The Language of Architectureand the Narrative of the Architect: An Essayon Spatial Orientation and CulturalMeaning in Architecture

Lourens Minnema

ContentsThe Architect’s Guiding Story . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2Defining Architecture . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2The Functionality and Art of Architecture . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5The Functionality and Language of a City Gate . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6The Language of Forms in Architecture and Music . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8The Visitor at the Gate . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11Three Basic Relationships Between Humans and Their World . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11Correlations Between Bodily Subject and Oriented Space . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12The Personal Story of the Architect’s Taste and Style . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15The Guiding Story of the Architecture’s Wider Cultural Framework of Reference . . . . . . . . . . . . 15References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17

AbstractThis essay analyzes whether architecture is a language in the sense of beingcapable of telling its own story and how to assess the communicative value ofthe architects’ guiding story that inspired their architecture. The chapter arguesthat architecture’s “language of forms” is like a language insofar as architectureconsists of traceable but in themselves meaningless unities that are built intorecognizable patterns and insofar as it has a syntax of rules and conventionsthat prevent form combinations from becoming arbitrary. It is unlike alanguage insofar as its patterns and structure lack the semantic quality of makingreferential statements on the outside world. The same goes for music. The essaysuggests that three basic relationships between humans and their worldopen up three distinctively orientated spaces: being-part, being-initiating, and

L. Minnema (*)Department of the Comparative Study of Religion, Faculty of Religion and Theology, VrijeUniversiteit, Amsterdam, The Netherlandse-mail: l.minnema@vu.nl

# Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2018S. D. Brunn et al. (eds.), Handbook of the Changing World Language Map,https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-73400-2_62-1

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being-at-a-distance. These correlate to mood space, movement space, and openspace, respectively. The language of architectural forms, then, appeals to thetactile-emotional, mobile-goal-oriented, and visual-contemplative sensitivitiesof humans instead of translating narratives into architecture. The only story atthe architects’ disposal is the story of their own taste and style. Architecture cando without the personal story of the architect’s taste and style, but this story hasthe added value of making explicit what is already visible, thus functioning likethe decoration that illustrates the point. The larger frameworks of reference ofcultural traditions that left their mark on architecture tend to be equally or morehelpful as “guiding stories,” in cueing and experiencing architectural spaces asmeaningful, as the “dry landscape garden” of Ryoan-ji in Kyoto can exemplify.

KeywordsLanguage of architecture · Guiding story of the architect · Architectural space ·Architecture as art form · Meaning of architecture

The Architect’s Guiding Story

Architects whose architecture is led by a guiding story that inspires them and thatthey tell their clients and visitors to explain buildings seem to have a very differentapproach from architects who do not feel the need to tell a story because they holdthe view that architecture must speak for itself and tell its own story. In thepostmodern age, personal life stories have replaced the grand narratives (Lyotard1979; Raulet 1987), and there is no doubt that the architects’ guiding stories caninspire. But the building cannot literally portray their story. The question, then, iswhether the building can at least evoke their story. Does architecture have somethingat its disposal that speaks in the sense of telling or evoking a story? Is architecture(like) a language?

Defining Architecture

Architecture, according to Jürgen Joedicke, can be described in terms of the oppo-sition between “solid” and “void” (Joedicke 1985, pp. 16–20). The interactionbetween a “solid” (an extremely dense space) and a “void” (an extremely tenuousspace) creates a space. The conscious arrangement (structuring) of this interactionbetween “solid” and “void” creates an architectural space. If the pole of the “void”dominates, the design of the interaction between “solid” and “void” leads to an openspace, to an architectural “spatial field” between solids. An example of this is theGerman pavilion of Mies van der Rohe in Barcelona (Fig. 1) of which the minimalwalls indicate only the horizontal contours of the space and leave all the rest open. Ifthe pole of the “solid” dominates, the design of the interaction between “solid” and“void” leads to a contained space, to an architectural “spatial container.”An example

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of this is Palladio’s Villa Almerico (“La Rotonda”) in Vicenza (Fig. 2) of which theinnermost interior, the circular hall in the center, lies sheltered under the centraldome while the surrounding interior spaces on all four sides are opened up bycorridors that are again furnished with porches with stairs. On the basis of Joedicke’sview that the conscious structuring and shaping of the interaction between “solids”and “voids” create an architectural space, architecture, in the first instance, can bedescribed as “the structuring of space.”

Architecture, thus, is defined in terms of space, not of volumes (Giedion 1971;van de Ven 1987; Inoue 1985). Forms, as yet, are not space. The “solids” must bepositioned in proportion to each other, have something to do with each other, have aconnection or tension with each other, or take positions in regard to each other,before the arrangement radiates the impression of spatial coherence. Loose forms arenot perceived as coherent spaces but as sculptures, as isolated volumes. On the otherhand, patterns of forms are perceived as coherent spaces, as mutual interactionbetween several forms of “solids” and “voids,” and as spatial arrangements.

Trafalgar Square in London is an example of a square whose character as a squarehas been maintained despite its function of a traffic artery (Fig. 3). It is the interactionbetween the surrounding buildings that holds the square together as a “shapedspace.” The slenderness of the Nelson Pillar does not have sufficient weight to fulfilsuch a function. If one would take away Nelson’s column, then the square would notlose its character as a square. But if the Canada House were no longer there, theSouth Africa House would lose its counterbalance, and the expressive character of

Fig. 1 German pavilion of Mies van der Rohe in Barcelona (Lemon Tree Images/Shutterstock.com)

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Fig. 2 Villa Almerico (Palladio’s “La Rotonda”) in Vicenza (Cristalvi/Shutterstock.com)

Fig. 3 Trafalgar Square in London (Neil Mitchell/Shutterstock.com)

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the square as a square would suffer accordingly. The interaction that currently holdstogether the square as a “shaped space” would then less rest on the surroundingbuildings and depend much more on the linear design of roads, a line pattern thatfrom above, from the air, and on the drawing table would become visible as aconceptual projection into the flat surface. Certainly, Trafalgar Square is not a flatsurface but a sloping surface. The interplay of lines is visible, but it is still thequestion whether such a line pattern has sufficient spatial radiation to hold the squaretogether as a square. Without the interaction between the surrounding buildings,Trafalgar Square threatens to remain an empty space, that is to say, without contoursthat together determine the character of the square and are vital to its image. Thisperceived coherence is crucial: without coherent contours and patterns, a voidbetween buildings does not become a square or boulevard, a plain does not becomean example of landscape architecture, and the walls, facades, rooms, and halls donot become a building in the sense of an architectural space but instead becomean accidental combination of arbitrary solids and voids that are not attuned toone another.

The Functionality and Art of Architecture

Architecture, however, aims at more than a functional organization of the space. Itaims at structuring space artistically. Architecture, in the second instance, can bedescribed as “the artistic structuring of space.” The architect operates on the basis ofthe functional organization of space, but this functional organization of space istransformed and is played with. The practical design of the space is exposed to theaffective powers of the imagination. The virtual form – that which one imaginesbeing expressed in the form – is more important in architecture than the physicalform, that which one observes empirically (Langer 1953, pp. 45–103). Architecturewithout a vision of the whole is not architecture (Scruton 1980, p. 101).

It is not considerations of utility that generate this vision of the whole butthe imagination that plays with the phenomena presenting themselves, an imagina-tion that delights in evoking the appearance of the nature and qualities ofthe phenomena, like an art. Art evokes how things are, and in cultivating theappearances, art underscores, condenses, intensifies, and exaggerates them (Picht1987, pp. 117–255). Providing this pleasure is the specific, typically artistic functionof art. This specific type of functionality demands vision.

An architectonic space exists, thanks to arranged positions, relations, and inter-actions, but gives them a twist. Being an artistic expression, the architectural spacealso explicitly reveals them, making these positions, proportions, and relationsvisible in such a way that the space radiates the impression of spatial coherence.

An architect is an artist who creates new spatial connections between forms(“solids” and “voids”), in such a way that these connections become orientational,determining locations and directions, or who makes visible existing spatial connec-tions between extant forms (“solids” and “voids”). Such a display of coherence is ofa different order than the functional show of a furniture showroom. A showroom, in

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fact, consists of the opposite. A showroom is an empty exhibition space for discon-nected “solids” that lack the powerful influence of an imaginative form pattern, anexpressionless setting of empty space that fully depends on later outlining andputting in the details. But how “expressive” is the striking “language” of architec-tural forms and space? Is this language of architectural forms indeed a language?

The Functionality and Language of a City Gate

An architectural space is characterized by its own nature and by its own contours thatare vital to its image. But how expressive is that character? How meaningful is thatimage? Does such a form pattern or line pattern indicate something understandable?Does it want to say something to us?

A door in a wall suggests conditional access to another space. This suggestion isgiven with the function of doors, just like walls that function as demarcation of andprotection from entrance into a space. The crucial question is whether doors andwalls want to “tell” us this. Can the suggestions that doors and walls indicate beinterpreted as messages and as signs of communication? But what else could doorsand walls “proclaim” or “mean” other than their natural functions of conditionalaccess and protective demarcation?

A city gate in a city wall underlines this suggestion of conditional access andprotective demarcation with towers and battlements. This is for functional reasons: aweak area in the wall is strengthened into a defensive bulwark, and the frighteningimpression of impregnability of the fortified city is given as a signal. But it is also forartistic reasons: the pride of the privilege to enter and inhabit the city is cultivatedand celebrated with the show of flags. This suggestiveness has the power and theintention of making an impression and leaving a mark. Its expressivity could not bemore clear. Both the practical purposes and the symbolic intentions of the city gateare obvious. Even the damaged stone in the masonry that betrays earlier gunfirecarries the suggestion of impregnability of the city walls and of privilege of the citydwellers (Fig. 4).

The language of architectural forms seems a real language but it is not fully one.It appears as a real language because, like a real language, architecture consists oftraceable but in themselves meaningless unities that are built into recognizablepatterns. Walls and pillars under a roof evoke the imagery of “support,” “bearingpower,” and “weight.” According to Gottfried Boehm, what enables people tointerpret artistic pictures is the availability of a shared dense matrix or patchworkof in themselves meaningless but graphic and image-like forms that constitutes thepotential background to actual comprehensible forms of “language.” Each time thepotential image-likeness is transformed into recognizable pictorial patterns, it isbasically translated and transferred, either into the realm of art, the realm of expres-sive images that can be understood as meaningful within their own context, or intothe realm of spoken language, the realm of conceptual categories that are used toattribute characteristics to things. So, both the art forms and spoken languages drawfrom the same potential of image-like forms that are in the process of taking shape,

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the recognizable shape of comprehensible images. These images become metaphorsthat occur both in the “language” of artistic forms and in spoken language and thattherefore allow art to be translated into the spoken language of pictorial interpreta-tion and spoken language to be translated into the artistic “language” of pictorialexpression (Boehm 1978). Moreover, according to Roger Scruton, the language ofarchitectural forms seems a real language because it holds itself to certain rules andconventions. Thus, certain form combinations are possible whereas other ones arenot. Word usage in a sentence is dependent on the syntax of a valid grammar. Formcombinations are not arbitrary: the whole has consequences for the details. Con-versely, form combinations are decisive for the construction (or demolition) of a totalimage: the parts have consequences for the whole. Similarly, actual linguisticusage (details) and grammatical deep structure (the whole) are dependent on eachother, and their combined action generates a meaningful coherence. Also, in a similarway, the poetic departure from the grammatical rule nonetheless presupposes the rule(Scruton 1980, pp. 158–178).

However, this analogy (of mutual dependency of the parts and the whole)between architecture, on the one hand, and language, on the other, is not an analogybetween two languages but between style and language, Scruton argues (Scruton1980, pp. 174–176). An architectural style presupposes that the parts are mutuallyattuned to each other in a harmonious way, and this harmonious attunement is onlypossible if a “grammatical” order is operative. But this architectural “grammar” isnot a syntax in the linguistic sense of the word. Syntax in language is impossiblewithout semantics: structure in language relies on content. The words in a sentencemust not only be mutually connected (structure); they must, moreover, be connected

Fig. 4 City gate in Valencia(Alfonso de Tomas/Shutterstock.com)

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with that which the sentence pronounces (content), in such a way that the mutualconnection of the words adjusts to the content. For example, both the subject and theobject are related to the verb, but for reasons of content, they are not interchangeablewithin the sentence. And content, in turn, is referential, refers to reality. Thus, onecan verify whether a statement (in language) is true or false (in reality). Theconnection with reality (semantic structure) is incorporated in the syntax, becauseone can only state things correctly (syntactically) in language which are true or false(semantically) in reality. One cannot state things that do not make sense in terms ofreference to content. What one states must refer, as regards content, to somethingthat is traceable in reality; otherwise one doesn’t state anything.

The language of architectural forms, therefore, is a “language” without referenceto an external reality, a “syntax” without semantics, a structure without content, apattern without statements, and an abstract painting without title. In it, forms are arudimentary sort of vocabulary but not more than a supply of forms that appearseither familiar or strange to humans, like acoustic motifs that sound familiar orstrange to human ears. The expression of sounds is sometimes quite an achievement,but it is only the first step on the way to speaking the language agreed upon, on theway to producing a really referential coherence of sounds. Architecture is not alanguage, insofar as a city gate does not make true or false statements. In that sense acity gate is an access inaccessible to interpretation or, rather, to communication. Thecity gate is not lacking in historical references nor in connotations imbued with thesymbolism surrounding the show of flags. What the city gate lacks is the markedsense of explicit content regarding its own claim to making a statement or commu-nicating a message beyond the level of sending a signal.

Nonetheless, a city gate is usually experienced as a “statement.” Apparently,architectural buildings such as city gates are experienced as somehow meaningful.What kind of transfer of meaning takes place here?

The Language of Forms in Architecture and Music

The type of coherence that is produced by the language of forms is intelligible in theway in which patterns are intelligible: they are different from other patterns but stillcomparable to those patterns, as variations on a theme and variants of a structure.The forms do conjure associations, but these do not have the precise, referentialnature of the semantic meaning of words. That is also not their function. Thefunction of the individual forms is to refer to each other, so that a pattern arisesthat is recognizable as such and is in that sense “intelligible.” The understandabilityof it takes place at the level of structure, of the recognizability of the structure.Pattern recognition assumes knowledge of structure and a sense of direction, know-ing where you are and what you can expect, in order to appreciate the variations ofthis state. The language of architectural forms is comparable to the language of formsin music.

In certain regards, the differences between architecture and music are largerthan the similarities. Architecture concerns viewing, music concerns listening.

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Architecture employs wood, stone, concrete, light, etc., as building material,whereas music employs sounds. Architecture is constructed in an empirical space,music in a virtual space and within time. Yet, they do have two remarkablesimilarities.

The first similarity has already been indicated: both languages of form are formal,abstract, and a matter of structural figurations that mutually refer to each other andthus form an internal system. This presents enough coherence that pattern recogni-tion becomes possible. Both in music and in architecture, it is possible to sense whatis and what is not attuned to one another, without requiring the pattern to refer tosomething outside the pattern itself. One tone and one chord refer to the other tonesand chords, not to the instruments that produce the tones and chords. In a similarway, the one step-gable refers to other gables, not to the clouds above it.

The second similarity is of a totally different order: both music and architectureare able to influence one’s feelings, as a result of which one is moved by beingexposed to them. Music and architecture are in themselves not emotional; however,they do affect human emotions. A musical composition in A minor is not in itselfgloomy; nonetheless it will likely further sadden those already experiencing gloom-iness. A city gate is not in itself proud, but it does have an impact on potentialfeelings of pride and self-confidence in the privileged and powerful city dweller. Inboth examples, the “language” of forms reinforces the emotions “addressed.” Butthat is not necessarily the case. Why?

The relationship between the language of forms and the “forms” of humanemotions is intimate but not automatic. There is an intimate connection: grief-provoking music can sadden us and can mold a feeling into a minor key, just as“cheerful” music can form our emotions into a major key. The tonal structures to acertain degree correspond to the “forms” of human emotions: higher and lower,growth and decline, congestion and flow, conflict and resolution, speed and slow-ness, stretching and halting, excitement and calmness, and feverishness and dream-iness. All of these are form patterns that characterize both music and emotion. If thesynchronization between music and emotion is complete, then they will amplify oneanother. If not, then emotion will attempt to adjust, and the form the emotion takeswill, as much as possible, mold itself to the pattern of forms of the music, or one willturn down the volume or even turn off the music altogether. Due to the leeway of thespace between music and emotion, one can not only listen to the music in case butalso to the feelings. Through the mirror of the music, one can observe the contours ofone’s emotions.

Just as music, architecture attempts to make an impression on the human moodthrough the language of forms. That which the language of forms expresses is not acertain feeling, but a pattern of forms that evokes elementary emotions. Musical“congestion” and “flow,” for example, have a pattern of forms that in architecturecan be compared to “stagnation” and “opening up and widening.” An example of“stagnation” are the many traffic tunnels, of which the pattern of forms evokesfeelings of being reduced and blocked and of claustrophobia as soon as one enters.Such tunnels are in themselves not claustrophobic, but they do correspond with the“form” of certain emotions, which they are therefore likely to mobilize. An example

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of “opening up and widening” are the rolling stairs that branch off into side steps, asin Michelangelo’s vestibule of the Biblioteca Laurenziana in Florence (Fig. 5). Thesesculptural stairs that appear to move toward the visitor and to overflow withadvancement – an appearance that is not what one sees but what one sees in it –evoke feelings of tense expectation and dramatic theatrics (van Eck 1995). To returnto the example of the city gate, the city gate is in itself not proud but evokes feelingsof pride and self-confidence, because it presents a pattern of forms that can be read asthe boasting language of forms belonging to an edifice that is full of itself, even tosuch a degree that the citizens see their own feelings of pride and self-confidencereflected in it as a fundamental pattern.

The first gradual difference between music and architecture is that music as amagnetic field of tones has a much more powerful effect on human emotions thanarchitecture does. Architecture is demonstrative and inviting; music is compellingand enchanting. Architecture creates an emotional atmosphere; music creates anemotional identification. An atmosphere develops around you but an identificationdevelops within you.

Fig. 5 Michelangelo’sstaircase of the BibliotecaMedicea Laurenziana inFlorence (Raffaello Bencini/Alinari Archives)

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The second gradual difference is that music, by its nature, comes about as amovement (through virtual space and time), while architecture rather embodies rest.The degree to which music is a form of movement can be deduced from the fact thatit is unnatural to listen to music without moving along to it. To compensate for thepassive watching of a classical concert on television, a cameraman will zoom in onthe conductor and the violinists, who move vicariously for the concert visitors andthe viewers at home. In the case of architecture, the cameraman will either zoom inon the static presence and peaceful or disquieting rest that the building exudes or onthe movement of the visitor entering a building, in doing so, making it moredynamic.

The Visitor at the Gate

How does the visitor relate to the building? Crucial to this scene is that the visitorreports at the gate, and not at the drawing board where the building was designed.For the architectural design, not the idea behind the design is key but the effect of thedesign on the aforementioned visitor, to be more precise the effect on the sensoryperception of the building. Before the visitor forms an idea about the intentions of thearchitect, the visitor is already exposed to sensory impressions. Before the visitorwill have developed conceptual ideas about the building, the visitor becomesphysically acquainted with the tangible building. Human beings are open to theirenvironment, but this is not a formal openness, as with a door that opens or closes,indifferent to whomever standing before it. In their openness, human beings displayinvolvement and reveal a questioning attitude, no matter how vague the question. Inturn, the environment is like a meaningful answer that was evoked by a sensory andintuitive or attitudinal question. As sensory subjects with a questioning involvement,human beings immediately call forth an environment that is orientated accordingly.

The visitors at the gate are not only about to enter a building to make a visit.Rather, they are entering a space that they expect to display the kind of purpose andcoherence they are looking for. They expect to be affected by the tangible characterof the space and moved by its coherence and sense of purpose. This is how theyaddress the ambience or, rather, how they transform an architectural space into anambience for their visit. On the one hand, the visitors ask for a visit, not for a home ora hiding place, and this approach determines the degree of meaningful coherence thatthey will then expect to encounter within the building. On the other hand, theapproach of the visitors also means that not any random building will appear but abuilding that presents itself as a route to, and an ambience of, visits. The building,however, does not automatically match the expectations of the visitors.

Three Basic Relationships Between Humans and Their World

There are, in my approach, three fundamental ways in which the human being relatesto the world. Three fundamental building blocks constitute the relationship. The firststone which is laid is being-part of the world. The second stone which is erected is

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being-spontaneous, being-initiating things when facing the world. And the thirdstone which human beings carry along with them and which becomes their amulet isbeing-at-a-distance from the world (Table 1).

In other words, the basic relationship of the human being to reality takes threedifferent forms. Firstly, the human being is part of his or her world. Beingintertwined with their world, humans are permeated and surrounded by it, every-where and all the time. Being submerged in his or her world, the human being isoccupied by it, dominated, delimited, determined, its product. Secondly, the humanbeing is spontaneous toward his or her world, initiating things of his or her own.Humans do not take their world as it is, but do something with it, change it in somerespects, realize certain possibilities, add something of their own, accomplish some-thing of themselves, and cultivate their natural environment. The world is not just agiven complex, but something which can be transformed or contributed to. Thirdly,the human being is at a distance, disengaged, looking at his or her world fromelsewhere, taking note both of how his or her world is structured and of how his orher initiatives are doing. It is at this point that room for maneuver (Spielraum) opensup. In this open space, there is room for contemplation and orientation, for playingwith possibilities and alternatives, for crossing borderlines and transcending fixedfacts, for experiencing freedom from the boundaries of one’s daily life, and forexperiencing integration of the entire world complex, oneself included.

Correlations Between Bodily Subject and Oriented Space

The application of my model to humans relating to their external world ishighly relevant to those views of architecture that, since 1900, conceive of architec-ture as a continuation of the human body. August Schmarsow, for example,argued that the human body is tactile, mobile, and visual in nature and it is inneed of a corresponding space (van de Ven 1987, p. 90). In line with this approach,one may suggest that being-part of the external world is primarily a tactile affair,

Table 1 Basic human-world relationships

Basic human-world relationships Being-part Being-initiating Being-at-a-distance

ParticipationHumans areembedded andsubmerged in theworld that surroundsand dominates themand in which theyparticipate

InitiativeHumans activelyengage in theirsurrounding world byinitiating their owninterventions to changespecific things

ContemplationHumans take a stepback, look at theirparticipation andinitiatives, andcontemplate theirmeaningfulness froma distance, from anoutsider’s point ofview

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being-initiating is more a matter of mobility, and being-at-a-distance is rather visualin nature. There is a lot in the world of human experience that argues in favor of this.

In an overcrowded elevator, for example, people will be inclined to fall silentspontaneously. By entering the elevator, people have entered the tactile danger zoneof someone’s intimate body space. They have come too close. There is a threat ofunwanted intimacy. The only way of warding off the danger one can come up with isbuilding a wall of silence between one’s own body and the personal body ofthe other. In an elevator people are too much part of the tangible presence andphysical integrity of a stranger. It is not being-at-a-distance but being-part that comesinto play.

Being-initiating, bodily speaking, is expressed in the need to move. Even prisonshave, if they are geared to the basic needs of human beings, walking spaces whereprisoners are given an airing.

Being-at-a-distance is not primarily a matter of mobility but visual in nature. Forexample, when human beings are asked a puzzling question, they have to think aboutbefore answering, and they need some play, some elbow room, some mental spacefor maneuver, and some scope for thought, for seeing the larger picture, in order tocope with the chaotic complexity of the issue. For this reason, human beings tend toautomatically turn their eyes away from the interrogator, literally looking away,avoiding eye contact that would not allow for the physical and mental distance andopen space needed to give their thoughts free rein. Instead of looking for direct eyecontact, they turn their gaze toward wide vistas in the distance, remote perspectivesfar away where the world lies open before them, and toward emptiness and the abyss.Human beings need this open space literally and figuratively in order to distancethemselves from their world.

Dom Hans van der Laan (1977; Padovan 1989) developed a threefold model ofarchitectural space that illustrates my point as well. The intimate space of van derLaan’s cell that gears to the need to be at home corresponds to the relationship ofbeing-part. The walking space of the court that meets the need to leave the closetcorresponds to the relationship of being-initiating. The extensive visual field of thedomain that expresses the need to be able to see further than what is within walkingdistance corresponds to the relationship of being-at-a-distance (Table 2).

Elisabeth Ströker uses a different vocabulary from van der Laan but the analogiesare striking. Her “mood space” or “central space” corresponds to his intimate “workspace” and “cell,” her “movement space” or “action space” corresponds to his“walking space” and “court,” and her “open space” or “Anschauungsraum” corre-sponds to his “visual field” and “domain” (Ströker 1975, pp. 16–155).

The nature of mood space, in my approach, is characterized by being-part. Moodspace, according to Ströker, is not measurable or quantifiable. It is qualitative,animate, and abundantly expressive; it constitutes surroundings, the “atmospheric”;the mood-affected being becomes aware of it in its own immediacy. This awarenessis not cognition; it is much more a being gripped, being moved. While the space doesindeed exercise its “effect,” it does not stand in any causal relationship withpurposeless experience; rather it “imparts itself”; it “speaks to you.” The absenceof specific directions, positions, and distances in this space corresponds to the

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absence of intentionality and detachment in the experiencing bodily subject. One’sphenomenological location in mood space cannot be determined.

The nature of action space, in my model, is characterized by being-initiating.Action space, according to Ströker, is formally defined as the “wherein” of potentialactions. Actions, as realizations of a plan, are intentional. This intentionality isdirected in space toward a center of action. Action space is thus a centered,inhomogeneous space. What makes it an orientated space is its directional inequality.Each “where” and “there” is localizable by means of specific directions, right, left,up, down, forward, and backward, where the forward dimension is the one intowhich action space actually extends via the forward movement of the body. Therespective plan of action determines the fact that “directly” does not signify a pathalong a straight line but, rather, the quickest way to make the goal achievable. Themultiple “to-what-end” [Woraufhin] of intentionality makes action space a transi-tional space. Distances are measured according to their functionality.

The nature of visual space, in my model, is characterized by being-at-a-distance.Visual space, according to Ströker, is a perspectival and horizon-bounded space,centered on the sensually contemplative bodily subject. Positioned at the edge ofvisual space, the bodily subject belongs nonetheless to lived space. The contem-plated object at hand, viewed from shifting perspectives, stands freed of anyfunctional connection to other objects. This positional unconnectedness of the objectof contemplation renders visual space indifferent to any movement or change inobjects. It makes it an open space of free play and a room for maneuver and long-distance space, a homogeneous void.

The mood space, the movement space, and the visual space are different incharacter and are different kinds of lived space, triggered by the respective sensitiv-ities and attitudes of those present. Being-part, humans are primarily tactile, tenta-tive, and emotional in a mood space. Being-initiating, they are primarily mobile,active, and goal-oriented in a movement space. Being-at-a-distance, they are pri-marily visual, contemplative, and open-minded in a visual space. It is at thisfundamental level that architecture is situated, not at the more differentiated levelof the story.

Lindsay Jones (2000) seems to illustrate this point in the way he makes athreefold distinction between sacred architecture as orientation, as commemoration,

Table 2 Three correspondingly orientated spaces

Basic human-worldrelationships Being-part Being-initiating Being-at-a-distance

External-material world The tactile bodyCellMood spaceAtmospheric spaceIntimate space

The mobile bodyCourtMovement spaceAction spaceDirectional space

The visual bodyDomainOpen spaceVisual fieldFree space

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and as ritual context. His three basic forms of sacred architecture actually correspondto spatial forms of being-part, being-initiating, and being-at-a-distance, respectively.

The Personal Story of the Architect’s Taste and Style

The “language” of architectural forms is not suited for the task of translatingnarratives into architecture, not even by means of evocation. The only story at thearchitects’ disposal is the story of their own taste and style. It is the story of theirown development, their personal life story of the way in which their taste and stylehave evolved.

To tell this story of the evolution of one’s own taste and style is not of overridingimportance as far as the architectural experience is concerned. And yet, it can behelpful to commissioners and visitors alike to take cognizance of the personal storyof the architect’s evolution because such a story can actually add a dimension to thearchitectural experience. Informed commissioners and visitors may trace and recog-nize the story so as to enable a more intense experience. If the architecture isimpressive, the additional story will take nothing away from its merits. The spatialeffect will not be spoiled but strengthened because the story makes explicit andunderlines what is already visible, just like a pencil with eyeliner underlines thecontours and the light of the eyes. The story, then, functions like the decoration thatillustrates the point, a point that was already made. The story beautifies the archi-tecture or, rather, exhibits its beauty. That is why, in the end, the story is not about thearchitect whose evolution led to this kind of architecture but about the kind ofarchitecture as a consequence of that evolution. Paradoxically, this shows thatarchitecture can do without the story of the architect but not the other way around.The personal story of the architect’s taste and style cannot replace the architectureitself. It is the visitor’s act of physically entering the building that should revealwhether the building feels the way the architect meant it to be felt, not the architect’sstory explaining it.

The Guiding Story of the Architecture’s Wider Cultural Frameworkof Reference

However, the visitor cannot fully experience the building without some knowledgeof the general cultural framework of reference of its design. A sense of the archi-tecture’s rootedness in wider cultural traditions from the past and present isindispensible. Without the preparatory guidance of a wider cultural framework ofreference, no meaningful experience takes place because things then happen to youthat you cannot place and that you therefore cannot experience as meaningful. TheJapanese garden architecture of the famous “dry landscape garden” (kare-sansui) ofRyoan-ji, the “Peace Dragon Temple” in Kyoto, can illustrate this final point (Fig. 6).

The novelty of this type of landscape garden for Japanese contemporaries in theMuromachi period (1338–1573) was that the use of real water had been abandoned

The Language of Architecture and the Narrative of the Architect: An Essay on. . . 15

completely. Nevertheless, the first visitors in 1488 will have immediately understoodthat this architectural space belonged to the genre “landscape garden.” The namesand personal life stories of the garden architects of the dry landscape garden ofRyoan-ji are unknown. However, the cultural-historical and religious contexts arewell-known, so it is still possible to at least reconstruct a number of “guiding framesof reference” that left their mark on its garden architecture.

The landscape garden of Ryoan-ji stands, first of all, in the Shinto tradition ofworshipping nature. Basically, man-made recreations of shinto, divine islands, andshinchi, divine ponds, recall Japan’s creation myth and reflect Japan’s geography ofmountainous islands scattered in the ocean (Nitschke 2007, p. 15).

This landscape garden stands, secondly, in the early Heian tradition (794–1185)of Chinese influenced large-scale landscape gardens imitating the external forms,inner energy, and seasonal workings of nature (Keswick 1978).

The landscape garden stands, thirdly, in the Chinese tradition of landscapepainting (Nitschke 2007, p. 66; Vanderstappen 2014). Chinese landscape paintingsare not just there to be contemplated visually from a distance but to be drawn intomentally. This is called “mind travelling” (woyou) (Law 2011). The visitor observesand follows the “scroll garden,” as if the landscape painting is being unfurled beforehis eyes (Slawson 1987, pp. 80–83).

This dry landscape garden stands, fourthly, in the Chinese-Japanese tradition ofZen Buddhism. Chinese professionals in (landscape painting and) garden architec-ture who had fled the Yüan take-over of Song China would have designed the newChinese-styled gardens of warrior residences and Zen monasteries alike, not as Zen

Fig. 6 Ryoan-ji dry landscape garden in Kyoto, Japan (Nirun Nunmeesri/Shutterstock)

16 L. Minnema

gardens but as gardens of recreation and contemplation (Inaji 1998, p. 40; Kuitert2002, pp. 129–138). Zen had no difficulty appropriating this style as its own. Thenotion “dry” (kare) means “dried-up” but also “withered” (Nitschke 2007, p. 89;Wicks 2004, pp. 113–114; cf. Weiss 2013). In their embodiment of impermanenceand unconstrained spontaneity, the natural forms manifest the very emptiness that thedepth dimension of the natural forms consists of. But they also reflect the state ofconsciousness of the visitor. If the visitor is a tourist, then he or she will see an oceanwith islands in it or a landscape with mountains. A tourist, after all, looks for signsthat mean something significant. If the visitor is a Zen novice, then he may see arepresentation of “impermanence” or “emptiness.” A Zen novice, after all, longs forsigns that mean nothing significant, nothing substantial, sheer impermanence, andnothingness. The novice may notice that the rocks are not mountains but likemountains, that the gravel is like an ocean, and that this quality of likeness is notjust a quality of paintings but of the entire world, that is to say, another form ofillusion. If the visitor is a Zen master, then the garden will empty his mind andeliminate all conceptions of gardens and emptiness occupying his mind. After all, theZen master longs for nothing. Zen even goes so far as to invite one to eventually letgo of all possible referential frameworks in order to let the experience of reality itselfsink in and then freely break through (Minnema 2002; Vos and Zürcher 1964). It isfrom within the Zen framework of this garden architecture that the personal lifestories of many Zen monks were lost and mentally laid to rest in this garden, in favorof the one Zen Buddhist experience of spatial impact that the architectural languageof forms of this architectural space invokes: the awakened experience of nature.

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