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You may not have ever used this exact term before, but I'm sure that most of you know what it is. On his blog over the weekend, Witold Rybczynski wrote about a new architectural term he just learned called: "multiple expression." What it refers to is the use of different architectural styles on a long facade in order for the building to appear as if it's multiple smaller ones.
And today, I would say that this is largely viewed as a positive thing. Typically it is done to "break up a massing" or create a "fine-grained retail experience." In fact, you'll find things like this in some design guidelines. Here's one from Toronto's mid-rise performance standards:
This doesn't explicitly stipulate that architects should use "multiple expressions", but it does suggest that long repetitive facades are suboptimal, and that they should be broken up. But Witold's view is the opposite. He argues that this "bespeaks a lack of confidence, a poverty of the imagination." And he gives the example of Park Crescent in London, designed by architect John Nash.
It's long (well over 60m) and it's repetitive:
Perhaps a good counter example to this would be Mirvish Village in Toronto, which was designed by Henriquez Partners and which has been largely celebrated as a way of creating the feeling of fine-grained urbanism in a larger master-planned development. Here it is on Google, still under construction:
So what is it that makes Mirvish Village a generally desirable outcome in today's planning environment, even though I suspect that most people would still appreciate what John Nash did on Park Crescent back in the early 1800s? Are we saying -- with our guidelines -- that we like Park Crescent, but that we shouldn't do that ever again today?
And to what extent do age and architectural style play into these opinions? Are long repetitive facades over 60m acceptable as long as the architectural style is "Regency" and the buildings aren't too tall? Is modernism the problem? Because here's another example from London: The Alexandra and Ainsworth Estate.
Built in the 1970s, it is a Brutalist housing estate with a largely repetitive design, and even a slight curve reminiscent of Park Crescent:
Does this have confidence and imagination? Witold would probably say no.
In the end, I guess the answer is that it all depends. Guidelines are just that -- guides. They are not set in stone rules that must never be broken under any circumstances. That would be to reduce architecture to a strict science, and there's clearly also an art component to building great cities.
"Multiple expression" is usually done to create the feeling of finer-grained urbanism. But sometimes -- if you're old and regal-looking enough -- the opposite can be okay too.
Earlier this week I saw the Chief Planner of Toronto, Jennifer Keesmaat, tweet this out:
New buildings shouldn’t maximize the envelope prescribed by guidelines, but employ creative designs within it. pic.twitter.com/l7axVB4Hke
— jennifer keesmaat (@jen_keesmaat) March 3, 2016
//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js
I responded with the below quote retweet because I figured I should probably devote a blog post to this topic and not just a tweet.
— Brandon G. Donnelly (@donnelly_b) March 3, 2016
//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js
Now, I don’t know for sure, but I am guessing that her tweet was in response to the criticism from architects and developers that Toronto’s design guidelines are creating homogenous architectural outcomes. Some people – and I’ve written about this before on ATC – believe they’re too prescriptive.
So today I’d like to talk about why playing creatively within the guidelines/zoning envelope, particularly at the mid-rise scale, is a lot easier said than done.
Generally speaking, the value of land is dependent on what you can do with it or, in this case, what you can build on it.
If all you could do was plant things on it, then the value of the land would be correlated with crop yields. If on the other hand you could build a building, it would be correlated, at least in theory, with the amount of space you could build and the rents you could charge for that space.
Of course, this isn’t a perfect science. That’s why I said “in theory.”
Landowners obviously want to maximize the value of their asset when it comes time to sell. So they, along with their brokers, will naturally try and stretch what is possible with the land. Why else do you think the best neighborhoods seem to magically grow new boundaries?
When you combine this with the fact that mid-rise buildings are inherently less efficient to build and with the fact that their smaller size creates diseconomies of scale, it can be exceptionally difficult to find development sites where the numbers make any sort of financial sense. That is, even if you “maximize the envelope” and push rents or sale prices.
So, with all due respect, not maximizing the envelope is almost unthinkable, unless you somehow managed to get a bargain on the land.
Many of you will likely respond in the comments saying that all of this is simply a result of real estate developers being greedy capitalist pigs. But what we are talking about is no different than in any other competitive business environment.
Developers rent and sell products – albeit products that take an incredibly long time to make and bring to market. To make those products, there are a many costs, ranging from the cost of land to the cost of drawings. But hopefully within all of those numbers sits a profit margin that makes sense given the amount of work and risk that the developer has taken on.
Put differently, telling developers not to maximize the envelope is like telling a pizza maker to throw out 10-15% of her dough before she makes every pizza – even though she already (over)paid in full for the dough.
If you’ve ever created a development pro forma, you’ll know that it’s not easy getting the numbers to work when you’re operating in a competitive market. This is not a knock against creative design. Trust me, I am a design snob. This is just business.
The area that stretches between the property line on one side of a street and the property line on the other side of a street is called a public right-of-way here in Toronto. It may be called something different in other cities and countries.
In the example below (taken from Toronto's Avenues & Mid-Rise Buildings Study), it includes the sidewalks, the car lanes, and the streetcar lanes. But it could also include other public elements. In this instance, the buildings on either side of the street are assumed to be built right up against their property lines.
ROWs obviously serve an important public function. But their size also has important urban design implications. As a pedestrian, it feels different to walk on a narrow street than it does on a broad street.
The width of a ROW can also be used to inform what the preferred height of the buildings along it should be. In the example above, they’re talking about a 1:1 relationship between the width of the ROW and the preferred height of the buildings.
Given their importance, I thought it would be interesting to share this map of Toronto (dated 2010) showing ROW sizing throughout the city. The mustard colored lines in the core of the city represent 20 metres, the red lines 36 metres, and the purple lines 45 metres or more. The rest of the colors fall somewhere in-between. For the most part, the purple lines represent highways, although there are a few other instances of purple.
What’s interesting – but not surprising – to see is how we basically kept expanding the size of our ROWs as Toronto grew outwards. This was obviously to make more room for cars on the road.
But the other, perhaps more interesting thing about this map, is that it could also serve as a guide to pedestrian happiness. The mustard/yellow lines are where it’s most enjoyable to walk. And the red and purple lines are where it’s least enjoyable to walk.
If you’re from Toronto, give this framework a try and see if it holds true.
You may not have ever used this exact term before, but I'm sure that most of you know what it is. On his blog over the weekend, Witold Rybczynski wrote about a new architectural term he just learned called: "multiple expression." What it refers to is the use of different architectural styles on a long facade in order for the building to appear as if it's multiple smaller ones.
And today, I would say that this is largely viewed as a positive thing. Typically it is done to "break up a massing" or create a "fine-grained retail experience." In fact, you'll find things like this in some design guidelines. Here's one from Toronto's mid-rise performance standards:
This doesn't explicitly stipulate that architects should use "multiple expressions", but it does suggest that long repetitive facades are suboptimal, and that they should be broken up. But Witold's view is the opposite. He argues that this "bespeaks a lack of confidence, a poverty of the imagination." And he gives the example of Park Crescent in London, designed by architect John Nash.
It's long (well over 60m) and it's repetitive:
Perhaps a good counter example to this would be Mirvish Village in Toronto, which was designed by Henriquez Partners and which has been largely celebrated as a way of creating the feeling of fine-grained urbanism in a larger master-planned development. Here it is on Google, still under construction:
So what is it that makes Mirvish Village a generally desirable outcome in today's planning environment, even though I suspect that most people would still appreciate what John Nash did on Park Crescent back in the early 1800s? Are we saying -- with our guidelines -- that we like Park Crescent, but that we shouldn't do that ever again today?
And to what extent do age and architectural style play into these opinions? Are long repetitive facades over 60m acceptable as long as the architectural style is "Regency" and the buildings aren't too tall? Is modernism the problem? Because here's another example from London: The Alexandra and Ainsworth Estate.
Built in the 1970s, it is a Brutalist housing estate with a largely repetitive design, and even a slight curve reminiscent of Park Crescent:
Does this have confidence and imagination? Witold would probably say no.
In the end, I guess the answer is that it all depends. Guidelines are just that -- guides. They are not set in stone rules that must never be broken under any circumstances. That would be to reduce architecture to a strict science, and there's clearly also an art component to building great cities.
"Multiple expression" is usually done to create the feeling of finer-grained urbanism. But sometimes -- if you're old and regal-looking enough -- the opposite can be okay too.
Earlier this week I saw the Chief Planner of Toronto, Jennifer Keesmaat, tweet this out:
New buildings shouldn’t maximize the envelope prescribed by guidelines, but employ creative designs within it. pic.twitter.com/l7axVB4Hke
— jennifer keesmaat (@jen_keesmaat) March 3, 2016
//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js
I responded with the below quote retweet because I figured I should probably devote a blog post to this topic and not just a tweet.
— Brandon G. Donnelly (@donnelly_b) March 3, 2016
//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js
Now, I don’t know for sure, but I am guessing that her tweet was in response to the criticism from architects and developers that Toronto’s design guidelines are creating homogenous architectural outcomes. Some people – and I’ve written about this before on ATC – believe they’re too prescriptive.
So today I’d like to talk about why playing creatively within the guidelines/zoning envelope, particularly at the mid-rise scale, is a lot easier said than done.
Generally speaking, the value of land is dependent on what you can do with it or, in this case, what you can build on it.
If all you could do was plant things on it, then the value of the land would be correlated with crop yields. If on the other hand you could build a building, it would be correlated, at least in theory, with the amount of space you could build and the rents you could charge for that space.
Of course, this isn’t a perfect science. That’s why I said “in theory.”
Landowners obviously want to maximize the value of their asset when it comes time to sell. So they, along with their brokers, will naturally try and stretch what is possible with the land. Why else do you think the best neighborhoods seem to magically grow new boundaries?
When you combine this with the fact that mid-rise buildings are inherently less efficient to build and with the fact that their smaller size creates diseconomies of scale, it can be exceptionally difficult to find development sites where the numbers make any sort of financial sense. That is, even if you “maximize the envelope” and push rents or sale prices.
So, with all due respect, not maximizing the envelope is almost unthinkable, unless you somehow managed to get a bargain on the land.
Many of you will likely respond in the comments saying that all of this is simply a result of real estate developers being greedy capitalist pigs. But what we are talking about is no different than in any other competitive business environment.
Developers rent and sell products – albeit products that take an incredibly long time to make and bring to market. To make those products, there are a many costs, ranging from the cost of land to the cost of drawings. But hopefully within all of those numbers sits a profit margin that makes sense given the amount of work and risk that the developer has taken on.
Put differently, telling developers not to maximize the envelope is like telling a pizza maker to throw out 10-15% of her dough before she makes every pizza – even though she already (over)paid in full for the dough.
If you’ve ever created a development pro forma, you’ll know that it’s not easy getting the numbers to work when you’re operating in a competitive market. This is not a knock against creative design. Trust me, I am a design snob. This is just business.
The area that stretches between the property line on one side of a street and the property line on the other side of a street is called a public right-of-way here in Toronto. It may be called something different in other cities and countries.
In the example below (taken from Toronto's Avenues & Mid-Rise Buildings Study), it includes the sidewalks, the car lanes, and the streetcar lanes. But it could also include other public elements. In this instance, the buildings on either side of the street are assumed to be built right up against their property lines.
ROWs obviously serve an important public function. But their size also has important urban design implications. As a pedestrian, it feels different to walk on a narrow street than it does on a broad street.
The width of a ROW can also be used to inform what the preferred height of the buildings along it should be. In the example above, they’re talking about a 1:1 relationship between the width of the ROW and the preferred height of the buildings.
Given their importance, I thought it would be interesting to share this map of Toronto (dated 2010) showing ROW sizing throughout the city. The mustard colored lines in the core of the city represent 20 metres, the red lines 36 metres, and the purple lines 45 metres or more. The rest of the colors fall somewhere in-between. For the most part, the purple lines represent highways, although there are a few other instances of purple.
What’s interesting – but not surprising – to see is how we basically kept expanding the size of our ROWs as Toronto grew outwards. This was obviously to make more room for cars on the road.
But the other, perhaps more interesting thing about this map, is that it could also serve as a guide to pedestrian happiness. The mustard/yellow lines are where it’s most enjoyable to walk. And the red and purple lines are where it’s least enjoyable to walk.
If you’re from Toronto, give this framework a try and see if it holds true.
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