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    Spiro Kostof, A History of Architecture Settings and Rituals 1995

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    A HISTORY OF ARCHITECTURE Settings and Rituals SPIRO KOSTOF ‘Oxford University Press Osird_ New York ‘hens Auckland Bangkok Bombay Caleuta Cape Town Dares Salam Delhi Florence "Hong Kong anbul Karachi Kuala Limur Mads Madnd Melbourne ‘Mexico City Navobi Pars Singapore Taiper Tokyo Toronto and associated companies in Bern tadan Copyright © 1985, 1995 by Oxford University Press, Inc Published by Ostord University Pres, Ine, 198 Maio Avenue, New York, New Yr 10016-4514 Oxiordi 2 registered vademark of Oxiord Univesity Press Al sights reserved. No par of his publication may be reproduced, sored ia teieval syste, o wansmited in any orm ot by any means, ‘econ, mechanical, photocopying, recording. o otherwise, without the prior persion of Oxird University Press Library of Congress CatalognginPublcation Oats Kost, S040. | histor of architecture: stings adits / pio Kostot conginal ramings by Richard Tobias 2nd ed. revision by Greg Castil, Pam. Includes index. 'SBN-13 978-0-19-508578-1; 978-0-18-508379-6 (pbk) 1. Architecture History 1. Casilla, Greg. Tite Naz00K65 1995" 720'9-de20. 9438787 coms 10 Protein the Unitas States of America ‘on acc-ree paper PREFACE ‘This book is something of a compromise. Ieis a general survey of architectural his: tory that tries to reconcile the traditional grand canon of monuments with a broader, ‘more embracing view of the built environ ment It does so by making no strict distinc tions between architecture and building, between architecture and urbanism, bs ‘ween high cultures and low. Hagia Sophia and Versailles are here, but so ate igloos and nineteenth-century malt-kilns; the du: ‘al palaces of Urbino and Mantua ate dis: ccussed within the larger frame of the city tommy; the Romans share their chapter with their “barbarian” adversaries, the Dacians, and the tribes of the sub-Sahara, | wanted to tla story—the epic story of humans taking possession of the land and shaping, communities through the act of building. The aims are set out in Chapter 1, al inclusiveness is not one of them. | had to confine mysel 10 a relatively small number Of sites and buildings in order to be able to ook at them in some detail. It was impor tant that this treatment of selective places be full. Architectural style comes in of course; that was the core of my training, But Tam as concerned with use and structure and urban process, with motivation and ritual sequence. 1 would not be at all un- happy if the book were to be seen as an ‘offering of cultural history Despite its seemingly ecumenical reach, this cannot claim to be a world history of architecture. That task would entail a fat balance in the account of architectural 13 ditions in all ages and on al continents. We are preoccupied with our own Western tradition. ven with the most permissive attitude, other cultures stand as foils to this, perhaps inevitable sell-absorption, My lin ‘ted goal was to resist presenting the West- fer achievement as if it were an insulated and wholly logical progression, We have always been bound up with other lands; and the order we have created gains in un. derstanding when itis assessed in the light of alternate orders. As a symbolic recog tion ofthis interdependence, | have avoided discussing non-Western traditions tidily in their own individual chapters. It seemed to me that the excitement of controntation might outweigh the obvious advantage of Separate linear nartaives. So | have brought together medieval Florence and Cairo, Pal: ladio and Sinan, ‘ have also committed one further breach ‘at historical practice. In order to keep the discussion of one place intact, | have into: ‘duced some architects ahead of their sect chronological slot. | hope old hands will not bbe unduly distressed to meet Giulio Ro- ‘mano at Mantua belore they meet Bra ‘mante in Rome. Through the years, Richard Tobias has been a steady collaborator. This is as much his book as itis mine, His drawings go be: yond mere illustration. They strengthen and any the approach of this historical sur. vey, ad they convey information far in ex cess of the limits of the text We agreed on some things at the begin- ing and stayed with them. Except when they remained diagrammatic, all plans would be oriented toward the north, They ‘would also indicate setting—land contours ‘or neighboring structures. Where possible this setting is original to the building. In cases where we could not reconstruct what was there at the time, say for Chaves Ca- thedral or the imperial kullies of istanbul, ‘we settied for the best premodern context ‘we could find. Finally, we wanted to con- vey the sense of the siow, accretive devel- ‘opment of familiar monuments and sites by showing in sequence the principal sages in their planning history. The multipart draw- ings of Karnak and the Piazza San Marco are examples. It should be self-evident that a history of this kind reaps the collective effort and wisdom of schelars in several fields. Since the mature of the book precluded the cus- tomary apparatus of notes and extensive bibliographies, 1 must acknowledge my fenormous debt to them all here, a debt which in a number of cases approaches dependence. | must also single out atleast some among he many colleagues and friends who offered help at various stages ff the project: Mare Teeib, Andrew Stew: art, Walter Horn, Stanley Saitowitz, Hsia CChu-loe, and lan’ Roberson-Smith. Readers (of drafts include Christian Ono, Richard C. Carrot, Osmune Overby, Christopher Mead and Henry A. Millon, A most patient and sym pathetic review came from Elizabeth M Brown; her serutiny improved the book tang bly, and 1am de-ply grateful to her. The long process wore out several assist: ants. will always remember them with gratitude: Wendy Tsuji, Deborah Robbins, Michael Brooder, Carol Silverman, who valiantly tackled ‘the index, and. D'vora Treisman, In the final stretch, Mari Ade- ‘gran and Susan Shoemaker lent their skill Yo the complet on of some of the draw: Ings. To Doughs MacDonald, | owe the most. He has worked long and hard on sources, illustraions, and the glossary, and ably served a liaison withthe publisher. On that side, our maim ally was Kathy Kuht2. My fond thanks alse to my editors, irs, James Raimes, who took the project through its critical starting phase almost ten years ago, and, more recent, Joyce Bey To my student, past and future, this book {is fondly dedicat-d: it was weitten with them foremost in mind Berkeley Sk. October 1988 | | PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION In May 1991, Spiro Kostof delivered his last lectures for ""A Historical Survey of Architecture and. Urbanism’—the lang running course at the University of Cali fornia at Berkeley that some twenty years earlier had provided a springboaed for the first edition of this book. The final lec- tures, covering the state of affairs from after World War Il to the present, had been thoroughly revised 2 year earlier, land Professor Kostof felt that they were 2 ‘great improvement. His enduring goal had been to construct an architectural history that avoided “strict distinctions between archirecture and building, between archi tecture and urbanism, between high cul: tures and low.” The closing chapter of the first edition of A History of Architecture, written in the early 1980s, fell short of that resolution, having shrunk in scope to 2 review of “the works of the masters,” just the kind of history he had set out to challenge Inthe years following the publication of this book’s first edition, Professor Kostof undertook projects that confronted archi- tecture’s current events head-on. These included America by Design, a 1987 PBS series and a companion publication of the same name, as well as The City Shaped and The City Assembled, a two-volume study of urban form and its social mean ings. Both efforts sent him traveling 10 sites that embodied the exceptional as well as the ordinary in late-twentieth- Century environmental design. The surer footing gained from this research was evi dent inthe updated lectures for Berkeley's survey course, and a revised edition of A History of Architecture incorporating these changes was put on the calendar as his next assignment. In June 1991, Spiro Kostof was diag- sea. nosed with cancer. He died six months later at his home in Berkeley. As his re- search assistant of five years’ standing, | was asked to prepare the manuscript of The City Assembled for publication, Soon aterward, | decided t0 take on, as well, Professor Kostot’s planned revision of 4 History of Architecture. In both cases, | have attempted to chart a conservative ‘course, limited wherever possible to re constructing his arguments and the spir- ited style with which he addressed them. Professor Kostof’s working methods ‘greatly simplified my task. His habit was to prepare complete scripts for his lec: tures, which he then would commit to memory. These typescripts established the narrative framework and basic text for the final chapters of this edition. Another use- {ul resource was the collection of lecture Videotapes now archived at Berkeley's Bancroft Library. Kostof’s lectures were recorded in 1990 and 1991, ostensibly for the benefit of students who had missed class, but just as much to give him the opportunity to review and fine-tune his performance. More than one digression from his script, as documented on tape, has found its way into this edition. None- theless, the text of a lecture, however pol: ished, is not that ofa textbook. Whenever a site or atopic glossed in class demanded more detailed description, | have added it, following the vector and tenor of Kostof's argument to the best of my abilities. For their help in refining the finished text, | must thank Karl Weimer, as well as Gary Brown, Marta Gulman, Kathleen James, Roger Montgomery, and Steven Tobriner all at Berkeley's College of Environmental Design. Richard Tobias, Professor Kostat's original collaborator on illusteations for this publication, again contributed his skills and patierce. | also owe a debt of iratiude to Nezar Al Sayyad, Travis Amos, Ken Caldwell, Sam Davis, Diane Favro, Alan Gottlieb, Alan Hess, Carol Hershelle Krinsky, Emily Lane of Thames and Hudson, Nina Libeskind, George Loisos, Christopher Mead, Jean-Pierre Protzen, Matyly snow and Ciaire Dannen- baum of Berkeley"s Environmental Design Slide Library, Stephen Tobriner, Susan Ubbilohde, Dell Upton, and Fikret Yegul for their help in assembling photographs for this second edition. Kathryn Wayne land Elizabeth Byrne of the Environmental Design Library at Berkeley were, as al ‘ways, generous with their assistance. And Joyce Berry of Dxlord University Press, now @ veteran of three Kostof publica: tions, again proved her considerable edi torial and diploriatic talents. Every effort ofthis sort deserves a dedi cation. In keeping with my role as the facilitator rather than the author of this volume, I will defer on that count to Pro- fessor Kostof, whose meditations were captured on videotape in May 1991 in one (of hi final public Fectures. Last week was the last lecture of the great Vincent Scully: a trie mind, 3 terre image nation. His coutse closed after being taught Since the early 1910s, He retired unvilingly He wanted 10 g0 on and on until he dies, 35 most of us do. For whatever it's worth, | dedi ate these final lectures to him, my one-time teacher, longtime adversary, anda man who Aid more for archi ectural history than most of 1s put together Berkeley Cctober 1994 9 CONTENTS PART ONE A Place on Earth ‘THE STUDY OF WHAT WE BUILT, 3 The History of Architecture, 3 8 The Total Context of Architecture, 7 THE CAVE AND THE SKY: STONE AGE EUROPE, 21 The Beginning, 21 Old Stone Age Architecture, 23 The Cave at Lascaux, 23 9. New Stone Age Architecture, 26 The Temples of Malta, 32 Stonehenge, 37 |. THE RISE OF THE CITY: ARCHITECTURE IN WESTERN ASIA, 43. The Urban Revolution, 43 Slirrings of Urban Consciousness, #4 The Cities of Mesopotamia, 50 10. THE ARCHITECTURE OF ANCIENT EGYPT, 67 The Land of Egypt, 67 Tre Burial of Kings, 71 Tre Time of the Gods, 79 Survival of the Egyptian Temple, 88 BRONZE AGE CITIES: THE AEGEAN AND ASIA MINOR, 91 Asia Minor, 91 Mycenaeans and Minoans, 99 The Closing of the Bronze Age, 112 THE GREEK TEMPLE AND “BARBARIAY 2 ALTERNATIVES, 115 The Passing of the Bronze Age, 115, The Emergence of Greece, 117 The Greek Temple, 120 POLIS AND AKROPOLIS, 137 Athens and Her Empire, 137 The Shape of the Polis, 138 Athens—'The Eye of Greece,” 146 ‘THE HELLENISTIC REALM, 161, The New Order, 161 The Hellenistic Temple, 168 Religious Settings, 170 The Noble Metropolis, 174 ROME: CAPUT MUNDI, 191 Early Roman Architecture, 191 Components of a Roman Town: Pompeii, 194 The Look of Empire: Rome at the Millennium, 207, THE WORLD AT LARGE ROMAN CONCURRENCES, 217 The Roman Cosmos, 217 Beyond the Empire, 219 The Other Ancient World, 225 ‘A Continent Alone, 233 PART TWO, Measuring Up THE TRIUMPH OF CHRIST, 245 ‘The Turning Point: Third-Century Rome, 245 Housing the Kingdom of Heaven, 253 The Primacy of Constantinople, 260 THE MEDITERRANEAN IN THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES, 209 The Decline of the West, 269 Carolingian Restoration, 274 The Empire of Muhammed, 284 16, v. 18 19, THE BIRTH OF NATIONS EUROPE AFTER CHARLES, 295 Europe from Charles to Otto, 295 The Eleventh Century, 298 ‘The Romanesque Church, 305 Halian Counterpoint, 314 THE FRENCH MANNER, 323 ‘The Romanesque and Opus Modernum, 323 Chartres, 333 Gothic Abroad, 341 THE URBANIZATION OF EUROPE, 1100-1300, 349 The City Returns, 349 Bourgeois Architecture, Public and Private, 355 ‘An Urban Contrast: Cairo and Florence, 363 EDGES OF MEDIEVALISM, 375 Florence at the Crossroads, 3 The City Center, 376 Europe in the Fourteenth Century, 386 ‘Aging Traditions Abroad, 394 THE RENAISSANCE: IDEAL AND FAD, 403 The First Advance, 403 The Prince and the People: Patronage in Northern Italy, 412 The Italianate Craze, 428 SPAIN AND THE NEW WORLD, 433 The American Scene, 433 The Spanish Scene, 442 ISTANBUL AND VENICE, 453 A Turkish Renaissance, 454 The Consummation of Venice, 468 THE POPES AS PLANNERS: ROME, 1450-1650, 485 Making the City Whole, 485 A Pasture for the Bodily Senses,’” 496 ABSOLUTISM AND BOURGEOISIE: EUROPEAN ARCHITECTURE, 1600-1750, 511 ‘The Roman Baroque, 511 France: The Grand Siécle, 527 ‘The Face of Protestantism, 538 CONTENTS 2B, 27. 28. 29. PART THREE The Search for Self ARCHITECTURE FOR A NEW WORLD, 5 Europe in Ferment, 547 A World to Choose From, 553 Form and Reform, 565 ARCHITECTURAL ART AND THE LANDSCAPE (OF INDUSTRY, 1800-1850, 571 ‘A Matter of Styles, 571 The tron Age, 594 THE AMERICAN EXPERIENCE, 605 Colonial Dependence, 607 Architecture for a Nation, 617 Greece for All Seasons, 629 VICTORIAN ENVIRONMENTS, 635, The Gilded Age, 635 Victorian America, 647 THE TRIALS OF MODERNISM, 669 Urban Choices, 669 Toward a Twentieth-Century Architecture, 680 ARCHITECTURE AND THE STATE INTERWAR YEARS, 695 The 19205, 695 ‘The Other Side, 707 ‘The Language of Power, 717 THE ENDS OF MODERNISM, 721 Reconstruction, 721 Postwar America, 724 DESIGNING THE FIN-DE-SIECLE, 745, Success and Failure, 745, Recovering the Past, 748 Illustration Credits, 763, Glossary, 767 Index, 776 PART ONE A Place on Earth THE STUDY OF WHAT WE BUILT The History of Architecture A history of architecture is both less and more than a grand tour. It does not have the immediacy of walking through the streets and public places of towns as diverse a5 Isfahan and London, or stepping into Covered spaces that range in mood from the dappled, swarming tunnels of Muslim suqs to the single-minded sublimity of the Pan- theon in Rome. (Figs. 1.1, 1.2) That is how architecture is meant to be known. As the material theater of human activity, it truth isin its use. ‘Although a book such as this cannot stand in for “the foot that walks, the head that turns, the eye that sees,” as Le Corbusier ‘once described the experience of architec- ture. if has its own deliberate advantage. For fone thing, the book is a compact word. It lets one shift in minutes from Mesopota- ‘mia to Peru. Then, it is panoramic. The jeer who leats through its not unlike the fone figure in this nineteenth-century painting by Thomas Cole entitled The Ar chitect’s Dream. (Fig. 1.3) The figure re lines luxuriously on top of-a column of Classical inspiration; before him, past tra- ditions of buildings are composed grandly, like a hybrid movie set. Time isthe river that flows toward him, and om its banks are ined the familiar forms of his professional vi- sion: the pyramids, battered walls, and plant columns of Egypt; Greek temples and Ro- man aqueducts; and closer still, outlined against the glow, the pinnacles and lance- like towers of medieval Christendom. He is an architect, and what he looks upon is the idealized heritage of his craft. He could ‘draw from this vast and varied wealth, as hineteenth-century architects did, to give Shape to ‘contemporary buildings of his like him, the reader of an architectural history is alone among the built riches of the past, put in order, illustrated, and ac- counted for. He or she can learn the names ‘of buildings and their makers, and when ind how they were made, and other ready information that is not akways at our dis- posal when we travel. A visit t Rome or Istanbul 's bound to be confusing. There is so very much to see, and it seems to lie about unsorted, helter skelter. A group of temples from the time betore Christ is ringed by recent apartment houses: brick- and-concrete clumps refuse to yield their Identity. The historian brings time under control; isolates random scraps and ar- ranges them ioto a trenchant sequence; sets up relationships among farflung structures, through the hindsight of this day and the collective knowledge of the discipline. What isa ziggurat and how was it used? What sort ‘of people built it” How does it compare with fn Old Kingdom pyramid or the stepped platform of a Meso-American temple? The historian does ths, first, by insisting ‘on the recapture of the true physical realty fof things built, whether they have since been altered, damaged, or destroyed to- tally, This is a primary task, akin 0 ar- chaeology, and makes use of material that is both visual and literary in nature. And then the historian must go beyond this es: tablished realty of the buildings to under. stand what they are, how they came to be, and why they ace the way they are. The Pictorial Ev.dence Buildings are otten born of images and live ‘on in images. Eefore there is a foundation tuench oF a single course of stone, a build- ing has to be conceptualized and its form may be represented in models and draw- ings. Models of the building in small scale, in day or wood or plaster, give a full impression in three dimensions ofthe final product that is being projected. Pictorial Views might present the future building's ideal appearance: on commemorative ‘medals, for exzmple, struck at the time of the laying of the cornerstone, or on pr sentation drawings elaborately rendered in perspective. And there ate other, more ab- Stract drawings. Plans show in two-dimen: sional pattern the horizontal disposition of Solid parts, like walls and columns, and the voids of eniramed or enclosed space. Sec: tions slice theough the building vertically at some imaginec plane to indicate the se- uence of rooms in length and the super. imposition of tloors and roo in height; they also indicate openings, whether they ate physically accessible or not, and so help, to explain structure. Elevations, using a vertical plane, ilatten out one face of the building to incicate schematically the or der of its parts To the initiate, a ground plan of the church of Hagiy Sophia in Istanbul tells at a glance that strings of columas alternate with heavy piers to describe a large square A PLACE ON Mh Tig, 13 Thomas Cole, The Architects Dream, 1 The point to remember, then, is that graphic and plastic images are indispens- able in the making of architecture—and for its understanding after the fact. They are the conventional language through which the architect communicates with his partners in the act of shaping our daily enviconment These are the patron oF client who employ the architect to mold their architectural wishes, and the many hands involved in building the structure. That same language assists students of architectural history to Beto know structures they have never seen fr hive seen and not comprehended in tll and one of the earliest tasks for them is 0 learn to read architectural drawings and mocels with ease. ‘Once a building is up it becomes a live presence, to be reproduced at will. I might figure on paintings and sculpture in reli fon prints, maps, or photographs. Models of it might be made to serve as votive of ferings to a germane cult, for example, oF to be sold as mementoes to visitors or pil aries. For the history of architecture there fs valuable information in all of these re. productions. But we have to be cautious in THE STUDY OF WHAT WE BUILT interpreting the evidence they provide, be- ‘use the conventions of the various me- dia employed are peculiar to themselves. A photograph is a faithful record that regis- ters all incidents of form, however teifing, that fll within Inthe hands of a painter the same building may be pictured less clinically, its mass {generalized and rendered in sharp, simple Suriaces of shadow and light. (Fig. 1.6) This is testimony of a different kind. Yet it can be just as usetul as the photography; for ar chitectural reality has more to it than stick and stone, and the history of architecture more dimensions than just the categorical We range of its fixed frame The literary Evidence like images, yield much fessential insight for our study of archite ture. The birth of most structures of con: sequence assumes the existence of written documents, some of which may come to be preserved by design or accident. At times, patrons may express their wishes to the ar chitect in writing. The architect, in turn, may have passed on written instructions to sub- cordinates. Legal contracts delineate the precise responsibilities of the parties con ‘eemed. The erection of public monuments necessitated whose tral can be followed in the minutes ff their deliberations, reports, and records fof payment. Beyond this immediate con: text, architectural production would have been affected, sicectly or indirectly, by the buildirg codes, building trades and guilds, theoretical wea tises, and mancals of construction “Again, as with visual representations, the building may live in literary sources long past its comple ion, First, there is sel-ser ing advertisem:nt after the fact. Patrons often sing the praises of their creation in dedicatory or cammemorative inscriptions oF tablets. It was the function of court his: torians to extol the building program oftheir employer, We also have to heed descrip tions of past buildings in old travel ac- counts oF in an als and local chronicles. In all of this, historians of architecture need to borrow the philologist’s discipline, But Janguage, the agent of expression, is also the hotbed of ambiguity. And the transla tion of words irto the physical substance of architecture is peculiarly open to conten We might illastrate this point by focus- ing om one mo wment of antiquity, the fa mous tomb of King Mausolos of Caria at Halikarnassos that gave us the word mau: soleum., it was considered one of the seven wonders of the Classical world. It disap. peared long ag» with hardly a trace except for. fragments of its sculptural decoration, now housed in the British Museum in Lon- don, and odd bis of the structure that were built into the castle of Bodrum which oc: cupies the site. The Mausoleum of Halikae fnassos lived on in memory through men- tions of it and its creators in later Latin ‘administrative committees literature, of which the most detailed is a passage from the Natural History of Pliny the der This isthe tomb that was bul by Artemisia for her husband Mawolos, he viceroy of Cai, who cin the second year ofthe 10°Uh Oltnpid [BSI ec1. Cn the north and south sides i extends for 63 fet, but the lengths of the facades less, the toa length othe facades an sides being 440 tee. The building rises to a height of 25 cubits and is enclosed by 36 columns Above the coloneade there isa pyramid as high again the lower structure and tapering 24 Stages tothe topo its peak. At the summit there Fig, 15 Dacea (Bangladesh), National Assembly Bulcing, 1965-78, Lous Kahn (a ground pla (b) sketch plan, 1963, THE STUDY OF WHAT WE BUILT iss fourhorse chariot of marble, and this was Image by Pythis. The addition of this chariot founds off the whole work and brings it to 3 height of 140 fet Recreating the physical appearance of the Mausoleum on the strength of these words is an exceedingly dificult procedure, First fone has to establish the accuracy of the words themselves, Pliny lived two thou sand years ago. His book came down to us ‘in various texts, in Latin and Greek; these Contain disparities or alternate readings because of different copyists—and the interpretation of moder scholars. This is ‘no ‘trivial matter. Dimensions, whether written in Roman numerals or sna letters and accents in the Greek manner, are eas- ily miscopied or misread. And yet they have to be the basis of any reconstruction. Transpose the two inital letters of the word and altitudinem becomes latitudinem, ‘changing the meaning of “a pyramid as high again as the lower structure” to "as wide’ both readings have their adherents ‘There were four centuries between Mau solos and Pliny. The description itself may therefore be inaccurate and Pliny may have erred in writing. At least one scholar be- Tieves that, when Pliny gave the width of the rhorth and south sides as 63 feet, he really ‘meant to say cubits, a unit of measurement that is one half of afoot longer: there is no other way in which the dimensions of the ‘original foundations as they have been ex: tracted trom the site could be reconciled with such a small figure. And of course the passage in question does not furnish all the particulars. It does not say, for example, hhow high the pedestal was of how the col- ‘umns that surrounded the building were arranged. Historians must juggle all these variables and come up with a building that is a fir interpretation of the literary and archaeo- logical evidence—and a credible form ar chitecturally. They must deduce from the fone surviving column the style of the bases And the cornice of the surrounding colon: nade, relying on the current knowledge of the general development of Greek archi tecture. It should not surprise us, then, that two versions of the Mausoleum of Halkar- nassos as different as the ones we illustrate Could be spawned by the same data. (Fig, w The Total Context of Architecture The effort to establish, through the scru tiny of visual and literary documents, what past architecture really looked like will have already involved us with questions not Strictly pertinent to physical form. These might include the identity of the patrons, particulars abot the motivation for the buildings commissioned, the identity and careers of the architects, the nature of the ‘materials of construction and their prove- hance, matters of finance, and so on. But teven this is not the outermost limit of the legitimate concn of architectural history We have to push further stil, to the broader frame of general history, for those strands fF patterns that illuminate the total setting fof architectural production, Architecture, to state the obvious, is a social act—soci:l both in method and pur- pose. It is the outcome of teamwork; and itis there to be made use of by groups of people, groups as small as the family or as Targe as an entice nation. Architecture is a costly act. It engages specialized talent, ap- propriate tech ology, handsome funds Because this is s0, the history of architec: ture partakes, in a basic way, of the study of the social, economic, and technological systems of human history. To understand the Carson Pirie Scott department store in Chicago fully, we must know something of late-nineteenth-century American capitalist enterprise, the philosophy of consumer- ism, and the business ethic; the urban his: tory of Chicago since the Fire of 1871; cor- porate financing and land values; the {genesis of the department store as a novel concept in commercial architecture; the elevator and the early history of steebframe skyscraper construction. (Fi. 1.8) This approach should be kept in the foreground as te ideal way to learn about four built envircrnment. f we are to be sat: ified with less, as we must, it should be on the condition ‘that we agree on what the total context of architecture is. Every build Ing represents a social artifact of specific: impulse, energ., and commitment. That is {ts meaning, and this meaning resides in its physical form. Neither material realty alone nor general background of culture wil uf- fice to explain the peculiar nature of the building. And the task of the architectural A PLACE ON EARTH historian, in the long run, can be nothing. less than the seatch for the peculiar nature of those artiacts of place that constitute our architectura! heritage Let us describe plainly at the outset the thinking quity. [tis nota uni architectural Selection for emphasis among the many specimens of architecture, the arrange ment and interpretation of facts known about them, the personal judgment of each historan, the vantage point ofthe time and histonan’s purpose These are four premises that undelie the scope and treatment of our survey. Fist the material aspect of every building should be looked atin its entirety. Second, the build ing should be thought of in physical framework and not itsell, Third, all buildings Considered indopenable to heir oppee The Oneness of Architecture The tangible presence of a building is in divisible, The structure that holds it up, the sthetic refinement of s -coration and furnish Fig tab & THE STUDY OF WHAT WE BUILT fig. 17 Hallarnassos Bodrum, Turkey), tomb of King Mausolos, 2. 355-350 2c, Pyhios and Sa architectural frame as such, it is best dealt with independentiy by art historians. Not ‘only are Byzantine mosaics physically in separable from the architectural frame of their buildings, their placement takes ad- vaniage of this frame to set up a ceremon- {al hierarchy of parts basic to the theater of liturgy housed therein, and their subject informs this theater with precise theolog cal meaning. (Fig. 1.9) For similar reasons, we cannot divorce the structure of a building from the aesthetic Conventions that shape its appearance— ‘what we call its style. Buildings are neither primarily structural frames, nor primarily envelopes of form: to write a history of a- chitecture from the perspective of one of these in favor of the other would be pre- ‘yros; eeconsiacton drawings: (a) By K leppe sen, 1958; (by | | Stevenson, 1056, cisely to deny the physical integrity of the buildings. Preoccupation with structure leads o technological determinism, the kind ‘of thinking that is attempted to explain all major characteristics of the form of the Carson Pirie Scott store in terms of the el- evator, prelabrication, and the steel frame. The contrary preoccupation with the ele iments of design—the interweaving of ver- tical and horizontal members, the rounded comer at the crossing of State and Madi= son streets, the rich ornamentation of the entrance pavilion—would tend to equate skin with substance and dilute the fact that Louis Sullivan's is not exclusively an ab- stract mold of visual order but a construc: tion of enormous scale that has managed to stand up and to remain standing 9 ‘And yet hete, as in many other build ings, the special excitement of architec tural intention resides inthe tug of war be- tween the structural and formal systems. ‘One or the other at times may seem to take lover openly and condition the final effect the building will have on its users. The Es fel Tower, for example, seems structure triumphant. By contrast, the simple under- lying construe! of uprights and lintels transforms the Greek temple, at least sus" perfiily, into something approaching pure form. But if for the fille! Tower the ex: posed tangle of metal struts is the better part of the form, for the Parthenon on the Athenian Akropolis the clear statement of form, the exte-ior colonnade with its ga bled ends, is also an appropriate diagram ships more intricate. ja Sophia, and you will no the archit set piers detectable on the plan, to men: tion only one point, are veiled in three di e, so that allowed beyond the colum the nave from the Tightly on a ing, soaring with its fa weight teem piers. But what un. der close analysis seems at odds—struc tural fact and aesthetic intention —is in ac tuality an integral fabric that cannot be judged but as an entity 2. The Setting of Architecture No building isan isolated object, sufficient ‘unto itsel. It belongs in a l within a bit of nature ora ‘ther buildings, or both, and derives much, ofits character irom this natural or manu: factured envionment that ef Parthenon does not exist witho phatic outcrop of rock called th fon wrich it perches and the visible range ‘of mountains beyond, which rings the arid bowl of Attica, The setting of Chartre: thedral or the Carson Pirie Scott iment store is quintessentially urban. (Fig. 1.12) The scale and authonty of both build ings depend on the stamp of surrounding consteaction—smal-scale residences in the case of Chartres, tall commercial develop: ‘ment in the case of the store, Change this urban situation during the course of time will promptly affect the character of the ‘two buildings. We must, then, consider past buildings not as permanent bodies ina vacuum but, instead, components ofa varie gated arrangement subject to constant Change. From this perspective the history of architecture may be said to be, in par, the study ofthe interaction of buildings with nature and with one another A PLACE ON EARTH, ig. 18 Chicago inom, Canon Pie Seon de The way we experience architecture also works against the notion of buildings as fixed objects. Tools of design such models and draw architecture, a se 10 sil H. Burnham and Co.) stumble on the building unexpectedly, or approach it from the back or from the sides ‘We might catch glimpses of it at sunset or in a winter storm oF look down on it from taller in the vicinity. Trying to account for this arbitrariness, to be con scious of setting, environmental circum: stance, and kinetic vision, brings architec: tural history within the fold of architectural ‘experience, so that buildings of the past are during the Middle Ages. This is what the Parthenon looks like today, the authors are saving: and this depiction carses at once the Guairt appeal of an exotic land and that Sense of the vanity of things which comes ver us atthe sight of the sad dilapidation of onstime splendor. But when they turn from romance to ar chaeclogy, the task of showing the Pac thencn not as it 6 now but as it was then, Stuart and Revett restrict themselves 0 the measured drawing, They te-create, in im macuiate engravings of sharp clear lines, the brigiral des gn of the temple in suitably re duced scale and with a careful tally of di: ‘mens ons. We are confronted again with the tradit onal abstractions of the architect's those architects who, in trade Indeed Subsequent decades, wished to imitate the Parthenon as a venerable form of rich as sociational value could do so readily from these precise plates of Stuart and Revett, without once having seen Athens themselves. In nineteenth-century. Phila delphia, for example, the disembodied fa cade of the Parthenon is reconstructed as the Second Bank of the United States in an urban milieu that is completely alien to the setting of the prototype. (Fig. 1.14) [Against the engravings of Stuart and Rev- ett, we might pt two pencil sketches of the Aktopolis made by Le Corbusier during his apprenticeship travels in the early years of this century, (Fig. 1.15) The close-up view is neither picturesque nor archaeological I does not show us the ubiquitous tourists scrambling over the site, for example, nor any ether transient features of local rele: Nor is the sketch a reproduceable paradigm of the essential design of the Parthenon. Instead, we see the temple the way Le Corbusier experienced it, climbing toward it up the steep west slope of this natura citadel, and catching sight of it at 3 dynamic angle through the inner colon- nade of the Propylaia, the ceremonial gate ft the Akropolis. The long view shows the building in relation to the larger shapes of ratur2 that complement its form: the ped: testa of the Akropolis spur that hits it up like ' piece of sculpture and the Attic mountain Chain on the horizon which echoes its mass And when Le Corbusier draws on this ex: perience later in his own work, itis the memory of the building as a foil to nature that guides his vision. (Fig. 1 APLACE ON EARTH ILE tings and Kalikas This environmental approach is new 10 architectural history. It responds primarily to the increasing concer within the archi tectural profession for a sympathetic coex istence between new structures and the ‘older neighborhoods within which they are planted. The move lately has been toward respecting the built fabric of our commu: nities a it stands; avoiding egocentsc forms for monumental gestures that would dis rupt its tone and quality; stving for the enhancement of physical continuities in our cities; and, finally, using nature as partne in the act of building rather than as adver: sary. Such an inclusive concept of the en: vironment carries a double promise: soli ‘tude for older buildings ot any period and any style; and tolerance for the presence of humbler stretches in the built fabric. Both hhold important lessons for the history of architecture, 3, The Community of Architecture This is what our third premise is all about that all past buildings, regardless of size 2 status, oF consequence, deserve to be studied. It has at always been so. Histo Fians have chosen for the most part to-con- centrate on buildings of evident sub: stance—imposing, public monuments, religious architecture, and rich, stately res: idences. The preterenc® is not hard to under stand. It is on such important or grand structures that a culture expends its great fest energy. Built of costly, durable mate rials, they last longer than their immediate environment because they are meant to, They are associated with notable patrons and architects of rank, They are the subject of comment in thee time and later, and thus provide the historian with sufficient raw ‘material to make a case for them, But there is mere to it than that. The is torian of architecture has effortlessly come e architect, an, ike him for her, has accepted the teactional distinc tion between architecture and building Architecture in tris polarity i high art, 2 conscious creation of aesthetic form that transcends the practical requirements of function and. structure. quality is what Vitruvius, the Roman archi tect who wrote around the time of Christ. called venustas (beauty); he distinguished it trom the other two, matter-of-fact com: Ponents of architectute, utitas unction) And firmitas (structure). This architectural trinity is best known tothe English This preeminent speaking world in the famous phraseology fof Sit Henry Wotton as commodity, frm fess, and delight HE STUDY OF WHAT VE BUILT Now delight, venustas, makes building an art, the art of architecture. Delight is ‘cured through the offices of the architect a professional person whose trani talent equip him or her to enhance what will be built with aesthetic appeal. To insist on ive, architects. distinguished in the modern period from en: gineers, who lay roads and ford rivers with the primary aim of solving technical prob: lems, as well as from builders, merchants (of new construction who are motivated by B profit. In addition, many buildings come about extemporaneously without the roots Froduction of shelter Users themselves Since delight, this scheme of things, is luxury, and since it assumes the tication to feel the need fort and the wealth to afford it, architects have traditic served the highest strata of society. state, the religious establishment, the up- per classes. Thus, in accepting the dichot A PLACE ON EARTH, HE STUDY OF WHAT WE BUILT “distant view! (by Parthenon as seen trough The Prope, touched by aesthetic concetn or devoid of aesthetic appeal. To be sure, this isan ins rnocent son of visual order, There i no conscious theory behind it, no intellectual: ized system of form. But it demonstrates that delight isan elusive thing that may ap- ply 2s readily to the random and unstudied sit does to the calculated designs of the professional There is perhaps 2 more basic considera tion for resisting the distinction between architeéture and building. The general pur: Fig. 1:16 Le Corbusier, sketch of Assembly Buileing, Chandigaeh Ina, 1958 pose of architectural history is to examine the constructive impulses of distant and recent cultures. As with all investigations of the past, the belief persists implicitly that, through a proper understanding of the act fof making places, this most essential skill ff all without which life cannot, literally exist, we come closer to. understanding ‘ourselves, When we exhort historians to be objective, we mean not so much that they should be unteeling or uncommitted, but that their assessments should be full and representative. And so it would be as im- proper to evaluate the constructive im: pulse of a nation exclusively through its lit erate architectue—public monuments and buildings of prestige—as it would be to de- termine its socisl character on the basis of its leading personages alone. To the extent that American society atthe time of George Washington de vended on slave labor, 10 pick one random instance, the architec: tural history ofthe period must include sive cabins as well as Mount Vernon, The truth is that modest structures in the periphery of menuments are not simply of Intrinsic value; t ey ae also essential to the correct interpretation of the monuments themselves. Slave cabins, outhouses, herb gardens, and ater vats complete the ‘meaning of the alantation house. This may seem obvious 10 us because Southern plantations are a familiar institution of our Fecent past. If trey were not and we sub- scribed to the avistocratic view of architec. tural history, the neglect of the subsidiary buildings might well have contributed to the misreading of o.1 focal object, the planta- tion house iselt. ‘Our appeal, therefore, is for a more inclusive defini ion of architecture and, consequently, a more democratic view of architectural hist ty. The aim isto put aside the invidious d stinctions between archi- tecture and building, architecture and er ginecring, architecture and speculative de elopment, to treat buildings with equal Curiosity whether they are religious in in tent, monumental, utilitarian, or residen: tial; 10 diseriminate carefully among styles fr conventions of form without discrimi hating against any of them; and 10 have a genuine respect for the architectural Achievement of cultures regacdless of their place of origin and their racial and theo: logteal identities. The last lwo observations deserve a fur ther word. f historians have been partial 10 high-class buildings as the subject of their scrutiny, they have not always be tial in their treatment of impar high-class buildings. They have turned on occasion into active champions of one style at the expense of another, justiving their prefer tence in tees of aesthetic, structural, oF feven moral arguments. At other, Renaissance atchite tolled over Gothic; Baroque architecture d as excessively gaudy: and the dominant Beaux-Arts cla Hic buildings in America at the turn of the Century was minimized in favor of the oc tasional unorthodoxy of design that pre: saged new directions The historian must attempt to speak of architecture as it was, not asi should have been. We have no further control over what has happened. We have the duty to under ic sympathetically how it was and why it happened. To scold the nineteenth cen: tury, say, for what it did oF did not do for the historian, no more than personal indulgence. To insist that it should not be repeated is useful and the proper function of the critic History has no alternative but to accept that matters of quality are not absolute, that the terms of quality are set by each period ino: by each building. Ornament, 1or ex ample, has had wider acceptance at certain times in history than at others, but there is ‘no universal law regarding the propriety of formament in architecture. Vitruvius de votes a learned chapter in his book to “The Ornaments of the Orders.” To Adolf Loos 38, "Ornament is crime.” We should 1 have to decide between Classical a chite:ture and the work ot Loos on the ba sis of some presumed immutable principle ff “correct” design A PLACE ON EARTH This is not to say that in writing about the architecture of the past we can forgo the exercise of critical judgment, It means merely that we must litst establish the at govern a style or the form of 2 particular building, and then proceed 10 judge the siyle or the building in the con- text of these premises. Whereas the com petitive juxtaposition of the Parthenon and Chartres Cathedral would serve no useful purpose, it would be quite legitimate to Compare critically the Parthenon with its 16 ‘exact contemporary in Athens, the temple (of Hephaistos wiich overlooks the market: place. (Figs, 1.1, 7.18) What we have just said has special per tinence tor our attitude toward 1 Western tradi tecture. In our these traditions have always held a secondary place. This imbalance is natural given the preoccupa tion of each cu ture with itself. But it be- comes reprehensible i the relative inatten general schem tion to non-Western achievement is justified ‘non-Western architecture than the token chapter or ‘wo allotted to it in surveys of this kind, Not only is more space devoted to the subject than is customary, but the Content of these alien traditions is brought at lesst cursorly, into the discussion of Western traditions, Although the architec tural interdependence of fast and West is far from being documented exhaustively, or ‘even adequately, cross-cultural chapters throughout the book rely on the artless principle of simultaneity to draw together All significant events of architecture in sev feral cultural areas that coineided at specific points in human history. Our esteem for Chartres Cathedral will be more balanced if we were made aware that this master. piece of medieval Christianity rose during the same decades in which Indochina saw the specter of the great temple complex at Angkor Wat, the empire of Islam under took the mosque and mausoleum of Sultan Qala’un in Cairo and the great Seljuk car avanserais of Anatolia, and. the. Meso- American cultures of the Toltecs and the Maya produced enduring monuments of stone like the ball court and observatory of Chichén Itza 4. The Meaning of Architecture The fourth and final premise of this book concems the meaning of buildings. Build ings are not only physical presences. To study as fully as we can what they are does not exonerate us from asking why they are there. and why they are the way they are. These questions must be answered, of at least asked, and they must be answered in Felation to two extramaterial concepts: time and purpose Time implies sequence. Every building is ‘aught in the web of the fourth dimension. Threads extend from it backward and for ward, to other buildings whose. existence has touched it or been touched by it Buildings, 10 say it differently, are based on buildings. As a building goes up it cannot ignore the millennial landscape of form into which it will soon emerge. Once itis up, it will itself be irrevocable, however long its natural life, as a sound is irrevocable once ithas been uttered. The building may de- light or disgust us: we may grow to revere it or make fun of it, cross ourselves as we go by itor call it by an unilattering nick name. But we get used to it, It becomes A PLACE ON EARTH Fig 119 Gea (Gqyp0, pyramids of Mykennos, Cheops, and Chetten (non 3,2, and 1 espe: tradition, a fixture in the continuum of form Which new buildings are forever replenish. ing. This is not to imply a historical determin: ism of form, whereby each building must be considered the ineluctable offspring of its predecessors, There are many factors that condition sequence, not the least of which is the intention of the patron and the ar chiteet. But tradition is there: itis a lan guage, a source, a challenge. Its the great Container of architectural experience, and no building can live outside of it. Behind What we call architectural revivals lies the desire to emulate the architectural mode of another place and another time, not only to show esteem for the older tradition, but aso in order to associate ourselves with the spirit and values that we think were preva lent there and then. The rule of Charle ‘magne made a conscious return to the ar chitecture of Rome and Ravenna in ordet to inspire its beliet that it was reviving Ro- rman rule; the'age of the Renaissance sought {to design its own aspirations based on the ‘model of Classical antiquity; and, closer to 8B ‘hel, on Fig 41, 2570S wc) ew from four time, the nineteenth century went through a whol series of revivals—the Gothic, the Greek, the Egyptian, the Ro- rmanesque, the Fxotic—each with its own rationale of form and association, But there is at least one further motiva tion for sequence: the sheer competitive rive that prompted patrons of architec ture, time and again through the ages, to Create monumen s that would outshine the splendor or outs'ip the size of some leg fendary masterpiece of the past. What is being recalled in these is not the physical form but the fame of the prototype. There is no evident simarity between the temple ‘of Solomon in Jecusalem, as we might re Construct it from he description of it in the Book of Kings, and Hagla Sophia in Con- stantinople. And yet it was this biblical splendor that Emperor Justinian had in ‘mind when he stcod in the nave of his new church on the day of its inauguration, 27 December A.0. 5:7, and said, Nenikika se Solomon, “I have’ surpassed thee Solo- ‘mon. Six centur es later the abbot Suger, obsessed with the eputation of Justnian’s masterpiece which had established itself as the greatest church of Christendom, took this fame as his special challenge in under taking to rebuild the abbey church of St Deis. Purpose refers to Watton’s commodity, the way in which a building accommodates its prescribed function. Perhaps a better ‘word would be ritual, for function tends to luncermine and mechanize the concept of purpose. The function of a tomb isto house the dead. But how adequate a purpose is this for the tomb of the Egyptian pharaoh Cheops! Why the stupendous bulk of this pyramid, the megalomaniacal pile of ma- Sony that weighs millions of tons and rises ‘mountainlike toa height of 143 meters (470 feet Why al this forthe tomb of one man? (Fig. 1.19) Why Hagia Sophia, with a dome 35 meters (107 feet in diameter, swelling to & point some 55 meters (10 feet) above our hheads, if all that is really needed is a capa- ious hall to contain large congregations of Byzantines? (Fig. 1.28) “all architecture,” John Ruskin wrote, “proposes an effect on the human mind, not merely a service to the human frame. Ritual may be sad to be the poetry of func- tion: insofar asa building is shaped by it ual it does not simply house function, it comments on it. The pyramid of Cheops tensures the safety and longylastingness of the pharaoh’s corpse and makes tangible 10 his people the hope that resides in his per- petuity. Magia Sophia sings the ineffable- hess of Christian mystery in providing a space of which one user is man and the other user is unseen and unpredictable. To the extent, then, that architecture is the useful art that lays ready the stage for Further Reading 3B. Alsopp, the Sud of Arttecural History (New York: Praeger. 1970) B.Fache, A History of Architecture, 18 ed, rv (New York: Scribner, 1975). 5. Kestol, The City Assembled The Cements of Urban Foe Tough History Bose Lite, Brown, 1992) THE STUDY OF WHAT WE BUILT human activities, the history of architec ture is inevitably linked to the pageantry of human endeavorsgovernment, religion, ‘commerce, knowledge and its’ preserva tion, justice and its administration. I tis also true that architecture expresses hu: ‘man needs as much as it contains the var fous functions of our daily life, the history ‘of architecture should try, before its done, to look at buildings as palpable images of the values and aspirations of the societies that produced them, This final challenge is the most funda- mental, but also the most dangerous. It tenters the seductive reaches of interpreta: tion where proo! is never positive. Reading buildings as the embodiment of the social forder that produced them is no easy mat ter. For one thing, buildings do not always passively reflect society. Sometimes they Seek to mould social atitudes, or to spell ‘out what there ought to be, Do the pyrar mids of Gia truly express the absolute power of the pharaoh, or were they built to help create this impression among the Egyptians of the Old Kingdom’ For, as Lewis ‘Mumford once observed, itis often the case that "the more shaky the institution, the ‘more solid the monument; repeatedly civ ization has exemplified Patrick Geddes’ dictum that the perfection of the architec- tural form does not come til the institation sheltered by itis on the point of passing away." ‘Architecture is a medium of cultural expression only to the extent that we are fable to absorb its messages, And these Te Cay Shaped: Un Patens and Mean ings Though History Boston Lite, Brown, 1980 ed, The Architect: Chaps inthe History ‘ofthe Poiesion (New York: Osord, 1977) A Mainsone, Developments in. Svactra Form (Cambridge, Mans MIT Press, 1975, messages are elicited through the ques: tions that are p eoccupying us today. The ‘way we interpre’ the culture of a period or 2 nation tough its architecture may tell us a8 much about i as about ourselves. But this sno :rave danger. Its true that for all our quantifiable information about the pyramid of -heops, for all our know: edge of Egyptian religion and the beliefs of the afterlife, we will never know what that colossus of Tura limestone and granite ‘meant to the pharaoh and his court, to the priests who officiated at his burial rites and his subsequent cult, to the Old Kingdom peasant who tilled the mud banks of the Nile. But we can be sure that they were not indifferent, any more than we are incitier- tent to the Washington Monument or the Lincoln Memor That much has remained constant in the Jong history of sur built environment: the ‘involvement we fel withthe houses we live in, the sanctuaries we pray in, and wheee We are buried, the quarters of our oppres- sors and benela: tor, the places of our im- prisonment and our healing. For this rea- Son if no other, we must conclude the long process of studying the architecture of eras that have gone Ey withthe fundamental and dangerous ques‘ion: "What did it mean In the impossibie answer may lie the hu: manity of past cultures and ours; for it should be “the task of the architectu historian,” to quote an architectural hist Fian, "to prove that there is no past in man’s concern for the environment af man.” HAL Millon, Ky Monument inthe History of “Archteure New York Abrams, 1965) N. Pevaner, A Hit yo Baking Types Princeton: Princeton Unverty Pres, 1976, . Wain, The ie of Archtectral History (Loe ‘don: Archie Press, 1980), THE CAVE AND THE SKY: STONE AGE EUROPE The Beginning ‘Where do we start with a history of acc tecture? When did architecture begin? Human beings, in their own distinctive form, have been inhabiting the earth for more than one million years, For most of that time they were unaware of architec: ture, if by that term we want to understand the ambitious creation of an environment separate from the natural order, But if, as we suggested, architecture describes sim ply the act of making places for ritual use, it was one of the earliest human needs, Indeed, architecture may be said to have beer there from the beginning, in raw foe as it were, in the very arrangement of na ture. For only if we conceive of the earth a5 a vast and featureless plain stretching Uunendingly in all directions would we have the total absence of architecture. Once there are ridges and rivers to divide this expanse, hills to punctuate it, and caves 10 gouge it, the business of architecture has already begun. That is what all architecture provides, regardless of its complenity. It marks off one area to distinguish it (rom ‘others. It raises solid masses that blot out as much space as their bulk, And it rears about our heads barriers, to contain shel: tered space The last ofthese isthe easiest to see. We are accustomed to thinking of architecture a5 shelter: a home to live in ("a root over ‘ur heads,” as we say, offices and shops to work in, cool places of worship to step. into from the crowded streets of 2 hot day. The sense of refuge is instinctive, It seems natural to build to attain it Bur architecture is more than protective shells, In seeking to bring about places for fitual action, it must set out to deine the boundless, that is, to limit space without necessarily enclosing it in all three dimen sions, It does this in two specific ways through circumscription and accent. In the fist, i artests and patterns the flow of ‘ground. This we might call architecture as boundary; examples are a “plot” of and or walled town. The second way involves the Setting up of free structures that, by theie very mass and height, might focus an oth fenwise undifferentiated stretch of open space—architecture as monument Boundary and monument both imply a determined marking of nature. Humans impose through them their own order on ture, and in doing so introduce that te $f balance between the way things are and the way we want them to be. Now the frst human generations lacked such conti- dence in their own standing within nature. As they moved about in search of tolerable climate and food, the special environments they gave shape to were tentative and un- obtrusive, an architecture of shelter con- tained in the pleats of the earth The shelter, for the most part, was there ready to be used, in the caves that had to bbe wrested from Savage predators such as bears, lions, and the giant hyena. We have proof, however, of huts in the open, like the ones atthe encampment of Terta Amat near Nice in southern France, dating back to about 400,000 years ago. (Figs. 2.1, 2.2) But whether shelter was natural or manu: factured, the inhabitants transformed i into architecture through purposetul use, They a made of it the stage of their progressively ‘organized life. "hey turned a spot of earth into a special place And here a chief invention, lire, proved to be a great plece-maker. it drove the wild beasts from the caves and kept them at bay, it made the home of the moment safe. But beyond this, the burning fire molded an ambience of companionship, a station for the hunter to pause, cook his game, harden his tools, and communicate with his band of fellows. The earliest hearth known to us, fat the great cave of Fscale in. southern France, goes bark more than 500,000 years, That may well be our first documented piece of architecture—a bit of nature in- formed with the daily tual of Homo erec Terra Amata holds the oldest artical structures of which we have evidence. The site was discovered accidentally in 1966, during construction at the cliff road to ‘Monte Carlo. It as a stone age camp, used for a number of years, it seems, ahvays brietly during the late spring. Ina cove by the beach, traces of some twenty huts were found, often disposed on top of one an- fother-—on a sardbar, on the beach isel, and on a dune. They were oval in shape and ‘measured about 8 to 15 meters (25 to 50 feet) in length and 4 to 6 meters (13 10 20 feet) in width. Sinall bands of about fitteen persons built and occupied them for hn ited hunting forcys; the huts then were left to collapse and new huts put up aver them, or else nearby, by next year’s party The huts were made of branches or sap- lings set close sogether in the sand asa THE CAVE AND THE SKY: STONE AGE EUROPE fig 22 Terra Amata France), prehistoric Fut $000 6. reconstruction drawing palisade, then braced on the outside by a ing of large stones. Within, the long axis vas lined with larger posts to help hold up the roof—just how we do not know. We do know something about building tools gen: erally. The digging was probably done with fireshardened wooden spears; the pruning and trimming, with hand axes made of pieces of flint or limestone, What is significant isthe way in which the hunters made use of the enclosed space. The hearth was in the middle, protected from the prevailing northwest wind by a screen of pebbles. The immediate area around it was free of litter, indicating that there the band must have slept. Further out from this social focus of the hut there were work spaces and, in one case, a kind of Kitchen, to judge from the large smooth stone that was marked by tiny scratches, most likely resulting from the cutting of meat. In another hut, fossilized human ex: ‘crement indicates a toilet area Old Stone Age Architecture Both ouilding technology and the ritual use fof architecture became increasingly so- phisticated as the millennia went by. Dur ing the litespan of the Neanderthals be- tween 40,000 and 100,000 years ago, and of their successors the Cro-Magnon people, stone tools noticeably improved and now Included cutting knives, sharp and easy to grasp. The frame of the huts was sealed ‘against the draft by an exterior sheathing of Animal skins, At the same time, the hunt fers’ dealings with nature became formal ized into what can only be seen as reli- gious observances. What might have been ‘tes to ensure the hunters’ quarry let their ‘mark here and there for us to puzzle over But the hunters were concerned t00 with their own related destiny. It was not only surviving day after day that mattered. Death ‘was mysterious and frightening and might hot constitute the end, These anxious thoughts, and the cults that ‘grew up to appease them, complicated the concept of architecture, The role of the shelter was pushed beyond mere housing, The cave became a sanctuary. AV its mouth the hunter might still live, but the dark in ner recesses came to be reserved for cer- temonies of life and death and aterlite. The cave at Monte Citceo, a limestone hill south fof Rome, contained a unique chamber B where a single battered skull was stood in 4 trench along the farthest wall, with stones arranged around it in an oval ring. At La CChapelle-aux-Saints in the Dordogne re- sion of southwestern France, a bunal had taken place. The dead man had been laid out in a shallow grave filed with tools and animal bones. Cn his ches a bison leg had been deliberate'y placed, perhaps as pro vision for the world he had slipped into. Sometime fairly late during this long search for elerrental beliels, the hunters started using art as a tool of expression. It appears likely that, for the communities that produced the splendid cave murals, en ‘ravings, and sculpture, the image did more than stand for wat it depicted. Art too was reality. It ditfered from the physical world In that it was free of erratic movement and the biological dictates of growth and death, The mammoth cr woolly rhinoceros, fixed to the wall by the artist in a mixture of ground mineral earths and charcoal com- pressed into bone tubes, stayed there, the Sure target of tie disabling spear. These images of magic compulsion, if such they were, reintorcec the strange power of the cult and quickened its sense of mystery. As ritual use had transformed caves into rel gious architecture, so art now made tang ble a range of meaning in these hidden sanctuaries of the earth The Cave at Lascaux We can see all this in the celebrated cave at Lascaux. It was discovered on a Septem beer day in 1940 by five boys from Monti- |gnac out rabbit hunting in the woods rearby—the latest and most remarkable of 4 group of pairted sanctuaries that have ‘come 10 light in the southwest of Europe since the early niveteenth century. They had been created tcward the end of the last slacal period. Europe at that time, about 10,000 to 20,000 “ears ago, had roughly the Same Mediterran-an coastline, but the great Scandinavian ice sheet reached out to cover, most of Ireland. all of Scotland, and the Baltic. There were smaller glaciers in the |Aps and the Pyrenees. Hunters followed in the wake of the herds, across the bitterly Cold steppes of contral Europe and into the milder climate ct present-day France and Spain, They brought with them an extraor inary git for art and put it at the service fof a fath that centered on the animal The animal, in the hunter's view of the must have appeared strong and i Sependent, (Fig. 2.3) The hunter was the dependent and weak one, moving at after his prey—the reindeer and bison, the “deer and the horse—in the hope of lun and killing it. The tal. The animal must be killed to suppor Ht was the great adversary the hunter deadly in attack and hie-sustaining in death. The hunter must preval he knew, would be bound up with deteat 4 to kill Fo animals he man the feaer of them there were and theretore the magic that secured the t Of the quarry must also advance its abun dance And so, in these deep caves of France and Spain, the hunter painted the anima truthiully, in the context of this par adox of life and death, of fertility and ex tinction, Plentiful game was the boon of fertile. natu repre sented in sculpture as an ample female tire with giant breasts and hips, and com forting recesses ike the cave-shelters of the earth, In her hand this mother goddess Sometimes holds a horn, the through which the beast’s force is ex pellec. (Fig. 2.4 This sort of reasoning, we think, must have notivated the makers and users of caves like Lascaux. The paintings convey, across millennia, a striking sense for the build and habits of the sented. The attitude towaed them seems feverent. According tone of animal spirit, and the hunter's guarantee ff participating in the special power of the animal. The painted image is hope Piation in one—the hope of drawing the Animal to the kill, and expiation for having To kill i Weapons themselves were often carved into animal forms, and men dance in animal masks. At some time, the very The ‘animal came to be a s artists exploited the natural architec ture of each cave and conjured an inseps rable whole between this and their own images. There was no attempt to change the given contiguration, by dropping the tl level, for example, passages. On the contrary, the difficulties or expanding narrow A PLACE ON EARTH were scrupulously respected and the art ists skilfully set out to complement the pe- ular properties of the cave. At Laseaux, not only wer hands busy working on the ca of images and the too that tuncertain limits of the cave imph ished thing. We may be dealing with man imprint to the existing de making and the pre magical environment wwas a community pject; and in "com munity” the present merged with the tu ‘We enter the cave now, as pethaps one did then, through a hole that was the sult of the collapse of a bit of the lime forming the root of the cay g. 25) About 20 meters (65 feet) in, the total width, and path constricts 10 hal framatically into. an oval Bulls, A dark room, the so-called Hall of th led rates the lower walls trom an upper level, which includes the ceiling, and by a thin coat of calcite on which the paint was applied. Th he led The far end of the Hall is taken up by a of four immense bulls in thick black the fourth Three are in Indian file faces them, its huge horns extended across tempty space. (Fig. 2.6) The spa ‘snot altogether empty. Here and all along the remaining walls of the rotunda there is a seemingly random arrangement of smaller and bears, But the hat the ds a single a delineate groupings ences even where superimposed on others of

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