—of a new architecture. Though his historical narrative was primarily concerned with American architecture, it was constructed in the operative mode typical of the histories of modern architecture produced during the 1930s. For Mumford, the golden age of architecture was the colonial village: “Would it be an exaggeration to say that there has never been a more complete and intelligent partnership between the earth and man than existed, for a while, in the old New England village?”62 In Mumford’s narrative, the history of the disintegration of this harmony is in part the story of architecture’s transformation into a sign. The uniﬁed culture and environment of the colonial village was disrupted by “swift, corrosive inﬂuences brought in from foreign lands,” that is, brought in by the book. According to Mumford, “the real misdemeanor of the printing-press . . . was not that it took literary values away from architecture, but that it caused architecture to derive its value from literature.”63 In an echo (reversed in form but similar in content) of Frank Lloyd Wright’s statement, in his seminal “Art and Craft of the Machine,” that “architecture, as it was, is dead, irretrievably slain by the printed book,”64 Mumford concluded, “hereafter, architecture lives by the book.”65 In other words, architecture had lost its vital coherence with life because its outer forms were arbitrarily copied from literary sources foreign to any possible integrated culture. His indictment of a “literary architecture” naturally extended to the academic practice of the portfolio, which he summarily dismissed as servile copying. The fact that architecture had become a symbol of something foreign to itself, that it had become a sign, was for Mumford a symptom of the disintegration not only of architecture but of society as a whole. The Brown Decades, the book that follows the historical ruminations of Sticks and Stones, was intended as the history of the reintegration of American architecture. And indeed, with its great insight, the book served a critical role in reestablishing a great architectural tradition that linked H. H. Richardson, Louis Sullivan, Montgomery Schuyler, and Frank Lloyd Wright. This “weaving together of the several lines of initiative which were ﬁrst started during the Brown Decades” was ultimately to lead toward a “new architecture.”66 As we might expect, the machine paved the way, peeling away the guises of representation and returning architecture to a holistic essence: architecture as “austere as a steamship, as nicely adapted to its purpose as the elevators that had begun to glide up and down . . . a ﬁnal clariﬁcation of structure . . . from within.”67 Schuyler’s interpretation of the Monadnock Building as the realization of

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“the thing itself ” was understood as a kind of neue Sachlichkeit, which for Mumford was equivalent to a search for formless essences.68 During the early 1930s, Mumford extended this search to the problem of the dwelling house. He believed that the fundamental problem with the traditional house lay in the perception that it must be an “abstract symbol of safety, patriotism, citizenship, family stability.” In what would be Mumford’s most essentialist moment in his pre–World War II writings on architecture, he stated that the modern house must be “a biological institution.” It must be deﬁned not by form but by its “essential biological requirements.”69 However, the problem of representation did not go away. When the ideal of the new architecture was a state in which form had become irrelevant, how did one know it had arrived? More speciﬁcally for Mumford the critic, how did one illustrate its achievement? This dilemma was manifested in his changing attitude toward the role of illustrations, in his own work as well as in other’s. In Sticks and Stones, as a way of asserting his search for authenticity, he stated that he deliberately left out illustrations: “for the building is not merely a sight; it is an experience: and one who knows architecture only by photographs does not know it at all.”70 A few years later, however, under pressure to demonstrate the imminent presence of the new architecture, his sense of the photographic image changed. In a review of Frank Yerbury’s Modern European Buildings and Erich Mendelsohn’s Russland, Amerika, Europa, he wrote, “We do not need verbal outlining so much as we need pictures. The facts are there: the pictures exist too: but it takes a touch of genius to select them and make them live.”71 In his Renewal of Life series of the 1930s and early 1940s, particularly in Technics and Civilization, he tried his hand at this “selection of facts.” For example, under the title “Nature and the Machine” and “Esthetic Assimilation,” he juxtaposed photographs of a hydroturbine, an X-ray of a shell, a stadium by Nervi, a grain elevator, and artworks by Duchamp-Villon, Brancusi, and Léger. This technique was reminiscent of Le Corbusier’s juxtaposition of the Parthenon and a Delage sports car but, without Le Corbusier’s insistence on the powers of metaphorical vision, Mumford conceived his layouts in the ambivalent terms of minimalist aesthetics and formless essences. Mumford seemed to be convinced that these images carried a potential truth because “the photographer cannot rearrange his material on his own terms. He must take the world as he ﬁnds it.”72 For Mumford, at least during the early thirties, photography, like other machine processes, provided the possibility of an unmediated “taking of the world.”

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“Nature and the Machine,” illustration page from Lewis Mumford, Technics and Civilization, 1934.

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“Esthetic Assimilation,” illustration page from Lewis Mumford, Technics and Civilization, 1934.

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Though a ﬂuid narrator, Mumford was never the master of linking words with images and objects. As Stanislaus von Moos noted, “the sequential litany of images that look alike, despite the fact that they show objects differing in nature and function implies a rhetoric mode that is narrative, not dialectic.”73 The metaphorical leaps in thinking, seeing, and drawing that we see with Le Corbusier, or even with Sigfried Giedion, were never accessible to Mumford.74 He was able neither to embrace an ethics of seeing, nor to denounce, like Ackerman, the possibility of genuine representation. By the end of the thirties, he arrived at a curious mixture of minimal visibility and the functionality of the thing in itself: The true symbol of the modern age in architecture is the absence of visible symbols: we no longer seek on the surface that which we can obtain effectively only through penetration and participation in the function of a structure. As our sense of the invisible forces at work in the actual environment increases—not merely our sense of physical processes below the threshold of common observation, but psychological and social processes too—as this sense increases we will tend to ask architecture itself to assume a lower degree of visibility.75 Mumford had to struggle within his paradoxical stance toward representation. On the one hand, in a discordant world, the forms and images of architecture could not but be its mere symptoms. On the other hand, he could not abandon the search for the images of a yet-to-come modern synthesis. We may thus understand why he was an ambivalent participant in the International Style, fully capable of mobilizing MoMA’s photographs in “Machine Art” to endorse a modern aesthetic. Using Veblen’s concepts but without his extremism, he believed throughout the 1930s in the possibility of a new machine civilization: By the completion of our machine organization, we can recover for work the inherent values which it was robbed of by the pecuniary aims and class animosities of capitalist production. The worker, properly extruded from mechanical production as slave, comes back as director: if his instincts of workmanship are still unsatisﬁed by these managerial tasks, he has by reason of the power and leisure he now potentially commands a new status within

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“Modern Machine Art,” illustration page from Lewis Mumford, Technics and Civilization,

1934. As noted in the photo credits, all the images were reproduced from the “Machine Art” exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art, 1934.

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production as an amateur. The gain in freedom here is a direct compensation for the pressure and duress, for the impersonality, the anonymity, the collective unity of machine production.76 However, even here, when speaking of social changes, he arrived at a simplistic compromise between exploitation and freedom, organic communitarianism and impersonal collectivity. Eventually, in Mumford’s post–World War II writings, when his optimistic outlook on cultural synthesis was no longer sustainable, images of true form could no longer be illustrated. This reversal of position was evident in The Conduct of Life, the last in his so-called Renewal of Life series, where he dropped his typical format of glossy pages of illustrations inserted between pages of text. In a preface to a later edition, Mumford commented on the “difﬁculties” in writing the ﬁnal volume of a series that had originally been based on his cultural and philosophical optimism: “for the hopeful note that pervaded the earlier volumes, conceived as they were in 1930, no longer rang true; and the concrete richness of illustration, drawn from actual life in the earlier books, was too often missing.”77 Mumford, who had always viewed Ackerman’s technocratic radicalism as ineffectual, now joined him in his belief in a holistic architecture deferred and denied until the utopian moment of integration: “The architectural embodiment of the modern city is in fact impossible until biological, social, and personal needs have been canvassed, until the cultural and educational purposes of the city have been integrated into a balanced whole.”78 Theodor Adorno’s critique of Veblen thus penetrates to Mumford: “He does not understand the distinctly modern character of regression. The deceptive images of uniqueness in an era of mass production are only vestiges for him, not responses to highly industrialized mechanization which betray something of its essence.”79 Ackerman and Mumford represent variations of an important mode of response to what has often been called the “crisis of form” in the modern world. Ackerman not only accepted the post–World War I theme of crisis but approached it as a fundamental paradox of architecture, rejecting in toto the possibility of a holistic discipline. This position leads, as we shall see, speciﬁcally to the diagram, to the distinction between fact and appearance. Mumford’s position, on the other hand, was ambiguous, always shifting, and full of a rush to misjudgments he would later disavow. He

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suffered from a basic contradiction of the modern culture of discontent: if architecture was the reﬂection of society, how did one represent an architecture whose social basis had yet to be realized? For both Ackerman and Mumford, the representation of present reality became an embarrassment. Ackerman consciously and strategically evaded all appearances; for Mumford, as for Pevsner and the operative histories of modern architecture, true form had to be distinguished from mere appearance.80 Ackerman and Mumford were then situated on opposite sides of the Veblenian coin. Once again, Adorno’s analysis of Veblen extends, in quite different ways, to both Ackerman and Mumford: Veblen would like to make a clean slate, to wipe away the rubble of culture and get to the bottom of things. But the search for “residues” regularly falls prey to blindness. As the reﬂection of truth, appearances are dialectical; to reject all appearances is to fall completely under its sway, since truth is abandoned with the rubble without which it cannot appear.81

6 THE COGNITIVE PROJECT OF THE ARCHITECTURAL JOURNALS

Modernism, in so far as it is vital, is an attitude of mind. Michael A. Mikkelson, “Two Problems of Architecture,” Architectural Record, 1929

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The Consumerist Project of American Architect During the late twenties, the beginning of a fundamental shift in architectural discourse was signaled by a series of editorial announcements in three major architectural journals. Within a period of twenty months, and before the crash of October 1929, three of the ﬁve largest architectural periodicals in America—American Architect, Architectural Forum, and Architectural Record—changed their editorial policies and formats.1 The ﬁrst announcement came in the January 1928 number of Forum. Its editor, Parker Morse Hooper, stated that the journal would be organized along the “three major divisions” in the architectural profession: “Design as its base, joined on the one side by Engineering, and on the other by Business.” In part, this triangular organization reafﬁrmed its policies of the twenties, initiated when The Brickbuilder was renamed The Architectural Forum in 1917. This time, however, there was a “natural physical division” into two separate sections—“Architectural Design” and “Engineering and Business”2 —with plates and essays grouped in the former and more technical articles in the latter. In effect, the conceptual dichotomy between the practical and the aesthetic took the form of a physical division within the journal. After Kenneth K. Stowell replaced Hooper as chief editor in the fall of 1930, and following the purchase of Forum by Time Incorporated in 1932, another set of changes was brought into the journal.3 In 1933, the journal once again adopted a new format in which the binary organization was forgone, entailing yet another set of changes that we shall examine in the following chapters. The most abrupt transformation occurred in American Architect. In the summer of 1929, the journal was purchased by William Randolph Hearst’s International Publications.4 A professional architectural journal had thus become part of the Hearst corporation, a conglomerate of mass circulation magazines that included Good Housekeeping, House Beautiful, Cosmopolitan, and Harper’s Bazaar. Though the intentions behind the purchase remain unclear, it seems that American Architect was projected as the professional component in a network of magazines concerned with homemaking, interior decoration, architecture, and other domestic topics. Its new editorial policy was announced in the September 1929 number, followed by a radical change in format the following month. Under the slogan of “architecture as business,” the journal announced a policy that would concentrate on the practical and business

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aspects of the profession.5 The new publishers claimed that their thorough investigations had conﬁrmed that architectural publications concentrated on only one phase of the architectural work—the completed building. This type of architectural publication was deemed insufﬁcient for the “business minded” architect who “must be more than merely the designer of a building.” As a response to this reality, the journal concluded that it would “widen its scope and include subjects other than design . . . economics, real estate values, rental problems, remodeling problems and methods, the character of materials and their possibilities, the contacting of clients, the handling of employees.”6 Though this new policy repeated many of the themes already introduced by Forum in the late teens, American Architect ’s new policy now entailed its complete reorganization. The most important departure was the assumption that professional service was directly associated with the programmatic rejection of representational practice. The journal advocated its new policy in antithesis to the presentation of the building in “pictures”: True someone does take a picture, and the picture is of interest to other architects, but what interests them more is how the architect solved all the problems from the day he “contacted the client” until the building was ready to be photographed, because, if these problems were poorly worked out the design is relatively unimportant. These problems are the ﬁeld in which THE AMERICAN ARCHITECT is serving.7 In effect, American Architect had come to identify the discipline not with its material products—buildings, drawings, and documents—but with an institutional process. In contrast to draftsmanship’s essential status in the academic discipline, an explicitly negative attitude toward drawing began to emerge in the architectural journals during the 1930s. For instance, in a Record article called “Draftsmanship Is Not Architecture,” the author, W. R. B. Wilcox, claimed that “the architect’s real work is not primarily the business of ‘making drawings,’ but the conceiving, illustrating, and directing the execution, of buildings—the mental image of which he alone ﬁrst beheld.” This attack on draftsmanship was a direct criticism of the artistic pretenses of the profession, which for the author ultimately weakened its status in modern

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building operations. “The architect as pencil” had thus become a metaphor for the architect’s denigrated position in the building process.8 It was in this attempt to shift the discipline away from the processes of architectural representation that the most radical change in American Architect can be understood, namely the complete elimination of the portfolio. The speciﬁc analysis of this new discursive formation will follow in later chapters; for the moment, I will continue to focus on the basic claims of these new policies. Until the mid-thirties, American Architect aggressively claimed that it was “the one magazine in the architectural ﬁeld whose editorial thought [was] premised on the fact that Architecture [had] become a Business as well as an art.”9 The journal was in fact a key participant in an intensiﬁed discourse of consumerism and business that pervaded the architectural profession during the late 1920s and early 1930s. Many of the issues raised in the late 1910s reemerged in its pages in a decidedly more aggressive manner. According to American Architect’s diagnosis, the difﬁculties of the building industry were caused by an imbalance between supply and demand and its inability to control building costs. During the early years of the depression, many in the industry, including the architectural profession, optimistically anticipated a general recovery of business. It was thought that the maladjustments of previous years would quickly be corrected and building would emerge as an efﬁcient and industrialized part of a healthy economy. As a rational basis of controlling production, the prevailing notion of building economics established during the 1920s was thus endorsed with continued fervor. Not surprisingly, the deterministic role of economics in architectural design persisted as an important journalistic theme during the years of the depression. One of the more explicit examples of this trend can be found in an article in American Architect titled “Economics—The New Basis of Architectural Practice.” It argued that in the rationalized building industry forecast to emerge in the postdepression era, the status of the architect would depend on “how well he grasps the underlying factors and how well disposed he is to relinquish past conceptions of the profession”: Architecture as a ﬁne art has limped along without being anchored to any base. Regardless of the type of building to be designed the prime objective

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in the architect’s mind was beauty. And yet, when we survey the cumulative results of these efforts to make beautiful buildings, an honest analysis shows but a small proportion of creditable productions, a larger proportion of lifeless reproductions or adaptations that were not worth the money and effort expended on them and a predominance of hybrid buildings—most of them speculative projects—that have had little or no serious study. . . . Architectural standards for the United States cannot be set by the corporation that throws excess proﬁts into monumental building nor by the wealthy man who builds a vast country estate. These are exceptions in the money and proﬁt economy. Opportunities to maintain architecture as a ﬁne art alone—so far as wealth is concerned—are steadily becoming fewer.10 In contrast to Forum’s position during the late 1910s, which had accepted the aesthetic prerogatives of the profession, this article and many like it directly challenged the traditional ideological framework. The “standards” of architecture were now determined by a larger market, and if the architect wished to solve “the problems that have hitherto fallen in the main to the speculative builder,” a radical revision of the profession and discipline was deemed necessary.11 True to its policies, American Architect pushed for the expansion of the architectural market, and with it a more aggressive program of professional advertising. By unabashedly adopting the motto of “selling architecture to the man on the street,” it consciously ran against the policies of the AIA, which traditionally had looked down on advertising.12 American Architect was targeting a speciﬁc market, the suburban middle class and in particular the housewife, who had become the principal decisionmaker in domestic consumption, including the purchase of homes. House Beautiful and Good Housekeeping, its sister magazines in the Hearst lineup, provided further space for the “institutional advertising” that American Architect aggressively pursued. The journal, however, was opposed to “supplying” architecture through the merchandising of stock plans. As one editorial, “The ‘Stock Plan’ House Can Never Have a Soul,” clearly stated, it was not material documents but architectural service that was on sale: Architects perform a public service to the individual and the community that is impossible for the sellers of mass production plans to give. It is fact and

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not theory that environment has an important bearing on individuals and their personalities. The house is the foundation of American home life, American independence, happiness and liberty. Environment conducive to this, must be kept intact for the individual and the community at large. The architectural profession can and is contributing to this public service. . . . It is only through personal contact and study of the individual family that a house suited to its needs can be built to serve it. It can never be sold as a part of a “stock plan.”13 Therefore, the task of the profession was “to convince the public of the value of [the architect’s] service . . . and to make it possible for the average American family to obtain the beneﬁt of architectural talent.”14 The deﬁnition of the disciplinary core of architecture as a “service” was of course not something new but a concept that had emerged in the late teens, particularly through the work of the Post-War Committee.15 This emphasis on professional service continued throughout the next two decades and was also evident even in a conservative journal such as Pencil Points. With the sudden collapse of architectural work after the depression, Pencil Points perceived the situation as an opportunity to clarify the role and value of the architectural profession. In its ﬁrst issue of 1930, it announced an active policy of “educating business men, and others planning to build as soon as conditions are right, concerning the nature and value of expert architectural service.”16 A few months later it ran a special article called “The Value of the Architect’s Service,” which provided the following deﬁnition of the architect: The architect is, like the lawyer or the physician, a professional man. That means that he has nothing to sell you other than disinterested personal service. His knowledge of the art of designing buildings and of supervising their construction—knowledge acquired by years of study and apprenticeship— makes him an expert in his ﬁeld and makes his assistance of value to you, who may know little or nothing of such matters. His ability to make knowledge effective in your service is his sole “stock in trade.” He is not, as some people erroneously suppose, a dealer in blueprints or in plans and speciﬁcations, any more than a physician is a dealer in prescriptions. These things are simply instruments of service.17

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Centered on the concept of service, this deﬁnition of the architect’s function was once again formulated in antithesis to both the stock plan and architectural drawing. It was not the plan as a material document but the customized process of planning that solved the “particular problem” of the client. Architectural documents were instruments and products, albeit important ones, of a general process in which knowledge was the productive and transformative agent. Hence, the locus of the discipline was shifted away from the material document, acknowledged as a commodiﬁed entity, toward a process made explicit to the client and to society at large. It was now the architect’s specialized knowledge and his ability to make it “effective” that deﬁned his discipline.18 For architecture to enter into the consumer market, it had not only to relinquish its traditional sense of autonomy, but also to identify an institutional domain—a service, expertise, and method—that was distinctly under the architect’s jurisdiction.

The Cognitive Project of Architectural Record From its inception in 1891 to the early decades of the twentieth century, Architectural Record distinguished itself as the singular literary journal of American architecture. In the words of its inaugural editorial, its goal was to “build up ‘a pile of better thoughts’ ” concerning architecture.19 Record ’s focus was traditionally on history, criticism, and education, and, unlike most periodicals of the time, it was published in a smaller 7- by-93/4-inch format. During the twenties, with the expansion and intensiﬁcation of the activities of other publications within the F. W. Dodge Corporation, articles concerned with housing and the building industry did appear more frequently. However, Record maintained its traditional identity until A. Lawrence Kocher became its managing editor in 1928. Kocher, who had served as a contributing editor since August 1926, was hired the following year as a full-time member of its editorial staff.20 At the time, Michael A. Mikkelson, who had succeeded Herbert Croly in 1914, was still the editor-in-chief. In 1927, Mikkelson had already made a bold move in offering an unprecedented sum of $10,000 for Frank Lloyd Wright’s series “In the Cause of Architecture.”21 In spite of Mikkelson’s progressive tendencies, the speciﬁc circumstances of Kocher’s employment at Record and the journal’s

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concomitant dedication to modern architecture are difﬁcult to assess. Kocher’s own recollections of the situation at Record are unclear.22 But it is clear that during his tenure as the Record ’s managing editor (which ended in 1938 when he returned to teaching), Kocher became the driving force of the journal, a key ﬁgure in the development of modern architecture in the United States. By 1929 and certainly throughout the 1930s, Architectural Record became widely recognized as the pioneering advocate of modernism.23 The transformation of Record was introduced by a series of editorials that appeared successively in January 1928, January 1929, and November 1929. The ﬁrst editorial of January 1928 coincided with a change in Record ’s page size to the standard 81/2-by-11-inch format. Whereas Architectural Forum had reduced its page size to meet the requirements of standardization, Record enlarged its own, and furthermore employed the eminent Frederic W. Goudy to redesign its layout and typography. In elaborating the rationale for the new format, one of Record ’s central themes of the thirties was ﬁrst intimated—the problems of standardization and mass production: The page-size is plainly a concession to the universal demand for standardization. Having determined to accept the unit measure commonly employed in the professions and industries (paper making, the manufacture of ﬁling cabinets and many others) which react upon the publishing business, we ask no one to admire the dimensions of the page. Our problem was in a modest way similar to that of the architect who undertakes to design speciﬁc character and distinction in a building which is really an assemblage of standardized materials and ﬁxtures. It may well be—has indeed been argued—that the proper aim of the movement toward modern expression in architecture is to invest buildings assembled from trade catalogues with a feeling of coherence, individually and collectively.24 Though not the central message of the editorial, this statement was a clear reversal of the traditional attitude toward catalogues and industrialized building. The editorial, signed by Mikkelson, also noted that the founding of Record had paralleled a “rich and copious architectural convention” established by such luminaries as Louis Sullivan and McKim, Mead and White. However, according to this editorial, this period had come to a close with World War I. Albeit in an unsure tone, Mikkelson

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afﬁrmed that Record, together with American architecture, was about to venture into a “new chapter.”25 Beginning with Record ’s ﬁrst issue of 1928, emphasis was indeed placed on modern architecture. Henry-Russell Hitchcock began his book reviews on modern European architecture and contributed several articles that would later be integrated into his book Modern Architecture: Romanticism and Reintegration. Frank Lloyd Wright continued his “In the Cause of Architecture” series with another set of nine articles under the same title, but more elaborately illustrated in the larger-size format. In spite of these ensuing contributions, however, the January 1928 editorial made no claim to a break in content, stating that the new format implied “development rather than change of editorial aim.”26 It was in the following year—in the January editorial, “Two Problems of Architecture,” and in the follow-up statement in November, “Expansion of the Architectural Record for 1930”—that an explicit modernist stance was put forth. Like the statement in 1928, these texts were signed by Mikkelson. However, with the journal more clearly under the leadership of Kocher, what was only intimated a year earlier was presented now in the tone of modernist manifestos.27 With these two editorials, undoubtedly seminal texts of American modern architecture, and the inauguration of the Technical News and Research department in January 1929, Record embarked on a process that would fundamentally alter its status in architectural discourse. As the title indicates, “Two Problems of Architecture” was Record ’s statement paper on what it believed to be the two fundamental issues of contemporary architecture: (1) how to adjust design to the conditions created by mass production and (2) how to adjust the general practice of architecture to the conditions created by modern technics in the useful arts, including commerce and industry, which tend to segregate architects into groups of specialists—hospital architects, school architects, bank architects and so on.28 Mass production and institutional planning, traditionally considered only marginal aspects of the discipline, were now placed at the forefront of architectural discourse. They were now identiﬁed as an unavoidable set of conditions that would not only disrupt the unity of existing architectural practice but also provide the potential for a

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new discipline. Underlying these new conditions of architectural practice was a positive force that extended to all institutions of society: “Both problems derive from the same cause, which is the distinguishing and governing fact of modern life, namely the extension of the research method of science—observation, hypothesis, deduction, experimental veriﬁcation—to the useful arts from education and medicine to commerce and industry.”29 In other words, Record believed that mass production and specialization were not only material forces but also a fundamental cognitive and epistemological condition of modernity or, in one of its most interesting propositions, “an attitude of mind.” As a “procedure for the discovery of principle,” this rational method of looking and thinking would provide the basis for adjusting architecture to the conditions of mass production and specialization. After this initial declaration of the problems, the editorial moved on to discuss each one separately. The issue of mass production came ﬁrst and was introduced under the subtitle “Modern Design.” While modern architecture was to be pursued through the principles of scientiﬁc procedure, “illogical design” was considered a result of “capricious hypothesis.” The editorial insisted that “abstract beauty” was merely a mythological element in art and that design should move away from the “immaterial world of archetypes”; design should now be “based exclusively upon observed facts—upon phenomena evident to the senses.”30 Record ’s discussion of the second problem concerning the “specialization of practice” continued this empirical project. Because of the “complexity of functional planning” involved in modern buildings, the profession was now being segmented according to the specialized knowledge required in dealing with various types of building—once again a social as well as epistemological problem.31 In contrast to Ackerman’s Veblenian view that there was a disjunction between the material forces of modernity and human cognition, Record approached them as an integrated condition for the emergence of architectural modernism. For Record, the solutions to the “Two Problems” were to be found in the nature of the problems themselves, i.e., they were at once the cause of modernity and the solution to its effects. It was in response to these new conditions, “acting upon the supposition . . . that progress in architecture depends upon a more extensive and accurate knowledge of modern planning and construction,” that the Technical News and Research department was launched.32 Robert L. Davison was hired as “technical director” of the new

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department, and in the following months Theodore Larson, Knud Lönberg-Holm, Douglas Haskell, and Howard T. Fisher were added as research staff. Devoted entirely to issues of planning and construction, the new department initiated a fundamental break from traditional architectural discourse, the kernel of an “entirely new editorial policy for an architectural magazine.”33 Record claimed that it would not just publish data culled from developments outside of the profession but would also be involved in “original research.” Its “research method” would strive for concrete solutions to the “Two Problems of Architecture” and ultimately provide a ﬁrm basis for modern design. In effect, Technical News was Record ’s answer to the challenge of adjusting design to “machine technics,” which in its opinion was not “a problem of disembodied, abstract art, but a problem inseparable from and conditioned by modern planning and construction.”34 Thus, a department dealing with reference material had become the centerpiece of Record ’s modernist policy. The early articles in Technical News and Research were placed under the editorial supervision of Davison, who also contributed numerous articles until his departure in June 1931 to become director of the John B. Pierce Foundation. True to its claim that the new department would “systematize the latest accredited technical, economic and functional building-type information,” and in contrast to the continuous essaylike narrative of the planning discourse of the twenties, its articles pursued a methodical organization.35 A typical study would be comprised of the following: (1) a combined checking and speciﬁcation list, (2) a compilation of functional data originating in varied ﬁelds—e.g., medicine, athletics, education, (3) a study of current practice in structural and other branches of engineering, (4) an analysis of material and equipment, (5) an analysis of costs and (6) a selected bibliography.36 Particularly notable was the way in which the second category of “functional data” was presented. Unlike earlier manuals that rarely listed their sources, Technical News was very deliberate in specifying its references (usually recompiled in a bibliography) and contributors (usually engineers, management experts, and specialists associated with the building type under study). Furthermore, data was speciﬁed as part of a general system, often taking the form of charts and equations. For example, in an install-

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ment on garages, a formula for calculating the optimum relation between proﬁt, land cost, and number of ﬂoors was presented together with a chart for conducting a “garage survey.” It is important to note that this survey was regarded as an “architectural problem.” That is, it was the architect’s duty to assess the economic factors that “determined the type of building, number of stories, and character of design.”37 According to this article, the essentials of garage planning were less the empirical data speciﬁc to each kind of project than the general rules and methods that applied to different situations. Previously it had been enough for manuals to specify design requirements in the form of imperative sentences and quantiﬁed dimensions, such as “The stairs in a hospital must be at least 3 ft. 8 in. wide in the clear and have large landings to afford better passage for a hand stretcher”;38 now, however, it was necessary to discuss systematic rules, laws, and formulas.39 By transforming a merely quantitative and formally biased discourse into a narrative of general institutional and technical knowledge, the program could come under the jurisdiction of the architect. Yet this did not mean that Technical News thought the program should be authored by the architect. Davison stated quite clearly, to use the instance of prison design, that the architect could “scarcely be expected to be a penal expert.” According to Davison, if the penologist was responsible for stating “the ends to be achieved . . . with the human material at hand,” it was the architect’s duty to “translate these purposes into buildings.”40 At ﬁrst glance, this position may seem no different from the academic conception of the architectural program: it was Julien Guadet who had stated that the architect was the “servant of a programme which does not emanate from him; for it is the legislature, preceded by the moralist, who says what a prison must be.” However, as Peter Collins noted, Guadet’s program was based more on the common sense of the client rather than on any notion of scientiﬁc research.41 The key term in Davison’s discourse is the “research method”—the kernel of the process of “working out rationally an architectural problem, once the performance requirements have been clearly stated.”42 In his opinion, unlike for commercial and industrial projects that provided the architect with a complete program, there was a lack of consensus among penologists on the fundamental purpose of prisons. In this situation, the architect, “rather than merely visiting a great number of prison buildings,” should be thoroughly acquainted with “modern thought” in penology and, furthermore, should insist on starting from a

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scientiﬁcally based program unbiased by existing types of architectural solutions. Davison characterized this as the “functional” or “rational approach” to architectural design.43 Architectural precedent, which had been a generator of new solutions in the academic discipline, was now seen as hampering invention and creativity. The foundation of architectural design was to depart from precedent, not only in the sense of the style and appearance, but more importantly as a source of architectural knowledge. This form of rationality, to use Bill Hillier and Adrian Leaman’s expression, was “virtually equated with purging the mind of preconceptions, to make way for a problem solving method which linked procedure to a ﬁeld of information.”44 Nevertheless, it would be inaccurate to read the new Record policy, in the way Robert Benson has, as “something close to the neue Sachlichkeit of European modernism, the new objectivity of functionalism which emerged as a by-product of the reaction against romanticism and eclectic style.”45 The cognitive project of the Architectural Record resulted in an extremely inclusive proposition that could incorporate the formalist concepts of composition. Observe, for example, the description of how the supposedly scientiﬁc procedure would work in architecture: A hypothesis in this connection is any supposition made in order to deduce from it principles of design that will accord with the facts of standardized fabricated materials and manufactured equipment and with the trade operations of assembling and putting them together in the construction of buildings. Experimental veriﬁcation of the principles deduced consists in applying them to designs for buildings. If the buildings receive general approbation from informed critics, say, architects, the principles have been practically veriﬁed, and you have modern design or modern architecture. . . . The purpose of mass production is economy; hence design, in order not to defeat this purpose, should achieve beauty through mass, grouping, proportion, and other fundamentals of composition. Or, fabricated materials have beauty of color and texture; therefore, adapt design to the decorative qualities of materials.46 These propositions illustrate Record ’s attempt to reintegrate formal principles with the functional considerations of economy, construction, and building material. The ambivalence of the editorial is in fact not surprising when one considers the diverse

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personnel of Record ’s editorial staff. Kocher’s position would have been different from Mikkelson’s, as would Theodore Larson and Lönberg-Holm’s from Kocher’s and furthermore from Davison’s. This ambivalence was also evident in the language used in the different articles of Technical News. In the initial installments on swimming pools, garages, and prisons, the articles were explicit in their advocacy of a new approach to architectural design. In certain instances, as in the feature on garages, a modernist stance concerning style and form was made explicit: “There should be no applied ornament and the surface treatment where concrete is used should be no other than that suggested by the nature of the material. . . . Modern architecture of our time seeks to devise form and motives from purpose, construction and materials.”47 Davison, however, treated form and style as matters of secondary importance. With institutional programs such as the prison, architect and client must both avoid any preconception of form. However, in individual projects such as the design of an individual house, style was considered a matter of the client’s taste: When building a commercial structure the client really desires a building which will give the greatest economic return on the money invested either directly or through the advertising value of the design; he thinks he knows how this may be accomplished, but it is up to the architect to develop an efﬁcient plan and its best architectural expression. With the country house generally quite the reverse is true—the client should be encouraged to express himself.48 When designing the individual house, the architect invited the client to study magazine illustrations, “to discover his own taste and wants prior to the ultimate time for such decisions.”49 In this kind of project, the architect’s task was to analyze the correlation between the factors involved in project cost and the size of the house—a technique called the “cubic foot price method,” which Davison credited Frederick Ackerman for helping him develop.50 In an article titled “Effect of Style on Cost,” an award-winning house was used to analyze the estimated cost of the same house plan executed in ﬁve different styles—from the English Cottage Type ($30,000) to the Colonial Type ($24,000).51 Based on this study of the cost limitations and plan

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6.1

Robert L. Davison,

“Sketches Illustrating Effect of Style on Cost,” Architectural Record, April 1929.

requirements outlined by the client, the architect was able to “give the ﬁnal decision on the size [of the house] . . . possible within the price limit as well as the style.”52 In effect, Davison brought the demise of stylistic conviction to one of its logical conclusions. Style was treated as a matter clients would decide according to their tastes, desires, and ﬁnances, an attitude that would prevail throughout the 1930s and beyond. According to Clifford Edward Clark’s study of the American home, between 1936 and 1950 there were more than forty-one surveys on buyers’ preferences, conducted primarily by women’s magazine’s such as Ladies’ Home Journal, McCall’s, Good Housekeeping, and Better Homes and Gardens.53 In this discourse where style had become a commodity, architects all but relinquished their traditional role as cultural authority.

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157

“1937 Small House

Preview” from Architectural Forum, November 1936. Survey conducted by Niagara Hudson in collaboration with American Home, Women’s Home Companion, and Better Homes and Gardens.

Davison’s brand of functionalism did not presume that architectural form would be determined by the program, nor did it advocate any particular style. While isolating rationality from its instrumental relation with commerce and deﬁning it as a selfsustaining force of modernity, he could still maintain a complementary relation with the demands of the consumer market. For Davison, form was less the result than the residue of functional planning. Architecture could now participate in the market and yet maintain an explicit and independent disciplinary formation. This programmatic attempt to base the architectural discipline on a rationality that was detached from and yet complicit with the interests of business linked Record with the consumerist

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projects of American Architect and Architectural Forum. Davison’s rationalist project shared with the proponents of “architecture as business” the burden of deﬁning a distinct body of architectural knowledge and expertise within the logic of capitalism. In many ways, their description of the problematic reiterated the crisis theories of the late 1910s. The diagnosis and prescription, however, differed from the immediate responses of the 1920s. Record, in particular, departed from previous attitudes toward industrialization and planning in that the latter were no longer considered problems external to the discipline but factors that permeated the process of architectural design. According to Record, they involved a “transition in design” that was “not merely the customary rejection by a new generation of the authority of the old.” It was “a radical departure occasioned by profound industrial and social adjustments.”54 Indeed, the discussion on mass production marked one of the ﬁrst programmatic statements in American architecture that conceived the discipline in direct relation to industrial standardization. It emphatically rejected the formulation of the architectural discipline as a system independent from the economic and technical conditions of modern society. In contrast with the 1906 edition of Sweet’s, which had characterized the “catalogue problem” as one of simply reorganizing textual material, standardization was now considered a central architectural issue. Despite its accommodating gestures, in its move away from the issue of form toward one of epistemology Record distinguished itself from the conventionalism of the 1920s. By reformulating the discipline according to what it deemed the cognitive foundation of modernity, Record could simultaneously negate the conventionalism of the traditionalists and the arbitrary fashions of the modernists. Though form was still an arbitrary matter, it was no longer the central foundation of the discipline. At this juncture, we may point to the difference between the functionalism of Technical News and the functional planning of the twenties. In the latter, architectural design was deﬁned as a linear process that began with the program. Planning was part of the architectural discipline only insofar as the requirements set up by the client and management experts had to be fulﬁlled in the later stages of design. While architectural form retained its own set of principles, planning had yet to acquire its own corpus of techniques and objects. It was then the goal of Technical News to develop these very techniques, thereby providing planning with methods independent of the individual program. In Technical News, planning became more than the

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process of satisfying its requirements; it became a systematic intervention into the program—the program not in the sense of individual requirements of a speciﬁc project, but as the locus of a general, if not universal, level of architectural knowledge. Maintaining the individuality of each project while opening the discipline to a new cognitive process, Technical News claimed that it was not just providing bits and pieces of information but “Standards for Design and Construction.” Because the “research method” assumed that the “underlying economic and social factors in architecture and building” were themselves rationally constructed, its adoption could be considered the route toward reintegrating architecture with modern society.55 Architecture could participate directly in capitalist society because it was now perceived—in contrast to the idealism of the academic profession, the technocratic regression of Frederick Ackerman, and the holistic aspirations of Lewis Mumford—to have an underlying rational structure. As noted, in Record ’s cognitive project, cause, symptom, and solution were deemed to have the same epistemological structure. What Record did share with Ackerman and Mumford was the goal of shifting architecture away from its internal and historicist world, formulating a uniﬁed discipline unmediated by architectural representation. This notion that the discipline was more a matter of knowing than seeing was in fact common to both American Architect and Architectural Forum. To quote again from “Two Problems of Architecture”: “Modernism, in so far as it is vital, is an attitude of mind—the scientiﬁc attitude, which declines to accept as facts statements that cannot be veriﬁed by the senses and which uses a certain method of investigation—observation, hypothesis, deduction, experimental veriﬁcation.”56 Modern architecture was to become a social, economic, and technical discipline. The central task of the architect in becoming modern was deﬁned not as an issue of form but as a cognitive and methodological problem. It was with these demands and promises that the discourse of the diagram emerged in architectural discourse.

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Part Three THE DISCOURSE OF THE DIAGRAM

7 SCIENTIFIC MANAGEMENT AND THE DISCOURSE OF THE DIAGRAM

Functionalism is determinism and therefore stillborn. Functionalism is the standardization of routine activity. For example: a foot that walks (but does not dance); an eye that sees (but does not envision); a hand that grasps (but does not create). Frederick Kiesler, “Pseudo-Functionalism in Modern Architecture,” 1949

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Scientiﬁc Management and the Birth of the Functional Diagram In the preceding chapters, we examined the new promises and demands that emerged in the midst of a fundamental transition in the architectural discipline, a transformation in which a once dominant system was disintegrating into its own fragmented shadows. As we shall see, these different appeals to style, rationality, and social relevance were part of a complex history that witnessed the formation of the discourse of the diagram. As much as this discourse spread and grew along the cracks of the discipline, it was also part of a larger social, economic, and technological history. In search of an immediate history of the discourse of diagram, this chapter returns to scientiﬁc management, the dominant rationalist discourse of early twentieth-century America. Previously, we examined Taylorism in relation to the evolution of functional planning as a concept antithetical to architectural composition, but we did not deal with what would become its central mode of representation—the diagram. In this chapter, we shall look at the logic, techniques, and modes of representation of the diagram: ﬁrst, as it emerges within scientiﬁc management, and second, as it shifts into the realm of architectural discourse. Though the diagram was certainly not the “invention” of scientiﬁc management, in its attempt to shift the object of the diagram from nature to society, from machine to the human body, we begin to discover the central issues of the architectural diagram. In fact, we may begin to understand why it must be approached not just as an isolated sign but as part of a larger discursive formation.1 Scientiﬁc management, perhaps the emblematic social technology of the past century, operated on two basic modern precepts that logically attracted it to the diagram. First of all, scientiﬁc management was one of the clearest manifestations of the separation of subject and object, and the subsequent pursuit of their reuniﬁcation. Based on the authority of scientiﬁc knowledge, scientiﬁc management assumed that knowledge could be severed from practice and thus could function as the means of controlling practice. In this gap between conception and execution, the diagram emerged as a necessary mechanism for the subject to control its object of knowledge. The diagram is an essentially modern mode of representation because it presumes that “discourse represents not the object itself but the distance between the object and the mind perceiving and then conceiving it.”2 Its genius lies in the invention of a

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discursive code that organizes reality in order that it may be both visible and usable. Instrumentality, rather than resemblance, is thus the essential criterion in deﬁning a diagram. It is the emblem of the modern crisis of representation, a historical condition in which “the scientiﬁc knowledge of objects is nought but the result of sign manipulation, and that their ‘truth’ is merely their utility for the betterment of men’s lives.”3 The second conceptual formation that links scientiﬁc management to the birth of the diagram is that of metaphor. For all its professed instrumentality, modernity has continued to be a search for truth. As Nietzsche had recognized, the idea of truth necessitates a “mobile army of metaphors, metonyms, and anthropomorphisms.”4 Though it was exactly the positivist project to do away with all ﬁgures of speech, to speak of “things as they are,”5 for scientiﬁc management to apply the tools of engineering toward the control of society it became necessary to construct a set of analogies with natural and mechanical systems. According to one specialist on “routing,” the science of controlling the circulation of goods and labor, the ultimate goal of “planning of a high order” was to establish a “rhythm in manufacturing.” Like the movement of the heavenly bodies that obey mathematical laws, material ﬂowing in a mass production shop must also be governed by universal laws.6 In scientiﬁc management, the production process of a factory, the daily routine of a household, a secretary’s ofﬁce schedule, and the curriculum of a school could each be described as a set of natural patterns. At the level of class ideology, the metaphor contributed to the formulation of what Daniel Bell called Taylorism’s attempt to “enact a social physics.” As Bell noted, Taylor felt that once work was scientiﬁcally plotted, problems of labor and wage could be settled; disputes over such issues would be as reasonable as “insist[ing] on bargaining about the time and place of the rising and setting sun.” Bell thus concluded that for a “managerial class which at the turn of the century had witnessed the erosion of the justiﬁcatory mystique of ‘natural rights,’ the science of administration per se provided a new foundation for its moral authority.”7 The most basic metaphor for scientiﬁc management was that of man as machine. As David Noble pointed out, the development of modern management could itself be construed as a “shift on the part of engineers from the engineering of things to the engineering of people.” Noble described this move in terms of two overlapping, complementary phases:

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The ﬁrst, social engineering, was the conscious attempt to exercise managerial prerogatives through the medium of the workplace, through organization of the work activity of labor. The second, human engineering, was the movement to control the human element of production at the individual and group level through the study and manipulation of human behavior.8 Noble further argued that the introduction of the human element into the discipline of engineering was in fact a logical extension of the pursuit of rationalized production. In a system of production based on minute divisions of labor, each division requiring simple and exact motions, the engineering principles of materials and equipment were easily applied to human movement and social organization. As the terms human engineering, human motor, and human machine, so pervasive in the literature of management, implied, the body of the worker was visualized and conceptualized as a machine. This metaphor was shared with industrial psychology and the behaviorism of John B. Watson, popularized during the teens and twenties. Not surprisingly, both scientiﬁc management and behaviorism shared the goal of the “prediction and control of human beings.”9 In order to actualize these cognitive and discursive constructions, a speciﬁc set of techniques had to be developed. During the 1910s, the most meticulous techniques of measuring and regulating the body were produced by the husband-wife team of Frank and Lillian Gilbreth.10 To enact the metaphor of the human machine, Lillian Gilbreth devised two interrelated principles of conceptualizing the body. The ﬁrst was called “functionalization,” which further facilitated the second principle of “standardization”: Under Scientiﬁc Management divisions are made on the basis of underlying ideas. Functions are not classiﬁed as they are embodied in particular men, but men are classiﬁed as they embody particular functions. This allows of standardization, through which alone progress and evolution come quickest. It is comparatively easy to standardize a function.11 For Lillian Gilbreth, function as it pertained to the manual worker was a simple set of movements. Accordingly, within a system of minute divisions of labor, the body could be categorized and represented as a single functional unit. The principles of

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166

Movement ﬁgure from Jules Amar, Le moteur

humain, 1914, translated into English as The Human Motor, 1920.

functionalization and standardization were inseparable from Taylor’s institutional principle of “functional foremanship”: the assumption that factory management should be based on a radical separation of “planning and performance.” Using Taylor’s functional divisions, the Gilbreths transcribed his system into the diagram in ﬁgure 7.2. In this diagram the worker was placed at the center of the converging lines of “functional management,” or “functional control.” The Gilbreth diagram in ﬁgure 7.2 was of course an abstract model. In charting the functional relations of the various production units of a factory, this basic diagram had to be expanded and dispersed into a more multiple organization such as that in ﬁgure 7.3. Following the basic principle of the Gilbreth diagram, each box in ﬁgure 7.3 symbolized a functional unit rather than a spatial boundary. Furthermore, these diagrams were static models; they did not address the movement of bodies, material,

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and equipment in the factory. Subsequently implementing the Gilbreth diagram into a concrete spatial, temporal, and dynamic organization required a set of institutional mechanisms that maintained its lines of control. Because the planning department was separated from the workers, institutional regulations, timetables, and incentives were devised to overcome the spatial and temporal distance between management and labor: “The worker would have little actual contact with those in the planning room, control being exercised through the medium of work tickets, instruction cards, piece rate cards, etc., which were issued to him with each job.”12 In addition, according to the science of routing, the factory had to be regulated as a predictable and repetitive set of patterns. These mechanisms may be understood in terms of what Michel Foucault has called the “rule of functional sites,” the technique

7.2

“Chart of Functional Foremanship under Scientiﬁc Management” from Frank and Lillian Gilbreth, Applied Motion Study, 1917.

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7.3

168

“Organization Chart and Functions of Production Departments” from Arthur G. Anderson, Industrial Engineering and Factory Management, 1928.

of creating places “deﬁned to correspond not only to the need to supervise, to break dangerous communications, but also to create a useful space.”13 This was, however, an inherently paradoxical rule. In realizing the diagram, space, time, and movement were not only the obstacles to surveillance but also the means of maintaining functional control. It was a problem not unlike what Jeremy Bentham’s Panopticon of the late eighteenth century was devised to solve.14 The Panopticon, as it was drawn out in ﬁgure 7.4, was also a diagram. But unlike ﬁgure 7.2, it was a diagram of space. Its essential purpose was to eliminate all the dangers of unobserved and thus uncontrolled activity. To borrow Foucault’s description, the Panopticon “must not be understood as a dream building: it is the diagram of a mechanism of power reduced to its ideal form; its functioning, abstracted from any obsta-

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cle, resistance or friction, must be represented as a pure architectural and optical system.”15 In other words, the Panopticon diagram is function represented as form, a proposition that may be understood in the following two ways. First, we may take this to mean that the Panopticon was an emblem of the ideal functional relations of society as a whole: to again use Foucault’s deﬁnition, a “generalizable model of functioning . . . a ﬁgure of political technology that may and must be detached from any speciﬁc use.”16 Second, as a diagram that was meant to be built, we may construe the Panopticon as a completely functionalized space, one without dark corners of unobserved movements. The illustration of this ﬁrst sense of the Panopticon would result in none other than ﬁgure 7.2. The second would have to be drawn out as an actual plan realized from the Panopticon diagram, which Bentham himself provided (ﬁgure 7.5). However, for this building to be a spatial transcription of the Gilbreths’ functional diagram, for function and space to coalesce, all the mechanisms of light and

7.4

Diagrammatic plan of Jeremy

Bentham’s Panopticon, devised 1787, from John Bowring, ed., The Works of Jeremy Bentham, vol. 4, 1843.

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7.5

170

Example of Panopticon building proposed by Bentham, from John Bowring, ed., The Works of Jeremy Bentham, vol. 4, 1843.

darkness, of regulating time and movement, must be perfectly implemented. Only in this panoptic utopia, only when the functionalization and standardization of the body are absolute, can there be such a thing as a spatial function. In other words, ﬁgures 7.2 and 7.4 each represent the ideal functional and spatial relation pursued by scientiﬁc management. In the implementation of the Gilbreth diagram toward the Panopticon diagram, and ultimately into an actual plan, each must pursue the other. Though the Panopticon diagram is a spatial marking, it is a utopia, a nonplace, because the moment it is projected as an actual structure, the realities of space, light, and time begin to erode the concept. Indeed, we may question whether Bentham’s “simple idea in architecture” can ever be drawn out as an equivalent architectural plan.17

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It is in the pursuit of this utopia, this idea in architecture, that the discourse of the diagram was born. From the layout of the plant to the control of the individual worker, its operational principle was to functionalize space and spatialize function. More speciﬁcally, the diagram was used as a tool to correlate the unit of production— the functionalized body of the worker—with a spatial area. For instance, the plan layout in ﬁgure 7.6 was devised by ﬁrst assigning workers to a speciﬁc task, then representing each task as a production unit, and ﬁnally transposing each unit into a spatial area. Ideally, these layouts would be produced by unraveling the basic functional and departmental charts in ﬁgures 7.2 and 7.3. Furthermore, at the scale of each production unit, the body of the individual worker had to be integrated with its immediate material and spatial environment; thus, systematic research into the ergonomic design of tools, equipment, and furniture was begun. The Gilbreths

7.6

Plant layout of mill from Carle M. Bigelow, “The Organization of Knitting Mills,” Management Engineering, November 1921.

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7.7

172

Adjustable stenographer’s desk

from Lee Galloway, Ofﬁce Management, 1919.

themselves designed furniture for particular work routines and special user groups such as the physically disabled. Though their work was extremely crude, more sophisticated designs tailored to the contours and motions of the worker can be found in the ofﬁce manuals of the 1920s. Under these prerogatives, “ﬁtness” in design meant the elimination of unnecessary space and material surrounding the body. In order to design the body as part of a mechanical unit of production, it must be possible to measure and classify. First of all, as a logical extension of the standardization of function, one must be able to posit a “standard man.” According to Lillian Gilbreth, “The standard man is the ideal man to observe and with whom to obtain the best Motion Study and Time Study data. He is the fastest worker, working under the direction of the man best informed in the particular trade as to the motions of best present practice, and being timed by a Time Study Expert.”18 As this

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passage illustrates, the basic elements of the standard in a mechanical object—the setting of a performance requirement (the standardized function of the fastest worker) and unit of measure (motion and time)—were now applied to the human worker. Secondly, new methods of representation had to be developed to record the relatively small movements of the human body. In what became widely known as their time-motion studies, the Gilbreths took long-exposure single-frame photographs of the movement of a single light point attached to the body. The result was a “cyclegraph,” one continuous curvilinear line that transcribed the body’s movement into a simple diagram. In their “micromotion studies,” the Gilbreths made extensive use of the movie camera to record the minute sequential divisions of a motion or work routine. Based on these photographic records, they evaluated the motion and posture of the worker in relation to the time and energy spent on a particular job.19 The

7.8

Typist’s chair designed to promote

proper posture, from William Lefﬁngwell, Ofﬁce Management, 1927.

The Discourse of the Diagram

7.9

174

Lamp attached to the hand and the cyclegraph

record of its movement path, devised by Frank and Lillian Gilbreth, from Applied Motion Study, 1917.

principle of cyclegraphic representation could also be extended to the routing diagram. According to Lillian Gilbreth, there were two basic ways of routing: planning the movement of material and equipment (which may involve more than one person), or following the worker’s performance of a minimal task (usually involving a single tool or material). In both cases, the inscription of the movements of the bodyinstrument produced a set of diagrams to be analyzed by the management engineer, whereupon the most efﬁcient movement pattern would be prescribed. Employing these diagrams as a disciplinary tool, the efﬁciency expert became an “industrial coach,” training the worker through constant surveillance and repetition to perform in what the Gilbreths called the “one best way.”20 Their achievement, to borrow Daniel Bell’s characterization, was the disjoining of movement from the human body, transcribing it into an “abstract visualization.”21

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Throughout the development of scientiﬁc management, graphic and linear presentation was considered the privileged form of knowledge. According to Taylor, it was the role of the manager to classify, tabulate, and reduce the empirical and scattered knowledge of workers into “rules, laws and formulae.”22 In addition, scientiﬁc management went one step further to become “graphic management.” To represent a set of verbal propositions and numbers into a graph, chart, or diagram was to have abstracted from empirical data a set of basic paths of control: “Let lines replace ﬁgures” was the axiomatic principle of scientiﬁc management.23 Though control of the human body was the ultimate purpose of these diagrams, such control required the regulation of the wayward nature of space, time, and movement. Only under the full implementation of the rules of functionalization, graphic management, and institutional control could the idea of “mono-functionalism”—the notion of “a foot that

7.10

Micromotion studies on ﬁlm from

Frank and Lillian Gilbreth, Applied Motion Study, 1917.

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176

7.11

Routing diagram of

proper work ﬂow in an ofﬁce, from William Lefﬁngwell, Ofﬁce Management, 1925.

walks but does not dance”24—be formulated. As this body of ideas, techniques, and markings moved on to architectural discourse, we shall see whether the functional, visual, and institutional rules of scientiﬁc management could be maintained, or, if not, how they were transformed.

From Scientiﬁc Management to Architecture: The Discursive Formation of the Architectural Diagram It should be clear by now that it is not my purpose to search for the “origin” of the architectural diagram. The pertinence of such a project would depend on how the diagram is deﬁned, for one could say that the diagram is as old as any human utter-

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ance, and likewise that the architectural diagram has a history as long as that of architecture itself. Though I shall mention certain aspects of its historical lineage, my interest here is less in constructing an extended chronology and more in the peculiar characteristics of the diagram as it emerges as a speciﬁc mechanism in architectural discourse after the 1930s. For the purpose of our present argument, it will sufﬁce to note that well before the inﬂuence of scientiﬁc management, functional diagrams were a common part of nineteenth-century advice books and manuals on hygiene and domestic matters. The circulation diagram in ﬁgure 7.12, for example, appeared in an advice book titled Notes on the Art of House Planning, published in 1888.25 However, as I have underscored, this kind of advice book was marginal to the formation of the architectural discipline. Even Christine Frederick’s The New Housekeeping, which was immensely popular throughout American society, had little immediate impact on architecture. Though her ideas were not particularly original (as the 1911 Hoosier Cabinet advertisement in ﬁgure 7.13 shows, the idea of routing was not new to the

7.12

“The Thoroughfare” from Charles F. Osborne,

Notes on the Art of House Planning, 1888.

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178

Hoosier Kitchen Cabinets advertisement with cir-

culation diagram, from House Beautiful, November 1911.

domestic literature of the time), Frederick’s illustrations became the most widely recognized examples of the routing diagram. The signiﬁcance of Frederick’s circulation diagram for architecture was more quickly grasped in Europe, particularly by German architects such as Bruno Taut and Alexander Klein. In the politically charged climate of the Weimar Republic, Frederick’s book was translated and enthusiastically endorsed by both the women’s movement and the modernists in Berlin and Frankfurt.26 During the late twenties, Klein had developed an extensive system of architectural diagrams in his studies for the Reichsforschungsgesellschaft; these studies ﬁrst introduced the routing diagram to the American journals. As part of the March 1929 number of Architectural Record, which featured Henry Wright’s studies of apartment types, Klein’s diagrams were displayed in a single-page layout within the newly launched Technical News and

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Research department. With the subtitle “Illustrations of German Efﬁciency Studies,” the diagrams were presented as part of an article on “Efﬁciency in Apartment House Planning.” Klein’s diagrams were given further exposure through Henry Wright’s Rehousing America, Klein’s own article in the August 1931 number of Architectural Forum, and numerous other journal articles.27 It was, then, in the 1930s that the new functionalist diagram emerged as a systematic part of architectural discourse. Though there were earlier articles that claimed to have used such diagrams, the diagrams did not actually appear in the text.28 While some diagrams can be traced directly to their roots in scientiﬁc management, for most others, particularly after the mid-thirties when the diagram became a general part of architectural discourse, it is difﬁcult to designate a speciﬁc genealogy. Nonetheless, in order to grasp the nature of the architectural diagram, it is important to discern it

7.14

Routing diagrams comparing efﬁcient and

inefﬁcient movement of the houseworker, from Christine Frederick, Household Engineering, 1915.

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180

Circulation diagrams from Bruno Taut, Die neue Wohnung, 1924.

from the functional diagrams of scientiﬁc management. The key is to understand that when Taylorism expands beyond the factory, its functional, visual, and institutional rules can no longer be sustained. There are two quite simple explanations for this. First of all, the movements involved in most institutional routines, no matter how simpliﬁed, cannot be functionalized in the manner of the factory. Second, with the exception of the most regimented societies such as the prison, asylum, or the military, the institutional mechanisms of surveillance and regulation are difﬁcult, if not impossible, to implement. Consequently, in the attempt to develop similar techniques of regulating the “ordinary environment” of patients, children, and homemakers, important changes and adjustments in the discourse of the diagram had to be made.

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181

Alexander Klein’s diagrams in “Illustrations of German Efﬁciency Studies,” Architectural

Record, March 1929. The diagrams were taken from the November 1927 issue of Die Baugilde.

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This transformation is immediately noticeable in the breakdown of the representational basis of scientiﬁc management’s diagram. For instance, in Christine Frederick’s application of routing to the kitchen, we immediately realize that there is a wide gap between the micromotion studies of the factory worker and the circulation diagrams applied to the homemaker. Frederick distinguished just two kinds of patterns in the kitchen: the “preparation route” and the “clearing away route,” each signiﬁed by one continuous line. If Frederick had actually adhered to Gilbreth’s more minute divisions, her diagrams would have been hopelessly muddled. Not surprisingly, in Lillian Gilbreth’s own contribution to kitchen planning, there were no routing diagrams.29 Instead, as we see in ﬁgure 7.17, she presented a comparison of two “process charts” of making a coffee cake in two different kitchen layouts. If one were to devise routing diagrams based consistently on cyclegraphic representation, even the simple task of making a cake would result in several dozen separate diagrams; or if one reduced the number of diagrams, there would be so many lines in one frame that the image would be illegible. Throughout the 1930s, the diagrams that appeared regularly in the architectural journals met with the same kind of difﬁculties. For instance, a July 1933 American Architect article on kitchen planning displayed a series of plans that claimed to “minimize waste motion and unnecessary steps.” Compared with Frederick’s diagrams, these have moved even further away from the principle of the cyclegraph. The lines and arrows in ﬁgure 7.18 indicate less the movement of the homemaker and more the basic arrangement and shape of the kitchen. Another example can be found in the illustration of two George Howe designs of the mid-thirties, the William Stix Wasserman house and the Maurice J. Speiser house. When the Wasserman house ﬁrst appeared in the March 1935 number of Architectural Forum, the plans were illustrated without diagrams. However, when republished ﬁve years later in The Modern House in America, they were presented with the kind of diagrams overlapping the Speiser house plans in ﬁgure 7.19.30 Next to them Howe wrote: “The lines of human circulation in the plans are curvilinear axes of actual movement which replace the old rectangular axes of theoretical movement.”31 Robert A. M. Stern has argued that this statement should be understood in the context of Howe’s growing interest in space, or what became his central concern during the late thirties, “ﬂowing space.”

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183

Lillian Gilbreth, “Application of Motion Study to Kitchen Planning: Making a Cake,” from Architectural Record, March 1930.

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7.18

Charles G. Ramsey

and Harold R. Sleeper, study of typical kitchen layouts, from American Architect, July 1933.

Irrespective of whether the Wasserman house actually evinces a sense of ﬂowing space, or whether the diagram was a generative tool or an afterthought, it is clear that Howe’s diagrams have little to do with the body as a functional unit.32 Like most circulation diagrams in architectural discourse, they are tentative indications of distance, spatial boundaries, and access. In fact, contrary to Howe’s assertions, his diagrams are closer to the “theoretical movement” of the Beaux-Arts parti, as in ﬁgure 7.20, than the “actual movement” of scientiﬁc management’s routing diagram. We may then ask how diagrams are constructed in architectural discourse. In order to understand the logic of the architectural diagram, we must ﬁrst look carefully into the changing discourse of scientiﬁc management, as its object moves from the factory to the less regimented environment of the home. One of the most interesting applications of scientiﬁc management outside of the factory can be examined in Mary Pattison’s Principles of Domestic Engineering (1915). Unable to designate

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minute functions to the body, yet still seeking to maintain the “rule of the functional site,” Pattison divided the body into its separate “requirements.” In a chapter titled “The Meaning of Rooms,” Pattison began by classifying the “life of a family” into four “essential sides”: “the physical, the intellectual, the social and the spiritual.” She then assigned a space or room to provide for each functional requirement of the body; as Pattison asked, “are not the very partitions in a house, in order that the needs of the body be supplied in each part, excluding the other sides for the time?”33 A room was thus deﬁned by its designated activities: The logical way to furnish a home is to see ﬁrst to the nature of the family, and then separate the parts into the principal sides, and these sides into their unit of composition. In other words, assemble in characteristic form the

7.19

George Howe, diagrams and plans of Maurice J. Speiser house, from Architectural Forum, February 1936.

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186

Parti sketches from David Varon,

Indication in Architectural Design, 1916. The left side of the plate contains simple diagrams that are inscriptions of circulation, type, and form.

furnishings and material for each other. The drawing room for instance, is a room for congregation, spaced in such a way as to give opportunity for intimate, or friendly conversation, proper audience to music . . . and altogether a place to withdraw for social purposes.34 For Pattison, the task of planning the house was a matter of separating and reintegrating the units rooted in the basic needs of its occupants. The plan of the home could therefore be construed as a physiological map of the human body, and routing as the pursuit of a symbiotic relation between human movement and its environment: “The routing that realizes the most perfect daily results is more than the kind of material used, and more than the separate tasks. It is practically the effect of one’s closest environment, as it were, in its activity.”35 Though diagrams did not appear in her text, we begin to see the metaphors of Pattison’s discourse, the kind of tropical

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construction so typical of scientiﬁc management. She has, however, violated Gilbreth’s rule of functionalization—the principle that “functions are not classiﬁed as they are embodied in particular men, but men are classiﬁed as they embody particular functions” (see above, p. 163). Pattison did what Gilbreth argued must not be done—divide the body according to its functional requirements and then assign a space to each requirement—thereby anticipating the logic of the architectural diagram. Moving on to the architectural diagram—as for example in ﬁgure 7.21, a “functional chart” of a country house—we discover Pattison’s idea of the “logical subdivision by function.” As Pattison had done, this house was divided into basic “functional groups”—“(1) Social, recreational, cultural, (2) Individual, resting, bathing, dressing, exercising, etc., (3) Dining, food preparation, and various service functions”—after which a set of rooms, spaces, and elements was assigned to each group.36 The boxes in ﬁgure 7.21 are not the functional units of scientiﬁc management’s organizational charts, such as we saw in ﬁgures 7.2 or 7.3. Rather than units of production and movement, they are spatial and physical indications of proximity, accessibility, and relative size. And as the functional chart became a codiﬁed part of architectural discourse, it began to provide more information on form and space. Architecture’s functional chart was thus more a drawing about space and distance than about function and movement, the kind of notation we have come to call the “bubble diagram.” Underlying this shift in the architectural diagram is the different role of the human body. While Gilbreth’s standard man was deﬁned by its function (“the fastest worker, working under the direction of the man best informed in the particular trade as to the motions of best present practice”), architecture’s standard man was a spatial entity. This is manifest in the way the body was adopted into architectural discourse during the thirties. The ﬁrst articles on anthropometrical data appeared in 1932 as an Architectural Record series titled “Dimensions” by Lawrence Kocher and Albert Frey. Their ﬁrst installment was devoted to kitchen equipment and began by illustrating a “method for plotting heights of work surfaces and kitchen arrangement” developed by Lillian Gilbreth and the Brooklyn Borough Gas Company.37 Kocher and Frey’s article relied heavily on the data of home economists, particularly the reports that had been presented by the Committee on Kitchens and Other Work Centers at the President’s Conference on Home Building and Home Ownership. In

The Discourse of the Diagram

7.21

188

“The Country House Chart, Room by Room,” from Architectural Forum, March 1933.

Scientiﬁc Management and the Discourse of the Diagram

7.22

189

“Space Relation Diagram” from

William W. Caudill, Space for Teaching, 1941.

simple graphic presentations, they provided standard measurements for kitchen equipment as well as a kind of Existenzminimum kitchen plan.38 In 1934, the standard anthropometrical ﬁgure of the “average man,” one that would be incorporated in articles and manuals for many years to come, ﬁrst appeared in American Architect. Under the title “The Geometry of the Human Figure,” the standard ﬁgures were presented by Ernest Irving Freese, a Los Angeles architect and a well-known expert on architectural graphics.39 The following year, these ﬁgures provided the foundation of an American Architect series on minimum spatial requirements, eventually becoming the standard anthropometric ﬁgure for Architectural Graphic Standards and Time Saver Standards. In architecture, this spatial body had to be integrated with the idea of functional planning. The method employed in integrating body and function can best be

The Discourse of the Diagram

7.23

190

“Method for Plotting Heights of Work Surfaces and Kitchen Arrangement” from Architectural Record, January 1932.

7.24

Lawrence Kocher and Albert Frey, page from “Dimensions” illustrating “minimal kitchen,” Architectural Record, January 1932.

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191

examined in the “Family Living as the Basis for Dwelling Design” studies conducted in the early 1940s by the John B. Pierce Foundation. John Hancock Callender, who had worked for the foundation since the early 1930s, introduced the series under the rubric of a “functionalist theory” of design. For Callender, this meant “that the house should be planned to ﬁt around the activities of the family in the same way that a tailor ﬁts a suit around the human body.”40 Once again, Mary Pattison’s logic of functional divisions provided the point of departure; “family living” was divided into its “distinct functions,” each designated as a spatial unit. Furthermore, “to avoid all preconceptions,” terms such as “space for sleeping” and “space for dressing” were used instead of more conventional names such as bedroom and closet. These requirements had to be “fully determined and stated in speciﬁc and quantitative terms,” whereby they would become the “speciﬁcations” for “scientiﬁcally designed” housing.41

7.25

Ernest Irving Freese, plate

from “Geometry of the Human Figure,” American Architect, July 1934. Interestingly enough, Freese called these ﬁgures “diagrams” and “working drawings” of the human body.

The Discourse of the Diagram

7.26

192

Photographic measurement of “Headroom above the Sleeping Surface” from Jane Callaghan and Catherine Palmer, “Measuring Space and Motion,” 1943.

The results of these studies were published in a booklet called “Measuring Space and Motion” coauthored by Catherine Palmer and Jane Callaghan, the latter having assisted Lillian Gilbreth in the model kitchen studies at the Brooklyn Borough Gas Company. As their version of the cyclegraph in ﬁgure 7.26 shows, the study involved photographic techniques of measurement similar to those of the Gilbreths. The difference here was that the space and motion study produced a set of “space shapes,” the minimum space required for different functions, such as dressing or tying shoelaces. The study, which also included an investigation into the space occupied by the body as it moved through a room, thus came closer to the representational basis of scientiﬁc management’s routing diagrams. The spatial body then had a dual role in architecture. It provided, ﬁrst, a medium for conceptualizing a general set of func-

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tional requirements and, second, a “natural” unit of spatial dimensions. The marking of architectural space could thus dispense with the material elements of building and instead employ the outlines of the extended body. In other words, the architectural diagram provided the architect with the means to represent space without drawing walls, columns, and vaults. At this point, I must again underscore the difference between the diagrams of architecture and those of scientiﬁc management. Even though they were directly inﬂuenced by Lillian Gilbreth, Callaghan and Palmer made it very clear that their work was different from that of scientiﬁc management, stating that the goal of their “Space-and-Motion Studies” was “to measure total used space”: Time and motion studies, a well-known technic used in speeding up factory production, record and measure the motions themselves with the idea

7.27

“Space shapes” of man dressing

from Jane Callaghan and Catherine Palmer, “Measuring Space and Motion,” 1943.

The Discourse of the Diagram

7.28

194

Photographic technique of recording a puppet walking diagonally across miniaturized room, from Jane Callaghan and Catherine Palmer, “Measuring Space and Motion,” 1943.

of changing them for efficiency in performance. This technic will be useful in studying the work functions, such as housecleaning, food preparation, etc. But here the aim was to measure space needed, as a first step in designing a dwelling that would free the family of all space limitations to healthful and comfortable living. It is recognized that changes in family living itself will inevitably follow design based family living, and, in fact, that the quality of these changes will be the measure of the success of the design. Our primary purpose, however, is to measure space requirements of family functions in order to redesign the dwelling and not to redesign family living.42

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Callaghan and Palmer’s approach is quite different from even the domesticated Taylorism of Frederick and Pattison. Despite the breakdown in the representational and logical coherence of the principle of functionalization, Frederick and Pattison’s discourse continued to focus on the body. In the absence of more direct methods of surveillance, their diagrams, charts, and spatial divisions were used as mechanisms of self-regulation; devices meant to reduce, eliminate, and control the ponderous and unpredictable nature of space. Whereas scientiﬁc management’s diagram began and maintained its focus on its cognitive object—the docile, functionalized body— the architectural diagram begins with the spatial body but then moves away from it, eventually becoming a spatial unit—a “bubble” designated as a function. Architecture, for all its willingness to oblige the imperative of social control, did not design function.43 At the same time, we must also note that by beginning with the body, the visual markings of architectural discourse had moved away from its traditional function as the projection of a physical object. In principle, the diagram should represent concepts and objects external to the building: the movement and activity of its occupants, the ﬂow of air, the angle of sunlight, i.e., the “function” of the building. These diagrams then play a metaphorical role: the ventilation diagram views the building as a machine for breathing; the sunlight diagram views it as a machine for controlling light and shadow; and, as noted, the Panopticon diagram sees itself as a machine for a speciﬁc mode of vision.44 Thus, metaphor, so central to the discursive formation of scientiﬁc management, also became a pervasive trope of architecture’s discourse of the diagram. For instance, when Robert L. Davison argued for innovations in prison design, he insisted that the design process begin with verbal statements of requirements “presented not in terms of deﬁnite plans and materials, but in terms of performance.”45 Or when John Hancock Callender discussed the planning of schools, he would claim that they should “function as a working part of the process of education.”46 Are not these platitudes of “performance” and “function,” after all, metaphorical constructions? If scientiﬁc management’s metaphor paired the body with the machine, in architecture the building took the place of the body. At one level, the metaphor functioned as pure ideology, one in which the architectural profession identiﬁed its role in the intervention into social institutions. It

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enabled American architecture to respond to the demands of efﬁciency and business after World War I, the kinds of demands expressed in the following passage from a manual on factory management: It has been well said that plant design has passed through three stages. The ﬁrst stage was when factories were housed in “just buildings”; the second when architecture was employed to improve the appearance of such structures; and the third, the present stage, when industrial buildings are designed to “ﬁt the processes” carried on within them, and form an integral part of the production scheme. Many such recently constructed plants may be looked upon as in themselves “big machines” containing and coordinating all the “little machines.”47 Initially applied to the factory, the metaphor of the architectural machine expanded to other building types, such as ofﬁces, hospitals, schools, and homes.48 It facilitated the depiction of a building as a biological or mechanical system with its own components and rhythms: “The ofﬁce cannot be adequately conceived, either as merely a place or as a system. . . . An ofﬁce is more than the room which houses the operatives, or the framework or system which ties the parts together. When we speak of an ofﬁce we should think of a living, active organization.”49 Like this statement by Lee Galloway, a professor of commerce and an important exponent of Taylorism, these narratives read like expositions of “organic architecture.” At the center of this discourse lay the object with which I began this discussion— the human body. As the eminent Taylorist Harrington Emerson wrote in the foreword to Principles of Domestic Engineering, the body was the object through which “every great principle” of social organization was plainly revealed: “as the appleblossom is still in all its delicacy and beauty, visible in the thin cross section of the ripe apple, so also all sound human organization is but the fruiting of the bud that we ﬁnd in the organization of the human body.”50 Emerson’s use of the term “cross section” was perspicuous in that the plans illustrated in the manuals of scientiﬁc management were concerned less with architectural form than with the representation of an idealized social pattern. Though it may seem obvious, I must underscore that these diagrams, or more accurately these diagrammatic plans, were far removed from the

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dense plans of the Beaux-Arts. Emerson’s “section,” unlike the Beaux-Arts plan, which functioned as the central analogue of the physical object, was meant to be a social diagram of the regularized movements of materials and workers. With this metaphorical construction, the physical environment could be transcribed as a social and institutional function. In order to close the gap between body and space, to merge Gilbreth’s ideal diagram of the functionalized body and Bentham’s utopia of a functionalized space, the metaphor of architecture as a mechanical apparatus or a natural system was constructed. It was through this metaphor that one could visualize and talk about the “function of a building.”

8 NEW GENRES AND NEW FORMATIONS

To translate the facts most quickly for those accustomed to making and using drawings, we chose the graphic form of presentation, purposely devoid of all design in the decorative sense. Those trained to grasp a drawing at a glance can ﬁnd their desired information immediately. Charles G. Ramsey and Harold R. Sleeper, preface to the ﬁrst edition of Architectural Graphic Standards, 1932

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Architectural Graphic Standards and the Modern Reference Manual The discourse of the diagram is then not just the diagram, but a whole array of concepts, tropes, and modes of representation. It is a discourse that must also be understood in terms of the formation of new genres and the reorganization of existing ones. It was inscribed into architectural discourse ﬁrst and foremost through the architectural journal, emerging not as an isolated element but, as we shall now see, in concert with fundamental changes in the discursive formation of the medium. However, if one had to point to a single event that marked the rise of the discourse of the diagram, it would be the birth of the modern reference manual. As a distinctly modern product, this new genre transformed a discursive ﬁeld traditionally occupied by the construction manual, catalogue, and planning manual. Making its debut in the 1930s, the modern reference manual is best represented by Architectural Graphic Standards and Time Saver Standards, most likely the two greatest architectural best-sellers of the past century. Besides these two manuals, there were many lesser-known publications of the period,1 and despite the banality that we associate with them, they are essential to understanding the changing discipline of modern architecture. Though the reference manual now takes the form of bound books, CDs, and computer data bases, most of the data originally appeared in journal articles during its initial period of development. In fact, the ﬁrst, 1932 edition of Architectural Graphic Standards was an exception in that almost all of its plates were ﬁrst published in book form.2 Time Saver Standards had two different series. The ﬁrst began as part of a “Reference Data” section in American Architect ’s July 1935 issue. Two years later, the data sheets initially published in the journal as the “Time Saver Standards” and the “Time Saver Standards of Advertised Products” came out in a binder. When Architectural Record purchased American Architect in early 1938, it began the second Time Saver series in a different format. The direct antecedent of the present Time Saver can be traced to its ﬁrst 1946 Record edition, and consisted of sheets that had previously appeared in articles in American Architect and Record ’s “Building Types,” a new reference section begun in 1937. Besides Architectural Graphic Standards and Time Saver Standards, there were many other series of graphic data, but Architectural Graphic Standards was the most consistent and lucid of them all in organizing its objects, strategies, and format. According to Harold Sleeper, its coauthor with

The Discourse of the Diagram

8.1

200

Dimensions of furniture used in muse-

ums and libraries from “Architectural Forum Data and Details, Number 3,” Architectural Forum, June 1932. Launched in June 1932, the Architectural Forum Data and Detail Sheets were concerned primarily with dimensions of equipment.

Charles G. Ramsey, it was Graphic Standards that launched a “major change in format, content, and manner of presentation” in the design manual.3 I thus focus on the historical reconstruction of Graphic Standards because, more than any other reference text, it provides insight into the speciﬁc concepts and techniques in the formation of the discourse of the diagram. At the time of its production, Ramsey and Sleeper were both working in Frederick Ackerman’s ofﬁce. Though Ramsey, almost ten years Sleeper’s senior, appeared as ﬁrst author, Graphic Standards seems primarily Sleeper’s work.4 Like his employer, Sleeper had studied architecture at Cornell and, in 1919, began work in what was then the ofﬁce of Trowbridge and Ackerman. In the mid-twenties, when Ackerman started his own ofﬁce, Sleeper became his chief speciﬁcation writer and eventually an associate in 1928.5 During the twenties and thirties, Ackerman con-

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sciously employed his ofﬁce as a clearinghouse for technical data. Sleeper himself made numerous contributions to such research and until the late 1950s continued to be one of the most active producers of architectural data.6 Frederick Ackerman was thus the intellectual driving force of the new manual, particularly in the early stages of its formation. Ackerman’s foreword to the ﬁrst edition, an explanation of the basic goals of the Graphic Standards, is a revealing document of what were by then long-standing concerns of the architectural profession. According to Ackerman, because of the revolutionary changes in building, the “modern store of factual knowledge” had become so complex and extensive, “so deeply buried in the body of literature,” that it had become almost impossible for the architect to control and use this ﬂood of information. In response to these conditions, Ackerman claimed that the new manual was a “serious attempt to conﬁne within a book of reasonable dimensions the essential factual references by the architect, draughtsman, and builder in the course of the day’s work.”7 It was, however, certainly not the ﬁrst attempt to tackle this reference problem. We may recall that two decades before the publication of Graphic Standards, Sweet’s was launched in response to this very same problem. As a hybrid of the construction manual and the catalogue, Graphic Standards was not really dealing with new material. However, in Ackerman’s assessment, the new manual was a radically different kind of discourse from the verbose and often irrelevant copy writing of handbooks, catalogues, and advertisements. Its essential contribution lay in the invention of a new mode of representation: “Graphic presentation is the language of the draughting room. This accounts for the absence of text. The plates, in many cases, constitute translation into this simple language of facts that are often obscured by words.”8 True to Ackerman’s claims, from its inception Ramsey and Sleeper envisioned a manual that would make a fundamental break with existing formats and functions. In a memo to John Wiley and Sons drafted as a prospectus to its publication, Ramsey and Sleeper presented their project as an alternative to conventional detail sheets and handbooks that showed “all phases of architecture; design, standards and construction.” In their opinion, contemporary architects had little “need to refer to handbooks for their design (speaking of it in the ornamental sense)” and that the inclusion of design only served to “complicate the drawings.”9 In light of

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these claims, and in order to fully grasp the innovations of Graphic Standards, let us ﬁrst examine the policy and format of those texts that we may consider its predecessors. We saw that the initial strategy of Sweet’s consisted of unifying the format of the manufacturer’s catalogues and organizing them into a single volume. However, by the mid-teens, a single volume of Sweet’s already approached two thousand pages, thus defeating its original intention of providing a “concise and systematic” solution to the reference problem. In 1914, the AIA Committee on the Standardization of Sizes of Advertising Matter criticized such compilations as “sundry schemes . . . by outside parties whose incentive is that of obtaining a fee from the advertiser. All are familiar with the huge and unwieldy permanently bound volumes of extracts from the catalogues of advertisers, whose matter may or may not appear in the next issue.”10 In 1926, Sweet’s grew from a single volume to a three-volume set, and by 1938 had further expanded to ﬁve volumes. In the late twenties, it began to insert unformatted manufacturer’s catalogues into a ﬁling system based on the classiﬁcation of trade organizations. By the end of the thirties, most of its material took the form of “cover catalogues,” a system where individual catalogues were separately paginated and ﬁled under the appropriate trade classiﬁcation. A single cover catalogue would sometimes reach several dozen pages of assorted advertisements, data, and advice, creating the exact problem that the original Sweet’s had hoped to overcome. To borrow Sweet’s’ own characterization, its system had moved from a “form of standardized, encyclopedic listings” to one in which the manufacturer’s catalogue was treated as a “complete, preﬁled and classiﬁed unit.”11 This transformation was reﬂected in its changing title: the original “Sweet’s” Indexed Catalogue of Building Construction was changed to Sweet’s Architectural Catalogue, and in 1933 to Sweet’s Catalogue File. In effect, Sweet’s had abandoned its original goal of providing a “scientiﬁc standard catalogue” and subsequently took the shape that continues to this day. In terms of format, manuals dealing with construction details were the closest antecedents to Architectural Graphic Standards. For example, in Francis W. Chandler’s Construction Details (1892) and Clarence A. Martin’s Details of Building Construction (1899), we already discover the use of sheets of standard construction details, which are often mistakenly believed to be an invention of Graphic Standards. 12

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Plate from Clarence A. Martin, Details of Building Construction, 1899. According to Martin,

the plates were initially based on rough sketches, later developed into blueprint drawings and used in his classes at Cornell.

Manufacturers also provided plates of construction sections, and during the 1920s there were at least four new publications on architectural details. Among them, Architectural Details, a 1924 Wiley publication that Ramsey coauthored with Louis Rouillion, was directly connected with Graphic Standards in authorship and content. Many of its plates were adopted from the house designs that Trowbridge and Ackerman developed for the Curtis Company’s standard lumber products. Ackerman explained that the designs were developed from the “standpoint of averages,” from a study of “those forms which had been most frequently used by architects of recognized standing and ability.”13 Though this manual consisted primarily of section

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details, it was organized to deal with a wide range of problems on drafting, perspective, and architectural presentation. In graphic format, the direct antecedent to Graphic Standards was Philip G. Knobloch’s Good Practice in Construction (two volumes, 1923 and 1925) published by Pencil Points.14 This manual was quite popular during the twenties and was considered by John Wiley and Sons as a possible competitor to Graphic Standards. In the preface to the ﬁrst volume of Good Practice, Thomas Hastings explained the way it was produced: Mr. Knobloch began by selecting detail sheets from the ﬁles of some eight or ten ofﬁces. Being supplied with blue prints of these sheets he chose a detail here and there, combining and assembling them in an effort to arrive at the best construction. His original sources were in every instance the detail drawings of portions of buildings that had been actually built during the past few years. He then availed himself of criticisms and suggestions from a large number of men, each of whom was in a position to know especially well the characteristics and methods of employment of some particular building material.15 According to Hastings, Knobloch’s section plates were derived by selecting and reworking blueprint drawings of built work from a number of architectural ofﬁces. Like the traditional portfolio, each plate presented an exemplary and speciﬁc solution to a general problem and therefore functioned as a model to be emulated. As we see in ﬁgure 8.3, a detail plate for an “Entrance Doorway and Palladian Window,” the manual continued to treat style as an integral part of the constructional detail. Another interesting manual of the 1920s was a Wiley publication titled Architectural Construction (1925).16 Comprising two volumes, three books, and well over two thousand pages, it was smaller than the multivolume construction manuals but still unwieldy. While its second volume—two books on wood and steel construction—followed the traditional format of construction textbooks, the ﬁrst volume, subtitled “An Analysis of the Design and Construction of American Buildings

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“Entrance Doorway and Palladian Window, I” from Philip G. Knobloch, Good Practice in Construction, 1923.

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Photograph of cottage house exterior from Walter C. Voss and Ralph C. Henry, Architectural

Construction, 1925, vol. 1, plate 1. This photograph and the drawings in ﬁgures 8.5 and 8.6 are just three selections from a total of forty plates that illustrated the ﬁrst case study on a Georgian-style cottage house. 8.5

First-ﬂoor plan from Walter C. Voss and Ralph C. Henry, Architectural Construction, 1925, vol. 1, plate 12.

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207

Details of interior ﬁnish from Walter

C. Voss and Ralph C. Henry, Architectural Construction, 1925, vol. 1, plate 35.

Based upon the Actual Working Documents of Recent Examples,” was organized according to different building types, each comprised of individual case studies. Though not entirely graphic, it departed from the traditional construction textbook by devising a format based on a thoroughgoing documentation of each case study. Moving from photographs of the exterior and interior to plans, elevations, and sections, and concluding with construction details, each case was presented in several dozen plates. According to Voss and Henry, the examples were chosen to include a “recent interpretation of each of the more important historic styles in architectural design.” They claimed that this method of organization was superior to the presentation of “theoretical material” because it “exemplif [ied] each structural step” of design and construction. The originality of the book lay in the fact that “the complete, working documents of executed buildings, the photographic record of the results accomplished and the conformity of its order of expansion in discussing

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the methods employed” were all fully illustrated. For a manual to “speak with authority,” Voss and Henry believed that it should provide the accurate reproduction of “the actual, original drawings, details and specifications” employed in each building.17 Architectural Construction was different from the typical detail manual in that while the latter was literally based on a “section” of architectural discourse, the former attained its generality through the total scope of architectural documents. Yet like the sections of Good Practice in Construction, Architectural Construction continued to be based on the organizing principles of selection and exempliﬁcation. Though both Good Practice and Architectural Construction gave ample exposure to new developments in material and equipment, such as steel casement windows and steel framing, most of their details were based on ornamented wood and masonry construction. Like the portfolio and nineteenth-century handbooks, they continued to employ the principles of selection, exempliﬁcation, and mimesis—on what Clarence Martin, in his detail manual of 1899, called “the authority of good practice.”18 Architectural Graphic Standards was thus one of many attempts to devise a single text that would integrate the data spread out in manuals, catalogues, and advertising with the everyday practice of architectural design. But as Ackerman and its authors underscored, the new manual clearly distinguished itself from its predecessors in terms of its organizing concepts and mode of representation. According to Ramsey and Sleeper, their new book would incorporate the following subject matter: (1) Data, standards and dimensions ﬁxed by the human scale. (2) Government and trade associations’ accepted trade standards. (3) Information and standards which have become ﬁxed through usage and practise.19 As is evident from this list and the manual’s eventual title, the standard—not style, material, or building type—was the key concept of the Graphic Standards, the organizing principle that distinguished it from earlier manuals. For Ramsey and Sleeper, standards were established within the dual constraints of an ever-changing technol-

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“Floor Construction—Light

Rolled Steel Joists” from Charles G. Ramsey and Harold R. Sleeper, Architectural Graphic Standards, 1st edition, 1932.

ogy of industrial production and the unchanging requirements of the human body.20 With the development of technology, standards go through an inevitable process of evolution. However, with the standard spatial body as its anchor, once a standard was established, that standard would provide the scientiﬁc a priori of mass production— the underlying fact of the technical object. The concept of the standard provided the basis for the central distinction in the discursive formation of Graphic Standards—the distinction between fact and appearance. Graphic Standards was meant to deal solely with factual data, and more speciﬁcally with the fact of dimension. Whether the object was a steel beam or a wash basin, its standard dimensions, extruded from production models, were illustrated. The performance standard of the product (its structural and material properties), on the other hand, was assumed and left out of the text.21 Though Sleeper and Ramsey made

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210

“Dimensions of the Human Figure” from Charles G. Ramsey and Harold R. Sleeper,

Architectural Graphic Standards, 3rd edition, 1941. Though the original 1932 edition of Architectural Graphic Standards did not carry a plate of the standard body, Freese’s human ﬁgure in ﬁgure 7.25 was incorporated into the 1937 Time Saver Standards as well as the 1946 Record edition of the Time Saver Standards, eventually making its way into the third edition of Architectural Graphic Standards.

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“Average Dimensions of Bath Room Fixtures” from Charles G. Ramsey and Harold R. Sleeper, Architectural Graphic Standards, 1st edition, 1932.

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212

“Architectural Terra Cotta” from

Charles G. Ramsey and Harold R. Sleeper, Architectural Graphic Standards, 1st edition, 1932.

reference to earlier detail manuals, the sources of their plates were primarily documents dealing with industrial products: manufacturers’ catalogues, advertisements, Sweet’s Architectural Catalogues, trade journals, technical bulletins and reports of trade associations, the United States Bureau of Standards, the American Standards Association, the Board of Underwriters. In contrast to the sections of the earlier detail manuals, the plates of Graphic Standards were not selected from existing construction drawings, but abstracted from the standardized industrial product. In the detail manuals, the speciﬁcation was treated as a document that merely complied with the construction drawing; whether the product to be speciﬁed was custom-made or mass-produced was of secondary importance. Graphic Standards, on the other hand, assumed a design process fully immersed in industrial production, one in which standardized components were utilized and indicated in the speciﬁcation.

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During the mid-1910s, Ackerman had apparently issued a “manifesto” to his ofﬁce that vague verbal descriptions would no longer be used in speciﬁcations. Along with this order, he presented a “general theory as to how a speciﬁcation should be organized and developed, and what should be its relationship to the drawings which its function was to explain.”22 Accordingly, the underlying principle of Graphic Standards was based on the distinction between two stages of architectural design: between the representation of factual dimensions and the speciﬁcation of the preﬁgured manufacturer’s model—paralleling, once again, the distinction between fact and appearance. The one was to be conveyed in the architect’s diagrammatic drawings, the representational level of Graphic Standards, and the other anticipated in the verbal discourse of the speciﬁcation. This diagrammatic abstraction of the dimensions of mass-produced elements thus provided the answer to the “catalogue problem.” If the catalogue and Sweet’s remained within a framework of choice and selection, a logic external to the disciplinary formation of architectural design, Graphic Standards secured a form of representation internal to the discipline—diagrams that denoted the facts of architectural knowledge. To reiterate, rooted in the conditions of mass industrial production, Architectural Graphic Standards formulated a level of representation based on standardized types, i.e., diagrams distanced from the exigencies of style, ornamentation, and the manufactured model. It was, as one reviewer stated, an “encyclopaedia of dimensions.”23 In contrast to the portfolio and older handbooks, in which the plan, section, elevation, and in certain cases perspective were composed together in a single plate, most of the construction details in Graphic Standards were presented only in section. Assuming that further “development, design, or improvement” would be applied, these section plates were “purposely devoid of all design in the decorative sense.”24 Rather than architectural models, Graphic Standards provided dimensional types—what Sleeper would call “core or skeleton data.” As with previous reference texts, the information in Graphic Standards was considered to be contingent on technical and social development. Plates had to be replaced because of revisions in laws and regulations and changing technologies. For example, in its third edition, new sections for the expanding use of aluminum were added, and the repeal of Prohibition necessitated the inclusion of data on distilleries

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and bars. The obsolescence of data was in fact a basic assumption of the manuals; both American Architect ’s Time Saver Standards and Pencil Points’s Draftsman’s Data Sheets were published in a format to be used in a binder, so that when a sheet became outdated it could be individually discarded and replaced. These manuals then shared with Sweet’s the assumption of the rapid turnover of information. Yet Graphic Standards did not have to overhaul its contents every year as was the case with Sweet’s.25 While the manufacturer’s model may change every so often, the industrial standard evolved at a slower pace: Acceleration in technological advance implies an even more rapid turnover in technical data. In theory it might appear that revised editions of RamseySleeper would thus be required even more frequently, but actually, this is not likely. The individual architect cannot be expected to absorb an increasingly more complex and more extensive store of factual matter, even when presented in simple standardized form.26 According to this review of the second edition of Graphic Standards, the essential contribution of the manual was that it freed the architect from the burden of having to absorb the details of technical knowledge. Manufacturers were “taking over the function of design in terms of structural parts and equipment” and thus the architect had “less and less need to bother with details when more and more whole wall assemblies, even whole room units, [were] made available for his speciﬁcation in terms of functional performance.” The anonymous reviewer concluded that “with this division of labor, the architect can focus his efforts on the study of living requirements and the integration of structural services; he is free to design on a much broader scale than ever before.”27 It was within this “division of labor” that Time Saver Standards and its relation to Architectural Graphic Standards may be understood. Though the graphic format of the ﬁrst Time Saver series differed from that of Graphic Standards, its subject matter was essentially the same.28 The second series published by Architectural Record, however, resulted in a different kind of reference manual. While it included the kind of graphic data provided in Graphic Standards—construction sections, equipment dimensions,

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215

Double-page spread on service areas of the general hospital, from Architectural Record, December 1939.

and standard plans—its format and content shifted toward the axiomatic discourse of functional planning. For instance, in Record ’s December 1939 reference number on hospitals, the article started with a general statement of planning principles and a bubble diagram representing the “broad, general pattern of organization of space and circulation within the average voluntary general hospital.”29 The next part then focused on the individual sectors of the hospital, such as the administrative and service areas. Once again it started with verbal principles, interposed by a bubble diagram of each area and accompanied by plans of actual projects. Each section would conclude with a chart of spatial requirements and equipment and the rest of the verbal text. As we see in ﬁgure 8.11, the bubble diagram became the key to the

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216

Anthropometric data in the 1946 edi-

tion of Time Saver Standards adopted from American Architect, September 1935.

organization of the Time Saver. When the Record articles from the Building Types section were edited into book form, much of the text and many photographs of the journal series were excluded, transforming the articles into a graphic format closer to that of Graphic Standards. The 1946 Time Saver also included anthropometric data published in American Architect during the mid-thirties as well as in its 1937 binder edition. The organization of Time Saver was thus centered on the notion of functional planning, a format into which the subject matter of Graphic Standards was inserted. While the latter was organized along the sequence of construction—starting from the foundation, working up to the roof, and into the interior—Time Saver was divided according to building type.30 Thus, Architectural Graphic Standards, a manual on standards of construction and equipment, and Time Saver Standards, a manual on planning standards,

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formed a complementary relation within the discourse of reference, bringing about the purported “division of labor” within the design process. It was therefore quite logical that Harold Sleeper would eventually produce two other manuals to complete a trilogy of handbooks: Architectural Specifications in 1940, dealing with the “integration of structural services”; and Building Planning and Design Standards in 1955, Sleeper’s own version of Time Saver. As a building type manual concerned with the “study of living requirements,” Building Planning and Design Standards was described by Sleeper as a “natural outgrowth” and “supplement” to Graphic Standards. Like the sequence of the Time Saver, each section on a building type began with “diagrams showing spatial relationships and area requirements” and moved on to “typical plans” and dimensional types, subject matter already covered in Graphic Standards but now organized to supply “information for making comprehensive programs and also for making schematic and preliminary drawings.”31 As these statements succinctly show, the development of the modern reference manual marked an important shift in the status of technical data within the discursive ﬁeld of the discipline. While the invention of new construction systems, research into institutional planning, and standardization of equipment remained practices and processes outside of architecture’s jurisdiction, these new manuals strove to reorganize their products into a form of knowledge internal to the architectural discipline. This goal was achieved by visualizing knowledge in diagrams integrated with the design process. Architectural Graphic Standards, however, did not simply replace the plates of the portfolio. Within this new manual, knowledge that had previously been located in different genres—the portfolio, catalogue, drawing manual, construction handbook, architectural treatise, and planning manual—was reorganized as an encyclopedic accumulation of diagrams. These technical forms, rather than acquiring the authority of architectural models, ﬂattened the once hierarchical structure of architectural discourse. The result was and continues to be a nihilistic discourse that equalizes architectural discourse into a set of instruments, a means devoid of artistic convictions or historical value. In this sense, it was the perfect emblem of Ackerman’s sense that constructing a holistic discipline of architecture had now become impossible.

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The Reconﬁguration of the Architectural Journal Photographs always have dominated the pages; there was a long period, in all architectural magazines, when photographs were “plates,” and each took a full page; frequently the page opposite was left blank, doubtless to heighten the pictorial effect. In those days, the text, if any, was isolated from the pictures. The concept of pictorial journalism that we know today came later (if in fact it has fully come to this date). I mean the consideration of photographs, plans, sections, captions, text as a uniﬁed communication effort, in which one element complements, not repeats, the others. . . . I doubt if early editors of the RECORD ever considered what we think today as “double” reading. We consciously arrange many of our “presentations” for two types of reading: scanning and study. A story is designed to give a quick message to the hurried reader, and also to reward the more studious reader—who actually may be the same person at a different time.32 These are the observations of Emerson Goble, who in 1966 was writing on the occasion of the seventy-ﬁfth anniversary of Architectural Record. As its editor, Goble was marking the key changes in America’s premier architectural journal since its inception in the late nineteenth century. He had placed his ﬁnger on the importance of the journal’s move away from a discourse centered on “plates” to one of “photographs, plans, sections, captions, text,” further claiming that until the mid-1940s there was “no evidence of this kind of planning effort in any of the magazines.”33 To a certain extent, Goble seems to have understood the signiﬁcance of the transformation, characterizing it as a shift from a discourse of complementarity to one of repetition. However, his assessment of the scope and timing of these changes was quite inaccurate. The beginnings of this transformation, not only in Architectural Record but also in American Architect and Architectural Forum, can be traced back speciﬁcally to the announcement of their new editorial policies of the late 1920s. As we shall see, they were changes that resulted in the dissolution of the traditional segregated format of the journals and the turn toward the discourse of the diagram.

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219

Double-page layout from Benjamin Betts, “. . . And Still We Call It a Profession!,” American Architect, January 1931.

There were two leading factors in the restructuring of the journals. The ﬁrst was the development of a format centered on planning and reference. As previously noted, the new policies of American Architect, Record, and Forum placed great emphasis on planning, business, and engineering. The initial strategy of Record and Forum was to create a separate department on these practical matters: the Technical News and Research department in Record and the Business and Engineering section in Forum. In this binary structure, the portfolio was still maintained as an independent section of the journal. In fact, with the move to a larger page size in 1928, Record ’s “Portfolio of Recent Architecture,” begun in 1924, became a more prominent part of the journal. American Architect, now a Hearst publication, underwent changes that

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220

Table of contents for American Architect, February 1930. We may compare this organization with the segregated format in ﬁgure 1.17 and the building type format in ﬁgure 8.15.

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were initially more radical. In October 1929, as part of its editorial policy of “architecture as business,” the portfolio section was completely eliminated. Claiming that material dealing with contemporary problems was “for reading not for ﬁling,” it took on the topical nature of mass circulation magazines.34 During the ﬁrst two years of this format, American Architect avoided organizing its articles according to any architectural thematic and persistently emulated the graphics and layout of popular magazines. It would seem, however, that this was much too radical a policy for an architectural journal, even for one owned by Hearst, and American Architect soon returned to a more ordered structure. In its June 1932 number, a “Plate Section” was reinstated, and the following August a regular series on planning called “American Architect Reference Data” was initiated. After several years of publishing in a binary format, Forum and Record gradually departed from this policy of separating the practical from the aesthetic. In Forum this process began in January 1933, an issue that also featured a new cover design and typography. Though the division between the Engineering and Business section and the Design section was abandoned, the portfolio still remained separate from the letterpress. With the following September number, a reference issue on governmentsponsored projects, the partition between articles and illustrations began to loosen. After articles on the general topic of public projects, the rest of the issue was devoted to various types of public buildings ranging from city halls to post ofﬁces. Each section on a building type then repeated a sequence in which “Chart and Text” preceded the illustrations of buildings, at times including data on construction, furniture, and equipment. A standard format for the reference issues of Forum was thereby established. Record underwent a similar change with its reorganization in 1937. In the ﬁrst issue of the year, Technical News was discontinued and a new section was launched, called “Building Types: Reference Studies on Design and Planning.” In the following June number, the journal was divided into three sections: Building News, Design Trends, and Building Types. The rationale was that these divisions followed a “chronological” test: current events were reported in summary fashion in the Building News section; when there was a “recurring number of events of similar character— enough to suggest a trend,” these were treated “analytically” in Design Trends; and if

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222

Table of contents for Architectural Forum, September 1933, organized according to building types. 8.16

“Functional Chart for Fire Stations” from Architectural Forum, September 1933.

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223

Sample illustration of ﬁre station from Architectural Forum, September 1933. Construction details for ﬁre station from Architectural Forum, September 1933.

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224

Example of “tailing” from American

Architect, April 1930. Compare with earlier classiﬁed advertisements in ﬁgure 1.16.

the trend developed into a “standard,” its relation to a speciﬁc type of building would be published in Building Types.35 Much as it had in Forum, the dissolution of an independent portfolio coincided with the restructuring of the journal according to studies of building type. In this tripartite format, the Portfolio of Recent Architecture was renamed Pictorial Record and became a subsection of Design Trends. The Pictorial Record itself lasted only a few months, as it was dropped in October 1937. Subsequently, unless part of a special feature, most illustrations of buildings were presented either in the Building News section as “New Buildings” or in the Building Types section as “Case Studies.” In contrast to the segregated format, the illustrations were now dispersed into various parts of the journal: grouped under a certain building type, depicted as part of a topical event (such as an exposition or exhibition), or simply presented as news for the architectural community.

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The second factor in the reorganization of the architectural journal was the changing discourse of advertising. Advertising was transformed in two aspects: the way it was inserted into the journal and the representation of the advertising copy itself. During the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the amount of advertising and the way it was inserted and indexed differed somewhat from journal to journal. However, as noted earlier, it was common practice to place advertising at the beginning and end of the journal and to paginate it separately from the main text.36 Once again it was the new editorial policy of American Architect that signaled an abrupt and radical change in advertising format. In its October 1929 number, the journal adopted the so-called tailing method, the technique of pushing the end of articles back with an assortment of advertisements. This well-known

8.20

Double-page layout between advertising and Design Trends section from Architectural Record, January 1937.

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practice of mass circulation magazines ensured that the magazine’s readers would be exposed to its advertisements. Pencil Points had employed a form of tailing since its inception in 1920, but with the significant difference that the end of the articles was not mixed with advertising. In contrast to the commercial objectives of American Architect, Pencil Points used the technique to maintain the unified appearance of each page as well as the division between text and plates. One of the immediate consequences of tailing was that advertising was no longer paginated separately from the main text, thereby opening the way for advertisements to enter the main text. By the early thirties, the technique was adopted by both Forum and Record, and when Record initiated its tripartite format in 1937, each division began and ended with advertising, thereby bringing advertising into the center of the magazine. Architectural advertising was also transformed by the emergence of new modes of representation. During the 1920s and 1930s, even before the inﬁltration of advertising into the main text, a new type of advertising copy had begun to appear in architectural journals. Advertisements that employed photomontage and innovative lettering could be found alongside the more traditional classiﬁed and single-plate formats. Furthermore, before color reproduction was introduced in the main text, color advertisements, mostly placed by manufacturers of bathroom ﬁxtures, appeared regularly in the latter half of the twenties. Instead of providing information about the product, which in any case could be obtained later in the catalogues, the most important function of the advertisement was to catch the reader’s attention. The development of this new strategy can be understood in the context of the larger transformations of the advertising industry in the 1920s. During this period, manufacturers and advertisers focused on maintaining the great market expansion of the ﬁrst decades of the century, either by stimulating multiple purchases of the same product or by inducing its rapid turnover by making the product technologically and socially obsolete.37 This advertising strategy had to achieve two things: ﬁrst, the value of the product had to be shifted away from utility and necessity toward convenience, social status, and aesthetic leisure; and second, to borrow Stuart Ewen’s characterization, the consumer had to be endowed with a “critical self-consciousness in tune with the ‘solutions’ of the marketplace.”38 The advertising copy thus had to turn the

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227

Advertisement for Chase Brass and

Copper Company from Architectural Forum, May 1935.

reader’s attention away from the product toward the condition of its users. As in ﬁgure 8.21, it was more important to stress the social, economic, and cultural consequences of the product than to faithfully reproduce the product itself. This strategy introduced a mode of representation that departed from the objectcentered advertisements prevalent in catalogues and the traditional format of the architectural journals. The catalogue had always relied on illusionistic modes of representation—that is, its illustration had to resemble the actual object and hence function as its substitute. The veracity of the image was therefore crucial for the catalogues. For instance, a 1911 catalogue for the Standard company proudly claimed that its illustrations were “direct photographic reproductions of the articles, set up complete as for service, in the manner and position in which they are shown”: “This method of illustrating is superior to any other, since it gives the buyer the satisfaction

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of knowing that the illustrations are reproduced from actual photographs, and are not the drawings of our artist unfamiliar with the goods, and whose work, therefore, would have been more or less imperfect in detail.”39 The departure from this objectcentered mode of representation opened the way to a fragmented imagery that would prevail not only in advertisements but also in the main text of the architectural journals. With the emergence of planning discourse as the organizing principle of the journals, as well as the insertion of advertisements into the main body of the text, the journals were now dominated by a mode of discourse best described as the composite photographic text. In contrast to the full-page plate illustration of the portfolio or the letterpress dominated by verbal text, the composite photographic text was character-

8.22

Double-page advertisement for Owens-Illinois Insulux Glass Blocks from Architectural Forum, October 1936.

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ized by the combination of photographs, text, plans, drawings, and diagrams within a single layout. Though the term composite photographic text is derived from the composite photographic image (the photomontage), I use it more generally to encompass not only the modern techniques of montage and assemblage but also a broader combination of diverse imagery and text. Though photomontage is in itself a fascinating and important topic, in terms of our concern with the discursive formation of the architectural discipline it is better approached as one speciﬁc technique within the composite photographic text. By the 1930s, this multimedia text had become not only an exemplary technique of the avant-garde but a popular form of layout in mass circulation magazines such as Ladies’ Home Journal and Good Housekeeping.40 Architecture was now urged to adopt the new display techniques of photomontage and assemblage, not only in advertisements but in presentation and displays. The immediate effect on architectural illustrations was that they were now smaller, often presented without white borders, and combined on the same page with text, plans, and diagrams. It was within the composite photographic text that the diagram entered the journal as a systematic element of its discursive formation. The following is again quoted from Forum’s September 1933 issue on public buildings: In these analytical studies space and functional charts will be found to clarify the problems and simplify both discussions with the authorities and the actual planning which will follow. In connection with each type of building shown in the following plates, functional charts are shown, such as can be developed for the particular problem in hand. The charts are typical and include the usual requirements for the designated buildings. Several of the buildings shown in photograph and plan on the following pages are examples of the grouping of departmental functions either in one building or as a civic center.41 Along with Forum’s reference numbers, the most systematic formation of the diagram’s status in the composite photographic text was established in the Building Types section of Record, particularly after 1939. The typical sequence of this section

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230

Double-page layout from Herbert Matter, “Display Presentations for Architects and Other

Designers,” Architectural Record, January 1938, urging architects to use photomontage as a “new display technique.”

would begin with a verbal statement of general planning principles; then Time Saver Standards, which Record took over from American Architect in 1938; followed by building illustrations under the title “Case Studies”; and ﬁnally a reference bibliography. As I just mentioned, the organization of Time Saver followed a chain of divergent modes of representation: beginning with a verbal narrative of basic ideas, moving to diagrams, and then closing with plans and photographic illustrations. This dispersed formation could be spread out along a sequence of pages, as in ﬁgures 8.16, 8.17, and 8.18, or it could also be employed within a double-page or single-page layout, as in ﬁgures 8.11 and 8.24.

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231

Page layout from Douglas Haskell, “The

Modern Nursery School,” Architectural Record, March 1938.

As we see in these ﬁgures, the reader cannot concentrate on a single image but must shift between different modes of representation. In this dispersed mode of reading, the architectural illustrations no longer sustained the independent status of the portfolio. As Forum stated, the photographs and plans in its reference issues functioned as “examples of the grouping of departmental functions.”42 Record also assigned a similar role to the illustrations in its Building Type section: “The illustrations for the series as a whole, by picturing architectural features of new signiﬁcance associated with many building types, will give a fair idea of modern trends in design and of practical considerations motivating the trends.”43 In other words, in contrast to the portfolio, the illustrations do not stand by themselves but have become subordinate to a dispersed system of words, plans, and diagrams. These images were not meant to be read individually but as a set of ﬁgures that must be horizontally connected with each other.

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This kind of reading stands in contrast not only to the portfolio but also to the discursive mode of earlier planning manuals. We may compare Record ’s 1939 hospital number with Hornsby and Schmidt’s popular hospital manual of 1913, particularly in the way they describe the architectural plan. The earlier manual guides the reader through the accompanying plan (ﬁgure 8.25) with the following passage: Let us follow the patient who comes afoot, applying for admission to the hospital. He passes through the large double-door entrance, turns to the right into the common waiting rooms, which contain seats on three sides. When his turn comes to be examined, he passes into the next, or examining room, where there is a large window and all the paraphernalia for making preliminary observations. If he is accepted, he is taken in charge by an attendant, male or female, as the case may be, and passes along the inner corridor into the bath-room, where his clothes are removed, tied into a bundle, labeled, and thrown into the chute. After the bath, he is given hospital clothing from the closet at the end of the corridor, and passed across the main corridor to the elevator, which takes him to his destination upstairs.44 In this discursive formation, the plan provides a focal point for the verbal text to converge on. Function is not designated as a diagrammatic unit but depicted in narrative sequence as the speciﬁc actions that occur in the rooms. The verbal text thus describes the dimensions, equipment, and workings of the plan in a narrative sequence. According to the authors, the plans in the manual were “outlines” and “ideal arrangements” that could be “elaborated almost indeﬁnitely or contracted to meet the needs of a small institution.”45 In other words, they functioned as a parti type, the kind of drawing that Paul Philippe Cret called “the diagram of the whole composition” (see above, p. 56). In a composite photographic text, such as in ﬁgure 8.11 or 8.24, its plans and diagrams, rather than centrifugal elements of the page, move toward dispersing the ﬁeld of vision and knowledge. The verbal text, diagram, plan, chart, and photograph render different kinds of knowledge, requiring the reader to move back and forth among these various modes of representation. In the traditional format of the nineteenth-century journal, the hierarchical formation of academic discourse was embodied in the distinct modes of representation

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8.25

233

Plan of hospital admission area from John A. Hornsby and Richard E. Schmidt, The Modern Hospital, 1913.

8.26

Hospital plan types from John A. Hornsby and Richard E. Schmidt, The Modern Hospital, 1913.

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of the portfolio, letterpress, and advertising. This segregated format was now replaced by the composite photographic text, a dispersed and repetitive organization in which there was little differentiation between planning articles, advertising, illustration, and essays. Furthermore, with the inﬁltration of advertisements into the main text, their aggressive graphic techniques became a dominant visual presence. As I shall argue in further detail in the following chapter, this new discursive formation must be understood together with the way we see and use these plans, diagrams, and photographs. And because this new format was not a frivolous change in appearance, it became a matter of great consternation to the architectural community.46 One disgruntled subscriber to American Architect protested that the new format looked like “a cross between Vogue and a comic paper and not a plate or article [could] be cut up and ﬁled for use (as we have done for years).” He further lamented that most of the plates and articles were mixed up with advertising, concluding that “this sort of popular scream is of no use whatever to an architect’s ofﬁce.”47 Another architect wrote to the Record, after its reorganization into the tripartite format, that he was “thoroughly annoyed at the arrangement” of the journal, and that it was not “necessary to stuff advertising down the throat” of its readers.48 These were by no means overreactions. Indeed, if one could not cut up, ﬁle, trace, and transcribe the pages of these journals, of what use were they for the architect? Underlying these protests was the realization that the very nature of the architectural discipline was at stake in these discursive transformations. In 1942, Pencil Points, persistently the most conservative of the major periodicals, adopted a topical format. Hence, by the early 1940s, Architectural Record (which purchased American Architect in 1938), Architectural Forum, and Pencil Points, the three major journals published on the East Coast, had all forgone a separate portfolio. As Kenneth Kingsley Stowell’s editorial for Forum’s reference series in 1933 illustrates, Forum had departed from McKim’s demand that the architectural journal function as a means of sustaining the “special world” of the profession: Realizing that this issue of The Architectural Forum will be used by the architect in his conferences with clients and prospective clients, as well as in his own ofﬁce work, we have designed this issue with such a purpose in view. The format has been developed in a style which is expressive of the best

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typography with which clients are familiar; a style which at once dramatizes the presentation of photograph and fact, and offers a stimulating variety in page appearance.49 This discursive “variety” indeed heralded the beginning of what Emerson Goble had called “pictorial journalism.” The journal could not just circulate within the conﬁnes of the drafting room; it had to respond to the concerns of the client, the advertisers, and the building industry, all the while maintaining the identity of the profession and discipline of architecture. The architectural journal must now function not only as a mirror to an interior of architectural knowledge but also as a window to the outside world.

9 THE DISLOCATION OF THE ARCHITECTURAL DISCIPLINE

The editors who publish such scale details are not really doing a service to architecture. . . . The photographs are enough. H. Van Buren Magonigle, “The Upper Ground,” Pencil Points, 1934 The ground plan reveals nothing. Sigfried Giedion, Space, Time and Architecture, 1941

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The Diagram as Plan, the Plan as Diagram During the 1930s, one of the most revealing expositions in the discourse of the diagram was provided by the French-trained American architect Paul Nelson. In his 1937 Architectural Record article “A Method of Procedure in Architectural Design,” Nelson brought together the various concepts and tropes of the new discursive formation, producing a kind of précis of the promises and burdens of the diagram. According to Nelson, design was a process divided into three stages: “The Nonarchitectural Analysis—abstraction in terms of life; The Architectural Analysis—abstraction in terms of space; The Architectural Synthesis—concretion in terms of architecture.” As we have come to expect, the diagram must derive from ideas untainted by formal preconceptions. Hence, in Nelson’s ﬁrst stage, “Effectually neither the architect, his collaborators, nor the client must think or speak architecture, otherwise its natural growth will be deformed. Any preconceived ideas of form, style, etc., will only tend to limit the life to them, whereas architecture should be born from life and takes the organic form imposed by it.”1 As this passage implies, the diagrammatic process must sustain a universal logic, a rational and creative process that produces new and unique results. Nelson’s second stage was then “devoted to the translation of the nonarchitectural analysis into an architectural program,” a process where the diagram performed its essential role as the translator of idea into form. For Nelson, diagrams were “schematic and ﬂow process drawings” emanating from “governing ideas and principles—the idealogie.” Representing “ideal space arrangements” and “ideal schemes of interrelationship,” these diagrams were then “crystallized” in the third and ﬁnal stage, into an “unforeseen architecture . . . unforeseen because it is the program of life with its imponderables which inspired these architectural forms, these harmonies, these multiple complexities, no architect could have anticipated.”2 The diagram thus carried a double onus. First of all, it must emanate from the program, representing not what is seen but what is known. It was supposed to be not a visual representation of the building but, as a prominent equipment engineer stated, a “mental picture” of its functions.3 Secondly, the diagram must generate architectural form as a necessary outcome of the requirements of the program—a burden placed by such demands that the functional plan gradually “unravel” into an architectural plan (C. Stanley Taylor; see above, p. 89), or that the building be “translated” from

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its purpose (Robert L. Davison; see above, p. 153). In other words, the diagram was both symptom and cure: it afﬁrmed the gap between idea and form and at the same time promised to bring them back together. This promise, however, was impossible to keep. Though the diagram strives to tie the plan down to the program, even in the simplest of projects there are just too many possible diagrams for one program. On the one hand, if we look at George Howe’s diagram in ﬁgure 7.19 or the functional chart in ﬁgure 8.11, it seems quite implausible that a plan was somehow generated by the diagram. In most instances, diagrams were offered as analytical tools and afterthoughts, lines jotted down after the plan had already been devised. On the other hand, if we look at Paul Nelson’s diagram for his “Museum of Science” in ﬁgure 9.1, the diagram’s resemblance to the

9.1

Paul Nelson, “Museum of Science” (or Palace of Discovery), from Architectural Record, February 1939. Proposed for the 1937 Exposition Internationale, Paris.

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axonometric drawing on its right is such that it is impossible to believe that the diagram is not already architectural form. In fact, by calling diagrams “ideal spatial arrangements,” Nelson never denied their character as architectural ﬁgures. What he did insist was that the diagram was devised before the axonometric design; a form unprejudiced by existing typologies, borne from the “spiritual and material functions of the life in question.”4 Irrespective of our assessment of Nelson’s organicism, must we not then conclude that his diagram is essentially a parti sketch? In either case, whether we are dealing with a functional chart in Time Saver Standards or Nelson’s bubble diagram, the claim that the diagram is neither idea nor form, neither program nor plan, and yet that it functions as a bridge between them retains little credibility. Apparently, we must concede that the discourse of the diagram is merely and purely ideology. However, rather than turn away with justiﬁed disbelief, we shall now look more carefully at the nature of this diagrammatic process, at the function of the diagram. As I stressed at the beginning of the book, to approach texts as discourse is to look less at their truth value and more at their utility. We are searching here not for a determined substance of the discourse of the diagram but for the boundaries and conditions that it delineates for modern architecture. In the 1930s, the operations of the overburdened diagram were most clearly on display in housing. Notwithstanding the battle between private housing and direct government intervention, housing was considered the testing ground of the viability of the new profession and discipline.5 More than any type of architectural project, it was a ﬁeld where design came under the most severe social, economic, and technical restrictions. In dealing with housing, as distinct from the design, production, and distribution of individual houses, we should recall the profession’s difﬁculties with this relatively new program. As I pointed out in the discussion of plan books and the Architects’ Small House Service Bureau, the logic of the stock plan was unacceptable because it relinquished the authority of an autonomous discipline. Furthermore, since there was no speciﬁc client-occupant, the traditional concept of architectural design as a singular response to a particular set of requirements was no longer operative. It was thus deemed possible to ask the fundamental question, as Lewis Mumford would often do during the 1930s, “What is the modern house?” Mumford’s answer was “to ask ourselves what any house is in terms of its essential function.”6 In other words, the answer must be formulated not in terms of existing conventions of form but in a

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verbal or diagrammatic discourse of a more fundamental reality. For public housing, the answers took the form of normative statements of minimum standards or a program for what was often referred to as the “average American family.” To use John Hancock Callender’s expression, “The problem was how to obtain the data on which to base a design for housing not one, but several thousand, families.”7 Housing thus opened a discursive ﬁeld in which the requirements of the human body, industrial standards, sunlight, ventilation, etc., could be appropriated as the locus of an architectural program. Through the agency of the discourse of the diagram, the economic, technical, and social constraints of architecture took on the character of a generic program. This kind of approach to the architectural program was most explicit in the working methods of public housing authorities. In 1935, a set of “Sample Plans” and standards was produced by the Housing Division of the Public Works Administration (PWA) and published in separate government documents as well as

9.2

Method of design using unit plans and

block models, developed by the Housing Division of the Public Works Administration, from Architectural Record, March 1935.

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9.3

241

“T-plans” developed by the Housing Division of the Public Works Administration, from Architectural Record, March 1935.

in American Architect and Architectural Record.8 As a supplement to the studies undertaken by the Housing Division, Record also provided a “check list” of “Apartment House Planning Requirements,” in all likelihood the work of Lawrence Kocher.9 Under the heading of “Building Design,” a set of recommendations by the National Association of Housing Ofﬁcials and home economists was mobilized to support the rationale of this system. The assumption was that families did not know what they really wanted or that their demands were so varied and unreasonable that they formed “no sane basis for design.” The goal was to study “the distribution of family size,” through which the number and size of dwelling units could be determined. It could thus be claimed that the PWA Sample Plans were based on the “minimum efﬁcient

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9.4

242

Page from “Apartment House

Planning Requirements, Including Basic Dimensions,” Architectural Record, March 1935.

room sizes and domestic equipment” derived from the scientiﬁc research of home economics.10 The rudiments of this procedure were not complicated and may even be traced in the student work of the period. For example, in a 1934 MIT thesis on “Low Cost City Housing Units,” we discover a clear exposition of this process of moving from generic program to diagram and ﬁnally to plan. Borrowing heavily on the contemporaneous work of Henry Wright, the thesis assumed the kind of programmatic data gathered in Architectural Graphic Standards and Time Saver Standards and those listed in the PWA standards. The design process itself began by designating a unit of space by a verbal category, such as a living room, kitchen, or dining space. Initially, as in ﬁgure 9.6, each unit was arranged within a bubble diagram and illustrated without dimension. Hypothetically, the lines encircling each bubble unit could be stretched,

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reduced, altered, and overlapped with each other. According to a set of rationalized requirements similar to those in ﬁgures 9.4 and 9.5, each unit was then ﬁxed into a set of rectangular dimensions. These units, now consciously endowed with a sense of architectural form, were deployed into an array of plan types, which were again combined to form a larger unit plan. Like the PWA apartments, the choice of plans ranged from simple linear arrangements to L, T, and cross type plans; as we see in ﬁgure 9.8, the units were subsequently assembled into a cross plan. Only in the ﬁnal stages of the design process was the plan provided with a structural system and an exterior facade.11 This kind of simple procedure was also evident in the design of market housing. During the 1930s and 1940s, architectural journals were strewn with articles promoting opportunities within the private housing market, many with the purpose of elaborating speciﬁc methods of planning and design. One notable example may be found

9.5

“Minimum Sizes for Compact

Bathrooms and Toilets,” American Architect, 1934; later included in Architectural Graphic Standards.

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9.6

244

Bubble diagram from Oleg Devorn, “Low

Cost City Housing Units,” MIT thesis, 1934.

in a special 1936 Architectural Forum feature, “Small Houses for Civilized Americans” by Fordyce and Hamby, an architectural ﬁrm active in the design of speculative real estate developments. The purpose of the article was to provide a “method of approach” that could be “used for any development, no matter what size the houses or what class the market.” The nature of this method was encapsulated in its opening statement: Architecture is space enclosed for a reason. And the reason is all-important. Recognizing the absence of any coordinated, scientiﬁc data on the “reasons” behind small house architecture, this study examines the house room by room, deﬁnes its space in terms of use. It makes no attempt to re-create the social order to ﬁt the house, but, rather, re-creates the house to ﬁt existing needs. Thus from the “reasons” are established criteria of minimum stan-

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dards. No patent medicine formula. No magic. Fordyce and Hamby have treated the house as a commodity—as merchandise.12 Though this logic reverses the authoritarian attitude of public housing, its design principles were much the same. According to Fordyce and Hamby, the ﬁrst tier of principles consisted of four general criteria in the design of “better living facilities: Utility, Flexibility, Circulation, Orientation.” Each criterion comprised a set of simple axiomatic statements, transposed into diagrams that ultimately produced a set of simple block masses. For Fordyce and Hamby, the most important problem was utility, one that required the process of “ﬁtting the space to the functions.”13 “Fitting the space to the functions.” This was then the apparent procedure of the discourse of the diagram, one that we have encountered many times in different parts of the book. We saw it in Bosworth and Jones’s study of architectural schools, which

9.7

Basic functional units pro-

vided with dimensions from Oleg Devorn, “Low Cost City Housing Units,” MIT thesis, 1934.

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246

9.8

Thesis drawing of plan and axonometric from Oleg Devorn, “Low Cost City Housing Units,”

9.9

Thesis drawing of elevation from Oleg Devorn, “Low Cost City Housing Units,” MIT thesis,

MIT thesis, 1934.

1934.

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9.10

247

Thesis drawing of construction sys-

tem from Oleg Devorn, “Low Cost City Housing Units,” MIT thesis, 1934. Since the late 1920s, MIT had required construction drawings for thesis projects.

stated that design was most importantly “the grouping and proportioning of enclosed spaces for human need” (see above, p. 105). We also saw it in Mary Pattison’s logic of domestic engineering, and in C. Stanley Taylor’s “method of allotting space from a functional viewpoint” (above, p. 88). What we now understand is that this diagrammatic process involves the maintenance of a one-to-one correspondence between a volumetric unit (each bubble unit) and a verbal designation of function (living room, kitchen, etc.). In their mass, Fordyce and Hamby’s designs are more varied than the PWA apartments, but the procedure of manipulating the lines of the diagram, if not directly into wall, then into the geometry of the plan, was identical. In both instances, despite the dilution of the analogical density linking the diagram and the plan, the topology of each “bubble” as a unit of manipulation was maintained in relation to its verbal designation as a function. In other words, contrary to the notion that the diagram and the plan were distinct phases of the design process, there was a constant

The Discourse of the Diagram

9.11

248

Summary chart for Allman Fordyce and William I. Hamby, “Small Houses for Civilized Americans,” Architectural Forum, January 1936.

analogical continuity between the lines of the diagram and those of the plan. We may then ask, at what point does the diagram become a plan? Or to phrase the question differently, are the block models in ﬁgure 9.2 or the dimensional units in ﬁgure 9.7 representations of a building, or are they diagrams? With these seemingly naive questions, we come to realize, as we did with Paul Nelson’s project in ﬁgure 9.1, that it is not the diagram that is somehow transformed into an architectural plan. Rather, we may conclude that if there is a diagram that can generate form, such a diagram is already form. If diagram is form, then we must also take notice of its corollary, that form is a diagram. And with this proposition of the diagrammatic nature of architectural form, we are inevitably led to the idea of type. For despite the claim that the diagram is

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untainted by formal preconceptions, that the plan emanates from the program, it is clear that typology remains a key issue in the diagrammatic process. Indeed, as with the Beaux-Arts system, the key diagram of these housing projects remains that of the plan type (not surprisingly, the MIT thesis referred to the U, T, and cross plans as types of parti). For example, in ﬁgure 9.12, we see Henry Wright’s portrayal of a design procedure in which a rectangular courtyard-type plan is gradually transformed into an actual plan of an apartment building. In these ﬁve steps, and the ones that will follow, it is not only meaningless but also quite impossible to discern the diagram from the plan. One could argue that this is because Wright is not really beginning with the functional diagram and that he remains at the level of the Beaux-Arts parti, of the kind that we saw in ﬁgures 2.14 and 8.26.

9.12

“Scientiﬁc Stages in Solution of an Architectural Problem” from Henry Wright, “The Modern Apartment House,” Architectural Record, March 1929.

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The question then becomes how one distinguishes the Beaux-Arts parti diagram from the functionalist bubble diagram. As we have carefully examined, the distinction is not simply between form and nonform. Though the bubble diagram insists that it does not represent the physical building, it is in fact a loose conﬁguration of the building, implying relations between volumetric units designated by verbal statements on movements and activities. In the case of the parti diagram, we may refer to Quatremère de Quincy’s famous deﬁnition of type, that it “presents less the ‘image’ of a thing to copy or imitate completely than the ‘idea’ of an element which ought itself to serve as a rule for the model.”14 Quatremère’s proposition of “the idea of an element” is an understanding that the architectural element cannot be conceived in and of itself but must be deﬁned in relation to a larger whole: a column in relation to the entablature and base, a colonnade within a courtyard, a house within an urban fabric, and so on. In other words, the Beaux-Arts parti must also be understood as a system of relations, but one in which the transformations occur within the lines of its diagram. In the Beaux-Arts system, the diagram was embedded within the plan. That was why analysis and projection, abstraction and ﬁguration could occur within the lines and surfaces of the portfolio. The initial sketch of the parti diagram, the esquisse, indicates the overall character of the design, the distribution of rooms, the details of its form, and the speciﬁcs of entrance, circulation, light, ventilation, and views. The Beaux-Arts plan was able to function as an analogue because, in Nelson Goodman’s terms, it was part of a syntactically dense and articulate system.15 In the discourse of the diagram, the analogical circle is untied, and the diagram is dislodged from this dense hermetic system. As noted, this was as much the consequence of the diagram’s move toward the program as it was the result of the demise of the analytique, the discipline that facilitated the transformation of the esquisse into the ﬁnal design. Carrying little indication of their elevations, sections, and details, the bubble diagram no longer sustains the density of the esquisse. The key question in the discourse of the diagram is thus: when the dense relation between part and whole cannot be assumed within the lines, when they possess so little power as an analogue, what is the function of these diagrams? In searching for the answer to this query, we could begin by supposing that the new discursive conditions require a different kind of gaze and a different mode of utility. However, as Frederick Ackerman warned, the discourse itself does not guar-

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antee a new disciplinary attitude. In all the ﬁgures we have seen in this chapter, the architect’s gaze has continued to focus on the diagram, as if he were looking at the lines of the portfolio. In moving from the bubble diagram to the plan, the insistent gaze at the sparse lines, even as they have lost almost all of their density, results in what Klaus Herdeg has keenly described as the “decorated diagram.”16 In the context of this study, we have encountered several such diagrams, none more clearly illustrated than in the architectural compositions in ﬁgures 4.6 and 4.7. We may recall that these ﬁgures from Pickering’s Architectural Design were presented as demonstrations of the formalist principles of “mass,” the products of a fragmented academic system. Ironically, though not surprisingly, within the dualistic constrictions of “form versus function,” the decorated diagram was also a product typical of a functionalist procedure in which the rationally derived plan was detached from the process of endowing the project with a ﬁnal external appearance. As Herdeg points out, the primary symptom of the decorated diagram lies in the “unmitigated dichotomy between plan and appearance.”17 In different ways, this symptom is evident in both Fordyce and Hamby’s houses and Paul Nelson’s project for the Museum of Science. In the former, the separation of appearance from plan was consciously presented as an essential part of their program. Fordyce and Hamby unabashedly claimed that “type of appearance,” along with “selling gags” and “color,” was something added on to the functional plan. Employing the same combination of rationalism and consumerism encountered in Robert L. Davison (see above, pp. 155–156), Fordyce and Hamby argued that these factors deﬁned “the sensory appeal” that aroused consumption, and hence were matters best decided by surveys of consumer preference.18 To continue with Herdeg’s terms of analysis, Nelson’s diagram for the Museum of Science was used not as a “neutral organizer of program functions” but as a way of freeing the architect for “the creation of visual interest.”19 Despite his rationalist-organic pronouncements, Nelson’s diagram has much the same function as the bare lines that delineate Pickering’s architectural volumes. Nelson would never have conceded to the disjunctive logic of Fordyce and Hamby, or the stripped-down classicism of the 1920s. Yet in his search for some level of formal expression, we can sense his ﬁxation on the lines of his project as he struggles to attain some level of conspicuous expression, to make the diagram “its own decoration.”20 As an emaciated esquisse that lives on after the death of

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the analytique, Nelson’s diagram-plan stands unwittingly on the ruins of the academic discipline. Once again, if architects cannot center their gaze on the lines, how must they approach the diagram? One way of answering this central question of modern architecture would be to explore the disciplines of the best architects of the past century, to see how their work emerges in a condition where the plan has become a diagram; but that is an inquiry that goes beyond the boundaries of this book. Nonetheless, within the limits of what has been examined, we may ﬁnd another way of answering this question by returning to a simple set of diagrams—the plates of the modern reference manual. As noted in the previous chapter, the diagrams in Architectural Graphic Standards were not denotations of the actual product. They were neither photographic copies for selection (as in the catalogue) nor models to be emulated (as in the portfolio), but delineations of a set of standard dimensions. In its distinction between fact and appearance, Graphic Standards provided diagrams that allowed the architect to visualize and conceive of relations without committing to a speciﬁc form. As drawings “purposely devoid of all design in the decorative sense,” they were not supposed to be used as a crib. Even if architects were to trace the lines of a wash basin or a window section (or click them out of an AutoCAD menu), these were marks of the spatial boundary of the object, indications that were to be speciﬁed later through the catalogue or redesigned for custom manufacture. As Frederick Ackerman clearly stated, the diagrams in Graphic Standards were delineations of pure fact and implied no formal value. When using these manuals, much in the way that we use bubble diagrams, architects must be able to “grasp a drawing at a glance.”21 The gaze must not dwell on the diagrams but move in and out of them, roaming in between these simple indications of space. In modern architecture, the diagram has become form, and form has become a diagram. Though these two propositions may seem one and the same, they imply quite different ways of approaching architectural design. In the former, the architect’s gaze remains centered on the line. And as we saw in the housing designs of this chapter, this concentration leads to what Le Corbusier has characterized as the “chimeric ﬁxation on a type-plan.” Le Corbusier knew that this ﬁxation would result in the most barren of solutions, and thus he insisted that technology and standardization establish “type elements,” not the type plan.22 Stripped of its dense conventions, the type

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is no longer the central visual object of a tightly woven analogical system but a loose diagrammatic conﬁguration; to use Giulio Carlo Argan’s expression, the type is a “schema of spatial articulation,” devoid of “value judgement.”23 To approach form as a diagram is to understand that when the analogical relation between diagram and plan is severed, when the discipline is dislocated from the lines, the gaze must move away from them. That is the simple yet difﬁcult lesson of the dimensional type—a lesson that such seemingly disparate documents as the plans of Le Corbusier’s houses and the plates of Architectural Graphic Standards teach us. What they are telling us, in their very different ways, is that the discipline is no longer located within their lines. These diagrammatic marks do not carry any intrinsic value: they are no longer the vehicle of architectural norms but an instrument of separation, differentiation, and dispersal.

The Displacements of Photographic Discourse But there is one thing I don’t like about “Favorite Features,” a new-comer in the magazine [Architecture]—the publication of scale details of these favorites of their architects. It is merely putting temptation in the way of the Copy-Peter who is too ignorant or too lazy to design for himself. . . . The editors who publish such scale details are not really doing a service to architecture, whether the work be old or new; and I wish such “features” and “departments” were all abolished. The photographs are enough.24 These are the sentiments not of a modernist but of Harold Van Buren Magonigle, an academically trained architect of the most conservative persuasion. His statement again demonstrates that by the early 1930s, even for those within the Beaux-Arts ranks, mimetic practice was no longer acceptable to the architect who was to “design for himself.” This point was underscored earlier when we discussed the fragmentation of the academic discipline and the demise of the portfolio. We shall now address the inevitable question that emerges from this historical condition: if the discipline of seeing and drawing bound with the traditional portfolio is no longer valid, how was

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the architect to approach the ever-growing mass of architectural images? Throughout the 1920s and 1930s, even as mimetic practice came under increasing criticism, publishers such as the Architectural Book Publishing Company, William Helburn, and Scribner’s actively turned out portfolios and pictorials dealing with both modern architecture and period styles. The portfolio was of course an important part of journals until their reorganization in the 1930s, and, even in their new formation, architectural illustrations—smaller, dispersed, and now almost all photographic— continued to be necessary pieces of its page. As Magonigle so emphatically stated, if the presentation of scale drawings is a prelude to plagiarism, and if “photographs are enough,” in terms of the discipline, what then is the function of these photographs? Let us begin the discussion by pointing to two basic conditions of photography that distinguish it from architectural drawing. First of all, following the Piercean distinction of signs, we must note that a photograph has the characteristic of being not only an icon but also an index.25 In other words, the cause of the photographic image is seemingly always there within the image. That is why Roland Barthes, despite the medium’s distinctive codes of representation, deﬁned the photograph as the “perfect analogon” of reality, a “message without a code.”26 The photograph has long been regarded as a picture whose knot with reality has not been loosened, a picture that possessed a powerful and unprecedented effect of truth. Second, we must note that the photograph is always a partial image, a fragment of reality. With photography, one must acknowledge the simple but signiﬁcant fact that the camera is always present in the space of the photograph, and that the photographer, by positioning the ﬁnder and cropping board, chooses a slice of this reality. With the identiﬁcation of the viewing subject with the position of the camera, the presence and absence of the subject and object, though an issue not exclusive to photography, emerge as its central thematic.27 As I mentioned, in the early decades of architectural photography the medium conceded its potential autonomy to the requirements of drawing and the codes of elevation and perspective. That is, in the discourse of the portfolio, the basic conditions of photography were employed in a way that subdued the photographic fragment. The portfolio emphasized photography’s iconic function, utilizing its indexical nature as the conﬁrmation of an unbroken architectural tradition. By contrast, it is a widely accepted tenet that modern architecture presupposed a new mode of vision, and that

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this new vision was necessarily—or at least most efﬁcaciously—provided by the peculiar properties of photography. For example, the development of techniques deemed unique to the medium—special camera angles (aerial and worm’s-eye views), exaggerated lens effects (wide angle and telephoto distortions), and extreme camera distance (close-ups)—have typically been associated with the challenge of picturing modern architecture. With the growing interest in media, we have recently become even more attuned to the symbiotic relation between photography and architecture.28 Though the general trends of the new architectural photography of the 1920s and 1930s have been documented to a certain extent, there is clearly much more to learn from the historical convergence of the new photography and modern architecture.29 At the same time, it must be underscored that modern architecture can be and has been pictured in many different ways. In fact, for our purpose of exploring how photography was used in modern architecture, the more conventional photographic portrayals of modern architecture must also be examined. The most conspicuous examples of this approach in the 1920s and 1930s can be found in the work of Frank Yerbury. Most often produced in collaboration with Howard Robertson, his colleague at London’s Architectural Association, Yerbury’s photographs were part of numerous pictorials compiled in books and journals.30 These photographs have been credited for introducing continental modernism to both England and America. However, glancing through such Yerbury titles as Examples of Modern French Architecture, Modern Dutch Buildings, and Architectural Design in Concrete, one quickly realizes that his photographs were brought together not under a guiding modernist principle but as an eclectic pictorial of recent work. Unlike the traditional portfolio, these books rarely carried plans. But like the portfolio, they had very little text, which would seem to imply that his photographs were meant to stand on their own. Yerbury’s photographs, however, rarely had that power. Though extremely popular at the time of their publication, these pictorials undeniably lack vigor. For example, one contemporary reviewer called Examples of Modern French Architecture a book of “photographic impressions,”31 and Cervin Robinson has recently commented that none of Yerbury’s work “seem[s] to have been taken with a particular purpose in mind.”32 Indeed, characterizing themselves as “compilers” rather than “authors,” Yerbury and Robertson had little inclination to produce tendentious work.33

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Why are Yerbury’s photographs so lacking in visual power? Certainly the poor quality and relatively small size of the reproductions have much to do with it. The primary reason, however, lies in his basic approach to the object. That is, whether dealing with historicist work or a building by Le Corbusier, Yerbury’s photography was persistently object-centered. For example, in his photographs of the La RocheJeanneret house in ﬁgures 9.13 and 9.14, Yerbury presents the curved exterior wall of La Roche’s gallery and the protruding stair landing of its entrance foyer as if they were distinct architectural elements. Yerbury does not understand that Le Corbusier’s architecture assumed a mode of vision quite different from the focused gaze required in the discourse of the portfolio.34 Lacking the discipline of seeing and drawing bound with the traditional portfolios, the object-centered images of Yerbury’s picture books merely form a catalogue of images. Even if they were eagerly anticipated and actually

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View of curved gallery, La Roche-Jeanneret house, from Howard Robertson and Frank Yerbury, Examples of Modern French Architecture, 1928. Photograph by Frank Yerbury.

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Interiors of La Roche-Jeanneret house, from Howard Robertson and Frank Yerbury, Examples of Modern French Architecture, 1928. Photographs by Frank Yerbury.

used as cribs,35 the illustrations no longer had power as the centerpieces of an integrated discipline. They were not meant to be inserted into the constellation of a continuous tradition of architectural monuments. There is an absence, and though one may ﬂip back and forth through the pages of his books, it is not quite possible to ﬁnd the missing pieces of this void. Having lost the support of a discipline integrated with its images, what then was the function of these photographs? Have they now become just instruments of publicity, conveying information of who has recently designed what? And even if they had been photographed in more unconventional ways, would they thereby acquire a new disciplinary system of seeing, reading, and transformation? Or would they end up as merely visual devices to capture the attention of the market? In the quotation

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with which we began this discussion, Magonigle provided a hint to one possible answer to these questions. He believed that magazines should avoid scaled details so that would-be plagiarists may be dissuaded; more importantly, by showing only photographs, magazines would allow their readers to “catch the spirit of the thing.”36 In other words, the function of architectural illustrations was to serve as a means for stimulating an idea, a vehicle for conveying the concept of the building portrayed. Though they were not composed of the kind of architecture Magonigle would have had in mind, this relation between idea and image found its most explicit manifestation in the “operative histories” of modern architecture—texts with the pronounced intention of proving the existence and principles of architecture’s new tendencies. Witness, for example, Sheldon Cheney’s recommendation on how his readers should approach The New World Architecture: Because the new architecture is so different, because in practice so little of it can be seen in any one place, as compared with the manifestations of the old, I suggest that the reader glance rapidly through all the illustrations in the book, before continuing with the text. I hope that he will come back to reading with the sense of certain qualities consistently achieved.37 The collective function of the book’s illustrations was to convey a common idea of the new architecture. For Cheney the illustrations were “the most signiﬁcant evidences . . . of the beginnings of the new art of building.”38 Not by coincidence, while his images of modern architecture were presented in photographs, the illustrations of historical architecture—the Parthenon, the Roman Colosseum, Gothic cathedrals, and nineteenth-century cottages—were presented in line drawings. In America, The New World Architecture forms part of a very loose genealogy of composite texts that include Hitchcock’s Modern Architecture, the MoMA projects of The International Style and Machine Art, Mumford’s The Brown Decades and Technics and Civilization, and Giedion’s Space, Time and Architecture. As noted above, Mumford could never throw himself into the images of modernity because they ultimately did not live up to the rules and expectations of his verbal narrative. In contrast with Mumford’s tentative gestures, the photographic images of Hitchcock and Johnson’s The International Style were awarded their full role as symbols of reality. However, this does not mean that they attained an autonomous status. Even as we

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acknowledge Beatriz Colomina’s comment that The International Style was a “publicity weapon to disseminate modern architecture in America” and therefore subordinated the text to the carefully chosen image, in terms of the discipline, it must rather be stated that the visual was subjugated to the verbal.39 Johnson’s intent toward this effect is disclosed in a letter he wrote during his European travels of 1930, when he began plotting out the new book he would produce with Hitchcock. According to Johnson, the book was meant to be a fully illustrated version of Hitchcock’s Modern Architecture, its “rewrite in a popular way” in which “text will be ﬁrst and then the pictures in a bunch.”40 In other words, the bunch of photographs, by repeating the common verbal characterizations of the new style, would provide the proof of the originating idea of the text. If Mumford wanted his images to function as words, Hitchcock and Johnson used the images for them. And though the photographs of The International Style did not differ signiﬁcantly from Yerbury’s object-centered images, the former was now provided with a verbal yardstick (volume, regularity, and opposition to applied ornament), a textual supplement for the absence of the photographs. In the previous chapters, we examined another kind of supplementary connection between text and image in the new organization of the architectural journals after the 1930s. As noted, in the composite photographic text, the architectural photograph was presented as one of several dispersed and differentiated elements in the cognitive experience of the reader. In this new format, the relevance of the architectural photograph was maintained not within its lines and surfaces but by its relation to the plan, the verbal text, and the diagram. Where we previously focused on the discursive formation of reference and planning, we may now touch on its convergence with the textual strategies of operative histories. And for this purpose, the May 1934 issue of Architectural Record organized by Sigfried Giedion presents a ﬁtting point of departure. Beginning with the lead article titled “What Should Be Done to Improve Architectural Education,” through an extensive “Portfolio” on “The Status of Contemporary Architecture,” the text, images, and layout of this special number were dominated by Giedion’s editorial hand. In a double-page spread that anticipates a key visual technique of Space, Time and Architecture, Giedion juxtaposed photographs of an Indian pueblo, a California bungalow, and a house by Irving Gill. Giedion was of course no stranger to the composite photographic text, for already in Bauen in Frankreich, Bauen in Eisen, Bauen in Eisenbeton he opened with the remark that the book was “written and designed . . . for the hurried reader to understand the

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Juxtaposition by Sigfried Giedion of New Mexico pueblo, California bungalow, and house designed by Irving Gill, from Architectural Record, May 1934.

developmental path from the captioned illustrations.”41 In the following portfolio, Giedion selected nineteen built projects from fourteen countries to demonstrate the existence of “a movement which seeks a true expression of the new methods in construction and planning with the aim of accomplishing a new harmony of our life and activities.”42 In contrast with The International Style, or for that matter with Cheney and Mumford’s expositions, Giedion brought a wide array of visual resources to his presentation: not only photographs and plans of buildings but their details, sections, axonometrics, and site plans. The captions to these illustrations accentuated technical innovations, as Giedion seemed intent on showing that the new architecture was not only a departure in artistic tradition but a response to diverse technological, economic, and social developments.

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Giedion’s exposition can thus be read as a critical response to MoMA’s stylistic interpretation of The International Style and Machine Art. Admittedly there is much in common between Giedion’s approach to architectural illustration and the MoMA strategy of the early thirties. As much as the authors of The International Style, Giedion was intent on using his images as a means of persuasion. However, with Giedion we begin to approach the complex issues raised by the historical convergence of the new photography and modern architecture. Fully tuned to the program of the “New Vision,” Giedion believed that in accordance with the new spatial principles of modern architecture, a new mode of vision and representation was required. From Bauen in Frankreich to Space, Time and Architecture, he worked on the thesis that “simultaneity” and “interpenetration” could be captured neither in a single image nor through simple repetition, but through the construction of a continuously moving

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Double-page layout of Neubuehl housing from Sigfried Giedion, “The Status of Contemporary Architecture,” Architectural Record, May 1934.

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Double-page spread with photomontage of Rockefeller Center and high-speed photograph

by Harold Edgerton, from Sigfried Giedion, Space, Time and Architecture, 3rd edition, 1954. The page layout and photographs remained identical from the ﬁrst edition of 1941 to the ﬁfth of 1967.

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semiautonomous observer. Because of the indeterminate position of the subject, it was the interplay of images rather than their ultimate closure in a set of verbal concepts that was paramount for him. A building such as Rockefeller Center, much like Gropius’s Bauhaus, cannot be summed up “at one view” and presupposes “not the single point of view of the Renaissance but the many-sided approach of our own age.” One cannot turn to the plan because it “reveals nothing.” Human vision must therefore assimilate the new techniques of photomontage and high-speed photography, whereby it can “pick up each individual view singly and relate it to all others, combining them into a time sequence.”43 The human eye must thus function like a constantly moving camera.44 Though the image in the single frame follows the ﬁxed viewer position of the traditional perspective, it also implies the necessity of an inﬁnite number of other possible views. According to Giedion, modern architecture was a unity to be reconstructed from a multiple of photographic fragments, and with this thesis we come face to face with an issue that involves what Sokratis Georgiadis has called the creation of “a perceptive apparatus”—an issue that I would characterize as the intersection of the camera-viewer and its object, of frame and presence.45 To delve more fully into the implications of this photographic condition of modern architecture, let us return momentarily to the Beaux-Arts system to see how the themes of framing and presence play out in the discourse of the portfolio. For comparison, I have selected the drawing in ﬁgure 9.18, executed in 1899 by Désiré Despradelle, the distinguished professor at MIT during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.46 As a rendering for his entry to the Phoebe Hearst Competition for the University of California, Berkeley, it is a beautiful drawing characterized by Despradelle’s soft yet assertive touch. The most striking feature of its overall composition is its multidimensional visuality. At the center of the drawing is the main elevation of the great auditorium, ﬂanked on its right by its own section. The elevation and section are meshed together as a panorama, staged as if viewed in perspective from a hypothetical terraced platform. While the human ﬁgures on the terrace are dressed in frock coats and top hats, the platform area is construed as an ideal antique setting. The Grecian temple, sculptures, and trees on the terrace, as well as the large space separating them from Despradelle’s project, are drawn in one-point perspective. The plan of the auditorium, illustrated in full detail in ﬁgure 2.8, is set upon an elevation of a Doric capital and placed on the right-hand side of the platform area. The

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drawing is thus a collage of divergent modes of representation: of the pictorial and the orthogonal, of the ideally hypothetical and the immediately projective.47 This assemblage, however, certainly does not produce the discordance of the modernist montage. It is a world where what is seen through the window, what is reﬂected in the mirror, and what is drawn on the map conﬂate without friction. The view from afar and the close inspection of detail are integrated, allowing the disciplined architect to maneuver between them with ease and skill. The faithful representation of existing architecture is converted without hindrance to the projection of a new building. While the choice of lens, ﬁlm, view ﬁnder, printing paper, and cropping board are all crucial to the photographic mirror, the boundary in Despradelle’s drawing is but an arbitrary limit to its size. Hypothetically one could insert any number of elements and views of a project into this boundary without disrupting the integrity of the representation. The problem will remain a matter of proper arrangement. It is a kind of view typically found (though not always in such sumptuous style) in the traditional portfolio. As I mentioned, this is so because in the Beaux-Arts system we are dealing not with fragments but with elements of and as a whole. An architectural element, even a small piece of the building, can be placed within the frame as a complete entity of an analogical system. The hypothetical view of antiquity that supports Despradelle’s project tells us that we are in an inﬁnite space where the objects of consequence remain within and separate from the edge. All of the world of architecture is contained within the frame, densely sedimented within the lines and beneath the surfaces. In this expansive yet limited world, where does the architect stand? As we see in ﬁgure 9.20, the answer is provided in Despradelle’s theatrical site plan for the Berkeley project. Here Despradelle has positioned himself as a supreme creator overlooking his design for the new campus. It is, to use a more technical analogy, the position of a mapmaker. In order to read, draw, and understand a map, the cartographer must be above the terrain, at a hypothetical point of inﬁnity. Furthermore, we must note that this detachment from the object can be maintained because he is trained not only to understand but also to use and transform the codes of the map. Likewise, it was possible for the Beaux-Arts architect to view himself as an autonomous agent of creation because he was so fully immersed in the codiﬁed system of classical architecture.48

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Désiré Despradelle and Stephan Codman, composite view of grand auditorium building, part of entry for Phoebe Hearst Competition, University of California, Berkeley, ca. 1899.

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Elevation and details of Boston Public Library from Masterpieces of Architecture in the United States, 1930. A similar kind of composite layout can be found in ﬁgure 1.11.

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In contrast with the discourse of the portfolio, the modern photography of architecture is dominated by the viewer’s position within its space, that is, the position of the camera. We glimpsed it in Giedion and may surely discover it in the work of F. S. Lincoln, one of modern architecture’s most prominent photographers of the 1930s and beyond. In Lincoln’s photography, whether the subject was the modernist Rex Stout house or Colonial Williamsburg, the spatial relation between viewer and object is the dominant concern. In order to accentuate spatial depth, Lincoln would typically place the camera in a position that would dramatize the effects of foreshortening and the multiple planes within the space. Particularly with his photographs of the Rex Stout house, we can see that the building is not just the object of the photograph but also part of its frame. The building, or more accurately fragments of the building,

9.20

“Behold!!!” Désiré Despradelle and Stephan Codman, bird’s-eye view of overall layout, Phoebe Hearst Competition, University of California, Berkeley, ca. 1899.

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Double-page spread of interiors in the Capitol from “The Restoration of Colonial

Williamsburg in Virginia,” Architectural Record, December 1935. Photographs by F. S. Lincoln.

intervene at the borders of the picture and become part of the viewing mechanism. We are looking as much at the building as through it and with it.49 In the discourse of the portfolio, as in Despradelle’s drawing, the plan works as the hinge between projection and representation, between the elements and the whole. In Record ’s presentation of the Rex Stout house, there is a plan, but there is very little to read in it. As I have just noted, the plan has become a diagram that provides the reader with just the bare information on entrance, openings, and spatial boundaries. Flipping through the pages of the journal, readers ﬁrst notice the photographs and subsequently locate the position from which they were taken. Rather than any intrinsic quality of the plan, it is now the photograph that guides the reading of the project. It is the photograph that brings a sense of light and view, a glimpse

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Double-page spread of exterior views of the College of William and Mary from “The

Restoration of Colonial Williamsburg in Virginia,” Architectural Record, December 1935. Photographs by F. S. Lincoln.

of the building’s tectonic, a feeling for our would-be experience of the building. Using the plan as a set of coordinates, readers are required to identify with the camera, to place themselves in the space. And as they roam around the building, the composite photographic text guides them through a series of interrogations. For instance, a reader may be struck by the corner windows, undoubtedly a key feature in the presentation of the Rex Stout house. On the one hand, if the reader is an aspiring novice, we may easily fancy him cribbing the photograph, as if judiciously conducting an analytique. We could say, following Susan Sontag, that for this novice the photograph has become “the norm for the way things appear to us.”50 On the other hand, we could also imagine a more disciplined student of modern architecture, one who seeks

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Lawrence Kocher and Gerhard Ziegler’s Rex Stout house, double-page spread from “House

of Rex Stout, Fairﬁeld County, Connecticut,” Architectural Record, July 1933. Photographs by F. S. Lincoln.

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Double-page composite layout with plans and photographs of interior from “House of Rex

Stout, Fairﬁeld County, Connecticut,” Architectural Record, July 1933. Photographs by F. S. Lincoln.

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to understand the details of its section, its relation to the program, and the way it controls the space. With such intentions, this reader would have to roam back and forth through the pages, as Giedion would have appreciated, coordinating the various images, drawings, and words. The composite layout, however, can never provide this critical reader with a complete sense of the project. The text incites more questions than it is able to answer, and hence its reading becomes an interrogation that is hypothetically without end. As much as we can agree with Sontag that “it is the reality which is scrutinized, and evaluated, for its ﬁdelity to photographs,” the matter of how this scrutiny is conducted will be as important as the nature of this ﬁdelity.51 In contrast to the composite layout of the Rex Stout house, Despradelle’s project can bring all its questions and answers into a single frame. To use Walter Benjamin’s characterization in “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction,” while Despradelle’s project is the product of the painter, “a total one,” the layout of the Rex Stout house is that of the cameraman, “multiple fragments which are assembled under a new law.”52 Clearly, the new photographic discourse demands a different kind of approach from its authors and readers. And in delving into this issue, one inevitably turns to Benjamin’s seminal essay, whose very project was to analyze the “speciﬁc kind of approach” required by the photographic assemblage of fragments. Benjamin explains the formation of this approach as a dual process of withdrawal and immersion. It is ﬁrst and foremost a process of withdrawal from the cult value of art objects, one that results in his famous thesis on the decay of aura. If portrait photography retains the last moments of cult value, Benjamin believes that it is Atget’s uncanny images of Paris, in essence a kind of architectural photography, that alert us to the ﬁrst moment of total withdrawal: when exhibition value ﬁnally shows its superiority over ritual value. In their sense of absence and indeterminacy, Atget’s photographs “disturb the viewer.”53 With seemingly no real object of the photograph, the viewer is left to seek other clues to its meaning. Following Benjamin, Victor Burgin writes that this wandering is caused by the “subject’s recognition of the absent other.” Photography thus enacts a dispersal of vision. The image now no longer receives our look, reassuring us of our founding centrality, it rather as it were, avoids our gaze. . . . It is therefore not an arbitrary fact that photographs are deployed so that we need not look at them

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for long, and so that, almost invariably, another photograph is always already in position to receive the displaced look.54 As with the composite photographic text, Burgin notes that readers are provided with “signposts” that tell them where to move next. Through “the ever present caption, and other forms of linguistic expression which traverse, surround and support the image,”55 the displaced vision, as in the case of The International Style, is given direction. In The International Style, the questions raised by each image were provided with ﬁnal answers by the authority of its words, perhaps the easiest way to bring closure to this endless process of displacement. Thus with withdrawal there is always a coinciding immersion into discourse. This process was also present in Giedion, whose sense of immersion was vividly summarized in the futurist motto “Lo spettatore nel centro del quadro”: “the observer must be placed in the middle of the painting, not at some isolated observation point outside.” This was the guiding principle not only of his own historical work but of modernity itself: “the fact that observation and what is observed form one complex situation—to observe something is to act upon and alter it.”56 However, this “complex situation” proved to be one that Giedion could not fully portray. Even for someone who believed that architecture must “transform an assembly of parts into a unity,” Giedion conceded that all he had done was “trace incompletely, in fragments, an image of our period.”57 But unlike Mumford who could not begin to approach the fragment, who thought that montage photography was “in reality not photography at all but a kind of painting, in which the photograph is used—as patches of textiles are used in a crazy quilt to form a mosaic,” Giedion never abandoned his exploration of photographic composites.58 Giedion’s tentativeness nonetheless belies the fundamental difﬁculty of architectural representation within the indeterminacies of the modern condition.59 For those who did not subscribe to the positivities of an impending architectural unity, this indeterminacy nurtured a different kind of discursive strategy. During the 1930s, Frederick Kiesler, particularly with his articles for Architectural Record, initiated the most radical innovations in subject matter, page layout, and photographic technique. Not by coincidence, F. S. Lincoln’s most dramatic work involved a special pictorial on Kiesler’s Space House, featured in the January 1934 issue of Record. With

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the exception of an exterior head-on view spread out in its opening pages, the pictorial was dominated by two kinds of images. The ﬁrst, as in ﬁgure 9.25, stresses the relative position of the camera and the architectural interior. The second, as in ﬁgure 9.26, is made up of extreme close-ups of material components used in the house. Approached individually, the ﬁrst kind of image seems to approximate the spatial interpretations that we saw in Lincoln’s work at the Rex Stout house and Colonial Williamsburg. The latter close-ups could also be viewed as a photo layout of architectural details, typical of journal presentations of individual projects. However, what is so striking about the whole feature is the gap between the pictorial views and the close-ups. There were no plans or diagrams to guide the reading of the photographs, intentionally frustrating any attempt to reconstruct the house or locate oneself within it. The close-ups were unlike the usual detail illustration in that they provided no clues to the form of the whole. In radical opposition to the notion of an architecture of part and whole, Kiesler conceived the Space House as a “continuous construction,” a structure without joints and elements. It is noteworthy that in this double-page spread, the blank page margin invariably used in the traditional portfolio was completely discarded. The absence of the white border implied that the image could be extended indeﬁnitely without any break in the composition of its object.60 Kiesler was interested in photographic fragments, but unlike Giedion he was adamant that the pieces not be reconstructed. These fragments functioned as reminders of an original “technical symbol,” of an absent tectonics required for the reintegration of idea and form, form and material.61 It was a Piranesian move to disorient the viewer, achieved less within the single picture than by a composite set of photographic illustrations. As a radical departure from the iconic function of photography, Lincoln’s images of Kiesler’s Space House delved into the medium’s indexical nature, the sense of the photograph as evidence of a deeper hidden cause of what was seen on the surface. The photographs were experiments in the surrealist project of “automatism”; to borrow Rosalind Krauss’s expression, a kind of representation that was “a manifestation of the innermost self, and thus not representation at all.”62 And in its utopian deﬁnition, was not the diagram meant to have the same function as the conceptual image, as a map of the mind? Or conversely, as much as the photograph was deemed an index to a hard reality, was not the diagram also treated as an objective picture untainted by prejudiced subjectivity? If so, we may then extend to the diagram John Tagg’s

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Double-page spread of interiors in Frederick Kiesler’s Space House, from Architectural Record, January 1934. Photographs by F. S. Lincoln.

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Double-page spread of straw matting used in Frederick Kiesler’s Space House, from Architectural Record, January 1934. Photographs by F. S. Lincoln.

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characterization of photography as a technology that has “no inherent value, outside its mobilization in speciﬁc discourses, practices, institutions and relations of power.”63 The diagram and the photograph of course have different roles. If the diagram is a form of knowledge untainted by visual memory, the photograph is inevitably a recording of what has already been. In this ideal conﬁguration, diagrams project but do not represent; photographs represent but do not project. Hence they intersect and form a reciprocal relation within the discourse of the diagram. With the demise of the Beaux-Arts system of mimesis, the ongoing rift between representation and projection, knowledge and belief reaches a critical juncture where the diagram and photograph emerge as the symptom as well as remedy of this paradox. With the dislocation of the diagram and the photograph from the objects of the architectural discipline, their lines and surfaces can no longer claim the abiding attention of the architect’s gaze. The diagram and photograph have thus turned out to be wayward instruments of an alarming and fascinating range of possibilities.

Epilogue THE INSTRUMENT OF MODERN ARCHITECTURE

No patent medicine formula. No magic. Fordyce and Hamby have treated the house as a commodity—as merchandise. “Small Houses for Civilized Americans,” Architectural Forum, 1936 “Slum Surgery in St. Louis” On the Pruitt-Igoe apartments, Architectural Forum, 1951 With ease and certain extravagance she follows her own style, determining the reality of modern urban lifestyles, and translating this into her plans. This ease and extravagance, absent from the existing conﬁnes of society, seems to enable her to pierce social reality with precision. Toyo Ito on Kazuyo Sejima, “Diagram Architecture,” El Croquis, 1996

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One of the most compelling passages in Benjamin’s “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction” involves his comparison of the painter and the cameraman. For Benjamin, the painter works like a magician: someone who “maintains the natural distance between the patient and himself; though he reduces it very slightly by the laying on of hands, he greatly increases it by virtue of his authority.”1 The magician’s hands and tools thus always remain outside of the body. The cameraman, on the other hand, is a surgeon. In contrast to the ritual healer, his power lies in the procedures that occur within the patient. The surgeon’s knife sinks into the very organs and tissues that make up the ailing body. In the previous chapter, Benjamin’s comparison of the painter and surgeon was invoked to think through the fundamental difference between the “total” view of the Beaux-Arts portfolio and the fragments of the new photographic discourse. By extending his imaginative analysis toward their mode of practice, Benjamin again provides us with a persuasive metaphor of the different images cultivated by the academic profession and the emerging “modern architect.” If the Beaux-Arts architect fashioned himself as a magician, the modern architect presented himself as a surgeon. While the former kept his distance from a wider reality, cultivating a hermetic set of techniques, concepts, and modes of discourse, the latter works by cutting into the social body, thereby “penetrat[ing] deeply into the web of reality.”2 While the academic profession was irrevocably linked with the last remnants of a fading “aura,” the “authority of the object” retained by its monuments, modern architecture spurns the positivity of representation. By the early 1940s, one particular version of the “architect-surgeon” had become ﬁrmly inscribed into architectural discourse. A succinct example of this inscription can be found in the March 1941 issue of Architectural Record. It was Record ’s ﬁftieth anniversary, and the year’s ﬁrst three issues were devoted to looking back on—as well as forward to—the achievements of American architecture. In showing the architect “as he is—not as he was,”3 the articles overﬂowed with optimism concerning the future of architecture’s role after the Second World War, a contrast to the sense of inadequacy that had dominated the profession during the previous world conﬂict. In a section called “The Architect in the Institutional World,” the following “ﬁve-point policy” of Lyndon, Smith and Winn, an architectural ﬁrm touted for its collaborative work with clients, was presented:

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1. Determination of the requirements by detail discussions: This necessitates a wholesome respect for the layman’s thought at this point, regardless of its architectural consequences. Many times the client has deﬁnite ideas which he has no way of expressing except in terms of things he has already experienced or in terms of things which seem impossible “architecturally.” A careful search of the elements that prompted these suggestions, along with intelligent analysis, sometimes brings forth amazing possibilities which the architect might easily miss because of preconceived prejudices. 2. Complete organization of the separate elements determined as part of the problem. This usually is done by means of diagrammatic charts showing circulation between and access to separate elements and their inter-relations in terms of their functions. At this point such a diagram should be without regard for architectural composition. 3. A building design developed from the organization diagram. 4. Refusal to submit even preliminary sketches until each element has been analysed in detail and the designer is convinced it belongs there. The scheme must be “workable” at all times. 5. Presentation of the scheme in such a manner as to give the client an opportunity to understand the reasoning back of the organization of the plan and composition of the elements. Sound design analysis can almost always be interpreted in everyday language which the client is capable of understanding completely. Once the client does comprehend the thoroughness and sincerity with which the analysis has been made, the design becomes part of his experience. He is then not living with a building which he has only been told is correct.4 As this procedure illustrates, the architect-surgeon has entered the social body through the program. In other words, the program has become a legitimate object of inquiry, an essential part of the architect’s ﬁeld of knowledge. This momentous shift in the deﬁnition of the institution was facilitated by the discourse of the diagram, which moved the discipline toward a world external to architecture—to the natural sphere of the human body and an idealized world of institutional patterns. Archi-

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tecture was now able to proclaim an open institution, one that shared its values and methods with the client and with society at large. Lyndon, Smith and Winn were certainly not the exemplary architects of the period, but it is also clear that, for many American architects, architecture was now conﬁdently a social intervention. We are perhaps more familiar with other proclamations of architecture’s social mission, such as Gropius’s programs at Harvard, the Pruitt-Igoe apartments, or Christopher Alexander’s diagrams, but only because they have become the most conspicuous targets of criticism. By the end of World War II, the notion that the program was the route through which architecture gained social relevance had become widespread. It was not only appropriated by practical-minded architects but embraced by a historian of no less stature than John Summerson. In his 1957 lecture titled “The Case for a Theory of ‘Modern’ Architecture,” Summerson declared that the “source of unity” for modern architecture lay in the “social sphere” of the architectural program.5 Though the lecture did not mention the diagram, it was a commentary on, as well as an emblematic manifestation of, the discourse of the diagram. His point of departure was the question of whether there was a consistent “basis of principle applicable to modern architecture.” The problem, however, was that modern architecture was so diverse that any attempt to identify a common grammar of form or a consistent thread of ideas was completely untenable. In Summerson’s opinion, Le Corbusier’s Vers une architecture and Moholy-Nagy’s Von Material zu Architektur, though exemplary as modernist texts, did not provide the “ultimate authority” in the way that Alberti’s and Laugier’s writings had done for earlier eras. Nonetheless, by invoking Le Corbusier’s rationalism and Moholy-Nagy’s biological emphasis, Summerson led his audience to what he believed to be the essential statement on the theory of modern architecture: Bruno Zevi’s notion that “the organic conception of architecture” was not a ﬁgurative idea but a social one: in other words, that the unifying principle of modern architecture lay in the social construction of the program.6 Fully tuned to the discourse of the diagram, Summerson conceived the program as a “local fragment of social pattern,” involving “some rhythmically repetitive pattern—whether it is a manufacturing process, the curriculum of a school, the domestic routine of a house, or simply the sense of repeated movement in a circulation

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system.”7 However, while accepting its basic premise, Summerson was one of the ﬁrst to consciously address the dilemmas of this discursive formation. To his credit, he was well aware of the consequences of its assumptions: The conceptions which arise from a preoccupation with the programme have got, at some point, to crystallize into a ﬁnal form and by the time the architect reaches that point he has to bring to his conception a weight of judgement, a sense of authority and conviction which clinches the whole design, causes the impending relationships to close into a visually comprehensible whole. He may have extracted from the programme a set of interdependent relationships adding up to a unity of the biological kind, but he still has to face up to the ordering of a vast number of variables, and how he does this is a question. There is no common theoretical agreement as to what happens or should happen at this point. There is a hiatus.8 As this passage demonstrates, Summerson understood that the dilemma was caused by the binary oppositions of program and form, of convention and creativity. But because he did not question this basic assumption, there was no alternative but to choose either side: If you accept the principle that the programme is the source of unity, the crucible of the architect’s creative endeavor, you cannot postulate another principle, another crucible, at the other end of the designing process to satisfy the architect’s craving for conspicuous self-expression. You cannot have it both ways. You certainly cannot have two sources of unity. Either the programme is or it is not the source.9 For Summerson, if the architect did not accept the program as the source of unity, he was left with two different alternatives: either he would have to search for a common language of architectural form, or he would have to rely on his own subjective impulses of creative expression. In the ﬁrst case, Summerson was apparently thinking of something akin to “the Classical language of architecture,” a grammar of form that

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could provide the basis of an architectural discipline. However, he believed that the formation of such a language would be most implausible, resigning himself to the fact that in all probability “the missing language will remain missing.”10 The second prospect, though more realistic, was thoroughly unappealing to Summerson. In fact, from the very beginning of his lecture, he had made it clear that the architect’s willful imposition of style could not provide the principles of modern architecture. He was perturbed because, in the absence of a common language, he had to admit that this subjective will was necessary for the program “to crystallize into a ﬁnal form.” Yet despite this self-imposed dilemma, by virtue of their straightforward clarity and sense of history, Summerson’s observations turned out to have a prescient quality. Not coincidentally, during the 1960s and 1970s, when the discourse of the diagram came under severe criticism, it was most prominently opposed in the very terms of his lecture. To those promoting the notion of the “failure of modern architecture,” the discourse of the diagram, as the emblem of modernist ideology, provided an easy target to attack. The polemics of this “postmodernist” strategy was in part justiﬁed, as architects were in fact active participants in the ideology of “slum surgery.”11 As Frederick Ackerman foresaw in the 1930s, architects suffered from having assumed “responsibility for results in a domain in which they [had] neither authority nor the remotest chance of gaining it.”12 Though there were more fruitful ways of confronting the social claims of the architect-surgeon, two opposing directions were most conspicuously on display in America. The ﬁrst was a return to the practice of the portfolio, with the American Vignola making an emphatic return to some of America’s most prominent ﬁrms and universities. This counterreaction to the program had in fact been predicted by Summerson. If you do not accept this case [that the program is the source of unity], I think you must consider whether, after all, architectural theory does not stand very much where it stood in 1920, or 1800, or even 1750, and whether the position of an architect who is concerned about expression or style is not that of a man feeling his way back to classicism or neo-classicism, or, to put the ﬁnest possible point on it, crypto-Neoclassicism.13

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Summerson foresaw that the rejection of the program and the search for a common architectural form would lead to a return to an existing language, one that would be at best a revival of a revival of a revival. The second counterreaction to the social claims of modern architecture is exempliﬁed by the work of Peter Eisenman, which interestingly enough has led to an explicit reengagement with the diagram. Eisenman, from the numbered houses of the late 1960s and 1970s to more recent work incorporating computer-based programs, has been consistent in his opposition to social, functional, and conventional determinations of architectural form. He has carefully devised his work, or more speciﬁcally publications of his work, as an explicit exposition on the process of generating architectural form. Eisenman typically works by shifting the markings of an original linear composition, thus producing a trail of lines that intersect but almost never overlap. In the ﬁnalized project, some of the “traces” are erased, while others are converted into the linear and planar elements of the building—walls, slabs, rails, stairways. Until his recent deployment of programs such as form-Z,14 his method relied on traditional methods of planimetric delineation, a system in which the plan was the primary generator of architectural form. His plans, that is, functioned as formal diagrams—a logic that reminds us of the discipline at the heart of the Beaux-Arts system. In the sense that Eisenman cultivates a system of representation that refocuses our attention on diagrammatic lines, he returns by way of reversal to the lessons of the Beaux-Arts. This is not a far-fetched invocation, as Eisenman has himself deﬁned this process as a “decomposition . . . the reverse process of composition, in the sense that through analysis of structures, of what we see, we uncover more and more possibilities for development rather than reﬁning the initial image.”15 His argument is that unlike the Beaux-Arts system, which involves transformations that work within and on the lines, he is employing a system of differentiation. The moment a line is drawn, he abandons it with another move that leaves the previous line in its track. For Eisenman, this is a way of visualizing and expressing his escape from positivity. This process must of course stop at some point, and ultimately the work assumes a creative subject as well as an audience attentive to its lines and surfaces. What would seem to be a gesture of dispersal is in fact a technique of concentrating our gaze back toward the lines of the work—lines, as Eisenman himself stresses, that have long since lost the depth of analogical meaning. To use his own expression, the diagram “acts as an

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agency which focuses the relationship between an authorial subject, an architectural object, and a receiving subject.”16 It is a procedure through which he stakes claim to have solved Summerson’s dilemma—to have found a formal language that erases the subject, or what Summerson called its “craving for conspicuous self-expression.” Eisenman’s claim to have overcome the dilemma of modern architecture, particularly through the agency of a new diagram, can also be found in the work of a younger generation immersed in the potentials of the computer. Architects such as Ben van Berkel and Greg Lynn revel in the new possibilities of representation provided by digital technology. Diagrams are crucial to their work, and like Eisenman they place their work in opposition to the perceived functionalism and typological constrictions of twentieth-century modernism. Greg Lynn, for example, argues that in the new diagrammatic work, “the relationship between conceptual diagrams and concrete constructions is non-linear and non-deterministic.”17 Ben van Berkel and Caroline Bos, key advocates of recent diagrammatic practice, renounce modernist functionalism, claiming that the diagrams of the 1930s have “nothing to do with our subject.”18 This is of course not true. More than forty years after Summerson’s lecture, one discovers that the basic problematic of the profession and discipline of architecture is often stated in much the same way as he had. Witness Toyo Ito’s comments on the architectural process as he discusses the work of Kazuyo Sejima under the rubric of a “Diagram Architecture”: Most architects ﬁnd this a complicated process: the conversion of a diagram, one which describes how a multitude of functional conditions must be read in spatial terms, into an actual structure. A spatial scheme is transformed into architectural symbols by the customary planning method, and from this a three-dimensional change is brought into effect, one which depends on the individual’s self-expression. In this process, a great deal depends on the psychological weight of preconceived ideas attached to the social institution known as “architecture.” The conventions of architecture, better known as “archetypes,” play an inﬂuential role in planning. In addition to these, before what is to all purposes an objective diagram is translated into spatial terms, the personal vision which results from a person’s highly arbitrary desire to

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communicate also brings about noticeable distortions in the established diagram. Therefore, to position architecture’s place in our society would be to describe it on the one hand as an individualized artistic intent based on mere commonplace habits that have become the established archetype. When you stop to think about it, the fact that almost all architecture has emerged from the conﬁnes of these two antagonistic, completely opposite poles is virtually incomprehensible.19 Like Summerson, Ito also assumes an individual desire for subjective expression in conﬂict with the social and objective requirements of the program. Ito, however, has an advantage over Summerson and recent diagrammatists in that he understands that conventions play a crucial role in the process. Furthermore, Ito has discovered an architect, Sejima, who works with a clear grasp of these conditions: She arranges the functional conditions which the building is expected to hold, in a ﬁnal diagram of the space, then she immediately converts that scheme into reality. Which is why the habitual process known as planning is largely non-existent in her work. In her case, the architectural convention that we ourselves call planning rests solely on the diagram of the space. Even the details of the structure are little more than an arrangement utilized as part of the diagram itself.20 Ito’s observation of diagram architecture is precise in that he is not talking about the mediating function that diagrams have between program and form. He is rather pointing out, as I have done in this book, that plans, sections, and elevations, those traditional modes of architectural representation, are themselves diagrams. He further argues that Sejima’s plan-diagrams do not derive from the program but “from her own intuitive vision of society.”21 According to Ito, Sejima understands the dilemmas of modern architecture but handles them in an apparently offhand manner, afﬁrming without fanfare that it is the architect who interprets the program. I agree with Ito but would add that this “intuitive vision” is as much an issue of ethics as it is one of individual interpretation. Interpretation is as much a social and ethical practice as it is a subjective act of creation. Ito and Sejima thereby approach the discourse

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of the diagram in a way that goes beyond the conﬁnes of its dualistic constructions. With no regret, Sejima confronts the fact that her architectural drawings have become diagrams. Sejima and Ito are of course not the ﬁrst to grasp this basic condition of the discourse of the diagram. For were not the most basic modern innovations of the architectural discipline, from Le Corbusier’s plan libre to Mies’s principles of Bauen, based on the understanding that no innate and absolute value could be assumed in our architectural markings? Indeed, what must be taken seriously in recent diagrammatic practice, particularly in relation to the special capacities of the computer, are the new tasks and challenges it poses within the changing discipline of the plan. More than in any of its claims to obviating the questions of tectonics, typology, and convention, diagrammatic practice is most interesting when it is understood as part of the history of the discipline. It is a detriment to recent experiments that most are so uncritically driven to the tired pursuit of the new. As van Berkel argues of his own work, “diagrammatic practice delays the relentless intrusion of signs, thereby allowing architecture to articulate an alternative to a representational design technique.”22 Unlike Sejima, van Berkel takes the route of redundancy, a trait that the younger diagrammatists share with Eisenman. But what is the purpose of devoting so much energy to explicating a process of transforming lines into a diagram when they are already so? When we know that diagrams do not simply translate into architecture, when the notion of the linearity of the design process has long been discredited, why would one need to “publicize” these diagrams?23 With these recent arguments for diagrammatic practice, we are reminded of how difﬁcult it is to let go of the line, knowing of course that it can never be completely abandoned. My criticism of this practice is maintained insofar as the lines of its work function as an authoritative sign to that which they claim to overcome. Strategically they strive to achieve what Summerson had deemed impossible: to maintain a system of authority, be it the program or a mechanism of formal transformation, while simultaneously satisfying “the architect’s craving for conspicuous self-expression.” With the downfall of the Beaux-Arts system, we have observed in part a history in which architecture seeks to construct another source of authority. And is this not exactly the central problem with Summerson’s lecture, the very notion that an “absolute authority” can and should be available for modern architecture? Fluctuating

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between an assertion of the detached subject and a subject in tune with the times, the diagram as instrument and the diagram as an aesthetic object of attention, these dualisms maintain the exclusive prerogatives of both an autonomous subject and a recentered object of attention. To reiterate, the more difﬁcult challenge of the diagram is to move both in and out; not only to look at, but also to look through. Following Walter Benjamin’s “demand for a speciﬁc kind of approach” to photography, I had underscored that the discourse of the diagram requires an immersion in as well as withdrawal from its surfaces. If the dualism of the authoritative program and autonomous form has proven to be a route that constricts the architect-surgeon to unwarranted alternatives, let us return once more to Benjamin’s metaphor of the cameraman-surgeon; for though this is not the place to enter into a new dimension of Benjamin’s thesis, it is important that we at least point to the possibility of a different mode of engagement with reality, one that sustains the complexities of the modern condition. As noted, one of the key suppositions of Benjamin’s analysis is the identiﬁcation of the camera not only with the seeing subject but also with the object portrayed. This simultaneity of visual experience can be assumed because Benjamin approached the camera not as a single mechanical device but as a complex technical environment enmeshed in changing social, economic, and cultural formations. This formulation of the camera in fact approaches Veblen’s deﬁnition of the Machine as the destroyer of tradition, or as Benjamin put it, an apparatus that would “brush aside a number of outmoded concepts, such as creativity and genius, eternal value and mystery.”24 However, despite his persistent hope in its potential as a vehicle for a redeﬁned “political art,” Benjamin also understood that the social, political, and economic conditions for its realization were not in place.25 Like Veblen, he was fully aware that the new technological apparatus would inevitably be violated by capitalism and its servants; pressed into the production of ritual values, of which war was its most logical product. Benjamin’s aspirations are thus allied to the Veblenian strains of Frederick Ackerman and Lewis Mumford, all of whom believed that the “natural” utilization of the forces of production were impeded by capitalism. Both Mumford and Ackerman would have fully agreed with Benjamin that war was “proof that society has not been mature enough to incorporate technology as its organ, that technology has not been sufﬁciently developed to cope with the elemental forces of society.”26 In their different ways,

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Benjamin’s dialectics at a standstill, Mumford’s holism, and Ackerman’s regressive rationality faced the challenge of having to illustrate a future that could not be seen in its whole. In different ways, they all struggled in a dualism in which the notion of an authentic but as yet unenvisioned modern form was assumed and set against the spurious, phantasmagoric appearance of commodities. Benjamin’s thesis is thus an inevitably frustrating proposition. Yet it confronts us with a question that neither Ackerman’s regression nor Mumford’s holism was able to pose. It is a question that concerns the extent to which the subject and object have become intertwined in a world mediated by mechanized instruments. When the subject of the camera is situated within an environment that is itself a technological artiﬁce, is that artiﬁcial environment the object of the camera or is it part of the camera, a larger mechanical apparatus? We may of course search for clues to this query in Benjamin’s literary fragments on the changing landscape of the modern city, but with his deﬁnition of the camera we have already anticipated the answer: that is, Benjamin was interested in architecture not only as an object of vision but as an instrument for seeing. As Detlef Mertins pointed out, Benjamin was fascinated by Giedion’s presentation of iron structures as “optical instruments for glimpsing a space interwoven with unconsciousness,” focusing not on the structures themselves but on the “unprecedented views of the city they afforded.”27 Benjamin challenges us in a way that Mumford could not because the latter approached architecture as an object wholly separated from the autonomous subject. Mumford did not acknowledge the subject’s entanglement in the conditions of the object, and was thus incapable of thinking or seeing in fragments. Immersed in the goal of remaking a holistic architecture in a holistic world, he was unable to grasp the possibilities of a modern discipline. Ackerman, on the other hand, never assumed that such a discipline could exist. Paralleling Mumford’s utopia, we encountered a different kind of nonplace in Bentham’s Panopticon, one that viewed architecture as pure media. In the Panopticon, the complete identity between the camera and the building, and hence between the subject and the object of knowledge, was assumed—an identity so complete that the materiality of the apparatus did not enter into the subject’s view. As an instrument that controls visibility, it must itself be totally unobtrusive. In Bentham’s “idea of architecture” and the functionalist utopia of scientiﬁc management, the diagram emerged as a necessary tool for representing this transparent nonplace. It is a

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paradoxical construction, formed on the one hand by its demand for immediacy and on the other by the indeterminacy of its metaphorical construction. Depending on how the Panopticon diagram is deployed, it could result in a prison of ominous sight lines or a theater of delicate light and shadow. The diagram could end up as a mechanism that degrades its own metaphoric powers; or it could be used as a device that blurs the distinction between subject and object, bringing forth tensions of looking at and looking through, of being in and being out. To draw a plan is itself to draw a diagram, one already deﬁned by its indeterminacy. The diagram itself is not the instigator of the discourse of the diagram but its clearest symptom. The diagram is its most primitive and ideal manifestation: a modern utopia that is fascinating for its “virtue of clarity.”28 When it is approached as arbitrary form, it becomes a ﬁeld for the subject to express itself as an autonomous agent. Arbitrariness, however, is not a method, technique, or attitude but a condition, one that does not necessarily have to be expressed and made explicit. To do so has less to do with building a viable discipline and more to do with the idea of changing other people’s minds. When the diagram is approached as the necessary product of an idea, it perpetrates a betrayal. For the moment the diagram is materialized, it is unable to keep the promises of its originating program. Subjects constantly see, do, and say things unpronounced in the program, using the architectural instrument for purposes contrary to its “idea.” We must be clear that it is not architecture that perpetrates this betrayal. The impossibility of tying architecture down to the idea is not a dilemma that points to some inherent problem with architecture, but speaks rather to the modern instability between them. When there is no inherent or unchanging idea to its forms, when the architect is left to the devices of Architectural Graphic Standards and the menu bar of AutoCAD, how does one construct a viable discipline? That is the challenge of the discourse of the diagram: how to construct a discipline of value when architecture has become an instrument.

Notes

Introduction 1. My use of the term discursive formation is related to but differs from the concept elaborated by Michel Foucault in his Archaeology of Knowledge and The Discourse on Language (1969; translation, New York: Pantheon, 1972), in that while my work purposely focuses on disciplinary boundaries, the latter goes beyond their formations. The larger Foucauldian project attempts to discover “regularities” among a wide range of social institutions: “Whenever one can describe, between a number of statements, such a system of dispersion, whenever, between objects, types of statements, concepts, or thematic choices, one can deﬁne a regularity (an order, correlations, positions, and functionings, transformations) we will say, for the sake of convenience, that we are dealing with a discursive formation” (p. 38). In the latter part of Archaeology of Knowledge, Foucault integrates this deﬁnition with the notion of the “episteme,” described as being “something like a worldview, a slice of history common to all branches of knowledge, which imposes on each one the same norms and postulates, a general stage of reason, a certain structure of thought that the men of a particular period cannot escape” (p. 191). Compared to these purposes, my project is much smaller in scale. It is concerned with the way certain forms of discourse, within speciﬁc historical conditions, are grouped, stabilized, and encoded into architectural practice, subsequently becoming a convention through which society and the institution of architecture identify the discipline’s function in society. Though this formation of architectural discourse may constitute a larger discursive formation that is dispersed throughout various institutions, it is not my intention to search for these larger regularities. The focus throughout the study is on the way architecture is constituted. 2. My distinction between the “discipline” and the “profession” of architecture is indebted to Stanford Anderson, “On Criticism,” Places 4, no. 1 (1987). My use of the word discipline is particularly inﬂuenced by Anderson’s concept of “critical conventionalism” and the quasi autonomy of the physical environment. See also his “Critical Conventionalism: The History of Architecture,” Midgård 1, no. 1 (1987), and “The Profession and Discipline of Architecture: Practice and Education,” in Andrzej Piotrowski and Julia W. Robinson, eds., The Discipline of Architecture (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2001). 3. Anderson, “On Criticism,” p. 7.

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4. Alan Colquhoun, “The Modern Movement in Architecture,” British Journal of Aesthetics (January 1962), reprinted in his Essays in Architectural Criticism (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1985), p. 25. 5. Michel Foucault, “Discourse on Language,” in Archaeology of Knowledge, p. 222. 6. Foucault uses the term devenir, which Alan Sheridan has translated as “development,” to denote the kind of analysis that makes history a “discourse of the continuous” and human consciousness “the original subject of all historical development” (Archaeology of Knowledge, pp. 3–17). 7. For a similar view of Pevsner’s historiography, see Stanford Anderson’s review of Pevsner’s The Sources of Modern Architecture and Design in Art Bulletin 53 (June 1971): “In this as in most of his other writings, Pevsner seeks to identify what he calls ‘A Style for the Age.’ For Pevsner, the Age is at times the hard reality which man must comprehend. As it happens, the Age called ‘modern’ is not only a quite intractable given, but a given which is itself, according to Pevsner, a hard, mechanistic mass civilization resulting from the full development of the Industrial Revolution. As incontrovertible as Pevsner feels that hard civilizational structure to be, man can, nevertheless, ameliorate the rawness of that situation. The job of the artist is to discover the style of the age. The will of even this hard, uncompromising time must be given its form” (p. 274). For a similar critique of Pevsner’s discourse of the Zeitgeist, see Panayotis Tournikiotis, The Historiography of Modern Architecture (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1999). 8. Manfredo Tafuri, Architecture and Utopia: Design and Capitalist Development (1973; translation, Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1976), p. ix. Admittedly, in the context of the present study, I am unable to do justice to Pevsner’s and Tafuri’s important texts, particularly to the latter, whose complexities defy categorization. For many historians and critics of modern architecture who write after the 1980s, Tafuri’s work is a boundless work of stimulation and anxiety, and I am indebted to his original insights, particularly in his Theories and History of Architecture (1976; translation, New York: Harper and Row, 1980). However, in relation to my concern with the institution, there are two problematic aspects of Tafuri’s Architecture and Utopia that should be pointed out. First of all, we must consider Tafuri’s argument that his subject is the institution of architecture. With this claim, Tafuri would seem to share Peter Bürger’s thesis in Theory of the Avant-Garde (1974; translation, Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1984) that modernism and the avantgarde must be understood as institutional formations. Tafuri provides the reader with an understanding of the institution by expanding from subjective interventions toward larger institutional regularities. For Tafuri, it would seem that the practice of the avant-garde

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penetrates and reveals the larger formations of architectural practice. Unfortunately, the larger institutional framework within which these self-proclaimed agents of radical change operate remains unexplicated. Secondly, as a foil to his thesis of architecture’s uselessness in capitalist society, Tafuri seems to project a quintessence of Architecture with a capital A. In the paragraph that follows my quotation from Architecture and Utopia, Tafuri goes on to claim that “paradoxically, the new tasks given to architecture are something besides or beyond architecture. In recognizing this situation, which I mean to corroborate historically, I am expressing no regret, because when the role of a discipline ceases to exist, to try to stop the course of things is only regressive utopia, and of the worst kind. No prophecy, because the process is actually taking place daily before our eyes. And for those wishing striking proof, it is enough to observe the percentage of architects really exercising that profession” (pp. ix–x, my emphases). In the ﬁrst sentence of this passage, Tafuri employs the word “architecture” in two divergent ways: ﬁrst, to denote the institution, and second, as a kind of universal formation, an idealized precapitalist formation of architecture. The nature of the latter, however, is never clariﬁed, causing the reader much confusion in understanding Tafuri’s penetrating analysis of the “ineffectiveness of ideology” in architectural production. 9. Fredric Jameson, “Architecture and the Critique of Ideology,” in Joan Ockman et al., eds., Architecture, Criticism, Ideology (Princeton: Princeton Architectural Press, 1985), p. 59. 10. Inspired by Deleuze’s reading of Foucault’s analysis of the Panopticon, and his further designation of the diagram as a speciﬁc “regime of the sign,” the instrumentality of the diagram has recently emerged as an interesting architectural topic. In what has now become a well-known deﬁnition, Deleuze calls the diagram an “abstract machine”: “It operates by matter, not by substance; by function, not by form” (Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia [1980; translation, Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1987], p. 141). Deleuze’s observations are quite fascinating, particularly considering his interest in architecture; but this “rediscovery” of the diagram, latched onto as if it were a new revelation for architecture, has already been overwhelmed with intellectual opportunism. I would rather approach Deleuze’s formulation of the functionality of the diagram as a philosopher’s realization of what many architects in the twentieth century have known and practiced for quite some time. His is an idea that is fruitful for architecture when understood historically, and though my work does not engage with Deleuze directly, it will, I believe, widen the possibility of a more rigorous engagement with the philosopher’s pronouncements. 11. Foucault, Archaeology of Knowledge, p. 55.

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12. Michel Foucault, “What Is Enlightenment?,” in Paul Rabinow, ed., The Foucault Reader (New York: Pantheon, 1984), p. 48. 13. Foucault’s notion of the “author as a function” is best elaborated in “What Is an Author?,” in Donald F. Bouchard, ed., Language, Counter-Memory, Practice (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1977). A similar approach can be found in Karl Popper’s notion of “world three objects”: “objective structures which are the products, not necessarily intentional, of minds . . . but which once produced, exist independently of them.” As Popper points out, this is not a position that eliminates subjectivity: “The ﬁrst [world of material things] and third world cannot interact save through the intervention of the second world, the world of subjective and personal experiences.” Furthermore, “it is possible to accept the reality or (as it may be called) the autonomy of the third world, as at the same time to admit that the third world originates as a product of human activity.” (Karl Popper, Objective Knowledge [Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1982], pp. 153–190.) See Robert D’Amico, “What Is Discourse?,” Humanities in Society 5 (Summer/Fall 1982), and Historicism and Knowledge (London: Routledge, Chapman and Hall, 1989), pp. 96–118, for a comparison of Foucault’s concept of discourse and Popper’s objective structures.

1 Discourse, Mass Architecture, and the Academic Profession 1. The most comprehensive historical account of the nineteenth-century profession in America is provided in Mary N. Woods, From Craft to Profession: The Practice of Architecture in Nineteenth-Century America (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999). For a study that focuses on the social construction of the Beaux-Arts system, see David Brain, “Discipline and Style: The Ecole des Beaux-Arts and the Social Production of an American Architecture,” Theory and Society 18 (1989). 2. C. H. Reilly, “The Modern Renaissance in American Architecture,” Journal of the Royal Institute of British Architects, 3rd ser. (June 25, 1901), p. 630 (my emphasis). 3. There is an abundance of material on the subject. See David P. Handlin, The American Home: Architecture and Society, 1815–1915 (New York: Little, Brown, 1979); Gwendolyn Wright, Moralism and the Model Home: Domestic Architecture and Cultural Conﬂict in Chicago, 1873–1913 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1980); Clifford E. Clark, The American Family Home, 1800–1960 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1986); and Marlyn F. Motz and Pat Brown, Making the American Home: Middle-Class Women and Domestic Material Culture, 1840–1940 (Bowling Green: Bowling Green State University Popular Press, 1988). I have also referred to the following articles: Martha C.

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McClaugherty, “Household Art: Creating the Artistic Home, 1868–1893,” Winterthur Portfolio 18 (Spring 1983); and Simon J. Bronner, “Manner Books and Suburban Houses: The Structure of Tradition and Aesthetics,” Winterthur Portfolio 19 (Spring 1984). 4. The best discussions on pattern books can be found in Dell Upton, “Pattern Books and Professionalism: Aspects of the Transformation of Domestic Architecture in America, 1800–1860,” Winterthur Portfolio 19 (Summer/Autumn 1984); Vincent Scully, The Shingle Style and the Stick Style (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1971); Robert P. Guter and Janet Foster, Building by the Book: Pattern Book Architecture in New Jersey (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 1992); and Michael A. Tomlan, “Popular and Professional American Architectural Literature in the Late Nineteenth Century” (Ph.D. dissertation, Cornell University, 1983). See also William B. O’Neal, “Pattern Books in American Architecture, 1730–1930,” in Mario di Valmarana, Building by the Book, 3 vols. (Charlottesville: University Press of Virginia, 1986); Henry-Russell Hitchcock, American Architectural Books: A List of Books, Portfolios, and Pamphlets on Architecture and Related Subjects Published in America before 1895, 3rd ed. (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1962); and Wright, Moralism and the Model Home. 5. There is very little secondary literature on the building catalogues of the nineteenth century. See Herbert Gottfried, “Building the Picture: Trading on the Imagery of Production and Design,” Winterthur Portfolio 27 (Winter 1992), which deals with the construction of images in catalogues and plan books. A helpful study of several manufacturing ﬁrms and their catalogues is Diana S. Waite, Architectural Elements (Princeton: Pyne Press, 1972). 6. See James L. Garvin, “Mail Order House Plans and American Victorian Architecture,” Winterthur Portfolio 16 (Winter 1981); and chapter 6, “George Palliser and the Development of Mail-Order Architecture,” in Tomlan, “Popular and Professional American Architectural Literature,” for a history of Palliser and Shoppell. Though not a scholarly article, Patricia Poore, “Pattern Book Architecture,” Old House Journal 12 (December 1980), is also helpful. For an analysis of their modes of representation, see Jan Jennings, “Drawing on the Vernacular Interior,” Winterthur Portfolio 27 (Winter 1992). For an overall review of the industry, including a perspective on contemporary practices, see the chapter “Stock Plan Services and Plan Shops” in Robert Gutman, The Design of American Housing (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1985). 7. The most popular builder’s guides were those authored by Asher Benjamin and Minard Lafever. For similar views, see Talbot Hamlin, “Greek Revival in America and Some of Its Critics,” Art Bulletin 24 (1942), as well as Upton, “Pattern Books and Professionalism”; Scully, The Shingle Style and the Stick Style; and Hitchcock, American Architectural Books.

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8. Scully, The Shingle Style and the Stick Style, pp. xxv–lix; Hitchcock, American Architectural Books, p. iii. Though writing within the same framework of stylistic evolution, Talbot Hamlin, The Greek Revival Architecture in America (New York: Oxford University Press, 1944), presents an opposing view of the picturesque. 9. See Bob Reckman, “Carpentry: The Trade and Craft,” in Andrew Zimbalist, ed., Case Studies on the Labor Process (New York: Monthly Review Press, 1979); and also Robert A. Christie, Empire in Wood: A History of the Carpenter’s Union (Ithaca: Cornell University, 1956). 10. Daniel Boorstin, The Americans: The Democratic Experience (New York: Vintage, 1974), p. 128. 11. Burton J. Bledstein, The Culture of Professionalism: The Middle Class and the Development of Higher Education in America (New York: W. W. Norton, 1976), pp. 87–88. 12. Though in somewhat different form, the notion of professional autonomy, particularly the term “ideology of autonomy,” has been proposed in Sibel B. Dostoglu, “Lincoln Cathedral versus the Bicycle Shed,” Journal of Architectural Education 36 (Summer 1983). In deﬁning what she argues were the “tools of legitimation” in the professionalization of architecture, Dostoglu uses Alvin Gouldner’s term in conjunction with the notion of “cultural capital, or the sum of knowledge, theory, skills, languages . . . [that] constitute the basis for the claims to the superiority of professional expertise” (p. 11). 13. For example, George Palliser and Robert Shoppell both presented themselves as architects. Shoppell would paradoxically admit that his business catered to a public reluctant to pay architect’s fees. However, he also added that, to the extent that his business cultivated taste, it would create more frequent employment for the architect. The controversy over the identity of pattern book writers is discussed in Wright, Moralism and the Model Home, pp. 46–55. See also chapter 3 of Clark, The American Family Home, for further discussions that expand on Wright’s theme, as well as Mary N. Woods, “The American Architect and Building News, 1876–1907” (Ph.D. dissertation, Columbia University, 1983), pp. 66–68, and Woods, From Craft to Profession, pp. 85–92. 14. The change in the standard contracts were brought to my attention by Richard Michael Levy, “The Professionalization of American Architects and Civil Engineers, 1865–1917” (Ph.D. dissertation, University of California, Berkeley, 1980). 15. See David Emerson, “The Growth of the Speciﬁcation,” Pencil Points 11 (February 1930), pp. 149–151.

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16. Charles Baudelaire, “The Painter of Modern Life” (1863), translated in The Painter of Modern Life and Other Essays (Oxford: Phaidon, 1964), p. 12. 17. Alan Trachtenberg, The Incorporation of America (New York: Hill and Wang, 1982), p. 213. The idea of the Columbian Exposition as a physical realization of the dichotomy between academic professionalism and mass architecture is based on Trachtenberg’s study and on Lawrence Levine, Highbrow/Lowbrow: The Emergence of Cultural Hierarchy in America (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1988). The novelist Clara Louisa Burnham gave voice to this idea when one of her characters in the novel Sweet Clover claims, “The Midway is just a representation of matter, and this great White City is an emblem of mind” (quoted in Robert Rydell, “Rediscovering the 1893 Chicago World’s Columbian Exposition,” in Revisiting the White City [Hanover, NH: University Press of New England, 1993], p. 55). 18. Henry Van Brunt, “Architecture at the World’s Columbian Exposition,” Century Magazine 44 (1892), reprinted in William A. Coles and Henry Hope Reed, Jr., eds., Architecture in America: A Battle of Styles (New York: Appleton-Century-Crofts, 1961), p. 158. 19. Charles Moore, Daniel Burnham: Architect, Planner of Cities, vol. 2 (Boston: Houghton

Mifﬂin, 1921), p. 90. 20. Quoted from Root’s speech, “The Simple Life,” January 11, 1905, in Washington, on the occasion of the thirty-ninth convention of the AIA, in Charles Moore, The Promise of American Architecture (Washington, DC: AIA, 1905), p. 43; and also in Henry Saylor, The AIA’s First Hundred Years (Washington, DC: Octagon, 1956), p. 136. For a similar interpretation of the era’s historical and social situation, see Brain, “Discipline and Style”: “The exigencies of maintaining the social organization of professional practice under particular historical conditions determined the particular ‘ﬁt’ between the discursive characteristics of Beaux-Arts design practices and American conditions. The reception of Beaux-Arts design was determined by its ability to provide a coherent basis not only for the design of buildings but for the reproduction of ‘architecture’ as an authoritative practice that could be sustained in a market context” (p. 812). 21. The list was generated from the analysis of the following: “The Best Twenty Books for an Architect’s Library,” American Architect 21 (February 12, 1887); Edward R. Smith, “A List of Standard Architectural Books for Ofﬁce and Public Libraries,” Brickbuilder 17 (July–September 1909); “The Current Index of Architectural Literature,” Journal of the American Institute of Architects 3 (January 1915); Lawrence Kocher, “The Architect’s

Notes to Pages 23–30

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Library,” Architectural Record 56–57 (1924–1925); Charles B. Wood III, “A Survey and Bibliography of Writings on English and American Books Published before 1895,” Winterthur Portfolio 2 (1965); and by the same author, “The Architectural Book in Nineteenth-Century America,” in di Valmarana, ed., Building by the Book; Michael J. Crosbie, “‘From Cookbooks to Menus’: The Transformation of Architecture Books in Nineteenth Century America,” Material Culture 17 (Spring 1985); Hitchcock, American Architectural Books; and Adolf K. Placzek, ed., Avery’s Choice: Five Centuries of Great Architectural Books (New York: G. K. Hall, 1997). 22. Thomas Nolan, introduction to “Sweet’s” Indexed Catalogue of Building Construction (New York: Architectural Record Company, 1906). For historical background on the Sweet’s, see Susanne R. Lichtenstein, “Editing Architecture: Architectural Record and the Growth of Modern Architecture, 1928–1938” (Ph.D. dissertation, Cornell University, 1990), pp. 51–59. 23. I am of course referring to Scully’s groundbreaking study, The Shingle Style and the Stick Style, which had the subtitle of Architectural Theory and Design from Downing to the Origins of Wright, ﬁrst published in 1955. 24. Barr Ferree, “An ‘American Style’ of Architecture,” Architectural Record 1 (July–September 1891), p. 39. 25. Marvyn E. Macartney, The Practical Exemplar of Architecture, Being Measured Drawings and Photographs of Examples of Architectural Details (London: Architectural Review, 1907), p. 2. 26. This assessment is based on my analysis of MIT Museum’s “Program Books,” which lists the programs and student projects for second- to sixth-year projects and concours at MIT dating from 1905 to 1956. 27. Theodore Wells Pietsch, “The Superiority of the French-Trained Architect,” Architectural Record 25 (February 1909), pp. 113–114. For discussions on the importance of orthographic drawings over the perspective, see Eileen Michels, “A Developmental Study of the Drawings Published in American Architect and in Inland Architect through 1895” (Ph.D. dissertation, University of Minnesota, 1971), pp. 145–146; and James F. O’Gorman, On the Boards: Drawings by Nineteenth-Century Boston Architects (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1989), p. 11. 28. Mary N. Woods, “The Photograph as Tastemaker: The American Architect and H. H. Richardson,” History of Photography 14 (April–June 1990).

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29. See Lauren M. O’Connell, “Viollet-le-Duc on Drawing, Photography, and the ‘Space Outside the Frame’,” History of Photography 22 (Summer 1998); and Michael Harvey, “Ruskin and Photography,” Oxford Art Journal 7, no. 2 (1985). For a similar interpretation of the representational strategies of architectural photography during its early development in America, see Cervin Robinson and Joel Herschman, Architecture Transformed: A History of the Photography of Buildings from 1839 to the Present (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1987), p. 58. 30. Woods, “The American Architect and Building News, 1876–1907,” pp. 88–90. 31. Ibid., p. 169. 32. Its editorial stated that “The Reprint gives its subscribers rare and expensive books at nominal cost. The text, excepting where necessary to explain plates, will be eliminated. When the work of The Architectural Reprint is complete it will constitute at a nominal cost a full library of the world’s best architectural books” (“Announcement,” Architectural Reprint 2 [April 1902]). 33. Lichtenstein, “Editing Architecture,” pp. 58–59. 34. Beatriz Colomina, Privacy and Publicity: Modern Architecture as Mass Media (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1994), p. 43. 35. “Editorial,” New-York Sketch Book of Architecture 1 (January 1874), reprinted in Leland Roth, ed., America Builds (New York: Harper and Row, 1983), p. 232. The New-York Sketch Book of Architecture (1874–1876) and the Boston-based Architectural Sketch Book (1873–1876) functioned primarily as vehicles for illustrations of contemporary work. The plates for the latter were selected and supplied by a group of Boston architects and draftsmen who formed the Portfolio Club. For a review of these journals, see Eileen M. Michels, “A Developmental Study of the Drawings Published in American Architect and in Inland Architect through 1895,” and Woods, “The American Architect and Building News, 1876–1907.” 36. Percy C. Stuart, “Architectural Schools in the United States: Columbia University,” Architectural Record 10 (July 1900), p. 6. The article also gives an interesting account of how popular plates had to be separated from their original binding and reserved in the library when a design project required reference to certain building types. 37. This is from Goerd Peschken’s study of Karl Friedrich Schinkel, quoted in Dalibor Vesely, “Architecture and the Conﬂict of Representation,” AA Files 8 (January 1985), p. 30.

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38. In his Languages of Art (Indianapolis: Hackett, 1976), Nelson Goodman introduces the distinction between autographic and allographic works of art. A work of art is autographic “if and only if the distinction between original and forgery of it is signiﬁcant; or better, if and only if even the most exact duplication of it does not thereby count as genuine” (p. 113). Painting is autographic, while musical composition and architecture are considered allographic in that all performances that comply with the notation can be considered genuine. 39. Paul Philippe Cret, “The Utility of Exhibitions,” T-Square Club Catalogue (1904–1905), pp. 9–12, quoted in George E. Thomas, “Pecksniffs and Perspective,” in James F. O’Gorman, Drawing toward Building: Philadelphia Architectural Graphics, 1732–1986 (Philadelphia: Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts, 1986), p. 123. 40. “Immutable mobile” is the key term in Bruno Latour, “Drawing Things Together,” in Michael Lynch and Steve Woolgar, eds., Representation in Scientiﬁc Practice (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1990).

2 The Portfolio and the Academic Discipline 1. William Robert Ware, American Vignola, 2 vols. (Boston: American Architect and Building News, 1902–1906). Before American Vignola, students had to rely on the French edition of Vignola, Traité élémentaire pratique d’architecture, which was far less accessible than Ware’s textbook. American Vignola provided a speciﬁc and simpliﬁed explication of the rules of classical architecture and quickly became the standard school text through which the orders were studied during the ﬁrst year. 2. For example, Mohamed Chaoul, in his “The Rhetoric of Composition in Julien Guadet’s Eléments et théories” (Ph.D. dissertation, University of Pennsylvania, 1987), argues that Guadet’s Éléments and the nineteenth-century Beaux-Arts system were based on Durand’s “binomial notion of analytique-composition” (pp. 57–77). As Durand’s well-known statements in his Précis des leçons d’architecture demonstrate, this is certainly a plausible way of construing Beaux-Arts theory. However, in my estimation, it is a kind of reading that takes Durand’s statements too much as a direct reﬂection of Beaux-Arts practice and furthermore, as pointed out by Werner Szambien and others, does not fully account for the gaps and contradictions between Durand and Beaux-Arts practice. 3. The secondary sources on the Beaux-Arts are too numerous to mention. The most thorough explication of its pedagogical system is provided in Richard Chafee, “The Teaching of Architecture at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts,” in Arthur Drexler, ed., The

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Architecture of the Ecole des Beaux-Arts (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1977). Also noteworthy is a special November 1979 issue of Journal of Architectural Education (vol. 33, no. 2), edited by Lawrence Anderson and Peter Collins, on architectural education and its roots in the Beaux-Arts. The numerous contemporary writings in the various journals by American architects, introducing the system and their personal experiences at the school, also provide valuable resources. 4. The account is that of Albert Randolph Ross, quoted in Charles C. Baldwin, Stanford White (1931; reprint, New York: Da Capo, 1976), pp. 262–263. For a similar account of working under White, see H. Van Buren Magonigle, “Half Century of Architecture—6,” Pencil Points 15 (September 1934). 5. Quoted in Steven Bedford et al., Between Traditions and Modernism (New York: National Academy of Design, 1980), p. 18. 6. A. D. F. Hamlin, “The Inﬂuence of the Ecole des Beaux-Arts on Our Architectural Education,” Architectural Record 23 (April 1908), p. 243. 7. Marco Frascari, “The Tell-the-Tale Detail,” VIA 7 (1984), reprinted in Kate Nesbitt, ed., Theorizing a New Agenda for Architecture (New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 1996), p. 501. 8. David Varon, Indication in Architectural Design (New York: William T. Comstock, 1916), p. 19. 9. Richard F. Bach, “Three Books for Draftsmen,” Architectural Record 42 (December 1917), p. 584. 10. Varon, Indication in Architectural Design, pp. 27–28. 11. Ibid. 12. Frascari, “The Tell-the-Tale Detail,” p. 502. 13. John Galen Howard, “The Paris Training,” Architectural Review 5 (January 1898), p. 7. 14. Alberto Pérez-Gómez, Architecture and the Crisis of Modern Science (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1983), pp. 279–291, and his more recent Architectural Representation and the Perspective Hinge (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), pp. 84–85. Though Pérez-Gómez provides one of the most enlightening studies of French architectural theory, I do not

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agree with his observation that the Beaux-Arts system was a “reduction of practice to a rational theory” (Architecture and the Crisis of Modern Science, p. 197). As I shall argue, one of the most fascinating aspects of the Beaux-Arts system is the disjunction not only within theory, but furthermore, between practice, vision, and theory. 15. J. Stewart Barney, “The Ecole des Beaux Arts: Its Inﬂuence on Our Architecture,” Architectural Record 22 (November 1907), p. 336. One of the most interesting debates concerning the merits of the Beaux-Arts system can be found in a series of articles by J. Stewart Barney, A. D. F. Hamlin, and Paul Philippe Cret in Architectural Record 22 (1907). 16. “Mais il y a de beaux plans, et je trouve l’expression très légitime—mais il y a de beaux livres, beaux parce qu’on y lit, ou une belle partition est belle par ce qu’elle contient.” The quotation is from chapter 3 of volume 1 of Éléments et théorie de l’architecture (Paris: Librairie de la Construction Moderne, 1901–1904). I have used the English translation from Leland Roth, ed., America Builds (New York: Harper and Row, 1983), p. 332. 17. Barney, “The Ecole des Beaux Arts,” p. 337. For similar notions of the Beaux-Arts

plan, see Alan Colquhoun, “The Beaux-Arts Plan,” Architectural Design Proﬁles 17 (1978), reprinted in his Essays in Architectural Criticism (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1981); and Richard A. Moore, “The Beaux-Arts Tradition and American Architecture” (Catalogue of Exhibition by the National Institute for Architectural Education, New York, 1975). 18. Reginald Blomﬁeld, Architectural Drawing and Draughtsmen (New York: Cassell, 1912), p. 8. 19. See Ernst Gombrich, “Mirror and Map: Theories of Pictorial Representation,” in The Image and the Eye (London: Phaidon, 1982). For a perceptive analysis of the architect’s planar vision, see David Leatherbarrow, “Showing What Otherwise Hides Itself,” Harvard Design Magazine (Fall 1998). 20. Paul Philippe Cret, “Design,” in Book of the School, Department of Architecture, University of Pennsylvania, 1874–1934 (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania, 1934), p. 29. 21. Howard, “The Paris Training,” p. 6. Another interesting article is Joseph Esherick’s

account of his experience as a student at the University of Pennsylvania in “Architectural Education in the Thirties and Seventies: A Personal View,” in Spiro Kostof, ed., The Architect (New York: Oxford University Press, 1977). Esherick writes that the “intensive study of the plan as essentially a diagram of spaces was important, and I still tend to read a building from the plan and in my mind construct from it a conception of the spaces” (p. 263, my emphasis).

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22. David Van Zanten, Designing Paris (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1987), pp. 59–60. For a similar interpretation, see also Barry Bergdoll, Léon Vaudoyer: Historicism in the Age of Industry (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1994). 23. Paul Philippe Cret, “Styles-Archeology” (1909), reprinted in Theophilus B. White, ed., Paul Philippe Cret: Architect and Teacher (Philadelphia: Art Alliance Press, 1973), p. 49. This passage was brought to my attention by Gwendolyn Wright, “History for Architects,” in Gwendolyn Wright and Janet Parks, eds., The History of History in American Schools of Architecture 1865–1975 (Princeton: Princeton Architectural Press, 1990). 24. John Chewning, “William Robert Ware and the Beginnings of Architectural Education in the United States, 1861-1881” (Ph.D. dissertation, MIT, 1986); Richard Plunz, “Reﬂections on Ware, Hamlin, McKim, and the Politics of History on the Cusp of Historicism,” in Wright and Parks, eds., The History of History in American Schools of Architecture; and Mary N. Woods, “The American Architect and Building News, 1876–1907” (Ph.D. dissertation, Columbia University, 1983), pp. 274–304. 25. William Ware, “Drawing, Designing, and Thinking,” Architectural Record 26 (September 1909), p. 161. 26. Quoted in Plunz, “Reﬂections on Ware, Hamlin, McKim,” p. 53. Plunz takes the quotation from William T. Partridge’s “Reminiscences of Charles McKim,” in William R. Ware Collection, Avery Architectural and Fine Arts Library, Columbia University. A similar remark can be found in Nathaniel Curtis, Architectural Composition, 3rd ed. (Cleveland: J. H. Jansen, 1935), where the author reports Reginald Blomﬁeld’s remark that “the reading of books will not make an architect; his proper study must always be buildings” (p. 269). 27. David Van Zanten, “Architectural Composition at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts from Charles Percier to Charles Garnier,” in Drexler, ed., The Architecture of the Ecole des BeauxArts, p. 112. Therefore in the terminology of the École, what Americans called design would be more closely translated as composition rather than dessin, which denoted a theory of art and a body of representational method. Composition could also refer to a drawing skill as in Composition and Rendering, an elective course at MIT. See “Massachusetts Institute of Technology, Department of Architecture Course of Instruction,” Architectural Record 21 (June 1907), p. 444, and “The Course in Architecture,” Technology Architectural Record 1 (May 1907), pp. 3–5, for an annotated list of course offerings at MIT.

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28. David Van Zanten, “Le Systeme des Beaux-Arts,” Architectural Design 48 (November/

December 1978). Volumes 2 and 3 of Guadet’s Éléments were devoted entirely to the exam ination of building types, beginning with habitations, through various public institutions, and ﬁnally religious buildings, to which the whole of volume 3 was dedicated. French academic theory in the nineteenth century constitutes an extremely complex and dense ﬁeld that cannot possibly be treated sufﬁciently in this study. I have relied heavily on the work of David Van Zanten, whose views of the history, theory, and practice of the École des Beaux-Arts are, in my estimation, both rigorous and incisive. In the article, Van Zanten notes that, as the Beaux-Arts system was exported to America, emphasis was placed less on type and more on composition as a method. Though I fully agree with this assessment, I must add that the understanding and use of type cannot be separated from the act of composition. In spite of the rapidly changing conditions of building in the latter half of the nineteenth century, academic theory in France proved to be extremely resilient— much more so than in the United States—due in part to what many historians believe to be the inclusive and pragmatic nature of the process of composition. As its complex history demonstrates, French academic theory had the ability to absorb the criticism of its opponents and to reintegrate them into its system, all the while maintaining an ideology of unity in architectural design. 29. Guadet, Éléments, translated in Roth, ed., America Builds, p. 327. 30. The proliferation of composition books written in English was ﬁrst brought to my attention by Colin Rowe, “Character and Composition; or Some Vicissitudes of Architectural Vocabulary in the Nineteenth Century,” Oppositions 2 (1974), reprinted in The Mathematics of the Ideal Villa and Other Essays (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1976). David Van Zanten and Richard A. Moore have also noted the numerous composition books published in America and England during the ﬁrst three decades of this century but do not discuss them in any depth. Among the numerous books related to the issue of composition, the only one that attempted to adopt the format of Julien Guadet’s Éléments is Robert Atkinson and Hope Bagenal, Theory and Elements of Architecture (New York: McBride, 1926). 31. Both Robinson’s and Van Pelt’s books were revised and published respectively under the titles Architectural Composition (1908) and The Essentials of Composition as Applied to Art (1913). Along with books on composition, various textbooks on drawing, construction, and style were produced at the turn of the century. 32. John Van Pelt, A Discussion of Composition (New York: Macmillan, 1902), pp. 1–39.

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33. John B. Robinson, Architectural Composition (New York: D. Van Nostrand, 1908), pp. 12–14. On the opposite end of the spectrum of the debate were representational theories of architecture exempliﬁed by the series on comparative aesthetics by George L. Raymond, particularly the last volume, Painting, Sculpture and Architecture as Representative Arts (New York: Knickerbocker Press, 1895; 2nd ed., 1909). In Raymond’s opinion, “architectural form represent[ed] both the material method of the construction and the mental purpose of the design” (p. 320). 34. Van Pelt, A Discussion of Composition, p. 120. See in particular the chapter “Optical Effects,” pp. 120–153. 35. Ibid., pp. 71–72. 36. Ibid., p. 97. 37. The International Correspondence Schools, A Treatise on Architecture and Building Construction (Scranton, PA: Colliery Engineer Co., 1899), p. 2. We may also refer to Nathaniel Curtis’s statement that “the chief value of ‘Durand’ to students of design is not the study of architectural monuments from the viewpoint of history—although it is valuable for that too—but the study of the parti from the viewpoint of composition” (Architectural Composition, 3rd ed., 1935, p. 279.) 38. Werner Oechslin, “The Well-Tempered Sketch,” Daidalos 5 (September 1982), p. 103. I am further indebted to this article for guiding me to the drawings and sketches of Désiré Despradelle. 39. “Le plus souvent elle sera synthétique, surgissant entière à votre esprit; ce mode de création, qui déroute les théories et les méthodes de la logique traditionnelle, qui dément Bacon et Descartes, c’est l’intuition, la vraie genèse de l’idée artistique” (Guadet, Éléments, vol. 1, pp. 100–101). 40. “The value of the esquisse from the point of view of mental discipline is very great. The discipline of working on a problem on which one is tied down to the esquisse is as strong and as persistent a corrective as there can be against vague and loose thinking.” John Harbeson, The Study of Architectural Design (New York: Pencil Points Press, 1927), p. 8. 41. Colquhoun, “The Beaux-Arts Plan,” p. 168. 42. Ralph Adams Cram, My Life in Architecture (Boston: Little, Brown, 1936), p. 37 (my emphasis).

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43. A. D. F. Hamlin, “American Schools of Architecture, 1: Columbia University,” Architectural Record 21 (May 1907), p. 329. Hamlin also echoed the sentiments of Van Pelt and Robinson, noting that in terms of the exterior, the fundamentals were “proportion, massing, fenestration, distribution of light and shade, scale, expression.” The literature on academic design often referred to design as composition and planning. Furthermore, architectural schools such as Columbia and Berkeley offered courses on composition and planning. At Columbia, William Boring taught separate courses on the Principles of Composition and Principles of Planning. 44. One of the few books that discussed planning in terms of its general principles was Percy L. Marks, The Principles of Planning: An Analytical Treatise for the Use of Architects and Others (London: B. T. Batsford, 1901). As a result of placing planning at the center of discussion, design became a term used “in the limited signiﬁcance of the art qualities displayed in the elevations” (p. 92). 45. A. D. F. Hamlin, “The Inﬂuence of the Ecole des Beaux-Arts on Our Architectural Education,” Architectural Record 23 (April 1908), p. 245. There are numerous accounts that indicate that Guadet’s discussion of building types was deemed incompatible with the American situation. For example, Joan Draper writes of John Galen Howard’s lectures on Guadet’s Éléments at Berkeley that Howard “could never quite twist the French building types to ﬁt American patterns, thus limiting the value of Guadet’s principles for American students” (Draper, “The Ecole des Beaux-Arts and the Architectural Profession in the United States: The Case of John Galen Howard,” in Kostof, ed., The Architect, p. 233). 46. Two examples published at the turn of the century were William H. Birkmire, The Planning and Construction of High Ofﬁce Buildings (New York: John Wiley and Sons, 1898), and The Planning and Construction of American Theatres (New York: John Wiley and Sons, 1896). Examples of manuals on hospitals published before the end of World War I include Albert Ochsner and Meyer Sturm, The Organization, Construction and Management of Hospitals (Chicago: Cleveland Press, 1907); John Hornsby and Richard Schmidt, The Modern Hospital: Its Inspiration; Its Architecture; Its Equipment; Its Operation (Philadelphia: W. B. Saunders, 1913); and Edward F. Stevens, The American Hospital of the Twentieth Century (New York: Architectural Record Publishing Company, 1918). The Modern Hospital, an institutional journal published by the American Hospital Association, was widely referred to as a source of information on hospital planning. 47. During the nineteenth century and until the early years of this century, plans for hospitals were basically drawn up by physicians with some aid from experienced architects. Until the ﬁrst years of the twentieth century, Hospital Plans, published in 1875 by Johns

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Hopkins, and Henry Burdett’s Hospitals and Asylums of the World were the main texts of reference. By the 1920s, the periodicals and manuals on hospitals listed in note 46 could be consulted. However, new concepts of spatial organization and the invention of new building types were attributed to the institutional profession rather than to architects. See John D. Thompson and Grace Goldin, The Hospital: A Social and Architectural History (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1975); Paul Starr, The Social Transformation of American Medicine (New York: Basic Books, 1982); and Allan M. Brandt and David C. Sloane, “Of Beds and Benches: Building the Modern American Hospital,” in Peter Galison and Emily Thompson, eds., The Architecture of Science (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1999). 48. Peter Collins, Changing Ideals in Modern Architecture (Kingston: McGill-Queens University Press, 1967), pp. 219–220. Collins argues that the emergence of new building types—hospitals and administrative halls in the eighteenth century; banks, ofﬁces, hotels, and railway stations in the nineteenth century—formed the background to the French program. 49. The program is for “A Colonial Institute,” written by E. L. Masquery and published in Society of Beaux-Arts Architects, Winning Designs, Paris Prize in Architecture, 1904–1927 (New York: Pencil Points Press, 1928). This publication is one of the best sources for examining the changing nature of the academic program in America. This particular program was also reprinted in Joseph Esherick, “Architectural Education in the Thirties and Seventies: A Personal View,” in Kostof, ed., The Architect, p. 252. 50. Quoted in Collins, Changing Ideals in Modern Architecture, p. 229. See the chapter “Les Devoirs de l’architecte” in volume 4 of Éléments. 51. Ernest Flagg, “The Planning of Hospitals,” Brickbuilder 12 (June 1903), pp. 113–116. 52. Ernest Flagg, “The Ecole des Beaux-Arts: Third Paper,” Architectural Record 4 (July–September 1894), p. 39. 53. Varon, Indication in Architectural Design, pp. 37–38. 54. Louis Sullivan, Autobiography of an Idea (1924; reprint, New York: Dover, 1956), p. 240 (my emphasis). 55. Hamlin, “American Schools of Architecture, 1: Columbia University,” pp. 328–329. 56. Harbeson, The Study of Architectural Design, p. 1.

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57. Quoted in White, ed., Paul Philippe Cret: Architect and Teacher, p. 27. 58. Burton J. Bledstein, The Culture of Professionalism: The Middle Class and the Development of Higher Education in America (New York: W. W. Norton, 1976), pp. 88–90. 59. “In a discipline, unlike in commentary, what is supposed at the point of departure is not some meaning which must be rediscovered, nor an identity to be reiterated; it is that which is required for the construction of new statements. For a discipline to exist, there must be the possibility of formulating—and of doing so ad inﬁnitum—fresh propositions.” (Michel Foucault, “The Discourse on Language” [1971], translated in The Archaeology of Knowledge and The Discourse on Language [New York: Pantheon, 1972], p. 223.) 60. Sullivan’s opposition to the idea of composition has been well documented and may be summarized in his famous statement that “Man invented a process called composition: Nature has always brought forth organizations.” See Narciso Menocal, Architecture as Nature: The Trancendentalist Idea of Louis Sullivan (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1981), for an extensive study of Sullivan’s naturalist philosophy.

3 The Crisis of the Academic Profession 1. For a more extensive and detailed study on the topics that I discuss in this section, particularly the reorganization of the building industry and the reforms of the AIA, see Paul Bentel, “Modernism and Professionalism in American Modern Architecture, 1919–1933” (Ph.D. dissertation, MIT, 1992). I am indebted to this work for its historical detail and many insights on this crucial period in American architecture. Bentel’s dissertation is complementary to my study in that, while I have focused on the changes in the discipline, Bentel deals primarily with the history of the profession. 2. There is an abundance of material on the history of Sears, Roebuck and Company. See Boris Emmet and John E. Jeuck, Catalogues and Counters: A History of Sears, Roebuck and Company (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1950). Katherine Cole Stevenson and H. Ward Jandl, Houses by Mail: A Guide to Houses from Sears, Roebuck and Company (Washington, DC: Preservation Press, 1986), deals speciﬁcally with the history of the Modern Homes Department. A helpful but misguided history of Aladdin and Sears, romanticizing these business ventures as a form of democratic vernacular for the “common man,” can be found in Alan Gowans, The Comfortable House: North American Suburban Architecture, 1890–1930 (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1986).

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3. Albert L. Brockway, “Results Justify Afﬁliation of Bureau with AIA,” American Architect 141 (February 1932), p. 17. By 1925 the yearly sales of the Modern Homes Department reached 30,000 houses, and by 1930 nearly 50,000. 4. George B. Ford, “Beauty Snubbed by City Planners,” Journal of the American Institute of Architects 4 (July 1916), p. 296. 5. Henry Wright, “The Architect, the Plan, and the City,” Architectural Forum 54 (February 1931), p. 219. 6. Albert Kahn, “Organization for Service in Industrial Building,” Journal of the Proceedings of the 51st Annual Convention of the AIA (1918), p. 96. 7. C. Stanley Taylor, “The Architect of the Future, Part 1,” Architectural Forum 30 (January 1919), p. 2. The ofﬁces that did secure substantial contracts, most notably those of Albert Kahn and William Starrett, were considered “progressive” because they had already reorganized and presented their practices as efﬁcient business operations. The AIA issued reports and prepared an open letter to President Wilson in order to obtain work. With the goal of devising a plan to make the services of the AIA available to the War Department, William A. Starrett, who served as a colonel in the Army Corps of Engineers, chaired the Committee on Emergency Construction Section of the War Industries Board. Though similar programs involving engineering societies had been welcomed by the War Department, the AIA proposal was rejected. See Bentel, “Modernism and Professionalism,” p. 98. See also Richard Michael Levy, “The Professionalization of American Architects and Civil Engineers, 1865–1917” (Ph.D. dissertation, University of California, Berkeley, 1980), for a general discussion of the position of the architectural profession in relation to World War I. 8. Christian Topalov, “Scientiﬁc Urban Planning and the Ordering of Daily Life: The First War Housing Experiment in the United States, 1917–1919,” Journal of Urban History 17 (November 1990), p. 15. Also see Roy Lubove, “Homes and ‘A Few Well Placed Fruit Trees’: An Object Lesson in Federal Housing,” Social Research 27 (1960), pp. 469–486. Kristin M. Szylvian has recently argued that “Colonial Revival architecture and planning provided the EFC and Delaware Valley shipbuilding corporations with a means of concealing the labor problems and tensions that existed in the shipyards; it was used to create a world apart from the hustle and bustle of the shipyard, where economic and social order seemingly prevailed and workers might be lulled into believing that labor unions and efforts to resist scientiﬁc management and professional personnel management were not imperative” (“Industrial Housing Reform and the Emergency Fleet Corporation,” Journal of Urban History 25 [July 1999], p. 669).

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9. Portions of this report dealing with the employment and services of architects were published in the supplement to the Journal of the American Institute of Architects (January 1920), pp. 1–8. For other aspects of the relation between war housing and the Congress, see Szylvian, “Industrial Housing Reform and the Emergency Fleet Corporation,” pp. 673–677. 10. Richard W. Tudor, “The Architectural Profession in the Present Day,” Journal of the American Institute of Architects 8 (March 1920), pp. 125–127. 11. For an extensive discussion of the reforms of the AIA during the late teens, see chapter 2, “Redeﬁning and Instituting the Conventions of Professional Service, 1919–1925,” in Bentel, “Modernism and Professionalism,” pp. 93–156. 12. “Post-War Committee on Architectural Practice: Announcement of Preliminary Program for the Inquiry into the Status of the Architect,” Journal of the American Institute of Architects 7 (1919), p. 7. 13. Frederick Ackerman, “Post-War Committee Program on Education,” Proceedings of the 52nd Annual Convention of the AIA (1919), pp. 80–81. 14. “Report of the Post-War Committee on Architectural Practice,” Journal of the American Institute of Architects 8 (July 1920), pp. 20–23. 15. Quoted from Henry Saylor’s account of R. G. Hatﬁeld’s response to Calvert Vaux’s proposal in 1864 that the AIA discuss the “propriety of introducing a new order of membership that should include painters, carvers, carpenters and others whose pursuits are connected with the art of architecture.” See The AIA’s First Hundred Years (Washington, DC: Octagon, 1956), p. 32. 16. William Haber, Industrial Relations in the Building Industry (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1930), p. 532n. 17. “The Organization and Aims of the Producers Council, Incorporated,” in Annuary of the Producers’ Council (1929–1930), p. 2. For more detail on the Structural Service Department, see Bentel, “Modernism and Professionalism,” pp. 143–147. 18. Thomas Holden, “Outside Business Factors as Competitors of the Architect: The Architects’ Small House Bureau as an Answer,” Journal of the American Institute of Architects 13 (August 1925), p. 310.

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19. The ASHSB can be understood as part of the movement for individual homeownership that began during these years. In addition to the endorsement of the AIA, it received the support of Herbert Hoover’s Department of Commerce in 1921. For a brief history of the ASHSB, see Thomas Harvey, “Mail Order Architecture in the Twenties,” Landscape 25, no. 3 (1981), and also Bentel, “Modernism and Professionalism,” pp. 252–253. 20. Brockway, “Results Justify Afﬁliation of Bureau with AIA,” p. 85. 21. Architects’ Small House Service Bureau, introduction to Your Future Home (St. Paul, MN: Weyerhauser Forest Products, 1923), p. 7. 22. Quoted in Harvey, “Mail Order Architecture in the Twenties,” p. 5. In another article, Robert T. Jones wrote, “The Bureau has endeavored also to eliminate from its service all those types which the architect looks upon as ephemeral. The Bureau could no doubt sell a vastly larger number of working drawings if they were designed to meet popular taste, but there is no tendency on its part to waste its opportunity to advance the cause of the architect for the sake of making money. The houses are intended to be sound from every architectural point of view” (“The Architects’ Small House Service Bureau,” Architectural Forum 44 [March 1926], p. 204). 23. The referendum was submitted to 11,500 architects, of whom 2,512 answered. Of these, 2,009 voted against and 503 for continued AIA endorsement. The results were published with commentary in American Architect 141 (June 1932), pp. 18–19. 24. Bentel, “Modernism and Professionalism,” p. 156. 25. Talbot Hamlin, “The Architect and the Depression,” Nation 137 (August 1933), p. 153. 26. “Post-War Committee—Some Opinions,” Journal of the American Institute of Architects 7 (October 1919), p. 458, quoted in Bentel, “Modernism and Professionalism,” p. 115. 27. Ibid., p. 114. 28. The Brickbuilder, based in Boston, had been in publication since 1892. As its title indicates, it had the speciﬁc editorial policy of showing “what [had] been done in past ages with clay as a building material, by publishing measured drawings and sketches of old work; articles of a historical nature, and essays, letters, etc.” (Brickbuilder 1 [January 1892], p. 1). The editors of Forum felt that the previous title did not reﬂect its broader concerns of “progress made in plan, design, construction, materials, and business administration”

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(“Editorial Comment” and “Notes for the Month,” Architectural Forum 26 [January 1917], p. 26). The July 1917 issue featured a reduced 9-by-12-inch page size, “approximat[ing] the limits recommended for the standardizing of all class publications” (“Editorial Comment,” Architectural Forum 27 [July 1917], p. 30). 29. In 1918, Forum ran a series of responses from architects to the question “In What Manner and by What Means Can the Practice of Architecture Be Developed in Order to Win a Larger Recognition?” They were followed a year later by commentaries on the issues that had been raised by the Post-War Committee on Architectural Practice. Replies to the questionnaire were published in Architectural Forum 28 (March and May 1918). Also see Architectural Forum 31 (July and October 1919) for letters on the Post-War Committee. 30. “The Post-War Committee on Architectural Practice,” Architectural Forum 31 (July 1919), p. 17. 31. The “Department of Architectural and Building Economics” was to be devoted “to the determination of factors of efﬁciency and economy in building construction and civic development as affected by architectural design” (C. Stanley Taylor, “Architectural and Building Economics,” Architectural Forum 30 [June 1919], p. 181). 32. The list of subjects considered under the committee were ﬁnance, cooperative ﬁnancing, building automotive buildings, ﬁre protection engineering, farm science, and legal questions. 33. Taylor, “Architectural and Building Economics,” p. 181. 34. The Ballinger Company, Buildings for Commerce and Industry (Philadelphia, 1924), p. 3 (my emphasis). The Ballinger Company was a large architectural and engineering ﬁrm based in Philadelphia and New York specializing in commercial and industrial buildings. 35. See Samuel Haber, Efﬁciency and Uplift: Scientiﬁc Management in the Progressive Era, 1890–1920 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1964). Haber points out that engineers were the ﬁrst people in industry to systematically apply the intellectual methods of science and engineering to questions of business management (pp. 8–30). My reading of scientiﬁc management has relied heavily on Haber’s study, still one of the best general accounts of the movement. 36. “[The engineer] has applied the laws of physics to produce efﬁcient machines. He must now step in not as a welfare worker, not as a sociologist, but as an engineer to help

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labor ﬁnd its place in the production scheme. Cannot scientiﬁc analysis resolve the causes of maladjustment which threaten the life of our institutions? Cannot the engineering mind reorganize the human elements of production as it has already done with mechanical and material elements to secure efﬁciency?” (Henry D. Hammond, “Americanization as a Problem in Human Engineering,” Engineering News-Record [1918], p. 1116.) 37. Frederick Winslow Taylor, “Shop Management,” Transactions of the ASME (1902–1903), pp. 1386–1406, and Principles of Scientiﬁc Management (New York: Harper and Row, 1911). See also Haber, Efﬁciency and Uplift, p. 24. 38. Lillian Gilbreth, The Psychology of Management (New York: Sturgis and Walton, 1914), p. 192. 39. For example, Frederick A. Cleveland, the technical director of the Bureau of Municipal Research in New York, claimed in one of the ﬁrst conferences on scientiﬁc management that “the full meaning of Scientiﬁc Management is comprehended in the word planning and in the phrase the ‘execution of plans’” (Addresses and Discussion at the Conference on Scientiﬁc Management, Dartmouth College, 1912, quoted in Haber, Efﬁciency and Uplift, p. 167). 40. Winthrop Talbot, “A Study in Human Engineering,” Human Engineering 1 (January 1911), p. 4. 41. The list was taken from an introduction to courses in industrial engineering published in Douglas Fryer, Vocational Self-Guidance (Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott, 1925), p. 300. 42. Arthur G. Anderson, Industrial Engineering and Factory Management (New York: Ronald Press, 1928), p. 93. Also see Lindy Biggs, The Rational Factory: Architecture, Technology and Work in America’s Age of Mass Production (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1996), which draws a picture of the modern factory designed and planned primarily by engineers. 43. Examples of such manuals and journals are so numerous that they cannot all be listed. For example, manuals published in the late teens and early twenties concerned with rationalizing the organization of ofﬁce and clerical work include Mary Cahill and Agnes Ruggeri, Ofﬁce Practice (New York: Macmillan, 1917); William H. Lefﬁngwell, Scientiﬁc Ofﬁce Management (Chicago: A. W. Shaw, 1917); C. C. Parsons, Ofﬁce Organization and Management (La Salle Extension University, 1917); Lee Galloway, Ofﬁce Management: Its Principles and Practice (New York: Ronald Press, 1918); Geoffrey S. Childs et al., Ofﬁce

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Management (New York: Alexander Hamilton Institute, 1919); J. W. Schultz, Ofﬁce Administration (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1919); and William H. Lefﬁngwell, Ofﬁce Management: Principles and Practice (Chicago: A. W. Shaw, 1925). 44. C. Stanley Taylor and Vincent R. Bliss, eds., Hotel Planning and Outﬁtting (Chicago: Albert Pick-Barth, 1928). I attribute the term functional plan to C. Stanley Taylor because in an editorial for the January 1928 number of Architectural Forum, he had already expounded its principles. According to Taylor, the plan had two components: the ﬁrst was an “exact determination of space requirements carried out in detailed space units,” and the second, a ﬁnancial and operational schedule. See C. Stanley Taylor, “Architectural Service from the Business Point of View,” Architectural Forum 48 (January 1928), p. 113. 45. Taylor and Bliss, eds., Hotel Planning and Outﬁtting, pp. 13–23. 46. Ibid., p. 26. 47. Much more research into actual projects would be needed to have a more deﬁnitive understanding of the way programs for commercial buildings were written during the late nineteenth century and early decades of the twentieth. An example of the relatively simple formulation of requirements in general practice can be found in a program for the Larkin Building, written in December 1902, published in full as an appendix in Jack Quinan, Frank Lloyd Wright’s Larkin Building (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1987), p. 129. 48. Taylor and Bliss, eds., Hotel Planning and Outﬁtting, p. 23. 49. Sydney Wagner, “The Statler Idea in Hotel Planning and Equipment,” Architectural Forum 27 (November 1917), p. 118. The article, by an architect in the ofﬁce of George B. Post and Sons, carefully describes the idea of “planning for service” attributed to Ellsworth Statler, owner of a chain of major hotels. 50. Taylor and Bliss, eds., Hotel Planning and Outﬁtting, p. 23. 51. George R. Wadsworth, “Planning Methods for Large Institutions,” Pencil Points 8 (March 1927), p. 155. 52. Taylor, “Architectural and Building Economics,” p. 181. 53. Wagner, “The Statler Idea,” p. 118.

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54. Philip Sawyer, “The Planning of Banks,” Architectural Forum 38 (June 1923), pp. 263–264. 55. See Laurence V. Coleman, Museum Buildings (Washington, DC: American Association of Museums, 1950), p. 3. 56. Benjamin Ives Gilman, Museum Ideals of Purpose and Method (Cambridge, MA: Riverside Press, 1918). 57. Wadsworth, “Planning Methods for Large Institutions,” p. 155. This series was the ﬁrst instance in which Pencil Points, a Beaux-Arts-oriented journal, had published articles concerned with functional planning. It was presented as a description of the methods used by the ofﬁce of Sullivan W. Jones, New York State Architect, for the design of state hospitals for the insane. The author was the director of the Division of Operating and Planning Research for the New York State Department of Architecture. 58. Ibid.

4 The Fragmentation of the Academic Discipline 1. Academic textbooks that may be included in this category are John Haneman, A Manual of Architectural Compositions: 70 Plates with 1,880 Examples (New York: Architectural Book Publishing, 1923); Arthur Stratton, Elements of Form and Design in Classic Architecture, Shown in Exterior and Interior Motives Collated from Fine Buildings of all Time on One Hundred Plates (New York: Scribner’s, 1925); and to some degree David Varon’s second book, Architectural Composition (New York: William Helburn, 1923). 2. John Harbeson, The Study of Architectural Design: With Special Reference to the Program of the Beaux-Arts Institute of Design (New York: Pencil Points Press, 1926). Harbeson studied under Paul Philippe Cret at the University of Pennsylvania and was assistant professor at his alma mater when the book was published. 3. Howard Robertson, Robert Atkinson, and Hope Bagenal were all associated with London’s Architectural Association School. Though their books were published in relation to their teaching at the school, they were also widely read in America. Other notable publications include William Wirt Turner, Fundamentals of Architectural Design: A Textbook for Beginning College Students and Ready Reference for Architects (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1930); Frank Brown et al., Study of the Orders: A Comprehensive Treatise on

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the Five Classic Orders of Architecture (Chicago: American Technical Society, 1928), the republication of a 1906 and 1913 text for the American School of Correspondence; and A. Benton Greene, Elements of Architecture (New York: Harmo Press, 1931). Texts that emphasized drawing techniques include the second and third printings of the original 1904 edition of Henry McGoodwin, Architectural Shades and Shadows (Boston: Bates and Guild, 1922 and 1926); H. Van Buren Magonigle, Architectural Rendering in Wash (New York: Scribner’s, 1921); Wooster B. Field and Thomas E. French, Architectural Drawing (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1922); and Edgar G. Shelton, Architectural Shades and Shadows (New York: D. Van Nostrand, 1931). Beginning in January 1929, Pencil Points also ran a series by Ernest I. Freese on perspective drawing and drafting techniques of classical details. 4. Beginning with Pencil Points 7 (November 1926), in a series titled “The Ricker Manuscript Translations,” Thomas E. O’Donnell, professor at the University of Illinois, provided summaries of both Guadet’s and Viollet-le-Duc’s key texts. The “Vocabulary” series took the form of an alphabetical dictionary and ran between April and October in Pencil Points 3 (1922). By 1923, the circulation of Pencil Points reached 9,731, second only to Architectural Record, which had a circulation of just over 10,000 (N. W. Ayer & Sons Newspaper Annual and Directory, 1923). One reason for its immediate success could be attributed to the fact that, while most American journals focused on architects as their readers, Pencil Points was intended for a wider audience of “draftsmen, designers and speciﬁcation writers” in the architectural ofﬁce (“Introductory,” Pencil Points 1 [ June 1920], p. 5). Though its most important section was the portfolio, it did not neglect the practical problems of drafting and speciﬁcation. Pencil Points also dealt with translations of important theoretical texts and instructional articles concerning the design methods of the École des Beaux-Arts, all of which were in demand during the resurgence of eclecticism during the 1920s. Pencil Points thus catered to the direct concerns of the architectural ofﬁce and, from its inception, was more “practical” than a literary journal such as Architectural Record. 5. For a similar assessment, see Peter Samuel Kaufman, “American Architectural Writing, Beaux Arts Style: The Lives and Works of Alfred Dwight Foster Hamlin and Talbot Faulkner Hamlin” (Ph.D. dissertation, Cornell University, 1986), pp. 133–135. 6. The changing conditions of the building industry and real estate market during the 1920s are examined in Paul Bentel, “Modernism and Professionalism in American Modern Architecture, 1919–1933” (Ph.D. dissertation, MIT, 1992), pp. 191–208. 7. The most notable were the University of Minnesota (1912), Yale (1913), Princeton (1920),

and University of Cincinnati (1922). See Arthur C. Weatherhead, “The History of Collegiate Education in Architecture in the United States” (Ph.D. dissertation, Columbia University,

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1941); Frank H. Bosworth and Roy C. Jones, A Study of Architectural Schools (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1932); and James P. Noffsinger, The Inﬂuence of the Ecole des Beaux-Arts on the Architects of the United States (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America, 1955). 8. Harbeson, The Study of Architectural Design, p. 299. 9. Geoffrey Scott, The Architecture of Humanism (1914; reprinted, New York: W. W.

Norton, 1974), p. 153. 10. Ibid., pp. 157–183. 11. Howard Robertson (1888–1963) was trained at the Architectural Association (AA) School and the École des Beaux-Arts. At the time of the publication of The Principles, he was principal of the AA School, a post he held between 1920 and 1929. Robertson was extremely interested in the modern architecture of the continent and was a key ﬁgure in introducing it to the Anglo-American audience. For his activities during the late 1920s, see Travels in Modern Architecture, 1925–1930 (London: AA Publications, 1989). There is also a short biographical article on Robertson by Reyner Banham in Architectural Review 114 (1953), pp. 160–168. Robertson speciﬁcally acknowledged Trystan Edwards’s Things Which Are Seen and Claude Bragdon’s Beautiful Necessity as his sources. Other expositions of compositional principles include William R. Greeley, The Essence of Architecture (New York: D. Van Nostrand, 1927) and Varon’s Architectural Composition (1923). 12. Colin Rowe, “Character and Composition; or Some Vicissitudes of Architectural Vocabulary in the Nineteenth Century,” Oppositions 2 (1974), reprinted in his The Mathematics of the Ideal Villa and Other Essays (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1976), p. 60. 13. Robert Atkinson, foreword to Howard Robertson, The Principles of Architectural Composition (Westminster: Architectural Press, 1924), pp. v–vi. Atkinson was director of education during Robertson’s tenure as principal of the AA School. Colin Rowe, in his “Character and Composition,” has also used this quotation as a proposition typical of the composition books. 14. Robertson, The Principles of Architectural Composition, pp. 102–105. 15. Ibid., p. 155. The composition books of the twenties, though inspired by Guadet, were aligned more with the post–World War I teachings of Georges Gromort. Gromort taught at the École during the interwar years, and his lectures were published in 1941 as Essai sur la théorie de l’architecture. See Lawrence B. Anderson, “Rereading Gromort,” Journal of

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Architectural Education 33 (November 1979). Richard Becherer, in his study of César Daly, has noted that Guadet’s Éléments represented the last moments of an ideology of architectural design as a synthetic process. He argues that almost as soon as Guadet made his culminating statement, the formal and ideological synthesis began to falter. The products of the Guadet/Laloux atelier increasingly sought to separate rather than interweave the ideological inﬂuences present in the École’s ofﬁcial doctrine. See Science Plus Sentiment: César Daly’s Formula for Modern Architecture (Ann Arbor, MI: UMI Press, 1984), p. 251. 16. Robertson, The Principles of Architectural Composition, p. 1. 17. Ibid. 18. Trystan Edwards, Architectural Style (London: Faber and Gwyer, 1926), p. 17. 19. Alan Colquhoun, “Composition versus the Project,” Casabella 50 (January–February 1986), reprinted in Modernity and the Classical Tradition (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1989), pp. 39–45. Colquhoun accurately observes that the basic message of Robertson’s Principles of Architectural Composition was that the fundamental rules of composition were independent of architectural style: “Styles have relative value: they depend on the revolution of taste. The values of architecture, on the contrary, are permanent.” However, the main concern of Colquhoun’s article, that of understanding the relation between the European avant-garde and the composition books, is somewhat unclear. While arguing that the idea of composition was directly inherited by the twentieth-century avant-garde, he simultaneously views the composition books as examples of how avant-garde ideas and attitudes ﬁltered down to the more conservative ranks of the profession. If Colquhoun is implying a dialectic between academism and the avant-garde, this otherwise interesting proposition is left unexplicated (pp. 39–45). 20. Edwards, Architectural Style, p. 20. 21. Edward F. Stevens, foreword to The American Hospital of the Twentieth Century, 2nd ed. (New York: F. W. Dodge, 1928), p. iv. 22. Robertson, The Principles of Architectural Composition, p. viii. 23. Paul Philippe Cret, preface to Masterpieces of Architecture in the United States (New York: Scribner’s, 1930), p. 1. The drawings were prepared by Edward Warren Hoak and Willis Humphrey Church. This portfolio has recently been republished together with another portfolio, Oliver Reagan’s American Architecture of the Twentieth Century (New

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York: Architectural Book Publishing, 1927 and 1929), as American Architectural Masterpieces (New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 1992). 24. Cret, preface to Masterpieces of Architecture in the United States, p. 3. 25. Rexford Newcomb, foreword to Ernest Pickering, Architectural Design (New York: John Wiley and Sons, 1933), p. ix. 26. Lloyd Warren, foreword to John Harbeson, The Study of Architectural Design, p. 5. 27. John Van Pelt, “Architectural Detail: Part I,” Pencil Points 2 (May 1921), p. 21. 28. Bosworth and Jones, A Study of Architectural Schools, p. 41. 29. Ibid., p. 45 (my emphasis). The authors named Princeton, Yale, Cornell, Southern California, and the University of Kansas as schools in which the beginner was immediately started with the design of a building. At Cincinnati and Florida, students began with exercises in “abstract design,” thereby coming to understand design before they applied it to architecture. Within the limits of this book, it would be impossible to delve into the speciﬁc changes in each individual school. Unfortunately, most studies of architectural education in America have been so general that the complex changes of the pedagogical system in the 1930s have not been fully brought out. The best studies are Richard Oliver, ed., The Making of an Architect, 1881–1981: Columbia University in the City of New York (New York: Rizzoli, 1981), and Jill Pearlman, “Joseph Hudnut’s Other Modernism at the ‘Harvard Bauhaus,’” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 56 (December 1997). An interesting episode in Columbia’s history, pertinent to my present argument, is a list of student grievances that were presented to William Boring in 1923. The central complaint was that they needed more time for design work, and in order to secure this time the students made the following suggestions: (a) condense the history of ancient ornament; (b) eliminate the requirement for ornamental plates; (c) eliminate the requirement for plates in the decorative arts; (d) eliminate historical research as a course and make it an elective; (e) drop stereotomy; (f ) condense work covered in shades and shadows, descriptive geometry, and stereotomy to one course; (g) condense graphics. These suggestions indicate the separation of design from the discursive practice of the portfolio, central to the early stages of architectural training. This abstract conception of design seems to have been introduced by Boring, who was appointed director of the School of Architecture in 1919. Boring believed that architecture was “pure invention,” advocating that “the biggest way of attempting to solve a problem is to solve it in masses.” William Boring’s lecture notes are in the Central Files and the Graduate School of

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Architecture and Planning Archives, Columbia University. The list of student grievances was recorded in a letter from William Henry Carpenter to Nicholas Butler, dated February 13, 1923, William Henry Carpenter Papers, Butler Library, Columbia University. I am indebted to Susan M. Strauss, “History III, 1912–1933,” in Oliver, ed., The Making of an Architect, which led me to these sources. 30. Pickering, Architectural Design, p. 170. 31. During the 1920s, the commercially successful Beaux-Arts architects of New York, and in particular those of the Architectural League of New York, became the most powerful ﬁgures of the profession—so much so that Hood, Kahn, and Walker were referred to as “the three little Napoleons of architecture.” See Walter H. Kilham, Jr., Raymond Hood, Architect (New York: Architectural Book Publishing, 1973), p. 81. For a general discussion of Kahn, Hood, and Walker, see the chapter “Three Modern Masters” in Robert A. M. Stern et al., New York 1930 (New York: Rizzoli, 1987). For a more wide-ranging discussion of the modernism debate, see Susanne R. Lichtenstein, “Editing Architecture: Architectural Record and the Growth of Modern Architecture, 1928–1938” (Ph.D. dissertation, Cornell University, 1990), pp. 140–186. 32. Harvey Wiley Corbett, “The American Radiator Building, New York City: Raymond Hood, Architect,” Architectural Record 55 (May 1924), pp. 473–477. 33. Louise La Beaume, “Crabbed Age and Youth,” Journal of the American Institute of Architects 16 (November 1928), p. 417. 34. Leslie W. Devereux, “The Condition of Modern Architecture,” Architecture 45 (February 1922), p. 42. See also David Gebhard, “The American Colonial Revival in the 1930s,” Winterthur Portfolio 22 (Summer/Autumn 1987), p. 110, for a similar interpretation. 35. Henry-Russell Hitchcock, “Architectural Education Again,” Architectural Record 67 (May 1930), p. 445. 36. Edwards, Architectural Style, p. 172. 37. “In order that a sense of composition may be developed, it is advisable to practice the production of satisfactory arrangements of simple shapes, either light and dark geometrical ﬁgures, or architectural masses shaded in different depths of tone” (Robertson, The Principles of Architectural Composition, pp. 23–25). Robertson eventually emerged as a key ﬁgure who would introduce continental modern architecture to both England and

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America. In 1932, Robertson published Modern Architectural Design (London: Architectural Press), which complemented his earlier book on composition. He also coauthored several pictorial reviews of modern architecture with Frank Yerbury that will be discussed in chapter 9. 38. “Anyone who accepts the ‘Grammar of Design’ will be able to deﬁne very clearly his attitude towards the disputants who take part in the controversy concerning the respective claims of tradition and modernity. To those who have an undue reverence for the architecture of the past, he will say that this architecture only possesses merit in so far as it complies with the formal canons. As the Grammar provides logical justiﬁcation for the respect accorded to many famous buildings of the past, he will do his utmost to preserve these masterpieces, protecting them from that ignorant deprecation of works of art which always precedes acts of vandalism. But the Grammar also relieves him from the necessity of paying uncritical homage to buildings simply because they are old. And his attitude towards the architecture of his own day will be determined in the same manner. New buildings will not be praised for their beauty just because they express a reaction to the past, but only if they exemplify the principles of Number, Punctuation and Inﬂection. An illimitable range of new forms can be created subject to this condition.” (Edwards, Architectural Style, pp. 171–172.) 39. Raymond Hood, “The Spirit of Modern Art,” Architectural Forum 51 (November

1929), pp. 445–448. For a similar argument, see Ely Jacques Kahn, “On What Is Modern,” in Ely Jacques Kahn (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1931). 40. Dwight James Baum used the term “modern traditionalism” to characterize the following position: “Our buildings are modern of necessity, modern that they may meet present day practical requirements and may be built by the methods and of the materials that are most suitable and economical. But this does not mean that they need to be devoid of everything that recalls the past, and be factory-like or ornamented with zig-zags.” (“Modern Traditionalism,” T-Square Club Journal 1 [April 1931], p. 14.) 41. Jens Frederick Larson and Archie MacInnes Palmer, Architectural Planning of the American College (New York: McGraw-Hill for the Association of American Colleges, 1933), p. 27. 42. Karl Popper, “On the Sources of Knowledge and of Ignorance,” in Conjectures and Refutations (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1963), p. 6. I am indebted to Stanford Anderson, “Architecture and Tradition That Isn’t ‘Trad, Dad,’” in Marcus Whiffen, ed.,

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The History, Theory and Criticism of Architecture (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1970), which called my attention to Popper’s insight. 43. For example, George Edgell, a historian-critic in the traditionalist camp, offered the following assessment in his The American Architecture of To-day (New York: Scribner’s, 1928): “Greater familiarity with steel construction means less necessity for expressing it in design. If a wall were an envelope, incapable even of supporting its weight, such a fact should be advertised on the exterior of the building. As we become more accustomed to the construction, however, we realize that the very mass and height of the building proclaims its construction. Little thought is required to convince us that a masonry wall thirty-ﬁve to ﬁfty stories high is not self-supporting. Familiar with the fact, we become less insistent in design upon the proclamation of the obvious. The problem is much broader than that of a mere expression of structure” (pp. 75–76). 44. Fiske Kimball, American Architecture (Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill, 1928), pp. 147–168. I am indebted to Deborah Pokinski’s discussion of Kimball and George Edgell in her The Development of the American Modern Style (Ann Arbor, MI: UMI Press, 1984) for bringing my attention to Kimball’s formalist approach. 45. Kimball, American Architecture, p. 163. For a similar interpretation of Kimball, see Lauren Weiss Bricker, “The Writings of Fiske Kimball: A Synthesis of Architectural History and Practice,” in Elisabeth Blair MacDougall, ed., The Architectural Historian in America (Washington, DC: National Gallery of Art, 1990); and David Brownlee, Building the City Beautiful: The Benjamin Franklin Parkway and the Philadelphia Museum of Art (exhibition catalogue, Philadelphia Museum of Art, 1989). Brownlee points out that Kimball, using Roger Fry’s formalist language, equated the classical designs of McKim, Mead and White with the paintings of Cézanne by arguing that they both constituted an abstract art of form and color. 46. Fiske Kimball to Paul Cret, dated May 8, 1925, published in Architectural Record 65 (May 1929), p. 431. 47. Letter from Fiske Kimball to Walter Pach, dated May 8, 1925, published in Architectural Record 65 (May 1929), p. 433. The quotation is also used by Kimball in American Architecture, p. 205. 48. Talbot Hamlin, “Architecture,” International Yearbook (1926), p. 59. 49. Pickering, Architectural Design, pp. 130–132.

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50. Robertson, The Principles of Architectural Composition, p. 24. 51. Ferriss’s sketches were ﬁrst published in Corbett’s article “Zoning and the Envelope of the Building,” Pencil Points 4 (April 1923). They were later republished with his utopian plans in Metropolis of Tomorrow (New York: Ives Washburn, 1929). See Carol Willis, “Zoning and Zeitgeist: The Skyscraper City in the 1920s,” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 45 (March 1986), for a discussion of Corbett’s ideas. 52. Corbett, “The Coming City of Setback Skyscrapers,” New York Times, April 29, 1923, quoted in Carol Willis, “Zoning and Zeitgeist,” p. 55. 53. Rayne Adams, “Thoughts on Modern, and Other Ornament,” Pencil Points 9 (January 1929), p. 7. 54. As Terence Riley has shown in The International Style: Exhibition 15 and the Museum of Modern Art (New York: Rizzoli, 1992), the formulation of the principles of the International Style can be attributed primarily to Hitchcock. The direct source of this assessment is a letter from Alfred Barr to Lewis Mumford, dated February 27, 1948, in which Barr wrote that though he was responsible for applying the term “International Style” to architecture, it was not his formula but “one arrived at by Hitchcock and Johnson, principally Hitchcock who, although he now seems evasive about it, was teacher and theorist for both Johnson and I” (Lewis Mumford Papers, Van Pelt Library, University of Pennsylvania, published in “What Is Happening to Modern Architecture,” Museum of Modern Art Bulletin 15 [Spring 1948], p. 21). Another indication to this effect is that Johnson’s early proposals for the exhibition show none of the essentially formalist conception of the International Style. 55. Hitchcock, “Architectural Education Again,” p. 445. 56. An interesting aspect of Hitchcock and Johnson’s formulation of functionalism is their distinction between European and American functionalists. They identiﬁed the latter with the successful Beaux-Arts-trained commercial architects. Hitchcock and Johnson did not specify them in The International Style, but they clearly targeted these architects of the New York skyscrapers during the 1920s: a group that Johnson called “the Skyscraper School of Modern Architecture” a year before the exhibition. (See “The Skyscraper School of Modern Architecture,” Arts 17 [May 1931], pp. 569–575.) The problem with the Americans was that they relegated the legitimate province of the architect to the aesthetic desires of the client. American functionalists—later renamed “commercial functionalists” by Alfred Barr —thus relinquished their disciplinary autonomy. Alfred Barr claimed in the

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Museum of Modern Art symposium in 1948 that “we felt that the cynical parody of functionalism which we found among certain American architects was equally debasing. I refer to the theory that architecture is not an art, but a business or an industry in which design is simply a commodity to be furnished as a superﬁcial afterthought.” (“What Is Happening to Modern Architecture,” p. 6.) 57. Henry-Russell Hitchcock, “The Decline of Architecture,” Hound and Horn 1 (September 1927), p. 34. 58. Henry-Russell Hitchcock and Philip Johnson, The International Style (1932; reprint, New York: Norton 1966), p. 37. Two years later, in the “Machine Art” exhibition, Barr repeated Hitchcock’s formulation of the architect’s function within the technical conditions of production: “The role of the artist in machine art is to choose, from a variety of possible forms each of which may be functionally adequate, that one form which is aesthetically most satisfactory. He does not embellish or elaborate, but reﬁnes, simpliﬁes and perfects.” (Alfred Barr, foreword, to Machine Art [New York: Museum of Modern Art, 1934], unpaged.) 59. Manfredo Tafuri, Architecture and Utopia: Design and Capitalist Development (1973; translation, Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1976), p. 1.

5 Frederick Ackerman, Lewis Mumford, and the Predicament of Form 1. The most representative study in this vein is Roy Lubove, Community Planning in the 1920s: The Contribution of the Regional Planning Association of America (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1963). The term “social architect” is Lubove’s, who states that “the kernel of the RPAA’s program was the cooperation of the ‘social architect’ and planner in the design of large-scale group and community housing, ﬁnanced in some measure by low-interest government loans, and directed toward the creation of a regional city” (p. 47). The architects of the RPAA included Clarence Stein, Henry Wright, Charles Harris Whitaker, Robert D. Kohn, and Frederick Ackerman. Along with Lewis Mumford and Catherine Bauer, they constituted what may very loosely be called the architectural wing of this informal group formed in 1924. 2. Ibid., pp. 42–43. See also Francesco Dal Co, “From Parks to the Region: Progressive Ideology and the Reform of the American City,” in Giorgio Ciucci et al., The American City: From the Civil War to the New Deal (1973; translation, Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1979), p. 236.

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3. The most that commentators of the RPAA generally mention of Frederick Ackerman (1878–1950) is that he was a collaborator of Stein and Wright in the design of Sunnyside and Radburn, and that he was a disciple of Thorstein Veblen. In 1906 Ackerman began his partnership with Alexander Trowbridge, also a graduate of the École. Trowbridge was a prominent architect and professor who had served as dean of the College of Architecture at Cornell and would later become the president of the Architectural League of New York. Though his tenure seems to have been limited, Susan M. Strauss reports that Ackerman was appointed lecturer in the Principles of Architecture at Columbia in 1915. See Susan M. Strauss, “History III: 1912–1933,” in Richard Oliver, ed., The Making of an Architect, 1881–1981: Columbia University in the City of New York (New York: Rizzoli, 1981), p. 91. 4. Ackerman, Kohn, and Whitaker were active in the AIA reforms of the late teens. All three were members of the executive council of the Post-War Committee, and Ackerman served as chairman of its Committee on Education. Kohn, Ackerman, Stein, and Wright were also key participants in war housing, while Charles Whitaker, as editor of the Journal of the AIA, was inﬂuential in formulating its design and planning principles. The housing department of the U.S. Shipping Board’s Emergency Fleet Corporation (EFC) was ofﬁcially called the Department of Passenger Transportation and Housing, with A. Merritt Taylor as its director and Robert D. Kohn as chief of the production division. Ackerman was chief of the design branch of the department, while Wright worked primarily as a planner in the EFC. It was Kohn, already professionally associated with Stein, who brought Wright and Stein together. Though Stein and Whitaker did not participate directly in the design of war villages, their intellectual input was clearly present. In particular, the Journal of the AIA, under Whitaker’s editorship, provided a forum for an intense debate on housing and urban issues during the late teens and early twenties. Under the auspices of the journal, Ackerman conducted a study in England of its war housing, which resulted in a series of articles in the journal that was later published under the title The Housing Problem in War and Peace (Washington, DC, 1918). 5. Lubove, Community Planning in the 1920s, pp. 38–39. 6. Ibid., p. 44. The most important document of the CCP was the “Report of the Committee on Community Planning,” Proceedings of the 58th Annual Convention of the AIA (1925), which combined the reports of the previous year and was reprinted as a pamphlet. See also the committee’s report for 1927 at the 60th convention. 7. Frederick Ackerman, “Where Goes the City Planning Movement? V. Drifting,” Journal of the American Institute of Architects 8 (October 1920), p. 353.

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8. Donald Stabile, Prophets of Order: The Rise of the New Class, Technocracy and Socialism in America (Boston: Southend Press, 1984), p. 89. See Kristin M. Szylvian, “Industrial Housing Reform and the Emergency Fleet Corporation,” Journal of Urban History 25 (July 1999), pp. 647–648, for Ackerman’s progressive and optimistic outlook immediately after the war. 9. Frederick Ackerman, “The Architect’s Part in the World’s Work,” Architectural Record 37

(February 1915), p. 150. The article was taken from a talk given to the students and faculty of his alma mater, Cornell, and is ﬁlled with exhortations to civic service and democratic ideals. The phrase “the World’s Work” was in all likelihood adopted from the reformist magazine of the same title, edited by Walter Hines Page. 10. Ackerman, “The Relation of Art to Education, II: Architectural Schools,” Journal of the American Institute of Architects 4 (June 1916), p. 235. 11. Ibid., p. 237. 12. Ackerman, “The Battle with Chaos,” Journal of the American Institute of Architects 3 (October 1915), p. 446. 13. Just before arriving at the New School of Social Research, Veblen outlined his views in a series of essays in the Dial—launched in April 1919 under the title “Contemporary Problems in Reconstruction”—that was later published in 1921 as The Engineers and the Price System. The basic outline of Veblen’s program was, ﬁrst, the voluntary abdication of all absentee owners of business (the “Guardians of Vested Interests”) and their replacement by technicians and workers; and secondly, the creation of a national directorate that would supervise the allocation of resources on a scientiﬁc basis. By liberating the machine and America’s industry from an irrational and wasteful system, Veblen believed that the nation would increase its industrial output three to twelve times. 14. Thorstein Veblen, The Instinct of Workmanship (New York: Macmillan, 1914), p. 328. 15. Other members of the RPAA who also participated in the Technical Alliance were Benton MacKaye and the economist Stuart Chase. In addition, Ackerman and Whitaker served on its executive committee. There is, however, very little information on the activities of this short-lived organization. See Henry Elsner, Jr., The Technocrats: Prophets of Automation (Syracuse: Syracuse University, 1967), and William E. Akin, Technocracy and the American Dream: The Technocrat Movement, 1900–1941 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1977).

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16. The passage is from a letter by Guido Marx, professor of mechanical engineering at Stanford and close associate of Veblen, quoted in Joseph Dorfman, “New Light on Veblen,” in Thorstein Veblen: Essays, Reviews and Reports (Clifton, NJ: Augustus M. Kelley, 1973), p. 84. The conference was held in Detroit and attended by members of fourteen professions. The architectural contingent was organized by the Committee on Professional Relations of the Post-War Committee, chaired by Thomas R. Kimball. 17. Deﬁnitions of “the instinct of workmanship” are scattered in Veblen’s many writings as well as in the 1914 book of the same title. It was, however, a concept that was already well deﬁned in The Theory of the Leisure Class (1899; reprint, New York: Mentor, 1953): “As a matter of selective necessity, man is an agent. He is an agent seeking in every act the accomplishment of some concrete, objective, impersonal end. By force of his being such an agent he is possessed of a taste for effective work, and a distaste for futile effort. He has a sense of merit of serviceability or efﬁciency and of the demerit of futility, waste or incapacity. This aptitude or propensity may be called the instinct of workmanship” (p. 29). In contrast to the substantial literature on Veblen’s economic thought, there has been relatively little critical writing on Veblen’s cultural theories, of which Adorno’s short essay “Veblen’s Attack on Culture,” Studies in Philosophy and Social Science 9 (1941), and John Patrick Diggins’s Thorstein Veblen: Theorist of the Leisure Class (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1999) stand out. For biographical information on Veblen, I have relied on Elizabeth W. Jorgensen, Thorstein Veblen: Victorian Firebrand (Armonk, NY: M. E. Sharpe, 1999), and Joseph Dorfman, Thorstein Veblen and His America (New York: Viking Press, 1934), and by the same author, “New Light on Veblen,” 1973. 18. Wesley C. Mitchell, Types of Economic Theory: From Mercantilism to Institutionalism, ed. Joseph Dorfman (New York: Augustus M. Kelley, 1969), pp. 603–623. 19. Thorstein Veblen, The Theory of Business Enterprise (New York: Scribner’s, 1904), pp. 9–10. 20. David Riesman, Thorstein Veblen: A Critical Interpretation (New York: Scribner’s, 1953), p. 59. 21. Frederick Ackerman, review of Sticks and Stones, by Lewis Mumford, Journal of the American Institute of Architects 12 (December 1924), pp. 538–539. 22. Theodor Adorno, “Veblen’s Attack on Culture,” reprinted in Prisms (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1981), p. 75.

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23. Diggins, Thorstein Veblen, p. 68. 24. Frederick Ackerman, “Georgian Architecture,” Tuileries Brochures (March 1930), p. 115. 25. Ackerman, “Dissertations in Aesthetics, IV,” Journal of the American Institute of Architects 14 (February 1926), p. 49. 26. Ackerman, “Architecture,” in Douglas Fryer, ed., Vocational Self-Guidance (New York: J. B. Lippincott, 1925), p. 303. 27. Ackerman, “Modern Architecture,” Journal of the American Institute of Architects 16 (November 1928), p. 414 (my emphasis). 28. Ibid., p. 414. 29. Ibid., pp. 414–415. 30. Ackerman, “The Function of Architectural Criticism,” Journal of the American Institute of Architects 16 (April 1928), p. 145. 31. Though Ackerman did not name the individuals in the modernist camp, the brunt of his criticism was aimed at the Beaux-Arts architects discussed in chapter 4. It is interesting to note that though there would have been just a few months in which their stay overlapped, both Ackerman and Raymond Hood were at the École des Beaux-Arts during the latter months of 1905. It is well known that Ely Jacques Kahn was close friends with Clarence Stein. In addition to being classmates at Columbia, both attended the École a few years later. 32. Ackerman, “Modern Architecture,” p. 415. 33. Ackerman, “Forces That Inﬂuence the Profession’s Future,” American Architect 141 (May 1932), p. 31. 34. Ackerman, “The Modern Movement, I: A Point of Theory,” Journal of the American Institute of Architects 16 (December 1928), p. 465. 35. Letter from Ackerman to Lewis Mumford, dated March 10, 1931, Van Pelt Library, University of Pennsylvania Special Collections. 36. Ackerman, “The Function of Architectural Criticism,” p. 144.

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37. See Robert L. Davison, “Problems of Country House Design and Construction,” Architectural Record 66 (November 1929); “Gymnasium Planning,” Architectural Record 69 (January 1931); and a special issue on university planning, Architectural Forum 54 (June 1931). 38. Frederick Ackerman and William Ballard, A Note on the Problems of Site and Unit Planning (New York Housing Authority, 1937), p. 7. 39. Ibid., p. 8. 40. Ackerman, “Dissertations in Aesthetics, IV,” p. 49. 41. Ibid., p. 51. 42. Ackerman’s strategy of regression—the return to workmanship and the excavation of uncontaminated facts—was also the operative principle in what may be characterized as his politico-technical activities of the thirties. With the economic crisis of the depression came a revival of the technocratic movement. In the spring of 1932, Ackerman—along with Walter Rautenstrauch, Howard Scott, and Bassett Jones, the electrical engineer who was also a member of the RPAA—formed a group called the Committee on Technocracy. Ackerman was very active in the group, writing numerous articles on the theories of technocracy. Using his inﬂuence in the AIA, he persuaded the Architect’s Emergency Relief Committee of New York to provide funds and manpower for research. The technocracy groups, however, were far from the Soviet of Technicians that Veblen had envisioned in 1919. Despite the renewed hope for realizing a technocratic society after the depression, the Committee on Technocracy never claimed to have a revolutionary aim, presenting its function as a “research organization.” In fact, a speciﬁc program of action to bring about the needed change was never proposed by the technocrats. This may be viewed, on the one hand, as a fundamental naiveté on the part of technocratic thinking, and on the other as a reﬂection of their genuine belief in the long durations involved in historical changes. William E. Akin in his Technocracy and the American Dream provides the following analysis: “As [the technocrats’] inability to grapple successfully with the problem of political theory indicated, their primary concerns were to deﬁne the nature of technocratic society and the means of maintaining the new order. This emphasis on ultimate goals, rather than on method of actuating social change, left the movement without any sense of immediate direction” (p. 117). Ackerman was not an exception to this kind of appraisal, as his writings reveal a distrust of politics: “How to shift the control over industry from the ﬁeld of ﬁnancial business to that of technology is a matter which will be decided when a sufﬁcient number of people shall have discovered that our system of loan credit and banking . . . inevitably results in waste, curtailment and constant inﬂation. . . . This is not a matter to

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be disposed of by political action; forces arising out of a conviction that a change is due will take care of the matter. Again so runs history” (Frederick Ackerman et al., Housing Famine [New York: Dutton, 1920], pp. 242–243). 43. Ackerman, “The Planning of Colleges and Universities,” Architectural Forum 54 ( June 1931), p. 692. 44. Lewis Mumford, “Machinery and the Modern Style,” New Republic (August 3, 1921), reprinted in Roots of Contemporary American Architecture (New York: Dover, 1952), pp. 197–198. 45. Mumford, “Form in Modern Architecture,” Architecture 60 (September 1929), pp. 125–126. 46. Though the literature on Mumford is vast, his relation with Veblen has not been closely examined. For example, Robert Wojtowicz has noted that through The Theory of the Leisure Class, “Veblen essentially provided Mumford with the intellectual lens by which he could distance himself from his upbringing,” a source that would later mesh with Patrick Geddes’s views to remain an essential inﬂuence (Lewis Mumford and American Modernism: Eutopian Theories for Architecture and Urban Planning [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996], p. 31). Yet despite this assessment, Wojtowicz does not provide an analysis of how Veblen enters Mumford’s work. On the other hand, John Patrick Diggins, in his Thorstein Veblen, has gone so far as to claim that Mumford was Veblen’s “greatest scholarly disciple” (p. 68) and “greatest anthropological disciple” (p. 91). Though Diggins notes that many of Veblen’s concepts were involved in Technics and Civilization, he does not actually analyze the text. Veblen’s absence in studies of Mumford may be attributed to his own disavowal of Veblen in his later writings. For instance, in Technics and Human Development, he lumped together modern social theorists such as Carlyle, Marx, and Veblen in their overemphasis of the machine in the development of culture. Mumford concluded that they had inadvertently become apologists of the repressive force of the modern megamachine (The Myth of the Machine I: Technics and Human Development [New York: Harcourt, Brace, and World, 1967], pp. 263–294). For Mumford’s more forgiving apology of his own earlier writings on the machine, see Lewis Mumford, “An Appraisal of Lewis Mumford’s Technics and Civilization (1934),” Daedalus 88 (Summer 1959). 47. “The key to our difﬁculties in the industrial and decorative arts was furnished a whole generation ago by Thorstein Veblen, in that neglected classic, The Theory of the Leisure Class” (Mumford, “The Economics of Contemporary Decoration,” Creative Art 4 [January 1929] p. xix).

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48. Mumford, Technics and Civilization (New York: Harcourt, Brace, 1934), p. 12. 49. Catherine Bauer, Modern Housing (Boston: Houghton Mifﬂin, 1934), p. 212. 50. Ibid., quoting Thorstein Veblen, The Theory of the Leisure Class, pp. 109–111. There is a curious inversion of sequence in Bauer’s quotation. The last paragraph, which appears on page 109 of The Theory of the Leisure Class, actually comes before the ﬁrst two paragraphs, which appear on pages 110–111 of Veblen’s book. 51. Bauer, Modern Housing, p. 213. 52. Bauer, “Exhibition of Modern Architecture, Museum of Modern Art,” Creative Art 10 (March 1932), p. 201. After this passage, Bauer continues: “It predicates common beliefs and common purposes in a large number of contemporary people. But more than that, it deﬁnes architecture, ﬁrst and last, as the social art, the expression of those forces which keep people together and not those which separate and individualize. Architecture is not a medium for expressing individual personality.” 53. Mumford, “The Economics of Contemporary Decoration,” p. xx. The “socializing” effect of the machine was reiterated and became an essential thesis of Technics and Civilization. The provocative phrase “the machine is a communist” was in fact repeated word for word on page 354 of the latter text. 54. Mumford, Technics and Civilization, p. 352. Mumford extended his thesis of the principle of economy speciﬁcally to architecture in The Culture of Cities (New York: Harcourt, Brace, 1938), p. 416. 55. Mumford, Technics and Civilization, pp. 353–355. 56. Veblen, The Theory of Business Enterprise, p. 170. 57. David W. Noble, The Paradox of Progressive Thought (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1958), p. 223. 58. Mumford, “The Economics of Contemporary Decoration,” pp. xix–xxii. 59. Letter from Ackerman to Mumford, dated February 19, 1929, Van Pelt Library,

University of Pennsylvania Special Collections. 60. Veblen, The Theory of Business Enterprise, pp. 178–179.

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61. Mumford, “Frederick Lee Ackerman, FAIA, 1875–1950,” Journal of the American Institute of Architects (December 1950), p. 249. 62. Mumford, Sticks and Stones: A Study of American Architecture and Civilization (1924; reprint, New York: Dover, 1955), p. 9. 63. Ibid., p. 14. 64. Frank Lloyd Wright, “Art and Craft of the Machine” (1901), in Edgar Kaufman and Ben Raeburn, eds., Frank Lloyd Wright: Writings and Buildings (New York: Meridian, 1960), p. 57. 65. Mumford, Sticks and Stones, p. 15. 66. Mumford, The Brown Decades: A Study of the Arts in America, 1865–1895 (1931; reprint, New York: Dover, 1971), p. 82. 67. Ibid., p. 62. 68. Ibid. 69. Mumford, “Housing,” in Modern Architecture: International Exhibition (New York: Museum of Modern Art, 1932), p. 183. 70. Mumford, “Acknowledgement,” in Sticks and Stones (New York: W. W. Norton, 1924), unpaged. Photographs were added in his second edition of 1955 without any mention of their absence in the ﬁrst edition. 71. Mumford, “Steel Chimneys and Beet-top Cupolas,” Creative Art 4 (May 1929), p. xliv. 72. Mumford, Technics and Civilization, p. 338. 73. Stanislaus von Moos, “The Visualized Machine Age: Or, Mumford and the European Avant-Garde,” in Thomas P. Hughes and Agatha Hughes, eds., Lewis Mumford: Public Intellectual (New York: Oxford University Press, 1990), p. 228. 74. This brief assessment was inspired by von Moos’s article (ibid.) and Beatriz

Colomina’s incisive comment that in Le Corbusier’s books, “images are not used to ‘illustrate’ the written text; rather they construct the text” (Beatriz Colomina, Privacy and

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Publicity: Modern Architecture as Mass Media [Cambridge, MA; MIT Press, 1994], p. 119). As von Moos notes, Mumford’s images are approached purely as an illustration of the text. Though much of von Moos’s analysis of Mumford is incisive, I do not agree with some of his views as they relate to his comparison with Giedion. I will make this point clearer in chapter 9, where I deal with Giedion’s use of photographic images. 75. Mumford, The Culture of Cities, p. 421. This passage was brought to my attention by Colin Rowe’s quotation in The Architecture of Good Intentions (London: Academy, 1994), p. 45. 76. Mumford, The Culture of Cities, p. 414. 77. Mumford, “Preface: 1970,” in The Conduct of Life (1951; reprint, New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1970), p. v. 78. Mumford, “The Modern City,” in Talbot Hamlin, ed., Forms and Functions of Twentieth-Century Architecture, vol. 4 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1952), p. 797, quoted in Leo Marx, “Lewis Mumford: Prophet of Organicism,” in Hughes and Hughes, eds., Lewis Mumford, p. 179. 79. Adorno, “Veblen’s Attack on Culture,” p. 85. 80. In a similar vein, Rosalind Williams has characterized Mumford’s dilemma as his “lifelong quest to articulate the distinction between ‘good’ machines and ‘bad’ ones, and to explain how both the liberating and repressive ones have emerged in history” (“Mumford as a Historian of Technology,” in Hughes and Hughes, eds., Lewis Mumford, p. 47). 81. Adorno, “Veblen’s Attack on Culture,” p. 84.

6 The Cognitive Project of the Architectural Journals 1. The exceptions were Architecture and Pencil Points, which were journals strongly inﬂuenced by academism. Architecture remained relatively faithful to academic design until it was absorbed by Architectural Record in 1938. Changes in Pencil Points came about more subtly; only in the mid-thirties did it begin to embrace new elements into its pages. With the exception of those of Architectural Record, the new editorial policies announced in the late twenties have surprisingly gone unnoticed by historians. The earliest mention of the transformations of Record was a brief note by Robert A. M. Stern, in “Relevance of the Decade,” a talk given in 1964 to the “Modern Architecture Symposium: The Decade 1929–1939” and published in the Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 24 (March

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1965), p. 9. The changes in Record are discussed in Robert Benson, “Douglas Putnam Haskell (1899–1979): The Early Critical Writings” (Ph.D. dissertation, University of Michigan, 1987); Susanne R. Lichtenstein, “Editing Architecture: Architectural Record and the Growth of Modern Architecture, 1928–1938” (Ph.D. dissertation, Cornell University, 1987); and William Braham, “The Heart of Whiteness: The Discussion of Color and Material Qualities in American Architectural Journals around 1930” (Ph.D. dissertation, University of Pennsylvania, 1995). 2. Parker Morse Hooper, “The Editor’s Announcement,” Architectural Forum 48 (January 1928). 3. Kenneth K. Stowell (1894–1969) received his architectural training at Harvard and in 1927 joined the editorial staff of the Forum, where he remained until he became editor of the American Architect in 1935. Between 1939 and 1942, Stowell served as editor for House Beautiful, also owned by International Publications. Though I have not been able to research Stowell’s activities as Forum’s editor, he seems to have had a signiﬁcant role in opening the journal to European modernism, much as Lawrence Kocher had done at Architectural Record. 4. The purchase of American Architect can be seen in the context of the increasing monopolization of business during the 1920s. The small scale of architectural publishing made it particularly vulnerable to corporate mergers. Even in the early decades of this century when the profession had been ﬁrmly established, it was ﬁnancially difﬁcult for architectural journals to stay aﬂoat. It was thus not uncommon that a prominent journal would absorb other journals in ﬁnancial trouble, or become part of a larger publishing company. American Architect absorbed Inland Architect in 1909 and Architectural Review in 1921. Architecture was published by Scribner’s; and the F. W. Dodge Company, which owned Architectural Record and several other magazines related to the building industry, was incorporated in 1923. It would seem, however, that no other journal was so directly inﬂuenced by its merger into a large conglomerate as was American Architect in 1929. 5. American Architect, however, could never completely attain the character or distribution of the popular magazines in Hearst’s lineup and was eventually merged under Architectural Record in 1937. Even its peak circulation of 8,913 in 1923 was less than half that of Town and Country or Motor Boating, which had the next smallest circulation among the Hearst magazines. That same year, Good Housekeeping and Pictorial Review recorded respective circulations of 1,915,676 and 2,061,736. These ﬁgures are from Oliver Carlson and Ernest S. Bates, Hearst: Lord of San Simeon (New York: Viking Press, 1936), pp. 302–303. See also Fremont Older, William Randolph Hearst, American (New York: D. Appleton, 1936).

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6. “The ‘New Architecture’ and the New ‘American Architect,’” American Architect 136

(November 1929), p. 20. 7. Ray W. Sherman, “More Than a Designer,” American Architect 137 (June 1930), p. 19. 8. “The public accepted this criterion, that an architect was one who made pretty pictures of buildings, but added a corollary that he was not practical. With what result? That the services of an architect were a luxury? That buildings could be built without the services an architect was supposed to render? That an architect sold drawings on a commission basis, instead of performing professional services for a professional fee?” (W. R. B. Wilcox, “Draftsmanship Is Not Architecture,” Architectural Record 77 [April 1935], pp. 255–257.) See also Henry S. Churchill, “Are We Architects or Merely Pencils?,” American Architect 137 (February 1930), for a similar position. 9. American Architect 137 (September 1930), p. 112. 10. Elmer Roswell Coburn, “Economics—The New Basis of Architectural Practice,” American Architect 143 (September 1933), p. 53. Other articles along this line include Arthur T. North, “Architects Must Study Building Economics,” American Architect 136 (November 1929), and E. D. Pierre, “We Must Become Part of the Building Industry,” American Architect 139 (May 1931). After the depression, similar articles began to appear in the Record. See Lionel M. Lebhar, “Architect or Building Economist?,” Architectural Record 72 (December 1932), and a special section of Architectural Record 73 (May 1933), titled “How Can Architects Develop Business?” 11. Coburn, “Economics—The New Basis of Architectural Practice,” p. 53. 12. The AIA in its ofﬁcial “Circular of Advice Relative to the Principles of Professional Practice” had clearly stated that “advertising tends to lower the dignity of the profession, and is therefore condemned.” See “Ofﬁcial Notices to Members,” Journal of the American Institute of Architects 11 (December 1923), pp. 489–490. There were numerous articles and editorials in American Architect that endorsed architectural advertising, but its position was most succinctly expressed in Benjamin F. Betts, “Every Architect Can Advertise Architecture,” American Architect 137 (January 1930), p. 19. 13. Benjamin F. Betts, “The ‘Stock Plan’ House Can Never Have a Soul,” American Architect 136 (October 1929), p. 19. 14. Benjamin F. Betts, “Can We Sell Architecture to the Small House Buyer?,” American Architect 139 (March 1931), p. 21.

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15. See the section on “Modernism, Professionalism and the Deﬁnition of Service: Thomas Kimball and the Post-War Committee” in Paul Bentel, “Modernism and Profesionalism in American Modern Architecture, 1919–1933” (Ph.D. dissertation, MIT, 1992), pp. 105–114. 16. “The Architect, the Draftsman and 1930!,” Pencil Points 11 ( January 1930), p. 1. As did most businesses during the early months of the depression, the architectural profession and the building industry perceived the economic crisis as a temporary downward cycle in business, a “ﬁnancial disturbance” that would be “exactly reversed” within a year (ibid.). 17. “The Value of the Architect’s Service,” Pencil Points 11 ( July 1930), p. 569. The passage came under a section titled “What Is an Architect?” 18. Ibid., p. 571. The pamphlet is itself a document that reveals the complexity and ambiguity of the discursive transformations of American architecture during the interwar years. In a section that listed the services rendered by the profession, the architect’s ability as a planner came ﬁrst and was described in the following manner:

In the architect’s training great stress is laid on the matter of planning efﬁciently. By studying the needs of all types of buildings and considering the ways in which they are used by the people occupying them, he gains specialized knowledge on this subject beyond that possessed by any other group of men. The architect knows how best to apportion the available space in a building between different parts so that each division or room will be adequate in size and convenient in shape. He knows how to arrange the different parts so that they can be used most easily and effectively and so that each occupies the most advantageous part of the entire scheme in relation to the others. The building he designs is easy to get around in and those who use it do so with a minimum of wasted effort. . . . Looking at it from the point of economy, this matter of planning is of the utmost importance. In the architect’s plan every square foot of ﬂoor area is used to greatest advantage. His plan, prepared to solve your particular problem, will give you the maximum accommodation in a given total ﬂoor space, or, expressing it in another way, he can provide the required accommodations in a minimum of total ﬂoor space. Since every square foot unnecessarily added to a plan costs you money for which you get no return, is it not proﬁtable for you to employ this man who is of all men most likely to know how to eliminate waste space? (p. 571, my emphases) This passage is notable for the fact that the conservative journal presented efﬁciency and planning as the primary pursuits of the architect. Yet at the same time, it still retains the

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notion of planning as a manipulation of physical elements, i.e., as disposition and distribution, as arranging and apportioning. The ability to make beautiful designs was considered the key difference between the architect and the engineer or the builder. Beauty, however, was justiﬁed as a commercial value: “there is no question but that the element of beauty in buildings has a commercial value over and above that of the more tangible so-called practical factors of convenience and structural integrity” (p. 574). 19. Harry W. Desmond, “By Way of Introduction,” Architectural Record 1 ( July– September 1891), p. 6. Architectural Record was founded by the clothing manufacturer Clinton Sweet with the aid of the journalist David Croly, father of Herbert Croly. Sweet had begun his publishing career in 1868 with the weekly Real Estate Record and Builders Guide. Harry W. Desmond (1863–1913), who had been a staff writer for Real Estate Record, was the ﬁrst editor for Architectural Record. Desmond brought a literary thrust to the journal that would remain for several decades. In fact, one of his own novels, Raymond Lee, appeared in several installments in Record. With Record’s association with prominent writers such as Montgomery Schuyler, Russell Sturgis, A. D. F. Hamlin, and Herbert Croly, the journal was instrumental in forming an American tradition of critical discourse in architecture. For the early history of Record and its editors from Desmond to Mikkelson, see Lichtenstein, “Editing Architecture,” pp. 17–65. 20. Since 1926, A. Lawrence Kocher (1885–1969) had served as head of the School of Architecture at the University of Virginia and was known primarily for his work in historical architecture. After his Beaux-Arts training at MIT, Kocher taught at Pennsylvania State College, where he began extensive studies of colonial architecture. His series called “Early Architecture of Pennsylvania” was published in Record between 1920 and 1922. In 1925, he was appointed chairman of the Committee on Historical Monuments and Scenery of the AIA and eventually became a key ﬁgure in the restoration of Colonial Williamsburg. Kocher maintained a practice with European émigrés: with Gerhard Ziegler between 1929 and 1930; and for several years with Albert Frey, a Swiss architect who had worked with Le Corbusier in Paris. Though the work of his small ofﬁce was limited, some startling works of modern architecture were produced. A short biography of Kocher can be found in Lawrence Wodehouse, “Kocher at Black Mountain,” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 41 (December 1982), as well as in Wodehouse’s introduction to Cynthia Z. Stiverson’s Architecture and the Decorative Arts: The A. Lawrence Kocher Collection of Books at the Colonial Williamsburg Foundation (West Cornwall, CT: Locust Hill Press, 1989) and Lichtenstein, “Editing Architecture,” pp. 115–130. His best-known work, designed in collaboration with Albert Frey, was the Aluminaire House, which is extensively documented in Joseph Rosa, Albert Frey, Architect (New York: Rizzoli, 1990), and “The Aluminaire House, 1930–31,” Assemblage 12 (April 1990).

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21. Letter from A. Lawrence Kocher to Judd Payne, publications director of Architectural Record, April 10, 1959 (Colonial Williamsburg Foundation Library, A. Lawrence Kocher Collection, Box 1, Series 1). The Record articles were part of a revival of Frank Lloyd Wright’s career during the late twenties and thirties, examined in Donald Leslie Johnson, Frank Lloyd Wright versus America: The 1930s (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1990). 22. In a letter to Henry Chang, a student at Yale University, dated April 21, 1964 (Kocher Collection, Box 1, Series 1), he vaguely stated that “change was in the air.” Kocher did not give any credit to Davison or Lönberg-Holm, and though the correspondence indicates that Kocher had high regard for his predecessor, he was unspeciﬁc about the role that Mikkelson (1866–1941) played. He also wrote in the same letter that “if I had an impelling part in the shift of architectural design away from tradition and toward the meeting of needs it was ﬁrst in evidence in 1928 when I introduced a change in the subject matter in Architectural Record. I discarded the usual showing of buildings currently being erected by architects of America, accompanied by superﬁcial description, along with praise, often supplied by a member of the drafting force of the architect’s ofﬁce.” Philip Johnson pointed to Knud Lönberg-Holm rather than Robert L. Davison as the key ﬁgure, along with Kocher, in the transformation of Record (“Rejected Architects,” Creative Arts 8 [June 1931], p. 435). My own assessment is that Johnson overemphasized the role of the European Lönberg-Holm, who was known primarily for his entry to the Chicago Tribune Competition, praised by Henry-Russell Hitchcock in his Modern Architecture in 1929. It is clear, however, that Davison, recruited to head the Technical News and Research department, was senior to the rest of the young staff and, with the exception of Kocher, had the most inﬂuence. Later, as the director of the John B. Pierce Foundation, Davison concentrated on problems of housing and particularly on prefabrication. Letters in Davison’s and Douglas Haskell’s archives indicate that Davison and Haskell became close friends during their brief stay at Record, while Lönberg-Holm and Theodore Larson, another young member of the staff recruited in 1929, often worked together on articles and in groups such as Buckminster Fuller’s Structural Studies Associates. Davison’s papers were in the Loeb Library Special Collections of Harvard University but have been missing since the summer of 1992. Another key ﬁgure in the Record during the thirties was James Marston Fitch, who arrived later in 1936, eventually replacing Larson as technical editor in 1937. During the early thirties, it would seem that Lawrence Kocher, with the backing of Mikkelson, led a group of young foreign-born and American architects, planners, and critics—Robert L. Davison, Knud Lönberg-Holm, Theodore Larson, Douglas Haskell, Howard T. Fisher, and Henry-Russell Hitchcock—in transforming Record into a dynamic center in the development of modern architecture. For more on their activity during the 1930s, see Lichtenstein, “Editing Architecture,” pp. 130–139.

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23. One of the most revealing documents that indicates the degree to which Record became identiﬁed with modern architecture is a lengthy letter from Douglas Haskell to Lawrence Kocher, dated March 23, 1929, when the former was attempting to land a position at Record (Haskell Papers, Avery Library Special Collections). At the time, Haskell was a staff editor of Creative Art and had written several articles on modern architecture, the most notable being a review of Le Corbusier’s Towards a New Architecture and an evaluation of Frank Lloyd Wright. In a later recollection, Haskell wrote to Kocher that Lewis Mumford had suggested that he look into Record (August 26, 1958, Kocher Collection, Box 1, Series 1). The letter of March 23, 1929, was in effect a summary paper of Haskell’s modernist positions on the issues of housing, urban planning, and construction. Kocher and Haskell, in their latter years, justiﬁably bemoaned the lack of recognition of their role in the development of modern architecture in the United States. See also Benson, “Douglas Putnam Haskell,” pp. 137–175. 24. Michael A. Mikkelson, “A Word about the New Format,” Architectural Record 65 (January 1928), p. 1. 25. Ibid, p. 2. 26. Ibid. The editorial went on to state: “There will probably be something about ferroconcrete, about architectural polychromy, about a more effective direction and use of the allied arts and crafts. Possibly the impulse originated by Sullivan, developed by Frank Lloyd Wright and ampliﬁed abroad will bring repercussions from Europe. No doubt standardized shapes and machine-made surfaces will ﬁnd their logical place in design. That there will be movement, enterprise, new feeling is clear from the evidence we—more particularly, my colleague A. Lawrence Kocher—have taken pains to bring together in the present number.” 27. When one considers the ensuing transformations of the journal, and Kocher’s later recollections, it would seem that these editorials were not written solely by Mikkelson. Though it is difﬁcult to conﬁrm, I would attribute the authorship of the latter two texts to the editorial staff, in particular to Kocher and Robert L. Davison, who had just been hired to the editorial staff. 28. Michael A. Mikkelson, “Two Problems of Architecture,” Architectural Record 66 (January 1929), p. 65. 29. Ibid.

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30. Ibid. 31. Ibid. 32. Ibid., p. 66. 33. “Research Applied to Architecture: A New Editorial Policy,” p. 2, unpublished manuscript submitted by Architectural Record to the competition for the ABP medal for outstanding editorial service, Harvard University, Loeb Library Special Collections. 34. Mikkelson, “Two Problems of Architecture,” p. 66. 35. Mikkelson, “Expansion of the Architectural Record for 1930,” Architectural Record 66

(November 1929), p. 501 (my emphasis). 36. Ibid., pp. 501–502. 37. “Garages,” Architectural Record 65 (February 1929), p. 179. 38. Eugene Clute, The Practical Requirements of Modern Buildings (New York: Pencil Points Press, 1928), p. 15. 39. For similar trends in planning articles in American Architect, see George E. Eichenlaub, “40% of Falls in Houses Occur on Stairways: Old Rules Should Be Discarded for Comfort and Safety,” American Architect 137 (January 1930). This article’s recommendations were disputed a few months later in H. Weaver Mowery, “Material and Proportions Are Both Factors in Stair Safety,” American Architect 137 (July 1930). Another set of design standards were provided by Ernest I. Freese, “Correct Proportioning of Stair Treads and Risers,” American Architect 143 (July 1933), and “Walkways, Stairways, Climbways,” American Architect 144–145 (March 1934). Lawrence Kocher and Albert Frey also published an article on stairway design: “Stairways, Ramps, Escalators,” Architectural Record 69 (January 1930). 40. Robert L. Davison, “Prison Architecture,” Annals of the American Academy of Political and Social Science 157 (1931), pp. 35–39 (my emphasis). 41. Guadet’s statement was quoted by Peter Collins in Changing Ideals in Modern Architecture (Kingston: McGill-Queens University Press, 1967), pp. 228–229. 42. Davison, “Prison Architecture,” p. 39.

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43. Robert L. Davison, “Prison Architecture,” Architectural Record 67 ( January 1930), p. 70. The terms “functional approach” and “rational approach” appear in his article “Prison Architecture,” Annals of the American Academy of Political and Social Science 157 (1931), pp. 35, 39. 44. Bill Hillier and Adrian Leaman, “How Is Design Possible?,” Architectural Research and Teaching 3 (1974), p. 4. See also A. Lawrence Kocher and Robert L. Davison, “Swimming Pools,” Architectural Record 65 ( January 1929), p. 68, where the authors state that “at this time, there is a distinct opportunity for creative thinking by architects who, in the design of swimming pools, have followed precedent too closely. This study attempts to approach an architectural problem by the determination of what is desirable practice in contrast with what is common practice.” Similar sentiments can be found in the planning articles of Architectural Forum throughout the thirties: “The blind following of a precedent without a thorough analysis of its pertinence to the particular problem to be solved has all too frequently caused a perpetuation of stereotyped planning rather than progress toward more efﬁcient solutions of the problem” (“The Planning of Public Buildings,” Architectural Forum 59 [September 1933], p. 164). 45. Benson, “Douglas Putnam Haskell,” p. 143. 46. Mikkelson, “Two Problems of Architecture,” p. 66. This attempt to reformulate the formalist principles into a rationalist framework was reiterated in Mikkelson, “Expansion of the Architectural Record for 1930”: “Not a partizan of any single school of experimenters, The Record nevertheless assumes that the keynote of modern design is to be found in all those experiments which frankly employ the artistic qualities inherent in machine-made units, and achieve their effect through an economy of line, form and color. An interest in modern design thus soundly based is not incompatible with continued respect for principles of composition established and embodied in the past” (p. 502). 47. “Garages,” p. 78. 48. Robert L. Davison, “Problems of Country House Design and Construction,” Architectural Record 66 (November 1929), p. 486. 49. Ibid. 50. Ibid., pp. 486–489. 51. Robert L. Davison, “Effect of Style on Cost,” Architectural Record 65 (April 1929), pp. 402–409.

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52. Ibid., p. 402. 53. Clifford Edward Clark, The American Family Home, 1800–1960 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1986), p. 201. 54. Mikkelson, “Expansion of the Architectural Record for 1930,” p. 502. 55. “Research Applied to Architecture: A New Editorial Policy,” p. 2. 56. Mikkelson, “Two Problems of Architecture,” p. 66.

7 Scientiﬁc Management and the Discourse of the Diagram 1. Though the relation between architecture and scientiﬁc management is not a new ﬁeld of research, most existing literature has been concerned with Europe, particularly with Germany and its Amerikanismus, and with individual architects such as Le Corbusier, and does not delve into the speciﬁc discursive formations of this relation. In its American context, the most interesting analysis of its narrative structure and its dominance during the early decades of the twentieth century is provided in Martha Banta, Taylored Lives: Narrative Productions in the Age of Taylor, Veblen and Ford (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993). Her analysis, however, even when dealing with topics such as “Taylorizing Women’s House” and “Negotiating the Middle Landscape,” is primarily literary and does not deal with the diagram. 2. Timothy J. Reiss, The Discourse of Modernism (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1982), p. 34. 3. Ibid. It should be noted that this was scientiﬁc management’s particular approach to the diagram. As Deleuze notes, “there are many diagrammatic functions and even matter . . . because every diagram is a spatiotemporal multiplicity” (Gilles Deleuze, Foucault [1986; translation, Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1988], p. 34). 4. Friedrich Nietzsche, “On Truth and Lie in an Extra-Moral Sense” (1873), translated in Walter Kaufmann, ed., The Portable Nietzsche (New York: Penguin, 1976), p. 46. 5. Though this phrase has become a widely used cliché, it may be attributed to Locke’s An Essay Concerning Human Understanding, book 3, chapter 10, “On the Abuse of Words.” 6. John Younger, Work Routing in Production (New York: Ronald Press, 1930), pp. 98–99.

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7. Daniel Bell, Work and Its Discontents (Boston: Beacon Press, 1956), pp. 7–8. 8. David Noble, America by Design: Science, Technology, and the Rise of Corporate Capitalism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1977), pp. 263–264. 9. John B. Watson, The Ways of Behaviorism (New York: Harper and Brothers, 1928), p. 2. The man-machine idea has a long tradition in Western thought since Descartes’s formulation in the seventeenth century. See Jules Amar, The Human Motor or the Scientiﬁc Foundations of Labour and Industry (1914; translation, New York: E. P. Dutton, 1920); Frederick Lee, The Human Machine and Industrial Efﬁciency (New York: Longmans, Green, 1918); and Richard T. Dana and A. P. Ackerman, The Human Machine in Industry (New York: Codex Book Company, 1927). For a history of the mechanical model of the human body, concerned primarily with French and German situations, see Anson Rabinbach, The Human Motor: Energy, Fatigue, and the Origins of Modernity (New York: Basic Books, 1990). 10. Frank Gilbreth had been a successful building contractor when he came upon Taylor’s scientiﬁc management. Lillian received a Ph.D. in industrial psychology from Brown University, one of the ﬁrst to acquire such a degree in the United States. Though the two worked in close cooperation, Lillian Gilbreth—a psychologist in full grasp of the work of Hugo Munsterberg and Walter Dill Scott—is commonly regarded as having brought the human body under the scrutiny of scientiﬁc management. Unfortunately, there is little information on her architecture-related activities. For biographical information on Lillian Gilbreth, see Martha Moore Trescott, “Lillian Moller Gilbreth and the Founding of Modern Industrial Engineering,” in Joan Rothschild, ed., Machine ex Dea (New York: Pergamon Press, 1983). For a more critical perspective on Gilbreth that focuses on her psychological studies and consumerist concerns, see Laural D. Graham, “Critical Biography without Subjects and Objects: An Encounter with Dr. Lillian Moller Gilbreth,” Sociological Quarterly 35, no. 4 (1994), and by the same author, “Beyond Manipulation: Lillian Gilbreth’s Industrial Psychology and the Governmentality of Women Consumers,” Sociological Quarterly 38, no. 4 (1997). 11. Lillian Gilbreth, The Psychology of Management (New York: Sturgis and Walton, 1914), p. 65. 12. Arthur G. Anderson, Industrial Engineering and Factory Management (New York: Ronald Press, 1928), p. 52. 13. Michel Foucault, Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison (New York: Vintage, 1979), pp. 143–144.

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14. Not surprisingly, the Panopticon was intended to be used as both a prison and a factory. For a discussion of the architectural aspects of the Panopticon, see Robin Evans, “Bentham’s Panopticon: An Incident in the Social History of Architecture,” Architectural Association Quarterly 3 (April–July 1971), and by the same author, The Fabrication of Virtue: English Prison Architecture, 1750–1840 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982). I am indebted to the incisive analysis of Miran Bozovic’s introduction, “An Utterly Dark Spot,” in Bozovic, ed., Jeremy Bentham: The Panopticon Writings (London: Verso, 1995), which builds on the work of Foucault and Jacques-Alain Miller.

ˆ

ˆ

ˆ

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15. Foucault, Discipline and Punish, p. 205. 16. Ibid. (my emphasis). 17. The phrase is from Bentham’s famous ﬁrst words in his preface to his Panoptican letters: “Morals reformed—health preserved—industry invigorated—instruction diffused— public burthens lightened—Economy seated, as it were, upon a rock—the gordian knot of the Poor-laws are not cut, but untied—all by a simple idea in Architecture!” (“Panopticon, or The Inspection-House, & C.” [1787], reprinted in Bozovic, ed., Jeremy Bentham: The Panopticon Writings, p. 31).

ˆ

ˆ

18. Gilbreth, The Psychology of Management, p. 152. 19. It is not clear whether the Gilbreths were aware of Eadweard Muybridge’s studies of human motion or the anthropometry of Alphonse Bertillon, but they undoubtedly shared their zeal for measurement and classification. Frank Gilbreth did acknowledge the chronophotography of Étienne-Jules Marey but incorrectly claimed, as Anson Rabinbach points out, that the latter was not interested in its application (Rabinbach, The Human Motor, p. 335). What distinguished the Gilbreths from these earlier studies and other literature on human engineering is that they were trying to capture a normative relation between the body and its immediate material and spatial environment. For a discussion of their photographic techniques of the body, see Suren Lalvani, Photography, Vision, and the Production of Modern Bodies (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1996), especially the chapter “Photography and the Body of the Worker,” pp. 144–152. 20. See “The Industrial Coach: How the Efﬁciency Engineer Studies the Human Machine,” Scientiﬁc American (November 6, 1915). The work of the Gilbreths has been well documented by their own publications as well as by several secondary sources. Among their numerous books, Motion Study (New York: D. Van Nostrand, 1911), Applied Motion

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Study (New York: Sturgis and Walton, 1917), and Fatigue Study (New York: Macmillan, 1919) are the most relevant to their investigations into the motions of the human body. 21. Bell, Work and Its Discontents, p. 8. 22. Frederick Winslow Taylor, Principles of Scientiﬁc Management (New York: Harper and Row, 1911), pp. 35–36. 23. This phrase as well as the term “graphic management” appear in C. E. Knoeppel, Graphic Production Control (New York: Engineering Magazine Co., 1920). 24. Frederick Kiesler, “Pseudo-Functionalism in Modern Architecture,” Partisan Review 16 (July 1949), reprinted in Yehuda Safran, ed., Frederick Kiesler, 1890–1965 (London: Architectural Association, 1989), p. 57. 25. The diagrams appear in Charles Francis Osborne, Notes on the Art of House Planning (New York: Wm. T. Comstock, 1888), pp. 18–20. I am indebted to David P. Handlin, The American Home: Architecture and Society, 1815–1915 (Boston: Little, Brown, 1979), for making me aware of this resource. With the controversies over theories of disease transmission and the effects of air quality, diagrams showing the movement of air were often found in both popular and technical literature on ventilation. Diagrammatic analysis of sun angles and shadows seems to have had the longest history of use in architectural discourse. E. T. Potter’s study of sun angles, appropriately titled “Diagram,” published in the American Architect and Building News in 1887, is one of the best known of nineteenth-century examples. Coinciding with the emergence of the functional chart and circulation diagram in the 1930s, sun angle diagrams began to appear frequently in the journals. See, for example, Howard T. Fisher, “Sunlight Analysis,” Architectural Record 70 (December 1931); Ernest I. Freese, “Pathways of the Sun,” American Architect 145–146 (November 1934–January 1935); and “Site Planning and Sunlight as Developed by Henry Wright,” American Architect 149 (August 1936). 26. Christine Frederick’s circulation diagram appeared in Bruno Taut’s Die neue Wohnung (Leipzig: Klinkhardt und Biermann, 1924). For discussions of the German studies, see Günther Uhlig, Kollectivemodell “Einküchenhaus”: Wohnreform und Architekturdebatte zwischen Frauenbewegung und Funktionalismus, 1900–1933 (Berlin: Anabas-Verlag, 1981); Marjn Boot et al., “La cucina ‘razionale’ nei Paesi Bassi e in Germania,” in La casalinga riﬂessiva: La cucina razionale come mito domestico negli anni ’20 e ’30 (Rome: Multigraﬁca Editrice, 1983); and Nicholas Bullock, “First the Kitchen—Then the Facade,” AA Files 6 (May 1984). 27. See Alexander Klein, “Judging the Small House,” Architectural Forum 55 (August 1931). Klein’s diagrams also appeared in Milton D. Lowenstein, “Germany’s Bauhaus Experi-

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ment,” Architecture 60 (July 1929), as the kind of studies mistakenly associated with the Bauhaus. The article also used other illustrations unrelated to the Bauhaus, such as Le Corbusier’s Domino housing, Richard Neutra’s Rush City project, and site plans for German Siedlungen. For other illustrations of Klein’s diagrams, see “Planning the House Interior,” Architectural Record 77 (May 1935), and Henry Wright’s discussion of Klein’s studies published in chapters 14 and 15 of his Rehousing America (New York: Columbia University, 1935). 28. Though the notion that the plan could evolve out of functional diagrams had already been established during the 1920s, the actual diagrams did not appear in the journals before 1932. For example, in Philip Sawyer, “The Planning of Banks,” Architectural Forum 38 (June 1923) (see above, pp. 89–90), the author suggested that the “working organization” of the building could be clariﬁed by diagrams that deﬁned the interrelations of departments. The diagrams, however, did not appear in the text. In a 1931 American Architect article titled “The N. W. Ayer Building Designed from an Organization Chart,” the author claimed the assistance of a ﬁrm of “Management Engineers and Building Planning Specialists” who provided an “analytical study of the functioning of the organization.” Though these diagrams supposedly “disclosed the interrelation of the various departments and the normal routing of work through them,” neither the functional chart nor the routing diagram were illustrated. (Ralph B. Bencher, “The N. W. Ayer Building Designed from an Organization Chart,” American Architect 139 [January 1931], p. 43.) 29. After the death of her husband in 1924, Lillian Gilbreth continued her research on the “human element” of scientiﬁc management. She became professor of management at Purdue University and was actively involved in a variety of projects, some related to the rationalization of the kitchen. In 1930, she worked with the Brooklyn Borough Gas Company and the Herald Tribune, in particular with the editor of its Sunday magazine, Mrs. William B. Meloney. Meloney had been instrumental in establishing the Better Homes in America association as well as the Institute for Women. With Lillian Gilbreth, she devised a demonstration kitchen that the newspaper made widely known through its pages and a special pamphlet. In 1931, this kitchen was one of the main exhibits in the International Exhibition on Housing and Town Planning in Germany, more widely known among architectural historians for the Berlin Building Exposition that Mies van der Rohe organized. 30. Both the Wasserman House and the Speiser House are discussed in Robert A. M.

Stern, George Howe: Toward a Modern American Architecture (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1975), pp. 162–174. However, the book makes no mention at all of the diagrams. One possible factor in the sudden appearance of the diagram is Howe’s brief partnership with Norman Bel Geddes, formed after Howe had broken up with William Lescaze.

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Unfortunately, very little is known about their collaboration, which lasted for just one summer in 1935. 31. James Ford and Katherine Ford, The Modern House in America (New York: Architectural Book Publishing, 1940), p. 61. 32. Stern quotes Talbot Hamlin, who observed in The New International Yearbook of 1931 that the Wasserman House, despite its Corbusian aspirations, had a very “conventional plan” (Stern, George Howe, p. 163). 33. Mary Pattison, Principles of Domestic Engineering (New York: Trow Press, 1915), p. 200. Exemplifying an approach to the domestic environment that would later be institutionalized in the 1920s and 1930s, Pattison and Christine Frederick were the two best known ﬁgures in the early years of “domestic engineering.” Unlike Frederick’s publications, Principles of Domestic Engineering had no illustrations but is a much more theoretical text. For a general introduction to Pattison’s book, see David P. Handlin, “Efﬁciency and the American Home,” Architectural Association Quarterly 5 (October– December, 1973). 34. Pattison, Principles of Domestic Engineering, p. 201. 35. Ibid., p. 78. 36. Frederic Arden Pawley, “The Country House: Room by Room,” Architectural Forum 58 (March 1933), p. 195. The earliest appearance of the functional chart that I have been able to trace was in W. P. de Saussure, “Hotel Front Ofﬁce Equipment,” Architectural Forum 51 (December 1929), p. 737. 37. The results of this “application of motion study to kitchen planning” had already been published in “Efﬁciency Methods Applied to Kitchen Design,” Architectural Record 67 (March 1930), p. 292. See also Lillian Gilbreth, The Kitchen Practical (Brooklyn: Brooklyn Borough Gas Co., 1930). 38. As the designers of two prefabricated farmhouse models that followed the requirements of the Committee on Farm and Village Housing, Kocher and Frey participated in the President’s Conference on Home Building and Home Ownership, held a month before the publication of the article. Another example of this kind of standard-minimum space can be found in a 1937 American Architect series called “Unit Planning.” In nine installments, it provided unit plans and standard arrangements that ranged from closets

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and stairways to kitchens, baths, and classrooms. According to the American Architect, the use of “planning data of a standardized-unit character” could simplify and enhance architectural practice (“Unit Planning,” American Architect 150 [January 1937], p. 87). 39. Ernest Irving Freese, “The Geometry of the Human Figure,” American Architect 144–145 (July 1934), p. 57. Unfortunately, Freese did not provide any reference to the measurements of this “conventionalized human ﬁgure,” nor have I been able to ascertain the source of his ﬁve-foot-nine-inch body. By the early decades of this century, a multitude of studies related to anthropometry—art manuals; reports by scientiﬁc and educational societies such as the American Statistical Association and American Association for Advancement of Physical Education; medical, anthropological, and biological journals such as Human Biology and the American Journal of Physical Anthropology —could have provided the sources for his measurements. One interesting point is that Freese’s average height of 69 inches was taller than most of the statistical measurements provided in these studies, which usually set the average height of the adult male to be less than 68 inches. Considering that Freese does not distinguish between male and female measurements (though his diagrammatic ﬁgure is obviously male), his dimensions were inordinately large compared to other anthropometrical data. On the other hand, they were much smaller than the measurements provided by art manuals, which generally adhered to the notion of the ideal dimensions of the six-foot man. 40. John Hancock Callender, “Introduction to Studies of Family Living” (John B. Pierce Foundation, 1943), p. 5. 41. John Hancock Callender, “The Scientiﬁc Approach to Design,” Prefabricated Homes (May 1943). 42. Jane Callaghan and Catherine Palmer, “Measuring Space and Motion” (John B. Pierce Foundation, 1943), p. 4. 43. My argument here runs against those critics who have appropriated Foucault’s writings to demonstrate architecture’s complicit relation with institutional management. I have in mind two articles: Robert McAnulty’s “Body Troubles” and Mark Rakatansky’s “Spatial Narratives,” both in John Whiteman et al., eds., Strategies in Architectural Thinking (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1992). McAnulty misreads Foucault’s analysis as a thesis that “architecture is clearly complicitous with the disciplinary structures of power” (p. 184). For Rakatansky, the similarity between “the structure of institutions and architecture” brings about an interchangeability of inhabitation and management (p. 205). Foucault had himself

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stated, as late as 1982, that his analysis of architecture remained “vague.” Though Foucault acknowledged architecture’s participation in disciplinary mechanisms—that architecture is “not only considered as an element in space, but is especially thought of as a plunge into a ﬁeld of social relations in which it brings about some speciﬁc effects”—he was also careful to distinguish the design of coercive institutions that relied on rigid mechanisms of control from the everyday practice of architecture. For Foucault there were only “a few simple and exceptional examples in which the architectural means reproduce, with more or less emphasis, the social hierarchies. There is the model of the military camp, where the military hierarchy is to be read in the ground itself, by the place occupied by the tents and the buildings reserved for each rank. It reproduces precisely through architecture a pyramid of power; but this is an exceptional example, as is everything military privileged in society and of an extreme simplicity.” (“Space, Knowledge and Power,” Skyline [March 1982], p. 20.) 44. Metaphor was central to Bentham’s formulation of his “simple idea in architecture.” He characterized the Panopticon as “an artiﬁcial body” where the central lodge, the residence of the omnipresent but invisible inspector, was “the heart, which gives life and motion to this artiﬁcial body” (Jeremy Bentham, Panopticon Postscript I [1790], quoted in Bozovic, ed., Jeremy Bentham: The Panopticon Writings, p. 19).

ˆ

ˆ

45. Robert L. Davison, “Prison Architecture,” Annals of the American Academy of Political and Social Science 157 (1931), p. 34 (my emphasis). 46. John Hancock Callender, “New Day Elementary Schools: A Study of Architectural Developments Keeping Pace with the Requirements of Progressive Education,” Architectural Forum 59 (December 1933), p. 481 (my emphasis). Callender, who is now best known as the author of the Time Saver Standards, also contributed another article to the series, on the planning of distilleries. 47. Arthur G. Anderson, Industrial Engineering and Factory Management (New York: Ronald Press, 1928), p. 94. 48. See Lindy Biggs, The Rational Factory: Architecture, Technology, and Work in America’s Age of Mass Production (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1996), pp. 47–54. For an example published in an architectural journal, see Basset Jones, “The Modern Building Is a Machine,” American Architect 125 (January 30, 1924). 49. Lee Galloway, Ofﬁce Management (New York: Ronald Press, 1919), p. iv. 50. Harrington Emerson, foreword to Pattison, Principles of Domestic Engineering, pp. 21–22.

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8 New Genres and New Formations 1. Pencil Points published its “Draftsman’s Data Sheets” between 1932 and 1942, which came out in a bound book two years later as Don Graf, Data Sheets: Thousands of Simpliﬁed Facts about Building Materials and Construction (New York: Reinhold Publishing, 1944; 2nd ed., 1949). Other notable examples not incorporated into book form include: Record articles published between 1931 and 1934 by Lawrence Kocher and Albert Frey, including the “Dimensions” series mentioned in chapter 7; Architecture’s series on “Working Drawings”; and the “Architectural Forum Data and Detail Sheets” begun in June 1932 but discontinued at the end of the year. Architecture’s series on “Working Drawings” provided just one section plate a month and was not an important part of the journal. The most prominent European examples of the modern reference manual are Ernst Neufert, Bau-Entwurfslehre (Berlin: Bauwelt-Verlag), and Planning: The Architects Handbook (London: Architecture and Building News), both published as single volumes in 1936. The latter was published for the journal Architecture and Building News, while the former appeared as looseleaf sheets in the journal Bauwelt the year before. Another British periodical, the Architect’s Journal, ran a series of data sheets between 1933 and 1934, later published as The Information Book and The Architect’s Journal Library of Planned Information by the Architectural Press. The Japanese reference manual Kenchiku Shiryo Shioshu (Architectural Design Data Collection) was ﬁrst published in 1941 by the Japan Society of Architecture. Information on Neufert can be found in Anna Teut, “Von Typen und Normen, Massreglern und Massregelungen,” Daidalos 18 (December 1985). 2. It should be noted, however, that many of the additions to its second edition of 1936 were articles from the American Architect contributed by its authors Harold R. Sleeper and Charles G. Ramsey. 3. Harold Sleeper, “The House of Wiley and a Century and a Half of Architecture,” typewritten manuscript dated February 28, 1956, p. 6, Harold Reeves Sleeper (1893–1960) Papers, Department of Manuscripts and Archives, Cornell University. 4. I have not been able to trace the precise circumstances under which Sleeper and Ramsey were commissioned by John Wiley and Sons. John Wiley and Sons was founded in 1807 as the House of Wiley, concentrating primarily on engineering texts. Among its notable architectural publications of the nineteenth century were Downing’s Cottage Residences (1842) and Country Houses (1848) and Frank E. Kidder’s Architect’s and Builder’s Pocket-Book. In a publisher’s note that appeared in the ﬁrst student’s edition of Architectural Graphic Standards, W. Bradford Wiley stated that Martin Matheson, who was at the time advertising and sales manager, had persuaded Ramsey and Sleeper to develop their ideas and prepare the plates. Bradford Wiley also indicated that the commission resulted from Ramsey’s

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connection with the publishers through an earlier Wiley textbook that he had authored. Wiley does not specify the title of the book, but in all likelihood it was Architectural Details, published in 1924, coauthored by Ramsey and Louis Rouillion. 5. After Ackerman’s death in 1950, his ofﬁce was continued as Sleeper, Ramsey and Schwartzman, Associated Architects. 6. Due to the great success of Architectural Graphic Standards, Ramsey and Sleeper became involved in several reference articles in American Architect, data that were incorporated into later editions. They were also invited by Lawrence Kocher to make contributions to Record, a proposal that did not come to fruition. Letters in the Sleeper papers also indicate that Wiley had thoughts of involving Sleeper in a new edition of Frank E. Kidder’s Architect’s and Builder’s Pocket-Book. 7. Ackerman, foreword to Charles G. Ramsey and Harold R. Sleeper, Architectural Graphic Standards (New York: John Wiley and Sons, 1932), unpaged. During the ﬁrst decades of the twentieth century, the task of organizing technical data had become a serious everyday problem, prompting architectural ofﬁces to devise their own reference systems. For instance, one architect proposed that each ofﬁce devise its own data cards to reorganize the information scattered in “hand-books, text-books, building codes, insurance regulations, magazines, manufacturers’ catalogs and note-book jottings.” For standard size details, they could be “slid under the tracing and made to ﬁt the desired location and then copied line for line through the linen” (Vandervoort Walsh, “The Draftsman’s Own Data File,” Architectural Forum 33 [1920], p. 201). See also Albert C. Woodroof, “Saving Time in the Drafting Room,” American Architect 142 (October 1932), which also suggested that ofﬁces ﬁle their own standardized detail sheets. 8. Ackerman, foreword to Architectural Graphic Standards, unpaged. 9. Charles G. Ramsey and Harold Sleeper, “Statement Concerning Proposed Book,” memo to John Wiley and Sons dated October 29, 1930, p. 2, Harold Reeves Sleeper Papers, Department of Manuscripts and University Archives, Cornell University. When the memo was written, Ramsey and Sleeper had not yet decided on a title and provided the following as possible titles: Architect Drafting Room Guide: Standards and Data for the Use of Architects, Engineers, Builders and Draftsmen; The Data Book: A Collection of Standards and Information Helpful to Architects, Engineers and Builders and Others Interested in Building, Presented Graphically for Drafting Room Use; Thumbtack Data for Architects: A Collection of Information and Standards Displayed Graphically for Use by Those in the Building Industry; Graphic Guide for Architects: A Collection of Data, Standards and Facts Graphically Shown for Drafting Room Use of Architects, Builders, Engineers and

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Students (ibid., pp. 3–4). In an article by Sleeper, “University Housing Problems,” Architectural Forum 54 ( June 1931), published about a year before the Architectural Graphic Standards, the manual was referred to as Architect’s Drafting Room Guide. 10. This is quoted from the summary of the report of the Standing Committee on the Standardization of Sizes of Advertising Matter, published in Journal of the American Institute of Architects 2 ( July 1914), p. 357. 11. “Progress in Supplying Primary Buying Information,” Architectural Record 79 (April 1936), p. 71 (advertising section), and “Sources of Buying Information Used in the Building Market,” Architectural Record 79 ( June 1936), p. 64 (advertising section). 12. Francis W. Chandler, Construction Details Prepared for the Use of Students of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (Boston: Heliotype Printing Co., 1892), and Clarence A. Martin, Details of Building Construction (Boston: Bates and Guild, 1899). Both authors were professors of architecture, respectively at MIT and Cornell, and developed the sections from their university courses. 13. Frederick Ackerman, “An Inﬂuence on Better Small House Design,” Architectural Forum 32 (April 1920), p. 168. 14. In the preface to its second volume, Eugene Clute claimed that the new edition was produced because of the popularity of the ﬁrst volume and the great demand for such references. Another edition combining the two volumes with ten new plates came out in 1931. See Eugene Clute, preface to Philip G. Knobloch, Good Practice in Construction, part 2 (New York: Pencil Points Press, 1925). Other manuals aimed at local builders and contractors rather than at professional architects were published by the Chicago-based Radford Architectural Company. See Radford’s Portfolio of Details of Building Construction (1911) and Architectural Details for Every Type of Building (1921). 15. Thomas Hastings, preface to Knobloch, Good Practice in Construction (New York: Pencil Points Press, 1923) (my emphasis). 16. Architectural Construction was authored by Walter C. Voss, who was at the time head of the Department of Architectural Construction at Wentworth Institute, and Ralph Coolidge Henry, a Boston architect. 17. Walter C. Voss and Ralph Coolidge Henry, preface to Architectural Construction (New York: John Wiley and Sons, 1925), p. v.

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18. Martin, preface to Details of Building Construction, unpaged. Martin wrote that the idea for the manual came from his teaching experience. The drawings in the text were themselves “carefully prepared after a long, practical experience and with the aid of one of the best libraries in this country, supplemented by a large collection of working drawings from the ofﬁces of leading architects” (ibid.). 19. Ramsey and Sleeper, “Statement Concerning Proposed Book,” p. 2. 20. “The human body has changed little in stature during the centuries since man emerged from the caves and hence standards have developed based on his size and physical ability that s[t]ay very constant. Chairs taken from Tut-ankh-Amen’s tomb can be used well today. Cleopatra’s couch would probably still serve comfortably. All utensils, furniture and building are closely bound by this human scale. These well established standards have never been formulated for easy reference [for] draftsmen. We will include many such standards, as architecture houses the human and is dependent on this human scale.” (Ibid.) 21. For more on theories of industrial standardization, see N. F. Harriman, Standards and Standardization (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1928), and John Gaillard, Industrial Standardization: Its Principles and Application (New York: H. W. Wilson, 1934). According to the latter manual, one of numerous expositions on industrial standardization published in the early decades of this century, the design of a mechanical product could be divided into two stages—“functional design” and “production design”: “Functional design is concerned solely with the manner in which the product is expected to comply with its performance requirements. Consequently, the type of standard most important in functional design is the performance standard which speciﬁes the limiting conditions of the service the product is expected to give in actual use” (p. 93). 22. Frederick Ackerman, introduction to Harold Sleeper, Architectural Speciﬁcations (New York: John Wiley and Sons, 1940), p. v. In this revealing document, Ackerman provided an extensive explanation of his ofﬁce’s system of speciﬁcation and thereby offered a kind of retrospective on the genesis of Architectural Graphic Standards’ representational strategy: “Under the general theory as to the relation of drawings and speciﬁcations, it was assumed that the general drawings were to give explicit information in terms of dimensions; but they were not to constitute a speciﬁcation of materials. Information as to the use of material was to be found only in the speciﬁcation. A clause headed ‘Scope’ at the opening of each trade section was to be so drawn as to constitute an explicit statement covering the extent of the use of a given material in a building. Since the drawings gave no information as to the use of materials, there could be no possibility of conﬂict between drawings and speciﬁcations in this respect.” (Ibid.) Though I have not been able to locate Ackerman’s

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manifesto, there is a similar indexed manual used in his ofﬁce titled “Ofﬁce System,” dated October 25, 1926, in Box 3 of the Harold R. Sleeper papers, Cornell University. 23. Statement by Sherrill Whiton, director of the New York School of Interior Decoration, published in an advertising pamphlet for the second edition of Architectural Graphic Standards by John Wiley and Sons. 24. Ramsey and Sleeper, preface to Architectural Graphic Standards, 1932, unpaged. 25. The second and third editions of Architectural Graphic Standards, published in 1936 and 1941, maintained the organizational principle of the industrial standard. There was an increase in bulk from 233 pages in the ﬁrst edition to 344 pages in the third. The most noticeable change was the increase in minimum standard plans and the addition of the aforementioned ergonomic diagrams. 26. Review of the second edition of Architectural Graphic Standards, Architectural Record 80 (September 1936), p. 36. 27. Ibid. 28. The following editorial introduction to American Architect ’s ﬁrst 1932 installment of its

reference data series elucidates the organizational principles of the original Time Saver Standards: “Too few building material manufacturers realize the importance of the right kind of copy when advertising to architects—copy that is concise, informative, authoritative, and well worth ﬁling for future reference. Heretofore no magazine has attempted to do much about it. American Architect, having made an investigation on this subject among architects, has decided that something should be done about it. As a consequence, in this issue will be found an innovation in building product advertising. On page 75 is an article which presents the latest data on the various types of oil burners so that an architect may make the best selection for the particular purpose at hand. Immediately following this article are advertisements of a number of manufacturers of oil burning equipment. These advertisements have been especially prepared and edited. Every effort has been made to substitute facts for generalities, logic for high-sounding claims.” (“Valuable Advertising,” American Architect [August 1932], p. 41.) This logic of abstracting and separating factual data from the catalogue and advertisement was later formalized into a single datasheet that was called “Time Saver Standards of Advertised Products.” Unlike Architectural Graphic Standards, these plates had a format that was more a hybrid of the catalogue and the reference manual, displaying both photographs of the manufacturer’s product and data on dimensions on the same sheet.

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29. “Planning the Small General Hospital,” Architectural Record 86 (December 1939), p. 78. 30. The sequential organization of the original Architectural Graphic Standards was maintained until the ﬁfth edition of 1956. Since 1970, it has been organized according to classiﬁcations based on building trade or specialty devised by the Construction Speciﬁcation Institute. This change in sequence has been emphasized in George Barnett Johnson, “Gardens of Architecture: Reﬂections on the Plates of Architectural Graphic Standards,” Proceedings of the 77th Annual Meeting of the ACSA (Washington, DC: Association of Collegiate Schools of Architecture, 1989). Barnett believes that the ﬁrst four editions of Graphic Standards retained an analogical structure that served as a bridge between draftsman and builder. His analysis is unfortunately fraught with romantic divisions between a pre-Enlightenment organic practice and the mechanized practice of the modern age: “Because Graphic Standards was, metaphorically, the building unfolded, anyone familiar with construction knew where to open the book. The graphic plates, which were handdrawn and hand-lettered, still convey the warmth of their humanity, which is their main clue to an architecture of material reality” (p. 225). In my judgment, however, the sequence in both Architectural Graphic Standards and Time Saver Standards is inconsequential because the actual guide to their content is provided by the extensive cross-reference and alphabetical index at the end of the manuals. See also Kent Keegan and Gil Snyder, “The Crisis of the Construction Pattern Book,” in Marc Angelil, ed., On Architecture, the City and Technology, Proceedings of the 8th Annual ACSA Technology Conference (Washington, DC: Association of Collegiate Schools of Architecture, 1991), p. 99, which equates the emergence of the modern reference manual with the decline of poetic thinking. 31. Harold Sleeper, preface to Building Planning and Design Standards (New York: John Wiley and Sons, 1955), p. ix. 32. Emerson Goble, “Seventy-Five Years of Pushing Forward for Better Architecture,” Architectural Record 140 (July 1966), p. 212. 33. Ibid. 34. “The ‘New Architecture’ and the New ‘American Architect,’” American Architect 136 (November 1929), p. 20. 35. See Architectural Record 82 (July 1937), p. 5, and “Why Is Architectural Record Published in Three Sections?,” Architectural Record 82 (July 1937), p. 96. 36. The general practice of separating advertising and main text is discussed in Robert Craig, “Ideological Aspects of Publication Design,” Design Issues 6 (Spring 1990).

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37. In the decade before the depression, magazine advertising revenues more than tripled to reach the sum of $200 million. The emergence of the advertising profession and the transformation of the strategies and forms of advertising have been examined in Roland Marchand, Advertising the American Dream: Making Way for Modernity, 1920–1940 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1985), and Stuart Ewen, Captains of Consciousness: Advertising and the Social Roots of the Consumer Culture (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1976). 38. Ewen, Captains of Consciousness, p. 37. Ewen’s interpretation provided a framework for other studies such as Mike Featherstone, “The Body in Consumer Culture,” Theory, Culture and Society 1 (September 1982), and Marchand, Advertising the American Dream. It is a convincing thesis supported by Walter Dill Scott, who wrote in The Psychology of Advertising (Boston: Small, Maynard and Co., 1913), that “advertising has as its one function the inﬂuencing of human minds” (p. 2). 39. “Standard Baths” and Plumbing Fixtures (Standard Company, 1911), p. 5. For a discussion of the changing modes of representation in the trade catalogues, see Herbert Gottfried, “Building the Picture: Trading on the Imagery of Production and Design,” Winterthur Portfolio 27 (Winter 1992). 40. For a discussion of the representational techniques of mass circulation women’s magazines, see the following studies by Sally Stein: “The Composite Photographic Image and the Composition of Consumer Ideology,” Art Journal 41 (Spring 1981); “The Graphic Ordering of Desire: Modernization of a Middle-Class Women’s Magazine, 1914–1939,” Heresies 18 (1985); and “‘Good Fences Make Good Neighbors’: American Resistance to Photomontage between the Wars,” in Matthew Teitelbaum, ed., Montage and Modern Life, 1919–1942 (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1992). 41. “The Planning of Public Buildings,” Architectural Forum 59 (September 1933), p. 164. 42. Ibid. (my emphasis). 43. Editorial foreword to “Building Types: Comprehensive Reference Studies on Design and Planning,” Architectural Record 81 ( January 1937), p. 3 (BT) (my emphasis). 44. John Allan Hornsby and Richard E. Schmidt, The Modern Hospital (Philadelphia: W. B. Saunders, 1913), p. 41. 45. Ibid., pp. 40–51.

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46. In the case of American Architect, I was unable to discover any collection of letters in archival sources and had to rely on the letters that the journal chose to publish in its September 1929 issue. In the case of Record, in late December 1929 Kocher sent letters to solicit responses from practicing architects “concerning the value of the new installment and suggestions for further improvement,” particularly on the “method of presentation.” Some of these letters were included in “Research Applied to Architecture: A New Editorial Policy,” Loeb Library, Special Collections. Because of the nature of this document, the letters included were primarily positive responses. However, as Robert Benson reports (based on his interview with Theodore Larson), there were numerous letters that “vehemently protest[ed] changes in the organization and content of the magazine” (Benson, “Douglas Putnam Haskell,” pp. 176–177). Another resource that provides insight to the architectural community’s reaction to the changing policies and format of the journals is the more than 120 letters commenting on a special January 1935 Forum number on school planning (“Letters,” Architectural Forum 60 [March 1935], pp. i–xvi). 47. Letter to editor, American Architect 136 (November 1929), p. 20. 48. Letter to editor, Architectural Record 82 (December 1937), p. 5. 49. Kenneth Kingsley Stowell, “The Editors’ Forum,” Architectural Forum 58 ( January 1933), p. 10.

9 The Dislocation of the Architectural Discipline 1. Paul Nelson, “A Method of Procedure in Architectural Design,” Architectural Record 81 (June 1937), p. 54. For a review of Nelson’s architectural work, see Terence Riley and Joseph Abrams, eds., The Filter of Reason: The Work of Paul Nelson (New York: Rizzoli, 1990). 2. Nelson, “A Method of Procedure in Architectural Design,” p. 54. 3. W. P. de Saussure, Jr., “Hotel Front Ofﬁce Equipment,” Architectural Forum 51 (December 1929), p. 737. These perceptions of the diagram were reafﬁrmed in the 1960s, most conspicuously by Christopher Alexander in his Notes on the Synthesis of Form and in the urban design theories of Donald Appleyard and Kevin Lynch, exempliﬁed in The View from the Road. It is a concept that remains persistent in the study of design methods, as in Stephen M. Ervin, “The Structure and Function of Diagrams in Environmental Design: A Computational Inquiry” (Ph.D. dissertation, MIT, 1989), in which the author writes:

Notes to Pages 239–241

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“Diagrams appear at the threshold between the graphical and the nongraphical. Though diagrams themselves are graphical artifacts, the information they contain is not essentially graphical; it is equally in some propositional (verbal/textual/logical/symbolic) form. Since diagrams are graphical, graphical inferences may lead to a reformulation of the diagram, as part of an argument, or chain of reasoning. Likewise, since they are graphical, they may be further developed into more pictorial drawings” (p. 44). This notion of the diagram can also be found in recent architectural polemics, such as in Ben van Berkel and Caroline Bos, Move, vol. 3 (Amsterdam: UN Studio, 1999), in which the authors claim that “the diagram is not a metaphor or paradigm, but an ‘abstract machine’ that is both content and expression. This distinguishes diagrams from indexes, icons and symbols. The meanings of diagrams are not ﬁxed. The diagrammatic or abstract machine is not representational. It does not represent an existing object or situation, but is instrumental in the production of new ones” (p. 21). See also a special issue on “Diagrammania,” Daidalos 74 (2000), in which Gerrit Confurius states in his editorial that “the diagram frees the designing process of formal decision, making room for the necessary preliminary work. It delays the problem of form, postponing its completion as long as possible. It frees design from a tendency toward ﬁxed typologies and permits the collective to be conceived anew” (p. 5). 4. Nelson, “A Method of Procedure in Architectural Design,” p. 54. 5. With almost no activity in other sectors of the building industry, the 1930s was one of the few periods in American architecture when housing was at the center of its attention. Housing emerged as an architectural issue after the depression, when government-related projects, large private real estate developments backed by the newly established Federal Housing Administration, and private corporations looking toward industrialized housing as an outlet for production provided opportunities for architectural activity. Though focused on the work of the European émigrés, Richard Pommer, “The Architecture of Urban Housing in the United States during the Early 1930s,” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 37 (December 1978), remains the best study of housing in the 1930s. 6. Lewis Mumford, “The American Dwelling House,” Architect and Engineer 101–102 ( June 1930), p. 89. 7. John Hancock Callender, “Introduction to Studies of Family Living” ( John B. Pierce Foundation, 1943), p. 5. 8. “Sample Plans,” American Architect (February 1935) and Architectural Record (March 1935), and U.S. Federal Emergency Administration of Public Works, Sample Book (Washington, DC, May 1935). The Housing Division insisted that these plans were merely guidelines, studies toward the “establishment of standards of planning rather than

Notes to Pages 241–245

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standardization of plan.” As Wolfgang Rudorf points out, the standard plans formed a system that would produce uniformly controllable and predictable results in each project regardless of its individual context. They also provided the scientiﬁc basis for governmental authority to impose its notions of the right way of living (Wolfgang Rudorf, “The Housing Division of the Public Works Administration in its Architectural Context” [master’s thesis, MIT, 1984], p. 11). Despite this critical evaluation, Rudorf also notes that because of the need for immediate results and the lack of experience within the architectural profession, the provision of this standard handbook of reproducible models may have been inevitable (ibid., p. 56). For a discussion of contemporary responses to the sample plan, see Pommer, “The Architecture of Urban Housing in the United States during the Early 1930s,” pp. 242–243, and Richard Plunz, A History of Housing in New York City: Dwelling Type and Social Change in the American Metropolis (New York: Columbia University Press, 1990), pp. 225–227. 9. The article itself did not indicate the author, but its format was similar to other reference articles that Kocher coauthored with Albert Frey for Record during the mid-1930s. In addition, the inventory of the A. Lawrence Kocher Collection, Colonial Williamsburg Foundation Library, lists this section as Kocher’s writing. 10. “Apartment House Planning Requirements,” Architectural Record 77 (March 1935), pp. 171–172. 11. Oleg Devorn, “Low Cost City Housing Units” (master’s thesis, MIT, 1934). Though the diagrams were all illustrated within the text, as was customary with student theses, ﬁnal drawings were submitted separately as a large, water-colored projet rendu. 12. Allmon Fordyce and William I. Hamby, “Small Houses for Civilized Americans,” Architectural Forum 64 (January 1936), p. 1. As the letters to the editor in the following months indicate, the article apparently raised a substantial amount of interest. One letter on Fordyce and Hamby’s article stated, “Here at last we have a pattern of approach for deductive analysis instead of a portfolio for ‘inspiration’ or (more boldly stated) copying” (letter from George R. Metzger, Architectural Forum 64 [March 1936], p. 9). It is also interesting that this method for speculative housing received a positive response by Lewis Mumford, betraying how much he was immersed in the rationalist discourse of the 1930s: “The article on small speculative housing interested me immensely, because it mentioned some of the things that I have been trying to hammer into my friends who are designing one of the new communities” (ibid.). 13. Fordyce and Hamby, “Small Houses for Civilized Americans,” p. 8.

Notes to Pages 250–252

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14. Antoine-Chrysostome Quatremère de Quincy, “Type,” in Encyclopédie méthodique (1825), translated in Oppositions 8 (Spring 1977), p. 148. 15. “A symbol scheme is analog if syntactically dense; a system is analog if syntactically and semantically dense. Analog systems are thus both syntactically and semantically undifferentiated in the extreme” (Nelson Goodman, Languages of Art [Indianapolis: Hackett, 1976], p. 160). The analog is contrasted with the digital scheme, which is “discontinuous throughout; and in a digital system the characters of such a scheme are one-one correlated with compliance-classes of a similarly discontinuous set” (p. 161). 16. Klaus Herdeg, The Decorated Diagram: Harvard Architecture and the Failure of the Bauhaus Legacy (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1983). Herdeg’s book, though dealing with a different period in American architecture, is an important inﬂuence and supplement to the arguments of this book and, in particular, this chapter on the plan as diagram. In relation to my study, Herdeg’s incisive critique of the architecture of the 1940s and 1950s can be read as an analysis of how not to approach the discourse of the diagram. Though an analysis of building, his comparison of Marcel Breuer’s MoMA house of 1949 and Le Corbusier’s Errázuris house especially helped me think through the different ways of approaching the diagram (pp. 5–13). 17. Ibid., p. 48. 18. Fordyce and Hamby, “Small Houses for Civilized Americans,” p. 22. In a curious moment of anachronistic retreat, they added that true “style” was something quite different from mere appearance. This issue, however, would be deliberately avoided because it was deemed too “complicated and philosophical.” The appearance of the house was then a totally different problem from the rational problem of planning: “The question is not whether people want Traditional or Modern Types, but how many people want each type. The answer should be a reasonable indication of the number of houses to be built in each type” (ibid.). 19. Herdeg, The Decorated Diagram, p. 53. 20. Ibid. 21. Charles G. Ramsey and Harold R. Sleeper, preface to Architectural Graphic Standards, 1st ed. (New York: John Wiley and Sons, 1932) (my emphasis). 22. Le Corbusier, “The Signiﬁcance of the Garden-City of Weissenhof, Stuttgart,” Architecture Vivante (Spring/Summer 1928), translated in Oppositions 15/16 (1979),

Notes to Pages 253–255

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pp. 201–203. Le Corbusier makes it clear that the standard type is not to be applied to the plan: “I am not saying that one should seek to bring industrial progress to the plans of new houses, but a new system with a structure rich enough in consequences to be able to determine an inﬁnite variety of plans, to respond to the multiple modalities of life, to respond to widely differing conceptions of existence, to respond to small programs, medium or large ones” (p. 199). 23. Giulio Carlo Argan, “On the Typology of Architecture,” Architectural Design 33 (December 1963), p. 565. Based on the observations of this chapter, Argan’s statement that “‘type’ arises at the moment at which the art of the past no longer appears to a working artist as a conditioning model” seems most perceptive (ibid.). 24. H. Van Buren Magonigle, “The Upper Ground 4,” Pencil Points 15 (September 1934), p. 447. 25. Peter Larsen, “Writing about Photographs,” in Lars Kiel Bertelsen et al., eds., Symbolic Imprints: Essays on Photography and Visual Culture (Aarhus: Aarhus University Press, 1999), p. 21. 26. Roland Barthes, “The Photographic Message,” in Image, Music, Text (1977), reprinted in A Barthes Reader, ed. Susan Sontag (New York: Noonday Press, 1982), pp. 196–197. 27. In relation to the discussion that will follow, this notion can be found in Victor Burgin, “Looking at Photographs,” in Victor Burgin, ed., Thinking Photography (London: Macmillan, 1982), p. 189, where Burgin writes, “the primary suturing instance of the discourse of still photography takes the form of an identiﬁcation of the subject with the camera position.” This statement should again be considered in direct relation to Walter Benjamin’s notion that “the audience takes the position of the camera” (“The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction” [1936], translated in Benjamin, Illuminations [New York: Schocken, 1969], p. 228). 28. In the case of modern architecture, this interest has been led by studies on Le Corbusier, in particular by the work of Beatriz Colomina and Daniel Naegele. For instance, Beatriz Colomina has stated that “the function of photography is not to reﬂect, in a mirror image, architecture as it happens to be built. Construction is a signiﬁcant moment in the process, but by no means its end product. Photography and layout construct another architecture in the space of the page” (Colomina, Privacy and Publicity: Modern Architecture as Mass Media [Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1994], p. 118). In a similar vein, Daniel Naegele views photography as “a metaphor for Modern architecture . . . photography divorced image from object. As such, it not only ‘spoke to Modern architec-

Notes to Pages 255–257

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ture’s condition,’ but paved a path ‘towards a new architecture’” (“Guest Editorial,” History of Photography 22 [Summer 1998], p. 98). 29. The best historical survey of architectural photography is provided by Cervin Robinson and Joel Herschman, Architecture Transformed: A History of the Photography of Buildings from 1838 to the Present (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1987). See also Martin Caiger-Smith and David Chandler, Site Work: Architecture in Photography since Early Modernism (London: Photographers’ Gallery, 1991); and special issues on architectural photography in Daidalos 66 (December 1997), History of Photography 22 (Summer 1998), and Harvard Design Magazine (Fall 1998). 30. The list of Yerbury’s published photographs is too vast to mention. A full bibliography is provided in Frank Yerbury, Itinerant Cameraman: Architectural Photographs, 1920–35 (London: AA Publications, 1987). 31. Arthur W. Colton, review of Examples of Modern French Architecture, by Howard Robertson and Frank Yerbury, Architectural Record 65 (February 1929), p. 206. 32. Robinson and Herschman, Architecture Transformed, p. 103. 33. Howard Robertson and Frank Yerbury, Examples of Modern French Architecture (London: Ernest Benn, 1928), p. 5. 34. This aspect of Le Corbusier’s work has been noted by many of his commentators, from Sigfried Giedion’s claim that “neither space nor plastic form counts, only RELATION and INTERPENETRATION!” (Building in France, Building in Iron, Building in Ferro-Concrete [1928; translation, Santa Monica: Getty Center, 1995], p. 169) to Beatriz Colomina’s notion of “the deliberate dispersal of the eye” in his villas of the twenties (Privacy and Publicity, p. 134). In my opinion, the most articulate description has been provided in Colin Rowe’s classic analysis of the villa at Garches; Rowe points out that in its interior, “central focus is consistently broken up, concentration at any one point is disintegrated, and the dismembered fragments of the center become peripheral dispersion of incident, a serial installation of interest around the extremeties of the plan” (“The Mathematics of the Ideal Villa,” Architectural Review [1947], reprinted in Rowe, The Mathematics of the Ideal Villa and Other Essays [Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1976], p. 12). Though he was describing the spatial experience of the physical building rather than its representation in a photograph, Rowe deftly conveys the roaming, dislocated vision that Le Corbusier’s work demands. 35. Andrew Higgott, “Frank Yerbury and the Search for the New Style,” in Frank Yerbury, Itinerant Cameraman, p. 8.

Notes to Pages 258–263

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36. Magonigle, “The Upper Ground 4,” p. 447. 37. Sheldon Cheney, The New World Architecture (1930; reprint, New York: AMS Press, 1969), p. 15. 38. Ibid, p. 13. 39. Colomina, Privacy and Publicity, p. 210. The difference between my interpretation and Colomina’s is caused by the different ﬁelds in which we situate The International Style. While I am interested in the book’s place in the discipline, her interest lies primarily in its function within the wider ﬁeld of cultural discourse in America. 40. Quoted and reported in Terence Riley, The International Style: Exhibition 15 and the Museum of Modern Art (New York: Rizzoli, 1992), p. 12. 41. Giedion, Building in France, unpaged preliminary remark. This remark has also been noted by Stanislaus von Moos, who has further pointed out a statement in Giedion’s Befreites Wohnen that carried a similar gist: “It is quite all right if the author, for once, cannot use words in order to say what he has to say, but is forced to express himself visually. That is—in this case—to use lay-out and comparisons (in a positive sense) for clariﬁcation rather than comments” (quoted in von Moos, “The Visualized Machine Age,” in Thomas P. Hughes and Agatha Hughes, eds., Lewis Mumford: Public Intellectual [New York: Oxford University Press, 1992], p. 217). 42. Sigfried Giedion, “The Status of Contemporary Architecture,” Architectural Record 75 (May 1934), p. 378. 43. Sigfried Giedion, Space, Time and Architecture (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1941), p. 404 and p. 849. 44. We may refer to Giedion’s statement in Building in France, when describing Le

Corbusier’s Pessac estate, that “still photography does not capture them clearly. One would have to accompany the eye as it moves; only ﬁlm can make the new architecture intelligible” (p. 176). 45. “The observer does not allow himself to be inﬂuenced by the compositional geometry of the building, but rather lets his gaze constantly change its perspective in order to obtain insights that are, perhaps unavoidably, unintentional. By this means, Giedion created a perceptive apparatus that was independent of the particular object. This apparatus can

Notes to Pages 263–268

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move in any direction, can be accelerated or decelerated, can enlarge or diminish, isolate or construct relationships.” (Sokratis Georgiadis, Sigfried Giedion: An Intellectual Biography [1989; translation, Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1993], p. 57.) Georgiadis argues that Giedion is able to create this apparatus by exchanging “the roles of the object and the observer.” This is a penetrating analysis, but one that must be debated in terms of how this apparatus is constructed and the degree of autonomy one may award it. 46. Constantine-Désiré Despradelle (1862–1912) was Rotch Professor of Architecture at MIT between 1893 and 1912. He entered the École in 1882, and was part of Jean Louis Pascal’s atelier. He received his diploma in 1886 and was awarded Premier Second Grand Prix de Rome in 1889, a year when no Premier Grand Prix was awarded. Unfortunately, little has been written on his life and work. For more on Despradelle, see Kimberly Shilland, “On the Work of Désiré Despradelle” (master’s thesis, Boston University, 1989). 47. This entry to the Phoebe Hearst Competition by Despradelle and Stephan Codman was awarded third prize in a ﬁeld of 150. I am indebted to Werner Oechslin, “The WellTempered Sketch,” Daidalos 5 (September 1982), for bringing this drawing and others by Despradelle in the MIT Museum Collections to my attention. In relation to my description of its multiple modes of representation, we may here add Oechslin’s observation of its different drawing techniques: “secondary elements are outlined in the form of a sketch while more important areas, such as the auditorium itself, are already given concrete architectural form” (p. 110). 48. In relation to the notion of the architect as mapmaker, Aldo Rossi has provided an interesting quotation from Gilbert Ryle’s Concept of Mind, in which the philosopher talks about the relation between the objective rules of mapmaking and the subjective world of the mapmaker: “analogy is constituted by things that have already been apprehended by means of a process of which only the result is reported. . . . ‘Contours are abstractions’ or ‘Contour lines are abstract map-symbols’ is a proper useful instruction for a map-referee to give to would-be readers and makers of maps. ‘Contour lines are the outward expressions of the mapmaker’s mental acts of conceiving heights (in feet) above sea-level’ suggests that reading a map entails penetrating the impenetrable shadow-life of some anonymous surveyor.” (Aldo Rossi, A Scientiﬁc Autobiography [Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1981], p. 71.) Whereas Rossi uses this quotation to move toward an understanding of the nature of the architectural project, I would also employ it to think about the nature of the “anonymous” subject. 49. This formulation of the building not only as object but also as medium has been inspired, on the one hand, by the insights on Le Corbusier of Colin Rowe, Klaus Herdeg,

Notes to Pages 269–273

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and Beatriz Colomina, and on the other hand by the work of Sokratis Georgiadis and Detlef Mertins on Sigfried Giedion. Though these are admittedly different strains of inﬂuence, which Rowe and Robert Slutzky have made famous through their comparison of the different “transparencies,” and which Mertins has recently debated, their possible intersection is what makes the issue so fascinating for understanding the disciplines of modern architecture. I am indebted to Mertins’s many insights on Giedion, particularly in relation to Benjamin’s reading of Bauen in Frankreich. However, I do not agree with his assessment of Rowe and Slutzky’s concept of transparency as “the aesthetic pleasure to be derived from the autonomous self-reﬂexive and self-transparent architectural object” (Mertins, “Transparencies Yet to Come: Sigfried Giedion and the Prehistory of Architectural Modernity” [Ph.D. dissertation, Princeton University, 1996], pp. 316–317). 50. Susan Sontag, On Photography (New York: Penguin, 1979), p. 87. 51. Ibid. 52. Benjamin, “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction,” p. 234. 53. Ibid. 54. Burgin, “Looking at Photographs,” p. 191. 55. Ibid. Burgin is echoing Benjamin’s sentiments in “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction,” where he writes: “He feels he must seek a determined way to them. At the same time picture magazines begin to put up signposts for him, right ones or wrong ones, no matter. For the ﬁrst time, captions have become obligatory” (p. 226). This translation is taken not from Illuminations but from J. Hillis Miller, Illustration (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1992), pp. 26–28, which also comments on the supplementary relation between photograph and text. 56. Giedion, Space, Time and Architecture, pp. 5–6. Giedion’s quotation and its invocation of photography can also be read through El Lissitzky’s statement that the futurists “did not want to stand in front of the object but to stand in it. They fragmented the single perspective center and scattered the pieces over the whole plane of the picture. However, they failed to bring this process to its logical conclusion: the tools of the painter are inadequate for that purpose, the photographic camera would have to be used.” (El Lissitzky, “A. and Pangeometry,” Europa Almanach [1925], translated in Lissitzky, Russia: An Architecture for World Revolution [Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1970], p. 144.) This relation was brought to my attention by Bruno Reichlin, “Interrelations between Concept, Representation and Built Architecture,” Daidalos 1 (September 1981).

Notes to Pages 273–274

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57. Giedion, Space, Time and Architecture, p. 581 (my emphasis). 58. Mumford, Technics and Civilization (New York: Harcourt, Brace, 1934), pp. 338–339. Mumford’s aversion to photomontage has been noted by Sally Stein, “‘Good Fences Make Good Neighbors’: American Resistance to Photomontage between the Wars,” in Matthew Teitelbaum, ed., Montage and Modern Life, 1919–1942 (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1992), p. 134. 59. The assessment of Giedion’s position is a central issue in modern architecture. The following evaluation by Georgiadis is worth quoting in full: “Giedion did not consider himself obliged, as did Le Corbusier, to refer to the independent position of architecture, nor did he ﬁnd it necessary to imagine a dematerialised architecture as did Moholy-Nagy. Finally, he differed from the Futurists in that he did not need to apotheosise the aestheticisation of iron and reinforced concrete. Giedion appears, on the one hand, to have been able to free himself from such difﬁculties, only on the other hand to be confronted with new ones. These difﬁculties were probably due to his less-than-precise deﬁnition of ‘vision,’ which he limited to the meagre formulation ‘instinctual drive.’” (Sigfried Giedion, p. 69.) Though I would agree with Georgiadis’s appraisal of Giedion’s position vis-à-vis Le Corbusier, Moholy-Nagy, and the futurists, for an explanation of Giedion’s own difﬁculties and contradictions I would rather subscribe to Detlef Mertins’s view that they are “an unresolved problematic” essential to Giedion’s work: “Giedion’s transparency was locked in tension with its opposite, opacity, not only because the historical path to a fully transparent world had not yet reached its goal, but also because this end (be it proleptically or ﬁnally conceived) was characterized as a self-overcoming, an idea that remained dependent on what it appeared to exclude. For Giedion, transparency was not associated with rationality per se, but with the sublation of the antinomy between reason and feeling, rational and irrational, conscious and unconscious.” (Mertins, “Transparencies Yet to Come,” p. 8.) 60. This did not go unnoticed; Magonigle derisively notes that Kiesler’s project was “illustrated by page after page of full-size photographs with the popular absence of margins except at the foot of the page for captions” (H. Van Buren Magonigle, “The Upper Ground 2,” Pencil Points 15 [July 1934], pp. 344–345). 61. In relation to my comment, the most relevant observations on Kiesler’s tectonics can be found in William W. Braham, “What’s Hecuba to Him? On Kiesler and the Knot,” Assemblage 36 (August 1998). Braham notes that Kiesler “struggled to discover some true correspondence between architectural propositions and their appearance, to reconcile the search for authenticity with its masked expression in architecture” (p. 13).

Notes to Pages 274–283

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62. Rosalind Krauss, “The Photographic Conditions of Surrealism,” in The Originality of the Avant-Garde and Other Modernist Myths (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1985), p. 96. 63. John Tagg, “The Discontinuous City: Picturing and the Discursive Field” (1992), reprinted in Norman Bryson, Michael Ann Holly, and Keith Moxley, eds., Visual Culture: Images and Interpretations (Hanover: Wesleyan University Press, 1994), p. 91.

Epilogue 1. Walter Benjamin, “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction,” translated in Benjamin, Illuminations (New York: Schocken, 1969), p. 223. 2. Ibid., pp. 221–233. My sense of the relevance that Benjamin’s magician and surgeon have for modern architecture is of course indebted to Manfredo Tafuri’s original invocation of them in Theories and History of Architecture (1976; translation, New York: Harper and Row, 1980), pp. 31–33. This metaphor has once again gained prominence through the work of K. Michael Hays (particularly on Hannes Meyer), Beatriz Colomina, and Detlef Mertins. 3. “The Architect in Action,” Architectural Record 89 (March 1941), p. 49. 4. “Architect and Educator Work Together,” Architectural Record 89 (March 1941), p. 67. 5. John Summerson, “The Case for a Theory of Modern Architecture” (1957), reprinted in The Unromantic Castle and Other Essays (London: Thames and Hudson, 1990), p. 263. 6. Ibid., pp. 257–263. 7. Ibid., pp. 263–264. 8. Ibid., p. 264. 9. Ibid., p. 266. 10. Ibid. 11. The demolition of the Pruitt-Igoe apartments, for example, became an all too convenient symbol of modern architecture’s failure to fulﬁll its promise as the surgeon of

Notes to Pages 283–287

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America’s social afﬂictions. See Oscar Newman, Defensible Spaces (New York: Macmillan, 1972); Peter Blake, Form Follows Fiasco: Why Modern Architecture Hasn’t Worked (Boston: Little, Brown, 1974), p. 155; Charles Jencks, The Language of Post-Modern Architecture (New York: Rizzoli, 1977), p. 9; Colin Rowe and Fred Koetter, Collage City (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1978), p. 7; and Tom Wolfe, From Bauhaus to Our House (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1981), pp. 80–81. For an insightful discussion of the formation of Pruitt-Igoe as the mythical symbol of the failure of modernism, see Katherine G. Bristol, “The PruittIgoe Myth,” Journal of Architectural Education 44 (May 1991). 12. Frederick Ackerman, “A Note on the Problem of Site and Unit Planning” (New York City Housing Authority, 1937), p. 8. 13. Summerson, “The Case for a Theory of Modern Architecture,” p. 266. 14. For a detailed description of Eisenman’s recent employment of the computer, see Luca Galofaro, Digital Eisenman: An Ofﬁce of the Electronic Era (Basel: Birkhäuser, 1999). 15. Peter Eisenman, Investigations in Architecture (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Graduate School of Design, 1986), p. 22. 16. Peter Eisenman, Diagram Diaries (London: Thames and Hudson, 1999), p. 35 (my emphasis). 17. Greg Lynn, “Forms of Expression: The Protofunctional Potential of Diagrams in Architectural Design,” Croquis 72[I] (1995), p. 18. 18. Ben van Berkel and Caroline Bos, “Diagrams,” ANY 23 (1998), p. 20. For a collection of essays on recent diagrammatic practice, see the special features on the diagram in ANY 23 (1998) and Daidalos 74 (2000). 19. Toyo Ito, “Diagram Architecture,” Croquis 77 (1996), p. 19. 20. Ibid., p. 20. 21. Ibid., p. 22. 22. Ben van Berkel and Caroline Bos, Move, vol. 3 (Amsterdam: UN Studio, 1999), p. 21. 23. For example, Stan Allen invokes Friedrich Kittler’s analysis of media to claim that the diagram is not an issue of “translation” but one of “transposition” (Stan Allen, “Diagrams

Notes to Pages 288–290

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Matter,” ANY 23 [1998], p. 17). Though Kittler’s arguments are interesting, I must ask whether there has ever been architecture that was simply a matter of translation. As noted, functionalist discourse claims to translate, but when we are talking about the architectural discipline, are translation and transposition a real set of alternatives? Despite my critical view of recent diagrammatic practice, I also recognize that its advocates are certainly capable of bringing many insights to the diagram and the discipline. Indeed, reading someone like Stan Allen on diagrams is an interesting and enlightening experience. Allen understands, for example, that “the workings of the diagram belong properly to architecture’s history and its own understanding of itself as a discipline,” and furthermore has had the historical acuity to point to K. Michael Hays’s analysis of Hannes Meyer’s Petersschule as an example of the “abstract machine” at work. Despite such perspicacity, the force of his arguments is weakened when he strives to place his own diagrams outside of these historical conditions by invoking the new conditions of “exhaustion” (ibid., pp. 18–19). 24. Benjamin, “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction,” p. 218. For instance, in the case of ﬁlm, Benjamin includes in the idea of the camera not only the set, equipment, lighting machinery, and staff assistants, but also the way ﬁlm was produced, distributed, and consumed (pp. 232–233). 25. This is evident in the last passages of “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction” but is also expressed in his quotation from Karl Kraus, who wrote that their era was one “when precisely what is happening could not be imagined, and when what must happen can no longer be imagined, and if it could it would not happen” (Walter Benjamin, “Karl Kraus,” translated in Reﬂections [New York: Harcourt, Brace, Jovanovich, 1978], pp. 242–243). 26. Benjamin, “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction,” p. 242. 27. Detlef Mertins, “Walter Benjamin’s Glimpses of the Unconscious: New Architecture and New Optics,” History of Photography 22 (Summer 1998), p. 122. 28. Benjamin, “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction,” p. 242.

Illustration Credits

1.18, 1.19, 2.1, 2.3, 2.8, 2.12, 9.8, 9.9, 9.10, 9.18, 9.20

Courtesy of the MIT Museum 5.3

© Constantin Brancusi/ADAGP, Paris—SACK, Seoul, 2001 © Marcel Duchamp/ADAGP, Paris—SACK, Seoul, 2001 © Fernand Léger/ADAGP, Paris—SACK, Seoul, 2001 © Thomas Benton/Licensed by VAGA, New York, NY—SACK, Seoul, 2001 9.13, 9.14

Courtesy of The Architectural Association © Charles Édouard Le Corbusier/ADAGP, Paris—SACK, Seoul, 2001 7.25, 8.7, 8.8, 8.9, 8.10, 9.7

Reprinted by permission of John Wiley and Sons, Inc. 9.17

“Densmore Shute Bends the Shaft” © Harold & Esther Edgerton Foundation, 2001, courtesy of Palm Press, Inc. 9.2, 9.3, 9.21, 9.22, 9.23, 9.24, 9.25, 9.26

Courtesy of The Pennsylvania State University, Special Collections Library

Index

Academic profession, 14, 19–23, 25, 37, 72, 78–79, 82–83, 114, 159, 279 Academic system. See Beaux-Arts system Ackerman, Frederick, 59, 79, 115–116, 118–126, 128–129, 132–134, 138, 140–141, 151, 155, 200–201, 203, 208, 213, 217, 250, 252, 283, 288, 289, 325(nn3,4), 328(n31), 329(n42), 353(n22) and Architectural Graphic Standards, 126, 200–201, 203, 208, 213, 217, 353(n22) Beaux-Arts system, critique of, 79, 119– 120, 124–125 concept of machine, 128–129 on machine aesthetics and industrial design, 128–130, 133 New York Housing Authority, work in, 126; ﬁg. 5.1 on planning, 126–128 on program, 126 Adorno, Theodor W., 122, 140–141 Advertising, 15, 23, 32, 34, 146, 201–202, 208, 212, 225–229, 234; ﬁgs. 1.15–1.16, 8.19–8.22 classiﬁed, 32; ﬁg. 1.16 format in architectural journals, 32, 34, 225–229, 234; ﬁgs. 1.15–1.16, 8.19–8.22 tailing, 225–226; ﬁg. 8.19 Advice books, 14–16, 18, 177 Alexander, Christopher, 281 Allen, Stan, 369(n23) Amar, Jules, ﬁg. 7.1 American Architect, 74, 82, 84, 143–146, 158, 159, 182, 189, 199, 214, 216, 218–219, 221,

225–226, 230, 234, 241, 334(n4), 354(n28); ﬁgs. 7.18, 7.25, 8.12–8.14, 8.19, 9.5 consumerist project of, 158 editorial policy, changes in, 143–146, 218–219, 221, 225 format, 145, 219, 221, 234; ﬁgs. 8.13–8.14, 8.19 reference data, 199, 214, 216; ﬁgs. 7.18, 8.12, 9.5 American Architect and Building News (AABN), 30 typical layout sequence, 32, 34; ﬁgs. 1.12–1.16 American Architecture (Kimball), 95, 109 American Institute of Architects (AIA), 12–13, 20, 79–82, 84, 94, 118, 120, 146, 309(n7). See also Journal of the AIA Committee on Community Planning, 118 Post-War Committee on Architectural Practice, 79, 82, 84, 118–120, 147, 325(n4), 327(n16) reforms of, 79–82 Structural Service Department, 80 American Vignola (Ware), 41, 283 Analogical system, Beaux-Arts discipline as, 46, 56, 72–73, 248, 253, 264 Analogue, architectural representation as, 56, 197, 254 Analytical sketch, ﬁgs. 2.6, 2.9 Analytique, 41, 43, 46, 51, 64, 102–105, 250, 252; ﬁgs. 2.1, 2.5 demise of, 102–105 Anderson, Stanford, 4, 291(n2), 292(n7)

Index

Anthropometrical data. See Body Applied Motion Study (Gilbreth), ﬁgs. 7.2, 7.9–7.10 Archaeology of Knowledge (Foucault), 291(n1) Architect’s and Builder’s Pocket-Book (Kidder), 22 Architect’s Small House Service Bureau (ASHSB), 80–82, 114, 239; ﬁg. 3.2 Architectural Composition, 95; ﬁg. 2.11 Architectural Construction (Voss and Henry), 204, 208; ﬁgs. 8.4–8.6 Architectural Design (Pickering), 102–105, 251; ﬁgs. 2.5, 4.6–4.7 Architectural Details (Ramsey and Rouillion), 203 Architectural Forum, 30, 84–85, 87, 89, 143–144, 149, 158, 159, 179, 182, 218–219, 221, 224, 226, 229, 231, 234, 244, 278, 311(n28); ﬁgs. 1.17, 6.2, 7.17, 7.19, 8.1, 8.15–8.18, 8.21–8.22, 9.11 editorial policy, changes in, 84–85, 89, 143, 158, 218–219, 221 format, 84; ﬁgs. 1.17, 8.15–8.18 Architectural Graphic Standards (Ramsey and Sleeper), 126, 189, 198–204, 208–209, 212–214, 216–217, 242, 252–253, 290, 355(n30); ﬁgs. 8.7–8.10, 9.5 Architectural magazines. See Journals, architectural Architectural Record, 2, 3, 23, 25, 30, 32, 34, 58, 90, 95, 142–144, 148–152, 154–155, 157–159, 178, 187, 199, 214–216, 218–219, 221, 225–226, 229–234, 237, 241, 259, 268, 273, 279, 333(n1), 337(n19), 338(n22), 339(n23); ﬁgs. 6.1, 7.16, 7.21, 7.23–7.24, 8.23–8.24, 9.1–9.4, 9.12, 9.15–9.16, 9.21–9.26 Building Types section, 199, 216, 221, 224, 229

372

cognitive project of, 154, 159 editorial policy, changes in, 148–152, 154, 219, 221, 279, 338(n22) format, 32, 34, 148–150, 218–219, 221, 224, 226, 234, 273–274; ﬁgs. 8.20, 8.23–8.24, 9.15–9.16, 9.21–9.26 Technical News and Research, 150–153, 155, 158–159, 178, 219, 221 Architectural Reprint, 32 Architectural Review, 30, 40 Architectural Sketchbook, 29 Architectural Speciﬁcations (Sleeper), 217 Architectural Style (Edwards), 100; ﬁg. 4.4 Architecture, 253, 333(n1) Architecture of Humanism (Scott), 97–98 Argan, Giulio Carlo, 253, 361(n23) Atget, Eugène, 272 Atkinson, Robert, 95, 98, 304(n30) Autonomy of architecture, 19, 21–22, 25, 37 crisis of, 75, 78, 82, 111, 148 Barclay-Vesey building, 110, 126 Barney, J. Stewart, 52 Barr, Alfred, 323(nn54,56), 324(n58) Barthes, Roland, 254 Baths of Caracalla (Rome), 54; ﬁg. 2.9 Baudelaire, Charles, 21 Bauen in Frankreich, Bauen in Eisen, Bauen in Eisenbeton (Giedion), 259, 261 Bauer, Catherine, 117, 130–131 Beaux-Arts Institute of Design (earlier Beaux-Arts Society of Architects), 14, 45, 67, 95 Beaux-Arts system and the diagram, 213, 290 discursive formation of, 40–41, 43, 45–46, 67, 70–72, 250, 304(n28)

Index

École des Beaux-Arts, inﬂuence of, 13–14, 40 fragmentation of, 114, 163, 251–252, 287 function of portfolio in, 29, 46, 51 historical formation, 5–6, 14, 297(n20) resurgence during 1920s, 95, 97 theoretical basis, 57, 62, 64–65 Behaviorism, 165 Bell, Daniel, 164, 174 Benjamin, Asher, ﬁg. 1.3 Benjamin, Walter, 272, 279, 288–289, 361(n27) Benson, Robert, 154 Bentel, Paul, 82, 84, 308(n1) Bentham, Jeremy, 168–170, 197, 289, 344(n17), 349(n3); ﬁgs. 7.4–7.5. See also Panopticon Berkel, Ben van, 285, 287, 358(n3) Better Homes and Gardens, 156; ﬁg. 6.2 Bledstein, Burton J., 19, 72 Blomﬁeld, Reginald, 303(n26) Body anthropometrical data, 187, 216, 344(n19), 348(n39); ﬁg. 8.12 in classical mimesis, 64 ergonomic design, 171 functionalized, 171, 195, 197 as machine, 163–165, 174, 195; ﬁg. 7.1 metaphor of, 165, 186, 196 requirements, 185, 187, 209, 240, 280 spatial, 192–193, 195, 209 standard, 172, 187, 189, 209; ﬁg. 8.8 Boring, William, 306(n43), 319(n29) Bos, Caroline, 285, 358(n3) Bosworth, Frank H., 104–105, 245 Brickbuilder, 30, 84, 143, 311(n28); ﬁgs. 2.13–2.14 Brown Decades (Mumford), 134, 258 Bubble diagram. See Diagram

373

Builder’s guides, 15, 22 Building Planning and Design Standards (Sleeper), 217 Burgin, Victor, 272–273, 361(n27) Burnham, Daniel, 22, 75 Business, architecture as, 75, 83, 106, 143, 145, 158 Callaghan, Jane, 192–195; ﬁgs. 7.26–7.28 Callender, John Hancock, 191, 195, 240 Camera. See Photography Captions, 2, 218, 273 “Case for a Theory of ‘Modern’ Architecture” (Summerson), 281 Catalogue, 8, 14–16, 18, 22–23, 75–76, 95, 149, 158, 199, 201–202, 208, 212, 217, 226–227; ﬁgs. 1.1, 1.5 catalogue problem, 23, 213 Chandler, Francis W., 202 Cheney, Sheldon, 258, 260 Chewning, John, 57 Choisy, Auguste, 51; ﬁg. 2.7 Circulation, 50, 90, 182, 186, 215, 280–281. See also Diagram: circulation diagram; Routing City beautiful movement, 22, 77 City planning, transformation during 1910s, 77 Clark, Clifford Edward, 156 Collins, Peter, 66, 153 Colomina, Beatriz, 34, 259, 332(n74), 361(n28), 362(n34), 365(n49) Colonial Williamsburg, 267, 274; ﬁgs. 9.21–9.22 Colquhoun, Alan, 5, 64, 100, 318(n19) Columbia University, 37, 57–58, 118, 306(n43), 319(n29) Committee on Technocracy, 116, 329(n42) Composite photographic image. See Photomontage

Index

Composite photographic text (composite layout), 228–229, 232, 234, 259, 272, 273 Composition, 41, 46, 57–62, 66, 70, 97–100, 102–107, 110, 114–115, 154, 163, 228–229, 232, 280, 284, 303(n27), 304(n30), 305(n37); ﬁg. 4.5 abstract composition (Robertson), 99–100, 102 Concours, 45 Conduct of Life (Mumford), 140 Construction Details (Chandler), 202 Construction handbooks, 22 Contracts, 3, 13, 15, 20, 25, 39 Conventional traditionalism (Popper), 109 Corbett, Harvey Wiley, 106, 109–111 Cornell University, 58, 118, 200, 203 Cram, Ralph Adams, 65, 70, 79 Cret, Paul Philippe, 39, 56–57, 72, 232 Cribs and cribbing, 47, 252, 257, 269 Croly, Herbert, 148 Croquis, 3, 278 Curtis, Nathaniel, 95, 99, 303(n26), 305(n37) Cyclegraph. See Diagram Davison, Robert, 151–158, 195, 238, 251, 338(n22), 339(n27); ﬁg. 6.1 Decorated diagram. See Diagram Delano, William Adams, 106 Deleuze, Gilles, 293(n10), 339(n3) Descriptive geometry, 51 Desmond, Harry W., 337(n19) Despradelle, Désiré, 62, 263–264, 268, 272, 364(n46); ﬁgs. 2.1, 2.3, 2.8, 2.12, 9.18, 9.20 Dessin, 52, 303(n27) Details of Building Construction (Martin), 202; ﬁg. 8.2 Developmental history. See History Devorn, Oleg, ﬁgs. 9.6–9.10

374

Dewey, John, 118–119 Diagram architectural diagram, 176–179, 184, 187, 193 in architectural journals, 229–232, 234 Beaux-Arts plan as, 56, 73, 250 bubble diagram, 187, 215, 239, 242, 247, 250–252; ﬁgs. 7.22, 8.11, 9.6 circulation diagram, 174, 177–178, 182, 184, 192; ﬁgs. 7.11–7.15 criticism of, 283 cyclegraph, 173–174, 182, 192; ﬁg. 7.9 decorated diagram (Herdeg), 251 diagram architecture, 285 discourse of, 5, 8–9, 199–200, 237–239, 245, 250–253, 277, 280–281, 283–288, 290, 357–358(n3) functional diagram, 171, 177, 179–180, 187, 229, 238, 249, 280, 346(n28) in housing discourse, 240, 242 instrumentality of, 8, 164, 290, 293(n10) and photography, 259, 277 as plan, 232, 247–249 in reference manuals, 213, 215, 217 routing diagram (see Diagram: circulation diagram; Routing) in scientiﬁc management, 163–164, 166–171, 173–175, 180, 193, 195–196 Dialectical historiography. See History Diggins, John Patrick, 122, 330(n46) Discipline, architecture as, 3–7, 10, 114. See also Beaux-Arts system mental discipline, 64 Discourse. See also Diagram: discourse of deﬁnition, 3, 6–8 materiality of, 8 Discursive ﬁeld, 6, 22–23, 217, 240 of nineteenth-century American architecture, 22

Index

Discursive formation, 3, 5, 13–14, 145, 163, 195, 199, 209, 229, 232, 234, 237, 259, 282, 291(n1) Discursive practice, 3, 7, 9, 15, 41, 54, 80 Discussion of Composition (Van Pelt), 58–59, 65; ﬁg. 2.10 Disposition, 41, 57, 65 Distribution, 57, 65 Dodge, F. W. (company), 34, 148 Domestic engineering, 87 Downing, Andrew Jackson, 24–25; ﬁg. 1.4 Draftsman’s Data Sheets (Graf), 214 Drawing, architectural Beaux-Arts system, status in, 2–3, 12–13, 30, 46, 51, 54, 57, 254, 263 demise of, 144–145, 148 Durand, J. N. L., 2, 5, 25, 41, 54, 57, 62 École des Beaux-Arts. See Beaux-Arts system Édiﬁces de Rome moderne (Letarouilly), 25; ﬁgs. 1.6–1.9, 2.6 Edgell, George, 95, 322(n43) Edwards, Trystan, 100, 107, 321; ﬁg. 4.4 Efﬁciency, 83–85, 87, 90, 97, 174, 179, 196 Eisenman, Peter, 284–285, 287 Éléments et théorie de l’architecture (Guadet), 57–58, 65, 66, 95, 99, 304(n28), 306(n30), 318(n15) Emerson, Harrington, 196–197 Ergonomic design. See Body Esherick, Joseph, 302(n21) Esquisse, 41, 43, 45–46, 62, 64, 102, 105, 250–251, 305(n40); ﬁgs. 2.3, 2.12 Étude, 66 Ewen, Stuart, 226 Examples of Modern French Architecture (Robertson and Yerbury), 255; ﬁgs. 9.13–9.14

375

Exhibition, in Beaux-Arts system, 12, 13, 39

Factory management, 86–87, 166, 196 Ferree, Barr, 25 Ferriss, Hugh, 111; ﬁg. 4.8 Fisher, Howard T., 152 Flagg, Ernest, 69–70; ﬁgs. 2.13–2.14 Ford, George B., 77 Fordyce, Allman, 244–245, 247, 251, 278, 287(n1); ﬁg. 9.11 Foucault, Michel, 6, 9–10, 64, 72, 167–169, 291(n1), 293(n10), 294(n13), 308(n59), 348(n43) on discipline, 6 on Panopticon, 168–169 practical systems, 9–10 rule of functional sites, 167, 185 Frascari, Marco, 46, 51 Frederick, Christine, 177–178, 182, 195; ﬁg. 7.14 Freese, Ernest Irving, 189, 348(n39); ﬁgs. 7.25, 8.8 Frey, Albert, 187, 337(n20); ﬁg. 7.24 Functional design, 100, 102 Functional diagram. See Diagram Functionalism, 5, 110, 113, 125, 154, 157, 162, 165–166, 175, 187, 285 Functionalization, 165–166, 170, 180, 187, 195 Functionalized body. See Body Functionalized space, 169, 171, 197 Functional management, 166 Functional planning, 87–91, 97, 105, 114, 151, 157–158, 163, 191, 215–216, 237 Galloway, Lee, 196; ﬁg. 7.7 Gaze, 250–253, 256, 277, 284

Index

Geddes, Patrick, 130, 132 Gehry, Frank, 3 Genre, 3, 6, 14, 16, 22, 25, 30, 199, 217 Georgiadis, Sokratis, 263, 364(n45), 366(n59) Giedion, Sigfried, 138, 236, 258, 259–263, 267, 272, 273, 274, 289, 362(n34), 363(n41), 364(n45), 365(n49), 366(n59); ﬁgs. 9.15– 9.17 Gilbreth, Frank and Lillian, 165–174, 182, 187, 192, 193, 197, 343(n10), 346(n29); ﬁgs. 7.2, 7.9–7.10, 7.17 Gilbreth diagram, 166–167, 169–170 micromotion studies, 173, 182; ﬁg. 7.10 one best way, 174 time and motion studies, 172–173, 193; ﬁg. 7.17 Gilman, Benjamin Ives, 90 Goble, Emerson, 2–3, 218, 235 Gombrich, Ernst, 56 Good Housekeeping, 143, 146, 156, 229, 334(n5) Goodman, Nelson, 39, 250, 360(n15) Good Practice in Construction (Knobloch), 204, 208; ﬁg. 8.3 Goudy, Frederic W., 149 Grammar of architecture, 100, 103, 107, 281–282, 321(n38) Grand Durand. See Recueil et parallèle des édiﬁces de tout genre Graphic management, 175 Gromort, Georges, 58, 317(n15) Gropius, Walter, 263, 281 Guadet, Julien, 46, 52, 54, 57–58, 62, 65–66, 67, 95, 99, 153, 304(n30), 306(n45), 318(n15) Haber, Samuel, 312(n35) Haber, William, 80

376

Hamby, William I., 244–245, 247, 251; ﬁg. 9.11 Hamlin, A. D. F., 39, 46, 65, 70–71 Hamlin, Talbot, 83, 95, 110 Haneman, John, ﬁgs. 4.1–4.2 Harbeson, John, 95, 97, 104 Haskell, Douglas, 152, 231, 338(n22), 339(n23) Hastings, Thomas, 204 Hearst, William Randolph, 143, 146, 219, 221, 334(n5) Helmholtz, Hermann von, 60; ﬁg. 2.10 Henry, Ralph C., 207–208, 352(n16); ﬁgs. 8.4–8.6 Herdeg, Klaus, 251, 360(n16), 364(n49). See also Diagram: decorated diagram Histoire de l’architecture (Choisy), 51; ﬁg. 2.7 History Beaux-Arts attitude toward, 56–57, 72 critical, 57 developmental, 7 dialectical historiography, 7 historicist challenge, 56 operative, 141, 258, 259 Hitchcock, Henry-Russell, 107, 111, 113–115, 150, 258–259, 323(nn54,56), 338(n22) Home economics, 87, 241–242 Hood, Raymond, 95, 106, 108–109, 328(n31) Hooper, Parker Morse, 143 Hornsby, John A., 232; ﬁgs. 8.25–8.26 Hotel Planning and Outﬁtting (Bliss and Taylor), 87 Household Engineering (Frederick), 179; ﬁg. 7.14 Housing, 118, 126–127 as locus of diagram, 239–243; ﬁgs. 9.2–9.3, 9.6–9.10 war housing, 78 Howard, John Galen, 40, 43, 51, 56, 306(n45)

Index

Howe, George, 182, 184, 238, 346(n30); ﬁg. 7.19 Human body. See Body Human engineering, 85–86, 165, 313(n38), 344(n19)

377

as portfolio, 30, 32, 145, 219, 221, 224, 228 profession, role in, 37, 234–235 reference data, 199, 214–216, 219, 221 segregated format, 32, 34, 218, 224, 234

Immutable mobile (Latour), 39 Indication, 46, 54, 250, 252; ﬁgs. 2.4–2.5 Indication in Architectural Design (Varon), 46, 95; ﬁgs. 2.4, 2.6, 2.9, 7.20 Inland Architect, 30, 334(n4) Instinct of workmanship (Veblen), 121–124, 138 Institution architectural, deﬁned, 4, 280–281, 291(n1), 292–293(n8) architectural, historical formation of, 19, 123 institutional critique of architecture, 117, 123–125 Veblenian concept of, 120–123 International Style, 111–115, 117, 131, 138 The International Style (Hitchcock and Johnson), 111, 114–115, 258–261, 273, 323(n56) Intuition, 62, 64 Ito, Toyo, 278, 285–287

Kahn, Albert, 78, 309(n7) Kahn, Ely Jacques, 106, 108, 328(n31) Kidder, Frank E., 22 Kiesler, Frederick, 162, 273–274, 366(n61); ﬁgs. 9.25–9.26 Kimball, Fiske, 95, 109 Kimball, Thomas, 79, 327(n16) Kitchens Committee on Kitchens and Other Work Centers, 187 kitchen planning, 182; ﬁgs. 7.13, 7.17–7.18, 7.23 minimal kitchen, ﬁg. 7.24 Klein, Alexander, 178–179; ﬁg. 7.16 Knobloch, Philip G., 204; ﬁg. 8.3 Kocher, Lawrence, 148–150, 155, 187, 241, 337(n20), 338(n22), 339(nn23,26,27); ﬁgs. 7.24, 9.23 Kohn, Robert D., 118, 120, 325(n4) Koolhaas, Rem, 2 Krauss, Rosalind, 274

Jameson, Fredric, 7 Johnson, Philip, 111, 114–115 Jones, Roy C., 104, 245 Journal of the AIA, 125, 325(n4) Journals, architectural editorial policies of late 1920s, 143–149, 152, 218–219, 221, 225, 333(n1) historical formation, 30, 32, 34, 37, 334(n4) letterpress in, 32, 34, 221, 234; ﬁgs. 1.12, 1.17 page layout, 2, 32, 218–219, 221, 224–231, 234, 259, 272, 273–274; ﬁgs. 1.12–1.16, 8.13, 8.19–8.20, 8.23–8.24, 9.15–9.16, 9.21–9.26

La Beaume, Louise, 107 Ladies’ Home Journal, 156, 229 La Roche-Jeanneret house (Le Corbusier), 256; ﬁgs. 9.13–9.14 Larson, Theodore, 152, 155, 338(n22) Latour, Bruno, 39 Le Corbusier, 54, 135, 138, 252–253, 256, 281, 287, 332(n74), 361(nn22,28), 362(n34); ﬁgs. 9.13–9.14 Lefﬁngwell, William, 173; ﬁg. 7.11 Letarouilly, Paul, 25, 29, 47, 50, 103; ﬁgs. 1.6–1.9, 2.6

Index

Letterpress. See Journals, architectural Levine, Lawrence, 21 Library, architectural, 12, 37–39; ﬁgs. 1.18–1.19 Lincoln, Fay S., 267, 273–274; ﬁgs. 9.21–9.26 Line character of, 2, 47, 51, 54, 56, 62 of diagram, 247–248, 250–253, 264, 277, 284, 287 Lipps, Theodor, 97 Lissitzky, El, 365(n56) Lönberg-Holm, Knud, 152, 155, 338(n22) Lubove, Roy, 118, 324(n1) Lyndon, Smith and Winn, 279, 281 Lynn, Greg, 285 Macartney, Marvyn E., ﬁgs. 1.10–1.11 Machine building as, 85, 195–196 Veblenian concept of, 121–124, 132–133, 288 Magazines, mass circulation, 143, 221, 226, 229 Magonigle, H. Van Buren, 236, 253–254, 258, 366(n60) Mail-order architecture, 15, 75, 81 Manual of Architectural Composition (Haneman), ﬁgs. 4.1–4.2 Map, 56, 186, 264, 274 Martin, Clarence A., 202, 208; ﬁg. 8.2 Mass, 50–51, 97–98, 105, 107, 110–111, 247, 251 as principle of composition, 62, 154, 322(n43); ﬁgs. 2.11, 4.6–4.7 in setback skyscraper, 110, 111; ﬁg. 4.8 Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT), 29, 242, 249, 263, 303(n27); ﬁgs. 1.18–1.19, 2.3, 9.6–9.10 Mass architecture, 14, 19–20

378

Mass builders, 16, 20 Mass circulation discourse, 13–14, 20 Mass production, 15, 24, 76, 149–151, 154, 209, 212 Masterpieces of Architecture in the United States, 102–103; ﬁg. 9.19 McKim, Charles Follen, 22, 37, 234 McKim, Mead and White, 75, 110, 149, 322(n45); ﬁg. 9.19 “Measuring Space and Motion” (Palmer and Callaghan), 192; ﬁgs. 7.26–7.28 Mendelsohn, Erich, 135 Mertins, Detlef, 289, 365(n49) Metaphor, 85, 164–165, 187, 195–197, 279–288, 290 Micromotion studies. See Gilbreth, Frank and Lillian Mies van der Rohe, Ludwig, 54, 287 Mikkelson, Michael A., 142, 148–150, 155, 338(n22), 339(n27) Mimesis, 46, 56, 64, 73, 103, 208, 253–254, 277 Mitchell, Wesley C., 121 Modern Architecture: Romanticism and Reintegration (Hitchcock), 150, 258, 259 Modern European Buildings (Yerbury), 135 Modern Hospital (Hornsby and Schmidt), ﬁgs. 8.25–8.26 Modern Housing (Bauer), 130–131 Modernists and traditionalists, 1920s debate of, 106–109, 111, 113, 114, 158 Moholy-Nagy, László, 281 Moore, Charles, 22 Moos, Stanislaus von, 138, 333(n74), 363(n41) Motion studies. See Gilbreth, Frank and Lillian Mumford, Lewis, 95, 115–117, 126, 129–135, 138, 140–141, 159, 239, 258–259, 260, 273,

Index

288–289, 323(n54), 330(n46), 339(n23), 359(n12); ﬁgs. 5.2–5.4 debate with Ackerman on industrial design, 133 machine, concept of, 130–133, 138 on photographic illustrations, 135, 138, 140 portfolio, critique of, 134 on style, 129 Veblen’s inﬂuence on, 129–132, 330(n46) Museum of Modern Art (MoMA), 111, 117, 131, 138, 258, 261; ﬁg. 5.4 “Machine Art,” 138, 258, 261, 324(n58); ﬁg. 5.4 “Modern Architecture: International Exhibition,” 111, 131 (see also International Style) Museum of Science (Nelson), 238, 251; ﬁg. 9.1 Music, 39, 52, 54, 59, 64 Naegele, Daniel, 361(n28) National Association of Building Owners and Managers, 75, 90 Nelson, Paul, 237–239, 248, 251; ﬁg. 9.1 Neue Sachlichkeit, 135, 154 Newcombe, Rexford, 103 New Housekeeping (Frederick), 177 New School of Social Research, 120, 129 New Vision, 261 New World Architecture (Cheney), 258 New York Housing Authority. See Ackerman, Frederick New York Sketchbook of Architecture, 29, 37 Nietzsche, Friedrich, 164–165 Noble, David, 164 Nolan, Thomas, 23 Oechslin, Werner, 62 One best way. See Gilbreth, Frank and Lillian

379

Operative history. See History Organization chart. See Diagram: functional diagram Page layout. See Journals, architectural Pallazzo Farnese (Rome), 29, 47, 50; ﬁgs. 1.6–1.9, 2.6 Palliser, Palliser and Company, 15, 296(n13); ﬁg. 1.2 Palmer, Catherine, 192–195; ﬁgs. 7.26–7.28 Panopticon (Bentham), 168–170, 195, 289–290, 349(n44); ﬁgs. 7.4–7.5 Paris Prize, 67 Parti, 43, 45, 50, 65, 69–70, 184, 232, 239, 249–250; ﬁgs. 2.13–2.14 Pattern books, 14–16, 18, 20, 24, 97 Pattison, Mary, 184–187, 191, 195, 247 Pencil Points, 91, 95, 147, 204, 214, 226, 234, 236, 316(n4), 333(n1); ﬁg. 4.8 Pérez-Gómez, Alberto, 301(n14) Perspective, 29, 254, 263 Pevsner, Nikolaus, 7, 141, 292(nn7,8) Phoebe Hearst Competition, 263; ﬁgs. 9.18, 9.20 Photography in advertising, 227–228 in architectural discourse, 2–3, 32, 218, 226–232, 234–236, 253, 256–263, 267, 272–274, 277 in architectural journals, 2, 30, 32, 218, 254; ﬁgs. 1.10, 1.14 (see also Plates) and automatism, 274 basic condition of, 254 camera/subject, position of, 254, 263, 267 in construction manuals, 207; ﬁg. 8.4 fragment, photographic, 254, 263, 269, 272–274 and modern architecture, 255–261, 273–274, 277; ﬁgs. 9.13–9.14

Index

Photomontage, 226, 229, 263, 273 Pickering, Ernest, 102–103, 110, 251; ﬁgs. 2.5, 4.6 Pictorial journalism, 2, 218, 235. See also Composite photographic text Pierce, John B., Foundation, 152, 191, 338(n22) Pietsch, Theodore Wells, 29 Plan in Beaux-Arts system, 29, 47, 50–52, 54, 56, 65, 70–71, 120, 250, 268, 302(n21) as diagram, 56, 169–170, 196, 249, 268, 284, 286–287, 290, 302(n21) in discourse of the diagram, 236–239, 242–243, 247–253, 259, 269, 278, 280 in journal layout, 2, 3, 218, 229, 231–232, 234, 268–269, 274; ﬁg. 9.24 and photography, 259, 269, 274; ﬁg. 9.24 planar vision, 54, 56 plan type, 65, 89–90, 243 theory of, 70, 102, 105, 287 type plan, 252 Plan books, 15, 18, 20, 24–25, 239 Planning in architectural journals, 150–152, 157–158, 219, 221, 228, 243 deﬁned, 66, 87, 102 rational concept of, 85–91, 100, 105 and scientiﬁc management, 85–86, 164, 166–167 Planning manuals, 66, 87, 102, 199, 217, 229, 232 Plates, 2, 3, 29, 47, 50–51, 54, 207, 213, 217–218, 221, 226, 229, 234, 253; ﬁgs. 1.10, 1.14, 1.17 Plunz, Richard, 57 Poché, 51, 52 Pope, John Russell, 106 Popper, Karl, 109, 294(n13)

380

Popular builders. See Mass builders Portfolio as allographic form of representation, 39 demise of, 102–103, 253, 274 discursive formation, 29, 39, 204, 208, 213, 254–256, 263–264, 279; ﬁgs. 1.10–1.11 frame, role of, 263, 264 function, 9, 29, 37, 39, 54 historical formation, 25, 30, 283 theoretical basis of practice, 56 Post, George B., 45 Post-War Committee on Architectural Practice. See American Institute of Architects Practical Exemplar of Architecture (Macartney), ﬁgs. 1.10–1.11 Précis des leçons d’architecture (Durand), 41 Price system. See Veblen, Thorstein Principles of Architectural Composition (Robinson), 58, 95, 98–100, 107; ﬁgs. 4.3, 4.5, 4.8 Principles of Domestic Engineering (Pattison), 184, 196 Prix de Rome, 3, 66 Profession deﬁnition, 3–4 historical formation in America, 13–14, 19–20, 279, 297(n20) transformation during 1910s, 75–76, 78–83 Program Beaux-Arts, 45, 65–67, 119, 124–125, 153 in discourse of the diagram, 237–240, 242, 249–251, 280–284, 286–287 in mass discourse, 16–18, 20, 25 rational, 86, 88–91, 105–106, 153–156 as social basis of architecture (Ackerman), 126–127 Public Works Administration (PWA), 240–243, 247, 359(n8); ﬁgs. 9.2–9.3

Index

Quatremère de Quincy, AntoineChrysostome, 250 Quick sketch. See Esquisse Ramsey, Charles G., 198, 200–201, 203, 208, 214, 350(n4), 351(n6); ﬁgs. 7.18, 8.7–8.10 Raymond, George L., 305(n33) Recueil et parallèle des édiﬁces de tout genre (Durand), 2, 25, 41, 54 Reference, problem of, 23, 202 Reference manual, introduced, 199, 214, 217, 350(n1) Regional Planning Association of America (RPAA), 117–118, 127, 324(n1) Regola delli cinque ordini d’architettura (Vignola), 25 Rehousing America (Wright), 179 Reichsforschungsgesellschaft, 178 Research method (Davison), 151, 153, 159 Richardson, Henry Hobson, 30, 37, 134 Riesman, David, 121 Robertson, Howard, 95, 98, 100, 102, 107, 111, 255, 317(n11), 320(n37); ﬁgs. 4.3, 4.5, 4.8, 9.13–9.14 Robinson, Cervin, 255 Robinson, John Beverly, 58–59, 62; ﬁg. 2.11 Rockefeller Center, 126, 263; ﬁg. 9.17 Root, Elihu, 22 Rossi, Aldo, 364(n48) Routing, 164, 167, 174, 177, 179, 182, 184, 186, 192, 346(n28). See also Circulation; Diagram: circulation diagram Rowe, Colin, 98, 304(n30), 362(n34), 364(n49) Ruskin, John, 30, 59, 129 Russland, Amerika, Europa (Mendelsohn), 135 Ryle, Gilbert, 364(n48)

381

Sample plans, 240–241 Schmidt, Richard E., 232; ﬁgs. 8.25–8.26 Schuyler, Montgomery, 45, 134 Scientiﬁc management, 84–85, 163–165, 175–177, 179, 182, 184, 187, 193, 195–196, 289 Scott, Geoffrey, 97–98 Scully, Vincent, 24 Sears, Roebuck and Company, 75–76, 81, 308(n2); ﬁg. 3.1 Section, 29, 40, 47, 51, 56, 196, 203, 208, 213–214, 218, 260, 263, 272, 286; ﬁg. 1.11 Sejima, Kazuyo, 278, 285–287 Service, deﬁnition of architecture as, 144, 146–148 Shoppell, Robert, 15, 17, 296(n13) Skyscraper, 109–111; ﬁg. 4.8 Sleeper, Harold R., 198–201, 208, 214, 217, 350(n4), 351(n6); ﬁgs. 7.18, 8.7–8.10 S, M, L, XL (Koolhaas and Mau), 2–3 Sontag, Susan, 269, 272 Space-and-motion studies (Callaghan and Palmer), 193 Space function, 87–88 Space House (Kiesler), 273–274; ﬁgs. 9.25–9.26 Space shapes, 192; ﬁg. 7.27 Space, Time and Architecture (Giedion), 236, 258–259, 261; ﬁg. 9.17 Spatial body. See Body Speciﬁcation, 3, 13, 15, 20, 22, 39, 76, 78, 86, 147, 200, 212–214, 353(n22) Speiser, Maurice J., house (Howe), 182; ﬁg. 7.19 Stabile, Donald, 118 Standard body. See Body Standardization, 158, 162, 165, 170, 172–173, 202, 217 deﬁned by Gilbreth, 165, 170, 172–173

Index

Standards, 159, 208–209, 212, 214, 216, 224, 240, 244 Starrett, Thompson, 75 Starrett, William, 83, 309(n7) “Statler Idea in Hotel Planning,” 88–89 Stein, Clarence, 117–118, 325(nn3,4), 328(n31) Stern, Robert A. M., 182 Stevens, Edward F., 102 Sticks and Stones (Mumford), 95, 126, 134–135 Stock plan, 15, 18, 75–76, 80–82, 146–148, 239 Stout, Rex, house (Kocher and Ziegler), 267–272, 274; ﬁgs. 9.23–9.24 Stowell, Kenneth K., 143, 234, 334(n3) Structural Service Department. See American Institute of Architects Study of Architectural Design (Harbeson), 95, 104 Study of Architectural Schools (Bosworth and Jones), 104 Style Beaux-Arts concept of, 41, 65, 71 consumerist perception of, 155–156; ﬁg. 6.1 in International Style, 111, 113–115 rejection of, 97–100, 105, 109, 213 as representation of society (Mumford), 129 Sullivan, Louis, 70–72, 110, 130, 134, 149, 339(n26) Summerson, John, 281–283, 286–287 Surgeon, architect as, 279, 280, 283, 288 Surveillance, 174, 180, 195 “Sweet’s” Indexed Catalogue of Building Construction, 23, 34, 158, 201–202, 212–214; ﬁg. 1.5 Tafuri, Manfredo, 7, 115, 292(n8), 293(n8), 367(n2) Tagg, John, 274

382

Tailing. See Advertising Tallmadge, Thomas, 95 Taut, Bruno, 178, 180; ﬁg. 7.15 Taylor, C. Stanley, 84–85, 87–89, 105, 237, 247, 314(n44) Taylor, Frederick Winslow, 86, 164, 166, 175 Taylorism, 86, 163–164, 180, 196. See also Scientiﬁc management Technical Alliance, 120, 326(n15). See also Technocratic movement Technical News and Research. See Architectural Record Technics and Civilization (Mumford), 130, 135, 258; ﬁgs. 5.2–5.4 Technocratic movement, 116, 120, 329(n42) Committee on Technocracy, 116, 329(n42) Theory of Business Enterprise (Veblen), 132 Theory of the Leisure Class (Veblen), 122, 130, 327(n17) Theory of the plan. See Plan Things Which Are Seen (Edwards), 100 Time and motion studies. See Gilbreth, Frank and Lillian Time Saver Standards, 189, 199, 214, 216–217, 230, 239, 242, 354(n28); ﬁg. 8.8 Tracing, 2, 3, 37, 45, 47, 54 Traditionalists. See Modernism debate Trowbridge, Alexander, 118, 325(n3) Tudor, Richard, 79 “Two Problems of Architecture” (Architectural Record), 150–152, 159 Type. See also Architectural Record: Building Types section archetype, 151, 285–286 in Beaux-Arts system, 46, 58, 65–67, 89–90; ﬁg. 7.20 as diagram, 248–250, 252–253 dimensional type, 213, 217, 253 standardized type, 213

Index

Type plan. See Plan Typology, 249, 287 United States Housing Corporation, 78 Van Brunt, Henry, 21 Van Pelt, John, 58–62, 65, 97–99, 104, 306(n43); ﬁg. 2.10 Van Zanten, David, 56–58, 304(n28) Varon, David, 46–47, 50–51, 54, 95; ﬁgs. 2.4, 2.6, 2.9, 7.20 Vaux, Calvert, 25, 310(n15) Veblen, Thorstein, 79, 117, 120–125, 129–132, 138, 140, 141, 151, 288, 326(n13), 327(n17), 330(n46) on institution, 120–123 on price system, 120, 123–125, 127–129 Vignola, Giacomo Barozzi da, 25 Viollet-le-Duc, Eugène-Emmanuel, 30, 110 Voss, Walter C., 207–208, 352(n16); ﬁgs. 8.4–8.6 Wagner, Sydney, 88–89 Walker, Ralph, 106, 110 Ware, William Robert, 41, 57; ﬁg. 2.2 W ar housing. See Housing Warren, Lloyd, 2, 104 Wasserman, William Stix, house (Howe), 182, 184 Watson, John B., 165 Weyl, Walter, 118 Whitaker, Charles, 118, 120, 325(n4) White, Stanford, 45 Wilcox, W. R. B., 144 Wiley, John, and Sons, 201, 203–204, 350(n4) Wojtowicz, Robert, 330(n46) Woods, Mary N., 30, 57

383

“Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction” (Benjamin), 272, 279 World’s Columbian Exposition (Chicago, 1893), 21–22 World War I, 5, 22, 74, 77, 140, 149, 196 Wright, Frank Lloyd, 25, 72, 148, 150, 314(n47), 339(n26) Wright, Henry, 77, 117–118, 178–179, 242, 249, 325(nn3,4); ﬁg. 9.12 Yerbury, Frank, 135, 255–256, 259; ﬁgs. 9.13–14 Zevi, Bruno, 281