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imomusI'm a city person. I almost never want to leave the city, although I think I like nature. Thinking of the city as more advanced than the country is second nature to me. The city is the crucible of almost all interesting new ideas; the country gets diluted, conservative versions of them decades or even centuries later. People who live in the country, research tells us, are cautious and conservative, tending to preserve traditions at the expense of new developments.
But, first of all, is this still true in an age when the internet brings interesting ideas to us pretty much wherever we are? When gentech experiments are covering the countryside with freakishly new plant species? And secondly, could we imagine a parallel world where the countryside is actually more advanced than the city? I'm thinking of a song Peter Blasser of The Gongs made which imagined a super-experimental countryside full of geodesic domes. Or of the Modernist glass-walled country house in Evelyn Waugh's "Decline and Fall" (which the conservative Waugh wanted to mock, of course, but I pictured in my head as something wonderful when I read it).
In fact, some of my favourite images ever are pictures of super-advanced ideas -- ultra-modern houses, for instance -- set in "unspoiled" rural landscapes. Last week I rented the DVD of Goff in the Desert, a film which documents all of Bruce Goff's amazing spacey-organic buildings in their suburban and country locations. Their weird originality blows away most of what any city can offer. (In the commentary, though, director Heinz Emigholz makes it clear that the desert of his title is a metaphorical one -- Goff's inventiveness is very much the exception in suburban and rural America.)
Whenever an "advanced" building pops up in the country, though, it's financed from the city, occupied by a city-dweller or worker who wants a retreat, driven to from the city, and built by an architect who studied in the city. The ferment of ideas that created the building is one that the conservative countryside itself could never provide.
Let's take an example. Kathryn Findlay is a Scottish architect, a graduate of London's AA, who's spent a lot of her working life in Tokyo making, in collaboration with her then-husband Eisaku Ushida, radical houses like the Truss Wall House and the Soft and Hairy House. Findlay has most recently been working on the amazing Grafton New Hall, a starfish-shaped country house in Cheshire.
Findlay talks in an interview with Sarah Dunant archived on the BBC's site about her influences. She grew up in the countryside in Scotland, the daughter of a sheep farmer. "That's where I got my interest in landscape," she says. "I don't see architecture as defined by walls, but by walking and paths and routes through landscape... It's easy to start with a box and fill it in. but if you start with the notion of a route through a solid form, then you excavate the space out of it, conceptually it's a different starting point, so it's harder to get there."
Now, this is certainly a response to a country upbringing, but it's also full of the kind of Situationism and Psychogeography Findlay must have encountered in London at the Architecture Association. She's also been crucially influenced by her twenty years in Japan (she's back in Scotland now). Not just her work with Japanese architects like Arata Isozaki and her husband. "The Japanese tea ceremony, calligraphy, they're not derived from fine arts," she says; in Japan "all the arts come from the way people live. It's not a visually-led culture. It combines all of the senses. People get inspiration from sound, from scent, from texture, and they combine it in a way that Western architecture traditionally hasn't done to the same extent."
The dialectic between city and country is clear in Findlay's own career, but it's also built into the tradition of the British country house she's now inserting her radical Cheshire starfish house into. It's being constructed -- at a cost of about £20 million -- by entrepreneur Mel Hood, who's decided to start building it without having found a buyer. Initially, at least, it will be his own home.
"Grafton New Hall will be the most important residential building of its time," Hood told Manchester Online. "This design is one of the first country houses to be given planning permission since a Department of Environment edict issued in 1997 that insists only houses of 'outstanding architectural quality' can be built in the countryside."
Jonathan Glancey in The Guardian explains that shocking restriction further:
"This extraordinary design is, in fact, one of the first country houses to be given planning permission since John Gummer's PPG7, a Department of Environment edict issued in 1997. This insists that houses can be built in the countryside only if they are of "outstanding architectural quality". Mr Gummer's edict was, in part, a reaction to the property boom of the 1980s when kitsch houses financed by instant City fortunes spread across rural shires. Since Mr Gummer's edict, few country houses have been built. This is not for a lack of potential patrons, but for a lack of suitable land. Those in pursuit of a perfect country retreat wish to build in the very tracts of unspoilt land that the department has been determined to save from inappropriate development."
Glancey quotes Findlay's argument for the radicalism of the countryside: "Traditionally, the great English country house was long a radical building type - think of buildings like Hardwick Hall in Derbyshire or Holkham Hall on the north Norfolk coast: they must have seemed astonishing at the time of their construction. Our house might seem a little out of this world, but in a sense it's connecting the English country house back to its tradition of innovation as well as connoisseurship."
Mel Hood agrees. "New money from the towns has always flowed into the country because of the prestige and privacy that a country house affords, so Grafton New Hall is in line with this 'heritage of progressive architecture'. Hailed as "a remarkable attempt to redefine a form of domestic architecture", the intention is for the house to blend effortlessly into its surroundings and be as "ecologically responsible" as possible."
But Alan Powers in The Spectator doesn't buy these arguments that today's innovation is tomorrow's tradition. He thinks Kathryn Findlay's design is more like a discarded pizza box than a natural, self-effacing starfish. "The bad side of 'a heritage of progressive architecture' in country houses is that it has nothing to do with the country (and the same goes for any architectural style), and everything to do with status and display".
The same goes for any architectural style? What, there should be no building at all in the country? Mankind is a vain strutting peacock and should be shut up in the city's zoo?
I want to give the last word to Glancey. "Innovative English country houses have been as rare as hen's teeth since the 1930s," he says. "Many observers believed the building type had come to its natural end with the second world war and the meltdown of the traditional class structure."
Could it be that there hasn't been a countryside "more advanced than the city" since Feudal times, when society's most dynamic and cosmopolitan class was the aristocracy, those country-dwelling, Ming-importing clipper-setters?
But, first of all, is this still true in an age when the internet brings interesting ideas to us pretty much wherever we are? When gentech experiments are covering the countryside with freakishly new plant species? And secondly, could we imagine a parallel world where the countryside is actually more advanced than the city? I'm thinking of a song Peter Blasser of The Gongs made which imagined a super-experimental countryside full of geodesic domes. Or of the Modernist glass-walled country house in Evelyn Waugh's "Decline and Fall" (which the conservative Waugh wanted to mock, of course, but I pictured in my head as something wonderful when I read it).In fact, some of my favourite images ever are pictures of super-advanced ideas -- ultra-modern houses, for instance -- set in "unspoiled" rural landscapes. Last week I rented the DVD of Goff in the Desert, a film which documents all of Bruce Goff's amazing spacey-organic buildings in their suburban and country locations. Their weird originality blows away most of what any city can offer. (In the commentary, though, director Heinz Emigholz makes it clear that the desert of his title is a metaphorical one -- Goff's inventiveness is very much the exception in suburban and rural America.)
Whenever an "advanced" building pops up in the country, though, it's financed from the city, occupied by a city-dweller or worker who wants a retreat, driven to from the city, and built by an architect who studied in the city. The ferment of ideas that created the building is one that the conservative countryside itself could never provide.
Let's take an example. Kathryn Findlay is a Scottish architect, a graduate of London's AA, who's spent a lot of her working life in Tokyo making, in collaboration with her then-husband Eisaku Ushida, radical houses like the Truss Wall House and the Soft and Hairy House. Findlay has most recently been working on the amazing Grafton New Hall, a starfish-shaped country house in Cheshire.
Findlay talks in an interview with Sarah Dunant archived on the BBC's site about her influences. She grew up in the countryside in Scotland, the daughter of a sheep farmer. "That's where I got my interest in landscape," she says. "I don't see architecture as defined by walls, but by walking and paths and routes through landscape... It's easy to start with a box and fill it in. but if you start with the notion of a route through a solid form, then you excavate the space out of it, conceptually it's a different starting point, so it's harder to get there."Now, this is certainly a response to a country upbringing, but it's also full of the kind of Situationism and Psychogeography Findlay must have encountered in London at the Architecture Association. She's also been crucially influenced by her twenty years in Japan (she's back in Scotland now). Not just her work with Japanese architects like Arata Isozaki and her husband. "The Japanese tea ceremony, calligraphy, they're not derived from fine arts," she says; in Japan "all the arts come from the way people live. It's not a visually-led culture. It combines all of the senses. People get inspiration from sound, from scent, from texture, and they combine it in a way that Western architecture traditionally hasn't done to the same extent."
The dialectic between city and country is clear in Findlay's own career, but it's also built into the tradition of the British country house she's now inserting her radical Cheshire starfish house into. It's being constructed -- at a cost of about £20 million -- by entrepreneur Mel Hood, who's decided to start building it without having found a buyer. Initially, at least, it will be his own home.
"Grafton New Hall will be the most important residential building of its time," Hood told Manchester Online. "This design is one of the first country houses to be given planning permission since a Department of Environment edict issued in 1997 that insists only houses of 'outstanding architectural quality' can be built in the countryside."
Jonathan Glancey in The Guardian explains that shocking restriction further:
"This extraordinary design is, in fact, one of the first country houses to be given planning permission since John Gummer's PPG7, a Department of Environment edict issued in 1997. This insists that houses can be built in the countryside only if they are of "outstanding architectural quality". Mr Gummer's edict was, in part, a reaction to the property boom of the 1980s when kitsch houses financed by instant City fortunes spread across rural shires. Since Mr Gummer's edict, few country houses have been built. This is not for a lack of potential patrons, but for a lack of suitable land. Those in pursuit of a perfect country retreat wish to build in the very tracts of unspoilt land that the department has been determined to save from inappropriate development."
Glancey quotes Findlay's argument for the radicalism of the countryside: "Traditionally, the great English country house was long a radical building type - think of buildings like Hardwick Hall in Derbyshire or Holkham Hall on the north Norfolk coast: they must have seemed astonishing at the time of their construction. Our house might seem a little out of this world, but in a sense it's connecting the English country house back to its tradition of innovation as well as connoisseurship."
Mel Hood agrees. "New money from the towns has always flowed into the country because of the prestige and privacy that a country house affords, so Grafton New Hall is in line with this 'heritage of progressive architecture'. Hailed as "a remarkable attempt to redefine a form of domestic architecture", the intention is for the house to blend effortlessly into its surroundings and be as "ecologically responsible" as possible."
But Alan Powers in The Spectator doesn't buy these arguments that today's innovation is tomorrow's tradition. He thinks Kathryn Findlay's design is more like a discarded pizza box than a natural, self-effacing starfish. "The bad side of 'a heritage of progressive architecture' in country houses is that it has nothing to do with the country (and the same goes for any architectural style), and everything to do with status and display".
The same goes for any architectural style? What, there should be no building at all in the country? Mankind is a vain strutting peacock and should be shut up in the city's zoo?
I want to give the last word to Glancey. "Innovative English country houses have been as rare as hen's teeth since the 1930s," he says. "Many observers believed the building type had come to its natural end with the second world war and the meltdown of the traditional class structure."
Could it be that there hasn't been a countryside "more advanced than the city" since Feudal times, when society's most dynamic and cosmopolitan class was the aristocracy, those country-dwelling, Ming-importing clipper-setters?