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    Architecture in the United States Oxford History of
    Upton, Dell.
    Oxford University Press
    Architecture--United States, Ethnic architecture-United States.
    NA705.U78 1998eb
    Architecture--United States, Ethnic architecture-United States.

    Page 3

    Oxford History of Art
    Architecture in the United States
    Dell Upton
    Oxford NewYork

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    Oxford University Press, Great Clarendon Street, OxfordOX2 6DP
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    ©Dell Upton 1998
    First published 1998 by Oxford University Press
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    0-19-284253-6 Hb
    10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
    Picture Research by Elisabeth Agate
    Designed by Esterson Lackersteen
    Printed in Hong Kong
    on acid-free paper by
    C & C Offset Printing Co., Ltd

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    Chapter 1
    An American Icon


    Chapter 2


    Chapter 3


    Chapter 4


    Chapter 5


    Chapter 6




    List of Illustrations


    Bibliographic Essay






    Page 7

    For such a short book, this one has accumulated an extraordinary number of debts that I
    am delighted to acknowledge. Annmarie Adams, Daniel Bluestone, Betsy Cromley, Susan
    Garfinkel, Marlene Heck, Greg Hise, Zeynep Kezer, Bill Littmann, Richard Longstreth,
    Bruce Thomas, Abby Van Slyck, and David Vanderburgh all read the original proposal
    and made such excellent and pointed suggestions that I discarded it entirely. Their
    comments contributed significantly to giving the book its present shape. So did the
    students in Architecture 174A in the spring of 1996, who sat through my first attempts to
    work out these ideas in lectures.
    Tom Carter, Betsy Cromley, Paul Groth, and Marlene Heck read the entire manuscript and
    helped make it much better than it would have been. In addition, Catherine Bishir,
    Margaretta Lovell, Roger Montgomery, and Christine Rosen read portions, to equally
    good effect. I am grateful to them all.
    Several friends contributed vital bits of information, photographs, and access to
    buildings, for which I thank Bill Beiswanger, Tom Carter, Meredith Clausen, Jeff Cohen,
    Galen Cranz, Betsy Cromley, Sam Davis, Dennis Domer, Jim Gregory, Greg Hise, Lynne
    Horiuchi, Zeynep Kezer, Travis McDonald, Robert St George, Ellen Weiss, and Sibel
    Among the books I have published this has been the one I have enjoyed most by far.
    Credit goes to the vision and expertise of Simon Mason and Katie Jones at Oxford
    University Press. Special thanks to Lisa Agate, whose imaginative approach to picture
    research made an onerous task fun.
    In a sense, a book like this is the product of an entire career. I have learned more than I
    can tell from field trips and discussions I have had with friends and colleagues over the
    years, in particular Catherine Bishir, Barbara Carson, Cary Carson, Tom Carter, Edward
    Chappell, Betsy Cromley, Jim Deetz, Henry Glassie, Paul Groth, Bernie Herman, Rhys
    Isaac, the late Spiro Kostof, Carl Lounsbury, Fraser Neiman, the late Jeff O'Dell, Orlando
    Ridout V, Stephen Tobriner, Camille Wells, Shane White, and the late Barry Zarakov.

    Page 8

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    Rhys Isaac has described history as an act of telling stories. 1 It is a deceptively
    straightforward characterization, for to tell stories can mean many things. It can simply
    mean to report information or narrate events. At a more ambitious level, to tell stories
    can mean to make sense of events by explaining, analysing, or myth-making. As we
    learned from our parents, to tell stories can also mean to lie: 'Are you telling me a story?'
    Architectural historians routinely report facts, narrate events, explain, analyse,
    mythologize, and occasionally even stretch the truth. What makes our work interesting is
    that the buildings about which we spin tales were made and used by men and women
    with stories of their own to tell. The historian's challenge is to choose which of many
    possible stories to tell and to decide how to integrate our stories with theirs.
    The architecture of the United States is astonishingly diverse, shaped by a dizzying variety
    of architectural practices, building processes, regional expressions, and cultures, the
    disparate experiences of class, gender, and ethnicity as well as the idiosyncrasies of
    personality. As architectural historians have slowly acknowledged this diversity, our
    discipline has been enriched as well as fragmented. Formerly, histories of American
    architecture focused on the aesthetic appreciation of a relatively small, predictable canon
    of monumental buildings. However, as the quintessential art-architect Louis Sullivan
    observed, 'once you learn to look at architecture not merely as an art more or less well or
    more or less badly done, but as a social manifestation, the critical eye becomes
    clairvoyant'.2 Architecture is an art of social storytelling, a means for shaping American
    society and culture and for 'annotating' social action by creating appropriate settings for it.
    Sometimes, but not always or principally, it is also a vehicle of individual aesthetic
    expression, but there is more to architecture than the pristine two-dimensional image of
    the architect's drawing or the historian's photograph. So new scholarly attention to such
    topics as the vernacular (including indigenous, folk, and popular architecture), ethnic
    traditions, commercial landscapes, and conservative aesthetic movements has challenged
    the traditional story of American architecture. In addition, many architectural historians
    now look outside the

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    discipline to social and economic history, sociology, anthropology, feminism, colonial
    and post-colonial studies, material culture, cultural landscape studies, and literary theory
    for fresh perspectives on architecture that have enriched and in some instances
    supplanted accepted aesthetic and art-historical interpretations. As a consequence, no
    history of American architecture, however compact or introductory, can do justice to the
    field if it confines itself to the familiar canon. It cannot even do justice to the canon.
    My approach to American architecture is, as much as possible within the confines of a
    short book, catholic. I use 'architecture' to stand for the entire cultural landscape,
    including so-called designed landscapes, urban spaces, and human modifications of
    natural spaces. I de-emphasize the traditional distinctions between vernacular and highstyle (or academic, or monumental) building, for contemporary scholars teach us that
    high-style and vernacular buildings share many of the same architectural strategies and
    that their builders and designers share many of the same cultural values. In short, I
    assume that architecture means all sorts of building, at all scales, made by all Americans,
    including those whose ancestors lived here before the first Europeans arrived.
    I also believe that the history of architecture should account for the entire life of a
    structure from its initial planning to its destruction, and even its afterlife in history and
    myth. Those who use architecture and those who interpret it are its makers as much as
    those who draw plans or drive nails. Buildings are changed in construction and they are
    changed in use. They are used differently from the ways they were intended and they are
    appreciated or experienced differently from the ways their architects or patrons might
    have imagined. Criticism, histories, folklore, and even rumours are other parts of
    architecture's history that deserve attention. So, where appropriate and where the sources
    permit, I have considered the responses of the users and observers of architecture.
    These are brave ambitions for a history of American architecture, particularly since the
    new work that is reinvigorating the field is unfortunately incomplete and unevenly
    distributed. Some sub-fields have been radically transformed (vernacular, colonial, and
    twentieth-century architectural history most prominently), while others, particularly the
    history of American art-architecture between about 1800 and 1880, remain relatively
    untouched by the new scholarly currents.
    For all these reasons, I have foregone the traditional survey. Despite the obvious
    advantages of a chronological structure, it is impossible to 'survey' anything as unruly as
    many centuries' worth of building on a vast continent. Instead, I have chosen a thematic
    structure that I believe honours the diversity of American architecture and its recent

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    scholarship, even though it cannot encompass them.
    The five themes are Community, Nature, Technology, Money, and Art. Community
    examines the ways Americans have used architecture to grapple with issues of inclusion
    and exclusion in their society. These questions are as old as human building on the
    continent, but they assumed a new poignancy with the creation of an American republic
    in the late eighteenth century. Republican citizenship was a novel concept in modern
    world history and in architectural design. It reopened old debates about the role of
    political, cultural, and religious authority in the landscape. In the new republic,
    architecture was asked to shoulder new burdens of communal mythology and historical
    commemoration that aggravated, rather than resolved, these dilemmas of inclusion and
    exclusion. The question whether any architecture can represent an entire society remains a
    live one.
    Architecture is a way of defining relationshipsof the self to others, of parts of the
    community to other people, and of people to their physical and cosmic environments.
    Nature takes off from this commonplace observation. Americans have been obsessed
    with the relationship of architecture to its site as an expression of a dichotomy between
    humans and the natural world. Whether expressed as a sensitivity to place, a concern for
    the debilitating effects of civilization on the human psyche, or fear of the damage that
    urban, technological society visits on ecological systems, nature has played an essentially
    theological role in American architecture.
    Nature and culture are rhetorical antonyms, but they are nearly always entwined in the
    landscape. Technology examines the ways Americans have used building, and particularly
    spectacular feats of engineering, construction, and invention, to explore what it means to
    be human. Technologists sought to overcome the limits of the body, making humans
    equal to the sublimity of their natural surroundings. Equally important, they fashioned,
    through environmental controls, an artificial climate essential to emerging middle-class
    social self-definition.
    Money explores the political economy and the economic culture of American architecture.
    Money's power has been given short shrift in architectural history. It is not enough to
    present architecture as the simple product of economic 'forces': builders respond to the
    economy as they understand it. Their understanding derives from culturally shaped
    notions of human psychology and morality more than from the precepts of the dismal
    science. The most significant aspect of the economic culture of American architecture was
    the creation of a landscape of consumer citizenship that complemented the landscape of
    republican citizenship. Builders of the consumer landscape have been as vexed by
    questions of inclusion and exclusion as builders of the political landscape.

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    The puzzling attempt to confine the diffuse expressiveness of architecture to the
    procrustean bed of Art can best be understood in the same consumerist context. The
    assertion that architecture is an art has been an important strategy for adapting building to
    a republican, consumer society. Specifically, claims for architecture's artfulness supported
    the efforts of professional architects to claim a place in a building market that had done
    quite nicely without them. For years architects struggled to define their distinctive
    contribution to the building process. The notion that the architect is an artist has been an
    effective strategy, but one fraught with problems of the relationship of the art-architect to
    the profession at large, the exclusion of women and ethnic minorities from professional
    practice, and the role of artarchitecture in shaping the landscape of a democratic society.
    While my history encompasses many aspects of American architecture overlooked in
    traditional histories, I make no claim that it is more complete or even more true than they
    were. It is not a survey, nor is it meant to be. Instead, it cuts through American
    architecture in other directions from the usual ones, telling other stories from the
    customary ones. I do believe that the particular themes I have chosen, familiar though
    most of them are to students of American culture, allow me to explain some of what is
    distinctive or characteristic about the ways architectural ideas and forms have been used
    in the United States without falling into the exceptionalist error of treating its architecture
    or any of its elements as unique phenomena in world architecture.
    A final note on dates: the terms BC and AD are derived from the Christian religion and are
    inappropriate to the disparate cultural origins of American builders. Following the
    practice of archaeologists, I use the more neutral BCE (Before the Current [or Common]
    Era) for BC, and CE (Current [or Common] Era) for AD.

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    Page 17

    An American Icon
    Americans are obsessed with housestheir own and everyone else's. We judge ourselves
    and our neighbours by where and how we live. We categorize the poorest members of
    contemporary society not as hungry, badly dressed, or unemployed, but as 'homeless'. For
    those people who are able to own homes (never the majority), a house is the largest single
    purchase that they will ever make, a significant rite of passage as important as marriage or
    a first child. This has been true for many generations. In the past, it was not uncommon
    for home-owners to inscribe construction dates on their houses, marking them as
    mileposts on the road to success [1]. Some included the initials of both husband and wife,
    to identify the house as a bench-mark in the generations-long progress of an entire family
    The house owes its importance to its association with the family. All the indigenous and
    immigrant cultures who have lived in what is now the United States have identified the
    family as the core institution of their societies, although they have defined it in very
    different ways. However they are defined, families are complex institutions. Shared
    values bind them, but internal divisions distinguish their members as individuals and
    according to their assigned roles, as spouses, parents, children, servants. Equally
    important, families have historiesgene pools, genealogies, family stories and traditions:
    they are constellations of memories that surface in surprising ways from one generation to
    the next.
    Houses are equally rich in meanings. They dignify families and help to structure their
    working lives. They claim a place for the individual and the family in time (history) and
    space (community) and in the timeless cosmos. Like families, houses are repositories of
    memories of the ways that families have organized and represented themselves through
    many generations.
    The protean nature of the family through time and across cultures has contributed to the
    metaphorical power of the family at the same time that it has made for the great variety of
    American houses. The free-standing, multi-room, single-family house has been a
    powerful and conspicuous icon of American culture, but it has not been the only kind of
    American house. Most Americans lived differently. Native

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    Americans occupied dwellings ranging from caves big enough for only one or two
    people, such as those surviving in the Bandelier National Monument, New Mexico, to
    enormous extended-family dwellings such as those built by the Iroquois of the north-east
    or the Northwest Coast peoples. From colonization until the twentieth century, small oneand two-room buildings housed the majority of rural Americans [2] [3]. Urbanites might
    squeeze into subdivided single-family houses such as the two that the Carpenters'
    Company of Philadelphia bought as a site for its new hall in 1768. These were common
    urban houses with two rooms, one in front of another, on each floor of a main block and
    two rooms in an ell or 'back building', but each room was rented to a different tenant. A
    few Americans lived in the communal dwellings of utopian communities such as the
    Shakers and the Oneidans, while after the 1840s many more lived in purpose-built multifamily rental housing. Some Americans did not live in houses at all, but in schools,
    penitentiaries, asylums, hospitals, or military barracks, in the attics, cellars, barns, or
    outbuildings of their employers or owners, or on the streets. Yet despite the diversity it is
    possible to identify some common themes that create 'family resemblances' among many
    kinds of American houses.

    John and Mary Dickinson House, 1754, Salem County, NJ.
    Glazed brick was used to pick out the owners' initials and the construction date,
    along with an elaborate diaper-work pattern, in the gable end.

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    Perkinsons, late 18th century Chesterfield County, Va.
    This tiny house is one of the smallest surviving 18th century American dwellings.
    The small wing to the right was the original 12-by-14-foot one-room building.
    The 16-foot-square room to the left was added around 1800, and the porch in the
    mid-19th century. This was a better-than-average residence by colonial

    It should come as no surprise that architects and historians have been fascinated by
    houses. In addition to their inherent social interest, houses have a particular appeal to
    those concerned with design. Because notions of domestic life have been stylized quickly
    and thoroughly in most traditional and modern cultures, houses are paradoxically the
    building type least constrained by idiosyncratic requirements. By the middle of the
    nineteenth century, for example, the single-family house had become so ubiquitous, so
    stereotyped, and so familiar, the social and functional ground rules of middle-and uppermiddle-class domestic life so fixed, and the stress on the symbolic character of the house
    so great, that the programme became in a sense the background or continuo against which
    architects and clients could play out claims of originality on aesthetic terms. The same
    constancy in the bourgeois single-family house has served historians as a standpoint from
    which to make sweeping aesthetic and social comparisons and grand synthetic
    The iconic status of the house in American culture makes it a particularly rich startingpoint for those interested in the history of architecture in the United States, for the themes
    and values that have shaped the entire landscape are present, in highly condensed form,
    in its houses. By the same token, the long chains of history and culture that connect

    houses and families mean that a single house can offer a window on many aspects of
    American dwellings. Monticello, one of the most famous of American houses, offers just
    such a startingpoint, owing to its excellent state of preservation and to the extensive

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    documentation available for the house and its owner and builder, Thomas Jefferson [4].
    The densely layered, half-resolved agglomeration of visual images, social ideas, and
    spatial relationships that Jefferson created at Monticello ran the gamut of his obsessions,
    passions, desires, and fears. The result is a rich and fascinating touchstone for exploring
    the histories of American houses.
    When he was twenty-five years old, Thomas Jefferson decided to move from his mother's
    home in Albemarle County, Virginia, to a nearby site on the family's lands, on the lesser
    of the two peaks of Carter's Mountain. There, in 1768, workers began to construct a
    house that at first contained only three principal rooms and an entry or 'lodge' on the
    ground floor [5]. Shortly after he began to build, Jefferson added semi-octagonal spaces
    at the north and south, called the bedroom and 'north bow-room', respectively. At that
    time the three original rooms were designated the parlour, dining-room, and dressingroom. Although the house's plan was compact, its appearance was monumental. Both
    fronts were intended to be embellished with two-storey porticoes. Had they been
    completed, their pediments would have risen higher than the dome of the present house.
    In 1790, Jefferson began to think about enlarging his house. The reconstruction began in
    1796, and by 1809 a second file of rooms had been added to the east of the original ones.
    The old dressing-room became Jefferson's bedroom, the old bedroom his 'cabinet', or
    private office, and a 'book room' and glazed greenhouse or 'South Piazza' were added to
    his personal suite of rooms. The old and new sections of the house were separated by
    longitudinal hallways and a service core that

    Bronck Houses, (a) late 17th century, (b) 1738, (c) 1792, (d) mid-19th-century, Coxsackie, NY.

    A one-room Dutch house enlarged over the course of 150 years.

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    Thomas Jefferson Monticello ll, 17961809, Charlottesville, Va.
    Garden front.

    contained privies and service spaces. The stone columns used in the uncompleted east
    portico of the old house were reused in a colossal pedimented portico on the new one [6].
    On the west, the two-storey portico was similarly reduced to a single storey supported on
    plastered brick columns, while a dome was built over the semi-octagonal parlour bow.
    The long-contemplated subterranean service wings were completed. All this was the
    product of nineteen years of constant changes of mind. The work had been put up and
    taken down so many times, visitor Anna Thornton commented, 'that in many parts
    without side it looks like a house going to decay from the length of time that it has been
    erected. He is a very long time maturing his projects.' 1
    The Ordinariness of Architecture
    The story of any house begins with its ordinarinessits status as a product of labour and
    money and its accommodation of daily routines. Monticello was a plantation's big house,
    the headquarters of an economic enterprise. Jefferson had inherited a 5,000-acre
    plantation from his father and acquired another 11,000 acres in Albemarle and other
    Virginia counties when he married. In addition, he maintained other enterprises, including
    several mills, a nailery, and a textile operation, to keep his slaves busy during slack
    agricultural times. These enterprises paid for the house and its contents, they paid for
    Jefferson to live the kind of life he did, and they fed the people who were needed to
    support his way of life.
    At its most ordinary, this large, complex house tells a simple story. Monticello is

    organized according to a series of dichotomous categories that govern the distribution of
    its house life dynamically along

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    Monticello ll.
    Ground floor plan with Monticello I superimposed.

    Monticello ll.
    Exterior view from the south-east. The monumental entrance portico led into
    Jefferson's entrance hall, or 'Indian Room'. In this late-19th century view, the
    louvred terrace enclosures survived.

    Monticello ll.
    Schematic view showing axial organization.

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    Henry and Anne Saunders House, c.1795, Isle of Wight County, Va.
    The hall panelling (left room) of this hall-chamber (or hall-parlour) house can be
    seen in the National Museum of American History in Washington.

    vertical and horizontal axes [7]. A vertical axis connects working spaces below ground
    with 'living' spaces on the ground and upper floors, active spaces in the basement, and
    places for retirement in the upper storeys. This axis intersects others on the ground floor,
    where the east-west axis formed by the entrance-hall-and-parlour suite separates
    Jefferson's private spaces to the south and spaces for visitors to the north. North and
    south passages (hallways) divide Jefferson's primary working and social spaces to the
    west from guest and storage rooms to the east. (The north-south axis also connects the
    domestic work spaces in the south wing to the plantation work and storage spaces in the
    north wing.)
    Jefferson was famously contemptuous of the houses of his Virginia neighbours, calling
    them 'ugly, uncomfortable, and happilyperishable', yet Monticello shared its dualities and
    axialities with its humbler neighbours and with a multitude of other small vernacular
    houses in eighteenth-century America. 2 The habit of stringing domestic spaces along a
    single horizontal axis that ran from better to worse, refined to rough, was deeply
    engrained in European vernacular architecture. These distinctions are most evident in the
    two-room houses (meaning houses with two principal rooms on the ground floor) that
    English, French, German-Swiss, and Dutch colonists built [3].
    The plans of these houses varied from one ethnic group to another, as did the names and
    specific uses of the rooms. For example, in Jefferson's Virginia, houses that historians call
    ball-chamber or ball-parlour houses incorporated the traditional horizontal axis [8]. At
    what English vernacular builders would have called the 'upper' end, a large, usually
    square room called the ball was the primary living or social space. It contained the main
    entry and might also function as a kitchen in a particularly small house. A smaller room,
    traditionally called the chamber, opened off it and served as the primary sleeping-room.

    Just over the Blue Ridge Mountains from Monticello, German-Swiss builders (who settled
    in the inland valleys from Pennsylvania south to the Carolinas) organized their
    Flurk¨henhauser into a narrow Küche,

    Page 24

    or kitchen, which also contained the main entrance, and a square Stube, or parlour, that
    served as the primary formal space [9].
    In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries distinctions between the formal and informal,
    public and private, living and working aspects of household life grew stronger among
    European builders. Vertical and front-back axes supplementing the old horizontal axis
    multiplied possibilities for refining interior organization. The late-seventeenth-century
    Boardman House at Saugus, Massachusetts, is a good example of this type of modern
    house [10] [11]. It was built as a hall-parlour house with an upper storey for bedchambers
    and an underground cellar for food storage. About a decade after its initial construction,
    the kitchen was moved to a new rear ell, or lean-to.
    These axes and the domestic dichotomies that they express linked Jefferson's mansion to
    the vernacular of his neighbours, however contemptuous he might be of their houses'
    appearance and solidity. They offer an excellent example of the ways that cultural
    memory permeates the house, for they are the products of deep-seated, long-standing,
    barely articulated assumptions about what it meant to live as a civilized householder. They
    made Jefferson's house familiar and comprehensible to his family and his neighbours,
    giving scale and significance to his more idiosyncratic gestures. Without such an ordinary
    fabric to embroider, Monticello would have been a meaningless gesture, a diatribe in an
    unknown language.
    The Domestic Community
    One of architecture's most important tasks is to sort out its users, setting them spatially
    and psychologically into the desired relationships

    Sites House, c.180010, Rockingham County, Va.

    In this two-room Flurküchenhauser, the Küche is on the left and the Stube
    (divided into two rooms shortly after construction) on the right. Often, there was
    a third room, called the Kammer(chamber) or Stibli, behind the Stube.

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    Boardman House, 1687, lean-to c.1696, Saugus, Mass.
    The Boardman House was an up-to-date vernacular dwelling organized around
    three axes: horizontal, vertical, and front-back. Although houses like this are
    sometimes mislabelled 'medieval', they were 17th-century innovations in AngloAmerican vernacular architecture.

    with one another. For that reason, it is never possible to speak of 'the' experience of a
    building: every building is a fragmented space. This is as true of houses as of any other
    kind of architecture. Conventional categories such as living and working or public and
    private imply that a house is a unity, made for a nominal owner whose name we attach to
    it: 'the Thomas Jefferson House'. Even to call Monticello 'the Jefferson House' would
    imply a single experience of the building by a monad called a family. But a household is a
    molecule more than an atom. Some members have more control over the house than
    others, some do more work there than others, and all experience it differently according
    to their places in the domestic community. Although one person may legally own a house
    and exercise more control over it than other family members, no one can dictate house
    life absolutely. Consequently, even the simplest houses incorporate differences of control
    and experience, and the variety of ways in which unequal relationships are acknowledged
    and represented in the house makes for much of the diversity in American housing.
    For example, within the Flurküchenhauser that we encountered above, differences of age
    and sex were called out [9]. A table and benches were commonly built into the outer front
    corner of the Stube, where the male head of the house sat at the head, in the corner, with
    his wife next to him at the head of the outside bench. The male and female children then

    lined up on the wall-side and outside benches, respectively, in order of seniority.

    Page 26

    Boardman House.
    The Boardman House's modern qualities are evident in the ways that activities
    traditionally performed in or adjacent to the main room have been sorted and
    moved away. The large fireplace and corner oven show that cooking was once
    done in the hall (front right room), but was moved to a new kitchen (the centre
    room of the lean-to), where a new fireplace and oven were constructed. Food
    storage was pushed back to a milk-house in the lean-to and down into a
    subterranean cellar, while sleeping spaces have been been moved back into the
    lean-to and up into second-floor chambers.

    Many indigenous builders followed similar ritual principles of social differentiation. The
    hogan, an earth, stone, or log (or, more recently, frame-and-plywood) traditional dwelling
    of the Navajo people of the American South-west, follows a social principle common
    among a variety of indigenous groups. Inside the single round or polygonal space, an axis
    leads from the east-facing door to the place of honour opposite it, the seat of the
    household's elder. On ritual occasions, men are arrayed around the south side and women
    around the north [12].
    Jefferson's Monticello derived from an élite Southern tradition that also acknowledged

    differences in social roles spatially. Monticello was not Jefferson's residence alone. His
    employees and their families (sixteen people in 1776), as well as some of Jefferson's
    relatives, also lived there. Although Jefferson's wife died fourteen years before the
    rebuilding began, his daughter Martha Jefferson Randolph (who had a home of her own
    nearby) spent most of her time at Monticello with her daughters. Other relatives stayed
    for varying lengths of time at

    Page 27

    Monticello, as did the numerous visitors, announced and unannounced, who regularly
    showed up on the mountain. Most of all, Monticello was home to a large contingent of
    African-American slaves. In 1776, eighty-three lived on the mountain. In 1794, as
    Jefferson planned the rebuilding of Monticello, there were sixty-four. Even more than for
    Jefferson, Monticello was the centre of their working and personal lives.
    The metaphor of the village commonly used by travellers to describe southern plantations
    was aptly applied to Monticello, which should be thought of as a heterogeneous
    community of people of all ages, races, sexes, degrees of freedom, and relationships to
    the nominal owner. In common with his slaveholding peers, Jefferson preferred to
    conceive of the Monticello community as a family, a term that encompassed everyone,
    slave and free, living on the mountain. He meant this in the sense derived from the
    biblical patriarchy: Jefferson was the rul-

    Prototypical Navajo conical forked-pole hogan.

    Page 28

    Thomas Jefferson Monticello l, 1772
    Although this plan of the basement and service wings was made in 1772, the
    wings were not completed for many years: the north (right) one in 1799, and the
    south (left) one after 1801.

    ing figure who gathered his family around him and who governed them absolutely. More
    than anything, he organized Monticello to convey his sense of himself as the patriarch at
    the centre of his universe. Within it, the members of the family were ranked and assigned
    places in the house and grounds.
    First of all, Jefferson distinguished his 'indoor' from his 'outdoor' families. The latter, who
    were primarily slaves, lived along Mulberry Row, a 1,000-foot-long road containing
    seventeen log, frame, and stone houses, yards, and shops at the lip of the hill. The
    distinction between living and working further divided the indoor family. Cooking,
    storage, the clean-outs for the interior privies, and other working spaces that served the
    bodily needs of the 'indoor' family were located in the basement wings, along with some
    living spaces for the slaves who performed them [13]. The bedchambers on the top two
    floors of the house were allocated to relatives, children, and guests of the house.
    Monticello's command centre was the South Square Room on the ground floor, from
    which Jefferson's daughter Martha ran the day-to-day affairs of the house [5]. This left
    most of the principal, or ground, floor to the patriarch.
    Jefferson's Monticello was a dynamic space: residents were sorted and distributed, then
    brought back into contact with one another along carefully choreographed routes and
    points of encounter. This was another way in which Jefferson's house was like those of

    his neighbours. Virginia slaveholders established separate routes through their houses for
    white and black residents, for outsiders and insiders. Even a

    Page 29

    Mount Airy, c. 175464, Richmond County, Va.
    The rusticated south facade is the least formal, in keeping with its garden view.
    The dark stone walls may originally have been stuccoed.

    dwelling as small as the Henry and Anne Saunders House has an end door into the
    chamber through which slaves would enter from the domestic outbuildings that stood just
    outside it [8]. John Tayloe's Mount Airy (1762), Richmond County, Virginia, observed the
    same principle on a much grander scale. The main house is flanked by two visually
    coordinated outbuildings that were originally freestanding but were connected by
    quadrants at an early date [14]. The one on the west was the kitchen, the realm of slaves,
    that on the east provided auxiliary living quarters for the family. Each group had its own
    door into the end of the house, while the north door greeted visitors.
    Host and Hermit
    The ordinariness of architecture means that no house-builder can afford to ignore the
    facts of daily life and household social relations, yet most strive to transform their house's
    story from a simple narrative of domestic facts to an interpretive myth of domestic life. At
    Monticello the simple distribution of architectural decoration, which is confined on the
    interior to the rooms that Jefferson used, tells us that while the house was home to many
    people, it was meant to be seen as a portrait of its patriarch.
    And a curious, contradictory portrait it is. In some moods, Jefferson wanted to be seen as
    a public man and Monticello as a public place. The eighteenth-century Virginia élite
    imagined themselves as heirs to a hospitable aristocratic tradition of open-handed largesse

    that stretched back to the Middle Ages. In fact, they practised a distinctly

    Page 30

    eighteenth-century version of hospitality. Where a medieval lord would have entertained
    any and all comers in a single large room called a 'hall', the company entertained at a
    Virginia plantation would have been considerably more restrictedto one's neighbours of
    equivalent social standingand distributed through a suite of rooms fine-tuned to Virginian
    forms of entertaining. Monticello's entrance hall, where invited guests were met and
    where uninvited ones waited to learn whether they would be received, led to the parlour
    or sitting-room, and then into the dining-room. Jefferson's renowned dinnertime
    conviviality reflected the centrality of dining in Virginia social rituals and the importance
    of the dining-table as the altar of the sociable house.
    But Jefferson the good host was also Jefferson the recluse. Neighbouring planters
    surrounded themselves with their family and slaves, but Jefferson constructed his house
    to allow himself the luxury of the company of family and the services of slaves while
    denying their presence. He concealed the family rooms up nearly invisible stairs and hid
    servants behind doors and in passages. Where other planters would have slaves wait at
    table, build fires in their rooms, lay out their clothes, and empty their chamber-pots,
    Jefferson installed dumb waiters and lazy susans, built his own fires, constructed a
    revolving clothes-rack at the foot of his bed to allow him to select his own clothes, and
    defecated in a garde-robe, adjacent to his bedroom, that was cleaned out from the cellar.
    The solitary conceit carries outside the house. At a house like Mount Airy, the visually coordinated, hierarchical massing and decoration of house and outbuildings proclaimed a
    model of domestic community that set patriarch, family, and slaves in their appropriate
    places in a stratified landscape [14]. Jefferson rejected this familiar pattern. He attached
    wings and dependencies to Monticello, but he used them as retaining walls to support the
    west terrace, hiding them from view [4]. Furthermore, this large, three-storey house is
    deliberately made to appear as a small, one-storey house. Just as the slaves' work spaces
    are hidden by the terrace, the family quarters are concealed behind balustrades. The only
    storey that we see is the patriarch's. Visually Jefferson's house claims that the home of
    many people, white and black, is the home of one man. A man surrounded by family and
    slaves represented himself as a hermit alone on his mountain.
    The metaphor of the hermitage was reinforced by Monticello's setting. Jefferson began to
    think about the grounds at the same time that he planned his house, and the landscaped
    setting is important for understanding the self-images that Jefferson intended his house to
    project. Monticello was conceived as a villa, a word that originally referred to a Roman
    farmstead. During the Renaissance, the villa was recast as an élite farmstead or country
    estate close to the edge of the city. The eighteenth-century English builders from whom
    Jefferson drew in-

    Page 31

    spiration understood the Renaissance villa primarily as a sociable retreat. Jefferson
    planned for his mountain-top villa to be surrounded by a landscaped garden such as the
    ones that adorned the suburban London villas of English aesthetes like Lord Burlington
    and Alexander Pope, and those illustrated in the gardening books he read so assiduously.
    It would be adorned with follies and garden pavilions, including obelisks, temples, even a
    miniature Pantheon. None of these was ever built, although the domed central bay of the
    second Monticello might be seen to double as a garden Pantheon.
    In many eighteenth-century gardens a rustic hut or grotto, meant to look as though it were
    unshaped by human artifice, alluded to the stock figure of the hermit. The hermit was a
    man who had rejected the social contract and chose to live on nature's terms. He
    embodied a protoromantic sense of the mysterious in the landscape, of the emotional
    depths of nature. Jefferson was powerfully attracted to these ideas during his early years
    on the mountain, making a note to himself in 1771 to 'Choose out for a Burial place some
    unfrequented vale in the park, where there is ''no sound to break the stillness but a brook,
    that bubbling winds among the weeds; no mark of any human shape that had been there,
    unless the skeleton of some poor wretch"', and he planned to shelter a spring in a mosscovered 'cave or grotto'. 3
    As a house and as a landscape, Monticello was both villa and hermitage, a place of
    sociability and of retreat. At the same time it had a larger purpose. Houses (and their
    settings) have long been called upon to define the relationship between the family and the
    cosmos. After the eighteenth century sophisticated builders were more likely to express
    such ideas in the allusive language of 'nature' than in explicitly theological terms. The
    landscape gardens of the eighteenth century that Jefferson admired and the romantic
    language of wild nature that he called on in describing his burial plans were exploratory
    essays in the connection between the human and the divine. Jefferson was by no means
    the first or the only American of his time to be intrigued by these ideas, but his is one of
    the earliest and best-documented landscapes created under their influence, and it
    illustrates the importance of aesthetic ideas in carrying out Jefferson's purposes.
    A French visitor to Monticello in 1782 declared Thomas Jefferson 'the first American who
    has consulted the Fine Arts to know how he should shelter himself from the weather'. 4
    He was determined to use every bit of his great architectural erudition in the construction
    and reconstruction of his house. As he imagined the first Monticello, every room would
    be decorated in a different classical order, derived from a different precedent. This house
    was a relatively simple pastiche of formal and visual ideas borrowed from the work of
    the sixteenth-

    Page 32

    century Italian architect and treatise-writer Andrea Palladio, filtered through a miscellany
    of eighteenth-century English architectural books, notably Robert Morris's Select
    Architecture (1755). In short, it was a collection of visual quotations of the kind that
    amateurs and professionals alike commonly mistake for design.
    Jefferson's travels in Europe after the American Revolution showed him French and
    English neo-classical architecture, from which he absorbed new visual and spatial ideas.
    In addition, he supplemented his library of Anglo-Palladian treatises with French studies
    of ancient architecture. He drew on these liberallyespecially Roland Fréart de Chambray's
    Paralléle de l'architecture antique avec la moderne (1650; known to Jefferson through a
    1766 edition) and Antoine Babuty Desgodetz's Les Édifices antiques de Rome (1779)in
    embellishing the reconstructed house. The result is a much more complex building than
    its predecessor, a dense mixture of familiar and novel ideas drawn from several subtraditions of European classicism, but it was never the smoothly integrated work of art
    that twentieth-century historians and architects see in it: no building is.
    Jefferson's great accomplishment at Monticello and the nearby University of Virginia
    (another of his projects) have earned him credit as one of the first American architects. In
    the sense that he took a hand in designing buildings, this is strictly true, but every
    building is designed by someone. The label architect implies more than this: it implies a
    particular social relationship to architecture and to clients, as well. It is instructive to
    compare Jefferson with the first professional architect, Benjamin Henry Latrobe,
    Jefferson's friend and architectural confidant. 5 An English-born and -trained professional
    who began his career in his home country before coming to the United States in 1796,
    Latrobe sought to make his living as an architect and engineer in a commercializing
    society. Lacking a material object to sell, the architect had to establish himself as the
    product, distinguished as an expert or authority who commanded knowledge qualitatively
    different from that of the best-educated lay person. Latrobe made his argument on the
    basis of his long specialized training and his mastery of the latest architectural fashions.
    Where Jefferson sought access to arcane architectural ideas through books, Latrobe
    offered arcane architectural ideas drawn from his expertise. For Latrobe, the seller of
    architecture, architectural ideas were necessarily successive. Each new idea rendered its
    predecessors obsolete.
    Latrobe offered clients the validation of his own personal authority, but Jefferson sought
    personal validation from cultural authority. For him, architecture was a means of selfimprovement, a mode of being, rather than a stock in trade. New ideas supplemented the
    old, enriching self-definition. To Latrobe this was absurd, a sign of a man who did not
    understand architectural progress. As architect of the government

    Page 33

    buildings at Washington during Jefferson's presidency, Latrobe felt cramped by his
    employer's 'prejudices in favor of the old French books, out of which he fishes
    everything'. 6 He respectfully tolerated Jefferson's architectural advice, but he privately
    resented the interference with his professional judgement. 'You and I are both
    blockheads,' he wrote to his construction supervisor John Lenthall. 'Presidents and Vice
    presidents are the only Architects and poets, and prophets for ought I know in the United
    States.' 7
    At Monticello, mantels, window sash, wallpaper, and other architectural goods purchased
    abroad supplemented locally made cornices, orders, mouldings, and other decorations
    that the workmen derived from architectural books that Jefferson had purchased. These
    in turn formed a setting for the fine furnishings that filled the public parts of the house.
    Some were custom-made and locally obtained, but Jefferson also embellished the house
    over the years with furniture and decorative arts from France and England, original works
    of art, and copies of Old Master paintings that he obtained from abroad. In short,
    Monticello is best understood in the context of the broader-based phenomenon of AngloAmerica consumer culture, which historians tell us was born during Jefferson's lifetime,
    and Jefferson as an eclectic consumer of architectural images more than a creator of
    By consumerism or consumption, historians mean a complex set of social, economic, and
    psychological phenomena that link objects and marketing strategies with personal identity.
    The core of the idea of consumption is the issue that we have been examining at
    Monticello: the role that artefacts play in defining the relationship between the individual
    and the world. One persuasive argument finds the origins of Euro-American
    consumerism in Protestant religion. 8 According to sociologist Colin Campbell, one strain
    of Protestantism emphasized the primacy of personal judgement over the claims of
    authority. By the eighteenth century personal autonomy had become self-gratification and
    self-fulfillment. Since Western culture has always had a materialist bent, meaning that
    westerners believe there is a strong connection between the physical world and human
    values and behaviour, it is no surprise that the possession of goods has appeared to
    promise self-fulfillment. To put it another way, consumption is a quest for identity
    through sensual means. We buy what we think we see in an object, grasping at the
    physical to get at the intangible, buying the commodity to obtain the unsaleable quality.
    The catch, however, is that the longing for identity is diffuse, unfocused, and not
    described by any specific missing quality, so no particular commodity can satisfy it. We
    desire, we buy, we are inevitably disappointed, and we buy again, and again. Desire and

    acquisition, the ephemeral moment between wanting and

    Page 34

    Mount Airy:
    The east front was the family's entrance from its dependency. Originally one
    entered a door in the central arched window. The covered hyphen to the right was
    added early in Mount Airy's history.

    having, are essential to consumption; possession is an afterthought.
    Consumption offers an important avenue for understanding the importation of
    architectural ideas, books, and craft workers in late-eighteenth-century America. The
    importation of European goods and ideas has customarily been interpreted as simple
    imitation, the product of a desire to emulate the lives of English gentry as closely as
    possible. But American clients were looking in the other direction: architecture and other
    consumer goods were a way of creating an identity within American society, by drawing
    on reserves of cultural authority available only to a select few. Consider the use of AngloPalladian architectural ideas at Mount Airy. With the advice of an Annapolis builder
    named Edmund Jenings, John Tayloe adapted the plan and main elevations from plates in
    James Gibbs's Book of Architecture (1728). The architectural ordonnance was closely coordinated with the system of domestic social differentiation examined above. The austere
    Tuscan north front, framed by its forecourt of outbuildings, contains a recessed loggia
    within which visitors could be greeted in appropriate formality, while the south facade is
    rusticated, as befits its garden view [14]. The two end doors are decorated very
    differently, as befit the status of their principal users [15].
    Mount Airy is a well-known example of the close copying of published images. However,
    architectural consumption depended on establishing visual differences from one's

    surroundings more than it did faithful reproduction of sources, so book-bound houses of
    this sort were rare in colonial America. Even at Mount Airy, the Anglo

    Page 35

    Palladian visual language annotated the social hierarchy of the house, while its esoteric
    European provenance emphasized Tayloe's social distance from his neighbours.
    As a rich, intelligent, ambitious man born at the fringes of empire, Jefferson sought to
    cloak himself in the same cultural authority that John Tayloe invoked. The architecture
    and landscape of the first Monticello were straightforward exercises in the consumption
    of architecture to fashion a distinctive identity. As he grew older, Jefferson never
    relinquished his attachment to cultural authority: his identity was too deeply invested in it.
    Late in Jefferson's life, Latrobe called him 'a man out of a book'. 9 But Jefferson's
    architectural consumption grew more complex later in his life. Because no idea was ever
    abandoned, his initial allegiance to Palladiodepicted by his Anglo-Palladian sources as the
    ultimate rule giverremained with him throughout his life. Jefferson added new, not
    always compatible, architectural ideas derived from the neo-classicism that flourished in
    Europe when he travelled there in the 1780s.
    The second Monticello is a layered work that incorporates everything Jefferson had
    learned over the years. Behind a colossal east portico such as one would expect to find on
    an Anglo-Palladian country house is an equally English hall-saloon (parlour) public suite
    [5] [6]. In reworking the house, Jefferson used the original rooms as a gardenside
    sequence with a polygonal central parlour. They were set off from the predominantly
    private east rooms by a longitudinal hall. These are French neo-classical ideas that
    intrigued another American visitor to France, Charles Bulfinch, who incorporated them
    into his Barrell House (1792-3), Charlestown, Massachusetts, and Swan House (1796),

    Charles Bulfinch Swan House, 1796, Dorchester, Mass.
    The garden-side bedroom and projecting bay, the longitudinal hallway, the

    dining-room-parlour axis, and the stair location all link the Swan House's spatial
    pattern to Monticello's.

    Page 36

    Dorchester, Massachusetts. The plan of the Swan House, in particular, is very similar to
    Monticello's, with a garden-front range set at right angles to a hall-dining-room suite [16].
    The domed garden front of Monticello resembles a Palladian-garbed version of the Hôtel
    de Salm (Pierre Rousseau, c.1785), under construction in Paris during Jefferson's sojourn
    there, while the bedroom-office-library suite is equally reminiscent of French hotel
    planning [5].
    Jefferson came of age during the turbulent decade that began with the Stamp Act Crisis of
    1765 and ended with the Revolutionary War. In its early years the revolutionary
    movement was often cast as a crisis of consumption. The Non-Importation Agreements,
    for example, equated consumer behaviour with political identity. Under the weight of his
    participation in the Revolution and the formation of a new national government, his
    reading in Enlightenment philosophy and political theory, and his exposure to neoclassical aesthetic ideas during his service as an envoy to France (appropriately, he was
    charged with the promotion of commerce), the meanings of architectural consumption
    and the cultural authority shifted for Jefferson. The consumerist dimensions of
    Jefferson's relationship to architecture transformed a backward-looking reliance on
    cultural authority into a forward-looking project of personal reconstruction. Widely
    known architectural and landscape images and ideas, disseminated commercially through
    books, appeared to Jefferson to be a tool to remake himself, to declare his individuality,
    to transform himself from a colonial Virginian to a post-colonial American.
    Rethinking the Landscape
    As time passed, Jefferson redesigned Monticello's landscape as carefully as he reworked
    its house. From his initial, rather simplistic plan for an English landscape garden,
    Jefferson began in 1806 to create a landscape that would combine the useful with the
    pleasurable. It would be a version of a ferme ornée, with productive gardens and animal
    husbandry integrated with ornamental gardening. The west lawn remained a pleasure
    garden. Below it, behind Mulberry Row, was an artificial terrace serving as a vegetable
    garden, with adjacent orchards, vineyards, and groves. Between the second and third
    "roundabouts", or circumferential roads, were a series of animal pens and small fields
    containing various feed grasses, beyond which the surrounding landscape offered a
    picturesque prospect.
    The reworking of the Monticello landscape defined a new human relationship to the
    cosmos, one that differs from the picturesque and incipient romantic models of the late
    eighteenth century as much as it did from traditional theological models. The landscape
    garden that provided the first model for Monticello's grounds (and that was never entirely
    eradicated from them) was both a didactic construction that

    Page 37

    instructed its viewers (many English landscape gardens were filled with overt political
    images, for example) and a transformative one that improved its viewers by exposing
    them to the delights and the healing effects of nature. The new garden reversed the flow
    of power. It represented an attempt to dominate nature, to subordinate it to the will and
    the gaze of the patriarch.
    Monticello commands a view of the surrounding lowlands. In turn, the big mountain,
    Montalto, looks down on Monticello, but since Montalto belonged to Jefferson, as well,
    he turned the table. At one point, he hoped to put an observatory tower on its summit, as
    a kind of visual handle or grasping point. Instead he created something more relentless, a
    landscape insistently focused on himself, with the domed second house at its centre. The
    dome was the visual pivot around which the entire countryside revolved, the symbolic
    eye of Jefferson. It has no other function, for it covers a nearly inaccessible third-floor
    room that was always treated as a left-over space. In the Enlightenment intellectual
    tradition, surveillanceone-sided visionwas power. The all-seeing eye on the national seal
    of the new United States is a good example. Jefferson's dome was a kind of eye on the
    landscape, a surrogate of its owner. It transformed Jefferson into an all-seeing I.
    Monticello reminds us how intimately the ideas of nature's beneficial power over
    humanity and of humanity's power over the natural world have been entwined in
    American architectural history. Nature and technology are two sides of the same coin.
    Monticello is famous for its idiosyncratic household technologies. Such devices as
    multipurpose desks, folding ladders, double-facing clocks, automatic door-closing
    mechanisms, and a host of other furnishings and architectural devices used the power of
    human ingenuity to reconstruct Jefferson's material world to suitand to focus onhimself.
    Yet it is important to recognize this house as the best-documented (and the only survivor)
    of a number of similar late-eighteenth-century American houses. One would have found
    the same sort of ingenious contrivances in the homes of such men as Benjamin Franklin
    and Charles Willson Peale. These houses were technologies of the self, tools for defining
    their owners.
    The Republican House
    In his varied and active household, Jefferson struck the pose of a patriarchal isolate while
    enjoying a relationship with his immediate family similar to that historians identify with
    the modern affectionate family. This tension between the individual and the group, this
    dual emphasis on solitude and sociability, linked Jefferson's domestic life with the
    concept of republicanism, the central political idea of the new nation that he did so much
    to foster.

    Page 38

    As Monticello did in the domestic arena, the republican philosophy balanced the
    competing demands of individual and community in the public realm. Among its
    theoretical underpinnings was the seventeenth-century agrarian or commonwealth
    philosophy, which identified the landowner as the only upright, politically independent
    person, incorruptible because he owned the means of his own livelihood and was thus
    free to do what was right, rather than what was expedient or profitable. In that sense,
    political 'hermits' made the best citizens. In its hilltop isolation, Monticello fused the
    romantic hermit age with the commonwealthman's political hermit.
    But republicanism also held that such extreme individualism could lead to anarchy
    without a governor of some sort. They called this governor virtue, meaning self-discipline
    based on shared values. In a republic, public education was indispensable in shaping
    political virtue. Élite citizens, particularly artists with expressive powers, were duty-bound
    to instruct their fellow citizens. Jefferson took these duties seriously. The public portions
    of Monticello were devoted to edifying his neighbours. Visitors to Monticello discovered
    that the entrance hall or 'Indian Room' was a museum of cultural authority and scientific
    observation, two key sources of shared values in Jefferson's view. The room was
    festooned with maps, Native American artefacts, palaeolithic remains, religious paintings,
    and portrait busts of philosophers and reformers. Instruction continued in the parlour,
    adorned with fifty-seven works of art to "improve the taste of his countrymen', including
    portraits of Isaac Newton, Francis Bacon, Ferdinand Magellan, Christopher Columbus,
    Benjamin Franklin, and John Locke. The tea-room, in the bow off the dining-room,
    contained busts of John Paul Jones, Washington, Franklin, and Lafayette.
    The private end of the house was devoted to Jefferson's own study and improvement.
    Yet, in keeping with the republican injunction to the élite to educate their neighbours by
    exemplary behaviour, this was a privacy intended for public consumption. A glazed door
    between Jefferson's apartment and the adjacent passageway offered intriguing glimpses of
    the great man in his cabinet. Even this was too constricting for one visitor, who broke an
    exterior window so that she might see him better. Assured that his hermitage fulfilled a
    public function, Jefferson could sit on his mountain top, surveying all but invisible to his
    neighbours, believing himself to be an active, responsible citizen who cultivated his own
    virtue and promoted it among his compatriots.
    The New American House
    At Monticello, Thomas Jefferson assembled a collection of familiar ideas and
    architectural images into a new kind of American house, one that transcended the
    accumulated sources of its ideas. It is not that Jefferson invented any particular element or
    even the republican house,

    Page 39

    Speculative houses, c.1900, Dayton, Ky.
    These houses all share the same plan, as well as comparable but different
    embellishmentsporches, dormers, and bay windowscarefully chosen to give the
    appearance of individuality while maintaining a uniform price.

    but that this particular synthesis did not exist before the end of the eighteenth century. The
    language and categories of domestic life evident at Monticello by 1809, when the house
    was as close to complete as it would ever be, have shaped the houses of the American
    middle- and upper-middle classes ever since.
    For example, the belief that the single-family house should be an individualized portrait
    of its occupants has been articulated at all levels of specificity (and vagueness) ever since
    Jefferson's time. In his influential Architecture of Country Houses (1850), the landscape
    gardener and domestic theorist Andrew Jackson Downing developed an elaborate theory
    of personal expression in which every detail of a house was thought to convey something
    about its owner. Downing had no patience for pretence: the statement should be a truthful
    one. 'The man of common sense views only, if he is true to himself, will have nothing to
    do with picturesque and irregular outlines . He will naturally prefer a symmetrical, regular
    house, with few angles', Downing wrote. Similarly, 'The man of sentiment or feeling will
    seek for that house in whose aspect there is something to love', while 'men of imagination'
    will seek houses 'with high roofs, steep gables, unsymmetrical and capricious formsany
    and every feature that indicates originality, boldness, energy and variety of character'. 10
    Downing's theory of expressive truthfulness was as rooted in social class as it was in
    individual personality: the poor should not aspire to individuality, he observed, because

    their lives are all the same. They should seek tasteful, generic houses.

    Page 40

    Catherine E. Beecher and Harriet Beecher Stowe Design for an efficient galley kitchen, 1869.
    Beecher and Stowe modelled their kitchen on the galleys of ships. Their concern
    with efficiency of layout and movement anticipated the scientific-management
    movement in home economics by thirty years.

    Not everyone agreed that the house should closely fit its owner. At mid-century
    Americans were acutely aware of the rapidity of change and the vagaries of economic
    fortune. Optimistic writers urged clients to go for broke. Progress was so rapid that one's
    children could never be satisfied with the old-fashioned houses of the current generation,
    so why not suit oneself? Others feared that the present generation might not live out life
    in one house: who knew when prosperity might inspire the purchase of a new house, or
    business reverses might force a sale? An idiosyncratic house would be unsaleable.
    Most advocates settled for emphasizing simple differentiation from one's neighbours
    rather than a detailed character portrait. 'Don't be afraid to introduce breaks, jogs, and
    angle, the more the better, for an

    Page 41

    Catherine E. Beecher and Harriet Beecher Stowe First-floor
    plan of a Christian House, 1869.
    Beecher and Stowe applied their ideas of efficiency and domesticity to a
    traditional New England plan like that of the Boardman House [11], with entry
    into a vestibule in front of the chimney and a kitchen behind the chimney.

    irregular plan breaks the skyline of the roof and lends picturesque beauty to the corners,
    [and] costs comparatively little', urged George Garnsey, a Chicago architect-builder in
    1885. 11 The developers of the first middle-class apartment houses used such devices to
    allow tenants to pick out their 'own' homes from the street. So did the builders of a latenineteenth-century row of small speculative houses at Dayton, Kentucky, who carefully
    balanced individuality against costs [17]. Each house evidently has the same plan, a
    variation of the common side-passage, two-room-deep urban house. Each has a porch, an
    elaborate window on the second floor, and a decorative dormer on the roof, but these
    details are different in each case. The houses were all equal in accommodation and price,
    but the developers 'individualized' them by manipulating a kit of parts, catalogue
    millwork, and standardized imagery. They transformed individualism into a saleable
    consumer good, rather than a portrait of a unique individual.
    Like Jefferson, nineteenth- and twentieth-century builders of single-family houses
    struggled to accommodate diverse household communities. The unity of the family and
    the conventions of the single-family house were never as certain as they sometimes

    appeared. For Downing, as for many of his contemporaries, the house's exterior imagery
    was a portrait of the male head of household, yet Victorian

    Page 42

    Frank Lloyd Wright Herbert Jacobs First Residence, 1937, Madison, Wis.
    This house, built for the family of a Madison newspaperman, was the first
    'Usonian House', Wright's contribution to recurrent national efforts to develop
    affordable housing for middle-and lower-middle-class Americans. Wright
    attempted to control costs by constructing the house of prefabricated panels of
    insulation sandwiched between exterior and interior sheating and by
    incorporating radiant heating in a concrete slab that doubled as foundation and

    domestic ideology declared the home to be the province of the woman, the place where
    she exerted her special influence over her family. Women were urged to personalize the
    interior by furnishing it with goods of their own making or simply of their own choosing.
    The garden, as well, was often treated as a female domain. The gendered nature of these
    domestic ideas was often pointed outmost often by women, who responded in varying
    ways. Some accepted the gendering of household spaces and sought to aggrandize those
    assigned to women.
    In The American Woman's Home (1869), Catherine E. Beecher and her sister Harriet
    Beecher Stowe presented the common mid-nineteenth-century argument that the family

    was a special institution, the repository of society's moral values, and that the woman's
    role was consequently central, not marginal, to republican society. 12 To make their point,
    Beecher and Stowe compared women's domestic spaces

    Page 43

    and modes of work to male spaces and work in the outside world, particularly to the
    industrial organization of labour. The housewife charged with the important task of
    manufacturing citizens should take her job as seriously as a manufacturer of chairs did
    his, and organize her work as efficiently. The house was her tool, and should be arranged
    for her convenience. Beecher and Stowe criticized the common domestic kitchen, where
    supplies and work stations were so spread out that 'half the [woman's] time and strength'
    were wasted just gathering what she needed. They proposed a design for a kitchen based
    on the compact galley of a steamship, where all that was needed to cook for hundreds of
    people was efficiently organized within a small space, and they placed it at a strategic
    position at the centre-rear of the house from which the industrialist-cook-captain could
    visually command her domain [18] [19]. Beecher and Stowe gave almost no attention to
    those aspects of external appearance that Downing thought so essential to (male)
    In his 1930s Usonian houses for families without servants, Frank Lloyd Wright moved the
    kitchen to a location at the intersection of public and private spaces (with the children's
    bedrooms closest to the kitchen), creating a command-post analogous to Beecher and
    Stowe's galley kitchen [20]. In both cases, the strategy was to draw women into
    household life by aggrandizing their roles in the house without altering them. They hark
    back to Monticello's South Square Room, situated between Jefferson's private suite and
    the entrance hall, from which Martha Jefferson Randolph ran that house's affairs.
    In contrast to those who celebrated women's domestic labour architecturally, some critics
    of the house argued that women would be freer to inspire their families if they were
    liberated from all household drudgery. The 'material feminists' of the turn of the century
    produced schemes for single-family houses that shared communal kitchens, laundries,
    and bakeries. They promoted apartment hotels with shared cooking facilities.
    Entrepreneurs started short-lived commercial meal-delivery services. These simply
    disguised the inequality of the family, rather than abolishing it. As at Monticello, the
    labour was still performed by an 'outdoor family': the servants who staffed the communal
    buildings or the employees of the meal-delivery service. Jefferson's dilemmathe
    unresolved nature of the household community and the ways that the house ought to
    define and accommodate itwas an enduring one.
    Characteristically, eighteenth-century élite tendencies to close off the house to its
    neighbours received their most emphatic expression in Jefferson's mountain-top retreat.
    Traditional Euro-American houses were open to the outside. In vernacular farmhouses,
    the hall was a very public room in which all members of the household, including hired

    Page 44

    Lamb and Rich Henry R. Mallory House, c. 885, Bryam, Conn.

    labourers (or, in North America, slaves), gathered and worked. Doors led directly into the
    hall from the road and the farmyard. In traditional élite houses, the hall 'was similarly
    open to all [8].
    Small open houses were common well into the twentieth century, but just as English
    colonists arrived in North America, élite builders and prosperous farmers were beginning
    to buffer the hall and other 'public' rooms with passages, vestibules, entry porches, and
    similar architectural devices that shielded them from direct access. The Fairbanks House
    (1637 and later), Dedham, Massachusetts, was built with the traditional hall-parlour plan
    but with an entrance lobby (as at the Boardman House [11]). That is, the oldest surviving
    English building in North America was an ultra-modern house of a sort that had not
    existed seventy-five years earlier. Around the beginning of the eighteenth century, the
    builders of the largest houses began to use central passages (hallways) for this purpose.
    Monticello, sited on its mountain top, carries this buffering to an extreme, but it also
    incorporates an ambivalence about the relationship of the household to its neighbours that
    has characterized the middle-class house ever since. A tension between domestic privacy
    and public sociability has always been embedded in genteel houses. In many earlynineteenth-century cities, visitation was an important social ritual. On New Year's Day, for
    example, urbanites held open house,

    Page 45

    with men visiting and women remaining home to receive guests. The historian Elizabeth
    Blackmar describes this kind of household as 'the ''public" home'. Rituals of private
    domesticity were enacted in public view as a sign of personal respectability and
    republican virtue. 13
    In the mid-nineteenth century, however, domestic advice givers began to urge owners of
    rural and suburban republican houses to emphasize improving their families over serving
    as examples to society at large. In her Treatise on Domestic Economy (1841), Catherine
    Beecher rehearsed the rules of hospitality, but she argued that the 'multiplication of a large
    circle of acquaintances' was an evil that ought to be avoided. The family worked best
    when its friendships were restricted to 'a few families, united by similarity of character
    and pursuit'14 Architecturally, this new version of republican hermitage was matched by
    an elaborate visual language of shelter. Houses shielded their faces from the street. They
    were surrounded with elaborate verandas and

    John Calvin Stevens James Hopkins Smith House, 1885, Falmouth Foreside, Me.

    Page 46

    their entrances were concealed by recesses and porticoes [21]. Often the ground floor was
    made of a heavy stone that made the house appear to be fortified.
    Inside, the house was fitted for family life. Mid-Victorian parlours were carefully
    arranged for moral preparation. A large round centre table around which the family could
    gather and a piano for the cultivation of refined sensibilities left little room for outsiders.
    The main public rooms of large late-Victorian houses were often thrown open to promote
    family togetherness [22]. At the same time, Victorian domestic theorists recognized the
    need for privacy within the family. Beecher and Stowe urged that each member of the
    family should have a separate bedroom, while other writers promoted the use of nooks
    and bay windows that would allow residents a measure of seclusion even when they
    gathered in the social spaces of the household. The projection of these features on the
    exterior of the house broadcast domestic privacy to passers-by.
    Since the late eighteenth century, Americans at home have touted the good offices of an
    vaguely defined 'nature', whose mere presence was believed to transform human spirits
    and morals. Andrew Jackson Downing promoted the country retreat as a refuge from the
    morally debilitating effects of the city. Even those who could not afford the kind of rural
    estate that Downing had in mind might, he thought, surround themselves with a bit of
    To bring nature as close as possible, builders of all sizes of houses blurred the bounds
    between outside and inside. At Monticello, open porches (which Jefferson sometimes
    called 'Angular Portals') at the

    Alexander Jackson Davis Rotch House, c.1845-7, New Bedford, Mass.

    Page 47

    Rotch House.
    Like many architectural popularizers of the first half of the 19th century, Davis
    and his architectural ally Andrew Jackson Downing dressed up traditional spaces
    in fashionable decoration. The Rotch House's 'Georgian plan' is a spatial type
    that has been used in large American houses since the beginning of the 18th

    south-east and south-west corners were once fitted with louvred enclosures or 'porticles'
    that were transitional spaces between inside and outside [6]. In addition, a glazed 'South
    Piazza' between the cabinet and library bays provided Jefferson with a 'greenhouse' whose
    triple-hung sash permitted many of the windows to function as doors.
    It is curious that similar devices characterized small houses after the mid-nineteenth
    century. Plant-filled bay windows, or 'conservatories', projected from many a parlour and
    dining-room, bringing a bit of the natural indoors while connecting it visually with the
    out-of-doors [19, 24]. Verandas served as transitional spaces between the completely open
    and the completely enclosed. Contact with nature was intended to improve family
    members, as at Monticello, but the relationship was a passive one. Nature was there
    primarily to be watched, to be observed from the shelter of the conservatory, the balcony,
    the veranda, or the pergola, or, in twentieth-century middle-class houses, from behind
    picture windows and sliding-glass patio doors.
    Heirs of Monticello

    The domestic themes that shaped Monticello and its successors were idealized
    imagesstoriesof family life depicted in bricks and mortar. Most Americans lived
    differently, then as now. It is not possible even to say that those who lived in singlefamily houses lived as the architecture implied that they did. Nevertheless, these ideas,
    worked out differently from era to era and house to house, are woven through the

    Page 48

    Frank Lloyd Wright Frederick C. Robie Residence, 1908, Chicago, III.

    single-family houses that have been so conspicuous an element of the American
    landscape since Jefferson's day, as three élite houses will illustrate.
    Andrew Jackson Downing called the Rotch House (c.1845-7) in New Bedford,
    Massachusetts, a 'cottage-villa', meaning, in his terminology, that it was the country retreat
    of a wealthy person (a villa), but that it was unpretentious and informal (a cottage) [23].
    15 The architect, Alexander Jackson Davis, based the plan on the eighteenth-century
    vernacular plan type that folklorists and geographers call the Georgian-plan house: it is
    two rooms wide and two rooms deep, with a passageway through the centre [24]. The
    dichotomies and axes observed at Monticello structure the Rotch House as well. The
    formal public rooms at the front contrast with the 'pleasant and retired' library at the rear
    (the words are Downing's). The ground-floor rooms are opened up into an
    interconnected suite, but insulated from the kitchen, the servants' working area, by
    closets, passages, and back stairs. The simple plan, then, was socially complex.
    The front door of the Rotch House was sheltered by an enclosed porch tower that
    intercepted outsiders, while a veranda and gable-end conservatories opened the house to
    nature. Downing read the exterior, whose 'Gothic' central gable was as formulaic as its
    plan, as a Rotch family portrait. The combination of the high gable, the porch, and the
    'drooping, hipped roof' characterized the occupants as 'a man or family of domestic tastes,
    but with strong aspirations after something higher than social pleasures'.16

    Page 49

    The 'Prairie' houses that Frank Lloyd Wright built for well-to-do Chicago suburbanites in
    the first decade of the twentieth century looked very different, but incorporated many of
    the same ideas. Looking back from the perspective of the 1930s, Wright described the
    Prairie house as an 'enclosure' that opened up inside to outside while providing a sense of
    shelter and giving the house 'more free space'. 17 His Robie House of 1908 was certainly
    an enclosure: it might be called Fort Robie for the way it walled off the family from the
    city [25]. Its high exterior walls and raised living-storey shielded the house from the
    street. An outer ring of service yards and walls hold outsiders even farther at bay. The
    carefully controlled interpenetration of outside and inside allowed the residents to see out,
    but not to be seen. In an élite urban neighbourhood, Wright created a one-way
    surveillance similar to Jefferson's on his mountain top.
    Wright sought 'interior spaciousness' in his houses, a phrase that, like the houses
    themselves, concealed more than it revealed. The archi-

    Robie Residence.
    First- (ground), second-(main), and third-floor plans. Only the main floor has the
    open plan for which Wright's houses were so famous.

    Page 50

    Page 51

    Richard Meier Smith House, 1965, Darien, Conn.
    Entrance front.

    Page 52

    tect's sense of domestic community was derived from the Victorian ideal of the family
    insulated from the outside world but thrown into each other's presence. On the main
    (second) floor, the living and dining space focused on a central hearthan emblem of
    family togetherness in the Victorian traditionthat was open to both rooms, allowing one to
    see through it, thus creating the illusion of a single open space [26]. From these formal
    spaces, balconies overlooked the street. However, there is more to the Robie House than
    this famous room. As at Monticello and its vernacular cousins, the three axes organized
    the interior. On the ground floor, under the living- and dining-room, were the more active
    play spaces. These were divided into the traditionally male domain of the billiard-room
    and a playroom for the children, with no pretence of openness between them. The least
    active spaces, the bedrooms, were on the third floor.
    The Robies employed live-in servants. No longer African-American slaves, they were
    nevertheless set off in a separate wing as Jefferson's slaves were. In common with Davis,
    Stevens, and scores of other planners of middle-class Victorian houses, Wright further
    isolated the servants' working spaces by interposing a stair, a closet, a pantry, and the bulk
    of a buffet and its contents between service and family spaces, creating an extra layer of
    insulation between them. In short, the 'openness' of the Robie House, as in all of Wright's
    Prairie houses, applies to only a small part of a house that incorporated a wide range of
    social and functional distinctions. Most of the Robie House consisted of the 'boxes beside
    boxes or inside boxes, called rooms' that Wright so often denounced. 18 Moreover, its
    gendered nature is particularly striking when we note that while there were rooms clearly
    identifiable as men's, children's, and servants' spaces, none was set aside for the female
    head of the household. The household community, while apparently comprehensive, was
    In explaining his Smith House (1965), Darien, Connecticut, architect Richard Meier wrote
    of a 'dialectic of open and closed', and of the 'idea of a spatially layered linear system with
    circulation across and along the layers' [27]. The plan was 'expressive of the
    programmatic separation of the public and private areas of family life', he noted.19
    Through the laboured professional jargon, the traditional dichotomies shine through. The
    front-back, up-down axes that have organized the active-passive, public-private
    categories of European-American domestic life since the Middle Ages were deployed here
    as expected [28]. The kitchen was below entry level, while the master bedroom and
    living-room were on the main floor, with secondary bedrooms lifted above them. As at
    Monticello, a longitudinal axis separated the social spaces along the back of the house
    from the private and work spaces along the front. Like a Victorian house or one of
    Wright's, the Smith House romanticized family life. All the bedrooms looked out on the

    Page 53

    Smith House.

    Page 54

    Smith House.
    Site plan.

    two-level living room, whose only architectural feature was a prominent fireplace, a
    traditional sign of family bonding.
    Set between the road and the Long Island Sound, the house served as a mediator between
    nature and culture like all the other houses that we have seen [29]. Unable to hide on a
    mountain top and unwilling to shield itself with a porch, the house dodged our gaze by
    the oblique approach and the raised and off-axis entry. The façade deflected attempts to
    see what is behind it. Only the entry was at eye level, and that looked straight through the
    house and out the back, ricocheting off the chimney. The back wall, on the other hand,
    was almost entirely glass, making the view of the Sound part of domestic space.
    Where Davis and Wright sought individuality through generic languages of shelter and
    personality, Meier returned to the notion of cultural authority that informed Jefferson's
    self-fashioning. In this case,

    Page 55

    the entrance façade recalled the work of Le Corbusier, as powerful a form-giver and rulemaker in 1965 as Palladio was in 1765. The façade borrowed authority by reminding us
    of the master's villas of the 1920s, crossed with the fenestration of his Notre Dame de
    Ronchamp of thirty years later.
    But there was an ambiguity in the Smith House: while the domestic organization, the
    surveillance of nature, and the allusions to cultural authority all remind us of Monticello,
    client and architect were separated here. If Monticello was a celebration of Jefferson's
    will, an exercise in self-making, we might ask whose will is being celebrated in the Smith
    House, Meier's or the Smiths'? The house conveys a double individuality: as one of his
    first published works, it distinguished the architect as a vendor of images. At the same
    time, it addressed the clients' desire for personal distinction. The consumerist impulse
    whose early stages were visible at Monticello in the 1790s is full-blown at the Smith
    House in the 1960s, where will, desirable imagery, and individual distinction were
    conferred on those who could pay for them.
    Obviously, there are many important ways in which the Rotch, Robie, and Smith houses
    differ from Monticello, ways that have to do with the specific terms of their historical
    contexts and the ways their architects understood the fundamental categories we have
    examined. Two hundred years do make a difference, as the remaining chapters will
    demonstrate. From the vantage point of the late twentieth century, these categories seem
    commonsensical, even hackneyed, but they have a history that can be traced to the late
    eighteenth century. At Monticello, the categoriesarchitecture as a product of the
    ordinariness of daily life, of its social rituals and economic patterns; architecture as a tool
    for defining identity in a consumer society; architecture as a vessel of memory of past
    social spaces and past architectural form; the role of cultural authoritywere already in

    Page 56

    Page 57

    On 4 July 1788 a great parade in Philadelphia celebrated the Declaration of Independence
    and the recent ratification of the Constitution. As the crowds looked on, riders on
    horseback, individual marchers, military companies, and guilds of craftworkers passed
    by, carrying banners and riding floats that represented civic virtues and historic dates
    important to the young republic. Twenty-fourth in the procession was 'The NEW ROOF, or
    GRAND FEDERAL EDIFICE; on a carriage drawn by ten white horses.' The float, which was over
    twenty-three feet high, was built for the Carpenters' Company by William Williams and
    Company from a design by the painter Charles Willson Peale. A statue of Plenty carrying
    a cornucopia stood on top of a domed rotunda which was in turn supported on thirteen
    Corinthian columns 'on pedestals proper to that order'. Thirteen stars encircled the frieze
    while the base was inscribed 'IN UNION THE FABRIC STANDS FIRM .' Three of the columns were
    unfinished, a reminder that three states had not yet ratified the new frame of government.
    Four hundred and fifty architects and house-carpenters, led by six of the wealthiest and
    most prominent of their number, marched behind the float. 1
    The Grand Federal Edifice combined a variety of traditional iconographies, including the
    dome as a sign of the all-encompassing universality of the heavens and the circle or
    sphere as an emblem of completeness and perfection. By depicting the states as columns,
    the float alluded to the republican ideal of self-sufficient sameness. The columns were
    like the states which were like individual citizens: every column was complete in itself,
    but every one was like every other one, and all were needed to finish the structure. In
    common with many Americans of the revolutionary era, the builders of the Grand Federal
    Edifice evoked a mythical link between the United States and the ancient Roman republic
    and the legendary virtue of its élite. Rhetorically, the American Revolution had been a
    revitalization movement, a kind of phenomenon that typically arises during periods of
    social lassitude and takes the form of a call for a return to fundamental values.2 The
    American revolutionaries claimed to be inventing nothing new, but to be restoring the
    purity of an original order before it had been corrupted. This was an argument that
    Renaissance classicists, the first to

    Page 58

    Plan of New Orleans, the Capital of Louisiana.
    This 18th-century plan illustrates the clustering of the institutions of church, state,
    and military around the riverside place d'armes and accurately depicts property
    boundaries as well.

    look back to the Romans, had applied to architecture. In the Grand Federal Edifice
    architectural and political nostalgia reinforced one another.
    Architecture is one of the most ancient and most evocative tools for symbolizing
    communities and polities. Its metaphorical possibilities are enriched by architecture's
    complexity. As an artefact comprised of many differentiated parts and spaces, a building
    can represent the human body (and vice versa), a community, or the cosmos.
    Consequently, architecture can help people conceptualize relationships among citizens and
    between citizens and authorities. The seventeenth-century New England Puritans, for
    example, imagined society as a nested series of patriarchal families ranging from the
    family proper up to the state and church. At each level, all members of the community
    were important, but each had been assigned a different degree of power and
    responsibility by God. The acceptance by each of his or her station created an integrated
    society. To illustrate these ideas, Puritan divines resorted to architectural metaphors.
    Richard Mather compared the necessity for integration in a church (meaning the
    institution) to the structure of a house, which was mere stones and timber 'till they be
    compacted and conjoyned'. 3 His Connecticut colleague

    Page 59

    Thomas Hooker compared the social order to a timber frame: 'if the parts be neither
    morticed nor braced, as there will be little beauty so there can be no strength. Its so in
    setting up the frames of societies among men, when their mindes and hearts are not
    mortified by mutuall consent of subjection to one another, there is no expectation of any
    successeful proceeding with the advantage of the publick.' 4.
    For all its richness, architectural symbolism raises recurrent questions. One has to do with
    the legibility of communal symbols. In most instances, it is easy enough to interpret what
    a monument was intended to mean by its designers or owners, but can we say with
    confidence what it did mean to its viewers? Second, is there a universal formal language
    that can be understood even where there are no auxiliary texts to explain intentions? Third
    is the issue of inclusion and exclusion. Who belongs to the community, and in what
    capacity? The premiss of monuments, governmental buildings, and other representations
    of community is that they encompass all of society's members, that they stand for
    universal values. But architecture necessarily operates at a level of abstraction that is not
    always legible or satisfying to its users, who may find themselves explicitly excluded,
    inadequately represented, or co-opted to values that they do not share. It is rarely possible
    to extract this sort of information from the monuments themselves, but by raising these
    questions of reception (where it is possible) we can think more insightfully about the way
    architectural symbols of community work.
    Those who have spent time in any western nation are usually able to 'read' its public
    spaces easily. Consciously or unconsciously, we recognize a variety of standard
    techniques for expressing authority, such as monumental size, expensive building
    materials, distinctive architectural decoration, or imagery that makes extraordinary
    mythical-historical claims to antiquity or authenticity for authoritative buildings; and their
    clustering, emphasis by axial approaches, or simple elevation above their surroundings
    that sets them apart from their surroundings.
    A familiar example is the European-American practice of town planning that clusters
    authority at the centre, often arranging it around a plaza or square, establishing a legible
    centre-periphery, public-private, or authority-subject relationship. This pattern was
    endorsed as long ago as 1573 in the Laws of the Indies, a set of ordinances to govern
    town planning in Spanish-American colonies. The authors of the Laws of the Indies
    envisaged a landscape that was socially integrated in the sense that it assigned every
    inhabitant and activity a place, and that it was to be politically and economically orderly.
    The colonial town would be both outward- and inward-looking, for it was meant to

    Page 60

    control both the indigenous inhabitants and the European colonists, who were believed to
    need as much supervision as the natives. To accomplish these intentions, the Laws of the
    Indies described an ideal town laid out on a grid plan aligned to the cardinal directions
    and surrounded by fields cultivated by farmers who would live in town. The
    headquarters of church and state would flank a large central plaza that was not a park, but
    a treeless, grassless open space set off from the surrounding streets and intended for
    military training and other public ceremonies. Arcades around the plaza would mark the
    buildings flanking it as the commercial centre of the town.
    This prescription seems authoritative, but it is puzzling if we read it as a rigid scheme to
    be applied to every settlement. Few Spanish colonial towns in North America followed it
    exactly. There was no need to, for the Laws of the Indies simply codified long-standing
    assumptions and familiar urban forms, some dating back to antiquity. The building blocks
    of the so-called Laws of the Indies towns could be found in New World Spanish towns
    like St Augustine, Florida (1565), laid out before 1573. They could be found in colonial
    towns built by the English in the thirteenth century to control Wales and parts of France,
    in the sixteenth century to conquer Northern Ireland, and in the early seventeenth century,
    at places like Jamestown, Virginia (1607), and Plymouth, Massachusetts (1620), to
    colonize North America.
    The same planning techniques shaped New Orleans, founded by the French in 1718 to
    command the intersection of the Mississippi and the Caribbean basins [30]. Engineer
    Pierre Leblond de La Tour planned the town, which was laid out in 1721 by his assistant
    Adrien de Pauger. As in many Euro-American port cities, the main square, called

    Common courthouse-square plans.

    The names refer to towns that offer important early example of each plan-type.

    Page 61

    Rock Springs Camp Meeting Ground, founded 1833, Lincoln County, NC.
    Site plan. Camp meetings, spontaneous revival-oriented gatherings founded in the
    Second Great Awakening of the early 19th century, were institutionalized and
    regularly scheduled by the mid-19th century. The meeting ground typically takes a
    town-like form, with the brush arbour located in a central square, and the tents
    opening on to streets ranged concentrically around it.

    the Place d'Armes, was moved to the river-bank. The major instruments of power, the
    parish church, town hall, and jail, were aligned along the side of the square opposite the
    river, while two other sides were flanked with warehouses and officials' residences. The
    houses of ordinary citizens filled the back streets, but near the edges of the town there
    was little building of any kind. Although New Orleans was built in the middle of a swamp
    and was consequently never approachable by land, an axial avenue, Orleans Street (which
    led from the land side of the city toward the square, where it ran into the back of the
    parish church) was apparently inserted as a matter of habit. The city's swamp siting
    likewise freed it from serious threats from any direction but the river, so the encircling
    fortifications that were equally rote elements of the plan were only half-heartedly and
    flimsily constructed, and were never completed.
    The principles that organized these colonial towns also structured such familiar
    landscapes as the courthouse squares of more than three thousand American county seats,
    particularly west of the Appalachians [31]. They appear also in unexpected settings,
    particularly those created by religious organizations. In June 1833 the Mormon prophet
    Joseph Smith sent a 'Plat of the City of Zion' to the new settlement at Independence,
    Missouri, to be used in laying out a new town there. The mile-square grid was to be

    aligned to the cardinal directions and laid out in half-acre lots. There would be three
    squares at the centre, two with twelve temples each, distributed according to the Mormon
    hierarchy of priesthoods, and one built up with communal storehouses. Southern county
    fairs and camp-meeting grounds also

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    Balls Creek Camp Meeting Ground, mid-19th century, Catawba County, NC.
    Today 'brush arbour' where meetings are held is a permanent, open-sided
    wooden building (foreground), the wooden 'tents' (background) are privately
    owned, and the camp grounds are racially segregated by custom.

    commonly followed the 'courthouse square' model, with communal activities in a central
    square surrounded by cabins. At the Rock Springs Camp Meeting (founded in 1832),
    Lincoln County, North Carolina, and the nearby Ball's Creek Camp Meeting (midnineteenth century), Catawba County, North Carolina, large central squares focus on the
    principal 'public' structures, the open-sided arbours, named after the improvised 'brush
    arbours' of the first camp meeting grounds. Privately owned, constantly rebuilt and
    upgraded wooden 'tents' (similarly named after temporary structures of the first camp
    grounds) are laid out concentrically in neat rows around them [32] [33].
    To our eyes, the geographies of power at New Orleans or even the camp meetings are
    easily read. To what extent are our interpretative abilities valid cross-culturally? Are there
    universal physical signs of authority? The first Europeans assumed this. They assessed the
    social organization of indigenous people according to the resemblance of their landscapes
    to European patterns. In the same spirit, they assumed that Native Americans would
    understand European spatial patterns instinctively. For this reason, the Laws of the Indies
    suggested that the colonists should not 'allow the Indians to enter within the confines of
    the town until it is built and its defenses ready and the houses built so that when the
    Indians see them they will be struck with admiration and will understand that the
    Spaniards are there to settle permanently and not temporarily.'. 5 Can we be so confident?

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    One of the earliest monumental structures in North America, now called Poverty Point
    (West Carroll Parish, Louisiana, c.1000 BCE), is superficially like New Orleans, with a
    waterside 'plaza' and axial paths leading to it [34]. The principal element of the site, which
    sits on a bluff above Bayou Macon, is a series of six concentric semi-circular ridges,
    about three feet high and about three-quarters of a mile across. These were built by piling
    up trash and covering it with earth, and they supported houses twelve to fourteen feet in
    diameter, sheltering a population that may have reached several thousand. The ridges are
    broken by four aisles leading to a central open space. Outside the ridges opposite the
    bayou is a large mound that may have been shaped like a bird, and several smaller
    mounds are scattered nearby.
    Poverty Point embodies several common characteristics of Native American monumental
    architecture. These include a marked contrast between ambitious large-scale
    constructions, usually earthworks, and extremely modest buildings; a fondness for
    geometry, often very precisely plotted; the incorporation of animal imagery into
    architecture and material culture (at Poverty Point, a 'bird-shaped' mound is
    complemented by the scores of tiny carved owls found by excavators); scattered
    settlements sited near watercourses (but rarely right on the water) rather than continuous
    settlement covering the countryside; and the long-term significance of monuments and
    structures as sites of memory: they are enlarged, reworked, or reused, but rarely
    Can we read Poverty Point as we did New Orleans? Although its builders were obviously
    well enough organized to marshal the labour power and materials to build on a grand
    scale, archaeologists are unable to describe how the site was used or who occupied what
    parts of the site. Were the earthworks really more important than the seemingly


    Poverty Point archaeological site, c.1000 BCE, West Carroll Parish, La.
    Reconstruction drawing of central district. The large mound at the rear
    (designated Mound A by archaeologists) may have been shaped like a bird.

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    Newark Earthworks, c.200 CE, Licking County, OH.
    Partly demolished in the 19th and 20th centuries. This survey drawing was made
    by the pioneering 19th-century scholars Ephraim G. Squier and Edwin H. Davis.

    flimsy buildings that stood on them? Did the roads focus inward on the plaza or point
    outward towards the mounds? Or were they boundaries that divided the ridges into
    neighbourhoods? There are no answers to these questions: the forms convey no intrinsic
    information about social relationships.
    Episodes of monumental building, each very different from the others and separated by
    centuries from them, recurred in the Mississippi River basin. In every case, we are
    confronted with the same problems of interpretation. A particularly spectacular
    architectural tradition was produced by the 'Hopewellian phenomenon' or 'synthesis' (to
    use the archaeologists' terms) which flourished c.100 BCE to 500 CE. 6 Among the most
    striking Hopewellian monuments are the 'ceremonial centres' of the Ohio Valley, such as
    that at Newark, Ohio, where a series of highly regular geometrical shapes are connected
    by what appear to be processional ways [35].
    Beginning at the south end, the Great Circle, with its low central mound (possibly another
    bird effigy), was firmly enclosed with a ditch-and-bank wall higher than any others in the
    complex. It suggests a terminus, but whether a beginning or an end is impossible to say. A
    series of low, roughly parallel walls with periodic openings in them led from the single

    opening in the Great Circle to a low-walled square (the

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    Wright Earthworks), of which only a corner now survives. The complex turned a corner,
    then continued west to another terminus, a precisely laid out circle and octagon that were
    higher banked than the processional ways, but not so high as the Great Circle. Opposite a
    'podium' on the south-western edge of the circle was a short processional way leading to
    the octagon. Small, low mounds at the open corners of the latter (some now flattened on
    top to serve as golf tees) acted as filters to vision, but did not prevent access. Other
    elements of the complex, which was surveyed in the early nineteenth century, have been
    demolished and are more difficult to interpret. They include a series of small singleopening circles that may have been constructed by members of the earlier Adena culture
    and reused by Hopewellian builders.
    The architects of the Newark earthworks used some of the spatial techniques employed at
    Poverty Point over a thousand years earlier, and they seem to have added a dynamic or
    processional element to the mix, but once again it is difficult to say from the surviving
    architecture alone who used this complex or how, or to imagine the structure of the
    community beyond observing that it must have been a large and highly organized one.
    The scale of the earthworks testifies to that: the largest Hopewellian complex, at
    Portsmouth, Ohio, was 20 miles long. The Newark earthworks covered four square miles
    and totalled 7.5 miles long, a project that required the displacement of seven million cubic
    feet of earth. Individual elements are comparably scaled: the octagon is so large that it is
    difficult to see all the way across.
    A half millennium after the Hopewellian synthesis disintegrated, a new monumental earthbuilding tradition of a very different sort appeared. The major site of this Mississippian
    culture was at Cahokia, Illinois, near present-day St Louis. Cahokia, which flourished for
    about three hundred years after 900 CE, was built as a series of mounds and platforms
    surrounding plazas. The largest of them, the so-called 'Monk's Mound' (named for a
    Christian church built on top in recent centuries) was over 1,000 by 700 feet in plan and
    about 100 feet high [36]. If Newark appears dynamic, Cahokia seems theatrical. The
    architecture suggests crowds gathered in the plaza to observe ceremonies performed atop
    the mounds, as they were on analogous Mesoamerican pyramids.
    Although Cahokia ceased to be used around eight hundred years ago, Mississippian
    societies survived into the era of European contact. The Natchez, a group of about 3,500
    people living in five villages along tributaries of the Mississippi River near the modern
    city named for them, were the last Mississippian mound builders. In the 1720s, just before
    they were dispersed in retaliation for an attempt to drive out the French, Antoine le Page
    du Pratz lived for a time in their major town, called the Grand Village. His published
    account, based on Natchez

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    Monk's Mound, c.1000 CE, Cahokia, III.
    Monk's Mound was the central and highest mound in the principal enclosure of
    the Mississippian centre at Cahokia. Its name derives from a church built on its
    summit by French colonists.

    explanations and his own observations, illuminates our understanding of the Natchez
    architecture of authority and revises our reading of the theatrical nature of Mississippian
    At the Grand Village, as at nearby Poverty Point, the contrast between impressive
    earthworks and humble architecture was notable. In the midst of a cluster of small houses
    built of poles set in trenches and plastered inside and out with mud were two low mounds
    about seventy-five feet square. The central mound was the residence of the head man,
    called the Sun or Great Sun. About 450 feet south of the Sun's Mound, across a plaza,
    was the Temple Mound, with a ramp extending into the plaza. Both the Sun's house and
    the temple were built of the same light construction as the houses of ordinary people, the
    only distinction being the eagles set on the ridge of the temple [37].
    According to le Page du Pratz, the Grand Village's mounds were less places of
    performance than of seclusion, 'into which only princes and princesses should have a
    right to enter', and the Sun's house and the temple were concealed by screens in front of
    their doors. 7 The mounds served as a kind of grandstand from which Natchez dignitaries
    watched ceremonies that took place in the plaza, such as the elaborate ritual in which the
    Sun moved between his house and the temple and, even more dramatically, the funeral of
    the Great Sun's brother, Tattooed Serpent. Attendants carried the deceased's body from

    his house, accompanied by an entourage that included two wives, his aides, his servants,
    and admirers. This funeral party, each member attended by eight male relatives, led a
    longer procession that made

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    Tattooed Serpent's funeral, 1725, Grand Village of the Natchez, vicinity of Natchez, Miss.
    Tattooed Serpent was the brother of the Great Sun, the Natchez leader. The
    drawing depicts the winding funeral procession from Tattooed Serpent's house, at
    the lower left, through the plaza to the temple, set on its low mound. When the
    procession reached the temple, Tattooed Serpent's family members and retainers
    were strangled as sacrifices. This is shown at either side. The swan-like birds on
    the temple's ridge are meant to be eagles.

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    several circuits around the plaza before arriving at the temple. The mourners arranged
    themselves in a semi-circle in front of it, and their male attendants placed deerskin hoods
    over their heads, then strangled them. Tattooed Serpent and his wives were buried in a
    trench in the temple, his principal courtiers were interred in front of it, and his house was
    The Grand Village of the Natchez suggests the possibilities and the limits of formal
    interpretations of the architecture of authority. Without the written accounts, something of
    the processes of architectural and social change could be read in the archaeological
    evidence for the repeated reconstruction of the mounds, which were enlarged after the
    death of each Sun. The differentiation of mound and plaza is also evident. However, the
    particularity of the monuments and their usethose elements that made them unique at the
    same time even as they participated in the long tradition of Native American monumental
    buildingare more difficult to see in the physical evidence. Only documentary sources
    convey this information.
    Most tellingly, the account of Tattooed Serpent's funeral rebukes our tendency to read
    other people's architecture as evidence of values shared by all members of a society. The
    archaeological remains hint at the general orderat the stratification of Natchez society
    between a privileged élite and the despised commoners, or 'Stinkards'but they cannot
    reveal the reception of the architecture's political message. Le Page du Pratz noted that
    one of the victims sacrificed at the Tattooed-Serpent's funeral was killed because she had
    shouted 'What! Is that the Tattooed-Serpent, that rare man? He is a Stinkard chief. I do
    not want to die for him'. Even among the élite crowd gathered on the Sun's mound there
    were sceptics. The French did not worry that their disparaging comments had been
    overhead by the Sun's wife, wrote le Page du Pratz, because'this law did not please her
    enough for her to find fault with those who spoke ill of it'. 8 In short, the Grand Village
    of the Natchez speaks most eloquently of the ambiguities of the formal representations of
    political authority and their interpretation.
    Visual imagery and metaphor have been as important, and as culture-specific, as spatial
    form in the architectural representation of American communities, yet there have been
    cross-cultural continuities as well. Domestic metaphors that celebrate the centrality of the
    family in most American societies were particularly favoured in both Euro-American and
    Native American architectures. Their very familiarity enabled communities to incorporate
    radical changes while retaining a sense of identity, as the story of the Iroquoian longhouse

    About 1500 years ago, peripatetic groups of north-eastern Woodland Indians began to
    settle in small communities by waterways and to

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    An Iroquoian house, c.900 CE.
    This reconstruction drawing was based on an example excavated at the Eldorado
    site, Ontario, Canada. The bench around the perimeter, the central fire, and the
    partitioned storage area at the far end of this small house were characteristic
    features of the classic longhouses of later centuries.

    build ovoid wooden houses. Typically, these dwellings incorporated low benches around
    their perimeters, and one or more central hearths [38]. As time passed, these ancestors of
    the northern Iroquoian peoples of New York State and adjacent Quebec and Ontario
    gathered in larger and larger towns, relied more and more on agriculture, and established
    matrilocal, communal households. By the sixteenth century these small Iroquoian houses
    had evolved into dwellings that were about 20 to 25 feet wide and 40 to 200 feet long and
    that were packed into formidably palisaded towns that the Europeans called 'Castles'.
    These 'longhouses' were made of saplings inserted into the ground and bound at the top
    into an arch 15 or 20 feet high, then covered with bark [39]. A corridor, punctuated with
    hearths every 20 feet or so, ran the length of the building. Along the sides, framed
    compartments with raised floors and low ceilings housed nuclear families of five or six
    The 'interior spatial geography and the experiential legacy of countless hours spent
    confined within them during the snowy winters of Iroquoia', according to historian
    Daniel Richter, encouraged an ethic of sharing and reciprocity that the people extended to
    their political self conception. Some time between 1400 and 1600 CE, the Mohawk,

    Oneida, Onondaga, Seneca, and Cayuga of upstate New York and adjacent Quebec
    formed a political confederation. 9 The People of the Longhouse, as they called
    themselves, imagined their confederation as members of a common ohwachira, the
    kinship group that formed the population of a longhouse. The Iroquois described their
    territory in

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    'Elevation des Cabannes Sauvages', c.1720.
    This Iroquoian longhouse was illustrated on the margins of the French Plan du
    Fort Frontenac ou Cataraouy.

    upstate New York and adjacent Canada as a longhouse, with the Five (later Six) Nations
    lined up in it. The Mohawk were named Keepers of the Eastern Door, the Seneca Keepers
    of the Western Door, and the centrally located Onondaga were Keepers of the Fire.
    After European contact the longhouse was abandoned as a residence. By the eighteenth
    century most Iroquois lived in single-family dwellings, but longhouses continued to be
    built as ceremonial structures that reminded their users of Iroquois bonds. In 1743
    traveller John Bartram lodged in an Onondaga council house that was built in the form of
    a traditional longhouse but used only for diplomatic business. Half a century later, in
    response to the social demoralization and military conquest of the Iroquois, the prophet
    Handsome Lake began to preach revitalization through a return to the old ways. The
    religion that was formalized after his death, a reinterpretation of traditional Iroquois
    beliefs overlaid with Christianity, is known as the 'Longhouse Religion'. Contemporary
    adherents worship in long rectangular buildings built of logs or timber frame, covered
    with gable roofs, and furnished on the inside with two rows of benches around an open
    central space [40]. The interior organization of these religious longhouses, with their
    bench-lined walls and elongated shape, recalls the domestic longhouses from which they
    take their name. The image of the longhouse and the memories of the society that used it
    have served the Iroquois as a stabilizing metaphor for nearly three centuries after the
    longhouse ceased to be the principal Iroquois dwelling, but the longhouse itself also
    changed during the intervening centuries. In fact, religious longhouses resembled the
    meeting-houses of the Quakers who proselytized among the Iroquois in the nineteenth
    century as much as they did traditional Iroquois dwellings. Like modern Iroquois

    longhouses, Quaker meeting-houses had separate entrances and separate

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    seating for men and women on raised, inward-facing benches. Nevertheless, the domestic
    metaphor helped to navigate social and religious changes and cultural contact.
    The longhouse first symbolized a political confederation and then collective loyalty to the
    old culture. The creators of the new United States government also strove consciously to
    symbolize a political community. In 1792 a competition was held for a capitol building at
    the new city of Washington. Entries were received from all over the United States. The
    judges, who included George Washington and Thomas Jefferson, permitted William
    Thornton, an unknown physician from the West Indian island of Tortola, to enter late,
    then awarded him the premium.
    Thornton's winning design employed a straightforward domestic image: it looked like an
    English country house. After the judges had allowed him to revise his scheme by
    consulting the other competition entries, the initial conception began to evolve, even drift,
    through a tangle of alternative schemes further complicated by the rapid turnover of
    supervising architects, the most notable of whom were Benjamin Henry Latrobe and
    Charles Bulfinch.
    During its initial construction in the early nineteenth century and its alteration in the
    succeeding decades, the United States Capitol took shape through bricolage, the ad hoc
    assembly of available odds and ends, which is one of the primary processes through
    which landscapes are infused with meaning and invention. In their imaginations, builders
    dismember old forms and reassemble the resulting spatial fragments, visual images,
    metaphors, and names. If they do their jobs well, the new forms evoke a similar response,
    as subsequent builders dismember and scatter them, and the process begins anew.
    The United States Capitol was cobbled together out of ideas


    Sour Springs Longhouse, 1870s, Six Nations Reserve, Canada.
    This log building was built to house the rituals of the Iroquois Longhouse
    Religion. The Iroquois, like many other Native Americans, learned log building
    from European colonists in the 18th century.

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    borrowed from colonial state-houses, classical antiquity, prominent European baroque
    buildings, and neo-classical geometry. Like the prerevolutionary capitols that preceded it,
    the new Capitol housed the fundamental institutions of governmentthe Senate, the House
    of Representatives, and the Supreme Courtin a single structure [41]. The formal armature
    of two identical houses joined by a gathering place may have been derived specifically
    from the Virginia Capitol (1701-4; rebuilt and remodelled 1751). 10
    The intellectual foundations of the Capitol were thoroughly neo-classical. The new sense
    of intellectual command over the world that we encountered at Monticello had both its
    natural and its cultural sides. By nature, neo-classicists meant the founding principles of
    nature, such as the laws of physics and optics discovered by Isaac Newton, a neo-classical
    hero. These were often represented architecturally as regular geometrical forms, such as
    circles, spheres, cubes, cylinders, or pyramids. The cultural counterpart of this new sense
    of intellectual understanding of the natural world was the desire for direct knowledge of
    the classical past unmediated by traditional authorities such as Vitruvius or Palladio.
    Eighteenth-century archaeology had shown classical architecture to be an exciting and
    flexible tradition, far different from the rule-bound canon described by earlier authorities.
    Classicism seemed new, vigorous, and near, particularly to a people who wanted to think
    of themselves as heirs of the Romans, as Americans did.
    In Benjamin Latrobe's revision of Thornton's design for the Capitol, the principal public
    rooms of the Capitol employed neo-classical geometries: they were domed, top-lit,
    semicircular spaces focused on

    William Thornton, Stephen Hallet, Benjamin Henry Latrobe, Charles Bulfinch et al. Unites States
    Capitol, Washington, DC, 17931916.

    This plan of the main (second) floor as it was in 1832-4 was drawn by
    Alexander Jackson Davis. The large semicircular room on the left was the House
    of Representatives' chamber, while the smaller semicircular chamber on the right
    accommodated the Senate. The Supreme Court was housed on the ground floor.

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    United States Capitol Washington, DC, 17931916.
    This daguerrotype of the east front, taken c.1846, shows Charles Bulfinch's
    original wooden dome and Benjamin Henry Latrobe's domed and top-lit House
    and Senate wings.

    podiums or benches framed by arches. For their architect the symbolic qualities of these
    spaces were augmented by their practicality, for he believed that their shapes would focus
    sound as well as vision. The building was clothed in Roman classical architectural garb,
    enriched by three newly invented orders based on an idea of French neo-classical theorist
    Marc-Antoine Laugier and depicting several of the principal cash crops of the country:
    corn (maize), cotton, and tobacco.
    Latrobe also envisaged the central rotunda, which he never had the opportunity to build,
    as a museum after the fashion of Jefferson's Indian Room at Monticello. Twenty-four
    niches would shelter statues of revolutionary heroes. This neo-classical didacticism was
    endorsed by his successor Charles Bulfinch, who did build the rotunda. He commissioned
    eight sculptured panels depicting the European discovery and conquest of North America
    for the rotunda, and crowned the space with a wooden exterior dome, higher than the one
    Latrobe had planned, to complete the first Capitol [42].
    One of Latrobe's most significant though little-noticed contributions to the Capitol was to
    accommodate the bureaucratic as well as the ritual aspects of republican government.
    During his two terms as architect of the Capitol, he embedded the ceremonial spaces in a
    network of offices and conference rooms that would be required for the day-to-day
    operation of the government [41]. Still, like the Grand Village of the Natchez, the Capitol
    was an idealized and somewhat schematic representation of the new national government

    intended to depict political consensus. With its allusions to a mythic Roman republican
    past, to universal geometries, and to historical events, it gave the institutions of
    government an appearance of seamless wholeness

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    Thomas U. Walter Design for new east front of the United States Capitol, 1855.
    The original Capitol is bracketed but not obscured by the new wings and dome.

    that belied national divisions. For example the iconography of the Capitol celebrated the
    economic products of the new nation rather than the social institutions, such as slavery,
    that created them. It sought inclusiveness by avoiding specificity.
    This evasion was exposed when the Capitol was enlarged beginning in 1851.
    Philadelphia-born architect Thomas U. Walter added larger wings to the ends of the
    building to accommodate new House and Senate chambers. To match the scale of the new
    building, Bulfinch's wooden outer dome was replaced by an elaborately engineered 4500ton cast-iron dome [43]. The 1850s were a decade of bitter debates over slavery and
    political power in the republic. As a result the Capitol's symbolism was carefully
    scrutinized. Thomas Crawford's statue Freedom Triumphant in War and Peace, which
    was to crown the new dome, originally wore a liberty cap, a traditional sign of revolution.
    Senator Jefferson Davis, later president of the Confederacy, complained that the liberty
    cap had been the head-gear of freed Roman slaves and consequently inappropriate to be
    associated with 'freeborn Americans'. Crawford substituted Roman military headgear
    decorated with feathers 'suggested by the costume of our Indian tribes'. 11 In Davis's view
    African''Americans were appropriately excluded from symbolic reference in the Capitol as
    they were from political participation in daily life. Similarly, the Capitol's builders
    consigned Native Americans to the status of mythical forebears rather than contemporary
    citizens. The controversy over the dome's crowning figure thus reemphasized the
    Capitol's builders' strategy for representing political community allegorically, at the same
    time that it made clear who did not belong to the republican community.
    Walter's Capitol is essentially the one that stands today, an image so familiar that we

    hardly even see it. When we do care to look, we

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    discover a rambling, ungainly structure. This is exactly the point. Over the past two
    centuries, the builders of the United States Capitol have been more interested in building a
    mythology, the central task of an architecture of citizenship, than a coherent formal
    composition. The United States Capitol was created through acts of bricolage
    consolidated by classical visual language and the neo-classical didacticism that pervades
    its iconography.
    In turn, the Capitol was the starting-point for later essays in the representation of
    citizenship, including, predictably, state capitols and county court-houses nationwide.
    Even those that appeared to depart most from the model, such as the skyscraper capitols
    and city halls of the twentieth century, most often retained the commitment to classical
    architecture and civic didacticism, and with them took on the difficult problems of
    inclusion and exclusion in political symbolism. The Nebraska State Capitol and World
    War I Memorial of 192232 is characteristic, both in its adherence to the tradition and in its
    substitution of a vision of continuous progress for the more static neo-classical
    conception of the virtuous and prosperous republic embodied in the United States Capitol
    The Nebraska Capitol was as self-consciously symbolic as the national capitol and, as the
    product of a single building campaign, was much more systematic in the effort. The work
    of the architect, Bertram Grosvenor Goodhue, was closely co-ordinated with that of
    sculptor Lee Lawrie, mosaicist Hildreth Meiere, and painter Augustus

    Bertram Grosvenor Goodhue, with Lee Lawrie, Hildreth Meiere, Augustus Tack, and Hartley Burr

    Nebraska State Capitol and World War I Memorial, 1922-32, Lincoln, Nebr.
    Photograph c. 1934

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    Nebraska State Capitol and World War I Memorial.
    Main-(second-) floor plan.

    Tack, working under the direction of a 'symbologist', University of Nebraska philosophy
    professor Hartley Burr Alexander. 12
    Both the skyscraper form and the steel-framed structure seemed progressive to Goodhue,
    who wondered whether they might not have 'put, or so I think, all historical forms on the
    blink', cutting off access to the traditional classical language of citizenship.
    It seems to me that it does. Of course I grant you it's very difficult to know just how to
    steer one's way through such a maze of difficulties. I don't claim to have done it myself
    with any success and don't know of anyone who has, for the moment you sail past the
    rock of dry-as-dust precedent you find yourself in the whirlpool of originality which
    means art nouveau and a lot of other crazy stuff. 13

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    Goodhue resorted to a Byzantine variant of classical architecture, suggesting the power of
    classicism in American civic expression, even in the face of 'theoretical' objections. This
    classicism formed the matrix for an iconographic programme whose message was that
    this recently colonized state was now a full-fledged part of the modern world, standing at
    the vanguard of human history.
    Goodhue conveyed the message architecturally by composing the building as a tower on a
    podium. As at the United States Capitol, the base contained halls for the state Senate and
    House of Representatives, connected by a rotunda, and accommodations for the state
    Supreme Court [45]. Equally important, the podium housed the rational, bureaucratic part
    of government. A century of growth in the size and complexity of public administration
    since the United States Capitol was built necessitated a ratio of offices to ceremonial
    public rooms much greater than in the Latrobe-Bulfinch building. Double-loaded
    corridors surrounded four central light courts, following the pattern of the 'modern'
    government office buildings of the 1830s and 1840s, such as the United States Treasury
    Building and the Post Office Department headquarters at Washington. Goodhue hoped
    that visitors would associate this plan with the urban grid, the rectangular land survey,
    and the flatness of the landscape. In contrast to the workaday administrative podium, the
    architect imagined the tower that rose from it as an aspiring, mystical landmark. The sense
    of emergence was reinforced by a characteristic device of Goodhue's, monumental figures
    that seemed to grow out of the building stone like crystals.
    The decorators embellished the architectural armature with interlocking narratives that
    were also divided between the base and the tower. Alexander explained the building
    much as Goodhue had. The base represented 'the quarter of the Earth and the historic
    course of human experience', while the tower was 'a gnomon of the Heavens and symbol
    of the more abstract conceptions of life derived from historical experience. Unitedly they
    express that combination of action and thought which is the essence of all human life,
    social as well as individual.' 14
    The capitol's iconography transformed historical vignettes into a vision of the future. The
    base was encircled with a series of sculptural panels depicting government and law from
    ancient times through the present, as well as with a chronicle of human life in Nebraska.
    State history carried the viewer from the outside into the ground floor, where the imagery
    became progressively more allegorical, culminating in the central rotunda. Its dome was
    decorated with mosaic figures representing eight virtues necessary for a civilized society,
    such as temperance, courage, justice, and wisdom. High above the rotunda, Lawrie's The
    Sower crowned the tower, alluding to the agricultural history of the Plains, but sowing the
    seeds of noble living, wisdom, justice, power,

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    and mercy. The result was a quasi-Hegelian narrative of transcendence. Citizenship was a
    religious quest. The stern and virtuous republican citizen of the United States Capitol had
    become the seeker after personal fulfillment: 'Political Society Exists for the Sake of
    Noble Living' read one inscription. History, the actual, was spiritualized and subsumed to
    the Oversoul, the possible.
    The precociously New Age qualities of Nebraska's capitol were underscored by the
    treatment of the state's Indians. They appeared as part of the prehistory of the state,
    anachronisms superseded by the pioneer and the urbanite. Judging from this building,
    there were no Native Americans in twentieth-century Nebraska. Instead, they acted as a
    natural force, like the buffalo who appeared on the pedestals bracketing the stairs and
    whose flanks were inscribed with an Indian prayer. Mosaic thunderbirds, an indigenous
    symbol of the heavens and the life that the heavens give the earth, encircled the tower just
    below the gilded dome. In this manner, Native Americans and their symbols were
    subsumed to the political-personal mythology of the state and incorporated into the path
    to spiritual transcendence. In its imaginative construction of a state full of possibilities
    and promise the Nebraska State Capitol's symbolism of community once again raised
    troubling issues of inclusion and exclusion. Who was represented? Whose history
    counted? Who belonged to the community and in what capacity? To whom did Nebraska
    Ancestral Homelands
    In its references to the topography of the Great Plains, to the indigenous inhabitants, and
    to the agricultural settlement of the state, the Nebraska State Capitol implied a primordial
    connection between land and people. In doing so, it drew on one of the most common
    ways of representing communities: the imaginative construction of an ancestral
    homeland. Ancestral homelands evoke special qualitiesmemories, experiences,
    knowledgeshared by a restricted group of people. Their purpose is both to include and to
    The metaphor of the ancestral homeland extends far beyond the construction of state
    capitols and other official structures. The American landscape is blanketed with
    intersecting, often contradictory, ancestral homelands. They are 'invented traditions', in
    which the selective recall, exaggeration, and sometimes outright fabrication of traditional
    practices are used to define a distinctive, territorially based cultural identity for a nation or
    some fragment of one. 15 The authenticity of identity does not depend on the authenticity
    of the vehicle. In an ancestral homeland, no distinction is necessary between the
    documented and the undocumented, the historical and the mythical, for the metaphor
    works either way.

    The Navajo ancestral homeland, for example, is tightly defined.

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    The Navajo emigrated into the Four Corners area of New Mexico, Arizona, Colorado, and
    Utah from the north a relatively short time before the Europeans arrived, but they
    consider the south-west to be their place of origin. In this place, which they call Dinetah
    and which is delimited by four sacred mountains, the Navajo first emerged to the surface
    of the earth from the lower world. Dinetah is composed of Holy People, who take the
    visible form of landscape features, animals, plants, the air, and heavenly bodies. Because
    the entire landscape encompasses distinctive individual personalities, it is said to be a
    sacred whole. The landscape serves as a mnemonic device whose features help people to
    remember detailed sacred stories, stories that are not to be shared with outsiders and in
    many cases cannot be shared with other Navajo either. And just as Nebraskans adopted
    the Plains Indians as their mythic forebears, so the Navajo claim the abandoned Anasazi
    pueblos as the homes of their ancestors.
    We might also read the Navajo ancestral homeland as a kind of historic landscape that
    serving the same kind of testimonial function as Plymouth Rock or Mount Vernon, which
    likewise remind us of holy people and events. In fact the idea of a historic landmarka
    place of special significance set in an otherwise neutral landscapeis one that contemporary
    Navajo can accommodate alongside their traditional view of the ancestral homeland as an
    unbroken, sacred whole. They commemorate recent historic sites such as Navajo Fortress
    in Canyon de Chelly, Arizona, where the Navajo were besieged by Kit Carson and his
    federal troops in 1864.
    Nevertheless, the idea of the ancestral homeland as a neutral field studded with
    discontinuous historic sites is one that is more characteristic of European-American than
    of Native American culture. The first landmarks of a Euro-American ancestral homeland
    were mapped shortly after the founding of the republic. In Hingham, Massachusetts,
    townspeople decided in 1791 to preserve their seventeenth-century meeting-house as a
    monument to their ancestors. In rapidly growing Philadelphia the eighteenth-century State
    House, the 'Hall of Independence' where the Second Continental Congress and the
    Constitutional Convention met, was rescued from demolition in 1811 and converted to a
    shrine at the time of the Marquis de Lafayette's visit to the United States in 1824. Its longvanished steeple was replaced and an approximation of the original panelling was
    installed in the room where the Declaration of Independence had first been read. A
    quarter of a century later, an eighteenth-century Dutch house at Newburgh, New York,
    that had briefly served as George Washington's military headquarters became a museum
    of the state of New York, while an organization of women led by South Carolinian Ann
    Pamela Cunningham succeeded in prying Mount Vernon, Washington's own house, from
    family hands in 1858 to make it a shrine.

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    Peabody and Stearns Massachusetts Building. 1893, World's Columbian Exposition, Chicago.
    Peabody and Stearns's building was one0 of many late 19th-century structures
    based on John Hubbard Sturgis's measured drawings of the John Hancock House,
    Boston, made just before the house's destruction in 1863.

    In the words of the Historic Preservation Act of 1966, the founding document of
    contemporary preservation practice, 'the spirit and direction of the Nation are founded
    upon and reflected in its historic past'. 16 Yet the historic past is intangible and ephemeral.
    It may be no accident that the origins of history museums and historic preservation in the
    United States coincided with the growth of a consumer society. In keeping with the
    consumer's substitution of the tangible for the intangible, architecture is summoned to
    stand for 'the spirit and direction of the Nation'. This equation of sign and signified is
    characteristic of consumer culture, but in architecture, as in other aspects of material
    culture, it rests on confusing notions of authenticity. While the artefact is testimony to the
    authenticity of values, it need not be authentic itself. One nineteenth-century commentator
    proposed replacing the original wooden Mount Vernon with a stone replica for
    permanence. This differed only in technological sophistication from modern historic
    restoration practice, which often involves the complete replacement or reconstruction of
    the structure and interiors of a building, often with different, superior, even synthetic
    materials. The building remains 'historic' as long as its skin is intact or accurately
    reproducedas long as it appears historic.
    Among the most conspicuous ancestral homelands in the United States was that created
    by adherents of the so-called Colonial Revival, an architectural and cultural phenomenon
    that first appeared in the mid-nineteenth century and that has never disappeared from

    American architecture. Under the aegis of the Colonial Revival, historic preservation,
    architectural historical research, and historicist architectural design fed off one another to
    shape a landscape evocative

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    of colonial times (by which Colonial Revivalists often meant anything dating before the
    Civil War). For example, antiquarians fought in 1863 to preserve John Hancock's
    eighteenth-century house adjacent to the Massachusetts State House in Boston. Although
    the house was demolished, architect John Hubbard Sturgis made a set of measured
    drawings of it that have come down to us as architectural historical documentation of a
    significant colonial Boston structure. In the late nineteenth century Sturgis's drawings
    were used by architects as raw material for the design of numerous new houses and
    public buildings, including the Massachusetts Building at the World's Columbian
    Exposition held in Chicago in 1893 [46].
    Needless to say, no architectural movementor more properly, architectural mood or
    attitudethat has lasted for nearly a hundred and fifty years should be oversimplified. As
    an evocation of a mythicized pre-industrial past used to unify a fragmenting industrial and
    commercial society, the Colonial Revival was a nation-building strategy that had many
    counterparts internationally. The English Queen Anne style, which romanticized postmedieval English vernacular architecture and which made inroads among those in the
    United States who stressed the English roots of American institutions, was most closely
    related to the Colonial Revival, and many American architects worked in both modes.
    The late-nineteenth-century folklife museums of Scandinavia, the Heian Jingu shrine of
    1895 in Kyoto (a vastly overscaled model of an early Japanese palace), and the Heimatstil
    architecture of Germany all shared the nationalist aims and antiquarian strategies of the
    American Colonial Revivalall were elements of ancestral homelands in those nations.
    As an outgrowth of picturesque architectural theory, the Colonial Revival in architecture,
    like the local-colour movement in literature, sought to embellish the spirit of regions by
    evoking the distinctive visual qualities of their oldest buildings. Between the late
    nineteenth and the mid-twentieth centuries, architects as diverse as Peabody and Stearns
    and J. Frederick Kelly in New England, George Howe and Charles Morse Stotz in
    Pennsylvania, or William Lawrence Bottomley and Thomas Tileston Waterman in Virginia
    designed Colonial Revival buildings closely attuned to their regions' architectural
    character. Their counterparts in other parts of the country, men such as Richard Koch in
    Louisiana, John Gaw Meem in New Mexico, or A. Page Brown in California, were
    equally adept at emulating the earliest French and Spanish architecture of their homes.
    Nevertheless, during the half century after 1875 when the Colonial Revival was most
    influential, it was above all the ancestral homeland of those who defined themselves as
    Anglo-Saxon, Teutonic, Protestant, or simply white. The Colonial Revival was an origin
    myth told through landscape, as the Navajo origin myth was. It adopted the rhetoric of a

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    George I. Lovatt St Rita of Cescia Roman Catholic church, 1907,

    revitalization movement, harkening back to a time when people were ostensibly more
    virtuous, more public-spirited, more homogeneous, and led simpler lives. Its aim was to
    counter the sectional division, political corruption, ethnic cacophony, and cultural erosion
    that Colonial Revivalists believed they saw around them. The curators of the period
    rooms (displays of early American furniture and decoration arranged in domestic settings)
    in the Metropolitan Museum of Art's new American Wing warned in 1925 that 'The
    tremendous changes in the character of our nation, and the influx of foreign ideas utterly
    at variance with those held by the men who gave us the republic, threaten, and unless
    checked, may shake its foundations'. They hoped that the American Wing would help
    'revive those memories' of the founders'. values and aid in 'the Americanization of many
    of our people', surely a curious aim for an art museum. 17 Similar reasoning led the
    founders of charitable institutions aimed at immigrants to choose colonial architectural
    styles for their buildings.
    As the example of the Colonial Revival illustrates, ancestral homelands in the United
    States have commonly been associated with ethnic groups, and they have served to
    reinforce competing claims to dominance. At a time of heavy southern European
    immigration to the United States, for example, some American academics began to search
    for signs of ancient occupation of the continent by northern Europeans. In

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    Bank of Canton (formerly Chinese Telephone Exchange), 1909, San Francisco.
    This small building, based on a type of Buddhist religious monument called a
    pagoda, originally housed Cantonesespeaking telephone operators.

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    1870, architect R. G. Hatfield announced that the Newport Tower, the ruin of a
    seventeenth-century windmill in Newport, Rhode Island, was in fact a Viking baptistry,
    inside which he had discovered a Viking burial. Two decades later Eben Horsford, a
    Harvard professor of chemistry, proclaimed Lief Eriksson the founder and first settler of a
    Viking settlement on the site of Cambridge, Massachusetts, that had left behind the
    remains of an elaborate canal system. Using the most recent techniques of place-name
    analysis, Horsford went on to demonstrate that the Indian place-names of New England
    were corruptions of Old Norse words. For men like Horsford, the idea that Italians might
    have a claim to America based on its 'discovery' by Christopher Columbus was
    intolerable. He built a replica Viking ship and took it to the World's Columbian Exposition
    in Chicago to protest against Columbus's claim. The Newport Tower and Viking
    Cambridge became landmarks in an ancestral 'Anglo-Saxon' homeland where, as in
    Dinetah, exclusion was as important a function of the ancestral homeland as inclusion.
    While statements such as Halsey's and Tower's or actions such as Horsford's seem sinister
    because they were so often turned against immigrants, African-Americans, and others of
    the powerless, it is important to remember that, as an invented tradition, the Colonial
    Revival had counterparts among American minorities. They too created landscapes based
    on mythicized versions of their own pasts to claim the right to participate in American
    society. The overscaled early-twentieth-century Renaissance, Baroque, and Byzantine
    urban churches constructed for eastern and southern European Roman Catholics and
    Orthodox Christians, for example, linked lower-class immigrants to the classical high
    cultures of their home countries, in response to Colonial Revival appropriation of the
    Renaissance legacy [47].
    When San Francisco's Chinatown was reconstructed after the 1906 earthquake and fire,
    pseudo-Chinese architectural decorations and street furniture created a fantasy Chinese
    city like none known in Asia [48]. These masonry buildings, occupied by people from
    south-eastern China, were embellished with false fronts evoking the élite classical
    architecture of northern China. Owing to legal restrictions on Chinese property
    ownership, most of Chinatown's buildings were owned, and usually designed, by
    Caucasians, but they were intended for Chinese tenants, who sometimes requested that
    pseudo-Chinese decorations be added to otherwise plain façades. For non-Chinese, this
    decoration marked the district as an exotic playland, which suited those Chinese
    merchants who catered to them. For residents, it served the purpose that invented
    traditions often do, of giving a cohesive public identity to people who were divided by
    social class, religion, dialect, or regional origin both in their native lands and in the United

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    Building sand-castles alongside a casita in El Barrio, New York, NY, c. 1988.
    Casitas are community houses built by Puerto Ricans in New York City. They are
    usually nostalgic evocations of Caribbean folk houses. This casita, with its
    gable-end porch, recalls a kind of house created in the islands in the 17th century
    by the fusion of indigenous, African, and European house types. In the 19th
    century, it was carried to the Gulf Coast as the shotgun house. In the 20th century,
    it has appeared in the north-east as a common casita type.

    The delineation of ancestral homelands remains an important function of American
    architecture. Puerto Ricans in the South Bronx use vacant lots as sites for small
    community houses called casitas [49]. They commonly take the form of bohios,
    traditional Caribbean rural workers' houses formed from a synthesis of European, Indian,
    and African architectural ideas. The choice of a building type rarely built in Puerto Rico
    any longer founds ethnic identity in a mythic homeland evoked in casita names such as
    Villa Puerto Rico, La Brisa del Caribe, and Añoranzas de Mi Patria (Yearnings for My

    In Washington, DC, in the 1970s, African-Americans painted Ndebele-style decoration on
    the Capitol Hill alley buildings of Frederick Douglass Court [50]. During segregation
    blacks had been relegated to the alleys of Capitol Hill, but they were being driven out

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    by gentrification in the 1970s. The paintings were a response, a reclaiming of alley space,
    but the choice of decoration was telling. The Ndebele are a southern African group, not
    historically among the enslaved peoples brought to North America, but their distinctive
    graphic designs, so strange in an American urban setting, were called on to assert panAfrican pride and identity in a hostile social environment.
    Cultural Authority
    Architectural definitions of community such as those embodied in imagined ethnic
    ancestral homelands stress boundaries, excluding some people altogether from the
    communities in question. Other built images of community are more inclusive, but
    emphasize ranking people within the community. When colonial Anglo-Americans
    attended church, for example, they took seats according to their social identities. In
    Quaker meeting-houses men were separated from women, adults from children, and
    sometimes whites from blacks. Among the Puritans and Anglicans the same distinctions
    were usually observed, and in addition communicants were seated according to their
    social rank in the community. In every congregation, a local élite governed the church
    and their dominance was acknowledged architecturally. Even though the Quakers had no
    formal clergy, for example, prominent members sat on raised benches facing the rest of
    the congregation. In the established (state-run) Anglican churches of eighteenth-century
    Virginia, the élite sat nearest to the altar or, later, in private galleries (balconies) secluded
    from the rest of the congregation. In fact, a domestic metaphor claimed the church as the
    domain of the élite. Anglican churches and Puritan meeting-houses closely resembled the
    houses of the colony's gentry in size, material, form, and architectural decoration [51]
    [52]. The liturgical fittingsthe textiles,

    Ndebele-style decoration, 1970s, Frederick Douglass Court, Washington.

    These decorations were painted on alley buildings behind the Frederick
    Douglass House, a museum, to celebrate the African roots of black

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    Westover, c.1750, Charles City County, Va.
    Although Westover is traditionally thought to have been the home of the renowned
    diarist William Byrd II, it was probably built after his death by his son, William
    Byrd III.

    communion tables, communion silverall replicated those that could be found in the
    colony's finest mansions. To reinforce the connection, the donors often engraved their
    own names or coats of arms on objects that were, metaphorically, Christ's household
    furnishings. The similarity of the ritual environment of the church to the domestic
    environment of Virginia's grandees made the visual point that the existing social order of
    the colony was divinely ordained: God was the greatest gentleman in the neighbourhood.
    This metaphor had biblical underpinnings, alluded to by the seventeenth-century
    Massachusetts diarist Samuel Sewall, who dreamed of heaven as a 'House not made with
    hands, which God for many Thousands of years has been storing with the richest
    furniture . . [a]. Magnificent Convenient Palace, everyway fitted and furnished' 18 The
    same metaphor inspired Utah's Latter-Day Saints (Mormons), who fitted out their
    nineteenth-century temples with parlours and other public rooms reminiscent of the most
    elegant houses. 19

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    The point was distinction. Sewall's heavenly home was dramatically different from the
    earthly homes of his yeoman neighbours. Virginia's Anglican churches were like gentry
    houses, but, equally important, they were unlike those of most Virginians. The difference
    was a function of money, of course, but it was also a function of appearance. In
    American architecture social hierarchy has often been worked out in a struggle for
    cultural authority, a struggle to identify certain aspects of culture as Culture, an élite
    homeland as exclusive in its own way as an ancestral homeland. The key battles were
    fought in the late nineteenth century.
    Before the Civil War the landscape of culture (in the artistic, as opposed to the
    anthropological sense) was disparate and diffuse. Much of it lay in the commercial
    domain, in theatres, public gardens, circuses, and similar venues that made little
    distinction between what would now be called high and popular culture. At the same
    time, the notion of culture as a personal attainment, part of a middle-class process of selfcreation akin to Jefferson's self-creation, gained ground. Among the so-called respectable
    working classes, culture, like evangelical religion, served as a vehicle for social
    advancement. Singing schools and other musical organizations, as well as the many
    athenaeums and occupation-specific libraries (mechanics' libraries, apprentices' libraries,
    mercantile libraries) founded by antebellum urbanites, left the mark of self-improvement
    on the built landscape. Other cultural organizations, such as mechanics' institutes and art
    museums, served as vehicles for promoting technical advances and public recognition for
    practitioners. In short, antebellum Americans saw culture as a part of the glittering urban
    life but also as something discrete and inherently worth cultivating. It was a commercial
    commodity but also a genteel accomplishment and, increasingly, something that
    transcended the commercial realm.

    James Wren, designer and undertaker Falls Church, 176770, Falls Church, Va.
    The Anglican church was the state church of Virginia and other royal colonies.

    Each parish was controlled by local gentry, who modelled the buildings on
    houses like Westoveron their own residences, that is

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    Furness and Hewitt Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts, 18726, Philadelphia.
    This view was made around 1880, just after the Pennsylvania Academy moved
    into its new home.

    Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts.
    First-and second-floor plans.

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    Page 91
    Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts.
    Second-floor hallway, looking towards stair hall.

    The Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts, constructed in Philadelphia in 1872-6 to
    coincide with the Centennial celebrations, was a product of this pre-war mixture of
    motives [53]. The new building was the third home of an institution that had been
    founded in 1803 and remained an old-style trade school and a space for artists' selfpromotion. Essentially, it was a large two-storey shed, with galleries on the upper floor
    and the art school on the ground floor, with the whole fronted by a striking head-house
    containing the stairs and some offices [54]. The head-house-and-shed format was
    reminiscent of a common railway-station plan, or of a commercial building with an
    elaborate show-room façade and a plain warehouse behind. The long vista down the
    main hall, with its iron-ribbed skylights, similarly evoked shopping arcades in a city that
    was home to the first American arcade [55].
    The Academy was meant to embellish the city. It stood just two blocks north of an
    ambitious new city hall that began to rise in the same year. The two new buildings
    prompted the Reverend William Henry Furness, the dedication speaker and father of the
    Academy's principal designer, Frank Furness, to exclaim that the 'monotony of our streets
    is disappearing: the spirit of beauty is beginning to brood over our city'. 20. As an urban
    ornament, the Academy was called on to transcend mere commerce, which was not
    capable of generating emblems worthy of a great city. So Furness designed a building that
    was consciously 'artistic' and based closely on current French and English architectural
    theory. The head-house had a mansard roof and in the French manner was broken
    visually into a central pavilion with wings (as the new city hall was). Along the north
    side, where the studios projected beyond the second floor to accommodate skylights, the
    upper-storey brick wall was supported on a trussed iron beam. Following the precepts of
    Eugène-Emmanuel Viollet-le-Duc, who argued that a modern architecture should blend
    historical imagery with the frank and distinctive use of modern materials, Furness left the
    beam exposed on the exterior and worked it into the polychromed brick pattern. Inside,
    the architect similarly bridged the openings between galleries with exposed I-beams
    supported by columns that appeared to be Gothic piers made of machine parts, again
    following Viollet-le-Duc's precepts [56].
    The Academy's colourful exterior was inspired by the writings of English critic John
    Ruskin, who was obsessed with the surface qualities of buildings. Ruskin advocated
    mixing materials of different natural colours to produce an effect of 'structural
    polychromy'. He also recommended compact ground-plans with strong horizontal

    cornices and simple skylines, as well as ornament founded in natural forms, all of which
    characterized Furness's design.
    If it looked back to antebellum notions of culture as self-improvement (and traditions of
    'metropolitan improvements' to the

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    Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts.
    Gallery interior, with exposed I-beam and mechanistic columns.

    Page 93

    cityscape), the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts also marked an early stirring of 'the
    sacralization of culture', to borrow historian Lawrence Levine's phrase. Certain arts of the
    common, mixed, diffuse cultural life of the nation were redefined in the late nineteenth
    century as Culture, 'spiritualinviolate, exclusive, and eternal', something to be set aside,
    revered, and protected. 21. Sacralized culture was the domain of artists and experts, and
    could be observed by amateurs and audiences only from a respectful distance.
    While the sacralization of culture owed something to antebellum aspirations toward selfimprovement, the post-Civil War movement was more intense and more class-bound than
    anything earlier, as cultural institutions were singled out as arenas for élite self-assertion.
    Traditionally, European élites had several avenues for social action, including the
    endowment of religious institutions, a practice almost non-existent in the Protestantdominated United States, and the patronage of secular charitable institutions. The latter
    had been popular among American philanthropists in the early nineteenth century, but by
    mid-century they appeared to have failed and were in disrepute as recipients of élite
    benefactions. Furthermore, the élite had little to gain by cultivating a constituency among
    the poor. Consequently, their attention was redirected after the Civil War towards cultural
    institutions that could memorialize families and keep their names before the public. At the
    same time they promoted élite disengagement from charitable relief in favour of forms of
    philanthropy that made poor and working-class Americans responsible for their own
    individual self-improvement.

    Henry Hobson Richardson Oliver Ames Memorial Library, 1877-9, North Easton, Mass.
    Exterior c.1880.

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    Oliver Ames Memorial Library.
    Reading room, with alcove stacks.

    The Oliver Ames Memorial Library at North Easton, Massachusetts, one of a series of
    libraries designed by Henry Hobson Richardson, did all these things [57]. An off-centre
    entrance, marked by a huge arch and an adjacent stair tower, led into the reading-room.
    To the left was the book room, marked by its row of high windows. The late-nineteenthcentury donor saw himself (almost always him-self) as a paterfamilias. As historian
    Abigail Van Slyck has noted, 'Nineteenth-century philanthropy, like paternal love,
    imposed upon its recipients a debt of gratitude that they had not asked to incur and that,
    no matter how hard they tried, they could never adequately repay.' 22 In the Ames
    Library, the relationship was established through hierarchical domestic metaphors similar
    to those used in eighteenth-century churches. The lush interior focused on a fireplace fit
    for a Renaissance prince and decorated with a portrait medallion of Oliver Ames,
    claiming for the Ames family a pre-eminence in the cultural as in the economic life of
    North Easton. The books were kept in old-fashioned alcove stacks, an arrangement
    opposed by professional librarians but preferred by donors, from which they had to be
    delivered to readers by a male librarian, the donor's surrogate [58]. The librarian gave the
    book, the patron did not take it. In these settings, through these rituals, literary works that
    were previously diffused through public and private life, popular and commercial culture,
    were recast as something that could be given by a patron to neighbours who might not
    otherwise have access to them.
    The Ames Library was part of a carefully shaped baronial landscape that may be unique
    in American architectural history, a Mecca of

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    cultural authority. It began prosaically enough when Oliver Ames opened a shovel factory
    at North Easton in 1803. He and his sons Oliver and Oakes built up North Easton as a
    small, family-owned New England mill town like hundreds of others. Although Old
    Oliver, as he was called, died in 1863, his sons continued to prosper. They profited
    handsomely from defence-contracting in the Civil War, and they became major investors
    in the Union Pacific Railroad. Oakes was elected to Congress, where he was caught in the
    Credit Mobilier scandal of 1873 and died in disgrace shortly afterwards. Oliver died in
    At this point, Oakes's and Oliver's sons Oakes Angier Ames and Frederick Lothrop Ames
    swung into action to repair the family name. They had always aspired to something lofty,
    and at mid-century had built elaborate houses for themselves near the Queset Rivera
    Gothic villa for Oakes and an Italianate mansion for Frederick. They reworked the
    utilitarian mill-race as a picturesque watercourse. After the deaths of their fathers, they
    transformed North Easton into a memorial landscape. The two houses became the nucleus
    of a manorial array. A Gothic church was built to one side of them, with a family burial
    plot in the cemetery behind it. The disgraced Oakes was interred on a small knoll, with
    successive generations of Ameses laid out concentrically around him. The Oliver Ames
    Memorial Library was set on the other side of the houses, with the Richardson-designed
    Oakes Ames Memorial Hall constructed next to it in 1881 [59]. Frederick Law Olmsted
    was called in to landscape the site and the town square across

    Henry Hobson Richardson, architect; Frederick Law Olmsted, landscape architect Oakes
    Ames Memorial Hall, 187981, North Easton, Mass.

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    Henry Hobson Richardson Ames Gate Lodge, 1880-1, North Easton, Mass.
    This contemporary photograph was carefully composed to associate the house
    with the foreground rock (which remains in place).

    from it. Richardson was also hired to build a railroad station, a new gate lodge in 1881-2
    for Frederick L. Ames's estate Langwater, on the edge of town, and a monument to Oakes
    and Oliver to be set next to the Union Pacific tracks in Wyoming [60] [61]. Almost as an
    after-thought, a monument to Old Oliver was erected in 1911 adjacent to the company
    The Memorial Hall, the gate lodge, and the monument bear a closer look. The hall's
    rusticated ground floor appeared to be an extension of the outcropping on which it was
    built, while its five arches were echoed in Olmsted's rustic grotto across the street. The
    brick upper storey implies that only a minimal human supplement was needed to turn a
    natural site into architecture. The same rusticated stonework was used at the Wyoming
    monument, a stepped pyramid inscribed in a sixty-foot cube. From a distance, it is
    difficult to distinguish the monument from the natural outcroppings that dot the mountain
    pass around it. The boulders that were used to construct the gate lodge appear to have
    been subjected to the same minimal human effort, as the rock that the nineteenth-century
    photographer included in the foreground of his portrait (and that remains in its original
    location) pointedly suggested.
    These monuments naturalized the Ames family. Striking as they are, Richardson's works
    were only the finishing touches on a co-ordinated landscape, constructed over several
    decades, that also used up-to-date Gothic architecture and allusions to English picturesque
    landscapes to obscure the Ames family's rise from small manufacturers to industrial
    magnates and politicians behind a manorial imagery that suggested that they had been

    there forever.
    There was nothing in these buildings of the rationalistic, or of

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    Henry Hobson Richardson and Augustus St Gaudens Ames Monument, 187982, Sherman, Wyo.

    the mundane worlds of industry and commerce on which the donors' fortunes were built
    (and, in the case of North Easton, which could be found in the factories that stood
    directly across the street from the donated buildings). Architectural languages were
    chosen that deliberately set the donors' domain apart from that of the beneficiariesAmes
    employeesand that set the sacred world of Culture apart from everyday life.
    The issues of inclusion and exclusion, the aspiration towards encompassing symbolism in
    the face of the ethnic and class divisions embodied in ancestral homelands and
    monuments to cultural authority, continue to puzzle public bodies and designers charged
    with creating architectural representations of American community. At the same time, it is
    now less possible for a few politicians, philanthropists, or designers to decide issues of
    public representation in private. They are likely to be challenged at every turn. This is a
    healthy development for democracy, although proponents of design often lament the
    increased difficulty of creating public art. As the case of the Grand Village of the Natchez
    suggests, however, the issue may be less one of a breakdown of consensus than of the
    greater visibility of dissent now than in the past.
    In the 1980s the Greater Cincinnati Bicentennial Commission planned to honour the twohundredth anniversary of the city's founding by clearing a water front industrial district to
    create a park. They chose sculptor Andrew Leicester to design the Cincinnati Gateway, a
    monumental entrance to the new park [62]. Leicester believed that his lighthearted work

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    Andrew Leicester, artist, Meyer, Scherer & Rockcastle, architects Cincinnati Gateway, 19878, Cincinnati.
    Close-up of entry showing steamboat-stacks, Pigasus and (in background) the
    Flood Column, topped by Noah's Ark, and marked to indicate the high-water
    points of Cincinnati's major floods.

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    provides an emblem for the city; a gathering place and a site from which to view the river.
    It involves the community in its development and seeks to interact with the visitor
    through its use of symbols. It seeks to intrigue and in doing so to impart knowledge about
    the city. Perhaps the most important objective of this project is to establish an interaction
    with the community and the individual visitor, for it is through this interaction that the
    work will acquire the special meaning and acceptance accorded to a true public place. 23
    The Cincinnati Gateway was a quintessential specimen of visual bricolage, and the
    designer's choice of his kit of parts was particularly interesting. A 480-foot-long mock-up
    of the Miami-Erie Canal lock that once stood near the site served as the Gateway's
    armature. Along the top ran a scale model of the Ohio River, while the walkway that
    passed underneaththe gateway properdepicted the Cincinnati Arch, the geological
    formation on which the city sits.
    The outside wall of the Gateway was studded with reminders of past inhabitants of the
    region. Stylized ceramic fossils and masks based on the artefacts of the Adena culture,
    mound-builders who preceded the Hopewellians in the region, were embedded in
    tilework 'strata'. The hand-rails on the Gateway's stairs were equally stylized
    representations of the Great Serpent Mound (c.1070 CE), a nearby Mississippian earthwork
    that may be the most famous American Indian mound. The historical and geological
    givens of the site were paired with reminders of the city's nineteenth-century economy.
    The course of the Miami-Erie Canal was mapped in tile inside the gate, while the structure

    Cincinnati Gateway.


    Page 100

    crowned with four tall smokestacks, emblematic of the riverboat traffic that filled the
    Ohio River in the last century. In the course of his research, Leicester also learned that
    nineteenth-century Cincinnati was the largest packer of pork in the world, and had been
    known as 'Porkopolis'. So he topped the smokestacks with life-size bronze winged pigs,
    which he named 'Pigasus' [63].
    Unlike the capitol buildings, the historic monuments, or the cultural institutions, the
    Cincinnati Gateway offered no lessons in citizenship or culture. Yet it was a governmentsponsored project that aimed to encapsulate an entire community and its history. Leicester
    presented his intriguing fragments of the past, apparently without comment, as facts
    rather than metaphors. The undisguised bricôlage delighted many viewers, who accepted
    the Gateway as a layered urban image without an obvious narrative.
    No image is that nïve. The Gateway was rife with implicit commentaries on community. It
    hinted at who belonged and who did not. As at the Nebraska Capitol, Native Americans
    were included, but while they were not as romanticized or as mysticized as in Goodhue's
    building they remained firmly a part of the past, coupled with the fossils. Moreover, the
    Indians were the only cultural group explicitly represented. Eliding historic contemporary
    ethnic and social divisions, Leicester's monument lumped together everyone who lived in
    Cincinnati since 1788 as an undifferentiated commonalty united by the city's economy.
    The racialized and gendered economic life of the nineteenth century were no more
    evident in Leicester's canals, hogs, and smokestacks than they had been in Benjamin
    Latrobe's corn, tobacco, and cotton capitals at the United States Capitol. And just as the
    slaves who grew the cotton and tobacco were excluded from reference in Crawford's
    statue, so the women who lived in Cincinnati were ignored in the focus on steamboats,
    slaughter-houses, and canals, all sites of male work. Nor was the city's cultural or political
    history mentioned. Even though Cincinnati, a border city and the home of Lane
    Theological Seminary, a prominent abolitionist-oriented institution, was in the forefront
    of the battle over slavery, this did not figure in Leicester's work. Instead, Cincinnati's
    nineteenth-century commercial and industrial economy was held forth as its urban
    As a result, this celebratory monument, which strove for visual delight and appealed
    openly to our sense of humour, aroused a storm of public reaction that focused directly
    on issues of representation, memory, and mythology. Most people approved the romantic
    allusion to steamboats, but many were bitterly opposed to Pigasus. Curiously for a
    monument that studiously ignored ethnicity, one critic described Pigasus as 'an ethnic
    slur'. For another, to recall the era of slaughter-houses, when the Ohio River was
    nicknamed 'Bloody River' after the profusion of pigs' blood and entrails floating in it, was

    to undermine

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    Cincinnati's 'progressive image'. 24 That critic accepted the premiss of cultural authority
    that a community's highest values transcended commerce and the gritty realities of making
    a living. The tension between the desire for common ground and enduring divisions
    within American communities continued to confront Leicester as it had the builders of the
    United States Capitol two hundred years earlier.
    The ambiguities of community, authority, and citizenship are of more than symbolic
    interest. The formulations of inclusion and exclusion encompassed in civic
    representations have practical consequences in the landscapes of American daily life. At
    the most mundane level, they bear on the simple right to use public space, an urban issue
    that has been debated continuously since the early years of the republic. Antebellum city
    governments passed ordinances forbidding loitering, and they prohibited street vending,
    scavenging, and other kinds of marginal activities that often meant the difference between
    subsistence and the almshouse for poor Americans. Other laws prohibited reclining and
    smoking (which were believed to be quintessentially lower-class recreations) in public
    squares, as a way to restrict those spaces to genteel users. Landscape architect Frederick
    Law Olmsted wanted his late-nineteenth-century urban parks to be open to all city
    residents, but only if they adhered to prescribed standards of conduct. Sports and other
    active pastimes were prohibited, and Olmsted wrote of the need to train the lower classes
    in proper park use. The right of the poor to use the city streets is still a sore point for the
    privileged, who complain about street vending, begging, and the simple presence of the
    urban poor on the street. Modern ordinances outlaw sitting on sidewalks, 'aggressive'
    panhandling, and selling without an expensive licence, while individual property-owners
    fence off sheltered niches, scatter broken glass, install fraises along sittable ledges, and
    erect plastic stacks to vent steam (that might otherwise warm a person) high into the air.
    Those who can afford it retreat to gated communities and office parks where all the space
    is legally private, and anyone can be excluded.
    In the face of these enduring divisions in the American community, some designers have
    imagined new communities that might be inclusive but undisturbed by social divisions.
    The most recent, who call themselves New Urbanists or neo-traditional town planners,
    envisage a more pluralistic urbanism than that of the gated communities and antipanhandling ordinances. They have declared themselves in favour of the city over the
    country, of more density rather than less, of tightness over sprawl, of urban diversity over
    suburban homogeneity, although most of their work, at such developments as Seaside,
    Florida, and Laguna West, near Sacramento, California, has been suburban or exurban.

    Page 102

    New Urbanists favour integrated pedestrian-scale neighbourhoods containing many of the
    public and commercial facilities that residents need over automobile-dependent suburbs.
    For eastern neo-traditionalists Andres Duany and Elizabeth Plater-Zyberk, the proper
    articulation of pedestrians and cars and easy traversibility are key, while West Coast
    planner Peter Calthorpe stresses 'a specific aesthetic of placescaled to the human body,
    timed to a stride, patterned to ceremony, and bonded to nature'. 25
    While neo-traditional planners acknowledge diversity and advocate planning for mixed
    populations and mixed uses, their designs incorporate the same unresolved conflicts that
    have characterized representations of community throughout the past two centuries. The
    diversity incorporated in neo-traditional plans is ethnic and economic. Social class, the
    idea that differences among members of society may run deeper than skin colour or bank
    balance and affect the fundamental cultural values by which people choose to live, has
    been given little thought by these planners. However, developers and purchasers give
    them much thought, and they resist the incorporation of mixed-income housing when
    new-town plans become new towns.
    By the same token, cities have long served as places to escape small-town claustrophobia,
    places where people can get lost or simply be anonymous, yet New Urbanists envisage a
    congenial face-to-face community of shared values based on a romanticized image of the
    pre-automobile town. When neo-traditionalists Duany and Plater-Zyberk travelled
    through the southern United States with their client Robert Davis, they saw 'a pattern of
    streets, parks, and squares, with houses and their porches close to the street, and strong
    community bonds', qualities that they attempted to incorporate into their plans for Davis's
    Florida new town, Seaside. 26
    The statement reveals an astonishing blindness to the particular racial history of the
    American South as well as to the social history of American cities, where social
    atomization and the privatization of public space have been the rule, but it also says
    something about the issues of authority and architectural form in the New Urbanism.
    Formally and socially, neo-traditionalism combines ideas derived from the picturesque
    suburbs of the nineteenth-century, the turn-of-the-century City Beautiful Movement, and
    the early-twentieth-century Regional Planning Association of America, an alliance of
    architects, planners, and urbanists who sought to apply English garden-city ideas to
    American automobile cities. Laguna West, planned in 1989 and still under construction, is
    a prototypical essay in new urbanist bricolage [64]. The 800-acre site, laid out on former
    farmland in the Central Valley, is divided into five neighbourhoods, each the
    responsibility of a different developer. A civic centre at the northern edge of Laguna West
    is connected by City Beautiful radial boulevards and a grassy

    Calthorpe Associates, Ken Kay Associates, Fehr & Peers Associates, Jack Mixon, and The Spink Company
    West, 1991-, Sacramento County, Calif.
    Site plan.

    axis to the residential neighbourhoods, where most lots stand on RPAA-type cul-de-sacs lai
    curves, the twentieth-century developer's interpretation of the curvilinear planning of ninete
    picturesque suburbs.

    Laguna West's developers acknowledge these forebears in the streets of the public sector, w
    for Calvert Vaux (a planner of New York's Central Park), Lewis Mumford (intellectual lead
    Parisian planner Georges Haussmann (an inspiration to the City Beautiful movement), and (
    Gothic Revival architect James Renwick. The selection of sources is telling, for all three Ne
    inspirations relied heavily on cultural authority to shape cities. They and their allies among
    urban reformers believed in a city that promoted genteel values among people of all classes
    managerial vision as much as it was an aesthetic one. By proper guidance, the establishmen
    regulations (such as the carefully drawn zoning codes that neo-traditionalist planners favou
    could be steered to form the proper kind of community.

    The New Urbanism shares the vagueness about community, authority, inclusion, and the ro
    that has characterized American building since the beginning of the republic. Although it ac
    social heterogeneity, the success or failure of New

    Page 104

    Laguna West.
    Single-family house.

    Urbanist towns demands a homogeneity of values that has never been achieved in
    American history. The socio-economic divisions that New Urbanists regret protect
    Seaside and Laguna West from their own naïveté, for their location, cost, and developer
    policies defuse the threat that they will ever be called upon to house a genuinely diverse,
    genuinely urban population, or that such people will ever be attracted to them.
    Finally, the New Urbanism returns us to issues of the relationship between built form and
    communal structure that opened the chapter. Like their predecessors, New Urbanists have
    great faith in the role of physical form in creating a new community. The City Beautiful
    planner Daniel Burnham wrote that 'The jumble of buildings that surround us in our new
    cities contributes nothing valuable to life; Let the public authorities, therefore, set an
    example of simplicity and uniformity, not necessarily producing monotony, but on the
    contrary resulting in beautiful designs entirely harmonious with one another.' 27 In the
    same mood neo-traditionalists Alex Krieger and William Lennertz offer ultra-conservative
    aesthetic philosopher Roger Scruton's comment that 'The classical idiom [employed at
    several of Duany and Plater-Zyberk's new towns]. does not so much impose unity, as
    make diversity agreeable.' 28 They imply that visual uniformity

    Page 105

    will encourage uniformity of social values, or at least disguise its absence.
    In practice, neo-traditionalist towns tend to incorporate nostalgic architectural imagery.
    The planners sometimes disavow these, arguing that they provide only the site plans and
    the zoning codes, but the neo-traditionalist architecture harmonizes with their own vision
    of small-town life [65]. And neo-traditionalists have faith that spatial devicespedestrian
    scale, mixed use, greenery, front porchesand other physical amenities can create
    community. It is a faith honoured by time if not by success.

    Page 106

    Page 107

    Since Adam's sin, people have required the discipline of a divinely ordained civil
    government and a state-supported church to obey God's laws, according to the Christian
    politico-religious doctrine of civility. To be in a state of nature, undisciplined by church
    and state, was to be alienated from God, not fully human. Both children and indigenous
    people (often called 'naturals') were near-animals who needed to be raised up to humanity
    by being civilized. Naturethe undisciplined landscaperequired similar order and
    discipline, for the proponents of civility emphasized the biblical injunction to subdue the
    land, which they interpreted to mean that they were to clear and cultivate it.
    For the first European colonists, adherents of the doctrine of civility, nature was an
    enemy. They made no distinction between the land and its people. God was an urbanite, a
    partisan of civil society: the natural, the forest, the Indians' home, was the domain of
    Satan. As the Pilgrims gazed at Cape Cod in 1620, they understood that they had 'no
    friends to welcome them nor inns to entertain or refresh their weatherbeaten bodies; no
    houses or much less towns to repair to, to seek for succour. Besides, what could they see
    but a hideous and desolate wilderness, full of wild beasts and wild menand what
    multitudes there might be of them they knew not.' 1 Architecture was an ally against
    nature. To defend against the vast and howling wilderness, Massachusetts deputy
    governor Samuel Symonds sent orders for a house to be built for him before his arrival.
    Fresh air and pleasing views were of no interest to Symonds. 'For windowes let them not
    be over large in any room,' he wrote, '& as few as conveniently may be; let all have
    current shutting draw windoes [interior shutters].' 2
    Architecture could civilize the naturals as well as taming the wilderness, and to that end
    French, English, and Spanish colonial officials all built European-style houses for
    indigenous leaders. In 1618, the Virginia Company official George Thorpe built 'a fayre
    house according to the English manner' for the Virginia werowance (chieftain)
    Opechancanough, who 'formerly lived only in a cottage, or rather a denne or hog-stye,
    made only with a few poles or stickes, and covered with mats after their wild manner'.
    According to Thorpe, Opechancanough seemed sincere in his 'joy, especially in his locke

    Page 108

    key, which hee so admired, as locking and unlocking his doore an hundred times a day;
    hee thought no device in the world comparable to it'. 3 When the happy householder led
    an uprising that almost eradicated the colony in 1622, the English felt betrayed, so closely
    did they associate architecture with civility.
    The unwavering hostility evident in most early European-American statements about
    nature and the naturals masked a longstanding Judaeo-Christian ambivalence towards the
    land. The story of the Fall treated the natural world as a manifestation of divinity, rather
    than its antithesis. Before Adam sinned, Adam and Eve lived in a garden, a paradisal
    image in many of the world's cultures. Eden was a point of effortless contact with the
    divine. It was only after the Fall that people were condemned to labour, and forced to
    work their gardens. In short, the metaphors of divinity, nature, and culture were fluid.
    Nature could be God's vessel or Satan's; it could be the master or the servant of humanity;
    it could be spoiled or improved by human activity. Even in the earliest years of the
    European invasion of North America, occasional accounts of awestruck encounters with a
    natural paradise relieved the rhetoric of conquest and mastery.
    Beneath such formulations of natural-human (or nature-culture) relationships lies a sense
    of nature as a unitary, active agent, whether as friend or enemy. 4 The monotheistic male
    God is paired with an unacknowledged female one, Nature, who possesses all the
    characteristic stereotypes of the feminine in the western tradition. This personification of
    the natural world as something distinct from the human was incomprehensible to
    members of many other cultures, as William Cronon has pointed out, and alien even to
    many European-American folk builders.
    Perhaps the closest to the Judaeo-Christian sense of Nature as an intelligent being was the
    Asian(-American) belief in an earth animated by a constant energy called chi, which could
    help or harm people

    Ukrainian folk house, early 20th century, Alberta, Canada.

    Plan, showing holy wall.

    Page 109

    Blackfeet tipi circle, 1896, location unknown.

    depending on the strength and direction of its movement. Chinese geomancy, or feng
    shui, taught that topographical features such as water and mountains were keys to
    analysing the flow of chi through the landscape. With the aid of geomantic experts
    builders sought certain kinds of sites, such as those backed by hills and fronted by water,
    and constructed south-facing structures (since the most powerful and dangerous chi
    flowed from the north) planned to channel chi through them in the most auspicious
    manner. With its intricate interpenetration of ocean, bay, and Coast Range mountains, the
    San Francisco Bay Area closely fits geomantic prescriptions for an ideal site, although no
    one has yet demonstrated the use of geomantic ideas in designing any specific ChineseAmerican building. Nevertheless, paths of movement and the placement of mirrors in
    such locations as entries and exterior window-heads in Chinese-majority districts of
    contemporary American cities reveal a continuing concern for geomantic principles.
    The difference from European Nature is that chi is not a personality that interacts
    intelligently with humans. Instead, it is a cosmic force that must be accommodated. A
    similar sense of a cosmic order shaped many European folk traditions brought to North
    America. For example, the Ukrainians who came to the Great Plains of the United States
    and Canada beginning in the 1890s built three-part houses with a larger and a smaller
    room separated by a narrow central space that served as an entry and contained a built-in
    cooking and heating stove [66]. These derived from a major European folk-housing
    tradition that linked the central and eastern parts of the continent from Scandinavia to the
    Balkans, and that differed from the houses western Europeans brought to North America
    in the early years of European

    Page 110

    Maximilian Godefroy Unitarian Church, 181718, Baltimore.
    Interior, c.1830.

    colonization. Ukrainian versions of these houses were built facing south, with the largest
    room on the east. That is, the house was oriented, and the east-end wall of the main
    room, corresponding to the chancel of a Christian church, was covered with icons,
    religious calendars, and other images.
    Elements of both viewsof the world as animated by life and of the world as cosmically
    structured spacecan be found in Native American architectures. American Indians
    distinguish no separate entity called 'nature'. Life and divinity flow through animate and
    inanimate objects alike, making it difficult to differentiate people from their
    environments. Humans are one part of an intricate system of spiritual and material
    provision and debt contracted among all living beings, none of whom is absolutely
    superior to others. Some Native Americans believe that many life forms are capable of
    transforming themselves from one kind of being to another, making it even more difficult
    to think of nature as a unitary entity separate from humanity. This idea was shared by
    people as widely separated as the Micmac of Maine, who believed that old moose might
    enter the water and become whales, and the Northwest Coast tribes, whose art and
    architecture were filled with images of transformations of one creature to another.
    The seamless integration of people and their world is evident in

    Page 111

    many kinds of Native American dwellings, which tended to be adapted to the structure of
    the cosmos more than to the specifics of site or environment in the modern sense. The
    Plains Indians' circular tipis (this Dakota Siouan word means to dwell), and the circular
    encampment in which they were erected, echoed the sacred circle of the horizon [67].
    Conversely, the tribe's territory was represented as a large tipi, with the directions
    representing the lodge poles that supported the covering. The sun entered the world at the
    east, the direction that the tipi's door and the camp circle's opening both faced. The house
    fixed nomadic wanderers in an absolute space.
    Neo-classical and Romantic Nature
    Since the eighteenth century ideas of universal structure and of an animating life force,
    derived from European intellectual sources rather than from folk traditions, have
    coloured the Judaeo-Christian naturehuman dichotomy in distinctive ways. Neo-classical
    ideas, imported to the United States through publications, visits to Europe, and the work
    of European-trained immigrant architects and intellectuals, promoted a view of natureby
    which neo-classicists meant the invisible ordering rules of the visible worldas the place
    where God was accessible in the most unmediated ways to humanity. In élite architecture
    built in the early years of the republic, the austere beauty of pure geometrical forms such
    as spheres, cylinders, and cubes alluded to the divine order of the natural world. French
    émigré Maximilian Godefroy's Unitarian Church (1817), Baltimore, is a simple example.
    The exterior of the church is a cube embellished by a portico and a cornice. Inside, a
    cubical nave is framed by four semicircular arches that support a hemispherical dome on
    pendentives [68]. Such a rationalist composition seems particularly appropriate for a
    Protestant denomination with intellectual roots in the Enlightenment.

    Louis I. Kahn Salk Institute for Biological Studies, 195965, La Jolla, Calif.
    The stark geometry of Kahn's stair towers reveals a debt to neo-classicism

    shared with many other modernists of the 1950s and 1960s.

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    Salk Institute for Biological Studies.
    In the courtyard, geometry is tempered by the picturesque. Ranks of buildings
    separated by a water channel continue the natural ravine that runs down to the
    Pacific Ocean, while the office boxes mix materials in a way that recalls late
    Victorian design.

    A fascination with science and technology resuscitated the neoclassical interest in
    universal structures for early-twentieth-century designers. The shapes of machine parts
    and their paths of motion, dictated by the laws of physics, served the same purpose of
    making the invisible structure of the physical world visible to the human eye as the placid
    purity of geometrical solids did for neoclassical architects. Explicit machine idolatry was
    relatively short-lived, but the aesthetic appeal of elemental geometries and mechanistic
    imagery was not. At the Salk Institute for Biological Studies (195965) in La Jolla,
    California, Louis I. Kahn constructed a series of rectilinear boxes attached to both sides of
    parallel spines that form the laboratories. The prisms that lined the perimeter and housed
    stairs and elevators were as austere as any neoclassicist could want [69]. The courtyard
    was more complex [70]. Here, the boxes stood on legs that formed a kind of arcaded
    piazza. In contrast to the placeless purity of neo-classical geometry, these boxes, which
    housed the scientists' offices, were partially clad with unpainted teak panels whose colour
    and texture resembled the shingles popularly associated with California architecture. The
    office façades were angled to offer views of the Pacific Ocean. A narrow axial water
    channel, borrowed from the Islamic garden tradition, alluded to the truism that
    California's climate is Mediterranean and emphasized the orientation of the central space,

    a highly artificial extension of a natural ravine that runs down towards the coast. In other
    words, Kahn's geometries were inflected by another, more pervasive

    Page 113

    conception of nature, derived from the romantic traditions of the early nineteenth century,
    one that calls on the builder to respond to the peculiarities of site and to draw on the
    riches of architectural history to evoke viewer response.
    Where neo-classical nature, a product of the Enlightenment tradition, was rationalist,
    based on structures manifested in universal geometries, romantic nature was suffused
    with immanent divinity, made visible through the accidents and specificities of the
    physical world, particularly the idiosyncrasies of place, site, and region. We discover
    nature's indwelling spirit through our feelings rather than through rational investigation.
    For the romantics, we act naturally when we behave in keeping with our inherent sense
    of ourselves, or artificially when we act in a false and misguided manner. From this point
    of view, children and indigenous peoples approach the divine most closely, their natural
    tendencies unspoiled by civilization. The dichotomy between the natural and the artificial
    spun off endless corollary oppositions, between the city and the country, the primitive
    and the refined, the garden and the wilderness. This was the nature of Huckleberry Finn,
    who was driven to 'light out for the territory ahead of the rest, because Aunt Sally she's
    going to adopt me and sivilize me, and I can't stand it'. 5
    Although the romantics understood nature as a manifestation of God, they inherited the
    traditional Christian ambivalence towards it. Nature might be a benign, nurturing force or
    a savage, destructive one. The dichotomy was acknowledged in the aesthetics of the
    picturesque and the sublime. These terms derived from eighteenth-century theories that
    divided aesthetic pleasure into the beautiful, which is universal and based on classical
    rules of line and proportion; the sublime, stimulated by the great, terrifying,
    overwhelming, or deeply moving; and the picturesque, produced by variety and contrast.
    The picturesque encompassed topographical irregularities as well as the characteristic
    cultural forms that evoked the diversity of human history and geography. In search of the
    picturesque, architects and landscape architects cultivated the genius loci, the peculiar
    character of a place from which good design took its cue, and drew on the visual richness
    of architectural history to stir viewers' emotions. The picturesque implied human action,
    in contrast to the sublime, which implied human helplessness in the face of nature's
    power. A garden can be picturesque; a wilderness is sublime.
    Eighteenth- and nineteenth-century Europeans and Americans were fascinated by the
    strangeness of North American topography, its living things, and its people. Europeans
    often interpreted the new republic's culture and politics as products of the genius loci.
    Americans took it for granted that their landscape was superior in scope, novelty,
    freshness, and fertility to the tame and tired European landscape.

    Page 114
    View from Consecration Dell, 1860. Consecration Dell was named after the
    cemetery dedication ceremonies that were held there. Although Mount Auburn
    and its cousins are now packed with monuments, the founders of rural cemeteries
    envisaged them as settings for isolated graves, as this mid-19th-century
    lithograph illustrates.

    Nineteenth-century Americans, in particular, liked to think of their nation as a second
    Eden and of themselves as a new race of innocents with another chance to inhabit
    paradise. Invocation of the land (which included its plants and animals, but also its
    indigenous people and its 'naturalized' European colonists) was a patriotic affirmation.
    Country Life
    The entwined concepts of nature and culture have been the more powerful in the
    American landscape because they provide a common, largely unexamined, metaphorical
    language full of often contradictory meanings. Among some Americans, the idea that
    nature must be subdued or even vanquished for human good remains strong, while
    others are equally certain that nature is a delicate spirit in imminent danger of extinction.
    In architectural history, however, there is no doubt that the romantic strainof the natural
    as a vehicle for restoring the alienated soul to God, to spirit, to itselfhas dominated the socalled designed landscape since the early nineteenth century. Yet even within this tradition
    there is a fundamental contradiction. Americans are often urged to benefit from the
    immanence of divinity in nature unspoiled by humanity, but they find these qualities in
    picturesque landscapes shaped by human agency.
    This paradox was evident in the rural cemeteries that introduced picturesque landscaping
    to the American urban public. Rural cemeteries responded to a change in middling
    Americans' attitudes towards death. Where earlier harder-nosed generations had seen
    death as inevitable and, for the saved, a welcome release for the soul, genteel Americans
    in the early republic grew uneasy about the fate of their loved ones' remains in the public
    graveyards of cities and religious congregations. They responded by creating new,
    privately owned burying grounds at the urban edges, where they could own plots (which
    was not permitted in the older graveyards) and be assured that their families could remain
    intact and secure even in death. These new proprietary cemeteries tended to be miniature
    cities, with gridded plans and streettype plantings. In the late 1820s a group of physicians
    and horticulturists in Boston took the next step by organizing Mount Auburn Cemetery
    (opened 1829), which combined the new privatized cemetery with an experimental
    garden. The site they chose was a popular picnic ground outside Cambridge, a rolling
    tract that lent itself to picturesque landscaping, with ponds, lakes, and private plots laid
    out along winding paths named for trees and flowers [71] [72]. Here the dead could

    return naturally to the earth and the living could mourn in contact with all the ghostly and
    topographical spirits of the place. Yet the genius loci required cultivation: the terrain was
    necessarily, and without apology, 'improved by human care', as one contemporary writer
    noted, and surrounded with fences and gates to set it aside as a

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    Mount Auburn Cemetery, opened 1829, Cambridge, Mass.

    Page 116

    Mount Auburn Cemetery.
    Map in 1860.

    sacred landscape (as well as to protect it from grave-robbers working for medical
    schools). 'It is unnatural to leave it to itself; and the traces of art are never unwelcome,
    except when it defeats the purpose, and refuses to follow the suggestions of nature.' 6
    Andrew Jackson Downing (181552), a key figure in the popularization of the picturesque
    aesthetic in America, was caught up in the same paradox. Downing published a magazine
    and several books of advice on landscape and domestic architecture and furnishings. He
    was a synthesizer who, he told Swedish novelist Frederika Bremer, had come along at the
    right time. Downing enunciated a rationale that tied together a striking, varied, easily
    understood collection of prototypical architectural and landscape designs (most
    contributed by professional architects) with aesthetic theories derived from English
    sources, particularly from garden-writer John Claudius Loudon's books and magazines. It
    was Downing's talent to make this motley collection of images appear to be more
    coherent than they were, and he published them in wittily written and above all cheap
    books that introduced these ideas to a wide popular audience, and that remained in print
    long after his death.
    Downing urged American gardeners to renounce fashionable exotic plants and landscape
    plans borrowed from books like his own and instead to take their inspiration from the
    land forms and plant materials of their own regions. True art in landscape gardening, he


    Page 117

    'selects from natural materials that abound in any country, its best sylvan features, and by
    giving them a better opportunity than they could otherwise obtain, brings about a higher
    beauty of development and a more perfect expression than nature itself offers'. 7
    The art of gardening had a social purpose. Like most of his contemporaries, Downing
    assumed that the family was the central unit of society, but that urbanism, capitalism, and
    industrialism had weakened it. Downing did not oppose any of these, but he wanted to
    offset their harmful side-effects. His solution was family life in a natural setting. Moral
    values and psychic energy could be restored in a country house, by which he meant a
    suburban house relatively far from the city. It should be surrounded by a fairly large
    amount of land and be actively cultivated, but not for profit. Downing's country house
    was a post-Fall Eden whose benefits were accessible only to those who submitted to its
    discipline by entering actively into its peculiar rhythms and rules. Nature works for us
    when we work nature. Downing was scornful of city people 'who expect to pass their
    time in wandering over daisy spangled meadows, and by the side of meandering streams.
    They have an extravagant notion of the purity and simplicity of country life. All its
    intercourse, as well as all its pleasures, are to be so charmingly pure, pastoral, and
    poetical!' 8
    If the home's therapeutic task in urban commercial society was acted out in the city
    family's submission to the discipline of the land, it should also be made visible in the
    country-house landscape. Downing urged that the house be tied to its site by its colour
    and its shape. Builders should paint their houses neutral tints that minimized contrast with
    their settings. In addition, the mass of the house should harmonize with the surroundings.
    Downing described the curving roof profile of his Lake or River Villa as ''a repetition of
    the grand hollow or mountain curve formed by the sides of almost all great hills rising
    from the water's edge', and a connecting link harmonizing the perpendicular and
    horizontal lines of the house and the land. 9
    To be indigenous in this sense, to meld into the land, was truer than to stand out from it
    as the alienated city did. But the naturalness was deeply cultural. Downing invited us to
    read his designs in gendered terms. While he expected the exterior of a house to be a
    portrait of the male head of the household, the landscape, particularly the garden, should
    be female space, in keeping with the widespread metaphor of Nature as a fecund woman.
    Many of his houses dramatized the refinement of male energy by surrounding the house
    with a sheltering veranda and setting it in a softening, essentially passive, gardened
    landscape that dramatized feminine qualities and served as a particular touchstone for the
    rejuvenation of the female head of household [23]. 'Everything which relates to the
    garden, the lawn, the pleasuregrounds,' Downing wrote, 'should claim [women's]

    immediate interest.

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    Olmsted and Vaux Central Park, 185683, New York.
    Overpasses separated the 'natural' terrain of the Park, above, from mundane urban
    traffic, below.

    Every lady may not be "born to love pigs and chickens" (although that is a good thing to
    be born to); but, depend upon it, she has been cut off by her mother nature with less than
    a shilling's patrimony, if she does not love trees, flowers, gardens, and nature, as if they
    were all part of herself.' 10
    Downing also believed that city people would benefit from rural landscapes in their
    midst. He pointed to the recreational popularity of rural cemeteries to demonstrate a need
    for large urban parks of a new kind. Early-nineteenth-century American cities already had
    plenty of parks, including public squares such as Philadelphia's Washington Square or
    New Orleans's Place d'Armes (now called Jackson Square), which received their first
    ornamental landscaping during this period; commercial beer-gardens, which often
    doubled as horticultural gardens; and ad hoc gathering places such as New Orleans's
    orangetree-embellished levee, Brooklyn Heights in Brooklyn, and the rural cemeteries.
    They were valued as promoters of public health (as the 'lungs of the city'), botanical
    instruction, social rituals such as promenading, and simple informal recreation.
    Downing dismissed these public places as 'little door-yards of space' and called for
    something on a larger scale and with different purposes. 11 New York's Central Park
    (185683), planned by competitionwinners Frederick Law Olmsted and Calvert Vaux,
    Downing's former partner, met Downing's demand. Olmsted and Vaux landscaped the

    Park, a long narrow rectangle, in a manner designed to create 'contrast

    Page 119

    ing and varying passages in scenery' (a good, succinct definition of the picturesque) and
    to suggest a great range of rural landscapes, while taking maximum advantage of the
    natural topography.
    Although Central Park retained elements of earlier urban parks, it was intended, as earlier
    urban parks and squares were not, as an artificial countryside that could restore alienated
    urbanites to contact with immanent divinity, as Downing's country houses did for the
    well-off. Where Downing argued the necessity to work one's garden, Olmsted and Vaux
    believed that rejuvenation required passive contemplation. Active sports or social
    activities distracted people's attention from nature.
    As in the rural cemetery and the country house, Central Park was riddled with the
    contradictions inherent in the nature-culture dichotomy. The Park's nature was a human
    product, the result of radical alteration of an existing landscape. It was protected by
    cultural devices to keep the artificial out, including separation of circulation to segregate
    vehicular traffic through the Park from pedestrian traffic [73]. In addition, a park that was
    intended to restore people to nature was based on an aesthetic of property, or control over
    nature. The landscaping of eighteenth-century British country houses, the ultimate source
    of nineteenth-century American picturesque landscapes, asserted the landholder's 'natural'
    dominion over apparently infinite space. Similarly, Olmsted and Vaux's insistence on
    excluding active

    Olmsted, Vaux and Company General Plan of Riverside, Illinois, 1869.
    Central Park's picturesque forms have been tamed to suit the demands of Real-

    estate sales.

    Reginald D. Johnson and Wilson, Merrill, and Alexander, associated architects; Clarence S. Stein, consultin

    The modernist 'row houses' lining a tree-filled village green speak of a nostalgia for village life
    century. The village green at Baldwin Hills Village and the 'garden courts' that open off it are d

    uses of Central Park deflected its possible alteration. Nature, ordinarily something that grow

    From the day the Park opened, this aesthetic of passivity and control has been a source of c
    zoos, and large gatherings. Beginning with the Metropolitan Museum of Art, under way bef
    into Central Park at the demand of one or another of its constituencies. The conflict over pr
    ancestral homelands and cultural authority in casting the argument against change in histori
    great artist that must be protected from philistine intrusions by the unappreciative. Since Ol
    adjacent upper-class residential neighbourhoods that have fringed the east and west sides o
    additional benefit of preserving the Park as their genteel front yard.

    Central Park was an early step towards the urbanization of nature. For Riverside, Illinois (1
    Company furnished the developer, E. E. Childs, with a plan that featured familiar picturesq
    or the passivity of their own Central Park [74]. In contrast to Downing, who ridiculed the 'c
    Olmsted and Vaux accepted 'the strong tendency of people to flock

    Page 121

    together in great towns'. They offered 'not a sacrifice of urban conveniences, but their
    combination with the special charms and substantial advantages of rural conditions of life'
    on a site conceived as a village. Streets curved, but not so much as to impede real-estate
    sales, creating an effect that was 'informal, but, in a moderate way, positively picturesque',
    and periodically diverged to form small open spaces that were intended to function as
    village greens, giving a sociable quality to the plan that was augmented with a park and a
    promenading ground. 'The grand fact that they are Christians, loving one another, and not
    Pagans, fearing one another [is to be recognized in] the completeness, and choiceness and
    beauty of the means they possess of coming together, of being together, and especially of
    recreating together on

    Baldwin Hills Village.
    Plan of garage court and flanking garden courts. The village green is at the bottom
    of the plan.

    Page 122

    common ground', Olmsted wrote. 12
    Sociable nature also characterized the work of the architects, planners, and social thinkers
    who comprised the Regional Planning Association of America, the sponsors of a series of
    highly visible housing schemes between the 1920s and the 1940s. Like their nineteenthcentury forebears, the RPAA sought to create a modern, benevolent capitalist city, with
    nature as a critical element, but their personal tastes leaned towards romantic, anti-modern
    anti-urbanism. In an introduction to Clarence Stein's Toward New Towns for America
    (1957), a valedictory summary of the RPAA's achievements written by one of its most
    active planners, Lewis Mumford recalled that the group's avocations included square
    dancing and performing Appalachian folk ballads, under the leadership of environmental
    planner Benton MacKaye. Inspired by the common stereotype of the upland South as a
    primitive land untouched by time or urban civilizationa white ancestral
    homelandMacKaye had created a regional plan that would use modern technology to
    protect the traditional ways of life of 'that primeval area'. 13
    It is not surprising that the RPAA's notion of a city wasn't very urban. At first they were
    influenced by the English garden city movement, which proposed limiting the sizes of
    cities and using open space to buffer them and break up their masses. They hoped to
    build an American garden city but the closest they came was the never-completed
    Radburn, New Jersey (192833), an outlying suburb of New York City and their bestknown effort.
    Radburn was uncharacteristic. Most RPAA projects were located in or at the edges of
    cities and resembled Riverside in their subordination of nature to sociability. Baldwin
    Hills Village, Los Angeles (19401), the last RPAA undertaking, was built on an eighty-acre
    super-block in the path of, but just beyond, the city's development. A central Village
    Green served as a spine that radiated fingerlike 'garden courts' [75] [76]. Two-storey
    apartment buildings that Stein called row houses faced the courts.
    Baldwin Hills Village incorporated an unstable mixture of nature and culture. Stein
    presented the scheme as a haven from the city, and particularly from the automobile. He
    likened Americans' attachment to their cars to a European peasant's need to keep cattle in
    the house. In comparing the automobile, the quintessential sign of twentieth-century
    urbanism, to the savage, the rustic, the unurbane, Stein harkened back to the old notion
    of the alienated quality of the unnatural and the uncultivated. Still, he acknowledged that
    Los Angeles was an automobile city and sought a way to incorporate the convenience of
    cars while minimizing their hazards. The solution was to separate the garden courts by
    garage courts based on the cul-de-sacs pioneered at Radburn. The houses faced the
    garden courts, while the

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    Thomas D. Church Donnell Garden, 19489, Sonoma County, Calif.
    Site plan.

    garage courts provided automobile access at the perimeter of the site, convenient to each
    apartment but away from the open spaces and pedestrian pathways.
    Baldwin Hills Village's planners assumed the benefits of nature and even incorporated a
    hint of the sublime into the site. The primary function of the green 'is visual,' Stein wrote,
    'or perhaps I should say spiritual. The calm, long, orderly lines of the row houses and
    contrasting sweep of the brown hills behindlow hills though they are, they seem to tower
    above the domestic space of the homesgive the feeling of spreading spaciousness'. 14
    Stein hoped that the natural environment would produce a 'natural' community, even
    though he acknowledged that the Village Green was underused. Children remained close
    to home in the garden courts and adults showed a regrettable preference for spending
    time in the small fenced-in patios behind each ground-floor unit rather than in the open
    communal spaces. The anti-social implications of romantic nature accepted by planners
    and tenants alike compromised the efforts of those who claimed to be the city's partisans.
    Urbanizing nature undermined the foundations of urban life.

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    Despite their state's reputation since the early twentieth century as a nature-obsessed
    place, Californians have been quite energetic in domesticating the natural. For Thomas D.
    Church, the senior member of a school of California modernist landscape architects, the
    challenge of California was to create landscapes that could succeed within the constraints
    of the state's semi-arid climate and its rugged terrain. Church liked to say that 'gardens are
    for people', by which he meant that, rather than submitting to the discipline of the country
    as Downing argued, nature should be shaped to the economy and domestic habits of midcentury Californians. This entailed no obligation to imitate, or even to respect, natural
    terrain or plantings; the spirit of the place was social and economic, not topographical.
    Church strove to create well-defined spaces of limited extent through the use of paving,
    raised planting beds, and screening walls. The curvilinear pool at his hilltop Donnell
    Garden (19489) was vaguely organic in shape, but made no pretence to naturalistic
    imagery [77]. Rather than strive for the picturesque effect of extensive vistas and the
    illusion of unlimited control, a border of shrubbery separated the pool area from the
    distant landscape. One opening framed a glimpse of the countryside as a picture, after the
    fashion of a Japanese gardening technique called shakkei, or borrowed scenery, which
    drafted distant landscapes into the service of undisguisedly constricted gardens [78].

    Donnell Garden.
    View towards distant landscape.

    Page 125

    Front yard, Berkeley, Calif.

    Church's Donnell Garden suggests how far the metaphor of the genius loci had drifted in
    modernist design from its original meaning in picturesque theory: Downing's cockneyism
    had triumphed in the country. The landscape was closely controlled; the California
    modernists made no claim to naturalism.
    Strict subordination of nature constitutes the dominant popular vernacular attitude toward
    the natural, as well. Houses painted white or other light colours, distinguished from the
    surrounding landscape in colour and shape, convey the image of preference [79].
    Carefully tended lawns are prized even in dry places like Phoenix, Salt Lake City, or Los
    Angeles, where they require constant infusions of water. Foundation plantings and flower
    borders are protected by picket or chain-link fences. Since Olmsted and Vaux, nature at
    home and in the city has been an amenity rather than the radical challenge to urban life
    that Downing enunciated. As the 'natural' recedes from the twentieth-century city, those
    seeking 'untamed' nature are forced to find it in the large national parks established within
    easy automobile-striking distance of most large cities over the past hundred years. The
    consequent surge in the parks' popularity has revived, nineteenth-century debates over
    nature and culture, active and passive recreation, sociability and solitude.
    By the twentieth century the clichés of the genius loci and the constellation of natureculture metaphors had become part of the instinctive vocabulary of American architecture
    but their meanings had become so diffuse that they could be used in support of quite
    disparate architectures. The idea of the genius loci, for example, splintered into very
    different attitudes towards place. Drenched as it is in the rhetoric of Nature, the truism
    that a building needs to be tied to place is rendered ambiguous.

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    Page 127
    Fay Jones and Associates
    Thorncrown Chapel, 1980, Eureka Springs, Ark.

    Fay Jones and Associates came close to a literal application of Downing's precept that the
    building should blend visually with its site in their mountainside Thorncrown Chapel
    (1980) [80]. The chapel rephrases the aisled, masonry, compression structure of a
    medieval church as a light wooden structure built of two-by-fours layered over one
    another in some places and joined end to end with metal fittings in others, resulting in a
    frame that works in tension. The old myth that Gothic vaulting was an imitation of the
    forest comes to mind and the association is strengthened by the immaculately clean,
    nearly invisible glazed walls that make the roof timbering appear to be part of the natural
    canopy of trees that envelops the chapel. The enclosing glass and the name allude to a
    particular medieval building, the Sainte-Chapelle in Paris, built as a reliquary to house the
    crown of thorns. The Thorncrown Chapel, although owned by fundamentalists, is a
    reliquary of pantheistic Nature in the romantic tradition. The surrounding forest acts both
    as the object of devotion and and as a substitute for the decoration furnished at the
    Sainte-Chapelle by its renowned stained glass. An off-axis steel cross that stands outside
    the glass at the chancel end helps to hold the visitor's attention outside the building, an
    effect only slightly marred by the tape-recorded funeral-parlour organ music that fills the
    space and emphasizes its enclosure.
    Typically, twentieth-century architects have construed the relationship of architecture and
    nature much more loosely than at the Thorncrown Chapel. San Francisco's Palace of Fine
    Arts (1915), a classical rotunda fronting a plain curving exhibition hall for works of art,
    was meant to evoke California [81]. The architect, Bernard Maybeck, was anxious that his
    work should be correctly understood, so published his own interpretation of it. Maybeck
    assumed that a building should convey a feeling appropriate to its contents: the tone of an
    art museum should be 'a modified sadness or sentiment in a minor key'. The solution was
    to create a rotunda and colonnade that resembled a

    Bernard Maybeck Palace of the Fine Arts, 1915, San Francisco.
    Like many exposition buildings, Maybeck's Palace was constructed in plaster for
    the Panama-Pacific International Exhibition. It was reconstructed in concrete in

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    Frank Lloyd Wright Fallingwater (Liliane S. and Edgar J. Kauffman, Sr, Residence), 19356, Bear Run, Pa.
    Viewed from the approach, Wright's famous house appears much differentmore
    urbane and more European in appearancethan in the more familiar view taken
    from a difficult-to-reach spot in the stream below the house.

    Roman ruin, then surround it with a modern landscape inspired by California's
    topography. Clear Lake, a hundred miles north-east of San Francisco, was a model for the
    small pond with islands that, to Maybeck's mind, provided a foreground with just the
    right note of melancholy for his building. 15
    Maybeck's interpretation derived from a version of picturesque theory called
    associationalism. Associationalists urged designers to manipulate mental connections, or
    associations, between times, places, events, or moods and the visual forms characteristic
    of them to elicit emotional responses to architecture. In this manner, Maybeck sought to
    evoke the essence of California without drawing on a localized historicism. He wished
    instead to create a union of place and architecture through borrowing the qualities of
    Over the course of a long career, Maybeck's (and Church's) contemporary Frank Lloyd
    Wright embraced all the many variants of the natural metaphor in complex ways and
    folded them all into his umbrella word organic. Organic meant natural in its simplest
    sense of growing, but it also encompassed the romantic opposition of the natural and the
    human, meaning the artificial, the rational, and the mechanical. The organic was
    something unforced, faithful to the inherent qualities of things. Organic could refer to
    sites and building materials, but also to people and societies that were uncorrupted and
    faithful to immanent natural impulses. In this sense, human works could be organic rather
    than artificial: 'The old architecture, always dead for me as far as its grammar went, began

    literally to disappear. As if by magic, new effects came to life, as though by themselves,
    and I could draw inspiration from Nature herself. I was beholden to no man for the look
    of anything. Textbook for me? ''The book of creation"'. 16

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    Fallingwater (19356), Wright's vacation retreat for a family of Pittsburgh department-store
    owners, was organic in all these senses [82]. From the approach drive, the low,
    horizontal, banded building resembled one of Wright's Prairie houses redesigned by a
    1920s European modernist. In the nineteenth-century tradition to which Wright clung, a
    variety of architectural devices blurred the line between the outside and the inside, the
    natural domain and the human. A trellis covered the entrance walk, echoed by another in
    the living-room ceiling. The living-room trellis opened that room to the sky, while stairs
    under it led down to Bear Run. In addition, Wright shielded the interior spaces with
    deeply projecting balconies analogous to the enveloping porches of a Victorian house,
    and at the same time enclosed the house with glass walls set in thin, unobtrusive metal
    casements. A native boulder was left in place near the living-room hearth, and the
    fireplaces throughout the house were made to appear as though they had been carved out
    of living rock. The total effect, as the plan suggests, is one of a cave from which to look
    out on the surrounding woods, although Wright said that he strove to create not caves but
    'broad shelter[s] in the open' [83]. At first glance, then, Wright seems to have sought a
    union of house and site far more extreme than any Downing dreamed.
    At second glance, no nineteenth-century picturesque designer would have understood
    Wright's decision to place Fallingwater directly over the site's most striking feature, a
    small waterfall on Bear Run. The architect trumped conventional natural beauty with his
    own work, whose visual appeal derived, as in so many of his buildings, from an
    idiosyncratic structure. Four concrete piers lifted the house above the stream and
    anchored it into the rock of the hillside. The balconies

    Main-level plan. As usual, the servant-staffed kitchen is excluded from the

    openness of the family parts of the house.

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    Bruce Goff Bavinger House, 19505, Norman, Okla.
    Henry I. Greber J. C. Nichols Memorial Fountain, 1950, Kansas City, Mo.
    Greber depicts Plains Indians as wood sprites, in a fountain honouring the
    founder of a pioneering shopping-centre and housing development [157]. (Kansas
    City seems to enjoy imagining its businessmen as heroic figures: a monument to
    another local merchant takes the form of a cowboy on a bucking bronco.)

    and their rails projected on a series of concrete trays. The disparity between the stone
    verticals and the concrete cantilevers might be read as either a contest or a partnership
    between the natural forces of gravity and the human ingenuity that defied them. The
    contrast would have been even more striking had the concrete been gold-leafed and the
    window muntins been painted a brighter red as Wright wished.
    In Wright's special terminology, both Fallingwater and its site were organic; the difficult
    relationship between nature and culture was unresolved. In this context, it is worth noting
    that the famous view of Fallingwater, the one that celebrates Wright's dominance of the
    site most explicitly, can be seen only after clambering down a wooded bank to balance
    precariously on a rock in mid-stream.
    The Primitive
    At the Bavinger House (19505) in Norman, Oklahoma, Bruce Goff strove to depict the
    organic literally [84]. The plan is a logarithmic spiral whose continuous wall rises from a
    height of six feet at the outside to fifty feet at the centre. The roof was suspended by

    cables from a central mast but not connected directly to the walls. Originally the open
    interior was a water-garden fitted with pools, plantings, and a waterfall, within which
    living areas were defined by suspended platforms.
    Goff, who briefly worked for Wright, strove for a picturesque image of nature intensified,
    rejecting anything that resembled conventional architecture or the product of human
    skills. The rough rock and irregular openings of the walls were designed to be made by
    the owners and their friends, and to look as though they had been. The redeeming value
    of cheap unskilled handwork, unspoiled by training or sophist

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    Page 133
    Antoine Predock Centennial Complex, American Heritage Center and Art Museum, 198693, University of
    Wyoming, Laramie, Wyo.
    Rows of pueblo-like blocks lead to the building's tipilike cone.

    Page 134

    ication, is a central tenet of an anti-artificial moralism that pervades much American
    architecture. Yet the naturalism of the Bavinger House was a transparent metaphor: the
    spiral plan, structure, and pools and plantings were unmistakable products of human
    ingenuity, as carefully engineered as Fallingwater. Furthermore, the house was as
    controlling as it was controlled. Its idiosyncratic plan and structure limited domestic life,
    while the Oklahoma climate made the interior with its pools almost unliveable, and they
    were eventually filled.
    For all its deliberately individualistic imagery, the Bavinger House belonged to the
    mainstream of a primitivist tradition. Unlike the comfortable and accommodating
    picturesque, primitivism appears at first glance to be an uncompromising rejection of
    culture. It holds that whatever is human-made is artificial, refined, corrupt, but also
    effete, while whatever is wild and unmarked by humanity is pure, natural, innocent, and
    powerful. The primitive is a corollary of the sublime. An architecture that strips away all
    the debilitating effects of civilization risks exposing us to the consequences of our own
    unadulterated, uncivilized natures: Norman legend claims (wrongly) that the Bavinger
    House had driven the family's sons insane. 17 Primitivism, as much as any other version
    of the natural metaphor, is an exploration of the nature of humanity, its failures and its
    Primitivism was born of Enlightenment anthropology and the popular-culture figure of
    the noble savage uncorrupted by institutions, whom Europeans believed they had met in
    eighteenth-century Polynesia. Jean-Jacques Rousseau's The Social Contract (1762) made
    the noble savage intellectually respectable through its speculations about the nature of
    humanity before civil lifein a 'state of nature'. 18 In the United States it was easy for
    whites to see Native Americans as noble savages, a stereotype that was overlaid on, but
    did not replace, the hostile assessments of earlier generations. In the abstract, the Indian
    became a kind of wood-sprite, a natural force or a naturalized version of the elves and
    fairies of European mythology, as in Kansas City's J. C. Nichols Memorial Fountain
    (1950), where an Indian in a Plains warbonnet battled an alligator, a creature not normally
    found on the Great Plains [85]. The pair coexisted in mythological space as allegories of
    the distinctive American landscape.
    The American Heritage Center and Art Museum (198693) at the University of Wyoming
    draws on the same assumptions, though more subtly. The main structure, a concrete cone
    sitting on its haunches, resembles a Plains Indian tipi. The reference is reinforced by an
    interior timber frame that resembles lodge poles, the smoke hole at the top, and the
    exterior skin which appears like the rolled-back covering of a tent [86]. Local people call
    the cone The Tipi, but the architect, Antoine Predock, describes it as a mountain aligned

    with others in the landscape. There is no contradiction; as we have seen, the association

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    Sioux Grass Dancers, c.1888, Fort Yates, Dakota Territory (now North Dakota).
    The carefully posed Grass Dancers are meant to be a portrait of the unchanged
    primitive but the photograph instead documents cultural change. The Grass Dance
    was a response to the disappearance of the buffalo and old ways of life in the
    face of white settlement, and the dancers stand in front of a European-type log
    house that 19th-century viewers would have equated with the men standing in
    front of it.

    buildings with land-forms is a common Native American metaphor. Stretching out from
    the tipi-mountain, which houses archives, is a long flat art museum whose galleries
    project as a series of brick-coloured cubes. Predock has likened these to a village at the
    foot of the mountain, and their colour and shape calls to mind an abstracted Rio Grande
    pueblo, or a butte. 19 In short, Native Americans are once more drafted into service as
    genii loci, naturalized by being associated with land-forms. The cubes also resemble the
    towers at the rear of Kahn's Salk Institute [69]. The association with Kahn's building
    triply legitimizes Predock's design by triangulating it between the land, a canonical
    monument of high modernist design, and a classic modernist myth of indigenous
    building, which held that the elemental geometries of 'architecture without architects' were
    products of a natural aesthetic unspoiled by overly sophisticated, effete professional
    education. Folk builders tapped intuitively into the powerful living visual forms that great
    architecture requires. This is the essence of the primitivist metaphor, and Predock uses it
    to turn historical cultural symbols into universal formal images.
    Such explicit allusions to Native American buildings have been more common in popular
    architecture than in high-style design. The still-prevalent assumption that American
    Indians are uncorrupted and directly attuned with nature was responsible for the latenineteenth-century beginnings of anthropological and folkloristic study of indigenous

    people and their architecture, and it fired the imaginations of hosts of artists, including
    George Catlin, Frederick Remington, and Edward Curtis, all of whom produced heavily
    romanticized images of Native American life [87]. By extension, all people who reside far
    from metropolitan centres or in some other sense lived a 'primitive' life were

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    Charles F. Lummis
    El Alisal (Charles F. Lummis House), 18971910, Highland Park, Los Angeles.

    pure, strong, and admirable; so was their architecture. Log housesand folk architecture in
    generalhave become pervasive emblems of the primitive.
    Log construction is an ancient, intricate, highly sophisticated technology that was widely
    used in both Europe and North America for large and substantial buildings. It requires the
    iron tools of civilization, and the majority of log structures were much more carefully
    crafted than the crude round-log buildings of popular imagination. In defiance of these
    inconvenient facts, log construction is the architectural sign of wilderness and the simple
    life, employed in prefabricated rural houses, summer camps, and even the huge log resort
    hotels built in national parks since the end of the nineteenth century.
    At the same time, their imaginative connection to the land and to the farmers who worked
    it made log houses, like Indians, seem characteristically American. Since the primitive and
    the unspoiled was by definition the upright and the moral, the log house became the
    quintessential home of the sturdy yeoman. Nineteenth-century architectural handbook
    writers such as Charles P. Dwyer and John Bullock promoted log building as a form of
    cheap construction appropriate for the average homebuilder.
    As an aboriginal form, the log house was the quintessential birthplace. Beginning with the
    'Log Cabin Campaign' of 1840, even the wealthiest presidential candidates thought it
    expedient to claim to have been born in one, while villages, schools, and other institutions
    often preserved log houses as their most ancient relics, even

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    when they were not.
    The originary and moral implications of primitivism found reinforcement in European
    primitivist theories that understood the earliest or crudest forms of classicism as the
    purest. A log 'American House' published in Alexander Jackson Davis's Rural Residences
    of 1837 fused the American and European strains in turning the logs upright in the
    manner of classical columns. Davis's log house alluded to the French neo-classical
    theorist Marc-Antoine Laugier's renowned primitive hut, the origin of architecture, and to
    the Vitruvian theory of the origins of classicism, available to Americans in a host of
    native and imported architectural handbooks.
    Although the primitive is rooted in the sublime, then, its architectural expressions have
    been derived from the picturesque, as the example of log building, symbol of primitive
    purity and of American cultural values, demonstrates. El Alisal (18971910), built by its
    owner Charles F. Lummis in the Arroyo Seco, Highland Park, Los Angeles, epitomizes
    this American fusion of primitive and picturesque naturalism [88]. Lummis was a student
    of western life in a primitivist mode. Among the first to look closely at the south-western
    Indians, especially the Pueblos, he founded the Southwest Museum in Los Angeles. He
    was also interested in the history of Spanish-Mexican California and helped found the
    Landmarks Club, first restorers of the California missions. Lummis wrote scholarly books
    on all these topics, but he was also a popularizer who edited Land of Sunshine magazine
    and published The Home of Ramona (1886), which gave credence to the belief that the
    Estudillo House, a Mexican vernacular building in San Diego, had been the home of the
    entirely fictional title character of Helen Hunt Jackson's best-selling novel.
    Lummis's house synthesized his interests architecturally. The long, narrow, L-shaped,
    rustic structure, formed of stones pulled from the Arroyo Seco by Lummis and his crew
    of Indian labourers from Isleta Pueblo, New Mexico, was surrounded by a garden
    composed only of native plants. Visually, El Alisal cobbled together images of 'primitive'
    indigenous New Mexico and 'primitive' Spanish-Mexican California. The guest houses
    resembled pueblos, while the main house sported an espadaña (bell gable) modelled on
    the Mission San Gabriel outside Los Angeles. The main room, El Museo, was another
    Jeffersonian Indian Room, filled with Navajo blankets, Indian pots, and regional crafts.
    The stony terrain, the Indians of the south-west, and the Spanish-Mexican colonists were
    all rolled together into one synoptic image of primitive, picturesque, natural California.
    The Simple Life
    As Lummis was completing El Alisal, architects Charles and Henry Greene built houses in
    Pasadena, a few miles up the Arroyo Seco, that

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    have been called 'ultimate bungalows'. The name and the idea of the bungalow originated
    in south Asia, but as it was transplanted from country to country in the late nineteenth
    century the bungalow was so radically transformed that little but the name remained to
    recall its origins. In turn-of-the-century American popular culture, small wooden
    bungalows were associated particularly closely with California.
    The bungalow had a double appeal in a rapidly growing but relatively underdeveloped
    state. Bungalow advocate Henry H. Saylor jokingly defined a bungalow as 'a house that
    looks as if it had been built for less money than it actually cost'. 20 It was simple in
    outline and decoration, efficient in layout and equipment, relatively cheap, and peculiarly
    suited to a simple, informal, servantless domestic life. As a result, the bungalow became
    the building block of lower-middle-class California urban and suburban neighbourhoods
    and served also as farm housing in rural districts of the state.
    Bungalows were more than cheap shelter: they represented, in Saylor's view, a life-style
    more than a house type. Their 'natural', informal, unpretentious appearance reinforced the
    popular image of California as a healthy place where one could live a 'bully' life, in direct
    contact with nature, and virtually without working. As a popular song put it, California
    the home of the orange blossom,
    the land of fruit and honey,
    Where it does not take much money,
    To own a little Bungalow.
    In short, bungalows fused metaphors of nature as a restorative force and nature as
    primitive moralism with intimations of effortless life into a recognizable image that could
    be bought and sold.
    Such images appealed to immigrants of all social classes to the Golden State. In 'Dear
    Okie' country singer Doye O'Dell evoked the power of California's pastoral reputation in
    attracting Okies and Arkies, migrants from the Dust Bowl states of Oklahoma and
    Arkansas, to the state's Central Valley in the 1930s. Rather than employment 'Rakin' up
    gold/playin' fiddle in the follies', however, they found only backbreaking agricultural
    labour awaiting them. 22 Bungalows and the bungalow style of living were for farm
    managers and owners; dust-bowl migrants lived in government-sponsored Farm Security
    Administration housing if they were lucky, in owner-provided shacks, tents, or their own
    vehicles if they were not. 'Now he'll be lucky if he finds a place to live,' sang O'Dell. 'But
    there's orange juice fountains flowing for those kids of his.'
    For those at the top of the social scale California was truly a play-land, a respite from the

    formality and the hectic pace of eastern industrial cities. These were the clients of the
    Greenes' ultimate bungalows.

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    Greene and Greene Gamble House, 1908, Pasadena, Calif.

    The mansion-sized Gamble House (1908), a winter residence for Cincinnati soap
    manufacturer David B. Gamble, can be called a bungalow only in the sense that it
    embodies an overscaled interpretation of bungalow imagery and lifeways [89]. Like the
    ubiquitous humble bungalows of Los Angeles, it was a shingle-covered frame house
    unembellished with the formal architectural elements and building materials preferred by
    the wealthy in other regions of the country (and occasionally in California). The Greenes
    employed standard images of domesticity, including deep sheltering eaves and
    cantilevered sleeping porches that extended the interior living space beyond the walls.
    At the Gamble House, nature served as a metaphor for region and site. The stained-glass
    panels around the entrance and in the ground-floor rooms depict the live oaks and golden
    hills that turn-of-the-century Californians associated with their state. A rear terrace
    extends the living space out into the grounds, a strategy the California modernists later
    used. Clinker bricks, deformed by the heat of the brick kiln into twisted, quasi-organic
    shapes and mixed with roughly shaped stones, enclose the terrace and form the
    foundation of the house, fusing building and site.
    The Gamble House garden works another variant on the picturesque theme of 'nature
    improved'. Here it is improved in ways that incorporate elements borrowed from
    Japanese Zen gardens. At the

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    Gamble House.
    The quasi-Japanese character of the joinery in the entrance hall and living-room
    is most evident in the truss that defines the inglenook. It recalls the karahafu
    eaves and 'frog-crotch' brackets of 17th-century Japanese timber building.

    same time, the timber framing, particularly the interior decorative joinery, evokes
    Japanese carpentry traditions [90]. To Americans in the early twentieth century, and
    particularly to Californians, Japan was a highly aestheticized culture, held close to nature
    by its indigenous religion, Shinto. The unspoiled, quasi-primitive values of the Japanese
    were evident in their simple, caring craftwork, which stood in stark opposition to the
    shoddy products of industrial civilization. The Japanese-style joinery of the Gamble
    House was thus in keeping with the relative informality of the house: honest joinery was
    appropriate to the natural wood and simple living spaces. Yet simplicity was created at
    great cost and through great exertion, for show. Many of the joints are in fact held
    together by concealed wood-screws.
    The Gamble House synthesizes most variations of the natural metaphor, and illustrates its
    great power and organizing role in the American built landscape. It illustrates as well the
    way that the naturalism so ardently promoted as a way of life by its advocates can easily
    be transformed into a commodity for sale. With enough money, the Gambles
    demonstrated, one could buy the simple life unavailable to those who truly worked the

    Act Naturally
    Picturesque naturalism, primitivism, and the search for the simple life all treated the
    human-nature relationship morally and psychologically.

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    From these perspectives, they examined what nature could do for people and what
    civilization had done to them. A third strain of naturalist thought has focused on the
    physicalwhat is now called the ecological or environmentalconsequences of human
    building in the natural world. In recent decades architectural environmentalism has been
    allied with lay people and scientists concerned with calculating the broader economic,
    biological, and psychic costs of human actions to the land. Yet concern for architecture's
    environmental qualitiesits role as a physical mediator between people and nature and its
    effects on the natural worlddates back at least to the nineteenth century.
    Comfort, health, and economics have dominated environmental experimentation in
    architecture until recently. Mid-nineteenth-century domestic advisers offered their readers
    the latest medical findings about the effects of heating and ventilation on human health.
    Simply put, people needed access to adequate 'good' air and needed even more to escape
    or ventilate the 'bad' air that their own bodies produced. The encircling porches of
    nineteenth-century houses thus acquired a hygienic rationale, and gradually the interior of
    the house was opened up to nature's healthful breezes as well. By the turn of the century,
    open-air dining-rooms and sleeping porches (such as those at the Gamble House) allowed
    middle-class householders to live daily life exposed to the elements, something vernacular
    builders had anticipated in the common practice of painting, plastering, or otherwise
    decorating front porches like interior rooms [91].
    The Depression, coupled with a recurrent quest among architects and social reformers to
    create affordable single-family houses for larger numbers of Americans, raised the
    question of energy-conservative design for economic reasons long before it appeared that
    energy supplies might be exhausted. Chicago architects William and George Fred Keck,
    intrigued by information on optimal solar orientations published by the Royal Institute of
    British Architects in 19312, began to experiment with orientation and the use of large
    panes of window glass for heat gain. Later, they designed more ambitious passive-solar
    devices, including external aluminium blinds housed in pockets to control the heat and
    light in rooms, deep eaves to screen out the high-angle summer sun but not the low-angle
    winter sun, and even a roof-top pool to cut heat gain through reflection and evaporation
    [92]. With the introduction of Thermopane glass in 1935, George Fred Keck began to
    design houses as long south-facing strings, with corridors and service spaces providing
    insulation along the north side.
    After World War II, Massachusetts architect Eleanor Raymond designed a passive-solar
    house as part of a series of experiments in new, cheaper house-building technologies
    funded by her patron, Amelia Peabody. Raymond built a 'sun-heated house' for Peabody
    at Dover, Massachusetts, in 1948 [93]. As in the Kecks' houses, Raymond's con-

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    Gustav Stickley Open-air dining-room, 1909.
    Domestic advisers like Gustav Stickley, editor of the Craftsman magazine,
    advocated open-air sleeping porches, and even living-rooms and dining-rooms
    with one side open to the elements, as a means of promoting health through
    contact with fresh air.

    George Fred Keck Duncan House, 1941, Flossmoor, III.
    The section illustrates Keck's use of south-facing plate glass, deep eaves, and
    north-side service spaces for passive-solar warming.

    tained a long south-facing string of rooms under an enormous shed-roof. The entire
    upper south facade was the solar collector, glazed with ten-foot-high double sheets of
    glass backed by a thin black-painted metal sheet. Fans in an air space behind the glass
    blew the heat into pockets between the first-floor rooms. These 'heat bins' contained
    metal drums filled with a sodium compound that stored heat for up to eight days and
    distributed it to the living spaces as needed.
    Although Raymond's system was weak and had to be replaced by conventional heating
    within four years, the houses of the 1930s and 1940s are the direct predecessors of the
    passive-solar technologies (and even, in Raymond's case, the photovoltaic cells) of later
    decades. A group of California state office buildings constructed during the Jerry Brown
    administration as experiments in energy conservation employed many of the concepts of

    the Keck-Raymond era in more sophisticated form. In the best-known of these structures,
    the Bateson Building (1978) in Sacramento, the Office of the State Architect was charged
    with saving 75 per cent of energy costs [94]. To accomplish this, the architects took
    lessons from the 1930s. Every side of the Kahnian concrete-and-wood-panel exterior
    differs according to its exposure. The southern windows are shaded with deep trellises
    and decks, while the eastern and western façades are fitted with retractable

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    Eleanor Raymond Sun-heated house, 1948, Dover, Mass.
    What appear to be second-storey windows are the solar collectors of the singlestorey dwelling.

    canvas shades, and the northern elevation is glazed with flush clear panes.
    The interior of the Bateson Building is organized around a four-storey courtyard that
    serves as a thermal buffer and air-circulation space [95]. The sawtooth monitors are fitted
    with louvres on their south faces to control heat gain but unshaded on the north to admit
    light. Four tall fan-ventilated canvas tubes prevent thermal stratification by circulating the
    air in the courtyard. The most important energy-conservative devices are invisible. A rock
    bed under the building acts as a thermal mass. Night air circulated over the rocks cools
    them and they in turn cool the internal air of the building during the day. One of the
    architects, Peter Calthorpe, described the Bateson Building as a living organism that
    would respond almost sentiently to changes in environmental conditions. It did not, for
    many of the passive-solar devices have never worked as intended.
    The technically sophisticated Bateson Building has a social as well as an environmental
    agenda. The scale and exterior appearance of the building are intended to make it a
    friendly neighbour in a largely residential district. Clearly visible paths of interior
    circulation guide visitors to their destinations. In addition, the architects originally
    imagined that the workers would be organized in groups of twelve to

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    Office of the State Architect, Bateson Building, 1978, Sacramento, Calif.
    South façade.

    twenty-four people, who would control the lights, ventilation, and other environmental
    amenities in their own areas. Natural ventilation and lighting were placed in the service of
    a 'natural' community of workers and neighbours.
    Calthorpe's image of the building as a sentient being responding to its congenial human
    community, a kind of artificial Nature nurturing its human occupants, is telling. It propels
    the Bateson Building from the technical domain of building science back into the
    metaphorical realm of nature and culture. Environmental commentators have rarely
    resisted the temptation to inject a moral dimension into their consideration of the
    interaction of people and nature. For the designers of the Bateson Building it was
    important to conserve energy, not merely to save tax dollars but also because humans
    have an ethical responsibility to minimize their impact on the natural world.
    The corollary of guilt about what humans have done to nature is the fear of nature's
    vengeance. In mid-nineteenth-century New Orleans, for example, physicians explained
    the city's frequent yellow-fever epidemics as the product of the confluence of great heat,
    the 'putrefying vegetal matter' of the primeval swamps on which the city was built, and
    the respiration of the human population. Although their analyses were framed in the
    language of science, they derived from the discourse of nature, from a fear that epidemics
    might be Nature's way of avenging our insults. Urbanites paid a price for their own
    existence, they believed. New Orleans physician Edward H. Barton produced an elaborate
    map showing the places in the city where yellow fever were most

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    prevalent. These were the sites of excavations to construct levees and drainage canals
    necessary to make the site usable. When people bruised Nature's body, Nature struck
    To put it another way, Nature's body is our body: whatever we do to her, we do to
    ourselves. Recent green (ecological) designers carry this line of imagery a step farther.
    Greens see contemporary environmental problems as products of consumer society that
    has lost this sense of the oneness of Nature's body and our own. Nature has been reduced
    to a commodity that we consume, or use up, frivolouslywe waste it. The builders of the
    Integral Urban House, a Berkeley ecological experiment of the 1970s, claimed that the
    'typical home now largely wastes the solar income it daily receives', then went on to
    describe the toll this extravagant house exacted from the far-flung ecosystems that
    sustained it and from the local community to which it bequeathed its wastes. They
    concluded that the average home was 'a total parasite', so 'it is not surprising that the
    occupants experienced themselves as victims or, at best, ineffectual ciphers in a large,
    impersonal centralized system'. 23 In the course of one paragraph, the saga of the typical
    house was transformed from one of wasteful human consumption of nature to one in
    which people and nature were equally victimized by an abstract economic system.
    For green designers, acknowledgement of human alienation from nature reveals a
    remedy, for if people consume nature in the alienated, modern economic sense, they also
    consume it in a physiological sense. They ingest, transform, and excrete nature as part of
    the process of life. In relating the story of a composting privy at the Green Gulch
    commune in Marin County, California, ecological designers Sim Van der Ryn, an architect
    of the Bateson Building, and Stuart Cowan observed that when commune members
    helped the architects to design the privy, the 'involvement necessarily connected them
    with their own biological processes'. 24 This imagery is quite explicit in the National
    Audubon Society Headquarters, New York, a 19901 retrofitting project of the Croxton
    Collaborative. The building was renovated using materials salvaged from the remodelling,
    and contains elaborate systems for feeding off itself by recycling and reusing its waste
    products. Consumer waste was transformed to natural waste feeding growth.
    In short, a long-standing empirical concern for the biological and physiological costs of
    human building and an equally long-standing fear of the moral consequences of
    environmental degradation have become in green design a tale of the self embedded
    problematically in its surroundings. By commodifying and wasting the blessings of
    Mother Nature, we become alienated from her. In our alienation, we are alienated in turn
    from our own true natures, a claim that the romantics might have endorsed.
    This is ultimately a theological parable. The Judaeo-Christian

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    Bateson Building.
    Isometric section.

    ambivalence about nature and culture imported by the first European colonists re-emerges
    in green metaphors of environmental sin and retribution: environmental problems are a
    sign of guilt. Like the old Puritan deity, Nature is an avenging god, poised to strike back
    at those who flout her rules. The contemporary world suffers not merely from
    scientifically describable environmental problems, but also from a crisis of a sort unique
    in the history of the world, one that is fundamentally a crisis of values and that
    encompasses all aspects of society, economy, and technology. As a result, contemporary
    life is not 'sustainable', it cannot achieve a state of long-term balance. To make the right
    decision, to convert to ecological design, 'brings us back home'. 25 By renouncing the
    false gods of wasteful consumption, we can be reconciled to nature, through which waste
    is consumed and reborn.
    In short, couched though it may be in the accoutrements of environmental and biological
    science and backed up by computer models, the movement towards a green architecture
    is a moralistic one. Hence the social aims of the Bateson Building. Following green
    theorist David Orr, Van der Ryn and Cowan note that mere 'technological sustainability' is
    insufficient: what is required is 'ecological sustainability'. 26 Ecological sustainability
    offers more than clean air and healthy bodies, it is a setting conducive to the 'fuller
    creative evolution of society and the individual'. 27
    It is difficult to imagine what such a society might look like, socially

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    or architecturally, for the image of a sustainable society eventually dissolves into a
    collection of metaphors and mundane landscapes. It would be the Garden of Eden. Or it
    would be the resourceful hippiefrontier society of Ernest Callenbach's Ecotopia novels,
    or the macho West of Edward Abbey's Hayduke sagas. None of these fictions addresses
    real issues of social diversity, environmental justice (the fair distribution of inevitable
    environmental hazards), or differences of political values. As builtat Michael Corbett's
    Village Homes (19725) at Davis, California, or in the many projects of Calthorpe
    Associatesthe new green communities resemble upper-middle-class commuter suburbs
    and resort towns more than they do moral utopias.

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    Page 149

    Technology extends our physical capacities in ways that we could not manage unaided. It
    drafts the facts of the natural world to human use. The word technology was coined to
    signify this fusion of science and art. To put it another way, the cultural realm of
    technology complements that of nature. Historical accident emphasizes the connection: the
    word was invented in 1828 by Harvard professor Jacob Bigelow, the principal founder of
    Mount Auburn Cemetery. Like nature, technology prompts self-reflection, calling our
    attention once again to the puzzling relationships of people and their environments.
    Technology also serves as a tool for incorporating our surroundings into personal and
    social identities: it is an instrument of the spiritual colonization of the physical world. In
    that sense, technology is part of the human-material symbiosis that we have labelled
    For these reasons, technology must be understood as a social, and not simply a technical,
    issue. It is customary among architectural historians to treat technology almost as a force
    of nature, as a series of self-directed 'inventions' or 'developments' that have inexorably
    redirected architecture's trajectory. The development of the steel frame (along with the
    elevator, the electric light, and the telephone) led to the creation of the tall office building.
    The invention of the automobile was responsible for dispersed urban settlement and the
    destruction of urban centres. Historians of technology, on the other hand, point out that
    technological innovation follows demand rather than creating it. Intensified downtown
    land use and the subsequent dispersal of the city began decades before the steel frame or
    the automobile were available. Technology is to human society as the stick was to the
    proverbial monkey: it provides a convenient physical solution to a socially defined
    The evolution of structural systems makes this point clearly. A principal theme in the
    history of construction has been the desire to extend human physical capacities and
    economic resources by making less labour do more work. This has been as true of the
    smallest structure as the largest, of the most commonplace structural system as

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    the most innovative or idiosyncratic.
    Consider the example of timber framing, the dominant structural system throughout the
    history of American architecture. Behind the similarity of material and the use of a
    skeletal structure lay a variety of differences that arose from what might be called
    structural logic, or the way the frame was imagined to work as a system. Eastern
    woodland Indian construction, as well as the rare traditional houses built by enslaved
    Africans, and a wide variety of simple European-American building technologies such as
    the palisade wall, French-American pôteaux en terre (posts-in-ground), Hispanic jacal,
    and the Newfound-land tilt, relied on the tensile and compressive strength of individual
    members, stabilized by the earth, for their structural integrity. The builders of Native
    Hawaiian buildings, Wichita grass houses, and Missouri River (Omaha, Hidatsa, Mandan,
    and Pawnee) earth lodges also relied on these qualities of the structure, but assembled
    them into simple unjoined post-and-beam frames reinforced by their lashed fastenings
    [96]. Even the massive plank-enclosed houses of the Northwest Coast Indians were
    stabilized primarily by the earth and the dead weight of the main frame.

    Hidatsa twelve-post earth lodge.
    Reconstruction drawing.

    Page 151

    Larger Wemp Barn, late 18th century, vic.Fort Hunter, Montgomery County, NY.
    The bents, with their large cross-beams or ankerbalken, were treated by the
    Dutch as aesthetic objects. In barns the tenons were allowed to project as
    decorative features, while in houses the posts and beams were commonly
    exposed and painted red to make them stand out against white plaster walls.
    Disproportionately large ankerbalken were objects of special admiration.

    Joined frames, in which carved joints locked the parts together into a mutually supporting
    unit, were equally varied. Dutch, Chinese, and Northwest Coast Indian builders organized
    their frames into bents, quasi-independent post-and-beam units that ran across the
    building, creating a tunnel of space inside them [97]. Anglo-American traditional
    carpenters, on the other hand, imagined their frames as three-dimensional boxes in which
    each major timber was knitted to its neighbours by complex joints serving to brace it from
    several directions at once [98] [99].
    Every part of the three-dimensional box frame was specialized. It had to be hand-crafted
    to fit a unique location in the frame. Carpenters' marksRoman numerals or other signsthat
    aided in prefitting the wooden frames on the ground before they were erected testified to
    the non-interchangeability of the timbers. Not surprisingly, carpenters strove to minimize
    guesswork and unnecessary effort in this laborious process. Rules of thumb, simple
    ratios, or fixed dimensions eliminated calculations and reduced the possibility for error.
    Another technique was to simplify or eliminate parts. In the traditional timber frame, for
    example, the wall covering was attached to light vertical members, called studs, that were
    connected to horizontal beams at the top and bottom by mortise-and-tenon joints. In a
    two-storey house four joints were required, at the floor and ceiling of each level [98,
    right end]. The earliest Anglo-American carpenters often used studs that ran the full
    height of the building. A light horizontal member called a clamp or bearer was pegged to
    the studs' inner faces, eliminating two joints at each stud as well as the intermediate beam,
    or girt, into which they were tenoned [98], left end]. As an additional benefit, the second-

    floor joists that would otherwise have been tenoned into the girt were simply laid on the
    bearer, doing away with a third set of joints.
    In early European America craftworkers were scarce and expensive but materials were
    readily available to the point that their abundance impeded development in the first years.
    As one Virginia colonist observed, at first 'wasting of Woods [was] an ease and a benefit

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    Gedney House, c. 1665, Salem, Mass.
    The Gedney House illustrates many of the techniques of traditional AngloAmerican framing. The three left structural bays were the original portion of the
    house, with the addition (c. 1700) at the right.

    the Planter'. 1 This imbalance between manpower and materials reinforced an age-old
    labour-conservative craft ethos. Early European-American builders were always ready to
    use materials profligately so as to skimp on labour. When water-powered sawmills
    permitted the mechanical production of building timbers, New England carpenters pushed
    the clamp idea a step farther, eliminating the studs altogether. 2 They nailed or pegged
    thick vertical planks to the exterior of the building, which braced the frame, enclosed the
    interior, and provided a foundation for finished surfaces all at once.
    Plank framing was continually reinvented with the westward movement of European
    colonization. As box framing, single-wall framing, plantation construction, or balloon
    framing, it was used as far west as California and Hawaii, and as late as the early
    twentieth century. As a final step in the simplification of wooden construction, the frame
    itself was replaced by simple two-by-four boards nailed to the top and bottom of the
    planks, which now provided all the structural support.
    In the seventeenth-century Chesapeake colonies tobacco, a very profitable crop at first,
    absorbed such vast amounts of meticulous attention during its growing season that
    planters preferred to invest in field hands rather than architecture. The result was a
    landscape comprised almost exclusively of flimsy earthfast structures. These rotted and
    disappeared so rapidly that only two of these buildings, Cedar Park (1702) and Sotterley

    (early eighteenth century), both in Maryland, survive, encased in more substantial shells.
    Earthfast construction was a quick-and-dirty technique. A frame

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    that stood in hand-excavated holes rather than on a levelled foundation was difficult to
    assemble with precision and it racked and sagged as its supporting members decayed.
    Builders made compensatory adjustments to the traditional system, jettisoning its complex
    joints and specialized parts. The distinctive timber framing tradition of the eighteenth- and
    nineteenth-century South was a legacy of these ad hoc adjustments. The timbers of the
    Southern frame were sawn to two standard sizes and shapes, one for structural members
    and one for infill, rather than hewn to individualized specifications [100]. Simple twoway tenoned or lapped joints were substituted for the complex multi-directional joints of
    the older frame, making the parts virtually interchangeable. The assembly was imagined
    as two long parallel walls held together at the top by floor joists notched like Lincoln logs
    and dropped on to them. In pursuit of a traditional goal, labour conservation, a traditional
    structural system had been completely reinvented.

    Fairbanks House, c. 1637, Dedham, Mass.
    This framing detail shows the four-way joint connecting (from top to bottom) the
    principal-rafter foot, tie beam, plate, and post.

    Traditional Anglo-American framing was the ancestor of the better-known balloon frame.
    The historian Sigfried Giedion credited one man, George Washington Snow, with
    inventing that industrialized framing system, in Chicago in 1832 [101]. No such simple
    attribution is possible, however. The sawn standardized parts, simplified joints (now
    eliminated altogether in favour of nailed joinery), and twostorey studs and bearers (now
    called ledgers) link it to traditional carpentry, and particularly to the Chesapeake framing
    system, which had been carried west by emigrants from the upper South. Even the name
    balloon framing ties it to the older labour-conservative tradition. The term had first been
    used to designate plank or box framing, and was only later applied to light-studded
    structures. 3
    This new balloon framing was different from its traditional sources in one important way.
    When each nail had been made by hand, there was little advantage to nailing over joinery.
    After about 1790, nails could be cut rapidly and mechanically from sheets of iron. Forty

    years later, the invention of a machine to form heads on cut nails gave nailing the edge
    over joinery in speed and labour costs. The invention of fast steam-powered circular saws
    augmented balloon framing's advantages after 1840. Ordinary building was shifted to an
    entirely different, industrial footing.
    Industrialization meant more than the simple use of powered machines and their
    products. It redefined the scale and organization of labour. In an industry, many people
    were involved in a single concentrated enterprise. Work that had been scattered over
    many sites was brought together at one, where powered machines could perform rapid
    large-scale work. On the other hand, the skills and tasks that had been performed by a
    single worker were broken down into small repetitious movements suitable for machines
    (which were capable of great speed

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    Rich Neck Plantation Granary, early 19th century, Surry County, Va.
    Chesapeake (southern) framing can be distinguished from earlier types of AngloAmerican framing by the use of simple joints and light, standardized timbers.

    Balloon frame.
    Like the Chesapeake frame, the balloon frame uses light, standardized timbers;
    however, they are nailed together rather than joined.

    but little complexity of movement, when compared with people) and distributed among
    many workers, each assigned one small part of the whole process. This meant that the
    individual carpenter or building worker who devoted a variety of subtle skills to creating
    a unique building on one site gave way to the off-site machinist, whose equally subtle
    skills created a machine that could make many parts for many buildings at once. In short,
    building skills were not eliminated so much as centralized. Nail factories and sawmills
    were augmented by related industrial enterprises such as sash-and-blind factories, which
    made mouldings, mantels, window sashes, newels, and balusters; foundries, which

    created cast-iron façades, ornaments, and structural elements; sheet-metal fabrication
    shops; and the plants that created the many patent fixtures and wall and floor coverings
    installed in buildings of all sizes in nineteenth- and twentieth-century America.
    This relocation of building skills narrowed the range of architectural form and
    appearance. Where these had once been determined independently (and sometimes
    idiosyncratically) on site, many choices were now reduced to the selection from a
    predetermined catalogue. Economies of scale facilitated by the industrialization of
    building made popular architecture available to a broader spectrum of the population, at
    the cost of variation in the detail and texture of the landscape and of the reduction in
    building workers' control over the conditions and economic value of their labour.
    Just as the speed and power of machines extended the capacities of individual workers, it
    also extended their geographical range. Skilled labour no longer needed to reside in the
    same place as the construction project. Industrialized building materials helped to erase
    inequalities in the distribution of architectural forms. Labour could be exported in this
    manner from locales with more materials, more capital for

    Page 155

    Quonset hut, c.1945, Z-Bar Ranch, near Strong City, Kan.
    Their lightness, ease of assembly and disassembly, and inexpensive materials
    made Quonset huts, originally manufactured for military use during World War II,
    readily adaptable for agricultural, commercial, and residential use after the war.
    This one is a farm equipment shed.

    investing in equipment, or more skilled workers, to developing regions with fewer of any
    of these resources.
    Prefabrication was the most comprehensive application of mechanization to building. To
    produce mass housing through industrial means'Houses Like Fords' was the memorable
    twentieth-century sloganwas a recurrent dream of architects, developers, and
    industrialists. However, prefabrication tended to be most successful in specialized settings
    where building labour was at a premium. In the mid-nineteenth century both East Coast
    and European manufacturers exported prefabricated houses and warehouses to Gold
    Rush California. By the turn of the century the timber-rich Pacific Northwest, upper
    Midwest, and south-east were the headquarters of corporations that sold prefabricated
    mail-order houses, farm buildings, and commercial structures. Although they had some
    success with ordinary home-owners across the country, most of their customers could be
    found in the rapidly developing interior of the country and among start-up industries
    seeking to house a work force quickly. During World War II the Seabees, the construction
    arm of the United States Navy, created a kind of prefabricated all-purpose building that
    could be manufactured in the United States and shipped to war zones as needed [102].
    These Quonset huts, named after the Quonset Point Naval Air Station, Rhode Island,
    where they were developed in 1941, were made of preformed wooden ribs sheathed with
    corrugated sheet steel and fitted with pressed-wood interior linings. The standardized
    parts in a limited number of sizes could be assembled into eighty-six different internal

    configurations. About 170,000 Quonset huts had been built by 1946. Many were brought
    back to the United States after the war, where they were used as cheap housing and as
    industrial and commercial buildings.

    Page 156

    The complex history of vernacular timber framing demonstrates that it is not enough
    simply to talk about the 'effects' of technology on architecture. Architecture was
    embedded in the industrialization and technological development of the United States in
    ways that cannot be reduced to simple cause-and-effect relationships. This was even more
    evident in the history of environmental controls. Because comfort is socially defined,
    architecture's role in providing it has changed. Until the beginning of the twentieth
    century the relationship between people and their surroundings was defined by
    ventilation. The classic theories of disease rested on assumptions about the nature and
    function of air, an elusive element whose perceptible qualities were clues to its
    healthfulness. Domestic advice givers taught their readers that people needed access to
    'fresh' 'elastic' air and needed to escape or ventilate the 'burned', 'vitiated', 'expired' air that
    their heating systems and their own bodies produced [103].
    These medical theories most conspicuously shaped public institutions of confinement,
    whose inmates needed healthy air brought to them. Authors of nineteenth-century
    hospital, asylum, and prison literature were obsessed with air. They advised care-givers to
    burn the clothes of epidemic victims because bad air could penetrate porous surfaces.
    They recommended metal 'blacksmith beds' for use in institutions because wooden
    bedsteads were similarly liable to contamination [104]. The ideal hospital of the
    nineteenth century was summed up in the so-called Nightingale ward (endorsed but not
    invented by Florence Nightingale), an 'edifice built up out of pure air'. 4 A Nightingale
    ward was very narrow, to allow the penetration of breezes, and it was very long, isolating
    each bed as 'a territory to itself'. 5 It was also a high room, with windows that occupied at
    least a third of the wall area and extended close to the ceiling and floor to avoid trapping
    bad air in the ward.
    United States Army physician John S. Billings followed these principles when he was
    called on to fulfill the bequest of Baltimore businessman Johns Hopkins, who left a large
    sum of money to build a


    Andrew Jackson Downing Room without ventilation.
    In the mid-19th century, pattern books like Downing's The Architecture of
    Country Houses (1850) contained information about furnishings, health, heating,
    and ventilation as well as aesthetic advice.

    Page 157

    John S. Billings, M.D., with John R. Niernsee, consulting architect Johns Hopkins Hospital, 187685,
    This common ward is fitted with iron 'blacksmith beds' as well as ventilating
    ducts under each bed.

    400-bed hospital based on the most up-to-date medical principles and available free of
    charge to people of any age, sex, race, or economic standing. Billings's plan for the Johns
    Hopkins Hospital (187685), concocted with the aid of architect John R. Niernsee,
    dramatically emphasized the layers of space around patients. Each Nightingaletype ward
    occupied a separate pavilion, a tall one-storey building set on a raised basement through
    which air was drawn into the ward by way of an outlet under each bed [104] [105] [106].
    Vents in the ceiling and an 'aspirating chimney' drew foul air out through the roof space.
    Each patient was surrounded by a cocoon of moving airat least in theory, for one study
    suggested that in systems of this sort the air moved in the intended direction only a little
    over half of the time, and stagnated or moved in the wrong direction otherwise.
    The Nightingale system applied a veneer of science to the passive ventilating techniques
    long used in vernacular buildings. At the Johns Hopkins Hospital, an isolating ward for
    the very ill employed interior partitions and individual ventilating systems that crystallized
    the atmospheric cocoon of the common wards as individual cells whose environment
    could be adjusted to each patient's needs [105]. This arrangement linked the hospital to
    the celled spaces of penitentiaries and insane asylums, which could be fine-tuned to the
    specific social or mental failings of the inmate as the isolating ward could be fine-tuned to
    the physiological frailties of the individual patient. The isolating ward also tied the
    hospital to the celled spaces of nineteenth-century hotels and offices, where each guest or
    worker commanded a particular 'territory'.

    The ranks of chimneys on the Johns Hopkins isolating ward dramatized a sense of
    independent selfhood that characterized the

    Page 158

    Johns Hopkins Hospital.
    Each patient in the isolating ward had a room with its own ventilating system.

    emergent nineteenth-century middle class. They bespoke the sense of the individual as
    someone who could be picked out of the mass, someone with a distinct destiny or interest
    that could be controlled or at least influenced by architecture. These new middle-class
    Americans, who numbered among themselves the physicians and asylum keepers, prized
    a code of self-discipline and personal demeanour, called 'gentility', that defined distinctive
    individual personalities worthy of public respect. A respectable person imagined himself
    as the occupant of a discrete envelope of social and physical space within which he or she
    was entitled to remain undisturbed in return for respecting the integrity of others'
    boundaries. The late-nineteenth-century hospital served as an emblem of a good
    environment for, viewed through the lens of middle-class self-perception, the belief that
    bad air suffocated or poisoned its inhabitants by invading their bodies was as much a
    social as a medical judgement, one that found a kind of failure of personal integrity in the
    patients, clients, or inmates entrusted to their care.
    Gender, Sex, and Filth
    The conventions of gentility, with their heightened emphasis on the body and personal
    space, powerfully affected the evolving standards

    Page 159

    Johns Hopkins Hospital
    Section of a common ward.

    of comfort that architectural technologies were called on to meet. Now buildings were
    expected not only to provide healthy air, but to insulate their occupants from one another.
    The use of environmental controls in Frank Lloyd Wright's famous administration
    building (19034) for the Larkin Company can be understood only in this context. The
    Larkin Company was a firm of Chicago soap manufacturers that moved to Buffalo after
    the fire of 1873, and subsequently expanded its business through mail-order premium
    sales. At the turn of the century Larkin executives decided to build a new headquarters
    that would follow the standard business practice of fronting a generic manufacturing
    complex with a relatively small, architecturally distinctive office building that doubled as
    a kind of corporate logo.
    Wright's administration building was at once a head office, a factory that processed the
    five thousand letters the company received from its customers each day during the first
    decade of the twentieth century, and an enormous filing cabinet that stored them. It was
    organized as a high-walled, tightly enclosed, inward-looking building similar to the
    houses Wright was building during the same decade. An open interior court was
    surrounded by galleries and lit from the top, from a light well between the main building
    and its annex, and from triple windows set high in the walls above banks of built-in

    Page 160

    Frank Lloyd Wright Larkin
    Company Administration
    Building, 19034 (demolished
    1950), Buffalo.
    Note the banks of built-in filing cabinets in the partitions lining the central court,
    the plants trailing over the upper balcony, and the Biblical epigraph.

    cabinets [107].
    The resemblance to Wright's houses was no accident, or even a simple matter of personal
    style or formal preference, for the Larkin Building was shaped by a domestic model of
    working life. In the late nineteenth century large commercial enterprises like the Larkin
    Company employed increasingly female clerical work forces drawn from the middle and
    lower-middle classes. Yet the Larkin Building was located in an industrial district near the
    railroad, a zone that was off limits to respectable women. To offset the disadvantages of
    the site, the architect and the client sought to establish an image of gentility and
    protection, a homelike world, a turn-of-the-century phrase that connoted the extension of
    domestic moral values into the world at large. Public employment was opened up to
    women by making the work-place resemble a household, their putative domain. Wright
    explicitly acknowledged this intention: he aimed to create 'a family gathering under
    conditions ideal for the body and mind', a 'family home' that would stimulate the
    company's employees to work hard for the profit of its owners. 6
    The Larkin Building was much more than a home: it was a selfcontained genteel

    neighbourhood that included an employee lounge, a branch of the city library, a YWCA, a
    classroom, a cafeteria, and a conservatory. Inside, the women worked in open spaces
    under the watchful eyes of male managers, surrounded by organ music, plants, and
    uplifting architectural inscriptions, some drawn from the Sermon on the Mount and
    others grouped into cryptic triadic exhortations such as 'cheerfulnesspatiencecontentment'
    and 'adversityrefinementsympathy'.
    Environmental technology made the character-moulding isolation of the Larkin
    Administration Building possible. The structure was sealed off and supplied with air
    taken in through the roof, drawn to the basement through corner towers, passed over
    coils and water sprays to wash it, then sent back up through an intricate network of riser
    ducts to the working areas. Wright's explanation of the system evoked the nineteenth
    century's obsession with air: his mechanism served 'to keep the interior space clear of the
    poisonous gases in the smoke from the New York Central trains that puffed along beside'
    the building. 7 The allusion was deceptive. Since the construction of the Johns Hopkins
    Hospital, the germ theory of disease had come to dominate medical thinking. This
    attributed most illnesses to micro-organisms living in dirt, rather than to the innate
    properties of air. Wright sought not to ventilate the air in the nineteenth-century sense, but
    to clean and cool it. His system was concerned with the workers' skin rather than their
    lungs. It created a different kind of separation from that in the hospitals of a generation
    earlier. In the tightly packed space of the office, conditioned air wrapped individual
    bodies in a genteel envelope that

    Page 161

    protected them from the contaminating touch of their neighbours.
    As a domestic architect (even in his public commissions), Wright shared his
    contemporaries' obsession with cleanliness. If the ventilated space of the hospital was the
    social metaphor of late-nineteenthcentury houses, the sterile laboratory served the same
    purpose in the twentieth century. Builders rethought bathrooms and kitchens as sanitary
    places defined by hard white surfaces which revealed the dirt that carried germs and by
    high-technology fittings. Paradoxically, actual laboratories presented a very different
    aspect from the visual sterility that domestic designers sought.
    John Galen Howard's Hearst Memorial Mining Building (19027) at the University of
    California, Berkeley, a memorial to a former United States Senator who had made his
    fortune in North Dakota mines, contained laboratories, offices, and classrooms fronted by
    a pavilion that formed the memorial proper [108]. This conservative, pleasant-looking
    building, funded by the honoree's widow, Phoebe Apperson Hearst, was shaped by a
    much darker social vision than Wright's antiseptic gentility. On the arcaded south façade,
    a red-tile roof supported on heavy timber brackets alluded to the California missions,
    claiming the historical and cultural past as a matrix against which the state's economic and
    technological progress could be measured. Straining corbel figures, representing 'the
    primal elements' on the west and 'the eternal forces' on the east supported the eaves
    brackets. Howard wrote revealingly of these figures that 'the profession

    John Galen Howard, architect; Dean S. B. Christy, consultant
    Hearst Memorial Mining Building, 19027, University of California, Berkeley.

    Page 162

    of mining has to do with the very body and bones of the earth; its process is a ruthless
    assault upon the bowels of the world, a contest with the crudest and most rudimentary
    forces. There is about it something essentially elementary, something primordial.' 8
    Howard's iconography depicted the act of mining in terms of the clash between human
    bodies and Nature's body, revealing his familiarity with a widely disseminated latenineteenth-century popular literature on gender and sexuality. This literature assumed that
    men were governed by a 'spermatic economy', meaning that their energies were limited
    and needed to be concentrated in one field of endeavour or another. 9 Socially productive
    activities such as the economic exploitation of the earth's resources required every bit of
    energy that men could summon, as the expressions on Howard's primal figures suggest.
    Yet men were naturally inclined to seek sexual pleasure, which diverted their energies
    from socially productive channels. Those who were able to subdue their own natures
    might conquer the earth and assimilate nature's energies to their own, expanding their
    powers exponentially. Curiously, the authors of popular treatises often used mining,
    particularly California gold mining and its all-male mining camps, as metaphors for the
    healthy direction of energies toward productive action.
    Because the earth was female, mining was often described as a superior version of giving
    birth, or more accurately of delivering a baby. However, femaleness added other
    dimensions to Howard's iconography more in keeping with his words. According to
    accepted wisdom, women's sexuality threatened to rob men of their vital energies and to
    subvert the discipline that social order required. Fear of the disorder liable to ensue from
    women's natures if they were allowed to run unchecked prompted late-nineteenth-century
    surgeons to remove women's sexual organs to tame their temperaments (a practice still
    current when the Hearst Mining Building was constructed). In Howard's description of
    miners tearing the riches from the body of Mother Earth, we hear echoes of this hostile,
    Jack-the-Ripper-like gynaecology. The hard work of mining constituted a violent struggle
    with the earth that miners must win by any means for the good of society.
    Just what was it that the miners were after in the earth's bowels? After all, women do not
    actually give birth from their bowels, nor are their sexual organs located there. The
    bowels are the excrement-filled organs that extract the last bits of nutrient from food. In
    the early twentieth century the ideal of efficiency, widely touted as both an economic and
    a technological goal, was extended to the human body. Regularity, control, and selfdiscipline were urged on refined Americans in their bodily functions as in their work.
    Women, in particular, were often encouraged to learn to control their excretory

    Page 163

    Hearst Memorial Mining Building
    Chimneys and ventilating cupola.

    functions as a step toward achieving gentility. The Hearst Mining Building, on the other
    hand, energetically celebrated its wastes. Furnaces in the bowels of the building digested
    ores whose toxic remnants were excretedor ejaculatedpromiscuously through the ranks of
    chimneys that bristled from the roof [109]. Metaphors of gender, of sexuality and
    elimination, of technology and nature, of technology and the body, are so densely
    entwined in the Hearst Mining Building that they are nearly impossible to untangle, but if
    Wright's building protected its female occupants from the consequences of their own
    bodily processes, Howard's revelled in its wastes even as it celebrated the conquest of
    Nature's female grossness.
    Bodily metaphors remained powerful a half century later in Louis I. Kahn's Richards
    Medical Research Laboratory (195764) at the University of Pennsylvania, a biological and
    medical research facility clad in a skin-and-skeleton-like brick-and-concrete sheathing
    [110]. The environment is controlled by a system that also resembles the body's: the brain,
    in the central blocks, is separated from the excretory system contained in the attached
    towers. This separation of functions, which recalls the classic western mind-body
    dichotomy, follows a common Kahn organizational strategy that the architect described as
    a division of servant and served spaces, which is a social metaphor. The conspicuous
    ventilating towers speak of danger more than of celebration: this architectural body
    protects the bodies of the people who work there from the consequences of what they do
    inside. The excretory systems dwarf, and are more visually compelling than, the thinking
    The Richards Laboratory intimates a kind of technological hubris. The dramatic exhaust

    towers suggest the riskiness of what is done there and by implication magnify the stature
    of the research and the

    Page 164

    Page 165
    Louis l. Kahn
    Richards Medical Research Laboratory, 195764, University of Pennsylvania,

    scientists who, it seems, work at the edges of human capacities. Its imagery allies the
    Richards Laboratory with the great works of nineteenth- and twentieth-century civil
    engineering that seemed similarly daring.
    The Technological Sublime
    David Nye, a historian of technology, has traced the American fascination with
    spectacular technology to the eighteenth-century aesthetic category of the sublime, On a
    continent where the natural landscape seemed so sublime, so vast and terrifying, it
    seemed appropriate, if a little daunting, to try to meet Nature on the same scale, with vast
    structures to subdue the earth and powerful machines to annihilate distance and time. To
    Ralph Waldo Emerson, these structures and machines were 'realized willthe double of
    man'. 10 The most 'empirical' or rational structures were often among the most ambitious
    of these efforts of the human spirit to colonize the natural world.
    The renowned suspension-bridge builder John A. Roebling was certainly driven by a
    sense of the technological sublime. Roebling, who established a factory to make wire
    rope at Saxonburg, Pennsylvania, in 1841, began to construct suspension bridges a few
    years later. His ambition was not simply to build useful or even particularly long spans
    (although he did both), but to design distinctive ones that would celebrate human power
    over nature. Roebling sought to create 'a pleasing effect, and at the same timestrong and
    reassuring proportions which inspire confidence' through a visual balance among the
    tower, deck structure, cables, suspenders, and stays of his bridges. 11 That is, he devised a
    personal visual style, based on stays radiating from the towers, to set his bridges off from
    those of other engineers. At his East River (Brooklyn) Bridge (186983), Roebling
    experimented with varying patterns of stays and reinforced the deck beyond what was
    necessary to achieve the desired appearance [111]. He also cloaked its towers in quasiGothic garb because 'medieval architecture is distinguished for its remarkable lightness
    and great strength at the same time'. 12
    Roebling's aesthetic sensibilities inspired suspension-bridge engineers for seventy years
    after his death. Othmar Ammann, the designer of the George Washington Bridge
    (192731), New York, learned from his teacher, Gustav Lindenthal, that 'a great bridge in a
    great city, should be a work of art to which science lends its aid'[112]. 13 On the example
    of the Brooklyn Bridge, Ammann and the project architect Cass Gilbert wanted to sheath

    the towers of his bridge with stone (veneered over reinforced concrete) to give them an
    appropriate dignity, but the cladding was omitted for budgetary reasons. Ammann also
    made the George Washington Bridge's deck much thinner than

    John A. Roebling, chief engineer; completed by Washington Roebling and Emily Roebling The Great East R
    186983, Brooklyn, NY, to New York NY.
    Currier and lves print, c.1883.

    was customary to make it appear more elegant.

    The great suspension bridges of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries fed a national s
    Roebling predicted that the Brooklyn Bridge's gothic towers would 'be ranked as national m
    would] forever testify to the energy, enterprise, and wealth of the community'. 14 Bridges a
    engineering feats were monuments of economic nationalism, proof of the American system
    The Brooklyn Bridge was described as the last link of a cross-country highway, despite the
    two islands, neither of which boasted a bridge to the mainland. 15 At the same time each br
    victory, the mark of the special position of each particular place in the larger system, so eac
    the distinctive appearance of its bridge, whether it was a suspension structure by Roebling o
    Ellet or a unique span, such as Colonel James B. Eads's cantilevered steel bridge for St Lou
    all, striking engineering achievements were another medium for examining the dichotomies
    culture. For Thomas Ewbank, the Commissioner of Patents, humanity's work would be fin
    planet is wholly changed from its natural wildernessinto a fit theatre for cultivated intelligen
    one dedicatory orator declared the Brooklyn Bridge 'a trophy of triumph over an obstacle o

    As at the Richards Laboratory, human power had its risks. Travel at great speeds risked disa
    control of the power at one's fingertips, as in the steamboat explosion that took the life of A

    Page 167

    Jackson Downing in 1852 or the space-shuttle Challenger explosion of the 1980s. To
    build heroically entailed exposure to hazardous terrains, extreme working conditions deep
    inside bridge caissons or atop the steel frames of skyscrapers, the risk of accidents, and
    an impulse to selfdestruction. If technology was the extension of ourselves, the question
    often arose, were we over-stepping our proper boundaries? The fear of over-extending
    human capacity for artifice was the complement of the fear of trespassing on Nature's
    domain: both invited retribution from forces beyond human control. Green architects Sim
    Van der Ryn and Stuart Cowan caught the mood in warning that 'Thinking too big can
    make our human limitations a liability rather than an asset'. 17
    Van der Ryn and Cowan wrote as though engineers and technologists had forgotten this,
    but these anxieties underlay even admiring accounts of nineteenth- and twentieth-century
    technology. That was the meaning of the technological sublime. The undertone of fear,
    the possibility that a bridge might fall or a dam might break, made it the more admirable
    when it did not. Each new success reset the standards. Robert Stephenson, engineer of the
    widely admired Britannia Bridge in north Wales, wrote to John Roebling that 'If your
    [Niagara River] bridge succeeds, mine is a magnificent blunder.' 18

    Othmar Ammann, chief engineer; Leon S. Moissieff and Allston Dana, engineers; Cass Gilbert,
    consulting architect
    George Washington Bridge, 192731, New York, NY, to Fort Lee, NJ.


    Lacey V. Murrow, chief engineer; Leon S. Moissieff, consultant Tacoma Narrows Bridge, 193940, Tacoma,
    Collapse of the bridge in a wind storm, 1940.

    The quest for lightness in the suspension bridges of the 1920s to 1930s can be understood i
    same light. Deflection theory, first articulated in 1888 but introduced to American bridge de
    by engineer Leon S. Moissieff only in 1909, justified the effort, but the stimulus was a less
    rational desire to test boundaries. By substituting plate girders for the customary trusses as d
    stiffeners, unprecedented attenuation could be achieved at the cost of a potentially disastrou
    flexibility. In November 1940, a bridge designed according to this theory, the newly opened
    elegantly insubstantial Tacoma Narrows Bridge in Washington blew down in a wind storm [
    Producers and Consumers

    Great bridges, along with dams, railroad lines, and industrial works, were prominent landm
    in an optimistic landscape. Machines and technologies of all sorts became metaphors, cataly
    even drivers, of social change, their symbolic significance increasing with every passing de
    By the twentieth century mechanistic imagery was regularly equated with modernity, althou
    as the famous houses built

    Page 169

    for Los Angeles health guru Philip Lovell demonstrated, modernity might be interpreted
    in any number of ways. Lovell wrote a newspaper column on physical culture through
    which he advocated a healthy outdoor life of a familiar sort. Like many of his
    contemporaries, he also sought to achieve bodily efficiency and inner cleanliness through
    diet. In 1926 he commissioned Austrian immigrant architect Rudolph M. Schindler to
    design a house for Newport Beach, California, that would realize his ideas [114]. As a
    machine for human well-being, Schindler's design was remarkably old-fashioned. The
    two-storey shoebox stood on a small lot at the edge of the sand like thousands of other
    more ordinary beach houses in the United States. The end towards the ocean was glazed
    like a Victorian conservatory. Sleeping porches (now enclosed) opened off the upperlevel bedrooms and, in response to the restricted lot, the house was raised above the street
    to provide a patch of open space (complete with barbecue pit) under it.
    Of course this was no ordinary beach house visually. It was dramatically lifted by five
    massive concrete frames, creating a unique image. The beach house's spaces seemed to be
    defined by the accidental juxtaposition of the concrete frames and a series of intersecting
    horizontals. Where a nineteenth-century architect might have sought individuality through
    reference to the genius loci, or peculiarities of the site, Schindler emphasized the
    architect's heroic individualism but used a visual language, derived from early-twentiethcentury European avant-garde design, that treated buildings as visible fragments of a
    universal gridded space. Schindler's Lovell House could have been dropped anywhere.
    Nature at this beach house was equally abstracted. It was not an adversary to be
    conquered, conciliated or improved, simply air, sun, and water, another technology
    available for building the new individual.
    A year after Lovell's beach house was completed, he hired another Austrian newcomer,
    Richard J. Neutra, to design a house in the Hollywood Hills [115]. In its scale and siting,
    and even in its massing, the Lovell 'Health' House (19279) was a villa. Neutra was more
    solicitous of the genius loci of his site, setting the main wing dramatically at right angles
    to the steep hillside and using it, with its connected garage wing, as a dramatic
    background for a terraced amphitheatrical garden studded with Lovell's exercise
    equipment. The house was steel framed on a regular grid and coated with a kind of
    sprayed-on concrete called gunite. Although the finished building was not mechanically
    symmetrical or regular, its modular structure established a uniform ordering matrix.
    The difference from Schindler's beach house could not have been greater. The Health
    House, which looked as though it might have been made of mass-produced parts, stood
    at a turning point in the architectural appropriation of technology in the United States.

    Page 170

    Schindler produced a house by and for heroic individuals, Neutra designed one for
    members of a new society, but evoked several nineteenth- and early twentieth-century
    predecessors. Like Frank Furness's exposed iron beams at the Pennsylvania Academy of
    Fine Arts, Neutra's gunite and metalwork served as picturesque signs of modernity,
    characteristic expressions of the present. In the tradition of Greene and Green's nearby
    Gamble House, with its elegant carpentry, the Health House celebrated making, validating
    labour and labourers. Neutra's technological imagery intimated the new, just, rational
    mass society that industrial processes and industrial social organization might produce. In
    its opulence, Neutra's house also looked forward to the corporate and domestic settings
    that used highly finished, elegantly presented industrial products as contemporary
    equivalents of the luxury materials of the past. In the 1950s and 1960s self-conscious
    aesthetes like Ludwig Mies van der Rohe and his sometime disciple Philip Johnson
    jettisoned Neutra's social(ist) subtext and reclaimed the benefits of industrialism for a
    socio-economic élite [116].
    Even as the 1950s modernists backed away from the social promise of industrialism in
    favour of its aesthetic pleasures, other architects began to question the aesthetic value of
    industrial products. Los Angeles architect Pierre Koenig complained that 'Industry has not
    learned the difference between what is beautiful in its simplicity and what is ugly
    although equally simple'. 19 Frank Gehry's chain-linkcovered parking garage at Santa
    Monica Place (197981), a shopping mall, celebrates the crudeness that offended Koenig
    [117]. Chain-link, a mundane industrial product, is neither elegant nor socially promising,
    but it is certainly ubiquitous, a mass-produced building material consonant with the massproduced goods sold in the shopping mall. Gehry's building really does use off-the-rack
    materials but in a way that sets the act of consumption off against the creative

    Rudolph M. Schindler

    Lovell Beach House, 1926, Newport Beach, Calif.

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    Richard Neutra Lovell 'Health' House, 19279, Los Angeles.
    Axonometric drawing of the house and its site.

    will of the architect: the producer is nowhere to be found.
    Despite the differences in their attitudes toward particular industrialized materials,
    Angelenos such as Schindler, Neutra, Koenig, and Gehry shared a sense that, whatever its
    failings, industry was architecture's future. They shared as well an essentially technocratic
    vision of the way the future would be brought about. Twentieth-century architects
    inherited a nineteenth-century faith in the claims of expert knowledge to control building
    one that was mediated by Marxism and the popular scientism of the turn of the century.
    Koenig, for example, participated in the Case Study House programme, a series of twenty
    designs commissioned (thirteen built) by publisher John Entenza for Arts + Architecture
    magazine between 1945 and 1962, that were intended to 'lead the house out of the
    bondage of handcraftism into industry'. 20 Entenza's strategy was to create prototypical
    'good' designs based at first on ordinary building products, but after 1950 on the
    improbable promotion of steel framing for domestic architecture. Architect Craig
    Ellwood, who contributed three such designs, bragged that the Case Study programme
    had 'helped to stifle' the craftsman. 21
    Whether they preferred a 1920s version of a socialist state or a 1950s version of corporate
    capitalism, ambitious twentieth-century architects allied their expertise to centralized and
    hierarchical organiza-

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    tions. Even architects who employ irrational visual imagery, as Gehry has done in recent
    years, assert their prerogatives as artist-architects in alliance with powerful corporations.
    As a result, technological imagery in twentieth-century American high architecture has
    offered a predominantly top-down social vision, with building production and design
    closely controlled from above.
    The great suspension bridges of the nineteenth century were even more the products of
    expertise, but they had been interpreted as expressions of collective human will, signs of
    the greatness of an entire society. The twentieth century emphasized a thread that had
    always been present, one that set off the active producer from the passive consumer of
    technology's benefits. In retrospect, Schindler's one-off beach house, idiosyncratic even
    within his work, seems the more prescient of the two Lovell houses. Like Gehry's parking
    garage, Schindler's house celebrated the aesthetic heroism of the architect and the bully
    vigour of the consumer but had nothing to say about the lowly builder.
    Consuming Architecture
    In their circumscribed but exclusive realm, consumerist high architects developed skills
    like those that designers in the less prestigious popular arena had already mastered.
    During the Depression, a self-proclaimed new breed of visual public relations experts
    called 'industrial designers' began to offer the public technologically based 'modernistic'
    images in architecture, landscape, and portable objects. Most industrial designers had
    originally been trained as mechanical engineers, advertising copy writers, or stage
    designers. Like the civil engineers of the nineteenth

    Philip C. Johnson

    'Glass' House, 1949, New Canaan, Conn.

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    Rouse Corporation, developer; Frank Gehry, architect
    Santa Monica Place, 197881, Santa Monica, Calif. Parking garage enclosed with
    chain-link fencing.

    century, they understood that the metaphorical qualities of technology required a careful
    eye to visual presentation to draw them out. Near the end of his life, pioneering industrial
    designer Raymond Loewy defended his profession against charges that they simply
    dressed up the work of engineers. 'What you call sheathing,' he observed, 'is really the
    self-expression of the machine there is as much working backward from an optimal form
    to mechanics [in the design process] as there is from the machinery to what you call
    sheathing.' 22
    Industrial design combined sophisticated advertising techniques developed after World
    War I, when advertisers learned the importance of image, with the prestige of empirical
    scientific research. They began to pitch products as compensations for personal social
    defects rather than as remedies for specific problems. Industrial designers presented their
    work as a kind of research that augmented 'new' with 'and improved'. Evolutionary charts
    traced formal changes from the recent past to the present and into the future [118]. The
    object was not simply to sell this year's model, but to instill in consumers a trust in the
    expertise of corporate research and development. The subtext was that industry could
    improve lives as well as cars or toasters. Industrial designer Norman Bel Geddes
    predicted that the immediate future ('the coming era') would be characterized by the

    interweaving of four kinds of design: art, engineering to make machines work better,

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    Page 175
    Raymond Loewy 'Evolutionary Chart of Design', 1930.
    This is a portion of a larger chart that also includes vehicles and household
    objects and that compares the streamlining and improvement of houses, costume,
    and body image.

    product design to make everyday objects cheap, durable, convenient, and pleasant, and
    the design of social structure. 23 The visual and verbal formulations of industrial design
    equated the three forms of object design with the design of social structure. Material
    goods could resolve social and individual dilemmas. Loewy said it explicitly: 'I believe
    that one should design for the advantage of the largest mass of people, first and always.
    That takes care of ideologies and sociologies.' 24
    Design literature between the wars oscillated between describing what was, or almost
    was, and what might be. To understand consumerist architecture, it is critical to appreciate
    the ways popular modernists like Loewy and Bel Geddes as well as Neutra and other high
    modernists conflated contemporary design and production with future society. Corporate
    science and technology, packaged by industrial design, was on the verge of creating a new
    society, a technological utopia. The difficulty of distinguishing present from future made
    the latter seem achingly close.
    A long-lived American utopian tradition had been rejuvenated in 1888 with the
    publication of Edward Bellamy's enormously popular Looking Backward, 2000-1888.
    Most turn-of-the-century utopias were worked out in publications rather than in actual
    communities as their predecessors such as those of the Shakers, the Harmonists, and the
    Oneidans had been, but they retained the significant assumptions of earlier communal
    societies: that utopia could be achieved instantly with sufficient will, that it took the form
    of a restructured family, and that a properly designed physical landscape was critical to its
    success. For example, Charlotte Perkins Gilman's Herland (1915), one of over two
    hundred utopian novels published in the quarter-century leading up to World War I,
    adhered to tradition in its depiction of a utopian society based on a restructured family. In
    Herland's manless society, women rejected categorization as mothers, wives, and servants.
    Herland was told from the point of view of three men who happened upon this female
    utopia following the crash of their private airplane. The detail was significant, for by the
    beginning of the twentieth century utopian theory had become entangled with visionary
    technological futures. Popular novels and periodicals were filled with predictions, some
    idyllic, others nightmarish, but most forecasting a densely urbanized future that looked
    very much like the present but that was dominated by intensified scale, speed, and
    movement [119]. 'We enter a new era,' Bel Geddes proclaimed. 'We live and work under

    pressure with a tremendous expenditure of energy. We feel that our time is more urgent,
    complex, and discordant than life ever was before . To-day, speed is the cry of our era,
    and greater speed one of the goals of to-morrow.' 25 If nineteenth-century engineers
    sought to dominate the landscape through technology, these twentieth-century visionaries
    dreamed of eradicating it, of having the

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    Page 177
    Julian Krupa 'Cities of Tomorrow', 1939.
    This image appeared on the back cover of the August 1939 issue of Amazing
    Stories. According to the caption, tomorrow's city would be characterized by
    vastness, by traffic that would move 'at unheard of rates', and by salubrity: 'smoke
    will be eliminated, noise will be conquered, and impurity eliminated from the
    air. Many persons will live in the healthy atmosphere of the building tops, while
    others will commute to far distant residential towns, or country homes.' The
    description and the rendering betray close acquaintance with the exhibits
    presented at the New York World's Fair in the same year.

    power to transcend the ordinary facts of the world. Speed annihilated space by collapsing
    The visionary cities of science-fiction magazines were translated, in advertising and
    design, into a commodified dynamic imagery. Streamlining, a curvilinear visual format
    ostensibly derived from the theory of hydrodynamics, packaged the power and speed of
    the coming era into manageable, saleable bits [120]. It fused dynamism, or literal
    movement, with progress, or cultural movement. The comprehensive vision of a
    technological future was reduced to a world in which social problems would be solved by
    durable goods.
    While futurism was a useful corporate tool, its appeal carried it quickly beyond corporate
    hands. The tantalizing fusion of production and consumption in technological utopianism
    appealed to many Americans for reasons of their own. Individual thinkers, fantasists,
    artists, and ordinary people were drawn as powerfully to it as corporations and architects.
    Technocratic images ricocheted around American culture: the future and the present,
    corporations and individuals, high architecture and popular culture, the respectable and
    the cranks all mixed in ways that could not be neatly categorized.
    Richard Buckminster Fuller, a member of an old New England family that had produced
    several illustrious Puritan ministers as well as the transcendentalist writer Margaret Fuller
    (whose grave is adjacent to his in Mount Auburn Cemetery), embodied nearly all of these
    qualities. His 4-D Utility Unit (1927) was a serious attempt to deliver cheap housing by
    mass production, a desire shared by many corporations and individual designers in the
    interwar period [121]. The living unit, enclosed with glass and casein and fitted with
    inflated rubber floors, would be suspended by cables from a central aluminium utility
    'mast' that contained two bathrooms, the kitchen, sewage disposal tanks, an electric
    generator, and an air compressor for the floors. Fuller wanted his living units to be fitted
    with all sorts of personal appliances, including a vacuum electric hair-clipper, a vacuum

    toothbrush, a self-activating laundry that would wash and dry clothes in three minutes,
    and an automatic climate-control system that eliminated the necessity for sheets, blankets,
    or even clothes. His was an engineer's equivalent of the self-sufficient ecological house of
    later decades: it contained its own utilities and it could be placed anywhere, alone or
    stacked on masts to form an apartment house.
    Fuller believed that his design could be mass-produced

    Norman Bel Geddes
    'Diagram Illustrating the Principles of Streamlining', 1932.

    Page 178

    immediately and he refused to allow a demonstration model to be built at Chicago's 19334
    Century of Progress exhibition. Instead, he demanded $100 million to begin full-scale
    industrial production. Yet Fuller allowed a publicist to rechristen the 4-D Utility Unit, a
    thoroughly technocratic title, the 'Dymaxion House'. This neologism, intended to suggest
    dynamism and efficiency, propelled the work into the domains of popular culture, science
    fiction, and advertising, where Fuller's own '4-D' label, along with his proposed delivery
    system, had already done much to place it. The 4-D Utility Unit would be installed by a
    zeppelin, which would drop a bomb into the countryside, then set the base of the mast
    into the resulting crater [122].
    In short, Fuller was unable to decide whether he was interested in production or
    consumption, in the present or the future. His Dymaxion House was an uneasy mixture of
    all of them, a technocratic solution to housing that would also be a consumer good that
    could be cheaply replaced when it wore out. Like most proponents of consumerist
    futurism, Fuller assumed that technology would solve social problems but he did not
    question the fundamental values of contemporary society. His houses were designed for
    the nuclear family as it existed in the 1920s and for gender roles as they then existed. The
    Dymaxion House was a bit of a boy's toy, complete with a nude female figure to
    demonstrate climate control.
    The mixture of the present and the future in technocratic utopianism may have been a
    sign of personal confusion in someone like Fuller, but at the level of the corporation and
    the economy it created a

    R. Buckminster Fuller 4-D Utility Unit (Dymaxion House), 1927.

    The engineer poses with the second version of his creation.

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    R. Buckminster Fuller 'Zeppelin Delivery of 4-D Houses', 1927.
    Zeppelins would plant the houses, which could be grouped on stacks, in craters
    excavated by bombs.

    usefully rich ambiguity. The home of the future, the world of the future, would be only a
    little different from the world of today. The elements of the future were already in hand.
    This was the message of George Fred Keck's House of Tomorrow, commissioned by
    Century Homes Ltd for exhibition at the Century of Progress exhibition [123] [124]. This
    twelve-sided house was made to appear as different as possible from the familiar
    residences of the 1930s, and even had a hangar for a private airplane. Yet its purpose was
    'to demonstrate mechanical equipment and new building materials that are now on the
    market'. 26 The central utility stack (probably inspired by Fuller's) was built first and
    fibre-concrete slab floors and ceilings were hung from it, fixed in place by a steel frame.
    In 1933 the exterior was sheathed with a patent covering called phenoloid board, but it
    was reclad with copper the next year. And the austere high-tech exterior was
    counterbalanced by an interior grounded in contemporary upper-middle-class comfort,
    even including a grand piano [125].
    The House of Tomorrow, along with its companion Crystal House (built by Keck at his
    own expense during the 1934 season of the Century of Progress as a personal gesture of
    futurist faith) and the many more conventional-looking houses of tomorrow constructed


    George Fred Keck House of Tomorrow, 1933, Century of Progress Exhibition, Chicago. Moved to Michiga
    The long garage door at the lower right was meant to accommodate a personal airplane.

    the expositions of the 1930s, offered powerful images of a future like the present, a present
    very like the future. They mixed intriguing images of industrial progress with reassuringly f
    domestic settings. Who could tell where today left off and tomorrow began? In the motto o
    York World's Fair of 1939, industry was 'Building the World of Tomorrow with the Tools o

    The New York fair, at first entitled 'The Fair of the Future', was the work of businessmen w
    wanted to 'stress the vastly increased opportunity and the developed mechanical means whi
    twentieth century has brought to the masses for better living and accompanying human hap
    Urban theorist Lewis Mumford endorsed the effort, calling on the organizers to demonstrate
    future of the whole civilization' through architecture, stressing 'this planned environment, th
    planned industry, this planned civilization'. 28

    To make their point the fair's organizing committee hired the leading industrial designers of
    including Loewy, Bel Geddes, and Henry Dreyfuss, to create the buildings and the exhibits.
    decision, as usual, was to delineate a future driven by contemporary technology and cloake
    reassuring visual garb. At General Motors' renowned Futurama exhibit, visitors were told th
    spring of 1939 [engineers and inventors]. had cracked nearly every frontier of progress'. 29
    explicitly than other technocratic futurists, the designers of the New York World's Fair stres
    and private communal life, stimulated perhaps by the exhibition's secondary purpose of
    commemorating the sesquicentennial of the United States Constitution.

    Industrial designer Gilbert Rohde created four dioramas for the Community Interests exhib
    traced progress in daily life from 1789 to 1939. The last showed Mrs Modern ordering ever

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    House of Tomorrow.
    Plans. Despite its radical appearance, the House of Tomorrow incorporated the
    customary spatial divisions of middle-class domestic life, and even included a
    'conservatory' reminiscent of nineteenth-century houses.

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    House of Tomorrow.
    In contrast to its technocratic approach to building construction and
    transportation, the House of Tomorrow was furnished with contemporary uppermiddle-class good taste.

    house, from the foundation to dinner, by telephone, to be delivered that afternoon: labour
    was to be had at the command of a button, without reference to cost or social
    organization. In a fifth scene depicting the future, a human figure reduced to an eyeball,
    an ear, a nose, and a hand (that is, to pure sensation) ascended to a modernistic suburban
    tract in the clouds while a narrator intoned that future people would have 'Time for
    interest in government, in community, in the group. Time to plan for our community. At
    last Man is freed freed in time and space'[126]. 30
    The annihilation of time and space had once seemed the province of massive, allpervasive machines and engineering structures. In Rohde's vision, speed and power led to
    the annihilation of the entire material world. Barely perceptible personal technologies
    substituted buttons and electronics for tangible objects. Outlandishly sophisticated
    technologies were literally placed in every one's hands.
    This vision of an ephemeral future landscape has been remarkably tenacious. In
    Depression-era versions, needlessly complex devices replaced ordinary, perfectly
    adequate mechanical or manual techniques, as in one World's Fair demonstration house
    where a glass wall between the living-room and garden disappeared at the push of a

    button, rather than opening on hinges or tracks. In the 1990s cyber

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    fantasies of the electronic eradication of time and space predicted an end to the need (and
    possibly the desire) for direct human contact. Public space will be reconstituted on-line.
    In every case, the abundance of material goods would, paradoxically, produce a
    dematerialized world.
    A recurrent pop-culture image of the humans of the future placed bald, bulbous, brainladen heads atop useless, toothpick bodies. In a 1970s televised presentation of Ray
    Bradbury's popular novel The Martian Chronicles (1958), one such family sat in
    lightweight pedestal chairs, surrounded by clouds, receiving nutrition and entertainment
    from small hand-held devices like television remote controls. In this brand of
    technocratic futurism there was no place for architecture or decorative furnishings.
    Technology's role in protecting human life and comfort and in extending human
    capacities had become so pervasive that it was no longer visiblenot the supplement but
    the whole environment. The technological colonization of the world that had filled the
    earth with such substantial monuments as suspension bridges and dams and with oceans
    of consumer durables had reached a strange impasse, one that vaporized the world's
    This was a depressing prospect, one that might prompt even the most optimistic
    technological utopians to entertain doubts about the value of material progress as a path
    to social perfection. Perhaps this was the reason that Henry Dreyfuss's 'Democracity'
    exhibition, 'a perfectly integrated future metropolis' housed in the New York World's
    Fair's theme centre, the Trylon and Perisphere, downplayed technology in favour of a
    pastoral landscape derived from English antiurban theorist Ebenezer Howard. Small
    commuter suburbs were scattered around a central, formally planned business and
    cultural centre, buffered from it by green spaces. In Democracity, the 'march of men and
    women, singing their triumph' was 'the true symbol of the

    Gilbert Rohde

    'Man Freed in Time and Space', design for Community Interests Pavilion, New
    York World's Fair, 1939.

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    King Kong, 1933.
    Nature battles technology atop New York's newly completed Empire State

    World of Tomorrow'. 31 A Life magazine article that was evidently influenced by
    Democracity added that in the future the happiest people would live in small lightindustrial and agricultural villages. 'They do not care for possessions they are not attached
    to their homes and hometowns, because trains [and] express highways get them across
    America in twenty-four hours.' 32
    These visions of the future, technological or not, evaded important questions. What sorts
    of social relationships would characterize the new society? The world's fairs of the 1930s
    provoked bitter struggles over racial discrimination in employment and visitation, yet
    political, racial, and cultural differences had no place in the fair's principal exhibits.
    Behind the political and social neutrality of futurist rhetoric lay a vision of an
    international patriarchal technocracy that promised to enrich Americans, bringing the
    exotic to their doorsteps, but at an unexamined cost. What would be the structure of
    political authority, beyond the celebration of a vaguely defined 'democracy'? What would

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    the future family be like? Like Fuller, most fair planners implicitly accepted the traditional
    gender roles of middle-class white society, where men worked for wages while women
    tended house and minded children. Technology offered new ways to fill these traditional
    roles, but said nothing about new roles. Yet the international scope of the technocratic
    visionamong other things, Mrs Modern's telephone bringing her exotic woods from the
    East Indiesimplied a global reordering that technocratic futurists declined to address.
    The social evasiveness of technocratic consumerism was captured in the memorable
    closing scene of King Kong (1933) [127]. After the ape had fallen from the Empire State
    Building, a newly constructed engineering marvel, one character observed that 'the
    airplanes got him'. No, said another, 'It wasn't the airplanes'twas beauty killed the beast.'
    The men whose technology had brought beauty and beast together in the hope of
    financial gain looked on the fatal encounter of beastly nature and feminine culture
    ruefully, as disinterested observers.

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    Page 187

    The Political Economy of Architecture
    A thousand years ago the Anasazi, ancestors of the modern-day Pueblo Indians of New
    Mexico and Arizona, lived in underground pit houses, in small, person-sized caves, in
    dwellings built in the openings in cliffs, and in free-standing houses of all sizes. Of all
    their varied types of architecture, it is the ruined 'great houses', enormous freestanding or
    cliff-face structures, that have intrigued successive waves of newcomers from the time the
    Navajo arrived six or seven centuries ago and claimed the Anasazi great houses as an
    ancestral homeland. Although we now understand that these buildings comprised a
    relatively short-lived episode in the long Anasazi-Pueblo history, they seem to represent
    something essential about Anasazi culture.
    The problem is to understand why they were constructed. Most commentators have
    decided that they were communal dwellings of some sort. Since 1844, when Josiah Gregg
    first described Chaco Canyon, New Mexico, to the European-American world, the
    Anasazi great houses have been described as lost cities, villages, and apartment houses.
    Pueblo Bonito (9101110), one of nine great houses in Chaco Canyon, is the best-studied
    of the great houses, and lends itself to this interpretation [128]. The building was pushed
    back against the north wall of the broad, shallow canyon like most of its neighbours. Its
    curved multistorey rear wall sheltered a central plaza divided down the middle, enclosed
    along the straight side by a low file of rooms, and punctuated by a number of sunken
    round rooms. The architecture of Pueblo Bonito has been interpreted as a schematized
    representation of a large community and its subdivisions. If formal analogies between the
    Anasazi great houses and contemporary pueblos are reliable, the divided plaza may reflect
    social organization into kinship-based halves, or moieties, each focused on one of the two
    large round rooms, which are believed to be kivas (sunken ceremonial chambers) like
    those now in use among Anasazi descendants. The smaller kivas may be evidence of
    further social subdivision. This view is reasonable, but difficult to do much with because
    it focuses on Pueblo Bonito in isolation and on an interpretation by analogy between
    architectures and societies separated by hundreds of years.

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    It may be more fruitful to ask about the society that produced the great houses than to try
    to determine the uses of their individual parts. Using this strategy, archaeologists have
    examined the Anasazi great houses in the context of other Anasazi buildings and of the
    natural and human-made landscape they occupy. They believe that the adoption of
    agriculture some time between 700 and 1000 CE and a resulting change in social and
    domestic patterns led the Anasazi to abandon their traditional single-room, semisubterranean pit houses in favour of above-ground housing with several more specialized
    rooms. The round subterranean kiva may preserve the form of the older pit houses as a
    reminder of origins.
    The Anasazi great houses grew slowly over several centuries from small-scale beginnings.
    Pueblo Bonito began as a small elliptical arc around the beginning of the tenth century,
    and was enlarged to its present form in three principal stages between 1020 and 1130
    [129]. As the building was enlarged, the workmanship improved. The earliest stages of
    Pueblo Bonito were cobbled together of shoddy stonework reinforced with mud and
    earthfast stakes, while the final stages were built of carefully shaped and fitted, dry-laid
    The increase in scale may reflect an environmental change. From the early tenth to the
    twelfth century, summer rainfall was more plentiful and more regular than it had been
    before. In response to this unaccustomed abundance, groups of people began to
    concentrate at critical water junctions, for example where streams ran into the

    Pueblo Bonito, 9101110CE, Chaco Canyon, NM.

    Reconstruction view of the great house at its peak.

    Page 189

    Pueblo Bonito.
    Developmental sequence.

    canyon, and built small communal houses at those points. This may have marked the
    beginning of canyon-wide efforts to make the land more productive through communal
    run-off irrigation systems, and of a political structure to carry out the project. The great
    houses were the residences of these newly gathered and organized people.
    This argument founders on archaeological evidence that relatively few people resided in
    the great houses at their peaks. Across the canyon from the great houses, though, there
    were many much smaller ones, never more than one storey tall, that contained a few
    rooms and a couple of kivas. According to the archaeologists, these small houses teemed
    with people. In addition, there were several extremely large kivas, such as the so-called
    Casa Rinconada, sitting alone in the middle of the canyon between the great houses and
    the small ones. Taken together, these great houses, small houses, and isolated great kivas
    suggest a highly complex settlement system serving a stratified society. They imply that
    the great houses were begun as small communal residences during times of abundant rain
    and economic surplus, but were enlarged to their exceptional form during times of
    scarcity, perhaps by an élite who were able to gain control of water resources and food
    and thus to solidify their power and to demand support from the population at large. The
    great houses may not have been communal residences at all, but special places like
    palaces or public buildings, where rulers lived and 'taxes' collected from subjects were
    Recent discoveries support this view of a diversified and stratified Anasazi society and
    landscape. Aerial photographs have revealed a series of long, very wide, straight roads
    with scraped surfaces that led from Chaco to a series of outlying great houses similar to
    those in the canyon but slightly later in date [130]. The roads often ended directly in front
    of these outliers, which were accompanied by their own small houses and great kivas.
    Some of the great houses, like the so-called Aztec Ruins (1111-15) at Aztec, New Mexico,

    were comparable in size to the Chaco Canyon buildings, but most were quite small, 'great'

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    Chacoan road system and outlying great houses, NM.

    in comparison with their satellites. 1
    This regional system, which archaeologists call 'the Chaco Phenomenon', began to
    disintegrate around 1140. Possibly the political system was unable to respond to an
    exceptional period of drought. Whatever the case, the network collapsed and great houses
    ceased to be built, although they continued to be used. The population of Chaco Canyon
    dropped, while power shifted to distant Anasazi centres such as Mesa Verde, Colorado. In
    fact, the Mesa Verdeans occupied Chaco as a kind of colony of their own in the thirteenth
    century, altering the

    Page 191

    existing houses and building some new ones of a different form.
    A traditional interpretation of the great houses would treat them as housing for static
    communities whose religious, social, and cultural values are revealed by their physical
    remains. Naturally the Anasazi great houses were shaped by such values, but from a
    vantage point many centuries later it is very difficult to deduce them from physical form.
    Yet whatever its symbolic meaning, architecture is rooted first of all in the everyday world
    of work and the economy. Empirical data about environment, landscape, and population,
    derived from archaeology, encourage us to understand the Anasazi great houses as
    monuments of a society that created a distinctive landscape during two centuries of
    prosperity, then abandoned it when the economy would no longer support it. The people
    and the culture survived, the ability to build grandly did not.
    Architecture is a phenomenon of political economy. The flow of money makes building
    possible and desirable. It is equally important to understand that buildings and landscapes
    are commentaries on political economy, not merely its translation into bricks and mortar.
    That is, raw economic power is filtered through the economic beliefs of builders and
    users, giving the landscape a variety that would not exist were it a simple vector of
    monetary forces.
    Consider the commercial city, whose varied forms embodied equally varied conceptions
    of economic life. The Puritan port of Boston was founded in 1630 at the tip of the
    Shawmut Peninsula. A large hill called the Trimountain filled most of the west side of the
    Peninsula while the shoreline on the low eastern side was mostly

    Boston in 1640.

    Reconstructed plan.

    John Bonner
    Boston, Massachusetts, 1722

    This was the first published map of the city. Along with the key to the city's public buildings, B
    has listed the city's major fires and smallpox epidemics as a kind of testimony to Boston's urban

    Page 193

    Philadelphia, c.1807.

    The official, rectilinear plan of the city contrasts sharply with the pattern of urbanization (shade
    Delaware River beyond the boundaries of the Penn-Holme grid. By the time this map was draw
    disappeared. They were restored in the early 19th century.

    swampy, so a small navigable cove established the city's centre [131]. To one side, a broad
    house, the first meeting-house (which served both for religious and for secular gatherings),
    minister. At right angles to the market-place a road ran along the waterfront from the neck o
    mainland to the industrial district at the north end of town, beyond Town Creek. A century
    considerably, but remained faithful to this spatial framework [132]. The market-place was n
    House (1711) stood at its head, and Long Wharf (1710), which replaced the town cove as th
    King Street's axis into the harbour. The open land of the Peninsula had been subdivided exc
    the Common, but the road to the Neck remained the spine of the city. In short, the city was
    by the intersection of the Long Wharf and King Street with the road to the Neck.

    It might be possible to see this 'unplanned' or 'organic' city as a product of the accidents of
    American waterfront cities based on formal plans grew in a similar way. William Penn and
    Philadelphia on a grid organized around five squares and stretched between the Schuylkill a
    the entire platted city would develop evenly [133]. Penn and Holme designated

    Page 195

    the central square as the site of the principal public buildings, and the other four squares
    as the nuclei of élite neighbourhoods. They assumed that commercial waterfronts would
    develop along both rivers.
    The built city was much different from the planned city. Most development stretched
    along the Delaware River and extended inland along the perpendicular spine of market
    houses and public buildings running down the centre of High (now Market) Street. The
    result was a parabolic pattern of construction draped around a T-shaped armature very
    much like Boston's. Urbanization did not reach the Schuylkill River for 150 years after the
    city was founded. By then, Philadelphia had already spilled far beyond its northern and
    southern political boundaries.
    For all their apparent differences, Boston and Philadelphia were shaped by the same
    understanding of urban life and economy. The key concept was proximity. Business was
    imagined as a set of personal connections or encounters. The most important urban space
    was the nearest one, for tradespeople depended on the street for direct physical contact
    with potential customers.
    The sense of business as a personal transaction requiring physical proximity remains a
    powerful vernacular principle of urban planning. Prosperous nineteenth-century
    merchants opened up their establishments to the street physically, through the used of
    piered shop-fronts fitted with full-height doors or, in the case of luxury goods, with large
    plate-glass windows. They commandeered the sidewalk as display spaces for their wares
    [134]. Their commercial heirs are to be found in ethnic neighbourhoods in contemporary
    American cities, along the congested walkways of Philadelphia's Italian Market or Grant
    Avenue in San Francisco's Chinatown, or among the gated but façadeless restaurants and
    groceries of Latino neighbourhoods in Los Angeles and San Francisco [135]. Through it
    all, vendors remain constant figures of the streetscape, despite two hundred years of
    official opposition.
    The building blocks of the commercial citythe central business district, the specialized
    retail or manufacturing neighbourhood and the tall office building, the shopping arcade,
    the department store, and the mall that imitate themare all products of the traditional belief
    in proximity. Even post-war Los Angeles, long seen as a city that grew by scattering
    bedroom suburbs from its downtown, owed much to the habit of proximity. 2 The Los
    Angeles basin might be read as a series of small 'colonial' cities that grew up around
    important industries that required large amounts of land and consequently located outside
    the urban core [136]. The most important were the aircraft manufacturers that came to
    Los Angeles just before World War II and dominated the southern California economy
    until the 1990s. As aircraft building reorganized from the small-scale hand construction of


    Benjamin Butman, Ship Chandler and Grocer, c.1860, New Orleans.

    The granite-piered shopfront, invented in Boston in the late 1820s, enabled the entire ground storey to be opened up to
    Awnings claimed the sidewalk as display space for merchandise.

    Page 134

    machines to assembly-line mass production, it required more space and larger numbers of
    less-skilled workers. The so-called Big Six, the major aircraft manufacturers in the city, all
    built new plants along a ten-mile radius from downtown Los Angeles. With government
    encouragement, 'community builders' such as the Marlow-Burns Company and Kaiser
    Community Homes created houses and shopping districts to accommodate these new
    workers. These new subdivisions were organized as self-contained economic units, not as
    suburbs focused on a distant downtown. Like the builders of colonial Boston and
    Philadelphia, the community builders of wartime Los Angeles understood urban
    economic life as an essentially local phenomenon.
    System and Flow
    Since the early nineteenth century the proximate model has coexisted with others that
    envisaged the economic city differently. In the eighteenth century some powerful
    merchants began to understand economics as a system. As they saw it, their fortunes were
    dependent on connections beyond their control and beyond their sight, not just on the
    territory of the shop and the space adjacent to it, or on face-to-face transactions with
    people who happened to move through it. Adam Smith's famous metaphor of the
    invisible hand was only one of many ways of describing this new conception of the
    This sense of interconnectedness had a direct effect on American urban space beginning
    in the early nineteenth century. For people who understood trade as a system, an
    economically effective urban space was one of connection and comprehensive order. The
    age-old grid became an emblem of the systematic character of the city. As urban
    reformers articulated it in the early nineteenth century, the idea of the grid challenged the
    assumption of proximity. Within its frame, each cell was discrete, self-contained,
    geometrically perfect, structurally separate, but related to every other space, not just to
    those immediately adjacent to it. The urban grid was conceived like a modern spreadsheet
    (which is, in fact, a grid). Every site had an address that could be mapped within the
    larger whole and in relation to every other site. In early nineteenth-century terms the grid
    permitted separation and classification of urban activities. Its co-ordinated independence
    was the spatial equivalent of political republicanism's co-ordination of individual and
    community, but it also commodified space, making it possible to assign each parcel a
    value comparatively and to sell it.
    The grid was an organizing device that proved seductive at every scale, from the shelving
    of a shop to the double-loaded corridor of a prison or a hotel, all the way up to the
    national land survey established by the Northwest Ordinance of 1787. Reformers sought
    to restore damaged urban grids like Philadelphia's and they gridded new cities and new

    parts of old cities, as the government of New York City did in

    Page 198

    Wing Fat Market,c.1990, Oakland, Calif.

    its additions of 1797 and again on a grandiose scale in the state-funded Commissioners'
    Plan of 1811, which projected a network of 200-by-800-foot blocks over most of the
    island of Manhattan.
    The grid implied a dynamic system of movement. In 1824, a group of Philadelphia
    investors, including the architect John Haviland, combined to build a new shopping
    arcade at the western edge of the city's business centre [137]. Shop-fronts lined the
    avenues of the gridded interior to make the Arcade a miniature genteel shopping district
    within the larger city. But Haviland and his partners had in mind a more active sense of
    system than the classificatory grid. To its

    Page 199

    investors, the Arcade's location at the western edge of the city was in keeping with the
    westward movement of commerce in the country as a whole. Niches on the front were
    intended to be fitted with iron figures of commerce and navigation. On the necking of
    each pier was a mask of Mercury (the Greek god Hermes), the god of roads, doors,
    boundaries, and lucky finds, and the protector of travellers and all who had dealings with
    strangers [138]. In soliciting a charter from the state legislature, the investors presented
    the Arcade as part of the system of internal improvements, an 1820s policy for developing
    a national economic infrastructure through the partnership of government and business.
    Reliefs of the coats of arms of the state and of the city (which included a figure holding a
    plan of the city's grid) were mounted on the façade.
    This sense of the city as the nexus of a dynamic network was particularly seductive to
    builders in the early twentieth century, when the growth of government control over land
    use and the development of ever-larger tracts by single corporations encouraged a
    conception of the relationships in terms of urban flow rather than of static relationships.
    In the first decade of the century, Daniel Burnham produced a series of city plans that
    started from the idea of systematic circulation. They ranged from his work for the
    Macmillan Commission (1902), a congressional body charged with restoring and
    rationalizing the plan of Washington, to his collaboration with architect Edward Bennett

    World War II-era communal development in Los Angeles in relation to the Big Six aircraft
    corporations. Westchester, Westside Village, and Toluca Wood were three early Marlow-Burns
    communities built to serve aircraft workers.

    Page 200

    on the monumental Plan of Chicago (1909), commissioned by the Merchants' Club, a
    businessmen's organization that merged with another, the Commercial Club, to carry off
    the project. While artist Jules Guérin's lush colour renderings emphasized the visual
    qualities of the plan, particularly of its monumental classical civic core near the shores of
    Lake Michigan, its most important attribute was Burnham's and Bennett's effort to convey
    the idea of the planned city as a system of integrated systems [139]. As a hygienic system,
    the city was united by a chain of parks connected by green parkways that ran along the
    lake and circled through the neighbourhoods. As an economic system, the plan was
    organized by land-use zoning. As a transportation system, the plan linked a lake-front
    harbour and railroads to a network of radial streets and circumferential boulevards that
    tied the city unit together. Finally, Burnham and Bennett acknowledged the inseparability
    of city and hinterland in their concept of 'Chicagoland', a regional system graphically
    emphasized by a Guérin bird's-eye view.
    Little of the Chicago plan was constructed, nor were any of the other grand plans of the
    early twentieth century ever fully realized. We must look to the work of individual
    entrepreneurs for the effects of the idea of the urban system on the real city. Commercial
    developers took the notion to heart, though in ways that had very different con-

    John Haviland
    Philadelphia Arcade, 1824-6 (demolished 1863), Philadelphia.
    Rental plan, 1826.

    C. Burton
    Philadelphia Arcade.

    This engraving of 1831 shows the city and state seals, the empty niches that never received thei
    statues, and the advertisement for the Philadelphia (formerly Peale's) Museum, housed on the th
    floor. To the right of the arcade is a standard to which an awning could be fixed, converting the
    to use by the business housed in the adjacent building.

    sequences for the city than the grand planners envisaged.

    Downtown Cleveland clustered around Public Square until Burnham produced the Group P
    a U-shaped mall flanked by monumental public buildings, to be built off the north-east corn
    square. This civic centre turned its back on the square, the traditional business district, and
    Erie. The north opening would be closed by an equally monumental railroad station.

    Before the Plan was fully implemented, however, a local firm of real-estate developers, the
    Swearingen Brothers, began to rework the south-east corner of the square in a manner very
    Burnham's static civic centre. Their project, the Terminal Tower Complex (191634), designe

    Burnham's successor firm, Graham, Anderson, Probst and White, was anchored by three bu

    Page 202

    Daniel H. Burnham and Edward H. Bennett
    Plan of Chicago, III., 1909.
    This diagram illustrates the general plan for street circulation and parks in relation
    to the areas covered by industries and manufacturers, and shows the railroad lines as well.

    Page 203

    Page 204

    Graham, Anderson, Probst, and White
    Terminal Tower Complex, 191634, Cleveland, OH.
    Elevation and partial section showing transportation facilities.

    ings fronting the square: Hotel Cleveland (191618) and Higbee's Department Store (19301) flanked a central office building, Terminal Tower (192330) [140] [141]. Behind them,
    on the bluff above the Cuyahoga River, rose three linked office buildings known
    collectively as the Prospect Buildings (192830) and a post office (1932-4). Two other sites
    on the triangular tract were left vacant upon the developers' bankruptcy
    Although it stood on the Public Square, the Terminal Tower Complex made even less
    reference to the traditional downtown than the Group Plan had. With its hotel, offices,
    and department store, it was a self-contained enclave'Vans' Super-City', the local
    newspaper called it. 3 Its isolation was sealed by the least visible part of the complex:
    Cleveland Union Terminal (192830), the multi-level transportation terminal that gave the
    project its name and its justification, after the Van Swearingen Brothers engineered a 1919
    referendum that formally changed the site of the city's passenger station from the
    lakefront to Public Square [140]. Automobile parking was provided in the Prospect
    Buildings, which stood over the terminal. Long-distance trains departed from one level,
    while the Van Swearingens' Shaker Heights Rapid Transit line (1920) commenced its
    journey eastward from another. The Rapid, as it was known, carried passengers to the
    developers' Shaker Heights suburb (1905) just beyond the eastern edge of the city. Where
    the streetcar entered Shaker Heights, the brothers built Shaker Square, a local shopping
    district with an inn, a department store, and a theatre, all constructed in a Colonial Revival
    style that complemented the predominantly English vernacular style of

    most of the tract's single-family houses [142].

    The Van Swearingen Brothers understood that residential districts, transit, hotels, offices, an
    were all part of the urban system that made the city work. Paradoxically, by providing all th
    within their own self-contained projects, they contributed to the breakdown of the larger ci
    was possible to do all one's business and return home without ever setting foot in the city it
    actions, together with the contemporary concentration of cultural institutions on the eastern
    the city (the art museum and historical society, followed by an art school and a music conse
    constructed adjacent to Western Reserve University and Case Institute of Technology), led t
    dismemberment of the formerly prosperous industrial city. The systematic urban vision em
    linkage of spaces, services, and transportation in the Van Swearingen Brothers' developmen
    undermined by the nostalgic architectural imagery of Shaker Heights and Shaker Square, a
    ancestral homeland built beyond the reach of the city's enormous population of European im
    and the post-World War I influx of African Americans from the South, and eventually defe
    project's economic failure.

    The sprawling, little-known Terminal Tower Complex provided a prototype for such projec
    York's Rockefeller Center (192635) and Cincinnati's Carew-Netherland Plaza Complex (193
    within a city' containing a hotel, offices, and shopping arcade. 4 At Rockefeller Center, the
    recognized that the fiscal health of their property depended on that of the surrounding neigh
    They attempted to integrate the Center into its neighbourhood by routing the city's streets, a
    pedestrian walkways and underground shopping streets, through the complex, as well as by

    Terminal Tower Complex.
    Sketch site plan, c.1980. The Midland, Guildhall, and Republic buildings collectively compris
    Prospect Buildings.

    Small and Rowley
    Shaker Square, 1929, Shaker Heights, OH.

    The Van Swearingen Brothers' shopping centre, serving their élite suburb, was connected to the
    rapid-transit line whose tracks are visible in this photograph.

    public events to draw in passers-by and by refusing to accept rental applications from tenan
    undermining the neighbourhood. They bid unsuccessfully for a long-distance transportation
    transcontinental bus terminal, but settled for symbolizing international trade by naming seve
    for foreign nations.

    Like the Terminal Tower Group, the Rockefeller Center was a scale model of a city-system.
    many people and many corporations. Individuals' successes and failures alter the mixture b
    these megadevelopments rose or fell according to the fortunes of a single corporation. The
    completed their project, and it was only the Rockefellers' willingness to continue pouring m
    the Depression that kept it afloat. Moreover, the diversity of a real city was sacrificed to cor
    public relations. The seedy elements that every city has and needsthe zones of transition and
    the poor workers who make a city functionwere excluded from these sanitized mini-cities. I
    in terms of visual composition, as the designers of the artistically ambitious Rockefeller Cen
    composition disastrously dominated the Empire State (or Rockefeller) Plaza (196278) at Alb
    Nelson Rockefeller's governorship by some of the Rockefeller Center architects [143]. In A
    at urban integration was jettisoned in favour of its obsession with formal massing. The resu
    colony dropped on an earthling city.

    Page 207

    The Social Life of Work
    It is easier to describe imaginative models of commerce than it is to separate them in
    practice. The office building is a case in point. Although architectural historians have
    been fascinated with the tall office buildings of the late nineteenth century and have
    spilled much ink in attempting to identify the first 'true' skyscraper and to claim it for
    Chicago or New York, these famous structures were one phase in a long-term
    development that can be traced back to the rapid urbanization of the post-Revolutionary
    era. Each spurt in urban growth stimulated an intensification in land values. During the
    1880s, the decade traditionally associated with the construction of the first skyscrapers,
    Chicago's population doubled, from half a million to 1.1 million people. During that same
    period, land values soared from $130,000 per acre to $900,000 per acre, and reached
    $1,000,000 per acre by 1891. 5 Land values were products of the traditional belief in
    proximity, which in turn created a 'necessity' to build more intensively.
    Yet this cultural construction of economic life was only part of the story of the office
    building. Equally important were the role of the business enterprise in a consumer society
    and, most of all, the social relations of work. Like a family house, the office building
    claimed a place in the larger society for business enterprises and symbolized the life inside
    The traditional proximity-based commercial enterprise was conducted by a merchant
    assisted by one or two clerks and copyists, working out of a one- or two-room office
    called a counting-house. The business's success depended on the merchant's memory,
    bolstered by a few simple quasi-systematic records that served as aides-mémoires. As
    firms grew larger and their affairs more scattered, and as merchants came to accept a
    systematic interpretation of business, they generated more records, more kinds of records,
    and eventually more analytical records, technologies of memory that extended human
    capacities beyond their innate limits.
    Variations of the merchant-clerk spacea single shared room or a pair of rooms, one for
    the boss and one for the employeeshave served small businesses ever since. Speculative
    office buildings of the late nineteenth and twentieth centuries, for example, were built
    around single rooms and the so-called T-plan suite [144]. An outer room for reception
    and record-keeping led to a pair of inner offices for executives. 6
    For the largest organizations, though, the simple counting-house was quickly outmoded.
    In his United States Treasury Building (183642) at Washington, Robert Mills introduced a
    double-loaded corridor lined with small offices for the first large bureaucratic
    organization in the nation [145]. Mills's building was, in effect, a grid. The architect

    understood office work as a series of identical, interchange

    Page 208

    Harrison and Abramowitz
    Governor Nelson A. Rockefeller Empire State Plaza, 196278, Albany. NY.

    Page 209

    Page 210

    able tasks and provided identical, interchangeable spaces, each defined by a single groin
    vault and intended to hold two clerks, through which the department could distribute and
    redistribute its employees at will. In fact, the Treasury Department was still organized on
    the older merchant-clerk model. Each subdivision was run by an executive supported by
    a principal clerk and two or three sub-clerks and messengers. Treasury officials protested
    the lack of differentiation in the offices as well as their small size, both of which
    interfered with these work habits. They also complained of a lack of light and of Mills's
    failure to provide storage space for the records the clerks generated. The Treasury
    Building was formed around light courts that, when it was completed in 1869, formed a
    squared figure eight whitewashed on the interior to reflect light into the offices. However,
    the low vaulted rooms, especially on the portico-shaded east side, were so dark that some
    clerks on the upper floors were reputedly forced to use candles at mid-day.
    Mills's Treasury Building depicted his conception of bureaucratic work, the social life of
    the office, rather than the abstract system of the economy. Its great East Colonnade along
    Fifteenth Street monu-mentalized the modular interior organization of structure, space,

    Graham, Anderson, Probst, and White
    Straus Building, 1924, Chicago, III.
    Advertisement for office space, showing T-plan office.

    Page 211

    Robert Mills
    United States Treasury Building, 183642, Washington, DC.
    Plan, c. 1840, showing Mills's projected north and south wings bracketing the original
    T-shaped building.

    work (as well as providing auxiliary circulation to the offices, Mills said) [146]. Private
    businesses adopted the new models of work more hesitantly, but by the middle of the
    century, led by the railroads, corporations had begun to rationalize their record keeping
    and increase their staffs. Like Mills, they began to shape their offices from the inside out,
    building up from the basic spatial unit of work to the whole building. They tended to
    prefer large open rooms with adjacent executive offices, as at the Larkin Building [107].
    Even though electric lights were available after 1879, natural light continued to be the
    principal source of illumination for another sixty years; so, like the Treasury Building,
    later office buildings were constructed as shallow slabs, often arranged around light
    courts. Twenty-five to twenty-eight feet was the rule of thumb for the maximum distance
    of any work space from a window. Structural bays and lighting needs thus created
    modular office spaces analogous to those in the Treasury Building.
    The Public Life of Business
    In the 1850s, Philadelphia historian John Watson looked about him and discovered 'A city
    building on the top of the former!' These overbearing new buildings broke through 'the
    former line of equality, and beauty' that had formerly characterized the city: 'all is now
    self-exalted, and goes upon stilts' [147]. 7 The tall buildings of the 1860s and 1870s took a
    step beyond the buildings Watson denounced, and the first skyscrapers yet another. Still,
    late-nineteenth-century skyscraper architects, developers, and interested observers
    believed that the new buildings were something qualitatively different from their
    predecessors. These relatively modest buildings of ten to fifteen storeys seemed outscaled
    and to herald a new kind of life to novelists like Henry B. Fuller, whose The Cliff-

    Dwellers (1893) and With the Procession (1895) portrayed the intense new life of
    skyscraper Chicago. They inspired the first popular futurists, men and women such as
    New York's

    Page 212

    United States Treasury Building. View along 15th Street.
    The pedimented end wings were added in the 1850s by Isaiah Rogers and Thomas U. Walter,
    although Mills had planned for them. The façade was rebuilt in granite in 1910, replacing the
    original sandstone.

    King Camp Gillette, who envisaged ever taller, denser, more congested cities. And they
    inspired architects and clients to consider the visual presence of their buildings in the new
    commercial city.
    In a famous essay, 'The Tall Office Building Artistically Considered', the Chicago architect
    Louis H. Sullivan aestheticized the functional requirements of the skyscraper: it needed a
    storey below ground and an attic for mechanical services, an elaborate ground floor and a
    mezzanine for consumer-oriented businesses, and an indefinite number of tiers of offices.
    8 At the time he wrote, Sullivan had already created several formulae for tall buildings,
    none of which was consistent with any other or with a literal interpretation of his maxims,
    but all of which generally satisfied them. However, he sometimes claimed that he had
    discovered the definitive version in the course of designing the Wainwright Building
    (1890-1), a speculative office building in St Louis [148].
    The Wainwright Building is a tall block with a decorated ground floor addressed to
    passers-by and set off by a belt course from a grid of piers with recessed spandrels that
    mark the office floors. A deeply projecting cornice and a highly embellished frieze give
    the building presence in the skyline. Sullivan sought a visual embodiment of commercial
    life that would set the office in the context of the consumer city. The repeated windows
    take their 'cue from the individual cell and we make them look all alike because they are
    all alike'. 9 Like the columns of Mills's Treasury Building, Sullivan's repetitive
    quasiclassical piers dignify the repetitive spaces of office work, justifying its presence in
    the heart of the genteel downtown. As in the Treasury Building, also, the practical

    requirements of clerkship created a disjunction between the blockish mass of the façade
    and the irregular broken interior. Sullivan's building formed a capital F around glazed

    Sloan and Stewart
    Tower Hall, 1855-7, 518 Market Street, Philadelphia. Demolished.
    This photograph, made c.1898, shows a clothier's store of the 1850s 'on stilts', breaking the line of relativel
    four-storey business buildings of the 1810s1840s on either side of it. No. 516 has the physically open gran
    front of
    a wholesale store, while no.520 has the visually open plate-glass front of a retail store.

    Page 214

    Adler and Sullivan
    Wainwright Building, 1890-1, St. Louis.

    Page 215

    brick light courts that honoured the accepted depth for the penetration of natural light
    [149]. The offset west wing protected those offices' access to light even if another tall
    building were built adjacent to it. But all this was fronted by the shopfronts and elaborate
    main entrance. Sullivan fused Mills's interest in the metaphorical expression of
    bureaucratic work with the sense of the city as a social system made up of workers and
    consumers. In doing so, he acknowledged the civic presence of business enterprise.
    Sullivan's essay treated the design of the tall building as though it offered the architect a
    free hand. In fact, aesthetics were constrained by technical requirements, economics, law,
    and architectural convention. In early twentieth-century New York, where developers
    were likely to build on relatively small lots, the preferred shape was a tower [150]. In
    Chicago, thin slabs on long narrow lots or cubic, cliff-like buildings with light courts on
    quarter-block lots (similar to the Wainwright Building) were most common. Within these
    norms, fiscal and legal requirements were responsible for much of a building's external
    massing. The urge to use land intensively was tempered by the relative costs of building
    and the state of the current rental market. 10 These, in turn, were subject to the zoning
    laws that city governments passed as they considered the effects of tall buildings on land
    values, city services, and the quality of life. New York's 1916 zoning law is the most
    famous, but other cities enacted zoning ordinances as well. The widely admired massing
    of the Empire State Building and other set-back New York skyscrapers of the 1920s and
    1930s derived from this calculus of lot coverage, rental values, building costs, and the
    legally permissible 'zoning envelope' or spatial volume allowed by law, as they intersected
    with traditional rules of thumb for the penetration of natural light and with the
    progressive reduction in the size of elevator banks and service core at higher floors [151].
    In Chicago, on the other hand, zoning laws

    Wainwright Building.
    Typical floor plan.

    Page 216

    Napoleon Le Brun and Sons
    Metropolitan Life Insurance Building, 1909, New York.
    To the left of Metropolitan Life's tower, based on the Campanile in Venice, is McKim, Mead, and
    White's Madison Square Presbyterian Church (1903-6; demolished), which borrowed its imagery
    from the Pantheon.

    adjusted cornice heights according to vacancy rates and, after 1923, permitted the
    construction of towers on a small part of the site, creating a very different typical
    skyscraper, a blocky building topped with a spindly tower.
    The tall office building, particularly as formulated in the classic skyscrapers of the 1920s
    and 1930s, had great cachet that sometimes overrode practical considerations. An elegant,
    distinctive speculative office building commanded more rent than a plain one. Silhouette;
    entry, lobby, and elevator ornament; even such mundane features as rest-rooms attracted
    tenants and so received close attention from architects and developers. For a
    governmental agency or a business corporation, a striking building created an impression
    of power and stability and gave it a memorable image or logo, just as an impressive
    headquarters building did for a manufacturing concern. For this reason, corporations
    often built larger buildings than they could occupy themselves, and rented out the surplus
    space. This was an old habit, widely practised among both business firms and institutions

    Page 217

    J. L. Kingston
    'Study of Economic Height for Office Buildings' within the confines of New York zoning law, 1930.

    Page 218

    such as fraternal associations, private libraries and trade associations, which often
    occupied only a single floor of their large and sumptuous headquarters and leased out the
    rest. The construction of skyscrapers continued this practice.
    In the end, the skyscraper's metaphorical power outweighed its economic rationale.
    Journalist W. J. Cash's observation of interwar Southern cities was true of the entire
    country outside the largest cities. 'For every real new skyscraper plastered with
    mortgages,' he wrote, 'ten imaginary ones immediately leaped up in the mind of the
    secretary of the Chamber of Commerce and his Rotarian followers.' 11 The lone early
    twentieth-century skyscrapers in small cities, like the skyscraper city halls in such places
    as Oakland (1914), Los Angeles (1926-8), Buffalo (192931), Kansas City (1937),
    Richmond (1971) and even the Corbusian slabs of New Orleans' Civic Center (1956-9), as
    well as the skyscraper state capitols in Nebraska (192232) and Louisiana (19313), had less
    to do with with economics and land-use restrictions than with the celebration of
    efficiency, modernity, and progress [44].
    The skyscraper's visual cachet was apparent in the contemporaneous construction of
    skyscrapers in both the New York and the Chicago styles in a single city, Philadelphia,
    during the late 1920s and early 1930s. At the same time, the Philadelphia Saving Fund
    Society built a very different headquarters, on Market Street near City Hall [152]. Though
    emphatically unSullivanian in appearance, the PSFS Building followed his formula
    closely: a two-storey base contained shop fronts and a monumental banking room on the
    mezzanine. A grid of office floors (alternating two-room and T-plan suites) was capped
    by the mechanicals, hidden inside a colossal sign bearing the initials by which the bank
    was known. The imagery of urban process closely resembled Sullivan's as well. The
    elegant, highly polished marble of the base gave an air of luxury to the consumers' street.
    Its curved corner embodied the dynamics of the street, incorporating a sense of flow that
    continued to the escalator that carried one up to the banking room and the banks of
    elevators to the upper floor, which were called out by being incorporated into a darkcoloured spine that contrasted with the cladding of the offices. The giant PSFS sign was
    redundant, for the appearance of the building itself was enough to make the bank's
    headquarters stand out from the rest of the Philadelphia skyline.
    Most of PSFS's brother corporations in the 1920s and 1930s preferred traditional or
    'modernistic' classicism. The choice was careful, not the unthinking reaction or lack of
    imagination that Sullivan labelled it in his bitter old age. Since the mid-nineteenth century
    architectural writers such as Robert Dale Owen had promoted classicism as a flexible,
    modular architectural language, the visual equivalent of the grid (as Robert Mills
    understood). In addition, classical architecture carried the imprimatur of western élite

    culture, dignifying

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    Howe and Lescaze
    Philadelphia Saving Fund Society (PSFS) Building, 192932, Philadelphia.

    Page 220

    commercial pursuits that might otherwise seem suspiciously tawdry and giving them an
    aura of stability in a volatile economy. In constructing a tower headquarters based on the
    Campanile at Venice, the Metropolitan Life Insurance Company boasted that the building
    was 'designed in the Early Renaissance style of northern Italya style combining dignity
    with refinement, and of a flexibility readily adaptable to the exacting commercial
    requirements of the day', just what one would presumably want from a prosperous but
    responsible insurance corporation [150]. 12
    Such corporate palaces served a dual purpose that addressed the presence of the business
    corporation in public life. By cloaking themselves in an architecture widely celebrated as
    the highest cultural expression of humankind, they boldly claimed a privileged role in
    public life. The power to build in the classical mode, to present a quietly confident
    appearance to the public, lent the large corporation an authority that contrasted
    conspicuously with smaller businesses that continued to resort to startling signs and other
    strident devices to establish their presence in the commercial environment.
    Inside, corporate 'home offices' offered a model of work life based on the idea of the
    home-like world that Frank Lloyd Wright had evoked in the Larkin Building [107].
    Historian Angel Kwolek-Folland has described the seigneurial domesticity of managerial
    offices decorated with fireplaces and panelling. They contrasted sharply with the
    machine-dominated spaces of the clerical staff. As the outer office came to be more
    dominated by machines and the task of clerk lost the prestigious skills associated with it,
    the office came to be populated, but not run, by women.
    The home-like world of the large corporation, as the Larkin Building showed, was
    predicated on surveillance with a very particular content. The executive paterfamilias
    watched and 'protected' his female employees from the vantage point of his den-like
    office. The women were further protected by segregation from men in their job
    assignments and work locations. The close co-operation and shared quarters of the old
    merchant-and-clerk of a century earlier gave way by the turn of the century to a broad
    gulf in status, pay, spatial accommodations, and architectural decoration that separated
    executive and secretary. Even the little T-plan office was gendered, with the outer,
    publicly accessible office occupied by female clerks and the inner, buffered, windowed
    offices the domain of male managers [144].
    It was only after World War II that the introduction of efficient airconditioning and
    fluorescent lighting freed corporate architects from some of the spatial and technical
    constraints of the early twentieth-century office building. Compared to prewar
    skyscrapers, the new office buildings of the 1950s offered enormous amounts of
    unencumbered floor space that accommodated a quantum leap in bureaucracy.

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    Kohn Pedersen Fox Associates
    Procter & Gamble World Headquarters, 1982-5, Cincinnati.

    Page 222

    Procter & Gamble World Headquarters.
    Ground and fifth-floor plans.

    One study found that between 1940 and 1960 the average number of white-collar
    employees and the average floor space per firm doubled. 13 Expanses of glass now spoke
    of modernity and cultural authority. The 1970s and 1980s added idiosyncratic prismatic or
    historicist massing, but glass retained its cachet: a designer of a 1980s corporate
    headquarters confessed to fears that a stone-clad building 'might not be modern enough'.
    14 The task of the newest buildings remains the same as that of their predecessors of a
    hundred years earlier: to establish presence in the city by great height or distinctive
    appearance and to arrange the social relations of the office in a way that reinforces
    corporate authority.
    The techniques by which these ends were achieved have been remarkably stable for the
    past century. Even classical skyscraper massing was reappropriated in the 1980s. In
    expanding the Procter & Gamble World Headquarters (1982-5) in Cincinnati, the
    architects Kohn Pedersen Fox Associates placed two blunt towers on top of an L-shaped
    office slab [153]. There was no spatial necessity to build towers: the building occupies a
    small part of a two-block site and the slabs and the towers alike contained open work
    floors that differed little except in

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    their floor areas [154]. Instead, the towers are obviously meant to become familiar images
    of a powerful corporation, and to be seen from a distance in the context of older,
    similarly shaped towers in the skyline such as the Central Trust Tower (1913), Cincinnati
    Gas and Electric Company (192930) and especially the nearby Times-Star Building
    (1930), which the Procter & Gamble building resembles most closely.
    Procter & Gamble's claim to public authority on its own terms is unmistakable. The
    towers hide behind a formal garden that takes a two-block bite out of the downtown grid
    while the public street between the blocks is paved to match the garden, claiming it as
    corporate territory. Indeed, the garden is chained off when the building is closed. As one
    critic noted, 'those who stroll through the pergolas and parterres understand that they are
    guests of the company'. 15 The entry and the elaborate atrium (which resembles the public
    lobby of one of Chicago's most elaborate 1930s skyscrapers, the Board of Trade Building)
    are meant, like the towers, to be viewed from beyond the street-front guard shack.
    On the interior the familiar cubicled open floors of the modern corporate office are
    organized so that every employee has a view. This is an explicit effort to avoid hierarchy,
    and is matched by the declared lack of differentiation in status from floor to floor. Yet the
    upper floors of the towers are finished more cheaply, and the corporation's executives
    shield themselves from egalitarianism by remaining ensconced in the upper floors of the
    old building. 16
    The Moral Authority of Capitalism
    Since the late nineteenth century the architectural claims of the corporation have been
    underpinned by assumptions about the role of capitalist enterprise in the moral order of
    the world. These assumptions were laid out most explicitly in a spectacular world's fair,
    the World's Columbian Exposition, held in Chicago in 1893. Many of the city's major
    businessmen, assisted by some of the nation's most prestigious commercial architects
    working under the supervision of Daniel Burnham, shaped the celebration, which opened
    a year after the anniversary it was intended to commemorate.
    The fair was an international exposition of a type that had been inaugurated at London's
    Crystal Palace exhibition of 1851, a display of the products of human ingenuity in
    industry and agriculture. Like the Olympic Games, which began a few years after the
    World's Columbian Exposition took place, the veneer of co-operation barely concealed an
    atmosphere of intense competition. The host country expected to 'win' and arranged the
    grounds to establish a home-field advantage for its own goods and culture.
    Early on, the planners decided that the Chicago fair would have a formal, architecturally
    impressive Court of Honor, the famous 'White

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    City', at its centre [155]. It would be cloaked in the visual language of Renaissance
    classicism, which they believed represented the highest human achievement to date. The
    White City was a meditation on the place of the United States in world history, offered as
    evidence of the nation's claim to be the new pinnacle of culture.
    The layout of the fair was carefully arranged to assert this claim over and over. A series of
    dichotomies, of near and far, formal and picturesque, classical and non-classical, serious
    and playful, told the story of the American past and predicted a glorious cultural future
    based on the nation's economy. As visitors moved farther from the Court of Honor, they
    moved away from its monumental unity and backwards in historical and cultural time.
    Beyond it was an area planned in a picturesque manner around a lagoon and containing
    the state and international exhibitions [156]. The former, modelled on well-known
    historic buildings, depicted the United States as it was in 1893 and as it had been in the
    past [46]. From the lagoon, one moved on to the Midway Plaisance, a slightly
    disreputable zone of fun that also represented the cultural past. It was run by the fair's
    Department of Ethnology and Archaeology and contained both formal ethnographic
    exhibits and pseudo-ethnographic commercial displays. The long narrow strip of the
    Midway was arranged as an 'ascending scale starting with the lowest specimens and
    reaching continually upward to the highest stage', in the words of the organizers. 17 That
    is, the darkest-skinned peoples were placed at the far end and the lightest-skinned
    'Teutons' adjacent to the lagoon area. The Women's Building stood at the intersection of
    the two.
    Visitors to the World's Columbian Exposition were invited to understand the White City
    against this backdrop. The architecture

    Daniel Burnham, chief planner
    World's Columbian Exposition, 1893 (demolished 1894), Chicago, III.

    The Court of Honor, or White City, is in the left foreground, with the less exalted portions of the fair
    stretching away to the Midway Plaisance at the rear, marked by the Ferris Wheel.

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    World's Columbian Exposition.
    Souvenir Map. The Court of Honor is in the lower centre, adjacent to the pier, with the Lagoon
    above it and the Midway Plaisance at the upper left.

    offered a vision of future perfection, but contained the industrial products of the presentday United States. Viewers were encouraged to equate the material variety with cultural
    achievement. In that context, the whiteness of the White City was even more striking and
    multivalent. The visually white 'city so holy and clean' was also morally white, in contrast
    to the sinful moral and cultural titillation of the Midway Plaisance, and it was racially
    white. 18 The White City was a dangerous and self-indulgent fantasy, but one given
    persuasive force by its tangibility.
    The Spatial Economy of Consumption
    If the World's Columbian Exposition was competition presented as co-operation, it was
    also a festival of consumption disguised as a celebration of production. The exhibits
    focused on end-products not on processes, on the oceans of industrial and agricultural
    goods available to consumers in industrial societies. They also offered a glimpse of the
    intangibles that consumers' economic power could command, including access to the
    cultures of non-western people.
    In that respect, the time-worn comparison of the World's Columbian Exposition to a
    department store is an apt one. For all its high-blown claims, the fair was a consumerist
    spectacle that skillfully employed the spatial techniques developed on the streets of the


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    mercial city. Like the department store, the fair combined compression of scale with
    profusion of goods to overwhelm the visitor. It collected the industrial and agricultural
    products of a nation in a single confined space, then laid it out in a classified, systematic
    manner that created an impression of totality.
    By the same token, consumer retailers implied that the finite selection of goods made and
    offered for sale in the market-place encompassed the entire world of possibilities, the
    entire scope of possible desires. The mixture of goods in a department store or the
    mixture of shops in an arcade or a shopping mall were carefully calculated to create this
    impression. Each reinforced the other, making the whole seem larger than its parts. The
    encompassing vantage point was crucial to this impression: on the interior of a shopping
    arcade, one could see all the shop fronts. On the interior of a department store, a kind of
    institution invented in France and imported to the United States in the third quarter of the
    nineteenth century, an open court or rotunda permitted the shopper to take in many of the
    displays at once. Twentieth-century department stores added escalators for the same
    At the same time, the inclusivity of the consumer landscape was selective: it appeared to
    be a totality, but it reduced a world of possibilities to those that were appropriate to the
    desired audience. The investors in the Philadelphia Arcade (1824-6) were deeply divided
    over the issue of permitting lottery shops to rent space in the building [137]. Those who
    opposed the shops believed that they drove away genteel customers. Equally important,
    lottery outlets subverted the mechanism of desire and disappointment, which was fuelled
    by the association of mundane goods with higher values. At the Arcade, space for the
    Philadelphia (formerly Peale's) Museum was added at the last minute to serve this
    purpose. It was arranged according to intersecting moral and scientific classifications of
    people, plants, and animals. This museum of the unbuyable gave an impression of
    comprehensiveness that rubbed off on the museum of the buyable on the two lower
    floors. In addition, it dignified a visit to the Arcade as an edifying experience, rescuing it
    from the taint of mere consumerist luxury that republicans feared.
    The prestigious architectural ornament of the Arcade's exterior was equally vital to the
    goals of the developers [138]. It associated the ephemeral act of consuming widely
    available goods with a fixed, exclusive, and presumably enduring élite. The temple form
    of a shopping arcade, the cast-iron façade of a late nineteenth-century department store
    that resembled a Renaissance palazzo, the classical decoration of a corporate headquarters
    all conveyed their messages through indirection. This was the critical difference between
    the World's Columbian Exposition and a skyscraper or a retail shop. The fair's
    architecture proclaimed a direct link between American industrialism and the high

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    Edward B. Delk and Edward Tanner, initial architects for the J. C. Nichols Company
    Country Club Plaza, 1922-, Kansas City, Mo.
    Plan c.1950

    culture of Europe. No arcade or department store explicitly promised that shopping in its
    temple or palazzo made the consumer a Roman citizen or a Florentine banker. Such a
    claim would be rudely dismissed. Instead, consumerist architecture is the architecture of
    the wink and the gentle nudge in the ribs. Élite values and consumer goods are connected
    only obliquely. It is an architecture of inflection: by juxtaposition a little of each rubs off
    on the other. Élite culture is made more accessible and consumption more dignified.
    The term inflection is borrowed from Robert Venturi's tract Complexity and
    Contradiction in Architecture (1966), which argued for architectural design that was not
    self-contained, but inflected, or affected visually by its context. In the same way, the

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    meanings of consumerist images are affected by their contexts. To put it another way,
    consumerism works to the extent that it is not rational, systematic, or transparent, that it
    does not make explicit promises of personal transformation, but to the extent that it offers
    fragmented, indirect, allusive, connections between hard goods and intangible desires.
    Twentieth-century merchandisers inherited and continued to refine the techniques of
    compression and profusion, totalization and selection, juxtaposition and inflection. In
    Kansas City developer J. C. Nichols began in 1906 to build a series of subdivisions
    known collectively as the Country Club District, an upper-income enclave segregated by
    class, race, and, in its early decades, religion. In the early 1920s Nichols determined to
    create a regional shopping centre that would be the tip of a pyramid of various sized,
    carefully distributed shopping nodes that his company had scattered through the Country
    Club District since its inception [157]. This artificial downtown, Country Club Plaza,
    employed all the techniques of the shopping arcade, the department store, and the world's
    fair. It was a miniaturized city that, in Nichols's words, would create 'the orderly effect so
    generally praised in Paris and other European cities'. 19 The uniform one-to-two-storey
    heights and the quasi-Mediterranean style linked the disparate stores together [158]. The
    shops were carefully co-ordinated by type and restricted by the Company in the kinds of
    inventory they could stock, to minimize competition among them and maximize profit to
    the Company, which collected a percentage of their income.
    The presentation was as refined as the selection. 'Screaming advertisements, hideous
    combinations of color, flaming advertising lettering across an otherwise pleasing
    storefront or plate glass window', all staples of the nineteenth-century urban shopping
    district, were strictly prohibited. 20 Instead, the architecture juxtaposed the goods on sale
    with the gentility and exoticism associated with the Spanish Renaissance and Baroque
    architectural forms chosen as 'the most adaptable and elastic for our purpose'. 21 So
    Kansas City's gentry shopped among the domes and towers of an Andalusian city. Where
    the world's fair exhibited foreign peoples as a sign of American culture's buying power, at
    Country Club Plaza painted-tile vignettes casually reminded shoppers of the reach of their
    own. In one, a peasant toiled along a road beside a Mesoamerican pyramid, his back bent
    over with the burden of dozens of pots that, one assumed, would end up on the shelves
    of the Plaza.
    Nichols believed that his best and most desirable customers were those who could afford
    to travel to the Plaza by car. Over 50 per cent of the land in the Plaza was given over to
    roads and parking. After a year, automobile traffic was so great that a parking garage was
    built. At Country Club Plaza and its successors, the consumerist techniques of

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    Country Club Plaza.

    the shopping arcade were folded into the desire to create an improved city of a particular
    sort, one that adapted urban methods and forms to the automobile.
    Post-war shopping-centre and, later, shopping-mall developers were equally faithful to
    the old retailing lessons of profusion, juxtaposition, and refinement. Guided by market
    research and sociological data that stereotyped target audiences, developers controlled the
    mix of shops in their new retail centres even more closely than in the Philadelphia Arcade
    or Country Club Plaza. They also endorsed Nichols's desire to create an automobilefriendly city without sacrificing urban qualities. In designing the influential Northgate
    Regional Shopping Center (1947-51) in Seattle, John Graham and Company studied
    downtown Seattle. They noticed that large department stores acted as magnets that drew
    people back and forth among the smaller businesses, and they structured their shopping
    centre in the same way [159]. A double row of stores faced one another across a
    pedestrian mall. Large 'anchor' department stores were separated by speciality shops.
    Viewed from the outside, across their acres of parking lots, these buildings now appear to
    be anti-urban assaults on the city. The designers, however, saw them from the inside, as
    quintessential (if perfected) urban spaces organized around an internal street.
    In short, suburbanizing developers believed they were revitalizing the city. Ironically,
    given the mall's association with the automobile, their vision turned on a downtown
    without cars. In part, the planners'

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    John Graham and Company
    Northgate Regional Shopping Center, 1947-50, Seattle.
    Aerial view.

    objection to the automobile was practical: how could one accommodate cars within the
    traditional relationship of shop-front to street? The answer was to turn the street inside
    away from the car. At Northgate, not only were cars barred from the shopping street, but
    an underground service tunnel allowed delivery traffic to be separated from both
    pedestrians and their automobiles.
    The issue was more than a logistical one. Early shopping-centre designers also sought to
    create a pedestrian-scaled urban community that would encourage face-to-face contact.
    Pioneering shopping-centre designer Victor Gruen, who was responsible for Northland
    Shopping Center (1954), Detroit, and Southdale (1956), Edina, Minnesota, the first
    enclosed, air-conditioned mall, wanted them to have a civic presenceto be urbane as well
    as urbanby housing many of the public rituals of traditional downtowns.
    The nostalgia was genuine and at the same time it was part of the selling processby
    definition, the two are inseparable in the production of consumer desire. The idealized
    community of the mall juxtaposed the buyable and the unbuyable in yet another way. As
    Peale's Museum did in the Philadelphia Arcade, public dances, children's-choir
    performances and Santa Clauses marked the shopping mall as a communal site that

    transcended merchandising. In recent years,

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    nostalgic images of old-time merchandising and sanitized vendors' carts reminiscent of
    the laissez-faire downtown street incorporated into modern malls have been added to the
    repertoire [160]. They transform shopping into a communal rite, a part of the national
    In the mid-1950s Gruen brought this nostalgic urbanism back into the city, a process that
    he described as repaying the city for its lessons with the fruits of shopping-centre
    wisdom. His 'City X' project for Fort Worth (1956) proposed to turn that city's
    deteriorated downtown into a lucrative shopping centre, surrounded by concentric
    highways and satellite parking to 'repel the invasion of mechanical hordes into those areas
    where they create havoc.' 22 The plan was rejected by the voters, but Gruen was able to
    build something like it in Kalamazoo, Michigan (1959) and Fresno, California (1961).
    Urban revitalization schemes of the 1970s and 1980s incorporated the same nostalgic
    concept of the pre-automobile city. Faneuil Hall Marketplace, Boston, was built around
    the city's nineteenth-century public market [161]. Cities established these institutions to
    distribute vital provisions while controlling hygiene, prices, and sources (sellers had to be
    local people). Quincy Market (1825), the main building, is a magnificent granite neoclassical building constructed on filled land adjacent to the eighteenth-century market
    house, Faneuil Hall. It had been an urban revitalization scheme in its own right, intended
    to dignify the city's ordinary commerce. The market continued to function in its original
    manner until the 1970s, when it was gentrified. The new

    Rouse Corporation, developer; Frank Gehry, architect
    Santa Monica Place, 1979-81, Santa Monica, Calif.


    Alexander Parris
    Quincy Market, 1825, Boston.
    This rendering shows the early 19thcentury market hall after it was reworked, beginning in 1971, by Benjamin Thompson
    & Associates for the Rouse Development Corporation, to create Faneuil Hall Marketplace, the
    market-places' that became so popular in the 1980s and 1990s.

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    facility was a fragmented parody of the old, offering a carefully controlled mix of food
    and luxury goods. True to the consumer process, the fragment claimed to be the whole: it
    stood for the old-time city that tourists come to experience, evoking its grittiness without
    the grit. As Gruen hoped the downtown mall would be, Faneuil Hall Marketplace and its
    imitators, called 'festival market-places', have become models for the redevelopment of
    ageing downtowns as consumerist ancestral homelands, using historic architecture as the
    stage setting for a sanitized version of urban life in the past.
    Consuming Architecture
    While architecture can be a tool or catalyst of consumerism, it is itself a commodity. In
    the United States, a basic human necessityhousinghas been distributed almost exclusively
    on an ability-to-pay basis. For example, many nineteenth-century Southern planters and
    nearly all slaves occupied single-room houses, but in the slaves' houses many families
    were typically crammed into one room. Among late nineteenthan- and twentieth-century
    urbanites, lodgers competed for space on undivided floors or platforms or at best slept in
    hammocks in the cheapest flop houses, a term used to describe lodging-houses that had
    no beds or other permanent fixtures. Cubicle hotels were the first step up: the rentable
    space was gridded off by thin half-height partitions [162]. As one ascended the social
    scale to the middle- and upper-class hotel or apartment house, the partitions became
    higher and thicker, the separations greater.
    In addition to simple shelter, money buys individuality, the integrity of person and
    property essential to the middle-class self-conception. Lodgers in cubicle hotels had to put
    their clothes under chairs to prevent their being hooked by other guests 'fishing' over the
    partitions. At the opposite extreme, one of the first American luxury hotels, Boston's
    Tremont House (1829), advertised sound-proofing that protected its guests even from
    being aware of others.
    Architecture has always been alienable property. In the nineteenth century it became a
    consumer commodity, with all that implies about the relationships among money, objects,
    and selfhood. The marketers of houses have depended on the consumerist juxtaposition
    of commodities and values, the buyable and the unbuyable, as much as those in the
    shopping arcade or the festival market-place have. In a typical sales pitch, the Aladdin
    Company of Bay City, Michigan, the early twentieth-century manufacturer of
    prefabricated Aladdin Redi-Cut Houses, advertised its bungalow 'The Pasadena' as 'a
    home of sunshine, flowers, trees and foliage Californiaits sunshine and flowers veiled in
    blue skyis evident in its every line'. Of 'The Sunshine', the copywriters wrote that
    'Individuality is portrayed in all its lines and it is distinctly American in character.' 23

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    Kenton Hotel, c.1900, New York.
    Sketch plan of a lodginghouse's grid of cubicles. There is a shared lavatory in the rear corner.

    In 1918, it cost $1655$2096 to buy a little bit of California in 'The Pasadena', exclusive of
    the prices of lot and assembly, while 'The Sunshine's' distinctly American individuality set
    one back $2099. These prices were lower than the average cost of housing in 1918. In that
    year, median income was $1140 per annum, just enough pay for one of these modest but
    distinctly middle-class Aladdin houses on standard mortgage terms. Theoretically, 60 per
    cent of American wage-earners could have afforded these models, although only 46 per
    cent of Americans nationwide (and less than 25 per cent in most cities) actually owned
    their own houses. 24 In a society that has defined the house as the principal sign of self,
    the ability to consume shelter carries great weight in defining one's social existence.
    The difficult relationship between consumption, identity, and citizenship became a topic
    of public discussion during World War II, when so much of the nation's productive
    capacity was turned to military purposes. During the war domestic consumption was
    depicted as something selfish, to be put aside for the benefit of the war effort. Yet
    consumption seemed also to be the foundation of American strength: personal buying
    created national economic growth that could be channelled into the war effort and then

    back to consumer production. By implication, military research during the Defense
    Emergency would repay national self-discipline and deferred gratification with a richer
    post-war life [163].
    Many architects saw their war work in this light. The migration of labour to militaryrelated industries created a demand for quick, efficient, cheap housing. The Lanham Act
    of 1940 committed $150 million (and ultimately $3 billion) to the Federal Works Agency
    to build housing for war-workers. One beneficiary was William Wurster, commissioned
    to design 1,677 war-worker houses for Carquinez Heights, on the San Francisco Bay.
    Wurster specified flat roofs to streamline construction by allowing floors and ceilings to
    be con

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    Revere Copper Company
    'After Total War Can Come Total Living', Revere's Part in

    Better Living no. 10 (1943).
    This was one of a series of pamphlets published by Revere Cooper and Brass
    Incorporated to remind consumers of its participation in wartime production and
    its intended return to manufacturing consumer goods after the war.

    ''After total war can come total living"

    Page 236

    structed in the same ways, and he arranged the houses in long north-south rows to
    eliminate yardwork for 'busy workers'. He hoped to derive lessons for postwar building
    from this effort. When he was offered a companion commission for Chabot Terrace
    (1943), he insisted on being allowed to experiment with the form and structure of twentyfive of the houses for future reference [164].
    Wartime construction such as this, as well as experimentation with new materials and
    manufacturing procedures, stood in ambiguous relationship to consumption. It fuelled a
    kind of futurist speculation in magazines and museum exhibitions focused on the
    marvellous 'House of 194x' that would inevitably be constructed after the war. Speculative
    builders like Marlow-Burns, Kaiser Community Homes, and Joseph Eichler on the West
    Coast and Levitt and Sons on the East Coast made fortunes by applying less glamorous
    but very lucrative wartime methods to streamline and cheapen construction to
    accommodate hordes of returning veterans who needed houses.
    Yet the wartime techniques expected to provide plentiful houses for middle-class
    consumers were by-products of interwar research to provide housing at or below the
    threshold of consumption. Between the world wars, design and planning professionals
    like Catherine Bauer, whose Modern Housing (1934) introduced American readers to the
    plight of their lower-class neighbours, advocated European social housing of the 1920s as
    a model for the United States. At the same time, research agencies, notably the National
    Forest Products Laboratory, began a search for the 'minimum house', shifting the focus

    William Wurster
    Chabot Terrace, 1943, Vallejo, Calif.
    Experimental war-worker housing.

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    Burton D. Cairns and Vernon DeMars
    Chandler Farms, 1936-7, Chandler, Ariz.
    Adobe-built Farm Security Administration housing for farm workers.

    from comfortable housing to the lowest acceptable standard. Elaborate machinery with
    moving walls allowed National Forest Products Laboratory researchers to discover the
    smallest possible space in which one could live what middle-class officials believed was a
    decent life. The solution was a square house of relatively small dimensions, with four
    rooms and a bath.
    These results were in turn incorporated into Farm Security Administration housing for
    farm workers in the western states during the 1930s, and carried over into war-worker
    housing [165] [166]. These government projects were celebrated in an influential 1944
    exhibition of 'good architecture' in the United States, Built in USA since 1932, shown at
    the Museum of Modern Art, New York. Curated by Bauer's sister Elizabeth Mock, the
    show juxtaposed these minimal houses for the poor to Fallingwater, Rockefeller Center,
    and the great public works of the Tennessee Valley Authority.
    In short, builders for post-war middle- and upper-middle-class buyers drew inspiration
    and practical advice from housing stripped of the symbolic content cherished by the
    middle class. Worker-housing appealed to a long strain of Protestant asceticism in
    American culture, intersecting with modernist visual austerity. Many architects and
    housing theorists (as opposed to private developers) were uncomfortable with the
    consumer dimension of the single-family house. Since the late nineteenth century housing
    reformers and designers had chosen to see human society and human interaction as an
    intangible process. They emphasized domestic spacethe creation of family settings that
    would encourage the 'proper' kinds of social and family life and personal
    developmentover crass architectural display.

    This ambivalence about housing and social life, domesticity and community planning,
    was evident even in the most appealing social housing projects. The Carl Mackley Houses
    (1933-4) in Philadelphia, built (with assistance from the Public Works Administration) by

    Page 238

    Chandler Farms.
    Plans and section of two units.

    Full Fashioned Hosiery Workers Union whose members worked in nearby textile mills,
    are a case in point. The architects organized the long narrow buildings parallel to the
    contours of the slope on which they were built, after the manner of German social
    housing of the 1920s [167]. The project presented as idealized a portrait of urban activity
    and community as any skyscraper. The buildings were massed close to the street to
    maintain an urban appearance and density greater than that of the surrounding
    neighbourhood of row houses, and store fronts were set into the basements along the
    pedestrian level. Multiple circulation levels allowed automobiles to enter below-grade
    parking courts around the perimeter. Such elements as passageways through the ranks of
    buildings, play spaces on the roof, laundry rooms on the upper floors, a park-like open
    space, and a community centre with a swimming-pool promoted a good social life
    through constant contact among neighbours. The plentiful public spaces stood in telling
    contrast to the individual apartments, which adhered quite closely to the minimum-house
    standard [168]. The planners were more interested in teaching residents the value of
    communal life than in private pleasures.
    The Carl Mackley Houses remain a pleasant and well-kept environment, one of the best
    of the social housing schemes, but they made no concessions to the values of a consumer
    society oriented towards the house as an embodiment of personal identity. Indeed,
    housing reformers of the inter-war and post-war period often expressed contempt for
    such materialism. In Toward New Towns for America (1957), his summary of the work of
    the Regional Planning Association of America in which he had played a central role,
    Clarence Stein bitterly denounced 'the fallacy of the American faith, almost a religious
    belief, in what is called "home ownership"', a phrase that Stein always set off in ironic
    quotation marks. The truth of the mortgage system (the twentieth-century invention that
    enabled so many Americans to buy houses) was that '"home-ownership" for those with
    low incomes is a myth'. 25 He believed that the poor would be better advised to rely on

    the benevolent intentions of philanthropists.

    Page 239

    To some reformers the materialism of home ownership seemed suspect even for the welloff. William Wurster, who married Catherine Bauer, is a good example. Bauer pushed the
    California architect towards social housing such as Carquinez Heights and the Valencia
    Gardens public housing project (1943) in San Francisco, but most of his practice was
    devoted to middle- and upper-middle-class houses. Still, Wurster declared in House and
    Garden in 1946 that 'it is fun building to a minimum and I feel sure it is a national duty to
    do so'. 26
    Housing Non-Consumers
    The ambivalence about consumption and identity was most evident in the long sad story
    of housing for those too poor to consume on their own (as opposed to those who needed
    help, like the working-class residents of the Carl Mackley Houses). Did they have a right
    to consume if they did not produce? To put it another way, did they have a social
    existence? The issue was complex and emotion-laden, involving the most deep-seated
    values of American society. European-American Christian tradition taught that God had
    created economic hierarchy. Poverty was inescapable, but so was the duty of Christians to
    help the poor. The growth of capitalist and consumer ideologies in the middle of the
    eighteenth century generated a new view of poverty. While there were a few worthy
    poorpeople who couldn't help themselves, such as widows, orphans, and the illmost poor
    people were so-called sturdy beggars whose poverty was the result of personal failure or
    indolence. They could be better off if they chose to be. Historian Michael Katz argues that
    Americans became entangled in untenable distinctions between the worthy and the
    unworthy poor and repeatedly decided that it was better to oppress the worthy poor than
    to risk being taken advantage of by the unworthy. In a statement that could as easily have
    been written in the 1990s, the Philadelphia Guardians of the Poor in 1836 opposed
    outdoor relief, or cash payments to the poor: 'The pauper is as comfortably housed,
    clothed and fed as his more frugal and industrious neighbour', which removed the
    incentive to work harder and demoralized the industrious. Instead, they should be housed
    in almshouses which, 'except to the worthless, conveys a sense of degradation'. 27
    In housing, the result has been to reinforce the economic principle that only those who
    can pay should have pleasant physical surroundings: anything more robs the industrious.
    Since the early nineteenth century, public-welfare officials have assumed that housing for
    the poor, whether in almshouses or public housing, should involve no excess
    expenditures or gratuitous physical amenities and that it should be disciplinary, instilling
    identity through enforcing desirable behaviour. The poor should have only what they
    could win and hold in the marketplace.

    Page 240

    Oskar Stonorov and Alfred Kastner
    Carl Mackley Houses, 1933-4, Philadelphia.
    Axonometric view.

    In fact, the majority of the poor always existed that way, in 'market' housing such as
    tenement flats and rentals, alley and court housing inside blocks, and in urban residential
    hotels [162]. Yet social and housing reformers were unable to accept these
    accommodations. To be sure, the tenement-house reforms of the late nineteenth century
    and the campaigns against court and alley housing and single-room occupancy hotels in
    the twentieth century exposed genuine problems of hygiene, fire safety, and structural
    integrity, but, under the influence of middle-class notions of domesticity and the
    connection of housing with selfhood, reformers were equally concerned with the forms
    of social life that went on in tenement apartments and hotel rooms. (In the latter instance,
    they were as opposed to upper-class residence in luxury hotels as they were to workingclass residence in flop houses.) These kinds of market-based accommodation were
    inferior because they were not matched on a one-to-one basis to the consumer. They
    lacked the elements of personal discipline and individual identity that constituted proper
    housingseparation of domestic functions, restriction of residence to family members,
    privacy for residents of different ages and sexesyet inability to pay for such amenities was
    the source of the problem in the first place.
    Those lowest on the housing scale were thus trapped between the

    Page 241

    Carl Mackley Houses.
    Four-room apartment.

    reformers' moralistic ideals. On the one hand, the places they could afford to live were
    socially unacceptable because they were not individualized enough. On the other,
    reformers and public officials were constrained from providing the types of housing they
    approved because it was socially unacceptable to give such things to those who could not
    afford them. Even in the twentieth century, when federal and urban governments
    intermittently accepted their responsibility to provide housing for the poorest Americans,
    market ideologies crippled their efforts. The great urban renewal projects of the 1950s
    and 1960s were driven by downtown real-estate needs. As suburban development and its
    attendant shopping-centres and malls drew business from the city centres, developers and
    public officials turned to wholesale redevelopment of the downtowns to resuscitate their
    investments. To clear land, making it available for profitable commercial projects and
    emptying it of poor citizens whose presence might undermine efforts to attract tenants and
    customers, mass housing was built out of the way of new development, at the cheapest
    possible price. This usually meant the construction of high-rise housing on small lots, a
    policy generally opposed by architects but pushed by merchants and redevelopment
    agencies. The result was housing that would have warmed the hearts of the Philadelphia
    Guardians of the Poor, housing that, in the words of

    Kleinweber, Yamasaki, & Hellmuth
    Pruitt-lgoe Houses, 1950-4, St Louis, Mo.

    The houses when they were new. The more familiar photograph of the demolition of these hous
    triumphant symbol of the follies of public housing and modern architecture. The firm that design
    epitomized the urban renewal schemes of the 1950s, has successfully made the transition to 90s
    style redevelopment: it is
    now HOK, whose subsidiary HOK Sports is a popular designer of downtown baseball stadium

    Progressive Architecture editor Thomas Fisher, was 'stripped of most amenities and shrunk

    Critics of modern architecture and public housing made the Pruitt-Igoe Houses (1950-4) in
    these projects, but they were by no means the only one [169]. As Katharine Bristol and Rog
    demonstrated, Pruitt-Igoe's problems derived from racism and from the conception of hous
    commercial development. Pruitt-Igoe was built to move the poor away from prime centre-c
    architects argued for a mixture of low-, mid-, and high-rise towers, the federal agency that o
    the construction of thirty-three high-rise towers for economy's sake. For the same reasons,
    and landscaping were omitted and the buildings were made of the cheapest materials and w
    first time they were used. In the long tradition of expecting paupers to pay for their own rel
    1949, under which the houses were built, stipulated that the project must operate on the inc
    the post-war housing market and racial relations relegated Pruitt-Igoe to the poorest African
    pro-rated to their incomes, were incapable of supporting maintenance.

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    Venturi and Short
    Vanna Venturi House, 1959-64, Chestnut Hill, Pa.

    Pruitt-Igoe and such contemporaries as the Bay Street Public Housing (1950), San
    Francisco, Schuylkill Falls (1953-5), Philadelphia, and the Robert Taylor Homes (1960-2),
    Chicago, combined the mean-spiritedness inherited from the nineteenth century with
    pseudo-social-scientific notions of poverty as a pathology that public housing must
    address. In a consumer society, where identity was based increasingly on possessions and
    material imagery, housers, politicians, and voters assumed that their poor neighbours
    were a different sort of people, people who needed behavioural modification, people for
    whom the mechanisms of consumption were irrelevant or even out of place. Yet they
    continued to insist that the mechanisms of the market, which were driven by
    consumption, were the only acceptable solution. This is not to say that the poverty could
    be eliminated by providing bigger apartments or beautiful architecture. Even in generousspirited housing, architects continue to betray a sense that the poor are qualitatively
    different, as two contemporaneous buildings by Robert Venturi's office illustrate.
    Venturi made much of allusive qualities of the Vanna Venturi House (1962), built for his
    mother in the genteel Philadelphia suburb of Chestnut Hill [170]. The broad roof and
    prominent 'chimney' were classic signs of domesticity, but the chimney was not what it
    seemed and the sheltering gable was split down the middle. Similarly, the vestigial
    classical pediment and belt course were broken by off-the-rack windows. To the architect,
    these decorative elements were

    Page 244

    Venturi and Rauch, Cope and Lippincott
    Guild House, 1960-3, Philadelphia.

    ironized and subverted by their context, yet the result was classic consumerist
    architecture, a series of fragmented images that juxtaposed values, exalting cheap
    materials through association with prestigious antique classical architecture and in the
    process celebrating middle-class domesticity.
    On the surface, Guild House (1960-3), elderly housing built by the Society of Friends in
    the context of the otherwise-grim East Poplar urban renewal project at the edge of Center
    City Philadelphia, employed many of the same ironic devices and the same visual motifs
    as the Venturi House [171]. The curved pediment and yawning entry of the latter find
    their complements in the façade of Guild House, while the minimalist frieze recalls the
    house's equally perfunctory belt course. In a famous reading of the building, Venturi and
    two coauthors, Denise Scott Brown and Steven Izenour, described Guild House as 'an
    imitation palazzo' made of ordinary materials and stock components. They went on to
    praise, ironically, 'the exceptional and fat column' and 'the luxurious glazed brick' at the
    entrance, along with the veined marble 'that developers apply at street level to make their
    apartment entrances more classy and rentable'. The façade was capped by a 'flourish', a
    gold-anodized aluminium television antenna, which was both an evocation of a modernist
    sculpture and a poor substitute for an 'open-armed, polychromatic, plaster madonna' that
    would have been rejected by the Quaker developers. They labelled the developer's
    aesthetic that Guild House parodied ugly and ordinary, but consonant with the 'inevitable'
    plastic flowers that the residents placed in their

    Page 245

    windows. 29 The whole was intended in some way to express the lives of the elderly.
    Both the Venturi House and Guild House used the same techniques of consumerist
    fragmentation, juxtaposition, and allusion. Yet Venturi's mother's house, however
    ironized, enshrined a respectful middle-class self-definition, while the Guild House
    ironized but endorsed a view of its aged tenants as the detritus of consumer society, prey
    to the developer's tawdry deceptions and enslaved to television. In that respect, despite its
    concern for alleviating some of the starkness of the neighbouring public housing for
    other non-consumers, Guild House shared the ambivalence about consumption and about
    the identities of non-consumers in a consumers' world that have permeated housing
    reform for two hundred years.

    Page 246

    Page 247

    Many Americans who could not name a building by Frank Lloyd Wright or pick the man
    out of a police line-up are certain that he was a great artist, one of a chain whose genius
    defines the history of architecture. Othersscholars as well as laymen and womenunderstand architectural history as a parade of styles that can be recognized by
    diagnostic visual features, like birds, then checked off on a life list: Prairie, International,
    Classical, Neo-classical, Modern, Moderne, Post-Modern (but so far no Post-Moderne),
    Deconstructivist, and Everything Revival. Given the great diversity of American
    buildings, landscapes, builders, and users, how have we come to see architecture as an art
    organized by the co-ordinates of artist-architects like Wright and of visual styles? Why do
    we prefer to think of architecture primarily as an art, rather than as technology, a social
    act, a work of the intellect, or a commodity? To understand this state of affairs, we need
    to examine the histories of the concepts of art, architect, and style. Although none of them
    constituted the history of American architecture or its all-pervasive matrix, all have deeply
    affected the making of the landscape and the stories written about it.
    Architects and Builders
    Every building, large or small, high or low, is designed. Someone, or some group of
    people, decided what it should look like. Long before the appearance of a self-identified
    architectural profession, most American cultures recognized some of their members as
    specialists with superior skills or knowledge of building, yet their roles varied from
    culture to culture. Building required craft, mathematical, engineering, theoretical,
    aesthetic, political, and even ritual or magical expertise, combined in ways that were
    incompatible with any contemporary definition of the role of the architect. Moreover,
    these qualifications were distributed among builders and clients in ways that differ from
    contemporary practice. For example, women made and maintained Plains Indian tipis,
    often under the direction of a skilled older woman. The completed tipi was sometimes
    painted by its residents, working under the direction of a specialist in painting whose
    skills included translating traditional forms and the vision experiences

    Page 248

    and animal guardians of the household's warrior into an appropriate design as well as
    physically outlining the images on the skin or canvas surface.
    The familiar distribution of tasks among architect, builder, and client in contemporary
    architecture is a relatively recent one that began to take shape in the United States in the
    late eighteenth century. Before then, responsibilities for building and design among
    European Americans were widely distributed. While some people built their own houses
    and a few more people constructed their own farm- and outbuildings, most construction
    was performed by people who made all or part of their livings as builders. Their skills
    and their scale of operations varied widely, ranging from small craft workers who
    restricted themselves to equally small building and repair jobs to large-scale contractors or
    'undertakers'. These were rich men with big businesses such as Virginia's Mourning
    Richards who, in the mid-eighteenth century, contracted simultaneously to build five
    churches and one house, spread over a hundred-mile territory. In the rural South, wealthy
    planters such as Thomas Jefferson and Landon Carter trained slaves as skilled workmen
    to work on their own properties, and occasionally bid on public construction contracts to
    be completed by their plantation crews.
    The most prosperous undertakers employed large numbers of workers, white and black,
    slave, indentured, and free. William Buckland, who was trained in England as a joiner (a
    maker of furniture, panelling, and other fine woodwork), emigrated to North America as
    an indentured servant to work at George Mason's Gunston Hall (1755-8), Fairfax County,
    Virginia, and built up a business in Virginia and Maryland after he had obtained his
    freedom. At the time of his death in Annapolis in 1774 Buckland owned the services of
    convict house-carpenter and joiner Samuel Baily, a carver, an adult male slave, and an
    African-American boy.
    In urban areas, skilled building workers were elaborately organized. Craftsmen were
    trained through apprenticeship and in the short-lived schools sometimes taught by senior
    builders. Craft organizations disciplined the trade. The Carpenters' Company of the City
    and County of Philadelphia, founded in 1727, was the most famous of a number of
    builders' guilds that proliferated in the Quaker City and could be found in other large
    cities as well. As with its brother organizations, the key to the Carpenters' Company's
    power was its price-book, ostensibly published to ensure that 'every gentleman concerned
    in building may have the value of his money, and that every workman may have the
    worth of his labour'. 1 In fact, the company's control over measuring, the practice of
    evaluating finished work according to the price-book, allowed it to dominate the building
    industry even though less than a quarter of the 450 carpenters resident in Philadelphia at
    the end of the eighteenth century belonged to it. The book was secret and

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    the company required that members' copies be returned at their resignations or deaths.
    According to architect Benjamin Henry Latrobe (no friend of the Company) the use of the
    price-book served to discourage carpenters from undertaking any novel work, such as his
    own, not encompassed in it.
    Full-time builders such as Buckland and the members of Carpenters' Company designed
    buildings based on their craft training and architectural handbooks and treatises imported
    from England. In addition, genteel dabblers who owned a few handbooks and some
    strong opinions about proper taste sometimes contributed to design as well. One such was
    Joseph Brown, a professor at Rhode Island College (Brown University) in Providence,
    who has traditionally been credited as the architect of that city's First Baptist Church
    (1774-5), assisted by his copy of James Gibbs's Book of Architecture (1728). Brown was
    appointed, along with carpenter Jonathan Hammond and house-wright Comfort Wheaton,
    to make a design for the church. Brown and Hammond travelled to Boston to see its
    churches and meeting-houses 'and to make a memorandum of their several dimensions
    and forms of architecture'. A design was created by grafting plates in Gibbs's book,
    notably an alternative design for the tower of St Martin-in-the-Fields Church (1726),
    London, on to traditional New England meeting-house forms. The committee's plan was
    drawn, and the church was built, by carpenter James Sumner of Boston. The First Baptist
    Church typified the way that major buildings were designed in colonial America, as a
    negotiation among clients and builders, assisted by publications and by the examples of
    standing structures. Design began when the building was first contemplated and reached a
    turning-point when the contract was drawn up, but it continued throughout the
    construction process, as a collective action.
    Why Architects?
    Colonial builders were knowledgeable people who took pride in their work even though
    few can be identified by name. Historians have wasted gallons of ink debating whether
    any of them was a 'real' architect. Was the first American architect the Newport sea captain
    Peter Harrison, who was given that title by his biographer? Was it William Buckland?
    Thomas Jefferson? Or John Hawks, who was trained as an architect in England and came
    to North Carolina in 1764 to construct Tryon Palace at New Bern? Even though Hawks
    was paid as an architect and given exclusive charge of design and construction of Tryon
    Palace, his claim to the title was nominal. Design is only incidentally important in
    distinguishing architects from others involved in building. The architect is more aptly
    defined by a particular relationship to the construction of buildings and to the public.
    Sociologists define a profession as a full-time occupation that has its

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    own training schools, a professional organization, licensing and other forms of
    community recognition, a code of ethics, and the right of self-governance. From this
    point of view, architecture did not become a fully-fledged profession until well into the
    twentieth century. But the drive towards professionalization occupied the entire course of
    the nineteenth century, and it revolved around the two principal elements of the
    sociologists' definition: autonomy, or self-definition, and packaging, or public recognition
    of the architect's distinctive claims.
    The struggle to establish the architectural profession was a contest for control of the entire
    building process. All the things that had formerly been done to construct a building
    before the advent of the architect continued to be needed, but the would-be architect
    proposed to realign the process of negotiating and constructing a building in order to
    interpose himself between the client and the builder. This new player wanted to substitute
    complete professional control for the negotiation of design and construction, excluding
    both client and builder. Such a reorganization would separate headwork from handwork,
    on the one hand, and production from consumption on the other.
    The architectural profession as Americans know it began to take shape in mid-eighteenthcentury England. Beginning with Hawks, immigrants trained in England and France as
    professional architects and engineers found their way to America. In a letter to an aspiring
    architectural student, the English-trained architect Benjamin Henry Latrobe, who arrived
    in Virginia in 1796, proclaimed himself 'the first who, in our Country has endeavored and
    partly succeeded to place the profession of Architect and civil Engineer on that footing of
    respectability which it occupies in Europe'. 2
    Among the early professionals, Latrobe articulated ideals of professionalism that accorded
    most closely with the modern sociological definition. In 1806, he detailed them for the
    benefit of his protégé, Robert Mills. The architect, Latrobe said, was an impartial
    intercessor between architect and client. He knew the entire building process and should
    supervise it all. His time and ideas were his wares, and he should make this clear by
    retaining control of his drawings, and by allowing no changes to his design without his
    consent. 3
    Latrobe's letter illuminated the problems of the so-called 'market professions' in earlynineteenth-century America, those, like architects and physicians, who trafficked in
    arcane knowledge. How could someone attract business who had nothing tangible to sell?
    When a builder was hired, he left behind a house that did not exist before he arrived. The
    architect's skill produced nothing so palpable as the builder's physical craft did. A house
    could be built without his services and, in the eyes of most clients and builders, to no
    discernible disadvantage.

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    The professional aspirations of the market professions rested on a 'negotiation of
    cognitive exclusiveness', meaning that the professional needed to convince prospective
    clients that he possessed knowledge essential to them that could be obtained nowhere
    else. 4 For engineers, for example, part of the value of building daring suspension bridges
    was that they were clearly works that were beyond the capacity of non-engineers. This
    was much harder to demonstrate with respect to the aesthetic and spatial abstractions of
    The key problem for architects, in other words, was that the process of establishing
    professional standing was necessarily two-sided. To his perpetual frustration, Latrobe
    never understood that it was not enough simply to declare himself an architect and expect
    clients to flock to his door. Potential clients must in turn acknowledge the existence and
    value of the practitioner's skills. This negotiation affected the claims that architects made
    for their profession, as they attempted to characterize their expertise.
    'Cognitive exclusiveness' implies that professionals must present themselves as a
    recognizable, predictable body. To establish this impression, early-nineteenth-century
    American architects codified the disparate fragments of architectural knowledge into a
    science. Bits of architectural history, borrowed from the ancient Roman architectural
    theorist Vitruvius by way of European handbooks, served to establish architectural
    science as an unbroken tradition with deep historical roots. Common builders' practices
    were systematized and recast in an invented jargon to exoticize them. For example, John
    Haviland taught the readers of his Builder's Assistant (1818-21) that 'Dividing wood, by
    cutting away a very thin portion of the material of equal thickness throughout, to any
    required extent, by means of a thin plate of steel with a toothed edge is called SAWING, and
    the instruments themselves [are] called SAWS.' 5 Architects sought to carve a niche for
    themselves by claiming a more complete or higher order of mastery of architectural
    science than building craftsmen. The architect understood the whole process, the builder
    only his part of it.
    In addition to standardizing architectural knowledge, architects (like other professionals)
    sought to standardize themselves, to create a mode of acting that was recognizably
    architectural through fashioning a professional consciousness. A short-lived Association
    for the Advancement of Architectural Science in the United States (later named the
    American Institution of Architects), founded in 1836 by prominent practitioners from
    New York and Philadelphia who were later joined by others from New England and the
    South, was succeeded in 1857 by the hardier American Institute of Architects, inaugurated
    by many of the same men. As Thomas U. Walter noted in an 1879 presidential address to
    the second organization, 'Whatever promotes the consolidation of the profession tends to

    lead the public to

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    a higher appreciation of architectural genius.' 6
    Another way to standardize professional identity was through licensing to screen out
    those who did not meet accepted standards of education, expertise, and demeanour. The
    first licensing law was passed in Illinois in 1897, largely through the efforts of Peter B.
    Wight, an architect turned terracotta-fireproofing manufacturer and critic, and Dankmar
    Adler, Louis Sullivan's partner. Licensing came slowly, state by state, as disagreements
    over standards of training and apprenticeship pitted old-style architect-carpenters and
    architects trained as apprentices against those educated in architectural schools and
    Architecture as a Business
    In the early nineteenth century, as now, many architects worked for builders rather than
    supervising them. Pre-Civil War architects often became entangled with speculative
    builders in what would now be called 'design-build' schemes, conducted on such shaky
    (and sometimes shady) financial grounds that they almost inevitably went bankrupt. John
    Haviland's participation in the Philadelphia Arcade (1824-6) strained his finances to the
    point that he embezzled money from the construction of the United States Naval Hospital
    (1826-9) at Portsmouth, Virginia, which ruined his career. After the failure of a
    speculative housing scheme, Thomas U. Walter left Philadelphia for Washington one step
    ahead of his creditors. Robert Mills encountered similar difficulties in Baltimore.
    As the century progressed, architects tended to abandon direct involvement in building,
    and until very recently professional codes of ethics explicitly forbade such ventures. At
    the same time they came to understand that whatever else an architectural practice was, it
    was foremost a business. The stereotypical division of architectural firms into design and
    business partners first appeared in the late nineteenth century when architectural offices
    began to be organized more like contemporary business enterprises. Burnham and Root's
    offices in the Rookery Building, Chicago, contained private rooms for the two partners
    (John Wellborn Root, the design partner, also had a private studio), as well as one for the
    chief engineer, the top executives of the company [172]. There was a library, elaborately
    decorated in the style of seigneurial domesticity favoured in corporate offices of the era,
    and serving as a genteel sales room. In keeping with the architect's stance as a mediator
    between builder and client (as well as with the customs of social class), there were
    separate waiting-rooms for clients and contractors. The office superintendent's room
    occupied the centre of the space. It was adjacent to a clerk's room, in the old merchantclerk pattern, but also to a large drafting room, the equivalent of the open clerical floors
    of large corporations. As with a corporation, several

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    Burnham and Root
    Architectural Offices, c.1888-9, Rookery Building, Chicago.

    vaults protected the firm's drawings, its paper assets.
    The most successful architectural firms of the turn of the century were those who were
    able to organize successfully along the lines of the division of labour, establish managerial
    hierarchy, and institute business practices that closely resembled those of the corporate
    world. This helped them to manage large practices with many employees efficiently and it
    established a common ground for dealing with large corporate clients. It served the
    additional purpose of bolstering client recognition of professional claims to cognitive
    exclusiveness. The New York firm of McKim, Mead, and White was among the firms that
    were organized in a manner that paralleled the corporate offices they served. There were
    eighty-nine professional staff in 1909, and probably more than a hundred employees
    overall [173]. In 1913, McKim, Mead, and White moved into spacious new quarters in the
    Architect's Building on Park Avenue in New York. By that time all the founding partners
    except Mead were dead. The office was equipped with the most up-to-date recordkeeping technologies, which were set in the middle of the floor and divided the enterprise
    into production and administrative segments. At the administrative end, the executives'
    offices were arranged around a private corridor, behind a suite of reception rooms
    opening off the entry hall. At the other end was the open drafting room.
    Skidmore Owings and Merrill, founded in 1936, dwarfed even the largest turn-of-thecentury firms. They aspired to emulate medieval master builders and in the process
    integrated more and more of the building process into their purview, including design,
    structure, production management, interior design, graphic presentation, technical

    research, and mechanical engineering. (Many of these tasks had been

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    McKim, Mead, and White
    Architectural Offices, 1913, 101 Park Avenue, New York.

    thrown off by architects in the nineteenth century to clarify the public perception of the
    profession.) By 1958, the firm operated four offices totalling over a thousand employees.
    In the long run, the architect's claims for the distinction between design and building were
    bolstered by the growing separation of headwork from handwork in all segments of the
    American economy. That is, the profession's role developed in tandem with the
    reorganization of labour occasioned by the industrialization of building and the
    articulation of a capitalist economy in the United States. Large-scale production of all
    sorts needed close co-ordination, which argued for the centralization of decision making
    and a finer division of labour. For this reason, architects succeeded more easily in making
    their claims for a role with public and corporate buildings than with private and domestic
    Like the most successful producers of consumer goods, large, centralized, corporate
    architectural firms offer a highly polished, high-quality, predictable product. John
    Graham, architect of the Northgate Regional Shopping Center, understood architecture as
    a form of merchandising, a collective effort directed toward speed and cost-effectiveness,
    designed to deliver an attractive product to the customer at an attractive price. 7 Just as the
    centralization of labour gave the industrialized building landscape a sameness, so has the
    commercialized centralization of design.
    This is not necessarily an indictment. In consumer goods, we don't

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    want every dress or shirt to be original, but we would like them all to be good. We do
    want a certain number of them to be original, and that leads to another strain in the story
    of professionalization.
    Architecture and Social Class
    As a market profession architecture, like medicine and law, had inherited a measure of
    cultural, intellectual, and social prestige that antedated professionalism. Unlike medicine
    and law, but like art, architecture also enjoyed a special status arising from its traditional
    role as a vehicle of social identity and from the metaphorical power of architecture as a
    symbolic or sign system. As a result of its expressive capacities, architecture transcended
    the instrumental values of the other market professions: it could claim to be an art. This
    provided another avenue for distinguishing the architect's profession from the builder's
    Architects quickly realized that architectural science was a dead end. The kinds of
    knowledge it encompassed could be mastered by anyone. Many early nineteenth-century
    architects began their careers as builders and wrote handbooks for other builders who
    aspired to make the same leap. By the 1830s and 1840s they began to guard their
    knowledge more jealously. When he considered the possibility of writing a handbook
    (which he did several years later), young Philadelphia architect Thomas U. Walter decided
    against it: 'don't think I'll ever make a book,' he wrote in his journal; 'was I ever to attempt
    it I might give every man an opportunity of buying for a few dollars, all the brains I've
    got.' 8 A few years later, Walter admitted that the secrecy was pointless. 'A mere
    knowledge of those qualities that address themselves to the human reason, will never
    enable the Architect to rise superior to the rank of an imitative builder.' Instead, architects
    must appeal to their superior taste'qualities in design which produce certain effects upon
    the mind, that are totally undefinable'as their distinguishing characteristic. 9 Taste was a
    professional qualification not obtainable from books.
    Architects claimed superiority to builders based on their taste, cultivated through special
    training, socialization, and immersion in architecture. Before the advent of the
    professional, however, taste had been an attribute of social class not training: by
    definition, gentlemen and -women were tasteful. The new architects were manufactured
    gentlemen who in turn sold their taste in a consumer economy.
    There was more to the story than this, for the acquisition of architectural taste also
    conferred gentility on the architect. Architecture allowed architects and clients to define or
    redefine their social roles and prestige in a society where position was no longer based on
    inherited status. For architects, professional education, training, and accomplishments

    earned social status, and architects were intensely proud of

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    it. Benjamin Latrobe insisted that he was a gentleman, which, he said, fitted him to
    address the architectural needs of other gentlemen better than builders were able to do.
    On being named a Professor of the Franklin Institute, Walter asked for a letter confirming
    the appointment, 'as I want to use the title, and I have a delicacy in doing so without
    written authority'. 10 Professional training allied architects with the emerging middle
    classes and distinguished them from working-class builders.
    Increasingly, the road to a nineteenth-century professional career led through an
    undergraduate college or university, further barring working-class aspirants. This was less
    true of architecture than of other professions, for it remained possible until recently to
    bypass academic training but to be licensed as an architect after an apprenticeship in a
    professional office. Yet architecture schools have been ensconced in colleges since 1865,
    when the Massachusetts Institute of Technology began to train architects. William Robert
    Ware, founder of that programme, lamented that 'The profession is at present in the hands
    of mechanics' (artisans) who might be good at practical matters, but 'are ignorant of the
    higher branches of their calling' that only a collegiate education could convey. 11
    If architects sought social prestige through professional attainments, clients sought it
    through the high-status cultural capital to which architects offered access. This was the
    point of ornate turn-of-the-century corporate headquarters and of the mansions, clubs,
    churches, and other settings that corporate leaders commissioned. Early twentieth-century
    architectural journalist Charles Moore believed that the success of McKim, Mead, and
    White and similar firms in selling elaborate mansions to industrialists and capitalists like
    the Vanderbilts, Carnegies, Morgans, and Fricks, whose no-nonsense business tactics
    might make them appear to be immune to such luxuries, was a product of 'the rapid
    increase in wealth and the consequent desire of the traveled wealthy for a share in oldworld art and culture'. 12
    In short, architects relied on pre-commercial and anti-commercial visual metaphors of
    gentility, culture, and art in pursuit of their professional goals. They alluded to aristocratic
    and pre-capitalist exclusivity to sell their products in a capitalist economy. The notion of
    style was indispensable for this purpose.
    In a renowned essay, the art historian Meyer Schapiro defined style as 'the constant
    formand sometimes the constant elements, qualities, and expressionsin the art of an
    individual or group'. 13 In other words, style is a consistent pattern of making or acting.
    Schapiro's definition was as protean as it was concise, containing within it multiple, not
    necessarily compatible, meanings.

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    J. Frederick Kelly
    Decorative chamfers and chamfer stops on three early
    18th-century Connecticut houses, drawn by pioneering vernacular
    architecture scholar J. Frederick Kelly, 1924.

    At its grandest scale, style is 'a manifestation of the culture as a whole, the visible sign of
    its unity'. 14 Since the eighteenth century Western high architecture has been dominated
    by two large patterns, the classical and the picturesque. The classical was regular, ordered,
    modular, symmetrical, balanced; it stressed unity and totality, and sought a rational
    response. The picturesque was less obviously ordered, asymmetrical, less obviously
    unified, often accretive; it aimed to elicit an affective response. These had nothing to do
    with the particular ornamental arsenal. A building with 'classical' ornament, such as San
    Francisco's Palace of the Fine Arts, could be picturesque in intent, while a building with
    'picturesque' decoration, such as the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts, might be
    classical in its ordering principles [81] [53].
    These large-scale ordering patterns might be lumped under the rubric Style, with a capital
    S. They represent conscious attempts to address deep, often unarticulated, cultural
    principles for organizing and classifying experience. But Schapiro's phrase 'constant


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    qualities, and expressions' also points to a second aspect of style. In this second sense,
    style is a visual organizer, a conventional background or matrix for more explicit
    architectural expression. Archaeologists often use the term style in this manner, to refer to
    those attributes of an object's 'constant form' that order it but contribute nothing to its
    technological or symbolic function: they are matters of habit. The conventional manner of
    shaping an arrowhead or of inserting the last reed into the bottom of a basket are simply
    the ways the artisans learned to perform these necessary tasks. Similarly, architectural
    fieldworkers often remark on the careful finish of building parts never meant to be seen.
    There was no need for a rafter in an inaccessible attic to be adzed to a smooth finish,
    much less to be chamfered (to have its corner cut off at an angle), yet that was often
    In the visible parts of buildings, small details of this sort abounded. Exposed beams were
    chamfered and sometimes given elaborate chamfer stops [174]. The edges of external
    weatherboards and internal sheathing in pre-industrial buildings were laboriously beaded;
    so were the joints of a matchboarding, a kind of machine-made interior wooden panelling
    used in stairways, kitchens, and other utilitarian areas of middle-class houses in the late
    nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The milled quarter-round moulding remains a
    standard contractor's detail. These shapes are classical, but used in this fashion they are
    thoroughly conventional, nearly invisible details that serve as the background for more
    explicitly expressive forms. To the extent that they are noticed, the chamfered edge, the
    carefully levelled course of masonry, or the smoothly finished plaster wall signal to
    colleagues and clients the worker's craft. They locate the building in the realm of 'quality',
    satisfying the builder's and the client's sense of propriety and completion.
    Style also denotes more self-conscious visual vocabularies that serve as 'signpost[s] or
    banner[s]' of the context in which we should view a building or a builder. 15 By choosing
    one visual vocabulary over another, designers or owners identify themselves as part of
    one social or aesthetic clique but not another, or annotate buildings and spaces as
    appropriate for a certain activity or inappropriate for another. In this sense, style
    delineates categories and distinctions. This facet of style encompasses the parade of
    named stylesGothic, neo-classical, constructivistalluded to at the beginning of this
    chapter, the visual lexicons popularly equated with the history of architecture. Named
    styles are as conventionalized as any other form of style. They can change capriciously
    and unpredictably, which makes them a vehicle for architectural fashion. In architecture
    as in any other aspect of popular culture, no one can guess what will be fashionable: one
    must keep a close eye on the scene to remain current. Thus knowledge of architectural
    fashion is presumptive evidence of membership in an aesthetic

    Robert R. Taylor
    Collis P. Huntington Memorial Academic Building, 1902-4 (destroyed), Tuskegee Institu

    This building sums up the history of AfricanAmerican education in the early 20th century. It was built at Booker T. Washington's
    Tuskegee Institute and named after a California railroad baron whose family also donated a lib
    another important school for AfricanAmericans. The photograph was taken by Frances Benjamin Johnston, a pioneering
    female photographer who received several commissions from Hampton and Tuskegee to docum
    the-century America.

    élite. By the same token, allusions to aesthetic fashion can be useful in claiming social place
    that pegged social worth to high culture, the builders of the Hampton Institute, an African-A
    the Civil War, engaged the New York society architect Richard Morris Hunt to design its firs
    indistinguishable from that of white colleges, while African-American architect Robert R. T
    Tuskegee Institute, another early black college [175].

    Architectural fashions were just as capricious in the past as they are in the present, but the a
    particular visual vocabularies with particular places or times invested historic styles with m
    generations. From this point of view, for example, the middle ages were 'pious', so the Goth
    appropriate for churches and for houses (where private religious devotion is practised). Th
    appropriate for cemeteries because ancient Egypt was 'one vast cemetery', for medical schoo
    mummification was seen as a type of medical practice, and for prisons, because Egypt was

    This way of reading architecturecalled 'associationism'was particularly popular in the ninete
    architectural theorists strove to systematize the use of historic styles for aesthetic expression

    more simplistic nineteenth

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    Haskell Stadium Entrance Arch, 1926, Haskell Indian Nations University, Lawrence, Kan.

    century theorists, however, no such precision was possible. The essential arbitrariness of
    historic and contemporary styles renders visual forms too ambiguous for such
    enterprises, but it also gives them great
    symbolic potential.
    The Haskell Stadium entrance arch (1926) at Haskell Institute (now Haskell Indian
    Nations University), Lawrence, Kansas, derives its power from this very ambiguity [176].
    Why a triumphal arch? The Romans built triumphal arches to celebrate military
    conquests. The imagery seems puzzling here, in a monument donated by Alice Beaver and
    Agnes Track, two female Quapaw alumnae who had made fortunes in the Oklahoma oil
    boom. A standard answer would be to cite contemporary architectural fashion. High
    architects of the early twentieth century thought Roman imperial architecture appropriate

    to the dignity of a nation assuming the mantle of greatness. Triumphal arches to celebrate
    victories in the Spanish-American War and World War I were built all over the nation in
    the first decades of the century. So architectural fashion had something to do with it: it
    marked Haskell as a progressive place, in tune with the times. It is unlikely that a
    triumphal arch or the Roman style would have been chosen in 1876 or 1976.
    Yet there is something puzzling about the women's choice to donate an imperial, erstwhile
    military monument such as this at Haskell Institute, which was founded in 1884 as a place
    to which the children of

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    the defeated Indian nations of the central and western states were brought to learn white
    ways and, as just as important, to unlearn Indian ways. Richard Pratt, one of the founders
    of the Indian boarding-school movement, called on students to 'put aside Indian thoughts,
    and Indian ways, Indian dress, and Indian speech. We don't want to hold onto anything
    Indian.' 17 At Haskell children of all ages, organized in military fashion, received the
    rudiments of a European education while participating in forced labour on the school's
    farm. Many died under the rigorous conditions.
    In the light of Haskell's genocidal enterprise, we are led to ask what triumph was
    celebrated by this arch. Did the choice of a classical style for the monument demonstrate
    that Alice Beaver and Agnes Track had put aside Indian thoughts and Indian ways? Part
    of our uncertainty arises from simplistic ideas of ethnic expression in architecture that
    have gained a foothold in recent decades. We have come to believe that members of
    ethnic minorities ought to evoke their traditional forms in their contemporary architecture.
    A museum should look like a long-house, a community centre like a tipi, or a gambling
    casino like a wigwam. From this point of view, ersatz Native American architecture, such
    as the Navajo-blanket pattern worked into the brickwork of Haskell's 1960s-era student
    union or the imitation totem pole that supports its portico is more authentic, more Indian,
    than a classical triumphal arch.
    Our interpretation is further complicated by the stadium to which the arch is attached. A
    plaque on it identifies it as the gift of over a thousand Indians from more than fifty tribes.
    It is 'the largest and most unique Indian project ever attempted, and will stand as a
    monument built by the older Indians for the younger Indians yet to be educated at Haskell
    Institute'. To anyone acquainted with Chaco Canyon or the Hopewellian earthworks, the
    notion that a football stadium might be the greatest monument of Native American
    architecture seems comical. To appreciate the sentiment, it is important to understand the
    importance of Indian football in the early twentieth century. 18 Administrators at schools
    like Haskell and the Carlisle Indian School promoted football competition as a way of
    introducing Indians into white society. It had the additional advantage, in their eyes, of
    showing Indian students that they must compete with whites on white terms. To the white
    public, sport was one arena in which Indians could be allowed a modest role in the larger
    society. To both Indians and non-Indians the contests were played out in the context of
    the recent Indian wars. White newspapers described football games in terms of battles,
    referring freely to scalping, tomahawks, and savagery in their accounts. Many Indians
    also understood the games as recapitulations of the wars of conquest that would allow
    them to vindicate themselves on the proverbial level playing-field. Haskell and Carlisle
    teams regularly

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    crushed opponents from the major white college football powers of their day.
    The conventionality of architectural style and the arbitrariness of its associations fuse all
    these meanings indelibly to this simple, unexceptional monument. When wealthy Indian
    alumnae of a school dedicated to eradicating their native culture pay for a triumphal arch
    in a classical style associated with centuries of European history and favoured by
    contemporary élite white builders, in order to celebrate Indian football victories, just as
    Indian football is beginning to lose its importance, we begin to understand the power of
    architectural style to create powerful and moving images without resorting to explicit
    The Architect as Artist
    Architectural styles contribute to professional standardization by packaging buildings in
    familiar dress. Unlike the other market professions, however, architects developed an
    alternative strategy for establishing professional distinction, one that coexisted
    uncomfortably with the regularization of practice and practitioners that professions
    ordinarily prefer. This alternative strategy declared that architecture is an art. The architect
    assembles conventional formal elements in a distinctive manner that creates a unique
    relationship between the creator and the creation, one that cannot be replicated by clients,
    builders, or other architects. He creates a personal style that fuses cultural Style with
    rapidly changing architectural fashions.
    Belief in the uniqueness of works of art was rooted in long-established myths. In
    European-American culture, as in many others, artistic creation has been equated with
    divine creation. God the Creator has often been depicted as an architect, and architecture
    conversely as a replica of the divine structure of the universe. In creating the world, God
    endowed it with some of his power: the world partakes of the divine. The almighty
    Architect and his creation are one.
    This theological metaphor shaped the romantic notion of artistic genius that nineteenthcentury architects borrowed and in turn bequeathed to their twentieth-century successors.
    The romantics assumed that artists infused their creation with their genius, which
    authenticated it as a unique, inimitable work of art. One might copy the form, but the
    artist's spirit would be absent.
    These assumptions have become so deeply ingrained in the ways architects and their
    public think about the art of architecture that their intrinsic contradictions are rarely
    examined. First, the idea of the architect as artist conflicts with the standardizing
    tendencies of professionalism (as art-architect Frank Lloyd Wright acknowledged in
    distancing himself from the American Institute of Architects). Second, there is a limited

    market for this kind of architecture, and only

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    Richard Meier
    J. Paul Getty Center, 1985-97, Los Angeles.
    Axonometric of final site plan, 1991.

    a few architects can succeed as artists. However, as sociologist Magali Sarfatti Larson has
    pointed out, the conspicuous minority of art-architects bolsters the position of the
    majority of ordinary practitioners by generating new forms to resupply the profession's
    visual stock and by serving as a kind of public-relations vehicle, imbuing the entire
    profession with the cultural prestige (as well as some of the utilitarian scorn) of art.
    Third, the romantic conception of the artist assumes originality, but the social nature of
    architecture implies that the architect is in some ways a product of an era, a culture, a
    tradition, or at least a teacher. Architects commonly incorporate references to
    predecessors and contemporaries, acknowledging influences to define the context in
    which they want their work to be viewed, offering viewers a starting-point for
    The J. Paul Getty Center, designed by Richard Meier and recently completed in Los
    Angeles, draws much of its visual force from this sort of architectural genealogy [177].
    The complex forms a kind of acropolis, an allusion reinforced by its podium, which
    resembles the Mycenaean wall on which the Athenian Acropolis stands, by the PanAthenian Way that winds up the hill, and even by the off-white cladding of the buildings.
    These are merely the first of many visual references that enrich the work of the designer
    and the institution through association with prestigious architects and buildings of the past

    and the present. The Getty Center is an anthology of quotations from the canon of

    Page 264

    architectural history. Here is the glass tower from Fallingwater, or perhaps a corner of
    Walter Gropius's and Hannes Meyer's Fagus Shoe-Last Factory; there, the sinuous
    entrance façade of the museum recalls Wright's S. C. Johnson and Son Administration
    Building. The galleries cite John Soane's Dulwich Art Gallery explicitly and Louis Kahn's
    revered Kimbell Art Museum less directly. The ghost of the Kimbell appears again in the
    vaults of the tram stop, while the galleries of the museum wing stand in the court like the
    pavilions at the Salk Institute. The rounded corners, elegant pipe-railed stairs, and
    window bands evoke 1920s International Style modernism and the moderne architecture
    of 1930s Los Angeles.
    A nineteenth-century associationalist would compose these visual references carefully to
    convey an explicit mood or a message. Meier juxtaposes slivers of the recent architectural
    past almost haphazardly. He ransacks the works of many past architects, including himself
    in an earlier incarnation, in a way that is informed by post-modern and deconstructionist
    theories of architecture. These theories stress the fragmentation of reference and
    understanding: a building is not a systematic treatise, but a layering of hints, allusions,
    and traces that circle around and continually redefine one another. There is no need for
    the allusions to be complete or to make sense. They are memories of the recent
    architectural past, not its documentary record. It is the nature of memory to distort forms,
    relationships and chronologies, to juxtapose fragments in a new way, to create something
    more vivid, and perhaps more real, than the original event or image. So Meier distorts the
    originals to which he is indebted. The ramp leading up to the Propylaeon at the Acropolis
    is here shifted off-centre, so that the final approach to the museum is misaligned with the
    path up the hill. The Salk-like galleries are canted as though a truck had careened into
    them. These techniques put Meier's mark on his borrowings, claiming them as his own
    art, much as Robert Rauschenberg once defaced a painting by Willem De Kooning to
    make the Erased De Kooning his own.
    Meier's quotations legitimize his own work and that of his clients. The J. Paul Getty
    Foundation serves, as Charles Moore said of McKim, Mead, and White's work, to put a
    veneer of culture on a fortune. Once more, the architect serves as a merchant of
    respectability, the transformer of vulgar capital into cultural capital. No mere serviceable
    building could serve that purpose, and no one but a star architect, with all the prestige that
    conveys, could have made this building.
    Styles of the Self
    The architect's personal style is as important as visual style in the marketing of artarchitecture. Those architects with the greatest

    Bernard Maybeck (in white smock, centre) Julia Morgan (in hat behind Maybeck) and their employees, in h
    San Francisco, c. 1928.

    artistic reputations usually create distinctive personae that are as well known to the public a
    architecture. The California art-architect Bernard Maybeck was often photographed dressed
    smock and beret, surrounded by studio assistants clad in jackets and ties, an artist among cl
    [178]. Frank Lloyd Wright was a master of such imagery. His photographs present him as a
    clad in cape and beret, as a beloved mentor surrounded by students, and as a powerful visio
    dominating the observer [179].

    Wright reinforced his artistic persona with a self-conscious rhetoric of integrity, embattleme
    singularity, created during the 1920s and 1930s when commissions were few and writing pr
    correspondingly numerous. Even more important were the stories told about him, each of w
    was calculated to reinforce his public image. Some were true, of course, such as the one ab
    dendriform (treeshaped) columns of the S. C. Johnson & Son Administration Building (193
    Racine, Wisconsin. The columns violated state building codes and Wright was called on to
    demonstrate their stability [180] [181]. A sample column was loaded to five times the antici
    load and the building inspectors were satisfied. All very reasonable on both sides, but as th
    is customarily cast as a contest of rule-bound bureaucrats with intuitive genius. Another tale
    recounts Wright's refusal to work on the design for Fallingwater until the client motored up
    drive to his office. At the last minute, he quickly sketched the design, virtually as it was bui
    implication is not that Wright had been thinking about the design all along, but that he creat

    Page 266

    Frank Lloyd Wright, 1947.
    The architect as visionary, standing in front of a model of a Wainwright-like building.

    Page 267

    work in a flash of inspiration.
    We might liken these to the jatakas, legendary stories that Buddhists tell about the
    Buddha. Architectural jatakas are parables about the nature of art and artists: they are
    signposts to understanding the designer's work. There are jatakas associated with most
    famous architects. The concrete reading-desk of Bernard Maybeck's First Church of
    Christ, Scientist (1910), in Berkeley is decorated with painted flowers. According to tour
    guides, Maybeck spontaneously seized paint and brush and turned the cracks of an
    imperfectly made pulpit into decorative assets. In a speech delivered at Brown University
    in the 1970s, Peter Eisenman spoke with glee of his clients' distress at being confronted
    with narrow doors, staircases that went nowhere, and other elements of an artistic work
    that infringed on daily life. One client had even lived in his basement for two years.
    Eisenman's story was a jataka about the integrity and will of the artist.

    Frank Lloyd Wright
    S. C. Johnson & Son Administration Building, 1936-39, Racine, Wis.
    Wright observes the test of his dendriform column, in the company of contractor and client.

    Page 268

    S. C. Johnson & Son Administration Building.
    Great workroom.

    Jatakas cut both ways. They are often used by the sceptical to undermine cognitive
    exclusivity, exposing it as a hollow pretence. At the First Unitarian Church (1947),
    Madison, it is said, Wright one day demanded that the stone walls be totally rebuilt.
    Nothing was done before he returned, but the workers told the architect they had
    complied with his wishes. 'Much better,' he replied. Folklorist Archie Green, who worked
    as a carpenter in postwar Marin County, California, told of a crew of carpenters given the
    drawings for one of the first 'modern' houses in the region. On his first visit to the site the
    architect was shocked to discover that the builders had made his asymmetrical façade
    symmetrical, thinking there had been an error.
    Wright's capes and berets, and Maybeck's smocks were part of the personal style of the
    artist-architect, drawn from a familiar repertoire of symbolic costume that characterized
    them for the general public, providing them with visibility, and often reputation, at the
    expense of their workaday colleagues. In the business-like architectural firms of the late
    nineteenth century, it was usually the artist whose reputation soared at the expense of the
    business partner, although both may have contributed to the firm's design work. Louis
    Sullivan is remembered instead of his partner Dankmar Adler. John Wellborn Root is
    remembered more fondly than his more corporate partner Daniel Burnham. Stanford
    White outshines his partners Charles Follen McKim (an equally prolific designer but not
    as publicly dissolute as White) and William Rutherford Mead.

    Page 269

    The artistic persona and the professional persona seem to conflict: one promises
    individuality, the other predictability. Yet the two were not necessarily at odds. Henry
    Hobson Richardson was enormously successful because he combined the business tactics
    of Burnham and Root, personal social connections derived from his Louisiana roots and
    his Harvard education, and the self-presentation of the artist [182]. Yet design in the
    Richardson office was collaborativenecessarily so, in light of the enormous number of
    projects he undertook in his later years. According to his friend and first biographer
    Mariana Griswold Van Rensselaer, Richardson's office housed a score of workers of all
    levels of training, including 'an unusual number of students, working in an unusually
    independent way', the whole staff 'laboring together on work which had a single
    inspiration and a common accent, and each feeling a personal pride in results which the
    world knew as the master's only' [183]. 19 Richardson's self-presentation gave the
    collective product of his office a recognizable identity. Charles Moore's Piazza d'Italia
    (1975-78), New Orleans, illustrates the same process in contemporary architecture. Masks
    of Moore [184] in the monument's frieze advertise it as a 'signature architect's' work. They
    also speak to Moore's limited involvement in its production, for they were included by his
    office staff as a surprise to him.

    Henry Hobson Richardson, 1886, photographic portrait by George Collins Cox.
    The architect as artist.

    Page 270

    Offices of Henry Hobson Richardson, c.1886.

    Page 271

    Page 272

    Charles Moore
    Piazza d'Italia, 1975-78, New Orleans.

    Architectural historians customarily support the artistic model of architectural design.
    Architectural history reinforces the art-architect's claims to recognition by mapping
    professional work into the long, time-honoured history of the visual arts, reciting the
    jatakas, attaching single names to office products. Because large corporate firms, such as
    Albert Kahn's in the early twentieth century or SOM, Caudill Rowlett Scott, and HOK in
    recent years, prosperous architectural businesses with many clients, frankly
    acknowledged their complex corporate organizations, they are difficult to fit into the
    narrative of artistic creation.
    Who is an Architect?
    Why have art-architectsand architects in generalcustomarily been middle-class white men?
    Part of the answer is simple discrimination. Prospective women and minority architects
    were barred from schools and actively discouraged from entering the profession for many
    years. When aspiring architect Bertha Yerex Whitman sought to enter the University of
    Michigan school of architecture in 1914, its dean told her that 'we don't want you, but
    since the school is coeducational and state owned, we have to take you if you insist'. 20
    She did. Paul R. Williams was advised by his high-school counsellor that blacks needed
    doctors and lawyers, but would never build elaborate houses or office

    Page 273

    buildings, and that he would have to rely on white clients if he became an architect. 21 He
    Through persistence, however, women and some African-Americans trained and
    practised as architects beginning in the last quarter of the nineteenth century. Yet their
    opportunities were limited. Despite the example of domestic architect Frank Lloyd
    Wright's showcase career, success in the architectural profession typically depended on
    non-domestic work. The size and complexity of a building project, rather than aesthetics,
    impelled most clients to seek out architects. Women and minority architects often lacked
    access to a sufficiently large pool of predominantly white male clients to obtain this work.
    Women were denied access to the public arena on grounds of the traditional notion that
    publicity was demeaning. African-American architects were restricted, for the most part,
    to work for other African-Americans and, owing to the segregated nature of American
    society, their work remained as invisible to potential white clients as it has to historians.
    As a result, it is possible to name early female and African-American architects but not to
    say much about them. Margaret Hicks's Cornell University student project for a
    workman's cottage was published without comment in the American Architect and
    Building News in 1878, but we know little more about her. Sophia Hayden, the first
    woman graduate of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, designed the Women's
    Building at the World's Columbian Exposition. Shortly afterward, she had a nervous
    breakdown, married, and left the profession. Robert R. Taylor, an African-American
    architect trained at MIT, designed many of the buildings at Tuskegee Institute, Booker T.
    Washington's school for African-American students [175]. Julian Abele, another AfricanAmerican architect, worked as a designer in the office of society architect Horace
    Trumbauer for his entire career, and played a major role in the design of the Duke
    University campus.
    There are other names and works that could and should be excavated and brought to
    light, but this fill-in-the-blanks approach misses two larger points. First, many people
    who were interested in architecture were diverted to allied occupations as a way of
    evading restrictions. Amaza Lee Meredith, a young black woman, was hampered by both
    her race and her sex from entering the architectural profession, so she became an art
    teacher at Virginia State College, an African-American institution near Petersburg.
    However, Meredith maintained an active interest in architecture and designed a moderne
    house, one of the first in the state, for herself and her partner Edna Meade Colson [185].
    Similarly, Catherine Bauer's early interest in architecture was channelled into planning and
    architectural criticism, where her influence on architecture, though great, was indirect.
    Second, and equally important, the issue of who became an

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    Amaza Lee Meredith
    Azurest South (Meredith-Colson House), 1939, Ettrick, Va.

    architect, especially who became a famous architect, was determined by social patterns
    that made architecture male and white even when overt discrimination ended. Here
    personal style intersected with cultural style, those habitual ways of acting or organizing
    ourselves that are based in deeply rooted, often unarticulated values. As members of a
    market profession, successful architects were those who fit the nation's social patterns
    most closely.
    For example, Wright and Maybeck came from culturally ambitious middle-class families
    and found work among the same kinds of people. Wright was based in an upper-middleclass suburb of Chicago. When Maybeck worked in Berkeley, the city was becoming a
    middle-class bedroom community of post-earthquake San Francisco. Wright, Maybeck,
    and lesser lights such as Elbert Hubbard (a Larkin family relation, doyen of the
    Roycrofters arts and crafts community and, according to Reyner Banham, the man who
    taught Wright to dress as an artist) were the shamans of their communities, safely middleclass, surrogate wildmen in an increasingly corporate and business-dominated society.
    In other arenas, architecture's long-established role as a sign and conveyor of social
    power encouraged the notion that an architect should be a strong-willed person capable
    of holding and dispensing power [179]. In the United States the prototypical strong-willed
    person has been white and male. Richardson's contemporary George W. Sheldon wrote of
    him that 'More than any other American architect, he had the personal power that can
    interest the capitalist, and provide the means for great undertakings.' 22 Frank Lloyd
    Wright's client William E. Martin of Chicago told his brother Darwin D.

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    Martin of Buffalo, a Larkin Company official and eventual Wright client, that
    I have beenseentalked to, admired, one of nature's noblemenFrank Lloyd Wright. He is an
    athletic looking young man of medium buildblack hair(bushy, not long) about 32 yrs.
    Old.A splendid type of manhood. He is not a fraudnor a 'crank'highly educated &
    polished, but no dudea straight-forward business like manwith high idealsI met his
    mother a beautiful type of woman.
    You will fall in love with himin 10 min. conversation = he will build you the finest most
    sensible house in Buffalo = you will be the envy of every rich man in Buffalo it will be
    published in all the Buffalo papers it will be talked about all over the east. I am not too
    enthusiastic about thishe is pure gold. 23
    In short, cultural style identified an architect as a man of a certain kind: white, middleclass, forcefulmaking it difficult to see women or members of ethnic minorities as real
    architects even when they did break into the profession. Wright's manly self-presentation
    contrasted with that of his one-time employee, Marion Lucy Mahony. After she was
    graduated from MIT, Mahony moved to Chicago to work for her cousin, Dwight Perkins,
    then joined Wright's office in 1895. During her time there, she became his major
    delineator: many of the most famous 'Wright' renderings, including the Hardy House and
    the 'Fireproof House for $5000', are hers [186]. One historian thought her 'perhaps more
    an artist than an architect' because architectural design was usually given to others in the
    office, while she was assigned mostly to do the furnishings for Wright's houses. 24 The
    assessment was self-fulfilling. The historian saw the pattern of work assignments as its
    own cause: if Mahony was given these tasks, it must have been because she was suited
    only to such work. More likely, her assignments were based on Victorian stereotypes of
    women's capacitiesattitudes such as that expressed in the Inland Architect in 1884, when
    Lulu Stoughton Beem asserted that 'Women are naturally better judges of color, better in
    the blending of fabrics, besides knowing intuitively what is wanted in a housewants too
    small for men to perceive.' 25
    The suspicion is reinforced by the comments of Mahony's colleague Barry Byrne, who
    described her as 'a thin, angular, shallow skinned person with a beak of a nose; she was
    so homely that she looked almost distinguished. She had a fragile frame and walked as
    though she were falling forward. She was a good actress, talkative, and when around
    Wright there was always a real sparkle.' 26 Byrne implied that Mahony was out of place
    and unwomanly in her homeliness and her presence in the office, but womanly in her
    talkativeness, her actress-like dissembling, and her inability to make her contribution

    Page 276

    without being drawn out by the Master. Yet when Wright skipped town and Hermann von
    Holst took over the firm, Mahony was appointed chief designer. The work she did in that
    capacity was claimed either by Wright or by von Holst, who removed her name from
    much of it. In 1911, Mahony married another former Wright employee, Walter Burley
    Griffin, and spent the rest of her career collaborating on and rendering work under his
    name, a subordination she seems to have accepted with equanimity. 'I can never aspire to
    be as great an architect as he, but I can best understand and help him and to a wife there
    is not greater recompense', she wrote. 27
    Marion Mahony Griffin's standing in the architectural profession during her lifetime and
    her relative invisibility in the present, then, cannot be written off as simple discrimination.
    Her actions were shaped by her own culturally informed style as much as by the
    preconceptions of her colleagues. As a result her style of self-presentation as an architect
    was not the sort that won her individual recognition, nor is it clear that she sought it.
    The architectural career of San Francisco Bay Area architect Julia Morgan, the first
    woman graduate of the College of Civil Engineering at the University of California and
    later a student at the École des Beaux-Arts, was also shaped by personal and cultural
    styles. After her return from Paris, Morgan worked for John Galen Howard, then
    maintained her own office from 1905 until her retirement in 1940. Morgan's practice fitted
    the traditional pattern of professional success. Like Maybeck, she worked primarily as a
    domestic architect at a time when the East Bay was being rapidly built up in the wake of
    the 1906 earthquake. Like Richardson, her social connections helped her: she was the
    product of an upper-middle-class Oakland family and obtained many of her early
    commissions from her family and friends. This tale has a gendered twist, for most of her
    work was domestic and most of her non-domestic work was obtained from womanassociated institutions, such as churches, women's colleges and women's subdivisions of
    coeducational colleges, and the Young Women's Christian Association.
    Historians make much of Morgan's self-effacing modesty, which is ingratiating when
    compared with the bluster of her male colleagues. It was rooted in the cultural styles of
    American class and gender relationships. Genteel people such as Morgan were trained not
    to call public attention to themselves; this was doubly true of women. Because Morgan
    was unwilling to be a public figure, she would probably have been forgotten were it not
    for her work at San Simeon (Hearst Castle, 1919-42). The association with the
    emphatically unretiring William Randolph Hearst and his palace kept her name alive until
    she began to receive feminist attention in the 1960s and 1970s. Even the Hearst Castle
    commission was obtained through her social and gender ties.

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    Frank Lloyd Wright, architect; Marion L. Mahony, delineator
    'A Fireproof House for $5000', 1907.

    Morgan worked first for Hearst's mother, Phoebe Apperson Hearst, who commissioned
    several houses and several buildings for the University of California from Morgan. At
    Hearst Castle, Morgan gladly subordinated her aesthetic identity and her declared aversion
    to ostentatious design to Hearst's demands, both from a sense of professional obligation
    and from respect for her client as a powerful man.
    In short, those aspects of personal style derived from widespread cultural patterns have
    ensured that the invisibility of women and minority architects would be particularly longlasting. If one cannot see them as architects, if one does not believe that they act like
    architects, no amount of architectural training can overcome it. Despite the strength of
    their work, both Mahony Griffin and Morgan were viewed as appendages of their male
    clients and associates. And acting like an architect has a deeply ingrained racial and
    gendered content: architects and the public alike have learned to judge the quality of
    design by the quality of the swagger [187] [188].
    Morgan's approach to architecture adds another dimension to the discussion. Most of her
    domestic work was known for its careful planning and comfortable interiors. She rejected
    flashy or picturesque design. Her attitude might be set in the context of a statement
    published by the American Architect and Building News in 1876, four years after
    Morgan's birth.
    First, the planning of houses, at least as far as the convenience of the arrangement is
    concerned, though a very necessary part of an architect's duty, is not architecture at all;

    and the ability to arrange a house conveniently does

    Page 278

    Julia Morgan, photographed in her Paris apartment, 1899, aged 27.

    not in the least make an architect. There are thousands of people who can adjust the plans
    of houses to their own perfect satisfaction and convenience, and who do it, but who yet
    are not architects. 28
    In support of the architectural profession's bid for cognitive exclusivity, this architectural
    journal disowned that part of domestic architecture that was the most important, the most
    jealously controlled by clients, and, not coincidentally, that had been relegated to women
    Domestic architecture seemed appropriate to female architects because it had already been
    claimed by laywomen as their own. As part of their roles of protecting and nurturing their
    families, women assumed responsibility for household hygiene and efficiency. Just as
    exceptional women such as Catherine Beecher and Harriet Beecher Stowe felt qualified to
    advise American women on the design of houses and furnishings best adapted to
    women's experience and duties, so

    Page 279

    Richard Neutra in Switzerland, 1919, aged 27.
    After World War I the young architect continued to wear his military
    uniform, stripped of its insignia.

    women living on remote farms confidently submitted plans of houses that they had built
    or dreamed of building for their own families to agricultural journals as their
    contributions to architecture.
    Even where architects were employed, women's vested interest in domestic design was
    assumed. In William Dean Howells's The Rise of Silas Lapham (1885), a novel that
    centres around the construction of a new house for a family of Boston nouveaux-riches,
    Silas Lapham wants to build a house in the style of mid-century, but 'escaped from the
    master builder and ended in the hands of an architect', a man 'skilful, as nearly all
    architects are, in playing upon that simple instrument Man'. The architect does so by
    subtly enlisting the aid of Persis Lapham, who instinctively understands the architect's
    aesthetic when her husband does not, and who 'began to feel a motherly affection for the
    young man'. The overmatched Lapham is quickly manuvered to adopt the architect's point
    of view. 29

    Page 280

    Page 281
    Giant Artichoke, c.1975, Castroville, Calif.

    Page 282

    Beyond Art
    Architects can help to shape the landscape, but they can never control it as completely as
    they wish. Architecture is too diffuse. Every architect and every building belongs to
    several overlapping 'high' and 'vernacular' circles of architectural knowledge. These
    circles of architectural knowledge encompass technologies, social ideas, and meanings
    that are unaccounted for in, and often antagonistic to, art-architectural traditions.
    Furthermore, architects' control of building design is constantly challenged by nonarchitects. Doctors, jailers, teachers, asylum-keepers, and other specialists have published
    treatises containing detailed prescriptions for the architecture of their workplaces.
    Businessmen, industrialists, and other professional clients also assume that architects
    should be directed by non-architects. Architects confront similar resistance from potential
    domestic clients, who believe that their concerns are poorly addressed by professional
    Even in the matter of visual design, architects have been unable to establish a monopoly.
    If one of the functions of art-architecture is to define and restrict an arena of exclusive
    professional action, the project is doomed to fail. While access to wordsarchitectural
    theorycan be protected by obscurity, visual and spatial forms cannot. They can easily be
    adapted to other systems of meaning outside the premisses of art-architecture.
    So popular designersboth professional architects operating outside the realm of art and
    non-professionalsoften appropriate visual forms from the high tradition and jettison their
    theoretical rationales, transforming them into open-ended visual commodities. In this
    manner, eighteenth-century Americans abandoned the dogmatic theories of AngloPalladianism while retaining its visual forms as signs of social dominance [14]. Similarly,
    the ironic fragmentary pediments of the Vanna Venturi House now appear on shopping
    malls across the nation, offered without irony, as signs of up-to-date consumption [170].
    They have escaped the circles of art.
    Often popular builders anticipate the theories and techniques of art-architecture. The
    post-modern ironic stance and such of its visual strategies as dislocation through
    improbable juxtapositions, disparity of scale, and fragmentation have been part of
    popular architecture since the nineteenth century [189]. In fact, some of the roots of
    postmodern architectural theory lay in the study of roadside architecture of the
    automobile age. A seminal work of early postmodernism, Robert Venturi, Denise Scott
    Brown, and Steven Izenour's Learning from Las Vegas (1972), appropriated the lessons
    of this popular architecture for art-architects. In a sense, the authors attempted to
    reinforce cognitive exclusiveness by drawing the professional circle a little larger, laying
    claim to some appealing aspects of the American landscape that architects had previously

    overlooked or scorned. To do so, they reversed

    Page 283

    the relationship of popular and art-architecture, describing popular architecture as an
    essentially sound but imperfect subset of art-architectureit was 'almost all right'. But the
    borrowed and vernacular forms in which popular architecture is cast are layered and
    intertwined in ways that achieve 'naturally' and 'collectively' what postmodernists and
    deconstructivists attempt to accomplish artificially and individually as works of art. The
    art-architect's imitations are too feeble to stand against the real thing.
    As it has been defined in American architecture, to be an artist is to impose a vision, to
    subject others to individual genius or inspiration. Art-architecture is the quintessential
    gesture of consumer culture, a commodity made for a passive customer. But the
    landscape is too important a stage for human symbolic action and lay people are too
    jealous of their own prerogatives to sacrifice them to such a narrow and self-serving
    agenda. This account of architecture in the United States opened with an eighteenthcentury folk house and closes with a giant artichoke. They can serve as intimations of the
    variety and range of human landscape in the United States, reminders that it cannot be
    explained by a single theory, accounted for by a single history, or controlled by a single
    profession or a single vision. It is our common property and we are the better for that.

    Page 284

    1. Rhys Isaac, 'The First Monticello', in Peter S. Onuf, ed., Jeffersonian Legacies
    (Charlottesville, 1993), 77108.
    2. Quoted in Herbert Muschamp, 'Eloquent Champion of the Vernacular Landscape', New
    York Times, 21 Apr. 1996, 36.

    Chapter 1. An American Icon
    1. Anna Thornton, 18 Sept. 1802, quoted in Merrill D. Peterson, ed., Visitors to
    Monticello (Charlottesville, 1989), 34-5.
    2. Thomas Jefferson, Notes on the State of Virginia (1780), query XV.
    3. Edwin Morris Betts, ed., Thomas Jefferson's Garden Book, 17661824 (Philadelphia,
    1944), 25-6.
    4. Marquis de Chastellux, Travels in North America in the Years 1780, 1781, and 1782
    (1786), repr. in Peterson, ed., Visitors to Monticello, 12.
    5. Although the English professional architect John Hawks arrived in North Carolina
    before the American Revolution, Latrobe, who believed himself to be the first American
    professional, was the first to commit the remainder of his life to establishing the
    profession in America.
    6. Latrobe to John Lenthall, 3 May 1805, quoted in Talbot Hamlin, Benjamin Henry
    Latrobe (New York, 1955), 294.
    7. Latrobe to Lenthall, 7 Jan. 1805, in The Correspondence and Miscellaneous Papers of
    Benjamin Henry Latrobe, John C. Van Horne, Jeffrey A. Cohen, Darwin H. Stapleton,
    Lee W. Formwalt, William B. Forbush III, and Tina H. Sheller, eds., 3 vols. (New Haven
    1984-8), ii. 6.
    8. This paragraph is based on Colin Campbell, The Romantic Ethic and the Spirit of
    Modern Consumerism (Oxford, 1987) and Daniel Miller, Material Culture and Mass
    Consumption (Oxford, 1987).

    9. Latrobe to Isaac Hazlehurst, 16 Jan. 1809, in Latrobe, Correspondence, ii. 693.
    10. Andrew Jackson Downing, The Architecture of Country Houses (New York, 1850),
    11. Quoted in Gwendolyn Wright, Moralism and the Model Home: Domestic
    Architecture and Cultural Conflict in Chicago, 18731913 (Chicago, 1980), 27.
    12. The American Woman's Home was a reworking of Catherine Beecher's earlier A
    Treatise on Domestic Economy (1841).
    13. Elizabeth Blackmar, Manhattan for Rent, 17851850 (Ithaca, NY, 1989), 126-38.
    14. Catherine Beecher, A Treatise on Domestic Economy (New York, 1977), 265.
    15. Downing, Architecture of Country Houses, 295.
    16. Ibid.
    17. Frank Lloyd Wright, An Autobiography (New York, 1977), 166-7.
    18. Ibid., 166.
    19. Richard Meier, 'Smith House 1965', in Five Architects: Eisenman Graves Gwathmey
    Hejduk Meier (New York, 1975), III.

    Chapter 2. Community
    1. Francis Hopkinson's 'Account of the Grand Federal Procession Philadelphia', 1788,
    ed. Whitfield J. Bell, Jr. (Boston, 1962), 1011.
    2. The term 'revitalization movement' was coined by anthropologist Anthony F. C.
    Wallace, to describe the Iroquois Longhouse Religion discussed below. Anthony F. C.
    Wallace, The Death and Rebirth of the Seneca (New York, 1970).
    3. Quoted in Perry Miller, The New England Mind: The Seventeenth Century (Boston,
    1969), 436.
    4. Thomas Hooker, A Survey of the Summe of Church-Discipline (London, 1648), 188. I
    am grateful to Robert St George for helping me locate this reference.
    5. Quoted in Dora P. Crouch, Daniel J. Carr, and Axel I. Mundingo, Spanish City
    Planning in North America (Cambridge, Mass., 1982), 18.
    6. The evasive terms phenomenon and synthesis are meant to indicate that Hopewell was
    neither a culturea group of people sharing

    Page 285

    most aspects of life ways and languagenor an empirea territory under a single political
    regime. Yet people of many different societies and polities scattered over a wide area
    from present-day Kansas City to New York State and from the Great Lakes to Florida
    built very similar kinds of élite monuments.
    7. Quoted in Robert S. Neitzel, Archeology of the Fatherland Site: The Grand Village of
    the Natchez (New York, 1965), 63.
    8. Ibid., 80.
    9. Daniel K. Richter, The Ordeal of the Longhouse: The Peoples of the Iroquois League
    in the Era of European Colonization (Chapel Hill, NC, 1992), 1819. Anthropologists
    apply the term Iroquoian to people who lived all over the northeastern United States and
    adjacent Quebec and Ontario and who shared similar linguistic roots and cultural traits.
    'Iroquois' refers more narrowly to the Five Nations (augmented by the Tuscarora, who
    moved from North Carolina and were invited to join the Iroquois League in the
    eighteenth century).
    10. Virginia's 1701 state-house is sometimes said to have been the first building since
    ancient times to carry the name Capitol.
    11. Thomas Crawford, quoted in Pamela Scott, Temple of Liberty: Building the Capitol
    for a New Nation (New York, 1995), 100.
    12. Alexander later served as symbologist for the Oregon State Capitol, Rockefeller
    Center, and the Los Angeles Public Library.
    13. Quoted in Eric S. McCready, 'The Nebraska State Capitol: Its Design, Background and
    Influence', Nebraska History, 55:3 (Fall 1974) 355-6.
    14. Quoted in Frederick C. Luebke, ed., A Harmony of the Arts: The Nebraska State
    Capitol (Lincoln, Nebr., 1990), 38.
    15. The concept of invented traditions was formulated in Eric Hobsbawm and Terence
    Ranger, eds., The Invention of Tradition (Cambridge, 1983).
    16. Quoted in William J. Murtagh, Keeping Time: The History and Theory of
    Preservation in America (New York, 1988), 176.
    17. R. T. H. Halsey and Elizabeth Tower, The Homes of Our Ancestors, as Shown in the
    American Wing of the Metropolitan Museum of Art (Garden City, NY, 1925), p. xxii.
    18. Samuel Sewall, The Diary of Samuel Sewall, 1674-1729, ed. M. Halsey Thomas, 2
    vols. (New York, 1973), i. 367 (26 Jan. 1696/7). Sewall alluded to the apostle Paul: 'We

    have a building of God, an house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens.' (Cor. 5:1)
    Robert St George pointed out the relevance of this and other Biblical passages to me as
    source of Puritan architectural metaphor.
    19. Thomas R. Carter, 'Mansion on the Hill: The Mormon Temple at Manti, 18771888',
    paper presented at the annual meeting of the Vernacular Architecture Forum, Lawrence,
    Kan., May 1996.
    20. Quoted in James F. O'Gorman, The Architecture of Frank Furness (Philadelphia,
    1973), 34.
    21. Lawrence W. Levine, Highbrow Lowbrow: The Emergence of Cultural Hierarchy in
    America (Cambridge, 1988), 133.
    22. Abigail A. Van Slyck, Free to All: Carnegie Libraries and American Culture,
    18901920 (Chicago, 1996), 2.
    23. Quoted in Erika Doss, Spirit Poles and Flying Pigs: Public Art and Cultural
    Democracy in American Communities (Washington, 1995), 199.
    24. Reactions are detailed at length in Doss, Spirit Poles, 226, from which these quotes
    are taken.
    25. Peter Calthorpe, The Next American Metropolis: Ecology, Community, and the
    American Dream (Princeton, 1993), II.
    26. Alex Krieger and William Lennertz, eds., Andres Duany and Elizabeth Plater-Zyberk:
    Towns and Town-Making Principles (New York, 1991), 21.
    27. Quoted in Holly M. Rarick, Progressive Vision: The Planning of Downtown
    Cleveland 19031930 (Cleveland, 1986), 24.
    28. Krieger and Lennertz, eds., Andres Duany, 28.

    Chapter 3. Nature
    1. William Bradford, Of Plymouth Plantation, 16201647, ed. Samuel Eliot Morison
    (New York, 1967), 61-2.
    2. Quoted in Fiske Kimball, Domestic Architecture of the American Colonies and of the
    Early Republic (New York, 1922) 1112.
    3. Records of the Virginia Company, iii. 522, quoted (and discussed) in Dell Upton,
    'Ethnicity, Authenticity, and Invented Traditions,' Historical Archaeology, 30:2 (1996) 1.
    4. William Cronon, 'Introduction: In Search of Nature', in William Cronon, ed.,

    Uncommon Ground: Toward Reinventing Nature (New York, 1995), 35.
    5. Mark Twain, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (Tom Sawyer's Comrade) (New
    York, 1884, 1951), 312.
    6. Quoted in Stanley French, 'The Cemetery as a Cultural Institution: The Establishment
    of Mount Auburn and the ''Rural Cemetery" Movement', American Quarterly, 26:1 (Mar.

    Page 286

    1974) 48.
    7. Andrew Jackson Downing, 'A Few Hints on Landscape Gardening', in Andrew Jackson
    Downing, Rural Essays, ed. George William Curtis (New York, 1853), 122.
    8. Downing, 'On the Mistakes of Citizens in Country Life,', in Rural Essays, 124.
    9. Andrew Jackson Downing, The Architecture of Country Houses (New York, 1850),
    10. Downing, 'On Feminine Taste in Rural Affairs', in Rural Essays, 51-2.
    11. Downing, 'The New-York Park', in Rural Essays, 147.
    12. Frederick Law Olmsted and Calvert Vaux, 'Plan for Riverside, Illinois' (1868), in
    Leland M. Roth, ed., America Builds: Source Documents in American Architecture and
    Planning (New York, 1983), 193-4, 201; Laura Wood Roper, FLO: A Biography of
    Frederick Law Olmsted (Baltimore, 1973), 322.
    13. Lewis Mumford, in Clarence S. Stein, Toward New Towns for America (New York,
    1957), 15.
    14. Stein, Toward New Towns, 195.
    15. Bernard Maybeck, 'The Palace of Fine Arts', Transactions of the Commonwealth Club
    of California, 10:10 (1915) 369-74.
    16. Frank Lloyd Wright, The Natural House (New York, 1970), 20.
    17. This story is recounted in David G. DeLong, Bruce Goff: Toward Absolute
    Architecture (New York, 1988), 111.
    18. Rousseau wished to analyse the problems of human institutions and to analogize
    about the education of children rather than to promote a revival of the primitive, but these
    nuances were lost in popular imagery of the noble savage.
    19. Brad Collins and Juliette Robbins, comps., Antoine Predock, Architect (New York,
    1994), 198215.
    20. Henry H. Saylor, Bungalows: Their Design, Construction, and Furnishing (New
    York, 1911), 5.
    21. George F. Devereaux, 'In the Land of the Bungalow' (1929), quoted in Robert Winter,
    The California Bungalow (Los Angeles, 1980), 10.
    22. Doye O'Dell and Rudy Sooter, 'Dear Okie' (Exclusive Records release 33X 1182-2,

    23. William and Helga Olkowski, The Integral Urban House (1979), quoted in Dolores
    Hayden, Redesigning the American Dream: The Future of Housing, Work, and Family
    Life (New York, 1984), 48.
    24. Sim Van der Ryn and Stuart Cowan, Ecological Design (Washington, 1996), 56.
    25. Ibid., 24.
    26. David W. Orr, Ecological Literacy: Education and the Transition to a Post-Modern
    World (Albany, 1992), 24.
    27. Richard Register, Ecocity Berkeley: Building Cities for a Healthy Future (Berkeley,
    1987), 8.

    Chapter 4. Technology
    1. Edward Waterhouse, quoted in Carl Bridenbaugh, Vexed and Troubled Englishmen,
    15901642 (New York, 1967), 101.
    2. It is not possible to give a single date for the appearance of sawmills, which depended
    on each locality's developing a sufficiently large population to warrant the investment.
    3. Early, hybrid rural examples published by Paul E. Sprague make the connection
    between balloon and Chesapeake framing evident, although this is not Sprague's
    conclusion (Sprague, 'Chicago Balloon Frame: The Evolution During the 19th Century of
    George W. Snow's System for Erecting Light Frame Buildings from Dimension Lumber
    and Machine-Made Nails', in H. Ward Jandl, ed., The Technology of Historic American
    Buildings: Studies in the Materials, Craft Processes, and the Mechanization of Building
    Construction [Washington, 1983], 3561). The earliest reference to balloon framing in
    Chicago obviously refers to plank framing: 'many of them are what they call Balloon
    houses, that is built of boards entirelynot a stick of timber in them except for the sills'
    (Caroline Clarke to Mary Walker, 1 Nov. 1835, in Chicago Historical Society; quoted in
    Sprague, 'Chicago Balloon Frame', 36).
    4. John D. Thompson and Grace Goldin, The Hospital: A Social and Architectural
    History (New Haven, 1975), 159.
    5. Florence Nightingale, Notes on Hospitals (1859), 10; quoted in Thompson and Goldin,
    Hospital, 159.
    6. Quoted in Robert C. Twombly, Frank Lloyd Wright: His Life and His Architecture
    (New York, 1979), 99.

    7. Quoted in Reyner Banham, The Architecture of the Well-Tempered Environment
    (Chicago, 1969), 86. Although Wright sometimes claimed that his was the first 'air
    conditioned' building, it did not incorporate humidity controls, which conventional
    definitions accept as one of the key attributes of true air-conditioning.
    8. Quoted in Loren W. Partridge, John Galen Howard and the Berkeley Campus: BeauxArts Architecture in the 'Athens of the West' (Berkeley, 1978), 24.
    9. This passage is based on G. J. Barker-Benfield, 'The Spermatic Economy: A
    Nineteenth-Century View of Sexuality', in Michael Gordon, ed., The American Family in
    Social-Historical Perspective (2nd edn; New

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    York, 1978), 374402.
    10. David E. Nye, American Technological Sublime (Cambridge, Mass., 1994), pp. xi-xx,
    77 (quote).
    11. Quoted in David P. Billington, The Tower and the Bridge: The New Art of Structural
    Engineering (Princeton, 1983), 80.
    12. Ibid., 81. Roebling's statement echoed the theories of Viollet-le-Duc, who believed
    that the Gothic style was peculiarly appropriate to the visual expression of modern
    materials and structural systems.
    13. Ibid., 123.
    14. Ibid., 75.
    15. Alan Trachtenberg. Brooklyn Bridge: Fact and Symbol (2nd edn; Chicago, 1979), 76.
    16. Ibid., 18, 118.
    17. Sim Van der Ryn and Stuart Cowan, Ecological Design (Washington, 1996), 7.
    18. Quoted in Carl. W. Condit, American Building Art: The Nineteenth Century (New
    York, 1960), 174.
    19. Quoted in Esther McCoy, Case Study Houses, 19451962 (2nd edn; Los Angeles,
    1977), 118.
    20. Ibid., 47.
    21. Ibid., 71.
    22. Raymond Loewy, Industrial Design (Woodstock, NY, 1979), 13.
    23. Norman Bel Geddes, Horizons (Boston, 1932; repr. New York, 1977), 4.
    24. Loewy, Industrial Design, 15.
    25. Bel Geddes, Horizons, 3, 24.
    26. [George F. Keck], House of Tomorrow, America's First Glass House (Chicago, 1933),
    quoted in Narciso G. Menocal, Keck & Keck Architects (Madison, Wis., 1980), 34.
    27. Quoted in Helen A. Harrison, ed., Dawn of a New Day: The New York World's Fair,
    1939/40 (New York, 1980), 4.
    28. Quoted in Nye, American Technological Sublime, 207.

    29. Ibid, 219.
    30. Quoted in Harrison, ed., Dawn of a New Day, 8.
    31. Quoted in Nye, American Technological Sublime, 212.
    32. Quoted in Joseph J. Corn and Brian Horrigan, Yesterday's Tomorrows: Past Visions of
    the American Future (New York, 1984), 49.

    Chapter 5. Money
    1. As with most Anasazi sites. 'Aztec' is a fanciful name first used in the nineteenth
    century (others have Navajo names). The Aztec great house had nothing to do with the
    Aztecs of central Mexico, whom it antedates.
    2. This passage is based on Greg Hise, Magnetic Los Angeles: Planning the Postwar
    Metropolis (Baltimore, 1997)
    3. Cleveland Plain Dealer, 19 Nov. 1928, quoted in Holly M. Rarick, Progressive Vision:
    The Planning of Downtown Cleveland, 19031930 (Cleveland, 1986), 58.
    4. John Emery, Carew-Netherland Plaza developer, quoted in John Clubbe, Cincinnati
    Observed: Architecture and History (Columbus Oh., 1992), 20.
    5. Carl W. Condit, The Chicago School of Architecture: A History of Commercial and
    Public Building in the Chicago Area, 19751925 (Chicago, 1964), 26.
    6. Carol Willis has described the T-plan office and its architectural implications in Form
    Follows Finance: Skyscrapers and Skylines in New York and Chicago (Princeton, 1995),
    7. John Fanning Watson, Annals of Philadelphia and Pennsylvania, in the Olden Time, 2
    vols. (Philadelphia, 1868), ii. 591.
    8. 'The Tall Office Building Artistically Considered' Lippincott's,57 (Mar. 1896) 403-9,
    repr. in Louis H. Sullivan, Kindergarten Chats and Other Writings (New York, 1979),
    9. Ibid., 205.
    10. Chicago architect John Wellborn Root, best known for his aesthetic talents,
    considered at length such practical issues as the relationship of lot coverage to light in an
    important article, 'A Great Architectural Problem', Inland Architect and News Record, 15
    (Jun. 1890) 6671, in which he dismissed visual considerations as relatively unimportant
    and easily satisfied.

    11. W.J. Cash, The Mind of the South [1941] (New York, 1991), 262-3.
    12. Quoted in Angel Kwolek-Folland, Engendering Business: Men and Women in the
    Corporate Office, 18701930 (Baltimore, 1994), 99.
    13. Willis, Form Follows Finance, 135.
    14. Alex Ward, quoted in Andrea Oppenheimer Dean, 'Making a Nonentity Into a
    Landmark', Architecture, 74:11 (Nov. 1985) 34.
    15. Daralice D. Boles and Jim Murphy, 'Cincinnati Centerpiece: Procter & Gambles, New
    Headquarters', Progressive Architecture, 66:10 (Oct. 1985) 75.
    16. These aspects of the Procter & Gamble headquarters are detailed, ibid., 83; and in
    Dean, 'Making a Nonentity a Landmark', 37-8.
    17. Quoted in Robert W. Rydell, All the World's a Fair. Visions of Empire at American
    International Expositions, 18761916 (Chicago, 1984), 65.
    18. Daily Inter Ocean, 26 Apr. 1893, quoted in Rydell, All the World's a Fair, 48.

    Page 288

    19. Quoted in William S. Worley, J. C. Nichols and the Shaping of Kansas City:
    Innovation in Planned Residential Communities (Columbia, Mo., 1990), 247.
    20. Ibid., 258.
    21. Ibid., 275.
    22. Quoted in Howard Gillette, Jr., 'The Evolution of the Planned Shopping Center in City
    and Suburb', Journal of the American Planning Association, 51 (Autumn 1985) 454.
    23. Aladdin Company, Aladdin Homes: 'Built in a Day', catalog no. 31 (Bay City, Mich.,
    1918), 1920, 71.
    24. Estimates of income distribution and housing costs and very difficult to make before
    the 1930s. These rough estimates are, frankly, cobbled together from the following
    sources: Wesley C. Mitchell, and Oswald W. Knauth, Income in the United States: Its
    Amount and Distribution, 19091919 (New York, 1919), 132-7, 144; Historical statistics
    of the United States: Colonial Times to 1970 (Washington, 1975), ii, 647; and estimates
    in Worley, J. C. Nichols, 184, 189-91. Aladdin offered houses at a range of prices from
    $555 to $5,880. In 1919, the steep post-war inflation in housing costs drove the price of
    The Pasadena up to $2,869 and The Sunshine to $2,994, representative of a general rise of
    about 50 per cent in the company's prices (Aladdin Company, Aladdin Home: 'Built in a
    Day', catalog no. 32 (Bay City, Mich., 1919), price list). They had returned to their
    original level by 1921.
    25. Clarence S. Stein, Toward New Towns for America (New York, 1957), 35, 85.
    26. Quoted in Greg Hise, 'Building Design as Social Art: The Public Architecture of
    William Wurster, 19351950', in Marc Treib, ed., An Everyday Modernism: The House of
    William Wurster (Berkeley, 1995), 154.
    27. To the Honourable the Senate and House of Representatives of the Commonwealth
    of Pennsylvania in General Assembly. Met, the Memorial of 'The Guardians for the
    Relief and Employment of the Poor of the City of Philadelphia, the District of Southwark
    and the Townships of the Northern Liberties and Penn,' Respectfully Represents
    [Philadelphia, c.1836], n.p.
    28. Quoted in Marta Gutman, 'Housers and Other Architects: Pragmatism and Aesthetics
    in Recent Competitions,' Journal of Architectural Education, 46:3 (Feb. 1993) 131.
    29. Robert Venturi, Denise Scott Brown and Stephen Izenour, Learning From Las Vegas.
    The Forgotten Symbolism of Architectural Form (and end; Cambridge, Mass., 1977), 90,

    Chapter 6. Art
    1. The Rules of Work of the Carpenters' Company of the City and County of
    Philadelphia 1786, ed. Charles E. Peterson (New York, 1971), vii.
    2. Benjamin Latrobe to Henry Ormond, 20 Nov. 1806, in The Correspondence and
    Miscellaneous Papers of Benjamin Henry Latrobe, John C. Van Horne, Jeffrey A. Cohen,
    Darwin H. Stapleton, Lee W. Formwalt, William B. Forbush III, and Tina H. Sheller, eds.,
    3 vols. (New Haven and London, 1984-8), ii. 680.
    3. Latrobe to Robert Mills, 12 Jul. 1806, ibid., 239-45.
    4. The phrase 'negotiation of cognitive exclusiveness' along with the term 'market
    profession', is derived from Magali Sarfatti Larson, The Rise of Professionalism: A
    Sociological Analysis (Berkeley, 1977).
    5. John Haviland, The Builder's Assistant, 3 vols. (Philadelphia, 1818-21), ii. 53.
    6. Thomas U. Walter, Thirteenth Annual Address to the American Institute of Architects,
    19. Nov. 1879, Loose SheetsAIA, Thomas U. Walter Papers, Athenaeum of Philadelphia.
    7. Meredith L. Clausen, 'Northgate Regional Shopping CenterParadigm from the
    Provinces,' Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians, 43:2 (May 1984) 161.
    8. Thomas U. Walter, Diary 1834-6, p. 36 (17 Jan. 1835), Thomas U. Walter Papers.
    9. Thomas U. Walter, Architecture Considered as a Fine Art, lecture 6 of a series,
    Philadelphia, December 1814. MS, pp. 32-3, Thomas U. Walter Papers.
    10. Walter to William Hamilton, 6 May 1854, Letters April-June 1854, Thomas U. Walter
    11. Quoted in Joan Draper, 'The École des Beaux-Arts and Arts and the Architectural
    Profession in the United States: The Case of John Galen Howard', in Spiro Kostof, ed.,
    The Architect: Chapters in the History of the Profession, (New York, 1977), 215.
    12. Quoted in Andrew Saint, the Image of the Architect (New Haven, 1983), 83.
    13. Meyer Schapiro, 'Style,' in A. L. Kroeber, ed., Anthropology Today: An Encyclopedic
    Inventory (Chicago, 1953) 287.
    14. Ibid.
    15. James R. Sackett, 'The Meaning of Style in Archaeology: A General Model', American
    Antiquity, 42:3 (1977) 370.

    16. 'Rural Cemeteries', North American Review 53:113 (1842), quoted in Richard G.
    Carrott, The Egyptian Revival: Its Sources, Monuments, and Meaning, 18081858
    (Berkeley, 1978), 86.
    17. Quoted in David Wallace Adams,

    Page 289

    Education for Extinction: American Indians and the Boarding School Experiences,
    18751928 (Lawrence, Kan., 1995), 186.
    18. My discussion of Indian football is based on Adams, Education for Extinction, 18391.
    19. Mariana Griswold Van Rensselaer, Henry Hobson Richardson and His Works (1888;
    repr. New York, 1969), 123.
    20. Quoted in Doris Cole, From Tipi to Skyscraper: A History of Women in Architecture
    (Boston, 1973), 76.
    21. Karen E. Hudson, The Will and the Way: Paul R. Williams, Architect (New York,
    1994, 11.
    22. George M. Sheldon, Artistic Country-Seats: Types of Recent American Villa and
    Cottage Architecture with Instances of Country Club-Houses (New York, 1886-7).
    23. Quoted in Jack Quinan, Frank Lloyd Wright's Larkin Building: Myth and Fact (New
    York, 1987), 45.
    24. H. Allen Brooks, the Prairie School (New York, 1972), 80.
    25. Quoted in Gwendolyn Wright, 'On the Fringe of the Profession: Women in American
    Architecture', in Kostof, ed., The Architect, 282.
    26. Quoted in Brooks, Prairie School, 79.
    27. Marion Mahony Griffin, 'The Magic of America', MS, quoted in Susan Fondiler
    Berkon, 'Marion Mahony Griffin', in Susana Torre, ed., Women in American Architecture:
    A Historic and Contemporary Perspective, (New York, 1977),79.
    28. Quoted in Wright, 'On the Fringe of the Profession', 282.
    29. William Dean Howells, The Rise of Silas Lapham (1885; repr. New York, 1949), 4142.

    Page 290

    List of Illustrations
    The Publisher would like to thank the following individuals and institutions who have
    kindly given permission to reproduce the illustrations listed below.
    1. John and Mary Dickinson House. Salem County, NJ, 1754. Photo Dell Upton, Berkeley,
    2. Perkinsons, Chesterfield County, VA, late 18th century. Virginia Department of Historic
    Resources, Richmond, VA/photo Dell Upton.
    3. Bronck Houses, Coxsackie, NY, (a) late 17th century; (b) 1738; (c) 1792; (d) mid-19th
    century. Drawing Dell Upton.
    4. Thomas Jefferson: Monticello II, Charlottesville, VA, 17961809. Ground front. Photo
    Dell Upton.
    5. Thomas Jefferson: Monticello II, Charlottesville, VA, 17961809. Ground floor plan
    with Monticello I superimposed. From W. H. Adams, Jefferson's Monticello (New York:
    Abbeville Press, 1983), 62.
    6. Thomas Jefferson: Monticello II, Charlottesville, VA, 17961809. Exterior view from the
    south-east. Holsinger Studio Collection (9862), Special Collections Department.
    University of Virginia Library, Charlottesville, VA.
    7. Thomas Jefferson: Monticello II, Charlottesville, VA, 17961809. Schematic view
    showing axial organization. Drawing Sibel Zandi-Sayek, Berkeley, CA.
    8. Henry and Anne Saunders House, Isle of Wight County, VA, c.1795. Drawing Dell
    9. Sites House, Rockingham County, VA, c.180010. Drawing Dell Upton.
    10. Boardman House, Saugus, MA, 1687; lean-to, c.1696. Photo Dell Upton.
    11. Boardman House, Saugus, MA, 1687. Plan. After A, Sorli in A. L. Cummings, The
    Framed Houses of Massachusetts Bay (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press,
    copyright © 1979 by the Presidents and Fellows of Harvard College), 2425.
    12. Prototypical Navajo conical forked-pole hogan. From P. Nabokov and R. Easton,
    Native American Architecture (New York: © Oxford University Press, 1989, and P.
    Nabakov and R. Easton), 327.

    13. Thomas Jefferson: Monticello I, Charlottesville, VA, 1772. Massachusetts Historical
    Society, Boston, MA.
    14. Mount Airy, Richmond County, VA, c.175464. South front. Photo Dell Upton.
    15. Mount Airy, Richmond County, VA, c.175464. East front. Photo Dell Upton.
    16. Charles Bulfinch: Swan House, Dorchester, MA, 1796. From F. Kimball, Domestic
    Architecture of the American Colonies and of the Early Republic (New York: Scribner's,
    1922), 162. British Architectural Library, Royal Institute of British Architects (R.I.B.A.),
    17. Speculative houses, Dayton, KY, c.1900. Photo Edward A. Chappell, Williamsburg,
    18. Catherine E. Beecher and Harriet Beecher Stowe: Design for an efficient galley
    kitchen, 1869. From C. E. Beecher and H. B. Beecher Stowe, The American Woman's
    Home (New York, 1869), 34.
    19. Catherine E. Beecher and Harriet Beecher Stowe: Christian House 1869. First-floor
    plan. From C. E. Beecher and H. B. Beecher Stowe, The American Woman's Home (New
    York, 1869), 26.
    20. Frank Lloyd Wright: Herbert Jacobs First Residence, Madison, WI, 1937. Plan S. 234.
    From W. A. Storrer, The Frank Lloyd Wright Companion (Chicago: University of
    Chicago Press, 1993), 242. The drawings of buildings by Frank Lloyd Wright used in this
    publication were prepared by William Allin Storrer under license from, and copyright by,
    The Frank Lloyd Wright Foundation © 1993. Requests for permission to reproduce these
    drawings should be addressed to William Allin Storrer c/o The University of Chicago
    21. Lamb and Rich: Henry R. Mallory House,

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    Bryam, CT, c.1885. From A. Lewis, American Country Houses of the Gilded Age
    (188687; Repr. New York, 1982 © Dover Publications Inc.), pl. 50.
    22. John Calvin Stevens: James Hopkins Smith House, Falmouth Foreside, ME, 1885.
    From A. Lewis, American Country Houses of the Gilded Age (188687; Repr. New York,
    1982 © Dover Publications Inc.), pl. 41.
    23. Alexander Jackson Davis: Rotch House, New Bedford, MA, c.184547. Elevation.
    From A. J. Downing, Architecture of Country Houses (New York, 1850), 296. British
    Architectural Library, R.I.B.A., London.
    24. Alexander Jackson Davis: Rotch House, New Bedford, MA. c.184547. Plan. From
    A.J. Downing, Architecture of Country Houses (New York, 1850), 297. British
    Architectural Library, R.I.B.A., London.
    25. Frank Lloyd Wright: Frederick C. Robie Residence, Chicago, IL, 1908. Photo Richard
    Bryant/ Arcaid, London.
    26. Frank Lloyd Wright: Robie Residence, Chicago, IL, 1908. First-(ground), second(main), and third-floor plans. S. 127. From W. A. Storrer, The Frank Lloyd Wright
    Companion (Chicago: University of Chicago press, 1993), 127. The drawings of buildings
    by Frank Lloyd Wright used in this publication were prepared by William Allin Storrer
    under license from, and copyright by, The Frank Lloyd Wright Foundation © 1993.
    Requests for permission to reproduce these drawings should be addressed to William
    Allin Storrer c/o The University of Chicago Press.
    27. Richard Meier: Smith House, Darien, CT, 1965. Entrance front. Photo Dell Upton.
    28. Richard Meier: Smith House, Darien, CT, 1965. Ground, first and second floor plans.
    Richard Meier & Partners Architects. New York and Los Angeles.
    29. Richard Meier: Smith House, Darien, CT, 1965. Site plan. Richard Meier & Partners
    Architects, New York and Los Angeles.
    30. Plan of New Orleans, the Capital of Louisiana, 18th century. The Historic new
    Orleans Collection (acc. no. 1974. 25.18.25).
    31. Common courthouse-square plans. After Edward T. Price, in E. T. Price, 'The Central
    Courthouse Square in the American County Seat' in D. Upton and J.M. Vlach (eds.),
    Common Places: Readings in American Vernacular Architecture (Athens, GA: University
    of Georgia Press, 1986).
    32. Rock Springs Camp Meeting Ground, Lincoln County, NC, founded 1833. Site plan.

    Drawing by Carl Lounsbury, Colonial Williamsburg Foundation, Williamsburg, VA.
    33. Balls Creek Camp Meeting Ground Catawba County, NC, mid-19th century. Photo
    Dell Upton.
    34. Poverty Point archaeological site, West Carroll Parish, LA, c.1000 BCE. Reconstruction
    drawing of central district. From J. L. Gibson, Poverty Point: A Culture of the Lower
    Mississippi Valley (© Louisiana Anthropological Survey and Antiquities Commission,
    Baton Rouge, 1983), 8.
    35. Newark Earthworks, Licking County, OH, c.200 CE. Survey drawing. From E. G.
    Squier and E. H. Davis, Ancient Monuments of the Mississippi Valley (Washington. DC,
    1848), pl. xxv.
    36. Monk's Mound, Cahokia, IL, c.1000 CE Aerial view. Photo Timothy Hursley, Little
    Rock, AR.
    37. Tattooed Serpent's funeral, Grand Village of the Natchez, Natchez, MS, 1725. From A.
    Le Page du Pratz, Histoire de la Louisiane 3 (Paris, 1758), op. 55.
    38. An Iroquoian house, c.900 CE. Reconstruction drawing. From M. Kapches, 'The
    Spatial Dynamics of Ontario Iroquoian Longhouses', American Antiquity 55/1(1990), 50.
    © Society of American Archaeology.
    39. 'Elevation des Cabannes Sauvages', Iroquoian longhouse, c.1720. Edward E. Ayer
    Collection (MS Map 150), The Newberry Library, Chicago, IL.
    40. Sour Springs Longhouse, Six Nations Reserve, Canada, 1870s. Photo Frank Speck,
    1943. Peabody Essex Museum, Salem, MA.
    41. William Thornton, Stephen Hallet, Benjamin Henry Latrobe, Charles Bulfinch et al:
    United States Capitol, Washington DC, 17931916. Main floor plan, 183234. Drawing by
    Alexander Jackson Davis. Avery Architectural and Fine Arts Library (1940.011.00178),
    Columbia University, NY.
    42. William Thornton, Stephen Hallet, Benjamin Henry Latrobe, Charles Bulfinch et al:
    United States Capitol, Washington, DC, 17931916. East front. Daguerrotype c.1846.
    Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
    43. Thomas U. Walter: United States Capitol, Washington, DC, 17931916. Design for the
    new east front, 1855. Athenaeum of Philadelphia, Philadelphia, PA.
    44. Bertram Grosvenor Goodhue, with Lee Lawrie, Hildreth Meiere, Augustus Tack, and
    Hartley Burr Alexander: Nebraska State Capitol and World War I Memorial, Lincoln, NB,
    192232. Photograph c.1934. Nebraska State Historical Society (acc. no. C244.375),
    Lincoln, NB.

    45. Bertram Grovesnor Goodhue, with Lee

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    Lawrie, Hildreth Meiere, Augustus Tack, and Hartley Burr Alexander: Nebraska State
    Capitol and World War I Memorial, Lincoln, NB, 192232. Main (second) floor plan.
    From F. C. Luebke (ed.), The Nebraska State Capitol: A Harmony of the Arts
    (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1990),28.
    46. Peabody and Stearns: Massachusetts Building, World's Columbian Exposition,
    Chicago, IL, 1893. From The Columbian Exposition Album (Chicago, 1893).
    47. George I. Lovatt: St Rita of Cescia Roman Catholic church, Philadelphia, PA, 1907.
    Photo Dell Upton.
    48. Bank of Canton (former Chinese Telephone Exchange), San Francisco, CA, 1909.
    Photo Dell Upton.
    49. Building sand-castles alongside a casita in El Barrio, New York, NY, c.1988. Photo
    Martha Cooper, New York.
    50. Ndebele-style decoration, Frederick Douglass Court, Washington, DC, 1970s. Photo
    Dell Upton.
    51. Westover, Charles City County, VA, c.1750. Virginia Department of Historic
    Resources, Richmond, VA/photo Dell Upton.
    52. James Wren: Falls Church, VA, 176770. Photo Dell Upton.
    53. Furness and Hewitt: Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts, Philadelphia PA, 187276.
    View, c.1880. Philadelphia City Archives.
    54. Furness and Hewitt: Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts, Philadelphia, PA, 187276.
    First- and second-floor plans. From J. F. O'Gorman, The Architecture of Frank Furness
    © Philadelphia Museum of Art, 1973), 82.
    55. Furness and Hewitt: Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts, Philadelphia, PA, 187276.
    Second-floor hallway. Photo Dell Upton.
    56. Furness and Hewitt: Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts, Philadelphia, PA, 187276.
    Gallery interior. Photo Dell Upton.
    57. Henry Hobson Richardson: Oliver Ames Memorial Library, North Easton, MA,
    187779. Exterior, c.1880. British Architectural Library, R.I.B.A., London.
    58. Henry Hobson Richardson: Oliver Ames Memorial Library, North Easton, MA,
    187779. Reading room. Society for the Preservation of New England Antiquities, Boston.
    59. Henry Hobson Richardson (architect), and Frederick Law Olmsted (landscape

    architect); Oakes Ames Memorial Hall, North Easton, MA, 187981. From M.G. Van
    Rensselaer, Henry Hobson Richardson and his Works (1888).
    60. Henry Hobson Richardson: Ames Gate Lodge, North Easton, MA, 188081. Society for
    the Preservation of New England Antiquities, Boston.
    61. Henry Hobson Richardson and Augustus St Gaudens: Ames Monument, Sherman,
    WY, 187982. Photo Tom Carter, Salt Lake City, UT.
    62. Andrew Leicester (artist), Meyer, Scherer & Rockcastle (architects): Cincinnati
    Gateway, Cincinnati, OH, 198788. Close-up of entry. Photo © Andrew Leicester,
    63. Andrew Leicester, Pigasus, Cincinnati Gateway,Cincinnati, OH, 198788. Photo ©
    Andrew Leicester, Minneapolis.
    64. Calthorpe Associates, Ken Kay Associates, Fehr & Peers Associates, Jack Mixon, and
    The Spink Company, project team: Laguna West, Sacramento County, CA, 1991-. Site
    plan. Reproduced by permission of Calthorpe Associates, Berkeley, CA. From P.
    Calthorpe, The Next American Metropolis: Ecology, Community, and the American
    Dream (Princeton Architectural press, 1993), 146-7.
    65. Calthorpe Associates, Ken Kay Associates, Fehr & Peers Associates, Jack Mixon, and
    the Spink Company, project team: Laguna West, Sacramento County, CA, 1991-. Singlefamily house. Photo Dell Upton.
    66. Ukrainian folk house, Alberta, Canada, early 20th century. Plan. After John Lehr,
    Ukrainian Vernacular Architecture in Alberta (Edmonton: Alberta Culture, Historic
    Resources Division, 1976), 32.
    67. Blackfeet tipi circle, 1896. Photo Walter McClintock. The Beinecke Rare Book and
    Manuscript Collection, Yale University Library, New Haven, CT.
    68. Maximilian Godefroy: Unitarian Church, Baltimore, MD, 181718. Interior, c.1830.
    Maryland Historical Society Baltimore.
    69. Louis I. Kahn: Salk Institute for Biological Studies, La Jolla, CA, 195965. Photo Dell
    70 Louis I. Kahn: Salk Institute for Biological Studies, La Jolla, CA, 195965. Courtyard.
    Photo Dell Upton.
    71. Mount Auburn Cemetery, Cambridge, MA, opened 1829. From J. Bigelow, A History
    of the Cemetery of Mount Auburn (Boston, 1860).
    72. Mount Auburn Cemetery, Cambridge, MA, opened 1829. Map, 1860. From J.
    Bigelow, A History of The Cemetery of Mount Auburn (Boston, 1860).

    73. Olmsted and Vaux: Central Park, New York, NY, 185683. Central Park Conservancy,

    Page 293

    New York.
    74. Olmsted, Vaux and Company, General Plan of Riverside, Illinois, 1869. Courtesy of
    the Frances Loeb Library, Graduate School of Design, Harvard University.
    75. Reginald D. Johnson and Wilson, Merrill, and Alexander (associated architects);
    Clarence S. Stein (consulting architect): Baldwin Hills Village, Los Angeles, CA, 194041.
    Photo Dell Upton.
    76. Reginald D. Johnson and Wilson, Merrill, and Alexander (associated architects);
    Clarence S. Stein (consulting architect): Baldwin Hills Village, Los Angeles, CA, 194041.
    Plan. From C. S. Stein, Toward New Towns for America (University Press of Liverpool,
    1951), 174.
    77. Thomas D. Church: Donnell Garden, Sonoma County, CA, 194849. Site plan. From T.
    D. Church, Gardens are for People: How to Plan for Outdoor Living (New York:
    Reinhold Publishing Corporation, 1955), 231.
    78. Thomas D. Church: Donnell Garden, Sonoma County, CA, 194849. View. From T. D.
    Church, Gardens are for People: How to Plan for Outdoor Living (New York: Reinhold
    Publishing Corporation, 1955), frontispiece.
    79. Front Yard, Berkeley, CA. Photo Dell Upton.
    80. Fay Jones and Associates: Thorncrown Chapel, Eureka Springs, AR, 1980. Photo
    Timothy Hursley, Little Rock. AR.
    81. Bernard Maybeck: Palace of the Fine Arts, San Francisco, CA, 1915. Photo Dell
    82. Frank Lloyd Wright: Fallingwater (Liliane S. and Edgar I. Kauffman, Sr, Residence),
    Bear Run, PA, 193536. Photo Scott Frances/Esto/Arcaid, London.
    83. Frank Lloyd Wright: Fallingwater, 193536. Main level plan. S.230. From W. A.
    Storrer, The Frank Lloyd Wight Companion (Chicago: University of Chicago Press,
    1993). The drawings of buildings by Frank Lloyd Wight used in this publication were
    prepared by William Allin Storrer under license from, and copyright by, The Frank Lloyd
    Wright Foundation © 1993. Requests for permission to reproduce these drawings should
    be addressed to William Allin Storrer c/o The University of Chicago Press.
    84. Bruce Goff: Bavinger House, Norman, OK, 195055. Bruce Goff Archive, Ryerson and
    Burnham Libraries, The Art Institute of Chicago.
    85. Henry I. Greber: J. C. Nichols Memorial Fountain, Kansas City, MO. 1950. Photo Dell

    86. Antoine Predock: Centennial Complex, American Heritage Center Art Museum,
    University of Wyoming, Laramie, WY, 198693. Photo Timothy Hursley, Little Rock, AR.
    87. Sioux Grass Dancers, Fort Yates, Dakota Territory, C.1888. © AZUSA Publishing Inc.,
    Englewood, CO.
    88. Charles F. Lummis: EI Alisal (Charles F. Lummis House), Highland Park, Los
    Angeles, CA, 18971910. Photo Dell Upton.
    89. Greene and Greene: Gamble House, Pasadena, CA, 1908. Rear. Photo Marvin Rand,
    Venice, CA.
    90. Greene and Greene: Gamble House, Pasadena, CA, 1908. Photo Marvin Rand, Venice,
    91. Gustav Stickley: Open-air dining-room, 1909. From G. Stickley, Graftsman Homes
    (1909), 91. Avery Architectural and Fine Arts Library, Columbia University, NY.
    92. George Fred Keck: Duncan House, Flossmoor, IL, 1941. From R. Boyce, Keck & Keck
    (New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 1993), 121.
    93. Eleanor Raymond: Sun-heated house, Dover, MA, 1948. Photo courtesy Doris Cole
    (Eleanor Raymond, Architect, 1981).
    94. Office of the State Architect: Bateson Building, Sacramento, CA, 1978. Photo Dell
    95. Office of the State Architect: Bateson Building, Sacramento, CA, 1978. Isometric
    section. From S. Van der Ryn and P. Calthorpe, Sustainable Communities: A New Design
    Synthesis for Cities, Suburbs, and Towns (San Francisco: © Sierra Club Books, 1986),
    18. Calthorpe Associates, Berkeley, CA.
    96. Hidatsa twelve-post earth lodge, reconstruction drawing. From R. H. Lowie, Indians
    of the Plains (New York: American Museum of Natural History, 1954), 36.
    97. Larger Wemp Barn, Fort Hunter, Montgomery Country, NY, late 18th century. From J.
    F. Fitchen, The New World Dutch Barn: A Study of its Characteristics, its Structural
    System, and its Probable Erectional Procedures (Syracuse, NY: Syracuse University
    Press, 1968), 115.
    98. Gedney House, Salem, MA, c.1665, addition, c.1700. A. Sorli in A. L. Cummings, The
    Framed Houses of Massachusetts Bay, 16251725 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University
    Press, copyright © 1979 by the Presidents and Fellows of Harvard College), 53.
    99. Fairbanks House, Dedham, MA, c.1637. A. Sorli in A. L. Cummings, The Framed

    Houses of Massachusetts Bay, 16251725

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    (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, copyright © 1979 by the Presidents and
    Fellows of Harvard College), 58.
    100. Rich Neck Plantation Granary, Surry County, VA, early 19th century. Drawing Dell
    Upton. From Dell Upton, 'Traditional Timber Framing' in Brooke Hindle (ed.), Material
    Culture of the Wooden Age (Tarrytown, NY: Sleepy Hollow Press, 1981). fig. 8.
    101. Balloon frame. From G. E. Woodward, Victorian Architecture and Rural Art
    (Watkins Glen, NY: © American Life Foundation, 1978).
    102. Quonset hut, Z-Bar Ranch, Strong City, KS, c.1945. Photo Dell Upton.
    103. Andrew Jackson Downing: Room without ventilation, mid-19th century. From A. J.
    Downing, The Architecture of Country Houses (New York, 1850), 466. British
    Architectural Library, R.I.B.A., London.
    104. John S. Billings, M. D., with John R. Niernsee (consulting architect): Johns Hopkins
    Hospital, Baltimore, MD, 187685. Common ward. From J. S. Billings, Description of
    Johns Hopkins Hospital (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Hospital, 1890), pl. 24. British
    Architectural Library, R.I.B.A., London.
    105. John S. Billings, M.D., with John R. Niernsee (consulting architect): Johns Hopkins
    Hospital, Baltimore, MD, 187685. Isolating ward. From J. S. Billings, Description of
    Johns Hopkins Hospital (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Hospital, 1890), pl. 28. British
    Architectural Library, R.I.B.A., London.
    106. John S. Billings, M.D. With John R. Niernsee (consulting architect): Johns Hopkins
    Hospital, Baltimore, MD, 187085. Section of a common ward. From J. S. Billings,
    Description of Johns Hopkins Hospital (Baltimore; Johns Hopkins Hospital, 1890), pl.
    23. British Architectural Library, R.I.B.A., London.
    107. Frank Lloyd Wright: Larkin Company Administration Building, Buffalo, NY 19034.
    Copyright © 1998 The Frank Lloyd Wright Foundation, Scottsdale, AZ.
    108. John Galen Howard (architect); Dean S. B. Christy (consultant): Hearst Memorial
    Mining Building, University of California, Berkeley, CA 19027. Photo Dell Upton.
    109. John Galen Howard (architect); Dean S. B. Christy (consultant): Hearst Memorial
    Mining Building, University of California, Berkeley, CA, 19027. Chimneys and ventilating
    cupola. Photo Dell Upton.
    110. Louis I. Kahn: Richards Medical Research Laboratory, University of Pennsylvania,
    Philadelphia, PA, 195764. Photo Dell Upton.

    111. John A. Roebling (chief engineer); completed by Washington Roebling and Emily
    Roebling: The Great East River Suspension Bridge, Brooklyn, NY, to New York, NY,
    186983. The Brooklyn Historical Society.
    112. Othmar Ammann (chief engineer); Leon S. Moissieff and Allston Dana (engineers);
    Cass Gilbert (consulting architect); George Washington Bridge, New York, NY, to Fort
    Lee, NJ, 192731. The Port Authority of New York and New Jersey.
    113. Lacey V. Murrow (chief engineer); Leon S. Moissieff (consultant): Tacoma Narrows
    Bridge, Tacoma, WA, 193940. Washington State Historical Society Research Center,
    Tacoma, WA.
    114. Rudoph M. Schindler: Lovell Beach House, Newport Beach, CA, 1926. Photo Dell
    115. Richard Neutra: Lovell 'Health' House, Los Angeles, CA, 192729. Axonometric
    drawing by Jeffery B. Lentz, Historic American Buildings Survey, Library of Congress,
    Washington, DC.
    116. Philip C. Johnson: Philip C. Johnson 'Glass' House, New Canaan, CT, 1949. Ezra
    Stoller © Esto, Mamaronek, NY. All rights reserved.
    117. Rouse Corporation (developer); Frank Gehry (architect): Santa Monica Place, Santa
    Monica, CA, 197981. Parking garage, Photo Dell Upton.
    118. Raymond Loewy: 'Evolutionary Chart of Design', 1930. From R. Loewy, Industrial
    Design (Woodstock, NY: Overlook Press, 1979), 76.
    119. Julian Krupa: 'Cities of Tomorrow', 1939. From Amazing Stories (August, 1939).
    National Museum of American History, Smithsonian Institution, Washington, DC.
    120. Norman Bel Geddes: 'Diagram Illustrating the Principles of Streamlining', 1932.
    From N. Bel Geddes, Horizons (1932: Repr. 1977. New York: © Dover Publications Inc.),
    121. R. Buckminster Fuller: 4-D Utility Unit (Dymaxion House), 1927. Buckminster Fuller
    Institute, Santa Barbara, CA.
    122. R. Buckminster Fuller: 'Zeppelin Delivery of 4-D Houses', 1927. Buckminster Fuller
    Institute, Santa Barbara, CA.
    123. George Fred Keck: House of Tomorrow, Century of Progress Exhibition, Chicago,
    IL, 1933. Exterior. Chicago Historical Society/photo Hedrich-Blessing.
    124. George Fred Keck: House of Tomorrow,

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    Century of Progress Exhibition, Chicago, IL, 1933. Plans. From N. G. Menocal, Keck
    & Keck Architects (Madison: Elvehjem Museum of Art, University of Wisconsin,
    1980), 35. © State Historical Society of Wisconsin.
    125. George Fred Keck: House of Tomorrow, Century of Progress Exhibition, Chicago,
    IL. 1933. Interior. Chicago Historical Society/photo Hedrich-Blessing.
    126. Gilbert Rohde: 'Man Freed in Time and Space', design for Community Interests
    Pavilion, New York World's Fair, 1939. Manuscripts and Archives Division, New York
    Public Library.
    127. King Kong, 1933. © 1933 RKO Pictures Inc.
    128. Pueblo Bonito, Chaco Canyon, NM, 9101110 CE. Reconstruction. Reprinted with
    permission from Mysteries of the Ancient America, copyright © 1986 The Reader's Digest
    Association, Inc. Illustration by Lloyd Kenneth Townsend.
    129. Pueblo Bonito, Chaco Canyon, NM. 9101110 CE. Developmental sequence. From S.
    H. Lekson, T. C. Windes, J. R. Stein, and W. J. Judge, 'The Chaco Canyon Community',
    in Scientific American 259/1 (July 1988), 104. Courtesy of the Estate of Tom Prentise.
    130. Chacoan road system and outlying great houses, New Mexico.
    131. Boston, MA, 1640. Reconstructed plan. From W. M. Whitehill, Boston: A
    Topographical History (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1959), 10.
    132. John Bonner: Boston, MA, 1722. Map. Massachusetts Historical Society, Boston,
    133. Philadelphia, PA, c.1807. The Historical Society of Pennsylvania (Of. 610. 17961),
    Philadelphia, PA.
    134. Benjamin Butman, Ship Candler and Grocer, New Orleans, LA, c.1860. The Historic
    New Orleans Collection (acc. no. 195552).
    135. Wing Fat Market, Oakland, CA, c.1990. Photo Dell Upton.
    136. World War II-era communal development, Los Angeles, CA. After Lisa Padilla and
    Greg Hise, Los Angeles, CA.
    137. John Haviland: Philadelphia Arcade, Philadelphia, PA, 182426. Rental plan. The
    Historical Society of Pennsylvania (Burd papers, Am. 0364), Philadelphia, PA.
    138. C. Burton: Philadelphia Arcade. Philadelphia, PA, 1831. Engraving. The Library
    Company of Philadelphia ((1). 1525.F47d), PA.

    139. Daniel H. Burnham and Edward H. Bennett, Plan of Chicago, IL, 1909. Chicago
    Historical Society (qF38HP.B9.c.6).
    140. Graham, Anderson, Probst, and White: Terminal Tower Complex, Cleveland, OH,
    191634. Elevation and partial section. From The Union Station: A Description of the New
    Passenger Facilities and Surrounding Improvements (1930). Cleveland Public Library.
    By permission of Graham, Anderson, Probst, and White.
    141. Graham, Anderson, Probst, and White: Terminal Tower Complex, Cleveland, OH,
    191634. Sketch site plan, c.1980. Redraw from Jim Toman and Dan Cook. The Terminal
    Tower Complex (Cleveland, OH: Cleveland Landmarks Press, 1980), 7.
    142. Small and Rowley: Shaker Square, Shaker Heights, OH, 1929. Photo Dell Upton.
    143. Harrison and Abramowitz: Governor Nelson A. Rockefeller Empire State Plaza,
    Albany, NY, 196278. Ezra Stoller © Esto, Mamaronek, NY. All rights reserved.
    144. Graham, Anderson, Probst, and White: Straus Building, Chicago, IL, 1924. From
    Buildings and Building Management, 25 (1925), 27. Avery Architectural and Fine Arts
    Library, Columbia University, NY.
    145. Robert Mills: United States Treasury Building, Washington, DC, 183642. Plan. From
    R. Mills, Guide to the National Executive Offices and the Capital of the United States
    (Washington, 1841), 5.
    146. Robert Mills: United States Treasury Building, Washington, DC. 183642. View. Photo
    Dell Upton.
    147. Sloan and Stewart: Tower Hall, 518 Market Street, Philadelphia, PA, 185557.
    Photograph c.1898. The Print and Picture Collection, The Free Library of Philadelphia.
    148. Adler and Sullivan: Wainwright Building, St, Louis, MO, 189091. Photograph,
    c.1907. Missouri Historical Society, St Louis.
    149. Adler and Sullivan: Wainwright Building, St Louis, MO, 189091. Typical plan. From
    L. H. Sullivan. Kindergarten Chats and Other Writings (New York, 1947: Repr. 1979 ©
    Dover Publications Inc.), 204.
    150. Napoleon Le Brun and Sons: Metropolitan Life Insurance Building, New York, NY,
    1909. The Byron Collection, Museum of the City of New York.
    151. J. L. Kingston: 'Study of Economic Height for Office Buildings' within the confines
    of New York zoning law, 1930. From W. C. Clark and J. L. Kingston, The Skyscraper: A
    Study in the Economic Height of Modern Office Buildings (New York: American Institute
    of Steel Construction, 1930), 15. British Architectural Library, R.I.B.A., London.

    Page 296

    152. Howe and Lescaze: Philadelphia Saving Fund Society (PSFS) Building, Philadelphia,
    PA, 192932. © Wayne Andres/Esto, Mamaroneck, NY. All rights reserved.
    153. Kohn Pedersen Fox Associates: Proctor & Gamble World Headquarters, Cincinnati,
    OH, 198285. Kohn Pedersen Fox Associates, PC, New York.
    154. Kohn Pedersen Fox Associates; Procter & Gamble World Headquarters, Cincinnati,
    OH, 198285. Ground- and fifth-floor plans. Kohn Pedersen Fox Associates, PC, New
    155. Daniel Burnham (chief planner): World's Columbian Exposition, Chicago, IL 1893.
    From H. H. Bancroft, The Book of the Fair, 1 (Chicago and San Francisco, 1893), 71.
    New York Public Library.
    156. World's Columbian Exposition, Chicago, IL, 1893. Souvenir map, engraved by A
    Zeese and Co., Chicago. Chicago Historical Society.
    157. Edward B. Delk and Edward Tanner (initial architects): J. C. Nichols Company;
    Country Club Plaza, Kansas City, MO, 1922. Plan, c.1950.
    158. Edward B. Delk and Edward Tanner (initial architects): J. C. Nichols Company;
    Country Club Plaza, Kansas City, MO, 1922. Photo Dell Upton.
    159. John Graham and Company: Northgate Regional Shopping Center, Seattle, 194750.
    Aerial view. John Graham Associates, Seattle.
    160. Rouse Corporation (developer); Frank Gehry (architect): Santa Monica Place, Santa
    Monica, CA, 197981. Interior. Photo Dell Upton.
    161. Alexander Parris: Quincy Market, 1825, Boston, MA. Drawing by Carlos Diniz.
    Benjamin Thompson & Associates Inc., Cambridge, MA.
    162. Kenton Hotel, New York, NY, c.1900. Sketch plan. From Paul Groth, Living
    Downtown: The History of Residential Hotels in the United States (Berkeley: University
    of California Press, 1994), 145. Courtesy of Paul Groth.
    163. Revere Copper Company: 'After Total War Can Come Total Living', Revere's Part in
    Better Living, 10 (1943), New York Public Library.
    164. William Wurster: Chabot Terrace, Vallejo, CA, 1943. Copyright the Roger Sturtevant
    Collection, The City of Oakland, The Oakland Museum, Gift of the Artist.
    165. Burton D. Cairns and Vernon DeMars: Chandler Farms, Chandler, AZ, 19367. Farm
    Security Administration photograph, The Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

    166. Burton D. Cairns and Vernon DeMars: Chandler Farms, Chandler, AZ, 19367. Plans
    and section of two units.
    167. Oskar Stonorov and Alfred Kastner: Carl Mackley Houses, Philadelphia, PA, 193334.
    Axonometric view. From R. Pommer, 'The Architecture of Urban Housing in the United
    States during the Early 1930s', Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians. 37/4
    (December, 1978), 241. © Society of Architectural Historians [US].
    168. Oskar Stonorov and Alfred Kastner: Carl Mackley Houses, Philadelphia, PA, 193334.
    Four-room apartment. From R. Pommer, 'The Architecture of Urban Housing in the
    United States during the Early 1930s', Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians,
    37/4 (December, 1978), 241. © Society of Architectural Historians [US].
    169. Kleinweber, Yamasaki, & Hellmuth: Pruitt-Igoe Houses, St Louis, MO, 195054.
    Aerial view, Photo Ted McCrea/Missouri Historical Society, St Louis.
    170. Venturi and Short: Vanna Venturi House, Chestnut Hill, PA, 195964. Venturi, Scott
    Brown and Associates/photo Rollin LaFrance.
    171. Venturi and Rauch, Cope and Lippincott: Guild House, Philadelphia, PA, 196063.
    Photo Dell Upton.
    172. Burnham and Root: Architectural Office, Rookery Building, Chicago, IL, c.188889.
    From Engineering and Building Record (January, 1890).
    173. McKim, Mead and White: Architectural Offices, 101 Park Avenue, New York, NY,
    1913. From Brickbuilder 22 (December, 1913). Avery Architectural and Fine Arts Library,
    Columbia University, NY.
    174. J. Frederick Kelly. Decorative chamfers and chamfer stops on three early
    Connecticut houses, 1924. From J. F. Kelly, Early Domestic Architecture in Connecticut
    (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1924), 68.
    175. Robert R. Taylor: Collis P. Huntington Memorial Academic Building, Tuskegee
    Institute, Tuskegee, AL, 19024. The Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
    176. Haskell Stadium Entrance Arch, Haskell Indian Nations University, Lawrence, KS,
    1926. Photo Dell Upton.
    177. Richard Meier: J. Paul Getty Center, Los Angeles, CA, 198597. Axonometric of final
    site plan. Richard Meier & Partners Architects, New York and Los Angeles.
    178. Bernard Maybeck (in white smock, centre), Julia Morgan, and their employees, in
    her office, San Francisco, c.1928. Collection Hans U. Gerson, El Cerrito, CA.
    179. Frank Lloyd Wright, 1947. Photograph

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    1947. © (1998) Pedro E. Guerrero, New Canaan, CT.
    180. Frank Lloyd Wright: S. C. Johnson & Son Administration Building, Racine, WI,
    193639. Photo courtesy of S. C. Johnson Wax, Racine, WI.
    181. Frank Lloyd Wight: S. C. Johnson & Son Administration Building, Racine WI,
    193639. Great Workroom. Photo Dell Upton.
    182. Henry Hobson Richardson, 1886. Photographic portrait by George Collins Cox.
    Society for the Preservation of New England Antiquities, Boston.
    183. Offices of Henry Hobson Richardson, c.1886. From M. G. Van Rensselaer, Henry
    Hobson Richardson and his Works (1888).
    184. Charles Moore: Piazza d'Italia, New Orleans, LA. 19758. Photo © 1978 Norman
    McGrath, New York.
    185. Amaza Lee Meredith: Azurest South (Meredith-Colson House), Ettrick, VA, 1939.
    Virginia State University Archives, Petersburg/courtesy Virginia Museum of Fine Arts,
    Richmond. Reprinted with permission of the publisher, from The Making of Virginia
    Architecture © 1992 Virginia Museum of Fine Arts.
    186. Frank Lloyd Wright (architect); Marion L. Mahony (delineator): 'A Fireproof House
    for $5000', 1907. Copyright © 1998 The Frank Lloyd Wright Foundation, Scottsdale, AZ.
    187. Julia Morgan, photographed in her Paris apartment, 1899, aged 27. University
    Archives, California Polytechnic State University (Morgan Collection IV/01/II/02/04), San
    Luis Obispo.
    188. Richard Neutra in Switzerland, 1919, aged 27. Photo courtesy of Thomas Hines.
    189. Giant Artichoke, Castroville, CA, c. 1975. Photo Dell Upton.
    The Publisher and author apologize for any errors or omissions in the above list. If
    contacted they will be pleased to rectify these ate the earliest opportunity.

    Page 298

    Bibliographic Essay
    The literature of American architecture is voluminous but unevenly distributed: some
    aspects have been over-studied, while others have been ignored. In this bibliographic
    essay I have tried to call attention to the principal sources of my arguments, including
    some non-architectural works that are essential for understanding the issues I raise, and to
    some other studies that have made significant intellectual contributions to American
    architectural history. Because it is a relatively easy task for interested readers to find
    monographs devoted to particular architects or buildings, I have cited them only when no
    broader work treats the same issues. The same principle governs the inclusion of primary

    There is no shortage of chronological surveys of the architectural history of the United
    States. Neophytes should begin with Leland M. Roth, A Concise History of American
    Architecture (New York, 1979). William H. Pierson and William H. Jordy, American
    Building and Their Architects (Oxford, 1970- ; 4 vols. to date), a series of wide-ranging
    essays built around individual buildings and architects, is essential for more
    knowledgeable readers. However, no survey treats pre-Revolutionary American
    architecture adequately, so Dell Upton, 'Architecture: British', in Jacob Ernest Cooke, ed.,
    Encyclopedia of the North American Colonies (New York, 1993) is a necessary startingpoint for understanding Anglo-American colonial architecture.
    Several excellent surveys depart from conventional approaches to the history of
    American architecture. Alan Gowans has written two very different ones: Images of
    American Living: Four Centuries of Architecture and Furniture as Cultural Expression
    (Philadelphia, 1964) links the history of architecture with that of furniture and the
    decorative arts, and his more recent Styles and Types of North American Architecture:
    Social Function and Cultural Expression (New York, 1992) ranges far beyond the
    canons of high architecture to explore the social functions of visual design and formal
    type. Spiro Kostof, America by Design (Oxford, 1987) is a thematic treatment that
    synthesizes aesthetic and social history.
    Traditional surveys are weakest in treating indigenous, folk, and vernacular architecture,
    so they must be supplemented with specialist works in these fields. Henry Glassie,
    Pattern in the Material Folk Culture of the Eastern United States (Philadelphia, 1968)

    was the primer for much of the contemporary study of folk architecture. The articles in
    Dell Upton and John Michael Vlach, eds., Common Places: Readings in American
    Vernacular Architecture (Athens, Ga., 1986); Robert Blair St George, ed., Material Life in
    American, 16001860 (Boston, 1988); and Thomas Carter, Images of an American Land:
    Vernacular Architecture in the Western United States (Albuquerque, 1997) contain other
    seminal works by historians, folklorists, geographers, and architectural historians. Dell
    Upon, ed., America's Architectural Roots: Ethnic Groups That Built America
    (Washington, 1986) offers brief popular introductions to a number of folk architectural
    traditions in the United States. Finally, the articles in the Vernacular Architecture Forum's
    series Perspectives in Vernacular Architecture (6 vols. to date; various editors and
    publishers, 1982- ) suggest the range of methods and subject-matter that characterize the
    most recent scholarship in this diverse field.
    Peter Nabokov and Robert Easton, Native American Architecture (Oxford, 1989) is a
    unique synthesis of a century of scholarship on the indigenous architecture of the United
    States. It can be supplemented by the more detailed discussions of American Indian
    architecture and culture scattered through the

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    Smithsonian Institution's still-incomplete Handbook of North American Indians (9
    vols. to date, 20 projected; Washington, 1978- ), and the invaluable Bulletins and
    Reports of the Bureau of American Ethnology, published since 1879.

    Chapter 1. The House as an American Icon
    American Houses
    The house has been the central preoccupation of American architects and historians, with
    the greatest attention paid to the single-family house of middle-and upper-middle-class
    white Americans. Clifford E. Clark, Jr., The American Family Home (Chapel Hill, NC,
    1986) is a historian's overview of the middle-class house, while architectural historian
    Gwendolyn Wright's Building the Dream: A Social History of Housing in America (New
    York, 1981) is more inclusive but more episodic. With the exception of Mark Alan Hewitt,
    The Architect and the American Country House (New Haven and London, 1990), almost
    no scholarly attention has been devoted to the monumental residences of the very rich.
    For the most part, studies of Thomas Jefferson's architecture stand in the interpretive
    shadow of Fiske Kimball's monumental Thomas Jefferson, Architect (Boston, 1916).
    Recent assessments of Monticello that enlarge on and sometimes diverge from the
    Kimball tradition include William Howard Adams, Jefferson's Monticello (New York,
    1983) and Jack McLaughlin, Jefferson and Monticello: The Biography of a Builder (New
    York, 1988).
    Susan R. Stein, The Worlds of Thomas Jefferson at Monticello (New York, 1993),
    discusses Monticello's furnishings and the uses of each of the house's principal rooms.
    The social practices that these spaces accommodated are brilliantly delineated in Mark
    Girouard, Life in the English Country House, A Social and Architectural History (new
    Haven and London, 1977).
    The best discussions of Monticello's exterior landscape can be found in Rhys Isaac, 'The
    First Monticello', in Peter S. Onuf, ed., Jeffersonian Legacies (Charlottesville, Va., 1993)
    and William L. Beiswanger, 'The Temple in the Garden: Thomas Jefferson's Vision of the
    Monticello Landscape', in Robert P. Maccubbin and Peter Martin, eds., British and
    American Gardens in the Eighteenth Century (Williamsburg, Va., 1984). Charles A.
    Miller, Jefferson and Nature: An Interpretation (Baltimore, 1988) sets Jefferson's
    gardening in its philosophical context.

    The study of slave life at Monticello has just begun. The main source is Lucinda R.
    Stanton, '''Those Who Labor for My Happiness": Thomas Jefferson and His Slaves', in
    Onuf, ed., Jeffersonian Legacies. This can be supplemented by Dell Upton, 'White and
    Black Landscapes in Eighteenth-Century Virginia', in St George, ed., Material Life in
    America, a discussion of the physical setting of slavery in Jefferson's Virginia, and by
    John Vlach's broader overview, Back of the Big House: The Architecture of Plantation
    Slavery (Chapel Hill, NC, 1993).
    The Ordinariness of Architecture: Monticello's Context
    Jefferson disparaged the aesthetic qualities and structural soundness of the architecture of
    his native state in a famous passage in Notes on the State of Virginia (1780). His remarks
    should be read in conjunction with the essays in Cary Carson, Ronald Hoffman, and Peter
    J. Albert, eds., Of Consuming Interests: The Style of Life in the Eighteenth Century
    (Charlottesville, Va., 1994), particularly Edward A. Chappell's 'Housing a Nation: The
    Transformation of Living Standards in Early America'. For specific regional and ethnic
    traditions, see Upton, ed., America's Architectural Roots; Upton and Vlach, eds.,
    Common Places; Marcus Whiffen, The Eighteenth-Century Houses of Williamsburg: A
    Study of Architecture and Building in the Colonial Capital (rev. edn; Williamsburg, Va.,
    1984); Bernard L. Herman, Architecture and Rural Life in Central Delaware, 17001900
    (Knoxville, Tenn., 1987); and Abbott Lowell Cummings's monumental The Framed
    Houses of Massachusetts Bay, 16251725 (Boston, 1979).
    Fiske Kimball stressed the role of architectural publications in shaping Jefferson's design,
    an emphasis he extended to all eighteenth-century American architecture in Domestic
    Architecture of the American Colonies and of the Early Republic (New York, 1922), a
    classic of American architectural history that is still worth reading. Kimball's analysis of
    the architecture of Jefferson and his contemporaries has not been refuted so much as it
    has been bypassed by more recent scholarship emphasizing the spatial characteristics and
    social use of colonial folk and high-style buildings. Henry Glassie, Folk Housing in

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    Middle Virginia: A Structural Analysis of Historic Artifacts (Knoxville, Tenn., 1976)
    presents a model of architectural design, derived from anthropology and linguistics,
    that stresses learning and applying principles over the imitation of published models.
    Another theme that runs through this and others of Glassie's works is the social
    isolation of domestic space, particularly as effected in the 'Georgian-plan house'
    (which he named). Girouard's analysis of similar phenomena among the English ruling
    élite has also influenced American scholars.
    For twenty years, historians and anthropologists have been preoccupied with
    consumption as an economic and a personal issue. The study of consumerism has
    attracted both historians and anthropologists over the last twenty years. Robert Bocock,
    Consumption (London, 1993), and Jean-Christophe Agnew, 'Coming Up for Air:
    Consumer Culture in Historical Perspective', in John Brewer and Roy Porter, eds.,
    Consumption and the World of Goods (London, 1993) offers a way into the literature.
    The important essay by Cary Carson, 'The Consumer Revolution in Colonial British
    America: Why Demand?' in Carson et al, eds., Of Consuming Interests applies these
    insights to American material culture, and Timothy J. Breen's article in the same volume
    interprets the Revolution as a crisis of consumption.
    From the anthropological viewpoint, Colin Campbell, The Romantic Ethic and the Spirit
    of Modern Consumerism (Oxford, 1987) and Daniel Miller, Material Culture and Mass
    Consumption (Oxford, 1987) are essential starting-points.
    Architectural consumption is treated briefly in Dell Upton, Holy Things and Profane:
    Anglican Parish Churches in Colonial Virginia (New York, 1986; New Haven and
    London, 1997), while the specific role of William Buckland and Edmund Jenings in the
    design of Mount Airy is described in Charles E. Brownell, Calder Loth, William M. S.
    Rasmussen, and Richard Guy Wilson, The Making of Virginia Architecture
    (Charlottesville, Va., 1992).
    The Republican House
    Republicanism has been a central concept in early American historiography since the
    1960s. Gordon S. Wood, The Creation of the American Republic, 17761787 (Chapel Hill,
    NC, 1968) is essential, combining with Daniel T. Rodgers, 'Republicanism: The Career of
    a Concept', Journal of American History, 79 (1992) to follow the history of the idea in
    recent scholarship. For republicanism in architecture, see Dell Upton, 'Lancasterian
    Schools, Republican Citizenship, and the Spatial Imagination in Early Nineteenth-Century

    America', Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians, 55 (1996).
    The New American House
    The nineteenth-century American house has been intensively studied by historians and
    architectural historians. Vincent J. Scully, Jr., The Shingle Style and the Stick Style:
    Architectural Theory and Design from Downing to the Origins of Wright (rev. edn; New
    Haven and London, 1971) is an influential study of the aesthetics of late nineteenthcentury houses, while David P. Handlin, The American Home: Architecture and Society,
    18151915 (Boston, 1979) treats the nineteenth-century house from the point of view of
    social and technological history.
    In recent years, historians have explored the inner workings of these houses, while others
    have corrected previous scholars' over-emphasis on the freestanding suburban houses of
    middle- and upper-middle-class white Protestants. Colleen McDannell, The Christian
    Home in Victorian America, 18401900 (Bloomington, Ind., 1986), for example, adds
    Catholics to the discussion, while Elizabeth Blackmar, Manhattan for Rent, 17851850
    (Ithaca, NY, 1989) discards the long-cherished equation of home with women, privacy,
    and unproductive labour and the workplace with men, public action, and productive
    labour first sketched in tracts by conservative nineteenth-century writers such as
    Catherine E. Beecher and Andrew Jackson Downing and accepted uncritically by so many
    modern historians.
    Robert C. Twombly, 'Saving the Family: Middle-Class Attraction to Wright's Prairie
    House, 19011909', American Quarterly, 27 (1975) details Frank Lloyd Wright's loyalty to
    these ideals as an an antiurban gesture. Gwendolyn Wright, Moralism and the Model
    Home: Domestic Architecture and Cultural Conflict in Chicago, 18731913 (Chicago,
    1980), one of the best recent books on American architecture, analyses challenges and
    transformations to domesticity in Wright's city during the early years of his career.
    Dolores Hayden, The Grand Domestic Revolution: A History of Feminist Designs for
    American Homes,

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    Neighborhoods, and Cities (Cambridge, Mass., 1981) and Dianne Harris, 'Cultivating
    Power: The Language of Feminism in Women's Garden Literature, 18701920',
    Landscape Journal, 13 (1994) both detail contemporary resistance to the normative
    model. Hayden's Redesigning the American Dream: The Future of Housing, Work,
    and Family Life (New York, 1984) carries her story into the 1980s.
    Elizabeth Collins Cromley, Alone Together: A History of New York's Early Apartments
    (Ithaca, NY, 1990) and Paul Groth, Living Downtown: The History of Residential Hotels
    in the United States (Berkeley and Los Angeles, 1994) correct another distortion of the
    traditional literature in demonstrating that Americans of all social classes have lived in
    multi-family housing since the early nineteenth century.

    Chapter 2. Community
    The Grand Federal Edifice and the Grand Federal Procession are discussed in Susan G.
    Davis, Parades and Power: Street Theatre in Nineteenth-Century Philadelphia
    (Philadelphia, 1986) while the recurrent image of the Edifice is treated in Robert L.
    Alexander, 'The Grand Federal Edifice', Documentary Editing, 9, (1987).
    Ellen Weiss, City in the Woods: The Life and Design of an American Camp Meeting on
    Martha's Vineyard (Oxford, 1987); Dolores Hayden, Seven American Utopias: The
    Architecture of Utopian Socialism, 17901975 (Cambridge, Mass., 1976); and Edward T.
    Price, 'The Central Courthouse Square in the American County Seat', in Upton and Vlach,
    eds., Common Places, collectively convey a sense of the traditional spaces of community
    and authority in the American landscape, and of the use of quasi-urban spatial models in
    all of them.
    The political qualities of urban spaces in colonial America are evident in Dora P. Crouch,
    Daniel J. Garr, and Axel I. Mundingo, Spanish City Planning in North America
    (Cambridge, Mass., 1982) and in John Reps's many studies of American city plans, such
    as The Making of Urban America: A History of City Planning in the United States
    (Princeton, 1965). The best discussion of the evolution of New Orleans's plan is Samuel
    Wilson, Jr., The Vieux Carré, New Orleans, Its Plan, Its Growth, Its Architecture (New
    Orleans, 1968).
    Indian Authority
    William N. Morgan, Prehistoric Architecture in the Eastern United States (Cambridge,

    Mass., 1980), an architect's interpretive reconstructions of North American moundbuilder sites, offers a good comparative starting-point for appreciating the number and
    variety of indigenous earthworks, but interested readers will also want to search out the
    still useful, visually delightful work by Cyrus Thomas, Report on the Mound
    Explorations of the Bureau of Ethnology (1894; repr. Washington, 1985).
    The next step is to consult more detailed and more up-to-date (but also less analytical and
    harder-to-find) archaeological studies such as Jon L. Gibson, Poverty Point: A Terminal
    Archaic Culture of the Lower Mississippi Valley (2nd edn; Baton Rouge, La., 1996) and
    Robert S. Neitzel, Archeology of the Fatherland Site: The Grand Village of the Natchez
    (New York, 1965). A recent, and controversial, reinterpretation of one of the best-known
    Ohio Valley mounds is Robert V. Fletcher, Terry L. Cameron, Bradley T. Lepper, Dee
    Anne Wymer, and William Pickard, 'Serpent Mound: A Fort Ancient Icon?'
    Midcontinental Journal of Archaeology, 21 (1996).
    The Iroquois longhouse has attracted comment and study since the seventeenth century.
    Mima Kapches, 'The Spatial Dynamics of Ontario Iroquois Longhouse', American
    Antiquity, 55 (1990) reconstructs the early history of these distinctive buildings. On the
    Iroquois Confederacy and the evolution of the longhouse as metaphor and building type,
    see Daniel K. Richer, The Ordeal of the Longhouse: The Peoples of the Iroquois League
    in the Era of European Colonization (Chapel Hill, NC, 1992). The emergence of the
    Longhouse Religion is the subject of Anthony F. C. Wallace's classic The Death and
    Rebirth of the Seneca (New York, 1970); while contemporary Iroquois religious
    longhouses are discussed in Bruce G. Trigger, ed., Handbook of North American Indians,
    15, Northeast (Washington, 1978).
    Since Talbot F. Hamlin drew attention to its architectural importance in Greek Revival
    Architecture in America (Oxford, 1944), historians have looked to the United States
    Capitol as a laboratory and a source for the architectural imagery of civic life in the
    United States. Jeanne F. Butler, ed., 'Competition 1972: Designing a Nation's Capitol,'
    Capitol Studies, 4 (1976) surveys the surviving entries

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    to the original design competition. Hugh Honour, Neo-Classicism (Harmondsworth,
    1968) is a brief, clear introduction to the symbolic premisses that guided many of the
    competitors. For the latter history of the Capitol, see Pamela Scott, Temple of Liberty:
    Building the Capitol for the New Nation (Oxford, 1995) and Vivian Green Fryd,
    'Political Compromise in Public Art: Thomas Crawford's Statue of Freedom', in
    Harriet F. Senie and Sally Webster, eds., Critical Issues in Public Art: Content,
    Context, and Controversy (New York, 1992), which analyses the debate over the
    Crawford statue.
    The plan of Washington, the symbolic landscape into which the Capitol was set, has been
    even more thoroughly documented than the Capitol building itself. National Capital
    Planning Commission and Frederick E. Gutheim, Worthy of the Nation: The History of
    Planning for the National Capital (Washington, 1977) and John W. Reps, Monumental
    Washington: The Planning and Development of the Capital Center (Princeton, 1967) are
    useful introductions, while Richard Longstreth, ed., The Mall in Washington, 17911991
    (Washington, 1991) treats the transformations of the ceremonial core over two centuries.
    Since the time of the Capitol competition, the architectural representation of political
    values has been a constant topic of public debate. Lois Craig, The Federal Presence:
    Architecture, Politics, and Symbols in United States Government Building (Cambridge,
    Mass., 1978) catalogues significant federal efforts at political representation. Ron Robin's
    Enclaves of America: The Rhetoric of American Political Architecture Abroad, 19001965
    (Princeton, 1992) treats similar themes in embassies and military cemeteries. Outside the
    federal realm, Charles T. Goodsell, The Social Meaning of Civic Space: Studying
    Political Authority through Architecture (Lawrence, Kan., 1988) offers a political
    scientist's take on American political architecture. Howard Gillette, Jr., 'Philadelphia's City
    Hall: Monument to a New Political Machine', Pennsylvania Magazine of History and
    Biography, 97 (1973) is an exemplary study of the conflicts involved in creating one of
    the nation's most conspicuous civic buildings.
    Ancestral Homelands
    Ancestral homelands can best be understood as a kind of invented tradition, a term
    introduced in Eric Hobsbawm and Terence Rangers, eds., The Invention of Tradition
    (Cambridge, 1983) to refer both to long-standing cultural practices selected for increased
    emphasis and to those newly coined by national or ethnic groups to cultivate internal
    solidarity or to claim recognition and participation in diverse societies. Klara Bonsack
    Kelley and Harris Francis, Navajo Sacred Places (Bloomington, Ind., 1994) describe the
    ancestral homeland of the largest Native American nation, while Carol Herselle Krinsky,
    Contemporary Native American Architecture: Cultural Regeneration and Creativity

    (Oxford, 1996) treats imaginary ancestral homelands similar to those created by
    European-American and other immigrant groups.
    The Colonial Revival, ongoing since the mid-nineteenth century, is the best-studied of the
    European-American ancestral homelands. William B. Rhoads, The Colonial Revival (New
    York, 1977) is the standard architectural history. Alan Axelord, ed., The Colonial Revival
    in America (New York, 1985) juxtaposes architecture with other forms of material
    expression; the book contains an important theoretical introduction by Kenneth Ames.
    Karal Ann Marling, George Washington Slept Here: Colonial Revivals and American
    Culture, 18761986 (Cambridge, Mass., 1988) and Robin Fleming, 'Picturesque History
    and the Medieval in Nineteenth-Century America', American Historical Review, 100
    (1995) (on the Vikings) cast the net even wider, drawing the Colonial Revival into the
    realm of cultural history and connecting it to others forms of Anglo-American
    filiopietism, respectively.
    The documentation and preservation of historic architecture has been indispensable to the
    Colonial Revival, and to the definition of ancestral homelands in general. Dell Upton,
    'The Story of the Book', an introduction to Charles Morse Stotz's Early Architecture of
    Western Pennsylvania (1936; repr. Pittsburgh, 1995), one of many books of architectural
    documentation produced in the 1920s and 1930s, discusses the history of architectural
    fieldwork in the Colonial Revival. Margaret Henderson Floyd, 'Measured Drawings of the
    Hancock House by John Hubbard Sturgis: A Legacy to the Colonial Revival', in Abbott
    Lowell Cummings, ed., Architecture in Colonial Massachusetts (Charlottesville, Va.,
    1979) examines a pioneering recording project that inspired a generation of Colonial
    Revival architectural designs.
    The history of historic preservation is

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    treated in two exhaustive but uncritical works by Charles B. Hosmer, Jr., Presence of
    the Past: A History of the Preservation Movement in the United States Before
    Williamsburg (New York, 1965) and Preservation Comes of Age: from Williamsburg
    to the National Trust, 19261949 (Charlottesville, Va., 1981). The preservation
    movement's history and principles are treated more succinctly in William J. Murtagh,
    Keeping Time: The History and Theory of Preservation in America (New York, 1988).
    These works should be read in the context of Dolores Hayden, The Power of Place:
    Urban Landscapes as Public History (Cambridge, Mass., 1994) and Mike Wallace,
    Mickey Mouse History and Other Essays on American Memory (Philadelphia, 1996),
    important critiques of mainstream American preservation theory and practice that call
    for a more critical and inclusive approach to the past.
    The practice of creating ancestral homelands through cultural synthesis and
    reinterpretation, epitomized by the Colonial Revival and historic preservation, is
    widespread among all ethnic groups in the United States. It is easiest to observe in
    African-American architecture and material culture because it has been the most closely
    studied of non-white American landscapes. John Michael Vlach, The Afro-American
    Tradition in Decorative Arts (Cleveland, 1978); Vlach, 'The Shotgun House: An African
    Architectural Legacy', in Upton and Vlach, eds., Common Places; and Jay D. Edwards,
    'Cultural Syncretism in the Louisiana Creole Cottage', Louisiana Folklore Miscellany, 4
    (197680) are key works. The Gulf Coast house discussed by Vlach and Edwards share the
    same Afro-Caribbean sources as the contemporary casitas of the Puerto Ricans in New
    York; see Joseph Sciorra, 'Return to the Future: Pureto Rican Vernacular Architecture in
    New York City', in Anthony D. King, ed., Re-Presenting the City: Ethnicity, Capital and
    Culture in the 21st-Century Metropolis (New York, 1996).
    Overseas Chinese traditions are less thoroughly documented, but Key J. Anderson,
    Vancouver's Chinatown: Racial Discourse in Canada, 18751980 (Montreal, 1991) and
    Christopher L. Yip, 'Association, Residence, and Shop: An Appropriation of Commercial
    Blocks in North American Chinatowns', in Elizabeth Collins Cromley and Carter L.
    Hudgins, eds., Gender, Class, and Shelter: Perspectives in Vernacular Architecture, V
    (Knoxville, Tenn., 1995) are helpful.
    Cultural Authority
    The exercise of cultural authority in colonial churches is treated in Upton, Holy Things
    and Profane and Robert J. Dinkin, 'Seating the Meetinghouse in Early Massachusetts', in
    St George, ed., Material Life in America 16001860.
    Lawrence W. Levine's influential Highbrow Lowbrow: The Emergence of Cultural

    Hierarchy in America (Cambridge, Mass., 1988) examines the rise of cultural authority in
    the nineteenth century. Its architectural manifestations can be traced in studies of
    particular institutions such as Paul Turner, Campus: An American Planning Tradition
    (New York, 1984); Upton, 'Lancasterian Schools'; Kenneth Hafertepe, America's Castle:
    The Evolution of the Smithsonian Building and Its Institution (Washington, 1984);
    Morrison H. Hecksher, The Metropolitan Museum of Art: An Architectural History (New
    York, 1995); Abigail A. Van Slyck, Free to All: Carnegie Libraries and American
    Culture, 18901920 (Chicago, 1996); Kenneth A. Breisch, Henry Hobson Richardson and
    the Small Public Library: A Study in Typology (Cambridge, Mass., 1997); and more
    broadly in Richard Guy Wilson, Dianne H. Pilgrim, and Richard N. Murray, The
    American Renaissance 18761917 (New York, 1979). An indispensable dissection of the
    architecture of twentieth-century cultural authority is Alan Wallach And Carol Duncan,
    'The Museum of Modern Art as Late Capitalist Ritual: An Iconographic Analysis', Marxist
    Perspectives, 1 (1978).
    The few studies of North Easton, Mass., focus on Henry Hobson Richardson and
    Frederick Law Olmsted, virtually ignoring the Ames family's earlier development of the
    site. Robert F. Brown, 'The Aesthetic Transformation of an Industrial Community',
    Winterthur Portfolio, 12 (1977) offers a brief history of the town, while James F.
    O'Gorman, H. H. Richardson: Architectural Forms for an American Society (Chicago,
    1987) considers the cultural and psychological implications of some of Richardson's
    works there.
    Community, representation, and inclusion are implicit issues underlying recent urban
    conflicts. Many of the most conspicuous have arisen over political and communal
    representations in monuments and works of public art. These conflicts extend to the
    beginnings of the republic and the design of the United States Capitol, which at one point

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    was intended to contain a monument and mausoleum for George Washington. The
    century-long effort to create suitable monument to Washington was the first of a series
    of difficult commemorative projects. Kirk Savage discusses the process in 'The SelfMade Monument: George Washington and the Fight to Erect a National Memorial',
    included in Senie and Webster, eds., Critical Issues in Public Art, an insightful
    collection of articles on public monuments ranging from the Washington Monument to
    the Vietnam Veterans' Memorial. Savage's Standing Soldiers, Kneeling Slaves: Race,
    Art, and Monument in Nineteenth-Century America (Princeton, 1997) is an important
    history of designers' attempts to come to terms with the representations of AfricanAmericans in American public art. Erika Doss, Spirit Poles and Flying Pigs: Public
    Art and Cultural Democracy in American Communities (Washington, 1995) treats
    similar but more recent and more complex controversies in several American cities.
    As Rosalyn Deutsche notes in her influential 'Uneven Development: Public Art in New
    York City', in Deutsche, Evictions: Art and Spatial Politics (Cambridge, Mass., 1996),
    public art projects (such as the Cincinnati Gateway discussed here) are often mounted in
    conjunction with redevelopment schemes and are consequently part of the larger issue of
    the power to control public space and public participation in the city. Margaret Crawford,
    'Contesting the Public Realm: Struggles Over Public Space in Los Angeles', Journal of
    Architectural Education, 49 (1995) describes battles over the right to be in the streets and
    the way landscape and architectural design are used as weapons in this bitter war.
    Crawford's essay touches on one aspect of the insidious privatization of public space in
    the contemporary city under the domination of revitalization and redevelopment. Others
    are treated in Michael Sorkin, ed., Variations on a Theme Park: Scenes from the New
    American City and the End of Public Space (New York, 1992) and William R. Taylor, ed.,
    Inventing Times Square: Commerce and Culture at the Crossroads of the World
    (Baltimore, 1991). Neil Smith, The New Urban Frontier: Gentrification and the
    Revanchist City (London, 1996) examines the same issues as they impinge on the right to
    So far, the New Urbanism has been the subject of criticism and publicity, but not of
    The most useful sources are tracts written by the movement's advocates, including Alex
    Krieger and William Lennertz, eds., Andres Duany and Elizabeth Plater-Zyberk: Towns
    and Town-Making Principles (New York, 1991); Peter Calthorpe, The Next American
    Metropolis: Ecology, Community, and the American Dream (Princeton, 1993); and Peter
    Katz's picture book, The New Urbanism: Toward an Architecture of Community (New

    York, 1994).
    For the background to this latest round of urban-design theorizing, readers should consult
    Mel Scott, American City Planning since 1890 (Berkeley and Los Angeles, 1969); William
    H. Wilson, The City Beautiful Movement (Baltimore, 1989); Robert Fishman, Urban
    Utopias in the Twentieth Century: Ebenezer Howard, Frank Lloyd Wright, and Le
    Corbusier (New York, 1977); M. Christine Boyer, Dreaming the Rational City: The Myth
    of American City Planning (Cambridge, Mass., 1983); and Kenneth Jackson, Crabgrass
    Frontier: The Suburbanization of the United States (Oxford, 1984), a historian's study.

    Chapter 3. Nature
    Conceptions of nature have been as diverse as the cultures who have inhabited the United
    States. Indigenous ideas and ecological practices are discussed in R. Douglas Hurt, Indian
    Agriculture in America: Prehistory to the Present (Lawrence, Kan., 1987); Robert F.
    Heizer and Albert B. Elsasser, The Natural World of the California Indians (Berkeley and
    Los Angeles, 1980); George F. MacDonald, Haida Monumental Art: Villages of the
    Queen Charlotte Islands (Vancouver, 1983); and in the Handbook of North American
    Indians series.
    Euro-American notions can be traced in Clarence J. Glacken, Traces on the Rhodian
    Shore: Nature and Culture in Western Thought from Ancient Times to the End of the
    Eighteenth Century (Berkeley and Los Angeles, 1967) and Carolyn Merchant, The Death
    of Nature: Women, Ecology, and the Scientific Revolution (New York, 1980). These
    normative overviews should be supplemented by two comparative studies, William
    Cronon's paradigm-defining Changes in the Land: Indians, Colonists, and the Ecology
    of New England (New York, 1983) and Timothy Silver, A New Face on the Countryside:
    Indians, Colonists, and Slaves in South Atlantic Forests, 15001800 (Cambridge, 1990).
    An older work, Roderick Nash, Wilderness and the American Mind (3rd edn; New Haven
    and London, 1982) carries the story to the late nineteenth century, while William Cronon,

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    ed., Uncommon Ground: Toward Reinventing Nature (New York, 1995) is concerned
    primarily with recent decades.
    On vernacular attitudes toward nature and the environment, see John R. Stilgoe, Common
    Landscape of America, 1580 to 1845 (New Haven and London, 1982) and works on
    particular regions and ethnic groups, such as Richard Davisson, Jr., 'The Dragon and San
    Francisco', Landscape, 17 (1967-8); John Lehr, Ukrainian Vernacular Architecture in
    Alberta (Edmonton, 1976); and Marta Weigle and Peter White, The Lore of New Mexico
    (Albuquerque, NM, 1988).
    Neo-classicism and Romanticism
    Peter Collins's old but still useful Changing Ideals in Modern Architecture, 17501950
    (London, 1965) is the best introduction to neoclassicism and romanticism in EuroAmerican architecture. Associationism and the picturesque are explained most succinctly
    in George Hersey, High Victorian Gothic: A Study in Associationism (Baltimore, 1972).
    R. W. B. Lewis, The American Adam: Innocence, Tragedy, and Tradition in the
    Nineteenth Century (Chicago, 1955) and Henry Nash Smith, Virgin Land: The American
    Land in Myth and Symbol (Cambridge, Mass., 1950) are classic studies of romantic ideas
    toward the landscape. They exemplify the 'myth and symbol' group of American studies,
    which sought to delineate a unitary American cultural temperament. In fact, these studies
    explored a small but conspicuous segment of nineteenth-century American literature that
    they wrongly assumed characterized the attitudes of all Americans. As it happens, though,
    the writers that Lewis and Mash treat deeply influenced some prominent nineteenthcentury architects, notably Louis Sullivan and Frank Lloyd Wright: see Sherman Paul,
    Louis Sullivan: An Architect in American Thought (Englewood Cliffs, NJ, 1962); Narciso
    Menocal, Architecture as Nature: The Transcendentalist Idea of Louis Sullivan
    (Madison, 1981); and Carol R. Bolon, Robert S. Nelson, and Linda Seidel, eds. The
    Nature of Frank Lloyd Wright (Chicago, 1988).
    Country Life
    The history of the picturesque landscape tradition in the United States from its appearance
    in rural cemeteries through the creation of landscaped parks to its acceptance by middleclass householders is a favourite theme of architectural historians. Good starting-points
    include David C. Sloane, The Last Great Necessity: Cemeteries in American History
    (Baltimore, 1991); David Schuyler. The New Urban Landscape: The Redefinition of City
    From in Nineteenth-Century America (Baltimore, 1986); and Handlin, The American
    Home. Virginia Scott Jenkins, The Lawn: A History of an American Obsession

    (Washington, 1994) carries the story into the twentieth century for ordinary houses. On
    twentieth-century landscape design, see Phoebe Cutler, The Public Landscape of the New
    Deal (New Haven and London, 1985); Peter Walker and Melanie Simo, Invisible
    Gardens: The Search for Modernism in the American Landscape (Cambridge, Mass.,
    1994), and Marc Treib, ed., Modern Landscape Architecture: A Critical Review
    (Cambridge, Mass., 1993).
    Naturally, the story of the fantasy of country life is not as seamless as the standard
    account has it. Over time, notions of appropriate public recreation spaces have been
    challenged as tenaciously as they have been articulated. Daniel M. Bluestone, 'From
    Promenade to Park: The Gregarious Origins of Brooklyn's Park Movement', American
    Quarterly, 39 (1987) treats the clash of social classes in the informal recreational spaces
    of early-nineteenth-century Brooklyn. The contentious evolution of formal parks is the
    subject of Galen Cranz, The Politics of Park Design: A History of Urban Parks in
    America (Cambridge, Mass., 1982). Roy Rosenzweig and Elizabeth Blackmar, The Park
    and the People: A History of Central Park (Ithaca, NY, 1992) offer a major account of
    the continuous conflicts that have enveloped Central Park, New York, since it was first
    planned. Similarly, F. Herbert Bormann, Diana Balmori, and Gordon T. Geballe,
    Redesigning the American Lawn: A Search for Environmental History (New Haven and
    London, 1993) consider the problematic ecological legacy of the private landscape in the
    late twentieth century.
    The relationship of architecture to place is a continuing, if vaguely expressed, theme in
    American architecture. It has even spawned a journal, Places. California has been an
    especially popular testing-ground for ideas of place. Insiders and outsiders, writers and
    artists as well as architects have sought to identify some peculiar qualities of the state's
    landscape, climate, and ways of life that might distinguish its artistic production. Kevin
    Starr's perceptive history Americans and the California Dream, 18501915 (Oxford,
    1973) provides the cultural context. Sally

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    Woodbridge, ed., Bay Area Houses (rev. edn., Salt Lake City, 1988) illustrates the
    seductiveness of the idea of California as a distinctive place to architects and historians
    alike. Abigail A. Van Slyck, 'Mañana, Mañana: Racial Stereotypes and the Anglo
    Rediscovery of the Southwest's Vernacular Architecture, 18901920', in Cromley and
    Hudgins, eds., Gender, Class, and Shelter, uncovers the seamier side of regionalism,
    with particular attention to Charles Fletcher Lummis. Kenneth Frampton, 'Towards a
    Critical Regionalism: Six Points for an Architecture of Resistance,', in Hal Foster, ed.,
    The Anti-Aesthetic: Essays on Postmodern Culture (Port Townsend, Wash., 1983) has
    been influential in arguing for a regionalism that avoids the kinds of literalistic imagery
    and sentimental historic quotation that has characterized the celebration of place in
    much of American architecture, including California.
    The Primitive
    Marianna Torgovnick's Primitive Passions: Men, Women, and the Quest for Ecstasy
    (New York, 1996) explores some of the cultural roots of primitivism. Collins, Changing
    Ideals in Modern Architecture offers a succinct introduction to primitivism in high
    architectural theory. Primitivist interpretations of vernacular architecture derive from this
    theory and from late nineteenth-century anthropology; see Dell Upton, 'Outside the
    Academy: A Century of Vernacular Architecture Studies in America, 18901990', in
    Elisabeth Blair MacDougall, ed., The Architectural Historian in America (Washington,
    1991). They also owe much to the literature of so-called 'folk art', explored in John
    Michael Vlach, Plain Painters?: Making Sense of American Folk Art (Washington, 1988)
    and Michael D. Hall and Eugene W. Metcalf, eds., The Artist Outsider: Creativity and the
    Boundaries of Culture (Washington, 1994).
    Perhaps no aspect of American architecture has been written about so badly for so long
    as log building. On the tenacious myth of log construction as a 'pioneer' technology, see
    Harold R. Shurtleff, The Log Cabin Myth: A Study of the Early Dwellings of the English
    Colonies in North America (Cambridge, Mass., 1939). Warren E. Roberts, 'The Tools
    Used in Building Log Houses in Indiana', in Upton and Vlach, eds., Common Places,
    conveys as sense of the technological sophistication of log construction. Fred B. Kniffen
    and Henry Glassie, 'Building in Wood in the Eastern United States: A Time-Place
    Perspective', in Common Places offer the dominant reading of the Central European
    origins of log building in North America, while Terry G. Jordan, American Log
    Buildings: An Old World Heritage (Chapel Hill, NC, 1985) attempts to revive an older
    theory that American log construction derives from Scandinavia.
    The Simple Life

    The idea of the simple life has been a persistent one in American thought, as David E. Shi
    reveals in The Simple Life: Plain Living and High Thinking in American Culture
    (Oxford, 1985). Americans in the early national period touted 'republican simplicity'a
    general sameness of lifestyleas a recipe for political stability, an idea whose architectural
    implications Gwendolyn Wright touches on in Building the Dream. Contemporary ideals
    of simplicity in design and lifeways derive more directly from the aestheticized asceticism
    of the English Arts and Crafts movement. Eileen Boris, Art and Labor: Ruskin, Morris,
    and the Craftsman Ideal in America (Philadelphia, 1986) explores the movement's
    American fortunes.
    The bungalow's history was implicated with, but not determined by, that of the Arts and
    Crafts movement. Anthony D. King's essential The Bungalow: The Production of a
    Global Culture (London, 1984) establishes the international cultural patterns that created
    this ubiquitous early-twentieth-century house type. Clay Lancaster, The American
    Bungalow, 18801930 (New York, 1985) is a more popularly oriented treatment of the
    bungalow's American history. Alan Gowans, The Comfortable House: North American
    Suburban Architecture, 18901930 (Cambridge, Mass., 1986) sets it among a variety of
    popular house forms of the turn of the century.
    The aestheticized rusticity of the bungalow should also be contrasted with the domestic
    lives of rural Americans in the first half of the twentieth century. James N. Gregory,
    American Exodus: The Dust Bow/Migration and Okie Culture in California (Oxford,
    1989) and Greg Hise, 'From Roadside Camps to Garden Homes: Housing and Community
    Planning for California's Migrant Works Force, 19351941', in Cromley and Hudgins, eds.,
    Gender, Class, and Shelter offer a necessary context for understanding the bungalow.
    Act Naturally
    Contemporary ecological concerns have affected architecture and its history in two

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    ways: through the new field of 'environmental history', which examines the interaction
    of people and their surroundings, and through the movement for 'green' architectural
    design. Donald Worster, The Wealth of Nature: Environmental History and the
    Ecological Imagination (Oxford, 1993) is a helpful starting-point, enriched by 'A
    Round Table: Environment History', a special section of the Journal of American
    History, 76 (1990). Christine Meisner Rosen and Joel Arthur Tarr, eds., 'The
    Environment and the City', a special issue of the Journal of Urban History, 20 (1994),
    and physical and public-policy dimensions to the story. The environmental history of
    individual buildings in much less advanced, but Handlin, American Home, touches on
    the subject.
    On the pioneers of energy-efficient design in the 1930s and 1940s, readers must turn to
    the monographs by Robert Boyce, Keck and Keck (Princeton, 1993) and Doris Cole,
    Eleanor Raymond, Architect (Philadelphia, 1981).
    There are many manifestos on sustainability, but no histories. Among the former, David
    W. Orr, Ecological Literacy: Education and the Transition to a Post-Modern World
    (Albany, NY, 1992) is representative and eloquent. Martin W. Lewis, Green Delusions: An
    Environmental Critique of Radical Environmentalism (Durham, NC, 1992) is a sharp,
    perceptive critique of the ideas to which Or and others subscribe.
    Sam Davis, Designing for Energy Efficiency: A Study of Eight California State Office
    Buildings (Berkeley, 1981) reports on the late 1970s programme of California's Office of
    the State Architect that created the Bateson Building, as well as the other seven
    experimental structures. Hayden, Redesigning the American Dream describes several
    attempts to build sustainable houses during the same years. More recent ecological design
    is discussed in Michael J. Crosbie, Green Architecture: A Guide to Sustainable Design
    (Rockport, Mass., 1994), a picture-book.

    Chapter 4. Technology
    David E. Nye, American Technological Sublime (Cambridge, Mass., 1994) reveals the
    origins of the word technology. I have benefited greatly from Nye's arguments in shaping
    the first portions of this chapter. Sigfried Giedion, Mechanization Takes Command: A
    Contribution to Anonymous History (New York, 1948) is a brilliant, ground-breaking
    statement of the principle that technological development follows social demand. For the
    industrial context of American architectural technology, see Brooke Hindle and Steven
    Lubar, Engines of Changes: The American Industrial Revolution 17901860

    (Washington, 1986) and Robert B. Gordon and Patrick M. Malone, The Texture of
    Industry: An Archaeological View of the Industrialization of North America (Oxford,
    Carl W. Condit, American Building Art: Materials and Techniques from the Beginning of
    the Colonial Settlements to the Present (2nd edn; Chicago, 1982), a condensed version
    of his encyclopaedic American Building Art (2 vols.; Oxford, 1960-1), is an old, whiggish
    survey that remains the most convenient source for much of the technological history of
    high-end American architecture. Smaller-scale, and particularly vernacular, building
    technologies have no similar survey, although Charles E. Peterson, ed., Building Early
    America: Contribution toward the History of a Great Industry (Radnor, Penn., 1976) and
    H. Ward Jandl, ed., the Technology of History American Buildings: Studies of the
    Materials, Craft Processes, and the Mechanization of Building Construction
    (Washington, 1985) fill in some of the blanks.
    For Anglo-American vernacular timber-framing, start with Dell Upton, 'Traditional
    Timber Framing', in Brooke Hindle ed., Material Culture of the Wooden Age (Tarrytown,
    NY, 1981). Add Cary Carson, Norman F. Barka, William M. Kelso, Garry Wheeler Stone,
    and Dell Upton, 'Impermanent Architecture in the Southern American Colonies',
    Winterthur Portfolio, 16 (1981), major rethinking of building construction in the early
    South; Cummings, Framed Houses of Massachusetts Bay, the best and most recent of
    many studies of classic New England timber building; and John F. Fitchen, The New
    World Dutch Barn: A Study of Its Characteristics, Its Structural System, and Its
    Probable Erectional Procedures (Syracuse, NY, 1968) for Netherlandish construction.
    Native American building technology has been almost entirely neglected, but in addition
    to the Nabokov and Easton survey, see Robert H. Lowie, Indians of the Plains (New
    York, 1954).
    The industrial transformation of work, is discussed in the title essay in Herbert G.
    Gutman, Work, Culture and Society in Industrializing America: Essays in American
    Working-Class and Social History (New York, 1976), Daniel T. Rodgers, The Work Ethic
    in Industrial Society, 18501920 (Chicago, 1974);

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    and Ruth Schwartz Cowan, A Social History of American Technology (Oxford, 1997).
    Catherine W. Bishir, Charlotte V. Brown, Carl R. Lounsbury, and Ernest H. Wood III,
    Architects and Builder in North Carolina: A History of the Practice of Building
    (Chapel Hill, NC, 1990) is wide-ranging study with importance to all of American
    architectural history.
    The most recent works on the balloon frame are Paul. E. Sprague, 'Chicago Balloon
    Frame: The Evolution During the 19th Century of George W. Snow's System for Erecting
    Light Frame Buildings from Dimension Lumber and Machine-Made Nails', in Jandl, ed.,
    The Technology of Historic American Buildings and Upton, 'Traditional Timber Framing',
    which presents a different point of view from Sprague's.
    Gilbert Herbert, Pioneers of Prefabrication: The British Contribution in the Nineteenth
    Century (Baltimore, 1978) discusses some early schemes to supply prefabricated
    buildings to the United States. There is no specifically American history, except for the
    fragments Charles E. Peterson assembled in many instalments of his 'American Notes'
    column, scattered through the Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians in the
    1905s and 1960s. Donald Albrecht, ed., World War II and the American Dream: How
    Wartime Building Changed a Nation (Cambridge, Mass., 1994) discusses the drive to
    industrialize domestic construction in the 1940s and the invention of the Quonset hut.
    On ventilation in American houses, see Handlin, American Home and Elizabeth Collins
    Cromley, 'A History of American Beds and Bedrooms', in Thomas Carter and Bernard L.
    Herman, eds., Perspectives in Vernacular Architecture, IV (Columbia, Mo., 1991). John
    D. Thompson and Grace Goldin, The Hospital: A Social and Architectural History (New
    Haven and London, 1975) is a detailed study that is useful for understanding the history
    of ventilation in many types of institutional buildings.
    Gender, Sex, and Filth
    Reyner Banham, The Architecture of the Well-Tempered Environment (Chicago, 1969) is
    the standard and nearly the only history of HVAC (heating, ventilating, and airconditioning) technology in the United States. It has been supplemented, but not replaced,
    by Cecil D. Elliott, Technics and Architecture: The Development of Materials and
    Systems for Buildings (Cambridge, Mass., 1992). To understand the Larkin Building's
    technology, readers should also consult Banham's addendum, 'The Services of the Larkin
    "A" Building', Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians, 37 (1978) and Jack
    Quinan's monograph Frank Lloyd Wright's Larkin Building: Myth and Fact (New York,

    1987). The American obsession with dirt is the subject of Suellen Hoy, Chasing Dirt: The
    American Pursuit of Cleanliness (Oxford, 1995), while Gwendolyn Wright has analysed
    the idea of the homelike world in Moralism and the Model Home.
    On the domestic front, Maureen Ogle, All the Modern Conveniences: American
    Household Plumbing, 18401890 (Baltimore, 1996) is a rare extended analysis of
    household hygienic technology. Ellen Lupton and J. Abbott Miller, The Bathroom, The
    Kitchen, and the Aesthetics of Waste (Cambridge, Mass., 1992) and Elizabeth Collins
    Cromley. 'Transforming the Food Axis: Houses, Tools, Modes of Analysis', Material
    History Review, 44 (1196) discuss the connections between the laboratory and the kitchen.
    The Technological Sublime
    For bridges, see Nye, American Technological Sublime, and David P. Billington, The
    Tower and the Bridge: The New Art of Structural Engineering (Princeton, 1983), the
    sources of many of the ideas and data that I have used in this section. The theoretical
    bases of large engineering structures are discussed in T.M. Charlton, A History of Theory
    of Structures in the Nineteenth Century (Cambridge, 1982), while Raymond H. Merritt,
    Engineering in American Society, 18501875 (Lexington, Ky., 1969) examines the history
    of the profession. In contrast to these traditional histories, many of the essays in Margaret
    Latimer, Brooke Hindle, and Melvin Latimer, Brooke Hindle, and Melvin Kranzberg, eds.,
    Bridge to the Future: A Centennial Celebration of the Brooklyn Bridge (New York,
    1984); along with Eugene S. Ferguson, Engineering and the Mind's Eye (Cambridge,
    Mass., 1992) treat engineering design as an aesthetic more than a scientific process.
    Leo Marx, The Machine in the Garden: Technology and the Pastoral Ideal in America
    (Oxford, 1964); John F. Kasson, Civilizing the Machine: Technology and Republican
    Values in America, 17761900 (New York, 1976); and Alan Trachtenberg, Brooklyn
    Bridge: Fact and Symbol (2nd edn; Chicago, 1979) are

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    classic studies of the cultural impact of hubristic technology in America.
    Producers and Consumers
    The aesthetic appreciation of technology is an enduring theme in twentieth-century
    American culture, as Cecilia Tichi describes in Shifting Gears: Technology, Literature,
    Culture in Modernist America (Chapel Hill, NC, 1987). Richard Guy Wilson, Dianne H.
    Pilgrim, and Dickran Tashjian, The Machine Age in America, 19181941 (New York,
    1986) is a catalogue of essays that focus on one period of intense interest in machineinspired design, which was celebrated architecturally in Henry-Russell Hitchcock and
    Philip Johnson, The International, Style: Architecture Since 1922 (New York, 1932).
    Esther McCoy, Case Study Houses, 19451962 (2nd edn; Los Angeles, 1977) carries the
    story into postwar California.
    Consuming Architecture
    Historians rediscovered industrial design in the 1970s. Jeffrey L. Meikle, TwentiethCentury Limited: Industrial Design in America, 19351939 (Philadelphia, 1979) is the
    best introduction to the origins and goals of the profession. Arthur J. Pulos, American
    Design Ethic: A History of Industrial Design to 1940 (Cambridge, Mass., 1983) and his
    The American Design Adventure, 19401975 (Cambridge, Mass., 1988) are more detailed
    chronicles. The advertising roots of industrial design are evident in Roland Marchand,
    Advertising the American Dream: Making Way for Modernity, 19201940 (Berkeley and
    Los Angeles, 1985) and T.J. Jackson Lears, Fables of Abundance: A Cultural History of
    Advertising in America (New York, 1994).
    On technological futurism, consult Joseph J. Corn and Brian Horrigan, Yesterdays's
    Tomorrows: Past Visions of the American Future (New York, 1984), an exhibition
    catalogue, and the proceedings of an associated symposium, Joseph J. Corn, ed.,
    Imagining Tomorrow: History, Technology, and the American Future (Cambridge, Mass.,
    1986). William J. Mitchell, City of Bits: Space, Place, and the Infobahn (Cambridge,
    Mass., 1995) demonstrates that while the technology changes, the promises and
    metaphors that cluster around it do not.
    The literature of twentieth-century world's fairs is copious but selective (there has been
    little written about Chicago's Century of Progress, for example) and it tends to be more
    popular and celebratory than analytical. Robert W. Rydell has become the leading scholar
    of American world's fairs. His World of Fairs: The Century-of-Progress Exhibition
    (Chicago, 1993) probes the social roots of the 1930s expositions, which Helen A.
    Harrison, ed., Dawn of a New Day: The New York World's Fair, 1939/40 (New York,

    1980) is one of the more insightful studies of an individual Depression-era technofair.

    Chapter 5. Money
    The Political Economy of Architecture
    Kendrick Frazier, People of Chaco: A Canyon and Its Culture (New York, 1986) is a
    good popular introduction to Chaco Canyon. The recent work on the political economy
    of the Anasazi community there can be followed in Linda S. Cordell, Prehistory of the
    Southwest (Orlando, Fla., 1984); Stephen H. Lekson, Thomas C. Windes, John R. Stein,
    and W. James Judge, 'The Chaco Canyon Community', Scientific American, 259 (July
    1988); and Patricia A. Crown and W. James Judge, eds., Chaco and Hohokam:
    Prehistoric Regional System in the American Southwest (Santa Fe and Seattle, 1991).
    For the early history of Philadelphia, see two significant, often overlooked, articles: Gary
    B. Nash, 'City Planning and Political Tensions in the Seventeenth Century: The Case of
    Philadelphia', Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society, 112 (1968) and
    Hannah Benner Roach, 'The Planting of Philadelphia: A Seventeenth-Century Real Estate
    Development', Pennsylvania Magazine of History and Biography, 92 (1986). Greg Hise,
    Magnetic Los Angeles: Planning the Postwar Metropolis (Baltimore, 1997) brilliantly
    analyses the development of Los Angeles after 1945.
    System and Flow
    Joyce O. Appleby, Economic Thought and Ideology in Seventeenth-Century England
    (Princeton, 1978) describes the growth of popular ideas of the systematic nature of
    economic life. She follows its eighteenth-century dissemination to North America in her
    essays collected in Liberalism and Republicanism in the Historical Imagination
    (Cambridge, Mass., 1992). The application of these ideas to the city is discussed in Dell
    Upton, 'Another City: The Urban Cultural Landscape in the Early Republic', in Catherine
    E. Hutchins, ed., Everyday Life in the Early Republic (Winterthur, Del., 1994).

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    For the grid, also see Peter Marcuse, 'The Grid as City Plan: New York City and
    Laissez-Faire Planning in the Nineteenth Century', Planning Perspectives, 2 (1987) and
    Paul Groth, 'Streetgrids as Frameworks for Urban Variety', Harvard Architectural
    Review, 2 (1981).
    Sam Bass Warner, Jr.'s classic Streetcar Suburbs: The Process of Growth in Boston,
    18701900 (Cambridge, Mass., 1962) demonstrates the ways that systems of transportation
    reorganized the proximate city. It is nicely complemented by William Cronon, Nature's
    Metropolis: Chicago and the Great West (New York, 1991), a model study of the
    systematic connections between a major city and its hinterland. In contrast to systems
    such as these that emerged from the actions of many politicians, builders, merchants, and
    ordinary citizens one might set planners' efforts to create artificially ordered cities,
    detailed in Boyer, Dreaming the Rational City. Too often, planners' efforts attempt to
    suppress messy or unpleasant, but necessary elements of the city, such as those sketched
    in J. B. Jackson's 1957 essay 'The Stranger's Path', reprinted in Ervin H. Zube, ed.,
    Landscapes: Selected Writings of J. B. Jackson (Amherst, Mass., 1970).
    The Social Life of Work
    To understand office buildings, one must understand corporate organization, as well as
    the quotidian routines and material demands of office work. The standard work on
    corporate structure is Alfred D. Chandler, Jr., The Visible Hand: The Managerial
    Revolution in American Business (Cambridge, Mass., 1977). On office work, see Elyce J.
    Rotella, 'The Transformation of the American Office: Changes in Employment and
    Technology', Journal of Economic History, 41 (1981), an early essay that has been
    considerably extended by Angel Kwolek-Folland, Engendering Business: Men and
    Women in the Corporate Office, 18701930 (Baltimore, 1994). Kwolek-Folland discusses
    the architecture and material culture of work, but these are treated in more detail in
    Adrian Forty, Objects of Desire: Design and Society 17501980 (London, 1986) and
    JoAnne Yates, Control Through Communication: The Rise of System in American
    Management (Baltimore, 1989).
    The Public Life of Business
    Architectural critics and historians have been obsessed with the relationship between
    structural technology and the appearance of the tall office building almost since the type
    became an object of public scrutiny in the late nineteenth century. Carl W. Condit, The
    Chicago School of Architecture: A History of Commercial and Public Building in the
    Chicago Area, 18751925 (Chicago, 1964) is a classic study in this traditional mode, and
    is now complemented by Sarah Bradford Landau and Carl Condit, Rise of the New York

    Skyscraper, 18651913 (New Haven and London, 1996). Cervin Robinson and Rosemarie
    Haag Bletter, Skyscraper Style: Art Deco New York (Oxford, 1975) and Ada Louise
    Huxtable, The Tall Office Building Reconsidered: The Search for a Skyscraper Style
    (New York, 1984) carry the aesthetic appreciation of skyscrapers into the 1930s and the
    1980s respectively.
    However, Daniel M. Bluestone, Constructing Chicago (New Haven and London, 1991),
    has pointedly delineated the discrepancy between those aspects of the office building that
    contemporaries thought were important and those that architectural historians care about.
    The appearance of the skyscraper, for example, has as much to do with corporate
    visibility and distinction in the landscape as it does with the abstractions of architectural
    art. Carol Willis's Form Follows Finance: Skyscrapers and Skylines in New York and
    Chicago (Princeton, 1995) goes even farther. In this highly original work, Willis reduces
    exterior appearance to a minor element of tall-office-building design, one that lagged
    behind such paramount concerns as office-work patterns, real-estate calculations, and
    zoning regulations in shaping skyscrapers.
    Business corporations use architectural design to assert their public presence in many
    other settings, most notably in retail outlets of all sorts. These other other manifestations
    of corporate aesthetics are explored in Barbara Rubin, 'Aesthetic Ideology and Urban
    Design', in Upton and Vlach, eds., Common Places; Daniel M. Bluestone, 'Roadside
    Blight and the Reform of Commercial Architectur', in Jan Jennings, ed., Roadside
    America: The Automobile in Design and Culture (Ames, Ia., 1990); Daniel I. Vieyra,
    Fill'er Up: An Architectural History of America's Gas Stations (New York, 1979); and
    Chester H. Liebs, Main Street to Miracle Mile: American Roadside Architecture (Boston,
    The Moral Authority of Capitalism
    In contrast to twentieth-century world's fairs, nineteenth-century fairs, particularly the
    World's Columbian Exposition, have been the objects of intense scholarly scrutiny and

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    popular celebration. Robert W. Rydell, All the World's a Fair: Visions of Empire at
    American International Expositions, 18761916 (Chicago, 1984) focuses most closely
    on the moral relationship between fairs and the capitalist order. Among the most
    useful works on the 1893 fair and R. Reid Badger, The Great American Fair: The
    World's Columbian Exposition and American Culture (Chicago, 1979); Rydell, 'The
    World's Columbian Exposition of 1893: The Racist Underpinnings of a Utopian
    Artifact', Journal of American Culture, 1 (1978); and James Gilbert, Perfect Cities:
    Chicago's Utopias of 1893 (Chicago, 1991), which places the World's Columbian
    Exposition in the context of Chicago's commercial downtown and its model worker
    suburb at Pullman.
    The Spatial Economy of Consumption
    Architectural historians are just beginning to acknowledge the landscapes of retail
    consumption. For the nineteenth century, Meredith L. Clausen's brief 'The Department
    StoreDevelopment of the Type,' Journal of Architectural Education, 39 (1985) can be
    augmented with Susan Porter Benson, Counter Cultures: Saleswomen, Managers, and
    Customers in American Department Stores 18901940 (Champaign, Ill., 1986), a social
    history. For the business and retailing imperatives that helped to shape one famous
    department store building, see Joseph Siry, Carson Pirie Scott: Louis Sullivan and the
    Chicago Department Store (Chicago, 1988).
    William S. Worley, J. C. Nichols and the Shaping of Kansas City: Innovation in Planned
    Residential Communities (Columbia, Mo., 1990) and Richard W. Longstreth's important
    City Center to Regional Mall: Architecture, the Automobile, and Retailing in Los
    Angeles, 19201950 (Cambridge, Mass., 1997), are essential for understanding twentiethcentury retailing. Meredith L. Clausen, 'Northgate Regional Shopping CenterParadigm
    from the Provinces,' Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians, 43 (1984);
    Howard Gillette, Jr, 'The Evolution of the Planned Shopping Center in City and Suburb',
    Journal of the American Planning Association, 51 (1985); and the 'AHR Forum' on
    postwar shopping centres, American Historical Review, 101 (1996) outline the history of
    postwar shopping centres and malls. It should be noted that most histories of the postwar
    period rely heavily on an important primary source that is worth consulting directly:
    Geoffrey Baker and Bruno Funaro, Shopping Centers: Design and Operation (New
    York, 1951). On the culture of the contemporary shopping mall and the retailing
    imperatives that shape it, see Margaret Crawford, 'The World in a Shopping Mall', in
    Sorkin, ed., Variations on a Theme Park.
    Consuming Architecture

    Since the early nineteenth century American architects, planners, and cultural critics have
    pondered the problem of supplying cheap well-made houses of 'good' design to ordinary
    Americans. Among the first to do anything about the issue were industrial corporations,
    who were impelled by the desire for a stable, docile work force, and who believed that
    good housing would attract and hold such employees (as well as binding them
    economically to the company in ways that would make it difficult to leave or to strike).
    The classic example is Pullman, Illinois; see Stanley Buder, Pullman: An Experiment in
    Industrial Order and Community Planning, 18801930 (Oxford, 1967). John S. Garner,
    The Model Company Town (Amherst, Mass., 1984) and Margaret Crawford, Building the
    Workingman's Paradise: The Design of American Company Towns (London and New
    York, 1995) explore company housing more broadly.
    Beginning with the campaign to build war-worker housing during World War I, public
    agencies took up the quest. Richard M. Candee, Atlantic Heights: A World War I
    Shipbuilders' Community (Portsmouth, NH, 1985) describes one such war-housing
    project. Richard Pommer, 'The Architecture of Urban Housing in the United States during
    the Early 1930s', Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians, 37 (1978); Hise,
    'From Roadside Camps to Garden Homes'; and Gail Radford, Modern Housing for
    America: Policy Struggles in the New Deal (Chicago, 1966) continue the story into the
    Depression years.
    During World War II, government housers and speculative builders collaborated, as
    Albrecht, ed., World War II and the American Dream and some of the essays in Marc
    Treib, ed., An Everyday Modernism: The Houses of William Wurster (Berkeley and Los
    Angeles, 1995) show. The classic speculative suburbs produced by this collaboration are
    treated in Ned Eichler, The Merchant Builders (Cambridge, Mass., 1982) and Barbara M.
    Kelly, Expanding the American Dream: Building and Rebuilding Levittown (New York,
    At the same time, it is important to acknowledge that, visible as public and philanthropic
    housing has been, for-profit

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    builders have always provided most of the shelter for middle- and working-class
    Americans. Wright, Moralism and the Model Home discusses the struggle between
    architects and developers for control of this market in turn-of-the-century Chicago.
    Her work is complemented nicely by the more economically directed analysis of Marc
    A. Weiss, The Rise of the Community Builders: The American Real Estate Industry
    and Urban Land Planning (New York, 1987).
    The ordinary Americans who occupied these 'market' house had their own domestic
    standards and desires that were not always consonant with those of reformers or
    developers. A sense of these alternative viewpoints can be found in Growth, Living
    Downtown; James Borchert, Alley Life in Washington: Family, Community, Religion, and
    Folklife in the City, 18501970 (Champaign, Ill., 1980); Guy A. Szuberla, 'Dom, Namai,
    Heim: Images of the New Immigrant's Home', Prospects: An Annual of American
    Cultural Studies, 10 (1985); Lizabeth Cohen, 'Embellishing a Life of Labor: Interpretation
    of the Material Culture of American Working-Class Homes, 1885n1915', in Upton and
    Vlach, eds., Common Places; Cohen, Making a New Deal: Industrial Workers in
    Chicago, 19191939 (Cambridge, 1990); and a fascinating and revealing early twentiethcentury sociological study, Margaret Byington, Homestead: The Households of a Mill
    Town (Pittsburgh, 1910).
    Housing Non-Consumers
    The difficult history of housing for the poorest Americans is directly connected with the
    political nation's ambivalent moral attitudes towards them, eloquently chronicled in
    Michael B. Katz, In the Shadow of the Poorhouse: A Social History of Welfare in America
    (2nd edn.; New York, 1996), and its more generalized fears of social chaos, treated in
    Paul Boyer, Urban Masses and Moral Order in America, 18201920 (Cambridge, Mass.,
    1978) and Carl Smith, Urban Disorder and the Shape of Belief: The Great Chicago Fire,
    the Haymarket Bomb, and the Model Town of Pullman (Chicago, 1995).
    Studies of the history of public housing are fewer than critiques of its putative failures.
    Among the former, Devereux Bowly, Jr., The Poorhouse: Subsidized Housing in
    Chicago 18951976 (Carbondale, Ill., 1978) and John F. Bauman, Public Housing, Race,
    and Renewal: Urban Planning in Philadelphia, 19201974 (Philadelphia, 1987), which
    discusses the programmes that led to the construction of Guild House, stand out. Among
    the latter, Eugene J. Meehan, The Quality of Federal Policymaking: Programmed Failure
    in Public Housing (Columbia, Mo., 1979) is a detailed critique focusing on St Louis.
    Katharine G. Bristol, 'The Pruitt-Igoe Myth', Journal of Architectural Education, 44
    (1991), which lays that notorious project's shortcomings at the door of planners,
    legislators, and downtown businessmen rather than architects, is an important corrective

    to the view that Pruitt-Igoe represented the 'failure of modernism'. Marta Gutman,
    'Housers and Other Architects: Pragmatism and Aesthetics in Recent Competitions',
    Journal of Architectural Education, 46 (1993) treats the impediments that continue to
    confront those who would design for the poor.

    Chapter 6. Art
    Architects and Builders
    The best study of the structure of the architectural and building trades and their evolving
    relationship over the past three hundred years is Bishir, Brown, Lounsbury, and Wood,
    Architects and Builders in North Carolina. Roger W. Moss, Jr, summarizes his
    dissertation on the Carpenters' Company in 'The Origins of the Carpenters' Company of
    Philadelphia', in Peterson, ed., Building Early America. Ian M. G. Quimby, ed., The
    Craftsman in Early America (New York, 1984) sets builders in the broader context of
    early American artisanry.
    Why Architects?
    The history and structure of the architectural profession is much more complex than it
    has been made to appear by historians. A better history would start with an understanding
    of the sociology and culture of professionalism. I have relied on Magali Sarfatti Larson,
    The Rise of Professionalism: A Sociological Analysis (Berkeley and Los Angeles, 1977),
    from which I have borrowed the concepts of the market profession and cognitive
    exclusiveness. It would also take account of the history of professionalism in America.
    Gerald L. Geison, ed., Professions and Professional Ideologies in America (Chapel Hill,
    NC, 1983) and an older anthology, Kenneth S. Lynn and the editors of Daedalus, eds.,
    The Professions in America (Boston, 1967) are useful in this regard.
    For the prehistory of the American architectural profession, see Barrington Kaye, The
    Development of the Architectural Profession

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    in Britain (London, 1960) and Spiro Kostof, ed., The Architect: Chapters in the
    History of the Profession (Oxford, 1977), which also treats the American architectural
    Benjamin Latrobe epitomized early American architectural professionalism. His
    aspirations are illuminatingly discussed in two brief essays: J. Meredith Neil, 'The
    Precarious Professionalism of Latrobe', AIA Journal, 53 (May 1970) and Edward C.
    Carter II, Benjamin Henry Latrobe and Public Works: Professionalism, Private Interest,
    and Public Policy in the Age of Jefferson (Chicago, 1976). For the profession in the fist
    half of the nineteenth century generally, see Dell Upton, 'Pattern Books and
    Professionalism: Aspects of the Transformation of American Domestic Architecture,
    18001860', Winterthur Portfolio, 19 (1984).
    Andrew Saint, The Image of the Architect (New Heaven and London, 1983) focuses on
    the British and American professions between the mid-nineteenth and the mid-twentieth
    centuries. Among the flurry of recent books on the contemporary architectural
    profession, Judith Blau, M. e. La Gory, and J. S. Pipkin, eds., Professionals and Urban
    Form (New York, 1983); Robert Gutman, Architectural Practice: A Critical View
    (Princeton, 1988); and Magali Sarfatti Larson, Behind, the Postmodern Façade:
    Architectural Change in Late Twentieth-Century America (Berkeley and
    Los Angeles, 1993) stand out.
    Architecture as a Business
    In addition to the works in the previous section, see Harry Braverman's classic Labor and
    Monopoly Capital: The Degradation of Work in the Twentieth Century (New York, 1974)
    for the reorganization of head and hand labour under industrial capitalism.
    Architecture and Social Class
    Daniel H. Calhoun, Professional Lives in America: Structure and Aspiration 1750180
    (Cambridge, Mass., 1965) treats professionalism as a road to social advancement. On
    collegiate education and professional status, see Burton J. Bledstein, The Culture of
    Professionalism: The Middle Class and the Development of Higher Education in
    America (New York, 1976). Other than an old dissertation, Arthur Clason Weatherhead,
    The History of Collegiate Education in Architecture in the United States (Los Angeles,
    1941) and Kostof, ed., The Architect, there are no studies of architectural education in the
    United States. Information must be dug out of the anniversary histories published by
    many schools, as well as biographies and monographs of individual architects.

    Style is a concept as elusive as it is central to the literature of architectural history. Most
    architectural historians employ a definition derived from art history. Meyer Schapiro,
    'Style', in A. L. Kroeber, ed., Anthropology Today: An Encyclopedic Inventory (Chicago,
    1953) is the basic modern text. Margaret Finch, Style in Art History (Metuchen, NJ, 1974)
    is a more recent treatment, while Berel Lang, ed., The Concept of Style (rev. edn.; Ithaca,
    NY, 1987) treats a variety of literary and visual art forms. George Kubler, The Shape of
    Time: Remarks on the History of Things (New Haven and London, 1962) is a notable, if
    idiosyncratic, essay on formal change.
    Although Carroll L. V. Meeks The Railroad Station: An Architectural History (New
    Haven and London, 1956) attempted to adapt art historian Heinrich Wöllflin's theories of
    style in painting to the history of architecture, architectural historians have for the most
    part been content to borrow art-historical models unmodified. In other cases, they
    conflate the various levels of style, and use the word simply to mean visual appearance.
    This is the sense in which the word is employed in the many popular guides to the styles
    of American architecture. Richard Longestreth warns against this habit in a brief but
    cogent essay, 'The Problem with ''Style"', in The Forum: Bulletin of the Committee on
    Preservation, Society of Architectural Historians 6 (1985), included in SAH Newsletter, 29
    (June 1985).
    Anthropological and sociological approaches to style have much to offer to architectural
    historians. Dick Hebdige, Subculture, The Meaning of Style (London, 1979) treats style
    from the perspective of British cultural studies. Among anthropologists, J. L. Fischer, 'Art
    Styles as Cultural Cognitive Maps', American Anthropologist, 63 (1961) is a classic,
    widely reprinted essay from a structuralist perspective. James R. Sackett, 'The Meaning of
    Style in Archaeology: A General Model', American Antiquity, 42 (1977) and Robert C.
    Dunnell, 'Style and Function: A Fundamental Dichotomy', American Antiquity, 43(1978)
    are more recent theoretical statements. Many of the case studies included in Margaret
    Conkey and Christine Hastorf, eds., The Use of Style in Archaeology (Cambridge, 1990)
    offer provocative models for architectural historians. Dell Upton, 'From

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    and User: Style, Mode, Fashion and the Artifact', in Gerald L. Pocius, ed., Living in a
    Material World: Canadian and American Approaches to Material Culture (St. John's,
    Newfoundland, 1991) applies anthropological concepts of style to architecture in this
    The relationship between architectural form and ethnic identity is difficult to sort out. For
    efforts to do so from disparate perspectives, see Dell Upton, 'Ethnicity, Authenticity, and
    Invented Traditions', Historical Archaeology, 30 (1996); Chappell, 'Rhenish Houses' and
    Vlach, 'The Shotgun House', in Upton and Vlach, eds., Common Places; and
    Krinsky,Contemporary Native American Architecture.
    Styles of the Self
    Howard S. Becker, Art Worlds (Berkeley and Los Angeles, 1982) illuminates the social
    role of the contemporary artist. Larson, Behind the Postmodern Façade; Roxanne Kuter
    Williamson, American Architects and the Mechanics of Fame (Austin, Tex., 1991); and
    especially Robert Twombly, Power and Style: A Critique of Twentieth-Century
    Architecture in the United States (New York, 1996) are important for understanding the
    ways in which artistic self-presentation promotes the architect's professional
    Who Is an Architect?
    In the past twenty years, the place of women and minorities in architecture has been the
    focus of more interest than real scholarship. Typically, early efforts were devoted simply
    to recovering forgotten names and chronicling obscure careers. Doris Cole, From Tipi to
    Skyscraper: A History of Women in Architecture (Boston, 1973); Susana Torre, ed.,
    Women in American Architecture: A Historic and Contemporary Perspective (New York,
    1977); and Doris Cole and Karen Cord Taylor, The Lady Architects: Lois Lilley Howe,
    Eleanor Manning and Mary Almy, 18931937 (New York, 1990) are examples. More
    recent and more sophisticated efforts have been less interested in names than in
    institutions, ideas, and social structures. Among the best are Gwendolyn Wright's essay on
    the professional and personal relationship of Catherine Bauer and William Wurster in
    Treib, ed., An Everyday Modernism; her 'On the Fringe of the Profession: Women in
    American Architecture' (to which I am particularly indebted in this section), in Kostof,
    ed., The Architect; Ellen Perry Berkeley, ed.,
    Architecture: A Place for Women (Washington, 1989); and Debra Coleman, Elizabeth
    Danze, and Carol Henderson, eds, Architecture and Feminism (Princeton, 1996).
    Non-professional women's roles in shaping architecture are less well known, but see

    Katherine C. Grier, Culture and Comfort: People, Parlors, and Upholstery 18501930
    (Rochester, NY, 1988); Sally McMurry, 'Women in the American Vernacular Landscape',
    Material Culture, 20 (1989); McMurry, Families and Farmhouses in Nineteenth-Century
    America: Vernacular Design and Social Change (Oxford, 1988); and Jessica H. Foy and
    Karal Ann Marling, eds., The Arts and the American Home, 18901930 (Knoxville, Tenn.,
    For African-American builders, the opposite is true. Much more is known about
    vernacular builders than about professionals. Catherine W. Bishir, 'Black Builders in
    Antebellum North Carolina', North Carolina Historical Review, 61 (October 1984) is a
    classic essay that dispels all the pernicious but persistent myths about the minor role of
    African-American in antebellum architecture. John Michael Vlach, '"Us Quarters Fixed
    Fine": Finding Black Builders in Southern History', in Vlach, By the Work of Their
    Hands: Studies in Afro-American Folklife (Charlottesville, Va., 1991) will help readers to
    known where to conduct their own research. Ellen Weiss, An Annotated Bibliography on
    African-American Architects and Builders (Philadelphia, 1993) conveniently lists the
    scholarly publications on African-American architects issued to that date. Most are namerecovery pieces, such as her own 'Robert R. Taylor of Tuskegee: An Early Black
    American Architect', Arris: Journal of the Southeast Chapter of the SAH, 2 (1991),
    which returns a significant designer at an important African-American institution to
    historical memory.
    Beyond Art
    In the 1960s and 1970s popular architectural design seemed like pure fun or populist
    exuberance. Rubin, 'Aesthetic Ideology and Urban Design'; Liebs Main Street to Miracle
    Mile; Karal Ann Marling, The Colossus of Roads: Myth and Symbol on the American
    Highway (Minneapolis, 1984); John Chase, Exterior Decoration: Hollywood's Inside-Out
    Houses (Los Angeles, 1982); and Chase, Unvernacular Vernacular: Contemporary
    American Consumerist Architecture, special issue (131) of Design Quarterly 1986)
    interpret the popular in this manner while offering

    Page 315

    analyses that transcend the usual purely celebratory tone of most publications. Robert
    Venturi, Denise Scott Brown and Steven Izenour, Learning from Las Vegas: The
    Forgotten Symbolism of Architectural Form (Cambridge, Mass., 1977) is in a class by
    itself, at once a treatise, an advertisement, and a scholarly study. Reyner Banham's Los
    Angeles: The Architecture of Four Ecologies (Harmondsworth, 1971), which embraces
    the pop design sensibility at the scale of the megalopolis, is slightly dated and equally
    idiosyncratic, but still provocative.
    The wacky and appealing image of popular architecture derives mostly from one-off
    products of individual entrepreneurs built in the early days of automobile travel. Current
    studies find the commodified consumerist imagery of multinational corporate design
    more troublesome. The idiosyncratic exuberance of the early years of roadside
    architecture has been replaced by a carefully contrived imagery that seems to stifle, rather
    than encourage, popular expression. Compare the appreciative tone of Paul Hirshorn and
    Steven Izenour, White Towers (Cambridge, Mass., 1979) with Stan Luxenberg, Roadside
    America: How the Chains Franchised America (New York, 1986) and Diane Ghirardo's
    discussion of the Disney empire in Architecture after Modernism (London and New
    York, 1996).

    Page 316-17

    Page 318-19

    Page 320-21

    Page 322-23

    Page 324-25

    Page 326

    Note: References to illustrations are in italic.There may also be textual references on the
    same page.
    Abbey, Edward 147
    Abele, Julian 273
    Adler, Dankmar 252, 268
    ancestral homelands 85-6, 86
    in architectural profession 272-4
    as builders 248
    as citizens 74
    education 259
    in public housing 242
    representations of 74
    slave houses 28, 150, 233
    slave work spaces 28-9
    slaves 27-9, 100
    air conditioning 160, 220, 286n.
    Aladdin Redi-Cut Homes 233-4
    Alexander, Hartley Burr 76-7, 285n.
    American Heritage Center and Art Museum 132-3, 134-5
    American Institute of Architects 251, 262
    American Institution of Architects 251
    American Woman's Home, The 40, 41, 42-3

    Ames, Frederick Lothrop 45
    Ames Gate Lodge 96
    Ames Monument 96, 97
    Ames, Oakes 95-6
    Ames, Oakes Angier 95
    Ames, Oakes, Memorial Hall 95, 95-6
    Ames, Oliver 95-6
    Ames, Oliver (Old Oliver) 94-5
    Ames, Oliver, Memorial Library 93, 94, 94-5
    Ammann, Othmar 165, 167
    building construction 188
    'Chaco Phenomenon' 190
    houses 18, 187-91, 188, 189
    kivas 187-9
    pit houses 188
    road system, 189-90, 190
    settlement pattern 189
    see also specific sites
    ancestral homelands 78-86, 233
    African-American 85-6
    Chinese-American 84
    Colonial Revival as 80-2
    Euro-American 79-84
    immigrant 84
    Puerto Rican 85
    Anglo-Palladian architecture 34-5, 282

    architectural handbooks 136-7, 255
    architectural history 251, 272
    architectural profession 32
    as art 255-6, 262
    as business 252-4, 268
    and gentility 255
    origins 248-52, 284n.
    and social class 255-6
    sociological definition 249
    and taste 255
    training 256
    women and minorities in 272-9
    architectural science 251
    architectural theories 282-3
    Anglo-Palladian 282
    associationist 259-60, 264
    deconstructionist 264
    A.J. Downing's 39, 41-2
    neo-classical 137
    picturesque 81, 113, 134, 137, 287
    post-modern 264, 282
    Renaissance 57-8
    J. Ruskin's 91
    R. Venturi's 227-8, 282
    E.-E. Viollet-le-Duc's 91
    Architecture of Country Houses, The 39,46,47,156
    Arts + Architecture 171

    automobiles, planning for 228-9, 238
    Aztec Ruins 189, 287n.
    Azurest South (Meredith-Colson House) 273, 274
    Baldwin Hills Village (The Village Green) 120, 121, 122-3
    Ball's Creek Camp Meeting 62
    Johns Hopkins Hospital 156-9
    Unitarian Church 110, 111

    Page 327

    Bandelier National Monument 18
    Bank of Canton (Chinese Telephone Exchange) 83
    Barton, Edward H. 144
    Bateson Building 142-4, 145-6, 144, 146
    Bauer, Catherine 236-7, 239, 273
    Bavinger House 130, 134
    Beaver, Alice 260-1
    Beecher, Catherine E. 40-3, 45, 278
    The American Woman's Home 42-3
    A Treatise on Domestic Architecture 45
    Beem, Lulu Stoughton 274
    Bel Geddes, Norman 173, 175, 180
    Bellamy, Edward 175
    Bennett, Edward 199-200, 202
    First Church of Christ, Scientist 267
    Hearst Memorial Mining Building 161-3
    Integral Urban House 145
    University of California 160, 276-7
    Bigelow, Jacob 149
    Billings, John S, 156
    blacksmith beds 156, 157
    Boardman House 24, 25, 26, 41, 44
    Book of Architecture, A 34, 249
    Boston 279
    Colony House 194

    Common 194
    Faneuil Hall marketplace 231, 232, 233
    John Hancock House 80-1
    Long Wharf 194
    Quincy Market 231, 232
    Tremont House 233
    urban form 191, 192-3, 194
    Bottomley, William Lawrence 81
    Bradbury, Ray 183
    bricôlage 71
    bridges 165-8
    Bronck Houses 20
    Brooklyn Bridge, see East River Bridge
    Brown, A. Page 81
    Brown, Joseph 249
    Buckland, William 248-9
    Buffalo (NY):
    City Hall 218
    Larkin Company Administration Building 159-60, 211, 220, 286n.
    Builder's Assistant, The 251
    building craftsmen:
    craft pride 258
    as designers 248-9
    organizations 248
    training 248
    Built in USA since 1932 237
    Bulfinch, Charles 35

    Barrell House 35
    Swan House 35, 35-6
    United States Capitol 71, 72, 73, 74
    Bullock, John 136
    Burnham and Root 269
    office 252, 253
    office organization 252, 268
    Rookery Building 252, 253
    Burnham, Daniel H. 104, 199-203, 252, 268
    Cleveland Group Plan 201
    office 252
    Plan of Chicago 199-200, 202-3
    World's Columbian Exposition 223
    Byrd, William 87
    Byrne, Barry 275
    Cahokia (Ill.), Mississippian site at 65, 66
    Cairns, Burton D. 347
    Callenbach, Ernest 147
    Calthorpe Associates 147
    Calthorpe, Peter 101, 143-4
    Bateson Building 142-4
    Laguna West 101-4
    Cambridge (Mass.):
    Massachusetts Institute of Technology 256, 273, 275
    Mount Auburn Cemetery 114-16
    as Viking settlement 84

    camp meetings 61-2
    Canyon de Chelly 79
    Carlisle Indian School 261
    Carpenters' Company of the City and County of Philadelphia 17, 57, 248-9
    Euro-American 151-5
    and industrialization 153-4
    Japanese 140
    Carter, Landon 248
    Carquinez Heights 234, 239
    Case Study Houses 171
    Cash, W.J. 218
    casitas 85
    Caudill Rowlett and Scott 272
    Cedar Park 152
    cemeteries 114-16
    Central Park 103, 118, 118-20
    Century of Progress exposition 178-9
    Century Canyon 187-91
    Casa Rinconada 189
    Pueblo Bonito 187-8, 188, 189
    Chandler Farms 237, 238
    chi 108
    balloon framing in 153, 286n.
    Board of Trade Building 223
    Burnham-Bennett plan 199-200, 202-3

    Century of Progress exposition 178-9
    land values 207
    Robert Taylor Homes 243
    Robie House 48-9, 52
    Rookery Building 252-3
    skyscrapers in 207, 215
    World's Columbian Exposition 80, 84
    zoning laws 215-16
    Chinese-American architecture 82, 83, 84, 108-9

    Page 328

    Christy, S. B. 161
    Church, Thomas D. 123-5
    Anglican 86-7, 88
    immigrant 82, 84
    Puritan 86
    Roman Catholic 82, 84
    social distinctions in 86-7
    see also meeting-houses
    Carew-Netherland Plaza Complex 205
    Central Trust Tower 223
    Cincinnati Gas and Electric Company Building 223
    Cincinnati Gateway 97-101
    Procter & Gamble World Headquarters 221-4
    Times-Star Building 223
    Cincinnati Gateway 97-101, 98, 99
    City Beautiful Movement 102, 104
    'City X' Project 231
    classicism 57-8, 76-8, 218, 243-4, 257, 261
    in tall office buildings 218, 220
    at World's Columbian Exposition 224
    Cleveland (OH):
    Group Plan 201
    Public Square 201
    Shaker Heights 204

    Shaker Heights Rapid Transit Line 204
    Shaker Square 206
    Terminal Tower Complex 201, 204, 205, 205-6
    Cliff-Dwellers, The 211
    Colonial Revival 80-2, 84, 204
    comfort 141, 156
    'community builders' 197
    complexity and Contradiction in Architecture 227
    conservatories, domestic 47, 169, 181
    consumption 36, 85, 225, 228, 230, 237, 245, 255
    of architectural images 34-6, 55, 282-3
    defined 33-4
    and environment 145-7
    of housing 233-45
    origins 33
    at World's Columbian Exposition 225
    Cope and Lippincott 244
    Corbett, Michael 147
    Country Club District 218
    Country Club Plaza 227, 228-9, 229
    courthouse squares 60, 61
    Cowan, Stuart 145-6, 167
    Crawford, Thomas 74
    Crystal House 179
    cultural authority 32, 35-6, 54-5, 86-7
    culture, sacralization of 93
    Cunningham, Ann Pamela 79

    Davis, Alexander Jackson 46-8, 54
    'American House' 137
    Rotch House 46-8, 54
    Rural Residences 137
    United States Capitol 72
    Davis, Jefferson 74
    Dayton (Ky.):
    speculative houses 39, 41
    deflection theory 168
    Delk, Edward B. 227
    DeMars, Vernon 237
    department stores 225-7, 229
    Desgodetz, Antoine Babuty 32
    Dickinson, John and Mary, House 18
    Dinetah 79, 84
    dining rooms, open-air 141, 142
    domesticity 240, 243
    Donnell Garden 123, 124, 124-5
    Downing, Andrew Jackson 39, 41, 46, 48 166-7
    The Architecture of Country Houses 39, 46-7, 156
    on gender in houses 117-18
    on landscape gardening 116-17, 125
    on parks 118-19
    Dreyfuss, Henry 180, 183
    Duany, Andres 102, 104
    Duncan House 142

    Dwyer, Charles P. 136
    Dymaxion House, see 4-D Utility Unit
    Eads Bridge 166
    Eads, James B. 166
    East River (Brooklyn) Bridge 165-6, 166
    ecological design 142-7, 177
    Ecotopia 147
    Édifices antiques de Rome, Les 32
    Eichler, Joseph 236
    Eisenman, Peter 267
    Ellet, Charles 166
    Ellwood, Craig 171
    Emerson, Ralph Waldo 165
    Empire State Building 184, 185, 215
    Empire State (Rockefeller) Plaza 206, 208-9
    Entenza, John 171
    environmentalism 141-7
    Estudillo House 137
    Fairbanks House 44, 153
    Fallingwater (Kauffman House) 128, 129, 129-30, 134, 237, 264, 265, 266
    Falls Church 88
    families, architectural metaphors for 58-9
    and houses 17, 27-8, 37, 52, 69
    Faneuil Hall Marketplace 231, 232, 233
    Farm Security Administration housing 138, 237

    fashion 258-9
    Federal Housing Act of 1949 242
    Federal Works Agency 234
    Fehr and Peers Associates 103
    feng shui 108-9
    festival market-places 233
    First Baptist Church (Providence) 248
    First Church of Christ, Scientist (Berkeley) 267
    First Unitarian Church (Madison) 268
    Fisher, Thomas 242

    Page 329

    Fort Yates (N. Dak.) 135
    4-D Utility Unit 177-8, 178, 179
    Fréart de Chambray, Roland 32
    Freedom Triumphant in War and Peace 74
    Fresno (Calif.) pedestrian mall 231
    Fuller, Henry B. 211
    Fuller, Richard Buckminster 177-8, 179
    Furness and Hewitt 89-93
    Furness, Frank 89-93, 170
    futurism 178-85, 211-12
    Gamble House 139, 139-41, 140, 170 gardens:
    A.J. Downing on 117-18
    California modernist 123, 124, 124-5
    Gamble House 139-40
    Japanese 124, 139
    Monticello 31, 36-7
    and nature 31
    vernacular 125
    Garnsey, George 41
    Gedney House 152
    Gehry, Frank 171-2
    Santa Monica Place 170-2, 173, 231
    gender 162-3
    in architectural profession 272-9
    in gardening 117-18

    in houses 24, 41-4, 117-18
    in offices 160, 220
    Glass (Johnson) House 172
    Goff, Bruce 130, 134
    Goodhue, Bertram Grosvenor, aesthetic theories 76
    Nebraska State Capitol and War Memorial 75-8
    Graham, Anderson, Probst and White:
    Straus Building 210
    Terminal Tower Complex 201-5
    Graham, John, and Company 254
    Northgate Regional Shopping Center 229-30, 230
    Grand Village of the Natchez 65-8, 67, 73
    Great Serpent Mound 99
    Greber, Henry I. 131
    Green, Archie 268
    green design, see ecological design
    Green Gulch Commune 145
    Greene, Charles and Henry 137
    Gamble House 138-41, 170
    Griffin, Walter Burley 276
    Gruen, Victor 230-1, 233
    Guérin, Jules 200
    Guild House 244, 244-5
    Gunston Hall 248
    Hallett, Stephen 72
    Hammond, Jonathan 249

    Hampton Institute 259
    Hancock, John, House 80-1
    Handsome Lake 70
    Harrison and Abramowitz 206
    Harrison, Peter 249
    Haskell Institute stadium entrance arch 260, 260-2
    Hatfield, R. G. 84
    Haussmann, Georges 103
    Haviland, John:
    The Builder's Assistant 251
    Philadelphia Arcade 198-9, 200, 201, 226-7
    United States Naval Hospital 252
    Hawks, John 249-50, 284n.
    Hayden, Sophia 273
    Hearst Memorial Mining Building 161, 161-3 163
    Hearst, Phoebe Apperson 161, 277
    Hearst, William Randolph 276-7
    Herland 175
    Hicks, Margaret 273
    historic house museums 79
    historic preservation 79-80
    Historic Preservation Act of 1966 80
    HOK (architects) 242, 272
    Holme, Thomas 194
    Holst, Hermann von 276
    Hooker, Thomas 59
    Hopewellian phenomenon 65-6, 99, 284n.

    Hopkins, Johns, Hospital 156-7, 157, 158, 159, 160
    Horsford, Eben 84
    apartment 43
    cubicle 233, 234
    flop-houses 233, 240
    luxury 223
    single-room occupancy 240
    upper-class 233
    House of Tomorrow 179, 180, 181, 182
    house types:
    bohio 85
    bungalow 138, 233
    cottage-villa 48
    Flurküchenhaus 23-4, 24, 25
    Georgian-plan 48
    hall-chamber (hall-parlor) 23, 23-4, 44
    hogan 26, 27
    longhouse 69, 70, 70-1, 71
    pueblo 135
    shotgun 85
    tipi III, 134, 247-8
    villa 30, 169
    alley 240
    apartment 233
    average size 19

    axial organization 23-4, 26, 48, 52
    and civility 107
    communal 17
    construction dates on 17
    costs 234
    and economic status 17, 40
    as expression of owners' character 39-41, 48
    and family life 17, 27-8, 37, 52, 69

    Page 330

    gender differentiation in 25, 41-3, 117-18
    hospitality in 29, 44-5
    minimum 236-9
    mortgage financing 238
    and nature 46, 54
    ownership 328
    as shelter 45, 129
    single-family detached 17, 19, 39, 40, 41, 43, 47-8, 237
    tenement 240
    urban 17, 41, 240
    Usonian 42-3
    houses, vernacular 43
    Dutch 20, 23
    English 23
    Euro-American 43-4, 109-10
    French 23
    German-Swiss 23, 24
    Hidatsa 150
    Iroquois 17, 68-71
    Jefferson on 23
    Navajo 26, 27
    Plains Indian 101, 150
    Puerto Rican 85
    Ukrainian 108, 109-10
    Wichita 150
    Woodland Indian 68-71, 150

    farm-worker 237, 238
    German social 238
    high-rise 241
    reform 240
    research 236
    for the very poor 239-45
    war-worker 235, 235-7, 236
    Howard, Ebenezer 183
    Howard, John Galen 276
    Hearst Memorial Mining Building 161, 161-3, 163
    Howe and Lescaze 218-19
    Howe, George, 81, 218-19
    Howells, William Dean 279
    Hubbard, Elbert 274
    Huckleberry Finn 113
    Hunt, Richard Morris 259
    immigrants, European 82-4
    churches 82, 84
    Indians, see Native Americans, and specific groups
    industrial design 172-5
    and building availability 155
    and building construction 153-5
    and building design 154-5, 170
    and social structure 171-2

    inflection 227-8
    Integral Urban House 145
    houses 17, 68-71, 68-71, 69
    longhouses, domestic 69, 70
    longhouses, religious 70-1, 71
    vs. Iroquoian 285n.
    Izenour, Steven 244, 282
    Jacobs House No. 1 42
    Jamestown (Va.) 60
    Jefferson, Thomas 20-39, 35-9, 46-7, 54-5, 71, 248
    as architect 32
    as hermit 30-1, 38
    as host 30
    Monticello 19-33, 35-9, 46-7, 54-5, 73
    Palladian loyalties 32, 35
    as patriarch 27-8
    University of Virginia 32
    on Virginia vernacular houses 23
    Jenings, Edmund 34
    Johnson, Philip 170
    Glass House 172
    Johnson, Reginald D. 120
    Johnson, S. C., and Son Administration Building 264-6, 267, 268
    Johnson, Frances Benjamin 259
    Jones, Fay, and Associates 126-7

    Kahn, Albert 272
    Kahn, Louis, I.:
    Kimball Art Museum 264
    Richards Medical Research Laboratory 163, 164, 165
    Salk Institute for Biological Studies 111, 112, 112-3, 135, 264
    Kaiser Community Homes 197, 236
    Kalamazoo (Mich.) pedestrian mall 231
    Kansas City:
    City Hall 218
    Country Club District 228
    Country Club Plaza 227-9
    J.C. Nichols Memorial Fountain 130-I, 134
    Kastner, Alfred 240
    Kay, Ken, Associates 103
    Keck, George Fred:
    Crystal House 179
    Duncan House 142
    House of Tomorrow 179-81
    interest in solar energy 141
    Keck, William 142
    Kelly, J. Frederick 81, 257
    Kenton Hotel 234
    King Kong 184, 185
    kitchens 40, 42, 161
    kivas 187-9
    Kleinweber, Yamasaki, and Hellmuth 242

    Koch, Richard 81
    Koenig, Pierre 170-1
    Kohn Pederson Fox Associates 221
    Krieger, Alex 104
    La Tour, Pierre Leblond de 60
    Laguna West 101-4, 103, 104

    Page 331

    Lamb and Rich 44
    Lanham Act 234
    Larkin Company Administration Building 159-60, 160, 211, 220, 286n.
    Latrobe, Benjamin Henry 249-51, 256, 284n.
    on Jefferson 32-3
    United States Capital 71-5, 100-1
    Latter-Day Saints, see Mormons
    Laugier, Marc-Antoine 137
    lawns 125
    Lawrie, Lee 75, 77
    Laws of the Indies 59-60, 62
    Le Brun, Napoleon, and Sons 216
    Le Corbusier 55
    Le Page du Pratz, Antoine 65-6, 68
    Learning from Las Vegas 282-3
    Leicester, Andrew 97-101
    Lennertz, William 104
    Lenthall, John 33
    Levitt and Sons 236
    libraries 88
    electric 211
    fluorescent 220
    natural 211
    Lindenthal, Gustav 165
    Loewy, Raymond 174, 175, 180

    log buildings 135, 136
    Looking Backward, 2000-1887 175
    Los Angeles:
    Baldwin Hills Village 120-3
    City Hall 218
    El Alisal 136-7
    J. Paul Getty Center 263
    Latino neighbourhoods 195
    lawns in 125
    Lovell 'Health' House 169-71
    post-war growth 195-6, 199
    Public Library 285n.
    Loudon, John Claudius 116
    Louisiana State Capitol 218
    Lovatt, George I. 82
    Lovell Beach House 169, 170, 172
    Lovell 'Health' House 169-70, 171
    Lovell, Phillip 169
    Lummis, Charles Fletcher 136-7
    MacKaye, Benton 122
    McKim, Charles Follen 268
    McKim, Mead and White 256
    Madison Square Presbyterian Church 216
    offices, 253, 254, 268
    Mackley, Carl, Houses 237-9, 240, 241
    Macmillan Commission 199

    Madison (Wis.):
    First Unitarian Church 268
    Jacobs House No. 1 42
    Madison Square Presbyterian Church 216
    Mahony Griffin, Marion Lucy 275-7
    'Fireproof House for $5000' 275, 77
    Mallory, Henry R., House 43
    Marlow-Burns Company 197, 199, 236
    Martin Chronicles, The 183
    Martin, Darwin D. 274-5
    Martin, William E. 274
    Massachusetts Building 80, 81
    Massachusetts Institute of Technology 256, 273, 275
    material feminists 43
    Mather, Richard 58
    Maybeck, Bernard 265, 267, 274
    as artist 265, 267, 268
    First Church of Christ, Scientist 267
    Palace of Fine Arts 127-8
    Mead, William Rutherford 268
    Meem, John Gaw 81
    meetinghouses, Quaker 70, 86
    Meier, Richard:
    J. Paul Getty Center 263-4
    Smith House 50-5
    Meiere, Hildreth 75
    Meredith, Amaza Lee 273-4

    Mesa Verde (Col.) Anasazi settlement 190
    metropolitan improvements 91
    Metropolitan Life Insurance Company Building 216, 220
    Metropolitan Museum of Art 82, 120
    Meyer, Scherer, and Rockcastle 99
    Mies van der Rohe, Ludwig 170
    Mills, Robert 250, 252
    Post Office Department Building 77
    United States Treasury Department Building 77, 207, 210-11
    Mission San Gabriel 137
    Mississippian cultural 65-8
    see also specific sites
    Mixon, Jack 103
    Mock, Elizabeth 237
    Modern Housing 236
    Moissieff, Leon S. 168
    Monticello 19-33, 35-9, 43-4, 46, 48, 52, 54-5, 73
    Angular Portals 46
    architectual sources 32, 35
    dome 37
    as ferme ornée 36
    garden 31, 36-7
    gender at 26-7, 43
    as hermitage 30-1
    household technology 37
    Indian Room (entry) 38, 73, 137
    Monticello I 20-1, 28, 31-2

    Mulberry Row 28, 36
    and nature 46-7
    as republican house 38
    residents 26-7, 37
    slaves at 27, 28
    South Piazza 47
    South Square Room 28, 43
    as villa 30
    Moore, Charles (architect) 269, 272
    Moore, Charles (journalist) 256, 264

    Page 332

    Morgan, Julia 265, 276-7, 278
    San Simeon (Hearst Castle) 276-7
    temples 87
    town planning 61
    Morris, Robert 32
    Mount Airy 29, 29-30, 34, 34-5
    Mount Auburn Cemetery 114, 115, 116, 149, 177
    Mount Vernon 79-80
    Mumford, Lewis 103, 122, 180
    Murrow, Lacey V. 168
    Museum of Modern Art 237
    Natchez Indians 65-8
    National Forest Products Laboratory 236-7
    Native Americans:
    architecture and cultural identity 261-2
    attitudes toward nature 110-11
    education of 260-2
    European-style houses for 107
    as genii loci 135
    as innocents 135
    landscapes 78-9
    monumental architecture 62-8, 99, 187-91
    as naturals 107, 113-14
    as noble savages 134

    as primitives 134
    structural systems 150, 188
    as symbols 74, 78, 100, 134
    Asian-American conceptions 110-11
    in domestic architecture 46, 54
    F. L. Wright on 128
    Judeo-Christian conceptions 108, 147
    Native American conceptions 110-11
    neo-classical conceptions 72, 111, 113
    pantheism 127
    Puritan conceptions 107, 147
    romantic conceptions 113
    as technology 169
    versus technology 185
    ancestral homeland 78-9
    Dinetah 79, 84
    houses 26-7
    neo-traditional town planning, see New
    New Orleans:
    Civic Center 218
    commercial buildings 196
    levee 118
    Piazza d'Italia 269, 272
    Place d'Armes (Jackson Square) 118

    plan 58, 60-3
    yellow-fever epidemics 144
    New Urbanism 101-5
    New York City:
    Architects' Building 253-4
    Brooklyn Heights 118
    casitas 85
    Central Park 103, 118-20
    Commissioners' Plan 198
    East River (Brooklyn) Bridge 165-6
    Empire State Building 165, 167
    George Washington Bridge 165-7
    Kenton Hotel 234
    Madison Square Presbyterian Church 216
    Metropolitan Life Insurance Company Building 216
    plan 197-8
    Puerto Ricans in 85
    Rockefeller Center 205-6, 237, 285n.
    skyscrapers 207, 215-17
    World's Fair of 1939 177, 180, 182-5
    Zoning Law of 1916 215-17
    New York World's Fair 177, 180, 182-5
    Community Interests Pavilion 180, 182, 183, 185
    'Democracity' 183-4
    Futurama 180
    Trylon and Perisphere 183
    Nebraska State Capitol and World War I Memorial 75-8, 75, 76, 100, 218

    Neutra, Richard J. 171, 175, 279
    Lovell 'Health' House 169-70, 171
    Newark (OH) Earthworks, 64, 64-5
    Newport (RI) Tower 84
    Nichols, J. C. 228
    Nichols, J. C., Company 227-8
    Nichols, J. C., Memorial Fountain 130, 131, 134
    Niernsee, John S. 157
    Nightingale, Florence 156
    Nightingale ward 156, 157
    North Easton (Mass.) 93-7
    Ames Gate Lodge 96
    Oakes Ames Memorial Hall 95-6
    Oliver Ames Memorial Library 93-5
    railroad station 96
    Northgate Regional Shopping Center 229-30, 230, 254
    Northland Shopping Center 230
    Northwest Coast peoples:
    attitudes towards nature 110
    houses 17, 150
    Northwest Ordinance 197
    Oakland (Calif.):
    City Hall 218
    Wing Fat Market 198
    O'Dell, Doye 138
    office buildings 207-23

    counting houses 207, 210
    gender in 220
    speculative 216
    T-plan suites 207, 210, 220
    tall 211
    work in 207, 210, 220
    see also specific buildings
    Office of the State Architect 142
    Okies 138
    Old Ship Meetinghouse 79
    Olmsted, Frederick Law 125

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    Central Park 118-20
    Oakes Ames Memorial Hall 95-6
    park philosophy 101
    Riverside (Ill.) 119-22
    Opechancanough, house of 107-8
    Oregon State Capitol 285n.
    Orr, David 146
    Owen, Robert Dale 218
    Palace of Fine Arts 127, 127-8, 257
    Palladio, Andrea 32, 35, 55, 72
    Panama-Pacific International Exposition 127
    Parallèle de l'architecture antique et de la moderne 32
    parks, national 125
    Parris, Alexander 232-3
    passive-solar architecture 142, 142-3, 143
    pattern books, see architectural handbooks
    Pauger, Adrien de 60
    Peabody, Amelia 141-2
    Peabody and Stearns 80
    Peale, Charles Willson:
    Grand Federal Edifice 57
    house 37
    Peale's Museum 201, 226, 230
    Penn, William 194
    Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts 89, 90, 91-3, 92, 257

    Perkins, Dwight 275
    Perkinsons (house) 19
    business district 211
    Carl Mackley Houses 237-41
    East Poplar urban renewal project 244
    Franklin Institute 256
    Grand Federal Edifice 57
    Guardians of the Poor 239
    Guild House 244-5
    Italian Market 195
    Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts 89-93
    Philadelphia Arcade 198-201, 200, 201, 226-7, 230, 252
    Philadelphia Saving Fund Society Building 218-19, 219
    plan 194, 194-5, 197
    Richards Medical Research Laboratory 163-5
    St Rita of Cescia Church 82
    Schuylkill Falls public housing 243
    State House (Independence Hall) 79
    Tower Hall 212-13
    Washington Square 118
    philanthropy 93-4
    Piazza d'Italia 269, 272
    Plan of Chicago 200, 202-3
    'Plat of City of Zion' 61
    Plater-Zyberk, Elizabeth 101, 104
    Plymouth (Mass.) 60

    popular architecture 282-3
    Portsmouth (OH) Earthworks 65
    Poverty Point 63, 63-6
    Predock, Antoine 132-5
    prefabrication 155, 233
    primitivism 130-7, 140
    origins 134
    and picturesque 134
    and vernacular architecture 136-7
    Procter & Gamble World Headquarters 221, 222, 222-3
    professionalism 249-50
    proximity 195, 197, 207
    Pruitt-Igoe Houses 242, 242-3
    public space:
    in cyber age 182-3
    disputed right to use 107
    Public Works Administration 237
    Pueblo Bonito 187-8, 188, 189
    Pueblo Indians 125, 137, 187
    Puerto Ricans 85
    architectural metaphors 58-9, 87-8
    attitudes towards nature 107
    Quincy Market 231, 232
    Quonset huts 155

    Radburn (NJ) 122
    Randolph, Martha Jefferson 26, 28, 43
    Raymond, Eleanor 142-3
    Regional Planning Association of America 102-3, 238
    Baldwin Hills Village 120-3
    Radburn 122
    Renwick, James 103
    republicanism 37-8, 57-8, 73, 197
    citizenship 73-5
    defined 37-8
    virtue 38, 45
    revitalization movement 284n.
    Rich Neck Planation Granary 154
    Richards Medical Research Laboratory 163, 164, 165-6
    Richards, Mourning 248
    Richardson, Henry Hobson 269
    Ames Gate Lodge 96
    Ames Monument 96-7
    architectural practice 268
    as artist 268
    North Easton Railroad Station 96
    Oakes Ames Memorial Hall 95-6
    office 270-1
    Oliver Ames Memorial Library 93-5
    personal style 274
    Richmond (Va.) City Hall 218
    Rise of Silas Lapham, The 279

    Riverside (Ill.) 119, 120-2
    Robie House 48, 49, 52
    Rock Springs Camp Meeting 61, 62
    Rockefeller Center 205-6, 237, 285n.
    Roebling, Emily 166
    Roebling, John A.:
    East River (Brooklyn) Bridge 165-6, 166
    Niagara River Bridge 167

    Page 334

    visual style 165-6
    Roebling, Washington 166
    Rohde, Gilbert 180, 182
    Root, John Wellborn 252, 268
    Rotch House 46, 47, 48
    Rouse Corporation 173, 231-3
    Rousseau, Jean-Jacques 134
    Rousseau, Pierre 36
    Ruskin, John 91
    St Augustine (Fla.) 60
    St Gaudens, Augustus 97
    St Louis:
    Eads Bridge 166
    Pruitt-Igoe Houses 242-3
    Wainwright Building 212, 214-5
    St Rita of Cescia Church 82
    Salk Institute for Biological Studies 111, 112, 112-13, 135, 264
    San Francisco:
    Bank of Canton (Chinese Telephone Exchange) 82-3
    Bay Street public housing 243
    Chinatown 84, 195
    Latino neighbourhoods 127
    Palace of Fine Arts 127-8
    Panama-Pacific International Exposition 127
    Valencia Gardens 239

    sash-and-blind factories 154
    Saunders, Henry and Anne, House 23, 29
    sawmills 152-4, 286n.
    Saylor, Henry H. 138
    Schapiro, Meyer 256-7
    Schindler, Rudolph M. 171
    Lovell Beach House 169, 171-2
    Scott Brown, Denise 244, 282
    Seaside (Fla.) 101-2, 104
    Select Architecture 32
    servants, household 43
    work spaces 48, 49, 52
    Sewall, Samuel 87-8
    Shaker Square 206
    Sheldon, George W. 274
    shopping arcades 226
    shopping centers 229-31
    shopping malls 229
    Sioux Grass Dancers 135
    Sites House 24
    Skidmore, Owings, and Merrill 253-4, 272
    first 207
    as symbols of modernity 76, 218
    see also office buildings
    sleeping porches 141, 169
    Sloan and Stewart 213

    Small and Rowley 206
    Smith House (Meier) 50-1, 52, 53, 54, 54-5
    Smith, James Hopkins, House 45
    Smith, Joseph 61
    Snow, George Washington 153
    Soane, John 264
    Social Contract, The 134
    solar architecture, see passive-solar architecture
    Sotterley 152
    Southdale (shopping centre) 230
    Spink Company 103
    Stein, Clarence S.:
    Baldwin Hills Village 120-3
    Toward New Towns for America 122, 238
    Stephenson, Robert 167
    Stevens, John Calvin 45
    Stonorov, Oskar 240
    stores, 195, 196, 198, 213, 227
    Stotz, Charles Morse 81
    Stowe, Harriet Beecher 40-3, 278
    The American Woman's Home 42-3
    streamlining 177
    structural logic 150
    structural systems 149-55, 179, 188, 286n.
    Sturgis, John Hubbard 80-1
    architectural 247

    craftsmen's 257
    definitions 256-8
    personal 274-9
    Sullivan, Louis J. 11, 218, 252, 268
    'The Tall Office Building Artistically Considered' 212
    Wainwright Building 212, 214, 215
    Sumner, James 249
    Sun-heated House 141-2, 143
    Symonds, Samuel 107
    Tack, Augusts 75-6
    Tacoma Narrows Bridge 168
    tall office buildings, see office buildings
    Tanner, Edward 227
    taste 255
    Tayloe, John 29, 34-5
    Taylor, Robert R. 259, 273
    Collis P. Huntington Memorial Academic
    Building 259
    technocracy 180, 185
    technological utopianism 177-85
    as architectural imagery 169-71
    household 37
    origin of word 149
    Tennessee Valley Authority 237
    Terminal Tower Complex 201, 204, 204-6, 205

    Thermopane glass 141
    Thompson, Benjamin, and Associates 232-3
    Thorncrown Chapel 126, 127
    Thornton, Anna 21
    Thornton, William 71-2
    Thorpe, George 107
    timber buildings 150-4
    Anglo-American 151-4, 152, 153, 154
    balloon 152-3, 154, 286n.
    Chesapeake 152-3, 154, 286n.
    Chinese 151

    Page 335

    Dutch 151
    earthfast 152-3
    jacal 150
    Native American 150, 150-1
    plank (box, single-wall) 152-3, 286n.
    plantation construction 152
    three-dimensional box 151, 152, 153
    tilt 150
    Toward New Towns for America 121, 122, 238
    Tower Hall 212, 213
    Track, Agnes 260-1
    Treatise on Domestic Economy, A 45
    Trumbauer, Horace 273
    Tuskegee Institute 259, 273
    Unitarian Church (Baltimore) 110, 111
    United States Capitol 71-5, 72, 73, 74, 77-8, 100-1
    United States Treasury Building 77, 207, 210-12, 211, 212
    University of Virginia 32
    urban planning:
    and automobiles 228-9
    as dynamic network 198-9
    gridded 197, 207
    'organic' 194
    proximity in 195, 197
    Spanish colonial 60

    urban renewal 241
    utopianism 175
    Van der Ryn, Sim:
    Bateson Building 142-6
    on ecologist design 145-6
    Integral Urban House 145
    on technology 167
    Van Rensselaer, Mariana Griswold 269
    Van Swearingen Brothers 201, 204-6
    Vaux, Calvert 103, 125
    Central Park 103, 118-20
    Riverside (Ill.) 119-22
    domestic 141, 156
    effects on human health 141, 143-4, 156
    in hospitals 156-7
    in laboratories 161
    in office buildings 159-60
    Venturi and Rauch 244
    Venturi and Short 243
    Venturi, Robert:
    Complexity and Contradiction in Architecture 227
    Learning from Las Vegas 282-3
    Venturi, Vanna, House 243, 243-5, 282
    Village Homes 147
    Viollet-le-Duc, Eugène-Emmaneul 91

    Virginia (colonial) Capitol 72, 285n.
    Vitruvius 72, 251
    Wainwright Building 212, 214, 215
    Walter, Thomas U. 251-2, 255-6
    United States Capitol 74
    Ware, William Robert 256
    Washington (DC):
    African-American landscapes in 85-6
    alleys 85
    Frederick Douglass Court 85-6
    Macmillan Commission plan 199
    Post Office Department Building 77
    United States Capital 71-5, 77-8
    United States Treasury Building, 77, 207, 210-11
    Washington, Booker T. 259, 273
    Washington, George, Headquarters 79
    Waterman, Thomas Tileston 81
    Watson, John Fanning 211
    Westover 87
    Wheaton, Comfort 249
    White, Stanford 268
    Whitman, Bertha Yerex 272
    Wight, Peter B. 252
    Williams, Paul R. 272-3
    Wilson, Merrill, and Alexander 120
    Wing Fat Market 198

    With the Procession 211
    in architectural profession 272-9
    as builders 247
    see also gender
    World's Columbian Exposition 84, 223-6, 224, 225
    and consumption 225
    Court of Honor 223-4
    Massachusetts Building 80-1
    Midway Plaisance 224-5
    Women's Building 224, 273
    Wren, James 88
    Wright, Frank Lloyd 43, 49, 52, 54, 247, 262, 266, 273, 275-6
    Fallingwater 128-30, 134, 264-6
    'Fireproof House for $5000' 275, 277
    First Unitarian Church 268
    Hardy House 275
    Jacobs House No. 1 42
    S. C. Johnson and Son Administration Building 264-5, 267-8
    Larkin Company Administration Building 159-60, 211, 220, 286n.
    on nature 128
    'organic' 128
    Prairie houses 49, 52, 129
    Robie House 48-9, 52
    self-presentation 265, 268, 275
    Usonian houses 42-3
    Wurster, William 239

    Carquinez Heights, 234, 239
    Chabot Terrace 236