This post is ultimately going to be about architecture, but bear with me while I get there. The international standard for paper sizes has three series: A, B, and C. From this standard comes A4 paper, which many of you might recognize as the most common paper size in the world, serving as the standard for most business documents. However, not all countries use this sizing. Canada and the US, for instance, use Letter-sized paper instead of A4, which is simply a result of a historical norm. Canada tried to switch to the international standard (ISO 216) when we started adopting the metric system in the 1970s, but our deep economic integration with the US made it simply too cumbersome to juggle different sizes of paper.

The beauty of A4 paper is that it follows something known as the Silver Ratio (which equals 1 : √2 or 1 : 1.414). Its exact dimensions are 210 x 297 mm. What's important about this ratio is that it allows for a perfectly recursive system. It works like this: A0 paper is 841 x 1189 mm (the same Silver Ratio) or exactly one square metre. If you fold this paper in half along its long side, you get two pieces of A1 paper with the exact same ratio. If you repeat the same fold, you will then get A2 paper, and so on, all the way down to A10 paper. The Silver Ratio is the only rectangle where, when you fold or cut it in half, the proportions stay exactly the same. This is a neat feature because it means there's no waste when manufacturing different paper sizes.

So, what does this have to do with architecture?

Well, the Silver Ratio is heavily embedded in Japanese architecture and heritage. In fact, it's also known as the "Japanese proportion." It has long been appreciated for the scale it creates — it's more square and humble, as opposed to rectangular and grand — and for the modularity that it affords. Indeed, the recursive nature of the ratio makes it practical for construction and perfectly suited to the Japanese concept of mottainai, which is a term that describes a deep sense of regret when things are wasted. A good example of this concept in practice is the recently completed Circularity Cabin by architect Takaaki Fuji. A simple family home made from standard store-bought timber, the 60 m2 structure follows a strict modular system to minimize waste and improve efficiency.

Mottainai might be my new favourite Japanese concept.

Cover photo by Takuya Seki via Never Too Small

In today's episode of "this social housing project in Paris looks better than most market-rate housing elsewhere," we're looking at a recently completed boarding house in the 17e by CQFD Architecture.

The project has 6 storeys, a total area of 690 m2, 19 units, and a hard cost budget that was approximately €2.6 million (excluding tax). At this number, their hard costs work out to ~€3,768 per m2, ~€350 per ft2, or ~C$563 per ft2. So this was not a cheap build. Here's what it looks like:

When I first saw the project, I thought the total area would be larger than it is. At 690 m2, it's basically the size of a multiplex project here in Toronto. Except here in Paris, they've gone vertical and they've managed to fit 19 studio apartments, plus amenity space.

All of this is possible when you consider the efficiency of each floor plate. The typical floor includes 4 apartments, one stair, one elevator, and a short corridor. Add in a second exit stair and all of this blows up.

Also interesting is the efficiency of the ground floor. There's an entrance hall, management office, bike room, recreation room, outdoor garden, and a teeny tiny garbage room ("local O.M." on the plan). As I understand it, this is all that's required for refuse because of how frequently it's picked up.

If this were in Toronto, we'd probably need a dozen bins, meaning that the bike room and/or recreation room would need to shrink down.

I love dissecting plans and dimensions from different cities because it shows you the invisible hand of building codes, planning policies, and cultural norms. We get accustomed to certain conventions and then we assume that it's simply the way that things must be done.

But the rules we have are simply the rules that somebody decided to create. As Steve Jobs once said, "Everything around you that you call life was made up by people that were no smarter than you." This implies that everything can be questioned and ultimately changed when there's a better solution.

Photos from CQFD Architecture

Floor plans from Metalocus

Movable chairs have been a feature of Parisian parks since the 18th century. Chairs are more comfortable than benches, and movable ones allow you to direct yourself toward the sun, cluster in groups, or just situate yourself so that you can prop your legs up and read a book.

Now, here's a brief story of how this came to be.

At the outset of this innovation, park chairs weren't free. If you wanted a bench upgrade, you had to pay. Private concessionaires would rent them out to visitors (like umbrellas at a beach), maintain them, and presumably ensure that things were kept generally tidy around the grounds.

Then, around 1923, the iconic green Sénat chair was designed by the Ateliers de la Ville de Paris. If you've ever been to Paris, you know this chair (see cover photo). It comes in only three models: chair, armchair, and recliner, all of which are green. RAL 6013 green, to be exact.

Eventually, the Sénat chair was imposed as the Parisian park chair. By 1955, it was the only possible option that could be rented out by concessionaires in places like the Jardin du Luxembourg. This set the stage for it to become one of the most recognizable symbols of the city.

But due to the popularity of these chairs and the fact that people would rather not have to pay to sit in a park, it was decided in 1974 that the chairs should be free, and they were bought from the concessionaires.

In 2002, Frédéric Sofia designed an offshoot of the chair called the "Luxembourg." The Luxembourg is made of aluminum, as opposed to steel, and is therefore lighter. It's also available for sale to the general public, whereas the Sénat chair is exclusively for city parks.

The result of this centuries-long tradition is an iconic symbol for the city and an established culture of employing movable chairs in public spaces. A humble movable chair may not seem like a big deal, but in the world of public spaces, it is.

Try to incorporate movable chairs into a park or public space today and, invariably, someone will tell you that it can't or shouldn't be done. They will say the chairs will be stolen, vandalized, and/or weaponized by hooligans. Perhaps not.

Today, there are some 4,500 movable chairs in the Jardin du Luxembourg alone. Paris shows us that it can be done.

Cover photo by Brigi Harkányi on Unsplash