Euan Gray Thesis: Empty Shells: the life of dwellings March 2008
“I can see my lifetime piling up reaching from my bedroom to the stars, I can see the house where I was born when I was growing up� David Byrne, Talking Heads
empty shells: the life of dwellings
The title ‘Empty Shells: the life of dwellings’ is a working one. Previous titles
considered include “Fullness/Emptiness”, “Forms within the void”, “Skin and Bones House” and “Templates”. These previous titles are all included here as sub-headings under the broader theme “The Life of Dwellings”. Likewise, I almost see this title becoming a sub-heading itself as it unfolds and reveals its own footing or foundations.
This revealing of foundations, or examination of a things’ roots perhaps denotes
a belief that to understand one must examine not only the present object or state, but one must also consider from where it has arrived. Everything must exist in context. This theme is recurring throughout in several aspects of this work. As a title, for now, this one remains.
It would be beneficial at this early point to explain my interests in creating this
work - my relationship to architecture in brief perhaps. This is not to say these are my only interests in the field, but to perhaps state my current interests reflected in this writing. For now, I am not interested in ideas of style, or in creating a critique regarding the works of one particular architect, or movement of architects. I am neither interested in the procurement nor realistic practices of modern architecture, nor the politics. For this exercise, I am interested solely in generics, simplicity and fundamentals - the undertones seen in facets of architecture, regardless of the implementing individual, yet entirely influenced by the collaboration of collective thought. Essentially, I am interested in the architectural ideas of the ‘human condition’ or collective being.
“Now my aim is clear: I must show that the house is one of the greatest powers of integration for the thoughts, memories and dreams of mankind.” - Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space Ref 01 empty shells 5
If art is the manifestation of our need to express - our recollections that ‘we
feel’ expressed in the ether - it exists as a solidification of abstract ideas in an essentially concrete or tangible way. Architecture also does this, sometimes deliberately, often by accident, but it also serves us with an additional functionality not required of works of art. While art is defined only by the need to express, architecture must also answer to the human needs - for shelter, for containment, as a ‘modification’ of the natural environment to suit our bodily needs and desires. In doing so, it is and becomes a marker and map of our mental processes, bodily skills and cultural aspirations.
As with any rule or generic statement, there will be exceptions. Some art en-
closes or shelters, some architecture does not. At this point one becomes acutely aware of the dangers of terminology and categorising, but one also begins to see the manifestation of the idea of ‘truths’. This is specifically why I have chosen to refer not to architecture or ‘houses’, but to dwelling. To me the idea of dwelling is a more specific notion than the term ‘architecture’, as attached to it are certain truths. My reasoning behind this statement comes from the notion that ‘dwelling’ is not born primarily from intellect, but comes from the functions (and in a sense vulnerabilities) of the human body. This is examined more closely in the section ‘Duty of the dwelling’.
At this point, one should consider the importance of the word ‘primarily’, as
there is a duality in this relationship between functions of the body and functions of the mind. Certainly, dwelling comes as an answer to the basic, primal and bodily needs, but being ‘an answer’ it also inseparably becomes a function of the mind. It is within these expressions of body and mind that we define ourselves as ‘being human’, and never is this more reflected than in the places that we ‘dwell’. The house is a true extension and reflection of our ‘human condition’. empty shells 6
sections 1: Fullness/Emptiness
Absent Dwelling
2: Duty of the dwelling
Design for shelter
3: Life of the dwelling 4: Empty Shells Appendices: 1. Sketches for a bothy 2. Castle at Loch an Eilean - Hearths, chambers, traces. 3. Furniture, template & method
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Fullness/emptiness Form and void, object and meaning
By suggesting everything that is not there, a space is left, not empty space
but full. Objects are de-emphasised, their fabric dissolves into nothingness but the shape and meaning remain. In a way, it is a form of true anonymity, the lack of specifics, a space where objects should be or once stood. In anonymity, we are left to find only generics and ideals - non specific motions that represent not one table, one chair but all tables, true forms left inhabited by imagination and meaning more than material truths and tectonic forms.
The ideal that one can describe something by describing everything it is not is
not new, it has been grasped by philosophers and artisans alike for centuries. Early theologians suggested ‘god’ could perhaps only be described by stating everything it was not, an attempt to describe the indescribable by an eliminatory process. Such a theory might seem awkward - that surely a process of describing infinite non-entity is as problematic as describing the indescribable - but in it we might also find some interesting ideas. This theme is central to Arthur C Clarkes’ short story ‘Nine billion names of God’. ref 02
Applying a similar thought process to our perception of objects - those which
are tangible to the senses - has been a central theme to artist Rachael Whitereads’ work. Her castings in rubber, resin and concrete take everyday objects as positive forms, from which she casts ‘abstract’ spatial forms. What is immediately engaging about Whitereads’ art is the intricate forms suddenly exposed by this process of positive becoming negative, void becoming solid, surface details reversed, indentations becoming extrusions. In this sense, the work immediately challenges the viewer’s preconceptions of the positive form of the subject - seeing these seemingly mundane everyday items in a negative form has an immediate impact on one’s perception and spatial awareness. However, there is another diempty shells 8
Plate 01 Untitled (ten tables), Rachael Whiteread.
Plate 02 & 03 Orange bath, Rachael Whiteread. Castings of a bath in orange tint resin. empty shells 9
mension of understanding in the work - this focusing on a more abstract theme of specific objects and their implied ‘platonic’ meaning.
When one is faced with the imprint of a bath in a solid form - a bath-like ‘gap’
essentially, one sees two things. One sees ‘a bath’ by seeing the a lack of a bath, a space where a bath should be. With the lack of a specific object to inform us of this ‘baths’ nature, we are left to fill the space with our imagination, into it filling our own memories, visions, ideals of what a bath might be.
In his book ‘Concept of dwelling’ Shultz makes a similar point analysing Boccio-
ni’s sculpture ‘Development of a bottle in space’. The sculpture itself shows a bottle-like form rising from its base in a fragmented state, a collection of facets rather than a complete and typical cylindrical object, yet still maintains a recognisable identity: the bottle. Shultz suggests this is a musing on the idea of object identity and ’meaning’ whereby the sculpture portrays both the physical nature of a bottle - suggested in its slender, loosely cylindrical form - but also the notion that the bottle is a man-made ‘gathering of ideas’ or piece of work. Represented by the various facets that form a complete object both ‘meaning’ and ‘thingness’ are explained, and as such the complete idea of the bottle is realised. Quoting Shultz:
“In making a thing such as a jug, man intentionally gathers a world, or in Heideggers’s words, “sets a world into work.” The twofold nature of dwelling thus appears: first the faculty of understanding the given things (natural or man-made), and second the making of works which keep and “explain” what has been understood. Ref 03
Relating the work of Rachael Whiteread to this point Norberg-Shultz makes, we
see themes of human understanding arising. Perhaps in Whiteread’s work this is more akin to the idea of ‘remembering’ or recalling;- although regardless of terminology both denote empty shells 10
plate 04: Development of a bottle in space, Umberto Boccioni
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methods of understanding. By suggesting objects in this absent manner, Whiteread is forcing the viewer away from seeing a single, specific object, but instead to seeing the generic object - the object of memory. In this, we might see that much of Whiteread’s work is preoccupied with ‘memory’ - this evoking of the remembered, the traces, the now unseen.
‘House’ was one of Whitereads’ largest works - a project in which she cast the
interior form of a south London tenement house in concrete before the exterior ‘shell’ was demolished. The piece was deemed both aesthetically and conceptually unpopular - its brooding, grey concrete mass raised difficult issues of dereliction, social decline, poverty and abandonment, perhaps all contributing to the uneasiness of the local community. The confrontational, avant-garde nature of ‘House’ ensured its ‘second’ demolition in 1994, having stood for one year. Interestingly, the piece won Whiteread both the Turner prize for best British Artist, and the K-foundation prize for worst British artist in the same year, echoing the decidedly mixed public response. Conceptually, however, the piece is still significant - commenting on the work, Whiteread states:
“The space between the floorboards is like the intestines of a house, containing the vestiges of those that have lived there. I’m interested in traces. Also there’s always a bodily relationship between the viewer and the work.... the work is to do with absence not presence.” Ref 04
Architecturally, what might be seen as engaging in regard to Whiteread’s artworks is the role of ‘the architecture’ in relation to the idea of ‘the life contained’. In absence, we see the architecture - the concrete, the tangible - as a initiation or a device, not as a resulting product. The walls do not create the room, but simply a space in which a room might happen. The real idea of ‘the room’, or the home, happens within, almost by chance, and it is to this place we become most attached. A house does not necessarily equal a home. On evaluating the wall in his apartment, Georges Perec writes: empty shells 12
“I put a picture up on a wall. Then I forget there is a wall... it is nothing more than the support for the picture.” Ref 05
In creating dwelling, architecture is first and foremost responding to the most
primal of needs - for warmth, shelter and protection. This represents the ‘thingness’ of the dwelling, its ’physical truth’ in other words. In response to needs, it creates spaces, forms, tectonic arrangements that bound and define voids. Within this void, the idea of the room is formed - ‘the home’ is eventually created. Without a bed, a bedroom loses meaning, without dwellers, a house is not a home. Architecture must allow for these human interventions to happen - it must eventually loosen its control and allow the house to become the dwelling. Equally, however, it must realise it is the basis upon which these axioms of living are formed - if the architecture itself is fundamentally flawed, the effect upon the lives of the inhabitant will be negative.
What might be seen here is the development of architecture from an initial act of
response, to the creation of an entity of its own being - the development of enclosure into the animated dwelling or home. Essentially, this process of inanimate becoming animate is the manifesting act of ‘house becoming home’, and perhaps the best way to see this relationship is to see it deconstructed from fullness (completeness) through its component state, towards emptiness, or the state which precedes being. (this state ‘emptiness’ might also be thought of as the ideal stage - where the house exists in the human mind but not yet the world). As in Whiteread’s work, we are looking for the inner ‘truth’ or purpose in the object - in this case the idea of the dwelling.
Whiteread does not interest herself with the fabric of the objects or buildings
she casts, only the surface traces of it upon the edges of the castings. She does not aim or
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Plate 05 Ghost, Rachael Whiteread. Casting of a front roon in plaster
Plate 06 House, Rachael Whiteread. Casting of a South London terraced house in concrete. empty shells 14
intend to examine the construction of its’ materials, the way in which it has been joined together or the hardness of its fabric. Instead, these are removed entirely from the work, discarded, leaving only the trace of the object upon the world - of the pure, ideal object. As such, her intentions are different to that of the architect - to whom those matters of tectonics and materials are vital in implementing ‘the idea’ into being in the world. However, the while the architect cannot dismiss the idea of fabric, or the act of building, nor can they dismiss the importance of understanding the inner purpose behind that which they do. The architect must first identify and understand the problem to which they respond.
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Belsay hall & Ruthven barracks
Photo: Belsay hall, Northumberland. With the floors removed, the traces of rooms still hang hauntingly from its walls. The idea of ‘the contained life’ remains in the relief of its walls. One is able to see the rooms still hanging in thin air, stacked like transparent cubes.
Photo: Ruthven Barracks, nr Aviemore.
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Absent dwelling a house without form Project 1; Fullness/emptiness - Absent dwelling
In response to this idea of the duality of dwelling, of metaphorical and physical
meanings, I began creating a twofold project. The initial part of the project is the ‘absent’ house - one which is devoid of all materiality, a response to the metaphorical ’parts’ of a home. It exists only as the isolated and implied ‘meaning’ of rooms, from which is first drawn a hierarchy or order, and after which a physical ‘house’ might appear. These ‘meanings’ of rooms become the ‘pieces of dwellings’ as are later discussed. The basis is the idea that the life contained creates the dwelling, around which the architecture bounds.
Identifying the ‘pieces’ of dwelling in context.
Instead of creating a building through the pulling and extrusion of walls and
solids to create voids into which rooms are placed, I wished to create it essentially backwards, in so much as I wish to first create the rooms then fill the gaps in between these with the solid parts of the house. Two rooms not quite touching creates a wall, two rooms touching creates an doorway.
Sketched opposite, the ‘pieces’ of living - that is, the deemed required human
functions within a home, are labelled opposite. Sit, See, Rest (retreat), Eat, Wash, Store. This is not an extensive list by any means, but simply a starting point from which to base study. I intend to return to each ‘piece’ throughout this study in greater detail, and examine not only the physical actions described here, but also the associated actions of the mind attached to each (i.e. ‘sitting’ can almost certainly be related to ‘day-dreaming’ or ‘socializing’ for instance). This is essentially an initial exercise for a continuing project. empty shells 17
Each living ‘piece’ is cast, stacked and arranged, the gaps are filled and the house appears. Focusing on that which is void or negative creates positive forms.
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2: Duty of the dwelling
Dwelling is not born primarily from intellect, but comes from the functions
(and in a sense vulnerabilities) of the human body. Dwelling is primarily concerned with the modification of the natural environment to suit the needs of the human being, to adapt and control the extremities of temperature, moisture, light and wind. Secondarily, it serves the inhabitants with ‘places’ in which our human activities can take place.
In the last section, the project titled ‘Absent Dwelling’, a number of basic human
activities were identified. At the most basic level, these could be said to be Rest, Retreat, Eat, Wash, Store and Interact, each of which essentially titles a more diverse set of activities that generally form the basis of day-to-day human activities - and it could be stated that the main duty of the dwelling to provide these activities with places in which to happen, or ‘sites of living’ as Pallasmaa states Ref 10. However, before one begins to apply these anthropological or sociological ideals to the act of ‘dwelling’, there is a primary duty of the house to be considered - namely, the protection of the inhabitant from the environment.
If we look at the human from a purely biological point of view, the naked ho-
mosapien is an essentially fragile, albeit adaptable organism. Our blood sits at an almost exact 37 degrees constant, yet we inhabit a huge range of geographical temperatures, from -50C to +50C, and an equally diverse range of humidity. Our ability to adapt to such ranges is a testament to our bodies’ ability to adapt, both through biological mechanisms and through our problem solving abilities - effectively through our capacity to utilise tools. Here ‘tools’ refers to a broader sense of the word than simply the idea of the hand tool, but instead refers to a device utilized to solve a specific problem. In this case the tool is ‘the dwelling’, and the problem is set out by the differences between the natural environment and our ‘comfort environment’. (In ‘Towards a New Architecture’ Corbusier famously empty shells 19
referred to the modern house as a ‘machine for living’) Ref 06.
Stating the obvious, the type of dwelling (tool) used in response varies globally
as much as the ranges of the environment itself - from the baked earth huts of Africa, through towering urban apartment blocks to the igloos in the most northerly stretches of the globe, the diversity is staggering. Each location presents its own set of environmental factors, materials, technological possibilities and social influences, and the resulting diversity is truly beautiful. At this point, it is perhaps important to root these observations back to something generic, rather than to physical attributes, as such a study of physical diversity becomes a somewhat meaningless exercise. Instead, it is the similarities between each type of dwelling - the truths or ideal found in each, regardless of form that are the focus of this study. The question to be asked is one of unity - what factors define ‘the dwelling’, regardless of climate, topography and culture.
Here, we return to a point already made - the idea of the house as protector, the
modifier of environments, the housing of the human condition. Globally, this is always true, it is the very root of the dwelling. As said, the typology, form and ‘functions’ vary incredibly, but the ideal is almost universally the same - the dwelling is an extension of the human - a protector for the body and a reflection of the mind and life within. In many ways the house can be seen as the acting ‘shell’ of the human being, the exoskeleton that houses the vulnerable inner being. In this way the home is very much the protector - we take refuge, seek privacy in our homes, turned away from the eyes of the earth. There is a fundamental, primal need within humans for some form of seclusion, a need to not be seen, to be enclosed within something else.
This might or might not have a base in the idea and protection of the womb, or
equally in the need to close our eyes and shut out the world. Whatever the basis, the reality is often similar, manifesting itself in the enclosing nature of architecture and the dwelling mentioned earlier. Houses such as Farnsworth House by Mies van der Rohe directly chalempty shells 20
lenge this, offering little or no seclusion behind vast expanses of glass, instead exhibiting the human activities within. Such an approach might be interesting, technologically or experimentally, but one wonders if this unique idea of ‘dwelling’ (where dwelling becomes an almost visual exhibition to the exterior world) really address one of the fundamental needs of the human being. As has been said in the past, can one imagine having flu in Farnsworth house? (source: lecture, dundee uni, 2002). It is known that Edith Farnsworth thought Van der Rohe’s creation was decidedly uncomfortable to inhabit, and eventually sued the architect for both economic reasons and for not providing a suitable ‘home’. Ref 07
Such exposure in dwelling manifests itself now and then across the globe, in
unique, severe glass houses - such is the nature of human diversity - but these are inevitably short-lived, yet interesting experimentations by architects, usually for showcase purposes foremost and as ‘dwellings’ second. It might be interesting to note how many of these ‘glass houses’ were designed and inhabited by the architect in the long term, the answer is probably very few.
My dismissal of these ‘houses’ here is personal, simply for the reason that the
ideal of the glass house invariably misses the point of dwelling. One can appreciate the interest in reversing the role of ‘the retreat’ - challenging the perceptions of this aspect of dwelling through the nature of opposition - but the results simply seem too stark, too conceptual, too inhospitable to really think of these buildings as ‘dwellings’. Architectural experiments certainly, and often beautifully executed experiments, but as dwellings, they might be less appropriate. One might equally challenge our perceptions of comfort by not including a roof, the question being is the result quite what we would call ‘a dwelling’?
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Plate 07 Mies Van der Rohe - Farnsworth House. While offering little in the way of seclu-
sion to the dweller, Farnsworth House is still an undeniably fascinating piece of architecture, both in conception and execution. It is notably one of the earliest buildings to group the functional ‘pieces’ of the home into a central unit -something also explored by architects such as Shigeru Ban, as is explored further towards the end of this thesis.
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If the idea of the house as a retreat is occasionally challenged by architects, the
other functions are challenged less so, although they may or may not be included within the dwelling for other reasons, be it social or economic. The inclusion of washing facilities, or cooking facilities (those functions we might deem as given in an affluent western context) are not necessarily fundamental to the definition of a home - economic reasons might not allow such luxuries - yet this does not categorically stop the building being ‘a dwelling’.
Cooking for instance - in more basic houses, especially those in warmer regions -
will often be carried out outside the family dwelling in the public areas. This might reflect the particular societies attitude towards cooking, which might be one of great sociability and interaction, or might be rooted in more pragmatic reasons of removing cooking smells from the sleeping areas. Whatever the particular reasoning, the idea here is that while certain activities might not strictly be housed within the walls of the dwelling, they are housed within the containment of ‘the group dwelling’ or village, and could still be seen as part of the individual home, albeit a shared part.
Washing, again in hot regions, often moves from the private realm onto the
public, usually due to the difficulties of supply in these sun baked regions, and due to the complexities of irrigation. As such, a single tap may well serve an entire village (and not even always), which again moves certain ’functions’ out with the private dwelling and into the communal dwelling. Again this might happen for other reasons elsewhere in the world, so it might be stated that although certain ‘functions’ have been identified, they may belong to the communal dwelling, which is itself an extension of the private home. The only function, it seems, where this is almost categorically never the case is the function of rest, or sleep. This ties in closely with the idea of seclusion mentioned earlier - the sleeping area of any dwelling is usually out of public sight and reach. Much like the blanket that protects against the cold, the house has a duty to protect the vulnerable dreamer from the empty shells 23
world whilst sleeping.
Categorically, we might then state that the pivotal ‘duty’ of any dwelling is that it
provides the inhabitant with a secluded place to sleep, a place in which they are protected from the natural world and the public eye. Without a bed, it is hard to imagine a building being described as ‘a home’. Other functions, although equally important, are more loosely tied to the central ideal, as they may be somewhat detached in nature from the actual, physical structure of the dwelling, although they are almost certainly still part of it. Sleep, however, could be the exception, although sleep itself is a twofold task - the first task is physical rest, the second function is dreaming. This seems to draw a unique parallel with the duality of dwelling.
“If I was asked to name the chief benefit of the house, I should say: the house shelters daydreaming, the house protects the dreamer, the house allows one to dream in peace.” Bachelard. Ref 08
In order to provide this protection, the dwelling must accomplish certain tasks.
It might be necessary here to tie ‘the dwelling’ to a geographical location, and talk of Scottish dwellings rather than generic. Here, we experience cold temperatures, high winds and frequent rain - all of which become primary factors dealt with by the dwelling, and more specifically by its’ skin. The skin, or external fabric, is the primary modifier of the environment, as it acts as first line of defence against the inclement elements. The primary task of the roof, for instance, could be said to be the shedding of water, the protection from wind, and the retention of heat. Now this is true for roofs across the globe, but the dominance of these specific elements will dictate the form of a Scottish roof as different to that of say, an Australasian roof, which will be primarily concerned with shading the intense sunlight. Local materials and construction too will play a huge role here, again, returning to the earlier point regarding the diversity of the dwelling tool. It is this ability to isolate and respond to specific geographical problems that outlines one of the true strengths of the human condition - our ability to adapt through dwelling.
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Plate 08 Tents in the wilderness, 1970. Photo: Eric Hemery
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Design for Shelter
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Also see Appedix 1: Sketches for a Bothy
Relating to the conclusion that a dwelling must, at a most basic level, provide
the inhabitant with a safe place to rest, this project attempts to isolate these functions and create a dwelling of utmost simplicity. The singular role of this dwelling is much like that of the bothy - a traditional Scottish hut found in remote areas, often used for shelter in the case of emergency. These huts usually comprise of a single room, an unlocked door and a hearth for warmth - with little else in the way of home comforts. The purpose of the bothy is simple - to provide protection for the inhabitant when the natural environment becomes severe (emergency use), or as a passing refuge for the adventurous traveller (recreational use). Facilities are sparse on account of maintenance (most bothies are un-maintained, or at best minimally looked after by authorities etc), but this also emphasises the temporary nature of the bothy - it is a passing destination on a journey, rather than a final one - it is not the place to set up home.
My reasoning for focusing on these most basic of functions - warmth and shelter
(the privacy to sleep and dream) - is to simplify the act of dwelling to its most primal roots. If one imagines reaching the bothy, while caught in a raging highland storm approaching dark, one can perhaps imagine the simple joys of a sheltering roof, a place tucked out the wind and the warmth form a protected hearth. By de-emphasising all other functions, these most primal needs can be fully appreciated for all that they are, and their true importance can be felt.
The methodology here is to create something accessible - not simple accessible
in terms of freedom of use, but accessible economically and practically. This is the template design for something extremely accessible - something cheap, long-lasting, easy to construct, elegant and protective. While an approximate site has been chosen in this case, this is intended to be an adaptable design that can be applied in principle to a variety of rural sites - essentially it is a template design for a bothy. It can also perhaps be thought of empty shells 27
as a kind of permanent tent for the wilderness explorer - an aide and assistance to a longer journey.
In conjunction with that which can be seen from the drawings, the shelter’s material nature is intended as such:
1; A stone or concrete base foundation plinth, securely anchoring the structure to
its location and surroundings. The stone might be quarried on site if possible, or in other eventualities, a casting system could be used to pour concrete ‘stones’ in-situ.
2; A stone fire slab, upon which to place a cast iron hearth. This stone, like the
plinth, etches the belonging and purpose of the bothy to its place on the earth. A full stone hearth and chimney would be ideal but tricky to construct, so the more ‘accessible’ option has been chosen here, although this issue of the pragmatic approach was discussed and later de-emphasised in importance, as is discussed further at the end of this section.
3; A timber frame anchored to the stone plinth. The frame’s tectonic arrangement
(jointed) is significantly different to the stereotomic (stacked) arrangement of the base, my reasoning for such is twofold. Pragmatically, this use of spanning and framing is less material intensive than a entirely stacked building, and as such is more ‘accessible’ to construct - i.e. less labour intensive and easier to install with a small workforce (the idea behind the bothy is that it would require no more than two people in its creation, and that neither would require previous experience). The second fold reasoning for the differing constructional styles is more theoretical - basing itself in the previously mentioned idea of the buildings’ ‘place in the world’. This however, refers not only to its anchoring to a place physically, but also in time. The idea is essentially that the foundations outlast the frame, leaving a trace upon the earth of the fireplace and layout, and as such might ‘tell the story’ of the bothy, and provide a reusable platform to future generations. This reasonempty shells 28
ing however, has not yet been explored by the thesis, and these ideas of permanence and decay are explored in the next section ‘Life of the dwelling’.
4; A wrapped skin around the frame. Drawn here is corrugated iron, although the
preference is to leave this ‘skin’ unspecified - the ideal is that a variety of materials can perform this task - different locations will provide different indigenous materials - and a material should be sourced locally, or easily, to suit. The primary and secondary timber frames provide a stable base to anchor on, potential materials include felt, sheep wool insulation, corrugated plastic, plywood, tongue and groove boards and leather/animal hides. In review, my personal favourite is corrugated plastic, with sheep wool beneath, as I like the idea that the skin of the building might have a slightly translucent quality that reveals its constructional makeup, and allows a degree of luminance in the interior during daytime - so the inhabitant is aware of, but protected from, the outer world. Daylight, raindrops, the wind and the glow of the hearth would be at once realised and altered by the skin.
This alluding to four basic architectural elements unwittingly followed Gottfried
Sempers’ writings in his text ‘Four Elements of Architecture’, a passage from which is included here. While this was initially accidental, in hindsight Sempers’ work concludes this ‘elemental’ approach to a primative dwelling (or ‘hut’) perfectly:
‘The first sign of human settlement and rest after the hunt, the battle, and wandering in the desert is today, as when the first men lost paradise, the setting up of the fireplace and the lighting of the reviving, warming and food preparing flame. Around the hearth the first groups assembled; around it the first alliances formed; around it the first rude religious concepts were put into the customs of a cult. Throughout all phases of society the hearth formed that sacred focus around which the whole took order and shape. It is the first and most important, the moral element of architecture. Around it were grouped the three other elements; the roof, the enclosure and the empty shells 29
mound, the protecting negations or defenders of the hearth’s flame against the three hostile elements of nature’ (Semper, 1989: 102) Ref 08A
Mentioned earlier, and as can be seem from the timber node construction draw-
ings, a quite pragmatic approach was taken in designing the ‘D.I.Y Bothy kit’, and this prompted much discussion. My intent was to make a ‘template’ design, one which could be followed from paper to tools to building, and as such the design - particularly of the timber frame - became overly prescribed and ‘overly designed’. This highlighted a basic ‘problem’ in this project - the task of designing something, that by its own reasoning of basics and simplicity, required not to be “designed“. Partially, the point I was attempting to illustrate here was the primal need for shelter, and the ease by which a solution can be achieved. Many people in the western world seem to hold the idea that they themselves could simply never ‘build their own home’, or shelter, and I think I was trying to challenge this with the idea of the D.I.Y kit. However, this became a quite specific set of instructions, with some overly complex carpentry required for the frame, and as such was self-defeating in the scope of ‘an easy build’. The pragmatic nature of this building had become a sidetrack to its actual purpose in conception - as an illustrator of ideals, and a highlight of primal needs and desires. Perhaps the difficultly comes from trying to force an overly pragmatic building project from an oneric idea.
If one looks at the design, one notices the stark simplicity of the bothy - there is
a hearth, for warmth, a raised bench for sleeping on, a skin to protect and a base to anchor. All other facets of dwelling (washing, a toilet) have been removed - the fire can be used to cook on, the bench could be a table, but these are ‘accidental’. This is a dwelling that fulfils its pivotal function of protection and warmth, but in absence highlights the need for home. Although the bothy is a refuge in the storm, and the fire is a welcome sight, it is also a place in which to miss home, the comforts, the attachments, the personifications of one’s surrounding. My hope is that while one is warmed and sheltered in the bothy (in empty shells 30
imagination and the world) and can rest, one feels that nostalgia for the true idea of the home. A reduction to such simplicity highlights that which is being shown, but also forces one to question that which has been removed (as in fullness/emptiness). The next section, Life of the Dwelling, comes from examining the parts and depths to the issue of dwelling that are not vital to survival, but vital to living.
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corrugated skin
Inner skin and frame
Stone Plinth foundation
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hearth
sleeping platform (perforated)
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3. Life of the dwelling
“Architecture is what makes beautiful ruins.” Auguste Perret Ref 09
“the task of architecture is to show how the world touches us, and how we touch the world” Juhani Pallasmaa, lecture Existential Homelessness at Dundee University. Ref 10
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Life of the dwelling
If the basic physical need of the dwelling answers to the vulnerabilities of the
body, then one has a shelter. However, if one wishes to truly ‘dwell’, and by which I refer to an act more permanent than the temporary inhabitance of the bothy, then the dwelling must answer to much more than physical requirement. Dwelling is as much an act of the mind as it is of the body. If earlier we examined a few of the physical acts that might take place in dwelling, (resting, eating, sitting etc), we might now look at the emotional acts to which the dwelling responds.
Speaking in his lecture on Existential Homelessness at Dundee University, Ju-
hani Pallasmaa described the nature of the home as “a place from where the world feels organised and safe….. From where we can make correct judgements.” Ref 10 There are a number of ideas contained in this statement, the first being the idea of the house as the centre of the world, the universe, the cosmological existence. In the foreword to Gaston Bachelards Poetics of Space, John R. Stilgoe makes a similar point, asking “if the house is the first cosmos for its young children, how does its space shape all subsequent knowledge of any larger cosmos?”. Ref 11
The idea of the house as centre is both conscious and subconscious, it is the place
to which we always return, from where the day starts and ends, the part of the world over which we reign, organise and define. These acts surely reflect far more than the basic process of resting - they reflect an emotional need to feel attached to the earth (place), to define the inhabitant as an individual in the world, to belong somewhere. With a centre we have belonging, with the centre removed, we become lost, or ‘existentially homeless’ as Pallasmaa puts it.
If we look again at the bothy plans, we see a bed and a hearth. Although the
bothy is a shelter in which to rest, the main ‘event’ is not the bed - it is the hearth. The hearth retains a primal place in our hearts as ‘the original centre’ around which we huddle empty shells 36
in the cold, receive warmth, light, we cook and we interact. Throughout history, this has held fundamental importance, from the humblest of cottages and stone-age settlements as seen in Skara Brae, to the stone and brick hearths of Frank Lloyd Wright that take up centre stage in the majority of his domestic projects. Equally, this central location of the heavy hearth in many residences makes great architectural sense - the warmth reaches outwards in all directions, heating the home, the stone or brick retains heat and provides a warming element throughout the structure. This is equally apparent in Scottish tenement housing, where kitchen and living room fireplaces rise through the building in great stone chimneys, heating the adjacent rooms and floors above. In the bothy, the hearth echoes this primal need to place the fire in the centre of our world - the fire slab acts as an altar to the primal fire, mankind’s first discovery. Around it, we, and the dwelling, bask in its ‘sphere of influence’ (Ref 12 S. Unwin, Analysing Architecture). See illustrations in appendice 2: Hearths, Chambers, Traces.
Memory and Nostalgia in dwelling:
If the hearth unites us in a primal understanding of our roots, the house continues
this tradition of nostalgia and reverie. As much as the items we place in it, both mundane and priceless, the house is etched into our memories, and we into its’. As the main character Andrei Gorchakov in Tarkovsky’s ‘Nostalghia’ dies, his alien surroundings become filled with a dreamlike vision of his childhood home - it is a vision etched into his primal subconscious - this idea of the home, as it is, as it exists within us. However, this relationship is mutual - as much as we remember the home, it too remembers us - we change its appearance, scratch its surfaces, wear out the stairs with our feet. It too has a memory, a physical and lasting marking of the inhabitants upon its walls. This echoes back to Rachael Whiteread’s ‘House’ and ‘Ghost’ pieces, when she talks of how her plaster and concrete castings lift greasy marks and scratches from the walls, recording and remembering the previous lives of the room.
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Plate 09 Andrei Tarkovsky’s classic film ‘Nostalghia’ powerfully links the idea of dwelling, and in this case the image of the home, to a primal place in the psyche. Here, the architecture is immaterial - its fabric is one of sentiment, nostalgia and memory rather than of material ‘things’. It is the home as it is remembered rather than as it stands. (Ref 10 Juhani Pallasma, lecture).
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“Of course, thanks to the house, a great deal of our memories are housed, and if the house looks a bit elaborate, if it has a cellar and a garret, nooks and corridors, our memories have refuges which are all the more clearly defined.” Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space. Ref 13
This quotation by Bachelard makes one important grammatical observation
- the changing inflection of the word house [noun: the home] to house [verb: to contain] reiterates this fundamental link between memory and the places in which we dwell. If one marries this idea of ‘the life contained’ to the idea of timescales, one also sees another important link. If one takes the idea of a human timescale (a lifetime), which we shall call around 80 years, and compares this to the idea of an architectural timescale (the potential lifespan of a building) which often ranges into the hundreds of years, one sees the difference. This architectural lifespan increases further still when one considers the role of the ruin, or archaeological traces of human constructions, which in a sense ‘document’ a human activity over thousands of years.
Essentially put, architecture often outlasts the human life, but in containing mem-
ories, traces, purposes, it can be seen as a human endeavour that has the potential to carry our ‘knowledge’ further than death. The house becomes a semi-tombstone, not necessarily in a morbid sense, but in sentiment to its users. The ruin lies in the landscape, or hidden in the earth, as a record of its purpose and past life like a high watermark left by the tide on the walls of a pier.
Materiality plays an important part in remembering, with different materials
each containing a ‘lifespan’ of their own. Stone will last indefinitely, if protected from the weather, whereas wood will disintegrate far sooner. Steel will rust, and eventually return to its mineral state, some man-made synthetics such as plastics will potentially outlast concrete. It could be observed that all materials are continuously trying to return to their
original state - the inert, or mineral state, and that any entity is subject to an endless cycle of formation and decay. However, where this relates to architecture, and specifically to the dwelling, is the tactility of the materials used. Timber will last for a shorter time than stone, but is also softer, and more malleable. If one compares the ‘memories’ etched into a old wooden desktop - the immediate scratches of pens, the shuffle of books, the movement of the users arms across its edge - to the slow, erosive decay of a stone staircase down its centre, one sees how ‘memory’ is as indigenous to material as it is to the human mind. The desk records a different type of memory, more immediate and shorter lived, than the step, which documents the averaging effect of a million feet upon it.
Whether this ‘etching’ is a conscious decision in the architectural design process,
or simply a by-product of a building’s use is never clear, nor usually important. It is more important as an observation than an as a designed ‘intent’ - the prompted musings of the past by such mundane or inert materials is enough to remind us of our place in the world, and our place in the universal timescale. To myself, these small marks upon our buildings are some of the most humble connections between our human condition and the places we inhabit.
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Plate 10: Frederick Evans’ photo “Sea of Steps” shows perfectly the aging process of stone steps, in this case in Wells Catherdral.
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In contrast, these timber steps will survive for a much shorter period of time, subject to their own aging processes. photo - authors own.
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Adaption of the Dwelling: See Plate 10, Stewart Brand, How builings Learn - Ref 14
If this process of ‘etching’ is an issue uncovered in time, a record of the past
life, the issue of adaptation belongs to the idea of ‘the future’ life. If we discussed the idea of the human/architectural timespans’ differing, often with the latter outlasting the former, then we are forced to see that the original ‘intended purpose’ of the building will most likely also change. Re-use and adaptation is as vital to architecture as the idea of creation, and this is fundamentally important to the dwelling - the closest echo of life by architecture. Our lives are in a state of constant flux, our conditions continuously changing, and this is reflected in our dwellings, as we extend them outwards, alter rooms, shuffle furniture and decorate. When we can no-longer alter a dwelling to suit our current needs, we pack up and move on, leaving empty places for others to inhabit, but with our own story etched firmly into the fabric. This is often a traumatic experience - leaving behind these places to which we have deep emotional attachments - and as such the house (or memory of the house) remains seated in our mind with an immense sense of nostalgia for these intimate, deeply specific places.
It is hard to root these ideas, or fundamentals, of dwelling to a concrete place
in the design process. One cannot design for future nostalgia, for one does not know for what we will become nostalgic, just as one does not decide upon specific ’traces’ to be left. Adaptability too, is difficult to impose upon a design - the question arising “to what will we need to adapt?” Obviously, this is not something that belongs to the conceptual stages of the dwelling, these are the products of time, of life passing, rather than deliberate movements. Adaptation and memory perhaps belong to ‘the life of the dwelling’, and are dictated by the passage of time and the actions of the human living within. However, this suggests another importance to the issue of dwelling - the issue of the dweller as designer, and the idea that the design process is a continual one, rather than one that stops upon ‘completion’ (which may be a misnomer in itself). More and more does the dwellempty shells 43
ing seem less like a final, complete object (arising out of a closed process), but as a ‘work in progress’ in a state of continual flux and adaptation. Rather than fulfilling the role as a final article, the dwelling acts as a framework upon which we can build. This role is discussed further in the next section.
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Plate 11: In his book “How builings learn� Stewart Brand illustrates this point of the changing use and adaption of specific spaces through this sequence of photos. Although the space in the image is a workshop, rather than a dwelling, the idea is applicable to all buildings. empty shells 45
4. Templates/Empty Shells
“in every building, even the richest, the first task of the phenomenologist is to find the original shell.� Gaston Bachelard Ref 15
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Templates/Empty Shells:
As has been discussed already, the role of the ‘skin’ of the house is to primarily
protect the inhabitant from the world, to provide a shell in which one can dwell. The following projects work upon this basis - the uninhabited house begins as an ‘empty shell’, into which interventions are made by the architect/dweller as are required. In doing so, the relationship between architect and inhabitant is explored, as is the interplay between the house’s skin and its contents. Influences for these ideas come from architects such as Walter Segal, Allan Wexler, Shigeru Ban, self-build projects by Phillipe Starck and the book/TV series ’How buildings learn’ by Stewart Brand, the relevance of each will be discussed in due course.
Role of the inhabitant/architect:
For the sake of these projects, an idealised ‘inhabitant’ is assumed - his needs
change, his house flexes and adapts to his whims, changes with his age. The inhabitant is proactive rather than passive - they involve themselves by immersion in the life of the dwelling - they are the architect, master builder, designer and occupant all at once. A mutual relationship is assumed between dweller and dwelling - the dweller needs, the dwelling gives, or can be altered to accommodate. The dwelling is empty until the dweller fills it - it is a vessel for his life.
For this reason, adaptability in the dwelling is key. As discussed in the previous
section, the adaptations of the dwelling reflect the passage of time - the continual flux of the human condition. Parts are added, subtracted, moved, displayed or hidden over time - over the course of a day, a weekend, a generation. The house itself remembers each change, its fabric marks spaces with activities, its shell expands and contracts to accommodate new uses as older spaces fill up.
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Role of the Shell: Skin and Frame
One aspect common to each of these dwellings is the idea of the structural shell -
the framework for the house is treated as part of this layer, the second part is the cladding system or covering skin. The reason for separating these two functions - structuring and covering - is pragmatic, and in keeping with the idea of adaptability. If one creates a truly structural shell, whereby covering and supporting are done by the same material, there comes a difficulty in making changes to the exterior fabric. If the inhabitant wishes to make changes to the dwelling, for instance inserting a new opening, or extending the footprint, he or she would be required to cut into the structural element of his or her dwelling - a job potentially full of pitfalls and dangers. However, if skin and structure are kept as separate elements, as in the case of a cladding system, then the skin might be more easily removed, altered and returned, without disruption to the structural framework.
Repeating sections: Expandable framework
Another thing that might be noted in the following projects is the use of a simple,
iconic ‘house’ section - again this idea roots itself to the issue of expansion and adaptability. By establishing a modular section, the house may be easily expanded upon its long axis without damage to the existing sections. This might be made clearer using the analogy of a railway carriages being added to a train engine - the size of the train is increased without disruption to the existing units. It also seemed important to allow extensions to be made to the dwelling without changing the roof profile - the integrity of the roof being paramount to the ‘health’ of the dwelling. The repeating section allows for extra, identical roof units (see cladding panels) to be clipped or joined in place without disruption to the existing fabric.
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Project A: Skin & Bones House
The vessel for exploration in this project was to create an initial framework
- in this case a simple, archetypical house form constructed from timber. The model then received a skin, a plywood composite panelling around its frame. An empty shell is achieved, and the process of dwelling may begin. A hearth unit is inserted, followed by the basic, pragmatic functional spaces required in a home - a place to prepare and cook food, and a bathroom. Also at this stage, a boiler room is placed. These three functions require the same servicing - water supply and drainage, and as such are located at one end of the house. The client needs a place to sit, he places a sofa and a small table by the hearth. He needs a secluded place to sleep, so he installs joists above the utility/kitchen spaces and places a floor, accessed by a ladder. After time, the inhabitant needs storage for his possessions, a collection of books, clothes, the objects he accumulates throughout the days. A more substantial staircase/bookcase unit is made and installed, as are storage stacks, some of which become walls dividing the spaces further. The upper floor is extended, the space is divided into two sleeping areas rather than one, shelves are build, more furniture is added. The final image shows the house in its ‘full’ state - units have been created, the plan has increased in complexity and diversity, the house has adapted to changing needs.
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The framework for the house shown below allows for easy manipulation of the skin ‘panels’ (shown right), upon a modular framework. Each segment, or combination of segments within the golden section panel may be removed and replaced with a window, door or services unit. Each of these units would correspond to the modular sizes of the panel to allow easy alterations to the buildings’ skin.
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Photo of the model - interior space, full.
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The role of furniture:
One observation in creating this model and series of images was the creation
of specific ‘units’ in response to the different aspects of living (see back to the ‘absent house’ project). Rather than creating cellular rooms, and further dividing the space within, the functional elements of each ‘living piece’ are grouped together into units that in turn define the spaces around them. This allows the skin and internal plan to remain as separate elements, allowing greater ease of adaptation. The idea of this grouping of functions into a central unit is shared by Florien Beigels’ work in his own London flat, whereby he creates steel framed units for cooking and washing within the cellular plan of the building. His reasoning is again that this allows freedom in defining spaces - the functions within can be upped and moved as deemed necessary. An observation in a Building Review article is that the actuality of moving these units is restricted by the provision of water services (plumbing), and that the easy manipulation of these spaces might be more of an ideal than an actuality. However, the principle of creating ‘units’ is a sound one. The following photograph of Allan Wexlers crate house shows a delightful solution to this problem - a simple flexible hosepipe to connect the unit to the mains.
Crate house by Allan Wexler follows a similar philosophy of furniture‘s role in
the house, as a functional piece, a definition of space and instigation of theatre. Quoting a passage in the GG Portfolio series, Wexler talks of his intentions in crate house:
“I divided the house into its parts. A bedroom, bathroom, kitchen and living room each has a function that is isolated and studied. Each is contained in its own crate on wheels. When a room such a kitchen is needed, that crate is rolled in through one of the door openings. When the occupant is tired, the entire house becomes a bedroom, and when the occupant is hungry, it becomes a kitchen. These basic activities that take place in the home… are pared down to those essential artefacts needed and desired at the end of the 20th century. What defines a kitchen? What objects do we choose for each function?” Ref 16 empty shells 54
Shigeru Ban is another architect who has shown interest in the dramatic and
defining role of ‘furniture’ within the dwelling. The term furniture here is used even more loosely, as several of Ban’s houses blur the definition between ‘furniture’ and ‘architecture’ beyond definition - Furniture house actually uses the pieces of furniture as primary structural support for the roof. Naked house is similar to Wexler’s crate house, in its use of movable units, pulled into the main space as function requires.
The drama involved in the use of the movable units in Crate House and Naked
house contain the essence of the ‘adaptable dwelling’. The life of the occupant changes the immediate use and form of the house, while each furniture piece in turn contains the memories of that activity - Wexler himself likens each crate to “a diorama in a natural history museum”.
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Plate 12: Shigeru Ban - Furniture house 2 empty shells 56
Plate 13: Allan Wexlers Crate House. Note the connection of services to the kitchen unit.
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Plate 14: Florian Beigel’s ‘Mobile washing unit’.
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Project B: Shell and Furniture House
The interplay between house and content, dweller and dwelling, activity and
spatial definition prompted a second house project - borrowing ideas more directly from Ban and Wexler. This house contains the same idea of the shell, although the crucial difference here is that the second/mezzanine floor is supported on top of a series of movable, modular furniture units, rather than from the shell of the house. The span and form of the shell would dictate a steel frame here, rather than the timber frame seem previously.
This dwelling takes the idea of the furniture unit, seen in Wexler and Biegels
work, and creates an expanding central core of ‘units’ within the repeating section of the house. Each unit fits into a modular 1m x 1m grid, and forms the structure of the floor above. Services are located under the raised floor, allowing ease of access and connection to other units. These units may be moved around the house, with aide from a palette trolley, and aligned with other units. Some units have a specific function, others are more seen as undefined spaces, dictated by the proximity of the units surrounding them.
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Bibliography
Ref 01 - p6, Gaston Bachelard (1994) The Poetics of Space, Boston: Beacon Press ISBN 978-08070-6473-3 Ref 02 - Arthur C. Clarke (1967) Nine billion names of god, New York: Harcourt, Brace & World, ISBN 0-8488-2181-5 Ref 03 - p17 Christian Norberg Schultz (1985) The concept of dwelling, New York: Rizzoli International Publications Inc. ISBN 0-8478-0590-5 Ref 04 - p34 Rachael Whiteread (1997) British Pavillon XLVII Venice Biennale, London: British Council ISBN 0 86357 369 9 Ref 05 - p38 Georges Perec (1999) Species of Spaces, London: Pengiun Group ISBN 0-14-018986-6 Ref 06 - Le Corbusier (1986) Towards a New Architecture, London: Dover publications ISBN 10-0486250237 Ref 07 - http://jsnfmn.net/writing/farnsworth.html Ref 08 - p6, Gaston Bachelard (1994) The Poetics of Space, Boston: Beacon Press ISBN 978-08070-6473-3 Ref 08A - Jonathan A. Hale (2005) ‘Gottfried Semper’s primitive hut as an act of selfcreation’, arq . vol 9 . no 1, Cambridge Original reference - Semper G. (1989). The Four Elements of Architecture, trans by Mallgrave and Herrmann, Cambridge Ref 09 - p163 Peter Collins (1959) Concrete: The Vision of a New Architecture, A Study of Auguste Perret and his Precursors, New York: Horizon Press. LC 59-1958. NA4125.C6 Ref 10 - Juhani Pallasmaa, lecture Existential Homelessness at Dundee University Ref 11 - foreward John R. Stilgoe, Gaston Bachelard (1994) The Poetics of Space, Boston: Beacon Press ISBN 978-08070-6473-3 Ref 12 - Simon Unwin (2003) Analysing Architecture (2nd Ed.) UK: Routledge ISBN - 9780415306850 Ref 13 - p8 Gaston Bachelard (1994) The Poetics of Space, Beacon Press: Boston ISBN 978-08070-6473-3
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Ref 14 - Stewart Brand (1994) How Buildings Learn, New york: Penguin books ISBN 1-670-83515, also BBC TV series Ref 15 - p4 Gaston Bachelard (1994) The Poetics of Space, Boston: Beacon Press ISBN 978-08070-6473-3 Ref 16 - p42 Gustavo Gili (1998) GG Portfolio: Allan Wexler, Barcelona: Grup3 ISBN 84-252-1753-9
Additional References: Juhani Pallasma (2005) Eyes of the Skin, UK: Wiley-Academy ISBN 0-470-01578-0 Eugina Bell (2001) Shigeru Ban, London: Laurence King Publishing ISBN 1-856693-01-5 Eric Hemery (1970) Wilderness camping in Britain, London SBN 7091 1302 1 The Photo Book (2000) London: Phaidon Publishers ISBN 0714844888 Rachael Whiteread (1997) British Pavillon XLVII Venice Biennale, London: British Council ISBN 0 86357 369 9 Dirk Lohan, (2000) Global Architecture Detail: Mies Van Der Rohe: Farnsworth House, Plano 1945-1950, Japan: ADA Editors ISBN 978-4871402514 Nostalghia, Andrei Tchakovski (1983) Production company: Radiotelevisione Italiana (RAI), DVD release: Artificial Eye distribution, UK 2003
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Bibliography Plates All unmarked images are the authors own 01: Untitled (ten tables) - Rachael Whiteread (1997) British Pavillon XLVII Venice Biennale, London: British Council ISBN 0 86357 369 9 02 & 03: Orange bath - p34 Rachael Whiteread (1997) British Pavillon XLVII Venice Biennale, London: British Council ISBN 0 86357 369 9 04: Boccioni’s ‘Development of a bottle in space - p16 Christian Norberg Schultz (1985) The concept of dwelling, New York: Rizzoli International Publications Inc. ISBN 0-8478-0590-5 05: Ghost - Rachael Whiteread (1997) British Pavillon XLVII Venice Biennale, London: British Council ISBN 0 86357 369 9 06: House - Rachael Whiteread (1997) British Pavillon XLVII Venice Biennale, London: British Council ISBN 0 86357 369 9 07: Dirk Lohan, (2000) Global Architecture Detail: Mies Van Der Rohe: Farnsworth House, Plano 1945-1950, Japan: ADA Editors ISBN 978-4871402514 08: Wilderness camping in Britain, Eric Hemery, SBN 7091 1302 1 09: Nostalghia, Andrei Tchakovski (1983) Production company: Radiotelevisione Italiana (RAI), DVD release: Artificial Eye distribution, UK 2003 10: Frederick Evans ‘Sea of steps’ The Photo Book, Phaidon Publishers, ISBN 0714844888 11: p30 Stewart Brand (1994) How Buildings Learn, New york: Penguin books ISBN 1-670-83515, also BBC TV series 11: Shigeru Ban - Furniture house 2, Eugina Bell (2001) Shigeru Ban, London: Laurence King Publishing ISBN 1-856693-01-5 13: p43, 44, Gustavo Gili (1998) GG Portfolio: Allan Wexler, Barcelona: Grup3 ISBN 84-252-1753-9 14: Florian Beigel ‘Mobile washing unit’, Building Design, July 18 2003
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