A study of an emerging paradigm in architectural design The Possibility of Craſt Samuel David Brown Dissertaon BA (hons) Architecture Leicester School of Architecture 2008/09
Mar 28, 2016
A study of an emerging paradigm in architectural designThe Possibility of Craft
Samuel David Brown
DissertationBA (hons) Architecture
Leicester School of Architecture2008/09
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DE MONTFORT UNIVERSITY
FACULTY OF ART & DESIGN
LEICESTER SCHOOL OF ARCHITECTURE
ARCH3031
HISTORY & THEORY 3
ARCHITECTURAL DISCOURSE
The Possibility of Craft
A study of an emerging paradigm in architectural design
By
Samuel David Brown
Dissertation submitted in partial fulfillment of the requirements of the BA (Hons) in Architecture
Session 2008/09
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STATEMENT OF ORIGINALITY
I confirm that I am the sole author of the text submitted for this dissertation, and that all quotations,
summaries or extracts from published sources have been correctly referenced. I confirm that this dissertation,
in whole or in part, has not been previously submitted for any other award at this or any other institution.
Signature:
Full name:
Date submitted: 30 April 2009
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ABSTRACT
Currently there exists a distinction between the activities of designing and making
in the process of creating buildings. This discourse suggests that the construction
industry can learn something from a re‐evaluation of idea of craftsmanship and its
application to digitally‐augmented processes of conception and realisation in
building. Following an introduction, the second chapter considers the idea of
craftsmanship and its meaning today; particularly within the field of architecture.
The third chapter examines the evolution of the architect from its roots in the
activities of the building craftsmen ‐ who designed and made as one holistic activity
‐ to the professional designer. As it is demonstrated that direct knowledge of
making has become displaced within architectural design, the fourth chapter
examines the true nature of design itself, concluding that designing and making in
the spirit of the craftsman entails the skilled application of available tools. The fifth
chapter then considers tools; rehearsing the relevant state‐of‐the‐art with
particular consideration of the continuing digital revolution within the construction
industry. Within this industry, each discipline currently recognised as a separate and
specialist profession is rapidly accepting digital ubiquity in its operation. The
consequences of this observation are enormous and the sixth chapter of this
discourse suggests that architects particularly are presented with a valuable
opportunity; that of re‐engaging with ideas of craftsmanship in the spirit of their
predecessors and re‐asserting their control and skilled creativity at the centre of the
construction industry. In light of this, it is suggested that the professional model we
currently accept as traditional may no longer be appropriate. Contemporary
practitioners within the architectural avant‐garde are already engaging with the
idea of creating buildings in a digitally‐augmented, collaborative enterprise
facilitated by a craftsman’s tacit knowledge of making. Contemporary society is
experiencing a fundamental cultural shift; one that will necessitate a further
evolution in the role of the architect. The conclusion makes the recommendation
that the role of the architect must evolve appropriately to suit the potential of
architecture within the emerging paradigm.
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would like to take this opportunity to thank a number of people, without whom
this dissertation would have been much harder to produce:
Firstly, I thank Graham Tromans, who led the seminar entitled Rapid Fundamentals
at the TCT conference in Coventry in October 2008, for providing a sound
understanding at a critical time, upon which I could build a more detailed
knowledge of the practicalities of making with digital fabrication equipment.
I also thank Jeroen van Ameijde, Head of Rapid Prototyping at the Architectural
Association in London, for taking the time to discuss passionately and eloquently
the nature of working as an architectural craftsman, with digital tools in the
physical world.
Lastly and most importantly, I extend my thanks to my dissertation tutor at the
Leicester School of Architecture, Dr Douglas Cawthorne, for directing my incessant
inquisition appropriately and nurturing my growing capacity for intellectual enquiry.
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
ABSTRACT .................................................................................................................... iii
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS ............................................................................................... iv
TABLE OF CONTENTS .................................................................................................... v
1.0 INTRODUCTION ................................................................................................. 1
2.0 THE CRAFTSMAN ............................................................................................... 4
3.0 THE ARCHITECT – FROM CRAFTSMAN TO PROFESSIONAL ............................... 9
4.0 THE DESIGN PROCESS – DESIGN AS A MEDIUM ............................................. 18
5.0 STATE‐OF‐THE‐ART ‐ DIGITAL ARCHITECTURE AND DIGITAL DESIGN TOOLS ......... 22
6.0 THE EMERGENCE OF A NEW PRACTITIONER ‐ DIGITAL CRAFTSMEN IN
ARCHITECTURE ................................................................................................ 36
7.0 CONCLUSION ................................................................................................... 43
BIBLIOGRAPHY ........................................................................................................... 47
ILLUSTRATION CREDITS .............................................................................................. 53
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1.0
INTRODUCTION
Emerging from a period of its history in which architectural theory has been
concerned with more abstract notions, such as the language of post‐modernism
and deconstruction, contemporary architectural practice is experiencing a re‐
interest in materiality and the physical tectonics of architecture. This consideration
is already entering mainstream popular culture, with the success of television
shows like ‘Grand Designs’ representing a renewed public interest in building and
the craft of its creation.
The idea of craft is closely associated with that of making. The practice of
architecture is by nature fundamentally concerned with the creation of something
physically present; thus, it is not absurd to acknowledge the fact that craftsmen
always have been, and always will be involved in the creation of buildings. Recent
history however, has recorded the gradual, formal separation of designing from
making in parallel with the evolving cultural climate in which the architect operates;
culminating in the distinction of professional architect from builder in
contemporary practice.
The purpose of architecture has always been concerned with fulfilling the needs
and desires of human society. Thus, the role of the architect has always been
defined by the cultural medium in which it operates and has naturally evolved in
response to social and technological developments within that medium. As digital
technology became ubiquitous in our culture, so it found a reflection in the practice
of architectural design. The increasing use of advanced computational tools in the
conception and communication of design wrought necessary change upon the
methods and techniques employed by designers and upon the way professionals
practiced architecture. Driven by the contemporary interest in ‘high performance’
buildings and the demand for the fashionably unique, digital tools have recently
been used in the production and construction phases of architectural projects to
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match the precision demanded by the complex forms so readily offered as solutions
through digital design.
Our Information Age (Kolarevic 2001, p.117) is akin to the Industrial Age that
dominated the first half of the twentieth century in that it has had a profound
effect on the relationship between architecture and the means of its creation; on
the way buildings are designed and on the way they are made. Indeed, many
practitioners are already considering the changing paradigm of digital architecture
and its implications for the processes of designing and making. It is important to
understand the influence of the emerging digital continuum on the architectural
design process so that future design may exploit its potential. At a time when style
seems to have lost its meaning (Solà‐Morales 1997, p.117), it is perhaps more an
approach that is inherent in the spirit of this age. This discourse suggests that
architecture as a profession can learn something from both the history of its
development that will enable it to successfully re‐engage with a direct knowledge
of making buildings. A re‐appropriation of craftsmanship in architectural design has
the potential to ground people firmly in a material world, whilst facilitating a
greater shared understanding of, and participation in the design of buildings. The
role of the architect may have to fundamentally change to suit this paradigm and
learn the lessons it has to teach about work in a creative, problem solving discipline
such as architecture.
In order to substantiate this claim, certain assumptions are made and then
questioned. Craftsmanship, for example, may not only refer to work done by hand,
by people commonly recognised as artisans and craftsmen; the sociological
philosophy of Richard Sennett (2009) is employed in this case in order to widen our
understanding of the term. Additionally, the architect may not always have
operated as a designer in the professional capacity we know today; Barrington Kaye
(1960) serves as an eloquent historian of process by which it came to be so, and
Spiro Kostof (1976) provides a rehearsal of the architect’s role in more distant
histories. The adoption of new technologies and methods of practice in
architectural design often emerge surrounding the current avant‐garde, and it is in
looking at this that it is possible to survey the array of tools available to the
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craftsmen‐architects that currently make up its number. The unprecedented
capacity for documentation and the transfer of knowledge afforded by digital
telecommunication affords the assembly of a dense body of knowledge concerning
avant‐garde practice and its support with interview of individual practitioners
passionate and willing to disseminate their discoveries; Greg Lynn (2005), Jeroen
van Ameijde (2008a) and Graham Tromans (2008) serve as virtual and physical
guides in this instance. Branko Kolarevic (2005) and Neil Leach et al. (2004) have
noted that architects are frequently able to utilise such digital technology to re‐
engage with other designers, namely engineers; and this discourse now extends
that observation to include makers.
Designers and makers share their heritage in the building craftsmen and it is
prudent to begin by examining the nature of those individuals and their work in a
sociological, cultural and historical context.
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2.0
THE CRAFTSMAN
“Materially, humans are skilled makers of a place for themselves in the world.”
(Sennett 2009, p.13)
Building has long been regarded as a matter of craft. Building craftsmen have
traditionally played an important role in both the design and construction of the
built environment. Architects therefore operate in a complex discipline; one
ultimately dependent upon the act of making and its cultural incentives and
implications. Within the boundaries of such a discipline, craft is the demonstration
of considerable skill. Additionally, genuinely craft‐made objects are often regarded
as things of beauty ‐especially amongst designers ‐ due to their being ‘astonishingly
well‐adapted to the requirements of their making and using’ (Cross 1977, p.6).
Craftsmanship is therefore desirable in both designing and building and associated
with status and respect. There is also a contemporary interest in the idea of
craftsmanship within the discipline of sociology. Richard Sennett has explored
material culture with his book ‘The Craftsman’(2009), and it is within this
exploration that this discourse finds its inspiration.
Despite their correlation to skill, phrases such as craftwork have developed a
certain negative connotation in their modern colloquial usage, gaining association
with that considered ‘old fashioned’ or backward. The Arts and Crafts movement in
Britain was criticised for being ‘out of touch’ with modern thought almost from its
inception (McCullough 1996, p.244) and craftsmanship often evokes activity that
disappeared with the industrialisation of society in the latter half of the nineteenth
century. However, this may be misleading. As Sennett describes, the word
craftsman has the power to conjure up certain imagery beyond the conventional:
“The Craftsman summons an immediate image. Peering through a window
into a carpenter’s shop, you see inside an elderly man surrounded by his apprentices
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and his tools. Order reigns within, parts of chairs are clamped neatly together, the
fresh smell of wood shavings fills the room, the carpenter bends over his bench to
make a fine incision for marquetry. The shop is menaced by a furniture factory down
the road.
The craftsman might also be glimpsed at a nearby laboratory. There, a
young lab technician is frowning at a table on which six dead rabbits are splayed on
their backs, their bellies slit open. She is frowning because something has gone
wrong with the injection she has given them; she is trying to figure out if she did the
procedure wrong or if there is something wrong with the procedure.
A third craftsman might be heard in the town’s concert hall. There an
orchestra is rehearsing with a visiting conductor; he works obsessively with the
orchestra’s string section, going over and over a passage to make the musicians
draw their bows at exactly the same speed across the strings. The string players are
tired but also exhilarated because their sound is becoming coherent. The orchestra’s
manager is worried; if the visiting conductor keeps on, the rehearsal will move into
overtime, costing management extra wages. The conductor is oblivious.” (Sennett
2009, p.19)
Sennett’s lucid account immediately extends the connotations of craftsmanship,
encompassing a wider spectrum than simply skilled manual labour. Few people
today practice a material craft for a living, but it is reasonable to include the work
of doctors, chefs and artists under the definition. Malcolm McCullough adds
brewers and businessmen to that list (1996, p.21), which could culminate in
Sennett’s unusual but insightful illustrations; parenting and computer‐programming
(2009, p.25). The former is certainly a kind of craft, for it is a skill that is surely
improved by personal incentive and practice. The latter also demonstrates this
particular ethos of craftsmanship, demonstrated by Sennett’s reference to the
open‐source collaborative enterprise of Linux users to improve the system they use.
Thus, it is important to note that craftsmanship is a name that can be applied to
something basic and impulsive within human nature. All craftsmen, it would seem,
are dedicated to good work for its own sake and represent that special human
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condition of being engaged, through the acquisition, demonstration and
refinement of skill.
In using skills we are not consciously following rules and for this reason it is useful
to generalize, stating simply that skill is the learned ability to do a useful process
well (McCullough 1996, p.3). Sennett also states:
‘By one commonly used measure, about ten thousand hours of experience
are required to produce a master carpenter or musician.’ (Sennett 2009, p.20)
This commitment is often rewarded by the phenomenon commonly described as
touch. Science struggles to explain the way in which a pianist utilises touch to
control the sound of a note, or the way a mechanic has a feel for a well‐tightened
nut and bolt; yet every skilled person will recognise it in their work as the feel for
rightness learned through direct and cumulative experience. Thus, skill can be
considered as tacit knowledge, implicit in doing.
Tools themselves are an important aspect of craftsmanship. Tools are often thought
of as something that is held in the hand. Indeed, hands either become tools or
operate tools, and it is through tools that we gain an understanding of our actions
and their implications. Tools can have a physical effect, such as that made by a
plane on timber, or they can act passively, as instruments used in taking
measurements or observation. In all cases, the use of tools certainly requires skill in
participation.
All tools have limitations and as such necessitate a receptive attitude towards
feedback; they facilitate a particular way of working whilst inhibiting others. For the
craftsman however, these are positive instructive experiences offering insight into
the nature of the work through their resistances and constraints. The use of
imperfect tools also draws on the imagination, informing skills of repair and
improvisation; discovery through experimentation and serious play. Problem‐
solving and problem‐finding are therefore intimately connected in the mind of the
craftsman (Sennett 2009, p.11). Play is for learning and that is why children do it
most; through serendipitous work or ‘chasing the accident’ (van Ameijde 2008a),
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the act of playing discovers the limits of the achievable, so that they may be
challenged or negotiated. Humans also fundamentally enjoy being skilled and
experiment to grow more so (McCullough 1996, p.7). It is perhaps this that
differentiates the work of a craftsman from the work of an automaton – the
‘workmanship of risk’ as opposed to the ‘workmanship of certainty’ (Pye 1968, p.4).
Craftsmen are concerned equally with the possibilities offered by their tools as well
as their own intentions for the work currently produced using them. Thus by nature
tools are both a way to discover and to effect.
In order to give work substance, tools need something to act upon or within, and
that is usually represented by a material or medium. This might be something as
simple as naming the particular material that is being crafted; timber for example,
or clay. It might also be more abstract; journalists affect their work in the agency of
‘the press’; birds fly within the environment of the atmosphere. All are media which
receive the work of tools in some sense or another. Understanding the feel of their
tools and media is what craftspeople do well, and is summarised by McCullough’s
crisp observation:
“You cannot replicate in Formica what you can accomplish in mahogany,
and the results tend to be ugly if you try – although of course Formica has its own
distinct possibilities.” (McCullough 1996, p.201)
Just as a carpenter’s wood‐chisels are different from a stonemason’s masonry‐
chisels, medium and tool are intimately connected and mutually dependent. The
tacit knowledge of the use of tools within a medium, learned and refined through
experimentation and serious play, results in the development of technique and
strategy in production. It is perhaps technique that most eloquently defines the
practice of craftsmanship.
In the acquisition of a skill, one is initially concerned purely with getting something
to work. Once achieved, it is seen that those in possession of skill seek to refine it,
becoming problem‐attuned, elegant and efficient in their actions; proud of their
developing technique. Technique therefore implies educated choice and selection
of strategy. This strategy will be most successful if it allows for serendipity and
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discovery, and thus technique also describes a certain skill in itself; that of the
ability to learn. The evolution of technique becomes the connection between
thinking and doing that balances problem‐solving and problem‐finding in the work
of the craftsman. Technique then is a skilled method of doing something; yet it is
more than mere procedure (Sennett 2009, p.8). Craftsmanship also involves the
idea of timing; the execution of a skill at a particular moment in time. It involves
intention and the way in which that intention is delivered, and exhibits touch in
doing so. Technique is the vehicle by which expression is achieved within a medium.
In reflection, all craftsmanship is founded on skill expertly developed to a high
degree (Sennett 2009, p.20). It has been demonstrated that craftsmanship may be
defined as that quality articulated by the skilled use of tools upon a material or
within a medium, developing a technique through serious play and affording the
expression of an expert view. As a conscious sensitivity towards a medium,
craftsmanship can be said to be a receptive attitude towards the opportunities
raised by, and set‐backs experienced in the use of tools, resulting in the ‘condition
in which inherent qualities and economies of the media are encouraged to shape
both process and products’ (McCullough 1996, p.22). Thus, a deeper connection
with craft has the potential to ground both designers and users in material reality.
This is an important consideration for a discipline such as architecture that values
both cultural and personal expression, yet is fundamentally dependent upon the
practicalities of making.
Richard Sennett worries that when separation occurs between hand and head,
between making and designing, both understanding and expression suffer (2009,
p.20). This separation taints the reality of contemporary architectural practice. How
has the practice of architecture arrived at this position? One may begin to approach
an understanding by examining the development of the architect’s role in society,
before focussing on the contemporary nature of the problem and rehearsing its
nature and precedent.
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3.0
THE ARCHITECT – FROM CRAFTSMAN TO PROFESSIONAL
“In a modern society where almost everyone works, and occupation is a major factor in social rank, most educated individuals aspire to professional status”
(Schön 1982, pp.3‐4)
Although man has always been an architect, there have not always been men called
architects. It is suggested here that the craftsman is above all a skilled expert, and
this is indeed the legacy of the building craftsmen to the modern professional
architect. However, throughout the history of the profession, certain actions have
been demanded of those adopting the style of architect, in order to protect their
skill and livelihood. The development of the professional architect is a complex and
interesting one and it may be useful to understand some of its complexity at this
point in the discourse. Spiro Kostof (1976) offers an account of what might be
termed the professional practice of architecture, usefully defining what it is and
what it is not:
“Architecture cannot be the world’s oldest profession[...]but its antiquity is
not in doubt[...]Indeed, even without documentation it can fairly be postulated that
architects were abroad from the moment when there was the desire for a
sophisticated built environment[...]This is what architects are, conceivers of
buildings. What they do is design, that is, supply concrete images for a new
structure so that it can be put up [...]. These are not of course rigidly distinct
identities. When architects undertake to build their own houses they become,
additionally, clients, and non‐professional clients sometimes dispense with the
services of an architect and simply produce their own designs. Even more frequently,
builders put up standardized buildings for a general market without benefit of the
architect’s skill. Finally, the great majority of building, so called vernacular
architecture, is the result of individual efforts – people who decide to build, settle for
the common look of the community, and produce buildings in the accepted local
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way [...].[W]e are not concerned with anonymous architecture of this kind, nor with
the rare cases where architects act as their own clients and the reverse. We are
dealing with the profession of architecture, the specialised skill that is called upon to
give shape to the environmental needs of others.” (Ibid., pp. xvii‐xviii)
In the Ancient world, craft, including that of building, centred on a localised
economy, satisfying local demand. Human beings have always demanded, at the
very least, shelter and warmth from their built creations and furnishing these basic
provisions with architecture has always necessitated an understanding of the
method by which they would be achieved. Knowledge of building techniques has
therefore been implicit in architectural production from the very beginning;
whether in vernacular building or that achieved by specialist instruction, but always
in the actions of the craftsmen who made, such as masons and carpenters.
By the Middle Ages, craftsmen began to gain greater social status. Material
craftsmanship at this time was the basis of middle‐class wealth; the Medieval guilds
particularly sought to diversify and regulate the supply of crafts in their own self‐
interest and that of their members. Significant built works were usually undertaken
by a guild, and apprentice craftsmen would receive their training within its
workshops. Rising through their ranks, master‐masons and master‐carpenters,
highly skilled in their craft, would supervise the work of the craftsmen and
apprentices placed under them. These master‐builders took part in the actual
process of construction alongside the building crew as one of their own (Kostof
2000, p.61); their almost continual presence in the workshop or on the site of works
served to establish a platform for the near seamless exchange of building
information.
Although very little evidence survives, it is believed that master‐builders also used
models and drawings to disseminate instruction, enabling the reciprocal exchange
of knowledge and testing of ideas. The workbooks of the thirteenth‐century
master‐builder Villard de Honnecourt (Figure 1) serve as a rare record of written
activity, although little else is known about the details of his occupation (Barnes Jr.
2009). When a project was under construction at this time – a rare occurrence due
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to scale and cost – the master‐builder’s
temporary hut became a centre for local
intelligentsia, who met to discuss the means and
theory behind their general building skills (Auger
1972, p.12). Other conferences were common
amongst master‐craftsmen, who would meet
within the framework of an ecclesiastical or
masonic community to discuss aspects of
building. Some documentation indeed survives,
as in the case of the construction of Milan
cathedral in the fourteenth and fifteenth
centuries (Woods 2006, p.145). Master‐
craftsmen could develop the theoretical aspects
of their knowledge of building through
travelling; often throughout Europe. By seeing
examples of built works and by meeting and discussing with other masters‐
craftsmen, they could enhance their understanding of the principals and techniques
which underlay the design of buildings.
The hundred year’s war and the ‘black death’ in Europe initiated a large scale loss of
craft skills; the decimation of such a body of knowledge inspired the expansion in
scholarship and intellectualization that characterizes architecture during the
Renaissance in Europe. Although many of the well‐known names of the period are
still known to have begun as apprentices to craftsmen – Andrea Palladio to a
stonecutter, for example (Goodwin 2009, p.1) – the influential intellectual, Leon
Battista Alberti made a differentiation between artists and craftsmen (Alberti 1986,
preface) that epitomised the contemporary elevation of the architect as a figure in
receipt of superior intellectual training – the universal man to which most architects
have aspired ever since (Auger 1972, p.13).
Utilising a common and highly‐skilled language of building, any master‐mason was
able to produce a simple drawing as instruction for work to be executed by another.
Likewise, it was possible for any master‐mason to produce a sophisticated building
Figure 1 – A sheet from the workbooks of Villard de Honnecourt entitled Geometrical Devices for Masonry Work. It is thought that de Honnecourt made this book for himself, with its use for instruction of others as a secondary purpose.
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from such a drawing. As building technology increased in variety and complexity,
certain masters naturally specialised in either drawing or execution; the distinction
between them remaining one of slight degree dependent upon competence and
personal preference. However, by the sixteenth century, specialism became
sufficiently apparent so as to indicate the emergence of a distinct profession. At this
time, in Britain, the Office of Works came to exist as the supervisory institution for
built works in the name of the Crown (Kaye 1960, p.34). Its principal members – the
Surveyor, Comptroller, Master‐mason and Master‐carpenter – maintained a direct
connection with the craftsman’s knowledge of making. In both the Office of Works
and the Guilds, practice was rarely individual and involved a high degree of
collaboration, through both written design and direct verbal communication.
The beginning of the seventeenth century saw the rise of Renaissance thinking in
Britain. This brought with it two important changes in the role of the ‘designer’ of
buildings. Firstly, the expansion of scholarship during this period began to forge a
liberal arts approach to education and learning. This included knowledge of
architectural principals, in which Palladio’s four books of architecture of 1570, ‘I
Quattro Libri dell’Architettura’, played a seminal role. It’s clear and concise method
of communication, combining word and drawing and minimising lengthy textual
descriptions, was aimed at a wide readership ranging from architects and literate
craftsmen to potential patrons, cultivated gentlemen and scholars (Goodwin 2009,
p.22). It is widely credited as enabling wealthy gentlemen to dabble in architectural
design, employing architects – as specialists in the new styles ‐ to produce drawings
for the instruction of builders. Secondly, the resulting distinction of the new styles
from the known language of building produced the demand for more precise
instruction to the craftsmen employed to build them, reducing their autonomy and
their role in design itself. Those that had emerged as architects were encouraged to
think of themselves as educated men of distinction and now sought greater social
status through a wider education and the intellectual practice of architecture as a
liberal art.
Thus, over the course of the seventeenth and eighteenth‐centuries, the architect
developed a separate status from that of master‐mason and master‐carpenter as
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held in the guilds and Office of Works (Kaye 1960, p.66), due to his liberal arts
education and particularly his mastery of the theoretical implications of geometry
(Kostof 2000, p.80). As a profession, architecture became fundamentally dependent
upon the patronage of the educated gentry, founded upon the mutual, intellectual
appreciation of architecture (Wilkinson 2000, p.126).
By the eighteenth‐century, machinery began to be used in the workshops of the
building craftsmen, altering processes of production that previously had their base
in medieval practice. This perpetuated the reduction in the social status of
craftsmen (McCullough 1996, p.12) and marked the beginning of industrialisation of
the construction industry.
By the nineteenth century, industrialism was in full swing and design disciplines
became distinct from handicrafts (McCullough 1996, p.14). The larger‐scale
adoption of machinery that ensued can be seen as the source of Richard Sennett’s
concern about a divorce of hand from head; of thinking from doing (Sennett 2009,
p.20). John Ruskin and proponents of the Arts and Crafts movement also challenged
mechanisation on this basis (McCullough 1996, p.14). From a socially progressive
perspective, Ruskin states:
“The right question to ask [...] is simply this: what is done with enjoyment?”
(1909, p.241)
Adding, as the distinction between human craft and industrial product became
more apparent:
“We have much studied and much perfected, of late, the great civilized
invention of the division of labour; only we give it a false name. It is not, truly
speaking, the labour that it divided; but the men:— Divided into mere segments of
men— broken into small fragments and crumbs of life; so that all the little piece of
intelligence that is left in a man is not enough to make a pin, or a nail, but exhausts
itself in making the point of a pin or the head of a nail. [...] And the great cry that
rises from our manufacturing cities, louder than their furnace blast, is all in very
deed for this,— that we manufacture everything there except men; we blanch
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cotton, and strengthen steel, and refine sugar, and shape pottery; but to brighten,
to strengthen, to refine, or to form a single living spirit, never enters into our
estimate of advantages. [...] It can only be met by a right understanding, on the part
of all classes, of what kinds of labour are good for men, raising them, and making
them happy; by a determined sacrifice of such convenience or beauty, or cheapness
as is to be got only by the degradation of the workman; and by equally determined
demand for the products and results of healthy and ennobling labour.” (Ruskin
1867, p.165)
Inspired, Walter Gropius and the Bauhaus later sought a similar reverence of
craftsmanship and the revival of a craftsman’s guild:
“Today the arts exist in isolation, from which they can be rescued only by
the conscious, cooperative efforts of a craftsman...Let us then create a new guild of
craftsmen, without class distinctions[...]a working community...[based upon the]
collaboration by the students in the work of the masters.”(Gropius 1919, p.1)
The laissez‐faire capitalism that to the distaste of Ruskin and Gropius, accompanied
western industrialisation meant that the noble patron became a less frequent
client. Clients now consisted predominantly of committees for civic buildings,
whose knowledge of architecture could be considered negligible (Jenkins 1961,
p.223). Barrington Kaye uses a sociological definition of the professional in his
account of the complex nature of the further professionalization of architecture in
Britain at this time;
“The professional is an expert, and his relationship with his client is
dominated by that fact. The layman is unable to judge the quality of his services,
except in the long run, and is therefore obliged to take them on trust.” (Kaye 1960,
p.13)
This relationship meant that it was possible for the expert to exploit his client. As
many writers note (Kaye 1960; Jenkins 1961; Wilton‐Ely 2000), this frequently
occurred in the architectural profession during the nineteenth‐century. The lack of
regulation in this area at this time resulted in an often fraudulent standard of
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architectural practice. It was not uncommon for the client to receive an
underestimated cost of a contract, or to be recommended a builder working on
commission to the architect. In addition, the system of architectural education
prevalent at the time was one of pupilage, in which an established architect was
paid a sum of money in order to impart his knowledge of the profession to the
articled pupil. Again, unscrupulousness here meant that often young architects
would emerge from their pupilage generally incompetent, having received
inadequate or insufficient teaching in return for the sum paid. Their subsequent
practice thus served to perpetuate the fraudulent standards that had given it birth.
It is in the interest of any professional to ensure that the public receives good
quality and efficient service, as, over time, the actions of a few in a fraudulent
manner would tarnish the reputation of the individuals acting with integrity,
reducing confidence in their services. Corruption, nepotism and incompetence
eventually led to the demand amongst architects, society and patrons of greater
integrity for the formation of a professional regulatory body. Under such impetus
began the professional association of architects, eventually achieving its initial goal
with the foundation of the Royal Institute of British Architects (RIBA) in 1834 (Kaye
1960, p.21) and a further important development with the Architect’s (Registration)
Act of 1938 (Ibid., p. 19).
It is commonly accepted that professional association represented the only
effective means of preserving group interest against capitalist self‐interest in a free
society (Kaye 1960, p.15). By Kaye’s definition:
“A professional association [...] represents an attempt by persons
considering themselves to be qualified in their vocation, to ensure that their services
shall be rewarded adequately, by excluding the unscrupulous and unfit. It
guarantees fitness by some sort of test or entry qualification, and scrupulosity by
making the adoption of a code of conduct a condition of membership, and by using,
in the last resort, expulsion as a punishment for the breach of it.” (Ibid., p.18)
As the nineteenth‐century progressed, the guaranteeing of competence and
integrity led to increasing prohibition in the face of increasing technological, legal
16
and social complexity that added to the risk of exploitation in the free‐market
economy. As Kaye notes:
“What started as a voluntary association has [...] become an administrative
structure controlling every aspect of professional activity.” (Ibid., p.20)
Architecture was not alone within the construction industry in its development as a
modern profession. Others developed with similar cause; in parallel, as with the
civil engineers, or later in the nineteenth‐century, as with the surveyors. Definition
by law and the increasing complexity of individual practice led to a clearer
differentiation between specific practitioners. Throughout the twentieth‐century
specialisation in this style has come to be taken as normal; for example, structural,
mechanical and environmental engineers have come to be recognized as distinct
professionals, each with their own professional associations.
Thus, the emergence of the architectural profession can be attributed to two major
social changes occurring in its history; firstly, the transition from medieval to
modern processes of thought via the Renaissance and Enlightenment; and secondly
the shift to a society based on capitalism during the Industrial Revolution (Wilton‐
Ely 2000, p.180).The professionalization of architecture represents the current state
of an incremental, although thankfully incomplete separation between designing
and making in the process of creating buildings. In ensuring integrity in their
professional practice, architects have removed themselves ever further from the
openly collaborative and direct acts of making represented by their master‐
craftsmen predecessors. With professionalization, necessary or otherwise, the role
of the architect as it is currently known has come to be rigidly defined and falsely
accepted as traditional.
It is suggested here that the historical examples of collaboration between architect
and craftsman noted above have a renewed value in the light of recent
developments in the technology of making. Digital processes of design and
manufacture now exhibit many of the characteristics of a unified technological
environment, where the designer can in fact be the maker. In a return to the idea of
architect as a building‐craftsman, there is the potential to re‐assume a central and
17
more integrated role in crafting buildings; establishing a modern and contemporary
re‐engagement of architectural practice with the act of making at both a material
and theoretical level.
The paradigm shift involved in the conceptualisation of this new craftsman‐
architect must necessarily encompass both the means and the method of its
realisation. It must on the one hand recognise and fully engage with the emerging
means of technologies of digital design and making and at the same time integrate
these with an understanding of the nature of design and its methods and processes
as a human activity. It is useful at this stage to briefly examine more closely the
nature of design as an activity and what effect it has on the realisation of
architecture.
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4.0
THE DESIGN PROCESS – DESIGN AS A MEDIUM
There is a basic perception that design is a linear process. The term ‘design process’
may itself be conductive to this belief – the word ‘process’ implying a fluid
progression from a beginning to an end. It is perhaps prudent to assess whether the
connotations of the word ‘process’ are misleading in the context of design.
It is understandable that at a basic level the creation of buildings is indeed linear.
The need or desire is established for a new building or building‐works; these are
‘designed’ and they are built. In a sense, there is a linear ‘process’ associated with
their conception, creation and inhabitation.
Karl Popper states that it is always problems, rather than observations that
encourage us to make things better (1972, p.258), and this is certainly supported by
the observations made concerning the work of craftsmen. Whilst well‐founded,
Popper’s approach is perhaps too scientific in its assessment and may not be suited
to the study of a creative problem‐solving discipline such as architectural design.
Key areas of study demonstrate that design does not occur exclusively before
construction; the discipline of cognitive science presents a particular framework for
its study that may be more appropriate. Within this framework, design is a specific
activity that occurs within the more general realm of problem solving; the nature of
the problem being one of structure and definition. Problems can be considered as
situations that have a ‘start state’ and a ‘goal state’ and require a transformation to
navigate between the two. This is a general model prevalent in the field and
derived from notions of the Computational Theory of Mind, which likens the mind
to that of a digital computer (Goel 1995; Horst 2005).
Vinod Goel (1995) differentiates between design‐problems and non‐design
problems, highlighting substantial differences between the two. As he suggests, a
typical non‐design problem might be represented by that of a crossword puzzle;
whereas a design‐problem may be represented by that encountered in the work of
19
an architect or engineer. In addition to this initial assumption of differences, Goel
notes that non‐design problems often exhibit a well‐defined structure, whilst design
problems appear more chaotic (Goel 1995, p.82). This means that non‐design
problems may well exhibit a logical and simple progression from start‐state to goal‐
state, defined by simple right or wrong answers to ‘tests’; as in the case of the
crossword puzzle, there is often a single solution, or limited range of solutions. In
design problems however, even the very limits of the ‘problem‐space’ – that is, the
theoretical, cognitive arena in which the problem exists, defined by combination of
problem, method of solution and resources available (Ibid., p.81) – are negotiable.
In design‐problems, it is often possible to alter the start‐state or goal‐state itself,
rather than simply translate one into the other. In the work of the architect, this is
clearly indicated by the common procedure of establishing both the precise nature
of the site, via surveys of various kinds, and also the true needs and desires of the
client – a process facilitated by the ‘sketch’ design. The situation is further
emphasized by the fact that in design, there is no right or wrong answer. By nature,
design involves an element of problem‐structuring and well as problem‐solving
(Ibid., p.125), tying it intimately to the ideas of opportunity discovery and
explorative play identified in the activity of the craftsman.
Another characteristic of design‐problems is their size and complexity. They often
necessitate the decomposition of the problem into discrete ‘modules’, so as to
render them manageable. It is an unavoidable truth that in the world, certain things
are connected to certain other things and thus, for the architect, decomposition is
never complete. Goel refers to the level at which individual ‘modules’ remain
connected as the ‘leaky module’ (Ibid., p.103); ‘leakiness’ is something that varies
from designer to designer and their crafted approach to problem‐solving. This can
be considered as analogous to the idea of spinning plates as a party trick, attending
to each in correspondence to its need, but returning to multiple ‘modules’ again
and again. The idea does not require a designer to complete one module before
beginning another (Ibid., p.108). In design, there is also the notion that each time a
designer ‘follows a leak’ and returns to a module, their knowledge has developed
and the context of that module has changed, necessitating alterations to the local
20
solution. Professionals in different disciplines have expert knowledge of particular
‘modules’ and are consulted in this respect; the structural engineer serves as an
example often encountered by the architect. The importance of communication
and the evolution of knowledge therefore represent another set of characteristics
that mark design problems as distinct from non‐design problems. Subjectivity also
plays a key role in design. Ideas are drawn from the designers own life experience;
particularly from precedent. Solutions that are known to work in other situations
are introduced to the problem space and developed incrementally in response to
the evolving context of each design ‘module’. There is also the highly complex issue
of semantics at large in the world of design. This is based on the observation that
designers manipulate representations of the world, rather than the world itself
(Ibid., p.127). As a result, both the input and output in a design problem are sets of
abstract information; the former is usually a brief containing information about the
end use of the artefact; the latter usually a specification or set of instructions about
how to create that artefact. Design, therefore, is essentially the act of defining each
set or representations before translating one into the other. Design usually occurs
in situations where it is not possible or desirable to tamper with the world until the
full effect of the design is known in advance (Ibid., p.128). Thus, the acts of
translation between information states are also representational, and necessarily
so; the architect only gets one real‐world ‘run’ of the solution.
Simply put, architects do not produce buildings but representations of buildings. As
a direct result there is usually no genuine and direct feedback from the real solution
in design‐problems; at least during design itself. Any such facility must be simulated
by the designer using abstract representation and models ‐ both physical and
mathematical. Any feedback generally only influences the next similar problem,
rather than the current one (Ibid., p.86). This is a key differentiation between
design as practiced by the modern professional and that practiced by the architect’s
predecessors. The modern architect is not continuously present on‐site amongst
the builders, constantly re‐evaluating how a proposed solution is being deployed in
reality. They do not experience ‘leakiness’ in physical reality for example, as would
a medieval master‐mason.
21
So, in returning to the initial consideration of design as a linear process, it is
possible to see that there might be some value in this idea if it is considered as a
general flow in which a high degree of iteration occurs, rather than a rigid
sequence. However, the model presented by Goel (1995) represents the most
accurate set of assumptions currently held concerning the design ‘process’. It is
beyond the scope of this thesis to elaborate upon the intricacies of this model;
however the basic assumption is that there is something in the way that designers
think that cannot be explained adequately by models such as the Computational
Theory of Mind. Design is indeed a non‐linear, cyclical, iterative and complex web of
cognition; parts of which are less well understood than might be desired. It is
precisely this that makes design such a rich medium for creativity; however, the
disassociation of the design process into systems, compartments and modules is
both cause and symptom of the marginalisation for craftsmanship in architectural
design. To an extent this has been precipitated by the increasing complexity of
modern design, where the management of procurement seems inevitably to yield
contained teams of professionals with highly formalised and ‘low‐bandwidth’
creative links between them; often reinforced by contractual and legal obligations.
Clearly a reversal of this situation would be of some interest. The tools we use must
facilitate these the intuitive, tacit and less well‐defined aspects of design, most of
all the experiential knowledge and aspects of subjectivity that belong in the realm
developed through immersion in a medium in the spirit of the craftsman. It is
suggested here that the emergence of digital tools for making that compliment
those used for designing will facilitate a greater degree of shared understanding
and collaboration amongst the design team. Greater fluidity of design
communication and creative output might be achieved by bringing designers closer
to makers, developing the technology to encourage the complex interactions
embodied in the less well‐understood aspects of the design process. In order to
explore how this might be achieved it is useful to look at the tools becoming
available for digital design and production.
22
5.0
STATE‐OF‐THE‐ART ‐ DIGITAL ARCHITECTURE AND DIGITAL DESIGN TOOLS
“To a man with a hammer, said Mark Twain, everything looks like a nail. The better your hammer, I would add, the more nail‐like everything looks.”
(Whitfield 2009)
The importance of tools to the designer ‐ whether the physical implements of the
craftsman or the abstract representations of the professional architect – has been
noted; yet the idea of the tool itself is still somewhat ambiguous. It may be helpful
at this point to return to Malcolm McCullough’s account of the tool in order to
clarify the understanding of what one might be:
“A tool directs your attention. Its function becomes your focus...Its function
extends some powers of your hand, and prevents the use of others. In other words,
it serves a specialization...Above all else, tools take practice. You must learn how to
bring skills and intentions together. You must learn how each tools works with
another, and how all are maintained. You must know what tools are for.”
(McCullough 1996, pp.59‐61)
By extension, it is fairly easy to see that design tools have always been used by
architects and their predecessors. The use of a plan drawing, for example, allows
the architect to think abstractly, disregarding ambiguities of landform when
designing that might otherwise frustrate focussed thinking. Its use as a tool in this
respect requires the acquisition of skill. It is certain that architects learn how to use
a plan effectively and also that some architects do so with more skill than others.
Consequently, a good architect usually does know what each of their tools and
techniques is for.
The increasing complexity of operations within the construction industry has
resulted in the adoption of tools and techniques to enable the comprehension of
that complexity. Computer‐Aided‐Design (CAD) software is now ubiquitous in
23
architectural practice and was initially adopted to enable the quicker execution of
standard practices, such as drafting and scheduling in the hope of leaving more
time for ‘design’. More recently it has been used as a tool in the sense understood
by the craftsman, affording both discovery and affect. Instead of merely drafting
designs with greater precision and speed, computer software has become more
commonly used in design exploration and digital generation of architectural form.
The most obvious association with the word ‘digital’ in architecture is usually the
proliferation of outlandish imagery and dynamic form frequently appearing in both
the architectural and mainstream press. Fuelled by the contemporary desire for
iconic buildings, it is undeniable that shape‐making in this vein has the power to
capture the imagination of architects and public alike. However, it is important to
look beyond this superficial application of advanced software and assess what
‘digital architecture’ actually means in terms of design generation and execution.
Greg Lynn describes digital architecture as that which has become possible due to
the introduction of calculus into the architectural design process (European
Graduate School 2004). Traditionally, shapes and forms were often described by
‘ideal geometry’ ‐ that of squares, cubes, circles, or those that could be easily
derived from them by division or combination, their dimensions given as a fractions
of whole numbers. Calculus, on the other hand, enables form to be described with
dynamic geometries, rather than purely reductive ones. In enabling the concept of
the object as an assembly, derived from its components as defined by their
relationship to each other rather than to a discrete whole, calculus enables the
accurate description and location in space of complex multiple‐curvature surfaces.
This method is often referred to as ‘Non‐Uniform‐Rational‐B‐Spline’ (NURBS)
modelling and constitutes the basis of nearly all advanced three‐dimensional
modelling software currently available, exemplified by applications such as
Autodesk 3DSMax, Rhinoceros and VectorWorks (Figure 2.). Even a straight line can
be represented by a NURBS curve, all be it one without inflection (Lynn 2005). The
computational power of such software means that complex form can now be
conceived with relative ease. Once mathematically describable, curves and
curvature can be used as organising structural geometry rather than mere
24
expression; producing architecture that fundamentally looks different. There is
nothing to stop a skilled and talented architect from developing curved structural
geometry using tools currently available to them, and it is this quality that could be
said to characterize digital architecture.
There is also the concept of performative architecture, which refers to the idea that
architectural form can be generated in response to the results of sophisticated
analysis software (Figure 3). It also suggests that a building, as an assembly of inter‐
dependent parts, could change its arrangement whilst in use, becoming functionally
adaptive and environmentally responsive. The software used in this instance is able
to generate a technically or functionally efficient form that is frequently irregular
and can be described by the same calculus based system described above.
Digital architecture could therefore be said to be the search for meaningful and
appropriate uniqueness to satisfy the complex fashionable and functional demands
of our time. In either case, the performance of the tools used to generate design is
enhanced by powers of computation. The capacity of digital architecture to
generate meaningful design possibilities is therefore highly dependent on the
Figure 2 – Double‐curvature form modelled using Rhinoceros NURBS‐modelling software.
Figure 3 – Performative modelling of Foster and Partners’ City Hall (2002), London, UK, generated the pebble‐like form that exposes the minimum surface area to direct solar gain whilst maximising usable interior volume.
25
designer’s perceptual and cognitive ability (Kolarevic 2001, p.119); in other words,
their skill as a craftsman.
The use of digital methods of form‐generation such as those described above often
results in shapes and assemblies that designers find to be unbuildable using current
building technologies. This necessarily implies that these designers look closely at
the means by which their projects are to be created. Thus, digitally‐generated
architecture is simultaneously affording a re‐engagement with the act of making.
Frank O. Gehry looked to the shipbuilding industry in his adoption of manufacturing
techniques to enable the production of the complex double‐curvature ‘skin’ of the
Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao. Ships are subject to extreme and dynamic forces
whilst at sea and curvature often provides the best design solution. Shipbuilding,
along with the automotive and aerospace industries, has been quicker in the
development of production tools that can cope with such complex form. Designs
with complex curvature, described by NURBS curves in modelling software, can also
be output in file‐formats that can drive such tools directly via Computer‐Numeric‐
Code (CNC) based instruction.
In such digitally‐controlled processes it is possible to sequentially perform a number
of isolated, precise and replicable actions that can loosely be categorized by the
following terms; addition; subtraction; distortion and assembly (Tromans 2008). As
a family, these are more commonly referred to as processes of Computer‐Aided
Manufacture (CAM). Utilising the same calculus‐based language that advanced
software uses to describe form virtually, CNC instruction guides CAM‐tools along
paths in space and allows them to conduct work on physical material. The
complexity of such fabrication operations is well met by the accuracy and reliable
precision of digitally‐controlled machinery.
Additionally, the evolution of the design‐development stage in disciplines such as
shipbuilding, aerospace engineering and automotive design has resulted in the
adoption of CAM at a smaller scale, enabling the physical testing of components
without the burden of full‐scale fabrication. Thus, model‐making as it is traditionally
understood has evolved almost completely in these disciplines to become rapid
26
prototyping. Some sources differentiate between CNC processes and rapid
prototyping, on the basis that the former uses subtractive methods of fabrication
such as cutting and milling, whilst the latter builds up objects layer‐by‐layer. This
distinction has difficulty in accommodating the processes of distortion and
assembly that are also recognised as being part of the CAM spectrum. For the
purposes of this discussion, rapid prototyping shall generally refer to the small‐scale
application of processes such as three‐dimensional printing, laser‐cutting and
desktop‐milling (Seely 2004, p.3), encompassing processes that utilise addition,
subtraction, distortion or assembly to create a model or component directly from
CAD data. Digital fabrication shall refer to the application of these processes at the
scale of usable components in construction.
Thus, with Gehry and others, a new set of tools has come to be available within the
domain of architectural design that can be utilised in both model‐making and full‐
scale fabrication. In additive fabrication, it is possible to form an object by
depositing, or selectively solidifying material in sequential layers. In model‐making
and rapid‐prototyping, these processes can typically be represented by three‐
dimensional printing (3DP), selective‐laser sintering (SLS) and fused‐deposition
modelling (FDM)(Seely 2004, p.10; Tromans 2008), allowing great freedom of form.
Figure 4 – Although the rapid prototyping processes of 3DP, SLS and FDM have fundamental differences; they share a common basic typology of tool set up, illustrated here with the build chamber on the left and the computer control terminal on the right.
Figure 5 – The logistics of additive rapid prototyping also differ from process to process, although the basic principal is outlined in the diagram above.
27
Whilst currently rare in larger scale application, there are studies into techniques
such as freeform construction (Soar 2005; Buswell et al. 2008, p.924) and contour
crafting (Khoshnevis et al. 2006, p.309), in which cementitious material is deposited
in a three‐dimensional print at the scale of a building. In a gantry‐based system with
the material usually being delivered from above, additive fabrication necessitates
that the tool is larger than the object it produces. This imposes obvious limitations
the logistics of its application in construction, where the principal product is a
building. However, there are also robotic arms that can deliver material with
greater dexterity; these can be smaller than the buildings they are constructing.
Buildings can be considered as assemblies of components and it is perhaps in the
production of components that this technology may find its most appropriate
application. Contour crafting (Figure 8; 9) has already been used to produce walls
greater than a metre in height that could feasibly replace the structural concrete
wall found in much UK house construction (Buswell et al. 2008, p.924; Khoshnevis
et al. 2006, p.309).
Figure 6 – Three‐dimensional print made from the NURBS model illustrated in Figure 2 using a small‐scale 3DP machine by the firm Z‐Corporation. Another manufacturer, 3DSystems, now makes the V‐Flash, a desktop‐scale version of a 3DP machine.
Figure 7 – FDM produced components that clip together to form a self supporting arch. Although in model form, this material demonstrates a partial structural capability.
28
Subtractive fabrication generally implies the removal of a volume of material from a
solid. This is generally achieved mechanically by acts of cutting or milling. Cutting
can be applied to two‐dimensional sheet materials and is general achieved via laser,
plasma‐arc or high pressure water‐jet. It is defined by a bi‐axial movement of the
cutting head in relation to the surface of the sheet material (Figure 10). Scoring and
engraving is possible with a reduction in the power of the cutting tool. Thus
strategies of contouring or scoring and folding can be used. Milling is a multi‐
dimensional extension of cutting in that the cutting head, usually bearing a rotary
tool that is capable of being translated through up to five dimensions relative to the
milled material. ‘In‐and‐out’ and rotational capabilities are added to horizontal and
vertical translation of both cutting head and material bed (Figure 11; 12). As a
result, milling can produce three‐dimensional objects with overhangs and
undercuts, without the need for further processing.
Figure 8 ‐ Schematic Diagram of Behrokh Khoshnevis' Contour Crafting cementitious deposition system.
Figure 9 ‐ A wall produced using the gantry‐based contour crafting process.
Figure 10 – From left to right; schematic diagram illustrating bi‐axial movement of cutting heads; high‐pressure water jet cutting on steel; laser cutting.
29
Components such as walls have also been constructed using techniques of
subtractive fabrication. It is possible to cut a design of high two‐dimensional
complexity and pursue a strategy of ‘fixings’ in the assembly of the component –
slots, tabs, rivets, pivots, clips, scores and folds can all be used to give three‐
dimensional form to an object cut from a two‐dimensional sheet (Christiansen
2008); demonstrated by Reiser & Umemoto’s Vector Wall commission for the
Museum of Modern Art in New York (Figure 13; 14). The opportunity for flat‐pack
delivery of prefabricated components is obvious in this instance.
Figure 12 ‐ The 5 axes of translation possible with a CNC‐milling machine.
Figure 11 – CNC‐milling tool in action
Figure 13 – CNC‐cutting pattern for Reiser & Umemoto’s Vector Wall installation at the Museum of Modern Art, New York.
Figure 14 – Fully assembled Vector Wall given form by folding along pre‐defined scores in each panel.
30
Formative fabrication describes tools that can bend or distort a material. Often,
mechanical forces or restrictive forms are applied in conjunction with heat or steam
to deform the material into a desired shape. Deformation is usually permanent –
for example, stressing a metal past its elastic limit or steaming timber boards.
Formative processes are sometimes used in conjunction with subtractive
techniques, such as cutting slots or scoring folds that afford a particular type of
distortion, akin to that in origami. Formwork for conventional additive fabrication
techniques, such as the pouring of concrete, can be milled from materials such as
polystyrene, allowing for more complex shapes than those achievable by
conventional methods (Figure 15). Plaster blocks were formed in this way in Jamie
Forbert Architects’ ‘Ordinary: Spectacular’ display at the Victoria and Albert
Museum in London (Alexander 2007a, p.8) (Figure 17). A similar process was
utilized in making jigs for the production of double curvature glass in Zaha Hadid
Architects’ Nordpark Cable Rail Stations in Innsbruck (van Ameijde 2008a) (Figure
16).
Figure 15 – CNC‐milling of Styrofoam formwork for the production of pre‐cast, complex‐curvature concrete panels in Gehry Partners’ Zollhof Towers (2000) project in Düsseldorf, Germany.
31
Rapid Prototyping and digital fabrication are therefore useful to architectural design
by two definitions. Firstly they allow prototyping; evaluation and feedback in the
design process, in a manner potentially analogous to the means of final production.
Secondly, they allow the full‐scale production of more complex form than that
attainable traditionally. The usefulness of model‐making as a design tool is readily
accepted and rapid prototyping allows this to occur more rigorously than before.
Additionally, physical scale models are often indispensible in the presentation of
complex, digitally‐generated forms, which can be difficult to grasp through
drawings and images alone (Franken 2003, p.127).
Assembly can also be a computer‐aided process. If components can be virtually
located, relative to one another as defined by the same calculus‐based system that
defines their form, they can be accurately assembled in reality using CNC processes.
Electronic surveying and laser‐positioning are increasingly in use on construction
sites around the world (Kolarevic 2001, p.122). In their design of the facade for the
Gantenbein Winery in Switzerland, architects Gramazio and Kohler used a
bricklaying robot to achieve a precise arrangement of masonry that filters daylight
in a certain way (Gramazio and Kohler 2009) (Figure 18). Frank Gehry’s Guggenheim
Figure 16 – The double‐curvature glass for Zaha Hadid Architect’s Nordpark Cable Rail Stations (2008) in Innsbruck, Austria, thermoformed on CNC‐milled jigs.
Figure 17 – Jamie Forbert Architects’ ‘Ordinary: Spectacular’ (2007) display at the Victoria and Albert Museum, London, UK (bottom); individual cast (top).
32
Museum (Figure 19) was supposedly built without any tape measures (Le Cuyer
1997) due to the affordances of the CATIA commercial software suite used to co‐
ordinate the design, manufacture and assembly of architectural components during
construction. The CATIA system was also used to co‐ordinate the astonishingly
complicated steelwork on Herzog & De Meuron’s Beijing National Stadium (Verebes
et al. 2008, p. 252) (Figure 20).
CATIA, or Computer Aided Three Dimensional Interactive Application, is an example
of a Building Information Management (BIM) system. BIM systems are becoming
more common in the construction industry, particularly in projects that
demonstrate complexity in their assembly. It effectively allows for a virtual
representation of the building being designed, based on the concept of an assembly
of component ‘sub‐models’ contributed by specialist consultants. Each component,
such as a door, wall or environmental system is linked to associative data from
which schedules, quantities, plans, sections, elevations, details and general
assembly drawings can be derived automatically. If an edit is made, the model is
updated in a co‐ordinated manner and any clashes can be seen by anyone who has
access to the model. BIM models can also be used to produce presentation
material, such as rendered perspectives and walkthroughs, and inform analyses of
engineering issues and building compliancy, such as those concerning thermal
performance and lighting design. This certainly makes the BIM system a very
powerful tool for those involved in the creation of buildings. Design data and
production data once again share the same basic medium; that of digitally‐encoded
information. The BIM system can effectively serve as a common link between all
members of the design team, who may even be geographically isolated from one
another.
33
Thus, construction practitioners have discovered that in their three‐dimensional
virtual models, they already possess digitally‐encoded information capable of
describing form, that is able to be communicated easily and that can drive
production machinery directly. Any tool or technique that increases the awareness
of problem‐space, described by Vinod Goel as the product of the problem to be
Figure 18 – Brick‐laying assembly robot in action producing brick panels for Gramazio and Kohler’s Gantenbein Winery in Switzerland, designed in collaboration with Bearth & Deplazes Architekten.
Figure 19 – Double‐curvature titanium skin hiding steelwork in Frank O. Gehry’s Guggenheim Museum (1997) in Bilbao, Spain
Figure 20 – Complex steel structure on open display in Herzog & De Meuron’s Beijing National Stadium (2008), Beijing, China.
34
solved and the means by which it can be achieved, is very desirable. The
CAD/CAM/BIM model is primarily concerned with the flow of information
(McCullough 1996, p.179) and a common digital medium eliminates, rather than
automates the production of construction documents. In removing the time‐
consuming and error‐prone process of translation of intent to instruction that
occurs in conventional design processes, there exists the opportunity for greater
retention of design intent. With this also comes greater responsibility and power
for the custodian of such a system. The role of ‘custodian’ represents a space
currently unoccupied by any defined profession, but would seem naturally suited to
the generalist skills of the architect. It may also necessitate the evolution of a new
type of practitioner – one that bears a closer resemblance to the master‐builder in
its direct access to, and handling of, building information. Branko Kolarevic calls
these people ‘information‐master‐builders’ (2003, p.57) in reference to the
importance of the digital connection. If data used for design can actually be the
data used for production ‐ and as such inherently represents the constraints and
affordances of the tools of construction ‐ tacit knowledge of making is once again
possible in the actions of those who design.
Whilst designing and making are both more complex than they once were, our tools
also enable the comprehension of complexity and perpetuate its generation. As it
has previously been stated, the tools we use to design must facilitate the way
designers approach design problems and it is certain that the tools describe here
will continue to evolve; Moore’s law, for example, models the way computing
power roughly doubles every eighteen months (Jovanovic and Rousseau 2002).
In paraphrasing Karl Marx, theoretician Lars Spuybroek notes that tools often have
a shaping influence of the users themselves, rather than simply being developed to
satisfy their needs (Augenbroe et al. 2005, p.243). Thus, this discourse arrives at its
most important observation; the opportunity exists for designers to develop a new
technique in architectural practice, one which is closely linked to that of the
craftsman and the medieval master‐builder in its direct, tacit knowledge of the
medium of building. The established use of rapid prototyping and digital fabrication
in other domains means that the new practitioner is free to engage in a variety of
35
disciplines, armed with his education and instinct for serious play. With his access
to an unprecedented volume and diversity of information, he is also like the
Renaissance universal man in his practice of architecture as an informed liberal art.
Certain practitioners are already showing signs that the adoption of an appropriate
technique might represent a fundamental change in the architect’s attitude
towards design. It is this ‘new instrumentalism’ that may signal the emergence of a
new kind of architectural practice, more akin to a renaissance workshop or Bauhaus
studio than a conventional office, with the architect operating as a skilled, digital
craftsman.
36
6.0
THE EMERGENCE OF A NEW PRACTITIONER ‐ DIGITAL CRAFTSMEN IN ARCHITECTURE
“The medium I work in is architecture. I often work with people in other mediums, and I think architecture is good at connecting other mediums up.”
Greg Lynn in (European Graduate School 2004).
It has been noted that the nature of practice as an architect is characterized by
complexity. Design, by nature, is a complex activity; especially in contemporary
architectural practice where there are, in effect, more of Vinod Goel’s ‘modules’
(1995, p.103) to consider now than there ever have been. The evolutionary history
of the architecture profession is complicated, and professional status itself is
complex, as defined by its governing legislation and the socio‐legal etiquette
commonly expected of practicing architects. When ideas of craftsmanship are
considered, a further level of complexity is added by that aspect of human nature
that compels us to work well for its own sake. In the face of all of this complexity,
the role of the architect may be about to undergo a further evolution.
Nobel laureate Philip Anderson uses the term ‘more is different’ to describe the
concept of emergence and the ubiquitous property of phase‐change in nature
(Anderson 1972, p.363). With the repetitive addition of more – more energy, more
information, more mass ‐ a system will reach a critical point and jump into a new
organisational regime. The basic insight is that under these conditions, new
patterns of organisation can emerge spontaneously (Jencks 2002, preface). It is
suggested here that this is now being seen in architecture, with new types of
practice emerging in response to a ‘system’ overloaded with digital information.
There is a need to develop a new way of working in response to a deluge of data
that characterizes contemporary practice. In short, practitioners from a variety of
disciplines are giving up their job‐descriptions and taking a place in the
contemporary avant‐garde. As Charles Jencks notes:
37
“Whenever there is a revolution, or fast change, in architecture professional
barriers break down as specialists exchange roles. Architects become sculptors,
engineers become designers, artists turn into architects, and all these job
descriptions become fuzzy. This happened in the Early Renaissance, during the
building of Florence Cathedral, when Ghiberti and Brunelleschi switched professions
from goldsmith to sculptor and artist to architect. It happened countless times in the
19th and 20th centuries when the avant‐garde was reconstituted again and again
[...].and indeed it is one good measure of an avant‐garde. If professionals do not
give up their job descriptions [...]there is no avant‐garde, no breaking of barriers, no
radical creativity.”(Jencks 2002, preface).
It is suggested here that the ‘emergent’ paradigm of the contemporary avant‐garde
in architecture is that of the digitally‐enabled craftsman. In the writing that is
accompanying this emergence, the new practitioner is referred to as many things;
‘information master‐builder’ (Kolarevic 2003, p.57); ‘post‐digital designer’ (Shiel
2008, p.7); the ‘hybrid practitioner’ and ‘architect‐engineer’ (Leach et al. 2004, p.5);
and probably most appropriately, ‘digital craftsman’ (McCullough 1996, xvi). In
essence, all support the suggestion that isolated professional status might not be
the most vital attribute to retain in practice.
Unprecedented access to information certainly offers the opportunity to re‐engage
with the idea of the architect as master‐builder. Digital telecommunication offers
the ability to communicate directly with specialist designers and fabricators; and in
terms of design and production, integrated three‐dimensional models such as BIM
systems combine this with the ability to see what those specialists are doing, as
they are doing it; even when geographically isolated. In observation and
communication, the avant‐garde practitioner gains an experiential understanding
of the tools and techniques of the traditional, hybrid and digital craftsmen that they
oversee and co‐ordinate; enabling them to re‐claim the kind of tacit knowledge of
building known by their predecessors.
The need and desire for direct specialist knowledge from the first stages of the
design process, combined with the realistic possibility of its facilitation, necessitates
38
a certain way of working. There is a preference amongst the avant‐garde for small
practices and project‐specific teams of individuals. Of the current generation of
emergent offices very few of them have a single name or signature (Aish et al. 2003,
p.292). Many function as ‘opportunities that allow people to gather’, as Mark
Goulthorpe describes his practice dECOi (Ibid.); the firm exists as a legal ‘umbrella’
for the project‐specific assembly of specialists in collaboration. Whilst this may be
seen as an indicator of their fledgling status, many practices, such as that of
Bernard Cache, intend to stay small (Ibid.). In setting up the highly innovative
production company Objectile, Cache explores the potential of digital fabrication in
the production of experimental building components, such as the Digital de l’Orme
pavilion (Leach et al. 2004, p.9; Cache and Beaucé 2002, p.88) (Figure 21). Lars
Spuybroek is similarly lauded for his work in articulating the theoretical possibilities
of such a mode of working (Burry et al. 2003, p.71). A common denominator
amongst such people is that they have a deep grounding in fields other than
architecture, and as described above, perpetuate and celebrate this multi‐
disciplinary practice in their work.
Learning through serious play is another aspect of craftsmanship that it is re‐
emerging in the architectural avant‐garde. The Architectural Association’s (AA)
Design Research Laboratory (DRL) was set up in 1998 by Brett Steele, currently head
of the AA school and Patrik Schumacher, director at Zaha Hadid Architects (Kolb
2008, p.27). It reflects Steele’s declared interest in ‘collaborative learning
environments’ (Steele 2009), one that is shared amongst the avant‐garde. In its
own words, the DRL:
“...actively investigates and develops the design skills needed to capture,
control and shape a continuous flow of information across the distributed electronic
networks of today’s rapidly evolving digital design disciplines” (Architectural
Association Inc. 2008, p.86).
The DRL emerged at a time when computer‐modelling was dramatically changing
the practice of architecture. From the beginning students were made to work in
teams; over the course of its existence the unit has shifted focus from slick graphics
39
and digitally‐enabled form‐finding, to the translation of those concepts into physical
reality using digital fabrication technology (van Ameijde 2008a). This vein of
practice is probably best illustrated by the units built work. One particular project
clearly illustrates how a collaborative process of exploration, with close liaison with
manufacturers can result in innovative architecture. The DRLTEN Pavilion (2008)
(Figure 22; 23; 24), in which no two panels or joints are identical, demonstrates the
approach of the unit. DRL director Yusuke Obuchi explains:
“...the spirit of the pavilion has been to test something we don’t know, not
just to show what we can do.” (Hartman 2008, p.33).
Figure 21 – CNC‐milled panels and structure of the Digital de l’Orme pavillion (2002) by Bernard Cache and Objectile.
Figure 22 – The DRLTEN Pavillion (2008), Bedford Square, London, designed by Alan Dempsey and Alvin Huang. The brief for these structures asked only for ‘spatial experiences’ of a limited size, and the designs considered the structural possibilities of materials ordinarily used in other capacities ‐ in this example, glass‐fibre reinforced concrete cladding panels, by Austrian manufacturer Reider.
Figure 23 – 1:10 scale model in CNC‐cut MDF to test the structure of the DRLTEN Pavillion and serve as a three‐dimensional construction aid.
Figure 24 – Simple connection detail for the DRLTEN Pavillion developed in conjunction with the manufacturers.
40
The craftsman‐architect takes a certain pride in being an individual member within
a team or small practice (Burry et al. 2003, p.68; Macfarlane 2003, p.183). Indeed,
the emerging paradigm offers the individual practitioner the opportunity to realise
work at a larger, more extensive scale by seeking out the company of like‐minded
individuals. It is even possible to imagine an individual practitioner, or small
practice with a skeleton staff, producing real components of buildings with their in‐
house fabrication machinery, as Greg Lynn does with his office Greg Lynn FORM
(European Graduate School 2004).
In describing the complexity of operating collaboratively, on a complex project in a
short space of time, Bernhard Franken gives a succinct explanation of the new role
being discovered, using the Dynaform project executed in collaboration with ABB
Architekten (Figure 25) as an example:
“A finely‐tuned production process is necessary for the team made up of 75
architects, structural engineers, mechanical engineers, communications experts,
lighting designers and audio‐visual (AV) media specialists to work together [...] As
projects did not have client‐appointed project managers, we, as architects, took
over that function to a large degree.
No existing software meets all the demands of our projects. We develop the
deigns in the film animation program Maya, while structural calculations as tests
are carried out in Ansys and R‐Stab, which are special finite‐element programs.
Mechanical Desktop, a mechanical engineering add‐on for AutoCAD, and
Rhinoceros, a powerful free‐form surface program, are used to develop the load‐
bearing structure. Some structural elements, however, could only be worked out in
CATIA [...] The interior designers [...] use VectorWorks on Apple Mackintosh
computers [...] Separate data post‐processing had to be programmed for the CNC
machines, which can only understand the machine code.” (Franken 2003, p.132)
Because of the variety of programs and operating systems used, Franken’s practice
chose a process similar to the internet to facilitate the exchange of data, but went
on to write their own programs for use in future projects. As such, the effectively
designed their own tools in order to fulfil a need not met by available building
41
technology. It is clear from Franken’s description that operating in this new manner
is limited in certain ways by the current legal and social framework of the industry.
This view is shared by many of the ‘new practitioners’ (Burry et al. 2003, p.65).
Another interesting observation is that projects like Dynaform, and the model of
practice described by Franken, could represent a substantial reduction in the cost of
building. It is reputed that Dynaform cost one third less per square metre of floor
space than the standard, orthogonal box sitting next to it and produced for the
same client (Franken 2003, p.138) (Figure 26). Indeed, aeronautical firm Boeing is
known to have introduced digital design and production processes for its capacity
to provide a 20% financial saving to previous production methods (Ibid.). The claim
made is not that Dynaform represents a better architecture, but that it is different.
Yet now this difference is achievable at the same cost as, or less than, the
standardised neighbour, whereas previously it would have been substantially more
expensive to achieve using conventional building technology and working networks.
Recently, Leach et al. (2004, p.9) and Charles Jencks (2002, preface) both identified
the need to rethink established professional relationships in construction, namely
that between architect and engineer. Harald Kloft of OSD, who worked with
Bernhard Franken on the Dynaform project, states:
Figure 25 – BMW Dynaform Pavillion at the International Motor Show 2001, Frankfurt, Germany by Franken Architekten and ABB Architekten.
Figure 26 – Dynaform sitting next to its orthogonal neighbour.
42
“[Y]ou need experience of dealing with these programs and these tools [...],
architects are coming closer together [...], as we are experiencing in our office,
where we have both architects and engineers]...] [T]here is a chance that tools can
bring both closer together in the future. But I do not think that one tool can bring
the whole situation.” (Braham et al. 2005, p.236)
In short, it is a common consensus amongst the avant‐garde that today’s architect
must be aware and connected with a large number of sources outside the
profession, rather than seeking out tools that would automatically enable them to
do the jobs of these other disciplines. Complexity is such that specialism has, and
always will have a valuable role to play in construction.
Designtoproduction, comprised of computer scientist Fabian Scheurer and architect
Arnold Walz, is one firm that exemplifies such an approach. In drawing on
Scheurer’s skills as a computer scientist and Walz’s architectural knowledge,
Designtoproduction are able to operate as facilitators of a liberal arts approach to
architecture for clients and other architects. According to Scheurer, some projects
would be physically unachievable unless they were conceived and produced in a
seamless digital manner. Within the framework of a liberal art, architects can ask
questions firmly grounded in architecture, without feeling as though they have to
fully step over into other disciplines. Architects should not have to become ‘junior
engineers’ or ‘second rate material’s scientists’ (Addington 2007), but should be
able to consider these disciplines from their own position of strength, whilst
understanding how far they have to reach out in order to bring in some of the
knowledge inherent in other domains. This approach offers the opportunity to
engage not just those with which we have something in common, such as landscape
architects and structural engineers, but also those from whom we might discover
something new, like theoretical physicists. The architect needs to become their own
expert again, or at least be closer to them and avant‐garde practitioners are
demonstrating that this is possible using digital technology.
43
7.0
CONCLUSION
Avant‐garde practice in the style previously discussed aims to achieve a seamless
and equal digital collaboration between the professions formerly separated as
architecture, engineering and construction. In doing so, it combines a tacit
knowledge of making within the field of architectural design with a liberal arts
approach to the accumulation of knowledge and its synthesis in built form. The
importance of the collaborative approach to both learning and practice is also
demonstrated in education, illustrated by the activities of the DRL. The new
practitioner will share many things in common with the architect ‐ and so they are
perhaps ideally placed to assume the role ‐ but fundamental aspects of their
practice will have to change to facilitate this evolution. It is this reunion of designing
with making that is both desirable, and possible due to the current and projected
state‐of‐the‐art in digitally‐augmented processes of design, fabrication and
assembly of architectural components.
At a time when architects are seeking to diversify their activity in the face of
economic uncertainty, it may be particularly appropriate to consider the possibility
of transfer that this offers; both geographically and disciplinary. This evolutionary
practitioner would operate not only in the field of building design, but also be able
to turn their hand to any meaningful creative discipline within which they can apply
their skill in revealing the nature of human beings, their worlds and the
relationships between them. There would be no single, correct way of working;
rather a variety in style of practice.
Just as it is suggested that the role of the architect may redefine itself, it is certain
that digital tools will themselves continue to evolve. Jean‐Francois Blassel, an
architect and director of engineering firm RFR, mentions that there is a need for
low‐resolution tools that never‐the‐less still embody the computational power of
the digital; that is, even in the digital realm there will always be the need to ‘sketch’
(Augenbroe et al. 2005, p.240). This is supported by the valuable and well‐
44
understood role that sketching plays in the architectural design process. Thus,
something in the nature of the interface between craftsman and tool may need to
evolve in order to facilitate the general‐to‐specific approach necessitated by design‐
problems. If tools can be simplified to the point where they can be used without
extensive prior knowledge, yet still produce useful results, they would become
more useful tools. As noted earlier, tools shape their users; however, it might now
be appropriate ‐ considering the interest in and ability to create their own
computer software exhibited by practitioners such as Bernhard Franken ‐ to suggest
that users should start to produce their tools.
An interesting proposition is that it may be inappropriate to ‘dumb‐down’ the tools
in order to render them useable by non‐experts. It is suggested that the process of
becoming expert ‐ Sennett’s ten thousand hours of commitment to become a
craftsman, for example ‐ necessitates a beneficial engagement with both the
medium within which the tool is used, and the technique with which it is applied. It
is not disputed that digital tools for design generation, such as those mentioned in
reference to performative architecture, offer the opportunity for meaningful
conceptual design in the face of the technical demands of our time. However, that
opportunity should not be mistaken for one that merely enables the architect to do
the work of others.
The position argued here is that it is more appropriate today to be able to assemble
experts in a collaborative team of equals, whose work is facilitated by the seamless
exchange of building information facilitated by digitally‐augmented means of
design, synthesis, co‐ordination, fabrication and assembly. As part of this team
there would be a new practitioner, operating as the digital master‐builder and
communicating directly with his contemporary cohort of digital‐craftsmen to
produce built works of architecture.
There is a distinct feeling amongst those practitioners examined here that a
significant socio‐legal barrier prevents the adoption of the openly collaborative
model to which they aspire. The accepted tradition of the legally isolated specialist
professional and associated issues of authorship and liability can cause friction
45
within a design team, especially in a litigious free‐market economy. However,
evidence suggests that mechanisms will evolve that allow these boundaries to be
crossed. For example some computer software, such as Adobe Acrobat 3D, already
allows the attribution of authorship of models and their components at a
sophisticated level, within a file that can be openly distributed (Martins and
Kobylinska 2006).
There is also the observation that, although the tools have been maturing and will
continue to do so, only elite practices are currently using them (Malkawi 2005,
p.249). These offices have shown that integrated, digitally‐augmented processes of
designing and making can be a major influence of the way buildings are conceived,
designed and constructed and it is suggested that architects of all persuasions
should seek to engage with them in some way.
In reflecting upon the opening on the opening statement of this discourse, it may
be appropriate to conclude with an observation from Richard Sennett:
“History has drawn fault lines dividing practice and theory, technique and
expression, craftsman and artist, maker and user; modern society suffers from this
historical inheritance. But the past life of the craftsmen also suggests ways of using
tools, organizing bodily movements, thinking about materials that remain
alternative, viable proposals about how to conduct life with skill.” (Sennett 2009,
p.11).
To this, it is now appropriate to add the closing thoughts of a practitioner operating
within the contemporary avant‐garde, such as Jeroen van Ameijde:
“I don’t think we have to worry that [craftsmanship] is going to be taken
away by automated processes. [In] all the examples we see, there’s always in the
end some kind of designer that’s human, with a very complex set of talents and skill
and experience to make those kind of judgements; and its usually things that you
can’t put down in numbers or parameters or something. The proof will be in real
projects for a real client with a real use” (van Ameijde 2008a).
46
It is in recognition of this progressive spirit that this discourse concludes, with the
hope and conviction that it has demonstrated the legitimacy of craftsmanship in
contemporary architectural practice.
(Lawson 2006)
(Broadbent 1988)
47
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