ARCHITECTURE WITHOUT ARCHITECTS

by Bernard Rudofsky
 128 pages, 156 illustrations $6.95

Architecture Without Architects

by Bernard Rudofsky

In this book Bernard Rudofsky steps outside the narrowly de

fined discipline that has governed our sense of architectural
history, and discusses the art of building as a universal phe
nomenon. By avoiding the geographical and social prejudices
that have obscured what he views as a total picture of architec
ture, he offers us glimpses of worlds that were hitherto unknown
and, indeed, unsuspected. A prehistoric theater district for a
hundred thousand spectators on the American continent, and
underground towns and villages (complete with schools, offices,
and factories) inhabited by millions of people are among the
unexpected phenomena he brings to light. In short, Architec
ture Without Architects, introduces the reader to communal
architecture— architecture produced not by specialists but by the
spontaneous and continuing activity of a whole people with a
common heritage, acting within a community of experience.
The beauty of this "primitive" architecture has often been dis
missed as accidental, but today we recognize in it an art form
that has resulted from human intelligence applied to uniquely
human modes of life. Indeed, Dr. Rudofsky sees the philosophy
and practical knowledge of the untutored builders as untapped
sources of inspiration for industrial man trapped in his chaotic
cities. The wisdom to be derived from them, he feels, goes be
yond economic and esthetic considerations, and touches the far
tougher problem of how to live and let live, of how to keep
peace with one's neighbors in the parochial sense and in the
universal one, as well.
Architect, engineer, and critic, Dr. Bernard Rudofsky is well
known for earlier books that approach the familiar from an un
conventional viewpoint—among them, Are Clothes Modern?
(a revelation of the irrationality of our coverings), The Kimono
Mind (an informal guide to the Japanese mentality) , and
Behind the Picture Window (in which he confronts what he
himself has dubbed "Uncle Sam's Cabin"). Viennese by educa
tion, New Yorker by choice, Dr. Rudofsky keeps his spirits high
by engaging in travels that last for years, and his own experi
ence with human accommodations runs the gamut from troglo
dyte dwellings to the emperor's suite in a Japanese mansion.
He is now at work expanding his study of non-pedigreed archi
tecture into a book on the universal problems of human shelter.

The Museum of Modern Art

11 West 53 Street, New York, N. Y. 10019
Distributed by Doubleday & Co. Inc., Garden City, N.Y.
 THE MUSEUM
OF MODERN ART
mmhhmmihhhmi hhh
ARCHITECTURE WITHOUT ARCHITECTS
7 5"2_
ARCHITECTURE WITHOUT ARCHITECTS

An Introduction to Non-Pedigreed Architecture

by Bernard Rudofsky

The Museum of Modern Art, New York

Distributed by Doubleday & Company, Inc., Garden City, New 1 ork

 M(Mft I 2-^4
16 1-

Trustees of the Museum of Modern Art

David Rockefeller, Chairman of the Board; Henry Allen Moe, Vice-Chairman; William
S. Paley, Vice-Chairman; Mrs. Bliss Parkinson, Vice-Chairman; William A. M. Burden,
President; James Thrall Soby, Vice-President; Ralph F. Colin, Vice-President; Gardner
Cowles, Vice-President; Alfred H. Barr, Jr., *Mrs. Robert Woods Bliss, *Mrs. W. Murray
Crane, John de Menil, Rene d'Harnoncourt, Mrs. C. Douglas Dillon, Mrs. Edsel B. Ford,
Mrs. # Simon Guggenheim, Wallace K. Harrison, Mrs. Walter Hochschild, *James W.
Husted, Philip C. Johnson, Mrs. Albert D. Lasker, John L. Loeb, Mrs. Henry R. Luce,
Ranald H. Macdonald, Porter A. McCray, #Mrs. G. Macculloch Miller, Mrs. Charles S.
Payson, *Duncan Phillips, Mrs. John D. Rockefeller 3rd, Nelson A. Rockefeller, *Paul J.
Sachs, Mrs. Wolfgang Schoenborn, Mrs. Donald B. Straus, G. David Thompson, *Edward
M. M. Warburg, Monroe Wheeler, John Hay Whitney.
*Honorary Trustee

© 1964, The Museum of Modern Art, 11 West 53rd Street, New York, N.Y. 10019
Library of Congress Catalogue Card No. 64-8755
Designed by Bernard Rudofsky
Printed in the U.S.A. by Connecticut Printers, Inc., Hartford, Connecticut
Acknowledgements
The exhibition Architecture Without Architects , shown at the Museum of Modern
Art from November 9, 1964 to February 7, 1965, was commissioned by the Depart
ment of Circulating Exhibitions under the auspices of the International Council
of the Museum of Modern Art. Both the exhibition and the accompanying pub
lication were prepared and designed by the author, Consultant to the Department
of Architecture and Design.
The John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Foundation and the Ford Foundation
helped to finance the research for this project by awarding fellowships to the
director of the exhibition for a study of non-formal, non-classified architecture.
These grants might never have been given without the enthusiastic recommenda
tions of the architects Walter Gropius, Pietro Belluschi, Jose Luis Sert, Richard
Neutra, Gio Ponti, Kenzo Tange, and the Museum's Director, Rene d'Harnon-
court, all of whom hail from countries rich in vernacular architecture.
Sincere thanks go to the many people, too numerous to list here, who contrib
uted to this project in various ways. Special tributes, however, are due to Mme.
Rene Heyum, Musee de l'Homme, Paris; Miss Ruth M. Anderson, The Hispanic
Society of America, New York; the staff of the Frobenius Institute, Frankfurt, and
Dr. Myron B. Smith, Islamic Archives, Washington. Research assistance was ren
dered with exemplary patience by Miss Ellen Marsh. Credits for photographs,
many of which were generously donated, are listed on page 138.
Bernard Rudofsky
Vernacular architecture does not go through fashion cycles. It is nearly immutable, indeed,
unimprovable, since it serves its purpose to perfection. As a rule, the origin of indigenous
building forms and construction methods is lost in the distant past. Below, houses typical
of the Mediterranean area.
Preface Architectural history, as written and taught in the Western world, has never been
concerned with more than a few select cultures. In terms of space it comprises but
a small part of the globe—Europe, stretches of Egypt and Anatolia—or little more
than was known in the second century a.d. Moreover, the evolution of architecture
is usually dealt with only in its late phases. Skipping the first fifty centuries, chron
iclers present us with a full-dress pageant of "formal" architecture, as arbitrary a
way of introducing the art of building as, say, dating the birth of music with the
advent of the symphony orchestra. Although the dismissal of the early stages can
be explained, though not excused, by the scarcity of architectural monuments, the
discriminative approach of the historian is mostly due to his parochialism. Be
sides, architectural history as we know it is equally biased on the social plane. It
amounts to little more than a who's who of architects who commemorated power
and wealth; an anthology of buildings of, by, and for the privileged—the houses of
true and false gods, of merchant princes and princes of the blood—with never a
word about the houses of lesser people. Such preoccupation with noble architec
ture and architectural nobility to the exclusion of all other kinds may have been
understandable as late as a generation ago, when the relics and ruins of ancient
buildings served the architect as his sole models of excellence (to which he helped
himself as a matter of course and convenience), but today, when the copying of
historical forms is on the wane, when banking houses or railroad stations do not
necessarily have to resemble prayers in stone to inspire confidence, such self-im
posed limitation appears absurd.
Architecture Without Architects attempts to break down our narrow concepts of
the art of building by introducing the unfamiliar world of nonpedigreed architec
ture. It is so little known that we don't even have a name for it. For want of a ge
neric label, we shall call it vernacular, anonymous, spontaneous, indigenous, rural,
as the case may be. Unfortunately, our view of the total picture of anonymous
architecture is distorted by a shortage of documents, visual and otherwise. Whereas
we are reasonably well informed about the artistic objectives and technical pro
ficiency of painters who lived 30,000 years before our time, archaeologists con
sider themselves lucky when they stumble over the vestiges of a town that goes
back to the third millennium b.c. only. Since the question of the beginnings of
architecture is not only legitimate but bears heavily on the theme of the exhibition,
it is only proper to allude, even if cursorily, to possible sources.
A nation that swears by the Bible also finds it an incomparable book of ref
erence. Alas, the explicitness of the Scriptures in matters of architecture is never
as disconcerting as when we learn (Genesis IV: 17) that Adam's son Cain built a
city and named it after his son Enoch. A one-family town, delightful as it sounds,
is a most extravagant venture and surely was never repeated in the course of his
tory. If it proves anything, it illustrates the breathtaking progress made within a
single generation, from the blessed hummingbird existence in well-supplied Para
dise to the exasperatingly complicated organism that is a town. Skeptics who dis
miss Enoch as a chimera will find more significance in the Ark, particularly in view
of the fact that it was commissioned by the Lord Himself and built to His specifi
cations. The question whether the Ark ought to be called a building or a nautical
craft is redundant. The Ark had no keel, the keel being an intellectual invention
of later days, and we may safely assume that ships were not known as yet, since
their existence would have defeated the very purpose of the Flood. When Noah
 landed on Mount Ararat he was 601 years old, a man past his prime. He preferred
to devote the rest of his life to viniculture and left the task of building to his sons.
The Bible mentions (Genesis IX: 27) Shem's huts—probably put together with
some of the Ark's lumber-but the decline in architecture was sealed.
The impious who prefer to turn to science in their quest for the origins of archi
tecture will have to swallow a few indigestible facts. For it seems that long before
the first enterprising man bent some twigs into a leaky roof, many animals were
already accomplished builders. It is unlikely that beavers got the idea of building
dams by watching human dam-builders at work. It probably was the other way.
Most likely, man got his first incentive to put up a shelter from his cousins, the
anthropomorphous apes. Darwin observed that the orang in the islands of the
Far East, and the chimpanzees in Africa, build platforms on which they sleep,
"and, as both species follow the same habit, it might be argued that this was due
to instinct, but we cannot feel sure that it is not the result of both animals having
similar wants, and possessing similar powers of reasoning." Untamed apes do not
share man's urge to seek shelter in a natural cave, or under an overhanging rock,
but prefer an airy scaffolding of their own making. At another point in The
Descent of Man, Darwin writes that "the orang is known to cover itself at night
with the leaves of the Pandanus"; and Brehm noted that one of his baboons "used
to protect itself from the heat of the sun by throwing a straw-mat over his head. In
these habits, ' he conjectured, "we probably see the first steps towards some of the

North American tree dwellers. The eviction scene is from Erasmus Francisci's Lustmrten
1668.
 XlXLVII

Floating Village, China. From Erasmus Francisci'sLustgarten, 1668.

simpler arts, such as rude architecture and dress, as they arise among the early
progenitors of man." (Our italics.) Suburban man falling asleep near his lawn
mower, pulling a section of his Sunday paper over his head, thus re-enacts the birth
of architecture.
Yet even before men and beasts walked the earth, there existed some kind of
architecture, coarsely modeled by the primeval forces of creation and occasionally
polished by wind and water into elegant structures (fig. 19). Natural caves, espe
cially, hold a great fascination for us. Caves, having been among man s earliest
shelters, may turn out to be his last ones. At any rate, they were chosen with great
foresight as depositories for our most precious artifacts—government and business
files. It is of course not within the scope of this exhibition to furnish a capsule
history of nonpedigreed architecture, nor even a sketchy typology. It merely should
help us to free ourselves from our narrow world of official and commercial archi
tecture.
Although exotic arts have long been appreciated in the Western world—not,
however, without being cautiously dubbed "primitive"— exotic architecture (the
word exotic is here used in its original meaning, alien) has evoked no response,
and is still relegated to the pages of geographic and anthropological magazines.
Indeed, apart from a few regional studies and scattered notes, no literature exists
on the subject. Lately though, ever since the art of traveling has suffered conver
sion into an industry, the charms of "picture-postcard towns and the popular
architecture of "fairy-tale countries" have proved of considerable attraction. Still,
our attitude is plainly condescending.
No doubt the picturesque element abounds in our photographs, yet, again, the
exhibition is not an exercise in quaintness nor a travel guide, except in the sense
that it marks a point of departure for the exploration of our architectural preju
dices. It is frankly polemic, comparing as it does, if only by implication, the
serenity of the architecture in so-called underdeveloped countries with the archi
tectural blight in industrial countries. In orthodox architectural history, the
emphasis is on the work of the individual architect; here the accent is on com
munal enterprise. Pietro Belluschi defined communal architecture as a communal
 art, not produced by a few intellectuals or specialists but by the spontaneous and
continuing activity of a whole people with a common heritage, acting under a
community of experience." It may be argued that this art has no place in a raw
civilization, but even so, the lesson to be derived from this architecture need not
be completely lost to us.
There is much to learn from architecture before it became an expert's art. The
untutored builders in space and time-the protagonists of this show-demonstrate
an admirable talent for fitting their buildings into the natural surroundings. In
stead of trying to "conquer" nature, as we do, they welcome the vagaries of cli
mate and the challenge of topography. Whereas we find flat, featureless country
most to our liking (any flaws in the terrain are easily erased by the application of a
bulldozer), more sophisticated people are attracted by rugged country. In fact,
t ey do not hesitate to seek out the most complicated configurations in the land
scape The most sanguine of them have been known to choose veritable eyries for
their building sites-Machu Picchu, Monte Alban, the craggy bastions of the
monks republic on Mount Athos, to mention only some familiar ones
The tendency to build on sites of difficult access can be traced no doubt to a
desire for security but perhaps even more so to the need of defining a community's
orders. In the old world, many towns are still solidly enclosed by moats, lagoons,
glacis, or walls that have long lost their defensive value. Although the walls present
no hurdles to invaders, they help to thwart undesirable expansion. The very word
ur anity is linked to them, the Latin urbs meaning walled town. Hence, a town
that aspires to being a work of art must be as finite as a painting, a book, or a
piece of music. Innocent as we are of this sort of planned parenthood in the field
of urbamstics, we exhaust ourselves in architectural proliferation. Our towns with
their air of futility, grow unchecked-an architectural eczema that defies all treat
ment. Ignorant as we are of the duties and privileges of people who live in older
civilizations, acquiesce as we do in accepting chaos and ugliness as our fore
ordained fate, we neutralize any and all misgivings about the inroads of architec
ture on our lives with lame protests directed at nobody in particular.
Part of our troubles results from the tendency to ascribe to architects-or, for
that matter, to all specialists-exceptional insight into problems of living when, in
truth, most of them are concerned with problems of business and prestige. Be-
S si ' e art of llvin is neither taught nor encouraged in this country. We look
at it as a form of debauch, little aware that its tenets are frugality, cleanliness, and
a general respect for creation, not to mention Creation.
To no small degree, this situation came about through the diligence of the his
torian. By invariably emphasizing the parts played by architects and their patrons
he has obscured the talents and achievements of the anonymous builders men
whose concepts sometimes verge on the Utopian, whose esthetics approach the
sublime. The beauty of this architecture has long been dismissed as accidental, but
oday we should be able to recognize it as the result of rare good sense in the
handling of practical problems. The shapes of the houses, sometimes transmitted
through a hundred generations (fig. 146), seem eternally valid, like those of their
tools.
Above all, it is the humaneness of this architecture that ought to bring forth
some response in us. For instance, it simply never occurs to us to make streets into
oases rather than deserts. In countries where their function has not yet deterio-
^yp
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Town plan of Canton, China. From Georg Braun, Civitas Orbis Terrarum,

rated into highways and parking lots, a number of arrangements make streets fit for
humans: pergole and awnings (that is, awnings spread across a street), tentlike
structures, or permanent roofs. All are characteristic of the Orient, or countries
with an oriental heritage, like Spain. The most refined street coverings, a tangible
expression of civic solidarity —or, should one say, of philanthropy are arcades. Un
known and unappreciated in our latitudes, the function of this singularly ingrati
ating feature goes far beyond providing shelter against the elements or protecting
pedestrians from traffic hazards. Apart from lending unity to the streetscape, they
often take the place of the ancient forums. Throughout Europe, North Africa, and
Asia, arcades are a common sight because they also have been incorporated into
 "formal" architecture. Bologna's streets, to cite but one example, are accompanied
by nearly twenty miles of portici. V accompanied
Another alien type of the communal vernacular is the storehouse for food In

''"yem
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'°m quasilacLr gre 5tyhS PU 3ndPredOUS
C Wehaw them
Apart from the High Vernacular-the sophisticated minor architecture of Cen
JT EUr th Mediterranean, South and East Asia-and primitive architecture
proper the exhibition also includes such categories as architecture by subtraction
or sculpted architecture, exemplified by troglodyte dwellings and free-standing
buildings cut from live rock and hollowed out. Rudimentary Lhitecturl is re "e
shteW
7eW1
S
Ch
!"
nS mL d W SOmetimeSattain S'g^tic dimensions. In Japan they
™ ' enve °P a house, a hamlet, or an entire village. Of the archi
'°USeS temshre
tents shown Proto-.ndustnal
are shown. PrT^'h ""T architecture
h ™ WhedS ^"-swater wheels
includes 'houseboats, and
windmills
both vertical and horizontal, and dovecots, those vital fertilizer p.ants Being
" ZS: r bUta of - - mayfind the mechanicsrathef
nan the esthetics of this architecture more to our liking.
We learn that many audacious "primitive" solutions anticipate our cumber
some tec no ogy; that many a feature invented in recent years is old hat in ver-
"reeCt
>
refabrication
-P flex'hr arch standardization of building components
ex.ble and movable structures, and, more especially, floor-heating, air-condition'
g, light control, even elevators. We may also compare the amenities of our
houses with the unadvertised comfort of, say, some African domestic architecture

Skeleton structure, modular building components, open plan, sliding walls, etc have been
in the repertory of vernacular Japanese architecture for centuries.' Detail from an eight-
eenth century book illustration.
that provides a respectable man with six detached dwellings for his six wives. Or
we may find that long before modern architects envisioned subterranean towns
under the optimistic assumption that they may protect us from the dangers of
future warfare, such towns existed, and still exist, on more than one continent.
There is a good deal of irony in the fact that to stave off physical and mental
deterioration the urban dweller periodically escapes his splendidly appointed lair
to seek bliss in what he thinks are primitive surroundings: a cabin, a tent, or, if he
is less hidebound, a fishing village or hill town abroad. Despite his mania for
mechanical comfort, his chances for finding relaxation hinge on its very absence.
By dint of logic, life in old-world communities is singularly privileged. Instead of
several hours of daily travel, only a flight of steps may separate a man's workshop
or study from his living quarters. Since he himself helped to shape and preserve
his environment, he never seems to tire of it. Besides, he is largely indifferent to
"improvements." Just as a child's toys are no substitute for human affection, to
him no technical contrivance makes amends for the lack of viability.
Not only is the need for confining the growth of a community well understood
by the anonymous builders, it is matched by their understanding of the limits of
architecture itself. They rarely subordinate the general welfare to the pursuit of
profit and progress. In this respect, they share the beliefs of the professional philos
opher. To quote Huizinga, "the expectation that every new discovery or refinement
of existing means must contain the promise of higher values or greater happiness
is an extremely naive thought. ... It is not in the least paradoxical to say that a
culture may founder on real and tangible progress."
The present exhibition is a preview of a book on the subject, the vehicle of the
idea that the philosophy and know-how of the anonymous builders presents the
largest untapped source of architectural inspiration for industrial man. The wis
dom to be derived goes beyond economic and esthetic considerations, for it touches
the far tougher and increasingly troublesome problem of how to live and let live,
how to keep peace with one's neighbors, both in the parochial and universal sense.
The old photograph of an ancient cemetery on Okinawa, reproduced from a poorly
printed book, is a typical example of the sort of illustration that cannot be substituted
by a good recent picture. As a rule, the architectural object has suffered from decay,
defacement, restoration, or has disappeared altogether. Even if it were still intact, no
institution, no Maecenas, would want to underwrite the cost of visiting a work of architec
ture that has not already gained status in art history by having been abundantly docu
mented in the past. Our point is that this picture, despite its technical defects, reveals a
rare, not to say rarified, architectural landscape, devoid of such prosaic elements as houses
and streets.
A note on the illustrations
A study project such as the one that yielded the picture material for this exhibi
tion is inevitably beset with uncommon difficulties. With the exception of the
archives of European anthropological institutes, no pertinent sources exist. Many
illustrations were obtained by chance, or sheer curiosity, applied to the subject and
sustained over forty odd years. Methodical travel and long years of residence in
countries that afforded a study of vernacular architecture have provided the main
stays of the exhibition.
Some of the illustrations are not up to professional standards; most of them
are the work of inspired amateurs or were culled from the pages of obscure publi
cations. (See opposite page.) Moreover, with current restrictions on the movements
of the citizen, it would be impossible today to procure such rare documents as the
photographs of villages in the Caucasus taken in 1929 by an American glaciologist,
or to duplicate the aerial views of Chinese underground communities obtained by
a German pilot in the early 30s, both of whom were surprised to find their handi
work greatly appreciated at this late date.
B. R.
The amphitheaters of Muyu-uray
Anonymous architecture of a monumental kind, unknown to layman and scholar alike,
can be found right on the American continent. In Peru, halfway between Cuzco and
Machu Picchu, lies an ancient theater center that has no counterpart anywhere else. Built
by the Inca tribe of the Maras, it comprises four theaters in the round and one in the form
of a horseshoe. As might be expected, the acoustics of all five theaters are superb.
The contours of the architecture have been eroded by the elements, the site turned to
pasture and farmland. Yet the basic structure is relatively well preserved. The largest
theater—probably set into a meteoric crater—accommodated as many as 60,000 people.
Twelve of its terraces, each about 6 feet high and 23 feet wide, still exist. The lowest circu
lar platform of the four theaters, which corresponds to the Greek orchestra, varies in diam
eter from 80 to 134 feet. Water pipes, one foot wide, carved into stone monoliths, carried
spring water from a nearby mountain peak.
Although nothing is known about the kind of spectacles performed, we may assume that
athletic exhibitions— boxing, jumping, racing, and animal baiting—outweighed true the
atricals. Peruvian archaeologists believe that the "undescribable beauty of the landscape
(about 12,000 feet above sea level) was an inspirational factor in the grandiose enterprise.
As yet, the site has not suffered the ravages of tourism.
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Houses for the dead

Great builders draw no line between sculpture and architec
ture. With them, sculpture is not "commissioned" as an after
thought or budgetary dole. Neither is so-called landscaping.
The three are inseparable.
The geometric figures formed by stone slabs mark the
battlefield of Bravalla in Sweden. For all we know, the
battle may never have taken place, but, since history does
not concern us here, we are free to admire the design of this
war memorial. It is no doubt more sophisticated than, say,
the designs for the four hundred bronze and marble monu
ments of Gettysburg battlefield.
A partial view of "alignments" in the Morbihan commu
nity near Carnac in Brittany. The neighborhood contains a
great number of prehistoric stone monuments: tumuli, dol
men, and 2500 menhirs (columns).
The aerial view of cemeteries near Lanchow, in the Chinese province of Kansu, brings to
mind Isamu Noguchi's models for his "contoured playgrounds," a sculptor's rather than
an architect's idea of how to improve on the surface of the land. As in other civilizations
(see next pages), the houses of the dead were constructed far more solidly than those for
the living.
 1
V* :»» ;

Ordek's necropolis
Looking like the model of a prize-winning entry in a sculptors' competition, this splintery
architecture turns out to be indeed a great monument. No more than a ruin, the forest of
wild poplar posts nevertheless forms a striking composition whose original design has been
greatly improved by the corrosive action of wind-carried sand. The hill, allegedly harbor
ing countless coffins and treasures of gold and silver, was discovered in Sinkiang some
thirty years ago by one of Sven Hedin's Turkish servants, Ordek, who liked to do some
private prospecting on the side.

I
I
l

I
 1\
The troglodytic town of Pantalica
Durability and versatility are characteristic of vernacular architecture. The rude chambers
whose doors can be made out in the picture were cut into the nearly perpendicular de
clivities of the Anapo Valley by the Siculi, who inhabited Sicily about 3000 years ago.
Originally serving as burial grounds for an adjacent prehistoric town, they were converted
into dwellings during the Middle Ages. As a rule, they form multistoried apartments con
nected by interior passages. Similar establishments are scattered all over Sicdy—near
Siculiano, Caltabelotta, and Raffadale; west of Mount Etna at Bronte and Maletto; be
13 tween Siracusa and the Cape S. Croce; above all, in the valley of Ispica, near Modica.
 Troglodytism
Troglodytism does not necessarily imply a low cultural level. The picture of the caveman
dragging his mate by her hair is a cartoonist's cliche, betraying nostalgia for bygone days,
rather than a portrait of the kind of people who prefer to live below ground. Besides,
troglodytic amenities vary as much as those of more conventional habitations.
The irregular holes in the oasis of Siwa, Tunisia are entrances to a burial ground that
has been converted into living quarters. Compared to them, the cave-dwellings on the op
posite page are highly sophisticated architecture.

Opposite, a partial view of an underground village near Loyang in northern China. It

takes a second glance to notice that what looks like flat roofs is earth, bare except for a
few trees. Every room has a vaulted ceiling carved into the soil while the roof comes free.
the fields," writes George B. Cressey in his Land of the 500 million: A Geography of China,
even though there is no house in sight; "such land does double duty, with dwellings below
and fields upstairs." The dwellings are clean and free of vermin, warm in winter and cool
in summer. Not only habitations but factories, schools, hotels, and government offices are
built entirely underground.
 fgBm

Nature as architect
Our tendency to look at stalactite caves with cathe
drals in mind, or to see castles in eroded rocks, be
trays neither exceptional imagination nor artistic
insight. Ciudad Encantada, the Enchanted City,
about 120 miles east of Madrid, is a formation of
cretaceous deposits covering 500 acres. The fantastic
shapes, boldly cantilevered, are an astonishing sight
and need no fanciful comparisons with architecture
to be appreciated.
The baobab tree of tropical Africa, Adansonia digitata, sometimes reaches a diameter of
30 feet. Its wood being soft, live trees are often hollowed out and used as dwellings.
Architecture by subtraction
Occasionally, men have carved entire towns out of live rock above ground. The ramparts,
castle, and houses of Les Baux-en-Provence were cut to a great extent from the calcareous
mountain on which they stand. An important place in the Middle Ages, it has long been
abandoned; the number of its inhabitants has dwindled to 250. Below, the ruin of a free
standing house.
Opposite, a close-up of one of the Gdreme cones (see 48), sculpted by nature. They
range from the size of a tent to that of a minor skyscraper with as many as sixteen floors.
Plans of the apartment inhabited by Simeon the Stylite (in the fifth century a.d.) are shown
at right. The lowest floor contained his oratory. Above it were his living quarters with a
fireplace and furniture made from stone.

r-
 Architecture by subtraction, continued
These churches from three continents are not "buildings" in the strict sense of the word;
they, too, are carved out of rock. Below, a view of the ninth-century monolithic church of
Saint-Emilion (Gironde). At right, top, a church facade from about the same time at
Goreme (Anatolia). At right, bottom, St. George's Church at Lalibela (Abyssinia), carved
from the rock like a sculpture and hollowed out.

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From Semiramis Hanging Gardens to the latest dam building projects, agriculture has
been competing with architecture in shaping the surface of the land. Building his first wall
—probably for retaining water or earth—man created space on the human scale. Piling
stone onto stone was a formidable advance over carving rock. Above, terraces in the loess
area in Honan (China). Below, terraced mountain top, China.
The choice of site
Man's physical freedom manifests itself no doubt
in his ability to choose the place on earth where he
wants to live. Whereas immature reflection tends to
judge by usefulness alone, a discriminating mind
may ask its share of beauty. Neither privations nor
danger will deter man from selecting a spot that
provides him with the exhilaration generated by a
superb landscape.
Phira, the capital of the small Greek archipelago
of Thera, is a sort of box seat in the theater of cre
ation. It towers 660 feet above its small port on the
brink of an ancient volcanic crater, and no better
example could be found to illustrate the original
meaning of the words uptown and downtown. Pe
riodically devastated by earthquakes, the island has
never been abandoned.
Architectural eyries
Before being introduced to the prosaic tasks of their chosen profession, students of archi
tecture are sometimes given problems that call for tackling sites like these. It is the one and
only chance in their careers for tasting the exhilaration that comes from working, if only
on paper, in connivance with nature at its most magnanimous.
Opposite, one of a group of hermitic strongholds called Meteora, near Trikkala in north
ern Greece, that have been inhabited for the past eight hundred years. Access was once
gained by being hoisted in a basket —the prototype of our elevators. Above, the Penon de
Alhucemas, one of a group of three small islands that guard the Moroccan coast southeast
of Ceuta. With its turrets and batteries, the place is a sort of stationary battleship. Below:
In the Spanish province of Castellon, facing the Mediterranean, lies Peniscola of similar
shape. A narrow sandbank joins it precariously to the mainland.
Italian hill towns
The very thought that modern man could live in anach
ronistic communities like these would seem absurd were
it not that they are increasingly becoming refuges for
city dwellers. People who have not yet been reduced to
appendages to automobiles find in them a fountain of
youth.
Positano (at right) changed within a few years from a
simple fishing town—it was an important harbor some
five hundred years ago—to a luxurious resort, without
destroying the local architecture. Opposite: Anticoli Cor-
rado, in the Sabine Mountains near Rome.
Model hill town
Mojacar, in the province of Almeria, used to be one of the more spectacular Spanish hill
towns until last year when tourism caught up with it. The houses shown in the photo
graphs were torn down, or are being torn down, to make space for parking lots, hotels,
apartment houses, and villas designed in bogus vernacular.
Below, a panoramic view of Mojacar. The Mediterranean Sea is visible in the upper
right corner. Opposite, a close-up of the town.
Cliff dwellers of the Dogon
Among Sudanese tribes, one of the best known—for their art rather than for their architec
ture—are the Dogons. Numbering about a quarter of a million people, they live along the
plateau of Bandiagara, south of Tombouctou. The photographs show one of a string of
villages built on rocks fallen from high cliffs. What at first glance appears to be mere
debris (below), is a mixture of flat-roofed dwellings and straw-hatted houses.
The absence of any large buildings, vehicles, or even streets, would suggest to us barbarian
conditions had not extensive ethnographic investigations disclosed a highly sophisticated
culture. The Dogons' architecture expresses communal organization; their religiously in
spired sculpture ranks among the best of African art. Typical subjects are human figures
sculpted from tree trunks that form an integral part of architecture. (See page 156.)
Aquatic architecture
The proximity of a body of water, whether a river, a lake, or the sea, has always been of
great consideration in the choice of a community. In the Orient, millions of people live
much like waterfowl, more or less permanently on the water. Below, a sampling of house
boats in Shanghai's Soochow Creek near its junction with the Whangpoo River. The ad
vantages of the site are evident—the waterways never need be torn up for costly repairs,
drains suffer no stoppage, a bath is ready at all hours. Besides, the expanse of water func
tions as a cooling plant during the hot season.

42
To judge from the engraving above, pre-Columbian Mexico City looked much like a
smaller version of Venice. Houses faced the waterfront, alleys were narrow although the
central plaza seems ample. The town and lake disappeared without a trace, and so might
have Venice had the canals and lagoon been allowed to fill in. Instead, Venetians stub
bornly preserved their natural defenses and thus were spared the invasions of foreign
armies during a thousand years.
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Nomadic architecture
Tents and pavilions, "the magnificent structures that have been the pride of the monarchs
of Western Asia for thousands of years, fabrications huge in size, very costly, and even if
not permanent, often of extraordinary beauty," have never been seriously considered
architecture by art historians, complains historian Arthur Upham Pope. The Chinese
painting below more than hints at the satisfactory combination of austerity and pomp. The
geometric screens of silk, set at right angles, lend grandeur to the barren camping site.
Above and opposite bottom, a holiday encampment on the Ajdir Plateau in the Middle
Atlas. The tents are made from black goats' wool.

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(right) is from J. Chapelle,
Nomades noirs du Sahara.
Primeval forms
This is neither a case of nature imitating conical
houses, nor of man copying conical rocks. The vol
canic formations in the Anatolian valley of Goreme
(above) were eroded by wind and water. Whether
the stylized shapes suggested houses or not, the
many crevices, holes, and hollows that occur in the
soft stone had only to be enlarged and smoothed in
order to provide habitable space. The site ap
pealed to people with a desire for seclusion and,
during the seventh century a.d., as many as 30,000
anchorites, male and female, lived here in a monas
tic community. Access to the thousands of cham
bers, churches, and chapels was, and often still is,
by rope ladder.
Peasant houses, called trulli (below), dot the almond and olive groves of southern Apulia.
They are built of annular layers of stone that terminate in a false conic cupola crowned
by a keystone. The archaic house form of an early megalithic civilization, they are related
to the Balearic talyots, Sardinian nuraghi, and the sesi of pantelleria. Despite the passage
of a dozen nations, the type has survived almost without change since the second millen
nium b.c. It still serves the inhabitants well.
Architectural mimicry
Two examples of architecture where man's handiwork blends into the natural setting,
thereby achieving a synthesis of the vernacular and organic forms. Below, rooftops with
highly sculptural chimneys, typical of the Aegean islands. Opposite, the corner of a castle
at Sotalba in the province of Avila, at the foot of the Sierra de Penalguete.
 MM

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 Town structures
Two different communal structures are represented
by the almost pointillistic pattern of Zanzibar (left)
and the relaxed geometric one of Marrakesh. A
"4 good part of the town of Zanzibar has preserved
its village character with its detached huts. Streets,
or whatever the vacant spaces may be called, run
erratically, like raindrops on a windowpane.
Marrakesh (Morocco) is the archetype of an Islamic
town with its quadrangular houses organized
around interior courts. There are no traffic arteries
to speak of; the cool narrow alleys of broken course
often lead to dead ends.
54
Unit architecture
The use of a single building type does not necessarily
produce monotony. Irregularity of terrain and deviations
from standard measurements result in small variations
which strike a perfect balance between unity and diver
sity. At right and below, the Spanish towns of Mijas and
Villa Hermosa; opposite, the Italian Pisticci.
The classical vernacular
Rugged nature seems to stimulate man's artistic powers. This
remarkable town, whose inhabitants come nearest to living
on a volcano, is a case in point. Apanomeria is built on the
brink of a crater, the leftovers of a volcano that blew up in
prehistoric time. The houses, blindingly white against the
masses of dark-colored rocks, represent a sort of endless
sculpture.
In the 1920s, when this photograph was taken, commer
cial architecture was already on the march (see upper right
corner). The old houses in the foreground, however, are
modeled according to local tradition, their forms being no
more accidental than the voices of a fugue. All of them are
variations of a single dwelling type, the vaulted cell. They
contain no interior staircases, each room being accessible
from the outside only. The small windows prove perfectly
adequate since walls and ceiling—and often also the floor-
are whitewashed and thus reflect the light. No outsize build
ings disturb the general harmony; even the many churches
and chapels submit to the vernacular.
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Fortified places
It is a curious comment on our architecture, not to say civilization, that grown-up people
have been known to be in raptures over the esthetic adventures afforded by a "split level"
house. Which suggests that we seem never quite able to leave the ground on our modest
flights of architectural fancy. Never having a chance to wend our way through imagina
tively devised space, we are unlikely to be good judges of the architecture shown here. Yet
even the poor snapshots hint at some of its delights. The fascination of labyrinths and
secret chambers, of murky passages and vertiginous flights of steps—all the eternal mysteries
of enclosed space—is here conveyed without loss of impact by being translated into an
architectural idiom that is at once complex and crystal clear. Neither house nor town but
a synthesis of both, this architecture was conceived by people who build according to
their own inner light and untutored imagination.
Family-size fortifications
Only a few hundred years ago, the skylines of many European and Asian towns bristled
with slender prismatic towers, for it was both more dignified and more esthetic to fight
intramural battles from the vantage point of an appropriate architecture rather than from
rooftops or in streets, as is the custom in our day.

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Opposite, two of the original two hundred towers of Bologna. The Torre Asinelli (left),
323 feet high, dates from 1109. The unfinished Torre Garisenda (right), built one year
later, leans more than eight feet.

Above, a view of Vatheia, one of several fortified villages in the Peloponnesus.

Below, a Yemenite town of similar silhouette.

 The fortified villages of Svanetia
Like Vatheia on the preceding page, these villages in Svanetia, a high-lying valley in the
western Caucasus, are protected by towers. Until recently, each family had to defray its
own defense budget, for as late as the latter half of the nineteenth century blood feuds
and vendettas raged unchecked. "The little fortifications in which each family lives," com
ments William O. Field, an American glaciologist who visited the valley in the 1920s, "date
from some time previous to the twelfth century. The outward aspect of the country has
changed little, and the towers and castles remain dotted about the landscape, sometimes
singly, sometimes in clusters of fifty or sixty."

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Arcades
Neither the word arcade nor its many synonyms translate satisfactorily into the American
language, perhaps because we have no arcades. (The penny arcade is not a variant to be
considered here.) Arcades are altruism turned architecture— private property given to an
entire community.

Above, arcades in Switzerland's capital, Bern, dating from the sixteenth century.

Below, a street in Aibar, in the Spanish province of Navarra. The town has preserved its
medieval aspect; some streets are lined with arcades of wood or stone and many houses
still have Gothic portals.
Above, an arcade running along a hospice at Cape Espichel in Portugal. Below, arcades
around a square at Monpazier (Dordogne).
Arcades, continued
The disappearance of age-old pleasures and privileges is the first unmistakable sign of
progress. Whereas less than a century ago every Spanish town and village boasted miles of
covered ways along its streets, today they are disappearing fast.

Above, two sides of the town square of Garrovillas in western Spain. Opposite, below, a
close-up of the street juncture seen in the picture above, right. It illustrates how simple
design freely employed produces intricate, above all, attractive space.
Below, a street in Caldas de Reyes in Spain where the arcades have reduced the street
itself to a narrow passage.

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Arcades, continued
The old Moravian town of Tele in what is today Czechoslovakia consists mainly of two
monumental blocks of patrician houses bordering the town square on one side and lakes
on the other. Thus each house has an urban and a pastoral part, the latter ending in a
garden. The town square (which is anything but square) forms the only thoroughfare. The
entire length of its perimeter is covered by arcades.

Above and below, the rows of houses with their arcaded gable-ends. Opposite, an interior
view of one arcade, a rural-type Rue Rivoli.
Covered streets
The three chiaroscuro pictures may strike terror into
the heart of the urbanite because he automatically as
sociates them with unspeakable crimes. In underdevel
oped countries, however, such streets are usually as safe
as a church at high mass. Still, although they are taken
for granted by the natives, to us they seem unreal,
devoid as they are of sidewalks, traffic lights, parked
cars, and batteries of garbage cans, all of which we
have come to accept as the attributes of higher civiliza
tion.

Photographs can only hint at the actual experience of

traversing passages through complicated space that
plays on all senses: sheafs of light piercing darkness;
waves of coolness and warmth; the echo of one's own
footsteps; the odor of sun-baked stones. The sum of
these impressions adds up to an esthetic adventure
that, modest though it is, we are usually denied.
ture
Semicovered streets
Less sturdy than arcades but gayer and more airy are
the lacy coverings that are the delight of oriental
streets and courtyards. Their shadow-plays are staged
with simple means: canopies of trellises, mats, nets, or
vines are turned to good account for distilling the raw
sunlight into a sort of optical liqueur.

All examples are from Africa, except the last of the

small pictures, which shows toldos, canvas awnings
spread across a street in Sevilla.
Loggie
The loggia, an old fixture of vernacular architecture, runs the entire gamut from covered
walkways through more or less protected balconies and galleries to columned halls.

Opposite, a wing of the Greek monastery Simon Petra on Mount Athos. Above, a pan
oramic view of Aul Shreck in the Caucasus. Below, houses on the main square of Chin-
chon near Madrid, whose loggie serve as theater boxes on the occasion of bullfights.
Quasi-sacral architecture
Among some of the least known manifestations of rural architecture are the granaries in
the Spanish province of Galicia, the northwest corner of the Iberian peninsula. The in
habitants of that region descend from the Celts who invaded the continent around 500
b.c. Their rude, circular stone huts can still be found in mountain districts, yet it is the
horreos, the corn cribs, that most deserve our attention. Built for eternity, resembling
nothing so much as chapels a pilotis , they are conspicuous for their severe lines. Such
dignity is by no means accidental—most peasants have a religious respect for bread and the
stuff that goes into its making.
Put together from large granite slabs, a horreo is fire- and vermin-proof. It rests on
pillars topped by circular stones that act as rat-guards, and, incidentally, are the fore
runners of the classical capital. Interstices in the walls serve for ventilation. Folklore has
it that horreos go on walks at night.
Granaries, continued
Cultural ties between northern Portugal and the rest of the country have never been as
strong as with the neighboring Spanish province of Galicia. Not surprisingly, horreos (see
preceding pages) have their perfect counterpart in the Portuguese espigueiros. In the
rural community of Lindoso, where harvesting is a collective task, these granaries are the
dominant feature. They have been placed in a privileged position to take advantage of the
winds (for ventilation) and to facilitate transferring the grain to the castle in case of in-

Below: A view of the granaries from the castle. The land on which they stand consists of
natural granite terraces that serve as threshing floors.
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Small-capacity granaries
The miniature silos are from Yenegandougou
(above), Korhogo (at right), and Diebougou (far
right), on the upper reaches of the Volta River
(Ivory Coast), about 400 miles from the sea. The
fourth picture (opposite page, top) shows a Sudan
ese type.
While the leggy substructures of the Iberian stone
granaries may have given rise to the popular belief
in their nightly escapades, the potbellied type
among these African storehouses suggests nothing
so much as a propensity for dancing. Their an
thropomorphic character is underscored by such
decorations as the human face (above).
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Storage towers
The granaries of the Dogon people (see 40, 41) in what was once the French Sudan are
hardly less monumental than those of Galicia or Libya. Both the square towers (above) in
Bandiagara, and the stalagmitic ones (opposite) near Mopti, take advantage of rocky over
hangs.
Fertilizer plants
In the Western world, pigeons take their place somewhere among such pests as houseflies
or chiggers; whether nuisance or menace, most people look forward to their extinction.
Not so in Eastern countries, where pigeonry is held in the highest esteem. The birds'
droppings are collected in special towers that work on the principle of a piggy-bank. When
filled, they are smashed and their precious contents put to use.
 jjfi

Opposite, a battery of pigeon towers at Lindjan near Isfahan

Above and right, pigeoncots in the Nile Valley.
© NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC SOCIETY

Engineering without engineers

Some of the contraptions of primitive technology may earn the contempt of today's engi
neers, yet their charm cannot be matched by modern machines. This timeless Syrian water
wheel lifts water from the Orontes River into aqueducts for the houses and gardens of
Hama. The wheel is 64 feet t&ll and does double duty as a gigantic mobile—a combination
of ferris wheel and diving board—for Hama's privileged youth.
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Pile dwellings
Pile dwellings held a special fascination for the founding fathers of
modern architecture who adopted them as architecture a pilotis. Yet
they have never been adopted for practical purposes.
Primitive builders, being more realistic, have long been living in the
safety of their penthouses. Examples from three continents illustrate
applications of elevated platforms. The simplest kind are fishing sta
tions, such as at Vieste, Italy (opposite top), and Stanleyville, Congo
(opposite bottom).
Top: The entire Chinese village of Ho Keou in Yunnan province is
built on stilts, above high water level. Bottom: A tree-house in the vil
lage of Buyay, located on Mount Clarence in New Guinea.
Skeletal architecture
"Upon the mountain slopes steep by the lake, stand the rows of naked
pillars rising out of the green foliage like ruins of temples: white, square
pillars of masonry, standing forlorn in their colonnades and squares . . .
as if they remained from some great race that once worshipped here."
Characteristically, a poet, not an architect, discovered the charms of
this exotic architecture. Around 1912, D. H. Lawrence lived on Lake
Garda, and there wrote his essay The Lemon Gardens.
The limonaie form terraced labyrinths, enclosed by high stone walls
and guarded by ferocious dogs. During the winter months, the lemon
trees, some of which have been bearing fruit for 150 years, are protected
from cold and snow by roofs of wooden boards, while glass panels are
inserted between the 40-foot-high columns. The photographs, taken in
summer, show the rustic conservatories stripped of roofs and walls.
The air-conditioners of Hyderabad Sind
These unusual roofscapes are a prominent feature of the lower Sind district in west Paki
stan. From April to June, temperatures range above 120°F., lowered by an afternoon breeze
to a pleasant 95°. To channel the wind into every building, "bad-gir," windscoops, are
installed on the roofs, one to each room. Since the wind always blows from the same direc
tion, the position of the windscoops is permanently fixed. In multistoried houses they
reach all the way down, doubling as intramural telephones. Although the origin of this
contraption is unknown, it has been in use for at least five hundred years.
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Celestial architecture
Among abstract architecture, some of the most impos
ing examples stand in Jaipur, India. They are gigantic
astronomical instruments built in the eighteenth cen
tury to the plans of Maharajah Sawai Jai Singh II.
Their purpose was to achieve greater accuracy of astro
nomical data than that available from portable brass
instruments. Since they never lived up to expectations,
they represent that rare instance of pure, or nearly
pure, architecture of a functionless kind.

The photographs at left and right show the "supreme

instrument," Samrat Yantra, and a dozen similar,
smaller structures.

At right, one of several hundred small-scale observa

tories in the Portuguese fishing town Olhao. They are
the local equivalent of our widows' walks.
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Symbolic vernacular
Only in our time are towers built for profit and
usury. In the past their significance was mainly
symbolic. Apart from the functional defensive
towers, they usually expressed religious senti
ments—faith, hope, grief, and the like. Spires,
minarets, and pagodas were, or are, essential
parts of buildings intended for launching pray
ers; only the notorious Tower of Babel spelled,
unaccountably, blasphemy.

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Iraq, built eleven centuries ago. The 140-foot
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The thirteenth-century towering tomb of Shakh
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Ungarnished castles
The founding fathers of modern architecture took more than one cue from Spanish
castles. Functional, austere, and remarkably free of confectionary ch&teau-style detail, the
volumes of these fortifications are composed mainly of cubic and cylindrical forms.

Above, Montealegre in the province of Valladolid. Opposite page, top, Villarejo de Sal-
vanes, near Madrid. Bottom, a primitive type of fort in Swat State, on the North-West
Frontier of west Pakistan.
Grass structures
Indigenous building methods often show great dar
ing and elegance. The soaring framework (left) for
a men's clubhouse at Maipua, in the Gulf of New
Guinea, is made of bamboo poles and will be
covered with thatch. (Bamboo is not a tree but a
grass that may attain a height of eighty feet. For
another imaginative bamboo structure see 153.)

At right, two working stages and the final result

of a construction method used in southern Iraq.
The building material is giant reed (fragmites com
munis) that grows along the lower Tigris and Eu
phrates, where it attains a height of twenty feet. It
is bound into fasces, stuck into the ground and
bent into parabolic arches. Mats woven from split
reed serve for roofing. The interior is bare of furni
ture; carpets and a hearth for brewing coffee are
the sole fixtures.
Wood in vernacular architecture
Log cabins are not the only architecture that one can make with unsawed tree trunks. In
the two examples shown, this material achieves monumentality, tempered by elegance.
Below, a row of torii flanking the approach to the Inari Shrine in Kyoto. A torii is a kind
of square arch, accessory to shinto shrines; its origin is unknown.

Opposite; This interior, reminiscent of Piranesi's fantasies, consists of shorings in the

eleventh-century salt mine of Wieliczka in Poland. This underground labyrinth extends
over sixty miles and reaches a depth of 980 feet. The seven levels, one below the other,
are connected by flights of steps.
Enclosures
Garden walls, hedges and fences are looked upon with suspicion by people who are allergic
to privacy. Still, screens of every conceivable sort have always been indispensable req
uisites of civilized architecture. The perpendicular view of Logone-Birni (Cameroun) at
left reveals such an abundance of enclosed outdoor spaces as to make the roofed-over
buildings seem almost accidental.
The partial enclosures at right are windscreens in Shimane Prefecture in Western Japan.
To achieve solid buffers against winter winds and snowstorms, the farmers coax pine trees
into thick, L-shaped hedges about fifty feet high. In some parts of Northern Japan, straw
screens of similar height are put up during the winter months around houses and, some
times, around entire villages.
$
Rural architecture
The aerial view of this village of Zambian herdsmen recalls the mycological phenomenon
called witches' rings, where certain mushrooms grow in perfect circles. Here, a thousand
thatched huts form a circle around the chief's enclave, composed of huts for his many
wives. The largest hut belongs to his favorite wife, while he lives in a foreign-style, flat-
roofed wooden box. The hundred-odd pens accommodate 5000 cattle.

133

Opposite page, a segment of the ring shown at right.

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Woven palaces
In civilizations less ponderous than ours, enclosures made
from woven matting are considered fit for kings. The free-
form walls (above) screen the royal court of Lealui in Zam
bia, the former Northern Rhodesia.

Opposite, a house in the royal quarter of Bakuba (Congo).

At right, a detail of the Palace of Justice at Aloa Bay in the

Solomon Islands.
Movable architecture
Many so-called primitive peoples deplore our habit of mov
ing (with all our belongings) from one house, or apartment,
to another. Moreover, the thought of having to live in
rooms that have been inhabited by strangers seems to them
as humiliating as buying second hand old clothes for one's
wardrobe. When they move, they prefer to build new houses
or to take their old ones along.

Moving day in Guinea (above), and in Vietnam (opposite

below). At left, two donkeys carrying structural elements, to
be assembled into huts. Rendille nomads, Kenya.
Sometimes the borderline between clothes and habitation
becomes blurred, as between a raincoat and a pup tent.
Empty baskets (opposite top) may double as cover against
the elements, portable roofs become umbrellas, and vice
versa.
j 1 /v*». *r 4
Vegetal roofs
In a genial climate, buildings often consist of little
more than a roof that acts as parasol and parapluie.
"We first spread a parasol to throw shadow on the
earth," writes the Japanese novelist Tanizaki, "and
in the shadow we put together a house." From the
wealth of roofs made of vegetable matter, the three
shown here are technically impeccable. The fluffy
covering of the Kirdi hut (left) is as much a tri
umph of indigenous architecture as the heavy
thatch roof from the Sudan (below). The roof with
earflaps reaching to the ground (right) is character
istic of the vernacular of some valleys in the north
ern provinces of Japan. Compared to some indus
trial roofing materials, thatch is everlasting (not to
mention its being a superb insulation against heat
and cold), but good roofers are hard to come by
these days. Many old Japanese farmsteads which
formerly blended into their natural surroundings
today advertise their presence by shiny new tin
roofs.
e
3

145
The primeval vault 147
The vaulted roof is often found in the neighborhood of troglodyte dwellings, yet their
exact relationship has never been properly established. The Theraen house, illustrated
here, is the earliest type. The standardized dwelling unit consists of a rectangular cell
with barrel vault, on which another identical unit is often superimposed. The photo
graph at right clearly shows the transition from cliff-face dwellings to half-dug and,
eventually, to free-standing houses. Some houses have a flat roof added for drying fruit and
vegetables (see also 1). Specimens of the vaulted cell-house are not confined to the Aegean
Sea but are also found along the Tyrrhenian.
Sail vaults
We usually judge enclosed space in terms of construction cost or rental fee; its sensual
effect rarely makes itself felt except perhaps in a yearning for "high ceilings," regardless of
a room's proportion. But at least this hints at the important role played by the lid of every
architectural container. Vaulted ceilings, especially, seem to impart a sense of comfort.
In Iran, where vaulting is almost synonymous with building, a townscape seen from
above clearly discloses the inner organization of every building. At Isfahan (below),
houses of God, houses of men, even streets, are covered with voluptuously undulating
roofs. The row of cupolas stretching diagonally across the picture covers a bazaar street.

«r*>,
Both, the caravansarai (above) and the teahouse (below) stand in the town of Qum, near
Teheran. Their walls are of stone rubble, the vaults and arches of mud brick. The nine
bays of the teahouse are covered by five domical vaults and four segmented vaults, resting
on four piers and the peripheral walls. The vaults of the 21-bay caravansarai, flanked by
ramping segmented vaults, have 4-pier internal supports for maximum elasticity. Swelled,
as it were, like a sail in the wind, this type of vault is indeed referred to as volta a vela,
a sail vault.
Mason versus architect
"Give a mason bricks and mortar," writes Jamshid Kooros, an M.I.T. -educated Persian
architect, "and tell him to cover a space and let in light, and the results are astounding.
The mason, within his limitations, finds unending possibilities, there is variety and
harmony; while the modern architect with all the materials and structural systems available
to him produces monotony and dissonance, and that in great abundance."
Two vaults in the Masjid-e-Jameh at Isfahan. Probably fifteenth century.
Vernacular virtuosity
Truly magical effects are often achieved with modest means. At left, a Japanese arbor
composed of bamboo poles and climbers. Below, the cupola of a Turkish bathhouse-a
whirlpool of bright stars, arrested, as it were, in its movement. The luminous disks em
bedded in the dome are thick, lenselike glass blocks.
Iznic, Turkey. Othmanli period.
Caryatids, plain and polychrome
This rapid review of non-pedigreed archi
tecture, concerned as it is mainly with its
broader manifestations, cannot be expected
to touch on the delights hidden under its
roofs. These two pictures, therefore, merely
hint at the intimate architectural aspects.
The anthropomorphic pillars at left sup
port the roof of the palace at Ketou (Da
homey), the one at right stands in a com
munal rest house of the Dogon (see41).
Less distant perhaps and less ladylike than
the Kore of the Erechtheion, they are
linked to modern Western art. Museum
pieces in our eyes, they represent rather
common fare in some superbly under
developed countries.
•t
*%'
Sources of Illustrations
Arab Information Center, New D. A. Harissiadis. Courtesy Royal Alfred Nawrath Unsterbliches
York City 63 Greek Embassy Press & Infor Indien. Courtesy Anton Schroll
from Archaeological Researches mation Service 87 & Co., Vienna 114
in Sinkiang by Folke Bergman. Konrad Helbig, Umbria, the Isamu Noguchi 116,117
Courtesy Statens Etnografiska Heart of Italy by Harald Shigeo Okamoto, (c) Shokokusha
Museum, Stockholm 12 Keller. Courtesy Anton Schroll Publishing Company, Tokyo 129
Armee de l'Air, Collection & Co., Vienna-Munich 80 from Civitates Orbis Terrarum,
Musee de l'Homme 59,60 Martin Hesse, Bern. Courtesy by Georg Braun, Cologne, 1576 43
from Arquitectnra Popular em Gesellschaft fur Schweizerische Dr. Pales, Collection Musee de
Portugal. Courtesy Sindicato Kunstgeschichte, Basel 67 l'Homme 95,96,98.
Nacional dos Arquitectos, Susumu Higuchi 132 99,138,
Lisbon 93,94 The Hispanic Society of America, 156
Hugo A. Bernatzik, Siidsee: Ein New York City 34,91 People's Museum, Peking, China 45
Reisebuch 110 Gunda Holzmeister, Bilder aus Prof. Plicka. Courtesy Prof.
Pierre Boucher, Direction Ge Anatolien by Clemens Holz Oldrich Dostal 78
nerate du Tourisme, Paris 85 meister and Rudolf Fahrner 24,50
Calavas, Collection Musee de Vera Pospisilova. Courtesy Prof.
41 Dr. Martin Hiirlimann, India, Oldrich Dostal 75
l'Homme the landscape, the mountains,
Wulf-Diether Graf zu Castell, Casa de Portugal, New York City 69
11,15,16 and the people. Courtesy from Rude Stone Monuments in
Miinich/Riem Atlantis Verlag, Zurich 113,115
17,18 all Countries by James Fergus-
Central Office of Information, Irish Tourist Office 121 son. Tohn Murray, London,
London 139 Istituto della Enciclopedia 1872 9
Chasseloup-Eaubat, Collection Italiana 64,88 Bernard Rudofsky cover,1,
Musee de l'Homme 84 Japan Press Service. Courtesy 22,31,32,
Chicago Natural History Kokusai-Kentiku 30 51,55,57,
Museum 125 58,68,71,
Jamshid Kooros 151,152
73,74,86,
Direction Generate de la Presse Mary Light, from Focus on
au Ministere de l'lnterieur, 89,107,
Africa by R. O. Light, Ameri 111,112,
Ankara, Courtesy Dr. Myron
154 can Geographical Society 53,133, 118,146,
B. Smith, Islamic Archives 134
Alfons Dlugosz, Wieliczka 147
Magnum Sal. Arkady, Warsaw 130 A. Loquet, courtesy Direction Roger Santeur, from L'Ethiopie
19,20,38, Generale du Tourisme, Paris 70 by Jean Doresse. Courtesy
Jose Ortiz Echagiie
39,52,90, Die Markgrafschaft M'dhren in Editions Albert Guillot, Paris 27
122,124 Kunstgeschichtlicher Bezieh- Victor Schamoni, from Goreme,
Ente Nazionale Industrie ung by August Prokop, Hohlenkirchen in Kapadokien,
Turistiche 13,61 Vienna 77 by Ludwig Budde. L. Schwann,
William O. Field, American Dr. Martin Hiirlimann, Italy. Diisseldorf 26
Geographical Society 65,66 Courtesy Atlantis Verlag, Peter Schmid, Paradies in
French Government Tourist Zurich 37 Drachenschlund. Deutsche
Office 10,25 Office Marocain du Tourisme, Verlags-Anstalt 142
Frobenius Institute, Frankfurt/ Rabat 44,47 Dr. Myron B. Smith, from
Main 14,81, MAS, Barcelona 35,56,72, Islamic Archives 102,120,
101,103, 79,92 148,149,
135 Gavin Maxwell, People of the 150
Yukio Futagawa, Nihon No Reeds 126,127, Spanish National Tourist Office 29
Minka 145 128 Shokosuke Takemura. Courtesy
Gabinetto Fotografico Nazionale 36,49 Ministry of Home Affairs, This Is Japan 153
Georg Gerster, Sahara, Desert Salisbury, Rhodesia and Tracol, Collection Musee de
of Destiny 83 Nyasaland 21 l'Homme 137
from Gbreme, Hohlenkirchen in Mistni Narodni Vybor v Telci 76 U.S. Air Force 28
Kapadokien by Ludwig Budde Paul Mitarachi 33 Oppi Untracht 140,141
and Victor Schamoni. L. Joan Eyres Monsell, from Mani Vayson de Pradennes, Collection
Schwann, Diisseldorf 23 by Patrick Leigh Fermor. Musee de l'Homme 104
Marcel Griaule, Collection Courtesy John Murray Ltd. 62 E. Vogel, Collection Musee de
Musee de l'Homme 40,82,97, Collection Musee de l'Homme, l'Homme 54
100,144 Paris 109,155 Wenner-Gren Foundation for
Marcel Griaule 131 Musee Royale de l'Afrique Anthropological Research,
Peter W. Haberlin, (c) Ernst Centrale, Tervuren 108,136 New York City 7,8
Haberlin, from Yallah by Paul National Geographic Society 42,105, Photo Reportage YAN, from
Bowles. Conzett & Huber, 106,119, T urkey. Thames & Hudson,
Zurich 143 123 London 48
 TheMuseumof ModernArt

ic>4pages, 135 illustrations (6 in color

300062280

Modern Gardens and The Landscape

by Elizabeth B. Kassler

"A garden is an essay in the tenancy of the earth," write* Eliza

beth B. Kassler in introducing this first book to emphasize the
esthetic relationship between the modern garden and the
natural landscape. And it is the contemporary feeling tor inter
relationships of man, land and plants, of artifacts and natural
facts, that Mrs. Kassler explores in her text and in brilliantly
annotated photographs.
Today's designer is heir to the anti-architectural landscape style
of 18th-century England as well as to the classical Western con
cept of landscape design as architecture. He is often an admirer
of Japanese gardens and Moslem waterworks. Against this back
ground he creates in terms of his own place and time, his own
faith and vision.
Nature can be used for an experience of art, or art for an experi
ence of nature. When form is developed out of the character of
the natural materials and the "Genius of the Place," the nature
of nature can become accessible to our awareness and our sense
of participation.
Presented here are flower gardens, water gardens, mound gar
dens, sculpture gardens, outdoor rooms, plazas and parks. Im
portant among foreign examples are the bold plantings of Burle
Marx in Brazil and Venezuela, the Mexican lava-landscapes and
walled pools of Barragan, the variously delightful parks of Stock
holm, and Asplund's serene Forest Cemetery. Architecture too is
shown as it responds to the challenge of unspoiled country.
Mrs. Kassler, the former Elizabeth Mock and one-time Curator
of Architecture at The Museum of Modern Art, is the author of
Built in U.S.A. Since 1932, If You Want T o Build A House , and
The Architecture of Bridges.

The Museum of Modern Art

11 West 53 Street, New York, N.Y. 10019
Distributed by Doubleday 8cCo. Inc., Garden City, N.Y.
A Selected List of Publications of The Museum of Modern Art, 11 West 53 Street, New York, N.Y. 10019

Americans 1963. 112 pages; 112 illustrations; paper, $2.95

Jean Arp. 126 pages; 114 illustrations (2 in color); cloth, $4.50
The Art of Assemblage. 176 pages; 146 illustrations (11 in color); cloth, $6.50; paper, $3.25
Art Nouveau: Art and Design at the Turn of the Century. 192 pages; 193 illustrations (1 in color); cloth, $6.50
The Work of Jean Dubuffet. 184 pages; 125 illustrations (21 in color); cloth, $7.50; paper, $3.75
Max Ernst. 64 pages; 85 illustrations (1 in color); paper, $2.50
Walker Evans: American Photographs. 198 pages; 87 illustrations; cloth, $7.50
Fifteen Polish Painters. 64 pages; 65 illustrations (1 in color) ; paper, $2.75
Futurism. 154 pages; 141 illustrations (22 in color); cloth, $6.50
German Art of the Twentieth Century. 240 pages; 178 illustrations (48 in color); cloth, $9.50; paper, $4.75
Arshile Gorky: Paintings, Drawings, Studies. 60 pages; 85 illustrations (2 in color); paper, $2.50
Juan Gris. 128 pages; 126 illustrations (19 in color); cloth, $5.50
The History of Impressionism, Revised and Enlarged Edition. 662 pages; 635 illustrations (86 in color) ; cloth, $20.00
Hans Hofmann. 72 pages; 40 illustrations (8 in color); cloth, $6.50; paper, $3.50
Introduction to Twentieth Century Design. 98 pages; 132 illustrations; paper, $2.95
Masters of British Painting— 1800—1950. 160 pages; 104 illustrations (16 in color); boards, $5.50
Masters of Modern Art. 240 pages; 356 illustrations (77 in color) ; boards, $16.50
The Last Works of Henri Matisse: Large Cut Gouaches. 64 pages; 34 illustrations (13 in color); cloth, $4.50; paper, $3.50
Joan Miro. 164 pages; 148 illustrations (35 in color); cloth, $8.50
New Images of Man. 160 pages; 110 illustrations (11 in color); boards, $5.00; paper, $2.50
New Spanish Painting and Sculpture. 64 pages; 58 illustrations; paper, $2.75
Emil Nolde. 88 pages; 67 illustrations (17 in color) cloth, $6.50; paper, $3.50
The Sculptor's Studio: Etchings by Picasso. 48 pages; 23 illustrations; paper, $1.25
Pioneers of Modern Design from William Morris to Walter Gropius. 152 pages; 137 illustrations; cloth, $4.95
Jackson Pollock. 36 pages; 26 illustrations (1 in color);paper, 75$
Odilon Redon—Gustave Moreau—Rodolphe Bresdin. 184 pages; 123 illustrations (31 in color); boards, $7.50; paper, $3.75
Rodin. 228 pages; 172 illustrations (4 in color); cloth, $8.50
Medardo Rosso. 92 pages; 68 illustrations (1 in color); cloth, $5.00
Mark Rothko. 44 pages; 30 illustrations (6 in color); paper, $2.25
Georges Rouault: Paintings and Prints. 132 pages; 131 illustrations (4 in color); cloth, $3.75
Sixteen Americans (1959). 96 pages; 92 illustrations; paper, $1.95
Steichen the Photographer. 80 pages; 55 illustrations; paper, $2.50
De Stijl. 16 pages; 16 illustrations (3 in color); paper, 75<t
Textiles and Ornaments of India. g6 pages; 110 illustrations (16 in color); boards, $4.00
Mark Tobey. 112 pages; 75 illustrations (12 in color); cloth, $5.50; paper, $3.50
What is Modern Painting? 48 pages; 55 illustrations (1 in color); paper, $1.25

A complete list of Museum publications is available on request