In modern architecture, as in modern painting, Renaissance laws of composition, which emphasized the symmetry and balance of semi-independent units, have been supplanted by principles that imply the continuity of the whole and remove distinctions between parts. The biological term organic is sometimes used to describe a process of composition that seeks to develop interdependent spaces and masses that function expressively as members of an organism.
If composition were merely a matter of organizing a certain number of relationships, the process would be mechanical, not creative, and all architecture would be equally good or, more likely, bad. The purpose of composition is to express particular concepts and experiences, and it is successful only when these are fully communicated to the observer. Scale
When the proportions of architectural composition are applied to a particular building, the two-termed relationship of the parts to the whole must be harmonized with a third term—the observer, who not only sees the proportions of a door and their relationship to those of a wall (as would be seen in a drawing of the building) but measures them against his or her own dimensions. This three-termed relationship is called scale.
A well-scaled building such as a Greek temple will serve for illustration. If it were to be magnified to the size of St. Peter’s in Rome, with its proportions remaining unchanged in their own relationships, the temple would be out of scale, and the result would appear monstrous. If the columns were to be doubled in width while the temple remained the same size, they would be out of scale and out of proportion with the whole. The proportions of the temple are satisfactory as they are because they are based on certain aesthetic principles established by the Greeks, principles that are partly rooted in human psychological makeup and partly accepted by custom (e.g., as are musical consonances). It is difficult to understand, however, why the scale of these temples is so successful within a certain range of size, for neither the ancient Greeks nor anyone else established laws to relate scale to size. They found their solution by experiment and subjective judgment.
It may be that the success of scale depends upon the ability to comprehend proportions in relation to some unit or module that is roughly human-sized and close enough to the persons in a building to permit them to measure it against themselves. The Greeks, in employing the base of the column as a module for all the proportions of a temple, found a unit of a size that can be grasped easily and one that is close to eye level as a person approaches the temple. This module is a key to relationships among elements too far away to measure. This can be done in much larger buildings, too, where the elements close to the observer are too massive to be measured easily. Roman and Renaissance architecture retained the ancient Greek orders as decoration partly for this reason, using them to break up huge masses into more comprehensible parts. In entirely different styles of architecture, such as the Gothic, where the expressive function requires immeasurable proportions, there is still a measurable module given in the base of the pier. But piers and columns are not always a source of the module. In masonry construction, the single block can serve the same purpose. In frame construction, the bay (distance between floors or columns) or doors and windows may make a better key. The most successful modern skyscrapers retain a comprehensible scale, in spite of their size, by the repetition of some such module, and this is one reason why the skeleton is so often expressed on the exterior even when it is hidden behind walls. Light
Light is a necessity for sight and, in architecture, a utility. But light is also a powerful, though ephemeral, vehicle of expression. Because it moves, changes character, and comes and goes with its source, light has the power to give to the inert mass of architecture the living quality of nature. The architect does not quite control it but can predict its behaviour well enough to catch its movements meaningfully. Architects channel it through openings into their spaces and mold it on the surfaces of their masses by changes of plane, making it enliven their forms by contrast with shadow.
The sunlight that falls on the exteriors of buildings cannot be directed or changed in quality, but it can be reflected or absorbed in a wide range of modulation by the relief and texture of surfaces. The planes and decoration of a facade, therefore, are not just the lines the architect makes on working drawings but are receptacles of light and shadow that change in character, even in form, as the Earth moves about the Sun.
Because of this link between nature and art, an important part in the formation of local architectural styles is played by the variation in the quality and intensity of light in different climatic regions.
Architects control interior light better than exterior light, since they can select the position, size, and shape of its source. With glass and other transparent materials, they transform even its colour and intensity and so give light a meaning independent of that which it imparts to the structure. One realizes this most powerfully in the Gothic cathedral, where the stained-glass windows transform the rays of the sun into a mystical diffusion that descends from above like a supernatural vision.
Furthermore, light may be illusory, dissolving rather than clarifying form. When it comes out of darkness in great intensity it seems to spread outward from its architectural channel. This illusion may be employed to express meanings, as at the Hagia Sophia in Istanbul, where the light from the base of the dome hides the supports, giving the impression that the canopy floats on air.
Hagia SophiaInterior of the Hagia Sophia, constructed in 532–537; in Istanbul.©Artur Bogacki/Fotolia
Texture
Texture plays a dual role in architecture: it expresses something of the quality of materials, and it gives a particular quality to light. Although one absorbs both qualities simultaneously by eye, the first has tactile, the second visual associations.
Specific tactile textures are peculiar to every material by virtue of its manufacture or natural composition, but they may be altered to produce a variety of expressive qualities. Any stone may be used in its natural, irregular state, or it may be chiselled in a rough or smooth texture or highly polished to convey a range of meanings from vigour to refinement.
Visual textures are produced by the patterns given to the lighting of the surface both through the way the materials are worked (e.g., vertical or horizontal chiselling of stone) and through the way they are employed in building (e.g., vertical or horizontal boarding, projection and recession of courses of brick). Like all patterns, visual textures create associations of movement, giving rhythm to the surface.
A single texture is rarely employed in building. The variety of materials and treatments typically produces a complex of textures that must be composed and harmonized like the forms and spaces of architecture into a consistent expressive whole. Colour
Since colour is a characteristic of all building materials, it is a constant feature of architecture. But building materials are selected primarily for their structural value, and their colours are not always suited to expressive requirements; thus, other materials chosen for their colour are frequently added to the surface. These include pigments, which usually preserve the texture of the original surface, and veneers of stone, wood, and a variety of manufactured products that entirely alter the surface character.
Ishtar GateReconstructed Ishtar Gate, in the Pergamon Museum, Berlin.© pio3/Shutterstock.com
But colour, regardless of how it is produced, is the most impermanent element in architecture. It changes with the weathering and staining of materials (the white Gothic cathedrals are now deep gray), or, if it is superficial, it can easily be altered or removed (as the coloured stucco veneers of ancient Greek temples or the bright marble facing on Roman brickwork).