I'm Calder Loth, architectural historian and I'm pleased
to welcome you to the final installment of our four-part educational
series on classical architecture. [inaudible]. In this session, we'll first explore several more
familiar classical motifs and details. We'll then consider some basic design
principles to be aware of when working with the classical language. We'll start with one of the most
popular of all classical motifs, the Palladian arch. The most famous use of this form is
found on the two tiered arcades that Palladio applied to the medieval
Basilica in Vicenza, Italy. The form consists of a central
opening topped by a semicircular arch. The arch springs from two entablatures, each supported by columns flanking
narrower flat-top openings. Sometimes the spandrels of the center
arch are pierced by circular openings to lighten the weight of the spandrels
and to lighten the spandrels visually. In Britain, the Palladian arch is
often referred to as the Venetian arch. In the rest of Europe, it is
commonly called a serliana. The term serliana is a reference to
the Italian Renaissance architect Sebastiano Serlio, who published designs of Venetian
palaces incorporating the motif. We see one of Serlio's palace designs
using serlianas on the top two levels. The upper one has circular
openings in the spandrels. Neither Serlio nor Palladio invented
the serliana or Palladian arch. The form was used in Roman times. An ancient version of the form is found
on the temple ruin in Ephesus in Turkey, built around 138 AD to
honor the emperor Hadrian. Here the full entablature is
carried over the center arch. Another version was recorded
by the British architects, James Stewart and Nicholas Revett, who published a restored image of the
form in the Antiquities of Athens. This was part of the aqueduct ordered by
the emperor Hadrian to supply water to Athens and completed in 140 AD. Here the center arch springs from the
architraves rather than the tops of the entablatures. However, it was Palladio who made the motif both
famous and popular by publishing the Vicenza Basilica with its arcades
in his four books on architecture. As a result, we can find versions of the Palladian
Arch throughout the Western world. Typical is this mid 20th century apartment
house entrance complete with round w indows referencing this circular
openings in Palladio's spandrels. The motif was often used to accent high
style colonial houses such as the 1762 Mount Pleasant mansion in Philadelphia. Here the central arch is embellished
with rustication. Most famously, the Palladian motif looms
over the entrance to
Independence Hall and we have a Palladian arch on this new classical
house under construction in New Orleans also with roundels in the spandrels. Now we need to remember that Palladio
could be especially creative with his own works and could put his own
spin on classical elements, even the Palladian arch. A conspicuous example is the entrance
motif on Palladio's Villa Poiana. Here the form is reduced
to bare essentials with
the addition of a series of circular openings framing the arch. This minimalist approach could easily
pass for some of the stripped classical architecture of the 1930s
which we'll look at later. Finally, the form can be a useful device for
adding a bit of interest to a blank wall. This was done on the end wall
of a dependency at Russborough, an 18th century Georgian
mansion in Ireland. Unfortunately, the Palladian arch has become an
architectural cliche for 21st century McMansions. If one
Palladian window is good, two are better. Now, the best way to kill a good
thing is to overkill it. Excess does not make great architecture. This discussion of the Palladian arch
leads us to another variant of the form that scholars have defined
as the Syrian pediment. The name stems from the fact that the
few known ancient examples are mostly confined to the Middle
East. A more descriptive, but unofficial term for the
form is pedimented serliana. A finely preserved version of the Syrian
arch is the Tetrapylon of Aphrodisias, a Roman structure in Turkey
dating from circa 200 AD. The Aphrodisias tetrapylon was built
as a gateway to a temple complex. The term tetrapylon means four clusters
of piers or pylons supporting the superstructure. As we see, the scheme consists of a Palladian arch
or serliana sheltered by a pediment with the central arch projecting into
the pediments tympanum or center. Its ornamentation exhibits the Roman
Imperial style at its richest with spiral fluted column sheriffs and
elaborately carved pulvinated friezes. Another ancient use of the Syrian
pediment is seen in the upper tier of the screen wall of the Roman
gymnasium in Sardis Turkey. The composition extends an
extra bay on both sides. Dating from the second century AD, this remarkable edifice is
largely a faithful mid 20th
century reconstruction or anastylosis using much original fabric
found on site to resurrect the original design. A later example of the form was
incorporated in the Paris style of Emperor Diocletian's sprawling fourth
century palace in the city of Split, originally Spilatro on the Adriatic coast. Here, the main entablature
extends unbroken around the arch. The Syrian pediment was picked
up by Renaissance architects. The form was incorporated in the
Tempietto located in the famous sculpture gardens of Bormarzo near Viterbo. Constructed in the 1570s, the Tempietto was commissioned
by the garden's patron, Bucino Orsini as a memorial
to his second wife. The design is attributed
to Giacomo Vignola. The Syrian pediment here follows what
would become the more standard pattern where the center arch springs
from the tops of the entablatures. For a notable American example
of the Syrian pediment, we revisit Gunston Hall in
Virginia. The entrance porch, as well as the interiors were added to
the house in the 1750s by the architect and builder William Buckland, who
was brought from England for the job. Using the Doric order, the porch is an especially
elegant interpretation of
the form and has inspired numerous 20th century
colonial revival examples. Interestingly, the Syrian pediment form
is not illustrated as a
design detail in any of the standard 18th century
English pattern books. A close approximation appears in Batty
Langley's Treasury of Designs published in 1740, a pattern book widely used by
colonial American builders. This scheme shows a rusticated arch
breaking through the pediment rather than being sheltered by it. The design was closely replicated for
main window in George Washington's large dining room, added to
Mount Vernon in 1787. Famed British architect Sir Edwin
Lutyens designed an ingeniously subtle adaptation of the form for a garden niche. Here he fixed it to the wall of
his British embassy in Washington, dating from the 1920s. The freely interpreted composition
possesses the essential elements of this Syrian pediment form. More recently, the New York firm Zivkovic Connolly in
collaboration with British architect John Simpson have incorporated
a Syrian pediment pavilion
on the top of an addition to a New York Beaux Arts mansion. The design uses Greek Doric forms, an interesting anomaly since the
ancient Greeks rarely used round arches. Unfortunately, the pavilions rooftop
location prevents public view. Nevertheless, the architects applied another version
of the form to the addition's gable, invisible from street level. Another recent use of the form sets
off an entrance to the newly completed museum of the American
Revolution in Yorktown, Virginia. The scheme is highlighted by fine
brickwork in the pediment and piers. These last two examples, both 21st century ones demonstrate that
the ancient and somewhat esoteric Syrian pediment can be a handy design resource
for contemporary classicism and awareness of the Syria
pediment can encourage us to
be on the lookout for them. Modern examples are rare,
so it's a treat to find one. Or it may not always be a treat. Another architectural form common to
American cities and towns is the Gibbs church. By that I mean St Martin in the Fields
and imposing religious edifice designed by James Gibbs and completed in 1726. It's located on Trafalgar
square in the heart of London. We noted its rusticated
doorways in session three. The church is one of the first parish
churches in England specifically planned to accommodate the Protestant worship
style of 18th century Anglicans. The Anglicans otherwise had to make do
with the hundreds of medieval formerly Catholic churches designed
for Catholic style worship. 18th century Anglican worship centered
on the sermon rather than the mass. Since the sermon was the
high point of the service, it was important for the congregation
to see the preacher and easily hear him. Hence Gibbs designed what was
known as the auditory church. Its plan consisted of a large
rectangular space with no trancepts, no deep chancel or chancel screen, and plenty of clear glass windows. The pews and gallery seating all focused
on this centrally located pulpit. The pulpit is placed in
full view among the pews. In Gibbs's elevation, the main body of the church is temple
form and fronted by a Corinthian portico. It's dominated by a tall steeple, richly embellished with
classical ornaments. The steeple is a
traditional church feature. Such steeples serve the practical
purpose of locating a church either in a village or in the narrow
streets of a city. Now note, there are no religious symbols
whatever on St Martin's exterior. The Anglican church in the
18th century was anti-Catholic. Religious symbols and sculptures
were viewed as Catholic idolatry, so instead of biblical figures
or saints in the pediment, we have the Royal arms signifying that
this is the church of England headed by the monarch. Instead of a cross topping
the steeple, there is a weather vane, a civic amenity. In nearly all
of Gibbs's steeple designs. It included a clock, another civic
amenity. Few people had watches. St. Martin's plan elevation and other
views of the church were illustrated in Gibbs's 1728 Book of Architecture, a pattern book much used in the
American colonies and later. Gibbs not only published
images of St Martin, he included additional
images for church steeples. In the three examples seen here, we have an excellent demonstration of
how variety can be achieved with the classical language. All three steeples have essentially
the same elements, multiple tiers, spire, belfry, clock, and weathervane. Yet all three steeples possess
their own individual character, achieved by the manipulation
of classical design elements. The growing population in the American
colonies in the 18th century created a need for many new churches.
Gibbs's illustrations of St. Martin provided an ideal model
for urban Protestant churches. Hence St. Michael's church in Charleston, South Carolina was patterned after St. Martins complete with portico and
a multi-tiered steeple with clock, belfry and weathervane. Though it
was fronted with a dwarf portico, the first Baptist church in Providence, Rhode Island received a
breathtaking Gibbs type steeple. This steeple established a precedent for
steeples on Baptist churches throughout the country. Many new England meeting houses likewise
were inspired by the St. Martin model. The 1830 congregational
meeting house in Guildford, Connecticut was adorned with the
requisite portico and steeple with clock, belfry and weathervane. Gibbs style churches continued to be
built throughout America in the 20th century. Typical is Lynchburg Centenary
Methodist church completed in 1947 and a beautiful adaptation of St Martins is the 1924 All Souls Unitarian
church in Washington DC. With the permeating influence
of St Martin-in-the-fields, Americans became imbued with the idea
that a proper church must have a portico and steeple, but we shouldn't assume that all churches
based on the St Martins model are noteworthy works of architecture. The country church shown here
could be anywhere in America, but it's skinny portico and prefab
steeple sends an unmistakable signal that this modest structure is
a house of God and St. Martin-in-the-fields
ultimately is responsible for
this church looking the way it does. Again, we have a compelling demonstration
of the power of publication. James Gibbs's published illustrations
of his design for a London church have both directly and indirectly influenced
the appearance of the innumerable houses of worship that accent our
cities, towns and countryside. We'll now switch to a small
detail but a very common one, one that can serve as a useful
design punctuation in new works. For background, we'll look again at the view
of the restored Roman forum
and focus on the temple highlighted here. The temple was long
thought to have been dedicated to Jupiter, but subsequent research has confirmed
that was originally dedicated to the emperors Vespasian and Titus
and completed around 85 AD. All thats left of the temple are three
corner columns and a portion of the entablature. Fortunately, the entablature preserves
a section of the frieze decorations, a series of symbols. For a
better look at the symbols, we can call up an illustration in
Antoine Desgodetz's treatise on Roman architecture published in 1682. Desgodetz's engraving shows
the implements of sacrifice, the objects used in the Roman
ceremonies where an animal, usually a bull or ox is
ritualistically killed. After its entrails were
examined for omens, the remainder was cooked and
eaten as part of a communal feast, so we have a mallet used to stand the
animal, a knife to cut its throat, an axe to butcher it. The pitcher was used for sacred
libations, usually wine mixed with water. It was poured into a shallow
circular dish called a patera. The patera shown here is an unusually
elaborate one and it's the patera form on which I want to focus our attention. A sculpted frieze in
Rome's ancient Ara pacis, or alter of peace shows
animals being led to sacrifice, but it also shows one of the figures
holding a patera aloft in the palm of his hand. This Greek vase decoration shows
a patera of being similarly held. These two ancient patera show
that their decorations can vary, but the one common
feature to ancient patera, it's what's called the
bootless indentation or
belly button. In the middle, the patera became a popular decorative
symbol or motif for ancient buildings and objects. A simplified version of a patera
consisting of concentric circles, and the button in the middle decorates
the end of this Roman sarcophagus. Renaissance architects such as Palladio
and Vignola applied the motif in their delineations of the orders. It most commonly was used as an ornament
for metopes in a Doric entablature. 18th century treatises such as that by
Sir William Chambers continued to promote the use of the patera and always
with the button in the middle. Why the button? To demonstrate, let's assume this paper plate is a patera. It would be difficult to hold it
steady if simply held in one's palm. It's much easier to hold it steady if
you can do it with your thumb holding it steady in the middle. So the indentation or button in the
middle is where you anchor your thumb and have firm control of the patera. Try it. The use of the patera symbol continued
into the 19th and early 20th centuries. Benjamin Henry Latrobe was one of the
first to apply it to corner blocks on window and door lintels as on
the Decatur house in Washington. Asher Benjamin greatly popularized
the use of the pattera, but publishing it in his pattern
books shown decorating a corner block. Using a corner block was an easier way
to frame a window or door rather than with a miter joint as
with a picture frame. Corner blocks with patera
became a standard treatment
for window and door frames in the mid 19th and early centuries. Building supply companies
produced them by the thousands. They're used here with what's
called symmetrical architrave trim. The grooves in the trim
reference column fluting. Even in my own home built around 1912 I
have ancient symbols of sacrifice in my woodwork. A wide variety of patera corner blocks
is still available today from building material outlets and suppliers. They are inexpensive and can be a useful
detail with an interesting story to tell for new classical works. We can now turn from motifs and details
and consider several basic design rules and principles. This is a huge subject. Space allows us to
concentrate on only a few, but these are important ones to keep in
mind when dealing with classical design. We'll start with an egregious example
of classical design to make a point. This awkward building uses
cylindrical column shafts. Columns of perfect cylinders
create an optical illusion. They make it appear as if the shafts
taper downward toward the base. The ancient Romans had ways of dealing
with the visual issues of column shafts. Their goal was to give the
illusion of greater strength. One of the solutions was entasis. The term entasis derives from a
Greek word meaning to stretch. Using entasis, the column shaft employs a slight convex
curve or a bulge just below the middle of the shaft. We see this in
the illustration on the left. The column shaft is also
sometimes cylindrical, approximately one third of its height. It then proceeds with a gentle tapering
convex curve to the capital as seen on the right. Palladio offered a detailed description
of the entasis in book one of the four books on architecture. I
will quote impart from it. Palladio States quote, "I usually make the profile
of the swelling like this. I divide the shaft or the column into
three equal parts and leave the third of the bottom plumb vertical; beside the lowest point of the column I
place on edge a very thin ruler as long as the column or a little longer and take
the part which extends from the lower third upward and curve it until the end
reaches the point of diminution at the top of the column under the neck. I make it so that I obtain a column which
is a little swollen in the middle and tapers very gracefully" quote. So with Palladio's entasis, the shaft diameter can be
slightly wider at point B, a third of the way up, but
almost imperceptibly so. Most later architects keep the diameter
at point B the same as at the base. In Vignola's 1562 treatice, Canon
of the Five Orders of Architecture, he offers a complicated explanation
for drawing columns using entasis. In essence, the general principle of entasis is to
begin to swell at the base and have the shaft swell at its maximum a
third of the way up from the base. For Vignola, the column shaft is cylindrical
approximately one third of its height. It then proceeds with a gentle
tapering convex curve to the capital. The degree of entasis varied with each
order because the height of the shaft varied with each order. Vignola's entasis is clearly evident
in this plate showing the five orders. The swelling of the shaft is especially
noticeable in Vignola's plate of the Corinthian order. We see an awesome use of entasis by the
Romans on the columns of the temple of Jupiter in Baalbek in Lebanon. The columns are some of the tallest ever
built and note the figures in the lower left. To give you some
idea of the temple's scale. We can now look at a couple of comparisons
as a way to train your eye and let you decide which you prefer. The first example focuses on the portico
columns of Thomas Jefferson's rotunda at the University of Virginia.
Jefferson was a strict Palladian. He once declared to a friend seeking
architectural advice that Palladio was the Bible. As a strict Palladian Jefferson employed
entasis on the rotunda's original columns beginning at the lowest point
of the column as seen in the 1880s photograph on the left. Regrettably the rotunda burned
in 1895 leaving only its walls. The original columns were badly
damaged and had to be replaced. Stanford White of the noted
firm of McKim, Mead and White, was commissioned to restore the rotunda, which included new columns. Like most American architects of the time, White relied on Vignola as the
authority on the classical orders. The difference between the two is subtle
but becomes quite obvious once one is aware of the two approaches. The second example compares the portico
of London's St Paul's cathedral to that of the Madeleine, a great early 19th century form
church in the heart of Paris. St Paul's architects are Christopher
Wren followed Palladio in his use of the classical language. As with
nearly all French architects, Pierre Alexandre Vignon, architect of the Madeleine
relied on Vignola for his orders. In this closeup view of the porticoes, the deminution of St Paul's columns is
emphasized by the stopped fluting on the bottom third of the sheriffs. The gentle curve to the
capital begins at that point. Stop floating was used to avoid abrasion
of the edges of the fluting where it's most vulnerable. The entasis of the Madeleine is quite
obvious with the swelling occurring a third of the way up the shaft. Now the rules of deminution and entasis
cited here do not apply to Greek orders, especially the Greek Doric. The early Greek Doric examples, especially those at Paestum generally
have an exaggerated form of entasis or swelling, but the degree of swelling
can vary from temple to temple. In the temple of Hera I at Paestum,
the entasis is especially obvious. The swelling here certainly prevents the
columns from having the appearance of straightness. Some scholars have suggested that such
conspicuous entasis or swelling on such thick columns is an effort to
make the columns appear stronger, offering visual assurance that they can
adequately support the heavy weight of the roof structure. Also the swelling may be intended to
suggest that the columns are bulging in compression from the weight of the roof. Swelling columns on early Greek temples
are visually effective when they are on a large scale, as on the Paestum temples. I want now to focus on a couple of
points made by James Gibbs in his 1732 t reatise Rules for Drawing the
Several Parts of Architecture. This book served as the primary textbook
on the classical language for British architects well into the 20th century. In this plate showing the Tuscan order, Gibbs illustrates an important principle
for aligning the entablature with the column. That is the edge of the narrowest part
of the entablature should align with the edge of the narrowest part of the column. The narrowest edge of the entablature
is the edge of the frieze as well as the edge of the architrave's bottom fascia. The narrowest edge of the column is at
the neck or the band between the echinus and the astragal. We see that these edges align perfectly
when the order is properly designed. Thomas Jefferson followed this principle
with his Tuscan colonnades at the University of Virginia. This alignment principle also
applied to the other Roman orders, but not to all Greek
orders, mainly the Doric. This detail of the facade of
the Hephaisteion and shows
that the narrowest edge of the entablature, its architrave, doesn't align with the column's neck, rather it aligns with the bottom
of the shaft at stylobate. Looking again at an image
of the Tuscan order, we note how the alignment visually conveys
the sense that the column effectively supports the entablature. The entablature should
never over sail the column. The column capital should give the
appearance that it's anchoring the entablature and its grasp. Nevertheless, alignment is one of the rules of
classical design regularly ignored. It's blatantly ignore here. We see hundreds of examples of
this solecism both large and small. The weightless entablature here is a
heavy burden for these skinny recessed columns. The same is true
of this simple porch, the ponderous entablature bears no
resemblance to classical precedent and the setback columns appear to
struggle to hold it up. By contrast, this very simple porch in the foreground
follows the basic rule of alignment correctly. It's visually satisfying, whereas the previous examples were not. The alignment problem is
not confined to America. Millions of Europeans daily are
confronted with an image of architectural illiteracy on the five euro note. This curious composition is a made up design. The illustration could just as easily
have been a correct example of the classical language, but nobody bothered to instruct
the engravers about alignment. Architectural illiteracy is a
serious problem for these times. Such works as these encourage many
advocates of modernism to malign all new classical architecture. Their rules are broken here because
the builder had no idea of rules. Another example is this disturbingly
misaligned front porch on a building at a prominent state university. What do students learn about the
classical tradition from such a blunder? How could anyone think that
this is an acceptable solution, especially one so easily avoided? Why was the architect using a classical
solution when he had no idea of how to do it? We have another new classical work at
yet another prestigious university. How difficult would it have been to
align these inner columns with the entablature properly? Also, couldn't the architect have found a
less conspicuous for the downspouts? The other bit of advice we learned from
Gibbs's rules concerns the width of window frames, specifically
architrave frames. In his book Rules he notes the following
quote "On this plate is shown the different proportions of windows
for the different heights of rooms. The architrave frame for all of them
is one sixth of the opening" end quote. This rule was generally observed on
upscale colonial buildings as seen in the George Wythe house in Williamsburg. The architrave frame is one sixth
of the width of the opening. Now the opening includes the sash frame. This rule does not apply to many early
19th century buildings where the frames tend to be more narrow and use Greek
profile moldings rather than a Roman architrave. As for design methods, let's now consider an observation
made by Thomas Jefferson. In writing about his approach to the
design for the Virginia state Capitol, Jefferson stated quote, "two methods for proceeding
presented themselves to my mind. One was to leave to some architect to
draw an external according to his fancy in which my experience shows that about once
in a thousand times a pleasing form is hit upon. The other was to take some model already
devised and approved by the general suffrage of the world" unquote. What Jefferson is saying is that
architects who use the classical language freely and personally and even
idiosyncratically rarely come up with a satisfying scheme. For Jefferson it was safest to base a
design on works that respect the classical canon and that have achieved
general approbation over time. Admittedly, that's a very
conservative approach, but it can be an advisable one, especially for beginners as was Jefferson. Jefferson's design for the Virginia
capital was inspired by the Maison Carée, the most perfectly preserved of all Roman
temples and the one ancient temple the Jefferson actually saw. He felt its temple form was perfect and
the appropriate model for his temple of democracy in Virginia, the
Virginia state capitol. The Virginia capitol is not
a copy of the Maison Carée, but it employs its temple form, a form developed to
inspire all in respect. In so doing the capitol was instilled
with the timeless aesthetic quality that Jefferson sought. Although Jefferson relied on Palladio's
treatise for the use of the orders and for many design features,
as noted earlier, Palladio himself could be very liberal, even idiosyncratic with his
use of the classical language. A striking example of this is his facade
of San Giorgio Maggiore in Venice. The facade mixes two different
orders of two different scales. It has one tall temple front overlapping
a broader, lower temple front. The main columns are set
on very tall pedestals, a practice that Palladio
wrote was not advisable. The facade is unorthodox, even
intimidating, especially up close, but seen from a distance as intended, it is an attention
grabbing point of interest. Anything less would be
visually weak. Nevertheless, no matter how well intended, if we try to play loose with classical
forms without understanding them, the result will be dubious at best. For another comparison, let's look at an 1840s
Greek revival country house. The building is well proportion and
it's set off by an academically correct ionic portico. The crenelated wings add a slightly exotic
touch, but they are later additions. Generally the house has an imposing
dignity. It was built to impress. It did so 170 years ago
and still does today. This more recent house was
also built to impress. However, its ignorant use of the classical language
makes it a caricature of a stately dwelling. Even more of a turnoff is this bloated
edifice with its portico rendered in an incoherent architectural language. Classical architecture
is a precious heritage. As noted in session one, The Institute of Classical Architecture
and Art promotes an articulate use of this language to ensure its viability
for the enrichment of future generations. That's not to say we can't or shouldn't
be creative with the language, but we must understand
it to do so effectively. Successful creativity as seen in this
new facade on a civic auditorium in Charleston, South Carolina. The architect has made it stately portico
more welcoming by bending it into a concave curve as if to reach
out to embrace its audience. Its capitals are invented orders
composed entirely of Charleston and South Carolina symbols. In short, we have an informed new classicism
with meaningful individuality. Palladio also instilled innovation
in his facade at the Villa Barbaro. Its facade is temple form
with an engaged ionic Portico, but Palladio broke its entablature in the
middle and pushed through it an arched window with an elaborate carved decoration
that seems to spill out from the pediment. This late 20th century house in
France attempts a similar treatment, but it's crude and misunderstood detailing
negates any architectural value the composition might've offered. The sawed off upper tier columns
are especially distracting as is the exaggerated entasis in
the lower tier columns. Was the architect trying to be clever
or ironic here or did he or she just not know any better? We now see an astonishing conglomeration
of classical details piled on to create an arrestingly bizarre composition. At once it strikes us almost as babble, but it isn't illiterate. It purposefully uses the classical
language to taunt us to be provocative, even a bit disturbing,
much like modern art. So what's with this? Well,
this is the Porta Pia, a work by Michelangelo. It's an entrance feature that he applied
to one of the Gates in the Roman wall, but we should see this more as a
work of sculpture than architecture. It was meant to signal to visitors
that Rome is a unique and complex city, one not to be taken lightly. It required the genius of Michelangelo
to pull off such extreme manipulation of the classical language. Though
disquieting at first encounter, it can grow on you and challenge you. To appreciate it requires
connoisseurship, and that's not easy. Can we still do this
sort of thing? Sometimes. This doorway in Glasgow, Scotland distills the classical
language into an amusing abstraction, a bit of postmodernism.
Like the Porta Pia, it's more sculpture than architecture,
but it adds interest to the urban fabric. Try this sort of thing at your own risk. Inexpertly handled it risks being silly. In discussing various design principles, Palladio made a perceptive
observation regarding pedestals. He stated quote, "but one does not see pedestals in ancient
temples and the columns are placed on their floors, which pleases me greatly because not
only do pedestals hinder access to the temple, but also columns which are based on the
ground are more grand and magnificent", unquote. As we noted with
San Giorgio Maggiore, Palladio didn't always follow
his own advice. However, the effect that Palladio criticized
is evident in this County courthouse. What purpose is served by squeezing the
scale of the columns in order to have them set on pedestals? Likewise
with a another courthouse, would it have been impossible to increase
the diameter of the columns and bring them down to the portico floor? They appear too skinny here to adequately
support this elaborate and ponderous portico. Another place where pedestals might've
been avoided is this new municipal office building. While we're at it, we can observe other
architectural shortcomings in
this massive structure. One, it has a weak cupula for such
a large building. Two, it has pediment problems. The pediment has no cornices in the
raking angles and the crown molding is carried across the base
of the pediment. Three, the portico entablature joins
the building over a window, at a visually, if not
structurally, weak point. Four, the windows are all the same size,
giving a monotony to the elevation. They should have a hierarchy of size with
larger windows signaling the principal floor. In contrast to
the previous examples, this courthouse has its columns extend
all the way to the portico floor. This is the effect that Palladio
said is more grand and magnificent. It works even on a relatively small
building and certainly on a very grand building. Shifting gears a bit, architects sometimes dare to mix
the orders. Sometimes it works, sometimes not. We have an example of mixing orders on
a 19th century palace in St. Petersburg, Russia. The ionic columns
support a doric entablature. It's done in an informed way and
is not visually objectionable. But we might ask what was the point? Would the composition had been less
effective if it were executed with fully Doric or fully ionic orders? A more blatant and truly illiterate
mixing of orders hits us with the recently built archeological museum of Macedonian. A closeup of the museum's portico reveals
shocking ignorance of the principles of classical design. Not only does the building have an
incoherent mixing of the orders, all of the detailing is crude
to the point of being absurd. It would take considerable time to
list all the gaps in this one picture. Starting with the pediment and working
down to the Doric frieze to say nothing of the alignment. A museum is
supposed to be a teaching institution. What does this museums
architecture teach? By contrast, let's consider the front porch on this
early 20th century American house. It too shows a free wheeling use of the
classical language including a mixing of the orders. The clustered skinny columns
have erechtheion ionic capitals. They support a simplified
Doric entablature and a
shallow pediment with open tympanum. Giving it careful scrutiny, do we think this porch is the product
of an architect ignorant of the rules of classicism or was its architects
efficiently well versed in the language to allow himself to be daringly
creative? Admittedly, the porch is not a predictable
type design, but it's not boring. And would we be happier with a
plain vanilla conventional scheme? Determining whether or not this porch
has merit requires connoisseurship. Just up the street is another
attention grabbing design. Likewise, is this composition one of ignorance
or is it an expression of extreme self-confidence? A demonstration that this architect knew
enough to get away with an imaginative, if really quirky use of
the classical language. Normally you don't have columns
walking down the steps or have such an unrestrained mix of orders and motifs, but it's hard to accuse
this porch of illiteracy. Such freely interpreted use
of the classical language
shouldn't be discouraged, but it requires a proficiency with
the language to do it effectively. Like Michelangelo, you have to know the rules in order to
be able to break the rules and get away with it. The opposite of some of the fanciful
works we've looked at is what sometimes referred to as stripped classical. The more precise term
is classical minimalism. Classical minimalism grew from the
belief that the essence of classical architecture is found not in
its details and decorations, but in the proportions forms
and massing of classical works. Stripping off the embellishment should
reveal unsullied classical character. An early proponent of classical minimalism
was the visionary French architect, Claude Nicholas Ledoux. The foremost example of this ideal
is Ledoux's Rotonde de la Villette, the largest of his several customs
houses built around Paris. Ledoux's Greet Doric portico is
reduced to bare essentials. Even the column shafts are
squared rather than circular. In the early 20th century, Austrian architect Adolph Loos took the
idea of forward with his design for a mixed use structure in the heart of
Vienna opposite the Imperial palace, which raised eyebrows. Eschewing
nearly all enrichments, Loos's building was considered
a herald of modernism. Its elevations, however, reveal an awareness of
classical proportions and the
main entrance is framed by simplified marble columns, even
as simple cornice tops the walls. A leading figure of classical
minimalism was the French born, American architect Paul Cret. Using his mastery of the classical idiom
Cret strived to distill classicism into a chaste elegance. The central feature of his federal reserve
headquarters in Washington exhibits a complex massing that sets off the
highly simplified classical detailing. We don't miss the fact that his engaged
portico lacks architrave or that the square piers have no bases. The building succeeds in
conveying the sense of controls, security and permanence appropriate
for the institution it houses. But the reputation of classical minimalism
suffers because of its association with totalitarian regimes, notably,
those are Hitler and Mussolini. Both of these dictators adopted this
style for their many public works. Their motivation was to break from the
florid classical styles of monarchy and imperialism and start anew. But they also wanted to distance
themselves from the sterility of the modernistic international style
and its connections with communism. Classical minimalism was considered by
the fascists to be a suitable compromise because it maintained the
classical tradition, had a clean, modern look and conveyed the
authority of dictatorship. But many of their buildings such as this
Mussolini style post office buildings in Palermo or this art museum in Munich
became formulaic and appear boringly oppressive to our eyes today. Classical minimalism was certainly not
the exclusive prerogative of dictators. It was adapted by the architectural
establishment and countries throughout Western Europe and America. From the 1930s into the 1950s the style
was preferred for many government and institutional buildings
in the United States. Typical are the main building of the
city college of San Francisco and the courts building in the
Washington DC municipal center. Though lacking any
decorative embellishment, the influence of classical proportions
in massing is evident in both works. They are competent works, but still kind of hard
looking to our eyes today. A little known but supreme monument of
classical minimalism is the mausoleum of the Turkish leader
Kemal Ataturk in Ankara. This prodigious structure achieves all
the dignity of the Parthenon without any sculptural ornament or details and note
the eustyle spacing of the center piers. Classical minimalism has its place, but it's best avoided unless one is well
versed in the classical language and knows how to properly reduce it
without compromising integrity. In other words, don't go there
unless you know what you're doing. Through these sessions, we've looked at many different
approaches to classical design, some very conventional,
some very creative, some very illiterate, most very serious. We shouldn't be so intimidated by
classical design that we are afraid to sometimes instill a bit
of humor into our work. I'll show examples where wit
was definitely appropriate. The first is an opticians
office in Edinburgh, Scotland. The ionic order here is cleverly adapted
to convey what this establishment is all about. The facade is
definitely a memorable landmark. The second example is this
small town dentist office. It's hard to pass this place
without slamming on the brakes. Did toothbrush columns here serve
a useful purpose? As we all know, the most dreaded of childhood
experiences is going to the dentist. The expressive architecture helps
dispel much of a child's anxiety. The building is a friendly place. There are also many other examples. We will finish these sessions by
looking at examples of what I define as architectural prose and poetry. In literature fine prose is a
perfectly acceptable art form. It takes talent to produce
good prose. However, very gifted writers can use
the language to create poetry, the highest form of the language. But great poetry requires not
just talent but often genius. We have prose and poetry in classical
architecture. To illustrate, let's compare two buildings. The first is the Reform club in London. It's a distinguished
Renaissance style work. Though correctly done in nearly every way
by a highly talented architect, the building comes across
as somewhat forbidding. It's informed, but it makes
no attempt to engage you. Maybe that was intended. Next we have Inigo Jones's
banqueting house also in London, and also expressed in the
Italian Renaissance style. Let's put the two side by side. Notice how Jones anchors the ends of
the facade, which paired pilasters. He breaks the flatness of the facade by
framing the center three bays with half round columns instead of flat pilasters
and projects the entablature above each column. Rhythm is added to the composition by
the use of alternating triangular and segmental pediments on
the main floor windows. There is just enough ornament to
make this a cheerful building. The overall facade is
lively and expressive. It wants you to admire it. Both buildings are important and fine
examples of the use of the classical language. One is prose.
The other is poetry. Next, we have an academically
correct pediment on an 1820s doorway. It strictly follows the rules. The result is a visually
agreeable composition. This is fine architectural prose. We contrast it with a
Renaissance pediment, a doorway displaying a complex and
creative interplay of moldings. It illustrates a competent
mastery of the language, enabling the creation of a unique
visually striking composition approaching sculpture. This is a work of poetry, a
scheme prompting contemplation. A more understated detail is this doorway
to a small security office near the main entrance of the British
embassy in Washington. The aedicule form is ingeniously
fused with the main wall surface, creating a subtle
architectural poem all its own. Finally, we compare two English
garden structures, orangeries. The first is an 18th
century neoclassical work. The repetitive row of arch windows is
relieved by the introduction of pedimented pavilions for the in bays,
using the aedicule form. Just enough ornament prevents
the structure from being bland. This is a competent and handsome design, one suitable for the building's purpose, but it doesn't invite long
poses of contemplation. It's good architectural
prose. It's matter-of-fact. We compare it with Edwin Lutyens's
orangery at Hestercombe gardens. Its facade has great complexity,
but also an affable allure. The central bay uses the Palladian arch
form to tie it with the flanking bays, deftly incorporating the small
doorways into the composition. The corners are strengthened with
rusticated pilasters that frame niches and panels. The entablature is simplified to prevent
overweighting what is mostly a glass elevation. The interplay of circular forums with
horizontal and vertical lines make the facade a visual dance, or
work of architectural poetry. These several examples are an attempt
to show a difference between talent and genius. There's nothing wrong with talent. We should want all classical works
to display talent. Genius is rare. It can't be expected, but we
treasure it when it occurs. This brings us to the end
of these sessions on basic
literacy in the classical language. I trust they have given
you a deeper grasp for the origins, breadth and variety of classical design
and can assist in developing literate, if not poetic designs
of your own. Finally, I hope the various recent works included
in this series demonstrates that classical design has a relevance
and a clientele for today. It certainly is not and should not be
the only approach to contemporary design, but if it is to be used, it should be with an understanding and
respect for the basic tenants of this ancient and splendid tradition. So if your knowledge and appreciation
of classical architecture has been expanded by your participation
in these sessions, you deserve congratulations. You are now armed with a more informed
eye that I hope will enrich both your life and work. I'm Calder Loth, and I thank you for letting me share
these sessions on classical architecture with you. [inaudible].
