The Possibility Of Craft

The Possibility of Craft A study of an emerging paradigm in architectural design Samuel David Brown Dissertation BA (hons) Architecture Leicester School of Architecture 2008/09

DE MONTFORT UNIVERSITY FACULTY OF ART & DESIGN LEICESTER SCHOOL OF ARCHITECTURE ARCH3031 HISTORY & THEORY 3 ARCHITECTURAL DISCOURSE

The Possibility of Craft A study of an emerging paradigm in architectural design

By Samuel David Brown

Dissertation submitted in partial fulfillment of the requirements of the BA (Hons) in Architecture Session 2008/09

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STATEMENT OF ORIGINALITY

I confirm that I am the sole author of the text submitted for this dissertation, and that all quotations, summaries or extracts from published sources have been correctly referenced. I confirm that this dissertation, in whole or in part, has not been previously submitted for any other award at this or any other institution.

Signature:

Full name:

Date submitted: 30 April 2009

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ABSTRACT

Currently there exists a distinction between the activities of designing and making in the process of creating buildings. This discourse suggests that the construction industry can learn something from a re‐evaluation of idea of craftsmanship and its application to digitally‐augmented processes of conception and realisation in building. Following an introduction, the second chapter considers the idea of craftsmanship and its meaning today; particularly within the field of architecture.

The third chapter examines the evolution of the architect from its roots in the activities of the building craftsmen ‐ who designed and made as one holistic activity ‐ to the professional designer. As it is demonstrated that direct knowledge of making has become displaced within architectural design, the fourth chapter examines the true nature of design itself, concluding that designing and making in the spirit of the craftsman entails the skilled application of available tools. The fifth chapter then considers tools; rehearsing the relevant state‐of‐the‐art with particular consideration of the continuing digital revolution within the construction industry. Within this industry, each discipline currently recognised as a separate and specialist profession is rapidly accepting digital ubiquity in its operation. The consequences of this observation are enormous and the sixth chapter of this discourse suggests that architects particularly are presented with a valuable opportunity; that of re‐engaging with ideas of craftsmanship in the spirit of their predecessors and re‐asserting their control and skilled creativity at the centre of the construction industry. In light of this, it is suggested that the professional model we currently accept as traditional may no longer be appropriate. Contemporary practitioners within the architectural avant‐garde are already engaging with the idea of creating buildings in a digitally‐augmented, collaborative enterprise facilitated by a craftsman’s tacit knowledge of making. Contemporary society is experiencing a fundamental cultural shift; one that will necessitate a further evolution in the role of the architect. The conclusion makes the recommendation that the role of the architect must evolve appropriately to suit the potential of architecture within the emerging paradigm.

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to take this opportunity to thank a number of people, without whom this dissertation would have been much harder to produce: Firstly, I thank Graham Tromans, who led the seminar entitled Rapid Fundamentals at the TCT conference in Coventry in October 2008, for providing a sound understanding at a critical time, upon which I could build a more detailed knowledge of the practicalities of making with digital fabrication equipment.

I also thank Jeroen van Ameijde, Head of Rapid Prototyping at the Architectural Association in London, for taking the time to discuss passionately and eloquently the nature of working as an architectural craftsman, with digital tools in the physical world.

Lastly and most importantly, I extend my thanks to my dissertation tutor at the Leicester School of Architecture, Dr Douglas Cawthorne, for directing my incessant inquisition appropriately and nurturing my growing capacity for intellectual enquiry.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

ABSTRACT .................................................................................................................... iii ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS ............................................................................................... iv TABLE OF CONTENTS .................................................................................................... v 1.0

INTRODUCTION ................................................................................................. 1

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THE CRAFTSMAN ............................................................................................... 4

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THE ARCHITECT – FROM CRAFTSMAN TO PROFESSIONAL ............................... 9

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THE DESIGN PROCESS – DESIGN AS A MEDIUM ............................................. 18

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STATE‐OF‐THE‐ART ‐ DIGITAL ARCHITECTURE AND DIGITAL DESIGN TOOLS ......... 22

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THE EMERGENCE OF A NEW PRACTITIONER ‐ DIGITAL CRAFTSMEN IN

ARCHITECTURE ................................................................................................ 36

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CONCLUSION ................................................................................................... 43

BIBLIOGRAPHY ........................................................................................................... 47 ILLUSTRATION CREDITS .............................................................................................. 53

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1.0

INTRODUCTION

Emerging from a period of its history in which architectural theory has been concerned with more abstract notions, such as the language of post‐modernism and deconstruction, contemporary architectural practice is experiencing a re‐ interest in materiality and the physical tectonics of architecture. This consideration is already entering mainstream popular culture, with the success of television shows like ‘Grand Designs’ representing a renewed public interest in building and the craft of its creation.

The idea of craft is closely associated with that of making. The practice of architecture is by nature fundamentally concerned with the creation of something physically present; thus, it is not absurd to acknowledge the fact that craftsmen always have been, and always will be involved in the creation of buildings. Recent history however, has recorded the gradual, formal separation of designing from making in parallel with the evolving cultural climate in which the architect operates; culminating in the distinction of professional architect from builder in contemporary practice.

The purpose of architecture has always been concerned with fulfilling the needs and desires of human society. Thus, the role of the architect has always been defined by the cultural medium in which it operates and has naturally evolved in response to social and technological developments within that medium. As digital technology became ubiquitous in our culture, so it found a reflection in the practice of architectural design. The increasing use of advanced computational tools in the conception and communication of design wrought necessary change upon the methods and techniques employed by designers and upon the way professionals practiced architecture. Driven by the contemporary interest in ‘high performance’ buildings and the demand for the fashionably unique, digital tools have recently been used in the production and construction phases of architectural projects to

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match the precision demanded by the complex forms so readily offered as solutions through digital design.

Our Information Age (Kolarevic 2001, p.117) is akin to the Industrial Age that dominated the first half of the twentieth century in that it has had a profound effect on the relationship between architecture and the means of its creation; on the way buildings are designed and on the way they are made. Indeed, many practitioners are already considering the changing paradigm of digital architecture and its implications for the processes of designing and making. It is important to understand the influence of the emerging digital continuum on the architectural design process so that future design may exploit its potential. At a time when style seems to have lost its meaning (Solà‐Morales 1997, p.117), it is perhaps more an approach that is inherent in the spirit of this age. This discourse suggests that architecture as a profession can learn something from both the history of its development that will enable it to successfully re‐engage with a direct knowledge of making buildings. A re‐appropriation of craftsmanship in architectural design has the potential to ground people firmly in a material world, whilst facilitating a greater shared understanding of, and participation in the design of buildings. The role of the architect may have to fundamentally change to suit this paradigm and learn the lessons it has to teach about work in a creative, problem solving discipline such as architecture.

In order to substantiate this claim, certain assumptions are made and then questioned. Craftsmanship, for example, may not only refer to work done by hand, by people commonly recognised as artisans and craftsmen; the sociological philosophy of Richard Sennett (2009) is employed in this case in order to widen our understanding of the term. Additionally, the architect may not always have operated as a designer in the professional capacity we know today; Barrington Kaye (1960) serves as an eloquent historian of process by which it came to be so, and Spiro Kostof (1976) provides a rehearsal of the architect’s role in more distant histories. The adoption of new technologies and methods of practice in architectural design often emerge surrounding the current avant‐garde, and it is in looking at this that it is possible to survey the array of tools available to the 2

craftsmen‐architects that currently make up its number. The unprecedented capacity for documentation and the transfer of knowledge afforded by digital telecommunication affords the assembly of a dense body of knowledge concerning avant‐garde practice and its support with interview of individual practitioners passionate and willing to disseminate their discoveries; Greg Lynn (2005), Jeroen van Ameijde (2008a) and Graham Tromans (2008) serve as virtual and physical guides in this instance. Branko Kolarevic (2005) and Neil Leach et al. (2004) have noted that architects are frequently able to utilise such digital technology to re‐ engage with other designers, namely engineers; and this discourse now extends that observation to include makers.

Designers and makers share their heritage in the building craftsmen and it is prudent to begin by examining the nature of those individuals and their work in a sociological, cultural and historical context.

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THE CRAFTSMAN

“Materially, humans are skilled makers of a place for themselves in the world.”

(Sennett 2009, p.13)

Building has long been regarded as a matter of craft. Building craftsmen have traditionally played an important role in both the design and construction of the built environment. Architects therefore operate in a complex discipline; one ultimately dependent upon the act of making and its cultural incentives and implications. Within the boundaries of such a discipline, craft is the demonstration of considerable skill. Additionally, genuinely craft‐made objects are often regarded as things of beauty ‐especially amongst designers ‐ due to their being ‘astonishingly well‐adapted to the requirements of their making and using’ (Cross 1977, p.6).

Craftsmanship is therefore desirable in both designing and building and associated with status and respect. There is also a contemporary interest in the idea of craftsmanship within the discipline of sociology. Richard Sennett has explored material culture with his book ‘The Craftsman’(2009), and it is within this exploration that this discourse finds its inspiration.

Despite their correlation to skill, phrases such as craftwork have developed a certain negative connotation in their modern colloquial usage, gaining association with that considered ‘old fashioned’ or backward. The Arts and Crafts movement in Britain was criticised for being ‘out of touch’ with modern thought almost from its inception (McCullough 1996, p.244) and craftsmanship often evokes activity that disappeared with the industrialisation of society in the latter half of the nineteenth century. However, this may be misleading. As Sennett describes, the word craftsman has the power to conjure up certain imagery beyond the conventional: “The Craftsman summons an immediate image. Peering through a window into a carpenter’s shop, you see inside an elderly man surrounded by his apprentices 4

and his tools. Order reigns within, parts of chairs are clamped neatly together, the fresh smell of wood shavings fills the room, the carpenter bends over his bench to make a fine incision for marquetry. The shop is menaced by a furniture factory down the road.

The craftsman might also be glimpsed at a nearby laboratory. There, a young lab technician is frowning at a table on which six dead rabbits are splayed on their backs, their bellies slit open. She is frowning because something has gone wrong with the injection she has given them; she is trying to figure out if she did the procedure wrong or if there is something wrong with the procedure.

A third craftsman might be heard in the town’s concert hall. There an orchestra is rehearsing with a visiting conductor; he works obsessively with the orchestra’s string section, going over and over a passage to make the musicians draw their bows at exactly the same speed across the strings. The string players are tired but also exhilarated because their sound is becoming coherent. The orchestra’s manager is worried; if the visiting conductor keeps on, the rehearsal will move into overtime, costing management extra wages. The conductor is oblivious.” (Sennett 2009, p.19) Sennett’s lucid account immediately extends the connotations of craftsmanship, encompassing a wider spectrum than simply skilled manual labour. Few people today practice a material craft for a living, but it is reasonable to include the work of doctors, chefs and artists under the definition. Malcolm McCullough adds brewers and businessmen to that list (1996, p.21), which could culminate in Sennett’s unusual but insightful illustrations; parenting and computer‐programming (2009, p.25). The former is certainly a kind of craft, for it is a skill that is surely improved by personal incentive and practice. The latter also demonstrates this particular ethos of craftsmanship, demonstrated by Sennett’s reference to the open‐source collaborative enterprise of Linux users to improve the system they use.

Thus, it is important to note that craftsmanship is a name that can be applied to something basic and impulsive within human nature. All craftsmen, it would seem, are dedicated to good work for its own sake and represent that special human

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condition of being engaged, through the acquisition, demonstration and refinement of skill.

In using skills we are not consciously following rules and for this reason it is useful to generalize, stating simply that skill is the learned ability to do a useful process well (McCullough 1996, p.3). Sennett also states: ‘By one commonly used measure, about ten thousand hours of experience are required to produce a master carpenter or musician.’ (Sennett 2009, p.20) This commitment is often rewarded by the phenomenon commonly described as touch. Science struggles to explain the way in which a pianist utilises touch to control the sound of a note, or the way a mechanic has a feel for a well‐tightened nut and bolt; yet every skilled person will recognise it in their work as the feel for rightness learned through direct and cumulative experience. Thus, skill can be considered as tacit knowledge, implicit in doing.

Tools themselves are an important aspect of craftsmanship. Tools are often thought of as something that is held in the hand. Indeed, hands either become tools or operate tools, and it is through tools that we gain an understanding of our actions and their implications. Tools can have a physical effect, such as that made by a plane on timber, or they can act passively, as instruments used in taking measurements or observation. In all cases, the use of tools certainly requires skill in participation.

All tools have limitations and as such necessitate a receptive attitude towards feedback; they facilitate a particular way of working whilst inhibiting others. For the craftsman however, these are positive instructive experiences offering insight into the nature of the work through their resistances and constraints. The use of imperfect tools also draws on the imagination, informing skills of repair and improvisation; discovery through experimentation and serious play. Problem‐ solving and problem‐finding are therefore intimately connected in the mind of the craftsman (Sennett 2009, p.11). Play is for learning and that is why children do it most; through serendipitous work or ‘chasing the accident’ (van Ameijde 2008a),

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the act of playing discovers the limits of the achievable, so that they may be challenged or negotiated. Humans also fundamentally enjoy being skilled and experiment to grow more so (McCullough 1996, p.7). It is perhaps this that differentiates the work of a craftsman from the work of an automaton – the ‘workmanship of risk’ as opposed to the ‘workmanship of certainty’ (Pye 1968, p.4).

Craftsmen are concerned equally with the possibilities offered by their tools as well as their own intentions for the work currently produced using them. Thus by nature tools are both a way to discover and to effect.

In order to give work substance, tools need something to act upon or within, and that is usually represented by a material or medium. This might be something as simple as naming the particular material that is being crafted; timber for example, or clay. It might also be more abstract; journalists affect their work in the agency of ‘the press’; birds fly within the environment of the atmosphere. All are media which receive the work of tools in some sense or another. Understanding the feel of their tools and media is what craftspeople do well, and is summarised by McCullough’s crisp observation: “You cannot replicate in Formica what you can accomplish in mahogany, and the results tend to be ugly if you try – although of course Formica has its own distinct possibilities.” (McCullough 1996, p.201) Just as a carpenter’s wood‐chisels are different from a stonemason’s masonry‐ chisels, medium and tool are intimately connected and mutually dependent. The tacit knowledge of the use of tools within a medium, learned and refined through experimentation and serious play, results in the development of technique and strategy in production. It is perhaps technique that most eloquently defines the practice of craftsmanship.

In the acquisition of a skill, one is initially concerned purely with getting something to work. Once achieved, it is seen that those in possession of skill seek to refine it, becoming problem‐attuned, elegant and efficient in their actions; proud of their developing technique. Technique therefore implies educated choice and selection of strategy. This strategy will be most successful if it allows for serendipity and 7

discovery, and thus technique also describes a certain skill in itself; that of the ability to learn. The evolution of technique becomes the connection between thinking and doing that balances problem‐solving and problem‐finding in the work of the craftsman. Technique then is a skilled method of doing something; yet it is more than mere procedure (Sennett 2009, p.8). Craftsmanship also involves the idea of timing; the execution of a skill at a particular moment in time. It involves intention and the way in which that intention is delivered, and exhibits touch in doing so. Technique is the vehicle by which expression is achieved within a medium.

In reflection, all craftsmanship is founded on skill expertly developed to a high degree (Sennett 2009, p.20). It has been demonstrated that craftsmanship may be defined as that quality articulated by the skilled use of tools upon a material or within a medium, developing a technique through serious play and affording the expression of an expert view. As a conscious sensitivity towards a medium, craftsmanship can be said to be a receptive attitude towards the opportunities raised by, and set‐backs experienced in the use of tools, resulting in the ‘condition in which inherent qualities and economies of the media are encouraged to shape both process and products’ (McCullough 1996, p.22). Thus, a deeper connection with craft has the potential to ground both designers and users in material reality.

This is an important consideration for a discipline such as architecture that values both cultural and personal expression, yet is fundamentally dependent upon the practicalities of making.

Richard Sennett worries that when separation occurs between hand and head, between making and designing, both understanding and expression suffer (2009, p.20). This separation taints the reality of contemporary architectural practice. How has the practice of architecture arrived at this position? One may begin to approach an understanding by examining the development of the architect’s role in society, before focussing on the contemporary nature of the problem and rehearsing its nature and precedent.

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THE ARCHITECT – FROM CRAFTSMAN TO PROFESSIONAL

“In a modern society where almost everyone works, and occupation is a major factor in social rank, most educated individuals aspire to professional status” (Schön 1982, pp.3‐4)

Although man has always been an architect, there have not always been men called architects. It is suggested here that the craftsman is above all a skilled expert, and this is indeed the legacy of the building craftsmen to the modern professional architect. However, throughout the history of the profession, certain actions have been demanded of those adopting the style of architect, in order to protect their skill and livelihood. The development of the professional architect is a complex and interesting one and it may be useful to understand some of its complexity at this point in the discourse. Spiro Kostof (1976) offers an account of what might be termed the professional practice of architecture, usefully defining what it is and what it is not: “Architecture cannot be the world’s oldest profession[...]but its antiquity is not in doubt[...]Indeed, even without documentation it can fairly be postulated that architects were abroad from the moment when there was the desire for a sophisticated built environment[...]This is what architects are, conceivers of buildings. What they do is design, that is, supply concrete images for a new structure so that it can be put up [...]. These are not of course rigidly distinct identities. When architects undertake to build their own houses they become, additionally, clients, and non‐professional clients sometimes dispense with the services of an architect and simply produce their own designs. Even more frequently, builders put up standardized buildings for a general market without benefit of the architect’s skill. Finally, the great majority of building, so called vernacular architecture, is the result of individual efforts – people who decide to build, settle for the common look of the community, and produce buildings in the accepted local 9

way [...].[W]e are not concerned with anonymous architecture of this kind, nor with the rare cases where architects act as their own clients and the reverse. We are dealing with the profession of architecture, the specialised skill that is called upon to give shape to the environmental needs of others.” (Ibid., pp. xvii‐xviii) In the Ancient world, craft, including that of building, centred on a localised economy, satisfying local demand. Human beings have always demanded, at the very least, shelter and warmth from their built creations and furnishing these basic provisions with architecture has always necessitated an understanding of the method by which they would be achieved. Knowledge of building techniques has therefore been implicit in architectural production from the very beginning; whether in vernacular building or that achieved by specialist instruction, but always in the actions of the craftsmen who made, such as masons and carpenters.

By the Middle Ages, craftsmen began to gain greater social status. Material craftsmanship at this time was the basis of middle‐class wealth; the Medieval guilds particularly sought to diversify and regulate the supply of crafts in their own self‐ interest and that of their members. Significant built works were usually undertaken by a guild, and apprentice craftsmen would receive their training within its workshops. Rising through their ranks, master‐masons and master‐carpenters, highly skilled in their craft, would supervise the work of the craftsmen and apprentices placed under them. These master‐builders took part in the actual process of construction alongside the building crew as one of their own (Kostof 2000, p.61); their almost continual presence in the workshop or on the site of works served to establish a platform for the near seamless exchange of building information.

Although very little evidence survives, it is believed that master‐builders also used models and drawings to disseminate instruction, enabling the reciprocal exchange of knowledge and testing of ideas. The workbooks of the thirteenth‐century master‐builder Villard de Honnecourt (Figure 1) serve as a rare record of written activity, although little else is known about the details of his occupation (Barnes Jr. 2009). When a project was under construction at this time – a rare occurrence due

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to scale and cost – the master‐builder’s temporary hut became a centre for local intelligentsia, who met to discuss the means and theory behind their general building skills (Auger 1972, p.12). Other conferences were common amongst master‐craftsmen, who would meet within the framework of an ecclesiastical or masonic community to discuss aspects of building. Some documentation indeed survives, as in the case of the construction of Milan cathedral in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries (Woods 2006, p.145). Master‐ craftsmen could develop the theoretical aspects of their knowledge of building through travelling; often throughout Europe. By seeing

Figure 1 – A sheet from the workbooks of Villard de Honnecourt entitled Geometrical Devices for Masonry Work.

It is thought that de Honnecourt made this book for himself, with its use for instruction of others as a secondary purpose.

examples of built works and by meeting and discussing with other masters‐ craftsmen, they could enhance their understanding of the principals and techniques which underlay the design of buildings.

The hundred year’s war and the ‘black death’ in Europe initiated a large scale loss of craft skills; the decimation of such a body of knowledge inspired the expansion in scholarship and intellectualization that characterizes architecture during the Renaissance in Europe. Although many of the well‐known names of the period are still known to have begun as apprentices to craftsmen – Andrea Palladio to a stonecutter, for example (Goodwin 2009, p.1) – the influential intellectual, Leon Battista Alberti made a differentiation between artists and craftsmen (Alberti 1986, preface) that epitomised the contemporary elevation of the architect as a figure in receipt of superior intellectual training – the universal man to which most architects have aspired ever since (Auger 1972, p.13).

Utilising a common and highly‐skilled language of building, any master‐mason was able to produce a simple drawing as instruction for work to be executed by another.

Likewise, it was possible for any master‐mason to produce a sophisticated building 11

from such a drawing. As building technology increased in variety and complexity, certain masters naturally specialised in either drawing or execution; the distinction between them remaining one of slight degree dependent upon competence and personal preference. However, by the sixteenth century, specialism became sufficiently apparent so as to indicate the emergence of a distinct profession. At this time, in Britain, the Office of Works came to exist as the supervisory institution for built works in the name of the Crown (Kaye 1960, p.34). Its principal members – the Surveyor, Comptroller, Master‐mason and Master‐carpenter – maintained a direct connection with the craftsman’s knowledge of making. In both the Office of Works and the Guilds, practice was rarely individual and involved a high degree of collaboration, through both written design and direct verbal communication.

The beginning of the seventeenth century saw the rise of Renaissance thinking in Britain. This brought with it two important changes in the role of the ‘designer’ of buildings. Firstly, the expansion of scholarship during this period began to forge a liberal arts approach to education and learning. This included knowledge of architectural principals, in which Palladio’s four books of architecture of 1570, ‘I Quattro Libri dell’Architettura’, played a seminal role. It’s clear and concise method of communication, combining word and drawing and minimising lengthy textual descriptions, was aimed at a wide readership ranging from architects and literate craftsmen to potential patrons, cultivated gentlemen and scholars (Goodwin 2009, p.22). It is widely credited as enabling wealthy gentlemen to dabble in architectural design, employing architects – as specialists in the new styles ‐ to produce drawings for the instruction of builders. Secondly, the resulting distinction of the new styles from the known language of building produced the demand for more precise instruction to the craftsmen employed to build them, reducing their autonomy and their role in design itself. Those that had emerged as architects were encouraged to think of themselves as educated men of distinction and now sought greater social status through a wider education and the intellectual practice of architecture as a liberal art.

Thus, over the course of the seventeenth and eighteenth‐centuries, the architect developed a separate status from that of master‐mason and master‐carpenter as 12

held in the guilds and Office of Works (Kaye 1960, p.66), due to his liberal arts education and particularly his mastery of the theoretical implications of geometry (Kostof 2000, p.80). As a profession, architecture became fundamentally dependent upon the patronage of the educated gentry, founded upon the mutual, intellectual appreciation of architecture (Wilkinson 2000, p.126).

By the eighteenth‐century, machinery began to be used in the workshops of the building craftsmen, altering processes of production that previously had their base in medieval practice. This perpetuated the reduction in the social status of craftsmen (McCullough 1996, p.12) and marked the beginning of industrialisation of the construction industry.

By the nineteenth century, industrialism was in full swing and design disciplines became distinct from handicrafts (McCullough 1996, p.14). The larger‐scale adoption of machinery that ensued can be seen as the source of Richard Sennett’s concern about a divorce of hand from head; of thinking from doing (Sennett 2009, p.20). John Ruskin and proponents of the Arts and Crafts movement also challenged mechanisation on this basis (McCullough 1996, p.14). From a socially progressive perspective, Ruskin states: “The right question to ask [...] is simply this: what is done with enjoyment?”

(1909, p.241) Adding, as the distinction between human craft and industrial product became more apparent: “We have much studied and much perfected, of late, the great civilized invention of the division of labour; only we give it a false name. It is not, truly speaking, the labour that it divided; but the men:— Divided into mere segments of men— broken into small fragments and crumbs of life; so that all the little piece of intelligence that is left in a man is not enough to make a pin, or a nail, but exhausts itself in making the point of a pin or the head of a nail. [...] And the great cry that rises from our manufacturing cities, louder than their furnace blast, is all in very deed for this,— that we manufacture everything there except men; we blanch

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cotton, and strengthen steel, and refine sugar, and shape pottery; but to brighten, to strengthen, to refine, or to form a single living spirit, never enters into our estimate of advantages. [...] It can only be met by a right understanding, on the part of all classes, of what kinds of labour are good for men, raising them, and making them happy; by a determined sacrifice of such convenience or beauty, or cheapness as is to be got only by the degradation of the workman; and by equally determined demand for the products and results of healthy and ennobling labour.” (Ruskin 1867, p.165) Inspired, Walter Gropius and the Bauhaus later sought a similar reverence of craftsmanship and the revival of a craftsman’s guild: “Today the arts exist in isolation, from which they can be rescued only by the conscious, cooperative efforts of a craftsman...Let us then create a new guild of craftsmen, without class distinctions[...]a working community...[based upon the] collaboration by the students in the work of the masters.”(Gropius 1919, p.1) The laissez‐faire capitalism that to the distaste of Ruskin and Gropius, accompanied western industrialisation meant that the noble patron became a less frequent client. Clients now consisted predominantly of committees for civic buildings, whose knowledge of architecture could be considered negligible (Jenkins 1961, p.223). Barrington Kaye uses a sociological definition of the professional in his account of the complex nature of the further professionalization of architecture in Britain at this time;

“The professional is an expert, and his relationship with his client is

dominated by that fact. The layman is unable to judge the quality of his services, except in the long run, and is therefore obliged to take them on trust.” (Kaye 1960, p.13) This relationship meant that it was possible for the expert to exploit his client. As many writers note (Kaye 1960; Jenkins 1961; Wilton‐Ely 2000), this frequently occurred in the architectural profession during the nineteenth‐century. The lack of regulation in this area at this time resulted in an often fraudulent standard of

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architectural practice. It was not uncommon for the client to receive an underestimated cost of a contract, or to be recommended a builder working on commission to the architect. In addition, the system of architectural education prevalent at the time was one of pupilage, in which an established architect was paid a sum of money in order to impart his knowledge of the profession to the articled pupil. Again, unscrupulousness here meant that often young architects would emerge from their pupilage generally incompetent, having received inadequate or insufficient teaching in return for the sum paid. Their subsequent practice thus served to perpetuate the fraudulent standards that had given it birth.

It is in the interest of any professional to ensure that the public receives good quality and efficient service, as, over time, the actions of a few in a fraudulent manner would tarnish the reputation of the individuals acting with integrity, reducing confidence in their services. Corruption, nepotism and incompetence eventually led to the demand amongst architects, society and patrons of greater integrity for the formation of a professional regulatory body. Under such impetus began the professional association of architects, eventually achieving its initial goal with the foundation of the Royal Institute of British Architects (RIBA) in 1834 (Kaye 1960, p.21) and a further important development with the Architect’s (Registration) Act of 1938 (Ibid., p. 19).

It is commonly accepted that professional association represented the only effective means of preserving group interest against capitalist self‐interest in a free society (Kaye 1960, p.15). By Kaye’s definition:

“A professional association [...] represents an attempt by persons

considering themselves to be qualified in their vocation, to ensure that their services shall be rewarded adequately, by excluding the unscrupulous and unfit. It guarantees fitness by some sort of test or entry qualification, and scrupulosity by making the adoption of a code of conduct a condition of membership, and by using, in the last resort, expulsion as a punishment for the breach of it.” (Ibid., p.18) As the nineteenth‐century progressed, the guaranteeing of competence and integrity led to increasing prohibition in the face of increasing technological, legal 15

and social complexity that added to the risk of exploitation in the free‐market economy. As Kaye notes: “What started as a voluntary association has [...] become an administrative structure controlling every aspect of professional activity.” (Ibid., p.20) Architecture was not alone within the construction industry in its development as a modern profession. Others developed with similar cause; in parallel, as with the civil engineers, or later in the nineteenth‐century, as with the surveyors. Definition by law and the increasing complexity of individual practice led to a clearer differentiation between specific practitioners. Throughout the twentieth‐century specialisation in this style has come to be taken as normal; for example, structural, mechanical and environmental engineers have come to be recognized as distinct professionals, each with their own professional associations.

Thus, the emergence of the architectural profession can be attributed to two major social changes occurring in its history; firstly, the transition from medieval to modern processes of thought via the Renaissance and Enlightenment; and secondly the shift to a society based on capitalism during the Industrial Revolution (Wilton‐ Ely 2000, p.180).The professionalization of architecture represents the current state of an incremental, although thankfully incomplete separation between designing and making in the process of creating buildings. In ensuring integrity in their professional practice, architects have removed themselves ever further from the openly collaborative and direct acts of making represented by their master‐ craftsmen predecessors. With professionalization, necessary or otherwise, the role of the architect as it is currently known has come to be rigidly defined and falsely accepted as traditional.

It is suggested here that the historical examples of collaboration between architect and craftsman noted above have a renewed value in the light of recent developments in the technology of making. Digital processes of design and manufacture now exhibit many of the characteristics of a unified technological environment, where the designer can in fact be the maker. In a return to the idea of architect as a building‐craftsman, there is the potential to re‐assume a central and 16

more integrated role in crafting buildings; establishing a modern and contemporary re‐engagement of architectural practice with the act of making at both a material and theoretical level.

The paradigm shift involved in the conceptualisation of this new craftsman‐ architect must necessarily encompass both the means and the method of its realisation. It must on the one hand recognise and fully engage with the emerging means of technologies of digital design and making and at the same time integrate these with an understanding of the nature of design and its methods and processes as a human activity. It is useful at this stage to briefly examine more closely the nature of design as an activity and what effect it has on the realisation of architecture.

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4.0

THE DESIGN PROCESS – DESIGN AS A MEDIUM

There is a basic perception that design is a linear process. The term ‘design process’ may itself be conductive to this belief – the word ‘process’ implying a fluid progression from a beginning to an end. It is perhaps prudent to assess whether the connotations of the word ‘process’ are misleading in the context of design.

It is understandable that at a basic level the creation of buildings is indeed linear.

The need or desire is established for a new building or building‐works; these are ‘designed’ and they are built. In a sense, there is a linear ‘process’ associated with their conception, creation and inhabitation.

Karl Popper states that it is always problems, rather than observations that encourage us to make things better (1972, p.258), and this is certainly supported by the observations made concerning the work of craftsmen. Whilst well‐founded, Popper’s approach is perhaps too scientific in its assessment and may not be suited to the study of a creative problem‐solving discipline such as architectural design.

Key areas of study demonstrate that design does not occur exclusively before construction; the discipline of cognitive science presents a particular framework for its study that may be more appropriate. Within this framework, design is a specific activity that occurs within the more general realm of problem solving; the nature of the problem being one of structure and definition. Problems can be considered as situations that have a ‘start state’ and a ‘goal state’ and require a transformation to navigate between the two. This is a general model prevalent in the field and derived from notions of the Computational Theory of Mind, which likens the mind to that of a digital computer (Goel 1995; Horst 2005).

Vinod Goel (1995) differentiates between design‐problems and non‐design problems, highlighting substantial differences between the two. As he suggests, a typical non‐design problem might be represented by that of a crossword puzzle; whereas a design‐problem may be represented by that encountered in the work of 18

an architect or engineer. In addition to this initial assumption of differences, Goel notes that non‐design problems often exhibit a well‐defined structure, whilst design problems appear more chaotic (Goel 1995, p.82). This means that non‐design problems may well exhibit a logical and simple progression from start‐state to goal‐ state, defined by simple right or wrong answers to ‘tests’; as in the case of the crossword puzzle, there is often a single solution, or limited range of solutions. In design problems however, even the very limits of the ‘problem‐space’ – that is, the theoretical, cognitive arena in which the problem exists, defined by combination of problem, method of solution and resources available (Ibid., p.81) – are negotiable.

In design‐problems, it is often possible to alter the start‐state or goal‐state itself, rather than simply translate one into the other. In the work of the architect, this is clearly indicated by the common procedure of establishing both the precise nature of the site, via surveys of various kinds, and also the true needs and desires of the client – a process facilitated by the ‘sketch’ design. The situation is further emphasized by the fact that in design, there is no right or wrong answer. By nature, design involves an element of problem‐structuring and well as problem‐solving (Ibid., p.125), tying it intimately to the ideas of opportunity discovery and explorative play identified in the activity of the craftsman.

Another characteristic of design‐problems is their size and complexity. They often necessitate the decomposition of the problem into discrete ‘modules’, so as to render them manageable. It is an unavoidable truth that in the world, certain things are connected to certain other things and thus, for the architect, decomposition is never complete. Goel refers to the level at which individual ‘modules’ remain connected as the ‘leaky module’ (Ibid., p.103); ‘leakiness’ is something that varies from designer to designer and their crafted approach to problem‐solving. This can be considered as analogous to the idea of spinning plates as a party trick, attending to each in correspondence to its need, but returning to multiple ‘modules’ again and again. The idea does not require a designer to complete one module before beginning another (Ibid., p.108). In design, there is also the notion that each time a designer ‘follows a leak’ and returns to a module, their knowledge has developed and the context of that module has changed, necessitating alterations to the local 19

solution. Professionals in different disciplines have expert knowledge of particular ‘modules’ and are consulted in this respect; the structural engineer serves as an example often encountered by the architect. The importance of communication and the evolution of knowledge therefore represent another set of characteristics that mark design problems as distinct from non‐design problems. Subjectivity also plays a key role in design. Ideas are drawn from the designers own life experience; particularly from precedent. Solutions that are known to work in other situations are introduced to the problem space and developed incrementally in response to the evolving context of each design ‘module’. There is also the highly complex issue of semantics at large in the world of design. This is based on the observation that designers manipulate representations of the world, rather than the world itself (Ibid., p.127). As a result, both the input and output in a design problem are sets of abstract information; the former is usually a brief containing information about the end use of the artefact; the latter usually a specification or set of instructions about how to create that artefact. Design, therefore, is essentially the act of defining each set or representations before translating one into the other. Design usually occurs in situations where it is not possible or desirable to tamper with the world until the full effect of the design is known in advance (Ibid., p.128). Thus, the acts of translation between information states are also representational, and necessarily so; the architect only gets one real‐world ‘run’ of the solution.

Simply put, architects do not produce buildings but representations of buildings. As a direct result there is usually no genuine and direct feedback from the real solution in design‐problems; at least during design itself. Any such facility must be simulated by the designer using abstract representation and models ‐ both physical and mathematical. Any feedback generally only influences the next similar problem, rather than the current one (Ibid., p.86). This is a key differentiation between design as practiced by the modern professional and that practiced by the architect’s predecessors. The modern architect is not continuously present on‐site amongst the builders, constantly re‐evaluating how a proposed solution is being deployed in reality. They do not experience ‘leakiness’ in physical reality for example, as would a medieval master‐mason.

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So, in returning to the initial consideration of design as a linear process, it is possible to see that there might be some value in this idea if it is considered as a general flow in which a high degree of iteration occurs, rather than a rigid sequence. However, the model presented by Goel (1995) represents the most accurate set of assumptions currently held concerning the design ‘process’. It is beyond the scope of this thesis to elaborate upon the intricacies of this model; however the basic assumption is that there is something in the way that designers think that cannot be explained adequately by models such as the Computational Theory of Mind. Design is indeed a non‐linear, cyclical, iterative and complex web of cognition; parts of which are less well understood than might be desired. It is precisely this that makes design such a rich medium for creativity; however, the disassociation of the design process into systems, compartments and modules is both cause and symptom of the marginalisation for craftsmanship in architectural design. To an extent this has been precipitated by the increasing complexity of modern design, where the management of procurement seems inevitably to yield contained teams of professionals with highly formalised and ‘low‐bandwidth’ creative links between them; often reinforced by contractual and legal obligations.

Clearly a reversal of this situation would be of some interest. The tools we use must facilitate these the intuitive, tacit and less well‐defined aspects of design, most of all the experiential knowledge and aspects of subjectivity that belong in the realm developed through immersion in a medium in the spirit of the craftsman. It is suggested here that the emergence of digital tools for making that compliment those used for designing will facilitate a greater degree of shared understanding and collaboration amongst the design team. Greater fluidity of design communication and creative output might be achieved by bringing designers closer to makers, developing the technology to encourage the complex interactions embodied in the less well‐understood aspects of the design process. In order to explore how this might be achieved it is useful to look at the tools becoming available for digital design and production.

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5.0

STATE‐OF‐THE‐ART ‐ DIGITAL ARCHITECTURE AND DIGITAL DESIGN TOOLS

“To a man with a hammer, said Mark Twain, everything looks like a nail. The better your hammer, I would add, the more nail‐like everything looks.”

(Whitfield 2009)

The importance of tools to the designer ‐ whether the physical implements of the craftsman or the abstract representations of the professional architect – has been noted; yet the idea of the tool itself is still somewhat ambiguous. It may be helpful at this point to return to Malcolm McCullough’s account of the tool in order to clarify the understanding of what one might be: “A tool directs your attention. Its function becomes your focus...Its function extends some powers of your hand, and prevents the use of others. In other words, it serves a specialization...Above all else, tools take practice. You must learn how to bring skills and intentions together. You must learn how each tools works with another, and how all are maintained. You must know what tools are for.”

(McCullough 1996, pp.59‐61) By extension, it is fairly easy to see that design tools have always been used by architects and their predecessors. The use of a plan drawing, for example, allows the architect to think abstractly, disregarding ambiguities of landform when designing that might otherwise frustrate focussed thinking. Its use as a tool in this respect requires the acquisition of skill. It is certain that architects learn how to use a plan effectively and also that some architects do so with more skill than others.

Consequently, a good architect usually does know what each of their tools and techniques is for.

The increasing complexity of operations within the construction industry has resulted in the adoption of tools and techniques to enable the comprehension of that complexity. Computer‐Aided‐Design (CAD) software is now ubiquitous in 22

architectural practice and was initially adopted to enable the quicker execution of standard practices, such as drafting and scheduling in the hope of leaving more time for ‘design’. More recently it has been used as a tool in the sense understood by the craftsman, affording both discovery and affect. Instead of merely drafting designs with greater precision and speed, computer software has become more commonly used in design exploration and digital generation of architectural form.

The most obvious association with the word ‘digital’ in architecture is usually the proliferation of outlandish imagery and dynamic form frequently appearing in both the architectural and mainstream press. Fuelled by the contemporary desire for iconic buildings, it is undeniable that shape‐making in this vein has the power to capture the imagination of architects and public alike. However, it is important to look beyond this superficial application of advanced software and assess what ‘digital architecture’ actually means in terms of design generation and execution.

Greg Lynn describes digital architecture as that which has become possible due to the introduction of calculus into the architectural design process (European Graduate School 2004). Traditionally, shapes and forms were often described by ‘ideal geometry’ ‐ that of squares, cubes, circles, or those that could be easily derived from them by division or combination, their dimensions given as a fractions of whole numbers. Calculus, on the other hand, enables form to be described with dynamic geometries, rather than purely reductive ones. In enabling the concept of the object as an assembly, derived from its components as defined by their relationship to each other rather than to a discrete whole, calculus enables the accurate description and location in space of complex multiple‐curvature surfaces.

This method is often referred to as ‘Non‐Uniform‐Rational‐B‐Spline’ (NURBS) modelling and constitutes the basis of nearly all advanced three‐dimensional modelling software currently available, exemplified by applications such as Autodesk 3DSMax, Rhinoceros and VectorWorks (Figure 2.). Even a straight line can be represented by a NURBS curve, all be it one without inflection (Lynn 2005). The computational power of such software means that complex form can now be conceived with relative ease. Once mathematically describable, curves and curvature can be used as organising structural geometry rather than mere 23

expression; producing architecture that fundamentally looks different. There is nothing to stop a skilled and talented architect from developing curved structural geometry using tools currently available to them, and it is this quality that could be said to characterize digital architecture.

There is also the concept of performative architecture, which refers to the idea that architectural form can be generated in response to the results of sophisticated analysis software (Figure 3). It also suggests that a building, as an assembly of inter‐ dependent parts, could change its arrangement whilst in use, becoming functionally adaptive and environmentally responsive. The software used in this instance is able to generate a technically or functionally efficient form that is frequently irregular and can be described by the same calculus based system described above.

Figure 2 – Double‐curvature form modelled using Rhinoceros

NURBS‐modelling software.

Figure 3 – Performative modelling of Foster and Partners’ City Hall (2002), London, UK, generated the pebble‐like form that exposes the minimum surface area to direct solar gain whilst maximising usable interior volume.

Digital architecture could therefore be said to be the search for meaningful and appropriate uniqueness to satisfy the complex fashionable and functional demands of our time. In either case, the performance of the tools used to generate design is enhanced by powers of computation. The capacity of digital architecture to generate meaningful design possibilities is therefore highly dependent on the

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designer’s perceptual and cognitive ability (Kolarevic 2001, p.119); in other words, their skill as a craftsman.

The use of digital methods of form‐generation such as those described above often results in shapes and assemblies that designers find to be unbuildable using current building technologies. This necessarily implies that these designers look closely at the means by which their projects are to be created. Thus, digitally‐generated architecture is simultaneously affording a re‐engagement with the act of making.

Frank O. Gehry looked to the shipbuilding industry in his adoption of manufacturing techniques to enable the production of the complex double‐curvature ‘skin’ of the Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao. Ships are subject to extreme and dynamic forces whilst at sea and curvature often provides the best design solution. Shipbuilding, along with the automotive and aerospace industries, has been quicker in the development of production tools that can cope with such complex form. Designs with complex curvature, described by NURBS curves in modelling software, can also be output in file‐formats that can drive such tools directly via Computer‐Numeric‐ Code (CNC) based instruction.

In such digitally‐controlled processes it is possible to sequentially perform a number of isolated, precise and replicable actions that can loosely be categorized by the following terms; addition; subtraction; distortion and assembly (Tromans 2008). As a family, these are more commonly referred to as processes of Computer‐Aided Manufacture (CAM). Utilising the same calculus‐based language that advanced software uses to describe form virtually, CNC instruction guides CAM‐tools along paths in space and allows them to conduct work on physical material. The complexity of such fabrication operations is well met by the accuracy and reliable precision of digitally‐controlled machinery.

Additionally, the evolution of the design‐development stage in disciplines such as shipbuilding, aerospace engineering and automotive design has resulted in the adoption of CAM at a smaller scale, enabling the physical testing of components without the burden of full‐scale fabrication. Thus, model‐making as it is traditionally understood has evolved almost completely in these disciplines to become rapid 25

prototyping. Some sources differentiate between CNC processes and rapid prototyping, on the basis that the former uses subtractive methods of fabrication such as cutting and milling, whilst the latter builds up objects layer‐by‐layer. This distinction has difficulty in accommodating the processes of distortion and assembly that are also recognised as being part of the CAM spectrum. For the purposes of this discussion, rapid prototyping shall generally refer to the small‐scale application of processes such as three‐dimensional printing, laser‐cutting and desktop‐milling (Seely 2004, p.3), encompassing processes that utilise addition, subtraction, distortion or assembly to create a model or component directly from CAD data. Digital fabrication shall refer to the application of these processes at the scale of usable components in construction.

Thus, with Gehry and others, a new set of tools has come to be available within the domain of architectural design that can be utilised in both model‐making and full‐ scale fabrication. In additive fabrication, it is possible to form an object by depositing, or selectively solidifying material in sequential layers. In model‐making and rapid‐prototyping, these processes can typically be represented by three‐ dimensional printing (3DP), selective‐laser sintering (SLS) and fused‐deposition modelling (FDM)(Seely 2004, p.10; Tromans 2008), allowing great freedom of form.

Figure 4 – Although the rapid prototyping

processes of 3DP, SLS and FDM have fundamental differences; they share a common basic typology of tool set up, illustrated here with the build chamber on the left and the computer control terminal on the right.

Figure 5 – The logistics of additive rapid prototyping also differ from process to process, although the basic principal is outlined in the diagram above.

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Figure 6 – Three‐dimensional print made from the

NURBS model illustrated in Figure 2 using a small‐

scale 3DP machine by the firm Z‐Corporation.

Another manufacturer, 3DSystems, now makes the V‐Flash, a desktop‐scale version of a 3DP machine.

Figure 7 – FDM produced components that clip together to form a self supporting arch. Although in model form, this material demonstrates a partial structural capability.

Whilst currently rare in larger scale application, there are studies into techniques such as freeform construction (Soar 2005; Buswell et al. 2008, p.924) and contour crafting (Khoshnevis et al. 2006, p.309), in which cementitious material is deposited in a three‐dimensional print at the scale of a building. In a gantry‐based system with the material usually being delivered from above, additive fabrication necessitates that the tool is larger than the object it produces. This imposes obvious limitations the logistics of its application in construction, where the principal product is a building. However, there are also robotic arms that can deliver material with greater dexterity; these can be smaller than the buildings they are constructing.

Buildings can be considered as assemblies of components and it is perhaps in the production of components that this technology may find its most appropriate application. Contour crafting (Figure 8; 9) has already been used to produce walls greater than a metre in height that could feasibly replace the structural concrete wall found in much UK house construction (Buswell et al. 2008, p.924; Khoshnevis et al. 2006, p.309).

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Figure 8 ‐ Schematic Diagram of Behrokh Khoshnevis' Contour Crafting cementitious deposition system.

Figure 9 ‐ A wall produced using the gantry‐based contour crafting process.

Subtractive fabrication generally implies the removal of a volume of material from a solid. This is generally achieved mechanically by acts of cutting or milling. Cutting can be applied to two‐dimensional sheet materials and is general achieved via laser, plasma‐arc or high pressure water‐jet. It is defined by a bi‐axial movement of the cutting head in relation to the surface of the sheet material (Figure 10). Scoring and engraving is possible with a reduction in the power of the cutting tool. Thus strategies of contouring or scoring and folding can be used. Milling is a multi‐ dimensional extension of cutting in that the cutting head, usually bearing a rotary tool that is capable of being translated through up to five dimensions relative to the milled material. ‘In‐and‐out’ and rotational capabilities are added to horizontal and vertical translation of both cutting head and material bed (Figure 11; 12). As a result, milling can produce three‐dimensional objects with overhangs and undercuts, without the need for further processing.

Figure 10 – From left to right; schematic diagram illustrating bi‐axial movement of cutting heads; high‐pressure water jet cutting on steel; laser cutting.

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Figure 11 – CNC‐milling tool in action

Figure 12 ‐ The 5 axes of translation possible with a CNC‐milling machine.

Components such as walls have also been constructed using techniques of subtractive fabrication. It is possible to cut a design of high two‐dimensional complexity and pursue a strategy of ‘fixings’ in the assembly of the component – slots, tabs, rivets, pivots, clips, scores and folds can all be used to give three‐ dimensional form to an object cut from a two‐dimensional sheet (Christiansen 2008); demonstrated by Reiser & Umemoto’s Vector Wall commission for the Museum of Modern Art in New York (Figure 13; 14). The opportunity for flat‐pack delivery of prefabricated components is obvious in this instance.

Figure 13 – CNC‐cutting pattern for Reiser & Umemoto’s Vector Wall installation at the Museum of Modern Art, New York.

Figure 14 – Fully assembled Vector Wall given form by folding along pre‐defined scores in each panel.

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Formative fabrication describes tools that can bend or distort a material. Often, mechanical forces or restrictive forms are applied in conjunction with heat or steam to deform the material into a desired shape. Deformation is usually permanent – for example, stressing a metal past its elastic limit or steaming timber boards.

Formative processes are sometimes used in conjunction with subtractive techniques, such as cutting slots or scoring folds that afford a particular type of distortion, akin to that in origami. Formwork for conventional additive fabrication techniques, such as the pouring of concrete, can be milled from materials such as polystyrene, allowing for more complex shapes than those achievable by conventional methods (Figure 15). Plaster blocks were formed in this way in Jamie Forbert Architects’ ‘Ordinary: Spectacular’ display at the Victoria and Albert Museum in London (Alexander 2007a, p.8) (Figure 17). A similar process was utilized in making jigs for the production of double curvature glass in Zaha Hadid Architects’ Nordpark Cable Rail Stations in Innsbruck (van Ameijde 2008a) (Figure 16).

Figure 15 – CNC‐milling of Styrofoam formwork for the production of pre‐cast, complex‐curvature concrete panels in Gehry Partners’ Zollhof Towers (2000) project in Düsseldorf, Germany.

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Figure 16 – The double‐curvature glass for Zaha Hadid Architect’s Nordpark Cable Rail Stations (2008) in Innsbruck, Austria, thermoformed on CNC‐milled jigs.

Figure 17 – Jamie Forbert Architects’ ‘Ordinary: Spectacular’ (2007) display at the Victoria and Albert Museum, London, UK (bottom); individual cast (top).

Rapid Prototyping and digital fabrication are therefore useful to architectural design by two definitions. Firstly they allow prototyping; evaluation and feedback in the design process, in a manner potentially analogous to the means of final production.

Secondly, they allow the full‐scale production of more complex form than that attainable traditionally. The usefulness of model‐making as a design tool is readily accepted and rapid prototyping allows this to occur more rigorously than before.

Additionally, physical scale models are often indispensible in the presentation of complex, digitally‐generated forms, which can be difficult to grasp through drawings and images alone (Franken 2003, p.127).

Assembly can also be a computer‐aided process. If components can be virtually located, relative to one another as defined by the same calculus‐based system that defines their form, they can be accurately assembled in reality using CNC processes.

Electronic surveying and laser‐positioning are increasingly in use on construction sites around the world (Kolarevic 2001, p.122). In their design of the facade for the Gantenbein Winery in Switzerland, architects Gramazio and Kohler used a bricklaying robot to achieve a precise arrangement of masonry that filters daylight in a certain way (Gramazio and Kohler 2009) (Figure 18). Frank Gehry’s Guggenheim

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Museum (Figure 19) was supposedly built without any tape measures (Le Cuyer 1997) due to the affordances of the CATIA commercial software suite used to co‐ ordinate the design, manufacture and assembly of architectural components during construction. The CATIA system was also used to co‐ordinate the astonishingly complicated steelwork on Herzog & De Meuron’s Beijing National Stadium (Verebes et al. 2008, p. 252) (Figure 20).

CATIA, or Computer Aided Three Dimensional Interactive Application, is an example of a Building Information Management (BIM) system. BIM systems are becoming more common in the construction industry, particularly in projects that demonstrate complexity in their assembly. It effectively allows for a virtual representation of the building being designed, based on the concept of an assembly of component ‘sub‐models’ contributed by specialist consultants. Each component, such as a door, wall or environmental system is linked to associative data from which schedules, quantities, plans, sections, elevations, details and general assembly drawings can be derived automatically. If an edit is made, the model is updated in a co‐ordinated manner and any clashes can be seen by anyone who has access to the model. BIM models can also be used to produce presentation material, such as rendered perspectives and walkthroughs, and inform analyses of engineering issues and building compliancy, such as those concerning thermal performance and lighting design. This certainly makes the BIM system a very powerful tool for those involved in the creation of buildings. Design data and production data once again share the same basic medium; that of digitally‐encoded information. The BIM system can effectively serve as a common link between all members of the design team, who may even be geographically isolated from one another.

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Figure 18 – Brick‐laying assembly robot in action producing brick panels for Gramazio and Kohler’s Gantenbein Winery in Switzerland, designed in collaboration with Bearth & Deplazes Architekten.

Figure 19 – Double‐curvature titanium skin hiding

steelwork in Frank O. Gehry’s Guggenheim Museum (1997) in Bilbao, Spain

Figure 20 – Complex steel structure on open display in Herzog & De Meuron’s Beijing National Stadium (2008), Beijing, China.

Thus, construction practitioners have discovered that in their three‐dimensional virtual models, they already possess digitally‐encoded information capable of describing form, that is able to be communicated easily and that can drive production machinery directly. Any tool or technique that increases the awareness of problem‐space, described by Vinod Goel as the product of the problem to be

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solved and the means by which it can be achieved, is very desirable. The CAD/CAM/BIM model is primarily concerned with the flow of information (McCullough 1996, p.179) and a common digital medium eliminates, rather than automates the production of construction documents. In removing the time‐ consuming and error‐prone process of translation of intent to instruction that occurs in conventional design processes, there exists the opportunity for greater retention of design intent. With this also comes greater responsibility and power for the custodian of such a system. The role of ‘custodian’ represents a space currently unoccupied by any defined profession, but would seem naturally suited to the generalist skills of the architect. It may also necessitate the evolution of a new type of practitioner – one that bears a closer resemblance to the master‐builder in its direct access to, and handling of, building information. Branko Kolarevic calls these people ‘information‐master‐builders’ (2003, p.57) in reference to the importance of the digital connection. If data used for design can actually be the data used for production ‐ and as such inherently represents the constraints and affordances of the tools of construction ‐ tacit knowledge of making is once again possible in the actions of those who design.

Whilst designing and making are both more complex than they once were, our tools also enable the comprehension of complexity and perpetuate its generation. As it has previously been stated, the tools we use to design must facilitate the way designers approach design problems and it is certain that the tools describe here will continue to evolve; Moore’s law, for example, models the way computing power roughly doubles every eighteen months (Jovanovic and Rousseau 2002).

In paraphrasing Karl Marx, theoretician Lars Spuybroek notes that tools often have a shaping influence of the users themselves, rather than simply being developed to satisfy their needs (Augenbroe et al. 2005, p.243). Thus, this discourse arrives at its most important observation; the opportunity exists for designers to develop a new technique in architectural practice, one which is closely linked to that of the craftsman and the medieval master‐builder in its direct, tacit knowledge of the medium of building. The established use of rapid prototyping and digital fabrication in other domains means that the new practitioner is free to engage in a variety of 34

disciplines, armed with his education and instinct for serious play. With his access to an unprecedented volume and diversity of information, he is also like the Renaissance universal man in his practice of architecture as an informed liberal art.

Certain practitioners are already showing signs that the adoption of an appropriate technique might represent a fundamental change in the architect’s attitude towards design. It is this ‘new instrumentalism’ that may signal the emergence of a new kind of architectural practice, more akin to a renaissance workshop or Bauhaus studio than a conventional office, with the architect operating as a skilled, digital craftsman.

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6.0

THE EMERGENCE OF A NEW PRACTITIONER ‐ DIGITAL CRAFTSMEN IN ARCHITECTURE

“The medium I work in is architecture. I often work with people in other mediums, and I think architecture is good at connecting other mediums up.”

Greg Lynn in (European Graduate School 2004).

It has been noted that the nature of practice as an architect is characterized by complexity. Design, by nature, is a complex activity; especially in contemporary architectural practice where there are, in effect, more of Vinod Goel’s ‘modules’ (1995, p.103) to consider now than there ever have been. The evolutionary history of the architecture profession is complicated, and professional status itself is complex, as defined by its governing legislation and the socio‐legal etiquette commonly expected of practicing architects. When ideas of craftsmanship are considered, a further level of complexity is added by that aspect of human nature that compels us to work well for its own sake. In the face of all of this complexity, the role of the architect may be about to undergo a further evolution.

Nobel laureate Philip Anderson uses the term ‘more is different’ to describe the concept of emergence and the ubiquitous property of phase‐change in nature (Anderson 1972, p.363). With the repetitive addition of more – more energy, more information, more mass ‐ a system will reach a critical point and jump into a new organisational regime. The basic insight is that under these conditions, new patterns of organisation can emerge spontaneously (Jencks 2002, preface). It is suggested here that this is now being seen in architecture, with new types of practice emerging in response to a ‘system’ overloaded with digital information.

There is a need to develop a new way of working in response to a deluge of data that characterizes contemporary practice. In short, practitioners from a variety of disciplines are giving up their job‐descriptions and taking a place in the contemporary avant‐garde. As Charles Jencks notes: 36

“Whenever there is a revolution, or fast change, in architecture professional barriers break down as specialists exchange roles. Architects become sculptors, engineers become designers, artists turn into architects, and all these job descriptions become fuzzy. This happened in the Early Renaissance, during the building of Florence Cathedral, when Ghiberti and Brunelleschi switched professions from goldsmith to sculptor and artist to architect. It happened countless times in the 19th and 20th centuries when the avant‐garde was reconstituted again and again [...].and indeed it is one good measure of an avant‐garde. If professionals do not give up their job descriptions [...]there is no avant‐garde, no breaking of barriers, no radical creativity.”(Jencks 2002, preface).

It is suggested here that the ‘emergent’ paradigm of the contemporary avant‐garde in architecture is that of the digitally‐enabled craftsman. In the writing that is accompanying this emergence, the new practitioner is referred to as many things; ‘information master‐builder’ (Kolarevic 2003, p.57); ‘post‐digital designer’ (Shiel 2008, p.7); the ‘hybrid practitioner’ and ‘architect‐engineer’ (Leach et al. 2004, p.5); and probably most appropriately, ‘digital craftsman’ (McCullough 1996, xvi). In essence, all support the suggestion that isolated professional status might not be the most vital attribute to retain in practice.

Unprecedented access to information certainly offers the opportunity to re‐engage with the idea of the architect as master‐builder. Digital telecommunication offers the ability to communicate directly with specialist designers and fabricators; and in terms of design and production, integrated three‐dimensional models such as BIM systems combine this with the ability to see what those specialists are doing, as they are doing it; even when geographically isolated. In observation and communication, the avant‐garde practitioner gains an experiential understanding of the tools and techniques of the traditional, hybrid and digital craftsmen that they oversee and co‐ordinate; enabling them to re‐claim the kind of tacit knowledge of building known by their predecessors.

The need and desire for direct specialist knowledge from the first stages of the design process, combined with the realistic possibility of its facilitation, necessitates

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a certain way of working. There is a preference amongst the avant‐garde for small practices and project‐specific teams of individuals. Of the current generation of emergent offices very few of them have a single name or signature (Aish et al. 2003, p.292). Many function as ‘opportunities that allow people to gather’, as Mark Goulthorpe describes his practice dECOi (Ibid.); the firm exists as a legal ‘umbrella’ for the project‐specific assembly of specialists in collaboration. Whilst this may be seen as an indicator of their fledgling status, many practices, such as that of Bernard Cache, intend to stay small (Ibid.). In setting up the highly innovative production company Objectile, Cache explores the potential of digital fabrication in the production of experimental building components, such as the Digital de l’Orme pavilion (Leach et al. 2004, p.9; Cache and Beaucé 2002, p.88) (Figure 21). Lars Spuybroek is similarly lauded for his work in articulating the theoretical possibilities of such a mode of working (Burry et al. 2003, p.71). A common denominator amongst such people is that they have a deep grounding in fields other than architecture, and as described above, perpetuate and celebrate this multi‐ disciplinary practice in their work.

Learning through serious play is another aspect of craftsmanship that it is re‐ emerging in the architectural avant‐garde. The Architectural Association’s (AA) Design Research Laboratory (DRL) was set up in 1998 by Brett Steele, currently head of the AA school and Patrik Schumacher, director at Zaha Hadid Architects (Kolb 2008, p.27). It reflects Steele’s declared interest in ‘collaborative learning environments’ (Steele 2009), one that is shared amongst the avant‐garde. In its own words, the DRL: “...actively investigates and develops the design skills needed to capture, control and shape a continuous flow of information across the distributed electronic networks of today’s rapidly evolving digital design disciplines” (Architectural Association Inc. 2008, p.86).

The DRL emerged at a time when computer‐modelling was dramatically changing the practice of architecture. From the beginning students were made to work in teams; over the course of its existence the unit has shifted focus from slick graphics

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and digitally‐enabled form‐finding, to the translation of those concepts into physical reality using digital fabrication technology (van Ameijde 2008a). This vein of practice is probably best illustrated by the units built work. One particular project clearly illustrates how a collaborative process of exploration, with close liaison with manufacturers can result in innovative architecture. The DRLTEN Pavilion (2008) (Figure 22; 23; 24), in which no two panels or joints are identical, demonstrates the approach of the unit. DRL director Yusuke Obuchi explains: “...the spirit of the pavilion has been to test something we don’t know, not just to show what we can do.” (Hartman 2008, p.33).

Figure 21 – CNC‐milled panels and

structure of the Digital de l’Orme

pavillion (2002) by Bernard Cache and Objectile.

Figure 22 – The DRLTEN Pavillion (2008), Bedford Square, London, designed by Alan Dempsey and Alvin Huang. The brief for these structures asked only for ‘spatial experiences’ of a limited size, and the designs considered the structural possibilities of materials ordinarily used in other capacities ‐ in this example, glass‐fibre reinforced concrete cladding panels, by Austrian manufacturer Reider.

Figure 23 – 1:10 scale model in CNC‐cut MDF to

test the structure of the DRLTEN Pavillion and

serve as a three‐dimensional construction aid.

Figure 24 – Simple connection detail for the DRLTEN Pavillion developed in conjunction with the manufacturers.

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The craftsman‐architect takes a certain pride in being an individual member within a team or small practice (Burry et al. 2003, p.68; Macfarlane 2003, p.183). Indeed, the emerging paradigm offers the individual practitioner the opportunity to realise work at a larger, more extensive scale by seeking out the company of like‐minded individuals. It is even possible to imagine an individual practitioner, or small practice with a skeleton staff, producing real components of buildings with their in‐ house fabrication machinery, as Greg Lynn does with his office Greg Lynn FORM (European Graduate School 2004).

In describing the complexity of operating collaboratively, on a complex project in a short space of time, Bernhard Franken gives a succinct explanation of the new role being discovered, using the Dynaform project executed in collaboration with ABB Architekten (Figure 25) as an example:

“A finely‐tuned production process is necessary for the team made up of 75

architects, structural engineers, mechanical engineers, communications experts, lighting designers and audio‐visual (AV) media specialists to work together [...] As projects did not have client‐appointed project managers, we, as architects, took over that function to a large degree.

No existing software meets all the demands of our projects. We develop the

deigns in the film animation program Maya, while structural calculations as tests are carried out in Ansys and R‐Stab, which are special finite‐element programs.

Mechanical Desktop, a mechanical engineering add‐on for AutoCAD, and Rhinoceros, a powerful free‐form surface program, are used to develop the load‐ bearing structure. Some structural elements, however, could only be worked out in CATIA [...] The interior designers [...] use VectorWorks on Apple Mackintosh computers [...] Separate data post‐processing had to be programmed for the CNC machines, which can only understand the machine code.” (Franken 2003, p.132) Because of the variety of programs and operating systems used, Franken’s practice chose a process similar to the internet to facilitate the exchange of data, but went on to write their own programs for use in future projects. As such, the effectively designed their own tools in order to fulfil a need not met by available building 40

technology. It is clear from Franken’s description that operating in this new manner is limited in certain ways by the current legal and social framework of the industry.

This view is shared by many of the ‘new practitioners’ (Burry et al. 2003, p.65).

Another interesting observation is that projects like Dynaform, and the model of practice described by Franken, could represent a substantial reduction in the cost of building. It is reputed that Dynaform cost one third less per square metre of floor space than the standard, orthogonal box sitting next to it and produced for the same client (Franken 2003, p.138) (Figure 26). Indeed, aeronautical firm Boeing is known to have introduced digital design and production processes for its capacity to provide a 20% financial saving to previous production methods (Ibid.). The claim made is not that Dynaform represents a better architecture, but that it is different.

Yet now this difference is achievable at the same cost as, or less than, the standardised neighbour, whereas previously it would have been substantially more expensive to achieve using conventional building technology and working networks.

Figure 25 – BMW Dynaform Pavillion at the International Motor Show 2001, Frankfurt, Germany by Franken Architekten and ABB Architekten.

Figure 26 – Dynaform sitting next to its orthogonal neighbour.

Recently, Leach et al. (2004, p.9) and Charles Jencks (2002, preface) both identified the need to rethink established professional relationships in construction, namely that between architect and engineer. Harald Kloft of OSD, who worked with Bernhard Franken on the Dynaform project, states:

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“[Y]ou need experience of dealing with these programs and these tools [...], architects are coming closer together [...], as we are experiencing in our office, where we have both architects and engineers]...] [T]here is a chance that tools can bring both closer together in the future. But I do not think that one tool can bring the whole situation.” (Braham et al. 2005, p.236) In short, it is a common consensus amongst the avant‐garde that today’s architect must be aware and connected with a large number of sources outside the profession, rather than seeking out tools that would automatically enable them to do the jobs of these other disciplines. Complexity is such that specialism has, and always will have a valuable role to play in construction.

Designtoproduction, comprised of computer scientist Fabian Scheurer and architect Arnold Walz, is one firm that exemplifies such an approach. In drawing on Scheurer’s skills as a computer scientist and Walz’s architectural knowledge, Designtoproduction are able to operate as facilitators of a liberal arts approach to architecture for clients and other architects. According to Scheurer, some projects would be physically unachievable unless they were conceived and produced in a seamless digital manner. Within the framework of a liberal art, architects can ask questions firmly grounded in architecture, without feeling as though they have to fully step over into other disciplines. Architects should not have to become ‘junior engineers’ or ‘second rate material’s scientists’ (Addington 2007), but should be able to consider these disciplines from their own position of strength, whilst understanding how far they have to reach out in order to bring in some of the knowledge inherent in other domains. This approach offers the opportunity to engage not just those with which we have something in common, such as landscape architects and structural engineers, but also those from whom we might discover something new, like theoretical physicists. The architect needs to become their own expert again, or at least be closer to them and avant‐garde practitioners are demonstrating that this is possible using digital technology.

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7.0

CONCLUSION

Avant‐garde practice in the style previously discussed aims to achieve a seamless and equal digital collaboration between the professions formerly separated as architecture, engineering and construction. In doing so, it combines a tacit knowledge of making within the field of architectural design with a liberal arts approach to the accumulation of knowledge and its synthesis in built form. The importance of the collaborative approach to both learning and practice is also demonstrated in education, illustrated by the activities of the DRL. The new practitioner will share many things in common with the architect ‐ and so they are perhaps ideally placed to assume the role ‐ but fundamental aspects of their practice will have to change to facilitate this evolution. It is this reunion of designing with making that is both desirable, and possible due to the current and projected state‐of‐the‐art in digitally‐augmented processes of design, fabrication and assembly of architectural components.

At a time when architects are seeking to diversify their activity in the face of economic uncertainty, it may be particularly appropriate to consider the possibility of transfer that this offers; both geographically and disciplinary. This evolutionary practitioner would operate not only in the field of building design, but also be able to turn their hand to any meaningful creative discipline within which they can apply their skill in revealing the nature of human beings, their worlds and the relationships between them. There would be no single, correct way of working; rather a variety in style of practice.

Just as it is suggested that the role of the architect may redefine itself, it is certain that digital tools will themselves continue to evolve. Jean‐Francois Blassel, an architect and director of engineering firm RFR, mentions that there is a need for low‐resolution tools that never‐the‐less still embody the computational power of the digital; that is, even in the digital realm there will always be the need to ‘sketch’ (Augenbroe et al. 2005, p.240). This is supported by the valuable and well‐ 43

understood role that sketching plays in the architectural design process. Thus, something in the nature of the interface between craftsman and tool may need to evolve in order to facilitate the general‐to‐specific approach necessitated by design‐ problems. If tools can be simplified to the point where they can be used without extensive prior knowledge, yet still produce useful results, they would become more useful tools. As noted earlier, tools shape their users; however, it might now be appropriate ‐ considering the interest in and ability to create their own computer software exhibited by practitioners such as Bernhard Franken ‐ to suggest that users should start to produce their tools.

An interesting proposition is that it may be inappropriate to ‘dumb‐down’ the tools in order to render them useable by non‐experts. It is suggested that the process of becoming expert ‐ Sennett’s ten thousand hours of commitment to become a craftsman, for example ‐ necessitates a beneficial engagement with both the medium within which the tool is used, and the technique with which it is applied. It is not disputed that digital tools for design generation, such as those mentioned in reference to performative architecture, offer the opportunity for meaningful conceptual design in the face of the technical demands of our time. However, that opportunity should not be mistaken for one that merely enables the architect to do the work of others.

The position argued here is that it is more appropriate today to be able to assemble experts in a collaborative team of equals, whose work is facilitated by the seamless exchange of building information facilitated by digitally‐augmented means of design, synthesis, co‐ordination, fabrication and assembly. As part of this team there would be a new practitioner, operating as the digital master‐builder and communicating directly with his contemporary cohort of digital‐craftsmen to produce built works of architecture.

There is a distinct feeling amongst those practitioners examined here that a significant socio‐legal barrier prevents the adoption of the openly collaborative model to which they aspire. The accepted tradition of the legally isolated specialist professional and associated issues of authorship and liability can cause friction

44

within a design team, especially in a litigious free‐market economy. However, evidence suggests that mechanisms will evolve that allow these boundaries to be crossed. For example some computer software, such as Adobe Acrobat 3D, already allows the attribution of authorship of models and their components at a sophisticated level, within a file that can be openly distributed (Martins and Kobylinska 2006).

There is also the observation that, although the tools have been maturing and will continue to do so, only elite practices are currently using them (Malkawi 2005, p.249). These offices have shown that integrated, digitally‐augmented processes of designing and making can be a major influence of the way buildings are conceived, designed and constructed and it is suggested that architects of all persuasions should seek to engage with them in some way.

In reflecting upon the opening on the opening statement of this discourse, it may be appropriate to conclude with an observation from Richard Sennett: “History has drawn fault lines dividing practice and theory, technique and expression, craftsman and artist, maker and user; modern society suffers from this historical inheritance. But the past life of the craftsmen also suggests ways of using tools, organizing bodily movements, thinking about materials that remain alternative, viable proposals about how to conduct life with skill.” (Sennett 2009, p.11).

To this, it is now appropriate to add the closing thoughts of a practitioner operating within the contemporary avant‐garde, such as Jeroen van Ameijde: “I don’t think we have to worry that [craftsmanship] is going to be taken away by automated processes. [In] all the examples we see, there’s always in the end some kind of designer that’s human, with a very complex set of talents and skill and experience to make those kind of judgements; and its usually things that you can’t put down in numbers or parameters or something. The proof will be in real projects for a real client with a real use” (van Ameijde 2008a).

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It is in recognition of this progressive spirit that this discourse concludes, with the hope and conviction that it has demonstrated the legitimacy of craftsmanship in contemporary architectural practice.

(Lawson 2006) (Broadbent 1988)

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