I was lucky last month to attend an academic conference dedicated to the subject of this newsletter: beauty—hosted in Cambridge, England by the Roger Scruton Legacy Foundation. As a busy architect, the academic world is not one that I ordinarily swim in, nor do I frequent conferences of any kind. What surprised me about my experience was that while so much fascinating material was presented during the seminar, the most meaningful moments were often between the lectures: in the informal conversations among the mix of guests, speakers, and organizers. Interestingly, I found myself admiring an aesthetic that was not a topic of any presentation: the aesthetics of a good conversation.
EVERYDAY AESTHETICS
In the world of philosophy, conversation is considered to be among the larger class of “everyday” aesthetics. That is, it is one of the familiar and routine sensory experiences characteristic of basic human life. This is in contrast to other fields like music and painting, which are more discretionary in their creation and participation. This distinction equates conversation to a form of etiquette. After all, it takes proper manners to speak with someone engagingly.
Considering this fact is important for those who value architecture because, of course, it, too, is an everyday aesthetic. Not only are buildings essential for our survival, but architecture’s very public nature means that its presence is unavoidable. For example, when someone builds an ugly house on your street, you are forced to see their folly every time you walk past, in the same way that a disagreeable neighbour may disturb you with unpleasant chit-chat. But since explaining how to design a beautiful building is more difficult than describing what makes good conversation, perhaps it’s insightful to consider the parallels.
MAKING GOOD CONVERSATION
Though it’s not often described this way, I think it’s safe to say that having a great conversation is a beautiful experience. It certainly is a source of pleasure that we seek for its own sake, without the need to justify its utility. To Immanuel Kant, the father of modern aesthetics philosophy, this sense of disinterest (or selflessness) is key to the proper judgment of beauty. For example, when having a good discussion, it doesn’t matter so much what you talk about, as much how enjoyable the talking is. Any number of subjects could do when speaking with an old friend.
The fact that conversation often requires no specific purpose makes it similar to other aesthetic forms, architecture included. A good building could be described in terms of its utility, but a beautiful building rarely is. For example, what’s loved about the buildings in New York’s Soho district is the appearance of their cast-iron facades. Most of these buildings were originally built as factories and warehouses with less-than-pleasant conditions inside. It’s because they’re beautiful that they have been maintained and turned into shops and lofts, instead of replaced with towers. In this case, as in others, function has followed form instead of the other way around.1
At the same time, a sense of continuity is necessary to achieve good conversation. It would be quite tedious to merely share unrelated thoughts with another person, and an otherwise enjoyable talk can turn sour when someone abruptly changes the subject or leaves a critical point unacknowledged. And yet a good conversation can move widely from one topic to the next. For example, “What a cute dog you have” can—in the span of a few minutes—become “yes, I would be happy to help build the skating rink this winter!”
The key to making this development happen is remarkably similar to the feeling of movement observed in music: where each note seems to necessarily follow the preceding one, creating melody. This allows a piece, for example, to smoothly transition from a serene beginning to an exuberant ending, like Brahms’ Second Symphony. This characteristic is true in architecture, as well, where a column will only look right in relation to the beam it supports, and likewise the beam’s proportion is judged in accordance with the structure above.
The serene beginning of Brahms’ 2nd Symphony…
..and its exuberant ending.
Our minds seem to crave this way of relating parts to wholes (a phenomenon known as mereology), and we use continuities and relationships to help uncover the unities of complex forms. We see this distinction clearly by differentiating music from noise. In conversation this happens when participants start to reveal some truth previously unaware to them—like a resolution to a tricky dilemma.
Similarly, successful works of architecture make a unity of their complex parts. At the same time, they must also fit into their surrounding context in a way that other art forms are less obliged to do. For example, buildings cannot be framed like a painting nor bookended with silence like a symphony. They can’t even be politely cut short like a conversation. They are fixed and inseparable from their surroundings.
THE I-YOU RELATIONSHIP
When conversations fail to achieve a unity, it’s often because the participants only engage with each other superficially. As the philosopher Martin Buber pointed out, people tend to approach others with either an “I-It” or an “I-You” perspective.2 The I-It relationship is based on treating the other as an object, defined by specific characteristics or a purpose: like a police officer directing traffic. By contrast, the I-You relationship is when you elevate the other to a footing equal to your own, unbound by narrow parameters like their gender, age, or potential benefit.
The I-It approach is often the culprit when conversation goes bad, as when someone seems to be mining you for information or wishes only to have you validate their emotions. No one wants to feel as though they could be easily swapped out for another person. We naturally (and rightly) detest the notion of being treated as replaceable.
This I-It defect is at the root of many of the ugly buildings that are built these days: as with glass facades that reflect only our dull images back to us instead of contributing any meaningful character; or fantastical, contorted shapes that serve to surprise or entertain us, like someone who jokes too much instead of sharing the vulnerability of their true self. In essence, we make bad buildings in much the same way that we make bad conversation: by offering ourselves up as mere cartoon facsimiles instead of bearing the responsibility of meaningful contribution.
Ultimately a good conversation makes its participants feel at ease and comfortable, allowing people to occasionally reach important moments of truth and epiphany, all while enjoying the sheer pleasure of a good chat. This takes skill and practice to achieve, and while a person may be predisposed to gregariousness, that won’t necessarily translate into being a beautiful conversationalist—the right frame-of-mind is necessary. In a similar vein, good architecture will only result when the architect understands their craft as an everyday aesthetic, giving fair consideration to every person who may chance to converse with it.
As observed by Sir Roger Scruton in his book The Aesthetics of Architecture.
Originally expressed as the “I-Thou” relationship. The meaning of the word “thou” is informative here: before becoming anachronistic, it was the English language’s informal second-person pronoun. This word choice underlines the intimacy of the relationship that Buber identified. However, since the original meaning of the word thou is largely forgotten, I’ve substituted it with the now all-purpose “you”.
Excellent