I'm Calder Loth, architectural historian, and I'm pleased to welcome you to part
three of our four-part educational series on classical architecture. [ Music] This third session is devoted to
architectural motifs and details. Like the chords and phrases
in musical composition, these are the embellishments that
give a building individuality and expression. The subject
is an extensive one. We'll cover a selection of items both
prevalent and particularly interesting. Nearly all the motifs and details that
we will look at can be traced to specific ancient sources, which will be explained. I will also show their
uses in more recent works. These motifs and details continue
to be design resources for today, and should be regarded as the tools of
the trade for any architect working in the classical tradition. We'll start this session with a pop quiz. What does the Winter Palace in Saint
Petersburg have in common with the United States Capitol? Well, they're
both great classical palaces, one for an autocrat, a czar, the
other, a palace of the people, but they share a specific motif. To find out, we need to go to
a wing of the Winter Palace. The section originally called
the New Hermitage Museum. It was designed by Leo van Klenze to
house Nicholas the First's art collection, and it opened in 1851. The New Hermitage has an unusual porch. It incorporates huge granite sculptures
of strong men holding up the roof. These figures are called Atlantes. Atlantes is the plural
of Atlas. In mythology, Atlas was a Titan who got in a
fight with Zeus. He lost the fight, and was condemned by Zeus to
hold up the cosmos forever. We see a representation of Atlas holding
up the cosmos in an art deco sculpture in Rockefeller Center. Though interesting, Atlantes are very rare in America, and they aren't the answer
to the quiz. For the quiz, we need to focus on the entablature
that the Atlantes are supporting. We see a plain architrave, and we
see a frieze with wreaths in it. But look at the taenia, the band between the
frieze and the architrave. Note that under the taenia is a continuous
row of what appear to be dentals, but they also could be read
as flattened guttae. Well, let's now go to the rotunda
of the U.S. Capitol. What do we see? Very similar
details in the entablature, a frieze with wreathes in it, and a taenia with what appear to be
either dentals or guttae underneath it. If we look closely, we can see
that they actually are guttae, so that's the answer to the quiz. Both buildings share similar
versions of this unusual entablature. So what's going on? What's behind this architectural
coincidence? To find out, we need to return to Stuart and
Revett's Antiquities of Athens. We see this view of the Acropolis
that we saw in the previous session, and we see, built into
the side of the Acropolis, the façade of a small monument that we
identified as the Choragic Monument of Thrasyllus in the previous
session. Unfortunately, the monument was completely
destroyed in a later war. Only a small cave exists where
the monument originally stood. However, enough of the monument was intact in
the 18th century for Stuart and Revett to make a restoration drawing of it. We also saw this image
in the previous session, showing its central pier and
parapet with steps in its middle, but let's look closely at its entablature. We see a plain architrave, and we
see a frieze with wreathes in it, and we see a taenia with a row
of cylindrical guttae under it. So what should we call
this unusual detail? Well, a taenia with continuous guttae. This entablature is unique to the
Choragic Monument of Thrasyllus, and it has inspired many adaptations, including those we see on
the New Hermitage and in
the United States Capitol. Well, let's look at some other applications of
this Thrasyllus entablature to see how it adds individuality to a building. In this example, we have the taenia with continuous
guttae with overlapping wreathes in the frieze. If this looks
familiar, it is, of course, the Lincoln Memorial. The historic arsenal in New Orleans is
modeled after the Thrasyllus Monument with its continuous guttae, but with a pair of piers instead of
the one central pier of the original. In Potsdam, Germany, the architect Karl Friedrich Schinkel
used a version of the Thrasyllus entablature in the Charlottenhof Palace, but with widely-spaced
wreathes and guttae. The entablature of a former bank
building in Charleston, South Carolina, more faithfully follows the
Thrasyllus model. Its architect, Carl Reichardt, was a pupil of Schinkel and added
high style Greek Revival designs to Charleston. Trinity College in Dublin has a
building also inspired by the Thrasyllus Monument, but with much
smaller wreathes and fatter, more tapered guttae. The taenia with continuous guttae was
favored for Greek Revival entrance porches on both sides of the Atlantic. We see it used with a plain
frieze on porches in both Richmond and London. This new infill town house on
Richmond's Monument Avenue uses dentals rather than guttae
attached to the taenia, and also incorporates the Thrasyllus
Monument's parapet and its center steps. The house is a demonstration that
ancient Greek motifs can give individual distinction and visual
interest to contemporary works. These motifs are useful
design resources for today. Now, the taenia with continuous guttae
has been worked into the entrance of this Greenwich Village townhouse in New York, but let's focus our attention
on the motif just above it. We have the profile of a ramped parapet, with what's described as horns
or ears projecting at either end. The motif was a popular one for Greek
Revival architects and designers. Asher Benjamin showed how it could
embellish a doorway or a mantle. The Philadelphia architect Owen Biddle incorporated it in a window design
published in his pattern book, The Young Carpenter's Assistant. Mid-19th century cabinet makers made
use of the motif in furniture designs. We see it topping a
wardrobe and a mirror frame. So what's behind this particular
motif? Where does it come from? Well, we wonder whether these architects
and designers were aware that the motif is a symbol of death. The form was a standard treatment for
the lids of Greek and Roman cinerary boxes. That is, boxes
for cremated remains, as well as for sarcophagus lids. The architect Robert Mills apparently
was aware of its funereal symbolism. He used the motif for the column
capitals in Monumental Church, a church built to memorialize 72 people
who perished in a theater fire on the site. Their ashes are
interred in the crypt. This is a subtle and imaginative
use of ancient symbols. Knowing its meaning now, it seems odd to find the motif on a
mantle in a mid-19th century school for deaf and blind children. Nevertheless, it is a visually effective design
and makes for a good conversation piece, so why not use it on a new mantle? This one was installed in a
private home just recently. We'll turn now to our next
motif, the Diocletian window. We find it high up in the
pediment of Boston's Faneuil Hall. Let's look closer. We see in
the center of the pediment, a lunette, or half round, circular window with two
thick vertical mullions. Why do we call this a Diocletian window? Before I explain, it might be interesting
to point out how Charles Bulfinch, the architect of the
building's upper level, gave visual prominence to the
window by looping a broad architrave over it. A bit of
architectural dexterity. Well, so why Diocletian? The name derives from the sprawling
bath complex developed in the late Roman empire by the emperor Diocletian. We saw the Baths' Composite
capitals in the first session. The Baths of Diocletian exterior
is dominated by huge half round windows, each having
two massive vertical mullions. They are our Diocletian windows. The Baths gave the name to the form. The building was originally faced
with marble veneer and ornamentation. All but a few fragments have
been pilfered over the years, leaving the brick core exposed. Even so, the Diocletian window has become a
favorite motif from the Renaissance to the present. Andrea Palladio installed a
large Diocletian window on
the rear elevation of his Villa Malcontenta. He pumped up its prominence by
projecting it into the pediment. A bit of Mannerism on his part. Robert Mills inserted a Diocletian
window in the side elevation of the county records building
in downtown Charleston. The building is commonly known
as the Fireproof Building, since it was one of the country's
earliest fire-resistant structures. We see the Diocletian window
in Washington's Museum
of Natural History on the Mall, as it might've looked
on an ancient Roman building, executed in stone in monumental
scale and set above a Corinthian colonnade. The 1924 Memorial Gymnasium at
the University of Virginia was directly inspired by
the Baths of Diocletian. Each of its huge windows is
topped by a peaked brick gable, as on the Baths. Architect Allan Greenberg
made a modern use of the Diocletian window in the
façade of his 1997 Brooks Brothers store on Rodeo Drive in
California's Beverly Hills. But Greenberg also worked into
this design another ancient motif or form. If we look analytically
at the composition, we see the Diocletian window as
part of a large arched central bay, flanked by narrow bays framed by columns. These are the essential ingredients
of an ancient triumphal arch. Rome's Arch of Constantine
is the exemplar of the form. The triumphal arch became a favorite
motif for formal classical façades from the Renaissance on. Leon Battista Alberti was the
first Renaissance architect to adapt the form for a major work. We see it boldly defining the
façade of Sant'Andrea in Mantua. Here, Alberti topped the composition with a
pediment rather than a tall parapet or attic. Most tourists in Rome are
too busy throwing coins over
their shoulders to notice that the Trevi Fountain's palatial
backdrop is a striking version of the triumphal arch. The central feature designed by Nicola
Salvi was added to the existing Palazzo Poli in 1762. The image of permanence and security
conveyed by the triumphal arch made the form ideal for the façades
of early 20th century banks. Though compact, the façade of the 1903 Valley
National Bank in Staunton, Virginia effectively signals
that your money is safe here. The arch is clearly
defined in the center bay. The engaged columns set on
tall pedestals echo the Arch of Constantine. Perhaps America's most ambitious
rendition of the triumphal arch is the enormous entrance added to New
York's Museum of Natural History. Designed by John Russell Pope, the addition is a memorial
to Theodore Roosevelt. This scheme here has the essential
ingredients of its ancient prototype: huge arched entrance, flanking columns topped
by sculpted figures, and a prominent classical attic. Sometimes the arch is merely
suggested in a façade. The triumphal arch is subtly referenced
in the center section of the 1909 Wisser Hall, the former library of Virginia's
Fort Monroe military base. We have a Diocletian
window defining the arch, and flanking more narrow bays framed
by pilasters instead of columns, but we see the triumphal
arch embedded in the design. We'll now jump to another familiar
classical form: balusters. A handsome balustraded balcony graces
the Senate Office Building in Washington, DC. And we can almost picture Caesar
Augustus appearing here to receive the accolades of an adoring crowd. Well, not quite. The Romans
didn't have balusters. They are a Renaissance invention. The ancient Romans had
quite different railings. As seen in this conjectural
image of an ancient Roman bath, Roman railings consisted
of crisscross patterns, and could be made of
wood, metal, or stone. We also see the pattern being used
to fill the large central window. We call this pattern Roman lattice. Another term for Roman
lattice is transenna. Transenna is the Latin word
for a net for catching birds, which the pattern resembles. A fragment of authentic ancient Roman
transenna in marble is displayed in Rome's church of Santa Maria in Trastevere. Roman lattice fills window openings in
the early Christian Church of San Giorgio in Velabro in Rome. Now the openings could be closed in
with either mica, or primitive glass, or thin translucent sheets of
alabaster, or left open for ventilation. A fine example of a marble Roman
lattice railing lines the gallery in Columbia University's Low Library,
a work by McKim, Mead & White. Also notice here the wreaths from
the Choragic Monument of Thrasyllus, and the gilded capitals employing
the Ionic of the Erechtheion. It's okay to mix motifs
from ancient sources, if done in an informed
and compatible manner. A tour de force use of Roman
lattice is this marble curving staircase railing. It graces the late 19th century
National Library of Greece in Athens. Athens has numerous fine late
Greek Revival works such as this. Roman lattice in metal, preferably bronze, is the archeologically correct
way to fill a Diocletian window, as seen on the Metropolitan Museum, and a new Roman lattice railing in
bronze has been added for security to the museum's porch decks. The builder of this early 20th century
house got carried away with Roman lattice, and we even find
it on carriage house doors. Now the carpenter didn't
just make up this design. It's a traditional pattern
with ancient precedent. And finally, Roman lattice provides an excellent
decorative treatment for a new parking garage, the design of which
was inspired by Roman baths. This demonstrates that the classical
vocabulary can make even a parking garage into an urban
architectural amenity, not just a functional necessity. Let's look again at balusters.
Where do they come from? One of the earliest appearances of
balusters is the railing on Donato Bramante's tiny shrine chapel located
within a courtyard on Rome's Janiculum Hill. The chapel, dating from 1502, is known as the Tempietto, and it's built on the traditional
site of St. Peter's crucifixion. The balustrade encircles
the drum of the dome. If we look closely, we can see that the balusters
have two bulbous parts, one atop the other in vertical symmetry. These are called double balusters. It's thought that the form
is derived from ancient Roman candlesticks, as depicted in Antoine Desgodetz's
illustration of the frieze on Rome's Temple of Fortuna Virilis. Double balusters proved to be
very popular. In this country, we frequently see them on early 20th
century buildings and structures. Typical are the railings on
Washington's Memorial Bridge, by McKim, Mead & White. Or on an early 20th century
mansion in Washington, D.C., now the Mexican Embassy. We sometimes find them used on stair
railings in early colonial houses. This example dates from 1720. Well, we certainly can't say that the builder
here was aware of the Tempietto or Roman candlesticks, but they are the
ancestors of the form used here. Even on my own front
porch of my own house, there is a version of double
balusters with some extra turnings. The form is very common. Most of us are probably more familiar
with what's defined as single balusters. A single baluster is a baluster
with just one swollen section, or belly. An early example of the single baluster
is found in the railing of this 17th century bridge in Vicenza, Italy. This form is also based
on Roman candlesticks, as depicted in this Piranesi
engraving of ancient artifacts. Now, the word baluster
comes from balaustium, which is the ancient word for
the bud of the pomegranate tree. Note the baluster shape of the bud. Balustrades using single
balusters are everywhere. A fine one is on the Frick Collection
Museum on New York's Fifth Avenue. Note that the proper way to start off
A balustrade is with a half baluster applied to a pier or a block. Starting the run without a half
baluster can give the balustrade a weak appearance. Palladio used both single and double
balusters on the Palazzo del Capitaniato. This gives the façade a subtle hierarchy. The single baluster is visually heavier, so it goes below the double baluster. We have more attenuated balusters
on this 20th century wall on a college campus. And the designer of this
house is hedging his bets. He couldn't decide whether to go
ancient or Renaissance, so he does both. Elongated single balusters
for the lower railing, and Roman lattice for above. Versions of single balusters
are common in American houses, especially in stair railings. Typical is this design from an 18th
century English pattern book by William Pain, a book widely
used by American builders
in the late 18th century. We call these vase and column balusters. We have a small vase or
baluster topped by a slender column. A good example of vase and
column balusters is seen
in a wing of Philadelphia's Independence Hall. Let's now return briefly to the Tempietto. The Tempietto is significant,
not just for its balustrade, but for its general form. The form consists of its lower
section surrounded by a colonnade. Above the colonnade, the
balustrade surrounds the tall base, or drum, of the dome. The dome is top was an ornamental cupola. The form was Bramante's innovation. It has no ancient precedent. Palladio thought so highly of
Bramante's Tempietto that he included it among his restoration drawings of
ancient Roman temples in book four of his four books on architecture.
He stated the following: quote, "Since Bramante was the first to
make known that good and beautiful architecture, which had been hidden
from the time of the ancients until now, I thought it reasonable that his
work should be included among the ancients." Unquote. Quite an honor. The Tempietto became the model for scores
of famous monumental domes around the world. Examples have ranged from
St. Paul's Cathedral in London, to St. Isaac's Cathedral
in St. Petersburg, Russia. Others include the Panthéon
in Paris and some 15 state capitols, California being typical. But not forgetting our
own U.S. Capitol dome, our national symbol. We now shift to a very
ubiquitous architectural motif, one that most have never heard
its name, but it's all around us. It's called the aedicule. In ancient Roman houses, it was customary to have a small
shrine built into the wall of a main room. The shrine housed the image of the
guardian household god called the Lares, represented either by a painting
or a small sculpted figure. As you can see in this picture, a typical shrine had a frame
consisting of a pediment supported either on small
columns or pilasters. This frame is called an aedicule. The Latin word for a building is aedis. The diminutive form of aedis is
aedicule, or little building. The shrine frame resembled a
little building, an aedicule. The example shown here is
a typical simple aedicule, but they could be quite grand,
especially when used in temples. Some of the finest and best-preserved
ancient aedicules are found in the Pantheon, which has eight aedicules
spaced around the interior. Here, the aedicules are
crafted in the finest marbles. Now originally, they would have
housed statues of Roman deities, such as Mars or Jupiter. Since
the Pantheon is now a church, each aedicule has a statue
of a Christian saint. Although originally a pagan form, the aedicule was adopted by
Christians for altarpieces. The tradition became particularly
strong with Roman Catholics, from the Renaissance to the present. An impressive example is the 19th
century Church of the Madeleine in Paris. Above the altar is a richly-detailed
aedicule, worthy of a Roman temple, but it frames a statue of the
Virgin with the infant Christ. Renaissance architects also applied
the aedicule form to windows and doors. Rome's famous Palazzo Farnese has
fully-developed aedicules for its second level windows, and a variation of the form
for upper level windows. These third level aedicule windows,
as well as the huge cornice, were designed by Michelangelo.
During the 18th century, the aedicule form became a particularly
favorite form for doorways. The Doric aedicule doorway
shown here is from a 1758 English pattern book, The British Architect by Abraham Swan. This was the first pattern book
to be republished in America, and was widely used by colonial builders. The aedicule doorway was a vehicle for
providing a celebratory transition from the exterior to the interior
of a house, and for impressing, if not celebrating, one's visitors. One of our most beautiful 18th
century aedicule doorways is on the Hammond-Harwood House
in Annapolis, Maryland, designed and built by William Buckland. Buckland owned a copy of Swan's
book and adapted the doorway from Swan's designs seen on the left. However, he enriched his composition
with carved floral swags in the spandrels of the arch. Shown here are two 20th century
American Georgian Revival doorways reflecting the
influence of Swan's designs. Both employ Scamozzi Ionic
capitals in a pulvinated frieze. The doorway on the left is a definite
reference to the Hammond-Harwood House doorway. The frieze on the right
example is somewhat squeezed, in an attempt to reflect the provincial
colonial character instead of a more academic English one. The aedicule doorway is still a standard
treatment for traditional style homes. Pre-assembled doorways can be purchased
from many woodworking companies, though they don't always follow the
most exacting classical standards. With an awareness of the aedicule form, one can begin to notice it
in some surprising places, even on an entrance to Alcatraz prison. We might wonder whether this doorway
offered the inmates any comfort or reassurance. The aedicule motif was also worked
into many chimneypiece designs, especially 18th century ones, as we
see in this pattern book illustration. Here it is combined with a
mantle and fireplace, or hearth. Now the Latin word for hearth is focus. The hearth was traditionally the
focus, or heart, of the house. The hearth provided heat
for warmth and cooking, and was a gathering place for the
family and guests. And the aedicule, as we have noted, was the frame for an
image of the household god. Therefore, we could say it was the soul of the house. So this chimneypiece design combines
into one composition the heart and soul of the house. We see an actual chimneypiece of
this type in this historic photo of a Charleston interior. Oftentimes we treat a chimneypiece
as if it were an altar. Here it's been decorated with
candelabra and fine vases. Instead of an image of
a god above the mantle, we have a portrait of an ancestor, symbolically offering a blessing
on the family and the home. And it may be safe to say that a
room without a fireplace lacks focus, and has no heart and certainly no soul. I now want to take another look
at the Palazzo Farnese façade. Note in the middle level that the aedicule
windows have alternating triangular and segmental pediments. Why? Well, for no other reason
than to avoid monotony. The alternating pediment shapes move the
eye along and give rhythm and cadence to the façade. You will note that the third
level does not do this. The pediments are all the same. I
think Michelangelo was correct here. Two tiers of alternating pediments
would have made the façade too visually busy. The third level acts as
a counter to the second level. Alternating pediments are common practice
for high style classical buildings. Palladio employed them on the upper level
of his striking Palazzo Chiericati in Vicenza James Gibbs, a leading Anglo Palladian architect, used them to add a tempo to his
1730 Senate House at Cambridge University. In this country, the colonial architect Peter Harrison
applied them to the Brick Market in Newport, Rhode Island. Try
picturing this building, having all the same pediments. It
would not be as lively and interesting. Of course, our most famous example of alternating
pediments is the White House, an outstanding example
of Anglo Palladianism. But we see it can even work
on small scale with only three bays in this design by
the architect Inigo Jones. But we shouldn't be misled into
thinking that alternating pediments was something concocted in the Renaissance. The practice can be
traced to ancient sources. We see it used in the ruin of the Temple
of Augustus in Pompeii dating from the 1st century AD. This is just
the temple's brick core. Its architectural embellishments were
destroyed during the eruption of Vesuvius. A more intact ancient version
of alternating pediments
is seen in the so-called Temple of Diana in Nîmes, France, probably built in the 2nd
century AD as a library. Again, using alternating triangular and
segmental pediments was a means for avoiding visual monotony. Look what happens when the pediments are
all the same on the otherwise handsome Leuchtenberg Palace in Munich. Such repetition is not as effective. I want now to look again at modillions, and then focus on a specific type
of modillion that sometimes can be useful. We remember scrolled modillions
from the first session. Now, modillions don't have to be scrolled, as we see in this 18th
century Williamsburg house. The modillions are plain
with just flat soffits, but these are also based
on a pattern book source. Note in the fine print it says, quote: "A third variety of the Tuscan
capital and entablature from the ancients." Classical modillions
symbolically reference ancient wooden construction. Modillions in masonry classical
architecture are only decorative. They serve no structural function. The wooden ones on the Williamsburg
house are just nailed on. So you might say we went from
wood to stone and back to wood. I want now to draw your attention
to a special type of modillion. For that, we have to go back to
this colonial house, Gunston Hall, home of George Mason, author of
the Virginia Declaration of Rights, the basis of our Bill of
Rights. Gunston's parlor cornice has somewhat stumpy modillions. They are called block modillions. They are formed from a nearly square
block cut in half with an S-curve called a cyma recta curve. A cyma recta profile has its S curve-start horizontally and end horizontally. Block modillions are also
traced to ancient sources. A famous example of their use is on the
secondary cornices of the Pantheon in Rome. Palladio recorded the Pantheon's
block modillions in his Quattro Libri, or Four Books of Architecture,
and thus popularized the form. Inigo Jones made early use of
the block modillion in England, with the cornices on the
Queen's Chapel in London, completed in 1625. In colonial Virginia, builders applied block modillions to the
cornices of the Public Records Office in Williamsburg, built around 1748. Not to be outdone by the
Virginians, Harvard Hall, the signature building
of Harvard University, sports stone block
modillions in its cornice. Finally, block modillions have been
used effectively in more recent times, as we see on this Georgian Revival house. So remember the block modillion when you
need something more understated than a standard modillion cornice. A variation of the block modillion
is the cyma reversa block modillion. A cyma reversa curve is when the
S-curve starts vertically and ends vertically. A famous ancient use of cyma
reversa block modillions defines the uppermost cornice of Rome's Colosseum. The cyma reversa block
modillion has a tough, more muscular character than
the cyma recta block modillion, which may account for its use on
a building such as the Colosseum. And perhaps that's why it
appealed to George Washington, who had it applied to the
cornices of Mount Vernon. The cyma reversa's toughness is
strikingly evident in the cornices of the Reichstag, the German
parliament house in Berlin. They lend the building a
fortress-like character. Let's now take another look
at the Roman Corinthian order, which we discussed in session
one. More specifically, we will focus on the Corinthian
cornice's scrolled modillion, here richly embellished with
acanthus leaves and other ornaments. It was during the 18th century that the
modillion's form and ornaments became widely adapted for stair
brackets at the end of steps. These brackets were popularized through
the numerous architectural pattern books such as William Pain's Carpenter's
and Joiner's Repository, another of Pain's pattern
books much used in America. A typical bracket with this form and
detailing is found on the Drayton Hall stair. Frequently, the stair brackets had only the
profile of the Corinthian modillion. These types of stair brackets,
both ornamented and plain, remain very popular for
traditional-style houses today. They are available in a variety of
styles from building supply companies. Let's now see how the Corinthian
modillion was adapted to shape another architectural motif. The Romans took the modillion form and
turned it vertically to use as keystones for prominent arches. A famous example is the Arch
of Titus in the Roman Forum, which we saw in session one in
connection with the Composite order. Unfortunately, early Christian iconoclasts knocked the
head off the deity fronting the Arch's keystone. A more recent use of the scroll keystone
is seen on the Washington Arch in New York's Greenwich Village. Here, it is patriotically topped
with an American eagle. The vertical scroll motif was also
used in ancient times as supports for doorways and window
cornices. When used thusly, they're called consoles. This is Palladio's illustration of the
consoles that he conjectured were on the doorway of Rome's
Temple of Fortuna Virilis. What may be the earliest surviving
example of a console is found on the north doorway of the
Erechtheion on the Acropolis, dating from the 5th century BC. Now, this doorway was not recorded
by Stewart and Revett, since the north portico was
walled up in the 18th century, making the doorway inaccessible. Consoles became a popular
motif during the Renaissance. Palladio incorporated consoles on
each of the doorways of the Villa Rotonda, adding an acanthus leaf below
the bottom scroll for accent. The word console derives
from the Latin word consolor. It's where we get the term
console. If you console someone, you give them emotional support. A console on a building
provides architectural support. Consoles are everywhere. We see similar consoles on the
Metropolitan Club in New York, by McKim, Mead & White. I regularly pass consoles on a
synagogue a few blocks from my home. Bold consoles support a richly
decorated broken segmental pediment, complete with an armorial device,
on this Georgian Revival townhouse. Although it looks decidedly English, this is on an American house. Our discussion of consoles leads us
to another iteration of the form. For that, we need to refer once again
to Giacomo Vignola and his treatise. Vignola was a contemporary of
Palladio. As we have heard, Vignola's treatise on The Five Orders
of Architecture became a primary textbook on how to compose the orders, from the day it was printed
on into the 20th century. Although the book is primarily
a primer on drawing the orders, in the back of the book Vignola
presents a handful of details of his own design. Among them is this design for a
cornice, or actually, an entablature. At its top is a standard
Corinthian cornice with the usual scrolled modillions.
Beneath each modillion, Vignola has inserted an elongated
vertical scroll modillion, a form of console. This increases the overall height of
the entablature by deepening the frieze. On the same page, Vignola presents the rationale
of the design by stating, quote: "I have used this cornice successfully
in my work on the upper parts of façades. Although it is my invention, I do not find it inappropriate to
place it at the end of this work for those who want to use it." What Vignola is saying is that
this design is his own creation. It has no precedent in antiquity. He's also saying that it can be used
effectively on very tall façades where a standard entablature would be too weak. So let's look at how Vignola applied
this design to one of his own works. This is Vignola's Villa Farnese
up in the mountains from Rome. A huge building with many levels. The top entablature has to
carry the whole building. If Vignola had used a conventional
Corinthian entablature at top, it could only properly address the
order of the upper half of the building, and thus be too skimpy
for the whole building. So Vignola crowns the
Villa with his own design, a taller entablature adequately
scaled for the whole building. Vignola's entablature soon
caught hold throughout Italy. Many palazzos started supporting versions
of his design, such as Rome's Palazzo Altieri. In this country, we call the form the
bracketed cornice. Bracketed cornices became a defining feature of
the American Italianate style of the mid and late 19th century. Bold wooden brackets define
this Italianate house. Bracketed cornices became a defining
feature of façades of numerous American Italianate commercial buildings. These buildings were made to
resemble Italian Renaissance palaces, and often were crafted in cast iron. Brackets in a variety of forms and shapes
also became a defining feature of the brownstones, the Italianate townhouses
identified with New York City. In the early 20th century, The Italianate
style morphed into the more scholarly American Renaissance mode. The design of this YWCA was also
inspired by Renaissance palaces, complete with a more
articulate Vignola entablature. The mid-19th century invention of the
steam powered bandsaw made possible the production of wooden Italianate
brackets in infinite variety. They were mass produced by woodworking
companies throughout America. We have some very flamboyant
wooden brackets here. In fact, one could purchase a fully-assembled
bracketed cornice and fasten it to a building and make an instant palazzo. And even a humble worker's house could
be spiced up with wooden Italianate embellishment and make a mini-palazzo. So again, we have a demonstration of a
publication's power to influence architectural design. All
of the examples shown here, and thousands of others, can ultimately trace their
appearance to one illustration in a 16th century treatise.
Vignola's invention. Even in the 21st century, a bracketed cornice could
add vitality to a building. A confident use of brackets sets
off this high-end Moscow apartment house. Now Dvoryanskoye Gnezdo is
translated as 'nest of gentry folk'. We will finish this session with
one more architectural feature: rustication. Renaissance buildings, such as
Palladio's Palazzo Thiene, shown here, are often made to appear as if they
are constructed of large blocks of stone, even though they might be just
a veneer over a brick core. We call this treatment rustication--giving
the building an air of rugged authority, if not intimidation. And where did this practice come from? Like most of the motifs and
treatments we've looked at, rustication can be traced
to ancient sources. We see rustication on the ground level
arches of the ancient Temple of Claudius in Rome. The arches are consciously treated with
rough face stone blocks to give them the appearance of extra strength. This is muscular architecture. Another ancient example
is the Porta Maggiore, one of the gates in
Rome's surrounding walls. Both its arches and its aedicules
are rusticated to express the gate's toughness and structural might. The tall attic or upper portion
of the gate served two levels of aqueducts carrying heavy
volumes of water into the city, thus requiring the gate to be
structurally extra strong and to look strong. As we might expect, Renaissance architects picked
up on the use of rustication, making it very prevalent
in the works of the period. So we encounter an
arresting, if not curious, use of rustication in Giulio
Romano's Palazzo del Te in Mantua. Instead of deep-cut
V joints between the blocks, the blocks here are wide and flat, making the blocks appear
to float in the walls. But Giulio Romano was a Mannerist
architect. He wants to tease us. The drop triglyphs are
done on purpose to tease. The pediment cornices not meeting
at the apex are teases as well. And note the shoving of brick keystones
in a pediment too small for it, suggesting that they are what's preventing
the pediment cornices from being properly joined. Okay, back to the Palazzo Thiene. Palladio published four
illustrations of its design, including this one showing the
rustication patterns of the façade. Again, looking at how
the Palazzo is built, we see that it closely
follows the drawing. Its ground floor and ground
floor windows are expressed in rustication at its toughest. Rustication became a popular treatment
for walls and openings in the 18th century, especially in England, but it's sometimes difficult to
determine exactly what it's made of. The rustication on the ground floor
of this 18th century London house is actually stucco over brick. The grand English country
house Holkham Hall, a fine example of Anglo Palladianism, has a proper rusticated ground
floor. But if we look closely, we see the house is actually
an entirely brick structure, with the ground floor bricks
cleverly laid to resemble rustication, complete with deep V joints. The foremost 18th century example
of rustication in America is of course Mount Vernon, but here the rustication is wooden
boards cut to resemble blocks of stone. To make it look more like stone, fine sand was blown into the wet paint
to give the surfaces of the blocks a stone-like texture. Well, I need to return one more
time to the Palazzo Thiene, this time to look at it up close. We see just the top of the ground floor, which is composed of heavy rough
faced blocks using the typical deep V joints. The upper floor is treated with
smooth faced ashlar with thin joints. A signature feature of the Palazzo is
the treatment of the window frames. They are basically an
aedicule composition, but its columns are interrupted
with large stone blocks, suggesting that they are
left unfinished on purpose. And note in the lintel the thick
assemblage of keystones pushing outward. This type of rusticated surround also
acquired great popularity in 18th century England. The architect James Gibbs published
numerous versions of rusticated surrounds, particularly for doorways as shown
in his highly popular pattern book, A Book of Architecture of 1728. These rusticated openings became
so closely associated with Gibbs that to this day they are still
referred to in Britain as Gibbs doorways or windows. As we see in this print of one
of Gibbs's most famous works, St. Martin in the Fields, a church
located in the heart of London, that Gibbs rarely missed an
opportunity to use rustication. We'll talk more about this
church in the next session, but I want to look at the church's
Gibbs doorway on the left. This is the classic type, with the blocks of rustication
overlapping the architrave's surround. Another version of a Gibbs doorway is
seen on this house in York, England. It closely follows one
of Gibbs's designs. A splendid Gibbs doorway
celebrates the entrances to St. Paul's Chapel in New York City,
the oldest building in Manhattan. The cluster of keystones hangs
over the door with authority. Robert Mills showed the doorways
in his ink rendering of St. Paul's, which he made as a gift
to Thomas Jefferson. The drawing is hanging
in Monticello today. Virginia has fine Gibbs
doorways in the 1757 Aquia Church, and rusticated quoins as well. It's difficult to say whether the church's
builder was referring to Gibbs's book for the design rather than another
pattern book of the period, since many of the authors of this
period freely copied from Gibbs. More than likely, the builder was referring to
William Salmon's pattern book, Palladio Londinensis, a much less expensive publication
with a rusticated door scheme that's a very close match to the Aquia doorway. Rustication designs can
be open to improvisation, and can sometimes get pretty aggressive. We see a macho example
in Edinburgh, Scotland. This is a lesson on how to
make a small door important. I will close with three examples
of American Georgian Revival rustication. Architects in the first half of the 20th
century were particularly informed in classical and traditional design, and produced innumerable finely
crafted and finally detailed works, both domestic and institutional,
across the country. The majority of these buildings reflected
the Anglophile sentiments of many Americans at the time. They drew inspiration from both English
and colonial American precedents. These work serve as fine models
for Neo-Traditional designs today. The first example seen here
is a rusticated entrance
on the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts, a work in the tradition of James Gibbs. The somewhat tough character of the
doorway has a slight art deco quality--a suitable sturdy statement for
an institutional structure. The second example is an entrance on
an asymmetrical façade of a Georgian Revival house. Instead of
a standard Gibbs treatment, the doorway employs rusticated pilasters, and note the rusticated brick quoins. The third example is a two story
rusticated frontispiece with a Gibbs type surround for
the second floor window. Gibbs style rustication is also
employed for the entrance surround, but is subtly integrated
with the adjacent blocks. All of this is to illustrate the variety of imaginative uses of
this ancient masonry application. Rustication, as we have seen,
can be executed in stone, brick, cast stone, stucco, and even wood. It's an important design resource that
can add dignity and celebration to an entrance or to windows or a whole façade. So to close: in this session, we examined a variety of commonly-seen
motifs and details that defined many works of classical design,
both ancient and modern. I hope an awareness of these motifs and
details will engender a more informed appreciation of the classical
works you encounter, and serve as inspiration for enhancing
new works in the classical tradition. Thank you for joining us in part
three of this four part series. I'm Calder Loth, and I will
see you for the next session, where we will cover several more motifs, along with some important
design principles. [Music]
