Michael Graves: Defense of Figurative Architecture

In every language or art, there exists a standard form and a poetic form. Although the analogy between one and the other cultural form proves to be somewhat difficult, it nonetheless allows for associations that would otherwise be impossible. The cultural form that can certainly be treated for both standard and poetic purposes is literature. Standard, accessible, simple circles of everyday use are expressed in literature through conversational or prose forms, whereas we use poetic language approaches to examine, deny, and sometimes even support standard language. It seems that standard language and poetic language correspond to each other reciprocally, thus standing against each other like separate and equivalent shores of a higher literary form, mutually strengthening each other through both similarity and difference. Due to this tense relationship, both forms hold each other in check and attack each other with their strength. When we apply this difference in language to architecture, we could say that its standard form of construction represents its everyday or internal language. The term internal, in this case, does not mean accessibility, but rather the fact that such a language is inherent to the building in its most basic form—determined by practical, constructional, and technical requirements. The poetic form of architecture, on the other hand, corresponds to elements external to the building and creates a three-dimensional expression of the myths and rituals of our society. Poetic forms in architecture are receptive to figurative, associative, and anthropomorphic attitudes of culture. If we set our minds to building only for utility, it suffices to pay attention only to mere technical criteria. However, when we realize the possibility of cultural influences on construction and take responsibility for them, we emphasize the fact that architecture records the social patterns of rituals. And could we not think of these two attitudes, one technical and utilitarian, the other cultural and symbolic, as either the standard or poetic language of architecture? The inevitable rift between these two ways of thinking can undoubtedly lead to this argument sounding somewhat suspicious or ambiguous. However, we can distinguish and reasonably discuss the hidden tendencies of both attitudes. I say this with a certain critical knowledge of the recent past. We could argue that the dominant aspects of modern architecture were formulated without a discussion of standard and poetic language or internal and external manifestations of architectural culture. The modern movement primarily relied on technical expression—on an internal language—and its building form was dominated by the metaphor of the machine. By rejecting human or anthropomorphic representation in older architecture, modernism undermined the poetic form in favor of non-figurative, abstract geometries. These abstract geometries were partially derived from the simple internal forms of the machines themselves. In accordance with the machine metaphors in buildings, architecture in the first half of the twentieth century indeed adopted aesthetic abstraction as well. This then contributed to our fascination with functional ambiguity, the possibility of double readings of compositions.
For a building to be constructed, every architectural language must exist in the realm of technique. However, it is also worthwhile to maintain the technical expression parallel to an equivalent and complementary expression of ritual and symbol. We should emphasize that the modern movement did this; that just as it expressed its internal language, it also expressed the symbol of the machine and thus operated cultural symbolism. In this case, however, the machine acted regressively because the machine itself is mere utility. Thus, this symbol is not an external reference but rather a secondary internal reading. Significant architecture must encompass both internal and external expression. The external language, which works with generous cultural inventions, is rooted in a figurative, associative, and anthropomorphic stance. We accept that in any construct, architectural or otherwise, technique will always play its role, the art of making something. However, we should say that the components of architecture were not derived solely from practical necessity, but also developed from symbolic sources. We become aware of architectural elements for their symbolic aspect, and other disciplines use them metaphorically. For example, a novelist places a hero at a window and uses the window as a frame through which we will try to read the hero's attitude and position and understand him. In architecture, where these basic elements are attached to the physical structure, they are taken into account much more frequently. In this context, such elements become so familiar that they do not disappear even when we remove them or when we use their diminished version. When we imagine, for instance, ourselves standing at a window, we might expect that the sill will align somehow with our body’s waist. We may also expect, or at least wish, that the window frame helps us perceive not only the landscape outside but also contextualizes our position in relation to the geometry of the window and the entire building. However, modern architecture rarely satisfies these expectations. Instead, the window stretches along the entire wall like a horizontal band or, unfortunately, transforms into the entire surface of it. A prime example of discord or confusion in architectural elements can be the term "window wall." Architectural elements require this distinction from one another, just as language requires syntax; without variations among a larger number of architectural elements, we would likely lose that anthropomorphic or figurative meaning. The elements of every dwelling include the wall, floor, ceiling, column, door, and window. We might wonder why these elements, in some cases geometrically similar (e.g., floor and ceiling), must be understood differently. In every symbolic construct, it is essential to identify thematic differences among the individual parts of the whole. If we understand the floor as land, something distinct from the vaulted ceiling as sky, then the materials, surfaces, colors, and decorative finishes will also differ dramatically. Formally, however, in both cases, we are dealing with horizontal planes. As architects, we must be aware of both the difficulty and strength of the thematic and figurative aspects of our work. If we can think of the external aspects of composition, that part of our language that transcends internal technical requirements, as an echo of both man and nature, we will quickly sense its historical pattern in the external language. All architecture before modernity tried to work through themes of man and landscape. Understanding a building encompasses both association with natural phenomena (e.g., land resembling floor) and anthropomorphic references (a column resembles a human, for instance). These two attitudes towards the symbolic nature of construction likely justified the use of architectural elements in pre-scientific societies to a considerable extent. However, we still demand the same metaphors today to access our own myths and rituals within construction and its narrative.
Although there are, of course, instances where we use metaphors and forms derived from nature in the technical assembly of a building, we also have at our disposal a broader, external, and natural text within this architectural narrative. The suggestion that a vaulted ceiling represents, in a sense, heaven, seems undoubtedly to be our cultural invention and becomes all the more interesting as such a narrative begins to be supported by other elements of the building. This type of cultural association allows us to "enter" a pure text of architectural language. This stands in contrast to modern examples, which usually sacrifice thought or theme in favor of a language that is much more abstract. Although we might be satisfied by the composition here, in such cases, it is based solely on internal references. The De Stijl composition appears satisfying from top to bottom as well as from one side to the other and this is precisely what its creators are interested in. We may admire it for its compositional unity; as architecture, however, due to its disinterest in nature and gravity, it dwells outside the reference systems of architectural themes. The De Stijl building has two internal systems, one technical and the other abstract. In defense of figurative architecture, we concede that the thematic character of the work is based on nature and that it simultaneously reads in both totemic and anthropomorphic ways. An example of such double reading can be obtained when we analyze the character of the wall. Just as a window helps us understand our scale and our presence in a room, a wall, although it is much more abstract as a geometric plane, has over time adopted pragmatic as well as symbolic divisions. When we understand paneling or gridding as something akin to a window frame, associations arise more easily between the base of the wall (which this division provides) and our own body. If we stand upright and root ourselves somewhat into the ground, the wall with its paneling also roots itself in relation to the floor. Another horizontal element then appears in the moldings or cornices where the vaulted ceiling lowers into a horizontal position and becomes a linear element where it meets the wall above. Although this tripartite division of the wall into base, body, and head does not entirely mimic a person, the wall stabilizes the effect in relation to the room that we owe to our bodily presence. The mimetic character that the wall offers the room as the fundamental substance of its envelope clearly differs from the plan of that room. We look at the wall and understand it face to face, whereas we stand perpendicular to the plan. The character of the room is primarily contributed to by the wall, thanks to its figurative possibilities. However, since we look at the plan from a perspective, it expresses less the expressive character of the room and more relates to how we perceive it spatially. Because space can be understood in its own sense as something shapeless, amorphous, it is certainly worthwhile to create reciprocity between the wall and the plan, where the surfaces of the walls or the envelope closely coat the spatial idea. The reciprocity of the plan and the wall finally seems more interesting than the differences between them. It can be said that both the wall and the plan have a center and edges. However, the plan itself has neither a top, nor a middle, nor a base, as the wall does. At this point, we must rely on the reciprocal action or the volumetric continuity that both the plan and the wall together offer. When we understand that it is a volumetric idea that ultimately matters, we can isolate and analyze how the plan itself contributes to the figurative architectural language. For the purposes of this argument, we could compare a linear plan, three times longer than it is wide, with a square or central plan. The square plan provides a clear center while emphasizing its edges or periphery. If we further divide the square plan into nine squares like a game of noughts and crosses, the result will be an even clearer definition of corners, edges, and a single center. Continuing to think of such a geometric assumption above free-standing objects, such as furniture, the placement of tables and chairs will not only be practical but will also gain symbolism concerning social interactions. We can envision many compositions and configurations with the same pieces of furniture, setups that would offer us different meanings in a single room. A composition three times longer will likely be divided differently than a central plan. We recognize the center of the room in a rectangular composition in its middle third and the edges in the outer thirds. However, less aware of habitable corners we will be here. The corners of the square composition contribute to our understanding of the center and we read them as positive. The corners of the rectangular plan, on the other hand, move away from the center and seem unnecessary. Our culture understands the geometric center as something special and as the place of primal human dwelling. We typically do not divide a rectangular room into two halves, but are rather inclined to position ourselves in the center, thus avoiding any reading of the room as a diptych. When analyzing the configurations of such a room, we feel a cultural inclination toward certain fundamental geometries. By habit, we look at each other as if we are, if not at the center of our "universe," then at least at the center of the spaces we inhabit. This assumption colors our understanding of the differences between the center and the edge. Another dimension of figurative architecture emerges when we compare the understanding of the building's exterior with the understanding of its internal volume. A freely standing building, such as Palladio's Villa Rotonda, is perceivable in its objecthood. Its internal volume we can additionally read similarly—not as a figurative object, but rather as figurative emptiness. Comparing such a "objectary building" with a building of the modern movement, such as Ludwig Mies van der Rohe's Barcelona Pavilion, allows us to see how the abstract character of space in Mies's work dissolves any reference to the figurative emptiness of that space or to its understanding. We cannot blame Mies for not offering us figurative architecture, because that was clearly not his intent. However, it can be said that without the sense of enclosure that Palladio's example offers us, we have a much narrower palette than if we acknowledged the possibility of both the ephemeral space of modern architecture and the enclosure of traditional architecture. We should consider that amorphous and continuous space, as we understand it in the Barcelona Pavilion, is not responsive to bodily or totemic references, and thus we always find that in such a space we cannot sense its center. In buildings based on such partial assumptions, this lack ultimately leads to a sense of alienation. In this discourse on wall and plan, I have argued for the necessity of figurativity in every single element and additionally in architecture as a whole. Certain monuments of the modern movement established new spatial configurations. The cumulative effect of non-figurative architecture, however, lies in leading to a forgetting of the former cultural architectural language. It is not so much a historical problem as it is a problem of cultural continuity. It would sound quite sharp if we said that the modern movement was not so much a historical rupture as it was an appendage to a fundamental and lasting figurative mode of expression. However, it seems key that we reaffirm the thematic associations invented by our culture in order to fully allow the culture of architecture to represent the mythical and ritual desires of our society.

The article by Michael Graves "A Case for Figurative Architecture", written in 1980 and published in the book by Karen Vogel Wheeler - Peter Arnell - Ted Bickford (eds), Michael Graves: Buildings and Projects 1966-1981, Rizzoli, New York 1982, pp. 11-13, translated by Rostislav Švácha.
(published in the journal Stavba XII, 2005, No. 2, pp. 66-69)