"Upon the Earth, Beneath the Sky: The Architecture of Being, Dwelling and Building" by Gunter Dittmar Associate Professor University of Minnesota Department of Architecture

It is almost fifty years now, in August 1951, that the philosopher Martin Heidegger gave his seminal lecture on "Building Dwelling Thinking"¹ to a group of then leading architects in Germany as part of the Darmstadt Colloquium II on "Mensch und Raum" [Man and Space]. Since then the essay has been published all over the world and become known as a succinct, insightful, philosophical discourse on the question of our being and our dwelling in this world, and the vital role "building" plays in realizing both. Not surprisingly, though Heidegger hardly even mentions the term architecture, the essay has had an immense impact on architecture for it implicitly represents an axiomatic definition of architecture itself.

"Upon the earth, beneath the sky, among mortals, before the divinities"², Heidegger's famous statement of the "Fourfold" articulates the very parameters of our human condition and our existence on this earth. But, more than mere parameters, the Fourfold poses a profound, fundamental question: that of our being and the nature of our dwelling; who we are, what we are, and what our place is within the larger order of the world. It is a question that is forever unfinished and never ending, that each age, culture and society - indeed each individual - has to confront and answer anew within the understanding and circumstances of their own place and time: how to gather the Fourfold into a meaningful "Oneness", and make it manifest to us in a way we can comprehend.

As humans we are unique as beings on this earth for we have been given a gift, the gift of consciousness. As such we are both, aware of our own being, and that, as a being and individual, we are distinct from other beings, and distinct from the world around us. But, being conscious also means above all that we are conscious of our own mortality, that we are a "being in and of time"; that as humans we exist literally and figuratively between the earth and the sky. It is mirrored in the duality of our being as both, a physical and spiritual being, and manifest in the dialectic polarity of our existence of being "part of the world" and, simultaneously, being "apart from it". Hence, our unending quest to understand the world around us, to seek and find meaning in it, to gain control over it by transforming it and make it part of our own; to create cosmos out of seeming chaos, so that we belong and feel at home and at peace again.

 Architecture, together with the other arts, has, since time immemorial, been one of the most powerful means to pursue and realize this quest and give it physical-symbolic expression: how to create an identity and a place for our being from within the vast, shapeless and infinite continuum of time and space; how to affirm our presence, and gain a foothold, in the universe.

Dwelling, to create a tangible location and place for our being in the world, to explore its nature and realize its possibility, is what defines architecture as an art and distinguishes it from mere "building", i.e. engineering and construction. Unlike the other arts, though, architecture not only reflects and represents our world, but is intimately woven into the very reality of our existence. We inhabit it, dwell in it, live it. As a public and communal art, architecture generates a matrix for the activities and events of our lives, the places where we live, work, meet and play. It structures and articulates our relationship to the earth, to the sky, to nature and our fellow beings, and ultimately to ourselves. As such, architecture encompasses and involves the totality of our being , body, mind and spirit, and the totality of our world, physical and nonphysical. As "dwellers" we are not passive observers, but become active participants in a conversation with the world around us. The "world" comes forward - out of its "concealment" - and takes on tangible presence and meaning, and we become an integral part of it.

How does architecture accomplish this? By engaging the world around us, its material aspects and natural phenomena in an ongoing, creative dialogue with us. Through shaping the earth and bounding space - the act of "building" - we unconceal their order, appropriate it, and by transforming or re-creating it, gain symbolic control over it. Or, to say it differently, works of architecture, through their form and order gather, condense and give presence to the dialectic polarities of our existence - earth and sky, our "inner" and our "outer world" - and bring them into harmonious congruence in such a way that their mystery and meaning reveals itself and becomes manifest to us.

Works of architecture, therefore, are more than mere physical shelter or symbolic artifacts. They are catalysts towards our "dwelling", mediating between our being and the world. Consequently, the primary components of architecture are not, as often assumed, structure, materials and aesthetics, but the question and nature of our being, and the elements of our cosmos: the earth, the sky; space and time.

The earth, the ground of our being and existence, is the archetype of all matter, the seed of all organic life and the manifestation of all that which is temporal and yet endures, of mountain and stream, fauna and flora; of birth, death and re-birth. Or, as Heidegger himself put it: "Earth is the serving bearer, blossoming and fruiting, spreading out in rock and water, rising up into plant and animal"³.

The sky, the dialectic counterpart of the earth, is the archetype of all space, the ethereal, the eternal timelessness and the infinite unknown. If the earth is the "body", the sky is the place of the spirit. The sun, the source of light, fire and warmth, is the source of all life. Through its path it provides the rhythm and measure of time - day and night and the calendar of the seasons - for our journey through life, and thus helps us locate ourselves in time. Together with the stars it creates the permanent, celestial order and the coordinates of East and West, North and South, that help us locate ourselves in space. Or, to say it again In Heidegger's own, more poetic terms: "The sky is the vaulting path of the sun, the course of the changing moon, the wandering glitter of the stars, the years seasons and their changes, the light and dusk of the day, the gloom and glow of night, the clemency and inclemency of the weather, the drifting clouds and the blue depth of the ether."⁴

For thousands of years the earth as the archetype of all matter has also been, and still is, the material source of all our "building", from the primordial hut to the contemporary skyscraper. Through shaping the earth, the forming, joining and assembly of its materials, we make room for space to emerge, and place and location to become concrete reality. Though the search for our dwelling and its nature are forever an open question, our perception and understanding of this question, and with it the method and technical means of "building" through which we pursue this question [our dwelling], are changing with time and place. Thus, the articulation of space and form are constantly evolving in tandem with the sophistication of technology, and the development of new materials, from mud. stone and wood to concrete, steel and glass. Yet, surprisingly, what still underlies and reverberates through much of architecture, are the tectonic archetypes derived from nature through which architecture has explored and defined the place of our dwelling: the rock and the cave as the origin of the walled-in "room", and the forest embodied in the framed space that, while it encloses and protects, is still "open" to the outside. In turn these archetypes still generate much of architecture's character and experience and define the particulars of our relationship and interaction with the world and ourselves: inside and outside, earth and sky, light and darkness, our "inner" and our "outer" world.

As universal concepts, these notions, though varied by time, place and location, can be found in works of architecture throughout history and across different cultures. In the Katsura Imperial Palace, built in the 17th Century in Kyoto, man's place in, and relationship to, nature is explored to absolute, harmonious perfection. The Cartesian grid pattern of the plan and wooden frame structure not only reflects the abstracted, timeless order of nature as transformed by man in dialectic juxtaposition with nature's organic form and expression, but also generates the physical matrix for the places and rhythm of life. Sheltered from the elements by the heavy, overhanging roof , the structure opens itself to the outside, and through its layering of space and sliding Shoji screens it responds, like a flower that opens and closes, to the episodic changes and events, of day and night, the weather and the seasons.

In a similar vein, but of a much more recent vintage and shaped by a more Western tradition and contemporary building technology, is Louis Kahn's Kimbell Art Museum. Conceived as a pavilion in the park and set upon a plinth among trees and reflecting pools, it not only attempts to articulate our being in relationship to works of art, but also make us conscious of our being and place in nature. But, unlike Katsura, and in line with a more vertically oriented, Western outlook and dualistic world view, its architecture is first and foremost concerned with defining our relationship to the earth and the sky, and the distinction between man and nature, inside and outside. Thus, the earth comes forward and is given tangible presence by raising and transforming it into a smooth, stylized, horizontal plane and stylized into a precise, geometric patterning of its surface that abstractly re-presents it. The relationship to the sky is defined by the vaulted ceiling which symbolically re-creates it while, at the same time through its arched form, it frames it and, thus, echoes its spherical nature. What appears as an "open room" on the outside changes into a solidly enclosed space on the inside. And, the dialectic between earth and sky becomes transformed into one between light and matter, the sky as a vault of ephemeral light supported by opaque walls.

Alvar Aalto's little town center, built in Finland for the small town of Saynätsalo in the early Fifties, represents a very different, though equally rich version on the same theme. Carved out of the forest and raised on a promontory is a small clearing, open to the sky, reminiscent of a "thing", the tribal meeting places of old. It is surrounded and fortified by a group of massive, brick buildings that contain a council chamber, town offices and a library, plus other subordinate functions. Nature always has, and still does, play a significant role in Finnish life. The question of man's place in nature has informed all of Aalto's architecture. It typically appears in the form of metaphors, such as the meadow; the forest and its canopy; the rock, cliff, cave and ruin; cascading water; and nature reclaiming its turf through vegetation.

 Similar motifs are explored by the Swiss-Italian architect Mario Botta in his houses, for instance his so called Villa Rotonda built in Stabio in the Ticino region of Switzerland in 1981. Seemingly sculpted from a solid mass, with light slicing through clefts from the top and front to illuminate its cavernous interior, it exemplifies the strong dualism between earth and sky, darkness and light, and clearly distinct inner and outer "worlds", found so often in Western architecture.

Yet, perhaps the story of our being and our dwelling in the world, is best explored and articulated through architectonic means by the Mexican architect Louis Barragan in his own house in a residential neighborhood in Mexico city, started in 1947 and evolving over several decades. Hidden behind an unassuming, plain facade the world unfolds and comes into being: between the serene forms and spaces of the interior, and bustling world outside; between the earth and the sky, between body, mind and spirit; between our being and the forever changing life of nature; between darkness and light; between our temporal, earthly existence and transcendent timelessness.

The young American architect Steven Holl in his housing project in Fukuoka, Japan, not only tackles the problem of the uniform monotony of modern housing through individuality and a strong sense of place, of being at home in the world, but also attempts to create a contemporary architectural expression informed by traditional Japanese concepts. Carved out of a massive, solid block are so-called "void spaces", silent court yards of light, filled with water that capture the sun and reflect the sky, echoing in abstract form the traditional Japanese garden. Carved into the remaining blocks, like cliff dwellings, are the highly idiosyncratic units with their fronts opening to the courts, the light and the sky. The dialectic themes of earth and sky, darkness and light, permanence and change, also reverberate through the inside of the units. They are manifest in the layering of space and light, from the solid, back wall to the more open and transparent front facade. They are also manifest in the structural elements and materials, from the heavy concrete wall and structural members to the light partition walls and the hinged, colored, movable panels that, reminiscent of the Katsura Palace and its Shoji screens, allow the unit to adapt to daily, episodic, seasonal and generational changes in living.

In his work, Tadao Ando, a young, self-educated Japanese architect is inspired by a similar approach to architecture as Steven Holl: how to create a sense of place for our being in the world; how to evolve a modern architectural idiom from a strong, cultural tradition; how to fuse Eastern thought with Western forms of architecture: "the open frame" and "the enclosed room". His "Church on the Water", a small Christian chapel in northern Japan, exemplifies this admirably. A simple L-shaped wall and a artificial pond that reflects the sky and surrounding nature generates a precinct and place of silence, set apart from the chaotic, noisy world outside. At one end of the reflecting pond is an assembly of pure, cubic forms, both, transparent and solid, made of concrete and steel, with a cross in front rising from the water. Upon entering through an opening and threshold in the wall, one becomes acutely aware of one's own being and enters into a dialogue with the earth and sky, nature, and time and timelessness. A path between the edge of the pool and the wall structures a series of events. Following it, one winds around the pond and ascends up to a place in the sky and light, looking back over the pond where one came from, and towards the horizon and distant hills. Guided along in-between the glass-enclosed steel frame and four concrete crosses forming an empty, open void, the path winds around and descends again into the earth and darkness, arriving in a low, walled-in, horizontal space that opens up to a view of the pond, the distant trees and the sky, focusing on the cross suspended in the center; or alternately, one arrives at an empty, cylindrical space dissolving into pure light.

For quite some time now, architecture has had great difficulties to fulfill its traditional role, to explore the question of our being and our dwelling in the world. Its relevance to society, and its legitimacy as a discipline, are increasingly being questioned and challenged by other fields. The reason for this development is the positivist, techno-scientific world view and commensurate, reductionist paradigm of thought that has come to dominate our whole existence. Consequently, the issue of our dwelling - architecture - has been reduced to a mere question of economics, technology and fashion.

It would be foolish to think that we can turn back the clock. But, is architecture, therefore, a thing of the past? Are Heidegger's notions delineated in Building Dwelling Thinking nothing but an anachronism?

In an era of escalating homogeneity due to rapidly increasing communications, mobility and globalization, quite the opposite is true. The growing loss of human and cultural identity, and general sense of placelessness, give the fundamental questions of our being and our dwelling raised by Heidegger an entirely new significance and meaning. And, they prove Heidegger right when he states at the end of his essay that "the real plight of [our] dwelling lies in this [...] , that mortals ever search anew for the nature of dwelling, that they must ever learn to dwell." ⁵

NOTES

¹ Martin Heidegger, "Building Dwelling Thinking" in Poetry, Language, Thought, transl. by Albert Hofstadter (Harper & Row, New York, 1971)

² Ibid, p.149

³ Ibid

⁴ Ibid

⁵ Ibid, p.161. Emphasis in italics is Heidegger's.

© 2001, GUNTER DITTMAR

This page created by Frances A. May.  Updated May 29, 2001

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