Culture of “Use”

The close linkage between utility and value goes largely unquestioned in western society. We generally favor things that have a clear, practical application. And, we have a difficult time seeing value in things that are not immediately useful to our present agendas. This tendency is not unfounded. We are currently in the throes of several environmental, financial, and geopolitical crises that demand focused, effective responses. Nonetheless, the assumed linkage between utility and value often leads to certain forms of commodification that should make us feel uncomfortable. For instance, the commodification of nature, education, and even bodies has become commonplace in contemporary western society. Architecture, of course, has not escaped these forces either. Neo-Marxist critiques of architectural commodification have been repeated to the point of cliché within the discourse.1 However, the more troubling trend towards instrumentality manifests itself in architectural pedagogy, a realm ostensibly insulated from the commodifying forces of industrial capitalism. In the design of curricula and individual syllabi, history is edited according to its perceived value relative to our contemporary circumstance. As a result, students of architecture learn to see history only through the lens of utility. While this proposition contains a certain degree of logic and common sense, it also has a more troubling dimension that deserves further reflection.

The Use (and Misuse) of History

Within the field of architecture, history has been rendered useful in a number of ways. Of course, there are examples of so-called “operative criticism,” which Manfredo Tafuri famously criticized in Theories and Histories of Architecture.2 According to Tafuri, these critics (he singled out Bruno Zevi) presented biased accounts of history in order to support their formal and ideological agendas. While this kind of blatant misuse of the past exists to some extent today, it is not nearly as widespread as another instrumentalized form of history: canonization.

Most existing pedagogical models for architectural history rely upon an established disciplinary canon. In simple terms, this means that students engage with history through a survey of buildings that have been deemed important for the discipline of architecture. What is emphasized in this way of teaching history is the relationship between buildings, rather than the specific context in which each building was produced. Before commenting on the advantages and disadvantages of this decontextualizing approach, it is worth considering the qualities of a canonical project in more detail.

In contemporary discourse, Peter Eisenman is perhaps the most vocal pundit on the canonical. His landmark book, Ten Canonical Buildings 1950-2000, presents a curated series of projects analyzed through the medium of diagramming. Eisenman makes it very clear in the introduction that his selection of buildings does not comprise a disciplinary, or even personal, canon. Instead, his research imagines canonization as a methodological framework for understanding the historical progression of architecture. Using Harold Bloom’s text, The Western Canon, as a starting point, Eisenman proposes a conceptualization of the canonical through limits, boundaries and ambiguities rather than disciplinary agreement and stability. According to Eisenman, a canonical building is one that bears a direct relation to both past and future works of architecture. Understanding its importance “requires a reading forward to what the building inspired, as well as backward to what the building denoted.”3 Given these criteria, Eisenman contends that great buildings are not necessarily canonical and canonical buildings are not necessarily great.

Through this body of research, Eisenman demonstrates how canonical buildings help us comprehend moments of transition within architectural history. In doing so, he also reveals canonization to be an instrument for fulfilling a particular contemporary desire—namely, the desire to understand how our present condition came to be. Jeffrey Kipnis picked up on this utility of the canon in a discussion with Eisenman published in Log 28. Half-joking (half-not), Kipnis states that his primary reason for teaching Le Corbusier is to create a reference point from which students can understand contemporary architects like Rem Koolhaas and Peter Eisenman.5 While this statement might not be entirely sincere, it raises critical questions about the role of history within architectural pedagogy. Is architectural history merely a means for understanding the present? Is the canon of architecture constructed as an instrument for achieving that goal? These questions prompt a reevaluation of the relationship between the goals of architectural pedagogy and the methods of historical inquiry.

Many scholars would be uncomfortable with the premise that history is a means for understanding the present. In an interview conducted for University of California Television, William Cronon, former President of the American Historical Association, addressed the problematic aspects of this premise:

The question “where did we come from?” is intrinsically a starting point for storytelling about the past. But for professional historians, we’re always a little nervous about that question, because it kind of implies that the past back there existed to become us—it’s purpose was to become us. And that could not be farther from the truth, because those people back there existed to be them. They didn’t know they were going to become us. Many of them didn’t want to become us…So the way I often put this is that the past is a foreign country. Those people back there were really unlike us.

Cronon’s statement calls into question the way in which one looks at history. Ultimately, it is this notion of a historical gaze that must be subjected to further scrutiny. Despite the usefulness of isolating buildings from their social contexts, there is reason to believe that this method of analysis creates a greater risk for misreading a work’s ideological underpinnings.

Decontextualizing Tendencies of the Useful Gaze

Key to Eisenman’s understanding of the canonical is a method of close reading in which the subject of analysis is examined as an autonomous entity, divorced from the web of contingencies that influenced its creation. This analytic model has proven to be a useful way for students to study precedents within the studio environment. However, certain historiographical problems arise when context is bracketed off in this manner. To demonstrate the problematic aspects of this method, consider the following hypothetical research process.

After reading Colin Rowe’s essay, “Mathematics of the Ideal Villa,” a student wants to explore the hypothesis that Le Corbusier’s Villa Savoye shares many qualities with Palladio’s Villa Rotunda. In an attempt to test this transhistorical comparison, the student locates the architectural drawings for each project and places them side-by-side despite the fact that they were created by different architects under different technological, professional, and cultural conditions. Then, through a process of formal analysis, the student identifies certain similarities—geometric systems, proportional relationships, and so on—that exist between the two projects. What the student fails to recognize is that when one compares artifacts from different historical contexts, there is an uneven plane of comparison. When we think of Palladio’s drawings as being analogous to those of Le Corbusier, we deceive ourselves. In order to fully understand the pitfalls of this comparison, one must consider how the function of architectural representation transformed throughout history.

Although orthographic drawings have been incorporated into architectural practice since the fifteenth century, the function of these drawings has changed dramatically across time. In his groundbreaking treatise, Ten Books on Architecture, Alberti argued that architects should use measured drawings to communicate their design intentions to builders, who carry out the fabrication side of architecture.7 But despite the neatness of this theory, architectural practice was never quite that simple. There were always certain aspects of the design that were not shown in the drawings. To demonstrate this point, consider Palladio’s drawings of Villa Rotunda. The plan depicts a symmetrical building, composed of intersecting axes and basic geometric shapes. The section shows a dome that mirrors the geometric composition of the plan. Collectively, the drawings portray the Villa Rotunda as a perfectly composed object. What the drawings do not capture is the building’s relationship to the ground. First time visitors to the famous villa might be surprised to find the sophisticated integration of architecture and landscape. At the front of the villa, a single path on axis with the entrance splits into two paths with a small, well-proportioned lawn in between. At the back, a terrace overlooks the surrounding farmlands and allows for a less monumental servant entrance from below. This harmony between architecture and landscape that one experiences at Villa Rotunda is nowhere to be found within the drawings that Palladio published in his famous treatise, Four Books of Architecture. In fact, it is likely that no drawings were ever produced to describe the relationship between building and earth.

There is a good reason that Palladio’s drawings of Villa Rotunda do not highlight the harmony of architecture and landscape. Within the construction practices of the Italian Renaissance, a building’s relationship to the ground did not need to be illustrated. Instead, the proper method for integrating architectural forms into the existing topography of a site relied on either the builders’ experience and expertise or the architect’s verbal instructions. By contrast, modern architects worked within more rigid legal frameworks, which required them to precisely predict the outcome of construction through measured drawings and written specifications.^{Ever since the period of modernization in the United States, legal frameworks have defined the role of representation within architectural practice. In 1888, the American Institute of Architects published its first standardized contract for construction work. This contract, which described the basic responsibilities of both the architect and the contractor, was only three pages long. It noted that the work must be completed “agreeably to the drawings and specifications made by the said Architect.” And, if any aspects of the design “are not sufficiently detailed or explained on the said drawings, or in said specifications, the Contractor shall apply to the Architect for such further drawings or explanations as may be necessary.” Twenty-three years later, the AIA published an updated version of this contract along with General Conditions that provided a much more detailed legal framework. In total, the General Conditions contain sixty-three articles, with the first seven in reference to drawings and specifications. This updated document made clear that the drawings themselves were “as fully a part of the Contract as if hereto attached or herein repeated.” It also described a hierarchical way of interpreting the drawings: “Figured dimensions shall be followed in preference to measurements by scale; and larger scale drawings shall take precedence over those at smaller scale.” This contract effectively outlawed improvisational techniques for construction and forced all decisions to be channeled through measured drawings.}Whereas Palladio was able to rely on skilled builders to integrate his villa into the surrounding landscape, Le Corbusier would find no such help from the de-skilled labor base of modern society. This social and professional context reveals fundamental differences between Palladio’s drawings and those of Le Corbusier. As such, similarities that exist within the drawings of Villa Rotunda and Villa Savoye might not actually exist in the buildings themselves. And, if the student attempts to construct an argument about either architectural work without having a grasp of its context, then there is a great risk for misinterpretation. To argue, for instance, that Villa Rotunda is a geometrically composed object with no connection to its site (as the drawings indicate) would be an inaccurate reading of the building.

This brief hypothetical is meant to reveal the misleading aspects of decontextualized historiographical approaches. The fact that this example focuses on the historical role of architectural representation is merely coincidental. Similar pitfalls could be identified in decontextualized comparisons of buildings or texts or photographs. More importantly, we must acknowledge that decontextualization is a product of the useful gaze. The conceptual act of isolating a building from its social and cultural milieu is a means for advancing some discourse that is external to the work. In this way, the building, which resulted from a complex network of relationships and processes, is reduced to a one-dimensional prop in the author’s argument. This dynamic is especially problematic when it becomes an institutionalized way of looking at the world.

The Richness of Our Useless Past

What if architectural educators rejected the idea that the past is only a means for understanding the present? What if the past was understood to have its own vibrancy and richness that exists totally independent of our contemporary agendas? This proposition does not imply that one’s study of the past cannot be useful for an understanding of the present. Rather, it simply means that one does not look to the past solely through the lens of utility. Because, as the saying goes, when you are holding a hammer everything starts to resemble a nail.

If one accepts this premise of a “useless past,” then another question arises: what would such a historiographical project look like? The answer to this question is not yet apparent. In fact, we may only be able to grasp its potential by describing what it would not look like. For starters, no building would be reduced to a single image, metaphor, or straw man within a larger argument. To this end, the use of simplistic diagrams to explain complex relationships (i.e. building to ground, part to whole, public to private) would have to be reconsidered. Additionally, there would be no room for broad generalizations about any particular movement or group of architects. Instead, each work of architecture would be unpacked through the triangulation of forces that shaped its conception, construction, and inhabitation. Such a historiographical project would have to grapple with the interrelations between technology, culture, public policy, and social dynamics. The irony of this “useless gaze” is that it ultimately may produce something quite useful to our contemporary situation: a description of the rich field of contingencies that underlie any architectural project.

This enthusiastic embrace of contingency is somewhat unpopular within contemporary architectural discourse. Many theorists argue that focusing on the contingencies of architectural design detracts from the larger disciplinary conversation. Instead, they would prefer to return to the study of architectural objects, detached from their physical and cultural contexts. However, my view of contingency is quite different than the view that these contemporary theorists often rail against. I am not suggesting that the contingencies of any given project prefigure or “cause” architectural form. Instead, my interest in contingency is best represented by the writings of the American philosopher, Richard Rorty, who drew a connection between contingency and the poetic impulse.

Only poets…can truly appreciate contingency. The rest of us are doomed to remain philosophers, to insist that there is really only one true lading-list, one true description of the human situation, one universal context of our lives. We are doomed to spend our conscious lives trying to escape from contingency, rather than, like the strong poet, acknowledging and appropriating contingency.

Through Rorty’s writing, one can begin to imagine new methodological approaches for studying the contingencies of architectural production. Such a method would challenge the prevailing tendency to project contemporary issues onto the past. Instead, a work of architecture would have to be understood on its own terms, as the physical manifestation of complex social interactions within a particular intellectual, technological and political context.

At this point, it is fair to say that the notion of a “useless past” raises more methodological questions than answers. And, the fact remains that the development of an architectural canon is an incredibly useful and worthwhile enterprise. My contention, however, is that this canon cannot be the only means through which students of architecture come to understand history. They deserve access to architecture’s muddy, weird contingencies as well. What we need is a discussion about how different ways of approaching history fit into a larger curricular vision. For instance, how one studies the past in a studio context is likely going to be different than the methods of lecture course or seminar. Nonetheless, one of the primary responsibilities of any educational institution is to produce well-informed citizens who have an understanding of how their discipline interacts with other cultural forces. If we educate a generation of architects who see history merely as an instrument for understanding the present, then we have done them (and the greater public) a dangerous disservice. After all, the past does not belong to us. It is not ours to use.