Witold Rybczynski makes an interesting comparison between military and civilian (city) planning in a recent blog post called, "The Fog of Life." Here's an excerpt:
Good military planning, as I understand it, is based on preparing for “what if,” that is, developing different scenarios. What if this happens, or that happens? City planning is different, more like advocacy, that is, what should happen. This advocacy is based on certainties: open space is good, density is good—or bad, depending. The problem is that what planners think should happen—separation of pedestrians and cars, superblocks, megastructures—often runs into trouble when it hits the fog of life.
These are two very different perspectives. "What if" planning responses assume that a thing has already happened. You're not working to affect a particular outcome, you're responding to one that already exists. Does this necessarily make this approach more reactive than proactive?
Either way, what should happen implies that the thing isn't currently happening, but that it should -- presumably because the thing is nice and desirable. It could also imply that the thing is sort of happening, but just isn't happening quite enough.
Let's use the example of 3-bedroom condominiums and apartments, which is a topic of discussion that has been circling in Toronto for as long as I've been in the business. Developers here, are generally encouraged or mandated to build a certain number of larger family-sized suites in every new housing project. Oftentimes this number is 10% of the total unit count.
Witold Rybczynski makes an interesting comparison between military and civilian (city) planning in a recent blog post called, "The Fog of Life." Here's an excerpt:
Good military planning, as I understand it, is based on preparing for “what if,” that is, developing different scenarios. What if this happens, or that happens? City planning is different, more like advocacy, that is, what should happen. This advocacy is based on certainties: open space is good, density is good—or bad, depending. The problem is that what planners think should happen—separation of pedestrians and cars, superblocks, megastructures—often runs into trouble when it hits the fog of life.
These are two very different perspectives. "What if" planning responses assume that a thing has already happened. You're not working to affect a particular outcome, you're responding to one that already exists. Does this necessarily make this approach more reactive than proactive?
Either way, what should happen implies that the thing isn't currently happening, but that it should -- presumably because the thing is nice and desirable. It could also imply that the thing is sort of happening, but just isn't happening quite enough.
Let's use the example of 3-bedroom condominiums and apartments, which is a topic of discussion that has been circling in Toronto for as long as I've been in the business. Developers here, are generally encouraged or mandated to build a certain number of larger family-sized suites in every new housing project. Oftentimes this number is 10% of the total unit count.
The reasoning behind this is sound. Cities should be inclusive and they should work for the young, the old, the single, and for families, among others. The problem is that, for a variety of reasons, the market, when left to do its own thing, tends to build more small units than large units. At least that's the case here in Toronto. (I've talked about some of the reasons why in previous posts.)
There is a view that if only developers built more large units that more families would choose to live in apartments. It's an issue of supply and availability, and also a question of design. You need to design for families too. This you could say is a "what if" approach. Families want to live in multi-family buildings; so let's build more and better family-sized housing.
But is this really the case or is there some advocacy going on here? All things being equal, does the market want low-rise or does it prefer higher density? It's a fascinating set of questions, but unfortunately all things aren't equal. It's not just a question of availability and design, it's also a question of economics. Large family-sized units cost money.
The urban-to-rural transect is a New Urbanist planning framework that prescribes a smooth continuum of settlements that go from least dense to most dense. The six zones are as follows: natural (T1), rural (T2), sub-urban (T3), general urban (T4), center (T5), and core (T6).
Part of this framework is about rejecting single-use Euclidean zoning. Instead of segregating uses, New Urbanism looks to return to a mix of uses within close proximity of each other. This is a good thing.
But the transect also advocates for a certain orderliness. There should be a smooth transition as you move outward from T6 toward T1. It is about placing things in their useful order and maintaining a certain kind of character.
Witold Rybczynski makes an interesting observation about this in a recent post called “urban discontinuities.” The point he makes is that some of the most remarkable urban moments are the result not of smoothness, but of “odd juxtapositions.”
Think:
- Mount Royal (T1) in the middle of downtown Montreal (T6).
- The North Shore Mountains (T1) that terminate views from within the building canyons of downtown Vancouver (T6)
- The walls of tall buildings (T6) that frame Central Park (T1) in Manhattan
- The wonderful ravines (T1) that cut through Toronto’s urban fabric (T6)
These are contrasting zones in the transect bumping up against each other. And it turns out that most of us really like these moments. But I think that the bigger point to be made here is that urban environments aren’t always neat and tidy, and that’s because they are a constantly evolving organism.
That’s not a bug. It’s actually a feature to be celebrated.
Late 19th century and early 20th century architecture and industrial design is known for the axiom, "form follows function." I think of
The reasoning behind this is sound. Cities should be inclusive and they should work for the young, the old, the single, and for families, among others. The problem is that, for a variety of reasons, the market, when left to do its own thing, tends to build more small units than large units. At least that's the case here in Toronto. (I've talked about some of the reasons why in previous posts.)
There is a view that if only developers built more large units that more families would choose to live in apartments. It's an issue of supply and availability, and also a question of design. You need to design for families too. This you could say is a "what if" approach. Families want to live in multi-family buildings; so let's build more and better family-sized housing.
But is this really the case or is there some advocacy going on here? All things being equal, does the market want low-rise or does it prefer higher density? It's a fascinating set of questions, but unfortunately all things aren't equal. It's not just a question of availability and design, it's also a question of economics. Large family-sized units cost money.
The urban-to-rural transect is a New Urbanist planning framework that prescribes a smooth continuum of settlements that go from least dense to most dense. The six zones are as follows: natural (T1), rural (T2), sub-urban (T3), general urban (T4), center (T5), and core (T6).
Part of this framework is about rejecting single-use Euclidean zoning. Instead of segregating uses, New Urbanism looks to return to a mix of uses within close proximity of each other. This is a good thing.
But the transect also advocates for a certain orderliness. There should be a smooth transition as you move outward from T6 toward T1. It is about placing things in their useful order and maintaining a certain kind of character.
Witold Rybczynski makes an interesting observation about this in a recent post called “urban discontinuities.” The point he makes is that some of the most remarkable urban moments are the result not of smoothness, but of “odd juxtapositions.”
Think:
- Mount Royal (T1) in the middle of downtown Montreal (T6).
- The North Shore Mountains (T1) that terminate views from within the building canyons of downtown Vancouver (T6)
- The walls of tall buildings (T6) that frame Central Park (T1) in Manhattan
- The wonderful ravines (T1) that cut through Toronto’s urban fabric (T6)
These are contrasting zones in the transect bumping up against each other. And it turns out that most of us really like these moments. But I think that the bigger point to be made here is that urban environments aren’t always neat and tidy, and that’s because they are a constantly evolving organism.
That’s not a bug. It’s actually a feature to be celebrated.
. Either way, it was meant to represent a functionalist approach to architecture and design, which was, as is often the case, a reaction to what had come before it.
It was Modernist architects eschewing decorative elements or what was referred to at the time as "ornament." If it didn't serve a functional purpose, it was to be removed. Nothing was to be superfluous. And similarly, if the function of something didn't change, there was no need to change its form.
Of course, if it was truly all about function, one could argue that there should have been a great deal of variation in the resulting forms. But instead, the designs that emerged out of schools, such as the Bauhaus, are some of the most recognizable in the world. That is true even to this day.
Which is why I think this is a great line from Witold Rybczynski (taken from a recent post about the book iBauhaus): "It is also a quintessentially Bauhaus example of form follows predetermined aesthetics rather than form follows function." Ouch. The difference here is that Witold obviously isn't a fan of the Bauhaus or of Modernism, whereas this period of time is what inspired me the most as a student of architecture.
. Either way, it was meant to represent a functionalist approach to architecture and design, which was, as is often the case, a reaction to what had come before it.
It was Modernist architects eschewing decorative elements or what was referred to at the time as "ornament." If it didn't serve a functional purpose, it was to be removed. Nothing was to be superfluous. And similarly, if the function of something didn't change, there was no need to change its form.
Of course, if it was truly all about function, one could argue that there should have been a great deal of variation in the resulting forms. But instead, the designs that emerged out of schools, such as the Bauhaus, are some of the most recognizable in the world. That is true even to this day.
Which is why I think this is a great line from Witold Rybczynski (taken from a recent post about the book iBauhaus): "It is also a quintessentially Bauhaus example of form follows predetermined aesthetics rather than form follows function." Ouch. The difference here is that Witold obviously isn't a fan of the Bauhaus or of Modernism, whereas this period of time is what inspired me the most as a student of architecture.
