Architecture for Better Future

by Norbert E. Yankielun

The igloo, also spelled "iglu," and sometimes called an aputiak, is a temporary winter shelter built by native Eskimos primarily for use in winter hunting camps. In their native language, Eskimos call themselves Inuit, meaning "the people." They inhabit much of the Arctic from as far west as the Aleutian Islands of Alaska to as far east as the western coastline of Greenland.

The igloo structure most likely evolved through trial and error over hundreds of years, and without the aid of mathematics or structural engineering theory. Historically, they have been constructed — using a long, sharp blade knife to cut snow block — primarily by Canadian and Greenland Inuit living in Canada in the area between the Mackenzie River delta and Labrador.

Structural Perspective

The igloo is the highest art of snow shelter construction, requiring the precise shaping and placing of snow blocks to form a stable and strong dome-shaped structure. Two structural forces are present in an igloo: compression and tension. Compression occurs when weight is applied that squeezes the snow crystals closer together. Tension occurs when the applied force pulls the snow crystals apart.

The bonded ice crystal structure of sintered snow holds up well under compression; it can bear substantial weight without crumbling. Under tension, however, the same block of snow would easily be torn apart with very little force. For this reason, a cross-section of an igloo more resembles a parabolic arch than a hemisphere.

Source : Architecture Week

Structurally, parts of a hemisphere are in compression while other parts are in tension. If the tension were great enough to break the ice crystal bonds, the hemispherical-shaped igloo would easily collapse. The entire cross-section of a parabolic-shaped igloo is in compression and therefore a much stronger structure. This parabolic shape resembles an upside-down catenary, the shape that a chain or piece of string forms when loosely held horizontally at both ends.

Anecdotally, it has been reported that polar bears occasionally climb on top of an abandoned igloo to better survey the surrounding flat terrain for prey. That's quite a testament to the strength of a properly shaped igloo. Still, it isn't advisable to climb on top of an igloo to test this.

Appropriate Snow

The best building material for an igloo is a dense, cold, dry, well-sintered, wind-packed snow. It is often difficult to find these snow conditions except in the higher northern (or lower southern) latitudes — including Alaska, Canada, the northernmost tier of the United States, and northern New England, or on mountains at elevations above treeline — where deep snow is abundant and temperatures are nearly always at or below freezing.

In more temperate regions, usable snow can be found at thinly vegetated or treeless higher elevations where the air tends to remain colder and frequent winds pack the snow. Elsewhere, even in flat fields, wind-packed snowdrifts may provide good building material. In some cases, recreational or backyard builders can create suitable snow with a bit of labor.

(If the backyard or recreational builder cannot find suitable snow, some prior planning and preparation can create a useable snowpack for igloo construction. Please refer to How to Build an Igloo, and Other Snow Shelters for details.)

Where Not to Build

For recreational shelter builders in an urban or suburban location, plowed mounds of snow found along the roadside, in parking lots, or driveways may be very tempting "real estate" for a shelter construction project. These sites are dangerous. A snow shelter built into a plowed-up mound looks all too similar to any other plow mound of snow. A passing plow truck or other vehicle can cause the unseen structure to collapse, burying the occupants.

Another hazard of building a snow structure adjacent to parking lots and driveways is the presence of carbon monoxide from vehicle exhaust fumes.

Construction Technique

With the right snow conditions, a bit of practice, and a willing helper or two, an igloo can be constructed in a couple of hours.

Sizing the Igloo

An igloo large enough to shelter two to three people should have an internal diameter of at least 6 feet (2 meters). By initially outlining the size of the interior space of the igloo in the snow, it will be easier to accurately place the snow blocks in a circle to form the base of the igloo. Try walking in a circular outline to compact the snow and form the igloo foundation.

The inside diameter of the igloo can be marked more precisely on the snow surface using two ski poles. Plant the tip of one ski pole (vertically) firmly in the ground at the center of the igloo site. Place the strap of the second ski pole over the first and lay that pole horizontally on the ground. Rotate this pole in a circle, scribing the inner diameter of the igloo in the snow.

Another approach that is especially fun for kids is to ask the tallest member of the party to lie down and make a snow angel centered on the building site. The outline gives a good idea of the size of the igloo interior.

Preparing the Surface

A solid foundation is necessary for structural stability of an igloo. If the snow surface were to give way under the weight of added snow blocks, the igloo might shift or even collapse during construction. An igloo can be built directly on snow that is strong enough to support the full weight of a person without leaving deep footprints. If the snow does compress underfoot, leaving deep "post holes," some surface preparation is necessary. Using snowshoes, skis, or simply boots, walk over the building site, compressing the surface into a solid platform.

Cutting Blocks

Snow blocks can be easily cut with a specialized snow saw or an ordinary carpenter's saw. A good idea is to obtain an inexpensive old carpenter's saw at a garage sale or flea market and use it only for snow block cutting.

Cut all the blocks the same size. A good size for blocks is about 18 to 24 inches (45 to 60 centimeters) long, by 9 to 12 inches (25 to 30 centimeters) thick, by 12 to 18 inches (30 to 45 centimeters) tall. A handy beginner's aid to help keep the blocks all uniform in size is to have a measuring stick with three clear marks on it, one each for length, width, and thickness. Similarly, measuring marks can be drawn on the side of the saw with a marker. With some experience, fairly consistent size blocks can be cut "by eye."

If the snow is dense and has good structural strength, longer and taller blocks may be cut, but try to keep the thickness to no more than 12 inches (30 centimeters). The advantage of larger blocks is that fewer are needed for assembly, and fewer joints between blocks makes for a stronger structure. The disadvantage of larger blocks is that they may be difficult to carry and lift into place. Remember, for safety, do all lifting with your legs, not your back.

Source : Architecture Week

Starting Construction

With several uniform sized snow blocks cut, it is time to place them in a shoulder-to-shoulder circle on the circular building site that was prepared earlier. Again, make sure that these blocks are placed on a solid foundation and won't shift under the weight of the additional blocks that will be later placed on top of them. To improve the strength of the igloo, each of these blocks should be mitered, or cut at matching angles, so that they fit tightly together.

After the first ring of blocks is in place it is time to cut away a portion of several of those blocks to create a circular, vertical ramp. This ramp provides two points of contact: (1) a "shoulder" and (2) a base, which will support the inward-sloping blocks that will be added to create the dome shape of the structure. To form the ramp, start at a joint between two blocks and, block by block, cut away and discard a portion of each block. The smooth and gradual slope of the ramp should continue between half and three-quarters of the way around the ring of blocks.

Shape the top of all the blocks so that they angle slightly inward towards the center of the igloo. This slant causes the block that is placed on top to lean further inward, eventually creating the smooth arch-shaped profile of the igloo. For a beginner, it is sometimes difficult to judge the amount of inward slope to carve on top of each block. If this angle is not steep enough, the walls of the structure may not curve inward to complete the dome.

A good technique to ensure that the top of the blocks are properly angled is to place a small branch, ski pole, or other marker vertically in the snow at the center of the igloo. There should be a straight line of sight when looking along the top of an angled block toward the base of the marker. Another method to visualize the correct angle is to tie a length of cord to the base of the center marker. If the angle is correct, a straight line will be form when stretching it over the slope of a block.

Now it is time to continue stacking more snow blocks on top of the ramp. These rectangular blocks should all be the same size as the original blocks used to form the base ring. Starting at the point on the circular ramp where a full-height block meets the shortest block, place a block in tight contact with the shoulder and base. Cut the side edges of the new block so it fits tightly against the block next to it. Each block should bridge the vertical seam between the two blocks beneath it. This makes for a stronger structure. Cut the top of this — and subsequent blocks — to angle inwards toward the center of the igloo.

At this point, before the wall gets too high, it is a good idea to have a helper stand inside the igloo to assist with construction. He or she should have a saw handy to help shape the blocks, and should be prepared to remain inside until the igloo is completed. Continue stacking and shaping the blocks in an upward, inward, circular spiral until only a small opening at the very top of the igloo remains, a bit smaller than the size of blocks that have been used in construction.

It is now time to cut and place the cap block, or "king block." This block is like a cork, plugging the hole in the top in the dome of the igloo and supporting the inward leaning walls of the dome. This block takes a bit of careful shaping. Select a block that is slightly larger than the opening in the top. Taper the sides of the block to match the taper of the hole in the dome. Carefully place it into position being careful not to lean against the igloo walls, which could cause it to collapse. Placing the block requires the assistance of the person inside the dome as well as some reaching and stretching by the person outside.

Making an Entrance

With construction of the snow block dome complete, it is time to finally create an entrance. (Making the entrance before the igloo is complete weakens the dome structure and increases the chances of the structure collapsing.)

There are two choices for entryway design, depending on the depth of snow beneath the igloo: a "gopher hole" and an arch-shaped entry. When the snow depth under the igloo is at least 3 feet (1 meter) a "gopher hole" entryway can be dug. About 2 to 3 feet (60 to 100 centimeters) away from the outside wall of the igloo, dig a hole at least 3 feet (1 meter) deep. This hole should be wide enough for a person to crouch at the bottom.

At the bottom of the hole, tunnel horizontally under the wall of the igloo. It may be helpful to measure the length of the tunnel with a ski pole to ensure that the tunnel has passed completely beneath the igloo wall. When the horizontal tunnel is beneath the interior of the igloo, tunnel upward into the igloo. Since warm air rises and cold air sinks, this type of entrance prevents warm air inside an occupied igloo from escaping.

As an alternative to the "gopher hole" entrance, an arched-shaped surface entry can be cut in the side of the igloo. This method should be used when the snow is too shallow (less than 3 feet (1 meter)). The arch shape minimizes stress on the shell of the igloo caused by creating a hole in the wall. This opening should be not much larger than 2 feet by 2 feet (60 by 60 centimeters) — just large enough for a person to easily crawl through.

Choose the location of the entryway so that the arch of the opening will be centered beneath a solid snow block and not directly beneath a seam between two blocks. Structurally, this solid block header serves as a lintel found over the doorway of a house to support and distribute the weight of the structure above the opening.

Later, the igloo interior can be closed off from the elements by placing a snow block or backpack in the opening. When additional entryway protection from wind and blowing snow is desirable, a snow block windbreak or surface tunnel entrance can be built onto the opening in the igloo.

Finishing Touches

Even the most carefully built igloo will have some open cracks and gaps between snow blocks. These small openings do not significantly affect the strength of the igloo but will permit body heat generated inside the igloo by occupants to escape and gusts of wind to enter. Once the igloo is complete, these openings can be sealed by hand-packing them with loose snow.

It is important to prevent extreme heat loss from within the igloo, but some ventilation for the comfort and safety of occupants is necessary. It is highly recommended that a fist-sized ventilation hole be cut near the top of the igloo dome. During snowfall and drifting conditions this vent hole may become blocked. Occasionally check the vent, and if necessary, clear it with a hand, ski pole, or other tool.

The satisfaction in a well-built igloo — simple, timeless and evanescent, and beautiful — is virtually universal. The pleasure of sleeping inside, safe and sound from the raw harshness of wintry elements outside, may be even better.

Source : Architecture Week

The Urban Ecology Center in Milwaukee simply radiates with a special kind of wholistic beauty. It's a charming, efficient, respectful, and delightful structure, and more. It's a community building whose building has helped build a community.

Designed by The Kubala Washatko Architects in relatively close collaboration with client and constructors, the four-story metal-sided timber frame building is bedecked with generous overhangs, wrap-around porches, and a large rooftop photovoltaic array. It sits at the intersection of a dense city neighborhood with several acres of once-decrepit Frederick Law Olmsted-designed park land, which the Urban Ecology Center is helping to rehabilitate.

Inside the building, the sense given by large open floors around a central brick-chimneyed atrium, exposed structure, high ceilings, and frank natural materials — including atrium balusters with bark intact — coalesces around the impression of a classic park lodge, daylit, comfortable, and rustically elegant.

In fact, the center functions in part as a kind of park lodge in the city. Specifically serving the residents in a two-mile radius around their east-side Milwaukee, Wisconsin location, the 20,000-square-foot (1,900-square-meter) Urban Ecology Center building supports a multifaceted outdoor recreation program for urban youth as well as science education, accredited research, citizen science, environmental appreciation, and green building.

To connect with nature, most environmental education centers have been set in the country, often in a nature preserve surrounded by living wildlife habitat. Fronting on a regular city street, while backing onto the acres of open space of Riverside Park, the Urban Ecology Center seems to get the best of both. The urban location encourages neighborhood drop-ins — from the house painter in spattered coverall with an interesting spider to identify — to the kid after school pausing for a round of foosball in the main room then settling into volunteer work for the center.

The main entrance to the building is on the south, past the rainwater-retention pond and a garage built of salvaged brick. The front doors enter straight into the main hall of the building, centered on a double-height space around a high-efficiency wood stove, with a modest reception area to the side. The warm wood paneling of the main interior space was donated by Menominee Tribal Enterprises from their sustainably managed forest — one of many gift and salvage elements integrated throughout construction.

Driven significantly by the approach of Ken Leinbach, the center's executive director, the Urban Ecology Center took an endlessly creative approach to the details and execution of sustainable building. The Center saw its construction project as an opportunity both for embodying environmental stewardship and for deepening community connections.

The couches and chairs framed with bark intact and the railings around the atrium carry some of the building's many stories. Ken worked with local premium furniture maker La Lune Collection, to have some of their naturally-finished woodwork made for the center from sustainable willow and poplar rather than their standard materials. The resulting process has evolved into a line of more sustainable furniture from La Lune.

The main space also exhibits the flexibility of space that helps the center function gracefully. Functioning as a large hall that can hold several dozen visitors, the space is also provides comfortable gathering places for small groups, with wall inflections, furniture groupings, and variations in ceiling height providing soft degrees of separation.

The pervasive spirit of play in this environmental education center appeals to children of all ages. From a small "secret" door on the north side, dual slides sweep down to the main space, through a passageway painted as a stream and its banks.

Behind the brick chimney and wood-paneled back wall of the main space, staff offices occupy three levels of a backstage realm. One office is paneled with wood from local high school bleachers, and another with wood from an 1850 mill. Staff area countertops are made from wheat board (ground wheat shafts bound with nontoxic glue), and the floors are covered with carpet made from recycled-rubber.

Staff and students and other visitors are encouraged to mingle at the common snack corner in the main space on each floor. One set of shared restrooms serves each floor as well.

The building's second floor continues the fun, flexible space. Subspaces can be defined by movable dividers, built economically with hollow-core-door construction, and painted pro-bono by a noted illustrator living in the neighborhood, with scenes of the adjacent Milwaukee River. Native plants grow on shelves in the south windows. Operable windows allow natural ventilation.

One anonymous wood-paneled wall includes a large pivoting section that opens to the "Camouflage Room." Donated carpet squares cover the floor in movable tilings which users are encouraged to rearrange. Windows provide ample daylight, which can be modulated by four ceiling-hung sliding mural panels, which rest neatly between the windows when not in use.

Outside, the second floor decks connect to a roof garden over the garage space. Even more exciting is the observation tower. The 75-foot (23-meter) tower offers an elevated perspective on the surrounding landscape. The parkland and river to the west and north are naturally beautiful, and the view also encompasses the harder beauty of post-industrial and neighborhood areas adjacent to the center in other directions. Also visible from the tower is the 44.4-kilowatt rooftop photovoltaic array, installed in 2007, which pumps electricity into the city's grid.

A controllable web cam atop the tower provides virtual access for those who can't climb its steps. On the north side of the tower is an extensive climbing wall. Members of the Urban Ecology Center can borrow canoes, skis, mountain bikes, and other adventure equipment, as well as tools.

The center simplified class access for the several schools in its two-mile (3.2-kilometer) service radius by getting its own fleet of small buses. Staff are encouraged to bike to work, and the basement includes showers and locker rooms for commuter support.

The center's Galvalume® corrugated steel roofing and siding is made from 80-percent recycled content and will be fully recyclable at the end of its life, which should be long and low in maintenance.

The center's gray-water system was challenging to plumb in a way that complied with current local building codes. Cisterns in the garage store up to 350 gallons of rainwater collected from the south-facing roof areas. To meet code, that water is treated onsite to drinking standards, and then used for flushing toilets. Overflow is directed to outdoor rain barrels and then underground to the pond via a pipe. The north-facing roof areas send water to a rain garden behind the building, with a path of porous Ecocrete™. The front driveway guides rain toward native plantings along the front walk.

Ken Leinbach and the project team searched and repeatedly found local used materials, from the wood floor of a old school gym that was given a second life on the Center's second floor, to the signature bricks of local brick makers — representing an industry with a long history in Milwaukee — which decorate the main atrium chimney.

As it turned out, these reclaimed materials brought with them priceless stories, threads of cultural continuity that could not have simply been purchased. In addition to their own physical history, in several cases the presence of specific salvaged materials led to human connections with the center for people who had had known them in past material lives. Small signs posted around the building share some of these reclaimed material stories.

For instance, the maple floor of the second story main space resonates for community members who lived with it, maybe went to their first dance, or an important basketball game, at the local school where the boards had served before.

Shortly after the building was finished and the expansive floor was revealed, it was recognized as filling a community void — there hadn't been a place to have local dances with all the life and enjoyment brought by a great old-fashioned wood floor.

Now the Center regularly hosts community dancing — and of course more people are exposed to the center and its goals. It was one of the many surprises to Ken that grew out of his thoughtful way of putting the center project together. He had no way of knowing just how far the construction project could go in connecting community to the organization.

Old bricks in the central chimney that helps warm the core of the building proudly display historic brick-maker names. On a tour of the newly-built center, one participant recognized her own family name on a brick. She asked Ken if he had any more of those bricks, hoping to reconnect to some of her family history.

Within weeks of the request, a different community member, clearing out his garage, offered Ken some additional bricks. One of those bricks matched the earlier visitor's family name. Ken was able to return this family artifact to her, found a new supporter for the center, and added another piece to the the larger story the Urban Ecology Center gives to us.

Guiding Lenses for Project Choices

Ken Leinbach explained a set of six filters or "guiding lenses" which were used by the Urban Ecology Center to help with decision making throughout their building project.

# Program and Fun Factor Can we make this decision in a way that will help, enhance, or add support to our organizational program offerings? How? Is there a way this could make our space more fun?

# Environment If our great grandchildren, seven generations out, were sitting here at the table with us, would they approve of this decision? If the coyote or the deer out in the meadow had a presence at the table with us, would they approve?

# Aesthetics Will this be aesthetically pleasing? We want people to come back over and over again, and don't want to sacrifice beauty for a purely functional, sustainable building.

For example, they chose cedar window treatments over alternatives that were visually less interesting. Although the cedar was considered sustainable, it was not the most environmentally friendly option.

# Politics Is this choice in keeping with a culture of respect for our neighbors?

Since the Urban Ecology Center is located on government land and adjacent to a residential neighborhood, this filter came into play especially with questions of building placement and the height of the tower. It was also applied to such issues as making sure the kitchen was fully up to commercial code, which prevented use of a particular eco-friendly flooring product. Labor practices of some building product manufacturers also came into play.

# Budget Can this choice be made in a way that helps our budget? Is there a way to make this choice about saving money that can enhance the life of the project?

This was asked cyclically throughout the Urban Ecology Center project, so it helped optimize creative opportunities to help the project funding go farther. The result is an especially low cost building that is especially full of life and beauty.

# Time Does making this choice add time to the project schedule?

Source : ___

by Bob Falk and Brad Guy



Depending on your generation, you may have been taught: "Waste not, want not." Thrift is certainly one incentive for deconstructing buildings for reuse. In addition, many of us are motivated by a desire to be environmentally sensitive, a fondness for antiques and other items from the past, a yearning to have more control over the quality of materials used in construction, or a recognition that many of the materials available for salvage are of higher quality than those produced today.

As with many environmentally conscious activities, deconstruction and building-material reuse offer a direct and measurable way to reduce one's negative effect on the planet. Building construction, use, and maintenance make up a resource-intensive business.

In the United States, the construction, use, maintenance, and disposal of houses are responsible for nearly a half of the country's energy use. According to the U.S. Geological Survey, about 60 percent of all material (except food and fuel) used in the economy each year is consumed by the construction industry.

There are many opportunities to reclaim and reuse building materials. In 1996, the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) estimated that the equivalent of 250,000 single-family homes are disposed of each year. This represents an estimated 1 billion-plus board feet (2.4 million cubic meters) of available salvageable structural lumber, or about 3 percent of our annual softwood timber harvest.

Reusing this lumber could save 4,250,000 trees on 150,000 acres (61,000 hectares) of timberland every year. The amount of recoverable materials is even greater if you add nonstructural building products, such as the millions of windows, doors, and fixtures and the thousands of miles of trim work, siding, and flooring available.

Not only does unbuilding (and the reuse of building materials) save resources but it can also yield higher-quality materials than are available today. Much of the salvaged lumber available through deconstruction is from the decades of old-growth harvesting — so the wood is higher in density and has fewer defects — which represents a resource largely unavailable today.

In old factories, silos, and water tanks you can find high-quality heart pine, redwood, and fir timbers; in old barns, pine, chestnut, and oak; and in older school bleachers and benches, quality maple and fir. Factories, farms, and industrial buildings aren't the only sources of such materials; high-quality wood can also be found in millions of older houses.

In nearly every community, wood flooring, windows, doors, cabinets, and lumber can be salvaged. If you keep your eyes open, high-quality architectural materials, including hardware, period lighting, elaborate bracketry, and trim are also readily available.

Not an Alternative to Preservation

We hope you consider deconstruction only when building preservation or adaptation is not an option. Most buildings are not historically significant; however, it's best if you determine that before deconstruction. Historic preservation typically is invoked only to protect a significant historic, archaeological, or cultural resource.

We suggest that when preservation of the whole structure is not possible, unbuilding can at least serve as "preservation in pieces" to recover significant construction materials and design features. In some cases, a building shell or only the street front will be retained to preserve historic building character in a community, while the rest is removed to allow for a modern interior.

Given the selective nature of these projects and the care needed to avoid damaging the parts that might remain, unbuilding is a viable solution. In these situations, the original materials can often be directly incorporated in the preserved building.

Unbuilding is a good step in preserving resources and avoiding waste; it is directly in line with the tenets of "green building." A simple raised wood-floor, wood-framed older house can weigh 50 pounds per square foot (244 kilogram per square meter). A 1,500-square-foot (140-square-meter) light wood-frame building can therefore weigh more than 37 tons (34 metric tons) or the volume of about three 40-cubic-yard (31-cubic meter) container loads.

In addition to these raw materials of the building, there are also the original materials consumed to make the finished building materials and the energy and pollution resulting from extraction, processing, and transportation at different stages of manufacture.

The waste itself becomes a burden in the landfill, consuming land and potentially leaching into soils and groundwater. By deconstructing, you are also doing your neighbors the very simple favor of extending the life of your local landfill.

The United States is one of the most consumptive nations on the planet. According to John Ryan and Alan Durning's book, Stuff: The Secret Lives of Everyday Things, the average American consumes about 120 pounds (54 kilograms) of natural resources each day. With only about 5 percent of the world's population, the United States consumes about 24 percent of the world's energy. Unbuilding can help decrease this percentage through the direct reuse of building products.

With a greater realization of the positive effects of greener building practices, the use of recovered materials is typically rewarded in the many green building certification programs that have appeared in recent years.

Organizations such as the U.S. Green Building Council, the National Association of Home Builders, and the National Association of the Remodeling Industry have all developed green programs for use by the commercial and the residential building markets.

A green-building certification provides not only a perception of quality but also real energy savings and increased value on a new or renovation project over the long term. More and more municipalities are considering policies and ordinances requiring building deconstruction to be considered along with traditional demolition and disposal.

Reuse vs. Recycling

The "three Rs" of waste reduction are, in order of priority: reduce, reuse, recycle. This hierarchy suggests that to be as environmentally benign as possible we should first reduce our level of material use, then reuse as many materials as possible, and finally recycle what can't be reused.

Unbuilding focuses on the reuse and recycling portion of the three Rs, and it's important to make a distinction between these activities. Reuse is the heart of the deconstruction effort, by which the primary focus is to maintain the material or component in its original form. This might include some cleaning, removal, or replacement of some part.

The intent is to move these salvaged building materials directly back into new construction or remodeling: a used door in place of a new door, a used window instead of a new window, a salvaged joist rather than a new one, and so on. Or the salvaged materials can be used in a new way: a used door becomes a wall panel, a window serves as a cabinet front, or the floor joist is now a wall stud.

Recycling, on the other hand, is a more indirect use of materials and typically involves changing the form of the material for use as an entirely new material. For example, we wouldn't reuse a concrete pillar from an old building in a new building. It's not practical. However, it is very practical to break up that pillar and recycle the concrete and steel rebar into other uses, such as in roadbeds and new cars, respectively.

Unbuilding and its associated reuse are very well suited to wood-framed construction, where most materials can be reused. Demolition and its associated emphasis on recycling are well suited to concrete and steel construction, whose materials are difficult or impossible to directly reuse, and breaking down these materials is an inherent part of the recycling process.

Source : ___

Writing about your employer’s new building is a tricky task. If I love it, the reader will suspect that I’m currying favor with the man who signs my checks. If I hate it, I’m just flaunting my independence.

So let me get this out of the way: As an employee, I’m enchanted with our new building on Eighth Avenue. The grand old 18-story neo-Gothic structure on 43rd Street, home to The New York Times for nearly a century, had its sentimental charms. But it was a depressing place to work. Its labyrinthine warren of desks and piles of yellowing newspapers were redolent of tradition but also seemed an anachronism.

The new 52-story building between 40th and 41st Streets, designed by the Italian architect Renzo Piano, is a paradise by comparison. A towering composition of glass and steel clad in a veil of ceramic rods, it delivers on Modernism’s age-old promise to drag us — in this case, The Times — out of the Dark Ages.

I enjoy gazing up at the building’s sharp edges and clean lines when I emerge from the subway exit at 40th Street and Seventh Avenue in the morning. I love being greeted by the cluster of silvery birch trees in the lobby atrium, their crooked trunks sprouting from a soft blanket of moss. I even like my fourth-floor cubicle, an oasis of calm overlooking the third-floor newsroom.

Yet the spanking new building is infused with its own nostalgia.

The last decade has been a time of major upheaval in newspaper journalism, with editors and reporters fretting about how they should adapt to the global digital age. In New York that anxiety has been compounded by the terrorist attacks of 2001, which prompted many corporations to barricade themselves inside gilded fortresses.

Mr. Piano’s building is rooted in a more comforting time: the era of corporate Modernism that reached its apogee in New York in the 1950s and 60s. If he has gently updated that ethos for the Internet age, the building is still more a paean to the past than to the future.

What makes a great New York skyscraper? The greatest of them tug at our heartstrings. We seek them out in the skyline, both to get our bearings and to anchor ourselves psychologically in the life of the city.

Mr. Piano’s tower is unlikely to inspire that kind of affection. The building’s most original feature is a scrim of horizontal ceramic rods that diffuses sunlight and lends the exterior a clean, uniform appearance. Mr. Piano used a similar screening system for his 1997 Debis Tower for Daimler-Benz in Berlin, to mixed results. For The Times, he spent months adjusting the rods’ color and scale, and in the early renderings they had a lovely, ethereal quality.

Viewed from a side street today, they have the precision and texture of a finely tuned machine. But despite the architect’s best efforts, the screens look flat and lifeless in the skyline. The uniformity of the bars gives them a slightly menacing air, and the problem is compounded by the battleship gray of the tower’s steel frame. Their dull finish deprives the facades of an enlivening play of light and shadow.

The tower’s crown is also disappointing. To hide the rooftop’s mechanical equipment and create the impression that the tower is dissolving into the sky, Mr. Piano extended the screens a full six stories past the top of the building’s frame. Yet the effect is ragged and unfinished. Rather than gathering momentum as it rises, the tower seems to fizzle.

But if the building is less than spectacular in the skyline, it comes to life when it hits the ground. All of Mr. Piano’s best qualities are in evidence here — the fine sense of proportion, the love of structural detail, the healthy sense of civic responsibility.

The architect’s goal is to blur the boundary between inside and out, between the life of the newspaper and the life of the street. The lobby is encased entirely in glass, and its transparency plays delightfully against the muscular steel beams and spandrels that support the soaring tower.

People entering the building from Eighth Avenue can glance past rows of elevator banks all the way to the fairy tale atrium garden and beyond, to the plush red interior of TheTimesCenter auditorium. From the auditorium, you gaze back through the trees to the majestic lobby space. In effect, the lobby itself is a continuous public performance.

The sense of transparency is reinforced by the people streaming through the lobby. The flow recalls the dynamic energy of Grand Central Terminal’s Great Hall or the Rockefeller Center plaza, proud emblems of early-20th-century mobility.

Architecturally, however, The New York Times Building owes its greatest debt to postwar landmarks like Skidmore, Owings & Merrill’s Lever House or Mies van der Rohe’s Seagram Building — designs that came to embody the progressive values and industrial power of a triumphant America. Their streamlined glass-and-steel forms proclaimed a faith in machine-age efficiency and an open, honest, democratic society.

Newspaper journalism, too, is part of that history. Transparency, independence, the free flow of information, moral clarity, objective truth — these notions took hold and flourished in the last century at papers like The Times. To many this idealism reached its pinnacle in the period stretching from the civil rights movement to the Vietnam War to Watergate, when journalists grew accustomed to speaking truth to power, and the public could still accept reporters as impartial observers.

This longing for an idealistic time permeates the main newsroom. Pierced by a double-height skylight well on the third and fourth floors, the newsroom has a cool, insular feel even as the facades of the surrounding buildings press in from the north and south. The well functions as a center of gravity, focusing attention on the paper’s nerve center. From many of the desks you also enjoy a view of the delicate branches of the atrium’s birch trees.

Internal staircases link the various newsroom floors to encourage interaction. The work cubicles are flanked by rows of glass-enclosed offices, many of which are unassigned so that they can be used for private phone conversations or spontaneous meetings. Informal groupings of tables and chairs are also scattered about, creating a variety of social spaces.

From the higher floors, which house the corporate offices of The Times and 22 floors belonging to the developer Forest City Ratner, the views become more expansive. Cars rush up along Eighth Avenue. Billboards and electronic signs loom from all directions. By the time you reach the 14th-floor cafeteria, the entire city begins to come into focus, with dazzling views to the north, south, east and west. A long, narrow balcony is suspended within the cafeteria’s double-height space, reinforcing the impression that you’re floating in the Midtown skyline.

Many of my colleagues complained about the building at first. There’s too much empty space in the newsroom, some groused; they missed the intimacy of the old one. The glass offices look sterile, and no one will use them, some said.

I suspect they’ll all adjust. One of the joys of working in an ambitious new building is that you can watch its personality develop. From week to week, you see more and more lone figures chatting on cellphones in the small glass offices with their feet atop a table. And even my grumpiest colleagues now concede that a little sunlight and fresh air are not a bad thing.

Even so, you never feel that the building embraces the future wholeheartedly. Rather than move beyond the past, Mr. Piano has fine-tuned it. The most contemporary features — the computerized louvers and blinds that regulate the flow of light into the interiors — are technological innovations rather than architectural ones; the regimented rows of identical wood-paneled cubicles chosen by the interior design firm Gensler could be a stage set for a 2007 remake of “All the President’s Men,” minus the 1970s hairstyles.

Maybe this accounts for the tower’s slight whiff of melancholy.

Few of today’s most influential architects buy into straightforward notions of purity or openness. Having witnessed an older generation’s mostly futile quest to effect social change through architecture, they opt for the next best thing: to expose, through their work, the psychic tensions and complexities that their elders sublimated. By bringing warring forces to the surface, they reason, a building will present a franker reading of contemporary life.

Journalism, too, has moved on. Reality television, anonymous bloggers, the threat of ideologically driven global media enterprises — such forces have undermined newspapers’ traditional mission. Even as journalists at The Times adjust to their new home, they worry about the future. As advertising inches decline, the paper is literally shrinking; its page width was reduced in August. And some doubt that newspapers will even exist in print form a generation from now.

Depending on your point of view, the Times Building can thus be read as a poignant expression of nostalgia or a reassertion of the paper’s highest values as it faces an uncertain future. Or, more likely, a bit of both.

Source : ___

*******URBAN CACTUS
is a housing project in the Vuurplaat section of Rotterdam by UCX Architects / Ben Huygen and Jasper Jaegers and done for Vestia Rotterdam Feijenoord/Estrade Projecten.





They placed the 98 residential units on 19 floors, using the pattern of outdoor spaces to determine the overall appearance of the project.

The slightly irregular pattern alternates these outdoor spaces to create what are in effect double-height spaces. Each unit then receives more sunlight than a typical stacked composition.

Also the terrace area might be equivalent to a constant depth extended around the perimeter (say two meters), but their configuration creates larger "rooms" for gardening and for enjoying the outdoors and the city views.




Links:

:: UCX architects
:: Estrade

Originally Post By ___

London-Serpentine Gallery Pavilion 2006
Designed by Rem Koolhaas and
Cecil Balmond, with Arup
July – October 2006

This year's Serpentine Pavilion is co-designed by Pritzker Prize-winning architect Rem Koolhaas and innovative structural designer Cecil Balmond.
The centrepiece of the design is a spectacular ovoid-shaped inflatable canopy that will float above the Gallery's lawn. Made from translucent material, the structure will be illuminated from within at night. The canopy will be raised into the air or lowered to cover the amphitheatre below according to the weather.
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The walled enclosure below the canopy will be used as a café and forum for daily televised and recorded public programmes including live talks and film screenings. The highlights will include two 16-hour events, bringing together leading artists, writers and thinkers to map the culture of London. This series of events will be a collaboration between Rem Koolhaas and Hans Ulrich Obrist.

A major exhibition of works by the German artist, Thomas Demand, will be on show at the Serpentine during this period. Demand is developing work to be included in the Serpentine Gallery Pavilion 2006.

Rem Koolhaas said: "The 2006 Serpentine Pavilion will be defined by events and activities. We are proposing a space that facilitates the inclusion of individuals in communal dialogue and shared experience."

Cecil Balmond said: "These Pavilions have evolved with various structural typologies and materials, provoking a debate on architecture; this year the exploration continues not only with typology and material but with the very definition of Pavilion".

Originally Post By ___

Part of the architectural profession, and also some non-architects, responded to Modernism and Postmodernism by going to what they considered the root of the problem. They felt that architecture was not a personal philosophical or aesthetic pursuit by individualists; rather it had to consider everyday needs of people and use technology to give a livable environment. The Design Methodology Movement involving people such as Christopher Alexander started searching for more people-oriented designs. Extensive studies on areas such as behavioral, environmental, and social sciences were done and started informing the design process.

As many other concerns began to be recognized and the complexity of buildings began to increase (in terms of aspects such as structural systems, services and technologies), architecture started becoming more multi-disciplinary than ever. Architecture today usually requires a team of specialist professionals, with the architect being one of many, although usually the team leader.

During the last two decades of the twentieth century and into the new millennium, the field of architecture saw the rise of specializations within the profession itself by project type, technological expertise or project delivery methods. In addition, there has been an increased separation of the 'design' architect from the 'project' architect within some architectural office collaborations.

One of most significant recent developments in the profession is the mainstreaming of sustainability. Sustainability in architecture was pioneered in the 1970s by architects such as Ian McHarg in the US and Brenda and Robert Vale in the UK and New Zealand. The acceleration in numbers of buildings which seek to meet sustainable design principles is inline with a growing world-wide awareness of the risks of climate change. It is now widely expected of an architect that they will integrate sustainable principles into their projects.

Originally Post By ___

Historic treatises

The earliest written work on the subject of architecture is De architectura, by the Roman architect Vitruvius in the early 1st century CE. According to Vitruvius a good building should satisfy the three principles of firmitatis utilitatis venustatis, which translates roughly as -

• durability - it should stand up robustly and remain in good condition.
• utility - it should be useful; and function well for the people using it.
• beauty - it should delight people, and raise their spirits.

According to Vitruvius, the architect should strive to fulfil each of these three attributes as well as possible.

Leone Battista Alberti, who elaborates on the ideas of Vitruvius in his treatise, De Re Aedificatoria, saw beauty primarily as a matter of proportion, although ornament also played a part. For Alberti, the rules of proportion were those that governed the idealised human figure, the Golden Mean. The most important aspect of beauty was therefore an inherent part of an object, rather than something applied superficially; and was based on universal, recognisable truths. The notion of style in the arts was not developed until the 16th century, with the writing of Vasari. The treatises, by the 18th century, had been translated into Italian, French, Spanish and English.

In the early nineteenth century, Augustus Welby Northmore Pugin wrote Contrasts (1836) that, as the titled suggested, contrasted the modern, industrial world, which he disparaged, with an idealized image of neo-medieval world. Gothic architecture, Pugin believed, was the only “true Christian form of architecture.”

The 19th century English art critic, John Ruskin, in his Seven Lamps of Architecture, published 1849, was much narrower in his view of what constituted architecture. Architecture was the "art which so disposes and adorns the edifices raised by man … that the sight of them" contributes "to his mental health, power, and pleasure". For Ruskin, the aesthetic was of overriding significance. His work goes on to state that a building is not truly a work of architecture unless it is in some way "adorned". For Ruskin, a well-constructed, well-proportioned, functional building needed string courses or rustication, at the very least.

On the difference between the ideals of "architecture" and mere "construction", the renowned 20th C. architect Le Corbusier wrote: "You employ stone, wood, and concrete, and with these materials you build houses and palaces: that is construction. Ingenuity is at work. But suddenly you touch my heart, you do me good. I am happy and I say: This is beautiful. That is Architecture".

Modern concepts of architecture

The great 19th century architect of skyscrapers, Louis Sullivan, promoted an overriding precept to architectural design: "Form follows function".

While the notion that structural and aesthetic considerations should be entirely subject to functionality was met with both popularity and scepticism, it had the effect of introducing the concept of "function" in place of Vitruvius "utility". "Function" came to be seen as encompassing all criteria of the use, perception and enjoyment of a building, not only practical but also aesthetic, psychological and cultural.

Nunzia Rondanini stated, "Through its aesthetic dimension architecture goes beyond the functional aspects that it has in common with other human sciences. Through its own particular way of expressing values, architecture can stimulate and influence social life without presuming that, in and of itself, it will promote social development. To restrict the meaning of (architectural) formalism to art for art's sake is not only reactionary; it can also be a purposeless quest for perfection or originality which degrades form into a mere instrumentality".

Ivar Holm points out that the values and attitudes which underly modern architecture differ both between the schools of thought which influence architecture and between individual practising architects. mong the philosophies that have influenced modern architects and their approach to building design are rationalism, empiricism, structuralism, poststructuralism, and phenomenology.

In the late 20th century a new concept was added to those included in the compass of both structure and function, the consideration of sustainability. To satisfy the modern ethos a building should be constructed in a manner which is environmentally friendly in terms of the production of its materials, its impact upon the natural and built environment of its surrounding area and the demands that it makes upon non-sustainable power sources for heating, cooling, water and waste management and lighting.

There is also a concept among architects that although architecture does not exist in a vacuum, architectural form cannot be merely a compilation of historical precedent, functional necessities, and socially aware concerns, but that to achieve significance, a work of architecture must be a transcendent synthesis of all of the former and a creation of worth in and of itself.