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Struggle in the Studio: A Bourdivin Look at Architectural PedagogyAuthor(s): Garry StevensSource: Journal of Architectural Education (1984-), Vol. 49, No. 2 (Nov., 1995), pp. 105-122Published by: Taylor & Francis, Ltd. on behalf of the Association of Collegiate Schools ofArchitecture, Inc.Stable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/1425401 .
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Struggle
n
the
Studio:
A Bourdivin
LookatArchitectural
edagogy
GARRY
TEVENS,
niversity f
Sydney
This
article eeks
to
establish wo
propositions.
irst,
architecturalduca-
tion,
although
bviously
ntended
s vocational
raining,
s also intended s a
formof
socialization
imedat
producing
very
specific
ype
of
person.
t
s
contendedhat heeffects of this
process
have been
considerably
nderesti-
mated
by
architectural
ducators.
Second,
his
process
avorscertain
ypes
of
students-those from
well-to-do,
ultivatedamilies-at the
expense
of
others.The
sociological
rameworkf Pierre
Bourdieu
s
enlisted o conduct
the
analysis.
Toward
Sociology
of
Architectural
edagogy
All formsof education ransmit
knowledge
and skills.All formsof
educationalso
socialize tudents nto
some sort of ethos or
culture.
These
two
functions
are
inseparable.
Much
hasbeenwritten n
these
and other
pages
about the firstfunctionof
architectural
ducation,
about how
architects
should be
trained,
about what
they
should
know.
Very
ittlehasbeenwritten
about he
second.
Although
every
academicknows
that there s a
definiteculture nto
whicharchitec-
ture
studentsare
socialized,
usually
described
s
a
form of
romantic
individualism,
iscussion bout t has
remained nformal
and theo-
retically
narticulated,
sThomasDutton
noted,
beyond
his ownuse
of
the notion of
hidden
curriculum
o
describe t.'
I
present
here
what I believe to
be an
especially
nteresting
and
challenging
model
of
the
architectural
nculturation
process
based
on
the work
of
the
French
sociologist
Pierre
Bourdieu.Two
reasons
articularly
ommend
Bourdieu's
theorizing
o
architecture
educators.
First,
the
discipline
and
profession
of
architecture re
deeply
embedded
n
the cultural
world,
and
as Scott
Lash
aid
n
the
introduction to a
volume on
modern cultural
sociology,
"Bourdieu's
eneral
ociology
of
culture
s
not
only
the
best,
but it
is
the
only
game
n
town."2His
workon the
relationship
f
culture
to
society
has
important
hings
to
say
about
architecture's
place
n
the social
world.
Second,
he
is
a
leading
ociologist
f
education
and
has
for
manyyears
beena locus lassicus
or
European
ducators.His
theorizing
n
that area
can
explain many
otherwise
puzzlingphe-
nomena about
architectural
ducation.
Reading
Bourdieu
Pierre
Bourdieu
s not
a name that the
architectural
eader
s
likely
to
have
encountered
n
the
way
that
one
encountersotherFrench
intellectuals like Michel
Foucault or
Jacques
Derrida
or
Jean-
Francois
Lyotard,
although
a
poll
of
French
intellectuals
ranked
him
among
the
ten most
influential
intellectuals.3
Well known in
France,
he has
only
had
a
major
mpact
on the
Anglo-American
field in
the
past
ten or so
years
since the
publication
of his
book
Distinction.4
n that
time,
"he,
morethan
any
other
comparableig-
ure,
...
has cometo
personify
he continuedvalue
and
vigour
of
a
distinctly
French ntellectual radition
within the social
sciences."5
His
impact
on architecture
as been minimal:
a few
scattered
references nd
the
occasional
borrowing
f some
key
concepts,
of-
ten
wrongly
(albeit
nnocently)
attributed o
others.6
The
reasons
are not
hard o find. Unlike
other French
uminaries,
he has
never
claimed he robes
of a
philosopher-king,
arments specially
llur-
ingto architecturalheorists. nstead,he
positions
himself
squarely
in the
field of
sociology.
He has
conspicuously
avoidedthe
volu-
minous and
verbose
debates that
constitute
the
discourse
of
postmodernism.7
lthough
one can
hardly
ind
any
academic
writ-
ing
on
architecture
hat fails to
take
that
phenomenon
as
central,
Bourdieu
has
only
ever
referred o it in
order
o
dismiss
t
as
intel-
lectual
faddism.8
He
might
perhaps
have
found an
audience
twenty-fiveyears
agoduring
architecture's
riefflirtation
with
the
social,
but
contemporary theory
and
writing,
being
a sort
of
nouvelle
cuisine
Heidegger,
has no
place
for
someone
so
unpalatably
eft of center.
Preferring
heir seers
o
be,
like
their
ar-
chitects,
gifted
with a
unique,
personal,
and
solitary
prophetic
vi-
sion,
theorists
would
find
unappealing
Bourdieu's
extensive
empirical
studies
and would be
disillusioned
on
finding
that his
work
s
collaborative
nd
collective,
relying
on
the
efforts
of
his
co-
workers
at a French
state
researchnstitute.
His
writing
is
long-winded,
discursive,
onvoluted,
formal,
and
rhetorical;
henone
canunderstand im
at
all,
it is
easy
o
take
him
as
arguing
or
positions
to which
he
is
strenuously
pposed.9
His
theoretical
ormulations
re
scattered
nd
diffuse,
rendering
t
difficult o
give
precise
references.
Reading
Bourdieus
like
watch-
ing
a Peter
Greenaway
ilm:
Beneath
he
tortured ococo
exquisite-
nessone can
dimly
makeout
that he
really
has
something
profound
and
mportant
o
say,
but it isoften
difficult o
determine
just
what
it is. One
perseveres
s
one
perseveres
with
Derrida
or
Foucault,
knowingthat thestylistic heatricshat arepartof the repertoire f
all French
ntellectuals
re
crucial
o
the
content of their
thought.'o
Finally,
whereasall
previous
ociological
work
has
analyzed
architecturen
terms
of
a
sociology
of the
profession,
Bourdieu
has
no
distinct
nterest
n
professions.
He
regards
he
whole
concept
as
more
misleading
han
useful,
arguing
hat a
specific
sociology
of
professions,
ather
han a
general
ne of
occupations,
does no
more
than
accept
he
professions'
mage
of
themselves
s somehow
nher-
entlysuperior
ortsof
workers." n
this he
moveswith
the
general
trendof
sociology
o
abandon he whole
notionas
inadequate.'2
Journal
ofArchitectural
ducation,
p.
105-122
?
1995
ACSA,
Inc.
1
05
Stevens
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In
a
critical
and
polemicaldiscipline,
Bourdieu
s
more
po-
lemic thanmost.
Every
sociologist
believes
hat,
in
society,
things
are
not
as
they
seem;
hat
societyoperates
n
some sense
beyond
he
control
of
the individuals
who
comprise
t;
and
that
social
patterns
can
be
produced
and
persist
ven whenthe
people
n
themareun-
aware
of
their existence and
do not
want
them.
However,
Bourdieu's
ttempts
o unmask
he
realitiesbehind the surface
p-
pearances
f
our
everyday
xperience ive
his work
an
especially
tri-
dent
tone,
which
his
baroque
tyle
does
nothing
to
ameliorate.
He
is
a critical heorist
n
the technical ense
of someonewho not
only
has
ideasabout
how
society
does
work,
but
also abouthowit should
work.13Bourdieu s an
angry
man,
his works
"pounding
with the
rhythms
of
philosophical
doom,"
propelled
by
a tide
of
deep pas-
sion,
motivated
by
the
conviction thatmodern
society
s riven
by
profound niquities,iniquities
the
greater
or
being camouflaged
and
receivedas
perfectly
cceptable
nd natural
practices.'"
re his
polemics
necessary?
Within his theoreticalramework
hey
certainly
are,
just
as
they
are
for Derridaand Foucault.
His
theorizing
de-
mands
of readers
hat
they
take a stand and
think
through
ts
im-
plications
or theirown lives."With
that
said,
and
knowing
that,
as he
himself
admits,
he
has to
overstate
is
case
n
order
o state
t
at
all,
I
can
proceed
o outline
his model of
society.
TheSociologyof PierreBourdieu
Power
n
Society
The
startingpoint
is
the
unremarkable
ssumption
hat all societ-
ies
are
distinguished
y
competition
between
groups
o furtherheir
own interests.These
struggles perate
at
many
different evels:
be-
tween
individuals, amilies,
classes,
and
all
sorts
of other
types
of
collectiveentities.
It
is
also obviousthat some
groups
succeed
n
furthering
heir nterests
better
han others:
They
controlmore re-
sources.
Not
only
do
they
have
control,
but
they
keep
ontrol,
and
this is
only possible
by
denying
heseresourceso
competitors.
This
fundamental
ocial
fact means
that
in
the
many
intersecting
ields
that
make
up
society,
some
groups
aredominantand some
are
sub-
ordinate.The control of resourcesboth requires ndgivespower,
and it is with
power
that Bourdieu s
primarily
oncerned:
how
it
is
exercised,
who wields
it,
and for whose benefit.
The most
obvi-
ous sortof
power
s
physical
orce,
but
only
a few
groups
(for
ex-
ample,
the
more violent
sortsof
criminals)
use
physical
orce. It is
inefficient,
and mostsocieties
grant
he
monopoly
on the use
of le-
gitimatephysical
violenceto
the
state.
A
second
type
of
power
s economic.The
importance
f this
is
obvious.Marxist
heory
holds
that this is the
only
sort of
power
and that
all
groups
can
be
placed
n
some sort of
hierarchy
n
soci-
ety,
depending
on
the
amount
of economic
capitalthey
control.
One
of
Bourdieu's
major
contributions to modern
sociological
theory
hasbeen to extend
Max
Weber's
ociologizing
nd
decisively
demonstrate hat this is
not
so,
that there is a
third,
more
potent
and
more
pervasive,
ormof
power-the
symbolic.Symbolic
power
involves he
wielding
of
symbols
and
concepts,
deasand
beliefs,
o
achieveends. It is much easier o control resources
f
a
group
can
simply
convince
competitors
hat t
shouldcontrol
hem.This is the
essenceof
symbolic
power.
No
need
to
carry
a
big
stick
if
all
your
rivalsare
flagellating
hemselves
n
your
behalf.
No
need
to
cajole
if
people
voluntarily
omply.
Bourdieu
ists
three
important
aspects
of
symbolic power:
naturality,
misrecognition,
nd
arbitrariness.
irst,
t
is seen
as some-
how
right
and
normal,
he natural rder
of
things.
The
whole idea
of
challenging
t
just
never
occurs o
anyone,
neither he
powerful
nor the
powerless.
So,
for
example,
n
medievaland
early
modern
Europe,
t
was
takenas
absolutely
atural hat
an
absolute
monarch
should
govern
absolutely.Only
the most tremendous
upheavals,
such as the American
nd French
revolutions,
ould show that the
taken-for-granted
id
not
have
to be.
Second,
this
perception
of
naturality
is a
misperception
or,
in Bourdieu's
terminology,
a
"misrecognition."
ike
fish
in
water,
ndividuals
n
societies
move
throughthe taken-for-grantedymbolicorderthat structures he
whole of
lived
experience,
but that
structures
t so
completelyby
precisely
not
being
seen
to
structure
t.
The fact hat
symbolicpower
is
misrecognized
as natural makes
it
much
more
effective
than
physical
power,
which
is
always
iableto overthrow.
From his
fol-
lows the
third
characteristic,
he arbitrariness
f
symbolicpower.
Only people
not
embedded
n the
particular
ocialorder eethat
it
is not
natural,
but
just
one
particular ay
of
doingthings.
To
those
vast numbers
of
us
who
are
not
part
of
the haute
couture
ndustry,
the ten-thousand-dollar
reationsof
high
fashionare
more ridicu-
lous
than
anything.
To those
who
are,
t is life itself.
These
qualities
of
symbolic
power
render he
giving
of ex-
amples
rather
problematic, problem
ncountered
y
much
socio-
logicalexposition.Likepsychology, ociologyattempts o describe
our most intimate
and
familiar
xperience
n
theoretical erms
hat
often seem
to contradict
common
sense.
Unlike
psychology,
in
which
since
Freudwe havebecomeused
to the idea
that
things
are
not what
they
seem,
sociological
descriptions
of the
way
society
worksstill
often
strike
readers s
decidedly
peculiar.
f
I
must
often
use
examples
rom
alien
milieus-fashion,
early
modern
Europe-
it
is because
examples
aken
from
our own
milieu of architectural
educationwould oftenstrike he reader
s
counter-examples,imply
November 995
JAE
49/2
1
06
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untrue,
precisely
because of
the
qualities
of
naturality
and
misrecognition.
So consider
this
next
important
point:
Dominant
groups
dominate because
they
wield
some
sort of
symbolic
power
over
subordinate
ones,
who
misperceive
the
power
as
legitimate
and
are
thereby
co-opted
into their own
subordination.
By
accepting
the
state
of
affairsas
natural,
the
subordinate
groups
allow the
dominant
groups
to exercisetheir
dominance
with minimal
social conflict.
How
do
I
exemplify
this?
Perhaps by
recalling
the dominance
of
the
nobility
of
Europe
over the rest
of
the
population
before the
eighteenth
century.
With
only
a
minuscule
proportion
of the
popu-
lation,
the noble
class was able to dominate
decisively
the
lives
of
millions,
to live
in
comfort,
if not
splendor,
while
the masses
lived
in
squalor.
All this was
accomplished
with the
smallest
of
armies
and no
police
force
at
all.
Indeed,
we can
measure
the
potency
of
the
domi-
nant
class's
symbolic
power by
the extent to
which
they
must resort
to
force
to
maintain
their dominance. The
point
is that most
people
accepted
the state of
affairs
as
perfectly
natural. Societies
experience
significant
social
upheaval
just
when
the dominant
ideology--the
ideology
of
the
dominant-fails,
when
people
in
subordinate
posi-
tions
start
to
see the
arbitrarinessof their
subordination.
So much
for
an alien
exemplification.
What
if
I chose
instead
your
own
society?
Would
not
you
reaction
most
likely
be,
"
What
domination?
What
dominant classes?I see
no
symbolic
power
being
wielded Isn't everyone free to become what they want?"What if I
chose
instead
the
symbolic power
of
professors
over
students? Or
the
power
of
charismatic
architects,
the "star"
architects,
over the disci-
pline
and
profession?
What sort of
reactions are
produced
then?
To
return to the
point:
Social
conflict
may
be
minimal,
but
it is never
nonexistent.
Groups
do
struggle
between themselves to
obtain
symbolic power
or
to
change
the
nature of
existing
forms of
power.
Such conflicts are the
practical
element from which
societ-
ies
arise.
The
history
of medieval
Europe,
for
example,
could be
written
in
part
as
a
contest between Church
and
State,
a
conflict
between two
dominant
groups,
to establish the
dominant
principle
of
domination.
Cultural
Capital
At the
highest
level,
that
of
society
as
a
whole,
we
call the field in
which
symbolic
power operates
"culture."
As economic
power
flows
from
the
possession
of
economic
capital,
so
symbolic
power
flows
from the
possession
of
symbolic
or cultural
capital.
Just
as,
in all
societies,
groups-from
families
to
organizations
to classes-com-
pete
in
the
economic arena to increase their economic
wealth,
to
maximize
their
economic
capital,
so
they
also
contend
in
the cul-
tural
arena to maximize their cultural
capital.
This notion of
cul-
tural
capital
s a second
mportant
Bourdivin ontribution
o
social
theory.
Fourbasic ormscan
be
distinguished:
nstitutionalized,
b-
jectified,
ocial,
and embodied. hree
are
quite
straightforward.
n-
stitutionalized ultural
capital
consists
of academic
qualifications
and educational
ttainments,
nowing
hings,
and
being
certified
as
knowing
hem.
Objectified
apital
s cultural
bjects
or
goods,
such
as artworks
r
any
of the
many symbolic
objects
produced
n
soci-
ety.
Social
capital
consists
of durablenetworks
f
people
on
whom
one
can
rely
for
support
and
help
in
life.
Before
elaborating
on
the fourth
form,
I
must
reiteratean
importantpoint
about
cultural
orsymbolic)capital,
and that s
its
arbitrariness.
n this
respect,
ultural
apital
differs rom
economic
capital.
Money
is
money,
but one
person's
ultural
apital
may
not
be
another's.An
architect's etwork
of
business
ontacts onstitutes
considerable ocial
capital
o that
person,
but is
quite
worthless o
a
priest.
Being
an
accomplished
ailor
s
considerable
ultural
capi-
tal in the
architectural
ircles
of
Sydney,
with
its annual
Architects'
Boat
Race,
but
would count for
naught
n Vienna.A
bow
tie,
small
round
glasses,
a
beret,
a
cape:
unimpressive
ymbols
o
a
carpenter,
rathermore
potent
to an
architect,
although
had Le
Corbusier
or
Frank
Lloyd
Wright
worn
a
cravat,
monocle,
a bowler
hat,
and a
trench
coat,
these
particular
nd
equally
arbitrary ymbols
would
have
carried he same
potency.
The point is thatculturalcapitalhasdifferentvalues n dif-
ferentfields. The
term
field
is a Bourdivin
one,
denoting
the
vari-
ous
arenasof which
society
is
composed.
The word is
meant
to
connote
images
of a
battlefield-because
people
struggle
o
enhance
their
position
n a field-and also
a fieldof
force-because
the
state
of each field
depends
on the relationsbetween
ndividuals.
Archi-
tectural
cademics re
part
of thefield of
education
and also
part
of
the
field of architecture.
Architects re
part
of the
field
of
architec-
ture
(among
other
fields),
which
is
part
of
the
field
of
culture.
Sub-
suming
all is the
field
of
power,
society
in
general.
Although
symbolic
or cultural
bjects
have
different
alues
n
different
ields,
it
is,
in
the last
resort,
heir
value n the
field of
power
that
allows
them to be
arranged
n
one
overarching ierarchy.
hus someforms
of cultural
apital
arevalorizedas worthier hanothers
bysociety
s
a
whole.The
underprivileged
may
despise
the tastes of
the
privi-
leged,
but
they
also know
that
society
values he
person
who
values
Mozart and
M6et
more
than
it
values the
person
who
values
Metallicaand
McDonalds.
The
essential
arbitrariness
f
symbols,
of
cultural
goods,
is
what allows hem
to be
the
object
of
struggles,
where
groups
ry
to
convince othersto
value their
own
capital
more than
that of
their
rivals. f
cultural
oods
werenot
arbitrary-in
the sense hat
money
1 07
Stevens
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Table
1.
Participation
n Arts Activities
and Preference or
Music
by
OccupationalGroup
Proportion ttending
%)
ArtsEvents Musical
Preferences
%)
Occupation
Income
$)
Opera Plays
Dance
ArtMuseums ClassicalMusic
Country
nd
Western
Managerial,High
45,000
10
23 7
39
10 20
Professional,
cientific
39,000
18 26
7
45
18
13
Professional,
ales
36,500
11 24
8
41 11
20
Professional,
ocial Service
33,400
19 32
14
48
19 7
Professional,
Technical
32,500
8
22
9 37
8
23
Professional,
Cultural
32,000
29 38
11
59
29 9
(Including
Architects)
Artists
29,500
24 28 12
57
24
12
Clerical 28,000 3 14 6 25 6 21
Skilled
Manual
27,000
1
6
2
14
3 36
Laborer
23,000
1 6 1
15
0
21
U.S.
Population
28,000
7 13
5
24
7 23
Source: .A.
Petersonnd
A.
Simkus,
HowMusical astesMark
Occupational roups,"
nM. Lamont ndM.
Fournier, ds.,
CultivatingDifferences
Chicago:
Chicago
University
Press,
1992),
pp.
152-186.
is not
arbitrary
(it
is nonsensical to
argue
that
my
$100
is
worth
more than
your
$100)-there
would
be
no
possibility
of
competi-
tion.
Everyone
would
agree
that Mies is better than a
project
home
and that
is
that.
(What?
But
of
course Mies
is
better How could
anyone
possibly
think
otherwise )
We
all know this is not so. Cul-
ture is
something
with which
people
fight,
about which
they
fight,
and
the
ground
over
which
they
fight.16
The
competition
occurs
between
and within
groups.
Architectural
history
provides
excellent
examples.
After the
Chicago
Fair of
1893,
the cultural
capital rep-
resented
by
knowledge
of the canons of the Beaux Arts was
valued
much
higher
by
architects
and
their
patrons
than the ideas of the
American
progressives.
The
story
of the
Modern
Movement
is
pre-
cisely
the
story
of
that
avant-garde's
ultimately
successful
attempts
to
devalue
completely
that form of
capital
in favor of
their own.17
There
is, therefore,
a
dominant culture
that valorizes
certain
cultural
goods
and
has
persuaded
society
to-however
reluc-
tantly-accept this evaluation. Some analysts criticize the notion
that
there
exists
a
single
dominant culture
in
most western
coun-
tries,
holding
that the
truth
is
closer to the Frankfurt school's
no-
tion
of culture
as mass
reification.'8
The
evidence
to date indicates
that
although
there
is a
greater
commonality
of
material culture
between
classes than
Bourdieu would be
prepared
to
admit,
there
are substantial
differences
in
that area
Bourdieu
thinks is
most
im-
portant,
nonmaterial
or
symbolic
culture.'9
If
we take what some
critics often
use as a
counterexample
to
Bourdieu's
notion of a so-
ciety
with a
dominant
culture,
he
United
States,
we
find
that there
are in fact
great
differences
n
the class
participation
of what we
think of as
"high
culture."
Table
1
shows the musical
and
artistic
preferences
f
Americans ersus he
occupation
of
the
respondent.
Architects
elong
o
the
"Professional,
ultural"
category.
Those
in
the wealthiest
occupationalgroup, "High Managerial,"
r in
any
one of the
professional ategories
re much more
likely
to
partici-
pate
in
certain eisure
activities han those in the worst
paid
occu-
pational categories.
That economic reasonscannot
explain
this
is
clear when we examine the data for free or
nearly
free cultural
forms,
such as art
museums,
or
when we recall hat
a
rock concert
is
about the same
expense
as an
opera,
or that a
night
at the bar or
pub listening
to a
local
rock
group
is about the same
cost
as
an
evening
at the
theater.
Embodiedultural
apital
The fourthform of culturalcapital s much moresubtle,and it is
the element that makes Bourdieu's
notion of
cultural
capital
so
important.
t
is
obvious hat one does not have
o
have
a
private
rt
gallery
or
a
slew
of
diplomas
to be
considered
cultured,
and
it
is
entirely
possible
o own
vast amountsof cultural
goods
and a
de-
gree
or two
yet
be considered
ulgar,
crass,
and boorish.Possession
of
goods
or
qualifications
s
one
way
to own cultural
capital,
but
there
s another
way
to
possess
t,
by simply
being
ultured.
This is
embodiedcultural
apital.
By
"embodied"
ourdieu
means
that it
November995 JAE
49/2
1
08
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existswithin
ndividuals,
s
attitudes, astes,
preferences,
nd
behav-
iors. How
we
talk,
walk,
and
dress,
what we like to
read,
he
sports
we like to
play,
the carwe like to
drive,
he sortsof clotheswe
wear,
the
entertainments
we
prefer-.all
of
the multitudinous
ways
in
which taste and
attitudes
are manifestedare markers f
embodied
cultural
capital.
AsTerrilMoi has
noted,
part
of Bourdieu's
impor-
tance
is
in
perceiving
hat
the
most
apparently
rivial
and natural
practices-the
clothes we
wear,
the
foods
we
like,
the
friends
we
make-are all crucial.20
The
peculiar
otency
of
this sortof
capital
ies n
the fact
that,
culturally peaking,ownersof the otherformsareonly whatthey
have,
whereas he
possessors
of
embodied
capital
only
have to
be
what
they
are.21
erhaps
he most familiar
nd
readily
accepted
ex-
ample
would
be the
concept
of a
"gentleman"
r a
"lady."Anyone,
rich or
poor,
can be
a
gentle
(to
usethe nonsexist
but archaic
erm).
You
do
not
have o own
anything
or to
declare he fact
by
any
other
meansthan
simply
being
one.
The
possession
of economic
capital
allows
consumption
of
economic
goods
by
the mere act of its
possession:Everyone
nows
how to
spendmoney. Symbolic
goods
can
only
be
consumed
f
one
has the
right
mentalschemesof
appreciation,
f
their
meanings
are
understood.
Symbols
are
always
codes of one sort or
another
and
must
always
be
decoded.
An
accountant
looking
at
a Peter
Eisenman ouseseessomethingverydifferent romanarchitect.An
Amazon
Indian
given
a
red
rose
gets
a
spikyplant,
a westerner
gets
a
symbolic
object
redolentwith
significance.
This
accounts or
the
peculiar
mportance
of
embodied
cultural
capital.
Because
he en-
sembleof
dispositions
hat allowus to
consume
ymbolic
objects
are
part
of our
embodied
capital,
t follows
that this
form of
cultural
capital
affects the
rate
of
return
received from
the other forms.
Moreover,
because
embodied
capital
s
not
perceived
s
capital,
t
operates
surreptitiously, overtly.
One has
different
reactions
on
hearing
that
Donald
Trump
has
purchased
a
Vermeer
than
that
Gore
Vidal
has:
The amount
of
symbolic
capital
hat
we
perceive
Trump
as
receiving
by
this
purchase
s
rather ess
than the
amount
that we
perceive
Vidal
to
receive.
Why
should this be?
Becausewe
understand hatVidalis acultivated
person
and that
Trump
s not.
Vidal can
appreciate
he
painting:
Trump
cannot.
Cultural
and economic
capital
are
quite
distinct forms al-
though
interconvertiblen different
ways
at
different
rates
of
ex-
change.
For
example,
he
educational
ystem
allows
cultural
capital
to be
converted o economic
capital
by
providing
access
to
high-
paying
sectors
of
the
labor
market;
he
"old-boy
network" onverts
social
capital
ntoeconomic
capital
by
providing
business ontacts.
Because
he
exchange
atesare
quite arbitrary,
hey
arean
object
of
struggle
between
different
groups,
each
trying
o maximize
he
rate
of returnon the
particular
orts of
capital
they
have. A
hundred
years
ago,
anAmerican rchitect
whose
only
formal
education
was
a few
years
at the
Elcole
des Beaux
Arts was set for
a
rapid
rise,
as
the existence
of the elite
Society
of BeauxArts architects
and
the
careers
f RichardMorris
Hunt and CharlesMcKim attest.22
he
cachet
so
obtained
wouldhave
been ratheress n the
sixties,
before
the
Society's
closure.
TheUses
f
Culture
Bourdieuuses the notions of economic and culturalcapital to
model
society
as a
two-dimensional
space
in
which
individuals,
groups,
and
classes an
be
located
(Figure
1).23Because
t is
always
better o have morethan lessand
those withmore can
further
heir
interests
better than
those with
less,
society
naturally
divides into
subordinate
nd
dominant
classes.
Here
Bourdieu
operationalizes
the
concept
of class
in a
fundamentally
different
manner
than
Marxist heorists.
n Marxist
erms,
a class s
defined
by
its
relation
to the means
of
production
and
is
motivated
by
some
sort
of
rec-
ognition
of
identity.
n Bourdivin
erms,
a class s a
group
of
people
occupying
similar
positions
n social
space.
In
a
sense,
there
are
as
many
classesas there
are
distinguishably
ifferent
points
in
social
space,
but
a division nto
threeserves
he
purpose
well
enough.
The
subordinate lassconsistsof thosewithlittleof eitherformof capi-
tal.
Because,
n the last
resort,
conomic
capital
dominates
ultural
capital,
he
dominantclass
tselfdivides
nto
a
dominant
and sub-
ordinate raction:The
dominant
arethosewith
the most
economic
capital
(entrepreneurs,
anagers,
nd
so
on),
and
the
subordinate
consists of
those with
more
cultural
capital
(intellectuals,
artists,
professionals).
A
catalog
of all
of
society's
ultural
objects
and
practices,
ll
of
the
myriad
ormsof
cultural
capital,
wouldbe
a
very
arge
document.
At
first
sight,
it
mightappear
hat
therewas little
relation
between
all
of the
many
orms,
but
if
we look at
them
from
he
point
of
view
of
stratification,
remarkable
oherence
emerges.
By
simply
know-
ing
an
individual's
occupation,
or
example,
we can
make
quitegood
guesses
as to
the sort of
foods she will
like,
the
sports
she will
par-
ticipate
n,
or the
clothes
she will
buy.
Tastes,
ifestyle,
ulture,
and
classare
intimately
inked,
a
fact
known
o advertisers
or
quite
a
long
time.
As,
for
example,
hown
by
Table
1,
simply
knowing
hat
some-
one is a
social
worker
"Professional,
ocial
Service")
llows
us to
predict
hat his
musical
astesare muchmore
likely
to
be
classical
than
country.
Any
experienced
cademic
ould tell a
lectureroom
full
of
engineering
tudents romone of
architecture
tudents,
and
any
practitioner
ould
distinguish
n
engineering
ompany's
Christ-
1
09
Stevens
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I
Dominant
fraction
0
Managerial:
igh
evel
of the dominant
class
0
Prof:
cientific
SSales:
High
evel
..
.Prof:
Socialservice
o
Prof:Cultural
E
Prof":
Technical
O
t
Service:Protective Artists
0
LU
.
i
. l
:
il
,..
......
..........
unskilled
iManagria:Jnio
?iSkiled
Manuaui
l
:Farmer
....
~S•.le
s:
Low evel
.......
SubrdiSenatce:killeste
: •Transport
i~Ciu:Ciiiii
~C
iu
iiiiii
Of
the
dominant
class
S
...Clrworkerca
m
F a
............Ski e
rvice:
••
k
rilled
Ju ira nst
to••:•••ate
fra
woFarabor
0 S u b o r d i n
t e r
c l a s s e s e m i s k
a n u a l
M a n e C u l t u r a l
C a p i t a l
. The
Bourdivin
odelof American
ociety.
mas
party
from an architecture
firm's. In their
dress,
deportment,
speech,
and
tastes,
people
mark
themselves
as like.
Bourdieu's interest
is in how
culture
is made to serve social
functions-in
particular,
how
it
works as
symbolic
power.
Much of
his
work
has
been concerned
with
showing
how taste and culture
are
used by groupsto define and bound themselves,to preventthe intru-
sion of
outsiders,
and
to maximize
homogeneity.
All cohesive
groups
operate
some sort of mechanism of social closure.
In
modern
society,
one
of
the
main
mechanisms is
provided
by
the education
system,
which
formally
certifies individuals
as
competent
to
join
certain
oc-
cupations.
However,
many groups,especiallyprivileged
ones,
require
not
only
this institutionalized form of
cultural
capital,
but
also
par-
ticular
forms of embodied
capital.
It
is
these
implicit requirements
that
although
absent from the formal
occupational
description,
are
nonetheless
just
as
necessary
to
join
the
group
as the
diploma.
Anyone
who
has
experienced
any
form
of
discrimination-
because of
race,
age,
sex,
or
ethnic
origin-is
only
too
awarethat fail-
ure is not
necessarily
failure
to
know
something,
but
failure to
be
something.
More subtle
and more
powerful
is the discrimination
unrecognized
by
all-because
it is
practiced
by
all-in which success
is denied becauseone does not have the team spirit, the visceralsense
of
belonging,
of
fitting
in,
of
being
one of us. There is no
greater
barrier
to
success
than
failing
to
possess
all the tacit
requirements
demanded
of
an
occupation,
a barrier all
the more formidable be-
cause
no one sees it. The
construction
worker
who drinks
fine
wines
rather
than
beer,
attends classical
concerts
rather
than the local rock
group,
and
spends
lunchtime
reading
French
philosophers
will find
life on
the
building
site
difficult,
for
all the same reasons that
these
qualities
would
subtly
enhance
the
prestige
of an
architect.
To
say
one is
an
architect
is not
only
to
say
that one
has a
certain
sort
of
November
995 JAE
49/2
1 1
0
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degree
or
that one can
designbuildings,
t is to
say
that one has
a
certain
et of
attitudes,
astes,
and
dispositions-all
of
the embodied
capital
hat
distinguishes
n architect
rom a mere
builder.
The Double
Function f Architectural chool
No
notion
has
impeded
the
progress
of architectural ducation
more than the idea that the
only
educational unction
of
university-
basedarchitecturechools
s
to
produceprofessional
rchitects.
his
is, of course,a
principal
unction,but it is not the
only
one. Two
observations
suggest
his.
First,
t is
hardlynecessary
o attend
any
sort of formal
higher-education
nstitution o becomean architect.
Whereas he two
archetypal rofessions
f law and medicinehave
been
embedded
in
universities since their creation
in
the
early
Middle
Ages,
formal,
full-time architectural ducationdates back
only
to
Jacques-Francois
londel'sreformationof the Academie
Royale
d'Architecture
n
1762,
and
in
the
English-speaking
orld
only
to the foundationof schoolsat
MIT, Cornell,
and
Illinois
just
over
a
century
ago.24
Until
then,
the
apprenticeshipystem
worked
perfectly
well to
reproduce
he
profession.25
ne of the most reveal-
ing
featuresof architectural
ducation, ndeed,
is that
institution-
alizationproceeded eryslowly.In themid-fifties,only 56 percent
of American
architectshad
a
degree,
and
only
about
half
of all ar-
chitecture
tudents
n
the United
Kingdom
were in
full-time uni-
versity
education.26
As late as
1975,
one-quarter
of
American
architects id not havea
degree.27
ven
n
the
mid-eighties,
he
pro-
fession n the United States
wanted
o ensure hat a
degree
was
not
a
mandatory
equirement
or
licensure.28
f
we further
recall
hat,
as
is
often
stated
with an almost
wistful
malice,
many
of the
most
honored
architects f the
firsthalf
of the
century
did not attendor
complete
ormal
education
and also that some of
the most interest-
ing
(Cooper
Union,
Boston
Architecture
Center)
or
influential
Ar-
chitectural
Association)
schools are
wholly
outside the
system,
it
must becomeclear hat the
reproduction
f the
producers
f archi-
tecturecan be handled n placesandwaysother thanthe onesmost
common in
the
English-speaking
orld.
The second observation s twofold.
First,
factoring
out
the
usual
changes
in
participation
rates
caused
by
changes
in
the
economy,
somewhere etweenone-third
and one-halfof thosewith
an
architectural
qualification-depending
on the
time and
place--
are not
working
as
architects.29
econd,
about
one-quarter
f the
studentswho
complete
a
preprofessional
egree
n
architecture
a
Part
1
degree
n theUnited
Kingdom)
choosenot to
complete
heir
professional
education. In
Italy
and
Germany,
the
participation
ratesof
graduates
n the
profession
or which
they
havebeen
trained
is
even
lower.30
We are eft with the conclusion hat
quite
a
propor-
tion of the studentsenrolled
n architecturalducationdo
not
be-
come
practitioners
nd
quite
possibly
haveno intentionof
doing
so.
AsBourdieuhas
pointed
out,
the
higher
education
ystem
as
a
whole
not
only
reproduces
he
producers
f the
dominant
culture,
it,
more
important,
roduces
onsumersf that
culture.31
nly
a
few
thousand
university
graduates
each
year-from
whatever disci-
pline-will
become cultural
producers,
but all of the
hundreds
of
thousandsof
graduates
will
become consumers.This
is
the
double
function of architecture chools:
reproduction
of
producers
and
production
of
consumers,
only
some
of
whom become
producers.
In
their
capacity
as
consumers,
graduates
re not
simply
consum-
ing
architecture,
ut all of thecultureof the
dominant,
rom archi-
tecture to wine to
clothes. Even
in
their role as
reproducers
of
producers,
he schoolsare not
necessarily
reatingproducers
f ar-
chitecture.
Many
students
work in
quite
differentareasof
cultural
production,
uch as theatreor the
visual arts.It is
regrettable
hat
educators
have so
single-mindedly
ocused their attention
on the
reproduction
unction,
because
n
so
doing,
they
mistake
he true
nature of the cultural
capital
provided
by
an architectural
duca-
tion. Of
course,
architectural
ducation
provides
an
institutional-
ized formof culturalcapital,adiploma n architecture,ut justas
important,
t
also
provides
a
particular
orm of
embodied
apital.
Habitus
To call t
"capital"
s
not
quite
correct.
Bourdieuuses
another
erm,
habitus,
a
neologism
derived
ultimately
rom
scholastic
logic. By
this he
refers o a construct hatisboth
psychological
because
t is
in
people's
heads)
and social
(because
we
can referto a
group
or
class
having
a
habitus).
The
habitus
s
a set of
internalized
disposi-
tions that
incline
people
to act
and react
n
certain
ways
and
is
the
end-product
of
what
most
people
would call
socialization or
enculturation.To a
large
extent,
we do not
choose to be
what we
are,
but receive rom
our
family
a
way
of
looking
at
things
and
of
doing things,a habitus,handeddown frompreviousgenerations.
In a
very
real
sense,
habitus
s
a social
analog
of
genetic
nheritance.
This
identity
s
modified
as
we
pass
hrough
he
educational
ystem
and as we encounterother
ndividuals
throughout
ur lives.
None-
theless,
the
possibilities
or
change
are
circumscribed
y
our own
history,
he
history
of our
class,
and the
expectations
f
the
groups
with whom we
identify.
We can make
our
own
history
but not
nec-
essarily
in
the circumstances of our own
choosing.32
Our habitus
generates
erceptions,
ttitudes,
nd
practices.
t
is
at
once
the filter
through
which
we
interpret
he social
world,
1
1
1
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organizing
our
perceptions
of other
people's practices,
and
the
mechanism we use to
regulate
our actions
in
that
world,
producing
our own
practices.
As
an
integral part
of
our
behavior,
its most ob-
vious
manifestation
is in
our embodied
capital:
how we
stand, walk,
and
talk;
how we
dress;
how and what sorts of
body
language
we
use;
our
bearing,
gesture,
and
posture-all
of the subtleties
that
show how we relate
to the social world.
Two
important points
must be made.
First,
the habitus must
not be
conceptualized
in
the
structuralist sense: It
is not a
passive
collection
of
knowledge,
a set of rules
we
apply
to social situations.
It is
an
active,
unconscious
set
of unformulated
dispositions
to act
and to
perceive,
and
much of its
power
to structure our
lives with-
out us
realizing
it derives
from
the
thoughtlessness
of habit and ha-
bituation that
the habitus
produces.
The
habitus
provides
us
with
a
practical
mastery
of social
situations,
telling
us
"instinctively"
what
to do.
It
provides
the feel
of the
game.33
When our
habitus
is
correctly adjusted
to
the social
game
we are
playing,
we feel com-
fortable, natural,
at
ease;
we
know how to
react;
we
feel at home.
When
we move to another
game-a
plumber
attending
a
high-so-
ciety
do,
a socialite
on a
building
site-our
habitus
may
be
inappro-
priate
to
cope
with the
situation,
and
we
feel
uneasy,
not
quite
knowing
what
is
the
right
thing
to
say
or
the
right
way
to
behave,
not quite liking what is going on.
The second
point
about habitus
is that
it is the
product
of a
personal
history.
Because
its enculturation
starts from
birth,
it is a
product
of the
material
and
symbolic
conditions
of existence of our
family,
conditions
shaped
by
our
class and therefore
by
the
large-
scale
structures of
society.
In a
very
important
sense, then,
habitus
is a sort of embodiment
of the entire social
system,
and we all
carry
around
in
our heads
the whole
history
of
our
social
space.
Habitus does
not
determine,
but
it does
guide.
Individuals
are both
completely
free and
completely
constrained,
as
in
Bourdieu's
metaphor,
the
good
tennis
player
is,
who,
though being
completely governed
by
the
play
of the
game,
nonetheless
com-
pletely
governs
it.34
Nature
ofthe
Architectural
abitus
Let me
reiterate: All
forms of education
transmit
knowledge
and
skills,
and
all forms of
education
also inculcate some
form of
habitus.
The two functions
are
inseparable.
The
importance
of
this
process
of inculcation
in the educational
process
depends
on the
relative
worth
of intellectual
or
institutionalized
capital
vis vis
embodied
capital.
It
is of least
importance
in
the fields
within
which
the
procedures
and
processes
of
production
and
acquisition
of
knowledge
are
objectified
in
instruments, methods,
and
techniques,
and
it
is of
greatest
mportance
n
the areas n which excellence s
held to
be
almost
entirely
owing
to the
natural
ifts
of
individuals,
their raw talent.
It is
clear
that in
architecture,
he
procedures
nd
processes
of
design
arenot at all
objectified-as
the
dismal ailureof the De-
sign
Methods movement
attests-and
that
architecture,
unlike
medicine
or
engineering
or even
law,
requires
not
only
knowing
something
but
being omething:
We
colloquially
all
this
quality
of
being "genius."
Architectural
ducation
s intendedto inculcatea
certain
ormof
habitus
and
provide
a form of a
generalized
mbod-
ied cultural
capital,
a "cultivated"
isposition.
Ofcourse
a
young
architecture
raduate
must know how to
draw;
of
course
e
must
understand
uilding
codes,
he
rudiments
f structural
nalysis,
nd
the
principles
of
construction,
but
right
from the
moment
he
sits
down at the
drawing
boardof his firstoffice to the
day
he
retires,
the
smoothness
or
difficulty
of his career
will be mediated
by
his
habitus
acting hrough
his
cultural
apital.
Habitus
multiplies
du-
cational
apital.
Thosewith the
right
habitus
and
capital,
hose
with
the
feel of
the
game,
will find that doors
open
more
readily,
heir
peers
and
superiors
ome
to
respect
hem
more
easily,
and clients
look more
favorably pon
them.
In earlier
imes,
educators ot
only readily cknowledged
ut
positively loried n thefactthat architecturalducationwasa culti-
vatededucation
ntended o instillthe
appropriate
abitus.
Writing
to
parents ending
heirsons to board
n
Paris o attend
his revital-
ized
Academy
f
Architecture
n
the
late
1700s,
the
originator
f full-
time architectural
ducation,
Jacques-Frangois
londel,
reassured
them that he would
provide
or:
"fencing,
music
and
dancing;
xer-
cises to
which
particular
ttention s
paid,
since
they
should form
part
of the education
f allwell-born
persons
who devote hemselves
to
architecture,
nd who are
destined o
live
in
the best
society."35
As the
AIA
Committee
n Educationo
clearly
ut
it
in
1906,
"An
architect
s a
man
of
culture,
earning
nd
refinement,"
nd
the
purpose
of architectural
ducation
was "the
breeding
of
gentlemen
of
refinement."36
gain,
the American
Academy
at Rome
strove o
select ellows"amonghoseonlywhowill berecognisedsgentlemen
by
instinctand
breeding."37
t
is no
longer
politic
o
say
such
things;
but
they
remain
as
appropriate
description
now
as
then,
as
John
MorrisDixon
observed
n the
only
article
have
been
able to find
brave
nough
o discuss
he class
origins
of
architects.38
Objectified
ultural
apital
n the form
of
educational
iplo-
mas is
only marginally
useful
in
producing
cultivated
ndividuals
who are
attempting
n
reality
o
acquire
an
embodied
orm
of
capi-
tal. Architecture
chools devalue ntellectual
capitalcompared
o
embodiedcultural
apital
becausentellectual
apital
s
simply
not
November
995 JAE
49/2
1
1
2
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essential
o achieve uccess. n their moresardonic
moments,
some
architects
ee this:
"Intelligence,
n
any
absolute
ense,
s not a
ma-
jor
factor n the
production
f
distinguished
rchitecture.
rrogance
coupled
with a sense of
competition
and a
pleasure
n the
fashion-
able and
exotic,
are much more
important.""3
The failure o
recognize
hat
architecturalducation
s a
cul-
tivated
education more
than an intellectual
one
may
explain
the
many
problems
of architecture
n
the
university ystem.
As
many
have
pointed
out,
architecture
chools
do
not
really
it
in.40
Archi-
tectural
cademics o little
research;
either
hey
nor the
profession
find it relevant.41ndeed,thereis often a positivehostilityto the
very
idea of this most
intellectual
and
academic
of
activities,
be-
cause,
of
course,
designingbuildings-not publishing
papers-in-
crements the architectural
academic's
symbolic
capital.42
No
wonder
that
pressures
o conform
to
university
deals of
academe
are
so
stressful
to
architecture
schools.43
HowArchitectural
edagogy
Favors he
Favored
Not
everyone
an
have
everything
he wants.Not
every
ob
is
high-
paying,satisfying,
r
enjoyable.Manypeople
end
up
in
places
hey
do not wish
to be.
We
like to think
thatwestern
ocietiesare
gener-
ally meritocratic,with those with moreabilitydoing better than
those
with
less,
and that this
meritocracy
s
ensured
by
the
educa-
tional
system,
which
enables tudents o
acquire nowledge
nd
skills
so
they
can find
appropriate laces
n
the
labor
market
according
o
their
testedmerit.
If
this
were
true,however,
we would not find the
intergenerationalontinuity
of class hat we
do. In one
of
his
most
influential
works,
Bourdieu
argues
hat the modern
educational
sys-
tem is not
at
all
meritocratic.44
ust
as
the economic
ystem
works
n
favorof thosewith
the most economic
capital,
he
education
ystem
works
n
favorof thosewith
most
cultural
apital.
t
allows he
trans-
formation f cultural
capital
nto
educational
capital,
whichcan
then
be used to
acquire
conomic
capital
and further
ultural
capital.
n
so
doing
t
ensures he transmissionf cultural
capital
across
genera-tions andensures hat
preexisting
differences n
inherited
cultural
capital
are
transformed
into academic
credentials
that
are
misperceived
s
being
won
by
natural alentalone. Far
rom
open-
ing up
the
social
tructureo
all,
the
system
works o
preserve
he ex-
isting unequal
distribution of
capital
by
transforming
what
are
actually
ocial
classifications
nto academic
nes.
The
architectural
ducation
ystem
works o
preserve
he ex-
isting
socialstructure f the
professionby
likewise
disguising
what
is
actually
social
process
f selection
hatfavors he
privileged
with
what
appears
to be a
purely
meritocratic academic
one
favoring
nothing
but native talent.
It does so in several
ways:
*
The
disadvantaged
eliminate
themselves from
architectural
education.
*
Architecture schools
consecrate
privilege
by
ignoring
it.
*
Schools
accept
the
ideology
of
giftedness.
*
Schools
underestimate their inculcation
function.
*
The studio
system
favors the
cultivated
habitus.
*
The schools
favor those who favor them.
The
Self-eliminationfthe Disadvantaged
Students from
disadvantaged
backgrounds-those
of
low-economic
and -cultural
capital-select
themselves
out of the
system.
People
try
to
augment
their
various
capitals
and
to that end
pursue
strate-
gies
of
investment
that
will
produce
the
highest
returns.45
The
fields
they
decide to enter
(carpentry
or
architecture),
their
manner of en-
trance
(when
young
or
old),
and
what
they
do
there
(salaried
or
own
practice),
depends
on
their
perceived
chances
of
success. We
all
adjust
our
aspirations
and
goals
to
the situation we find
ourselves
in
by
virtue of
our
place
in
the
social
structure. We
attempt
what
we
think
is
possible.
We show
our
practical
acceptance
of
the
reali-
ties of
social
life
by
excluding
ourselves from
areas where
we do
not
think we can be successful. Thus the
disadvantaged
eliminate them-
selves from
the
fields that
they
know
are
risky,
those
dominated
by
the
dominant.
To see
the
power
of this
effect,
we
have
only
to examine
Table
2,
which
shows the
proportion
of
people
from
each
social
class
participating
in
higher
education. A
variety
of
nations
have
been
shown to
demonstrate the
universality
of
the
effect. In
the
United
States,
we
would
expect
the
cost
of
higher
education to
work
against
the
lower
classes,
but the same
cannot
be
said for the
other
nations.
Not
Australia's
removal of
all
university
fees
in
the
seven-
Table 2.
Proportion
(%)
of
Each
Social
Class
Participating
n
Higher
Education
Social
United
United
Class
Australia
Kingdom
States
Sweden
Poland
Top
third
33
18
75
23
21
Middle
third
15
5 27
8
7
Lowestthird
12
5
25
4
7
Source:
D. Anderson,
"Access
o
University
Education n
Australia,
1852-1990:
Changes
n the
Undergraduate
ocial
Mix,"
Australian
Uni-
versities
eview
3/1-2
(1990):
37.
1
1
3
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Table
3.
Proportion
(%)
of Entrants
o the
University
of
Sydney
Who Attended PrivateSchool
(1991-1992),
Expressed
as a Deviation
from the Mean
for the Whole
University,
by Faculty
(School)
Faculty Proportion
(School)
ofEntrants
%)
Music
42
High
Cultural
Capital
Law
35
Visual
Arts
30
Architecture
21
Arts 18
Economics 17
Veterinary
cience
11
Medicine
7
Social Work
1
All
0
Science
-2
Engineering
-15
Education
-22
Pharmacy
-32
Dentistry
-43
Nursing
-43 LowCultural
Capital
ties,
not the United
Kingdom's
edbrick
niversities,
ot Sweden's
democratic
ocialism,
nor Poland's
communism
have altered
he
fact that
the
most
privileged
lassesare
vastly
more
likely
to send
their
children
o
university.By
saying
"This
s
not
for
me,"
he dis-
advantaged
xclude
hemselves
o
much
more
effectively
han
any
economic
penalty
would.
One
may
also see
the effect
operating
within
the
university
system,
as students
distribute
hemselves
mong
the various
acul-
ties
on the basis
of
their
current
economicand
cultural
capital
ac-
cording to their perceptionsof how successful they will be in
increasing
hose
capitals.
Table
3
showsthe
proportion
of entrants
to the
various aculties
schools)
at
my
own
institution,
he Univer-
sity
of
Sydney,
who
haveattended
a
privatehigh
school.
The nature
of Australian
ociety
s such
that
attendance
t such
a school
is an
indicator
of cultural
apital.
t becomes
clear hat
theareas hat
re-
produce
he cultural
roducers
music,
visual
arts,
architecture,
rts)
attract
tudents
who
already
have
sufficient
cultural
capital
o
ob-
tain
a
good
rateof
return,
while
the
fieldsfor which the
possession
of cultural
capital
s
less
relevant
nursing,
dentistry,
ngineering)
Table
4.
Social Class of
Students
at the BartlettSchool
Father's All
Unversity
f
Bartlett Bartlett
Occupation
LondonStudents
%)
Applicants
%)
Entrants
%)
Managment
64
68
78
and Professional
Clerical
9
29
20
SkilledManual
21
3
2
Unskilled
6
0 0
Total 100
100
100
Source:
M.L.J.
Abercrombie,
.
Hunt,
and
P.
Stringer,
Selection
nd
Academic
Performance
f
Students
n a
University
chool
fArchitecture
(London:
Society
or Research
nto
Higher
Education,
1969).
attract those without.
Data
in
any
form
for the United States is
very
rare:
We
have
only
one
study,
thirty years
old,
which
ranked disci-
plines
by
the
proportion
of
the senior
year
from
the
highest
socio-
economic
class.
Law, medicine,
and
the humanities
attracted
the
most
privileged
students
(about
70
percent
of the
year),
while the
physical
sciences,
education,
and
engineering
attracted the
least
(about
45
percent).
Unfortunately,
the
data does not list architec-
ture
separately, although
the
ranking
is
surprisingly
close to that of
my
own
university,
an ocean and
thirty years
away.46
For
a
more
specific
example,
we can turn to
Table
4,
which
shows
the social
origins
of students
at the
University
of
London
entering
its Bartlett School
of Architecture.
We
note,
as
before,
the
overselection
of students
from the
upper
classes into the
university
as a whole
(column
1).
Next,
the
self-selection
of
students
who
ap-
ply
for Bartlett.
Those with the
least cultural
capital
eliminate them-
selves
by
not even
applying
(column
2).
Finally,
the
bias
of
the
selectors
in the interview
process
removes
those
with
middling
amounts
of
capital
who
have
not had the
grace
to remove
them-
selves
(column
3).
The interview
process,
indeed,
is the
most effec-
tive mechanism
for
assessing
cultural
capital
and the
only
means for
evaluating embodied capital.
It is
especially
common
in
the
more
elite institutions
and
in those
disciplines
in
which
such
capital
is
most
important
for success.
Consecrating
rivilegebyIgnoring
t
The
higher
education
system
as
a
whole has
the essential
function
of
conserving
and
preserving
the culture
of
society,
of
passing
it
down
from
generation
to
generation.
It
is clear
that it does not
transmit
the
totality
of
society's
culture.
It transmits
only
the
portions
that
those
who
run
the
system
consider to
be
worthy
of transmission:
the cul-
November
995 JAE
49/2
1
1 4
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ture
of the
dominant,
euphemized
as "liberal
education." There are
continual
debates,
of
varying
vehemence,
about
just
what
should
be
transmitted,
but these are internal
struggles
between intellectuals and
academics,
none
of whom
doubt that there are
some
things
(English,
architecture)
that
should
be
taught
in
higher
education
and
others
(automobile
repair,
hairdressing)
hat
should
not. No one
thinks that
everything
s
worthy
of a
degree.
By
teaching
and
transmitting
just
one
culture,
that of the
dominant
classes,
and
by
defining
excellence and achievement
in
terms
of
that
culture,
the
education
system
of
necessity
favors those
who
have
already
been inculcated
with it from
birth,
those
for
whom this culture is as natural, familiar, and
easy
as
walking.
By
assuming
that
students
are
broadly
homogeneous-for
no one
be-
lieves
they
are
exactly
alike-institutions
of
higher learning privilege
the
privileged,
simply by ignoring
their
privilege.
By referring
sim-
ply
to "students"
it is
possible
to
forget
that the
experience
of
uni-
versity
life affects different
students
differently. Entering
a
university
is
very
different
for the student
for
whom
a
university
education
was
expected
as
a
natural career
path,
who
has
many
fam-
ily
members with
degrees,
who
lived
with
stories
of
their
parents'
college
days
all their
life,
than
it is for the
student
who has heard
of
college
life at third
hand,
who
hardly
knows what to
expect.
We
should also remember
that students
can have the same
practices
without
experiencing
them
as the same. To
say
that
two
students
have
part-time
jobs
as sales clerksin a store
disguises
the distinctions
between the
privileged
student
who
works
in
the most
up-market
department
store
in
town for
money
and the lower-class
one
who works at a
supermarket
checkout stand
in
order
to
live.47
To
say
that the architect's
daughter
and the
unskilled laborer's
son
are
both keen
photographers
conceals the fact that
with this same
prac-
tice
the former
prepares
herself
for her
chosen
profession
by
care-
fully
photographing
interesting
buildings,
while the latter
memorializes
a
personal
history-birthdays,
weddings,
graduations,
the
important
moments
in the life
of
family
and
friends.
What
a
gulf
must have existed
at the
Ecole
des
Beaux
Arts
between
those from architectural
families and
those not when "an
architect's son [in choosing an atelier] would listen to his father's
advice
following
the
latter's
personal
inclination,
inquiries
or
past
loyalties"?48
And
how must students
in
the
contemporary
U.S.
school
who
could
not afford
the
cost have felt
when,
being
praised
for her
design
in
a
jury
session,
another student
was told that
"I
had
demonstrated
an
understanding
of Roman urban
planning,
and
clearly
had
spent
time in
Europe"?49
It is in this
light
that we can
interpret
an
incident at
my
school at
Sydney
some
years
ago.
A new
faculty
member,
an
emi-
nent and
successful architect
on
the national
scene,
wanted to start
the academic
year
with a
celebration,
an
event
that
would
be
both
entertaining
and
instructive.
The
event
was a
day-long
series
of
talks
and exercises for the entire student
body,
physically
and
metaphori-
cally
centered around
his firm's
day-sailer,
which
he had assembled
in
the school's
courtyard.
His intention was
to
use the skiff
as
an ex-
ample
of excellence in
design,
of the
highest
craftsmanship,
of
subtlety
and
beauty
of
form,
yet
of
perfect functionality
as this sort
of
yacht
is
widely
used
for
amateur
racing.
The differential
symbolic
effect this had
on
the students
was
unintended.
Sailing
on
the harbor
is one of the favorite
pursuits
of
Sydney's
elites,
among
whom must be counted the better-off of the
city's
architects.
Many
architecture
firms
have
their own
boats,
the
favorite
of
which
is the
day-sailer.
For
many years,
there has been
an annual
racing
competition
for
architects,
and
participation
in
that
event
is
a
sign
that a
firm
has made
it. Almost all
of
the stu-
dents from
privileged backgrounds
would
have had
sailing experi-
ence,
and
many
of
their families
would have owned such
a
yacht.
To
them,
sailing
was a
perfectly everyday
pastime,
and
the
professor's
use
of
the
yacht
as
an
exemplar
of
design
was
an
implicit
affirmation
of
the
quality
of
that
recreation,
a
comforting
confirma-
tion of the match between their
cultural
capital
and
that
required
for
the
profession.
To the students
from lower-middle-class
back-
grounds,
the skiff
was a
novelty
that made them
uneasy.
In a
man-
ner more
potent
and effective than
mere words could have
done,
the
cultural
capital
of
architecture
was identified
with unknown
expe-
riences,
and their own lack
of
familiarity
and
ease with
yachting
la-
beled them
as less
prepared,
less familiar
with that
culture,
and
less
acceptable
as would-be
entrants to the
profession.
Accepting
he
Ideology
f Giftedness
Success,
of
course,
depends
on
having
some sort of talent and skill
in
the
occupation
of choice.
In
different
degrees
in
different
fields,
success also
depends
on the
ease
with
which one can
acquire
the
culture offered
in
the education
system.
Students
with a habitus
that
predisposes
them to
play
the
game
they
have chosen to
enter,
and to love to play that game, will do better than those without.
Students
from
cultured
families,
especially
from
families
with
heavy
investments
in artistic or architectural
cultural
capital,
come
to
school with a habitus
ready-made
for
reception
of
the
peculiar
edu-
cation
that
is
architecture.
Such students
appear
to be
naturally
gifted,
but this
natural
gift
is-as
well
as
being
a
talent-the feel
for
the
game
that
their
habitus
provides
them,
a
"naturally
natural
naturality"
hat
impresses
all
who see
it
as
a natural
ease,
grace,
style,
and
confidence. Those
who are "born to be architects"
ruly
are,
but
1
15
Stevens
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not in the
way
that
the
speakers
intend. Baldassare
Castiglione
un-
derstood
the
importance
of natural
grace,
of
the
"airof
good
breed-
ing,"
when,
writing
five hundred
years
ago,
he said that a courtier
mustbe
endowed
by
nature not
only
with
talent and
with
beauty
of
countenance and
person,
but with that certain
grace
which
we call
an
"air,"
which shall make him at first
sight pleasing
and lovable
to
all who see
him;
and let this be an
adornment
informing
and
attending
all
his
actions,
giving
the
promise
outwardly that such a one is worthy of the company and the
favour of
every
great
lord.
... The
Courtier
must
accompany
his
actions,
his
gestures,
his
habits,
in
short
his
every
move-
ment,
with
grace.
And
it strikes me
that
you
require
this in
everything
as
that
seasoning
without
which all the other
properties
and
good qualities
would
be
of little worth.
And
I
truly
believe that
everyone
would
easily
let himself
be
per-
suaded
of
this,
because,
by
the
very
meaning
of
the
word,
it
can be said that he who
has
grace
finds
grace.
But since
you
have said that this is often
a
gift
of
nature and
the
heavens,
and
that,
even
if
it
is not
quite perfect,
it can be
much
in-
creased
by
care
and
industry,
those men
who
are
born
fortu-
nate and as rich
in
such
treasure as
some we
know
have
little
need, it seems to me, of any teacher in this, because such be-
nign
favour
from
heaven lifts
them,
almost
in
spite
of
them-
selves,
higher
than
they
themselves
had
desired,
and makes
them
not
only
pleasing
but
admirable
to
everyone.50
The
notion that one is born with
natural talents
completely
n-
dependent
of the
privilege
of
being
privileged
by
one's
social class is
the
ideology
of
giftedness,
and
in no
field
is
this belief more
strongly
held than in art and
architecture.
No one
confident
of their own
gift-
edness can
accept
the
unpalatable
idea that their
giftedness
owes as
much to the unchosen
determination
of
their
own
social milieu as to
their
own
undetermined
choosing."
If this
ideology
were
true,
we
would
expect
to
find some sort of
commonality
to the
psychologies
of creative artists or
architects
and,
conversely,
no
commonality
to
their social
origins. Precisely
the
opposite
is
the case. The lack of a
common
psychology
in
architecture
students has
quite
defeated the
many
attempts
of
researchers o
devise selection
procedures superior
to the
hodgepodge
now
operating
in
the
world's
schools.52
If
the
analysis
presented
here is
correct,
they
should
really
be
looking
for
students from
families with
high
cultural
capital. Perhaps
such a cri-
terion
that,
it is
believed,
could
not
possibly
lie behind the creative
success of the
young
architect-to-be,
would be
as
repugnant
to
the
schools as its
discovery
was
disheartening
to
Jacob
Getzels
and
Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi
in their
study
of
young
artists: "The
data
make clear
that,
to achieve success
as an
artist,
it
helps
to come
from
a
well-to-do,
educated,
higher
status
family.
(This
is a
disillusioning
thought.
One would like to believe
that,
at least in
art,
money
and
status
play
no
part
in
determining
success.)""53
Researchers have
been
oddly
reluctant to
acknowledge
the
implications
of theirown
findings, politely declining
to
look
behind
the
individual
to the
symbolic
wealth
sustaining
him
or her.
Donald
MacKinnon,
for
example,
in his
extensive
studies of architects
back
in the fifties, found that almost without exception, successful archi-
tects came
from families with
high
cultural
capital,
but he was
not
interested
in
pursuing
this
most obvious of
indicators.54
In her
in-
teresting
study
of
American
architects and their
interrelationships,
Roxanne Williamson
concluded after some
torturous
examination
that the
key
to
fame
was
working
with
a master
in
one of
the
master's
especially
creative
periods,
but
she
seemed
not to
see the
simpler
explanation-picked up
by
Andrew Seidel
in
his
review-
that the
only
characteristic
uniting
all of her famous
architects
was
their
background
of
familial
wealth, culture,
or
influence.5
Underestimating
chools'Inculcationunction
Educators
usually
talk
about
how students are socialized into
"ar-
chitectural culture" in disparaging tones, as though it were some
incidental side-effect or were
easily
rectified
by
simply
not
teaching
students certain
things.
The
process
of
inculcation,
I have
argued,
is no
mere
epiphenomenon,
but
an
integral
part
of
architectural
education. This
process
operates
at a much
deeper
level
than
is
im-
plied
in
the
notion of
a hidden
curriculum.56
One cannot
manifest
cultivation
by
knowing,
but
by being.
All
the subtle
signs
of culti-
vation that are
what makes t
cultivation-accent, manners,
deport-
ment,
bearing,
dress,
attitudes,
tastes,
dispositions-cannot
be
obtained
at
secondhand.
They
must be
slowly
absorbed from those
who
are
already
cultivated. If cultivation were
obtained
easily
and
readily,
by
simply reading
a
few
books
or
attending
a few
lectures,
it
would not have the value it
does. Its
acquisition
is
essentially
a
matter of
directly
experiencing
it,
of
soaking up
all the
many
small
things
that
comprise
it.
Nor
can
its
content
be
enumerated.
No
book can tell
you
that it consists of
x,
y,
or z.
This sort of
cultural
capital
exists
in
the
tacit,
unsaid
qualities
of individuals." As that
paragon
of the
cultivated
architect,
Leon
Battista
Alberti,
said,
"There is no
one even
slightly
imbued with
letters
who does not in
his
leisure
conceive the
hope
that
he
will
soon become a
great
ora-
tor,
even if he
has
only
seen
the face of
eloquence
at a distance.
But,
when
he realises
that
mastery
of this art
involves more
difficulty
November 995 JAE
49/2
1 1
6
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than he
drowsily
thought,
he strives toward this
goal
by
reading
every
available
book,
as
if
we
could
acquire
our
style
from
books
alone,
rather
than
by
our own intense
efforts."58
A more
recent
statement in
almost
exactly
the same
terms can be
found
in
Paul
Cret,
who wrote in
1934
of his school
at the
University
of
Penn-
sylvania,
"Alleducation in Fine Arts
...
has for its
main
object
the
development
of
the
artist's
personality.
A
consequence
is that
such
a result
can be
accomplished
only
through personal
effort
and
not
through
a
perusal
of
textbooks."59
This is
the
crux of
the matter: The
cultivated
habitus
cannot
be
acquired
through
labored
study.
That is the
way
of
the
pedant,
the
plodder.
One must have not
only
the
right
culture, but the
right
re-
lationship
to
that
culture,
and that
relationship depends
on
how
the
culture was
acquired.60
The
dominant
definition of
the
right way
to
acquire
cultureis
by
direct
experience,
actually
being
there.
Does
not
every
architecture
student
aspire
one
day
to
make the
Grand
Tour,
the
leisured
journey,
the
pilgrimage,
to
actually
see
and
experience
the
sacred sites
of
architecture?As
Spiro
Kostoff
wrote on
the
virtues
of
the
architectural
education,
"There is no
substitute for
the
expe-
rience of
travel
that
opens
the
eye
and
builds
up
a
storehouse of
im-
pressions.
....
And
beyond
that
comes life
and
learning.
We
understand the
needs
of
others to the extent
that we
have
insisted
on
a full life
for
ourselves;
we
can
provide
for the
settings
of
social insti-
tutions to the
extent
that we
have been
broadly educated, broadly
read,
given
the
wherewithal to reflecton the
course
of
human
affairs
and to
scan the
reaches of
human
achievement."61
As
a means of
producing
a
specific,
cultivated
habitus,
archi-
tectural culture
can
only
be
inculcated
in
a certain
way.
Bourdieu
distinguishes
between
a
scholastic
and a
charismatic
mode
of
incul-
cation.62
The
scholastic
mode is what
we
normally
recognize
as
pedagogy,
the
formal
and
explicit
teaching
of
formal
and
explicit
knowledge
and
skills. The
charismatic
mode
is the
informal
and
implicit
method
of
inculcation,
which is
the
only
possible
means of
transferring
embodied
cultural
capital.
The former
is
intended to
produce
knowing,
the
latter
being.
Hence the
strong
identification
between
work
and
person,
so common in
architectural
design,
which this anecdote illustrates:"One day a professorapproachedfor
a
mid-project
desk crit
and
pointed
to the
model
I
had
constructed.
..
.'Is
this
you?'
he
asked.
Hoping
to
build a
casual
rapport
with
this rather
stern
young
teacher,
I
responded
jokingly,
pointing
to
myself,
'No,
no
this is
me,'
then to
the
model,
'This
is
my
model.'
'No '
he
replied
firmly,
putting
his
hand
on
my
model,
'This is
you
and this
is shit ' It
was
an
incredible
high
when the
unity
between
self
and
work
brought
us
praise,
but
quite
devastating
when
our
efforts
were
insulted."63
Lecture courses
play only
a
small
part
in
this
process-and
then
only
some
courses.
Subject
areas in architecture
are
strongly
stratified, with
design by
far the most honored.
If we were to
con-
struct
a
hierarchy
of curricular
prestige,
it would
correspond
more
or less to the
degree
to which
the
subject
can utilize the
student's
cultural
capital.
Thus
design, history,
and
theory
would be at
the
top,
and
environmental
science,
structures,
and
building
services
would
be at the bottom. When
students
protest
that courses
are
not
relevant,
quite
often
they
are
simply
protesting
against
courses
that
prevent
them from
displaying
their
cultivation.
The
design
studio is the site
par
excellence
for the
operation
of a charismatic mode of inculcation. It is no
happy
accident
that
the studio
system
has been at
the
very
heart
of
architectural
educa-
tion
throughout
its entire
history.
The studio
system
is
essentialfor
socializing
students
with
a
cultivated
habitus.
As
Kathryn
Anthony
pointed
out,
the studio
is a
very
peculiar
form
of
education.6
In
conventional
university
education,
students
sit in
anonymous
lec-
tures
for a few hours
a
week,
work alone
and receive
little
input
from other
students or
academics,
who must
be
actively
sought
for
assistance.
Examination
is in
the form of written
documents
and
is
conducted
in
private.
Design
students
aresurrounded
by
their
peers
for
many
hours a
week,
often
relying
on them for
assistance.
The
studio master
actively
seeks
them out
to
provide
criticism,
and
ex-
amination is public and by oral presentation.
By
saturating
students
with the
objects
of
architectural
cul-
ture;
by
presenting
them
with role
models,
living examples
of
em-
bodied
cultural
capital
(hence
the insistence
on the
importance
of
having
practicing
architects
as
teachers);
by
displaying
in
all
the
slight
ways
of
manner,
dress,
and taste that
one is
becoming
what
one wishes to
be,
the
student
absorbs
that
cultural
capital
in
the
only
possible
way, by
presenting
to the studio
master's
gaze
their
whole
social
being.
The student
can neither
present
nor
the
teacher
assess
embodied
capital by
the usual
university
means of
lecture
and
writ-
ten
examination.
No doubt
this
explains
the riots
that
broke
out
in
the
old IEcolewhen
the
government
tried to
make the
Ecole's
own
lecture courses
compulsory.
The
government
backed down
soon
enough, and the architecture students happily resumed their old
practices
of
ignoring
lectures for
the
ateliers.65
The
ever-present
dangers
of
contamination are
minimized
by
socially
isolating
students
from
peers
in
other
disciplines
and
even
from
family:
"The
prolonged,
intense
interaction
across an
aca-
demic
term can result
in a familial
atmosphere-with
the best
and
worse
aspects
of
family
life
manifested on
a
day-to-day
basis.
The
intense contact
with
studio-mates
often
makes it
difficult for
design
students to
maintain
their
friendships
with
those
in
other
years.
As
1
17 Stevens
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many
students have
admitted,
the more
years
they
spend
in
design,
the fewer
nondesign
students
they
have as friends.
Cloistered into
the
captivity
of
the
studio,
the
studio commands an
increasingly
greater
role as the centre of students' social
lives,
and
consequently
the
world outside
the
studio becomes less
important.""66
This-which is
actually
a
form
of
internment-produces
a
socially
and
mentally
homogeneous
set
of
individuals
whose homo-
geneity
reinforces the socialization
process
and
the
closure
of
social
capital,
limiting
the
chances
of
misalliances and
laying
the
founda-
tions for
future
patterns
of
cooperation
later
in
career.67nsisting
that
all of their
faculty
have a
professional degree
in
architecture,
the
schools
also
intellectually
isolate
their
students.
Within
the
schools,
this isolation
is
exacerbated
by
denigrating
lecture courses and fail-
ing
to set
reading,
except
for those
purely
architectural nfluences the
studio
master wishes students
to
absorb.68
As
Anthony reported
one
student
saying,
"Architecture
school
was
like boot
camp:
twelve
hours a
day
seven
days
a
week
in
basic
design.
...
In
retrospect
t was
the
beginning
of
a
major
shift
in
my
education-a
totally
anti-intel-
lectual
period
in
my
life.
I
can
honestly say
I
hardly
read a
book in
my
three
years
of
architecture
school. .
...
Every
minute,
I
was
being
made
to feel like a
first-grader ....
My
first
design
instructor was a
bit like a
drill
sergeant.
You're
more or less
being
broken."''69
FavoringheCultivatedHabitus
One can succeed
more
easily
if one is
already halfway
successful.
The
design
studio,
by
relying
so much on the
presentation
of the
self to those
who will
assess
the
self,
favors those
who come to
ar-
chitecture
already
knowing
some of the
strategies
of
the
game
of
culture.
The
natural
grace,
the
feel of the
game,
which those from
cultured-and
especially
architectural-families
possess,
makes
them far better
prepared
to
cope
with
the
peculiarities
of the
lan-
guage
of
design.
Consider
these
examples:
The
language
of the
professor
has an
inherent
logistical
[sic]
problem:
it
is
vague.
The
ambiguity
of the
professor's
lan-
guage
renders
the
student
unable
to
discern
good
from
bad,
to
get
a sense of value of their own or someone else's work.70
There
is
little
effective communication of ideas
in
juries.
Tan-
gential
remarks
are
difficult
to
apply.
The level of
abstraction,
vague language
and
allusions,
elliptical
discourse,
and often
denigrating
commentary
are barriers
to
drawing
anything
useful
from the
juror's
response.71
It is obvious that talent
in
design
is
necessary
for success in
design.
It
is
less
obvious that talent
in
talking
about
design
is
also
required.
The studio
system
requires
students
to
spend
a
great
deal
of
time
talking
about their
design, talking
to
other
students,
talk-
ing
to
professors
at desk
crits, and,
of
course,
talking
at
jury
presen-
tations. Students from
cultured
families
have
already
acquired
the
basic
dispositions required
to
further their
symbolic
mastery
of ar-
chitectural
language.
They already
know how to
talk and
manipu-
late
culture,
and
most
important,
they already
have a
visceralfeel or
the nature
of
the
game they
are
playing.
This
may
also
explain
the
never-ending
calls for
"integration,"
by
which is
invariably
meant
moving everything
into
the
studio,
thus
transforming performance
in
the most
objectified
areas
of
architecture
(construction,
struc-
tures,
and
so
on),
where
possession
of
symbolic
capital
counts
least,
into
assessments
of
social
being,
so
denying
those with the
wrong
sort of
cultural
capital
even the
least chance
of
asserting
their com-
petence
in
some area
of
architecture.72
Favoring
ThoseWhoFavor
Them
All
processes
of
enculturation must
accomplish
two
things:
(1)
suc-
cessfully
enculturate and
(2)
remove those who
will
not be
enculturated. The result
is
to
produce
individuals
who
want
to
play
their
game
of
choice
(whether
it
be architecture
or
law
or
engineer-
ing
or
whatever),
to
take
pleasure
in
the
game,
to believe
in
the
in-
nate rightness of the game, and to believe that hardships endured
now are but
necessary
steps
on
the
path
to election
hereafter.73
Those who rebel-and here
you
may pick
your
favorite architec-
tural iconoclast:
Wright,
Corb,
Eisenman-nonetheless
believe,
and
in
many
cases believe
more
zealously
than
most,
that
the
game
of architecture
is
a serious
game
worth
playing seriously.74
The
enculturation
process
is most
clearly
seen
operating
in
the
change
of
dress and
manner that students
undergo
through
their
long
time
in school. This is no meretransitionfrom adolescence
to
adulthood.
As
I
have observed
it
in
my
own school over
many years,
students
become more alike
in
dress, taste,
and
deportment.
Within the educational
system
students
are
kept
in
a more
or
less
tame
state,
varying
from
place
to
place,
time to
time,
and disci-
pline
to
discipline.
In
disciplines
in which
authority
is
lodged
out-
side
the
individual
(such
as
the
physical
sciences
or
engineering),
where criteria
of excellence have
been
incorporated
into
objects,
techniques,
or instruments that
can,
it
is
thought,
speak
for them-
selves,
the enculturation
process
need
no more than
point
to these
externalities
for
legitimation
to
quiet
the fractious.
In
areas,
like
architecture,
where
excellence
is
embodied
in
individuals,
the
sys-
tem
adopts
other means to convince all
of the worth of the
game
and
to make students
love to
play
the
game.
November 995
JAE
49/2
1 1
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The
means
used
in
architectural education to enforce
this
state
of
docile
acceptance
is
by
keeping
students
in
a
permanent
state of insecure
expectation.
In
the
old
Ecole
des Beaux
Arts,
a
par-
ticularly
effective means
of
doing
so
was
to
allow students an
in-
definite
period
to
complete
their
studies." Whatever other
virtues
it
may
have
had,
this
held out
to all
the
possibility
that
success
may
come next
year
if
not
this,
if
only
a little
more
work
were
done,
if
only
the
game
were
played
a
little
better.
Financial,
legal,
and
in-
stitutional
pressures
have
removed this
mechanism from
most
places,
although
it
is still
in
use
at
nonuniversity
elite
schools. To-
day,
there
are
three
ways
to
ensure
docility.
The first
is
by
the
con-
trol of students' time. Design studio may represent some 70
percent
of
their
credit
hours,
but
it
consumes
90
percent
of
their
time. The
number of
nights
without
sleep
becomes a
currency
of
great symbolic
worth,
a
currency
of
devotion,
whereby they
dem-
onstrate
to
the
studio
master that
they
are
coming
to
love the
game.
The
second
is with the
use of
vague,
allusive,
and elusive
language
in
the
design
studio,
which
requires
students to
struggle
to
wring
meaning,
to
worry
about whether
they
have
understood,
to franti-
cally hope they
will
please:
Anyways,
we
would
be
working
in the
studio,
designing
swim-
ming
pools
(which
our
professor
called
"negative
volumetric
spaces").
This
professor
would walk
around
the
studio as
we
worked,
pausing
beforeeach student's
drawings
to
say
"the ...
space
... it
lacks ... the
purpose
of
essence
... in
its own
idea
of...
limitation ...
but within
the constructs of
the
idea of
...
space
within ...
time ... it
reflects ...
conscience ..."
and he
would
look off
into
space
for a
while
in
silence and
then
just
wander
off.
Behind
him
came the assistant
professor
who
would
whisper
to us
"You
should
make
that
line
heavier,
clean
up
those eraser
marks,
and re-draw
that curve
there."
It was a
curious
mix
of the
ephemeral
with the
practical.76
Throughout
the
year,
we had each been
responsible
or
present-
ing
a
historical outline
and
drawings
of
landmark
buildings
by
a
handful
of
"masterarchitects."
.. I
generally
iked
the
house
I
worked
on
...
but I
could not isolate
what
made it
good,
or
in
advance
of
its time.
To
me,
many
of
the other
examples
were
as
confusing.
When
the
teachers
gave
clear
identification of
what
they
valued about these
masterworks,
we took
what
they
said
as
gospel
and
stored
it in
our
nervous
minds.77
The
third
is
by
encouraging
intense
competition
between
individuals. The
notion of
competition,
between
individuals,
be-
tween
schools,
between
firms,
is one of the
enduring
values of
ar-
chitecture.78
At
the
Ecole,
competition
was lauded
as a virtue
in
it-
self,
and
progress
was
by
success in
competition.79
Anthony
has
documented
in detail the necessities
that
competition
forces on
stu-
dents:
the
sleepless
nights,
stress,
and
anxiety.80
Such
competition
creates
a whole
symbolic
market
whereby
students
can show
their
dedication
to the
game. By
atomizing
the student
body,
the
studio
system
obliges
students
to
play
a serious
game seriously,
to
realize
that
they play
the
game
against
others,
and to devote their
energies
to the
playing
ratherthan
to
questioning.
The
disciplines,
ordeals,
and vexations
of studio
competition-most
especially
in the
com-
petitions where there can only be one winner, as in the world of
practice-demand
from students
a
specific acquiescence
and in
par-
ticular
a
special
form of
acceptance.8'
By
constantly
competing
for
approbation
and for
approval,
students
can
display
to their
teach-
ers
their desire for and
acceptance
of
the
game
of
architecture.
Conclusion
This
analysis
throws some
light
on two
interesting aspects
of
archi-
tectural education.
The first is the
extraordinary
longevity
of
the
studio
system.
In
the
opening years
of the nineteenth
century,
the
founders
of the new
school for
engineering,
the
Ecole
Polytechnique,
devised a new method of
pedagogy.
Prior to the
Polytechnique,
engineering
in the
various
French
schools
had been
taught
by
practicing
engineers
to small
groups
of
students.
If
some
theoretical
instruction
was
needed,
it
was
provided
by
the
profes-
sor of
engineering
or a senior
student on
an
ad
hoc
basis.
The
Polytechnique
introduced
the
idea of
having
academics
teach
gen-
eral
theoretical
subjects
like
mathematics
and
mechanics
for several
years
before
introducing
students
to
specialist
knowledge
in
one
or
another
of the branches
of
engineering.
The
school also
introduced
the now
standard
pedagogical technique
of
the
lecture to
a
large
number of
students.
Interspersed
with
the
lectures were
laborato-
ries taken
by
subgroups
of the
whole,
working
under
a
tutor.82
These
techniques
have become
standard in the world's uni-
versities
for
many
disciplines.
One of
the
interesting
aspects
of
ar-
chitectural education is
that
it
retains at its
heart the
rather
older
methods that
the
Polytechnique
abandoned but
that were
preserved
by
the
Ecole
des Beaux Arts
and
passed
down to
modern
American,
and to a lesser
extent
British,
schools.
I
have
argued
that
part
of the
reason
for
this
longevity
is
that the
studio
system
acts as a
particu-
larly
effective
social
filter,
ensuring
that
only
students with
the
right
sort of social
being
pass
through
the
system
to
graduate.
1 1
9
Stevens
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The
second
aspect
of
interest
is
the
permanent
tension be-
tween
practitioners
and the
schools. There
is
no
shortage
of
profes-
sional
criticism,
usually
along
the lines that
the schools
are
operating
in
some
sort
of
unrealistic
fantasyland,
training
students
for
a
professional
world
that
simply
does not
exist.83
Perhaps
these
complaints
can be
understood
if
we
understand
that
architectural
education is
only
partly
a vocational
training
(reproducing
produc-
ers)-despite protestations
to
the
contrary-and
that
much of its
logic
derives from the fact that it
is also
producing
consumers of
the
general
culture of the dominant
groups
in
society.
Acknowledgments
I
would like to thank Professor
Howard
Lawrence,
Dr.
Sylvia
Ficher,
and Professor
Kathryn Anthony
for their
readings
of this
paper
and
their
helpful critiques.
Thanks
guys.
Notes
1. ThomasA.
Dutton, ed.,
Voicesn Architectural ducation:
CulturalPoli-
tics
and
Pedagogy
(New
York:
Bergin
&
Garvey,
1991);
Thomas A.
Dutton,
"De-
sign
and
Studio
Pedagogy,"
JAE41/1
(Fall
1987):
16-25.
2. Scott Lash, "Pierre Bourdieu: Cultural
Economy
and Social
Change,"
in
C.
Calhoun,
E.
LiPuma,
and
M.
Postone, eds.,
Bourdieu: Critical
Perspectives
Cam-
bridge, England
:
Polity
Press,
1993),
p.
193.
3.
"Le
Palmards,"
L'Evenement
duJeudi
(February
2-8,
1989):
66.
I
can-
not
resist
adding
that
Derrida did not make
the list.
4. Pierre
Bourdieu,
Distinction:
A
Social
Critique
of
Taste
(Cambridge,
MA:
Harvard
University
Press,
1984).
5.
R.
Jenkins,
Pierre Bourdieu
(London:
Routledge,
1992),
p.
11.
6.
Dutton, ed.,
Voices
n
Architectural ducation: nd P.W.
Clarke,
"The
Economic
Currency
of
Architectural
Aesthetics,"
in M. Diani
and C.
Ingraham,
eds.,
Restructuring
Architectural
Theory
Evanston:
Northwestern
University
Press,
1989),
pp.
48-59.
7.
Scott
Lash,
Sociology of
the Postmodern
(London:
Routledge,
1990).
8.
L.J.D.
Wacquant,
"Towards a Reflexive
Sociology:
A
Workshop
with
Pierre
Bourdieu,"
Sociological
Theory
7/1
(1989):
26-63;
and
L.J.D.
Wacquant
and
Pierre Bourdieu, "For a Socio-Analysis of Intellectuals: On Homo Academicus,"
Berkeley
ournal
of
Sociology
4/1
(1989):
1-29.
9.
As
Snyder
did
in
one of the few
substantial
references to him in
the archi-
tectural literature:
J.R.
Snyder,
"Building, Thinking,
and Politics:
Mies,
Heidegger,
and
the
Nazis,"
JAE
46/4
(May
1993):
260-265.
It is characteristic
that
this
article
did not discuss Bourdieu
for what he
could contribute
to
architectural
theory,
but
for
what he said about
Heidegger. Sociologists
with an
abiding
interest
in
architecture,
such as
Larson,
have
readily
adopted
much
of his theoretical
apparatus.
See
M.S.
Larson,
Behind the PostmodernFacade
(Berkeley: University
of California
Press,
1993).
10.
J.
Galtung,
"Structure, Culture,
and
Intellectual
Style:
An
Essay
Com-
paring
Saxonic, Teutonic,
Gallic and
Nipponic Approaches,"
Social Science
Infor-
mation
20/6
(1981):
817-56;
and
C.C.
Lemert,
"Literary
Politics
and the
Champ
of French
Sociology,"
Theory
nd
Society
0/3
(1981):
645-69.
11.
Examples
include
J.
Cullen,
"Structural
Aspects
of the
Architectural Pro-
fession,"
JAE
31/2
(1978):
18-25;
M.S.
Larson,
"Emblem and
Exception:
The His-
torical
Definition of the
Architect's Professional
Role,"
in
J.R.
Blau,
M.L.
Gory,
and
J.S.
Pipkin,
eds.,
Professionals
nd
Urban Form
(Albany:
State
University
of
New York
Press,
1983),
pp.
49-85;
J.
Blau,
"The
Context and
Content
of
Collaboration: Archi-
tecture and
Sociology," JAE45/1
(November 1991):
36-40;
Dana
Cuff,
Architecture:
The
Story of
Practice
(Cambridge:
MIT
Press,
1991);
and R.
Gutman,
Architectural
Practice:
A
Critical
View
(Princeton:
Princeton
Architectural
Press,
1988).
12. E.
Freidson,
"The
Theory
of the
Professions: State of the
Art,"
in R.
Dingwall
and P.
Lewis, eds.,
The
Sociology of
the
Professions
(London:
Macmillan,
1983),
pp.
19-37.
13. Unlike most other sociologists, he has also had the fortune to be able
to
implement
some of
his ideas
in
his
capacity
as the
most
prominent
adviser to the
French
government
on
education.
14.
Quote
from R.
Collins,
"Cultural
Capitalism
and
Symbolic
Violence,"
in
Sociology
ince
Midcentury:
ssays
n
Theory
Cumulation
New
York:Academic
Press,
1981),
p.
173.
15.
The
analogy
with
Greenaway
continues to hold. Readers
may
find the
content
unpleasant,
even
profoundly
disturbing,
but
they
are
forced to
engage
the
author-and
they
cannot
but
help
admiring
the technical excellence of it
all.
16.
Jenkins,
Pierre Bourdieu.
17.
D.
Brain,
"Discipline
and
Style:
The Ecole des Beaux Arts and the So-
cial
Production of an American
Architecture,"
Theory
and
Society
18/4
(1989):
807-68.
18. B.
Rigby, Popular
Culture n Modern
France
London:
Routledge
and
Kegan
Paul,
1991).
19. D. Gartman, "Culture as Class Symbolization or Mass Reification? A
Critique
of
Bourdieu's
Distinction,"
American
ournal
of Sociology
97/2
(1991):
421-47.
20. T.
Moi,
"Appropriating
Bourdieu:
Feminist
Theory
and
Pierre
Bourdieu's
Sociology
of
Culture,"
New
Literary History
22/6
(1991):
1017-49.
21. P.
Bourdieu,
Distinction.
22.
P.R.
Baker,
RichardMorris Hunt
(Cambridge,
MA:
MIT
Press,
1980);
and L.M.
Roth, McKim,
Mead
and
White Architects
(New
York:
Harper
&
Row,
1983).
23.
Derived from P.
DiMaggio
and M.
Useem,
"Cultural
Democracy
in
a
Period of
Cultural
Expansion:
The Social
Composition
of Arts Audiences
in
the
United
States,"
in
A.W.
Foster and
J.
Blau, eds.,
Art and
Society: Readings
in
the
Sociology of
the
Arts
(Albany:
State
University
of New
York
Press,
1989),
pp.
141-
71;
and R.A. Peterson and A.
Simkus,
"How
Musical
Tastes Mark
Occupational
Groups,"
in M. Lamont and M.
Fournier,
eds.,
Cultivating
Differences
(Chicago:
Chicago University
Press,
1992), pp.
152-86.
24.
P.
Collins,
"The 18th
Century
Origins
of
Our
System
of
Full-time
Ar-
chitectural
Schooling,"
JAE
32/2
(November
1979):
2-6;
and H.N.
Cobb,
"Archi-
tecture and the
University,"
Architectural Record
(Sept.
1985):
43-51.
25.
One of the chief
advantages
of an
apprenticeship
system
for
reproduc-
ing
the
profession
is
that it ensures
an
excellent,
if
not
perfect,
balance between
supply
and demand.
In
difficult
times,
the
number
of architecture firms
decreases,
and
apprentices
are
rarely
taken on
board.
In
boom
periods, apprentices
enter
firms.
By
vesting reproduction
in
the
industry
itself,
that function
is
subjected
to the laws
of the market with
an
immediacy
that the much slower
reacting
schools,
who will
always
attract
sufficient
students to fill
them,
cannot
hope
to match. See R.
November995 JAE
49/2
1 20
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Gutman,
Architecturalractice:
CriticalView
Princeton:
Princeton
Architectural
Press,
1988);
and R.
Gutman,
"Architects
nd Power:
The
NaturalMarket or
Ar-
chitecture,"
Progressive
rchitecture
3/12
(December
1992):
39-41.
26.
J.
M.
Mayo,
"Dilemmasof Architectural
Education n the
Academic
Political
Academy,"
AE
44/2
(February
1991):
80-89;
and M. Bedfordand
S.
Groaik,
Current
ssues
n
UK Architectural
ducation,"
Architectural ducation
3
(1983):
7-41.
27.
Arthur
Derman,
"Summary
of
Responses
to
the
1974
AIA/ACSA
TeachersSeminar
Survey
f the Concernsand Interests f Architectural
ducators,"
JAE
28/1-2
(1975):
10-22.
28.
O.
J.
Mitchell,
"ACSA-The MemberSchools
Should
CelebrateTheir
Diversity,"
Architectural ecord
Jan.
1984):
17-18.
29.
B.
Westergaard
nd
R.
Gutman,
"WhatArchitectureSchools Know
aboutTheir
Graduates,"
AE
31/2
(1978):
2-11;
Transbinary
rchitecture
Group,
Facing
heFuture:A
Report
n
AdvancedCoursesn Architecture
London:
National
Advisory
Body
for Local
Authority
Higher
Educationand the
University
Grants
Committee,
1984);
C.
Thomas,
Separation
rom
Professions
nd
Para-professions
(Canberra:
ustralian
Government
Publishing
Service,
1988);
and
Derman,
"Sum-
mary
of
Responses
o the
1974
AIA/ACSA
TeachersSeminar
Survey
of the Con-
cerns
and
Interestsof
Architectural
Educators,"
AE
28/1-2
(1975):
10-22.
30.
H. B.
Ellwood,"Introduction,"
n
K.
Hall, ed.,
Architectural
ractice n
Europe
:
Italy
London:
RIBA
Publications,
1974),
pp.
5-9;
and
M.
Jenks
and M.
Lloyd,
"Students
f
Europe
2,"
Architects'Journal
Apr.
27,
1988):
48-53.
31.
Pierre
Bourdieu,
"The
Market of
Symbolic
Goods,"
Poetics 14/1
(1985):
13-44.
32.
D.
Robbins,
The
Work
of
PierreBourdieu:
Recognizing ociety
Milton
Keynes:
Open University
Press,
1991);
and
Jenkins,
PierreBourdieu.
33.
The
game
metaphor
s
defectivebecause
t
is usedwithout
connoting
hat
anyonecansaywhattherulesof thegameareor whether hereareexplicitrulesat all.
34.
P.
Lamaison,
"From Rules
to
Strategies:
An
Interview with Pierre
Bourdieu,"
CulturalAnthropology
/1
(1986):
110-20.
35.
Collins,
"18th
Century
Origins,"
p.
3
36.
J.
Draper,
"The
tcole
des
BeauxArtsand theArchitectureProfession
in
the United
States:The Case of
John
Galen
Howard,"
n
S.
Kostoff,
ed.,
The
Architect
New
York:Oxford
University
Press,
1977),
p.
32.
37.
S.B.
Trowbridge,
Annual
Report
of
the
American
Academy
n Rome
(Rome:
American
Academy
n
Rome,
1919),
p
31.
38.
John
Morris
Dixon,
"A
White Gentleman's
Profession,"
Progressive
Architecture
Nov.
1994):
55-61.
39.
A.
Balfour,
"On the Characteristic nd Beliefs of
the
Architect,"
AE
40/2
(1987),
p.
2.
40.
Mayo,
"Dilemmasof
Architectural
Education";Cobb,
"Architecture
and
the
University."
41. R. Plunz, "Comments on Academic Research n Architecture n the
United
States,"
AE
40/2
(1987):
62-64;
J.
Musgrove,
"Architectural
ducation:
The Growth of a
Discipline,"
ArchitecturalEducation
1
(1983):
105-12;
J.W.
Robinson,
"Architectural esearch:
Incorporating
Myth
and
Science,"
JAE
44/1
(November
1990):
20-32;
M.J.
Malecha,
"Architectural
ducation,"
Ekistics
328-
30
(1988):
121-132;
A.
Rapoport,
"Statementor the ACSA
75th
Anniversary
Ju-
bilee)
Issue of
JAE,"
JAE
40/2
(1987):
65-66;
T.
Woolley, "Why
Studio?"
Architects'Journal
Mar.
20,
1991):
46-49;
and
Bedfordand
Groaik,
Current s-
sues
in
UK Architectural
Education."
42. These issuesarediscussedat
length
n G.
Stevens,
"Angst
n
Academia:
Architecture,
he Schools
and the
Profession,"
ournal
fArchitectural
nd
Planning
Research
forthcoming).
43. R.
Filson,
"CanSchools
Span
he
Gap
to
Practice?"
rchitectural
ecord
(Nov. 1985):
59-63;
and
J.
Templer,
"Architectural
esearch,"
AE44/1
(Novem-
ber
1990):
3.
44. Pierre
Bourdieu,
"Systems
f Education nd
Systems
of
Thought,"
nter-
nationalSocialScience
ournal
19/1
(1967):
338-58;
Pierre
Bourdieu,
"Cultural
Re-
production
and Social
Reproduction,"
n R.
Brown,ed.,
Knowledge,
ducation,
nd
Cultural
Change
London:
Tavistock,
1973),
pp.
71-112;
and PierreBourdieu
and
J.-C.
Passeron,
Reproduction
n
Education,
ociety
nd Culture
London:
Sage,
1990).
45.
Pierre
Bourdieu,
"Price
Formationand the
Anticipation
of
Profits,"
n
J.B.
Thompson,
ed.,
Language
nd
Symbolic
Power
Cambridge,England:
Polity
Press,
1991),
pp.
66-102.
46.
J.A.
Davis,
Undergraduate
areer
Decisions
Chicago:
Aldine,
1965).
47. PierreBourdieu
and
J.-C.
Passeron,
The nheritors: rench
Students
nd
Their
Relation
o
Culture
1964)
(Chicago:University
of
Chicago
Press,
1979).
48.
J.P.
Carlhian,
"The Ecole des
Beaux-Arts:Modes
and
Manners,"
AE
33/2
(November
1979):
7.
49.
L.L.
Willenbrock,
"An
Undergraduate
Voice in
Architectural
Educa-
tion,"
in
Dutton, ed.,
Voicesn
Architectural
ducation,
p.
100.
50.
Baldassare
Castiglione,
TheBook
ofthe
Courtier
1528)
New York:An-
chor,
1959),
pp.
30,
41.
51.
Bourdieuand
Passeron,
nheritors.
52.
D.E.
Domer,
"Building
a
Student
Body,"
JAE
34/4
(Summer1981):
24-25;
D.E. Domer and
A.E.
Johnson,
"SelectiveAdmissions
and
AcademicSuc-
cess: An AdmissionsModel for
Architecture
tudents,"
College
nd
University
58
(1982):
19-30;
P.
Stringer,
"The
Role of
SpatialAbility
in
a FirstYear
Architec-
ture Course,"ArchitecturalResearch nd
Teaching
2/1
(1971):
23-33;
M.L.J.
Abercrombie,
.
Hunt,
and P.
Stringer,
Selection ndAcademic
Performance
fStu-
dents in
a
University
School
of
Architecture
London:
Society
for
Research nto
Higher
Education,
1969);
and
M.L.J.
Abercrombie,
S.M.
Hunt,
and P.
Stringer,
"Follow
Up
of
the
SelectionProcedure
Used at
the
Bartlett
School,
1964-66,"
Ar-
chitectural esearch
nd
Teaching
2/2
(1972):
76-87.
53.
J.W.
Getzelsand M.
Csikszentmihalyi,
TheCreativeVision:A
Longitu-
dinal
Study fProblem
inding
n
Art(New
York:
ohn
Wiley
&
Sons,
1976),
p.
165.
54.
D.W.
MacKinnon,
Personality
nd
the
Realization
f
Creative
otential,"
American
Psychologist
0
(1965):
273-81;
D.W.
MacKinnon,
The
Natureand
Nur-
ture
of
Creative
alent,"
American
Psychologist
7
(1962):
484-95;
D.W.
MacKinnon,
"GenusArchitectus
CreatorVarietas
Americanus,"
IA
ournal
Sept.
(1960):
31-35.
55.
R.K.
Williamson,
American
Architects nd the
Mechanics
ofFame
(Aus-
tin,
TX:
University
of
Texas
Press,
1991);
A.D. Seidel,
"Review
f AmericanArchi-
tects
and theMechanics
ofFame,"
AE
47/1
(September
1993):
56-59.
56. Dutton, "DesignandStudioPedagogy."
57.
It is
vulgar
o
inventory
the
attributesof
cultivation.
Perhaps
his ex-
plains
why
the
approximately
,900
full-timearchitectural
cademics
n
the En-
glish-speaking
world seem to have
so little to
say
on
the
subject:
Any
perusal
f the
Journal
ofArchitectural
ducationwould show
that-until
recently,
at
least-only
about one-third
of its
contents,
regardless
f
its
excellence,
deal
in
any way
with
education.
Thus we
may
also
understand
he sad
histories
of
two
journals
more
specifically
evoted o
educational
theory.
Architectural
esearchnd
Teaching,
ater
the
Journal
ofArchitectural
esearch,
ad a
fitful
life
from
1970
to
1980.
The
Royal
121
Stevens
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Institute of British
Architects-sponsored journal,
Architectural
Education,
survived
but four issues in
1983
to
1984.
58.
L.
B.
Alberti,
DinnerPieces
Intercenales):
edieval nd
Renaissance exts
and
Studies,
vol.
45
(Binghamton:
Center for Medieval and
Early
Renaissance Stud-
ies,
State
University
of New York at
Binghamton,
1987),
p.
127.
59.
J.
Esherick,
"Architectural Education
in
the Thirties and Seventies: A
Personal
View,"
in
Kostoff,
ed., Architect,
p.
274.
60. Pierre Bourdieu
and M. d.
Saint-Martin,
"Scholastic Excellence
and
the
Values
of the Educational
System,"
in
J.
Eggleston,
ed.,
Contemporary
Research
n
the
Sociology
ofEducation
(London:
Methuen,
1974),
pp.
338-71;
Pierre
Bourdieu,
Homo
Academicus
(Stanford,
CA: Stanford
University
Press,
1988);
and Bourdieu
and
Passeron,
Reproduction
n
Education,
ociety
nd Culture.
61.
S.
Kostoff,
"The Education
of
the Muslim
Architect,"
in
Proceedings
of
SeminarTen n theSeriesArchitectural ransformationsn theIslamicWorld: rchi-
tectural ducation
n theIslamic
World(Granada:
ga
Khan
Award
or
Architecture,
1986),
p.
3.
62. Bourdieu
and
Saint-Martin,
"Scholastic
Excellence,"
Pierre
Bourdieu,
"The Scholastic Point
of
View,"
CulturalAnthropology
5/4
(1990):
380-91;
and
Bourdieu
and
Passeron,
Reproduction
n
Education,
ociety
nd Culture.
63.
Willenbrock,
"Undergraduate
Voice
in
Architectural
Education,"
p.
102.
64.
Kathryn
H.
Anthony,
Design
uries
on Trial:TheRenaissance
f
the
De-
sign
Studio
(New
York: Van Nostrand
Reinhold,
1991).
65.
R.
Chafee,
"The
Teaching
of Architecture
at the
t1cole
des Beaux
Arts,"
in
A.
Drexler, ed.,
The
Architecture
of
the
iEcole
es Beaux
Arts
(London:
Secker and
Warburg,
1977),
pp.
61-110.
66.
Anthony,
Design
uries
on
Trial,
p.
12.
67.
L.J.D.
Wacquant,
"On the
Tracks of
Symbolic
Power:
Prefatory
Notes
to Bourdieu's
'State
Nobility,"'
Theory,
Culture and
Society
10/1
(1993):
1-17.
68. R. Gutman, "Education and the World of Practice,"JAE 40/2 (1987):
24-25;
A.
Rapoport,
"Studious
Questions,"
Architects'Journal(Oct.
26,
1983):
55-
57;
T.
Fowler,
"What Are
Students
Concerned
About?" Architectural
Record
(May
1985):
61-63;
Thomas
A.
Dutton,
"Architectural
Education, Postmodernism,
and
Critical
Pedagogy,"
in
Dutton, ed.,
Voices n
Architectural
Education,
pp.
xv-xxix;
and
Woolley, "Why
Studio?"
69.
Anthony,
Design
Juries
on
Trial,
p.
15.
70.
Willenbrock,
"Undergraduate
Voice
in
Architectural
Education,"
p.
107.
71.
Ibid.,
p.
114.
72.
M.
Gelernter,
"Reconciling
Lectures
and
Studios,"
JAE
41/2
(Winter
1988):
46-52.
73.
Bourdieu,
Distinction.
74.
J.B.
Thompson,
"Introduction,"
in
Thompson,
ed.,
Language
and
Sym-
bolic
Power,
pp.
1-23.
75. Carlhian,"Ecoledes Beaux-Arts."
76.
From a
private
communication with
a
student
who wishes to remain
anonymous
(1993).
77.
Willenbrock,
"Undergraduate
Voice
in
Architectural
Education,"
pp.
98-99.
78.
J.
Bassin,
Architectural
Competitions
n
Nineteenth-Century ngland
(Ann
Arbor,
MI:
UMI
Research
Press,
1984).
79.
Carlhian,
"Ecoledes
Beaux-Arts."
80.
Anthony,
Design
uries
on
Trial.
81. Pierre
Bourdieu,
"Manet and the Institutionalization of
Anomie,"
in
R.
Johnson,
ed.,
The Field
of
Cultural Production
(Cambridge, England:
Polity
Press,
1993),
pp.
238-53.
82.
S.
Timoshenko,
Historyof Strength
of
Materials
1952)
(New
York:
Dover,
1983).
83.
P.
Buchanon,
"What
Is
Wrong
with Architectural
Education? Almost
Everything," Architectural Review (July 1989): 24-26.
November
1995 JAE
49/2
1 22