One of my colleagues likes to remind me that in an open concept floor plan, which is obviously pretty common these days, it is the RCP, or reflected ceiling plan, that really defines a space. (For those of you who might be unfamiliar, an RCP is a plan drawing that shows you what the ceiling of a space looks like.) What he means by this is that it is things like dropped ceilings and bulkheads that really define a space. And when you're designing a multi-unit building, you are going to have these things to contend with and coordinate (though you can also run exposed ductwork, which eliminates the need for some bulkheads/drops).

I like this reminder for two reasons.

One, he's right. Ceilings matter. Frank Lloyd Wright, for example, is well known for playing around with them in his projects. He would take you through compressed spaces with lower ceiling heights and then "release" you into grand open spaces. The contrast made it all feel even more dramatic. (But I reckon Mr. Wright was pretty short because I swear I've been in some of his houses and the ceilings were in the range of 6'-6".) And two, I want us to focus on this level of detail in our projects. They can be a pain in the ass to coordinate and you can't always get them exactly how you want them, but we are paying attention.

Today most condos and apartments are designed with open concept (or open plan) floor plans. This generally means that the kitchen and main living areas are combined into one continuous and fluid space. 

Part of this has to do with creating a sense of openness and part of this has to do with simply maximizing small spaces. When you consolidate spaces, you get to take advantage of occupancy overlaps.

But this isn’t a new concept. The roots of the open plan go all the way back to the turn of the 20th century with Frank Lloyd Wright’s emerging “Prairie School” of architecture.

Ian Bogost’s recent piece in the Atlantic called, “The Curse of an Open Floor Plan”, does a good job of explaining this history. He credits Wright with popularizing the open plan.

Here is an excerpt:

In the February 1901 issue of Ladies Home Journal, on a single page between a portrayal on the “Life of an English Girl” and a feature asking, “Is the Newspaper Office the Place for a Girl?,” the then-obscure American architect Frank Lloyd Wright published plans for a home “in a prairie town.” It might seem like a strange host for architectural plans, but Ladies Home Journal frequently featured them, amid Rubifoam toothpaste ads, tips on what to do with cheese, serialized romance novels, and journalistic muckraking. It makes sense: Architecture is the foundation of home life, a matter largely relegated to women then—and still today, like it or not.

Many of the characteristic features of Wright’s “Prairie” style, as others would come to call it, are already visible in the 1901 design: a low-pitched roof, wide eaves, horizontal orientation, and a strong connection to the surrounding landscape. Inside, another feature is present, in nascent form: an early open floor plan, combining multiple rooms together into a continuous space.

Of course, at the time, the open plan was about much more than raw practicality and economic necessity. It wasn’t just about maximizing space and affordability. Here is another snippet:

For Wright, Neutra, Harris, and others, open design represented the promise of a new social ideal, one where fluid spaces would allow egalitarian integration. That aspiration continues, in a way, but the ideal is less communal and more individual: Open plan is where everyone does their own thing, but all together.

For Bogost’s full piece, which is worth a read, click here.

Image: University of Michigan Library via The Atlantic

There has always been a strong relationship between architecture and film. Next to actually being there, video is one of the best ways to experience architecture.

And that’s because space is not static. A big part of how we experience space has to do with what it feels like as you move through it.

For example, American architect Frank Lloyd Wright was notorious for his sprawling horizontal houses and low ceiling heights. In his Fallingwater House (which is stunning), I swear that my head was rubbing on the ceiling in certain rooms (I’m 6'3").

But he did this to purposefully create a feeling of compression. Because then as you exited the room (in this case to go outside onto a terrace) the feeling of openness and expansion is all that more powerful. The contrast creates awareness.

In honor of the cinematic nature of architecture, below is a magnificent video of the Casa del Acantilado (House on the Cliff) by Fran Silvestre Arquitectos. Pay attention to the sliding planes and framed views throughout.

The image shown at the top of this post is from Architizer.

[vimeo 52162380 w=500 h=281]

Casa del Acantilado | House on the Cliff by Fran Silvestre Arquitectos from Fran Silvestre Arquitectos on Vimeo.