Front. Archit. Civ. Eng.
China 2010, 4(4): 450–455
DOI 10.1007/s11709-010-0098-y
REVIEW
Xing RUAN
What can be taught in architectural design? — parti, poché,
and felt qualities
© Higher Education Press and Springer-Verlag Berlin Heidelberg 2010
Abstract This essay begins with a reflection on what has
been taught in architectural design since the turn of the
twentieth century. I shall trace back to the two disciplinary
foundations of the French École des Beaux-Arts – parti
and poché – in the education of an architect in the
eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. I shall then attempt to
superimpose parti and poché on a modern disciplinary
framework, say that of mathematics, which leads to
musings on a series of architectural problems that include
pattern versus type, stability versus mobility, orthogonal
versus oblique, confinement versus transparency, and
aging versus metallic sheen. These paradoxes, I suggest,
demand the education of an architect to address both the
instrumental pattern of a building configuration and the
ambient felt qualities of a room, rather than vision alone.
Keywords architectural design, teaching, parti and poché
1 Introduction
Let me begin by explaining the title of this essay, which
may suggest that either this topic is too elementary for an
academic discourse or it is too vast to be sensibly tackled in
one essay. If indeed this title is unmanageably big as a
question, it is driven by ignorance rather than arrogance. It
would have been a quite reasonable question, so I thought,
if it was asked by a first year architectural student. I did
hope to get a clean-cut answer when I started my
architectural education in Nanjing, China, in the early
Received July 15, 2010; accepted August 19, 2010
Xing RUAN ( ) ✉
Faculty of the Built Environment, University of New South Wales,
Sydney 2052, Australia
E-mail: x.ruan@unsw.edu.au
1) The Nanjing Institute of Technology has been reverted to its old name Southeast University.
1980s. Now I know that we – the architectural educators –
do not give students clear answers to this question (or for
that matter any question concerning architecture and
design that they may have), for it is almost habitual for
us to tell students that we live in a multi-faceted and fast
changing world; no one, therefore, should even attempt to
search for canonical answers to a complex problem. We
have been persuaded, though not always whole-heartedly,
to believe that there is no absolute truth in life, let alone
design related matters that are forever innovative, if not
merely non-linear and elusive. Anyone who has had the
experience in a studio jury these days shall secretly admit
that teaching architectural design is easy as long as one has
a good supply of witty anecdotes of famous architects, and
better still, is able to call them by their first names. We, in
other words, tend to skirt around the context so that we can
avoid the content.
I hope the reader will bear with me, for the following
preamble is almost biographical. Let me go back to my
beginning. Surprisingly, I was not too disappointed when I
first attempted to ask this question. The spiritual leader of
architecture at that time in the “Nanjing School” (the
Department of Architecture at the then Nanjing Institute of
Technology)1) in the early 1980s was Professor Yang
Tingbao, who studied architecture in the same studio with
Louis Kahn in the 1920s in the University of Pennsylvania.
Both Yang and Kahn were taught by the Frenchman
Professor Paul Philippe Cret, who was recruited to Penn in
1903 to teach architectural design when he was still a
young man (at the age of 27) and only just graduated from
the French École des Beaux-Arts. After working in Cret’s
office for one year, and a hasty “grand tour” in Europe,
Yang returned to China in 1927. In China, despite the war
in the 1930s and other social turbulences, Yang and his
disciples managed to preach architectural design with a
fairly consistent method for more than half a century – that
 Xing RUAN. What can be taught in architectural design? — parti, poché and felt qualities
is, the virtue of the plan.1) The key measure is that a good
plan must be shufu (comfortable); by contrast, a not-so-
good plan is jücu (awkward). Time – lots of time – was
spent on making a plan, inch by inch, into the most fitting
one for its use (the actual word “function” was used but
without any connotation of the early twentieth-century
European functionalism). Of course, sections and eleva-
tions would be wrestled with the same measure, though
there was little “formal gymnastics” in section. To cut a
hole in the floor as a void volume with a height of more
than one storey, for example, was a novelty. At that time I
did not know there was a Beaux-Arts legacy behind this
disciplined method, which, it seemed to me, was taught
almost as a doctrine.
But the faith in the virtue of the plan was quickly shaken
shortly after Yang’s death in 1982. The so-called
postmodernism in architecture crept into China in the
mid 1980s. A fanciful historicism cast on the building’s
facade shifted the focus away from the plan. Architectural
design in the studio became a dress contest. At about the
same time, the anti-Pomo Swiss school ETH (the Swiss
Federal Institute of Technology Zurich) came to Nanjing.
The Swiss colleagues (professors as well as students) told
us that we missed the Bauhaus boat, hence the avant-garde
spirit in the art of architecture. To be fair, the restrained
Swiss “missionaries” only suggested that the novelty of
architectural form should be derived from a tectonic logic:
the materials and construction system would take care of
the formal development. Let the process dictate the
outcome, so they promised. They, unlike a few visiting
American students, did not ask us to go and look in a
rubbish bin for a new form that one had never seen before.
In 1991, after having completed a few large buildings, I
left China to teach architecture in the west, but I was a
confused young man and did not know what actually could
be taught in architectural design.
2 Parti and poché
For a good number of years, I must admit, I survived
reasonably well by having learnt the art of skirting around
in a design critique (although I still could not manage to
call famous architects by their first names). In the
meantime I grew increasingly frustrated with the lack of
tangible content that could be taught in a design studio
until I accidentally discovered what were taught to Yang
Tingbao and Louis Kahn by Professor Paul Cret in the
1920s at the University of Pennsylvania [1]. To my
pleasant surprise, these were the Beaux-Arts roots of my
early Nanjing education. The brief story goes like this:
Architecture, as an academic discipline, was first taught
1) For more discussions on the ‘Nanjing School’, Yang Tingbo and Louis Kahn, see my, “The Character of a Building”, in Xing Ruan and Paul Hogben eds.
Topophilia and Topophobia: Reflections on the Human Habitat in the Twentieth Century (London and New York: Routledge, 2007), 92–113; and
“Accidental Affinities: American Beaux-Arts in Twentieth-century Chinese Architectural Education and Practice,” in JSAH 61,1(2002): 30–47.
451
in the French royal academy in the late seventeenth
century, though the Ecole des Beaux-Arts was founded
only in 1819. The inception was a noble one: Louis XIV
wanted to elevate the status of the stonemason to that of the
philosopher. The Sun King, it seemed, was only concerned
with the splendour. But there was also a political agenda:
the academy would attack the medieval guilds that were
not under direct royal control. In the early days, only
academic disciplines were professed in the academy, such
as fortifications, mathematics, geometry and stonecutting.
Architectural design, throughout the eighteenth and nine-
teenth centuries, was taught by practicing architects (called
‘patrons’ in French) outside the academy in ateliers. Two
disciplinary foundations slowly emerged through various
compositional terms, but only became crystal clear, and
gained some prominence, towards the turn of the twentieth
century, but they had a short-lived aftermath (though the
French École des Beaux-Arts was officially, and indeed
symbolically, closed down much later in 1968 in Paris).
The two disciplinary foundations are parti and poché [2].
With great lucidity, Professor Cret explained to his
disciples, including Yang and Kahn: parti is like a political
party. Once you have formed your “party line”, you have
made a clear choice. Freehandedly scribbled diagrams by a
6B pencil are all too familiar to a trained architect, though
our students these days may not have been taught, or are
even discouraged, to do so (since the digital tools will
come up with three-dimensional models according to, so I
am told, the parametrics). But a parti diagram, often drawn
without scale, dimension and materiality, reveals the
essence of architectural configuration in plan. Parti, in
other words, suggests the way in which the human
relations are wilfully organized through spatial disposition.
To say the least, the human relations are to be animated by
the intent of parti. To follow the footsteps of Professor
Cret, let me make an attempt to further elucidate the
meaning as well as the instrumentality of a parti.
Consider a history of housing: houses come in all kinds
of types and styles that vary in cultures and historical
periods in pre-modern times, and are likely to vary
significantly even in individuals in our time. But when
viewed as a formal configuration, beyond the shapes and
dimensions, housing, both as a place and as an activity,
throughout history, surprisingly can be classified in a few
limited partis. They include courtyard, matrix of inter-
connected rooms, and terminal rooms open to a common
corridor. These three partis, when contested in a selected
scope in time and place, roughly correspond with the
chronology in the European housing history on the one
hand, but only one of them, the courtyard parti, largely
reflects the pre-modern China of an almost 3000 year time
span. Although the room-and-corridor parti dominates all
452 Front. Archit. Civ. Eng. China 2010, 4(4): 450–455
modern societies, the clear demarcations among rooms and
corridors have become a little blurry.
What then does each parti suggest in terms of the human
relations that occupy them? Each parti, despite the
cultural, geographical, and historical differences of the
houses, nonetheless transcends them to reveal potent
common grounds. In an ancient Greek courtyard house, a
well-to-do Roman domus, or a pre-modern Chinese
quadrangle house, the concentric configuration – enclosed
rooms wrapping around a court (or a few courts) that is the
central room open to the sky – enabled a legible family
hierarchy to connect the earthly life to the cosmos. The
court, in addition to its daily amenities, therefore was, of
more importance, reserved for gods and ancestors through
daily and seasonal ceremonies and rituals. The small
courtyard, called tianjing (sky well), in a Southern Chinese
house, for example, was charged with the ambience of
incense burning in commemorating family ancestors.
A matrix of interconnected rooms in a sixteenth-century
Italian villa, according to Robin Evans, is not neutral, and
it is “appropriate to a type of society which feeds on
carnality, which recognizes the body as the person, and in
which gregariousness is habitual”. However, I personally
think that the dominance of vision, as a result of the
accelerated development of glass lenses and glass panes in
windows in the Italian Renaissance, was to place the
emphasis on vistas in large country villas towards the
outside world. This too was an important concern for the
interconnected room matrix. The Villa Rotonda, after all,
was built to watch fireworks. Nineteenth-century corridors
in an English house tell the opposite story, where privacy is
the paramount concern [3]. In a similar but more selective
reading, Yi-Fu Tuan sees this development – from the
loosely defined and interconnected indoor spaces in the
Middle Ages to the segmented and specialized rooms in
the nineteenth century – as the development of modern
self-consciousness [4]. These discernments suggest that a
parti works, for it is understood by the inhabitants, if only
subconsciously.
A social scientist is able to consciously decipher the
meaning of a building by using a parti diagram. But what
the social scientist often does not use is the method of
poché, which the architect must use to blacken the solid
parts of a plan to indicate the degree of enclosure of a
building envelope so that the “carved” out cavities of the
building as well as the openings of windows and doors are
clearly revealed. It also shows the scale of the human body
and the proportion and the texture of rooms. Although
parti may be buried in poché’s richness, poché tells of the
felt quality – the ambience, and more importantly, the
traces of the human body and the inhabitation. Poché,
arguably, was the essential tool of the architectural trade in
the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries in Europe. For a
student of the Beaux-Arts, one compulsory way of leaning
architectural design was to repeatedly exercise rapid
tracing of poché based on good plans. Rough and sketchy
it may be, such a poché plan shows a clear sense of
architectural enclosure – that is, the building as a receptacle
with a conscious demarcation between the interior and the
exterior, a point to which I will return later.
In its most elaborate manner, a nineteenth-century
architect would take poché to rendu – fully rendered
plans and sections (sometimes with colour). It is evident
that both the elevation (as the external envelope of the
building container) and the interior room (as the internal
envelope) are designed in immaculate detail by the
architect. The colour and the material may not be as
photo realistic as our computer-generated renderings: in
fact the architect had the habit of using saturated water,
which he used to wash his brushes during the rending, to
give the entire sectional interior rooms a so-called “dirty
wash”. The focus undoubtedly was the felt ambience of the
interior room. Attention to details notwithstanding, one
curious area that was given a complete miss was what lies
in-between the external envelop and the internal envelope.
Unlike a modern architect, the nineteenth-century architect
could not be bothered to deal with what is in-between, for
the collaboration between the architect and the builder/
engineer was natural, and the architect did not have to
pretend that he actually knew how to put a building
together. In our time, the architect draws large sections to
showcase his/her construction and detailing capacity
(many buildings win design awards due to their beautiful
details, despite the lack of a good parti), whilst mass
building products and economy set the unnecessary limits
for architecture.
Let me be indulgent, and imagine that parti and poché
were still being taught in our design studios. Now armed
with them, what then would be the musings among
students, or for that matter, architects, arising from
wrestling with the following paradoxical architectural
problems?
3 Pattern versus type
One way of using parti and poché is to superimpose a
mathematical understanding on them: that is, the relation-
ship between pattern and type. According to Edmund
Leach, the great British anthropologist, the emphasis on
type is “butterfly collecting”. [5] One can be in the race of
gathering myriads of types in the search of a new butterfly.
Yet, after all, they are the same as a butterfly, which in itself
is, mathematically, a pattern. Let me again try to justify my
generalization of a history of housing as three patterns, or
partis as previously mentioned: print the three housing
partis – courtyard, interconnected room matrix and
terminal rooms open to a corridor – on a piece of thin
rubber sheet, and then stretch and even twist the sheet. The
shapes and dimensions of each house no doubt will be
 Xing RUAN. What can be taught in architectural design? — parti, poché and felt qualities
changed. They are, in other words, three different types of
houses after some turning and twisting. But each pattern
remains mathematically the same one. Poché, as the
primary craft and tool of an architect, enriches the types of
courtyard houses, but according to the circumstance.
Louis Kahn understood this only too well: Form (with
capital F), Kahn said, must be held, whilst Design (with
capital D) is circumstantial. Kahn used the example of a
spoon to illustrate: the Form of a spoon, the idea, which
comprises of a bowl and a handle, must be held. The
Design of a spoon – silver or metal handle, round or oval-
shaped bowl – are largely determined by the availability of
the material, economy, taste, fashion, hence is circum-
stantial. I should like to think that Kahn’s discernment has
something to do with his Beaux-Arts education. Although
Kahn’s poché was a supreme art (one only needs to
consider the Kimbell Museum), he was more interested in
developing a concentric parti that enshrines what Kahn
saw as the two essential activities of the human life –
meeting and learning, which, in a broad sense, represent
the collective group life and the development of self and
individuality. Such a parti can be either a library or a
parliament house. Parti therefore is a generalization.
Unlike Kahn, a good number of modern architects do not
dare to generalize; they are instead in the game of
classification (they are butterfly collectors!). Architects
these days are almost always in a nervously vigilant mental
state as in a beauty contest: we must keep an eye on Rem
Koolhaas or Zaha Hadid just in case they have invented an
unprecedented new shape for buildings.
Of course there is no guarantee that any generalization is
correct. There are good partis, and not-so-good partis. As
academics, we know only too well from our blind-
refereeing peers that any attempt at generalization in our
research papers is too often perceived as an unforgivable
sin. But the enduring life of a good parti (as a mathematical
pattern) is an irresistible call. Let us remember Leach’s
advice: “Generalization is inductive; it consists in
perceiving possible general laws in the circumstances of
special cases; it is guesswork, a gamble, you may be wrong
or you may be right, but if you happen to be right you have
learnt something altogether new.” [5] On this note, avant-
garde architects are simply too conservative, if not too
modest, for their goal is not to search for a parti of any
idealism.
4 Stability versus mobility
Further to the previous musings, a parti suggests stability,
for the nature of a parti is its unchanged character. You can
1) Tuan in email conversation with Xing Ruan, 8 December 2006
2) For examples see Michael Jantzen’s Windshaped Pavilions, www.walrus.com/~ddprod/michaeljantzen, accessed 26 June 2007, and David Fisher’s
“Dynamic Architecture,” www.dynamicarchitecture.net, accessed 26 June 2007
453
not reinvent the parti of a spoon, Kahn would have said!
Although poché must be circumstantially fitting, once a
parti is realized as a building, poché too is stably
condensed, quite literally, as “bricks and mortar”. In the
absence of parti and its poché, we moderns have been
allured to the seemingly unlimited possibilities of mobility.
We tell ourselves that the world is constantly changing; our
built world therefore should be responsive. Technological
advancement has enabled future-oriented architects to
predict that before long buildings and cities will change
shape and size in relation to the seasons (shrinking to save
energy in winter), and perhaps change according to one’s
mood. This is ludicrous for Yi-Fu Tuan, who argues that
buildings must necessarily stay the same in order to calm
our fear of change and unpredictability: “Suppose this
madness can be applied to nature so that the hill in my
neighbourhood will obligingly loom like a mountain when
my mood calls for something large? Renaissance architects
couldn’t have guessed that one day their Vitruvian ideal of
man as measure could lead to the extremity of making man
so much the measure, so much in command, that the
external world, having totally merged with human fantasy,
simply melts away.”1) Now, the responsive built
environment is becoming increasingly real: a high-rise
tower in Dubai will turn and twist according to wind
patterns, if not yet one’s mood2).
But let us pause. Consider two possible perils of a
changing built world. One, a constantly responsive and
changing building is aimed to prolong our sense of
excitement, hence happiness. But alas, happiness, as it
means in many languages (say in Chinese and French), is a
“quick joy”. It is, in a more familiar expression of our time,
a state of ecstasy, which can not, or should not, last for too
long. We otherwise would definitely shorten our longevity,
if not be exhausted to death. Let me try to convince you
with this example: a history of pre-modern Chinese
architecture of more than 3000 years is not nearly as
exciting as that of Europe, for the Chinese never changed
their parti (I mentioned one of them earlier: the courtyard).
For one benefit, the unchanged nature of Chinese
architecture helped enshrine the fear of change in life.
No civilization, says Lin Yu-tang, could sustain a high
blood pressure for more than 4000 years [6]. What
happened after the nineteenth century, and now: the
Chinese have changed their parti, and are eagerly chasing
new poché. The rest, of course, is history.
Two, the stability of the built world is necessary to
ensure that the essential biological make-up of humans is
maintained – that is, ironically, our mobility. If we became
over-adapted to a changing environment that would satisfy
our fantasies, as Lewis Mumford alluded to, we could
454 Front. Archit. Civ. Eng. China 2010, 4(4): 450–455

become complacent oysters: they have lost the ability to
move freely1).
5 Orthogonal versus oblique
The advancement of modern technology has given
architects unprecedented freedom. The almost unlimited
richness of poché notwithstanding, one consequence of
this freedom is the tendency of doing away with the
orthogonal, and going for the oblique. We are no longer
satisfied with the centrality of a cosmic dome or a cathedral
ceiling; we instead let our architects exercise their
gymnastic fantasies. The Spaniards have ended up having
an art museum in Bilbao that has almost no verticals and
with little horizontals (expect part of the floor that is not
ramped). The Chinese are excited by their Central
Television Tower in Beijing that has been twisted into a
Moebius stripe (or almost). Yes the advanced technology
and the ingenious Arup engineers have enabled the
building to stand up, which, by the look of natural gravity,
was to fall. Yet again we may question the discipline and
limits of poché, which surely should be grounded in our
biological impulse if not cultural and religious roots. That
is, the conservatism of the human body – we must stand
up-right vertically, and lie prone horizontally. What would
a room do to us if there are no sufficient verticals and
horizontals in it 2)?
6 Confinement versus transparency
Let me paraphrase a comparison between a Gothic
cathedral and a modern skyscraper that Yi-Fu Tuan has
made in several of his publications, including Topophilia
[7]. Tuan reminds us that a Gothic cathedral, when it was
inhabited in its time, often could not be viewed in the
distance as an architectural object that we moderns now are
able to see in a European city: there was no wide enough
open space before a cathedral in a crowded medieval city.
A Gothic cathedral, therefore, was conceived and built as a
confined internal world that catered to three or four senses,
rather than vision alone. It is, to be precise, an architectural
enclosure. The heavenly ambience in a Gothic cathedral is
a simultaneous combination of music (heavenly sound as it
was supposed to be!), skylight filtered through rose
windows, the tactility of aged materials that invite
human touch, the fragrance of burning candles, and even
the subtle odour disseminated from moist stone. The
bodily experience of an architecturally confined world
evokes emotions as well as thoughts through many senses.
A modern skyscraper, a significant hallmark of the
twentieth century, often built in steel and glass, caters
mainly to our vision. The verticality of a modern
skyscraper is not an internalized world; it is by contrast
an outward viewfinder with stacked offices or apartments.
Even the summit of a skyscraper is about the view: either a
restaurant, or simply a viewing platform, on the top floor of
a high-rise tower, occasionally offering visitors an
opportunity to expand their horizon. The glass and shiny
metallic surfaces are too sleek to register senses other than
vision, let alone stimulate them emotionally as in a Gothic
cathedral.
Such a comparison perhaps can be tested in many other
parts of the human habitat in the twentieth century, ranging
from cities, institutions, leisure centres to homes, and the
conclusions of more comparisons, dare I say, would be
similar: the modern built world is largely a clinical and yet
visual world. We have nearly turned our interior life into an
exterior one by wrapping our buildings, from houses to
public institutions, with large area of glass. The demarca-
tion between the interior and the exterior, for which
humans took many thousands of years of learning to
realize its importance, and which was shown as early as in
Roman architecture, has been diminished. What has
disappeared as a consequence is the felt ambience of a
room, along with the intimacy of an interior life that
architecture must enshrine. This, for Gaston Bachelard, is
the very meaning of a House: without that, a person would
be a dispersed being [8].
7 Aging versus metallic sheen
Advanced technology developments have afforded archi-
tects endless choices to construct and seal their buildings,
which, for the sake of clarity in discussion, I have simply
borrowed the Beaux-Arts term and call it poché in this
essay. The favoured building finish in modern times, as
already implied, seems to be a layer of “metallic sheen”.
Beneath this surface lies the promise of modern technology
– that is to prolong life. Indeed, we now live longer than
ever, but the limit still is the inevitable mortality. In modern
times, we have been successful in hiding the decay of life
(we very rarely see a dead animal in the city, let alone a
dead human body); our building surface gives an
impression that they are not only anti-corruption, but will
also stay young for ever. The world is an odourless
postcard! Any metallic sheen, however, is prone to fashion,
which, ironically, is accelerated by technological

1) Lewis Mumford makes a clear distinction “between the mainly free-moving protozoa that formed the animal kingdom and the relatively sessile organisms
that belong to the vegetable kingdom. The first, like the oyster, sometimes become over-adapted to a fixed position and lose the power of movement; while
many plants free themselves in some degree by underground rootings and above all, by the detachment and migration of the seed.” Lewis Mumford, The
City in History: Its Origins, Its Transformations, and Its Prospects, London: Secker & Warburg, 1961, 5
2) I am indebted to Professor Yi-Fu Tuan for reminding me of the conservatism of the human body and its relationship with architecture, as well as his thoughts
on the “anti-corruption” architecture that defies time.
 Xing RUAN. What can be taught in architectural design? — parti, poché and felt qualities
advancements. The cost, physically and symbolically, is
the tragedy of a rat-race plastic surgery. The university
campus where I work, for example, is full of buildings with
shiny surfaces. Appealing to the eye as they are, this is the
result of constant and costly “face lifting”. But to defy time
in architecture by chasing what is vogue is a race in vain.
Yes, the nineteenth-century neo-Gothic sandstone quad-
rangles in a different university may have aged, but our
colleagues there can always remind us of the lingering
voice of a famous mathematician in the great hall.
8 The felt quality, inside and outside
I would like to conclude this essay with a story of Michel
de Montaigne, the sixteenth-century French essayist.
Montaigne was allegedly known for having this weird
habit: he often asked his maid to slightly wake him up in
the early morning so that he could deliciously fall into
sleep again [9]. Even sleep, a state of oblivion, can be felt,
hence better enjoyed, with a faint sense of consciousness
that is beyond vision. If there is anything that we can learn
from parti and poché, it must be the reminder of the felt
qualities of the built world, which have been much
suppressed by the dominance of vision in modern times,
and which design education must now address. More
specifically in architecture, the idea of parti and the
discipline of poché will ensure that, in a succession of
movements, we venture out to the capacious world but we
can always return to our beautifully confined interior that
anchors both our body and mind.
Note: The early version of this essay was delivered as a
455
keynote address by the author at Connected – International
Conference on Design Education, Sydney, 11 July
2007.
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