Cảnh quan đô thị
Cập nhật 31/05/2008 09:31Tổ chức cảnh quan đô thị là việc tổ chức không gian đô thị sử dụng các nhân tố tự nhiên làm chủ đạo. Địa hình, mặt nước, cây xanh, bầu trời là các nhân tố tự nhiên chính kết hợp với công trình kiến trúc, hoạt động của con người cấu thành nên cảnh quan đô thị.
Việc tổ chức cảnh quan có ảnh hưởng rất rõ từ các triết lý, văn hóa về ứng xử của con người với thiên nhiên. Ở các nước phương Tây, cây xanh thường được xử lý làm nền cho công trình, sự tương phàn máu sắc, phong hình khá rõ ràng trong khi các nước phương Đông thường chú trọng sự hòa nhập công trình với thiên nhiên, tạo không gian có nhiều lớp cảnh có chiều sâu. .
Cảnh quan đô thị mang đậm dấn ấn tự nhiên, văn hóa, lịch sử của mỗi đất nước, dân tộc và ở từng địa điểm. Dòng sông Hàn (Đà Nẵng), không giống với sông Hồng (Hà Nội) cũng như Hồ Xuân Hương (Đà Lạt) không giống với hồ Tây (Hà Nội). .
Một số thủ pháp tổ chức cảnh quan đô thị thường được sử dụng là:
+ Khai thác không gian mở mặt nước tối đa:
Trong đô thị có sông, hồ, biển, không gian đô thị cần hướng tới mặt nước, sông, hồ trở thành trục cảnh quan quan trọng cho đô thị. Bờ mặt nước là nơi có điểm nhìn rộng. Vì vậy cảnh quan mặt nước cũng được khai thác như là những điểm giới thiệu toàn cảnh hoặc các siluyet tiêu biểu của thành phố..
Về mặt chức năng, không gian mặt nước kết hợp với các dải cây xanh tạo nên môi trường tốt, rất thích hợp cho việc tổ chức các tuyến đi bộ các hoạt động sinh hoạt cộng đồng..
Tổ chức dải cây xanh và tuyến đi bộ ven sông là nguyên tắc để khai thác
tối đa vẻ đẹp của cảnh quan thiên nhiên - Cảnh quan bờ sông Tiber – Rome
Khai thác yếu tố mặt nước trong cảnh quan – Kênh Amstel, Amsterdam
+ Giữ gìn các sắc thái cảnh quan, thế của địa hình:
Công trình không lấn át tự nhiên, che khuất tự nhiên. Trong các đô thị có đồi núi, thiên nhiên với địa hình đặc trưng cần được giữ gìn và tham gia trực tiếp vào không gian đô thị..
Thiên nhiên là một bộ phận gắn kết với cấu trúc đô thị
+ Chú trọng những vẻ đẹp tổng thề, loại bỏ các yếu tố thừa:
Trong đô thị những tiểu cảnh, bố cục nhỏ không có ý nghĩa bằng việc xác định được các nguyên tắc tạo cảnh tổng thể. Cảnh quan dọc sông Brisban- thành phố Brisban (Australia) hay cảnh quan dọc sông Hàn với núi Nam San của thủ đô Seoul- Hàn Quốc đều là những cảnh quan được khai thác tổng thể trở thành các trục, các hình ảnh cảnh quan chủ đạo của đô thị..
+ Khai thác các đặc điểm theo mùa của thiên nhiên để tạo cảnh:
Sự biến đổi của cỏ cây, hoa lá theo mùa, sắc màu vàng rực của mùa thu, cây khô trơ cành trên nền tuyết trắng mùa đông đều là những sắc thái cảnh quan mang lại vẻ đẹp riêng biệt của không gian, cho con người những cảm xúc riêng biệt..
Phong cảnh mùa thu gây cho ta nhiều cảm xúc đặc biệt
Sự thành công của việc tổ chức cảnh quan đô thị chính là tạo nên được các sắc thái riêng của không gian, khai thác được tính đặc trưng của cảnh quan tự nhiên để phối kết trong không gian đô thị. Điều này đòi hỏi sự hiểu biết sâu sắc, tinh tế vẻ đẹp của cảnh quan, vừa bằng lý trí vừa bằng những rung động xúc cảm của con người sáng tạo.
CÁC MÔ HÌNH ĐÔ THỊ: SỰ RA ĐỜI CỦA THIẾT KẾ ĐÔ THỊ
Tạp chí xây dựng, số 8, 2010
Thiết kế đô thị là một công việc không hề mới mẻ. Từ hàng ngàn năm trước, những nền văn minh cổ đại đã thiết kế và xây dựng những không gian đô thị còn đủ sức hấp dẫn nhân loại ngày nay về vẻ đẹp và cảm xúc mà chúng mang lại. Tuy nhiên, phải tới những năm cuối thập 50 của thế kỷ 20, thiết kế đô thị với tư cách một lĩnh vực chuyên môn và một ngành học ở bậc đại học mới được ra đời.
Sự ra đời của thiết kế đô thị trước hết gắn liền với sự phát triển của quy hoạch đô thị thành một ngành khoa học mới, tách rời với kiến trúc. Quy hoạch không còn là kỹ thuật thiết kế mà đã trở thành khoa học về ra quyết định (decision-making) với một loạt những khái niệm và tư duy từ các ngành khoa học xã hội (chính trị học, kinh tế học, xã hội học,v.v…). Đây là sự điều chỉnh từ phương pháp thực hành cũ khi mà quy hoạch đô thị dựa trên một cách tiếp cận hình thức nông cạn của trào lưu City Beautiful (Thành phố Tươi đẹp) mà bỏ qua gốc rễ kinh tế-xã hội của vấn đề. Sự biến đổi này đã thúc đẩy thiết kế đô thị ra đời để quán xuyến yếu tố hình thức của đô thị nay không còn là mối quan tâm của các nhà quy hoạch.
Sự ra đời của thiết kế đô thị cũng gắn liền với sự sụp đổ của Chủ nghĩa hiện đại trong kiến trúc và quy hoạch tại phương Tây. Như tuyên ngôn của Le Corbusier, thành phố nay trở thành những “cỗ máy” khổng lồ nghiền nát lịch sử, cộng đồng cũng như mối dây liên hệ giữa con người và không gian sống của họ. Chính những nỗ lực hàn gắn vết thương đô thị, kiến tạo không gian sống cho con người đã xây dựng nên nền tảng lý thuyết cho ngành thiết kế đô thị.
Bản vẽ tay minh họa khái niệm tầm nhìn chuỗi của Gordon Cullen trong tác phẩm Cảnh quan đô thị súc tích (The concise townscape, 1961)
Năm 1961, tác phẩm The Death and Life of Great American Cities (Cái chết và cuộc sống của các thành phố lớn Hoa Kỳ) của Jane Jacobs ra đời và ngay lập tức trở thành cú sốc thực sự đối với giới quy hoạch và là phẩm kinh điển nhất của lĩnh vực thiết kế đô thị cho tới tận ngày hôm nay. Trong cuốn sách, bà chống lại cách tiếp cận của Chủ nghĩa Hiện đại và phân tích giá trị nhân bản cũng như kêu gọi bảo tồn “cuộc sống bừa bộn” của những con phố trong các khu dân cư truyền thống. Chống lại khẩu hiệu “tiêu diệt đường phố” của Le Corbusier, bà khẳng định “vỉa hè là không gian công cộng quan trọng nhất của đô thị”. Jane Jacobs còn đưa ra khái niệm kinh điển “những đôi mắt trên đường phố” (eyes on street) để nhấn mạnh rằng tính an ninh của không gian công cộng này đạt được khi có nhiều hoạt động của con người và khi những công trình “giao tiếp” với đường phố.
Cùng thời gian với Jane, Kevin Lynch cho ra đời tác phẩm The image of the City (Hình ảnh của thành phố) mang lại một công cụ thiết kế đô thị. Sau 5 năm nghiên cứu thông qua những phương pháp như bản đồ tâm lý (mental map), tác giả tìm ra mối liên hệ của con người đối với không gian sống thông qua 5 yếu tố: tuyến, biên, giao điểm, điểm nhấn và khu vực. Bằng cách sử dụng các yếu tố này, tác giả biện luận rằng các nhà thiết kế đô thị sẽ có được một bộ công cụ để kiến tạo những nơi chốn có thể dễ dàng “đọc” được bởi cư dân và thỏa mãn tâm lý của họ.
Giống Lynch, kiến trúc sư Gordorn Cullen cũng quan tâm tới cách con người cảm nhận về môi trường sống thông qua thị giác nhưng ông nhấn mạnh về tác động cảm xúc hơn là khả năng “đọc” môi trường. Cullen định nghĩa thiết kế đô thị là “nghệ thuật về mối quan hệ” (the art of relationship). Cullen cho rằng con người tiếp nhận môi trường đô thị thông qua di chuyển và định vị trong môi trường đó. Từ đó ông phát triển khái niệm Tầm nhìn chuỗi(Serial Vision), trong đó giải trình các hình ảnh đô thị được coi như là một chuỗi các khám phá. Từ đó, ông cho rằng trạng thái liên quan đến vị trí của người quan sát trong môi trường, ví dụ: đây và đó, đóng và mở, sự kiềm chế và sự giải thoát,v.v…, có thể được thiết kế với tính nghệ thuật và mục đích.
Thiết kế đô thị ra đời để lấp đi khoảng trống trách nhiệm giữa kiến trúc, vốn quan tâm từng công trình đơn lẻ, và quy hoạch, vốn giờ đây tập trung vào các khía cạnh kinh tế-xã hội của đô thị. Quan trọng hơn, thiết kế đô thị đã ra đời để tạo dựng những không gian đô thị nhân bản hơn trong các thành phố hiện đại.
Nguyễn Đỗ Dũng | Công ty Tư vấn Thanh Bình
Tham khảo:
Krieger, A. and Saunders, W. eds. (2009). Urban Design. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press;
Lang, J. (2005). Urban Design: A typology of procedures and products. Oxford: Architectural Press;
Bad Role Models for Landscape Architecture
by Tim-Waterman on April 20, 2015, no comments
‘Bad Role Models for Landscape Architecture’ is a series of articles I wrote in 2012 for Landscape
online and which led to much discussion (some angry) and a short
appearance on the BBC where I criticised Charles Jencks’s earthwork Northumberlandia.
Jencks believes that in a postmodern age any publicity, even negative,
is good publicity. This, however, is only a very temporary fact, and
work made for this type of media response will itself be as ephemeral. All six instalments are reproduced unmodified from the original as a single piece.
Bad Role Models for Landscape Architecture
Many a landscape student’s bête noire is the concept – the ‘big idea’ that drives the design. Ultimately, any site’s big idea is its context and how that fits with its possible programme. Many design concepts actually prevent landscapes from functioning, and this series of short articles looks at a few of the ways projects can get off to false starts or come to bad ends.
Bad Concept Number 1: “The Inflexible Abstraction”
Gazing into the stars or pondering the philosophical ineffable can
inspire us to try to express universal truths or fascinating theories
about the nature of life or the stuff of the cosmos. This is a deeply
human goal, but one that can go badly awry when applied literally to
site design. Forms derived from speculations unrelated to site can die
on the drafting table and then be delivered stiff and stillborn onto a
site.
Charles Jencks is the current master of the inflexible abstraction and thus serves as our first bad role model for landscape architecture. Much work has been inspired by his curvaceous forms, which can be photogenic, but when students try to recreate his methods they find their designs are little more than cake-decorating across the surface of the site.
Indeed, this is usually what Jencks’s works do. His landforms strive towards a ‘universal iconography’ while expressing ‘local, national, and cosmic history’. This is accomplished by, for example, creating a pond in the shape of Scotland. The world is shrunk into a grain of sand as black holes commingle with quarks and Higgs’s bashful boson. Pages 20 and 21 of Jencks’ new book The Universe in the Landscape illustrate just how stiffly representational his work can be. A swirl of warped-grid paving curves into a massive concrete vortex. Visitors have been provided with a handrail so that they can resist the supergravity at the event horizon. Hang on tight!
Readers of Jencks’s new doorstop, should they be able to persevere beyond these initial pages, will be treated to a carnival of horrors, the most striking of which is an enormous landform in the shape of an earth goddess to be known as ‘Northumberlandia’, who, while not an actual local, national, or cosmic deity, is representative of one. She looks uncomfortable in her role. Northumberlandia’s hypertrophied breasts thrust into the sky while she lies in a twisted contraposto and raises a cold, dead hand in benediction. The icing on this particular piece of cake-decoration is that the artist saw fit to fashion an enormous mythic female form out of slag. Some day tourists will wave smugly from her hoar-frosted nipples.
A concept should give us a way of working with the landscape, not on the landscape. The projects illustrated in The Universe in the Landscape are models for concept-enslaved art imposed on the landscape, thus they are destructive models for landscape design.
Bad Concept Number 2: “All Soaped Up”
Sometimes the conceptual weakness in a design originates in the brief
issued by the client, often when the goal is a “Garden of
Something-or-other”. This could be ‘fellowship’ perhaps, or
‘remembrance’, or ‘earthly delights’. These are all meaningful
appellations. They resonate with the public and the symbolic function of
the language is fairly clear. They celebrate human ideals or human
existence and they make these ideas tangible in a physical space that
people can inhabit. These types of spaces have an important civic and
cultural function for identity and belonging.
It can be difficult, though, to take such a far-reaching abstraction and apply it to generate form or to manipulate material on an actual site. These abstractions are as slippery as bars of soap. They just don’t afford any opportunities to get a grip
A spectacular example is Daniel Libeskind’s Ground Zero Master Plan for the World Trade Center site in Manhattan, the language of which is at once a haunted house of the ethereal and sacred, and a roundhouse punch of macho patriotic swagger. There are two key themes: one, ‘Reflecting Absence’, the twin fountains within the twin tower footprints and the ‘Freedom Tower’, the symbolic replacement for Minoru Yamasaki’s World Trade Center towers.
‘Reflecting Absence’, Michael Arad and Peter Walker’s fountains falter because they, in the manner of so many contemporary memorials, are immensely land-hungry. Since Maya Lin’s Vietnam War Memorial, every memorial must be narrative and immersive and big. Thus it gobbles up a lot of sacred land that could be used more usefully and very symbolically for the public exercise of democracy. Further, its fountains gobble up fossil fuels by pumping water at the rate of 98,000 litres a minute. This conspicuous waste combined with global tensions over fuel do nothing to improve the image of Americans in the world at large.
The pinnacle of the master plan is the ‘Freedom Tower’ (now the design of David Childs) and ‘freedom’ is used as both the conceptual and symbolic driver for the design. That anyone would want to utter the term ‘freedom’ after it was so wilfully perverted during the Bush years is remarkable, but Libeskind has given that perversion a patriotic erection 1,776 feet high (1776 being the year of the signing of the Declaration of Independence). For those many international dead from the twin towers, it is no comfort that this is, in metric, 541.3248 metres. Numerology is just another soapy, slippery notion.
Perhaps the important point for design, though, is that the concept of ‘freedom’ has burdened the world with yet another anodyne, air-conditioned, glassy, soap-slick stack.
Bad Concept Number 3: “The Killer Robot”
Wouldn’t it be wonderful if there was a simple formula for landscape design? Feed the site in as a variable (x marks the site), solve for x
and, lo and behold, beyond the equals sign lurks a finished design.
Actually, you’re probably thinking, it wouldn’t be wonderful. Landscape
architects and garden designers would simply be out of work. Clients
around the world could download the ‘garden design’ or ‘master plan’
app, and that would be that. Run app, print plan, hire contractor, job
done.
On the Academy of Urbanism’s Linked In group, there have, at the time of this writing, been 106 earnest responses to the question “I am trying to develop a more systematic approach to assesing [sic] how well a place is doing …”, which shows just how much interest there is in the robotic, systematised approach to landscape. We know a simple formula doesn’t exist, but computerised modelling is still seen as a viable approach to landscape and urban practice, despite the egregious example of traffic planning’s universal failure to make better places anywhere through the use of very sexy and sophisticated models.
Models and formulas also demean our profession. The proliferation of short garden design courses based in a formulaic approach furthers the notion, dangerously amongst the general public, that a bit of careful shading with coloured pencil and the loving application of a bit of Euclidean geometry is all that’s required for place making. Landscape design: it’s just what you like, and just a bit of shrubbing it up. Child’s play. Why on earth would anyone spend eight years of their life working towards chartership just to do that? The prevalence of facile shape-making approaches in garden design has led a couple of generations of landscape architects to seek to distance themselves from gardens – a peculiar act that could be compared to denying the existence of your leg while you’re standing on it.
Not that this distancing has done much good. Formulaic approaches are writ large in a classic of the landscape architecture canon: Grant Reid’s From Concept to Form in Landscape Design. Reid has now assimilated thousands of landscape designers into a colony of killer robots, manufacturing mindless, soulless geometric designs across the face of the Earth. There’s no denying that it’s easy. Begin with a circle (or a hexagon, or even an irregular polygon), click and place it around in CAD a bit, and presto, a garden design that functions only in plan and which stylistically evokes the golden year of 1985. Landscape design, as good practitioners know, happens in four, and probably more dimensions, and we must engage all of our senses in design that is spatial. The 2D plan drawing is not truly our friend, at least not when used in isolation, and certainly not when geometry alone is the driver for site design.
Bad Concept Number 4: “The Thing”
A variety of factors, including the rampant economic growth around
the turn of the millennium and the relentless drive towards branding
that accompanied it, has led artists and designers of all stripes to
seek continually to create the ‘iconic’ object. This is to some extent a
noble ambition. It is possible to cast an eye back to globally
significant examples such as the Wassily Chair, Tower Bridge, the Jaguar
E-Type, Duchamp’s Fountain or Robert Capa’s Falling Soldier,
to name a few, and to harbour some small ambition to duplicate that
success. Naturally, many things will fall short of this significance,
and that is a necessary evil. Many things become, in time, worthy of
study as curiosities, aberrations, or bellwethers rather than icons.
Damien Hirst’s For the Love of God or the revised Fiat Cinquecento might fit this category.
Icons, though, are rarely found in the work of landscape design. Landscape designers must beware of ‘the thing’: that object that appears fully formed on the drafting table and is then airlifted onto an unsuspecting site, where it becomes ‘plopitecture’. Worse yet, sometimes plopitecture necessitates a contortion of the site that appears posed and unnatural.
Thomas Heatherwick’s Rolling Bridge is one such egregious example. It is, in itself, a delightful thing. It is what all of our inner children want most: a clever and expensive toy. It sits across a small canal inlet that is grudgingly straddled by the hulk of Marks and Spencer’s HQ. Though Heatherwick Studio’s website is at pains to explain that the bridge lifts to allow access for a boat, a submerged concrete bulwark effectively obviates any such practice. And while one might imagine that such a clever and expensive portal might open to reveal a luxury stealth craft worthy of James Bond, the inlet is barely large enough to house a rubber dinghy. The awkward pose of it all renders the whole ensemble paltry, petty. One doesn’t want to play with either the toy or the box.
Roland Barthes, writing of photography in Camera Lucida, advances the theory that a photograph becomes effective through two means, the studium and the punctum. The studium might be seen as a sort of ground or setting, while the punctum (“that accident which pricks me …”) surprises and completes the image. The relation between sculptural objects or design elements and site might be thought of thus.
We should seek not to create icons, but rather, to use a good old-fashioned word, to create landmarks. A landmark is a punctum that is situated and that situates; it can make a place but it must necessarily be of that place and for that place as well.
Bad Concept Number 5: “The Gimmick”
Our consumer culture continually reinforces obsessive neophilia. The
next novelty, gadget, or technology is always enticingly within reach
and there are whole realms of design in which obsolescence is a goal.
There is a particularly loathsome breed of industrial designers, for
example, who boast about the speed with which a product becomes obsolete
and while still maintaining consumer confidence. Landscape architects
are not immune to these forces, and often can design spaces that quickly
become obsolete because they are dependent upon gimmickry and lack the
‘good bones’ necessary to endure beyond the life of the product. Failed
lighting never fails to serve as a beacon of crapness, for example,
particularly when the space is nothing but a vehicle for a spectacular
lighting scheme.
Everyone likes a little flash and dazzle, though, and one designer who has cashed in on a gimmick is Patrick Blanc. With his green-dyed locks, leaf-print shirts, and long fingernails giving him a faintly reptilian air, he has stepped into the time-honoured role of ‘designer as exotic creature’. He clearly understands the theatre that is required for the job.
Blanc’s vertical gardens are the perfect combination of corporate bling and greenwash for clients who wish to project a literally and figuratively green image at the same time that they conspicuously display the ability to spend lavishly. No corporate campus food court is thus now complete without its own lush and dripping green wall.
There’s no doubt that people find these walls attractive. Last summer, Shelley Mosco designed a delightful Van Gogh styled vertical garden at the National Gallery that was nearly petted to death by adoring tourists and may have been the most photographed London attraction of the season. It’s only a matter of time, though, before the craze is over. Once the irrigation systems stop working those green façades will disappear, or, perhaps more appropriately they’ll just be planted up with ivy. Maybe, though, we will finally have accomplished the feat of convincing architects that vine-clad buildings can be lovely.
It isn’t that the gimmick isn’t important – it is – just as important as those Le Corbusier specs for giving the client the full experience of hiring a designer. These things, though, are just the trappings, which are prone to obsolescence. The underlying design must always be robust enough to remain beautiful and functional when the gimmick is gone.
Part 6: “Is There a Good Concept?”
A large part of imagination is simulation. The design process can be
thought of as a sophisticated ‘flight simulator’ that allows the testing
of a design in motion before it takes form on site. A flight simulator
saves lives, money, and materials by allowing novice pilots to err
virtually – and this is precisely also true of design process. What of
the art in design, though? A pilot learns skills that are analytical,
instrumental, mechanical, whereas design must also be emotive, sensual,
perhaps even mythic (and one wouldn’t want to be on a flight with those
qualities). Is the concept the art component of design? Is design like a
simulator run on the electricity of the idea? In a word, no. We need to
reframe our idea of the idea in landscape design.
What is your concept?
This is the question that is asked in critiques, the question students and professionals ask each other, and it’s even the question clients have been trained to ask. The concept, though, as it is commonly wielded, possesses a monolithic singularity. Once formed, the concept can be unassailable. Mitigating factors and contingencies must be cast off or repelled. The concept becomes so abstracted from the site that communication between genius loci and concept is simply lost. The virtual aeroplane keeps landing on the same runway, same time, same crosswind, same stale coffee.
Where is the rupture? Why do concept-based approaches for design genesis fail? First, because they tend to be uncritical. Concept may follow analysis, but the crucial work of interpretation is missing. Second, because it is a human trait to seek abstractions that transcend the physical – often as pure, universal ‘truths’ – fixed and timeless, axiomatic. Concepts thus formed become so literal that they bear no relation to place. These two related tendencies result in art that more resembles taxidermy than living, breathing nature.
If not concept, then what?
We might begin to found a new idea of landscape design process by first examining the medium. It’s a truism, for example, to say that a potter thinks differently from a carpenter, that the medium of clay creates a particularly plastic mode of understanding, whereas wood has pliancy but requires precision, as does the woodworker. One might even, as an extreme example, examine Zen philosophy through the lens of the art of motorcycle maintenance. Our bodily experience of the world and our interaction with its materials shapes our life views and our modes of knowledge.
To examine medium in landscape design is particularly complex. First, there are the various media employed in drawing and modelling during the creative simulation phase of design that occurs in primarily in the studio. This plurality of materials marks a particular landscape architectural way of knowing that is distinct from the work of the specialist craftsman. Second, there is landscape itself, which really can’t be considered a singular medium at all, but rather must be viewed as a set of processes and forces – ecological, geological, political, social, cultural – that are constantly dynamic and interpenetrating.
The answer is, again, in our idea of the ‘big idea’ of design. If we conceive of both site and of design processes as fluid and relational, then we must begin to work and act in more fluid and relational ways. It is not a question of eliminating concept in favour of context. Context must be engaged through inaugurating a process of active, open-ended conceptualising in design as opposed to a fixed concept. This may seem like a subtle shift, but it is one that could not only utterly redefine our work with landscape, but redefine design processes across the architectures, arts and manufactures. As we seek more sustainable and resilient modes of thinking and practice, the scope of contemporary landscape architecture demands that we lead the way.
Bad Role Models for Landscape Architecture
Many a landscape student’s bête noire is the concept – the ‘big idea’ that drives the design. Ultimately, any site’s big idea is its context and how that fits with its possible programme. Many design concepts actually prevent landscapes from functioning, and this series of short articles looks at a few of the ways projects can get off to false starts or come to bad ends.
Bad Concept Number 1: “The Inflexible Abstraction”
Northumberlandia,
aerial view. From Strange History
http://www.strangehistory.net/blog/wp-content/uploads/2013/01/northumberlandia.jpg
Charles Jencks is the current master of the inflexible abstraction and thus serves as our first bad role model for landscape architecture. Much work has been inspired by his curvaceous forms, which can be photogenic, but when students try to recreate his methods they find their designs are little more than cake-decorating across the surface of the site.
Indeed, this is usually what Jencks’s works do. His landforms strive towards a ‘universal iconography’ while expressing ‘local, national, and cosmic history’. This is accomplished by, for example, creating a pond in the shape of Scotland. The world is shrunk into a grain of sand as black holes commingle with quarks and Higgs’s bashful boson. Pages 20 and 21 of Jencks’ new book The Universe in the Landscape illustrate just how stiffly representational his work can be. A swirl of warped-grid paving curves into a massive concrete vortex. Visitors have been provided with a handrail so that they can resist the supergravity at the event horizon. Hang on tight!
Readers of Jencks’s new doorstop, should they be able to persevere beyond these initial pages, will be treated to a carnival of horrors, the most striking of which is an enormous landform in the shape of an earth goddess to be known as ‘Northumberlandia’, who, while not an actual local, national, or cosmic deity, is representative of one. She looks uncomfortable in her role. Northumberlandia’s hypertrophied breasts thrust into the sky while she lies in a twisted contraposto and raises a cold, dead hand in benediction. The icing on this particular piece of cake-decoration is that the artist saw fit to fashion an enormous mythic female form out of slag. Some day tourists will wave smugly from her hoar-frosted nipples.
A concept should give us a way of working with the landscape, not on the landscape. The projects illustrated in The Universe in the Landscape are models for concept-enslaved art imposed on the landscape, thus they are destructive models for landscape design.
Bad Concept Number 2: “All Soaped Up”
One
World Trade Center. Image from Redesign Revolution
http://www.redesignrevolution.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/06/One-World-Trade-Center-1.png
It can be difficult, though, to take such a far-reaching abstraction and apply it to generate form or to manipulate material on an actual site. These abstractions are as slippery as bars of soap. They just don’t afford any opportunities to get a grip
A spectacular example is Daniel Libeskind’s Ground Zero Master Plan for the World Trade Center site in Manhattan, the language of which is at once a haunted house of the ethereal and sacred, and a roundhouse punch of macho patriotic swagger. There are two key themes: one, ‘Reflecting Absence’, the twin fountains within the twin tower footprints and the ‘Freedom Tower’, the symbolic replacement for Minoru Yamasaki’s World Trade Center towers.
‘Reflecting Absence’, Michael Arad and Peter Walker’s fountains falter because they, in the manner of so many contemporary memorials, are immensely land-hungry. Since Maya Lin’s Vietnam War Memorial, every memorial must be narrative and immersive and big. Thus it gobbles up a lot of sacred land that could be used more usefully and very symbolically for the public exercise of democracy. Further, its fountains gobble up fossil fuels by pumping water at the rate of 98,000 litres a minute. This conspicuous waste combined with global tensions over fuel do nothing to improve the image of Americans in the world at large.
The pinnacle of the master plan is the ‘Freedom Tower’ (now the design of David Childs) and ‘freedom’ is used as both the conceptual and symbolic driver for the design. That anyone would want to utter the term ‘freedom’ after it was so wilfully perverted during the Bush years is remarkable, but Libeskind has given that perversion a patriotic erection 1,776 feet high (1776 being the year of the signing of the Declaration of Independence). For those many international dead from the twin towers, it is no comfort that this is, in metric, 541.3248 metres. Numerology is just another soapy, slippery notion.
Perhaps the important point for design, though, is that the concept of ‘freedom’ has burdened the world with yet another anodyne, air-conditioned, glassy, soap-slick stack.
Bad Concept Number 3: “The Killer Robot”
‘Circles
on circles theme’ and 2-118 ‘Circles and radii theme’ from Grant Reid’s
‘From Concept to Form in Landscape Design’ (2nd Edition)
On the Academy of Urbanism’s Linked In group, there have, at the time of this writing, been 106 earnest responses to the question “I am trying to develop a more systematic approach to assesing [sic] how well a place is doing …”, which shows just how much interest there is in the robotic, systematised approach to landscape. We know a simple formula doesn’t exist, but computerised modelling is still seen as a viable approach to landscape and urban practice, despite the egregious example of traffic planning’s universal failure to make better places anywhere through the use of very sexy and sophisticated models.
Models and formulas also demean our profession. The proliferation of short garden design courses based in a formulaic approach furthers the notion, dangerously amongst the general public, that a bit of careful shading with coloured pencil and the loving application of a bit of Euclidean geometry is all that’s required for place making. Landscape design: it’s just what you like, and just a bit of shrubbing it up. Child’s play. Why on earth would anyone spend eight years of their life working towards chartership just to do that? The prevalence of facile shape-making approaches in garden design has led a couple of generations of landscape architects to seek to distance themselves from gardens – a peculiar act that could be compared to denying the existence of your leg while you’re standing on it.
Not that this distancing has done much good. Formulaic approaches are writ large in a classic of the landscape architecture canon: Grant Reid’s From Concept to Form in Landscape Design. Reid has now assimilated thousands of landscape designers into a colony of killer robots, manufacturing mindless, soulless geometric designs across the face of the Earth. There’s no denying that it’s easy. Begin with a circle (or a hexagon, or even an irregular polygon), click and place it around in CAD a bit, and presto, a garden design that functions only in plan and which stylistically evokes the golden year of 1985. Landscape design, as good practitioners know, happens in four, and probably more dimensions, and we must engage all of our senses in design that is spatial. The 2D plan drawing is not truly our friend, at least not when used in isolation, and certainly not when geometry alone is the driver for site design.
Bad Concept Number 4: “The Thing”
Heatherwick’s Rolling Bridge at Paddington Basin. Photo by Author.
Icons, though, are rarely found in the work of landscape design. Landscape designers must beware of ‘the thing’: that object that appears fully formed on the drafting table and is then airlifted onto an unsuspecting site, where it becomes ‘plopitecture’. Worse yet, sometimes plopitecture necessitates a contortion of the site that appears posed and unnatural.
Thomas Heatherwick’s Rolling Bridge is one such egregious example. It is, in itself, a delightful thing. It is what all of our inner children want most: a clever and expensive toy. It sits across a small canal inlet that is grudgingly straddled by the hulk of Marks and Spencer’s HQ. Though Heatherwick Studio’s website is at pains to explain that the bridge lifts to allow access for a boat, a submerged concrete bulwark effectively obviates any such practice. And while one might imagine that such a clever and expensive portal might open to reveal a luxury stealth craft worthy of James Bond, the inlet is barely large enough to house a rubber dinghy. The awkward pose of it all renders the whole ensemble paltry, petty. One doesn’t want to play with either the toy or the box.
Roland Barthes, writing of photography in Camera Lucida, advances the theory that a photograph becomes effective through two means, the studium and the punctum. The studium might be seen as a sort of ground or setting, while the punctum (“that accident which pricks me …”) surprises and completes the image. The relation between sculptural objects or design elements and site might be thought of thus.
We should seek not to create icons, but rather, to use a good old-fashioned word, to create landmarks. A landmark is a punctum that is situated and that situates; it can make a place but it must necessarily be of that place and for that place as well.
Bad Concept Number 5: “The Gimmick”
Musee du Quai Branly. Murky, unflattering photo supplied by author.
Everyone likes a little flash and dazzle, though, and one designer who has cashed in on a gimmick is Patrick Blanc. With his green-dyed locks, leaf-print shirts, and long fingernails giving him a faintly reptilian air, he has stepped into the time-honoured role of ‘designer as exotic creature’. He clearly understands the theatre that is required for the job.
Blanc’s vertical gardens are the perfect combination of corporate bling and greenwash for clients who wish to project a literally and figuratively green image at the same time that they conspicuously display the ability to spend lavishly. No corporate campus food court is thus now complete without its own lush and dripping green wall.
There’s no doubt that people find these walls attractive. Last summer, Shelley Mosco designed a delightful Van Gogh styled vertical garden at the National Gallery that was nearly petted to death by adoring tourists and may have been the most photographed London attraction of the season. It’s only a matter of time, though, before the craze is over. Once the irrigation systems stop working those green façades will disappear, or, perhaps more appropriately they’ll just be planted up with ivy. Maybe, though, we will finally have accomplished the feat of convincing architects that vine-clad buildings can be lovely.
It isn’t that the gimmick isn’t important – it is – just as important as those Le Corbusier specs for giving the client the full experience of hiring a designer. These things, though, are just the trappings, which are prone to obsolescence. The underlying design must always be robust enough to remain beautiful and functional when the gimmick is gone.
Part 6: “Is There a Good Concept?”
Design studio desk, early 21st Century, Rhode Island School of Design. Photo by author.
What is your concept?
This is the question that is asked in critiques, the question students and professionals ask each other, and it’s even the question clients have been trained to ask. The concept, though, as it is commonly wielded, possesses a monolithic singularity. Once formed, the concept can be unassailable. Mitigating factors and contingencies must be cast off or repelled. The concept becomes so abstracted from the site that communication between genius loci and concept is simply lost. The virtual aeroplane keeps landing on the same runway, same time, same crosswind, same stale coffee.
Where is the rupture? Why do concept-based approaches for design genesis fail? First, because they tend to be uncritical. Concept may follow analysis, but the crucial work of interpretation is missing. Second, because it is a human trait to seek abstractions that transcend the physical – often as pure, universal ‘truths’ – fixed and timeless, axiomatic. Concepts thus formed become so literal that they bear no relation to place. These two related tendencies result in art that more resembles taxidermy than living, breathing nature.
If not concept, then what?
We might begin to found a new idea of landscape design process by first examining the medium. It’s a truism, for example, to say that a potter thinks differently from a carpenter, that the medium of clay creates a particularly plastic mode of understanding, whereas wood has pliancy but requires precision, as does the woodworker. One might even, as an extreme example, examine Zen philosophy through the lens of the art of motorcycle maintenance. Our bodily experience of the world and our interaction with its materials shapes our life views and our modes of knowledge.
To examine medium in landscape design is particularly complex. First, there are the various media employed in drawing and modelling during the creative simulation phase of design that occurs in primarily in the studio. This plurality of materials marks a particular landscape architectural way of knowing that is distinct from the work of the specialist craftsman. Second, there is landscape itself, which really can’t be considered a singular medium at all, but rather must be viewed as a set of processes and forces – ecological, geological, political, social, cultural – that are constantly dynamic and interpenetrating.
The answer is, again, in our idea of the ‘big idea’ of design. If we conceive of both site and of design processes as fluid and relational, then we must begin to work and act in more fluid and relational ways. It is not a question of eliminating concept in favour of context. Context must be engaged through inaugurating a process of active, open-ended conceptualising in design as opposed to a fixed concept. This may seem like a subtle shift, but it is one that could not only utterly redefine our work with landscape, but redefine design processes across the architectures, arts and manufactures. As we seek more sustainable and resilient modes of thinking and practice, the scope of contemporary landscape architecture demands that we lead the way.
10 ưu điểm của Long Hưng- Đồng Nai mang lại cho nhà đầu tư
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