Albert Einstein was 26 when he published his “Special Theory of Relativity.”  James D. Watson was 25 when he and Francis Crick discovered the architecture of DNA, arguably the greatest scientific achievement of our lifetime.  Steve Jobs, another early bloomer, believed that you couldn’t trust people over 30 to come up with radical innovations.

Working for decades with Nobel Laureate Jim Watson and Cold Spring Harbor Laboratory on developing that renowned research campus, I also have learned that the road to scientific achievement is not a straight line between two points, but rather a meandering, eclectic journey that should encompass the arts and humanities, interdisciplinary collaboration and sociability, and even sports and outdoor pastimes, such as bird watching.  Now in his 80s, Watson still plays a mean game of tennis. Science does not thrive in a sterile vacuum: the broader the interests of the inquisitor the better.

This bias towards precocity and intellectual diversity makes the job of designing science and math facilities for nascent Watsons all the more challenging and important. Today’s students are our future, and that future is near at hand.   We get a few short years to inspire them so they can go out, over the ensuing decade, and nudge the world in the right direction.

How does one do that?  Well, in part, you have to create excitement about science, math, and engineering: design places not simply to impart facts and figures, but flexible spaces where young people want to be, hang out after class, share ideas, and test what they have learned through real world applications. Rather than purveying “pure” or theoretical math, keep it real, as they say: engage students, for example, in using formulas to calculate the volume of greenhouse gas emissions – and how to mitigate them.  And provide venues where they can show off their discoveries to the whole school and beyond.

Students need to know that learning mathematics is not an end, but a means to greater understanding of how the world works. At Cold Spring Harbor Laboratory, computational mathematics is crucial to molecular genomics – as are the weekly concerts, visiting scholars, and the bucolic campus environs.  I like to think that the architecture there, which is continuing the “Village for Science” vernacular ethos, contributes as well.  Each of these varied facets facilitates discovery and innovation.

At the Mary Institute and St. Louis Country Day School (MICDS) in Missouri, we are trying to apply these principles to a new science and math building for its Upper School, grades 9 through 12.  The design commingles the classrooms for the various disciplines; the spaces are large enough to accommodate breakout areas, varied configurations, and even laboratories in some cases so that questions can be answered both verbally and tangibly.  Think of your garage where you do projects – where a messy vitality inspires enlightened tinkering.

At MICDS, we are designing common spaces for the disciplines to cross-pollinate and engage the larger student body, places for robotics and for exhibiting finished work, venues to drop and roll things about, to launch stuff, to act out ideas.  And just so scientists don’t monopolize all this fun, we plan to integrate the new building with the existing campus, showcasing what goes on inside.  A Center for Community highlighted by an 800-seat amphitheatre will make this new science building welcoming to the entire student body and the surrounding community as well.

Science should not be pushed to the periphery or stand apart like a scholastic orphan or wallflower.  The creativity and even whimsy of the humanities is relevant to the process of discovery.  Similarly, a curriculum that pigeonholes science is short changing its liberal arts offerings.  The two go together, like the hemispheres of the brain; we can’t pretend to understand the world without them both.

Jim Watson once said, “Science moves with the spirit of an adventure, characterized by youthful arrogance and by the belief that the truth, once found, will be simple as well as beautiful.”  Steve Jobs said that we need places that foster creativity: as he would put it, “Why join the navy when you could be a pirate.”

Photos: Jeff Goldberg/Esto

Picking colors totally freaks people out, from homeowners to Fortune 500 CEOs. Re-painting, even re-re-painting is common. Getting the six exterior colors right at the new Hillside Research Campus at Cold Spring Harbor Laboratory was critical to its success in blending in: both with the built and natural setting at the venerable institution and also with the character of the surrounding community. Re-painting was not an option.

The project was recently named one of six finalists in the World Architecture News Colour Awards. The jurors pared the international field from 79 to Hillside Campus, two schools in England and Slovenia, an office building in France, a residential tower in Australia, and a biochemistry building at Oxford University in England. 

Hillside Campus watercolor by Bill Grover, FAIA

Bill Grover, Centerbrook Partner Emeritus, has made a lifelong study of color (see link below to the You Tube video of his April lecture). He also has designed more than 45 projects at Cold Spring Harbor Laboratory since 1973, many when Nobel Laureate Dr. James D. Watson was its director. Hillside Campus, designed with current Centerbrook Partner Jim Childress, is the culmination of his work there. It has augmented the research capacity of the Laboratory by 40 percent. Choosing the palette of hues that would adorn Hillside’s large, clustered, and clearly visible laboratories was not an exercise for the timid.

Here is how Bill and Jim described to the jurors how they deployed pigment:

A primary design challenge for the new Hillside Research Campus – a cluster of six laboratory buildings totaling 100,000 square feet or the equivalent of 40 new homes – was to fit into the ethos of Laurel Hollow, an upscale residential community on Long Island’s north shore.

Likewise, the complex had to nestle demurely next to its colleagues at the venerable Cold Spring Harbor Laboratory, where it expanded research capacity by 40 percent. Through the use of color, form and siting, the result would represent a new campus palette and aesthetic – while simultaneously appearing as if it had always been there.

Color was crucial to achieving these design goals: Infusing each structure with its own identity, while ensuring that together the buildings continued the well-established “village of science” character of the campus; masking the size of the project to tony neighbors across the harbor, while providing a calming vision of autumnal colors year round; and distinguishing Hillside Campus from the glassy, monolithic and unimaginative development typical of large research projects.

Muted blues, reds, browns, tans and greens dapple across the hillside to integrate the buildings with the landscape, much like a field of flowers where each variety is distinct but together they form a unified tableau. The more subtle earth tones were used higher on the hillside to mask the scale, while slightly more expressive blues and reds highlight buildings in the foreground. As a result, although a departure in many aspects – size, colors, density and complexity – from new and renovated buildings on the 116-acre site, Hillside Research Campus succeeds in meshing decorously with its environs, both built and natural.

I consider myself a technological curmudgeon. I didn’t used to be. Back in the day I was quite the audiophile, with an auto-reverse cassette deck and one of the first CD players in the neighborhood. But all that changed with kids, bills, and the general press of life’s business. Well, as the oft-repeated adage goes, “What goes around comes around.”

It was bound to happen. I am surrounded by technologically adroit architects who have such wonderful digital toys to help them ply their craft, to make virtual, 3-D buildings appear full-blown from the ether before nary hammer contacts a single nail. And they can make that digital house dance the Hokey Poky, if they want to.

Besides, Derek, my marketing colleague, is über-tech savvy. The other day he waved his iPad in front of me with the app Road Inc. that I assume was the brainchild of the ghosts of Steve Jobs and Enzo Ferrari. A swipe here, a tap there, and the big stars of the automotive universe, in all their exquisitely sculpted glory, are rendered in gorgeous digital detail. I’m talking about the rip-snorting, 1,000-horsepower Bugatti Veyron; the 1968 Mustang Fastback from the Steve McQueen movie “Bullitt;” the sensual Ferrari 250 GTO; and the iconic Porsche 911. You can spin them around, admire their insignias, read period spec sheets, hear their exhaust chortle, watch the original ads that look to be produced by Don Draper himself, and ride along via the in-car race cam.

Finally, technology makes sense again. Car enthusiasts like me can appreciate going deep into coachwork and pistons, graphic designers can swoon over elegant simplicity, and techno-geeks can opine about 3D pixel density. But all of us benefit from technology’s ability to enrich the passion, depth, nuance, and texture of the human experience.

I, like, totally want an iPad now.

Here’s the trailer:

The original Yale Bulldog, Handsome Dan I (1889-1897), was the first live collegiate mascot, and this month he is reborn and then some. Larger than life and bronzed, he stands guard at Jensen Plaza outside the Yale Bowl – installed just in time for The Game against Harvard on November 19. The Bulldogs have lost to the Pilgrims nine of the last 10 games. Something monumental had to be done, and we were happy to help as part of our work on Yale’s Derby Avenue athletic campus.

Handsome Dan I (of 17 in toto) was acquired from a New Haven blacksmith for $65. He proceeded to take first prize in the Westminster Dog Show and see Crimson at Yale sporting events, before retiring to England. After Dan ascended into Blue Heaven, his master, a British Yale grad, had him taxidermied, and returned the fetching result to his alma mater. Dan has remained on display ever since in the Payne Whitney Trophy Room, under the dogged care of Yale’s Peabody Museum.

His successors have served bravely: They have graced the cover of Sports Illustrated; fallen off the dock at the Yale Boathouse (Bulldogs can’t swim); survived kidnappings by Cantabs; summered on Martha’s Vineyard; hobnobbed with Pulitzer Prize winners; been ejected from a Yale-Harvard Game (for attacking not just John Harvard, but a mounted policeman); and played dead (when asked if they would rather die or lose to Harvard).

Centerbrook’s midwifery in Dan’s rebirth has entailed no less of a whelping than his first emergence. 

While master planning Yale’s Athletic Campus we discussed the possibility of multiple Bulldog icons; so I quizzed my son, Tom, a sculptor. “Dad,” he advised, “modern sculptors don’t model by hand anymore. If you want to be up to date, you digitally scan a real Bulldog.” Well, that all became moot in the budgeting process. Besides, real Bulldogs just won’t sit, or stand, for a proper scanning.

Fast-forward four years to when we are considering the new entrance to Yale Bowl with university officials and donors, Messrs Jensen, Kenney, and Reese. The new Jensen Plaza would have the names of all Yale football lettermen engraved in it granite pavers, but everyone felt the need for a more demonstrative greeting. There would be new Y-emblazoned iron gates, but something still was missing, call it essence of Eli.

As fate would have it, we concurrently were working on a master plan for the Yale Peabody Museum, and learned of the existence of Stuffed Dan, as well as the fact that my alma mater, the Yale School of Architecture, had the latest scanning and milling equipment. (Bow Wow) Wow, we had the technology and The Dog. We could scan Dan and reproduce this sitting puppy in bronze at 1.5 times his actual size to make him seem life size in a public plaza.

The real Dan at the Yale Bowl – how cool was that? Suddenly, the idea was everyone’s pet project. But, of course, it would be no walk in the park. We needed a pro in the new arts of scanning and milling. Avi Forman, a Yale architecture student, was recommended, and he bravely scanned stuffed Dan, who, to be candid, was a tad rank. On the upside, he wasn’t drooling. The result was a virtual, shiny blue creation; next step milling.

The milling machines, amazing but small, could only produce the dog in pieces – a body of foam with separate plaster extremities. So someone had to dexterously put them together, while also filling Dan out. After all, who is in their prime when old age descends, plus Dan’s 114-year-old stuffing was somewhat dog-eared.

Sue Wyeth, who shepherded us through much of the foregoing, recalled that Michael Anderson, the Peabody’s Preparator, had trained as a scientific delineator and modelled the Peabody’s great bronze Torosaurus. Michael also is expert in canine anatomy. He put the milled Dan back together and then, muscle by muscle, rebuilt his legs by layering plasticene over the foam and plaster. Dan was now 42 inches high and totally buff.

Peabody Preparator Michael Anderson shows his progress photos to Associate Athletic Director Barbara Chesler

Yale Athletic Director Tom Beckett and Dan have a staring match. Dan won.

Next, the artisans at Ranieri Sculpture Casting of Long Island City made a rubber mold, destroying the foam-plaster creature in the process; then they used the mold to make a hollow and reproducible wax model ready for final casting. The wax was covered with an “investment” mold, a cement mix that can take the heat of molten metal. With the wax burnt out of that second mold, the metal was poured in and became our Iconic Dan.

Master Caster Dom Ranieri with the bronze Dan (left)

Last week, bronzed Dan was ready for the final touches, his coat of patina and wax. I went to see him at the foundry and wagged my finger at his master caster, Dom Ranieri, “You did it, Dom; this dog is beyond handsome. He’s noble!”

If the sons of Eli beat Harvard this year, panting Yale fans will be belting out “Bulldog, Bulldog, Bow Wow Wow” and scratching Dan’s bronze ears for luck.

A short while ago, when coming down Prospect Street in New Haven, you would have spied a sleek, one-story, silver classroom and office building with horizontal metal siding and long patterns of windows that seemed to race by each other. It was an intriguing curiosity, boldly announcing that it was having fun. And yet its demure profile let it nestle neatly into a residential neighborhood. Long and sinuous, it meandered around a flagstone-paved entry court with floor-to-ceiling glass under a short porch, welcoming academics to enter.

There was more than a hint of acceleration. Designed a decade ago and constructed in only 9 months (and at half the going cost), this was a temporary building to house Yale’s Political Science Department, which was homeless following the demolition of its old digs and before the establishment of a permanent base.

The department was willing to stay in this “Amtrak Acela,” as the Dean of the College wryly called it, so long as it uplifted them and didn’t leave a generation of students feeling as if they’d been mistreated. Mother Yale worried, too, that a typical, homely mobile building might offend neighbors. Instead, its clean lines and simple concept proffered a break in the campus tradition of Gothic gravitas in favor of some enlightened exuberance.

The secret here was to take crisply designed modular trailers, built in a nearby factory, and clad them onsite to look like one structure. Inside, a central hall connected them all. It felt substantial thanks to the precise detailing of minimal trim and playful patterns of standard elements. It was high style on a low budget.

Against all odds, the building became a campus favorite. Poly Sci members affectionately dubbed their intellectual home the “Diner” and contributed an architectural flourish: “Political Science” spelled out in neon. The building garnered nine design awards, while casual observers and architectural critics lamented its truncated fate. One media wag called it “the best doomed building in the city.”

Despite its popularity, it didn’t live on, making way recently for Yale’s two new residential colleges being designed by Architectural School Dean Robert A.M. Stern. The new duo will look to the past as much as this looked to the future. Progress comes in many forms, and the train of history cannot be stopped.

Alas, this beloved Acela was on a non-tenured track.

"Psycho" photo by Audrey

The headline above could reference brand new edifices that preternaturally swoop and sway, hither and thither, as if a tornado had been an integral part of the design team. Or perhaps the “Orange Cube,” a commercial apparition in Lyon, France that appears to be a giant pumpkin-carving project gone awry (it’s actually more fun than frightening).

But, no, I am writing about a classic residence that literally was as scary as the horror movie it starred in. Alfred Hitchcock’s “Psycho” came out in the summer of 1960, when I was 10 years old. Our parents refused to take us to such a disturbing film, so my older brother Steve and I skimmed some cash from our paper route earnings and rode our bikes to the Madison Theater for a matinee.

I was terrified that the man would not let us in, but equally terrified when he did. Ratings had yet to be invented.

Before the movie’s famous shower scene set my personal hygiene back almost a decade, the image of that gloomy, looming Victorian, perched high above the Bates Motel, made my heart race. I knew nothing about architecture, but I understood that this movie was not going to end well. It was only a matter of time. Indeed, the plot broke new ground in its lack of respect for sympathetic and exceedingly attractive lead characters.

Hitchcock called the house where Norman Bates and his mother lived “California Gothic” or “California Gingerbread.” Castle Frankenstein had nothing on its brooding, ornate, proud, tumbledown façade. It was actually more veneer than dwelling: the interior scenes were shot elsewhere. Norman may have been creepy and disturbing, but at least he could make small talk. There was no communicating with that house. It spoke and you listened. What it said was: “Are you looking at me? Well, don’t. And stay away, stay far, far away!” When characters ignored that clear warning, it was time to get some more popcorn.

Growing up, there were houses like that in our neighborhood, and none of the kids approached them, even on Halloween. One half-built monstrosity clad only in tattered tarpaper was known as the “Death House” for obscure but eminently believable reasons. They have all long since been gentrified.

If corporations are people, as some aver, then I submit that buildings can be movie stars. Here are some examples from films that may have traumatized you at some point during your formative years. They should have been listed in the opening credits.

Outlook Hotel, “The Shining”: The labyrinthine hallways are disorienting, the repetition almost surreal, as reality and fantasy become conflated. -Harding Dowell

“There ain't nothin' in Room 237. But you ain't got no business goin' in there anyway. So stay out. You understand? Stay out.”

Munster Mansion, “The Munsters”: Sitting in front of a black and white TV as a kid, scared out of my mind by the music and the crows flying out of the front door. -Chris Hill

Munster Mansion, Universal Studios. Click for a photoset showing the history of the "Maxim House".

112 Ocean Avenue, Amityville, NY: It’s a common Dutch Colonial style house, but the haunting story, and the way this particular house is always pictured with the windows on either side of the chimney lit up like evil, knowing, and glowing eyes is what terrifies me. -Katie Roden

Mission Bell Tower, “Vertigo”: Another Hitchcock classic. The movie wasn’t scary, but it makes me scared of heights just looking at Jimmy Stewart on those stairs. -Derek Hayn

Wick Manor: One of many installations I created for my children’s elementary school Halloween parties. Lots of foam core – scary! -Mark Herter

I touched on New York City’s High Line in my last post; now I am landing on it with both feet. Set atop an abandoned, elevated rail line, it is the planet’s longest green roof, stretching nearly a mile and a half. It is a remarkable, idiosyncratic pathway that commences in lower Manhattan’s West Side, at Gansevoort Street, and runs north to West 34th Street, augmenting an existing park system lining the Hudson River.

Along its merry way, the High Line provides city residents and visitors with an urban oasis as well as limitless perspectives on the surrounding natural and built landscape. For example, the Statue of Liberty, to the south in New York Harbor, is framed in one stretch, the Empire State Building looms to the north, while westward toward Chelsea is a Frank Gehry designed apparition. Its frankly amorphous and frosty facades fit the nondescript client, IAC (InterActiveCorp), to a tee. It’s hard to tell what either of them is supposed to be.

The High Line environs have become ever trendier, attracting not only tourists but also developers, new residents, and a swarm of Star-chitects, such as Renzo Piano and Jean Nouvel, whose intriguing, Braille-windowed apartment tower poses nearby Gehry’s concoction. The allure of the serpentine greenway has only accelerated the area’s recent real estate boom.

In adapting the old freight line that served the Meat Packing District until 1980 to deliver solace to both sightseers and indigenous perambulators, the designers incorporated existing steel and rails into the scheme along with more than 160 species of native plants. Durable materials like stainless steel, thick glass railings, COR-TEN steel, and super durable Ipe wood complete the impression that this linear Eden will be here for generations to come.

Pedestrian spurs appear here and there, weigh stations to evaluate life, both high and low, and for unique viewing of the streetscape below. Thirty feet above the macadam grid, the High Line feels like it is in the city but not quite of it, akin to a special room in the house where one retreats to get away from the cacophonous family. In warm weather, people are recumbent on bulky chaise lounges along the path, reading, being seen, admiring the Hudson, or dozing. Clearly, this is a place apart.

On the practical side of the ledger, the High Line mitigates storm water runoff, smog, and the urban “heat island” effect, as well as providing an enticing environment for birds and other wildlife. I couldn’t imagine a better argument for not tearing things down – just because you have the requisite demolition equipment handy – without thinking about it for a while, a long while.

You know you’ve arrived when a fragrance is named for you. “High Line” by Bond No. 9 NYC bills itself as “The World’s First Railroad Perfume” with “the scent of wildflowers, green grasses…and urban renewal.”

Editor’s Note: Ken MacLeod, AIA and Senior Architect at Centerbrook, gave a slide presentation on the High Line to his colleagues as part of the firm’s continuing series on favorite architecture. He took the photos that accompany this post, except for the historical shot. He also publishes his own blog: qe2-prideoftheclyde.blogspot.com

Photos: Derek Hayn

It seemed like the sociable thing to do, signing up for the Badminton Open at the home office, forming a team with my marketing colleague Chris. Show the departmental flag, what, what! Hail fellows well met on the playing fields of Centerbrook! Pip, pip, cheerio, and all that tommyrot!

How hard could it be? It was badminton – and we’d be playing against architects.

The first inkling that things were trending awry was when Chris and I, both total novices, were paired in the opening round with last year’s championship team of Ted and Matt. Ted looks like he might have played a little football in school, and Matt can shoot scratch golf on any given day.

It wasn’t exactly trash talking that erupted, but the incoming emails were on the pithy side, for example: “Are we playing today?” Ted mentioned as we passed in the hallway that he was a practitioner of the martial arts. “Oh, yea, well, bully for you,” I shot back, adding that I had a degree in the language arts.

Adam, a former champion who is on injured reserve this fall, swung by my desk and revealed that some of the combatants, oops, competitors actually practice the sport repeatedly before their matches. Until then, Chris and I thought we were ahead of the curve, having Googled the rules. There will be a judge on hand, we learned, because differences of opinions do flare up. I almost inquired sarcastically if there would be instant replay, before realizing I should leave well enough alone.

As he was departing, Adam suggested offhandedly that protective eyewear would be a good idea.

Badminton began innocently enough as a game played by children in India during the 18th century. It was known by the more lyrical name of battledore and shuttlecock (for the paddle and ball with feathers, respectively). There was no net, and it wasn’t a competition so much as a way to while away the time. British colonials took it up and brought it home with them. It was particularly popular chez the manor of the Duke of Beaufort, Badminton House, hence it’s modern appellation. It has been an Olympic sport since 1992.

Just before the birdies flew in earnest, I announced that I would be blogging about our match. It appeared to unnerve the dynamic duo for a millisecond. Enjoy the photos taken by Derek during the match. Unfortunately, the final results were not available at press time… but based on the photo below, you probably can divine the outcome.

Examples of compelling architecture and exquisite craftsmanship are all around us. I have always admired the Deep River Town Hall, just one town north of the home office here in Centerbrook, Connecticut. The building was completed in 1893 on what was then the region’s major artery leading north from the beaches of Long Island Sound. The adjacent trolley line is evidence of that.

Designed by architect G. W. Cole, the town hall is a handsome Flat Iron building of the Romanesque Revival style, and was considered at the time to be quite avant-garde. In 1976 it was added to the National Registry of Historic Places. The exterior is fashioned of common and local clay brick (probably from New Haven), which is accented with granite foundation, sills, and water tables that serve both structural and ornamental functions. The graceful beauty of the building is in its detailing, execution, and uncommon footprint.

Its almost triangular shape has two acute, rounded corners and one squared-off right angle. Perfectly suited for its site, the three-story building projects stylish authority to the adjacent streets. The curving and arched entranceway and large window above must have presented quite a challenge to its craftsmen. The bricks that form the arches, for example, have to conform simultaneously to three distinct curvilinear planes, with each brick in the compound curved arch being different from its neighbors.

The bricklayer was flying solo, one brick at a time; unlike a carpenter or metal artisan, he couldn’t plane or sand or hammer the imperfections into proper alignment after the fact. Each brick was like a single-elimination playoff game: one and done. Where it was set, in time and space, is where it stayed. No doubt, the mason, or masons, had forms and molds to guide the process and to support the arch as it was being built. Ultimately though, this brickwork, particularly the complex arches, could only have been crafted with a remarkable level of pride, passion, and commitment to the trade. These qualities are in short supply today.

Such craftsmanship, combined with a homogenous structural/cladding system (masonry) and the flexible and waterproofing properties of lime-putty mortar, is responsible for the astonishing fact that the walls of the Deep River Town Hall have no cracks, gaps, or any other discernable flaws after 118 years. It was built for the ages.

You would be hard pressed to find someone in 2011 capable of executing these arches – or the curved, decorative medallions with the inset basket-weave field encircled by a raised brick band. Several openings in the town hall that have since been bricked up are exhibit A in this regard. The old knowledge is gone, as are the materials and processes. This reality and our commitment to efficient and modern building practices have all conspired to make this building a functioning artifact. An artifact, I would say, that is worthy of our respect, if not our reverence.

Editor’s Note: Patrick McCauley, Centerbrook Master Model Maker and Product Designer, was a brick and stone mason in another life. He gave a slide presentation on the Deep River Town Hall to fellow staffers as part of Centerbrook’s weekly series on favorite buildings. All of the photos are Patrick’s, except for the historical and aerial shots.

Villa Savoy, Poissy, near Paris, 1931: Le Corbusier’s iconic house incorporates his five points, pilotis, ribbon windows, flat roof garden, planar curtain walls, and free plan.

Like many architects of a certain age, I am sitting on a slide collection of innumerable images gleaned from many trips to architectural shrines and lesser destinations. I recently began to digitize some of these so I could more easily share them with colleagues and remind myself of old lessons. In the process I also learned some new ones.

During the summer of 1987, I toured France, Switzerland, and Germany in the company of Syracuse faculty members, including Werner Seligman, and about 20 fellow students on the centennial of Le Corbusier’s birth. Born Charles Edouard Jeanneret in La Chaux-de-Fonds, Switzerland, he is recognized as one of the giants of modernism. He shed his given name early, somehow realizing like Madonna, Prince, and Sting that sporting a singular name sets one apart. In my grad school studios he was a god, he was Corb or Corbu, influential for his buildings but also because of his writing: the collection of his essays in Vers une Architecture codified his attitude toward architecture. He was also a painter of note. During our summer tour we had access to practically all his buildings in the region, icons and little known works alike.

Une Petite Maison, Vevey, Switzerland, 1924: an unexpectedly cozy minimalist house for the architect’s mother on an enchanted lake with enchanting plantings. And a green roof…

Corb’s built work and theorizing helped to usher in the 20th century machine aesthetic and minimalist design that we associate with modern architecture today. He had great faith in technology, loved the automobile, admired aeronautic design and came of age in a part of Switzerland renown for precision watch-making that could be considered the Silicon Valley of his age. If you ever have heard a house referred to as a Machine for Living, you have Corb to thank.

His early work was influenced by the Arts and Craft movement and the Romantic, naturalistic bent of his early art teacher, L’Epplattenier. Here is a good example of the power of a good teacher in a young person’s life. L’Epplattenier recognized his gift and helped arrange commissions for Corb when he was just 17 years of age.

Villa Fallet, La Chaux du Fond, Switzerland, 1907: A youthful, exuberant, riot of expressive ornament in the regional vernacular

What surprised me viewing these 24-year-old images of a memorable tour was that the modernist Corb was actually very earthy and sustainable. Some architects might think sustainable design began with LEED, while others may date the movement from the Arab Oil Embargo of 1973. Looking back at the examples of Corb’s work from post-war France suggests an awareness of some of the principles that guide present day sustainable design.

Couvert de La Tourette, Rhone, France 1960: What’s old is new again…

I hadn’t remembered all of his green roofs, a staple in Green Design! He built largely in concrete, a good way to make the post-war shortage of steel go farther, but also a heritage of his early training under Auguste Perret , a proponent of reinforced concrete. What was striking looking back at the concrete work was the rough character of the material. Modern architectural concrete standards would never tolerate this gnarliness. Clearly, he had learned to build using local materials in a manner suited to the quality of labor at hand and didn’t obsess about the level of finish.

Maison Jaoul, near Paris, 1956: More rough and ready concrete and masonry. Beton Brut.

This realization was refreshing. We contemporary architects obsess about precision and crisp finishes.

We also fixate on the placement of the many devices and mechanical intrusions that must be integrated into our new buildings, from sprinklers and exit signs to lighting levels mandated by code, thermostats, smoke detectors, and fire safety systems. Looking at these works from just fifty years ago, you realize how much mechanical and electrical advancements have taken over our spaces. I envy the casualness and purity with which Corb and his generation could approach design, concentrating more on space, form and expression without being sidetracked by today’s technological expectations and inevitable complications.

Couvert de La Tourette, Rhone, France 1960: 3 days and 2 nights in residence here. In the refectory to the left, memorable meals of steamed artichokes, fresh bread and carafes of muscular red wine, taken in silence with the brothers.

Through these old slides, I also see that he had come to understand that buildings are for people, that they should grow out of their context with only a little help from the skilled trades. At first I thought his architecture was saying, “Don’t obsess, build.” Now I realize he had more freedom to choose his obsession. His was for space, form, and expression. To that, we architects of the present must add “integrate the technology.”

Notre Dame de Haut, Ronchamp, France 1954: As a fourth grader, a B&W image of this building opened my eyes to the possibilities of architecture.