Spiro Kostof - The City Shaped - Urban Patterns and Meanings Through History-Gardners Books (1991)
Spiro Kostof - The City Shaped - Urban Patterns and Meanings Through History-Gardners Books (1991)
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THE CITY SHAPED
Urban Patterns and Meanings
Through History
THE CLPY SHAPED
Urban Patterns and Meanings
Through History
BULFINCH PRESS
New York « Boston
FOr,
Vasiliki Pringu,
Leandros, and Rita,
who were always there to come home to
Bulfinch Press
Kostof, Spiro.
The city shaped / Spiro Kostof.
: cm.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 0-8212-2016-0
I. Cities and towns—History. 2. Cities and towns—Growth.
ie Witle:
Filta. Kes 1991
307.76—dc20 91-5§2813
PRINTED IN CHINA
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments 7
INTRODUCTION 5 1; “ORGANIC™
THE CITY AS ARTIFACT 9
PATTERNS 43 PREAMBLE 95
Preliminaries 9 The Nature of Rectilinear Planning 95
Affiliates of Method 14
PLANNED CITIES AND The Grid and Politics 99
Periods and Categories 26
UNPLANNED 43 “Better Order’ or Routine 102
COEXISTENCE AND HISTORICAL REVIEW 103
THE CITY IN HISTORY 29 TRANSCRIPTION 46
Urban Cycles 29 The Grid in the Ancient World 103
Urban Origins 37 New Towns in the Middle Ages 108
THE EVOLUTION OF “ORGANIC”
Early City Form 34 The Renaissance in Europe 111
PATTERNS? 52 Passage to America 113
Cities as Organisms 52
WHAT IS A CITY? 37 The Role of Topography 53 LAYING OUT THE GRID 124
Land Division 57 On the Site 125
Synoecism 59 Surveyors and Theorists 126
The Law and Social Order 62 The Town Planner as Artist 128
THE STRAIGHT AND THE COORDINATED SYSTEMS OF
CURVED: DESIGN TOWN AND COUNTRY 1233
ALTERNATIVES 69 Rural Grids 133
Origins of the Planned Picturesque 70 Gridded Extensions 135
Garden City Paradigm 75
Conservation and the Lesson of THE CLOSED GRID: FRAME,
History 82 ACCENT, AND OPEN
SPACE Seiss:
MODERNISM AND THE PLANNED The Walled Frame 138
PICTURESQUE 89 Street Rhythms 140
The Distribution of Squares 143
Block Organization 147
My two indispensable collaborators have friends and colleagues came to the rescue, tory, Maryly Snow, and Dan Johnston.
been Richard Tobias, whose many drawings and I regret that I cannot name them all. Asa Elizabeth Byrne, Head of the College of
buttress and further the argument, and my token list, let me acknowledge the following: Environmental Design Library at Berkeley,
long-time assistant Greg Castillo who orga- Nezar AlSayyad, Mirka Benes, Gene has given us invaluable assistance. Johan
nized the research, oversaw the heroic enter- Brucker, Dora Crouch, Diane Ghirardo, van der Zande helped us with some German
prise of illustrating the text, and was the Paul Groth, Diane Favro, David Friedman, texts, and produced the index — no mean
daily liaison with the publisher. The credit Brenda Preyer, Jean-Pierre Protzen, and task for a free-ranging book of this kind. To
for much that is good about the content and Marc Treib. The Walker Art Center con- all of them, and the many others not
look of this volume belongs to the two of sented to my re-use of some of the material mentioned, my heartfelt thanks. Finally, I
them, while the failings rest squarely, as they on the American skyline which was orig- would like to thank the staff of Thames and
must, with the author. A generous grant inally delivered there in the Center’s Ameri- Hudson for their encouragement and meti-
from the Graham Foundation for Advanced can Icons series and published subsequently culous care at all stages of the book’s
Studies in the Fine Arts has aided in the in Design Quarterly. In the procurement of production.
preparation of the drawings. The Design visual material, I must thank David Phillips S.K.
Arts program of the National Endowment of the Chicago Architectural Photo Co.,
for the Arts also contributed in this effort. Myron and Gail Lee, and at the University
The immodest range of the subject forced of California, Berkeley, Peter Bosselman
me often to seek the advice of experts. Many of the Environmental Simulation Labora-
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS: 7
Solty
preecneT
(
SSS
2 The city observed: Wenceslas Square, Wenceslas Square had emerged as Prague’s Spring” of 1968, and where crowds of
Prague, in 1835, engraving by Vincenc most elegant promenade. The square has protesters initiated the “Velvet
Morstadt. Originally a cleared strip of continued as the stage of the city’s fortunes Revolution” of 1989.
land at the city edge where the town’s to this day: it was where Soviet tanks
horse market was held, by the r9th century rumbled in to suppress the “Prague
8 - INTRODUCTION
INTRODUCTION
INTRODUCTION : 9
he or she admires, rationales which are either innocent of history or else casually
misrepresent it.
I remember that when | was asked to take part in an urban design seminar in Siena
several years ago, the common perception of this much admired city-form was that it
developed spontaneously, filling and solidifying the shapes of its natural site. The
landscape of medieval Siena was seen as testimony against those forceful designs
imposed by planners and politicians in defiance of the dictates of topography and the
comfortable rhythms of the townsfolk. Even people who ought to have known
better reinforced this impressionistic reading of the great Tuscan hilltown. Lewis
Mumford, for example, singled her out as proof of “‘the esthetic and engineering
superiority of an organic plan.”
But I was not at all surprised to discover, as I looked into the historical
circumstances of Siena’s origin and growth, that she was coerced to take that shape,
that her city-form was one of the most highly regimented designs of medieval
urbanism (see below, pp. 70-71).” I was not surprised, because over the years I have
witnessed numerous instances of false “‘reading”’ of past architecture, and have
become settled in my mind that form, in itself, is very lamely informative of
intention. We “‘read”’ form correctly only to the extent that we are familiar with the
precise cultural conditions that generated it. Rather than presume, in other words,
as practically everybody in the architectural world wants to presume, that buildings
and city-forms are a transparent medium of cultural expression, Iam convinced that
the relationship only works the other way around. The more we know about
cultures, about the structure of society in various periods of history in different parts
of the world, the better we are able to read their built environment.’
There is no quick, easy way to appropriate the past. Walking in an old town
center, sketching it and thinking about it, is instructive in a direct way. It is the first
and indispensable step. But it will not tell us what really happened until we turn to
the archives, the history books, the old maps—until we assemble all the evidence, Variations on the grid:
some of it often contradictory, that will help explain how a particular downtown got
the look it now has. That kind of evidence is what this book leans on to conduct its 4 Florentine new town, 14th century.
analysis of urban form. 5 Ideal city plan by Scamozzi, from his
To the form-seeker, for example, a grid is a grid is a grid. At best, it is a visual L’idea della architettura universale (1615).
theme upon which to play variations: he might be concerned with issues like usinga 6 New Orleans, a French colonial
true checkerboard design versus syncopated block rhythms, with cross-axial or settlement, in 1760.
Io - INTRODUCTION
other types of emphasis, with the placement of open spaces within the discipline of
the grid, with the width and hierarchy of streets. To us here, on the other hand,
how, and with what intentions, the Romans in Britain, the bastidors (“builders”) of
medieval Wales and Gascony, the Spanish in Mexico, or the Illinois Central Rail-
road Company in the prairies of the Midwest employed this very same device of
settlement will be the principal substance of a review of orthogonal planning. We
will have to come to grips with the fact that the grid has accommodated a startling
variety of social structures—territorial aristocracy in Greek Sicily; the agrarian
republicanism of Thomas Jefferson; the cosmic vision of Joseph Smith for the setting
of the Second Coming in Mormon settlements like Nauvoo, Illinois, and Salt Lake
City, Utah—and of course good old speculative greed.
For us, then, city form is neutral until it is impressed with specific cultural intent.
So there is no point in noticing the formal similarities between L’Enfant’s plan for
Washington and the absolutist diagrams of Versailles or Karlsruhe, no point in
discovering identical sinuous streets in medieval Nordlingen and Olmsted’s
Riverside, unless we can elaborate on the nature of the content that was to be housed
within each, and the social premises of the designers.
Urban form and urban process, I said at the beginning. The second half of this
program, urban process, may also not be self-explanatory. I use the phrase here in
two senses.
7 The state as citymaker. Rome’s One of them has to do with the people and forces and institutions that bring about
transformation under Fascist rule urban form. Who designs cities? what procedures do they go through? what are the
answered both the economic and empowering agencies and laws? Content of this nature we will bring in as we need it,
ideological needs of the new regime. A
to explain elements of urban form, but we will not devote separate sections to it.
public works program that exalted manual
labor was launched in the mid-Twenties to
This is because the legal and economic history that affects city-making is an
alleviate unemployment. Labor-intensive enormous (and, I might add, rather neglected) subject. It involves ownership of
demolitions like these at the Markets of urban land and the land market; the exercise of eminent domain or compulsory
Trajan (2nd century AD) stripped purchase, that is, the power of government to take over private property for public
monumental ruins of their crust of use; the institution of the legally binding master plan, the piano regolatore of the
picturesque tenement housing. The Italians; building codes and other regulatory measures; instruments of funding
juxtaposition of these ancient fragments urban change, like property taxes and bond issues; and the administrative structure
with modern traffic arteries (see p. 231) of cities. That in itself is more than enough for an independent book.
fulfilled a symbolic program equating As for designers of cities, this too is a huge assignment, and also not a very
imperial grandezza with Fascist rule. pressing one for the kind of inquiry we are undertaking here. As far as I know there is
no general urban history written exclusively from this vantage, though of course
there is some considerable literature in that direction. We know alot about the big
names: Hippodamus of Miletus; the designer of Renaissance Ferrara, Biagio
Rossetti; Baron Haussmann of Paris; Daniel Burnham of Chicago; Le Corbusier. We
know much less about names like Eric Dahlberg, Nicodemus Tessin the Younger, or
Nicolas de Clerville, for example, busy designing cities in the 17th and early 18th
centuries, and hundreds of others like them from the rest of history. We are well
informed about Arnolfo di Cambio as an architect, but know little of his work as
city-planner, even though it was his effort to draw up the plans of new towns like San
Giovanni and Castelfranco, according to Vasari, that moved Florence to award him
honorary citizenship.
Even this roster, properly reviewed, would account only for those makers of cities
who can be called designers in the narrow sense. But cities are given shape by all sorts
of people, by military engineers, for example, by ships’ gunners (like those who laid
out the early British port cities of India), and by administrators and state officials,
from the oikists (leaders of colonizing expeditions) who gave us the great Greek
towns of Sicily and the medieval lords of England and France and Spain who planted
INTRODUCTION : II
8 The speculator as citymaker. Modern
Los Angeles (California) is the product of
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NEV in the late r9th century. In this 1920s
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The second sense in which I use “urban process,” on the other hand, is very much
central to the purposes of this book. This refers, precisely, to physical change
through time. The tendency all too often is to see urban form as a finite thing, a
closed thing, a complicated object. I want to stress what we know instead to be the
case—that a city, however perfect its initial shape, is never complete, never at rest.
Thousands of witting and unwitting acts every day alter its lines in ways that are
perceptible only over a certain stretch of time. City walls are pulled down and filled
in; once rational grids are slowly obscured; a slashing diagonal is run through close-
grained residential neighborhoods; railroad tracks usurp cemeteries and water-
fronts; wars, fires, and freeway connectors annihilate city cores.
Let me give one dramatic instance, with the particulars of which I am rather
intimately familiar. Consider these two pendant urban images. There is imperial
Rome, a city of one million or more at its height, dominated by a stone construct of
public buildings and porticoes, especially in the flatland of the Campus Martius 11
within the crook of the Tiber; its predominant housing form, the multi-story
apartment block or insula, crowds interstitial spaces between the public zones and
the slopes of the famous hills. And there is medieval Rome, down to 50,000 or less at
its nadir, crammed in the Tiber bend and across the river in Trastevere, detached
two-story family houses obliterating almost completely the grand formal order of 12
INTRODUCTION : 13
the imperial Campus Martius. How did it happen? How were the theaters and
temples and amphitheaters and forums consumed? where did the 40,000 apartment
buildings of ancient Rome go? how did we get this maze of sinuous streets and alleys
out of the magisterial orthogonal arrangements of the imperial city? That is urban 13 The city as a reflection of its governing
process at its most ostensible. power: Wiirzburg (Germany), the seat of
We are recorders of a physicality, then, akin to that of a flowing river or a the house of Schénborn, was transformed
under their patronage into the extravagant
changing sky. So we will be mindful of urban process, in this sense of the phrase,
Baroque composition shown in this
both as an ongoing concern in discussing each one of our themes, and as an broadside of 1723 by their architect
overarching subject of conclusion. Balthasar Neumann. The theatrical border,
with its dynastic crest and commemorative
AFFILIATES OF METHOD disks including depictions of the new
palace and chapel, reinforces the
Turning now to structure, it should be clear from the table of contents that this is not association of the city with its ruling
a conventional survey of urbanism through the ages, in the mode of A. E. J. Morris’s family.
I4 - INTRODUCTION
History of Urban Form (19743 1979) or even Lewis Mumford’s The City in History
(1961). It assumes a basic acquaintance with the main lines of Western and non-
Western urbanism as a sequential narrative, and chooses to focus, rather, on a
number of formal themes treated freely —the discussion moving through historical
time and geography as necessary.
There are other ways to structure a historical review of urban form, of course,
and they have all been tried. Cities have been sorted out by country (it is enough to
remember E. A. Gutkind’s great work, International History of City Development,
1964ff.), by epoch, by geographic location. Wolfgang Braunfels’s Urban Design in
Western Europe (1976; English edition 1988) begins with the premise that cities
designed themselves “‘as reflections of forms of government and ideals of order.”
His categories include cathedral cities, city-states, sea powers (Venice, Lubeck,
Amsterdam), imperial cities, ideal cities, seats of a princely court (Turin, Munich,
Dresden, St. Petersburg), and capital cities. The problems are obvious. In terms of its
own premises, this organization suffers from the fact that cities are almost never
singleminded. They may start out with a prime specialty, but they soon will acquire
other uses. More serious, from our point of view, is that it is difficult to determine
elements of urban design that would give commonality to each of these categories.
What we are left with is a common political orientation (or a common economic
structure if we opt for categories like harbor towns, market towns, agricultural cen-
ters, industrial towns) without a concomitant homogeneity of urban landscape.
Kevin Lynch, in his last book, Good City Form (1981), which is the best marriage I
know of between a thoughtful inquiry into the history of urban form and a resultant
theory of urban design, set up an organizing scheme that rewards scrutiny. His three
categories, called ‘“‘normative models,” have less to do with political or economic
order than they do with the prime motivation of the city, or its self-perception.°
The cosmic model, or holy city, takes the plan to be an interpretation of the
universe and of the gods. It also encompasses Renaissance and Baroque ideal plans
laid out as an articulated expression of power. Characteristic design features of this
model are the monumental axis, the enclosure and its protected gates, dominant
landmarks, the reliance on the regular grid, and spatial organization by hierarchy.
The practical model, or the city as machine, is “factual, functional, ‘cool’,” not in
the least magical. It is the concept that motivates colonial towns and company
towns, the speculative grid towns of the United States, Le Corbusier’s Radiant City,
and more recently still, the inventions of the British Archigram group and the
arcologies of the Italian Paolo Soleri. A city, according to this model, ‘is made up of
small, autonomous, undifferentiated parts, linked up into a great machine which in
contrast has clearly differentiated functions and motions.”
The organic model, or the biological city, sees the city as a living thing rather than
a machine. It has a definite boundary and an optimum size, a cohesive, indivisible
IND ROD
UGT LON Sens
internal structure, and a rhythmic behavior that seeks, in the face of inevitable
change, to maintain a balanced state. The creators of this model were the likes of
Frederick Law Olmsted, Ebenezer Howard, Patrick Geddes and Lewis Mumford.
Only this last model, limited as it seems to be to non-geometric urban patterns of the
past and to the self-conscious “organisms” of garden cities, American “Greenbelt
towns” and picturesque suburbs, possesses a more or less homologous morphology.
What is useful in this categorization—to which Lynch ultimately takes exception
—is that it gives us some basic metaphors for the city, and these in turn supply both
the language of discourse and the rationale for physical interventions. If the city is a
machine that must function efficiently, it is subject to obsolescence, and needs con-
stant tuning and updating. What is done to the city-form will be thought of as mech-
anical adjustments, to make the city work or run properly. If the city is an organism,
and we speak of cells and arteries, it can become pathological, and interventions to
correct the diseased form will be in the nature of surgery. Finally in the first model,
the cosmic city, we are encouraged to discount all practical, technological, economic
or sanitary explanations for the placement and layout of cities. That is what Joseph
Rykwert did some years ago ina provocative book called The Idea ofa Town (1976)
Bie in which he set out to prove that ancient towns were, above all, symbolic patterns,
conceived in mythical and ritual terms, and that seeking any rational or pragmatic
logic for them was futile.
It bears repeating that the primary interest of this book is to elucidate the physical
traits of the urban landscape without a priori theories of urban behavior. Persuaded
by history that the same urban form does not perforce express identical, or even
similar, human content, and conversely, that the same political, social or economic
order will not yield an invariable design matrix, I choose to start, throughout, with
the thing itself and work towards its meaning. How does the non-geometric city plan
come about? what is the nature, and what are the permutations, of the ubiquitous
grid? historically, in what ways has the city defined its limits? within the city, what
divisions were implied or built? These are some of the topics of the chapters that
follow, and of a companion volume, The City Assembled—these, and two prime
components of the urban armature, namely, streets, and those spaces which, by
common consent and legal restraint, were kept free of development and set aside for
public use.
INTRODUCTION
Cities are amalgams of buildings and people. They are inhabited settings from
which daily rituals—the mundane and the extraordinary, the random and the
staged—derive their validity. In the urban artifact and its mutations are condensed
continuities of time and place. The city is the ultimate memorial of our struggles and
glories: it is where the pride of the past is set on display.
Sometimes cities are laid out by fiat, as perfect shapes and for premeditated ends.
They may aim to reflect a cosmic rule or an ideal society, be cast as a machine ofwar,
or have no higher purpose than to generate profit for the founder. A myth of
propitiousness and high destiny may come to surround the act of founding. Or this
act may be nothing more than a routinized and repetitive event. But whether born
under divine guidance or the speculative urge, the pattern will dry up, and even Pl.r Benares (Varanasi, India), the
die, unless the people forge within it a special, self-sustaining life that can survive approach to the Panchganga Ghat during
adversity and the turns of fortune. the Kartik festival.
I6 - INTRODUCTION
Lr
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:of 7 y
INTRODUCTION - 19
Pl.4 Vienna, bird’s-eye view by G. Veith,
1873. The dense medieval city clusters
around the spire of St. Stephen’s Cathedral
in the background. Until 1857 it was
tightly enclosed by a spacious ring of
fortifications. Outside, suburbs, palaces,
and churches—notably the very tall St.
Charles’s (left, by Fischer von Erlach,
begun 1716)—had spread into the
countryside. The demolition of the
fortifications provided the opportunity for
a composition in the Grand Manner, the
new Ringstrasse, defined by planting and
lined with monumental public and
residential buildings in a variety of
architectural styles. Moving forward in the
left-hand quadrant, the twin-spired
Votivkirche is followed by the neo-Gothic
Rathaus, neo-Renaissance twin Museums,
and Opera House (beyond the dome of
St. Charles’s).
20 - INTRODUCTION
INTRODUCTION:
Commemorative city portraits
Pl.5 right A somewhat schematic profile from Prince Baltasar Carlos’s room in S.
view of Naples (Italy) serves as backdrop Lazaro, looking out across the Ebro. To
to the triumphal return of the Aragonese the left of the 15th-century Puente de
fleet in 1464. The city is shown poised on a Piedra is the cathedral of La Seo, with its
curve between sea and rising hills, its mark curious Moorish dome; to the right, the
impressed on the sea by its famous city’s other cathedral, of the Pilar (since
lighthouse, on the hills by the monastery rebuilt). Baltasar Carlos died in his room
of S. Martino. here, and the picture was completed for his
father, Philip IV. The royal procession can
P1.6 below This painting of Saragossa
just be seen on the far bank of the river in
(Spain) in 1646 by J. B. del Mazo and
the center.
Velazquez is, on the other hand, both
specific and personal: it records the view
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24 - INTRODUCTION
Bluntly put, my approach has a lot more to do with social history and urban
geography than it does with the traditional fare of architectural historians. There
are problems with both of these scholarly cultures. The social historian who tackles
the city is often frustratingly vague about the physical frame of things. “For any-
one interested in the landscape of a town it can be infuriating to pick up a book
purporting to be a definitive history and find it goes into intricate details about
borough organization in the thirteenth century and notable mayors in the eighteenth
century, but tells little about its physical appearance at any date and does not even
provide a plan.”
This is a quotation from Michael Aston and James Bond, The Landscape of
Towns (1976), a work which, confined only to England though it is and presented as
a straightforward chronological survey, recalls rather directly my intent in the
present volume and its companion. If there is one complaint to be lodged, it is that
their book is too physical: there is not enough attention paid to the underlying
explanations of urban form. And yet physical patterns always encapsulate an extra-
physical reality. As one geographer put it, ‘““Few social values and actions are so
abstract that they fail to be reflected in material forms.’’®
My difficulties with urban geographers have to do with aims and means. Much of
their effort goes to generating theory, which brings with it an insistence on
measurement, statistical samples, and reductive diagrams. A practical side of these
preoccupations is the definition of type independent of particular historical
circumstance — a habit that parallels, with very different motives of course, the
cavalier formal reductionism of the designer writing about urban form. But as one of
their own, Harold Carter, observes, “‘if geographers reduce to abstract generaliza-
tion the rich variety of urban places from Timbukto to Tottenham, from Samarkand
to San Francisco, from Narberth to Nabeul, then theirs is an odd craft.’’”
Of their two principal jurisdictions, ‘“‘the spatial characteristics of the city, and the
characteristics of the city in space” (to use Carter’s words again),*® the second holds
little fascination for me. The reader will find nothing here about favorite topics of
the urban geographer like “‘the process of urbanization,” “the growth of the city
system’? (or the distribution pattern of towns and the flow of goods and people
within that pattern), and “the ranking of towns.’ A key monument of these
concerns, central place theory, will barely be mentioned.
We are more in tune when urban geography turns to urban form proper and the
interior structure of cities. Even here the vast literature is only very selectively
apropos. Urban land-use and systems of land-rent, the location of industry in the
city, the rural-urban fringe, the central business district—these are less appealing to
me as theoretical matters of urban behavior than when they bear directly on the
shape of particular cities. By the same token, the geographer’s overwhelming
economic bias in the discussion of urban form is at odds with an approach like mine
that is fundamentally cultural, its steady emphasis on politics, social structure, and
ritual.
Most apposite, as a tool, is the geographer’s analysis of the “town plan’’—a
technique honed and publicized principally by M. R. G. Conzen.’ What historians
and practitioners of architecture loosely call urban fabric is comprised, for the
Conzen school, of three interlocking elements. First, there is the town plan itself,
which consists of the street system; the plot pattern, that is to say, land parcels or
lots; and the building arrangement within this pattern. All this is taken at the ground
level. This town plan the younger Conzen—M. P. Conzen—describes as “‘the
cadaster or matrix of land divisions functionally differentiated by legally protected
ownership.” Then comes the land use pattern, which shows specialized uses of
INTRODUCTION «25
ground and space. Finally, there is the building fabric, which is the actual three- 17-19 The basic components ofa town
dimensional mark of physical structures on the land ownership parcel. plan are identified by urban geographer
The difference is crucial. When architectural historians or architects engage in M. R. G. Conzen as the town plan or
urban history, they habitually emphasize the street system alone. Edmund Bacon’s street pattern (left), the land use pattern
(center), and the building fabric defining
Design of Cities is a well-known example. But urban process, in our sense of the
the city in three dimensions (right).
phrase, is in large measure the story of urban development within the pre-existing
frame or “ground plan.” It manifests itself through changes in plot configuration,
and the size and scale of the solid structures that occupy it. On this head at least,
urban geography has much to teach us.
This so called morphogenetic approach, which puts all emphasis on the urban
landscape itself, is judged as too restrictive by many geographers; they are usually
the same ones who dismiss out-of-hand the artistic approach, their term for the strict
formalism of the designer and the architectural historian. What is missing from the
Conzen school, according to them, is a sense of economic forces, having to do with
land values, the building industry and the like, which affect the physical growth and
shape of the city. Building cycles, or varying amounts of constructional activity over
time, are associated by these geographers, J. W. R. Whitehand perhaps foremost
among them, with the familiar dogma of economic cycles. These peaks and sags in
building activity affect new development at the fringe, as well as revisions in the
urban core. Without denying the validity of this economic emphasis, or its contri-
bution to an eventual theory of urban form, I must pronounce it, too, marginal
within my limited charter.
26 - INTRODUCTION
A more sweeping and simpler distinction, especially one that has the merit of
being universally valid, would serve better in studies of my kind that undertake
broad overviews. Fernand Braudel’s roughly chronological divisions, inspired in
part by Max Weber, are perhaps too tailormade for his own particular brand of
history to be applicable beyond his system. They are restricted, at any rate, to the
West. Type A, the open city, he identifies mostly with Greece and Rome. Here the
town, whether walled or not, is “‘open to the surrounding countryside and on terms
of equality with it.’’ The medieval town is the classic case of Type B, the closed city:
it is self-sufficient, exclusivist, and distrusts country folk and newcomers alike in its
zealously guarded monopoly of industry and craft. Type C comprises the subjugated
towns of early modern times, from the Renaissance onward, disciplined and sternly
controlled by a powerful prince or state."!
For my purposes, I prefer an equally drastic but more ecumenical differentiation.
The pre-industrial city, first postulated in a 1960 book of that name by Gideon
Sjoberg, retains its usefulness despite serious objections to some of its premises. The
definition, as it applies to our own concerns, specifies small size (very rarely over
100,000 people); lack of land use specialization; and little social and physical
mobility. The social structure is primarily of two classes—an elite and a lower clas;
the status of an intermediate stratum of merchants has been consistently overrated,
according to Sjoberg. The center is taken up by government and religion and the
residences of the elite. Occupational groupings are everywhere the rule.
The pre-industrial city, common to all civilizations of the old world for several
millennia, still holds on here and there. But it has been overwhelmingly replaced by
something else during the last several hundred years. Each of the themes I will take
up in the succeeding chapters will have to consider the radical changes brought
about by the appearance, in the relatively recent past, of the industrial city. If the
critical date here is the 18th century, this can be pushed back to 1500 and even
earlier, in so far as the industrial city may be said to have been prefigured by
capitalism. The urban landscape was fundamentally transformed when urban land
came to be seen as a source of income, when ownership was divorced from use, and
property became primarily a means to produce rent. It was this “land-rent gradient”
that, in the words of J. E. Vance, Jr., “‘ended the idea of the ordered city and
economically encouraged the segregation of uses.”
The third category to distinguish, however brief its history to date, is the socialist
city. Its cycle is not yet closed, but the basic features are already fully manifest. The
central operative principle here is the abolition of capitalist ownership of land
and property. This ban is actually by no means absolute in socialist countries. In
Poland, for example, three-fourths of all farmland is still peasant-owned; in
Yugoslavia this percentage is even higher. By and large, property is not expropriated
“if it does not greatly exceed the acceptable per capita living-space norms and is used
solely for shelter; thus private property persists in the housing sector in town and
country.” But this selective leniency does not alter the fact that central planning
determines the status, growth, and shape of the socialist city. It is the government
which decides the size and look of the public spaces, the amount of housing, the size
of the living units, patterns of transportation and questions of zoning. Rent and
profit have nothing to do with these decisions. This at least has been the case until
the recent populist revolution in eastern Europe, which may well succeed in
privatizing property and installing a market economy along the model of the
industrialised West.
As it has crystallized since the Second World War, the form of the socialist city
shows these distinctive characteristics. In the center, the old business district has
INTRODUCTION * 27
20 The spatial
characteristics of the
European pre-industrial
city are shown in this mid-
17th-century view of
Strasbourg (then Germany,
now France) by Jan
Jansson: a strongly defined
city edge, and a dense,
compact core accented by
monumental public structures.
21 The industrial
townscape is enshrined in
A. F. Poole’s 1881
lithograph of Holyoke
(Massachusetts), a New
England factory town.
Manufacturing enterprises,
hotels, and other
monuments to private
capital are celebrated in
vignettes surrounding the
bird’s-eye view. The grid
of subdivided lots, more
densely occupied toward
the town center, is a
graphic reminder of a
land-rent gradient and the
profit motive for
citybuilding.
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URBAN CYCLES
These days almost nobody believes in the diffusion theory any more—that is, that
the city originated in Mesopotamia in the 4th millennium Bc, and spread from there
to the Indus Valley and China, and westward to Greece. With that premise, we only
had to worry about one place and its cities in accounting for the birth of the urban
form.
For one thing, it is now agreed, characteristics of some Neolithic settlements in
Western Asia— Jericho, ‘Ain Ghazal, Catal Huytik, and Khirokitia are examples— 23
qualify them as towns; and that was about two or three thousand years before
Mesopotamia. Jericho was girdled by a tremendous stone wall. “Ain Ghazal, also in
Jordan, was three times the size of Jericho, with a population of 2,500-3,000 over
thirty acres (12 ha.). The site yielded lifelike human statuary, luxury goods, and
INTRODUCTION ° 29
small geometrical objects which may have been accounting tokens related to an
23 equitable allocation of resources.'* Catal Htyuk, in the Konya Plain, with perhaps
10,000 souls, disposed of a valued commodity, obsidian, the black volcanic glass
that was the best material of the time for cutting tools; so it had the wherewithal for
foreign trade. It had also public shrines and shops. Khirokitia in Cyprus had astreet,
the first I know of, and the unwalled settlement stretched along its length in a pattern
of growth that was potentially open-ended.
There is a hiatus of at least fifteen hundred years between the demise of these
proto-urban settlements and the rise of the first true cities in the mudplains between
the Tigris and Euphrates some time around 3500 Bc. In the Nile Valley urbanization
came alittle later, perhaps by 3000 Bc. Then, a millennium or so after that, we have
the cities of the Indus Valley, Harappa and Mohenjo Daro, which materialize rather
suddenly and are abandoned as suddenly several centuries later. Between the death
of these Indus Valley cities and the reappearance of urban life in India and Pakistan
under the aegis of the Aryan invaders comes another time-gap of about one
thousand years. In China the settings of the first cities were the western flood plains
of the Yellow River and the lower Wei River valley: the earliest city was said to be
Yin at Anyang, but earlier Shang capitals like Zhengzhou one hundred miles (160
km.) away have since been excavated. City genesis in South-East Asia—Burma,
Malaysia, Indochina—is documented in the early centuries of the first millennium
AD. In the New World, the Maya cities of Yucatan and Guatemala come first; Tikal
and Uaxactun are among the oldest. In Peru, towns before the Chimu kingdom are
obscure, but by the year AD tooo Chanchan, with its characteristic walled citadel—
compounds, had started its career as Chimt capital. In Africa, proponents of native,
pre-European urbanization can point to Yoruba cities like Ibadan, Ogbomosho,
Iwo, Ife and Lagos.
Two points need to be made in relation to this brief survey of urban beginnings.
First, we must stress the unevenness of urban development over space and time.
At the very least, we have to conclude that the so-called urban revolution flared
independently in several places on earth at different times, exactly as we now know
to be the case with the Neolithic revolution. And this periodicity of city-making is a
fact of history also for the West. In the Greek world, the Dorian invasion of about
r100 BC which brought down the brilliant civilization of Mycenae interrupted city
life on the mainland and the Aegean islands for several hundred years. The long
decline of urbanism after the ‘fall’ of the Roman Empire is irrefutable, even if it has
been perhaps overstated. The resurgence of new towns in the later Middle Ages had
definite limits. Only after 1200 did the plantation of new towns extend beyond the
Elbe and the Saale into eastern Europe and the Baltic shores.
At the same time, urban systems have an inbuilt stability, so that they can do
without constant replenishment. Let us recall that in France, for example, the
framework of the urban system which still holds today is the product of two periods
of town foundation—the Gallo-Roman and the medieval. Out of 44 capitals of
civitates in the Gallo-Roman period, that is, tribal territories identified for
administrative purposes, 26 became chef-lieux of modern départements after the
French Revolution when the framework of provincial rule that had prevailed under
the ancien régime was restructured. From the mid-14th century on, little was added
to this urban system, no more than a score of new towns between 1500 and 1800, and
these were occasioned mostly by political ambition (e.g. the Duc de Sully’s
Henrichemont north of Bourges from 1608, the Duc de Nevers’ Charleville near
146 Reims, also from 1608, Cardinal Richelieu’s homonymous town from 1635, and of
238 course Versailles), by defense (e.g. Longwy and Neuf-Brisach, both designed by
30 - INTRODUCTION
Vauban), and by colonial ambition (the five ports of Le Havre, Brest, Rochefort,
Lorient, and Sete).
In England, we find Roman towns, Saxon towns, and some 400 or 500 post-
Conquest towns of the r2th and early 13th centuries, with long intervals of inactivity
in between. And again almost nothing between the last of the medieval new towns,
Queensborough and Bewdley, and the end of the 17th century, when here too, as in
France, some new port towns were initiated, namely, Falmouth (1660), Whitehaven,
Port Glasgow, and Devonport.
Second, if town-making, and urban life, are not a steady state of existence but
surge and lapse in irregular cycles across the continents, alternate orders of human
settlement should be given due attention. It is possible that we have made altogether
too much of the city. Take the case of China. Most scholars now agree that in taking
possession of their vast territories, the Chinese did not regard the city as the prime
unit of settlement. What was important in penetrating and holding unsettled tracts
was the expansion into them of systematic agriculture, centered in peasant villages.
Once the land was tamed, one or more of these villages would be built up as centers
of imperial authority.1* The contrast is evident with Greece, Rome, or the opening
up of eastern Europe by the Germans, say, where new towns were considered
mandatory in the process of colonization.
URBAN ORIGINS
The various schools of urban origins are familiar, and they often involve us in
chicken-and-egg circumvolutions. Did this-and-such create the necessity for cities,
or did an urban presence bring about this-and-such?
So it is with the concept of a surplus, i.e. that cities started when there was a shift
away froma simple, self-satisfying village economy. Surplus production beyond the
immediate needs of the community made possible the emancipation of some people
from the toils of the land, and this created the opportunity for specialized tasks and
the groups associated with them, namely, scribes, craftsmen, priests, and warriors.
Surplus production presumes irrigation, and efficient irrigation systems presume a
complex bureaucracy, and that means cities. So goes the argument.
But first of all, there really is no solid evidence that the rise of political authority in
Mesopotamia, the putative birthplace of the city, was based on the administrative
requirements of a major canal system. Secondly, surplus is a relative term. It has to
presume ashift in priorities, the redirection of goods and services from one use to
another, and not only and always an increase in production. In other words, changes
in social institutions might be just as likely to precipitate changes in technology and
complex notions about subsistence and surplus rather than the other way around.
24 The origins of cities: markets. The same holds for the city as a protected marketplace. In a thesis popularized by
European fairs, like this one outside Jane Jacobs’s The Economy of Cities (1969), cities are presumed to have developed
Arnhem (The Netherlands), provided a as nodal markets; agricultural intensification then followed to feed the city. The
marketplace freed from many of the duties trouble here is that a market was not always necessary in early towns, because long-
and franchises that encumbered long- distance trade was regulated by treaties and carried out by official traders. There is
distance trade. The biggest trade fairs took the instance of the Assyrian karum, for example, trading colonies of Assyrian
on the appearance of temporary cities, as merchants who settled just outside already flourishing towns in neighboring states
shown in this detail of an engraving by like those of Anatolia. Trade by treaty was also practiced in pre-Columbian Meso-
Romeyn de Hooch (1645-1708). America, in pre-colonial West Africa, and probably in Shang China.'* The self-
regulating market, it turns out, may have been the exception and not the rule. What
is more, local markets, even when they existed, did not always develop into cities,
and neither, by the way, did fairs, those quintessential centers of long-distance trade, 24
INTRODUCTION =: 31
common belief to the contrary notwithstanding. In fact, this is also true of the
Middle Ages. As far as we can tell, no medieval fair ever gave birth to a city. Even
Troyes existed before its famous fair.
Much the same problem arises with military and religious theories: the town as an
agent of defense and domination, and the town as a holy place. To be sure,
concentration of settlements for purposes of defense may have generated cities (why
did they not start earlier, one wonders, since defense must have been a problem in
pre-urban times too?). Then again, the reverse may be true, that once you have a
concentration of people, you might need sophisticated defense. And shrines do not
25 always produce cities, though there is no doubting the great importance of cults and
of a priestly hierarchy in the matrix of early cities everywhere, as Paul Wheatley and
others have long argued.!” This emphasis on the ceremonial cult center, I might add,
1S very much to be applauded as a necessary antidote against the excessive
importance attached to trade by historians of the Western city.
All this is conveniently summarized in Harold Carter’s recent book, An Intro-
duction to Urban Historical Geography (1983), which concludes by quoting
Wheatley:
It is doubtful if a single, autonomous, causative factor will ever be identified in the
nexus of social, economic and political transformations which resulted in the
emergence of urban forms... whatever structural changes in social organization 25 The origins of cities: ceremonial
were induced by commerce, warfare or technology, they needed to be validated by centers. Madurai (South India) is depicted
some instrument of authority if they were to achieve institutionalized perma- in this 18th-century plan as a concentric
nence. pattern of walls, open spaces and city
blocks organized around the sacred kernel
of its temple precinct, with its own square
wall pierced by four towered gates or
gopuras.
26 left The origins of cities: military
strongholds. The French coastal city of
Calais was occupied by Edward III of
England in 1346 to establish a firm grip
upon the territory gained through military
exploits. In the two centuries of rule by the
British goddons, the city was transformed
into an administrative fortress. The
English foothold was recaptured by the
French in 1558, despite a last desperate
remodeling of its bastions in conformance
with the state-of-the-art Italian prototypes,
as shown in this late 16th-century
engraving from Braun and Hogenberg’s
Civitates Orbis Terrarum.
32 INTRODUCTION
This instrument of authority, rather than any particular form of activity, was the
generating force for many towns. Sjoberg equated authority with social power. To
him the pre-industrial city was “‘a mechanism by which a society’s rulers can
consolidate and maintain their power.” The spread of cities into non-urbanized
areas had to do with “‘the consolidation or extension of a political apparatus, be the
result a kingdom or an empire.’’'® Military conquest and political stability, more so 26
than trade, create the need for cities. A conquering force requires administrative and
military centers in order to control newly won lands. Ibn Khaldun, the great Muslim
historian, made much the same point in the rsth century. “Dynasties and royal
authority are absolutely necessary for the building of cities and the planning of
towns,” he wrote.!? The catch, again, is who came first. You can argue, and some
have, that early dynasties needed an urban base as their mainspring. In the end, it
comes down to a seemingly unavoidable primary distinction between cities imposed
by an established political authority, and those which, in Wheatley’s words, came
into being ‘‘as a result of the spontaneous readjustment of social, political and
economic relationships within the context of a folk society.’’”° The latter process is
internal to a specific region, while urban imposition is the extension of urban
patterns from one region to another.
To take Japan as an example: the first cities developed, south of the Tohoku,
between the 4th and 6th centuries ap. The generating nucleus is said to have been
palace—capitals of chiefdoms that brought together a number of tribes, in the period
known as the Tumulus culture, in the Yamato region of south Japan. The fortified
palace that either incorporated or was surrounded by the personal administrative 29,
staff of the ruler drew about itself an unplanned accretion of artisans, craftsmen and 30
military retainers, and out of this social readjustment internal to the Yamato region
an urban form was born. Then, in the 7th century, capitals conceived as unitary
wholes and fully planned as orthogonal compositions make a sudden appearance,
beginning with Fujiwara occupied in 694, and Heijokyo (Nara) in the center of the 139
Yamato plain some fifteen years later. The model in this instance was external, name-
ly, the orthogonal planning of Chinese cities like Chang’an. It is uncertain whether 174
the model was imported directly and adopted along with the Chinese government
structure, or whether it reached Japan through the intermediary of the Korean
kingdom of Silla with its Chinese-style capital on the site of present-day Kyongju. In
either case, it was an alien formula brought in and applied by a strong centralized
authority to a territory that had nothing to do with its creation.
If urban causality proves a tricky subject, we must also try not to make too much
of the precise location, or the general geomorphic conditions, in which cities chose
to manifest themselves. Cities, even those attributed to spontaneous processes
inherent to a region, are never entirely processual events: at some level, city-making
always entails an act of will on the part of a leader ora collectivity. To explain cities
as the result of purely “natural”? causes—accidents of geography or regional
inevitabilities—is to indulge in a species of physical determinism incompatible with
human affairs. There are, after all, many river crossings, convergences of land
routes, and defensible outcrops which did not spawn towns. As Aston and Bond say,
“Towns are built by and for people. Their regional and local sitings are the result of
decisions taken by people and not of some inevitable physical control.” And besides
it is good to remember that, “Whatever the initial reasons for a town’s foundation
on a particular site, once established it generates its own infrastructure, transport
network and so on.’’*?
Shall we agree, then, not to fret too much about the single common empowering
factor responsible for the origin of cities? None of the generative impulses
INTRODUCTION - 33
mentioned above is unimportant. A positive ecological base; a site favorable to Urban form is generated through a variety
trade; an advanced technology that would include large-scale irrigation works, of settlement processes.
metallurgy, animal husbandry and the like; a complex social organization; a strong 27, 28 left Through synoecism, several
political structure—these are all relevant to the genesis of cities. The point is that independent villages are consolidated into
some factors were probably interdependent in the emergence of some cities, and a single community.
different ones among them may have motivated different cities: or, to put it more 29, 30 center Service precincts grow up
clearly, towns may have been spawned for specific reasons that have to do with the near palace, temple, or fortress
purposes they were intended to serve. compounds, attracted by their
concentration of wealth.
EARLY CITY FORM 31, 32 right In the case of the
Precolumbian city of Teotihuacan
Early cities came in many shapes. We must be willing to set aside, before we enter (Mexico), the administrative powers
our main discourse, the seductive picture of cities growing organically out of village invested in the religious complex were
life, like mature trees out of green saplings. Whatever the incidence of such sufficient to substitute a formal
progressive development, let us not mistake non-geometric city form for the orthogonality for the pattern of villages
inevitable end result of the slow proliferous change of a simpler settlement form. that originally occupied the site.
There are many cases where the coming together of a number of prior settlements,
speaking morphogenetically, produced towns of arbitrary irregularities. We men-
tioned the first Japanese towns, given life by the chieftain’s palace. These, or for that
matter the first Mesopotamian towns, probably owed their shape as much to some
erratic social agglomeration around an institutional core as they did to natural
adjustments or “‘biological” rhythms.
Secondly, there were from the start plenty of towns that did not in the least look
natural or organic. Some, like E] Lahun, were dormitory communities for workers,
not full-fledged towns in reality. But they showed, for all that, the knowledge in
Old Kingdom Egypt to design totally ordered environments, with streets, seriated
housing units, and a residential hierarchy that is anything but random. And in cities
like Mohenjo Daro we have a schematic orthogonal planning applied to the entire
urban fabric; the blocks were of roughly equal size, and a rational distinction was
made between main streets and the alleys that separated the houses.
No, whatever the actual practices of urbanization may have been, ancient
traditions insisted that making cities was an intentional act, approved and
implemented at the highest level. The gods made cities and took charge of them. The
kings made cities, in order to set up microcosms of their rule. The city was a
marvellous, inspired creation. An Egyptian document of the 7th century BC says that
Ptah “had formed the gods, he had made cities, he had founded nomes. He had put
the gods in their shrines.” An earlier poem hails Amun and his creation, Thebes,
“the pattern of every city.” And so it continued through the centuries. As far as
people’s beliefs were concerned, cities were made, they did not happen.
This is not at all surprising, since in many ancient cultures, the city on earth was
supposed to represent a celestial model which it was extremely important to
reproduce accurately. Ritual proprieties like orientation to the four points of the
compass, symmetrically arranged gates, and dimensions of round, magical
numbers, had to be observed. Which in turn meant an artificial layout, often of some
geometric purity. The gods knew such things and told the kings. If you could start
from scratch, you could have the whole town properly conform to the prescribed
ritual instructions. One’s reign could then start auspiciously. History is filled with
instances of new towns that augur new eras: Amarna for Akhenaten; Khorsabad for
Sargon II; Baghdad for al-Mansur; Dadu for Khubilai Khan; Versailles for Louis
XIV. A treasured advantage of these new starts was that the ruler could design an
ideal population for his city, and coerce it to live in premeditated relationships.
34 - INTRODUCTION
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INTRODUCTION 25
33, 34 Planted within the urban core or
appended to the city edge, monumental
temple and palace precincts provide a
striking contrast to their urban setting in
scale and geometric order.
»
If you had to work with something less perfect, a prior city you inherited, you
could do two things. You could see to it that the central ceremonial complex
335 reflected the divine prototype—which is why temple—palace groups of otherwise
34 irregular towns are often planned in a formal manner that would stand in significant
contrast to the rest of the urban fabric, both in scale and in its calculated order. Or
you could add new quarters to the old town, ennobled with your very own dynastic
monumentality and endowed with an exclusive population. This is the story of
Assur and Babylon, of Cairo and Samarra, of Ercole d’Este’s addition to Ferrara and
233 those of the Electors of Brandenburg to Berlin. The shape of many cities in history
represents a serial growth of planned increments grafted to an original core, and one
of the most revealing aspects of the urban landscape has to do with the ways in
which these additions are meshed with, or purposely discriminated from, the older
fabric.
Alongside the tradition of the divine—princely origin of cities, there seems to have
been from very early on a counter-tradition that said humans, common people,
urbanized on their own initiative, and the gods were not pleased about it. In the Old
Testament it is easy to detect strong anti-urban sentiments. God created a garden, a
paradise of Nature, an Eden, but “Cain went out from the presence of the Lord and
dwelt in the land of Nod on the East of Eden... and he built a city.”” And later on
again, journeying eastward, the offspring of Noah found a plain in the land of
Shinar; “and they said, ‘Go to, let us build us a city and a tower, whose top may
reach unto heaven; and let us make us a name, lest we be scattered abroad upon the
face of the whole earth.’” And the Lord promptly put an end to these blasphemous
proceedings.
Are we to read into this the resistance of agrarian cultures, where God is
everywhere, or localized in brooks and mountaintops, to the challenge of cities and
the domestication, if you will, of the godhead? Or should we also see here the
beginnings of populism, of bypassing central authority—the creation of cities by
the will of the people, without benefit of kingship or priesthood; or the wresting of
cities from such authority?
In the world of the Greeks, that notion will find its apogee in the concept of the
polis where the community as a whole is the city. In the words of Nicias to the
Athenian soldiers on the beach at Syracuse: “You are yourselves the town, wherever
you choose to settle . . . it is men that make the city, not the walls and ships without
36 + INTRODUCTION
them” (Thucydides vii.63). Polis gives us “‘political.”” Man, Aristotle wrote, is a
“political” creature, one suited by nature to live ina city.
And how do we know this type of city? There will be in it no monumental settings
except for the gods, no stone houses, no fancy streets. And there will be in it places
where the citizens can come together to make decisions affecting their common fate
and the way they want to live. And the city will be the measure of one’s morality.
Good people live in cities; they belong to a particular city that gives them their
identity and self-worth. People who transgress morality are banished from their city.
“No city hath he,” Sophocles writes, “who dares to dwell with dishonor.”
After the Hellenistic/Roman epoch when the city as a work of art, or urbs,
prevailed over civitas, the city as a righteous assembly of people, we find again an
assertion of community. This is what sustains some of the Roman towns despite
their sorry state, their shrinkage, their bankruptcy, brought about by the
disintegration of the empire. ‘Not the stones but the people,” as Isidore of Seville
put it in the 7th century in describing civitas. And when several centuries later the
people regain control of their cities from their feudal overlords, once again there 1s a
collective presence, a moral imperative, a parity of citizens in charge of their destiny
and their city-form. Throughout the later Middle Ages, the struggle of the burghers
to stand up to castle and cathedral, to lord and bishop, will dramatically inform the
making of the urban landscape.
A. Cities are places where a certain energized crowding of people takes place. This
has nothing to do with absolute size or with absolute numbers: it has to do with
settlement density. The vast majority of towns in the pre-industrial world were
small: a population of 2,000 or less was not uncommon, and one of 10,000 would be
noteworthy. Of the almost 3,000 towns in the Holy Roman Empire only about 12 to
15 (Cologne and Liibeck among them) had over ro,000 inhabitants.
A few statistics will serve as future points of reference. There were only a handful
of genuine metropolises in antiquity, among them imperial Rome in the 2nd century
Ap and Chang’an in the 8th. In the Middle Ages this prodigious size is matched by
Constantinople, Cordoba and Palermo, the last two of which may have been in the
500,000 range in the 13th—-r4th centuries. Baghdad may have had as many as
1,000,000 inhabitants before it was destroyed by the Mongols in 1258. Again, we
have Chinese parallels for such phenomenal concentrations—Nanjing in the rsth
century, and, in the late imperial era, Beijing, Suzhou and Canton. Beijing remained
the world’s largest city until 1800, with a population of 2,000,000—3,000,000, when it
was overtaken by London. Its only close rivals in the 17th century were Istanbul,
Agra, and Delhi. Behind every enormous city of this sort, at least in the pre-
INTRODUCTION - 37
industrial era, there lies a vast, centralized state. Without its ruler, the city is bound
to wither or collapse.
C. Cities are places that have some physical circumscription, whether material or
symbolic, to separate those who belong in the urban order from those who do not.
“Une ville sans mur n’est pas une ville” (a city without walls is not a city), J.-F. Sobry
wrote in his De l’architecture of 1776. Even without any physical circumscription,
there is a legal perimeter within which restrictions and privileges apply.
F. Cities are places that must rely on written records. It is through writing that they
will tally their goods, put down the laws that will govern the community, and
establish title to property—which is extremely important, because in the final
analysis a city rests on a construct of ownership.
G. Cities are places that are intimately engaged with their countryside, that have a
territory that feeds them and which they protect and provide services for. The
separation of town and country, as we shall see repeatedly in this book, is
thoroughly injudicious. Roman towns do not exist apart from the centuriated land
roundabout; great Italian communes like Florence and Siena could not exist without
their contado; and the same is true of New England towns and their fields and
commons. Polis, civitas, commune, township—all these are terms that apply to an
urban settlement and its region.?°
Often the city-form is locked into rural systems of land division. The Romans
commonly correlated the main north-south and east-west coordinates of the
centuriation—the division of rural land into squares that were supposed to be the
theoretical equivalent of one hundred small holdings—with the cross-axes of the
38 - INTRODUCTION
35-43 Characteristics of cities:
A Energized crowding Fs PEO
Feeoan Fob
B Urban clusters
C Physical circumscription
D Differentiation of uses
E Urban resources ee ay
Pe e Vine fey si
F Written records WAVY GZ TAP Sy 7 GUTKC
H Monumental framework
I Buildings and people
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city. The National Survey that regulated two-thirds of the United States territory
determined the placement and size of many towns (see ‘““The Grid,”’ below). It is,
furthermore, ofgreat interest to us that pre-existing rural property bounds will often
influence subsequent urban lines, and determine the shape of urban development.
The question of which came first, town or country, is not simple. The first towns
in the Middle East or China controlled and organized an already functioning
countryside. In the opening of the American West, the towns preceded the farms
and made their operations possible. By the same token, the strains of a deeply felt
disagreement about the relative superiority of town and country can be heard
throughout history. Two examples, as distant as I can make them. In China, the
Confucian view that the proper function of the elite was to govern, that government
presumed cities, and that the purpose of government was to civilize the countryside,
clashes with the ultimately Taoist and Buddhist ideal of rural existence. Thomas
Jefferson’s agrarian republicanism had no use for cities in the structure of the young
nation. Cities were “‘sores on the body politic.”
INTRODUCTION < 39
H. Cities are places distinguished by some kind of monumental definition, that is,
where the fabric is more than a blanket of residences. This means a set of public
buildings that give the city scale, and the citizenry landmarks of a common identity.
Technological monuments are also important: Rome had its aqueducts; Tikal, a
large manmade reservoir; Anuradhapura in Sri Lanka, a hydraulic system of
monumental proportions. In the public realm early cities under central authority
chose to emphasize the palace and the temple. In the people’s city, the princely
palace disappears, or is translated into a palace of the people, and the temple is
“secularized’’—that is the case of the Greek polis, and that too is the case of the
European commune in the Middle Ages with its palazzo pubblico or Rathaus and its
“civic” cathedral.
I. Finally, cities are places made up of buildings and people. I agree with Kevin
Lynch: “‘City forms, their actual function, and the ideas and values that people
attach to them make up a single phenomenon.”?* Hundreds of new towns in every
age of history were still-born, or died young. The majority of the grids laid out by
railroad companies along their lines in the r9th century never fleshed out into real
towns. Conversely, we can discount scholarly claims for the fully established and
173 long-lived Mayan sites or for places like Angkor Thom and Nakhon Pathom that
they were not real cities because they had no resident population. These spectacular
ceremonial settings and the priests and the builders and the artisans and the people
selling them things belonged together. We will be well served, in reading this book,
to recognize that there have been cityless societies, and times when cities were
vestigial marks in a predominantly rural landscape. Let us recognize, too, that the
urban and pastoral ways of life were at times contending social systems; and further,
that the history of human settlement must be predicated on a rural-urban
continuum, and that the city as a self-contained unit of analysis must be seen as
conditional enterprise. For all that, the city is one of the most remarkable, one of the
most enduring of human artifacts and human institutions. Its fascination is
inevitable: its study is both duty and homage.
Ours is certainly not a story restricted to the past. At this very moment cities are
being born ab ovo, either through the legal instrument of incorporation, or through
parthenogenesis. Since 1950 more than 30 new towns were created in England. In
France, along two preferential axes following the Seine Valley, several new towns
for 300,000 to 500,000 each are in the process of building—St.-Quentin-en-Yvelines,
Evry, Marne-la-Vallee. Others have been started outside the Paris region. In the
Soviet Union we have many hundreds of recent new towns, closely associated with
the spread of industrialization. In the United States, the ‘“‘“new communities”
program introduced in the Sixties has had its own considerable offspring.
It is a long haul, from Jericho to Marne-la-Valleé. My ambition to encompass all
of urban history through this thematic approach rests on a paradox. Cities in their
physical aspect are stubbornly long-lived. As Vance put it,
The most enduring feature of the city is its physical build, which remains with
remarkable persistence, gaining increments that are responsive to the most recent
economic demand and reflective of the latest stylistic vogue, but conserving
evidence of past urban culture for present and future generations.
At the same time
urban society changes more than any other human grouping, economic
innovation comes usually most rapidly and boldly in cities, immigration aims first
40 - INTRODUCTION
44 Budapest's Marx Square—formerly
Berlin Square—manifests a century of
shifting urban culture in its streets and
buildings. On the right, a remnant of the
city’s fin-de-siécle splendor is coaxed into
the socialist era with a crowning red star.
Across the street a glass-skinned
commercial building and a multi-level
thoroughfare interject a fragment of late
modern townscape.
at the urban core forcing upon cities the critical role of acculturating refugees
from many countrysides, and the winds of intellectual advance blow strong in
Cites nae
The challenge in this book and its companion volume will be to seize upon and
reconcile this vital contest between socio-economic change and the persistence of the
artifact:
INTRODUCTION Ar
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aa, cet
1- “ORGANIC”
PATTERNS
““ORGANIC” PATTERNS - 43
46,47 The irregular geometries of the ville
spontanée versus the ordered framework
of the ville creee.
At the outset, it is worth emphasizing that the regularity of the planned city is
conditional. Streets that read as straight and uniform on the city plan may be
compromised by the capricious behavior of the bordering masses.
48, The unpredictability is of two kinds. How the buildings relate to the street line
49 and where they stand on their lots have a good deal to do with the perception of
geometric order. William Penn knew as much when he laid out the famous
checkerboard of Philadelphia. His directives for its occupation reveal solicitude
about holding to a common street line and about the spacing of buildings along the
streets. “Let the houses built be in a line, or upon a line, as much as may be,”’ he
wrote. “Let every house be placed, if the person pleases, in the middle of its plat, as to
the breadth way of it.” In the 18th century, Baroque city-makers everywhere urged,
or legislated when they could, that street-defining buildings be brought to the edge of
252 their lots in a straight line, and further, that they be given identical facades.”
The provision for a uniform appearance was intended to forestall the second
kind of building activity that can dilute the effect of formal planning. Even when
buildings are marshalled like troops along the lines of an urban grid, the degree
of animation in their mass and, more essentially, variable height can result in
picturesque formations believed to be congenital to the unplanned city. Manhat-
I02 tan’s inflexible grid dissipates above ground into compilations that can range from
intentionally planted towns—we have license to play up the rule or the deviation.
This blurring of the basic duality of urban form, of the planned and the
unplanned, has also a peculiarly modern twist. Since the early roth century, a strand
of planning that first emerges in romantic suburbs, and graduates into a full-blown
alternative to the dominant practices of Western urbanism, has given us non-
geometric layouts artfully designed to avoid the rigidity of geometric abstraction.
44 + “ORGANIC” PATTERNS
With their preference for curvilinear street systems, the broken line, accented
spacing and spirited profiles, these layouts rephrase the tenets of ‘‘organic”’ cities in
a selfconscious, emulative mood. We might allow ourselves to speak, therefore,
of a “planned organicism”’ or, less awkwardly, “planned picturesque,” and reserve
its discussion to the final sections of this chapter.
““ORGANIC” PATTERNS © 45
COEXISTENCE AND TRANSCRIPTION sit Boston (Massachusetts) in 1877. An
amalgam of irregular and rectilinear
:
46 - “ORGANIC” PATTERNS
52 Herat (Afghanistan). This split plan MOT py BOR RI. oh 2 . ye i e 4 Lh LLLEOEEELS SLY €
shows the coexistence of a variety of urban f Sana a2 ae aa ‘ ; peas 5
FPLTty
Eanfe / m8 : res woe
geometries at differing street hierarchies. ‘ :
“wien awe
The city’s supergrid, right, organizes a
secondary street network within large
quadrants. When Herat’s maze of courts Fa es
and blind alleys is added to the plan, My
left, this overall organization all but ©
disappears. (After von Niedermeyer)
planned increment, the need to interpret the city as an intricate mesh, as the sum of
its parts and the ledger of its history, is especially pressing.
Most historic towns, and virtually all those of metropolitan size, are puzzles of
premeditated and spontaneous segments, variously interlocked or juxtaposed. The
“organic” old core is itself likely to be a composite of several units; surrounding it
will be an array of more or less orderly new quarters; along the city edge, and in
unoccupied internal pockets, extemporaneous squatter settlements of recent years
could effectively confound what legible consistency the urban form might have
assumed in the course of its life. Cities, Wolfgang Braunfels appositely reminds us,
“are the result of a self-renewing power of design.’’* It is questionable gain to
divorce regular from irregular in this continuous effort of adjustment.
We can go beyond. The two kinds of urban form do not always stand in a
contiguous relationship. They metamorphose. The reworking of prior geometries
over time leaves urban palimpsests where a once regular grid plan is feebly
ensconced within a maze of cul-de-sacs and narrow winding streets.
Look at the plan of old Herat, the westernmost large city ofAfghanistan. A pair of 52
relatively straight market streets intersecting at right angles divide the city form into
48 - “ORGANIC” PATTERNS
WSs Ss
53-55 The gradual transformation ofa Islamic population appropriates these open public space. Straight passages along
gridded Roman colony into an Islamic public monuments for private use, and the winding system of narrow lanes offer
city. Left: The solidly framed Roman grid mid-block pathways begin to violate the the merest suggestion of the original
is punctuated by an open-air market and orthogonal street pattern. Right: The layout.
an amphitheater. Center: The city’s new transformed city is one with a minimum of
at :
planted by the Roman Empire throughout single tribal or ethnic group. Right: A
56-58 Islamic and feudal Italian
the Mediterranean. Left: In its modification of the same town plan in
adaptations of pre-existing Roman towns
reconfiguration by an Islamic population, medieval Italy would see city blocks fused
are marked by characteristic differences in
streets are replaced by a web of alleys that together to form fortified feudal enclaves
form and social context. Center: A gridded
organize residential quarters common to a crowned by defensive towers.
plan typical of the colonial settlements
“ORGANIC” PATTERNS - 49
socially exclusive units. The Roman grid is outer-related: the Islamic “block” is
involuted. So in Roman gridded towns inherited by Islam—Damascus, say, or
Mérida in Spain—the open space of the streets and public places, which now seemed
extravagant, was reduced through progressive infill; through-streets were curtailed;
blocks were merged together into solidly built superblocks; and an inward
communication system was installed in this dense fabric, the principal element of
which was the cul-de-sac serving its immediate occupants.
A similar reordering of Classical grids through new residential arrangements
58, occurred in the West, most conspicuously in Italy. It was triggered by the noble
60, families who moved into the cities and set out to reproduce there the fortified
PPE strongholds of their rural residences. These compounds brought together units
of disparate real property around inner courts, obstructed intervening streets,
and sealed themselves along the periphery. The families made defensive alliances
with neighboring noble houses, forming semi-autonomous, nucleated wards
bristling with defensive towers. One of the main tests of nascent communes, or self-
governing city states, in the later Middle Ages would be to crack open these pri-
vate pockets and reclaim the streets and public places in the name of the entire
citizenry.
Third, the impact of new public foci on the urban fabric. Traffic flow, like run-
ning water, will forge its own course: a castle, a cathedral, a bishop’s palace—the
anchors of post-Roman urban life in the West—will tend to pull the circulation net
toward themselves. Concurrently, earlier streets that had led to foci once important
but now of no relevance will decline or atrophy. Within the measured system of the
Roman grid, these pressures of emphasis, allowed to have their way, will cause
permanent dislocation.
In terms of delineating a hierarchy of movement to match the geography of public
points within the city, the grid has obvious limitations. The main expedients are the
relative width of streets and the setting up of favored spots within the rules of
orthogonal design. The cross-axial scheme, and the placement of the civic center IIo
close to the crossing, was one way for Roman urban design to make amends for the
routine univalence of passage in their implanted checkerboards. In the process of
medievalization, however, this hierarchy was imposed against the grain of the
Roman blocks.
In the West, wherever the medieval market adopted the Roman forum and the
bishop’s palace and the cathedral stood in this same area, the continuity in the
nucleus of the town minimized dislocations due to shifts in accent. In the case of
Trier in Germany, on the other hand, the Roman grid was completely ignored oy
when, after a long period of shrinkage and social regrouping, several village-like
settlements within the walls, formed around important manors, were linked with
the fortified cathedral precinct close to the Porta Nigra, the Roman city gate to the
north. The Roman marketplace, outside the south gate, was abandoned, and the
main action of the restructured town moved to a marketplace immediately outside
the gates of the cathedral precinct.®
It is enough to remember, then, that the maze of Merida was once a planned
Roman city, and that the grid of historic Florence we now prize as a Roman survival
had to be energetically recreated in the late Middle Ages after its Balkanization by 60
CITIES AS ORGANISMS
The notion of the city as an organism is not very old. It is related, of course, to the
rise of modern biology, the science of life, and that does not antedate by much the
mid-17th century. On the one hand, visual parallels between some organisms and
some town-plans were hard to resist; you could see the venation of leaves in Muslim
medinas, the pattern of tree rings in the ringed expansions of a town like Nordlingen
or Aachen. On the other hand, the pairing of human organs and elements of urban
form on the basis of functional similarities satisfied a simple urge of animation: it
affirmed the primacy of urban life. Open spaces like squares and parks were the
lungs of the city, the center was the heart pumping blood (traffic) through the
arteries (the streets)—and so on. This literal affiliation differed from Renaissance
humanistic imagery that ascribed to good, that is planned, non-organic, urban form
human properties, as when Francesco di Giorgio states in his Trattato that “The
61 relation of the city to its parts is similar to that of the human body to its parts; the
streets are the veins.’
Recently, this biological analogy had a startling revival based on economics. The 61 Man as the prototype for urban form,
from Francesco di Giorgio Martini,
urban lot or dwelling-place, in this model, functions as the cell; things like the port,
Trattato dell’architettura, late 15th
the banking district, the industrial plant and the suburb are organs or specialized
century.
52 - “ORGANIC” PATTERNS
tissues; and capital, whether in monetary form or in built form, is the energy that
flows through urban systems. “Even prior to the great age of capitalism, all urban
growth arose in a capital accumulation process.” In its material form, capital
accumulation brings about changes in urban spaces; we can think of it as the net
balance of déstruction (depreciation) and construction.®
Two other aspects of organisms, their structural logic and their pathogeny, have
been considered apposite to the behavior of “organic” cities. Plants and animals
have definite boundaries and self-regulating systems of growth; they are subject to
dependable processes of change and adjustment, and revisions in their form are the
direct result of functional requirements. The same, it was argued, is (or should be)
true of organic cities. And these cities, again like organisms, are subject to sickness
and decay. There is a persistent strand of urban literature in the roth century that
posits the interdependence of the built environment and the physical and social
health of the inhabitants. The villain in the pathological deterioration of the urban
fabric that much of this literature decries is the Industrial Revolution, and the
proposed action is to abandon the sick, overcrowded cities as dead, or to eradicate
their “infected” parts, namely, the slums.
For our present purposes, these insistent comparisons are of little help. Their
application to the design of modern cities, a favorite resort of Garden City
advocates, comes across as disingenuous. In fact, the planned ‘“‘organicism”’ of the
Garden City and its affiliates contradicts biological behavior by insisting on the
separation of functions and by treating them hierarchically, by predicating optimum
sizes for cities, and by resisting change and the notion of continuous growth. The
confusion stems from the fundamental inaptitude of the organic analogy. As Kevin
Lynch correctly pointed out, “Cities are not organisms. . . . They do not grow or
change of themselves, or reproduce or repair themselves.’” It is human purpose and
human willfulness that drives the making of cities.
On the question of ‘‘organic”’ city-forms, which is germane to this discussion, we
must also reject any assistance from the world of biology. A study of true organic
form proves that the atomized behavior of the elementary particles is forcibly
restrained by an overarching discipline. In the words of Paul Weiss, “In nature the
same over-all effect can recur with lawful regularity, although the detailed events by
which it is attained will vary from case to case in ever novel constellations.”’*® There
is no evidence of any such lawful regularity at work in “‘organic”’ cities. This
biological ‘order in the gross, and freedom, diversity, and uniqueness in the small,”
if it is at all pertinent to urban analysis, either recalls city-content (rather than city-
form) in that, as Weiss notes, ‘‘a community can retain its character and structure
despite the turnover in population from birth, death, and migration”; or else might
be said to find a better echo, perversely, in the planned city-form, since it is often the
case with regular plans like grids that the building activity within each block is of a
great diversity while the total pattern remains unaffected.
“ORGANIC” PATTERNS * 53
hills, the mountains and the bay that have so thoroughly conditioned its shape
during its three-hundred-year history.
More precisely, we can single out repetitive conduct on the part of those cities
62 mindful of the hints of their natural landscape. River towns might acknowledge the
flow of the course with responsive streets along one or two banks. The sea too
provides some choice design opportunities. Natural harbors with sweeping
63 backdrops will suggest suitable street-sweeps: Halikarnassos was famous in
Pl.s Hellenistic times for its theater-like shape; Naples and Valparaiso, Chile, are
modern pendants. The defensive merit of craggy sites advertises itself throughout
urban history. The city-form so ensconced reacts boldly or sympathetically, with
devices like stepped streets and contour paths. In ancient towns like Idalion (Cyprus)
64 or Troy, the defensive wall closely followed the salient contours of the ground, and
the building blocks and street lines reflected the ins and outs of this complicated
outline.
Italian hill towns have always been a favorite demonstration of the evident fit
between the human-made and the natural. Studied clinically, these towns prove that
they have adopted one of several configurations depending on the character of their
65 perch. If the site is a ridge, the town will have a linear shape usually fixed with
architectural accents like castles and churches at one or both ends, or along one side
54 - “ORGANIC” PATTERNS
of the ridge. Other main roads will run parallel to this spine further down the slope.
Tributaries will strike out in the direction of principal neighboring cities, giving us
the tentacled form of towns like Perugia. On round, domical hill sites, the main 66
buildings are likely to be at the top; and the streets, descending concentric circles.
Arrayed upon asteep slope, the town will have the terraced composition of Assisi or 67
Gubbio. Pl.rr
All of these postures have universal currency. At the same time, we have to remind
ourselves that the linear town and its blueprint, the rib plan, are as much at home on
level ground as along land folds. The same holds for rounded city-forms, whether
the wavering street system tends to a concentric or radial disposition.
Going back to the beginning, to Mesopotamia and Egypt, we must remember that
sites of irregular cities like Ur and Thebes were flat. Most Mesopotamian cities were
built in the flat mud plains of the Tigris and Euphrates, and one of the standard
interpretations of the ziggurat form is that it was intended, by the early inhabitants
whose original homeland was the mountainous region of the Caspian Sea, to
simulate natural peaks. In Thebes the flat Nile bank hosted the lively tangle of the
residential quarters, while the tossed topography of the western slopes was the
setting for formally planned units (the mortuary temples).
We must therefore, at this stage, broaden our exploration of irregular city-form in
two directions. First of all, a more refined reading of topography is needed than the
generic themes ofhills and valleys and rivers; and secondly, attention must be paid to
the subject of pre-urban land division, which is obviously related to topographical
incident, but goes further to involve culturally defined issues like patterns of
ownership, farming practices, and the disposition of common fields and pastures.
The start of an irregular city plan is often due to a small number of topographic
peculiarities. In the case of Boston, for instance, these were the Shawmut peninsula Sz
with its eastern coves and the narrow Neck to the south. There is nothing instinctive
about the process of converting such peculiarities to an urban fabric. While some
landscape features may be embraced and exploited, others may be rejected. The
three-humped high ridge that rose through the center of the peninsula had little
direct consequence for the early form of Boston, and survived only in the much
reduced eminence of Beacon Hill.
Seen in the aggregate, there is perhaps as widespread a tendency in city-making to
amend the natural landscape as there is to work with it. Hundreds of past cities were
lodged in cleared forests and on land reclaimed from swamps and bays. To fit their
public buildings, connect points of consequence directly or dramatically, and
enhance their functions and beauty, hilltops were levelled and canyons filled in,
rivers were diverted and inlets dammed.
These actions are too decisive, too arduous, too demanding of communal effort
to result in anything but planned bits of urbanism; but we must not assume that
“planned” here is inevitably synonymous with formal rigor or strict regularity. Both
Venice and Machu Picchu, in unique and ingenious ways, designed the land on 73
which they sit—the one by solidifying a lagoon, the other by steeply terracing Pl.to
vertiginous heights. Neither has submitted its spectacular groundwork to a
readymade urban convention. Venice is liquid filigree; Machu Picchu, in the words
of George Kubler, “a patterned blanket thrown over a great rock.”
The most celebrated redesign of nature, at least in the Western world, has taken
place in the Netherlands. ““God created the world,” as the old saying has it, “but the
Dutch made Holland.” For centuries the inhabitants of this waterlogged tip of
Europe have battled the fury of the sea and the flooding of rivers, building dikes—
some, like the diking of the Zuider Zee, of heroic proportions—damming and
“ORGANIC” PATTERNS - 55
reclaiming tidal marshes, readying for settlement the belts of geestgrond, the land 68 Sloten (The Netherlands). This
behind the coastal dunes. Friesland dike town was founded at the
A small number of Dutch cities stand on naturally high ground—islands, the intersection of a waterway and an
confluence of rivers, or the solidified sand dunes and peat bogs of the geestgrond overland route, marked by a bridge in the
(Haarlem, Alkmaar). The oldest parts of such towns are the only ones that have the center of town, and chartered in 1426. The
stellated fortifications with their defensive
“organic” look of medieval towns in the rest of Europe. Elsewhere, the ground
moat are a late 16th-century addition.
had to be drained, consolidated and raised above the level of the surrounding
countryside before building could commence.”
The earliest artificial sites, predating Roman occupation, were the terpen or
wierden along the northern coast and in Zeeland. These were mounds of mud
painfully piled and rammed to a height that would clear the rise of the tide and of
seasonal floods. (For towns built on terpen see below, pp. 163-64.) In the Middle
Ages, trade attracted urban development along rivers and inlets, to sites which were
highly vulnerable. Two kinds of town layout met the challenge: dike towns and
dike-and-dam towns.
56 + “ORGANIC” PATTERNS
Dikes were broad enough to carry a road at the top; buildings stood on the slopes
and on the lower ground protected by the dike against flooding. If the waterway
were narrow—a canal, say, rather than a broad river—the dike town would stretch
along both banks, which sometimes took a gentle curve. Towns like Sloten,
Nieuwpoort and Schoonhoven were established where a land route crossed a
waterway, with some prominent landmark like the town hall placed at the crossing.
Even more typical is the town started where a river or a creek was dammed. This is
how Amsterdam got under way, after a modest beginning as a dike settlement where
the Amstel flows into the sea. A dam across the river above the small settlement NY 36
turned the downstream portion into an outer harbor. Diked canals diverted the flow
along two sides, allowing for an inner harbor upstream and stable land for the
extension of the town between the riverbed and the canals. The prized central space
of the dam in such towns received important public buildings like the town hall, the
weighing hall, or a church.
In the so-called water towns, or grachtenstad, built on land reclaimed from
marshes or lakes, the layout is more regular but not uniform. Streets, principally
canal-streets, were kept narrow, the building blocks were long and narrow too, and
a broad moat enclosed the area. Since the water town was usually a later expansion
of a terp, a natural citadel (burcht) or a dike town—Leiden is a good example—it
occupied previously cultivated land whose patterns it absorbed. The field drainage
ditches became the canal-streets, and the fields themselves gave the boundaries for
the elongated blocks. To the extent that this pre-urban pattern was orderly, which
in this hard-earned ground was almost always the case, the water town reflected
this order.
LAND DIVISION
The study of the process whereby an antecedent rural landscape translates itself into
urban form has hardly begun. And yet pre-urban land division may well be the most
fundamental determinant for the irregular city-forms of all ages. The main problem
is that it is very hard, when not actually impossible, to reconstruct this initial
landscape either through field work or documents. Field work can discover
surviving old village nuclei within the suburban extensions of towns, but that
phenomenon is rare, and the results do not lead us very far.
To establish a more pervasive documentation, our best shot is in more recent
history. In England, for example, the common lands and open fields surrounding
towns since the Middle Ages were in some cases not finally enclosed and alienated to
individual ownership until the mid-19th century. When these large holdings were
transformed to a belt of urban extension, the network of streets largely followed the
medieval footpaths and furlongs of the old open fields.
One line of research is to superimpose tithe maps—based on land surveys made
after an Act of 1836—and the extremely detailed maps of towns drawn to a uniform
scale in the 19th century for the Ordnance Survey (which, like the Sandborn
insurance maps in the United States, are a mine of information for urban history). By
matching segments of the two it is possible to show how the pre-urban cadaster of
Leeds, for instance, determined subsequent urban form. Generally small holdings 69
and a fragmented pattern of ownership led to small terraces of four to eight house
units; these change alignment frequently, and so create a variegated, seemingly
quirky design. With larger holdings, it is possible to have more regular terraces anda
more systematic layout of streets. Even here, however, since no attempt is made to
““ORGANIC” PATTERNS - 57
69 Potternewtown, north of Leeds, is a
OE LL LE Atloh patchwork of terrace housing blocks. The
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development pattern becomes less
arbitrary when it is compared with the
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58 - “ORGANIC” PATTERNS
narrow, and there are no public squares or urban parks. In the cities of the ancient
Near East and Egypt, the public square is usually the ample court enclosed within
the temple precinct.
The two methods of land division—the practice of measuring by metes and
bounds (fixing boundaries in relation to natural features), which yields ‘‘organic’”’
patterns, and division according to a survey done with proper instruments (see
below, p. 127), which establishes orthogonal relationships—are both old. Obvious-
ly the pointing and pacing techniques came first in every instance, but from the early
periods of urbanization both methods were used simultaneously by the same
culture. The orientation of Egyptian pyramids or Mesopotamian ziggurats is so
precise that it was surely achieved with the use of instruments and computations.
Yet these precisions coincide with the ‘‘organicism” we see in residential fabrics
which may well go back toa more distant, practical mode of field division. Again, in
r7th-century colonial America, the English used the headright method of land
distribution in the South, where individual plantations were claimed before a
thorough land survey had been made, whereas New England townships were
surveyed and delimited ahead of time.
Colonialism disrupts the passage from a rural to an urban landscape which is the
benchmark of continous human settlement. The colonial power can, out of hand,
wipe away past land tenure systems, and the social and legal systems they support,
opening the way for formal planning. As the French Minister of Colonies wrote in
1945: “There, space is free and cities can be constructed according to principles of
reason and beauty.’’'*
Settlement geography is sometimes wedded to traditional practices of cultivation.
These practices, in turn, become established because of the particular topography of
the land under cultivation and the related systems of irrigating it. A vivid instance is
the street web of cities in Iran. Far from being “labyrinths of twisted alleyways’”’— Pl.g
the common perception of Islamic urban form—cities like Yazd can be shown to
possess a roughly orthogonal pattern oriented away from the cardinal directions.
This orientation cannot be explained in terms of climate or religion. The Iranian
house may indeed be sited to maximize summer breezes and winter sun, but where
street patterns veer away from optimum seasonal axes, houses follow suit. As for the
mandatory orientation of the mosque toward Mecca, its particular angle does not
routinely establish the direction of major streets.
The answer lies, as Michael Bonine has pointed out, in the nature of the irrigation
system. When the topography is irregular, so is the system. In uniformly sloping
terrain, however, the dominant lines forma roughly rectangular network oriented in
the direction of the steepest slope. These lines consist of the ganat, the underground
conduit that taps water for settlements and fields; the jub, which is the surfaced
channel of this conduit at ground level; and a usable path or road that runs alongside
the jub and separates it from the rectangular plots surrounded by high mud walls.
Village houses are strung out ina line parallel to these watercourses. When the cities
extend into the countryside, they simply take over this arrangement. ‘““Topography
and water,” Bonine concludes, “‘thus constitute the elementary principles of Iranian
settlement geography.”
SYNOECISM
The administrative coming together of several proximate villages to form a town,
what Aristotle calls “‘synoecism,” is repeatedly attested to in history. Such admin-
istrative arrangements have physical consequences, and given the nature of the units
“ORGANIC” PATTERNS - 59
being merged, that is, traditional villages, the result is bound to be “organic.” There
3r, are exceptions. At Teotihuacan, the communities were held together by a cere-
32 monial complex, a “nucleating center” in the urban geographer’s jargon, which
eventually generated, and forced upon this loosely gathered group of rural villages, a
strict geometric organization.
Recent scholarship has been identifying a form of settlement coexistence that
needs to be distinguished from synoecism, or in some cases to be considered only a
first phase of it. Cities of the floodplain along the Middle Niger in West Africa from
the first centuries BC, for example Jenne-jeno and Shoma, and the much earlier
urban sites in northern China like Zhengzhou, consisted of a cluster of residential
communities in close proximity, each physically discrete and socially specialized
according to occupation or status. There were no centralized institutions and no
monumentality, as the communities avoided assimilation into a single entity. And
yet these corporate groups that transcended bonds of kinship—fishermen and
metalworkers, peasant farmers and elites—not only interacted purposefully, but
also provided services and manufactures to their hinterland. That this urban
structure is an alternative to the Sjoberg model of the pre-industrial city with its
centralized elite, its temples and palaces, is only now being recognized.*®
Synoecism can come about in two ways. People may leave their villages to move to
a new town set up to absorb them; in early Mesopotamia and Iran, for example, the ay
emergence of towns was accompanied by the desertion of other settlements in the 2a ese
immediate vicinity. Or else the villages themselves may merge to form the town. Iam SO ne ets te eo
concerned with the second of these. ie Wy ee
. . . Cla: ” 5 O56 d Sr Na
For Aristotle, synoecism—literally “living together’’—is a political transaction. WHYS estes \
It enables people to transcend their tribal/pastoral ways, and join up ina pact of self- a WE = a
government. The decision to go urban is not the result of clearcut technological 2 pW
advances or a strategy to reap a finite advantage like trade: it springs from a Ii oe
conscious desire to replace the common law of tribe and clan with the free, durable
institutions of the polis, the setting for experiments in democracy and the rule of
equals. ‘“‘When several villages are united in a single complex community,” Aristotle
writes, “large enough to be nearly or quite self-sufficient, the polis comes into
existence.”
Aristotle’s definition of synoecism suggests that it is by the common decision of
the villages that their territories are conjoined into a single administrative entity. In
practice, these unions seem often to have been involuntary and to have been resisted
strongly. The beneficiary often happened to be a ruler or an institution of some
kind. It was the bishops (later archbishops) of Novgorod, for example, who
directed the merger of that city.
Let us recall some celebrated cases of synoecism.
Athens started as a Mycenean citadel on the Acropolis. According to tradition, it
was Theseus who brought together this citadel and the surrounding villages, and
made the new city the head of a political union of the demes, or independent
townships, of Attica. Here is how Thucydides describes the event:
[Theseus] abolished the councils and magistracies of the minor settlements [of
Attica}, and established them in the single council chamber and town hall of the
present city. Individuals might still enjoy their private property as before, but they
were henceforth compelled to use Athens as the sole capital.'”
The original agora (civic center) was on the northwest slope of the Acropol
is. By
the 6th century Bc it had moved to a location more central to the
new urban
consortium—a flat open space further north, which had been a
major cemetery.
60 - “ORGANIC” PATTERNS
70 opposite Early Rome, ca. 650 BC. The process of synoecism was completed in 431 Bc when Pericles brought the
Rome’s famed Septimontium (seven hills) countryfolk of Attica within the walls of Athens when the Second Peloponnesian
were the sites of at least three Iron Age War broke out."®
settlements which eventually coalesced as a
Athens celebrated the legend of her origin in the festival of the Synoecia—as
single city with the low-lying Forum as its
center.
Rome celebrated its synoecism in the annual feast of the Septimontium. In Rome, 7O
Romulus’s settlement on the Palatine joined together with several other hilltop
71,72 opposite, below At the Tuscan city villages on the Esquiline, the Caelian, and perhaps the Capitoline, some time in the
of Siena (Italy), as in Rome, the initial 8th century Bc. They drained and levelled the swampy valley that separated them
settlements were hilltop communities. and which they had used for pasturage and burial, and turned it into a community
These similar topographic circumstances center—the Roman Forum.
yielded parallel results in terms of urban
From the early Middle Ages, we have the special example of Venice. Its origin is as 73
form: the low saddle of land between two
of the original settlements became the site one of a group of lagoon communities that had sought refuge from the turbulence of
of Siena’s central square, the Campo (see the post-Roman period in this secluded body of water. In the early 9th century the
Ills. 1, 76). head of the lagoon province moved his residence from what is now the Lido to what
became the Piazza S. Marco, on one of a central core of small, irregularly shaped
islands which were then consolidated—the specific process giving us both the
labyrinthine nature of the city-form and its water streets.
Three more medieval examples, from Italy and Russia. Viterbo, legend has it,
was the outcome of a union in the late 8th century ordered by Desiderius, the last
Lombard king. It brought within a single wall the hamlets of Fanum (Volturna),
73 Venice (Italy). The powerful port city Arbanum, Vetulonia and Longula, and you can still find the acronym “‘FAVL”’ on the
depicted by Jacopo de’ Barbari in 1500
seal of the city. Siena dates from about the same time—the union in this case of three 71;
was formed through the consolidation of
communities, the bishop’s castle-town of Castelvecchio (the cathedral quarter now 2
independently founded parish communities
around the market place of the Rialto. known as Citta), the hilltop settlement of Castel Montone (now S. Martino) to its
About sixty of these parishes existed by east, and the linear settlement along the ridge of Camollia to the north. This ex-
1200, each with its own market square, plains the inverted Y which characterizes the shape of Siena to this day. The bonding
religious festivities, and local customs. of these three units to the open space between them by means of three directional
“ORGANIC” PATTERNS : 61
qT, arteries, and the transformation of this open space into the communal center for
76 the town (the Campo), took several centuries. Novgorod also started from three
separate settlements which were united probably some time in the roth century,
This may be the explanation of many other Russian towns which appeared quite
suddenly beginning in the roth century, in an area that had known no towns before
that time with the possible exception of Kiev.
Synoecism is not a process peculiar to the West. In Burma, the great ceremonial
center of Arimaddana (Pagan) was born of the union of nineteen villages some time
before the 9th century AD. In South Asia, the city of Calcutta grew out of a cluster of
villages on the banks of the river Hugli. The British East India Company purchased
the rights over three of the villages in 1698, and in this area the town developed, with
the white settlement around the fort built by the British and the native population
outside. Islam, especially Muslim Iran, also has examples to show. Kazvin, Qum,
Merv, Kazerum were all founded by the enclosure of a number of villages. Again,
traditional black African cities until the coming of the Europeans were groups of
village-like settlements with joint urban functions. The cities were very spread out,
and retained the physical characteristics of their rural origins. They consisted almost
entirely of one-story structures; the standard housing unit was the residential
compound, and these compounds were located with no particular concern to align
themselves with the streets.
This random sample would indicate that, indeed, synoecism is beginning to prove
itself as one of the commonest origins of towns coming out of a rural context, along
with one other process—the cohesion of an urban core around an important
institution like a religious center or a fort. The form of a synoecistic city absorbs the
shapes of the original settlements, along with their road systems. The open spaces
that existed between the settlements are filled slowly, and retained open in part as
markets and communal centers. A recent example: the Sudanese Muslim city of Al
Ubayyid was made up of five large villages separated by cultivated areas; these the
Ottoman regime of the rgth century partially filled in with barracks, mosques,
a prefecture building, and government workers’ housing.’? In rare instances the
establishment of a market serving several settlements may be the instigator of
synoecism.
62 - ORGANIC” PATTERNS
How was this privatized urban order wrought? The main thing to remember is
that city-form was allowed to work itself out subject only to the respect of custom,
ownership, and the Muslim’s right to visual privacy.2? You were not told what
to do, what kind of city to design; you were only enjoined from doing things that
threatened accepted social behavior. The concern for privacy, for example, deter-
mined where doors and windows would go on building fronts and how high
buildings would rise. Visual corridors were consequently avoided, whether at the
fine scale of a cluster of houses, or in the broader sense of urban vistas. More
basically, this concern asserted itself in the introversion of the house, the appearance
toward the street being unimportant. At the same time, the traditional grouping of
attached courtyard houses expressed a degree of interdependence among neighbor-
ing structures having to do with legally arbitrated matters like party walls, the
maintenance of cul-de-sacs, and the like.”!
The primacy of the residential fabric, and the comparative weakness of the public
space of streets, could not support an artificially pristine layout; rather, the public
space was continually negotiated and redefined, as the buildings pushed out and
over, interlocked and diversified. The room that bridged a street or a cul-de-sac was 74
one common device used. All this improvisation was encouraged by the overriding
principle that older uses and established structures had priority over new uses and
structures. Radical urban renewal was out of the question: urban repair, that is,
piecemeal changes to the extant fabric, was the customary procedure.
lam of course oversimplifying. Though much in this process depended on implicit
conventions informally established and observed, and an uncontested building
vernacular, there were also written building codes of local currency (though little is
now known about them), and universally applicable religious law. This law derived
from the Qur’an and the body of traditions called Sunnah. During the first three
. Muslim centuries it had been elaborated in a large body of literature addressing all
74 A street in Baghdad (Iraq), with houses aspects of public and private life, including questions relative to buildings—and
jettied out over the narrow public therefore to city-making. The purpose of the latter, as with all religious law, was to
thoroughfare. adjudicate actual conflicts; the result was an extensive construct of precedent, with
some degree of local gloss, having to do with things like temporary structures,
boundaries, protrusions, heights, and uses.
General rules were few. The minimum width for public streets—7 cubits (10} feet,
or about 3.5 m.)—was established in a saying ofthe Prophet: this dimension allowed
two fully laden camels to pass freely. Religious law agreed on a sensible minimum
height, also about 7 cubits, set by the unobstructed passage of a person riding a
camel. The planting of trees in a public right-of-way was disallowed. The cul-de-sac
was considered to be common property—owned jointly by all occupants whose
houses opened onto it. Standard building types for the public life of the city were the
major mosque, local prayer facilities, schools, burial places of holy people, markets,
merchants’ quarters, baths. They too, like the residential tissue, locked together in
interdependent systems expressive of social conventions.
The labyrinthine medina proves to be quite rational after all. To cite Old Delhi as
an example: the primary streets carry the bazaars with the large retail and wholesale
outlets. Production, storage and service centers are immediately behind, set in the
clearly defined residential neighborhoods or mohallas. Secondary streets run as
spines of commercial and residential activity through the mohallas, and can be
closed off by doorways at their connections with the primary streets. Dead-ending
tertiary streets, closed to general circulation, penetrate the cores of the mohallas. At
the junction of two or more streets, modest expansions, called chowks, provide 94,
some breathing room in the crushing density of the town.” 95
““ORGANIC” PATTERNS : 63
If the outcome of this rational organization is not a formal layout, it is because it
did not start as one, and there was no prescriptive guidance to steer it into a pure,
geometrically unadulterated outline. The traditional Muslim city did not exercise
methodical supervision over the city-form, because government, in the sense of the
chartered cities of Classical antiquity or medieval communes in the West, was
foreign to its nature. Citizens were allowed considerable latitude to exercise their
personal rights in the treatment of their property. The structure of the city-form—
the integration of uses, the concatenation of passages and nodal points—could
possess the sort of coherence demonstrated by Old Delhi, and this in the absence of
municipal authority to police and articulate public space, only because the social
structure was well formulated, and tradition stood as the guarantor of a consistent
modus operandi. Without the force of tradition and a consolidated social agenda,
unsupervised city-making will succumb to disorder.
Notorious exhibits of this principle are everywhere around us. The modern indus-
trial/capitalist city may not have invented abusive growth, but it has practically
enshrined it. We could do no better than read Friedrich Engels’s Condition of the
Working Class in England (1845) to bring alive the first episode of disorderly
settlement in major industrial centers like Leeds, Birmingham, Bristol and
Liverpool. The trail would then lead to speculative development on the fringe of the
metropolis, like the Paris lotissements, especially after the Great War where tracts
were subdivided and sold without any provision for services or even roads, and the
houses built were disciplined by no guidelines whatever. The last episode is of our
own making—the ubiquitous squatter settlements of the last fifty years.
Disorder is a condition of order—unlike chaos, which is the negation of it.
Disorder is provisional and correctible. As Rudolf Arnheim put it, “‘in any situation
as much order will obtain as circumstances permit.”*? The range and history of
squatter settlements document stages of disorder. These unauthorized, unregulated
patches of urban growth are seen by their inhabitants neither as temporary shelter
nor as the equivalent of urban slums, which are decayed shells of once superior
housing. To them, rural migrants who mean to stay, these are permanent
settlements alive to the pride of ownership and the ambition of self-improvement.
“ORGANIC” PATTERNS
The origin of many cities is humble; their form, insinuative and gradual. Where once
there were fields and steep pasture land, streets will materialize and link up, tightly
girded public places will ensconce collective life, and the spread of houses will
thicken and mesh. The buildings will climb the slopes and take the bends as best
they may. In time these natural arrangements will turn self-conscious. Terracing will
suggest institutional and social hierarchies. The wending street will be exploited
for its visual delights, its harboring volumes, its intricacies. We will then expect
adventurous city-makers to recreate these effects where there is no innate cause to
do so. The picturesque suburb is the city’s retrospective celebration of its natural
origins. And, too, a conjuring of virtues past. The belief that sustains modern
nostalgia for the irregularities of “townscape” is this: that “organic” patterns once
ensured social cohesion, and encouraged a spirit of community which we have Pl.9 Nowdushan (near Yazd, Iran). The
town plan is conditioned by the rural
washed away down the boulevards and expressways of the traffic engineer’s town.
system of irrigation ditches.
64 - “ORGANIC” PATTERNS
Cities shaped by topography
Pl.to above Machu Picchu (Peru). The
Inca city created a perch for itself high in
the Andes by means of spectacular
terracing.
Pl.rr opposite, above Gubbio (Italy)
climbs up the side of an Umbrian hill. This
is the town center, with the crenellated
Palazzo dei Consoli on the left, facing a
piazza jettied out on vast arches.
Pl.12 opposite, below In Prague, the
ascent to the castle is made along the
sinuous street called Nerudova.
66 - “ORGANIC” PATTERNS
Pl.13 Free enterprise citymaking: in Rabat ,
(Morocco), a precarious hillside
shantytown rises toward a more
permanent development of self-built
housing.
Pl.r4 left The planned picturesque: the
garden suburb of Glendale (Ohio), begun
in 1851 to the design of Robert C. Phillips.
This detail shows the winding streets,
detached houses standing in lots of varied
size and shape, and generous planting.
They start out as shantytowns on unoccupied land at the distant edges of town,
or in centrally located areas too difficult to develop, like steep slopes, canyons,
garbage dumps. At this stage they have the look of refugee camps—no vegetation;
no services; open trenches for sewers down rutted, unpaved streets. The building
materials are what comes to hand or can be scavenged, mostly cardboard and scrap
metal. Even then these shantytowns may not be innocent of intuitive design. In the
squatter settlements of Zambian towns, Lusaka for example, village patterns
surface in the prevailing confusion—units of about twenty huts around a common
open space, and a physical grouping that approximates acircle.”
The process of upgrading begins instantly and never stops. Houses are made Pie
permanent in spurts with bricks and cement blocks. In the barriadas and favelas of
Latin America, bright paint cuts the edge of tawdriness and exorcises despair.
“Many houses have unfinished rooms or second stories, and a wild variety of fences
abounds.” As the settlement matures, order will inevitably tip the scales. There will
be respectable self-built housing on a par with low-grade commercial construction;
shops and schools; fully paved streets complemented by lighting and proper
sewerage.”* Lima’s San Martin de Porres, begun as an invasion in 1952, had grown
to a community of 75,000 inhabitants within fifteen years, its main street a divided
paved highway flanked by three-story buildings.”®
“ORGANIC” PATTERNS - 69
The descriptive passage is rather remarkable for its esthetic acuity, and deserves
to be quoted. In such towns
it will be better and as safe, for the streets not to run straight for the gates; but to
have them wind about sometimes to the right, sometimes to the left, near thewall,
and especially under the towers upon the wall: and within the heart of the town, it
will be handsomer not to have them straight, but winding about several ways,
backwards and forwards like the course of a river. For thus, besides that by
appearing so much longer they will add to the idea of the greatness of the town,
they will likewise conduce very much to beauty and convenience, and bea greater
security against all accidents and emergencies. Moreover this winding of the
streets will make the passenger at every step discover a new structure, and the
front and door of every house will directly face the middle of the street; and
whereas in larger towns even too much breadth is unhandsome and unhealthy, in
a small one it will be both healthy and pleasant to have such an open view from
every house by means of the turn of the street. [iv.5]
It seems clear from this passage and others that Alberti, though he favored in
principle a geometrically organized city form, responded with appreciation to
familiar north Italian cities, many of which did not originate from, or had since lost
the definition of, a Roman grid. These cities had a dense, intricately woven pattern
wy of run-on, attached, or closely contiguous residential units, held down by a handful
of monumental landmarks, and firmly enclosed, purposeful public spaces. Prospects
were closed and varied. The squares had unmatched sides, in both plan and elev- 75 Duccio, detail of Christ before Pilate,
from the Maesta in Siena Cathedral,
ation. The lots, narrow and long, thickly crowded these squares and the principal completed 1311.
streets at the center, while the fabric thinned out at the city edge, and even dissolved
into green. There was a convergence of streets onto markets and cathedrals, city
gates and bridgeheads.
7O + “ORGANIC” PATTERNS
of their convergence; and when the city remade the bifurcation of the Via dei Banchi
di Sopra and the Via dei Banchi di Sotto, in the first half of the 13th century, it
estheticized the flowing curves in an urban equivalent of tracery or the rhythmic
drapery folds of the Gothic artist.
Even after the entrenchment of Renaissance design theories, a backward-looking
urban esthetic stayed close to the surface, especially in the colonial experience. The
first Spanish towns in the New World, with the exception of Santo Domingo, were
not gridded, nor were Portuguese Goa and Rio de Janeiro. Alongside the formality
of Louisburg and New Orleans, the French tolerated cities like Quebec which grew,
as John W. Reps put it, ‘like a replica of some medieval city.’’”*
How much of all this irregularity was sought after is hard to tell. One routinely
invokes topography, of course, or permissive settlement habits. For every Boston, on
the other hand, there is an Exeter, New Hampshire, or Woodstock, Vermont, where
peculiarities of irregular urban form seem studied. At Exeter, founded in 1638, one
main street followed the riverfront, the other struck inland in the direction of what is
now the Philips Exeter Academy; at the intersection, the space was widened into a
public place. At Woodstock about 130 years later, streets converged at either end of
town, enclosing an irregular elongated green. (Local tradition saw in this green the
shape and dimensions of a ship commanded by one of the town fathers.) ‘‘Did this
irregular pattern of the Woodstocks and the Exeters of New England come about
4 Se> ee = SS through overall village planning?” Reps asks. ‘““The answer here must be tentatively
76 Siena (Italy), Via dei Banchi di Sopra.
The sweeping catenary curves of the Toftah Beal es
thoroughfares that serve as Siena’s Deacon Odinrne fp!
ED SohnEa RO oN %
“3 GSallivms.oRiee &
YT. G. Salltven Et: BD BirmisGrant
=» Widow Folfoms Tavern eo,’ iy Wes
Qe: ae a 6
PLAN
Ofthe — ..
. Je Compacr PART the TOWN of ‘ee
g EX ET ERS
77 Exeter (New Hampshire), engraving ‘W ATTHE HEAD OFTHE SOUTHERLY BRANCH OF 4
after P. Merrill, 1802. The layout combines % SE} rsmith Big PrscavAgia. RIVER.
routes of varied widths and geometries to ie EA} Gol Bordmany Teyern
Gm) RerAI.Thufton
create a harmonious townscape that E i:
3 ned
Cap'J.Thurfton.
S68
nrlb> : a
FOOL aamng ti
suggests some degree of intentionality in 5é
ray «
“ORGANICA(PATTERNS +271
and cautiously in the negative.’’”® But if these effects were not planned, ours is the
burden to explain why and how they came to be.
The decisive swing toward an open, reasoned endorsement of non-geometric
urban design came in the later 18th century. The revolt was against Renaissance
theory and practice—the belief in the undeviating street prospect and the measured,
uniform order of the street layout. For three centuries, Europe and its colonial
outreach had been responding to the imperatives of the perfectly ordered city. To
Renaissance thinking, the old accretive towns seemed obsolete, beginning with their
towered defensive curtains and their patchwork streetscape. In the 17th century
Descartes summed up the case against them:
Often there is less perfection in works composed of several separate pieces and
made by different masters, than in those at which only one person has worked... .
So it is that these old cities, originally only villages, have become through the IES ay
passage of time great towns, and are usually so badly proportioned in comparison
with those orderly towns which an engineer designs at will on some plain, ine |
although the buildings, taken separately, often display as much art as those of the | Pn
+ a 5 [RE HS
Ef
planned towns or even more.
But by 1750 the attraction of total urban design was coming into question, along
with the authority of the Classical language of architecture. This change of heart
shows best in England. There, it stages its alternatives, first, in the non-urban format
of the picturesque garden. In town-planning proper, anti-Renaissance incursions
that stand out prominently are of two kinds: combinations of curved urban settings
and landscaping, as at Bath; and streets defiantly lax in terms of the Classical canon,
78 with jogs and unmatched elevations, John Nash’s project for Regent Street being the
best-known instance.
What was of key importance, however, was the Gothic Revival. The architectural
aspects of this seditious movement have been exhaustively analyzed; not so with the
concomitant rediscovery of medieval settlement patterns, primarily the imagery of
villages and small rural towns. In practice, this retrospective view inspired two
disjunctive offspring, one for the affluent and the other for those of stringent means.
But the picturesque suburb and the industrial village recall for us the henceforth
irrepressible promotion of a planning esthetic that is the modern affirmation of the
eternal incidence of “‘organic’”’ patterns.
Early industrial model villages, aspiring to entrap the virtues of the traditional
English village along with its form, were tried out first in the wool centers of HED He SS SS LF Gh fa
Yorkshire. The choice of a picturesque layout for workers’ housing remains rare in 78 London’s Regent’s Park and Regent
the roth century. Two late examples, sponsored by philanthropic employers, are Street. The picturesque asymmetries of
79 famous. Port Sunlight, near Liverpool, goes back to 1887; it was built from 1892 John Nash’s early r9th-century design are
onward. Bournville near Birmingham, the brainchild of the Cadbury brothers, the the result of his masterful knitting together
chocolate manufacturers, starts a few years later; there, the curve was only gradually of new and existing streets. Planned as a
introduced. The planof Port Sunlight was dictated by the creeks which penetrate the means of linking the new Crown estates in
site from the Mersey. It was here that the “superblock” idea was first introduced, Regent’s Park (top) with the administrative
that is, the idea of having houses turn their back on main streets and look inward seat at Westminster, Regent Street is a rare
toward a green from which traffic is altogether excluded. English example of the use of royal
The picturesque suburb launched a more extensive, but equally exceptional, prerogative to mandate urban renewal.
80 reign. Bournemouth in Dorset has claims to primacy. More resort town than
suburb, it started in the 1830s. The planners abandoned the conventional terrace
form along a street grid, in favor of a curvilinear road scheme supporting self-
contained villas in their own grounds. The guiding thought was the nature of the
site. As Decimus Burton, chief architect after 1842, put it:
72 + “ORGANIC” PATTERNS
79 Port Sunlight (England), original town
plan. The brainchild of soap manufacturer
W. H. Lever, Port Sunlight was highly
influential in popularizing the irregular 1D Nae
ees
nents e
rr7 ue
G °
Dy ve SNe
street plan and neo-vernacular architecture
that found their apotheosis in English
Garden Cities. The picturesque layout seen
here was amended beyond recognition in
1910 by the insertion ofa broad mall and a
hemicycle of radial lanes, both inspired by
America’s City Beautiful movement.
The wooded valley through which the Bourne runs to the sea is and must always
constitute the principal object in the landscape. . . . As a general principle in
designing a building plan for Bournemouth, formality should be carefully
avoided.*°
In the United States, the picturesque suburb learned from the example of England,
especially the r8th-century English garden, and the landscaped cottages of J. C.
Loudon as reinterpreted for an American audience by Andrew Jackson Downing.
Local inspiration came from the rural cemetery and the urban park, beginning at
mid-century with Central Park in New York. To its chief creator, Frederick Law
Olmsted, the park was an idealized rural landscape in the center of town that acted
“in. a directly remedial way to enable men to better resist the harmful influences of
ordinary town life and to recover what they lose from them.” What is important
here is that the planned picturesque in the Anglo-American discourse becomes
firmly identified with a non-urban imagery, and the excitement of the urban park
“ORGANIC” PATTERNS = 73
derives from its clash with the quintessential American city-form, the grid. We
have in this juxtaposition something of the reverse of what prevailed in ancient
Mesopotamian cities. There, the formally planned precincts of temple and palace
were played against the “organic” pattern of residential areas. Here, in New York,
an “organic” park is intended to highlight the artificial formality of the overall
grid, condemned by Olmsted as “the epitome of the evil of commercialism.”**
Pl.rg4 The first American picturesque suburb is probably Glendale, Ohio, founded in
1851. The designer was Robert C. Phillips. Here too, as in Bournemouth, landscape
features proved suggestive. Phillips took advantage of the contour of the site to lay
out a scheme of winding streets which allowed for irregular lots of one to twenty
acres (o.4-8 ha.). But in the end topography was incidental to the esthetic. If it was
81 there, it would be exploited; otherwise, it had to be created. At Riverside, Illinois,
in 1869, Olmsted took a piece of flat prairie land and changed it into a romantic
landscape. Thousands of trees were imported. A fluent system of curved streets was
inscribed. Curved streets “suggest and imply leisure, contemplativeness, and happy
tranquillity,” Olmsted wrote, in contrast to straight streets which implied ‘‘eager-
ness to press forward, without looking to the right or left.”” Riverside was called “‘a
suburban village,”’ and openly touted as being for ‘‘the more intelligent and more
fortunate classes.”” Indeed the Olmstedian residential development, always excep-
tional within the overwhelming rectilinearity of suburban tracts, became the
81 Plan of the suburb of Riverside
(Illinois), 1869. Frederick Law Olmsted
and Calvin Vaux were famed for their
collaborative work on New York’s Central
Park at the time they received the
commission to plan a suburban real estate
ges ; “OLNSTED,VAUX
&CO. LANDSCAPE ARCHITECTS: -- venture 9 miles (14.5 km.) from Chicago.
1869. ;
Scale 400 feet (oan inch, Their design for Riverside borrowed
heavily from the vocabulary of the park
) set Tas :
a ea
landscapes. The curved, tree-lined
residential streets bracketing the town’s
commuter railroad helped to define a new
precedent for the suburban landscape.
Pe
74 - “ORGANIC” PATTERNS
province of well-off white Anglo-Saxon Protestants, to the covenanted exclusion of
all other types of Americans—Blacks, Jews, Italians, and other ethnic groups that
joined the melting pot in the course of time.
It is a strange twist that “‘organic”’ patterns in antiquity and the Middle Ages were
intricate frames where the rich and poor were woven together. The organic of the
modern suburb is exclusive: this is a private world peopled with one’s own kind. It is
also perversely insistent on an anti-urban message, as if curved streets had not beena
millennial feature of great cities—of Athens and Rome and Siena and Nuremberg.
This message is rooted in the merits of low density and the social pre-eminence of the
detached single-family house.
In that sense, the picturesque suburb is considered vastly superior to city-form,
which is seen as noxious both in its density and its insensitive, mechanical layout. If
cities are to be “‘organic,”’ they can only do so with benefit by being given a sub-
urban layout. At the very least, a distinction should be made between business and
residential districts. As the planner of northern Manhattan and the West Bronx
wrote around 1870,
The regions destined to be occupied for commercial and manufacturing purposes,
it is desirable should be developed by streets and blocks of rectangular forms, so
as to give the greatest facilities of communication and for utilizing the ground by
compact occupation. The districts occupied for domestic purposes . . . must
necessarily, to a large extent, be treated in a different manner, being governed, in
this respect, by the exigencies of the topography.”
Such distinctions became more feasible in the United States as zoning—first de
facto, then, since the 1920s, de jure—brought about the separation of residence
and workplace, and created the possibilities of exclusive, single-purpose urban
divisions. Even so the forces that nourished the exclusive early Downingesque or
Olmstedian suburb were turned back by the speculative mentality that reigned in the
great majority of planned housing developments or subdivisions and new towns. In
1873, Olmsted tried to sell the Northern Pacific Railroad an elegant “organic” plan
(similar in its block shapes to that of Riverside) for its new town of Tacoma,
Washington, a plan that exploited the topography of the site. But it was totally
unsuitable for quick real estate profits, and so it was rejected. A contemporary
source explained:
[It was] the most fantastic plan of a town that was ever seen. There wasn’t a
straight line, a right angle or a corner lot. The blocks were shaped like melons,
pears and sweet potatoes. One block, shaped like a banana, was 3,000 feet [ca. 900
m.] in length and had 250 plots. It was a pretty fair park plan but condemned itself
for a town.
“ORGANIC” PATTERNS - 75
Howard’s solution was this: a limited company would acquire a tract of land in 82 opposite Letchworth (England), low-
the country big enough for a community of 30,000. Private speculation being thereby rent housing on Rushby Mead, ca. 1908.
Planners Barry Parker and Raymond
eliminated, buildings would be spread out, and open space liberally provided for.
Unwin made a complete break with the
The community would always be kept small, so the countryside would be within standard English working-class
reach of everyone. The town would have its own industries and businesses and a ring environment of dreary bye-law terraces to
of farms. The benefits of town and country would thus be combined. To limit the create a street network of striking
size of the town, one would circumscribe it within an unassailable greenbelt. The character and variety in Letchworth.
Garden City would have “‘all the advantages of the most active and energetic town Existing trees were retained through
life with all the beauty and delight of the country.” Olmsted had said much the meticulous positioning of roads and
same thing earlier about the picturesque suburbs he was designing. Howard and his buildings, and new foliage was introduced
followers, however, combatively stressed that Garden Cities were not suburbs with a lavishness previously reserved for
dependent on an old city but self-reliant communities with their own pool of capital cities or holiday resorts.
resident jobs and their own apparatus of administration, culture and services.
193, Howard’s famous diagrams belong in Chapter 3. He certainly did not specify
203, curved streets and cottagey houses for the Garden City. But the application of his
204 ideas settled for the kind of planned picturesque we have been surveying here—a
small number of standard house types, mostly medievalizing but also neo-Georgian,
grouped to form streets of great variety. The chief originators of this idiom were
Raymond Unwin and Barry Parker, the planning team for the first Garden City—
226 Letchworth, in Hertfordshire, 80 miles (130 km.) north of London on a main rail-
road line, begun in 1902. The specific physical precedent—the superblocks, the
individual gardens, and so on—came from the early industrial model villages of
79 Yorkshire already mentioned, and from Bournville and Port Sunlight. The road
8 NN system made use of the existing country lanes, and many existing natural features
were preserved.
On the issue of density, ‘“Twelve houses to the acre [0.4 ha.]”” was Unwin’s motto.
9
Today when the 60-by-100-foot (18 x 30 m.) lot, or one-seventh of an acre, is the
absolute minimum accepted for detached houses in the United States, and a quarter-
acre is not untypical in many suburban developments, that provision may not seem
particularly revolutionary. But this was eighty years ago, when the density of the
industrial town was inhumane, and the greed of the developer worked largely free of
today’s legal restrictions. Fewer than twelve houses to the acre would not suit Unwin
either. He wanted an arrangement that would promote community. What mattered
was not alone a look of curvilinear intricacies; rather, it was the grouping and
density of the individual houses in relation to the street system that would create the
picturesque character of the Garden City.
The main invention from my point of view was the independence of the building
line from the street line. The block system of land division was rejected. The houses
turned on their lots, to catch the sun and view. The blocks were irregular, and the
houses were grouped around blind alleys, frequently T-shaped. What Unwin was
most interested in was to create aseries of street pictures. And in this his inspiration
went beyond the native English village; it went to German medieval towns and the
visual delights they nurtured. He tried to combine the Anglo-Saxon penchant for the
single-family house with its individual garden and the exciting volumetrics of old
European towns.
The shape of the first two Garden Cities —Letchworth and Welwyn—was
certainly not pure. In fact, the effect of formal Beaux-Arts urbanism, without its
226 overbearing monumentality, can readily be seen in the composition of the
town
center. In the first two decades of this century, the integration of ‘“‘organic’’? and
Beaux-Arts components was widely attempted. But a basic premise of the Grand
Manner of urban design, that a hierarchical order of streets must exist
both for
76 - “ORGANIC” PATTERNS
representational purposes and for the smooth flow of traffic, was entirely alien to the
thinking of Unwin. He wrote:
The less area given over to streets, the more chance one has of planning a nice
town. To be obsessed with the idea of planning for traffic is a mistake. One rather
plans to avoid all needless traffic as far as possible.
The popularity of the Garden City as a principle of planning was its extreme
flexibility, its relatively easy ensconcement into any ideology. The concept might
travel along with that English form of “‘medieval”’ street flanked by cottages that
83 The Cité-Jardin of Drancy (France), Unwin and Parker popularized, or it could be separated from that form altogether
1920. Drancy was one in a series of and wedded rather to medium- and high-rise apartment buildings, and even to more
satellite communities planned by the regular layouts.
Office Public de la Seine to decentralize In France, proponents like Georges Benoit-Lévy and Henry Sellier presented the
the population of Paris. Architects Garden City as the great alternative to the anarchic speculative sprawl of
Bassompierre and de Rutté faithfully lotissements. With the collapse of the traditional private market in house
reproduced the Garden City models construction after the First World War, Sellier, then in charge of housing for the
pioneered by Unwin and Parker in
England a decade earlier. Paris area, consciously adopted the Garden City as the model for the work of his
office—the Office Public de la Seine. The first projects were in the spirit of Wo
Letchworth. Then a higher density was introduced. Chatenay and Plessis show both
phases: planned in the English manner, by the early Thirties they begin to replace
individual houses with four-story blocks of flats.
““ORGANIC” PATTERNS - 77
The Garden City (gorod sad) seemed an attractive ideal in Russia as well after the
terrible destruction of the Revolution and the Civil War. A Russian translation of
Howard’s book existed since 1911, and an early, rather literal, application of his
diagrams appeared ina book by Vladimir A. Semionov of 1912 to illustrate the project
of Prozorovska, a community for railroad workers. With the Bolshevik takeover of
1917 and the immediate abolition of private property, one of Howard’s main
premises, communally held land, was fulfilled. From 1925 on, when reconstruction
could begin, the debate concerned choices between small houses and large apartment
blocks; then it shifted to a rural-urban confrontation between those who favored
dispersal and those who insisted on the retention and reinforcement of the existing
urban centers. By 1932 dispersal theories were rejected. Official sources labelled
Howard “‘a petit-bourgeois intellectual,” and asserted that to do away with the old
towns would be tantamount to “‘the disappearance and liquidation of the state.””**
There are several things that kept the United States from embracing the Garden
City ideal. It was almost impossible for the American system to tolerate communal
ownership, or the controlled use of one’s property. That smacked of socialistic or
communist conspiracies. It was also almost impossible for America to accept a
settlement pattern that was prejudiced against traffic, especially automotive traffic
after 1920. So the American flirtation with that school of urban form was tentative in
the extreme. But the garden suburb, American style, held a continuing attraction.
Once the taste for the picturesque and for revivalist pluralism had subsided in the
1880s with the Beaux-Arts-inspired American Renaissance and its urban pendant,
the City Beautiful movement, Olmsted’s urban influence was largely confined to
parks and park systems, and to the landscaping component for hundreds of urban
projects in the Grand Manner. But the planned picturesque of Riverside lived on in
*+
English in inspiration of America’s early
planned suburbs.
78 - “ORGANIC” PATTERNS
85, 86 Radburn (New Jersey), designed in
1928 by Clarence Stein and Henry Wright:
pedestrian underpass and aerial view of
the development under construction ca.
1930. Conceived as a “town for the motor
age,” in the words of Stein, Radburn
combined elements of English Garden City
planning with nearly absolute segregation
of pedestrian paths from automobile
traffic. upper-class developments, where the now permissible conspicuous grandeur of the
mansions, what we might call the Millionaire’s Row complex transplanted to the
suburbs, tended to overwhelm its effectiveness. The houses were often too big and
ostentatious for the playfulness of the sinuous street and the layers of tree-lining.
Still, there are some memorable successors to Glendale and Riverside, for
example, the Country Club District of Kansas City by J. C. Nichols, and Forest Hills
Gardens in Queens along the main line of the Long Island Railroad. Both were 84
started before 1915 and both were very early examples of restrictions by common
consent, which included control of land use, minimum cost of dwellings, setback
lines, building projections, free space, billboards, and of course racial and ethnic
restrictions. Forest Hills was sponsored by the philanthropic Russell Sage
Foundation which “‘abhorred the constant repetition of the rectangular block in
suburban localities where land contours invite other street lines.” It was meant for
deserving families of modest means for whom “homes could be supplied like those
in the garden cities of England.”’ Even though this suburban estate was within the
boundaries of New York City, it distorted the lines of the grid, with most streets
evoking, in the words of Olmsted, Jr., who drew the master plan, a “‘cozy domestic
character ... where the monotony of endless, straight, windswept thoroughfares
which represent the New York conception of streets will give place to short, quiet,
self-contained and garden-like neighborhoods, each having its own distinctive
character’’34—in other words, Unwin’s series of street pictures.
The garden suburb also made inroads in two other contexts. The reluctant
Federal program for industrial worker housing toward the end of the First World
War, sponsored by the Emergency Fleet Corporation, produced some model
communities like Yorkship Village in Camden, New Jersey; Union Park Gardens
near Wilmington, Delaware; and Buchman Village in Chester, Pennsylvania. And in
the early Twenties, some private industries adopted this looser suburban format for
their labor force in housing schemes like Goodyear Heights in Akron, Ohio, and the
Billerica Garden Suburb for the Talbot Mills in Massachusetts. Under both Federal
and private patronage, the arrangement was basically a suburban grid with some
“ORGANIC” PATTERNS - 79
curves, and the point was insistently made that although the lots were not of uniform
dimensions, they “‘in no case are of unusable irregularity.”’*°
85 Then came a landmark design, the community of Radburn in New Jersey, of
86 1928, by the American Parker and Unwin—Clarence Stein and Henry Wright.
English and American essays for the planned picturesque now began to coalesce.
Radburn was designed for 25,000 people, and divided into three villages, each with
its own elementary school and internal park. The grid was unequivocally rejected.
Each village was subdivided into superblocks of about 40 acres (16 ha.), with
pedestrian underpasses between blocks. The greenbelt principle of the Garden City
was abandoned, but a scaled-down version of the industrial component, which was
such a key element in Howard’s thinking, did survive until 1986. Instead of public
landholding, individual ownership was embraced. And the car’s presence was
perforce recognized.
A tremendous amount of propaganda was generated for this type of community
on the part of an intellectual elite that included eloquent and passionate spokesmen
like Lewis Mumford. The propaganda was enough to carry the day for a while
during the New Deal. It played a part in the decision of the Federal Government to
venture yet once more into sponsoring low-cost housing directly instead of through
subventions or incentives. The so-called ““Greenbelt Towns” are surely one of the
most curious chapters of modern American urban history, and the closest the United
States came to Howard’s model. These towns did indeed have a greenbelt, at least at
the beginning, and also corporate ownership, namely the Federal Government. The
idea was sold to a hostile public as a rural rehabilitation program, and three of these
towns did get built. Greenbelt, Maryland, and Greenhills, Ohio, adopted the
superblock, the cul-de-sac, the traffic-free inner streets. The third, Greendale,
Wisconsin, rebelled against this un-American preciosity, and modelled itself after
Colonial Williamsburg. A fourth town on the Radburn model, Greenbrook, New
Jersey, was blocked in the courts and never built. At any rate, the Government sold
the towns after the Second World War, as it had the likes of Yorkship and Buchman
aicer the First.°¢
But the Federal example had more far-reaching consequences. It is perhaps more
because of official policies than the exclusivist rhetoric of the Mumford axis that
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points of conflict. So the planning profession came to accept the notion that there SUGGESTED REVISED PLAN Fone in
should be roads for fast traffic, and others for local use laid out as loops and cul-de- 87 Original and revised plans of a
sacs; long blocks, if not superblocks; and three-legged T-intersections that reduce speculative subdivision from the 1938
traffic conflict points. brochure “Planning Profitable
Radburn was the first to use this so-called functional street plan. But it was the Neighborhoods.” When the Federal
Federal Housing Administration, organized in 1934 to provide mortgage insurance Housing Administration was established in
to local banks for loans on privately built housing, that set out both construction 1934 no-one could have predicted the
standards and desirable street patterns, to make sure that the housing was power it would come to wield in shaping
marketable and the risks were kept down. The official pamphlets had titles like America’s built landscape. By establishing
minimum design standards favoring
87 “Planning Profitable Neighborhoods” and “Successful Subdivisions,” and they
heavily favored curvilinear adaptations of the street grid and T-intersections. curvilinear street formats, the FHA
virtually assured the nationwide
Seward Mott is usually credited with this official picturesque, and his inspiration
replication of “organic” townscapes
8I may well have been classic picturesque suburbs like Olmsted’s Riverside,
or Forest during an era of explosive suburban
84 Hills Gardens.*” The Radburn exemplar, not very influential in its country of origin growth,
80 - “ORGANIC PATTERNS
88 Palm City (Florida). Suburban
development was revolutionized by mass-
production techniques in the late 1940s.
The advent of new construction materials,
power tools, factory preassembly of house
components and specialization ofskilled
labor has transformed suburban
developers into builders of instant cities.
This snaking row of detached homes
stakes a claim on the century-long
tradition of curvilinear suburban street-
scapes while revealing its assembly-line
production.
beyond the Greenbelt experiment, would become instead a standard point of
reference in Sweden and in Britain’s New Town program after the Second World
War.
In the United States the postwar era failed to adopt official policies for the design
of whole housing developments. Instead, the design of the streets came to be
governed by more and more detailed regulations which prescribe uniform setback
lines, uniform side yard, rear yard and lot sizes, all decided on the basis of the
individual lot. Hence the numbing monotony of most American developments. And
since the developers themselves now usually have to build the streets and provide the
services, rather than expect the relevant municipality to supply these as before,
89 developments tend to be small, scattered, and randomly shaped, creating a kind of
accretive picturesque around an irregular rural road net. Sometimes the contor-
ted pattern has the look, in plan at least, of medieval Cairo. To this speculative
process add the esthetic fad of the cluster plan, which became popular in the Sixties,
with land left around artfully grouped houses as permanent open space, and the
unfinished history of the “organic” city-form will start nudging present-day prac-
tices.
LAY
CONSERVATION AND THE LESSON OF HISTORY LE
Continental European involvement with the planned picturesque since the late r9th 89 Patchwork suburban road network
century constitutes a separate story. Central to this story is the Continent’s own outside Atlanta (Georgia). (After Tunnard)
version of neo-medievalism. While England was looking to its traditional villages
and their cottage architecture and learning something about urban living in easy
contact with nature, Europe found comfort in its storied medieval towns for its own
recipe against the effects of the Industrial Revolution on city-form—the ugliness, the
dehumanization and the fraying of social bonds, the sacrifice of urban values to
speculative profit and to efficient traffic. Demolitions in the old towns had become
endemic after mid-century as straight thoroughfares were cut through compact
medieval fabrics to link up more easily with the proliferating suburbs. In the suburbs
themselves, comfortable access began to be set as a prime criterion of the good life.
Common people and cultural critics alike looked with increasing distaste and alarm
at the new breed of technocrats—traffic specialists and municipal administrators—
who unapologetically gutted historic cores for the sake of circulation. Eventrement,
evisceration, was the term popular with the most famous ‘‘demolition artist” of the
90 time, Baron Haussmann, whose comprehensive redesign of Second Empire Paris set
new limits of radical urban intervention. While he and his brood opted for
mechanical efficiency, the opposition mounted a cultural, social and historicizing
defense of the old towns.
Most of the energy of the latter group went at first toward preventing the
destruction of noteworthy buildings. These the technocrats also claimed to respect,
as they cleaned away the accretions of time and isolated the monuments in large
open spaces at the ends of vistas. But in Germany the issue was being changed to one
of contextualism, and this along two fronts.
The first front is primarily esthetic, and is best represented by Camillo Sitte (1843—
1903) and his book of 1889, Der Stadte-Bau nach seinen kiinstlerischen Grundsdtzen
(The Art of Building Cities, or more literally ““City-Building According to Artistic
Principles’). The esthetic superiority of picturesque old towns to geometric modern
street plans had been championed before Sitte. In the r8th century I. P. Willebrand,
in his book of 1775 on the esthetics of planning, Grundriss einer schénen Stadt (The
Layout of a Beautiful City), praised the physical form of old towns. A century later
82 - “ORGANIC” PATTERNS
go Part of the Haussmannization of Paris, the Prussian military hero Helmuth von Moltke wrote of his preference for the
seen in a wood-engraving of 1858: a dense picturesque streets of Vienna over the rigid new extensions of Berlin. And the
web of 13th- and 14th-century streets on cultural critic Wilhelm Heinrich Riehl in a book which came out in 1854 stood up
the Left Bank makes way for the straight against “current building regulations in the layout of streets,” Sitte’s commentator
Rue des Ecoles. George Collins explains, “saying that a picturesque effect could be attained by
following the natural path of a stroller’s feet. Such a graceful curvilinear trajectory is
observable in the villages and is ‘an honor’ to imitate.’’**
But Sitte developed this appreciation into a theory of city-form. He argued against
“the affliction of inflexible, geometric regularity,’ against Haussmannesque scale,
against the mania of huge squares with monuments to this and that centered in them,
against grand vistas focused on obelisks and equestrian statues. He made a careful
study of urban form, especially of the medieval towns of his own country which he
knew and loved, praising them for their “‘natural sensitivity.”” What is even more
notable, he associated the vital irregularities of these city-forms not only with visual
interest, but also with wholesome social use. Cities were agglomerations of
buildings and of people, the bond between them evolved and sustained through
time: neither must be segregated into classes, or zoned as to use and behavior. There
is a gradually developed harmony between public buildings and their physical
context. Urbanism, according to Sitte, is precisely the science of relationships. And
these relationships must be determined according to how much a person walking
“ORGANIC” PATTERNS -: 83
through the city can take in at a glance. Streets and squares must be considered in
three dimensions, as volumes. “The ideal street must form a completely enclosed
unit.” It must avoid bilateral symmetry; it must avoid cross streets that come into It
at regular intervals and at right angles to its line.
ce
Sitte did not himself advocate the use of medievalizing streets in town extensions. NT)1584
His book was equally positive about Greco-Roman urbanism, and about the great
Baroque tradition of the German princes. The issue for Sitte was not the particular
morphology of the container, but the quality of the contained—the space. The
dogmatism of curvilinear patterns was fostered by his disciples, whose picturesque
suburbs and city extensions of totally arbitrary design enflamed the criticism against
Sitte. Formal planning had rules, the critics maintained; informal planning has to be
largely intuitive. In fact, this German picturesque was indebted to English models
93 as much as to Sitte. The estates—Hellerau near Dresden (1908), Munich-Perlach, 91 Brussels, Marché aux Poulets; from
9 N Staaken Garden Suburb in Berlin, and Falkenberg, also in Berlin, by the young L’Art de batir les villes (1902). The French
Bruno Taut (1912)—were more irregular and asymmetrical in street plan than Port edition of Camillo Sitte’s treatise on city
7 \o Sunlight or Letchworth, but the simple, quietly designed houses adhered to the street building reduced the author’s argument for
line. The houses were spaced closer together, and had unbroken ridge lines and deep enclosed urban space to a singleminded
roofs. The taste for garden suburbs lived on after the First World War as the Krupp celebration of medieval town form. The
dynasty of arms manufacturers, for example, in their workers’ housing at Essen, illustration is from a chapter on street
continued to promote the Anglo-picturesque over the geometric. design added to the book by the translator,
Camille Martin.
Sitte’s example was more helpful within the old cities than in the modern peri-
phery. At the same time that the defense of the small incident, the twisted street, the
rounded corner, the little planted oasis unexpectedly come upon, the long unbroken
street front free of the dissection of geometricized blocks, was being used to make
the point that modern planning of new quarters could be more inventive than profit-
minded speculative geometry permits, it was also used to show that minor
adjustments in historic cores were more to the point than massive demolitions. In
Brussels, mayor Charles Buls rose up as champion of his city’s old quarters. He
addressed the prevalent esthetic question—whether medieval cities are beautiful,
that is, the product of premeditation—and conferred upon them aspecial character.
He wrote in the opening lines of his Esthétique des villes (The Design of Cities), of
1893:
Old cities and old streets have a peculiar charm for all who are not insensible to
artistic impressions. They may not be called beautiful, but they are attractive;
they please by that beautiful disorder that here results not from art but from
Cancers.
What accounted for the geometries of modern urban design was the professional’s
habit of arranging on the flat surface of the drawing paper symmetries which will
never be experienced on the ground by the pedestrian once the scheme has been 93 opposite Munich (Germany),
realized. At any rate, it is not a question of straight or crooked streets, Buls argued. Gartenstadt Miinchen-Perlach, by
Classical buildings demand an extended point of view, a vista, that would make Berlepsch-Valendas, 1909. This unbuilt
project is of the “forced picturesque”’
clear the symmetry of their design; Gothic buildings need to have a closed
school of planning that emerged from the
perspective and a picturesque context. teachings of Camillo Sitte. A
After the turn of the century the cultural, historicizing perspective gained contemporary reviewer noted with
strength. Even Paris began to have second thoughts. Here is the Prefect of the Seine, approval that although the garden suburb
Haussmann’s successor in that office in 1909, in a report to the municipal council, was planned for a flat forested site already
in effect rejecting the work of his illustrious predecessor: “cut up by drives into a perfectly regular
gridiron .. . these have by no means been
We must avoid the danger of a too rigid regularity, we must not imitate the insipid allowed to influence the plan of the
grid of American cities . . . nor sacrifice any more to the abuse of geometric villages.”
84 - “ORGANIC” PATTERNS
92 Berlin, Gartenstadt Staaken, by Paul
Schmitthemmer, 1914-17. Berlin’s first
garden suburb is a synthes is of British
Garden City theory and German neo-
medieval design.
RaQ SS
\V/
\
S ORUGAINT GaaePyAl
In ESRUNIS
schemes the beautiful works of the past which have counted for nothing in the
plans for alignment and expropriation.*”
The change of heart in the French planning bureaucracy was most apparent in the
African colonies. Military engineers had been ruthless in modernizing the medinas
of Algeria, a French possession since 1830, and Tunisia, ‘“‘controlled”’ since 1881. But
when France proclaimed Morocco a protectorate in 1912 and appointed Marshal
Lyautey to be resident general with full powers, a new conservative policy was
immediately put in place. The age when all planning decisions for the colonies were
made by the Ministry of War in Paris was over. Lyautey and his architect Henri
Prost advocated separate development for the indigenous population and the
European colonizers. Lyautey wrote: “Large streets, boulevards, tall fagades for
stores and homes, installation of water and electricity are necessary [for Europeans,
all of] which upset the indigenous city completely, making the customary way
of life impossible.” So it was not a matter of protecting single monuments; one
must “consider the totality of a quarter as an historical monument not to be
touched in its lines and aspects.’’*°
In a colonial setting this solicitude proved suspect. You could read into Lyautey’s
laudable declarations the brief for apartheid. But the concern for built contexts had
other, even earlier, champions, whose motives, if not methods, were beyond
suspicion. Their argument was far more than merely esthetic or broadly historicist.
It rested on the notion that we are what we have built. The mindless destruction of
our old fabrics erases our cultural identity.
The name of Patrick Geddes must always come first in this connection. In his early
involvement with the Old Town at Edinburgh beginning in the late 1880s, with
Dunfermline, and with Dublin between ro11 and 1914, he tirelessly promoted the
idea of a civic survey—a comprehensive study of the geology, geography, economic
life, and above all the history and institutions of the city—prior to any planning
intervention. The survey would constitute “diagnosis before treatment.’’ Then
would come “conservative surgery.”” He wrote in Cities in Evolution, his great
book of 1914:
We must not too simply begin, as do too many, with fundamentals as of
communications, and thereafter give these such esthetic qualities of perspective
and the rest as may be, but, above all things, seek to enter into the spirit of our city,
its historical essence and continuous life. . . . Its civic character, its collective soul,
thus in some measure discerned and entered into, its daily life may then be more
fully touched... .*
In India, he tried to stem the éventrement mentality of British military planners,
as Lyautey was doing in Morocco, endowed only with formidable powers of per-
suasion. He found beauty in the ragged tangles of the old towns, where narrow
twisted lanes with earthen dwellings and main streets with stylish buildings formed
94 ‘‘an inseparably interwoven structure.” The seeming chaos was of our own im-
agining—the product of the Western addiction to mechanical order; here instead we
should see “‘the order of life in development.” Reduce the number and width of
Es) paved streets in residential areas, he urged, and turn the land saved into a chain of
usable open spaces that will renew the values of social life. Have flexible plots that
might be combined easily or subdivided. Undo as little as possible. And persuade
the citizens to become involved, arouse civic enthusiasm, let them express their
individuality, for streets will “look all the better for a certain freedom of treatment
and rivalry between the houses.”
would be circular, in emulation of classic medieval cities like Nordlingen; the circle
was to be stretched and molded to the contours of the landscape. A cross-axis
organized traffic and made a special place for the political center. Where market and
cathedral had been, the new towns would be fixed by Party buildings. The houses
must nestle in the landscape; and the streets must also conform to land contours.
They could not be a grid, but must “grow from the soil . . . be one with its natural
form, the specific geomorphological surface relief.”**
‘““ORGANIC” PATTERNS - 87
97 Diagram of an “organic cityscape” by
Hans Reichow, 1948. Reichow’s postwar
argument for an organic settlement pattern
combined functionalist logic with an
almost mystical faith in the power of
“natural” form. His ideal city diagram is
shown springing from the nebulous credo:
“Roots of Power: Nation—Government—
Mankind—wW orld.”
88 ORGANIC: (PATTERNS
96 opposite National-Socialist new town The passage of ‘‘organicism”’ into the post-1945 era was made through the long
project, 1938. This model by Grosser and career of Hans Bernhard Reichow. Under the Nazi regime Reichow was city
Schtirmann for a town of 20,000 architect of Stettin, and adviser to the planning establishment of Hamburg. After
inhabitants was one of several projects the war he was employed by the West German Ministry of Housing for which he
displayed at a city planning exhibition held designed many settlements. In the war years, Reichow set out to extend the scope of
in Frankfurt (Germany) a year before the
“organic” imagery from the small rural town to the post-industrial megalopolis. He 97
onset of the Second World War.
had in mind, first of all, the rebuilding of the major German cities, laid waste by
bombs. This is the object of his 1948 book Organische Stadtbaukunst, organische
Baukunst, organische Kultur (Organic City-Planning, Organic Architecture,
Organic Culture). The metaphors are familiar—the branching of a tree, the
structure of a leaf, the human lung. Reichow condemns all “inorganic” city-forms—
be they simple grids, or products of the Grand Manner—as static. He faults
advocates of linear cities for presenting this model as a complete urban solution. In
itself the linear city is incomplete, but as an appendage of the organic city, one of its
branches as it were, it works well. City expansion is organic when it occurs along
radial lines without losing centripetal power. To close a radial scheme with a ring
road is unnatural. The city will stop growing when it has filled its natural space. The
“freedom of appearance” is a precondition to all natural beauty.
What the heart of the book represents is, in fact, the new thinking in the Nazi
planning circles after 1940. The traditional Party doctrine of ruralism, with its
fixation on the single family dwelling, was rather abruptly discarded when the rain
of bombs over German cities brought home the urgency of future tasks—the
rehousing of millions and the rebuilding of the urban infrastructure along more
rational lines. Modernist tenets, once ostentatiously rejected, now seemed
98 Romerstadt, near Frankfurt acceptable. Plans now called for a massive program of large apartment buildings,
(Germany), by Ernst May, 1927-29. composed of standardized units (Reichstypen) and set in green parks; reliance on
prefabrication; the functional separation of industrial and residential sectors. The
new city would thus be fully modernized, but without totally forgetting its
“organic” roots. There would be greenbelts surrounding the cities, and housing
blocks were to be arranged along gently curving broad streets.** This is Reichow’s
agenda—to soften Modernism and bring it in line with the new Nazi policies.
sinuousness of the exceedingly long housing blocks. But soon, here in Frankfurt as
elsewhere in Weimar Germany, Modernist housing estates adopted a doctrinaire
“ORGANIC” PATTERNS - 89
schematism based on pseudo-scientific rationales like “heliotropic”’ (sun exposure)
formulas.
After the Second World War, the triumphant return of Modernism brought an
end, for a while, to the appreciation of the historic picturesque of European cities
and the planned picturesque of Garden Cities and their offshoots. Nowhere else
besides England did the Garden City become the official solution to postwar urban
problems, and even there the ideal of Ebenezer Howard and the practice of Unwin
reached out to marry Modernist building types like highrise housing slabs and the
Modernist vision of “the city in the park.” The policies of slum clearance and
“urban renewal’? seemed determined to finish the work of the bombs. Where
Modernists had their way, the concern for context became an irrelevancy. The street
pattern of a whole historic district of the City of London was erased under the
Barbican; at Metz an old quarter was destroyed where houses went back to the 13th
century.
The reaction of the Sixties, in terms of our present theme, took two separate
paths. One led to an internal critique of Modernist urbanism; the other pointed back
toward history and the surviving scraps of our urban past. Each within its own
context reopened the ancient debate of ‘“‘organic”’ patterns and reaffirmed their
validity.
First, members of a loose international group of young Modernists known as
Team X stood up against the arrogant internationalism of their elders. They saw
themselves as pioneers of a new revolution. Since the Renaissance, they argued, the
dominant thinking in urban design had been one of pre-planning and pre-fixing
cities. Through the 18th century, ideal plans and single acts of design like Versailles
or Washington guided our vision of cities. Regulating plans of the roth and 2oth
centuries perpetuated the notion of city-form under prior control. And it was this
fixed, formal organization that ruled the urban work of Modernist masters like Le
Corbusier and Ludwig Hilbersheimer (see ‘““The Grid,” below, p. 155).
Team X proposed to adopt a fresh attitude that would see city-making as
“organic process.”’ The task was to fix a loose structure along which development
could take place over time. The pioneering Golden Lane housing scheme conceived
by Alison and Peter Smithson in 1952, and realized in Park Hill, Sheffield, in r96r,
showed a rambling line of highrises which held aloft an elaborate pedestrian
superstructure. Shadrac Woods, who masterminded a similar scheme as an
extension of Toulouse, wrote of his project in terms of stems and webs, the classic
imagery of the ‘“‘organic”’ schools of urban design. The stem corresponds to a
pedestrian street, and is served by public transportation. Housing is linear and plugs
into the stem. Interconnected stems form the non-centric web, which develops peaks
IOO of intensity through use. The plan of Toulouse-Le Mirail is reminiscent of some
North African medina, and it is not without an element of irony that the quarter is
now predominantly occupied by Algerian immigrants. But the physical reality of
99 what there is to see—huge multi-story housing slabs zigzagging across a barren
site, and the scorned system of internal streets, almost wholly devoid of pedestrian
activity, which threads them—makes a mockery of the designer’s rhetoric that the
city “‘is the domain of man on foot and seeks to respect his scale.”
The other side of the coin was the resurgence of historic preservation, dormant
under the vehement ahistoricism of the Modernists, and of the ‘“townscape”
esthetic. On the issue of the old city and its updating, the mood began to shift
dramatically. In France, in 1962, an act was introduced by André Malraux, then
Minister of Cultural Affairs, with the aim of protecting historic urban cores from the
onslaught of renewal. The act established the concept of the secteur sauvegardeé,
90 - “ORGANIC” PATTERNS
99, 100 Toulouse-Le Mirail (France): plan and saved, among other endangered neighborhoods, the Quartier des Tanneurs in
of the new town with the city of Toulouse, Colmar with its half-timbered houses and narrow paved lanes which had already
and a view of the apartment slabs from been evacuated and was awaiting demolition. This “Loi Malraux’? was the
one of the internal streets. Candilis and forerunner of the National Historic Preservation Act of 1966 in the United States,
Woods’s design for an urban extension for and England’s Civic Amenities Act of 1967 which introduced the concept of
100,000 inhabitants occupies almost the - “conservation areas.’’*°
same area as its host city of Toulouse. It is
Townscape literature was an English phenomenon. Part Garden City and part
the most extensively realized application of
Sitte, it began with Frederick Gibberd’s Town Design of 1953, written when he was
the “organic’’city-building process
championed by the group of urbanists involved with the design of Harlow New Town, and Gordon Cullen’s influential
known as Team X. Townscape of 196r. Cullen defined town-planning, much like Sitte, as ‘“‘the art IOI
It is with this acceptance, once more as in Ur and Thebes, imperial Rome and
Haussmann’s Paris, of all kinds of urban space, the grand and the incidental, that the
arguments of Rob Krier’s Urban Space (first published in 1975) and Calin Rowe’s
Collage City (1978) capture our imagination, and make us trust in the power of
our collective urban heritage. nel
How are we to use our new understanding as we take our turn in renewing the
fateful cities that have served us so long? In the first place, we must Le all
selective prejudice against the past, against this or that cay ronmental order The
orgy of destruction sanctioned by the Modernists, a direct result of their conten t
for cultural continuities, should give us no license now to hate back. At the oe
time, in the history-affirming mood we are determined to enjoy, we should be Cares
ful not to revive the artificial dichotomies of urban form—‘“‘organic”’ as against
planned”’—by setting up medievalizing and classicizing camps. Sieke Bale
92 - “ORGANIC” PATTERNS
Geddes—they all knew better, and so should we. So Krier’s warning that there
can be no modern resurrection for the evolved organicism of the Middle Ages is
misguided.
There is a widespread and naive view prevalent among art historians as well as the
general public that ... irregular or ‘‘organic”’ architecture is more beautiful than a
group of urban buildings planned synchronically. ... The great popularity of
medieval squares is rather more rooted in the fact that, first, they are squares of a
type which no modern town could imitate, and second that they are surrounded
by fine architecture. Our age cannot compete with the past in this area either.
True. But the same holds for the Renaissance and Baroque past. We cannot bring
back the pre-industrial world, any of it, much as we might yearn for it. We should be
content with saving as much as we can, to know what we once had—and to add our
own pieces sympathetically to this collective artifact, with a feeling and love for the
whole. The sympathy has to transcend mere visual appeal. Once again we must
question Rob Krier’s claim that, in looking at the typology of old streets and squares,
we should stay exclusively with form. Symbolism is short-lived, Krier insists:
function may change: what is eternal is “the poetic content and esthetic quality of
space.’ But urban form is an incident of history; we are indeed what we have built.
On this score it is wiser to hold on to Patrick Geddes’ idealized evolutionary
historicism, and remember with him that current development in any city must heed
the circumstances of history, geography, and the needs of the present. For the rest, if
we can only admit ‘“‘organicism”’ as an abiding principle of thought, and of design
which is a venerable branch of thought, we will be safe from talk of “unplanned”
cities—and deprived of the dubious justification to “plan” them.
PREAMBLE
HE Pack-Donkey’s Way,’ Le Corbusier decreed in his 1924 book on
urbanism, “‘is responsible for the plan of every continental city.”” He meant
the ‘‘organic”’ patterns reviewed in the last chapter. The pack-donkey
‘meanders along, meditates a little in his scatter-brained and distracted fashion, he
zigzags in order to avoid the larger stones, or to ease the climb, or to gain a little
shade; he takes the line of least resistance.’’ That cannot be the way of humans.
““Man walks inastraight line because he has a goal and knows where he is going.””*
The British architect Sir William Chambers had said much the same thing two
centuries earlier: ‘on a plain where no [im]pediment obliges . . . it cannot be
supposed that men would go by a crooked line, where they could arrive by a straight
one.””?
Man walks ina straight line, so this argument runs, and peels off from it at right
angles when he needs to. The frequency of these cross streets is his own decision.
Topography has little to do with it, especially on a level site. This simple, rational
order of pacing the land—streets set at right angles to one another—is the first step
in settlement planning.
102 The southern tip of Manhattan
Island, to 34th Street (photographed in
1963). New York City is a demonstration THE NATURE OF RECTILINEAR PLANNING
of the effectiveness of the grid as a vehicle
for urban expansion. The original Dutch The grid—or gridiron or checkerboard—is by far the commonest pattern for
settlement at the point of the island planned cities in history. It is universal both geographically and chronologically
developed around a simple network of (though its use was not continuous through history). No better urban solution
lanes and canals. In the late 18th century recommends itself as a standard scheme for disparate sites, or as a means for the
the city spread northward in a jumble of equal distribution of land or the easy parcelling and selling of real estate. ne
independently platted grids as meadows advantage of straight through-streets for defense has been recognized since
and marshes were converted into Aristotle, and a rectilinear street pattern has also been resorted to in order to keep
profitable real estate. The Commissioners’ under watch a restless population. Refugee and prisoner camps are obvious settings. 165
Plan of 1811 standardized the framework The grid of the barrio of Barceloneta may appear less strict now that the citadel of 152
of the city by etching a monolithic street Philip V, who conquered Barcelona in 1714, is gone; but the siting of this planned
grid across the remainder of the island (see
barrio on a spit of harbor land outside the citadel’s bastions, and the direction of
Ill. 118). The change can be seen here
about two-thirds of the way up the image. the fifteen straight streets of long, narrow blocks, was an intentional strategy that
THE GRID - 95
permitted surveillance of these “people of the sea” whose old houses had been
demolished to make room for the citadel.
Yet, ubiquitous as the grid has always been, it is also much misunderstood, and
often treated as if it were one unmodulated idea that requires little discrimination.
Quite the contrary, the grid is an exceedingly flexible and diverse system of planning:
hence its enormous success. About the only thing that all grids have in common ts
that their street pattern is orthogonal — that the right angle rules, and street lines in
both directions lie parallel to each other. Even this much is not immutable; the
155 system can curve around irregularities on the ground without betraying its basic
PI.18 logic.
Two singular, and well-preserved, grid schemes from unrelated cultural con-
texts—Sung China and Colonial America—should demonstrate the wisdom of
studying this urban commonplace with particular care.
Suzhou, an ancient Chinese city in southern Jiangsu province, was thoroughly
overhauled under the Sung Dynasty, and its extraordinary new design survives on
103 record in a beautiful stone engraving prepared in 1229. The planning is indeed
orthogonal, but the overall pattern is of a supple rhythmic complexity free of
dogmatic symmetry, continuous straight lines, or uniform divisions into blocks. Yet
both in terms of a dimensional order and in the consistent articulation of a spatial
structure, the plan was clearly premeditated, and executed according to precise
calculations of measurements and levels. The street lines throughout the city were
paralleled by a system of canals: 6 canals ran north-south and 14 east—west. Some
300 bridges crossed these canals, artfully grouped at junctions. The double network
of transportation was enlivened by frequent cranked intersections and zig-zags. In
shape the city was a walled rectangle about 4.5 by 3 miles (ca. ro by 5 km.). But the
frame had projecting sections mindful of the topography, and three corners of the
wall were splayed to go with the direction of the water flow in the canals. Five gates
were situated asymmetrically around the periphery. The focus of the city was the
large walled and moated enclosure of the government complex; it lay southeast of
dead center. All public buildings formed sealed compounds of this sort, their high
walls reinforced, in the case of the most important institutions, with a band of
water. North of the government complex, residential strip blocks provide the only
passage of relative uniformity in the plan. They are divided into long narrow
plots, with the house fronts lined along a street and the gardens walls at the back
lined along a canal.
104 Savannah, in the new colony of Georgia, was laid out in 1733, the unwalled core
of a sophisticated regional plan. The city grid was organized into wards, each with
its Own square measuring some 315 by 270 feet (96 by 82 m.). On the east and west
sides of each square, lots were set out for public buildings like churches and stores.
The other two sides were divided into forty house lots. Darby Ward, with its
Jackson Square, was the first to be built, and became the center of town. ‘“‘Ward” of
course is a political term. The plan was the blueprint of a political system. Ten
freeholders formed a tything: four tythings made up a ward whose political officer
was the constable. The tythings were grouped in two rows of five house lots, back to
back, sharing a lane or alley. Since the houses all faced along east—west streets, the
wards were united visually, as they were interdependent socially in the shared use of
public buildings and the like. So the inner-oriented ward system around squares also
had a street-oriented linear reading. The streets linking the squares and the squares
themselves were tree-lined fairly early, while the north-south thoroughfares and the
small streets within the wards remained treeless. The ward unit was repeatable, and
Savannah extended its primary pattern unvaryingly well into the roth century.
96 - THE GRID
103 Suzhou (China), rubbing ofa stone
engraving of the city plan, 1229. The
parallel system of streets and canals is
accurately depicted, with fainter lines
representing waterways. A rope-like
pattern just outside the walls represents
the surrounding canals.
All of these points are not only essential to conduct a discussion of form: they also go
to the heart of the motivation of grids, the kind of life the grids are designed to play
host to.
In addition, the subject is crowded by impure, composite, or other sorts of hybrid
uses of the grid. I might single out:
98 hare G RD
1. loose approximations, where the lines are not strictly parallel or the angles strictly
right (a good many of the medieval bastides fall into this category) PI.16
2. gridded extensions of “‘organic”’ city forms (e.g., Berlin, Cracow, etc.) 253
3. gridded additions to an original grid plan (e.g., San Francisco, New Orleans,
Turin) 134
4. grids combined with other geometric planning principles, most commonly
diagonal avenues, as in the famous instance of L’Enfant’s Washington, or in the 208
r8th-century scheme for St. Petersburg
5. the curvilinear grid of the modern residential development
THE GRID - 99
for housing. Any alienation of land, or any agitation for land reform, was severely
dealt with, and could be punishable as for murder.*
Centuries after Chang’an and Heijo-kyo, the special arrangement of public
buildings and other planning devices could still be used to cast a grid unmistakably
in a mode that celebrates centralized political structure. Take Brest in Brittany, one
of four new port cities sponsored by the administration of Louis XIV as part of a
calculated extension of French sea power. The 1680 scheme of Colbert’s engineer
Sainte-Colombe was ‘“‘a regimented, unbroken, unembellished grid pattern of
blocks,” as the student of these cities, Josef W. Konvitz, describes it. Next year
Vauban introduced some improvements—specifically, the insertion of a unified
composition of church, market and formal residential square, which distinguished
this grid as a government creation. By placing this monumental episode between the
city and the arsenal, Vauban effectively expressed that the new Brest was a royal
initiative—without having to resort to great Baroque diagonals and the other
obvious apparatus of absolutist planning. The place d’armes of French colonial
plantations in America, situated on the waterfront and meant to carry an assortment
of institutional buildings (palaces for governor, bishop and intendant, barracks,
nN hospitals, etc.), similarly marked the simple linear grid of New Orleans or St. Louis
as a royal undertaking.
By the same token, to say that Holland’s use of the grid in the 17th century
represents ‘“‘Calvinist dogmatism and democratic equalitarianism,” as E. A.
Gutkind does,® is to attribute simple political messages to an urban diagram that
was largely motivated by matter-of-fact economic considerations. The Dutch
furthered a pragmatic bourgeois mercantilist culture, to which Baroque diagonals
and formal places marked by equestrian monuments were irrelevant.
The fact is that egalitarianism is no more natural to gridded patterns than to any
other urban form. However noble the original premise, inequities will creep in
sooner or later. In accordance with the free society they promoted, medieval new
towns had honorable intentions about the equality of their parcels. The smaller lots
PL.16 on the market square in a town like Villeneuve-sur-Lot were intended to make
amends for the advantages of this privileged situation. Towns on hilly terrain were
so laid out that every settler would encounter the same conditions in relation to the
slope. But half-lots materialized soon enough, and select inhabitants were given the
chance to build on double or triple lots.
The most persistent belief that urban grids represent an egalitarian system of land
distribution is expressed in the context of modern democracies, principally the
United States. The point is made regularly that grids, besides offering “simplicity in
land surveying, recording, and subsequent ownership transfer,” also “favored a
fundamental democracy in property market participation. This did not mean that
individual wealth could not appropriate considerable property, but rather that the
basic initial geometry of land parcels bespoke a simple egalitarianism that invited
easy entry into the urban land market.’ The reality is much less admirable. The
ordinary citizen gains easy access to urban land only at a preliminary phase, when
cheap rural land is being urbanized through rapid laying out. To the extent that the
grid speeds this process and streamlines absentee purchases, it may be considered an
equalizing social device. Once the land has been identified with the city, however,
this advantage of “‘the initial geometry of land parcels” evaporates, and even unbuilt
lots slip out of common reach. What matters in the long run is not the mystique of
grid geometry, but the luck of first ownership.
It may be that the most genuinely egalitarian use of the grid came most naturally
to religious confraternities. Two celebrated cases will make the point.
HISTORICAL REVIEW
Who invented the grid? Given the chapter’s preamble, this is perhaps an unnecessary
question; it is rather like asking who invented the right angle, that is geometry, and
in fact that word carries in it the seeds of the grid’s popularity, indeed inevitability.
Geometry is a theory of space, and of figures in space; it is an order of lines and
angles, and in terms of city-making one of the simplest ways of making order is to
have horizontal and vertical coordinates in orthogonal relationship to one another.
But geometry, from the Greek word geometria, means literally “earth measure-
ment.” So the grid applies to country and town, to fields and streets, and at its most
basic it divides an undifferentiated stretch of land into regular, measured plots.
gEAN, Two categories of new towns were now initiated: katoichiai, which were military
settlements (e.g., Dura Europos), and kleruchiai, legitimate offspring of mother
cities. Frequently the preferred sites were along old trade routes or in places with
UX commercially viable harbors. There is some evidence to support R. E. Wycherley’s
reference to “the mass production of new hellenistic cities”: Antioch, its port
Seleucia Pieria, Apamea and Laodicea—all founded by Seleucus I ca. 300—have
106, 107 Market at Dura Europos (Syria), blocks of the same size, roughly 367 by 190 feet (112 by 58 m.).””
as first built, ca. 300 BC, and as it The new towns could at times be much bigger than anything Greeks were used to.
appeared in AD 250. The agora of the Seleucia Pieria, for example, with a circuit of walls that exceeded 6 miles (10 km.),
Hellenistic colony occupied the equivalent
offour of the city’s blocks. During was larger even than Athens. Another Seleucia, on the Tigris,was said by Pliny to
the
centuries of occupation the city center lost have 600,000 people. This Greek grid with its rational subdivisions was alien to
its formally configured public space, which old cultures overwhelmed by Alexander. The people reverted to their pre-Greek
was replaced by the dense warren ofa habits as soon as the Hellenistic episode was over, and the grids were suitably
bazaar. (After Ward-Perkins) remade. The tidy subdivision of blocks came undone, the open space of agoras was
taken over by stalls and small shops. The transformation of Dura Europos on the 106,
Syrian frontier is an excellent instance of this process. 107
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Turning to the Roman world, the long tradition of gridded towns there, and the
progressively rigid application of the scheme, can be dramatized with a comparison
between Cosa, founded in 273 Bc, and Timgad (Thamugadi, Algeria), founded in
roo AD for a colony of military veterans. Cosa was the first of the early Italian 109
colonies (coloniae) of the 3rd and 2nd centuries Bc. The word colonia derives from
colo, colere, meaning ‘‘to farm”; a colonus is a farmer. One purpose of Roman
colonies was settling veterans of wars; the other was control of the conquered
territory. Cosa, situated on the summit of a rocky promontory, heeds the
topography to the extent that the arx or capitol is placed at the highest point, in the
south, and the forum in the most level spot near the southeast gate. The strip blocks
and loose-fitting city walls conform to the Greek model.
But it was when, in their systematic conquest of Italy, the Romans pushed out of
the mountains of the central region and onto the broad plains of the Po Valley that
Greek and Etruscan precedent was superseded. By the time of Pavia and Verona, TEL
11 Verona (Italy). The classic square- both founded in 89 Bc, and Aosta (25 BC), the Roman grid had developed its own
block plan of the Roman settlement
identity—a more unitary plan with large square blocks, a tight mural frame locked
founded in 89 BC can still be made out in
the city today. In the center, the spindle-
into the lines of the grid, and the forum placed on or beside the crossing of two major
shaped Piazza Erbe marks the site of the axes. As the young empire spread outward in the rst century AD, many gridded
forum. The oval amphitheater lay outside towns were planted at critical sites in Gaul, Britain and North Africa. Timgad is one IIo
the walls. Typically, the blocks have of the purest in form—and the best preserved. The grid of Timgad measures about
often been joined together in pairs (cf. 380 yards (355 m.) oneach side. It consists of four parts of 36 blocks each, 144 blocks
pp. 48-51, 147). in all, of which rx are eaten up by the forum, 6 by the theater and 8 by the baths.
When new public buildings were needed, they developed outside the grid. Indeed,
the Roman imperial city in its final two centuries relaxed into a much more flexible,
impure orthogonality (described in “‘The Grand Manner’’, below).
The role of the military is extremely important. It was the growth of a profes-
sional army, stationed permanently overseas, that led to the establishment of a
164 standardized fort plan, and this in turn significantly influenced the design of new
provincial cities during the late rst century BC and the rst century AD. The reverse is
sometimes also argued—that the inspiration of these legionary camps must have
come from the layout of early cities which preceded them. Polybius, writing in the
2nd century BC, suggests as much when he describes the Roman camp as “‘a square,
with streets and other constructions regularly planned like a town.””° At any rate,
there is a similarity, as is evident in details of city plans like those of Aosta and Turin.
Evidence of direct transference is also forthcoming, for example the recent discovery
that at least three Roman military colonies in Britain—Colchester, Gloucester, and
Lincoln—were converted from antecedent fortresses, retaining the same street
alignments.
To the Romans of the late Republic and the early Empire, the grid represented the
New Order. It was not wasted on small local towns in the provinces, which could
remain “organic.” But colonies, capitals of provinces (municipia), and capitals of
civitates where the administration of each Gallic nation was centralized had to be
gridded. In Britain the new towns started out as grids; in Gaul, the early free-form
settlements of the Roman occupation were straightened out later at the cost of much
clearing and levelling.*!
As a rule, town planting was the State’s prerogative, and its responsibility as part
of broad administrative policy. These official plans were straightforward, and
sometimes standardized. Verona and Pavia had identical grids, and blocks of equal
size. Where private benefactors or local authorities became involved, cities were
rarely contented with such prosaic regularity. The Emperor Septimius Severus
spared neither purse nor talent to rebuild the city of Leptis Magna, his place of birth
in North Africa. When his architects were done, the two extant gridded units had
been welded together and extended in ingenious improvisations.
1. Southern France, northern Spain, England and Wales. Here we find towns
founded by the royal houses, by powerful noblemen like Alphonse de Poitiers, count
enthusiasm for crusades and the silting up movement. Aigues-Mortes, on flat marshy land by the Mediterranean, founded by Ti2
of the town harbor, Aigues-Mortes drifted Louis IX (St. Louis) in the 1240s in connection with the Seventh Crusade, is a famous
into obsolescence and decay. example.
2. Switzerland, Austria, and Germany east of the Elbe. This includes the towns of the
Pl.r8 dukes of Zahringen, imperial towns under the patronage of the Holy Roman
Emperor himself or his lieutenants, and settlements founded by the crusading
II3 Teutonic Knights in the eastern expansion of Germany. By and large, this area had
the largest number, and the most carefully planned, new towns.
3. New towns founded by the city-states of Italy. In this category, a prime goal was to
disengage serfs and village folk from allegiance to landed magnates and readjust
their loyalties to the political system of the city-states. Among these were Novara
(which founded Borgomanero in the first third of the 13th century), Siena
(Montereggioni), Lucca (Camaiore, Pietrasanta), and Florence (see below, p. 128). 113 Chelmno (Poland). A straight street ts
terminated by a Dominican church and
There must have been perhaps as many as one thousand new towns in all three areas flanked by a 19th-century Gothic Revival
by the later Middle Ages, which would more than double the number of extant watertower in this new town founded in
towns in Europe. And the catalogue is not exhaustive. There were bastides in the the 13th century by the Teutonic Knights.
Netherlands as well, for example, all of a rather late date. They included Vianen,
133 Culemborg, Montfort and Helmond, belonging to a category where the town is
supplementary to the castle, as was the case with the towns built by Edward I in
Wales, while others were sited independently of the castle—Elburg, Naarden,
Kortgene—as was the common practice in England and France. There is reason to
believe that it was Count Floris V of Holland (1256-96) who, having witnessed the
town-building activities of St. Louis, Alphonse de Poitiers, and Edward | of England,
initiated the series of Dutch bastides with Brouwershaven and Arnemuiden in the
Zeeland islands, both in the 1280s.””
In all this activity, even before the famous proto-Renaissance of Florence, there
was some awareness that with the newly planted towns one was reviving Classical
precedent. The Emperor Frederick II made specific mention of this revival in his
inauguration in 1247 of Vittoria, near Parma in Italy, and he traced the perimeter
of the town with a plough in imitation of the sulcus primigenius of the Etruscan/
Roman town-founding ritual. But this was more a literary than a physical
inspiration, since there were no pure Roman grids around to emulate. We are told
that, during an imprisonment, one of the Zahringer dukes studied the plan of
Cologne, which had preserved parts of its Roman layout, but it is hard to assess the
importance of this precedent on the subsequent town-planning activities of the
Duke, who, after his release, founded Freiburg-im-Breisgau (1119), Murten, and
Rottweil (1120).
Defensive and economic policies may account for bastides, but the encourage-
ment of religion is a factor that cannot be ignored. The princely obligation to found
cities is a recurrent theme in medieval literature. The central text must be Thomas
Aquinas, from about 1270: “The city is the perfect community . . . and building
cities is the duty of kings.” The first part of this, the exaltation of the life of the city,
had a long medieval history since Isidore of Seville (6th—7th century) and Hrabanus
Maurus (8th—oth century).”? But Thomas goes further and argues that, for a variety
of reasons, city life is preferable to all other modes of living. Communal existence
makes it possible to extend help to one another, and to share mental tasks, with one
person making discoveries in medicine and others in other things. But above all city
living leads to virtuous living; cities are necessary for the virtuous life, which means
the knowledge of God. Since the role of Christian kings is to lead people to God, they
must build cities. ““The most powerful nations and the most illustrious kings
acquired no better glory than comes of founding new cities, or associating their
names to cities already founded by others.”** The process of founding a town is the
The main urban theorist of the North was Simon Stevin (1548-1620) of the
Netherlands. His specialty was the planning of port cities; his models were real cities
135 like Antwerp and Amsterdam. The key to their prosperity was the waterfront; and
canals were clearly the way to stretch out the commercial advantages of the actual
114 harbor. So Stevin settled for an extendable grid bounded by canal/walls and cut
through by several interconnected longitudinal canal streets that could be continued
beyond the walls. In this way the grid could stretch out on new annexed land, and
suburbs could be strapped rationally to the city center.
Dutch practice influenced the city-making of Denmark and Sweden on either side
of the Sund Strait. The new district of Copenhagen, Christianshavn, begun about
1640, was very much in the Stevin mold. The Swedish campaign for new port cities
began in the 1620s under Gustavus II Adolphus, who had briefly corresponded with
Stevin. Gothenburg, the first major Swedish site, followed Stevin’s prescriptions,
and so did the extension of Jonk6ping.
Then Swedish planners made an about-face. Even as early as the 1640s, when
Stockholm was being replanned, canals were deliberately omitted from the gridded
designs because they called to mind Dutch mercantilism, and were therefore un-
suitable for the royal capital. Thereafter the fashion was for ideal plans of radial-
concentric form. In the royal Swedish circle Eric Dahlberg started the trend after
traveling in Italy in the 1650s; Nicodemus Tessin the Younger visited France in the
1670s, and embraced the new urban design of the French Baroque at the expense of
the practical Dutch style. Examples of their work are the projects for the towns of
Landskrona, Karlskrona, and Karlsborg.
By this time the new esthetic of Baroque urbanism was transforming European
capitals. It was based on the dynamism of the diagonal, and came to be associated
with absolutist states. In the debates for the rebuilding of London after the Great
Fire of 1666, the exuberant new Baroque esthetic and the trustworthy grid clashed in
public. On the one side there were the urban constellations of Wren and John
Evelyn, on the other the grids punctuated by squares of people like Richard
Newcourt, which Mark Girouard characterizes as the product of the land surveyor
and the real estate dealer, ‘easy to lay out and easy to sell.’”26
2 Lee ROD)
But there is also the issue of message. When we bemoan the obtuseness of the
English in missing the chance to have a great plan like Wren’s or Evelyn’s for their
capital, we cannot altogether set aside the question of appropriateness—the fact
that Baroque city-form had developed connotations of political centrality, and that
the place of the king in the English scheme of things was very much in the public
mind during those decades of the later 17th century. Besides, the near impregnable
structure of private ownership under English law doomed any project for the
wholesale remaking of the City.
PASSAGE TO AMERICA
More than one hundred years later, a similar clash over the design of Washington,
D.C., also centered on the question of appropriateness. There was Jefferson’s
famous little grid, and L’Enfant’s fury over its timidity (see below, p. 209). The grid 209
lost, and the Frenchman’s splendid imperialist diagram won the day. But Jefferson’s 208
victory was bigger, for he went on to subject the rest of the nation to a relentless
gridding which permanently affected the structure of American space. 132
The grid had long been at home in colonial America. The pert river grids of New
France like St. Louis or New Orleans are to be contrasted to the parish towns of the
St. Lawrence River which resisted the centralizing efforts of Paris officialdom, and
assumed rather a carefree look. Even with clear attempts at directing the growth of
cities like Quebec and Montreal, the lower towns by the river still demonstrate a
flexible adaptation of stretches of straight line to topography, and a varied use of
blocks.
The Spanish episode also has a formal and a casual side. The first cities on the
115 The Laws of the Indies grid as a port coast of Colombia were unplanned, for example. But soon the grid took over and
city: Santo Domingo (Dominican remained the norm. The first planned settlement, Santo Domingo (Hispaniola) in II5
Republic) in 1586, shown under siege by the West Indies, was laid out in 1493 ona more or less regular grid pattern. The most
the English troops of Sir Francis Drake. important cities of South America—Quito, Lima, Buenos Aires, Bogota, Santiago
de Chile, Valparaiso—were all founded in the decade between 1534 and 1544. Town 116 The Laws of the Indies grid as a
building went on into the 18th century when the pueblos of San Antonio in Texas, farming town: a colonial village in Peru’s
119 Galvez in Louisiana, and San Jose and Los Angeles in California were laid out. Colca River Valley.
Dozens of provincial capitals, mining and processing towns, and Indian settlements
were planted during the first century or so. The plan did not change, regardless of the
function of the town. Port cities like Cartagena (Colombia) were laid out in the same
way as agricultural centers. As Konvitz put it, Spain’s “‘legalistic, programmatic
approach to city planning avoided particular distinctions among cities and iden-
tified the functional aspects of planning with its administrative control, and, so, with
uniformity.”’?”
Officially the towns in New Spain, called pueblos or villas, were designed
according to directives emanating from the Spanish court. In 1573 these were
collected under Philip I] in a document known as the Laws of the Indies, a genuine
product of Renaissance thought. Its inspiration is ultimately the Classical treatise of
Vitruvius, which had been translated into Spanish first in 1526, with a Latin edition
dedicated to Philip being published in 1582. But it is surely also legitimate to see these
American towns as a continuation of the long medieval history of bastides. From
Spain itself, the planners in America retained the division into barrios (administra-
tive precincts or wards), the religious and social life of these barrios, each with its
own chapel, and the naming of streets on the basis of occupation and guild activi-
ties. Whether anything was contributed by the example of native pre-Columbian
urbanism is an unresolved debate. The plan of Tenochtitlan, the great Aztec
THE GRID
Orthogonality is a manner of creating urban order, not a simple formula of urban
design. If the urban grid is ubiquitous in the history of cities, it is neither standard
nor predictable. On flat terrain, it is the sensible method of land division. But the grid
will as readily climb hills or curve its lines to fit a river bend. The approximations
and quirks may have natural causes, but they may also be fostering a calculated
political and social structure; or else, as in the emblematic configuring of
Sabbioneta, be altogether willful. The blocks that, at their least inspired, line up as
real-estate parcels may also group themselves into wards, stretch into narrow strips
of burgage plots maximizing street frontage, or be internalized through landscaped
courts as in Berlage’s Amsterdam. The virtue of the grid is, in fact, its unending
flexibility. Tailor-made for moderate urban scales, it is able to ingest the
superblocks of the modern metropolis. At home in simple initial settlements, it can
extend almost indefinitely to make greater Chicago or the conurbations of Lima or Pl.r5 Chicago (Illinois), detail of
a bird’s-
Buenos Aires. eye view by Currier & Ives, 1892.
TATION I i
iZOp- DEG RD
The National Land Ordinance ensured that the urban blueprint for most of the
United States would be the grid. For a century or so, until the borders were finally
closed, gridded towns almost unexceptionally dotted the breadth and length of the
continent between the old Colonial band of the eastern seaboard and the Pacific Plans
Ocean. The grid became the standard for new sections of old towns as well—
Boston, Baltimore, Richmond—but nowhere more fanatically than in New York,
where a three-member commission planned the whole of Manhattan as far as 155th
Street in the form of identical blocks, unrelieved by public open spaces. At the time
New York had extended only as far as 23rd Street. The Commission’s report of
1811, with L’Enfant’s recent plan of Washington in mind, dismisses “those supposed
improvements .. . circles, ovals and stars,” and states flatly “that a city is composed
of the habitations of men, and that strait sided, and right angled houses are the most
cheap to build, and the most convenient to live in.”
What was new in this attitude, and a significant shift from the application of the
grid in Colonial days, was that the social value of urban land, that dominant view of
the past that an urban parcel did not realize its true purpose until a building had been
put upon it, was swept aside. Another way of putting it, following Peter Marcuse, is
that the 1811 plan of Manhattan represented the abandonment of the Colonial
closed grid for the open grid of the new era of the Republic. The closed grid is
essentially a pre-capitalist concept. It is seen as having firm boundaries, and a
definite design within this fixed frame. The boundaries might be walls, or features of
topography; they might be determined by public buildings placed at the extremes of
the major axes; or the grid might be encircled by common lands and allotted farm
plots which cannot be sold. This last is the prevailing form of enclosure in the
unwalled grids of Colonial America. The open grid is predicated on a capitalist
economy, and the conversion of land to a commodity to be bought and sold on the
market. The grid is left unbounded or unlimited, so it can be extended whenever
there is the promise of fast and substantial profit. In this state of affairs the grid
becomes an easy, swift way to standardize vast land operations by businessmen
involved in the purchase and sale of land. Public places, parks, and any other
allocations that remove land from the market are clearly seen as a waste of a profit-
producing resource.”
This is how New York’s Commissioners justified their decision not to provide
public space in their 1811 plan. Manhattan Island was embraced
by those large arms of the sea which . . . render its situation, in regard to health and
pleasure, as well as to convenience of commerce, peculiarly felicitous; when,
therefore, from the same causes, the price of land is so uncommonly great, it
seemed proper to admit the principles of economy to greater influence than might,
under circumstances of a different kind, have consisted with the dictates of
prudence and the sense of duty.
In plain words, when there is the chance of making money from urban land, the
claims of the public good will be set aside.
Actually, the city of New York had practiced its Commissioners’ gospel much
before the notorious 1811 plan. At one time, New York owned all of Manhattan
Island except for the little that remained in private hands south of Wall Street. The
Dongan Charter of 1689 had legalized this general ownership. Almost immediately,
however, the city fathers started alienating this public trust to fill the treasury
coffers, and the sections to be auctioned off were routinely laid out on a grid for easy
sale. As late as 1796 the city surveyor Casimir Goerck surveyed a substantial strip of
land running up central Manhattan, and subdivided it in a rectilinear system. Now
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the Commissioners were merely applying these lessons unsentimentally and without 118 New York City, Commissioners’ Plan
exceptions. of 1811. Although the notion of gridding
It is instructive to observe this new attitude at work in the West, when California an area many times larger than the existing
became American territory after the Mexican War of 1846-48. Under the Spanish city (far left, and see Ill. 102) seemed
presumptuous at the time, the
system, land was the inalienable patrimony of each family (strictly speaking the
Commissioners showed great foresight in
family did not own the land outright, but held it ina kind of perpetual custodianship their grasp of New York’s potential for
from the Crown), and there were centrally situated public open spaces and ample growth. The plan’s deficiencies in other
common lands for everybody’s use. Under the Americans, this enduring social areas, such as provision for public open
structure of the pueblos was replaced by laissez-faire planning. The promenades spaces, sites for public buildings, and the
along the river or the ample plaza in the center of town became targets of paucity of avenues stretching the length of
development. The new municipal administrations allocated for community use only the island, have created intractable
those parcels of land that could not be sold or given away. Common lands, set aside problems for the city.
at the very beginning for the permanent benefit of the community, could now be
disposed of by the city fathers as they saw fit. The Laws of the Indies considered
town and country to be one working unit. American law considered the two subject
to separate jurisdictions. Land taxes, unknown during Spanish and Mexican rule,
facilitated the collapse of the rural aristocracy, and the acquisition and subdivision
of its patrimony by the new ruling class of United States businessmen. All around the
119 original city-form, the grid spread out unchecked. It felt no obligation to continue
the original Spanish schemes, nor did the American administration have the power
to lay down an overall plan for this urban periphery before it was dismembered by
hundreds of land speculators and home builders.
Speculative gridding did not require much finesse. As Lewis Mumford put it:
An office boy could figure out the number of square feet involved in a street
opening or ina sale of land... . With a T-square and a triangle . . . the municipal
engineer could without... . training as either an architect or a sociologist, “plan” a 119 Plan of Los Angeles (California),
metropolis.*° ca. 1875. The central plaza of the Spanish
pueblo is framed in the crosshairs of the
The worst offenders were the railroad companies. The beneficiaries of vast land plan, its irregular plots of agricultural land
grants from the Federal Government, especially after 1862, they laid out hundreds of below and to the right. A first gridded
towns along their tracks, often on a standard plan, as a means to land speculation extension of Los Angeles was mapped
and the capture of national traffic. There were far too many of these would-be by Lt. Edward Ord in 1849, a year after
towns, as competing railroad companies divided the territory. Private proprietors the town came under American
followed the railroads and added their own trackside towns. The commonest administration. It brackets the pueblo to
the north and south. The town surveyed
rationale was to create shipping centers for farmers, to get their grain to mills and to
its remaining undeveloped land in 1853,
main markets. The rate of failure was high. For every proposal filed at the county dividing it into a supergrid of large
courthouse, there was the chance within a short period of time of a request for parcels framed by broad streets.
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ON THE SITE
As always, one begins with the land. Where the land is flat, the grid is on its own.
This is the closest the city planner will come to a blank sheet of paper. On level
ground a standardized format can be painlessly repeated. The planning agency may
indeed decide to create a level site, filling in depressions and shaving off swells.
Roman towns in Gaul, it has been observed, ‘“‘demonstrate a quite remarkable
disdain for existing features, either natural or manmade. The demand was for a
virtual tabula rasa... [so that] the new city could be shown in a condition of ‘perfect
horizontality 7
Even on flat land, gridded settlement patterns may reflect the broad physical facts
of the site. River towns, for example, will tend to run their main streets parallel to
the waterfront, with a small number of connecting cross-streets. The bastide of
Castelsarrasin on the Garonne in southwestern France is a case in point. Later, the
river ports of colonial France in North America, grids of long and narrow shape,
exemplified more formal castings of this sympathetic street alignment.
The incidence of a pure, uncompromised grid over rolling topography is rare. The
most celebrated instance from antiquity is Priene’s well thought-out grid, from I20
the 4th century Bc. The original town had been at the mouth of the Meander which
Itis Friedman’s opinion that this scheme, in contrast to the constructive geometry
125 familiar to Gothic design, represents a sophisticated use of sine geometry
specifically trigonometry. Sine functions are related to the geometric fies uke ea
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RURAL GRIDS
The control of their countryside has always been a main worry of cities. A program
of colonization or land reclamation is particularly dependent on the equitable
distribution of agricultural land if it is to attract settlers. This often entails a large-
scale grid of some sort. The two rectilinear systems of town and country are likely to
follow similar rules applied at different scales, and the same units of measurement.
In early imperial China this unit was the li, which roughly corresponds to the
Greek stadion (ca. 600 feet/180 m.). The rural grid divided the cultivated fields, with
eight families in each square. The square was actually divided into 9 parts; the lord
collected a tax from the cultivation of the ninth part. The relation of this agricultural
division to a military system of conscription is unclear, but the fields were grouped
into multiples of 5 for that purpose. In Japan, the jori system, introduced in the 7th
century in connection with a new political order, was intended to ensure the
equitable distribution of rice lands. The main squares measured roughly half a mile
(800 m.) to a side. These were subdivided into 36 equal squares called tsubo, and
each of these was further cut up into ro strips, modest portions of land that were
allotted by the State to the cultivators on a periodic basis. The outlines of the jori
system are still in evidence today in parts of southern Japan.*5
Roman land survey followed several methods, of which the commonest was
centuriation. Two axial roads at right angles to each other started the survey; then ae
131 Aerial view of Lugo, near Ravenna field tracks (limites) were driven parallel to their course until a grid of squares or
(Italy). The ancient Roman agricultural rectangles had taken shape. The squares measured 2,400 feet (some 730 m.) per side,
grid produced by centuriation remains and they were meant to contain one hundred small holdings (centuriae). The
inscribed on the countryside of the standard centuriation measure was the actus (120 feet/ca. 37 m.).
province of Emilia Romagna in the pattern In the French bastides, a triple system of land division prevailed. Settlers received
of field boundaries, roads, and drainage building lots called ayrals (between ca. 1,000 and 3,300 square feet, or 100 and 300
ditches. (North is to the right.)
sq. m., each), vegetable gardens called cazals (6,500 to 7,500 square feet, or 600 to
700 sq. m.), and arable land for fields and vineyards called arpents or journaux after
the units of measurement (about two-thirds of an acre/o.25 ha. per settler). These
allotments formed three concentric zones. The urban parcels stretched to the limits
of the town, or the walls if they existed. The gardens were within or immediately
outside the walls. Arable land and pastures might not always lie adjacent to the
town.
When the Spaniards arrived in the New World, land management was practiced
on aregional basis. The jurisdiction of the original colonial cities was extraordinar-
ily large. The territory of Asuncion stretched for some 300 miles (500 km.) in every
grid—made it possible to integrate the later urban development and the original
town core, since the town grid could be systematically extended, and fitted into, the
larger grid of the countryside. In South America, streets of roth-century extensions or
are dead-straight continuations of the original grid lines, sometimes (as in Buenos
Aires) stretching out for as long as 10 miles (15 km.). Only since the First World War
have suburban streets in more irregular patterns appeared.
The colonial experience of the English in North America had its own rural/urban
order. Savannah, to take a celebrated case, was conceived as part of a regional plan.
Beyond the town limits were garden lots (half-squares in the form of triangles), and
further out still, larger plots for farms of major contributors. In New England
the pattern of farm fields, like that of the towns themselves, did not aspire to a
disciplined grid.*° Towns were organized as nucleated villages, a cluster of house
lots around the common, or along the spine of a single street. Less commonly we
get a compact “‘squared” town, like Cambridge in Massachusetts, or Fairfield and
Hartford in Connecticut. In the South, holdings were isolated, and the settlement
132 pattern diffuse. Then after 1785 came the National Survey, to which I have already
referred. The townships measured 6 by 6 miles (9.7 by 9.7 km.). Every other
132 “The Seven Ranges of Townships,”
township was subdivided into plots one square mile, or 640 acres (260 ha.), in area,
Ohio Territory, 1796: a plan of the first
called sections, and the 36 sections were eventually broken down further into more townships surveyed according to the
Ba manageable halves and quarters. The distant precedents were Roman centuriation, national ordinance of 1785. Note the strict
the sitios of New Spain, the Japanese jori system, and the land division applied by north-south orientation of the square grid.
Dutch engineers to land reclaimed from the sea (polders). In all these cases the survey
adjusted to topography. Only the National Survey of the United States was strictly
oriented to the points of the compass.
But the unit of the square township basic to the Survey was quite familiar in the
Colonies north and south by the late 18th century, and so Jefferson could find
convenient models at home. As early as 1684, William Penn had declared: ‘‘Our
townships lie square; generally the Village in the Center.”’ Sir Robert Montgomery’s
Margravate of Azilia, planned in 1717 for what was to become the colony of
Georgia, was based on 640-acre squares, with the town in the center, four square
commons at the corners, and all around square plantations one mile (1.6 km.) to the
side. In North Carolina the 640-acre section was common from the start. During his
expedition against the Ohio Indians in 1765, Henry Bouquet’s proposals for frontier
settlements of roo families specify as follows: “Lay out upon a river or a creek, if it
can be found conveniently, a square... a mile on each side. That square will contain
640 acres.” Ofthis area, 4o acres (16 ha.) were to go for streets and public uses, 50 (20
ha.) for houses (at half an acre—o.4 ha.—to the house), and the rest for too
cultivating lots of 5.5 acres (2.2 ha.) each.*”
The Jeffersonian gridding of America was based on the notion of “freehold”, by
which was meant property of a certain size or value, or that produced a specified
taxable income. This is to be distinguished from leasehold, which signifies a
GRIDDED EXTENSIONS
The existence of a coordinated array of town and country did not ensure an orderly
extension of town grids into the surrounding territory. As a rule, only when city
authorities had the power to oversee the development of the suburban region could
gridded extensions obey a coherent design and establish rational links to the urban
core:
The suburban grid could be appended to an “organic” town, or to an original
grid. Some bastides were gridded extensions grafted onto earlier castle towns.
Culemborg in Holland is a good instance. The old nucleus dates from the early 12th IDS
century, the castle from 1271, the ““Nieuwstad”’ to the southwest from 1385-92. A
street stretches from the marketplace in the old town, through the south gate, across
the drainage canal and into the new town, strapping the two urban units together.”
with housing, tanneries, woolen and velvet mills, and dye works. Its street grid, laid
over existing paths and ditches, was aligned obliquely in relation to the new canals.
Without the centralized authority of cities like Turin and Amsterdam, or of
German municipalities in the modern period, gridded extension degenerates into a
patchwork of small developments that meet at ownership boundaries of rural
137 holdings. This is the common reality of American city growth, rather than the
uniform 1811 grid of Manhattan. The impression of an “‘infinitely extendable grid”
is in most cases indebted to the streamlining of this ad hoc patchwork by the traffic
engineer’s ‘“‘supergrid”’ of through-streets assembled for the automotive age.
STREET RHYTHMS
Whether restricted by its own defensive armature or by consensually set up natural
barriers like farm fields and common lands, a closed grid to some extent composes
itself. Some of the elements at the disposal of the designer are rhythmic
arrangements of streets, the creation of a strong center, and the disposition of open
spaces.
Street rhythms are variously generated. The designer might scan unequal street
widths, or unequal street intervals. In the division of many grids, the interweaving of
main streets and alleys can have its own rhythm, and variations in the size of the
blocks will directly affect the distance between streets. In the railroad towns of the
United States, the business spine of Main Street had the maximum width (usually
too feet, or 30 m.), important cross streets came next (80 feet, 25 m.), and the
intimacy of residential streets was ensured with widths that did not exceed 60 feet
(x8 m.). Symbolism of another sort distinguished several street widths in Chinese
139 imperial grids like Chang’an and their Japanese imitations. We see this best at Heijo-
kyo (Nara) in Japan, laid out about 710. The north-south axis leading from the
south city wall to the main palace gate was the widest single street in the layout, and
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residential; the other is the true center of town, with the church and market hall
facing each other across the open space. There is also a town hall, but no princely
residence, since the Cardinal’s castle lay in a park just outside the southern city
gate.” a
If the original plan of Savannah and its system of wards around six individual 104
squares might seem to echo Cataneo, the equal size of the squares and their
alignment in two rows rejects the centrality and hierarchy which are his trademark.
The sources of this elegant design are unclear. There was at least one plan for the
reconstruction of London after the Great Fire of 1666, the one by Richard Newcourt
already mentioned, which showed five squares in the Cataneo mode, and block-size
wards with their own inner squares at the intersection of alleys. But this obscure
image does not go much beyond a crude diagram. The model closer to hand which is
often evoked, Penn’s plan of Philadelphia, is not in my opinion comparable.
As a two-dimensional plan, Philadelphia clearly belongs with the Cataneo brood. r47
But it is special in ways not evident from the plan. The two principal streets crossing
in the middle at a public square were roo feet (30 m.) wide, and the rest half that
much—an extremely generous arrangement for its time. The four smaller squares
were designated as recreational parks. And the residential blockswere themselves
ample and idyllically underbuilt. Penn’s memorandum of 1681 giving instructions
for the founding of the town says in part:
Let every house be placed. . . in the middle of its plat, as to the breadth way of it,
that so there may be ground on each side for gardens and orchards, or fields, that
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it may be a green country town, which will never be burnt, and always be
wholesome.
In fact, there is very little of a public nature in Penn’s scheme; the only commercial
consideration, for example, is a vague reference to the “‘place of storehouses.”’ There
is also no articulated urban center, nothing like the centrality of New England
townships around the Puritan meeting house. Penn was a Quaker, we need to
remember, and the Quaker community was free of a fixed ministry or a fixed place of
worship. So in a way Penn’s Philadelphia was much like the planned estates of 17th-
century London, not a city so much asa residential district. As soon as Philadelphia
was no longer in the total control of the proprietor, this gracious Quaker settlement
was under pressure to adjust. Other cultural values besides those of Penn and his
correligionaries came into play. The public parks were encroached upon; the
generous blocks became crowded
One late attempt at balancing the grid with public open spaces in the spirit of
148 Savannah ought to be noted—Jeffersonville, Indiana, on the Ohio River. The plan,
based on a scheme devised by Thomas Jefferson about 1800, had an alternating
pattern of open squares “‘in turf and trees” and subdivided blocks. Jefferson’s
rationale was prevention of yellow fever, a disease of epidemic proportions at the
time. Diagonal streets cutting through the open squares were introduced into this
scheme by the man who actually laid out the town, one John Gwathmey; this was
208 presumably meant to update the plan in line with L’Enfant’s Washington, thereby
in a sense re-enacting Jefferson’s contest with L’Enfant over that city’s form. This
strange amalgam produced two superimposed grids—that of the city blocks, and
another of the street system at an angle of 45 degrees to the first. (This same hybrid,
but without the squares, will reappear at the end of the century in the original plans
of two major Argentinian cities, La Plata and Belo Horizonte.) Within fifteen years
of its founding, Jeffersonville was redesigned as a conventional grid. The ingenious
BLOCK ORGANIZATION
As the basic unit of orthogonal planning, the block and its structure in three
dimensions give the urban grid its character. The common historical terminology
for these blocks refers to islands—insulae, ilots, etc. First at New Salisbury
(Wiltshire) they were called ‘“‘chequers,” which ‘shows that the chess-board
analogy had not escaped its planners.”’*®
Ata simple, quantitative level, the notable features are the size and the density of
the blocks. Neither remains fixed for all time. The larger the block in the initial grid,
the more it is likely to be cut across by new “breakthrough” streets; the more open
space is enclosed within the block, the greater the likelihood, with an increase in
population, for a shift to buildings of higher density. The distribution of people was
variable from the start, depending on the economic value created by land use. The
edges of medieval market squares and their street extensions, and pier streets in
ports like Lubeck, were more thickly crowded with narrow lots than blocks
removed from the commercial action. In the United States, many grids provided for
higher lot densities along railway, wharf and courthouse square peripheries.
The size and shape of the blocks were of course directly related to the number and
shape of the lots into which they were subdivided. The strip blocks of Greek grids
had four to ten attached back-to-back houses. At Olynthus the uniform blocks, each
measuring 120 by 300 feet (37 by 90 m.), were subdivided longitudinally by an
alleyway. At Priene the blocks were 120 by 160 feet (37 by 49 m.), and subdivided
into four or eight houses each. This squarer format is more in line with later Roman
practice, where moreover the blocks tend to be quite large. Florence, for example,
had blocks of some 645 square feet (60 sq. m.) each. In Aosta, they measure 230 by
260 feet (7o by 80 m.); in Winchester they are 440 feet (135 m.) on each side. To
accommodate the forum, whose proportions were variable, there was often an
alteration of the block rhythm and block width in its vicinity. Roman blocks had a
fairly free range of uses: they could be occupied by shops exclusively, or by
apartment blocks as at Ostia, or by single-family atrium houses with ground-story
shops. But since in most cases occupancy of these blocks was predicated on single-
story or two-story buildings that opened onto interior courts, these proportions
worked well. The tall, narrow, street-oriented rowhouses of the later Middle Ages
were not very well accommodated in such blocks. Where the Roman grid underlies a
medieval town, the original blocks will often have been consolidated in pairs and
subdivided lengthwise into strips.
The change from a division into squares or wide rectangles to a pattern of strip
parcels has also an inherent medieval history, independent of Roman survival, and is
a constituent in the genesis of the merchant’s and craftman’s city of the later Middle
Ages. The urban shift from an agricultural to a commercial economy was in full
swing by the end of the r2th century, from Flanders and North Germany to the Sicily
of the Hohenstaufen. The process has been documented at Bern, a Zahringer Pl.r8
foundation. Typical of all the original Zahringer towns was the division into a set
number of farm yards (areae) allotted to the founder’s dependents. Each member
was assigned one yard to be divided into lots for houses (casalia). The dimensions of
the yards were variable, the standard proportions being 2:1 and 3:5; the long side
was parallel to the street. The number of lots was also variable—3, 5, or 7. In the
early stages, the yard had judicial and tax functions. The houses sat back from the
Social reform and urban development over the last century have wiped off the
shameful landscape of back-to-backs. But the middle-class equivalent, the
piecemeal grid of terraced rows that commonly defined the roth-century commuter
suburb all across England, is still intact. Its imagery owed a debt to both ends of the
social spectrum. From the aristocratic Georgian terrace came the practice of
subdividing suburban estates into ad hoc grids of blocks packed with unified rows of
repetitive design: from it, too, the taste for class segregation. At the other end,
progressive models for working-class housing, and the Public Health Act of 1875
which spawned the “‘bye-law street” with its minimum 4o-foot (12 m.) width and the
obligatory open space between rows, gave late Victorian speculative builders the
excuse they needed to fix on a standardized formula of broad straight streets and
monotonous rows of near-identical houses separated from their back neighbors by 149
small gardens. The street layout was the developer’s purview, the length of a terrace
block only limited by the size of the estate at his disposal and his common sense.
Rows of 800 feet (245 m.) and more were not unknown, especially along railroad
tracks.
The roth-century transformation of burgage plots into hidden warrens of slum
housing in England had parallels near and far. Through a similar process, the long
plots of Ldédz tailored for the common textile worker were lined at the street edge
with the fashionable residences of the industrial bourgeoisie, while their deep yards
sequestered dark multi-story tenements built at the highest possible density on these
expensive midtown sites. Colonial cities built on a deep-plot grid, like Pietermaritz-
burg, South Africa, and Paramaribo, Surinam, saw the familiar theme replayed in an
ethnic context: Black servants could be inconspicuously housed in backyard shelters
or barracks. In Washington, D.C., the block shape was different, but the social
process much the same; in the later r9th century, in the shadow of the Capitol, the
core of large dignified upper-class blocks concealed alley-ghettoes for immigrant
Black families.
In the United States, the Colonial grid bequeathed to later periods a tendency for
generous street, block and lot dimensions. Principal streets were rarely less than 75
feet (23 m.) wide. Typical of the range of lot sizes in the early grids are Savannah (60
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however, Berlin was a major industrial center. The pre-eminent need was
now 152 Barcelona (Spain), plan of the city
working-class housing. So the huge blocks in the Hobrecht plan, as large as
820 showing expansion planned by Ildefonso
by 490 feet (250 by 150 m.), were packed with five-story Mietskasernen Cerda, 1858. The irregular pattern of the
(rental
barracks)—and damned the grid, in the eyes of a new generation of urb medieval city core—the dark area at lower
anists,
as the perfect matrix of slum landlords and abusive congestion. left—is shown sliced by a supergrid of
Ty2 Cerda left the old city of Barcelona in tact, and spread an unvarying grid (unbuilt) boulevards. The 18th-century
across
more than ro square miles (26 sq. km.) of flat land outside the medieval grid of Barceloneta is on the triangular
city walls.
The streets were all of equal width, 20 meters (66 feet), and the square blocks had peninsula. The grid of Cerda’s extension,
cut-off corners of a length that matched this street width. The buildi in which only two sides of each octagonal
ngs were also to block were to be built up, fills the
be locked into this proportional relationship, being uniformly as
high as the street remainder of the city’s coastal plain.
was wide. To Cerda, the squared block ‘ ‘is the clear and genuine
expression . . . of
mathematical equality, which is the equality of rights and interests,
of justice
reselt277?
The stupefying regularity of this plan was relieved
only by a few diagonal
boulevards that formed a huge harsh ‘“X” across the grid.
But the monotony was
deceptive. Most blocks were to be built up on only two
sides, and not always the
same two; the unbuilt remainder of each block Ww
as to be landscaped. These
and south vaults, open at both ends, were assigned no particular function, though 157, 158 Arcosanti (Arizona), axonometric
things like the welding shop and the electrical shop find home there, and breakfast view of the original scheme, late 1960s,
and lunch are served for the workers. and the site under construction.
They are called ‘“‘workshoppers,” people with little or no construction experi-
ence, who pay to attend five-week “‘seminars”’ or workshops mostly consisting of
doing unpaid labor. One of their number describes the breed, self-importantly, as
“construction worker, new age visionary, monk-builder, consciousness pioneer,
evolution’s own awareness of itself.’ They live in a base camp down in the valley,
while the residents use the housing in the arcology itself. In the future, Soleri’s world
will be classless. ‘““The foundation of equity is... granted.”’ But in these imperfect
beginnings tensions have already surfaced. Some workshoppers see the residents as
aloof hill-top dwellers, segregated from the camp. ““They seem to consider them-
selves upper class citizens.’”
Soleri is not concerned. Utopia is not possible today: it is for a distant time.
Arcosanti is not a model society. It is merely the workshop of our urban future. The
forms have to come first; slowly and incrementally, they will shape behavior.
Function follows form. Or, as he puts it, ‘““The instrument has a chronological
precedence over the performance.” When the age of arcologies has at long last
emerged, however, there will be no slums, no crime, no ethnic segregations. “A
social pattern is influenced, if not directed, by the physical pattern that shelters it. In
a one-container system are the best premises for a non-segregated culture. The care
for oneself will tend to be care for the whole.’”
In Soleri’s native country, some distance south of Venice, is a perfectly shaped
(LS polygonal city frozen in its tracks for all of four centuries. It started life as a military
outpost of the Venetian Republic called Palmanova, lying on a main crossroads of
I59 the Friuli district. First laid out in 1593, its bastioned curtain was completed in 1623.
It was reinforced by a second ring in 1667—90, and then again in r806—g9, during
the French occupation, a mighty third ring with an elaborate system of outworks
was put in place. At every stage of its history, Palmanova’s defenses represented the
State Of the art
Palmanova is the only complete radial plan to be built in Italy in the r6th century.
In the choice of the site and the initial conception of the city-fortress, several
distinguished military engineers and planners, including Scamozzi, collaborated.
The frame is a nine-sided polygon, but the central piazza is a hexagon, and even then
only three of the town’s nine bastions are linked to it ina direct line. On the road just
within the fortifications fronted the barracks of the mercenary troops—Greeks,
Slavs, Germans—parade grounds, and arms depots. Mounted police on the outside,
quartered at three stations, patrolled the perimeter against internal sabotage. The
central piazza and the area around it was for the commanding officers and the native
Venetian soldiers whose loyalty could be counted on. The piazza could be isolated
and defended from the outside by sealing off the six radial streets that converged
upon it. The area in between was the civil zone, with a number of additional radial
streets that stopped short at the central military zone. The gates, of which there were
originally only three corresponding to the main land routes, were in the middle of
the curtains; streets connected them directly to the center, and small squares were
placed midway.
Palmanova saw battle only once, when Venice engaged Austria in the war of
Gradisca of 1615-17. Thereafter it played a deterrent role. Under the Austrians it
served as a barracks town. It was finally abandoned as a military post in 1866, when
Friuli was annexed to the newly instituted kingdom of Italy. It is still there today,
near perfect and sad, proof of how suddenly single-purpose towns turn into
anachronisms. There is now a desultory market of trinkets in the gravel-covered
So little veneration . . . have the Americans for ancient remains, and so entirely
destitute do they appear to be, as a nation, of any antiquarian taste, that this
interesting spot of Circleville, is soon likely to lose all traces of its original
peculiarities ... The circular streets are fast giving way, to make room for straight
ones; and the central edifice itself is already destined to be removed, to give place
to stores and dwellings; so that in a century or less, there will be no vestige left of
that peculiarity which gave the place its name, and which constituted the most
perfect and therefore the most interesting work in antiquity of its class in the
country.°*
In the second place, a line needs to be drawn, in accordance with my own aims in
these books, between utopias and ideal cities. A utopia does not have to be a city.
Utopias are no-wheres. They are outside specificities of place and state, and vague
about the kind of physicality their design codifies. Ideal cities exist in context. They
are often intended to clarify the standing of a ruler in relation to his subjects and a
wider circle of contemporaries, and they are dependent for their effectiveness on
being fixed in place within a larger geographical frame and a prior cultural
landscape. Even when they are free of political absolutism, purposely removed far
away from a customary geography in order to start fresh, theirs is a structured
response to a specific order found intolerable. Utopias, on the other hand, may be
antidotes to nothing more precise than the pervading wickedness and injustice of
humanity at large.
Tam therefore not concerned per se with Thomas More’s Amaurot, the capital of
Utopia, or Tommaso Campanella’s ‘Citta del Sole,”’ or Andrae’s Christianopolis.
These and other urban confections of philosophers feed on each other, going back to
Plato’s Republic and Augustine’s City of God. Their understanding of the actual
workings of cities is exceedingly innocent: from cities they learn nothing at all,
borrowing only the diagrammatic rudiments of urban design, which means almost
always ideal schemes like circles or centered squares, to accompany the tidy systems
of their moral philosophies. Even more distant from urban reality are allegorical
cities like Bartolommeo Delbene’s City of Truth (published in 1609): based on 161
Aristotle’s Nicomachian Ethics and on the radial-concentric formulas of Renais-
sance urban theory, it depicts a round city wall with five roads of the moral virtues
161 Bartolommeo Delbene, the “City of emanating from a center of intellectual virtues and cutting through the swamps
Truth,” engraving from his Civitas veri of vice.®
sive morum (1609). Finally, there are “geometries” that come about through rational processes
unrelated to the ideal-city phenomenon here under discussion. The concentric rings
of Lucignano in Tuscany are the result of urban evolution, and Lucignano has
a lot of company within Italy and out. Similarly, the rays of some old Dutch cities
are due to their retaining the pattern of pre-extant terpen—artificial mounds of
turf sods and clay made to avoid flooding by sea, which in pre-Roman and
Roman times accommodated hamlets surrounded by small block-shaped fields. The
larger terpen had a circular road and ditch, with a radial arrangement of farms, and
this is what accounts for the radial-concentric structure of towns like Leeuwarden
or Middelburg.
On the other hand, two classes of idealized patterns engage our subject even
though, strictly speaking, they pertain to pre-urban or non-urban landscapes. The
first class concerns settings of faith. Prehistoric sanctuaries like Stonehenge, we have
been discovering, fixed with great precision a cosmic diagram that guided human
lives in accordance with celestial behavior. Since the motive of many ideal cities in
antiquity was to recreate on earth the design of the universe, to use the urban plan as
an intermediary between heaven and earth, the henges of Salisbury Plain or of
Dacian Sarmizegethusa in modern-day Romania should be seen as setting up themes
of reverberation. The same holds true, and more directly so, for those sanctuaries of
162 urban cultures like the Mazdean lake-sanctuary of Takht-i Suleiman in modern
Azerbaijan with its enormous circular wall. The round cities of Persia cannot be
dissociated from this religious example, any more than the symbolism of the seven
planets in the Ecbatana of the Medes, and the twelve signs of the zodiac at Sassanian
182 Gur (Firuzabad), can be divorced from the magic preoccupations of their priests.
We cross into our proper subject, then, at the point when the primal urge to
occupy the land with reverence and appease cosmic energies is extended into a
general system in which the movement of all of us, not just of the sun and the moon,
is charted on the ground. This comes about when a society functions under a finely
articulated belief that one single human agency, a king or emperor or high priest,
holds the key to cosmic harmony. He sits at the top of the human pyramid, and
administers appropriate control that will make sure all things are in their place, and
all of us are doing, in accordance with our station, what he has assigned us to do.
So an ideal city, unlike Stonehenge or Takht-i Suleiman, engraves a pattern of
faith and government. The human agency at the top is in tune with divinity,
communicates with the heavens directly or through ritual, or is at times himself
divine, As an Assyrian proverb has it: ‘Man is the shadow of god / The slave is the
shadow of man/But the king is god.” In that capacity, the ruler uses the urban
diagram to organize the entire population, which is itself diversified as befits a city,
in terms of social strata that are keyed to his position. We will be lined up or zoned
according to our occupations, perhaps our origins, or we will be distanced from the
focus of the urban diagram according to some conferred status or rank that depends
on the central agency.
The other class of incomplete but premonitory diagrams are those of social
arrangement not informed by a centralized bureaucracy. There are the circular
SPECIALIZED ENVIRONMENTS
THE DESIGN OF REGIMENTATION
Inherent in the stratification or the regimented behavior of their populations is the
diagrammatic layout of some specialized communities like military camps,
monasteries, and industrial towns. We need to acknowledge these as ideal cities
in embryo, despite the artificiality of their associative net or their sometimes
unresolved geometry.
Military camps and garrison towns readily fall into line because of the pre-
established ranking and routines of their inhabitants. The crop is varied, but the
tight structure of the environment stays constant. An Assyrian relief on an orthostat 163
in the throne room of Assurbanipal’s palace at Nimrud shows an army camp as two
crossing roads inside a fortified circle. The Roman castrum had arigid rectangular 164
layout determined by two crossing streets, the via principalis and the via quintana,
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whitewashed chapel, a “royal” storehouse and a guardhouse were lined around a
163 Encampment of Assurbanipal, from a square which served as parade ground, and the camp was enframed by palisade
carving at Nimrud (Iraq). Cooks and walls of adobe. Single men lived in barracks.
servants are depicted preparing for the The components of a garrison are barracks for the rank and file, separate and less
ruler’s return. (After Layard)
spartan quarters for the officers, an ordnance depot, a church, a hospital; in the
contemporary garrison, clusters of houses for married officers, often a regular
suburb, would be found outside the military diagram. Even when the garrison is not
its own town but an adjunct to a civil settlement, it will remain faithful to its own
a small brick works (extreme left); the vast small operation, the long rectangular camp site was served by a canal with port 166
expansion came after 1940. facilities running north-northwest, which hooked up to a rail system coming in
along the east flank of the camp where the station was. To the south and west of this
166 above Close-up of the prisoners’ area
railway, occupying about a fourth of the camp grounds, were the quarters of the
at Neuengamme with the range of
prisoners separated from those of their SS guards to the west. In plan there is little
barracks on the left.
difference between the two, except that the SS barracks are fewer, smaller, and
doubtless roomier than the long barracks buildings for the prisoners, each
subdivided into two units, closely packed on one side of their camp. The buildings
set at right angles to these barracks, of the same basic type, included, on the SS side,
air-raid shelters and officers’ mess; on the prisoners’ side, sick bays, confinement
shelter, a building with delousing, bathing, and death chambers, and east of these,
three ‘‘special barracks” or brothels. On three sides of this residential core of
prisoners and keepers were the ample areas for workshops and manufactories,
principally a large brickfield and, on either side of the eastern railway line, an
armaments works with its rifle range. The crematorium stood modestly at the
northwest corner of the section of the works to the west of this railroad line.?
In voluntary patterns of association like monasteries, rigor of place might seem
inappropriate. But if men and women joined a monastic community by choice,
HOLY CUTIES
Since religion is the basis of pre-industrial society, all pre-industrial cities, it can
reasonably be claimed, have a sacred dimension. What we are isolating in this
section is those cities of concentrated sanctity whose physical organization displays
a deliberate program of ritual intent. These are cities, like Mecca and Jerusalem,
where particular religions place their origin; cities where the worship of principal
deities is condensed, as with Amon at Thebes or Shiva at Benares (Varanasi); or
cities where a king seeks to anchor his reign, as did Jayavarman VII at Angkor
Thom, through the inscription upon the urban form of an elaborate cosmological
conceit.
Not all holy cities wear their iconography in a legible design. It is impossible to
find, in the tangled fabric of Benares, the manifold structure of the Hindu Pier
macrocosm that justifies the more than one thousand temples and five hundred
Shiva lingams. The assertion that around every important temple of the city there is
a traceable street for circumambulation, and that these constitute religious plan-
ning, has not been verified. And yet in this first city to appear after the great cosmic
dissolution (mahapralaya), according to Puranic literature, Hindu cosmography is
charted through holy markers and the pilgrims’ routes or yatras. The ideal dia-
gram is of a series of concentric circles increasing in sanctity as one nears the cen-
ter. These seven circles, representing layers in the atmosphere, are intersected at
eight places by radials which signify the directions. At the fifty-six points of contact,
there are shrines to the elephant-headed Ganesha, son of Shiva and Guardian of
Thresholds.*
In some holy cities of South and East Asia, on the other hand, similar cosmic
diagrams determined the plan from the beginning. These cities emerged in the
LINEAR SYSTEMS
Axial alignment is commonly used in association with an overall urban diagram that
upholds its premises and highlights its effects. It depends on one of two inducements:
cosmology, and physical and cultural topography.
China is the obvious place to explore the first of these. Chinese planners
invariably emphasized the north-south axis, image of the meridian, to order their
capitals. This was in coordination with a precise structure of thought regarding the
universe and the place of the ruler within it. The earth in Chinese cosmology was a
stable cube; the heavens were round. Space was conceived of as a series of imbricated
squares, at the center of which lay the capital of the empire strictly oriented to the
points of the compass. And in the fulcrum of the capital, the imperial palace
commanded the main north-south axis, facing southward (as did all important
buildings) in the direction of the Red Phoenix, of summer and fire. From the north
came winter and destructive hordes. Its color was black, and the emperor faced
away from it except when he addressed the gods or his ancestors.
Everything about the city-form, down to where a house was allowed to be in its
fang or neighborhood and how large it was supposed to be, was set down in the
official code, based of course on status. In the palace, in a calendar house called the
Ming Tan, the emperor adjusted his behavior to nature’s cycles, moving from hall to
hall as the seasons changed and completing one revolution in the course of a year.
This cosmic schema, called the Great Plan (Hung fan), came from heaven to the first
dynastic emperor, a mythical character called Yu who invented surveying. Its basis
was a ninefold square, which was also the composition of the Ming Tan. The fixity
was not, however, final. Every time the capital moved, so did the center of the
universe. We are talking, therefore, about an existential and not a geometric or
geographic order. And the capital moved often. Every prince wanted his own
CENTRALIZED SYSTEMS
The other device for charting political order is to dilate the city form in bands of
diminishing importance out of a center, rather than transfix it with one dominant
axis. The two related variants here are the concentric and the radial.
1. Concentric organization
Concentricity implies the circle, but in city diagrams this is at best a relative matter.
The castle towns or jokamachi of Japan, the symbol of an all-powerful feudal aris-
tocracy taking over from a declining central government in the 16th—17th centuries,
hardly show the geometrical purity of ideal cities, yet they are unequivocal diagrams
of centralized power. Seat of the daimyo, the new feudal lord, these towns, among
them Edo, Osaka, Tokashima, Kochi and Kumamoto, were focused upon the castle. LT.
Ranged around this keep were the residences of vassals in two belts, and between
these and the keep, within the security of the main rampart and the inner moat, were
the high officials. The second belt, for lesser vassals, was unprotected, except per-
haps by an outer moat and sometimes an earthen barricade. At the edge of this outer
belt lay a ring of temples and shrines; this formed a circuit of first defense controlling
the main roads and the points of access into the city. Between the two belts of vassals
resided the daimyo’s privileged merchants and artisans.”*
Southeast Asian cosmologies combine the circle and its urban consequence, the
centrally organized ideal city, with the square principle and its consequence, the
grid. The most abstruse cultural manifestation of this interlock is the Indian
mandala (chart).
The mandala is a mystical symbol of the universe in graphic form: it is circular and
the center is the most important part, for in that lies eternity. Man is the center of his
own universe, his own time/space, and from it he receives a cosmic consecration. But
an absolute, extramundane order resides in the square, in which is manifest the
supreme principle, Brahma—the geometric form assumed by the world of reality as
it was defined at the creation. These ideal forms, the circle and the square, duly fixed
by the cardinal points, could be divided at their perimeter by any number up to 32,
yielding thus between 1 and 1,024 units or padas.
It was up to the priest to select one of these variants or mandalas as the basis for
laying out a city. There was the urban mandala called the swastika; there was the I8t
cruciform mandala or dandaka; there was the lotus leaf or padmaka. Early town
schemes are not now recoverable, except in the remote example of Shishulpargh in
Orissa, a fortified city of the rst—znd centuries Bc. But if surviving architectural
books are to be believed, these schemes conformed to mandalas with as many padas
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179 The daimyo of Edo (Tokyo) in 1849, 180 opposite, above Jaipur (India), nine-
detail from a woodblock print. Edo was square plan based on an ancient mandala.
established in the late 12th century around
the castle built by Edo Shigenaga, the
181 opposite, below Four of the town-
governor of Musashi province. In contrast
planning mandalas described in ancient
to the geometric clarity of Hetjokyo (lll. Hindu literature: circular form of
vastupurusha, swastika, dandaka, and
139), Edo grew in an irregular but
purposeful pattern expressing the warrior padmaka.
caste system typical of castle towns. By the
early 17th century it was the seat of
Japan’s feudal government and, with a
population topping 1,000,000, probably
the world’s largest city.
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2. Radial organization
The combination of concentric space and street rays that join center to periphery
made sense in terms of circulation; but more to the point in political terms, the
composite diagram was a strong visual projection of the all-pervasive nature of
absolute power, while the radiating streets might also play a secondary role as
dividers for some intermediary organization.
Imperfect specimens are widespread. Even in traditional African societies,
wherever politically centralized systems develop the radial-concentric city makes its
appearance. This is true of Asante, Yoruba, Hausa and Ganda. In the Yoruba city of
Ife, for example, radial roads begin at the royal compound, and cut through several
concentric roads to reach various provincial seats. These subsidiary compounds
were situated at varying distances from the royal center on the basis of rank and
social status; each chief assumed the responsibility of maintaining the road that led
to his own compound.
The famous round city of Baghdad in the 8th century provides the classic Near
Eastern examplar of the radial-concentric scheme. Also called Madinat as-Salam or
the City of Peace, it was conceived by the caliph al-Mansur as the capital of the
Abbasids, the second major dynasty of Islam. The design continued the royal tradi-
tion of Persia which Islam had conquered during the previous century. Baghdad is in
fact on the River Tigris, a short distance east of Ecbatana.
SFORZINDA’S EXAMPLE
183 Filarete’s Sforzinda is first. It was designed in 1457-64 for Francesco Sforza, tyrant
of Milan, and named after him, but was never built. The basic form was an eight-
point star derived by superimposing two quadrangles in such a way that their angles
are equidistant. This particular figure is in fact an ancient magic sign, and it was
sometimes used in the Renaissance as a diagram that interlocked the four elements
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included a bank and a mint, a bath, and as a sop to the communal apparatus of self-
governed cities (one imagines) a palace of the podesta, a key official of the medieval
city-state. Filarete developed the buildings of this central complex in some detail,
but he was much less certain of how it would hook into the radial street pattern.
Every second street was to be replaced by a waterway. The residential sections were
to include artisans’ cottages and a small colony for workers.
Sforzinda introduces several themes which were to be exploited in future ideal
cities.
First, for all its ties backward, Sforzinda is the archetype of the humanist city of
the High Renaissance, where perfect form is the image of a perfect society. Sforzinda
and its High Renaissance successors share that conflict between the ideal of a
humanist view of life and the reality of despotism. Since their execution demands
184, 185 Freudenstadt (Germany), centralized power and the resources it can command, the perfect society has to be
founded in 1599, alternative designs by moored to the concept of the good prince. “The human race is at its best under a
Heinrich Schickhardt. monarch,” as Dante had said at the dawn of the Renaissance. ‘““Monarchy is
necessary for the well-being of the world.” So the ideal city-form of the Renaissance
could end up by rationalizing tyranny.
The perfect radial city as political diagram is rare in the flesh during the
Renaissance, and when it occurs it can be strangely diluted. Freudenstadt in the
Black Forest, one of these rarities, is a mining town. It was built for the Christophtal
silver mine by Duke Friedrich of Wirttemberg, for workers who were Protestant
refugees from Carinthia and the Steiermark. The shape is square, with a central open
space, and successive projects for it by Heinrich Schickhardt, a German architect
trained in Italy, are instructive, in that they show a consciousness about the political
significance of the centralized scheme. In the first design (1596) Schickhardt placed
the ducal residence in a peripheral location, at the northeast corner, in line with
traditional medieval thinking. The Duke rejected this as “old-fashioned,” and pro-
posed a central location for the castle, set at an angle to the axes of the main streets. 185
This second design was executed but the castle was never built. There is also a
frivolous side to this final scheme. It seems it is really based on the board game of
Muihle, the idea having occurred to the prince while he was playing the game.”
8
and the sharp point was easily ruined by enemy fire. (See, e.g., Mariembourg in
Belgium of 1542.)
A regular polygon was the best solution. The ideal plan was most effectively
executed on flat, open plains unmarred by natural impediments. Bastions, the least
protected parts of the defensive system, had to be linked to the interior by wide foo he
traffic arteries in order to be properly and quickly supplied in time of need. This
translated into a radial scheme of streets setting out from a vast piazza and directly 187 Radial schemes imposed on hilly sites,
connected with the bastions. In Renaissance ideal planning, the spokes linked the by Francesco di Giorgio Martini, 1490s
center with the gates, and the center hosted important buildings like the church and (after the Codex Magliabecchanius).
the palace. But the center in these military polygons is empty and unpaved. At times
of siege the commander would station himself there in a tower or raised platform
that afforded an unimpeded view of the bastions. To see the improving quality of
188 these military towns, one need only compare Philippeville in Belgium, built by the
Emperor Charles V in 1555 on the designs of the Dutch architect Sebastian van
ay Noyen, and Palmanova from the end of the century which was described at the
beginning of this chapter.
Within a matter of decades after the inception of Palmanova, military techniques
had advanced beyond the point when bastions were the dominant feature of the
defensive system. Past this line of primary defense spread a panoply of outworks—
semi-independent units like pincers, lunettes and ravelins, as well as even more
distant forts—which isolated the town more and more from the surrounding
countryside. The radial scheme of streets within could now be given up in preference
for the simpler grid, since supplying bastions along straight access roads had lost its
a urgency. Even before this point the grid was often inserted within a polygonal
defensive wall, in the projects of Pietro Cataneo for example.
189, One late survival of the Palmanova model is Hamina in Finland, founded in 1723
190 astride the Turku-Viipuri road, on the neck of land between the sea and Kirkkojarvi
Lake. Hamina actually replaced a 17th-century gridded town destroyed by fire. The
new town was to be the cornerstone of the defense of the eastern border with Russia
and was designed by the fortress commander Axel von Lowen. But it would also
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238 Fourier’s model was the palace of Versailles, wrested from the ancien régime and 199 Guise (France), bird’s-eye view
made over to the People. He had also proposed a scheme for what he called the City showing the “Familistere’’—the three
of Garantism, which prefigured Howard by about sixty years. It was composed of linked buildings on the left within the bend
three concentric bands: the commercial city at the centre, then the industrial city, of the river—begun in 1859. Unlike
Fourier’s phalanstery, this version housed
and then an agricultural zone. The three bands were separated by hedges. Open
families in separate apartments rather than
space would double in the middle band and triple in the outer. But we know Fourier
communally. The factories are on the
best from his “‘phalansteries,’”’ a massive collection of connected buildings like the right; in the foreground are the workshops
palace of Versailles and its salient wings. Fourier described the complex as “‘really a and the building containing the schools
miniature town but without open streets; all parts of the building can be reached by and theater.
a wide street-gallery on the first floor.”’ Each phalanstery would be for about 2,000
people of all races, classes, sexes and ages. A small version was actually built, at
199 Guise northeast of Paris, beginning in 1859. It was the brainchild of a young
industrialist, Jean-Baptiste Godin, who ran an iron foundry. Before his death he
turned the whole enterprise into a co-operative owned and managed by his workers.
Fourierism spread to Belgium by the mid-1840s—and then far beyond.
Phalansteries were tried out on an island off the coast of Brazil, and on the hills
outside Oran in Algeria. In the United States, Fourier was interpreted by Albert
Brisbane, and became the prophet of Associationism. The followers believed in
universal social reform without class struggle or government intervention.. They
also believed that a community of a certain size and organization would engender
the right group harmony. Some forty-five Fourierist communities were started, of
which the most famous were the West Roxbury Community in Massachusetts
outside Boston, known as the Brook Farm Phalanx (1841), and the North American
Phalanx in New Jersey. The last was La Réunion in Dallas County, Texas, ona high
bluff overlooking the alluvial plain. There Victor Considérant, Fourier’s most active
disciple, was in charge, and he tried to stretch the Versailles parallel into a Baroque
town plan, with a formal garden along the slope featuring parterres and cinquefoils,
while Madame Considérant held court under the branches of her “cedar salon.’’*4
None of these phalansteries made it. The often remote sites became endurance
tests of frontier living rather than noble experiments of communitarian socialism.
Communal living sharply conflicted with the long-entrenched sanctity of the
American family. And, too, the absence of authority doomed planning; it was true
here as it has been all along that without an empowered governing system there can
be no organized development.
Owen went for the square. He had been a worker and then an owner in the
spinning-mills of New Lanark, Scotland. When he set about to reorganize society, he
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203, 204 Ebenezer Howard, diagrams of and country met, which has already been introduced (pp. 75-76), had enormous
the Three Magnets and the Garden City, appeal. It would be the closest we came to paradise on earth: ‘Beauty of nature.
from To-Morrow: A Peaceful Path to Social opportunity. Fields and parks of easy access. Low rents, high wages. Low
Social Reform (1898). rates, plenty to do. Low prices. No sweating. ... Pure air and water. .. . Bright homes
and gardens, no smoke, no slums. Freedom, cooperation.” This was the magnet of
Town-Country, made to face the magnets of Town and Country both fraught with 203
inconveniences and dangers. Howard provided particulars, trying to respond to
people’s queries and anticipate their objections. He detailed aspects of Garden City
culture, from administration and expenditures to temperance reform. And then
there were those irresistible diagrams: the Three Magnets, the satellite circles 193
bonded to Central City, and the layout of the Garden City itself, lucid, clearly 204
labelled, and in its form reflective of a long line of sunburst cities, actual and
imagined, from Gur to Karlsruhe. The labels were the familiar terminology of the
Grand Manner. “Six magnificent boulevards” would separate Central City into
wards, and would converge in a five-acre garden to serve the “civic spirit,”
surrounded by public buildings—town hall, museum, theater, hospital, library,
concert hall. Past a generous central park came the “Crystal Palace,” a covered
shopping mall of obvious inspiration, and then Grand Avenue, a 420-foot (128 m.)
wide parkway which would serve as an internal greenbelt. The round city would be
encircled by a “‘main line railway,” Howard’s own acknowledgment of modernity,
beyond the ring of allotments with its dairy farms on which would front factories,
warehouses, and coal, timber and stone yards. Housing would stretch from Fifth
Avenue, the circumferential street next to Crystal Palace, until First Avenue next to
the industrial zone.
To give Howard his due, he insisted emphatically, as he had for his diagram of
satellite cities, that this was merely a blueprint of an idea, not an actual city-form.
“Diagram only,” he wrote on his Garden City drawing in the second edition of the
book (1902). “Plan cannot be drawn until site selected.” But this did not prevent the
diagram’s being replicated in the most unlikely places. At Llano del Rio in southern
with its Banyan and Urn and Matrimandir, is a cross between a radial city and
a hallucination. Arcosanti lurches unsteadily, a monument-ruin to the ecology-
minded Sixties and the monomania of a visionary architect. The future space
colonies, the ‘‘Bernal sphere”’ and the “‘Stanford torus,” incubate in NASA labora-
tories.
In the end, all ideal city-forms are a little dehumanizing. Life cannot be
regimented, it seems, in the ways they would like, except in totally artificial units like
monasteries and cantonments and concentration camps where inhabitants submit
willingly or are constrained without choice. Left to its own devices, human nature is
resistant to regimentation, while it may crave for order. What price liberty?
It is of course a question all non-centralized political systems must address daily,
and fight for daily, in the making of their cities. Such systems function between
extremes of total control and total laissez faire. We know it is not possible to have
cities without any controls at all, even if we use them to keep the wrong businesses
out of our neighborhoods or to prevent epidemics. Our daily urban diagrams are
created, in fact, by zoning, economic pressures and the like. The question is whether
‘““we’’ the citizens decide the nature and finality of the diagram, or whether we let
“authorities” decide them for us.
Now it is easy for us to take charge if “‘we”’ are all the same class of people. As
soon as we confront pluralism, our problems begin. Two options then present
themselves. One of them is for a segment of this pluralist society to make itself the
dominant controlling party. The other option is for a cohesive and empowered
segment of society to make itself independent of the rest through incorporation.
This has been a strong trend in the United States since the suburban movement
became institutionalized a hundred years ago or so.
But the more homogeneous the urban population, the less we are entitled to talk
about a city. The more segregated urban functions and urban groups, the less we are
actually creating an urban community. The city as diagram, in the end, is the story of
dreamers who want the complexity and richness of the urban structure without the
problems, tensions and volatility. In dreams we expect this sort of gratification
without dues or consequences. In real life, we know better.
PRELIMINARIES
T was some time in March 1791 that President Washington assigned Major
[oe L’Enfant the task of drawing up a plan for the new Federal capital. A short
while earlier, L’Enfant and Andrew Ellicott, the first Surveyor General of the
United States, had surveyed the area under consideration along the Potomac, which
included the three small gridded towns of Carrollsburg, Hamburg and Georgetown.
Thomas Jefferson favored a compact settlement for the capital, and in advising the
President he sketched a modest grid at the confluence of the Potomac and the
Anacostia where Carrollsburg was situated; and then he drew a second grid closer to
Georgetown.
L’Enfant scoffed both at the scope and at the form of these proposals. On the first
issue, he wrote the President that ‘“‘the plan should be drawn on such ascale as to
leave room for that aggrandisement & embellishment which the increase of the
wealth of the Nation will permit it to pursue at any period however remote.” As to
the design, a grid might be suitable for flat ground “where no surrounding object
being interesting it becomes indifferent which way the opening of streets may be
directed.” Yet ‘even when applyed upon the ground the best calculated to admit of
it [the grid] become[s] at last tiresome and insipid.”’ But the topography of the new
capital was eventful—and the destiny of the new nation full of promise. What was
called for was a design “laid out ona dimension,” as L’Enfant put it about one of its
avenues, “proportioned to the greatness which . . . the Capital of a powerful Empire
ought to manifest.” Following the process whereby L’Enfant plotted and refined his
great plan, and this is possible to do up to a point through extant documents and 208
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Let me enumerate some of the characteristics of the Baroque esthetic in urban design
as these are revealed in L’Enfant’s work:
XV held in 1748. The choice of site had been left to the participants, and several
had used the opportunity to propose urban solutions for large areas around their
proposed monument. In one respect, then, the Patte plan was an exercise in sub-
mitting all of Paris to a multi-centered Baroque plan. L’Enfant was also familiar
with the new capital of St. Petersburg on the Neva, which had started being planned
in 1703, and with Karlsruhe, a German Versailles with a sunburst of 32 radials 186
around the palace of the Margrave of Baden-Durlach. The latter was included
among a number of city maps which Jefferson procured for L’Enfant as the
Frenchman had requested.
This European tradition of “magnificent distances,” in Dickens’s phrase about
Washington, is, however, only one chapter in the history of what I have entitled the
Grand Manner. The beginnings of this chapter reach back into the 15th century; its
long afterglow stretches toward the present. But there is an earlier era when such
ANTIQUITY
In pre-Classical antiquity, we cannot point to entire urban systems that could be
called Baroque, in the manner of Washington, D.C. At issue, rather, is the
introduction of some isolated elements of such systems into an urban form that is
itself very different in spirit and intention; or else the accumulation of these
“Baroque” fragments in one area, with no resolved coherence in terms of urban
design, in other words, with no fixed master plan, as in a Greek acropolis, a ziggurat
complex, or a Mayan site.
In the Hellenistic period, there is an important development. The planning of
ZLL Attalid Pergamon in the 3rd and 2nd centuries BC seems to attest to a distinctive
school of urban design which employs a sophisticated array of ‘Baroque’ devices in
a coordinated system. The city form of Pergamon, laid out on a narrow mountain
ridge in western Asia Minor, is an integrated series of visual and kinetic experiences.
TOPOGRAPHY
The site comes first, and is studied with care. John Evelyn, before he gave London a
modern plan, wanted to prepare a contour map describing accurately “all the
declivities, eminences, water courses &c. of the whole area.’’* But this did not mean
that the care was expended to develop a good working relation with the shapes of
the land. On the contrary, these shapes were a challenge: they were to be dramatized
where useful to the intentions of the planner, suppressed where they were not. The
placement of public buildings and their visually meaningful interrelationships, and
the possibility of exciting vistas are two of these intentions. So Fontana could boast,
Pl.ar for example, that Sixtus V “‘has stretched these streets from one end of the city to the
other, and, not heeding the hills and valleys which they had to cross, but flattening
here and filling in there, he has made them gentle plains and most beautiful sites .. .”
So Evelyn, in his plan for London, thinks “fit to fill up, or at least give a partial level 212 John Evelyn, plan for the proposed
reconstruction of the City of London,
to some of the deepest valleys, holes and more sudden declivities, within the city, for
1666, first version. St. Paul’s Cathedral is
the more ease of commerce, carriages, coaches, and people in the streets, and not a
set in an oval left of center, at the head of
little for the more handsome ranging of the buildings.’”s a trivium.
outpost, he declared that “the bases of the town . . . shall be an equilateral triangle,
having each side of the length of four thousand feet [1,200 m.], and having every
angle bisected by a perpendicular line upon the opposite side.” Each equilateral
triangle would thus be divided into six right-angle triangles known as “Sections: ©
Why this was to be so the good judge did not explain. Edwin Lutyens’s celebrated
design for New Delhi, likewise, for all the other reasons to pay it heed, ultimately is 176
justified by his love of the equilateral triangle and the hexagon—that and the cele-
brated exemplars of the Anglo-American Grand Manner. As his colleague Herbert
Baker put it in 1930, New Delhi’s layout was ‘‘a noble development of the germ of 216 above left Detroit (Michigan), plan by
208 L’Enfant’s plan of Washington and Wren’s rejected design for the City of London.” Augustus Brevoort Woodward, 1807. In
That such inflexible arrangements come at a considerable cost to the extant order the 1820s the city shifted from this
of things should be obvious. Outside of the built-up area, they disrupt the triangle-based scheme to the familiar grid;
established pattern of property boundaries. In the city, the damage is to building most of the diagonal streets were
abandoned.
stock. A note douloureuse of the time, reacting to the frenetic activity associated
with Sixtus V’s master plan, commented wisely: ““Those poles placed throughout 217 above Annapolis (Maryland), planned
the city in straight lines across vineyards and gardens bring fear to the souls of many by Governor Francis Nicholson in 1694.
interested persons who are not unaware that, in order to make roads without The scheme survives in this manuscript
turnings, many a neck has to be twisted.””” The demolition of one’s property, in the copy from 1748 of the version drawn in
city states of Italy during the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, was commonly a 1718 by James Stoddert.
punishment reserved for traitors. Now this punishment is meted out where there is
no crime. A papal bull of 1480 already establishes the principle of expropriating and
demolishing for the public good.
This unavoidable destruction is why so much Baroque planning is outside old
cores. The impact was comparative—ample, visually cohesive fragments next to the
2D tight, picturesque accretions of the medieval fabric straitjacketed by its lumbering
defenses. The same cannot be said of the modern period. Beginning with Napoleon
the Great and the planners of his imperial cities, the notion that order in the Grand
Manner must be imposed on the old cores gained momentum, until levels of
unprecedented destructiveness had been reached with the Haussmannian grands
90 travaux in Paris of the 1850s and 1860s and the universal influence of their example.
There were two reasons for this license. On the functional side, the historic city,
unable to cope with the new volume of traffic and the pressures of modern life, had
to be opened up, and interlocked with the voraciously spreading suburbs. But for the
regimes of Napoleon Bonaparte or Napoleon III, of Franco or Mussolini, the more
serious issue was revaluation. History itself had to be staged and updated. The great
monuments of the past were to be disencumbered of their ramshackle hangers-on,
new monuments celebrating the personality and political message of the current
ruler had to be erected within this same hallowed frame of history, and represen-
tational connections made on location between ancient memories and modern
triumphs. For this one needed room.
near Naples. So it is not simply a question of how large the area is that is being
designed in the Grand Manner. As always in matters of design, it is not absolute size
that determines scale but the coordination of parts.
The relation of the Grand Manner to the radial schemes discussed in the chapter
on “The City as Diagram” can be stated simply. Geometric planning schemes of the
sort we are presently concerned with were also not innocent of symbolism, of seeing
the city form as a diagram of some ideal order be it cosmic or political. But they were
more openly concerned with visual delight. The plan of Sixtus V had its weighty, Pinar
symbolic interpretations. Catervo Foglietta, in a letter of 1587, points out that the
crossing of the Strada Pia of Pius IV and Sixtus’s Strada Felice “fa una bellissima
Croce” (makes a most beautiful cross), the cross of Calvary; and Giovanni
Francesco Bordino interprets the whole Sistine plan to be “‘in syderis formam” (in
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225 Contrasting spatial orders: Paris’s ee Wa Monn a : la Villette.
P
PN ithe Pa = Ae Villiers
intricate pre-Haussmann street network Bote ¢" pee 6p’ aie‘eased
(right) and the stellated arrangement of eke Clinltey pr EF
ronds-points and forest allées in the Bois
de Boulogne (left); detail of the Cassine de
a, aiti
Putanx ‘ tor
bottom al 2 el i\a a |
Thury plan, 1744. The great axis of the : . ad bias % Le Roule a
Champs-Elysées is already marked as a
é
tree-lined road, the Avenue des Tuileries,
leading northwest out of the city and
touching the northern edge of the Bois de
Boulogne.
* Vaueirard
: eka wait fy a 3 t
traditional city was indeed like a great untamed forest, to which the planner, like
the landscape architect in his own realm, would bring a rational order. Laugier
wrote:
Paris; it is an immense forest, varied by the inequalities of the plain and the
mountain, cut right through the middle by a great river, which dividing itself into
many arms forms islands of different size. Let us suppose that we were allowed
to cut and prune at will, what means could not be drawn from so many
advantageous diversities?'”
And his vision of the ideal entry into the capital—a grand avenue lined with multiple
rows of trees, ending in a triumphal arch set into a radial scheme—sounds very
much like the Champs-Elysées sequence, fathered by Le Notre, which was beginning
to take on its classic shape by the mid-18th century. Behind the entrance gate, on the
city side, would be a big square with three streets fanning out into the town.
By the century’s end this French equivalence of landscape architecture and urban
design becomes a commonly held belief among practitioners in Europe. The birth of
the picturesque English garden in the second half of the r8th century, and its rising
popularity on the Continent, and, through Downing and Olmsted, in the United
States, could not undo this firmly held Baroque conviction that city form and the art
of landscaping were inseparable. Alphonse Alphand, who laid out some of the finest
Parisian parks under Haussmann predominantly 4 /’anglaise, also masterminded the
landscaping of Haussmannian boulevards and places with the expert assurance of 48
Platforms. In antiquity, the ziggurats on which Mesopotamian temples sit, and the
temple-pyramids of Meso-America, are the most extreme examples. In a more
“BAROQUE” ELEMENTS
THE STRAIGHT STREET
The arguments for straight streets are at least as old as the Renaissance.
(1) The straight street promotes public order by doing away with the nooks and
crannies of irregular neighborhoods, and thwarting the temptation to obstruct
passage or to shield insurrection behind barricades. King Ferdinand of Naples was
fond of saying that “narrow streets were a danger to the State.’*® About Via
Alessandrina, opened in 1499 on the Borgo side of Rome, a contemporary source
wrote:
The architects decided to run astreet straight from the bridge [of Castel S. Angelo]
to the [Vatican] palace gate to give the palace an open perspective, free of
obstacles, and in case of riots—as often happens in this turbulent Rome—one
can get help quickly and defend oneself from the urban attackers.”°
Similarly, the straight streets which relentlessly opened up the tangled stretches of
90 Paris in Haussmann’s grands travaux were a response, among other things, to the
very real threat of violent civil disobedience. Napoleon III, after all, came to power
in the wake of the bloody Revolution of 1848. The new avenues were sometimes
referred to as anti-riot streets, and they were coordinated with barracks for the
permanent quartering of troops and police at all major crossroads, especially in the
259) working-class east end. Haussmann himself wrote of the Boulevard de Sebastopol:
225 “It meant the disembowelling of the old Paris, the quarter of uprisings and
barricades, by a wide central street piercing through and through this almost
impossible maze, and provided with communicating side streets.”
Finally, (3) the straight street can direct the social and practical advantages it
possesses into a discourse of ideology, and with a suitable coding of architecture and
decoration it can impart a powerful representational message. I shall have more to
say on this further on.
grid lays down its own competitive frame of settlement, and others would likely
follow in time. The dividing line usually corresponds to a break in the topography
like a valley. Since the railroads followed these breaks, that is where, on the
“diagonal,” we are likely to find the railroad station (e.g., Portland, Oregon; Kansas
City, Missouri). Incidentally, as Grady Clay points out, these breaks will later be
targets for new expressways and other urban renewal projects.** Even on level
ground, the railroad tracks were likely to seek a direct line regardless of the National
Survey grid, and the accompanying town might have all of its streets on a bias
parallel to the tracks, only to revert to the coordinates of the survey in later additions
231-233 Ad hoc diagonals: in Kathmandu (e.g., Hays, Kansas). If the town predated the coming of the railroads, the tracks
(top), following the high road to Tibet; might cut right through the orthogonal order, creating an industrial axis at odds
San Francisco (above), at the meeting of
with Main Street, or displacing Main Street altogether.
two discrete gridded layouts; New Orleans
(above right), tracing the oblique canal
The case of New Orleans is unique. Its accidental Baroque, the great fanning 233
system of the original French settlers. boulevards that separate the grid of the French quarter from later developments
along the meandering Mississippi, goes back to the “long lots” of the French settlers.
These lots were perpendicular to the river, but not parallel to one another since the
river was not straight. The oblique boundary lines of the fields were reinforced when
drainage canals were dug along their paths. As the space between them was laid out
with the coming of the Americans, the main streets of the individual developments
ran alongside the canals, which were eventually filled in and turned into wide
boulevards. In the American sector these New Orleanian boulevards converge upon
a central focus like a Baroque sunburst, only “because they are radii of a half-circle
whose circumference was already drawn by the Mississippi River.”*°
Such early materializations of the diagonal in the United States should not be
confused with the wholehearted welcome of the Grand Manner in the early 20th
century during the so-called City Beautiful movement. Then planners systematically
set out to update the prosaic grids of towns across America with Baroque accents,
specifically diagonal runs against the regular grain of rectangular blocks. The City
ye
Nc oirooes
of diagonals plunging through the famous grid toward a new civic center. But his
final word is on the side of esthetic satisfaction. ‘““There is a true glory in mere
length,” he writes, “‘in vistas longer than the eye can reach, in roads of arrow-like
purpose that speed unswerving in their flight.”’**
One final ‘‘advantage” of the diagonal extolled by City Beautiful partisans was
actually a disadvantage of the Grand Manner, now presented as a blessing. A
diagonal cutting through a grid, or through a less regular extant pattern based on
traditional building lots, will create triangular blocks hard to subdivide and occupy.
In the case of Haussmann’s Paris, these blocks were adjusted internally, with pairs of Pies
back-to-back building lots that were regularly spaced toward the streets flanking the
long sides of the triangle and became progressively shallower until they turned into
one or more single-span lots toward the tip. Not concerned with details of housing,
onthe other hand, the City Beautiful saw in these triangular blocks opportunities for
public buildings of unusual design. Left in the hands of private owners, small corner
lots of this sort would be of little worth and probably be seen as a nuisance. Stretched
to a good part of a block or the whole of it, the shape would inspire a noteworthy
public statement.’
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241, Berlin’s new quarter of Friedrichstadt, which focused on a circular open space
253 known as the Rondell, had trees only in one side fork. (The trivium did not survive
the bombing of the Second World War, though the circular plaza, drastically rebuilt
as Mehring-Platz, is there after a fashion.) In the early r9th century, the plan for the
new Athens, capital of the kingdom of Greece, reiterated with great effect for a
modern city the palace-trivium combination of Versailles.
A generation or two later, past the mid-century, the symbolism in even such faint-
hearted imitations of absolute power was thoroughly anachronistic. The appetite of
modern traffic resisted formal elegancies, and the trivium made way for more
practical, stellated patterns. It survived chiefly in two areas. The first was in the
replanning that followed the demolition of city walls, where the configuration of
bastions and the points of focus constituted by the old city gates suggested three-
242 pronged systems. A good example is Joseph Stiibben’s design of 1888 for Cologne’s
semicircular suburban extension over its demolished ramparts, with a series of small
trivia marking the spots where the gates had been. The same idea was at work earlier
in the century in the Nouvelle Athénes section of Louis-Philippe’s Paris, along the
boulevard that traces the line of the dismantled wall of the Farmers-General.
A second opportunity was the railroad terminal, the new city gate. The trivium in
classic or approximate form fronts the station at places like Strasbourg, Grenoble,
Selestat, and Remiremont in France, and would have at Amsterdam South according
Pl.ro toH. P. Berlage’s 1915 plan had the station been built. Since a lateral approach road
along the fagade was a natural provision in the planning of the station area, the three
prongs might not meet at a point converging on the station, but rather the side
prongs might be moved out to the edges of a kind of street-plaza that underscored
the stretch of the fagade (e.g. Le Mans).
The fanning out of radials in groups larger than three can proceed from
orthogonal, polygonal, or circular cores. Four diagonal streets may emanate from
the corners of a square or rectangular public space, more or less regularly. Perfect
examples are rare: Madison, Wisconsin, has already been cited. The proliferation in
stages of Haussmann’s design for the Paris of the Second Empire produced flexible
schemes of diagonals reaching out to targets at unequal distances. Examples would
include the Place du Chateau-d’Eau (now Place de la Republique) and Place de
Opera:
The ideal of the circular arrangement is the full rond-point like the Place de
Pl.23 V Etoile in Paris, with its sunburst of twelve streets. By contrast, earlier attempts like
ROLE
BERS Ses ESP el
7pees 239 Paris, Place de France, a project of the
time of Henri IV (1589-1610). The area in
question was just inside the old city wall
between Porte St.-Antoine and Porte du
Temple. The only executed elements of the
scheme were the present Rue Charlot and
Rue de Turenne, which converge at the
Boulevard du Temple.
—
artist, 1735. The view is looking north aay
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the early 17th-century Place des Victoires, also in Paris, seem botched. The rond-
225 point originates in landscape design, where it refers to a large circular clearing in the
woods. Its initial transfer was probably extra-urban. The gardens of the chateau of
Chambord were probably the first to feature these circular clearings, where court
ladies gathered to socialize and follow ongoing boar or stag hunts in the forest cut
through by radiating allées. The English version of the urban rond-point is the so-
called ‘“‘spider web,” in which main hubs are connected with straight feeder streets
ZEZ, drawn at right angles to the radials. This is a feature of the Wren and Evelyn plans
176 for post-Fire London, and will reappear in Edwin Lutyens’s plan for New Delhi. The
inspiration may have come from ideal town plans like those in D. Speckle’s
I59 Architectura von Festungen of 1608, or even Palmanova itself.
The half-circle is also a cross-over from gardens. One of the definitions of rond-
point in garden terminology was the half-circle facing the main entrance to an estate.
The urban form has at its inception the famous Parisian project for the Place de
25 France, planned under Henri IV. This was intended as a new city-gate square in
the vicinity of the Temple: avenues would radiate from it between seven public
buildings bordering the open space. Symbolically it would be the gate to the whole of
France: the avenues were to be named after seven major provinces, the ring streets
that connected them after others, and the extensions of the radials beyond the ring
streets after others still. Another magnificent project was that by Victor Louis at
Bordeaux from 1785: a generous semicircular place on the waterfront opened up
toward the city with thirteen radial avenues representing the thirteen newly
independent United States of America with which Bordeaux’s merchants traded
heavily. At the Place de |’Odéon in Paris of 1779-82 a modest version of these
schemes was at last fully realized.
Berio lh
eS
BOULEVARDS AND AVENUES
In modern parlance these two street types are considered interchangeable, but their
origins and early history in the Baroque period are in fact quite distinct. What they
have in common is that they were both extra-urban, fringe elements that found
themselves incorporated within an extending city fabric, and thereby provided
urban models for the future.
The boulevard started as a boundary between city and country. Its structure rests
on the defensive wall, which by the Baroque period was usually an earthen rampart 243
rather than a stone curtain. The practice of planting trees on ramparts goes back to
the late 16th century. Speckle recommends the practice on the grounds that
landscaped ramparts would conceal the precise edge of town from the approaching
enemy, especially in flat areas with scant vegetation. For military engineers, the
roots of big trees were a means to strengthen the embankments against concentrated
cannon fire during an attempted breach. When visibility became a problem, the trees
would be cut down. But the citizens saw the chance of a pleasant shady promenade
with fine views of the countryside from on high. It was this notion that prevailed
wherever bastioned walls lost their urgency as means of defense.
In 1670, with the destruction of the medieval walls of Paris and the filling of the
old moats, these sites were transformed into broad elevated promenades, planted
with double rows of trees and accessible to carriages and pedestrians. They were
crossed by only a few streets at the old city gates, which were in turn replaced by
grand triumphal arches. These tree-lined ramparts eventually became a system of
connected public promenades, ‘“‘a recreational zone at the edge of the city.”** But
they were not intended as transportation arteries. First they were called cours or
remparts, but soon the name that stuck was boulevards, after a former bastion, the
Grand Boulevart, north of Porte St.-Antoine. By the late 18th century, the west end
boulevards of Paris were lined with luxury stores, cafés and theaters.
This fashion of changing fortifications to promenades was not widespread in
Europe until Napoleon. Before his time city walls were decommissioned only in
France. Where the walls came down, ambitious provincial intendants in the later
r8th century, and the planners of Napoleon in the first decade of the roth projected
distended systems of boulevards and connecting public spaces as magnificent frames
for the city edge. Bordeaux replaced its ramparts with cours under the intendant
Aubert de Tourny and extended its crown of squares all along the riverfront.
Toulouse was earlier. Of the full ring of vast allées that were to replace the old walls,
the Promenade de |’Esplanade and the oval Grand-Rond with its six radiating
arteries were completed in 1752-54—a small fragment of the projected ensemble—
and this without the uniform houses that were intended to border the public spaces.
In the Netherlands, a school of landscape designers specializing in the greening of
Pl.29 Kalinin Prospekt in Moscow restates ramparts was active throughout the roth century, represented best by three
the monumental urbanism of Socialist generations of the Zocher family—Johann David Zocher (1763-1817), Jan David
Realism in a Modernist idiom; M. V.
Zocher, Jr. (1791-1870), and the latter’s son, Louis Paul Zocher.
Posokhin, designer-in-chief, 1962-67.
The origin of the avenue is largely rural. Avenues, Frangois Loyer, a recent
Pl.30 Post-Modern Grand Manner: student of roth-century Paris, writes, were roads in the country “lined with tall trees
Montpellier (France), view from the Place to distinguish them from the surrounding landscape of leafy forests, low hedges, and
du Nombre d’Or in the new residential fields of crops.’’** They were abstract and straight, to contrast with the undulating
quarter of Antigone, designed by Ricardo rural landscape, and they were approach axes to important features in that
Bofill and the Taller de Arquitectura in
landscape—an aristocrat’s estate, a farm, or a village. In the 16th century a version
1978-80. “Each construction is a
monument,” Bofill proclaims, “each public
of this rural avenue became ubiquitous in France with the practice of planting trees
space a theater.” along the principal post roads. By the late r7th century avenues led right up to city
Two additional novelties belong in this story—the cours and the mall. Both have
their origin in late 16th-century Italy, where they were the settings of new recrea-
tional pastimes. Both figured at the city edge, in proximity to the walls or in their
residual spaces.
The cours was intended as an exclusive run for pleasure carriages. Its importance
for the present discussion is that it transformed the garden allée into a place for
vehicles. The origin of the idea may have been the Corso outside Florence, along the
Arno. Marie de Médicis, the queen of Henri IV, introduced the ritual of coach rides
to Paris in 1616, where a walled quadruple allée, the Cours la Reine, was laid out 245
for the purpose beside the Seine below the Tuileries. It had a circle in the mid-
dle and a stately arch at the entry. ‘‘Here it is,’ Evelyn wrote in his Diary, “that
the Gallants, & the Ladys of the Court take the ayre & divert themselves, as with
us in Hide-Parke, the middle Circle being Capable to Containe an hundred
coaches to turne commodiously, & the larger of the Plantations for 5 or 6 coaches
a breast.’? Others followed: in Paris, the Cours de Vincennes; in Madrid, the
Prado; in Rome, the Forum whose ruin-filled central space was levelled and tree-
lined in 1656.
245 Paris, Cours la Reine, laid out in The mall was initially installed for the game of pall-mall. It consisted of a flat strip
1616; engraving by Aveline. It ran along of packed surface some 400 yards (365 m.) long, planted with grass, which served as
the Seine to the west of the Tuileries
the bowling green, and lanes of traffic on either side. Since the hard ball could be
gardens, just outside the city walls. Today
it is part of the riverside road that passes dangerous, the mall was closed in on either side by high fences. The game was of
the Grand and Petit Palais. French origin, being played in the south of France as early as the 13th century, but it
became a favorite of high society in the r7th century. The first recorded malls were
in Italy, and then in Paris, adjacent to the city walls, in r597 and 1599. Charles I
introduced the game to England and set it up at Pall Mall. Charles II moved it to the
Mall in St. James’s Park, a broad avenue with four lines of trees, while Pall Mall 246
itself became a public road soon bordered with fine houses.
The avenues planted for pall mall became places of promenade, and since they
were usually on or near the fortifications, also of military parades. Promenades were
also laid out for their own sake, the earliest in England being at the spa of Tunbridge
Wells, from 1638. In early Boston, several tree-lined walks on Boston Common were
called malls, and there is record of other malls in Newburyport, Massachusetts,
and Brunswick, Maine.*°
One other place of public promenade was offered by some of the new formal
squares that proliferated in Europe during the 18th century. An early and rather
unlikely example is Queen Square in Bristol, laid out behind the river quays starting
in 1699. It was a residential square in the English manner, but was cut into equal
nn
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elevations were not necessarily consistent, but even so they were quite ordered
compared to the inturned, uncommunicative house lines of residential streets in
Mesopotamian towns, say, or the customary jumble of market streets. A common
aspect of this avenue was that the roadway was sunk below the bordering features,
and continuous lateral steps made it easy to socialize and gave a powerful visual
directionality to the street.
The often improvisational arcades that cadence the ground floor of many
medieval streets are inspired less by an esthetic appreciation of the uniform street
wall than they are by the desire for shelter from the discomforts of the weather and
the convenience of street-oriented shops. As late as the Laws of the Indies which
governed city-making in New Spain, arcades were prescribed for the plaza and the
four principal streets that set out from it, because “they are of considerable
convenience to the merchants who generally gather there” (Article 115).
How did planning authorities ensure the execution of uniform streets and squares?
The surest way was to do the actual building themselves. Totalitarian states where
the housing industry is centralized have no other alternative. A less costly method
for the State, and the Baroque centuries availed themselves of it, was to build only
the outer sheaths, the continuous fagades, and leave the construction of the houses
to the individuals who owned the plots. Louis XIV’s Place Vend6me in Paris is a
celebrated case. As period views show, the frame was finished first, in 1701, and only
then did the sale of the building lots begin. In the end there was no connection
between the subdivisions on the fagades surrounding the place and the arrange-
ment of courtyards and rooms behind them. Again, the Commission for the Building
of St. Petersburg set up in the 1760s proposed that ‘“‘the government erect facades
on the squares and allow the houses behind them to be built as the owners
planned.’’*’
In Turin, a laboratory of the Baroque esthetic during its decades of expansion
from the late 16th century to the early 18th, the rulers of the house of Savoy tried
strict supervision.** Having issued design guidelines for the Citta Nuova addition to
the south of the Roman grid, drawn by the court engineer Carlo di Castellamonte in
1621, Charles Emanuel set up a committee of pre-eminent state officials accountable
directly to him to make sure that all construction was in compliance. In addition to
respecting these blueprints, the land owners were obliged to use only those building
materials produced in the area of the Citta Nuova. Twenty years later the Regent
25) Maria Cristina made personal grants of land around the new Piazza S. Carlo to high
officials, bankers and aristocrats who were more susceptible to court pressure in
building their residences according to the uniform design of Castellamonte. In the
old city, the Via Nuova leading from the castle southward to the Roman walls called
for a modern uniform casing of the medieval blocks. Finally, in the remaking of the
cathedral square, owners ready to conform to the official design were given columns
of white marble for their section of the continuous porticoes bordering the public
space.
The habits established in these projects of the r7th century continued to mold a
unified appearance for Turin and its new quarters for a long time. Even the most
exuberant of Baroque architects, Guarino Guarini for example, did not extend the
spatial intricacies of their architectural interiors onto the street fagades. These were
by and large restrained, almost self-effacing, willing to blend in with the continuous
flow of the street channels. Only in Rome and its field of influence—notably Sicily—
are Baroque buildings often not content with being definers of urban space. The
street space becomes positive, something with shape and dynamism. Abutting
buildings are integrated with the pattern of movement defined by the street. Only
there, in the work of architects like Bernini and Borromini, are the building fronts
seen as expressive masses, stepping out into, and interacting with, the street space.
The street, as Paolo Portoghesi puts it, “‘is animated by multiple episodes that
challenge its quality of an inert corridor compressed between parallel planes.”
But then neither are the Baroque streets of Turin inert corridors. The power
inherent in uniform street fronts is to create a sweeping perspective view and to
direct it toward a terminal landmark. The vista is a prime device in urban design
bound by the Baroque esthetic. So is the sense of spatial sweep, the corollary of
speed.
VARIETY IN UNITY
to
The dangers of uniformity, the boredom of walking through urban spaces subject
of Laugier,
the constant repetition of the same design, began to be voiced at the time
t of
in the mid-18th century. The Abbé spoke of “excessive uniformity, this greates
d the
all faults.”” Returning to the comparison between town and garden, he enjoine
regular
planner to look at the work of Le Notre, where the formal and informal, the
the planni ng archite ct
and the irregular, symmetry and variety are neighbors. So too
will
should vary details to such an extent that, walking through a town, each quarter
chaos which suits
seem new and different, resulting in ‘‘a kind of irregularity and
great towns so well.’”*°
in-
Variety was to be sought at several levels. A simple grid of streets was unimag
same figure.
ative. It was easy to lose your way with every quarter subjected to the
left to the
Within the space of the streets, the fagades of houses should not be
THE VISTA
it is seen
The primary purpose ofa vista is the framing of a distant view, so that
by some worthy
through a composed foreground and is fixed at the opposite end
Since the
marker. Often one has one or the other of these effects, but not both.
a vista,
foreground brackets and the terminal object play the main role in setting up
ed it
the street channel in between need not hold to rigidly uniform elevations, provid
tive.
is straight and has enough visual direction to create a strong sense of perspec
ty. The Roman s were
The formal vista was not unknown in Classical antiqui
e is the
masters of it, but there is Hellenistic precedent as well. A good exampl
the arched
redoing of the agora complex at Priene in the 2nd century BC where
y is the 214
eastern gate framed a vista of stoa colonnades. The arch spanning a roadwa
the vista at 256
commonest ancient Roman vista device. The same feature often framed
257 both ends. (The Strada Pia in Rome terminating at the fagade which Michelangelo
set up in front of the old Porta Pia is in the antique tradition of ending the perspective
of major urban streets at an arched gateway.) The Romans also used nymphaea and
other such hinge buildings to provide a climax at the end of an approach and
incidentally to conceal an awkward bend in the street line. Two examples: at
Palmyra, a small theater was used to tie a new street in to the main axis; at eae as
the city was expanded along the main axis, which topography forced to bend the
wedge space between the old grid and the extension was filled by two ae
buildings. Also typical are four-sided markers for major crosspoints, roofed or
unroofed, that offered no bar to one’s path. An example of the latter is ce tetrapylon
Pl.20 in Palmyra, in the center of a round plaza marking an intersection; the plaza was
surrounded by stores and offices.
Rien The example of Rome as re-planned by Sixtus V in the late 16th century refines the
esthetic of the urban vista in a number of ways. The most effective, perhaps, is the
use of the obelisk as a space marker. These thin, vertical accents fix the ie
point of a straight street without blocking what is behind. At the same time we have
Triumphal arches
The great surviving specimens in Rome which inspired modern phases of the Grand
Manner—the arches of Titus, Septimius Severus, and Constantine—had a long
pedigree and a large family throughout the Empire. The beginnings go back to the
Republic, in the early 2nd century Bc; according to Pliny, the purpose of the arches
was “‘to raise the men whose statues stood upon them above all other mortals.”
These first arches were rather simple affairs with a single opening. That of Fabius
Maximus spanned the Via Sacra at the entrance to the Roman Forum. With
Augustus, monumental versions articulated by columns and architraves and
elaborated with sculptural ornament made their appearance. They were erected
both within cities and on the high roads of the Empire, on the occasion of an
emperor’s triumphal passage or, in the provinces, in honor of an imperial visit. The
fancier among them had three openings, and most were topped by a triumphal
chariot or quadriga. The attic of the Arch of Titus in Rome may have contained the
eponymous emperor’s ashes, but that was unusual.
Triumphal arches began to replace the simpler arched city gates in the Augustan
era, the late rst century BC and early rst century aD. They also formed the entrance Nv A nN
to enclosed spaces like forums. An impressive triumphal arch formed the entrance to
the Forum of Trajan in Rome, and an equestrian statue in honor of the Emperor
stood in the middle of the open space; behind the basilica, in the court between two
library buildings, rose a column roo feet (30 m.) high decorated with a narrative
frieze of his Dacian wars and surmounted by his statue. Here in one imperial
complex, then, we encounter the full array of monumental effects available to the
ancient Roman designer.
If we distinguish the triumphal arch among many other types of urban arches,
both attached and freestanding, that punctuated Roman city form and the highways
TN
=
260 The pair to the view opposite, looking triumphal arch, in memory of the Napoleonic victories over the Austrians in 1805,
northwest from above the Tuileries dignified the main entrance to the court of the Tuileries.
Gardens across the Place de la Concorde The triumphant message of imperialism, or at least of victory, is sounded as
toward the Arc de Triomphe: the Champs- clearly in more recent uses of this motif, like the triple-arched Gateway of India in
Elysées races toward an open horizon at Bombay, or the All India War Memorial Arch in New Delhi, completed in 1931 as PI.28
La Défense, today the site of “La Grande the terminal feature of King’s Way and meant to celebrate the “‘ideal and fact of
Arche” (Ill. 311). British rule over India.”°° With Mussolini’s boast of reviving the ancient Roman
Empire, the arches set up by his regime in North African cities like Tripoli and
Somalia made the symbolism literal.
Commemorative columns
The survival of two Classical commemorative columns in Rome itself, that of
Trajan in his Forum and the Column of Marcus Aurelius on the Via Lata, kept this Pilea
urban example of imperial triumph in the public eye until the revivalist swell of the
Renaissance. Pope Sixtus V depaganized the two columns by replacing the imperial
statues at their summit with statues of SS. Peter and Paul. This Christian takeover
inspired similar imagery. With a Virgin Mary at the top, the column became a
Statues
In the traditions of the Grand Manner, the chief use of public statuary has been
along ceremonial streets and within squares. A pre-Classical convention had rows of
statues set on the ground flanking a ceremonial way (e.g., the Avenue of the Sphinxes
at Thebes). The Roman parallel put statues of patrons on consoles along a
colonnaded avenue they had donated funds for.
At the Place du Petit Sablon in Brussels stand roth-century statues of Counts Horn
and Egmont, 16th-century champions of the Low Countries against Spanish rule; a
cast-iron railing that circumscribes the square is interrupted by forty-eight bronze
261 statuettes representing the city guilds. The Siegesallee in Berlin and Monument
Avenue (1890 ff.) in Richmond, Virginia, are both axial settings for heroic statues.
The former was flanked by lifesize portraits of margraves, electors and kings of the
Prussian ruling houses; it ran south from the Konigsplatz, where the just mentioned
Siegessaule stood on axis between monuments to Bismarck and Von Moltke. (The
ensemble was moved in 1938 toa site in the Tiergarten in line with Unter den Linden,
263 to make way for the Nazi “grand axis,’’ of which more below.) At Richmond,
statues to Confederate heroes stood on a median strip down the length of the
avenue, with the equestrian figure of Robert E. Lee on the major cross axis.
The equestrian statue was a rather late idea in Roman Imperial history. The
famous bronze figure of Marcus Aurelius later set up on the Campidoglio originally
stood in the grounds of the Emperor’s family property on the Lateran. A few
equestrian statues on public display were celebrated, e.g., Trajan’s in his Forum in
Rome, and Justinian’s in the Forum of Augustus in Constantinople. This is the
precedent revived in the French royal places in the Baroque period: the king’s statue
in a formally designed square—e.g., Louis XIV in the Place des Victoires, a
proposed Louis XV for what became the Place de la Concorde. (The occasional
equestrian statues set up in city markets during the Middle Ages, like Otto I’s in
Magdeburg ca. 12,40, fall outside the limits of the Grand Manner; so do the Colleoni
and Gattamelata monuments.) The statues almost always show the king on
horseback and lifted high enough on a pedestal to stand out against the uniform
walls of the square. In the case of one of the earliest of these royal squares, Henri IV’s
triangular Place Dauphine on the Ile de la Cité (begun in 1607), the figure of the King
a if
nes
&i
was no turning
264 Moscow, Gorky (formerly Tverskaya) new world that had to be designed now without sentiment. There
In the grands
Street, approaching the Kremlin; A. back—ever. And for most of three decades the prophecy held true.
city centers, in new cities
Mordvinov, designer-in-chief, 1937-39. ensembles of France and the “urban renewal” of American
no exceptions.
like Chandigarh and Brasilia, the gospel of Le Corbusier brooked
the spirit of an
After the death of Stalin, the East took up the challenge in
new Western look:
ideological agon. It abruptly repealed historicism in favor of the
Grand Manner. The
but it did not altogether abandon the urban armature of the
to its nobly framed
magistrale went Modernist architecturally, while holding on
ise the State. The
volumes and the perspective vista, and finding new ways to advert
n Prospekt; the last, Pl.29
first example of the Modernist magistrale was Moscow’s Kalini
of the fiftieth anniversary
Bucharest’s Calea Victoriei. Inaugurated in 1967 as part
an update of a project
celebrations of the October Revolution, Kalinin Prospekt was
gh the Arbat, one of the
in the 1935 Plan of Moscow for a new boulevard run throu
sing straight line was
city’s most historic residential districts. Now the uncompromi
s and slabs. But the
bulldozed through, and lined with Modernist skyscraper
the heretical use of the
Socialist Realist heritage is immediately apparent in
ic function of the three-
Modernist repertory to define a street channel, and the didact
ard that closes the vista.
story-high, propaganda-emblazoned electronic billbo
Be
He
cess
: ;
aHoe
ve
9° THE URBAN
SKYLINE
INTRODUCTION
N 1979 the city of Melbourne held an international competition, whose object
[== to secure a distinctive landmark for itself. The overseeing committee stated
that after studying great cities in the world ‘‘where the landmarks have evolved
over centuries . . . it became clear to us that Melbourne needed a big idea—
something unique, something remarkable, something to give us more pride in
ourselves and a far more significant place in the global itinerary .. .””*
Two things stand out in this extraordinary initiative: the urgency to have a
signature building that would fix the city’s identity, and “put Melbourne on that
elusive world map”; and the recognition that such visual means of recall were not
randomly acquired in the past, but developed over time. The urban silhouette, what
the Germans called the “city portrait” or Stadtbild, was the result of a cumulative
process, and its reading was calculated. The landmarks that stood out in this picture
were symbols of a collective life; they advertised civic priorities, and made palpable
the hierarchy of public institutions.
however it might have come to dominate visually the image of the city, and to stand
as the very embodiment of its public realm.
The only structure comparable to the skyscraper in these respects—its utility and
privacy—is the baronial tower-house of the Middle Ages. This tall urban feature
267 was characteristic of cities in central and northern Italy, in the south of France, and
in central and southern Germany. There were many of them; they had defensive as
PI.31 well as advertising intentions; and they dominated the city image, even though they
represented not a collective program at all, but the most atomized self-interest—the
welfare of individual clans. Alberti speaks of the time in the later Middle Ages,
“about two hundred years ago, when people seemed to be seized with a kind of
general infection of building high watchtowers, even in the meanest villages,
insomuch that scarce a common housekeeper thought he could not be without his
turret: By which means there arose a perfect grove of spires .. .”” (Ten Books on
Architecture, viii. 5). The towers were square at the base and made of brick: and they
could go astoundingly high. The still-surviving Asinelli tower in Bologna, bent at
a crazy angle reputedly to be safe during thunderstorms, is over 300 feet (almost
roo m.) high.
In Germany these towers tended to be bulky and squat; in northern Italy, slim
and lofty. In Italy, the towers were either attached to individual family houses or
central to a group of families who shared their facilities and protection. “Tower
associations” in Florence brought together large numbers of people.* The legal basis
for the construction of the towers was traced back to the ancient royal privilege to
fortify—a privilege passed on to tenants upon their investiture. When the nobility
moved into towns, the right to defend the family compound came with them.’
The communes, in their ascendancy, had mixed feelings about this privatized
skyline. The danger to city interest was real. Mid-13th-century statutes in Bologna
“prescribe that anyone who launches projectiles or other instruments against the
palace or against the curia of the Commune would be fined and his tower
demolished.’’* We have much on record to show that communal governments
repeatedly and sternly regulated the height of the tower-houses, and demolished
many of them in the name of communal self-assertion. In Rome Brancaleone degli
Andalo, the strong-willed senator, destroyed or truncated 140 of them in the 1250s,
while Florence in the same years brought down 59 towers of the discredited Guelph
faction.
This attack on height is very instructive. It had two related motives. It was
connected to an opening up of the city-form, the elimination of jurisdictional
pockets that undermined the central authority of the commune. At the same time,
since medieval city-form was meant to be visually expressive of the prevailing social
and political order, it was necessary to have no towers higher than that of the
town
iB
a
P1.37 city, was the industrial landscape of smokestacks and furnace cones and water
towers. Here again, the reaction was polar. You could take pride in this bristling,
smoking array of industry, the harsh signature of employment and prosperity. Or
you could deplore the crass overshadowing of the traditional symbols of the urban
collective, the skyline of faith and governance, by symbols of driving greed—Blake’s
“dark satanic mills.”
In like manner, Henry James was to lament, upon his return to America in 1904
after a twenty-five-year absence, that the new New York skyline of office towers had
robbed the spire of Trinity Church of the distinction of being the tallest tower in the
303 city, which it had enjoyed until 1875, and left it “‘so cruelly overtopped and so barely
distinguishable . . . in its abject helpless humility.’’’
What upset James was an uncaring attitude evident in New York toward a
hierarchical cityscape, and therefore a bankrupted commitment to the traditional
order of the social structure. So A. W. N. Pugin a half-century before him would
270 juxtapose the new skyline of the industrial city in England, a grim, stark silhouette
of factories and tenements and workhouses, with the spire-pricked piety of the
269 medieval cityscape, to make his point about the erosion of traditional values in the
modern world.
Indeed, the point to be iterated is that until the advent of the Industrial
Revolution, the urban skyline celebrated institutional landmarks, buildings of
communal importance having to do with religion and political power. The source of
wealth, of economic power, was itself sometimes institutionalized in representa-
tional buildings like cloth halls, with their stately towers proudly rising within the
storied shape of the urban center. With the arrival of industry, a confusion of skyline
priorities begins. If a town grew around a factory or mill, the new skyline acquired
an inherent logic at least. The shock came in the older towns subjected to industrial
invasion. In America, Pittsburgh may be a good example—the smokestacks lined
against the fiery red night sky, the curving rivers with their steel-girdered bridges, the
blazing furnaces: an appropriate symbol for a city that became the hearth of the
nation by 1880, but a startling contrast to the city that was.
Since the Industrial Revolution, the notion that private structures should not be
allowed to overwhelm the collective symbols of the city has been regularly voiced.
“The final contention remains,” as Thomas Sharp put it in 1963 in his defense of the
historic skyline of Cambridge, “that a minority of private interests should not be
allowed to dominate the town architecturally any more than it should socially.”* 269, 270 Images from A. W. N. Pugin’s
And the opposite point of view would have it that traditional cities were indeed set Contrasts (1836) in praise of the landscape |
aside by modern practices, and that our cities are no longer cathedral cities but of the Gothic city as against the crassness
commercial or industrial centers which deserve their own skyline. of the modern industrial city.
commission for Claude-Joseph Vernet’s Ports of France series came from the French
Crown in 1753. So the city portrait highlighted those features of the cityscape
important to the purposes of the sovereign power.
With the complication of defenses during the era of artillery warfare, the purpose
and
in commissioning city views became primarily military. Princes acquired maps
Today 110 different versions of this view exist, all the way up to the Fire of London
in 1666.
The Renaissance is the starting point for the great skyline imagery of early
modern Europe, beginning with the catena (“‘chain’’, because of its linked frame)
view of Florence from about 1480. On its heels comes Jacopo de’ Barbari’s view of
Venice (1500). Other celebrated 16th-century names are Jorg Seld for his views of 73
Augsburg (1521) and Lubeck (1552), Woensam for the 1531 view of Cologne we 273
referred to, and Conrad Merian who depicted a number of Austrian cities as well as
Strasbourg, Frankfurt, Ulm and Paris. Merian hada distinctive style that showed the
top side of the bastioned curtain, not the foreground as was usual.'*
In general, the technique emphasized main buildings in silhouette against a blank
sky. This is actually a fairly enduring notion, perhaps the inevitable graphic device
to conceptualize “skyline.’’ Ordinary houses were drawn with some care, especially
in profile views, as if to emphasize that there can be no monuments without the
standard residential structure that gives them their scale and dignity. In all these
16th-century samples, the perspective is not unified; the emerging naturalism of the
Renaissance is still wedded to the medieval concept of an ideal city. It seems,
furthermore, in Woensam’s Cologne, that celestial and terrestrial space do not
follow the same perspective convention. In most cases, the churches were shown
not
larger than life to underline their importance. Streets and squares were
emphasized. By contrast, in the 17th century, public spaces were exaggerated, and
general urban decay was contrasted to the grand princely palaces. In the mid-r8th
century, Vernet’s Ports created a heroic genre of cityscape painting that rivaled
to
history painting. His example was imitated across Europe from St. Petersburg
Naples.
ifk =| wan
SKYLINE FEATURES
There are two ways, not mutually exclusive, to fix a skyline. You can do it through
277, extraordinary landscape features (the Acropolis and Lycabettos in Athens, Sugar
Loaf at Rio, Table Mountain at Cape Town). Or you can do it through pre-eminent
276 buildings (the Eiffel Tower, the cathedral or church of a medieval town like Vezelay
278 or Salisbury, the castle as at Edinburgh, where the natural rock greatly heightens the
effect).
Topography is important. The primary distinction is between flat land, like the
site of most Dutch towns, and towns on ahill. Both are easy to mark. The windmill
and the tower hover on the low Dutch horizon because there is no competition from
nature. A church or fort on the hilltop is an equally simple advantage.
But urban landscapes are rarely that direct; and urban intentions are rarely
clearcut and unchanging.
To address the landscape first: cities with a complicated topography might try to
emblematize nature, as with the so-called Seven Hills of Rome, a conceit transposed
along with other distinctive attributes to its eastern pendant, Constantinople. Taken
seriously, the conceit could have provided a great opportunity to have a ranked or
reverberating skyline. By crowning several of the summits of Constantinople with
PI.34 the same shape, the domed mosque, the Ottomans indeed succeeded to a degree in
reshaping the profile of the former Byzantine capital more sharply than their
predecessors; furthermore, the number of minarets allotted each mosque, from a
single one to the grand total of six for the mosque of Sultan Ahmed I (1609-17), was
an effective device to suggest a hierarchy. Rome, ancient or modern, and Byzantine
Constantinople have no visual purity of this sort.
On the second point, the intended reading of the skyline, cities with a long history
might tellingly juxtapose the symbols of competing powers, or of changes in their
structure, within the urban profile. There are classic skyline confrontations of
cathedral and town hall (Siena, Florence), of princely castles and civic centers,
of rival monastic orders, and even of parish churches, as in the stately balance of
St. Lorenz and St. Sebaldus across the Pegnitz, representing the two independent
districts that united to create Nuremberg.’
But often the nature of the skyline is not determined by one or more distinctive
building shapes, as much as it is by the repetitive use of one architectural feature:
minarets, domes, spires, industrial chimneys, and the like.
SACRED HEIGHTS
Until the coming of the secular state, which means until relatively recently, the
dominant accent of the skyline was the architecture of sacred buildings. These were
often situated on eminences, natural or artificial, their architectural mass was piled
up high, and their visual prominence was enhanced by sky-aspiring props.
The native religions of Southeast and East Asia developed early on a variety of
such skyline accents. Hindu temples themselves were built as great ornamented
mounds, but they were often overshadowed by tall multi-story portal towers
(gopuras). There are surviving examples of these towers in India from tHe 7th to the
16th centuries, the most impressive among them in Madurai, Vijayanagara, and
the district of Kerala. Their elaborately ornamented tapering form is capped by a
characteristic barrel-vaulted roof crown.
Buddhist stupas, dome-shaped grave mounds, were surmounted by an ornamen-
tal capping structure ending in an umbrella shape. In places like Bangkok, the
overall shape is a bell or a symbolic stepped mountain, crowned by tall spires.
The Chinese pagoda, in an otherwise uniformly low urban mass, often dominated
the urban skyline. This is true of the White Pagoda at Fuzhou, the many-times
rebuilt Great Pagoda at Suzhou, and outside of China, the gilt Shwe Dagon Pagoda
in Rangoon which, in a 14th-century renovation, had reached a height of 295 feet
(90 m.).
280 The classic dominants of church architecture are belltowers and domes. Going
beyond domes and spires, particular segments of the building mass may also
announce the church on the skyline. The ‘“‘choir-facades” of Cologne, as in S. Maria
im Capitol, are a case in point—the heritage of the tall and imposing ‘‘westwork” in
elevation of most Gothic cathedrals derives from the great Norman churches of
William the Conqueror and his wife in centers like Caen and Jumieges. Less
common was the single western tower over an entrance porch, as in St.-Benoit-sur-
Loire and the Romanesque predecessor of Chartres Cathedral, and later Ulm and
Freiburg-im-Breisgau.
In an ideal exterior design, towers would bracket the west facade, mark the end
bays of one or two transepts, flank the choir, and rise over the crossing where nave
and transepts overlapped in an architectural enactment of the symbol of the cross.
The original Gothic design for Chartres Cathedral called for the full panoply of
nine towers. Reims Cathedral projected a seven-towered pile, in emulation of the
battlemented City of Heaven, each tower rising above a system of slender buttresses
where angels stood guard. A rare achievement like the cathedral at Tournai in
281
Belgium, mostly from the 12th century, gives some feeling for such magnificent
reverberating verticality. But as a rule this ideal superstructure remained unat-
patrons and architects sought to recast the Gothic skyline through permissible
attenuations of Classical form. Italy found ways to dematerialize the dome.
Borromini’s S. Ivo della Sapienza in Rome, begun in 1642, replaced the usual cupola 283
above the drum withaspiral that twists around for several loops and culminates ina
wire sculpture. Guarino Guarini’s diaphanous domes in Turin went after similar
effects.
But the most memorable revocation of a Gothic profile on a citywide scale was the
crowd of Wren steeples that rose over London in the wake of the Great Fire of
1666.1® The Fire destroyed 87 churches, but some parishes were amalgamated and
only 5x were rebuilt, on the designs of Wren, who was assisted by Robert Hooke.
Most of the churches were finished by 1685; the steeples dragged on for 15-20 years
after that. Wren himself talks of the importance of “handsome spires, or Lanterns,
rising in good Proportion above the neighbouring Houses”; and in Parentalia his
‘ntention is said to have been to rebuild “all the Parish Churches in such a Manner as
to be seen at the End of a Vista of Houses, and dispersed in such distances from each
other, as to appear neither too thick, nor thin in Prospect.”
ne
a ft
Ce Pe knee a
The belfry and steeple of the church was the only idiom of architectural grandeur
known to Colonial America; so that is what topped Independence Hall in Philadel-
phia in 1750, a tall steepled tower that dominated the land for miles away. In a
reverse borrowing, the gilded spire of the cathedral of SS. Peter and Paul in St.
Petersburg from the 1730s was intentionally reminiscent of the one on Copenhagen’s
Exchange built a century earlier.
In the Victorian era, public buildings of all sorts—city halls, law courts, railway
stations—hoisted towers. ‘How many are there,” Leopold Eidlitz wrote in 1881, P1.38
“who are willing to forego a tower simply because it is not needed either physically
or aesthetically, .. . if by an ingenious argument it may be justified.”’”** The debate of
how far to extend the Gothic Revival beyond strictly religious architecture was quite
heated in England. Schools and charitable buildings required no special pleading.
Government buildings, commercial architecture, and the new traveling landscape
of hotels and railroad terminals proved more contentious. In Germany, towered
Gothic city halls from the late Middle Ages could justify the neo-Gothic Rathaus in
Franz Joseph’s Vienna, and none other than G. G. Scott, already famous for the Pl.4
elaborate tower of the Protestant church of St. Nicholas in Hamburg from 1844-45,
could defend his project for the Hamburg Rathaus ten years later on the grounds
that “The very idea of a town hall or acivic hall is Gothic. The town councils which
they symbolize are essentially teutonic, in terms of both origin and character, and
must be regarded as one of the most worthy German institutions and one that
deserves to be commemorated.’’** Lacking this specific historic precedent, the
ambitious Victorian town halls of industrial England, like of that of Leeds by
Cuthbert Brodrick from the 1850s, gave their towers an impressive civic classicism,
although the Gothicists had their day in places like Manchester. But the Houses of
Parliament with its two great Gothic towers had established national skyline
symbols that were echoed throughout the century. The clock tower with Big Ben
combined ornamental features from Flemish belfries, like that of the Cloth Hall at
Ypres, with the sheerness of Italian campanili, while the 337-foot (103 m.) high
Victoria Tower in its foursquare mass recalled both late Perpendicular crossing
towers and the tradition of castles and country estates.
Railroad terminals were an unprecedented, exclusively modern institution, but as
the new gates of cities they took to imposing clock towers from the very start. ‘The
Italian campanile had a short vogue, and there were exotic specimens, like the twin
towers and truncated entrance pagoda of Union Station in New Haven by Henry
Austin (1848-49), intended to convey the excitement of distant places. But
medievalizing towers were quite popular from mid-century onward, and the unease
of religious associations was never completely stilled. Boston’s Park Square Station,
a contemporary source found, “resembles more nearly a church edifice . . . and
aiding still more to mislead the spectator as to the nature of the edifice is a well-
proportioned tower 125 feet [38 m.] high.”*°
Exclusively secular skyline features before the Industrial Revolution must begin
with the city walls. To an approaching traveler on the high roads, this was the first 286
———_ ——
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medieval—hence Church of Ireland—cathedral crowned an ancient hill, and gave 289 Jerusalem, a drawing by Arthur
the new cathedral tall steeples to be sure to outdo the Protestants. Kutcher published in his The New
Conquerors, aware of the importance of the skyline, at times imposed restrictions Jerusalem (1973). The historic skyline in
regarding it on the subject people. The Ottomans, for example, did not allow their the foreground tries to hold its 4
Christian subjects in countries like Bulgaria to have domes, towers or belfries on wy
a modern oe ee like the
their churches and prescribed that their churches and houses had to be lower than 7°%5/78 Oe ae
those of the Muslims.”? And after independence came to Bulgaria, the main public
buildings like the school and the church, the belfry and the clocktower, were often
situated on high sites, deliberately overtopping the hitherto dominant mosque.
SOME PRINCIPLES
A number of design criteria can be isolated which determine the physical validity of
the skyline: among them, height, shape, and approach. The first two refer to the
landmark features of the skyline, the third to the skyline as a whole. This is a good
point to remind ourselves that what the Germans call the Stadtbild is much more
than landmarks. The term refers to the entirety of the urban profile as it relates to its
site, which is sometimes primarily the massing of the outer houses and the layering
of the rooftops. This is notably the case with Italian hill towns.
Height
Height is a relative matter—relative to a landmark’s surroundings. There is pride in
being the tallest building in Europe, or east of the Rockies, or in the world. But the
actual impression the building will make depends on what is around it.
So we have ideal competitions and local ones. The Gothic cathedrals of the Ie-de-
France were keen to surpass each other in nave height, and the number and height of
276 towers. But each one dominated the appearance of its own city unchallenged.
Catherine the Great, in her eponymous new city of Ekaterinoslav which she founded
in 1787, projected a magnificent cathedral “‘an arshin [ca. 28 inches/o.7 m.] higher
than St. Peter’s in Rome.’’*° But the inhabitants would not have experienced this
overscaling: to them, the cathedral would have been just a very tall church.
The skyscraper contest is, again, both generic and place-specific. Every year we
hear of one somewhere in the world that supersedes all others in height. But the
actual fight for the skyline happens locally, as the IDS Building crushes Foshay’s
obelisk in downtown Minneapolis, or the Sears Tower overwhelms the competition
in Chicago, the very cradle of skyscraping.
arte IEE
It tg does not do for skyscrapers, of course, but here too there are home remedies. In
England the height of the tall building was set for a long while by the r00-foot (30 m.)
length of the fireman’s ladder. And when Cambridge University proposed in 1962 to
build three high towers on the New Museums site, “a number of balloons were sent
up to the heights to which it was proposed to build, so that some probable effects
290 Los Angeles (California), City Hall,
of the building could be judged.’’** The specter was scary enough to induce the
1926. The building has been overtopped
since 1956, when the height limit in effect
planning authority to reject the towers.
since 1911 was lifted, by a forest of office More sophisticated devices are the photomontage, where doctored pictures show
highrises. the new buildings in place and juxtaposed to familiar extant landmarks. This form
No portion of any building or structure located within one mile of the center of
the State Capitol Building shall exceed the elevation of the base of the columns of
said Capitol Building ... . This prohibition shall not apply to any flagpoles,
communications towers, church spires, elevator penthouses, and chimneys
exceeding such elevation, when approved as conditional uses.
Similar legislation in Little Rock, Arkansas, the following year stated that, ‘‘Since
the symbolic importance of the Capitol Building is greatly dependent on the visual
prominence of the Capitol dome as a unique form on the city skyline, no new
development should extend above the base of the dome.’’?S
The one American exception, as always, is the federal city of Washington, D.C.
It is the nation’s horizontal city, thanks to an unrepealed Act of 1910 which set
the maximum building height at 130 feet (39.6 m.), similar to that of Boston and
Chicago at the time. There is no mention in the Act of the skyline or the Capitol or
any other monument. The alleged correspondence with the height of the Capitol
dome is wide off the mark, since that is 315 feet (96 m.). But the Act has served the
city well. Attempts by the real estate and building industry lobbies to revise the
figure upward have been effectively counterbalanced by the preservation movement,
which fought to declare all of the L’Enfant plan off limits to highrise development
and push beyond until the surrounding rim of hills.
Shape
The general mass and shape of buildings is a good device to distinguish different
competing programs within one historical frame—castle versus town hall—or
else the supercession of one regime or historical era by another—Brunelleschi’s
Piao cathedral dome in the medieval context of Florence. In strident shifts of power,
incoming regimes will try to invent some skyline feature to set themselves apart from
the rest of history. The Fascists proposed (unsuccessfully) the ‘Torre Littoria” as a
device for appropriating the skyline of Italian cities.
In Moscow, the Palace of the Soviets was intended to transfix the urban skyline
upon one landmark. Iofan’s 1933 design featured a squat three-tiered tower, with a
GZ EES URBAN SK
Ya UNE
60-foot (18 m.) high figure of “the Emancipated Proletarian” capping its fagade. A
new design the following year stretched the palace vertically, and crowned it with a 295
260-foot (79 m.) high statue of Lenin in what would become the canonical pose—
one arm cradling a sheaf of papers, the other extended toward his audience and the
future. This revised monument became the focal point for the 1935 “Stalin” Plan of
Moscow. Construction began in 1937, but the palace became a victim of the war.
In the Twenties, the young Weimar republic also sought to distinguish itself from
the overthrown ancien régime in Berlin by promoting for the heart of the city the
dashing new building type of the office tower, which was touted as the symbol of
“big city democracy.’’ Several competitions were held to give the city a highrise
profile. “The people pant under their daily burden,” Martin Wagner wrote in 1922,
“but the architects—dream! They build high towers. The idea of highrises and
towers has seized them. As they formerly planned and built the Bismarck towers, so
now company and office buildings rise towerlike into the sky, albeit a sky of
paper.’°* The proposals were freely inventive, abstract forms consciously removed
from the historicist skyscrapers of America. The most striking project was Mies
van der Rohe’s glass skyscraper, prophetic of the reflective highrise surfaces of 292
the period after the Second World War.
But the Weimar years passed without installing beacons of this originality. The
company buildings that were built were by and large stocky piles almost never over
ten stories high, located not where city designers had planned with an eye to
redefining the skyline of Berlin, but at the site of company headquarters or of priorly
owned land parcels. By the time of the Nazi takeover in 1933, the design of highrises
emphasized the horizontal floor lines. The new regime disdained the skyscraper as
un-German, and used it inconspicuously. On the great axis planned by Hitler and
Speer, the two projected tall buildings were for mundane destinations—a hotel and 263
the office component of the Army High Command—and set back from the main
building walls of the avenue.
After the War, West Germany welcomed the tall building although it resolved to
keep it out of the old historic centers. The debate within the German Democratic
Republic was more complicated. According to the reconstruction law of 1950,
“political, cultural and administrative facilities were to be located in city centers .
and the silhouette was to be characterized by major monumental buildings.”*” A
skyscraper of some sort was important to have in this ensemble, in order to
distinguish the skyline of regional administrative centers. Local preferences were
sometimes at odds with these broad policies. In Dresden, for example, city officials
favored the historic preservation of the bombed city, which would mean the
restitution of the old skyline, and resisted the desires of the Communist Party and
especially the central government for a dominant modern tower that would have
disrupted the historic atmosphere.**
At any rate, plans to place a single tower for the Party’s centralized apparatus in
Berlin, Dresden, Magdeburg and Stalinstadt, and in other satellite capitals like Sofia
292 Ludwig Mies van der Rohe, entry ng
and Bucharest, were never realized. But the concept of a unique skyline-crowni
for the 1922 Friedrichstrasse station
competition, Berlin. Mies’s proposal
tower block survived the fall of Stalin and of Socialist Realism. Under subsequent
would have added a revolutionary glass regimes a Modernist idiom was embraced, and the iconography of bureaucratic
and steel skyscraper to the traditional power shifted to one of scientific and technological prowess. The signature towers
center of Berlin. The project, ignored by were now designed as industrial and technical research headquarters. Two were
the competition’s jurors, 1s said to have built in East Germany, on university campuses. In Jena the skyscraper was circular,
been inspired by the sight of American symbolic of the lens and so the local optical industry; in Leipzig, a publishing center,
steel-framed highrises under construction
. it was triangular to symbolize the open book. Meantime, the parallel use of towers
blocks
as housing units was accorded a homey symbolism. Of his highrise residential
Approach
This issue concerns the direct experience of skyline features by the visitor to the city.
The traditional city was small and was experienced more directly because it was
286 seen without suburban sprawl. In fact, the walls were usually the first element of the
skyline to be encountered. Today, the cities are large and uncircumscribed, and all
sorts of skyline features begin to appear in the urban fringe before we are allowed to
read the symbolic relationships of the city center even were they to be preserved by
law. In the case of Washington, D.C., for example, the highrise rim that surrounds
the horizontal city of L’Enfant has to be ignored until we glimpse the Monument and
the Capitol dome. Today there is also a need to announce cities to freeway drivers 293 Urbino (Italy), two views from
speeding toward them at some odd angle and extravagant level. Aerial views of cities Civitates Orbis Terrarum (1587), from the
have also become so commonplace that canonizing those particular images from the south (top) and east (above). By the mid-
plea sky proved unavoidable. Cameron’s Above series is today’s equivalent of Feininger’s 16th century the standard image of the city
or Stieglitz’s skyline images. had shifted from the east-facing vista, with
Traditionally, there were three kinds of urban skyline views that mattered— its emphasis on the town and its cathedral,
1s.5,6 those you had from approach roads by land; waterfront views along ariver or the to the south view dominated by the ducal
seacoast; and the views to be had from high vantage points within the city limits and palace and its towered frontispiece.
268 in the environs, places like the Pincio and the Janiculum in Rome, Brunate in Como,
and Montmartre in Paris. The earliest views of Paris are, in fact, from Montmartre
(1415 ff.).** Besides natural viewing platforms, the city looked down upon itself from
the summits of tall buildings. Climbing belfries and domes has been a popular sport
for hundreds of years. The modern case involves, of course, the highrise. The
rooftop observatory of the RCA Building at Rockefeller Center in New York City
“was the nation’s most extensive; the building’s length gave nearly half a million
yearly visitors ample room to stroll.’’*? At San Francisco’s Empire Hotel, the “Sky
Room” restaurant with its 360-degree view (from about 1938) provided the model
for the later revolving restaurants which will find their ultimate perch, as we saw, on
telecommunications towers and towers specifically designed for dining to a view.
P1.32 Views from the water are often panoramic and progressively revelatory. The
urban skyline is the fixed element of an ambience in motion: water and sky make a
flattering frame for the meanest city-form. The distant silhouette becomes richer
and more varied as the vessel draws near. An effective skyline is therefore one which
called for and the changes in zoning practices were not forthcoming, so these 295 An artist’s conception of the
projects remained on the boards. Even now voluntary negotiating techniques are reconstruction of Moscow, ca. 1950. The
largely ineffectual in the orderly dispersal of tall buildings. These include the view looks southwest over the center of
transfer of the right to use a property’s potential for development to another the city, with the Kremlin in the
property, which is usually a way to save a historic building; and the encouragement foreground. The unrealized Palace of the
Soviets is to the right of the river; the 36-
of dispersal by rewarding developers who are willing to build in an area away from
story skyscraper of Moscow Unwversity,
the CBD with tax reductions, tax credits, or delayed payments.
completed in 1953, at the top left. The
Moscow also picked up on this strategy of the citywide composition of a modern other three skyscrapers are, from left to
skyline with a public determination of where the tall buildings will go. There, the right, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs (27
scheme could be, and was, realized. Having abandoned, after the Second World stories, built 1951), the Hotel Ukraina (29
War, the plans for a centralized skyline fixed upon the Palace of the Soviets with its stories, 1956), and the Pl. Vosstaniya
295) colossal Lenin atop, a new proposal was advanced in 1947 for a ‘‘system of highrise apartment tower (18 stories, 1954).
landmark buildings.” The intention was to re-establish the legibility of the skyline as
a means of orientation, a legibility formerly characteristic of Moscow but lost in the
indiscriminate spread of uniform six- to eight-story housing estates during the
Thirties. This “necklace of vertical benchmarks” was strung along Moscow’s outer
ring boulevard, the Sadovoye Koltso, with a single more distant highrise—that of
the University—serving as the terminus of the new urban axis which extended in a
series of broad boulevards from Dzerzhinsky Square just northwest of the Kremlin
toward the Lenin Hills.
296 above right Warsaw’s Palace of Eight city-edge highrises were planned for strategic points—nine if we include the
Culture, 1952-55. The diagrams compare comparatively stubby tower of the Hotel Peking (1946-50). All but one were built.
it to some of the city’s historic landmarks Had the Palace of the Soviets been realized in Moscow, the resulting skyline would
(a) in absolute size, and (b) in relative have repeated, on a grandiose scale, the historic silhouette of the Kremlin: an
scale, as seen from an approach to the city ensemble of smaller towers arrayed along the palace walls, encircling the 265-foot
along the eastern bank of the Vistula. (80 m.) high Ivan the Great Belltower which was once the tallest structure in Russia
and was visible at a distance of 15 miles (25 km.).
The completed skyscrapers serve to celebrate entry into the city. Six occur at the
intersection of radial highways with the ring road, and three of those are in close
proximity to railway stations. Beyond this visual rationale, the buildings do not feel
obliged to adopt a single function. Three (counting the Peking) are hotels, two are
ministries, two are apartment blocks, and one is a university. Pleased with the
spacing and form of these tall buildings, and anxious to set them apart from the
skyscrapers of the U.S.S.R.’s ideological adversary, Soviet authorities, through the
Soviet Encyclopedia of 1954, were therefore able to denounce the American
skyscraper (Neboskreb, literally “cloud-scraper”’) as a symbol of capitalist greed
whose disorderly cluster destroys community values and urban quality.*°
The standard form of the freestanding Soviet skyscraper features a rectangular
body with recessed stages toward the top, culminating in some sort of thin spire.
“Wedding cake” is the inevitable nickname, and the Germans speak of “the confec-
away, what new monuments to the modern age could one conceive that would have 297 above left Project for the Centennial
some of the value-laden publicness and social significance of churches and city halls? Tower, by Clark, Reeves and Company,
For a while, cities tried to compete according to the standards set by the new tended for the Philadelphia Centennial
urban scale. The Sacré-Coeur church in Paris not only has a 272-foot (83 m.) dome, Exposition of 1876; from Scientific
higher than the towers of Notre-Dame, but it also sits on a hill 340 feet (104 m.) American, January 1874.
300 above the level of the Seine. Daniel Burnham’s projected new City Hallinhis Chicago 298 above centre Original design for the
Plan of 1909 looms above the skyscrapers with a towering dome several times their Eiffel Tower in Paris, 1884. The idea came
height. One strategy was to abandon the city proper as too cluttered visually for any from Maurice Koechlin and Emile
meaningful civic imprint and to rely on some extra-urban landmark instead. The Nouguiere, two engineers in Eiffel’s office.
Sacre-Coeur qualifies, but more to the point is the great Christ of Rio or, more They show their tower—which —
recently, the statue of the Motherland atop the Ukrainian Museum of the History of erected, in a slightly modified form, for the
the Great Patriotic War (1941-45) on a hillside at the edge of Kiev. But the contest ieee Exposition 8[785)—0° 216s aa x
could not be joined in earnest, and the competitive swagger of the private world of 7°’8 Teg Gari Be sbruchares Sich ag
business enslaved the skyline. plies ae ee Hes oe
The one notable rgth-century initiative to redress the balance has to do with the re Ae ea Se
persistent vision of creating a prodigy of modern inspiration—one that would serve ;
as advertisement for, and monument to, the spectacular advances in engineering 77? above Turin (italy) ibe Mote
ushered in by the new metal technology. The great metal bridges, especially those ee TRO 0, $0 Matias Vee
which perfected suspension systems, were already supplying memorable landmarks egies ne a ee
in this spirit of technological progress, but their form was not dominant on the Originaiy tensed a ae
urban skyline.
The first impulse was to build monumental towers in commemoration of
important cultural or political events. The pioneering project was by the British
engineer Richard Trevithick for a 1,000-foot (305 m.) columnar tower of gilded
cast iron to honor the Reform Act of 1832. Most other comparable ideas which
followed were connected with international expositions. For example, a ‘‘Centen-
297 nial Tower,” also 1,000 feet high, was proposed for the Philadelphia Centennial
Hall, from Burnham and Bennett’s Plan of started, until the city took over the colossal structure from its Jewish community
Chicago (1909). To keep its prominence disgruntled with the megalomania of the architect that turned their initial
among modern skyscrapers, the City Hall commission into a personal monument. The architect was Alessandro Antonelli,
is given a colossal dome, as high as a 36- and construction stretched from 1863 to 1888. The total height of building, square
story building. dome and spire finally reached 167.5 meters (550 ft.), or about half the height of the
up
Eiffel Tower; but it was all done in traditional masonry construction, and made
of superimposed columnar stories. This “Mole Antonelliana”’ as it is known ts, in
fact, the tallest masonry building in the world. So whereas the Eiffel Tower
represents a century of technological progress, the Mole is a unique structure raised
in an area of Europe that had remained a paleoindustrial backwater.**
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for socialist collectivity would be regimented by the Party and equated with the
State: the great domed Stadtkrone of Hitler’s new Berlin would be, not a 263
supranational People’s House, but the stage where tens of thousands of recharged
citizens would enter into a solemn, mystic union with the Supreme Leader of the
German Nation.
Actually, a chief aim of the Nazi propagandists in flirting with Tautian ideas was
to endow with spiritual character new factory towns like the Volkswagen works at
Wolfsburg and the Hermann-Goering steel works, now the town of Salzgitter, both
founded in 1938. A Stadtkrone was planned for Wolfsburg on a nearby natural hill,
with a 750-meter (820 yd) long stair-street connecting it with the city; the building of
this street was put in hand in 1941, but nothing came of the Stadtkrone, which was
reminiscent of Leo von Klenze’s Walhalla. The plan for Salzgitter was especially
dependent on Bruno Taut’s utopian ideal, including the city crown. There were two
alternative proposals, one with a monumental structure in the center of town, and
another with a Stadtkrone on an artificial hill opposite the town. Goering pre-
empted the hilltop for a flak tower, and left a garden suburb at the foot of the hill.
Flak towers in fact became the grim Stadtkronen of the early Forties. Vienna raised
six of them in its periphery, paired ina precise citywide triangle. It was the end of the
road for the pure crystalline sky-house of the Tautian brotherhood of man.
SKYSCRAPER CITY
To utopian Expressionists and Nazi purists alike, the American skyscraper was an
unacceptable urban symbol. It was a monument to self-interest and the aggressive
competitiveness of capitalism; its symbolism of laissez faire was therefore wholly
inappropriate either for a cooperative socialist future or for selfless loyalty to a
monolithic State.
For these very reasons, the skyscraper cluster was the perfect American
Stadtkrone. It was a little more than one hundred years ago, in the 1870s and 1880s,
that the first skyscrapers began to go up in Chicago and New York—elevator 393
buildings of exceptional height, laboriously built in traditional masonry construc-
tion, and then, from about 1890 on, as fireproofed steel frames on which the exterior
sheath could be hung like a curtain. They were exciting, unconventional urban
structures, and they had many enthusiasts, their architects and clients chief among
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baron John F. Betz instructed his architect to go higher. Girard responded with an
additional six stories, and Betz matched the height and surpassed it. Caught in this
private contest, the City Hall lifted its tower to the unobstructed sky and set Penn’s
statue on top like an archangel of old, defender of heights and dominant symbol of
the city of man.
A second paradox had to do with the forced density of the skyscrapers ina fairly
restricted area of the city center. The intensification of the American central business
district had started before the serious advent of the skyscrapers. Since the middle of
the roth century, the urban core in most cities had slowly been deprived of its
residential component as those who could moved out to the suburbs. The towers
joined an increasingly specialized center-city, which emptied of its working crowds
at the end of the day. The highrise building came to be identified with this CBD as the
monumental accent of the occupational landscape of urban America.
The density of the CBD enhanced the competitive challenge of the skyscraper. To
make your statement in the company of others, to take your position in a tight
26 an display of image buildings—that is what gave the whole exercise its energy, and the
American city its cumulative symbol of capitalist power.
A third paradox had to do with the architectural nature of the skyscraper. Ideally
it was a midspace thing, meant to be admired from all sides and to command a large
visual territory. But practically it had to function within the relatively fine-grained
checkerboard of the American city and the block structure that came with it. The
more tall buildings were crammed into the CBD, the more each one was deprived of
this breathing space and of the impact its distinctive shape might make. The more
tall buildings respected the logic of the grid and the street channels it created, the
more they would be forced to function as space-defining, rather than midspace,
masses.
As an image-making tower in its own right, the skyscraper will ultimately give us
Dallas or Vancouver—a collection of tall objects concerned with the visual effect
they are creating among others who posture in like manner, keen on holding a
distinctive place in the skyline as it will appear on photographs and T-shirts, or
from the revolving restaurant of the space needle. As a standard urban unit, the
skyscraper will be intent on marking the pre-established prospects of the urban
form, or re-creating such familiar prospects. This means that a certain regularity
and sameness will be sought for the tall buildings, and the attention will be for the
near- and middle-range effects, experienced from within the city-form, rather than
the distant skyline specter.
For the starkest effect, the freestanding tower should rise alone in the center of the
city-form, and define it as the Gothic cathedrals did the towns of the Ile-de-France or
the dome of St. Paul’s defined London until recently. But what modern institution
might deserve such distinction?
The State had little use for the skyscraper, unwilling to transpose to its mastlike
form the symbolic eminence of the state house or the city hall. Even in this post- Ertyy
Bris
marrying church and office tower. The Chicago Temple by Holabird and Roche 307
(192.4), for the First Methodist Church, did just that. And there were sky churches in
Miami, Pittsburgh, Minneapolis, and the Broadway Temple in New York City.
But beyond the improbability of converting the skyscraper form as generally built
into a credible house of God, what was problematic about a highrise church was that
in America, unlike Europe’s cathedral cities, the concept of a singleminded religious
focus, which had existed in Colonial Spanish cities and the New England townships
with their meeting house, was abandoned. The young nation disallowed centralized
religion, and made God at home in multisectarian neighborhoods. To restore the
Cross to the skyline, cities would have had to endure the same spectacle as
Newspaper Row, as Methodists, Catholics, Episcopalians, and all the others
challenged the height of rival towers in order to claim the sky.
A cathedral of learning? It was tried once, and is still there, in Pittsburgh, an
irregularly tapering mass of 535 feet (163 m.), in a dress of textured limestone on a
massive steel frame cased in concrete (1926-27). It was meant, as its program put It,
“to express the meaning of a University as a great high building,” and its ground
floor is taken up bya vast hall in the guise of a Gothic cathedral, ringed by eighteen
classrooms each designed in a different national style to celebrate Pittsburgh’s
multinational heritage.
But the true message of the skyscraper in America was the celebration of one
man’s enterprise. In the end, the most suitable iconography for the American
Stadtkrone was American business. Wilbur Foshay, the kitchen-utensils magnate
from Minneapolis, put all his fortune into an obelisk building, his name indelibly
engraved on all four sides of it, the tower in the city at the time—even if the building
TOWERS OF GLASS
The demise of these civilities lay, unforeseen, in the impassioned prophecies of
young European radicals on the architectural fringe, who could see no possible
compromise between the skyscraper form and traditional urban space-making.
The Futurists were first. Their concepts inchoate, their images of a new urban
environment fragmentary, theirs was nonetheless the first theoretical utterance of
the multilevel, apocalyptic skyscraper city worshipping motion and machine. ‘We
must invent and rebuild ex novo our modern city ... and the modern building like a
would not allow for the enclosure of space in the traditional manner of the city. Le
Corbusier had no quarrel with the arrival of the skyscraper city as installed on the
grid of Manhattan. He approved of the concentration and single-mindedness of a
highrise business district. But the skyscraper was not the definer of public spaces. In
his City of Tomorrow (1924) he shows us a business core consisting of twenty-four
skyscrapers, all of them alike. They are standing, not in the thick of an old city, but in
vast open parks. They are experienced from fast-speed motorways. And they are
made of glass. He writes:
Here we have, not the meager shaft of sunlight which so faintly illumines the
dismal streets of New York, but an immensity of space. ... Here is the c1Ty with
its crowds living in peace and pure air, where noise is smothered under the foliage
of green trees.... There is sky everywhere... Their outlines softened by distance,
the skyscrapers raise immense geometrical fagades all of glass.
This vivid Modernist interpretation of the skyscraper city lived on, unrealized but
palpably imaginable thanks to Le Corbusier’s drawings and words, until the end of
the Second World War. Then Americans went out for it—and so did Europe. The
invention in the Fifties of thick float glass by British glass companies fulfilled
Modernist predictions of a transparent architecture, and advances in skyscraper
engineering removed height restrictions on technical grounds.
In the United States, the home of the skyscraper, glass towers began to rise in
plazas of their own, the plazas linked into private interiorized office parks; and slabs
were mounted on tall podia, a formula popularized by Lever House in New York
(1951-52). The historicist sheaths were denounced and dropped—and along with
them, the expressive crowns that had livened the skyline. Reticulate or vertically
striated, and always flat-topped, the new generation of metal-and-glass cages—
towers and slabs alike—sat in their own pools of space unmindful of pre-extant
avenue or square. The urban renewal policies of the Fifties and Sixties made room
for them. We tore down the old city and built the new in an impoverished
celebration of the Modernist “‘city in the park””—without the park.
When the Seventies sought to make amends for these immense squared off stacks
of rental floors, these “decapitated” skyscrapers, with a sort of expressionist
Modernism, and went for oval or shiplike shapes and cantilevered or raked tops,
nothing was gained for the clarity of urban structure. We were caught in the one-
of-each syndrome, which made for a more lively skyline but did little for the
groundline. And the Post-Modern historicism of the Eighties went no deeper than
mere cladding. Only a few gestures were made to address traditional urban
typologies. Philip Johnson, in the most noteworthy example, deftly related the lobby
of the AT & T Building (1978) to the channel of Madison Avenue. For all the
notoriety of the broken pediment at the top, it was this deference to the street
channel that linked the AT & T back to those versatile urban landmarks of the
Thirties—the Empire State, the RCA, the McGraw-Hill—that could fit in and stand
out at the same time.
The European case was traumatic. Here there had been none of the intervening
American stages of easing the skyscraper into the city fabric. Also, the European
cities were much older, so the sudden postwar contrast was more of a shock. And
&
pee
312 Frankfurt (Germany), the modern Moscow and Bratislava to Rotterdam and Stevenage. Combined with towers in the
skyline against the lines of the historic city. grands ensembles of France, they concretized a history-free urban order. The
German “‘success”’ was also qualified. In most of the major cities, it is the historic
center—the Altstadt—only that escaped. Right next to it the skyscrapers often
make their stand. In Frankfurt the hitherto essentially low-rise Westend has 31
acquired a Manhattan-type skyline which dominates the Altstadt itself. In Munich,
on the other hand, the highrise buildings are well to the east of the Altstadt, and the
government offices in Bonn are grouped in compounds on fringe locations and along
Adenauerallee between the old established centers of Bonn and Bad Godesberg.*
INTRODUCTION (pp. 9-41) 1. “ORGANIC” PATTERNS (pp. 43-93) 27. W. M. Bowsky, A Medieval Italian Commune
(Berkeley/London 1981), 295.
i. L. Mumford, The City in History (New York/ 1. F. Castagnoli, Orthogonal Town-Planning in Anti- 28. J. W. Reps, Town Planning in Frontier America
London 1961), 423. quity (Cambridge, Mass./London 1971), 124. (Princeton 1969), 80.
2. See Kostof, “Urbanism and Polity: Medieval Siena 2. R. M. Delson, New Towns for Colonial Brazil 29. ibid., 167.
in Context,” International Laboratory for Architecture (diss., Syracuse Univ., N.Y., 1979), 90. 30. Cited in M. Aston and J. Bond, The Landscape of
and Urban Design Yearbook, 1982, 66-73. 3. “The Urban Street Pattern as a Culture Indicator: Towns (London 1976), 186. See also D. Tomkinson,
3. See Kostof, Do Buildings Lie? Hegel’s Wheel and Pennsylvania, 1682-1815,” Annals of the Association of “The Landscape City,” Journal of the Town Planning
Other Fables, The John William Lawrence Memorial American Geographers 60.3, Sept. 1970, 428-46. Institute, May 1959.
Lectures, 9 (New Orleans 1980). 4. W. Braunfels, Urban Design in Western Europe, 31. A. Fein, Landscape into Cityscape (New York
4. O. Grabar, The Formation of Islamic Art (New transl. K. J. Northcott (Chicago/London 1988), 6. 1967), 329.
Haven/London 1973), 69. 5. H. Gaube, Iranian Cities (New York 1979), 57. 32. Cited by Peter Marcuse in Planning Perspectives
5. K. Lynch, A Theory of Good City Form (Cam- 6. M. W. Barley, ed., European Towns (London By 98751302.
bridge, Mass./London 1981), 73-98. 1977), 193-96. 33. Architectural Review 163, June 1978, 361-62.
6. M. P. Conzen, “Morphology of Nineteenth- 7. Quoted by H. Blumenfeld in Town Planning 34. All quotations in R. Plunz, A History of Housing
Century Cities,” in R. P. Schaedel et al., eds., Urbaniza- Review, April 1953, 44. in New York City (New York 1990), 117-18.
tion in the Americas from the Beginnings to the Present 8. See Sherry Olson, “Urban Metabolism and Mor- 35. J. Nolen, New Towns for Old (Boston 1927), 93.
(The Hague 1980), 119. phogenesis,” Urban Geography 3.2, 1982, 87-109. 36. For the Greenbelt Towns, see J. L. Arnold, The
7. H. Carter, The Study of Urban Geography (1972; 9. Lynch (Intro. n.5 above), 95. New Deal in the Suburbs (Columbus, Ohio, 1971).
3rd ed., London 1981), 335. 10. For the Weiss argument, see his ‘““Organic Form, 37. See C. Tunnard and B. Pushkarev, Man-Made
8. ibid., 333. Scientific and Aesthetic Aspects,” Daedalus 89.1, America (New Haven 1963), 9off.
9. See especially “The Use of Town Plans in the Winter 1960, 176-90. 38. G.R. Collins and C. C. Collins, Camillo Sitte and
Study of Urban History,” in H. J. Dyos, ed., The Study 11. Perspecta 6, 1960, 53. the Birth of Modern City Planning (1965; repr. New
of Urban History (London 1968), 113-30; see also 12. G. L. Burke, The Making of Dutch Towns York 1986), 120-21.
Kostof, “‘Cities and Turfs,” Design Book Review 10, (London 1956), 33. The following discussion of Dutch 39. P. Lavedan, Histoire de l’urbanisme, Renais-
Fall 1986, 35-39. urban typologies is based on this book, and on A. M. sance et temps modernes (Paris 1959), 126.
to. See below, Ch.2, n.5o. Lambert, The Making of the Dutch Landscape (London 40. In a letter of 1921, quoted by Jean Dethier in L.
11. See F. Braudel, The Structures of Everyday Life 1971). Carl Brown, ed., From Madina to Metropolis (Prince-
(London 1981/New York 1985), 515-20 13. See D. Ward, “The Pre-Urban Cadaster and the ton 1973), 203.
12. See J. E. Vance, Jr., “Land Assignment in the Urban Pattern of Leeds,” Annals of the Association of 41. Quoted in J. Tyrwhitt, ed., Patrick Geddes in
Precapitalist, Capitalist, and Postcapitalist City,” Econ- American Geographers 52.2, June 1962, 150-66. India (London 1947), 17.
omic Geography 47, 1971, 101-20. 14. Quoted by A. King inR. Ross and G. J. Telkamp, 42. Werner Knapp, cited by C. F. Otto in Journal of
13. F. E. lan Hamilton in R. A. French and Hamil- eds., Colonial Cities (Dordrecht/Lancaster 1985), 26. the Society of Architectural Historians 24.1, March
ton, eds., The Socialist City (Chichester 1979), 200. 15. “The Morphogenesis of Iranian Cities,” Annals 1965, 72.
14. Archaeology, Nov.—Dec. 1987, 38-45. of the Association of American Geographers 69.2, June 43. See R. Smelser, “How Modern were the Nazis?
15. See A. Wright in G. W. Skinner, ed., The City in 1979, 208-24. DAF Social Planning and the Modernization
Late Imperial China (Palo Alto, Calif., 1977), 33. 16. See R. J. McIntosh, “Early Urban Clusters: Question,” German Studies Review 13.2, May 1990,
16. See K. Polanyi et al., Trade and Market in the Arbitrating Social Ambiguity,” to be published in 291-92.
Early Empires (Glencoe, Ill., 1957). Journal of Field Archaeology. 44. The piece was called “Construction des villes,” a
17. See, e.g., P. Wheatley in R. W. Steel and R. 17. Thucydides II.8. direct translation of the word Stddte-Bau in Sitte’s title.
Lawton, eds., Liverpool Essays in Geography (London 18. See Wheatley (Intro. n.17 above), 335. It was begun in r9ro, and in the first outline sent to his
19. See C. Winters, “Traditional Urbanism in the teacher L’Eplattenier, Le Corbusier (then Charles
1967), 315—45- we Jeanneret) says that he intends to “cite plans and views
18. G. Sjoberg, The Preindustrial City (New York/ North Central Sudan,” Annals of the Association of
American Geographers 67.4, Dec. 1977, 517: in the manner of Camillo Sitte’-—a promise he kept.
London 1960), 67-68. For a major critique of Sjoberg’s
20. The following paragraphs are based on B. S. He based the La Chaux-de-Fonds suburb on Hellerau
thesis, see P. Wheatley in Pacific Viewpoint 4.2, Sept. outside Dresden, which he knew well. See H. Allen
1963, 163-88. Hakim, Arabic-Islamic Cities, Building and Planning
transl. F. Rosenthal, vol. 2 Principles (London 1986). Brooks, ‘“Jeanneret and Sitte: Le Corbusier’s Earliest
19. The Muqaddimah,
215 ibid, 95. Ideas on Urban Design,” in H. Searing, ed., In Search
(New York 1958), 235.
22. See R. Fonseca, “The Walled City of Old Delhi,” of Modern Architecture (New York/London 1982),
20. Wheatley (n.17 above), 318.
21. M. Aston and J. Bond, The Landscape of Towns Landscape 18.3, Fall 1969, 12-25. 278-97.
23. R. Arnheim, The Dynamics of Architectural 45. D.1. Scargill, Urban France (New York/London
(London 1976), 21. 1983), 128.
22. American Journal of Sociology 44, 1938, 8. Form (Berkeley/London 1977), 164.
24. See P. Andrews et al., “Squatters and the
23. L. Mumford, The Culture of Cities (New York/
London 1938), 3. Evolution of a Lifestyle,” Architectural Design, 1973, 2. THE GRID (pp. 95-157)
24. Braudel (n.11 above), 481-82. ; NO. 1, L6—25.
25. See E. Griffin and L. Ford, “A Model of Latin 1. The City of Tomorrow, transl. F. Etchells (enlarged
25. See Kostof, “Junctions of Town and Country,’ 1929 ed., repr. London 1987), 5-6.
in J.-P. Bourdier and N. AlSayyad, eds., Dwellings, American City Structure,” Geographical Review 70.4,
Oct. 1980, 397-422. 2. Cited by S. E. Rasmussen in D. Walker, The
Settlements and Tradition: (Lanham/London 1989), Architecture and Planning of Milton Keynes (London
26. See H. Dietz, ‘Urban Squatter Settlements in
107-33.
26. Lynch (n.5 above), 36. Peru,” Journal of Inter-American Studies 11, 1969, 1982), 7.
3. This description is based on R. S. Johnston, ““The
27. American Behavioral Scientist 22.1, 1978, 134- Spysiag Ace
NOTES - 337
Ancient City of Suzhou,” Town Planning Review 54.2, either case, the city form was a simple grid with the initial expense of the enterprise, or the extent of his
April 1983, 194-222. church and the plaza at the core, a hotel which was personal property. There was a class hierarchy of
4. See J. Puig i Cadafalch, “Idees teoriques sobre usually the first building to go up, and a jail. See P. proprietors, first settlers, and latecomers.
urbanisme en el segle XIV: un fragment d’Eiximenis,” Deffontaines, ‘The Origin and Growth of the Brazilian 47. See C. Tunnard, The City of Man (2nd ed., New
in Homenatge a Antoni Rubio i Lluch (Barcelona 1936), Network of Towns,” Geographical Review 28, July York 1970), 118-19; Reps (Ch.1 n.28 above), 235-38.
48. S. Hurtt, “The American Continental Grid:
1-9. 1938, 390ff. ; 1983,
City Edge” in the Form and Meaning,” Threshold 2, Autumn
5. For these details, see G. P. R. Métraux, Western a See the chapter on “The
Greek Land Use and City-Planning in the Archaic companion volume to the present work, The City 2-40.
Period (New York 1978). Assembled. : 49. Burke (Ch.1 n.12 abgve), 55-57.
6. E. A. Gutkind, Urban Development in Western 34. J. F. Drinkwater in Roman Urban Topography 50. K. W. Forster, “From ‘Rocca’ to ‘Civitas’: Urban
Europe, Great Britain, and the Netherlands (New York (n.18 above), 53. Planning at Sabbioneta,” L’arte, March 1969, 5—40.
35. Built Form (n.7 above), 193. This Gonzaga emblem was expressed architecturally in
1971); 35+ e the maze gardens of the Palazzo del Te in Mantua, the
7. J. W. Reps summarized by M. P. Conzen, in T. R. 36. D. Friedman, Florentine New Towns (New
Slater, ed., The Built Form of Western Cities (Leicester York/London 1988), 51. private estate of the Gonzaga, and in the famous ceiling
37. The term used for this division, per strigas, was of the Sala del Labirinto in the Ducal Palace there.
1990), 146. 51. C. Platt, The English Medieval Town (London/
8. Braunfels (Ch.1 n.4 above), 174-75. actually coined by a modern scholar, F. Castagnoli (see
9. This discussion of the Mormons mostly depends Ch.1 n.1 above). Striga in Latin means “a long line of New York 1976), 32-33-
on Reps (Ch.x n.28 above), 410-25. grass or corn cut down, a swath,” by extension a 52. SeeE. T. Price, “The Central Courthouse Square
to. See H. Lilius, The Finnish Wooden Town “plough furrow.” In Roman parlance the system of in the American County Seat,” Geographical Review,
(Rungsted Kyst 1985), 155. strigae and scamnae referred to an old method of land Jan. 1968, 29-60.
11. American Notes (London 1850 ed.), 67. division adopted especially in public arable land in the 53. See S. Tobriner, The Genesis of Noto (London
12. Buls, Esthétique des villes (Brussels 1893), 8-9. provinces, where strips were arranged lengthwise 1982); and his ‘‘Angelo Italia and the Post-Earthquake
13. Sitte ed. Collins (Ch.1 n.38 above), 126. (strigae) and breadthwise (scammnae) in relation to the Reconstruction of Avola in 1693,” in Le arti in Sicilia nel
14. See P. Groth, “‘Streetgrids as Frameworks for surveyor’s orientation. See O. A. W. Dilke in Geogra- Settecento, Studi in Memoria di Maria Accascina
Urban Variety,’ Harvard Architecture Review 2, phical Journal, Dec. 1961, 424n. (Palermo 1985), 73-86.
Spring 1981, 68-75. 38. See Dilke, “Ground survey and measurement in 54. See principally P. Boudon, La Ville de Richelieu
15. J. E. Vance, Jr., This Scene of Man (New York Roman towns,” in Roman Urban Topography (n.18 (Paris 1972).
1977), 44-45. above), pt. II, 6-13. 55. M. Beresford, New Towns of the Middle Ages
16. See P. J. Parr, “Settlement Patterns and Urban 39. See F. Boucher, “Medieval Design Methods, (London/New York 1967), 147-
Planning in the Ancient Levant,” in P. J. Ucko et al., 800-1560,” Gesta 11.2, 1972, 43, fig. 15; and amend- 56. A. Ruegg, ed., Materialien zur Studie Bern
eds., Man, Settlement and Urbanism (London 1972). ments by Friedman (above, n.36), 132-33. (privately produced for the 4th-year course of D.
17. Politics Il.5 and VII.x0. 40. See n.36 above. Schnebli and P. Hofer at the Eidg. Technische Hoch-
18. F. Grew and B. Hoblet, eds., Roman Urban 41. For what follows, see P. G. Hamberg, “‘Vitru- schule, Zurich, 1974-75).
Topography (CBA Research Report, 59, 1985), ix—x. vius, Fra Giocondo and the City Plan of Naples,” Acta 57- See S. Muthesius, The English Terraced House
19. See G. Downey, Ancient Antioch (Princeton archaeologica 36, 1965, 105-25. (New Haven/London 1982), 107.
1963), 33-34. 42. The very nomenclature of platea and angiportus 58. C. Bauer, Modern Housing (Boston 1934), 59.
20. Histories VI.31, transl. F. Hultsch and E. S. (Latin for stenopos), first used by Vitruvius (I.vi.t) and For New York generally, see now R. Plunz, A History of
Shuckburgh (Bloomington, Ind., 1962), 484. also in a passage of Caesar’s De bello civile (1.27), must Housing in New York City (New York 1990).
21. Drinkwater in Roman Urban Topography (n.18 refer to the Greek grid (see p.127 above), and not the 59. Cerda, an engineer in the central Government’s
above), 52-53. Roman where there is no such distinction of street department of roads and bridges, elaborated on his
22. The information for this paragraph comes from widths. So even though the blocks in Fra Giocondo’s urban thinking in a book entitled Teoria general de la
Burke (Ch.1 n.12 above), 53-63. woodcut are square, i.e., Roman rather than Greek, the urbanizacion, published in Madrid in 1867; it was
23. See: Isidore, Etymologia 1X.4; Hrabanus, De differentiation of street widths and the use of the words followed by a second volume on the Barcelona plan. A
Universo XV1.4; Vincent of Beauvais, Speculum doctri- platea and angiportus imply that he was thinking of a third volume was left unfinished. The recent focus on
nale VII.4. Greek system. his work started with an exhibition mounted in
24. De regimine principum Il.1. For full text, see 43. The surveyor’s transit, for one thing, was now Barcelona in 1976 on the occasion of the one-hundredth
G. B. Phelan’s transl., On the Governance of Rulers able to fix a topographical feature relative to two or anniversary of his death, for which a catalogue was
(Toronto 1935). more points by simple triangulation. Alberti’s transit published. Two architectural journals in the city also
25. This argument is developed by S. Lang, “‘Sull’ had a circular dial divided into 48 degrees. Leonardo’s dedicated entire issues to Cerda: Cuadernos de arqui-
origine della disposizione a scacchiera nelle citta transit consisted of “‘a circular, dial-like surface with its tectura y urbanismo, nos. 100-101, 1974; and Construc-
medioevali,”’ Palladio 5, 1955, 97-108. circumference divided into eight parts corresponding to cion de la ciudad, Jan. 1977. See also ‘Barcelona:
26. M. Girouard, Cities and People (New Haven/ the eight winds, each further subdivided into eight Planning and Change 1854-1977,” Town Planning
London 1985), 222. degrees. At the center of this disk was a magnetic Review 50, 1979, 185-203.
27. J. W. Konvitz, Cities and the Sea (Baltimore/ compass.” (J. A. Pinto in Journal of the Society of 60. See R. D. McKenzie, Metropolitan Community ,
London 1978), 18. Architectural Historians 35, March 1976, 40.) At the (New York 1933).
28. I owe this reference to the kindness of J. P. beginning of the survey, magnetic north was lined up 61. J. Dahir, The Neighborhood Unit Plan (Russell
Protzen at Berkeley, whose monograph on Ollantay- with the north wind (tramontana). The magnetic Sage Foundation, New York 1947), 22.
tambo is now in press. meridian thus provided a constant reference for obser- 62. ibid., 38.
29. P. Marcuse, “The Grid as City Plan: New York vations taken from a number of different points. Also 63. See A. B. Yeomans, ed., City Residential Land
City and Laissez-faire Planning in the Nineteenth pivoted at the center was a movable sight vane. Alberti Development (Chicago 1916), 105.
Century,” Planning Perspectives 2, 1987, 287-310, esp. had described a process similar to that used by : See his Rehousing Urban America (New York
290-96. For what follows, see also Reps (Ch.1 n.28 Leonardo at Imola in his Descriptio urbis Romae, 1935).
above), 193-203. dating from ca. 1450. Johannes Praetorius’s much 65. Groth (n.14 above), 75, paraphrasing J. P.
30. Mumford (Intro. n.1 above), 422. touted “invention” of the modern surveyor’s transit Hallihan in Annals of the American Academy of
31. On the grid in the United States, see generally M. about 1600 was probably nothing more than the Political and Social Science 133, Sept. 1927, 66.
Conzen (Intro. n.6 above). Also J. C. Hudson, Plains standardization of instruments already in use through- 66. See Hilbersheimer’s The Nature of Cities (Chi-
County Towns (Minneapolis 1985). out the réth century. cago 1955).
32. Also worth mentioning in this context are the 44. Scamozzi was among the first to reverse the 67. Cited by V. M. Lampugnani in Domus 685,
“Sunday towns” (villas do Domingo) of Brazil, created customary graphic differentiation between blocks and July—Aug. 1987, 27.
because of the need for social intercourse on the part of streets by shading the streets and squares rather than the 68. See n.2 above.
the sparse and scattered population of the remote blocks.
hinterland. Most of these towns started with a private 45. J. W. Hall, Japan from Prehistory to Modern
gift of land to the Church made with the donor’s Times (New York 1970), 54. 3. THE CITY AS DIAGRAM (pp. 159-207)
understanding that it would be used to found a town. 46. The township was divided and distributed 1. Soleri’s books include: Arcology: The City in the
There were also towns of lay origin, often carrying the according to merit, the size of each allotment reflecting Image of Man (Cambridge, Mass./London 1969) and
name of the founder (e.g., Paulopolis, Orlandia). In either the relative amount each settler contributed to the The Bridge between Matter and Spirit is Matter
338 - NOTES
Becoming Spirit (Garden City, N.Y., 1973). For an early 25. See G. Michell, ‘‘Jaipur: Form and Origins,” in town. The church was at the opposite end of town, and,
assessment of his work, see Kostof, ‘‘Soleri’s Arcology: N. Gutschow and T. Sieverts, eds., Stadt und Ritual like the state house, was 1,400 feet (427 m.) from the
A New Design for the City?” Art in America 59.2 (Darmstadt 1977), 78-81. center of the town square. When the main buildings are
March-April 1971, 90-95. ’ 26. This is based on J. R. Stilgoe, Common Land- connected by lines, the town plan yields two triangular
2. Workshopper statements in J. Shipsky, “Diary of scape of America, 1580 to 1845 (New Haven/London wings touching at the town square. The planner may
an Arcosanti Experience,” American Institute of Archi- 1982), 43ff. have been Jerome White, Surveyor General of the
tects Journal 71.5, May 1982, 30, 35. 27. Friedman (Ch.2 n.36 above), 201-03. Maryland colony in the 1660s, who had lived for a time
3. Cited in Arts and Architecture 2.4, 1983, 60; and 28. See H. Baron, The Crisis of the Early Italian in Italy. See John Hartsock, ““Vanished Colonial Town
Art in America 67.3, May—June 1979, 67. Renaissance, (rev. ed., Princeton 1966), 200-201. Yields Baroque Surprise,” New York Times, 6 Feb.
4. See chiefly L. Di Sopra, Palmanova (Milan 1983). 29. While they are detailed, they are sometimes 1989.
5. J.S. Buckingham, The Eastern and Western States unclear. The best interpretation is by J. Lassner, in 9. See R. Krautheimer, The Rome of Alexander VII,
of America, | (London 1842), 351; quoted in Carter his Topography of Baghdad in the Early Middle Ages 1655-1667 (Princeton/Guildford 1985), 3-7 and passim.
(Intro. n.7 above), 151-52. (Detroit 1970). For the discussion in the following paragraph, see an
6. This esoteric literature is surveyed in S. Lang’s 30. Lines 1004-9; cited in Lang (n.6 above), 96, n.43. earlier Krautheimer study, “The Tragic and Comic
“The Ideal City from Plato to Howard,” Architectural 31. Lang (n.6 above), 95-96. Scene of the Renaissance,” Gazette des Beaux-Arts, 6th
Review 112, Aug. 1952, 91-101, along with the work of 32. Braunfels (Ch.1 n.4 above), 149-50. ser., vol. 33, 1948, 327-46.
theorists like Filarete, Alberti and Ledoux. She reaches 33. Lynch (Intro. n.5 above), 373. 10. Onians, Bearers of Meaning (Princeton/Cam-
the curious conclusion that her survey proves the 34. ibid., 374-75. bridge 1988), 287ff., esp. 295.
historical absence of an art of building towns, and 35. S. Moholy-Nagy, Matrix of Man (London 1968), 11. Evelyn (n.4 above), 23.
asserts the indifference of the past to town planning as a 76. 12. M. Carlson, Places of Performance (Ithaca,
visual art. Her editors agree, and close with the perverse 36. R.E. Lapp, Must We Hide? (Cambridge, Mass., N.Y./London 1989), 22.
aside that “there do exist, nevertheless, many examples 1949), 161-65. 13. The playwright Victorien Sardou, cited in T. J.
of actual townscape, for which we have to thank 37. See E. Battisti, “San Leucio presso Caserta,” Clark, The Painting of Modern Life (Princeton/London
accident or the intuition of their creators”! Controspazio, Dec. 1974, 50-71. The revolution of 1799 1984), 42.
7. See J. E. Olson, O'Donnell, Andersonville of the interrupted the project. 14. K. Junghanns in Deutsche Architektur 4, 1955,
Pacific (privately published, 1985), 55. 38. M. Foucault, Discipline and Punish, transl. A. 34.
8. See A. H. Leighton, The Governing of Men Sheridan (New York/London 1977), 200, and 195-209 15. Cited in Design Book Review 17, Winter 1989,
(Princeton 1945). in general. 60.
9. U. Bauche et al., eds., Arbeit und Vernichtung 39. See P. V. Turner, Campus, An American Plan- 16. W. Herrmann, Laugier and 18th Century French
(Hamburg 1986). ning Tradition (New York 1984), roxff. Theory (London 1962), 136.
to. The classic account is W. Horn and E. Born, The 40. Singh (n.14 above), 49-51. 17. Quoted by A. Vidler in S. Anderson, ed., On
Plan of St. Gall (Berkeley/London 1979). 41. See J. Pratt, ‘““La Reunion, the Fourierist Last Streets (Cambridge, Mass./London 1978), 38.
11. D. Hayden, Seven American Utopias (Cam- Hurrah,” Arts ¢& Architecture, 2.4, Summer 1984, 18. P. Herlihy, Odessa: A History, 1794-1914 (Cam-
bridge, Mass./London 1976), 77 and passim. 30-33. bridge, Mass., 1986), 140.
19. Braudel (Intro. n.11 above), 498.
12. This and following quotations from A. Holroyd, 42. S. Moholy-Nagy (n.35 above), 75-78, for a
Saltaire and its Founder (Saltaire 1871). general review. The best account of Pemberton and his 20. In a letter from Michele Ferno to the humanist
13. Quoted in L. Benevolo, The Origins of Modern influence on Howard is in J. Rockey, “From Vision to Mario Maffei. I owe this reference to the kindness of Dr.
Town Planning, transl. J. Landry (London 1967), Reality,’ Town Planning Review 54.1, Jan. 1983, Richard Ingersoll.
P26. 83-105. 21. See Kostof, Third Rome, 1870-1950: Traffic and
14. See T. P. Vermaetal., eds., Varanasi through the 43. Hayden (n.11 above), 288-317. For another copy Glory (Berkeley 1973), 18, 60-63.
Ages (Benares 1986), esp. 303-11. For a modern urban of Howard’s diagram, Prozorovska, see above, p.78. 22. For alist, see W. Lotz in Studi offerti a Giovanni
geography of the city, see R. L. Singh, Banaras (Benares 44. H. C. Andersen and E. Hébrard, Creation of a Incisa della Rocchetta (Miscellanea Societa Romana di
World Center of Communication (1912), published a Storia Patria, 23; Rome, 1973), 247ff.
1955). 23. Coach and Sedan (repr. of 1636 ed., London
t5. At Madurai, the central temple to Shiva, the year later in Paris in English and in French (as Création
temple of Minakshi Sundaresvarar, goes back to the d’un centre mondial de communication). See also H. 1925). See also R. Straus, Carriages and Coaches, Their
12th century. For the symbolism of the city’s plan, see S. Barnes, “‘Messrs. Andersen and Hébrard’s Scheme,” History and Their Evolution (London 1912).
Lewandowski, “The Hindu Temple in South India,” in Architectural Review 46, Dec. 1919, 137-42. 24. G. Clay, Close-up: How to Read the American
A. D. King, ed., Buildings and Society (London 1980), 45. M. Maruyama, “Designing A Space Commun- City (Chicago/London 1973, 1980), 42-48.
123-50, esp. 131-34. ity,” The Futurist, Oct. 1976, 273. 25. P. Lewis, New Orleans, The Making of an Urban
16. See, e.g., 1. G. McGee, The Southeast Asian City Landscape (Cambridge, Mass., 1976), 42.
26. American Institute of Architects, Committee on
(London 1967), 29-41.
17. Braunfels (Ch.t n.4 above), 174. See also G.
A
4. THE GRAND MANNER (pp. 209-77) Town Planning, City Planning Progress in the United
Eimer, Die Stadtplanung im schwedischen Ostseereich 1. The story of the founding and development of States, ed. G. B. Ford, (1917), 93, 97:
(Stockholm 1961), 100-104. Washington is best told in J. W. Reps, Monumental 27. ibid., 71-72, 151.
Washington (Princeton 1967). See also an official 28. D. H. Burnham and E. H. Bennett, Plan of
18. The classic discussion remains P. Wheatley, The
history by the National Capital Planning Commission Chicago (Chicago 1909, repr. New York 1970), 89-90.
Pivot of the Four Quarters (Edinburgh 1971/Chicago 29. See C. M. Robinson, Modern Civic Art (New
1972). and F. Gutheim, Worthy of the Nation (Washington,
OE (C2977) York 1903), 224-25.
19. See N. S. Steinhardt in Journal of the Society of - 30. See especially Allan Ceen, “The Quartiere de’
Architectural Historians 45.4, Dec. 1986, 349. 2. M. Coppa, Storia dell’urbanistica. Le eta ellenis-
and T. See, From Court to tiche (Rome 1981), passim. Banchi: Urban Planning in Rome in the First Half of the
20. See P. Wheatley Cinquecento” (diss., Univ. of Pennsylvania, 1977),
Capital (London/Chicago 1978), 113-31. 3. W. L. MacDonald, The Architecture of the
21. Quoted by A. Wright (Intro. n.15 above), 46. The Roman Empire, Il. An Urban Appraisal (New Haven/ 66-88.
London 1986). 31. See M. Quast, “Villa Montalto: Genesi del
most current studies of Chinese imperial cities are by sistema assiale,”’ Atti del XXIII Congresso di Storia
Nancy S. Steinhardt; see her recent book, Chinese 4. J. Evelyn, London Revived, ed. E. S. de Beer,
(Oxford 1938), 30. dell’ Architettura, vol. 1 (Rome 1989), 212-13.
Imperial City Planning (Honolulu 1990). On Chang’an 32. Prior examples in Holland during the 1580s—at
under the Han dynasty, see Wang Zhongshu, Han Reibids344
6. In A Character of England, 1659, the supposed Willemstad and Klundert—where the trees of a square
Civilization (New Haven/London 1982). extended a little way into converging avenues did not
22. The quotations in this and the following para- comments of a French observer; see Evelyn (n.4 above),
catch on. For this and other details that follow, see
graphs come from R. G. Irving, Indian Summer: Henry W. Lawrence, ‘“‘Origins of the Tree-lined Boule-
Lutyens, Baker and Imperial Delhi (New Haven/ j 7. J. A. F. Orbaan, Sixtine Rome (New York 1911),
2-73. vard,” Geographical Review 78.4, Oct. 1988, 355-74.
London 1981), 73, 76- 33. Lawrence (n.32 above), 365.
23. See A. D. King, Colonial Urban Development: d ¢ Recently the claim has been made that the first
capital of Annapolis, St. Mary’s City founded in 1634, 34. F. Loyer, Paris Nineteenth Century, Architecture
Culture, Social Power and Environment (London 1976), and Urbanism, transl. C. L. Clark (New York 1988),
had acquired a Baroque overlay in a carefully laid-out
244-46. plan of the 1660s. The state house sat on a promontory Bilge
24. See J. W. Hall in Far Eastern Ouarterly 15.1, 35. For what follows, I am principally relying on
Nov. 1955, 37-56. near St. Mary’s River, on the highest point of land in the
NOTES - 339
Lawrence (n.32 above). Friedman (Ch.2 n.36 above), 215. 43. Braunfels (Ch.1 n.4 above), 39.
36. See R. J. Favretti, “The Ornamentation of New Miller (Ch.4 n.57 above), 30. 44. Kostof, A History of Architecture (New York/
England Towns: 1750-1850,” Journal of Garden Heers (n.2 above), 188. Oxford 1985), 421-24.
. Frederic A. Delano in The American City Maga- 45. Evelyn (Ch.4 n.4 above), 38. s
History 2.4, 1982, 325-42. Amn
pW
37. Lawrence (n.32 above), 374. zine, Jan. 1926, I. 46. See A. Ling in Town Planning Review 34, April
38. Cited in J. Cracraft, The Petrine Revolution in 7. Quoted in T. A. P. van Leeuwen, The Skyward 1963, 7-18; and J. Gottmann in Geographical Review
Russian Architecture (Chicago/London 1988), 229. Trend of Thought (Cambridge, Mass., 1988), 7. 56, April 1966, 190-212.
39. Loyer (n.34 above), 113, 116. 8. T. Sharp in Town Planning Review, Jan. 1963, 47. Town Planning Review, Oct. 1957, 215-16.
4o. J. Garrard, ed.. The Eighteenth Century in 274. 48. Quoted in Gutkind (p.29 above), 362.
Russia (Oxford 1973), 322ff. : For much of this discussion, I rely on J. Schulz’s 49. C. Robinson and R. H., Bletter, Skyscraper Style
41. J. Babelon in P. Francastel, ed., L’Urbanisme de excellent essay, ‘‘Jacopo de’ Barbari’s View of Venice,” (New York 1975), 23. ;
Paris et l'Europe (Paris 1969), 48. Art Bulletin 60, Sept. 1978, 425-74; see also S. Alpers, 50. Quoted by R. Jay in Journal of the Society of
42. Evelyn (n.4 above), 50. The Art of Describing (Chicago 1983), 152-59. Architectural Historians 46, June 1987, 146.
43. Braunfels (Ch.1 n.4 above), 223. ro. This image is illustrated in J. G. Links, Town- 51. See F. Rosso, Catalogo critico dell’ Archivio
Ade Did...2074 scape Painting and Drawing (London/New York 1972), Alessandro Antonelli (Museo Civico di Torino, Turin
45. See ch.r n.2 above. fig. 18. 1975); and C. L. V. Meeks, Italian Architecture 1750—
46. For citations, ibid., 44, 90, 128 and 67. (I have iz. Among 17th-century collections of city views, 1914 (New Haven 1966), 193-202. .
made minor editorial revisions.) also note Eric Dahlberg’s Suecia antiqua et hodierna, 52. Quoted in D. Kautt, “Stadtkrone oder stadte-
47. H. Blumenfeld in Journal of the Society of published during the 1670s. bauliche Dominante,” Die alte Stadt 2, 1984, 140.
Architectural Historians 4, 1944, 31. 12. Links (n.10 above), 120. 53. Aclear analysis of these arguments will be found
48. The major publication for Turin is A. Cavallari- 13. Schulz (n.9 above), 472. in G. Ricci, La Cattedrale del Futuro, Bruno Taut 1914—
Murat et al., Forma urbana e architettura nella Torino 14. Braunfels (Ch.1 n.4 above), 114ff.; and his essay, 1921 (Rome 1982). See also D. Sharp, Modern Architec-
barocca (Turin 1968). “Anton Wonsams Kolnprospekt von 1531 in der ture and Expressionism (London/New York 1966),
49. P. Portoghesi, Roma barocca (Cambridge, Mass. Geschichte des Sehens,” Wallraf-Richartz Jahrbuch 22, 85-96.
1970), 13. 1960, 115-36. TA B. Taut, Die Stadtkrone (Jena 1919), 51.
50. Cited in Herrmann (n.16 above), 138. 15. See Braunfels (Ch.1 n.4 above), 129-30. 55. Quoted in R. Rainer, Stadtebauliche Prosa
51. Cited by A. B. Correa in Forum et Plaza Mayor 16. O. von Simson, The Gothic Cathedral (New (Tubingen 1948), 144.
dans le monde hispanique (Madrid/Paris 1978), 94. York 1964), Io. 56. Sharp (n.8 above), 91.
52. See A. J. Schmidt, “William Hastie, Scottish 17. See H. Schindler in Journal of the Society of 57. See T. Bender and W. R. Taylor, “Culture and
Planner of Russian Cities,’ Proceedings of the Ameri- Architectural Historians 40.2, May 1981, 138-42. Architecture: Some Aesthetic Tensions in the Shaping
can Philosophical Society 114.3, June 1970, 226-43. 18. See A. Keen, Sir Christopher Wren (London of Modern New York City,” in W. Sharpe and L.
53. Cited by Loyer (n.34 above), 360-61. 1923), 31ff.; M. Whinney, Wren (London/New York Wallock, eds., Visions of the Modern City (Baltimore/
54. See, among others, V. van Rossem in S. Polano, 1971), 66ff. London 1987), 189-219.
ed., Berlage: Opera completa (Milan 1987). 19. Quoted in G. Beard, Our English Vitruvius 58. Modern Civic Art or the City Made Beautiful
55. Evelyn (n.4 above), 39. (Edinburgh 1982), 21. (New York 1903), cited by D. M. Bluestone in Journal
56. See The American Architect 124, Dec. 1923, 486- 20. K. Clark, The Gothic Revival (London 1949; of the Society of Architectural Historians, Sept. 1988,
514, esp. 504. repr. New York 1962), 135. 256.
57. N. Miller, Renaissance Bologna (New York 21. Quoted in G. L. Hersey, High Victorian Gothic 59. Quoted in van Leeuwen (n.7 above), 60.
1989), 53- (Baltimore/London 1972), 94-95. 60. ibid., 30.
58. See H. Friedel, Die Bronzebildmonumente in 22. ibid., 105. 61. See S. Cohen, ““The Tall Building Urbanistically
Augsburg (Augsburg 1974); and Braunfels (Ch.1 n.4 23. See M. Trachtenberg, The Campanile of Flor- Reconsidered,” Threshold 2, Autumn 1983, 6-13.
above), 123-24. ence Cathedral (New York 1971), esp. 174-79. A similar 62. From the catalogue of Citta Nuova, May 1914,
> 59. For a full discussion of Roman arches, see contrast was commonly made in roth-century France text attributed to Sant’ Elia, as quoted in R. Banham,
MacDonald (n.3 above), 75—99. between the civic belltower (beffroi), symbol of civic Theory and Design in the First Machine Age (London
60. Lord Chelmsford, cited in Irving (Ch.3 n.22 liberty, and the church belltower (clocher). 1960), 129.
above), 259. 24. Quoted in C. L. V. Meeks, The Railroad Station 63. Quoted by N. Evenson in H. Allen Brooks, ed.,
61. A. Aman, “Symbols and Rituals in the People’s (New Haven 1956/London 1957), 95. Le Corbusier (Princeton 1987), 244.
Democracies During the Cold War,” in C. Arvidsson 25. See G. Germann, Gothic Revival in Europe and 64. J. G. Hajdu in Town Planning Review 50, 1979,
and L. E. Blomqvist, eds., Symbols of Power: The Britain (London 1972/Cambridge, Mass., 1973), 159. 274.
Esthetics of Political Legitimation in the Soviet Union 26. Meeks (n.24 above), 1o2. 65. See, for example, D. Conway, ed., Human
and Eastern Europe (Stockholm 1987), 48. 27. For water towers, see E. Heinle and F. Leon- Response to Tall Buildings (Stroudsburg, Pa., 1977).
62. The term magistrale means main or arterial road hardt, Towers, A Historical Survey (London/New 66. New York Times, 15 Nov. 1987. Goldberger
in the Slavic languages. It entered the vocabulary of East York 1989), 262-75. claims that the Jahn building transformed “what had
German architects and planners with the Soviet occupa- 28. ibid., 222-57. been the flattest of any American city to one of the ,
tion, and is routinely used in the Fifties and Sixties to 29. E. A. Gutkind, Urban Development in Eastern richest.” Another influential critic, Martin Filler (in
refer to the principal city-center avenue. Europe, Bulgaria, Romania, and the USSR (New York House and Garden, March 1988), considers the building
63. L. Perchik, The Reconstruction of Moscow 1972), 43. offensive: “‘it is not only an egotistical usurpation but
(Moscow 1936), 67. 30. Schmidt (Ch.4 n.52 above), 237. also a visual assault, marring the face of the city for
64. See G. Castillo, “Cities of the Stalinist Empire,” 31. C. M. Zierer in G. W. Robbins and L. D. Tilton, decades to come.”
in N. AlSayyad, ed., Forms of Dominance: On the eds., Los Angeles (Los Angeles 1941), 44. 67. G. Scott, The Architecture of Humanism (Lon-
Architecture and Urbanism of the Colonial Experience 32. J. Pastier in Design Quarterly 140, 1988, 14. don r914; repr. Garden City, N.Y., 1956), 8.
(in press). 33. Sharp (n.8 above), 275. 68. Delano (n.6 above), 8.
65. R. Krier, Urban Space (New York/London 34. D. Marriott quoted in Attoe (n.1 above), 9. 69. Quoted in van Leeuwen (n.7 above), 79.
1979), 19, 89. 35. For both instances, see Attoe (n.1 above), 86.
66. On Bofill, see T. Schuman, ‘“‘Utopia Spurned,” 36. SeeK. H. Hitter, Architektur in Berlin 1900-1933
Journal of Architectural Education 40.1, Fall 1986, (Dresden 1987), 298ff.
20-29. 37. J. M. Diefendorf in Urban Studies 26, 1989, 139.
67. Cited in Domus, Jan. 1986, 4-5. 38. See generally F. Bergmann in Deutsche Architek-
68. See J. Abrams in Lotus International 50.2, 1986, tur 5, 1956, 552~57; and for Dresden in particular, J.
6-26. Paul in J. M. Diefendorf, ed., Rebuilding Europe’s
Bombed Cities (Basingstoke 1990), 170-89.
5. THE URBAN SKYLINE (pp. 279-335) 39. See C. Borngraber, “Residential Buildings in
Stalinallee,” Architectural Design 52.11-12, 1982, 37.
1. Quoted in W. Attoe, Skylines (Chichester 1981), 2. 40. Attoe (n.1 above), 32-34, 89. :
2. J. Heers, Family Clans in the Middle Ages, transl. 41. Links (n.ro above), figs. 21-22, 27.
B. Herbert (Amsterdam/Oxford 1977), 194. 42. Pastier (n.32 above), rz and fig. 20.
340 - NOTES
BIBLIOGRAPHY
The following is a very limited selection from the J. Telkamp, eds., Colonial Cities (Dordrecht/Lancaster
extensive literature consulted in the writing of the text; 1985); also A. Sutcliffe, Towards the Planned City
1. “ORGANIC” PATTERNS
further specific sources will be found in the chapter (Oxford 1981) which deals with Germany, Britain, On the Islamic city form, see B. S. Hakim, Arabic-
notes. France and the United States during the period 1780— Islamic Cities, Building and Planning Principles (Lon-
1914; and G. Broadbent, Emerging Concepts in Urban don 1986), and also S. Al Hathloul, Tradition, Conti-
Space Design (London 1990). nuity and Change in the Physical Environment: The
Arab Muslim City (Ann Arbor 1981); but a critique of
INTRODUCTION A number of regional studies are best listed here. their tradionalist stance is provided by N. AlSayyad,
General surveys of urban history to which reference is “Building the Arab Muslim City” (diss., Univ. of
made in the notes to this and other chapters are K. For Africa, see W. Bascom, “Urbanization among the California, Berkeley 1988).
Lynch, A Theory of Good City Form (Cambridge, Yoruba,” American Journal of Sociology 60.5, 1955,
Mass./London 1981); W. Braunfels, Urban Design in 446-54; A. L. Mabogunje, Urbanization in Nigeria On Alberti’s sympathies for medieval cities, see W. A.
Western Europe (Chicago 1988); E. A. Gutkind, Urban (New York 1968). For the Middle East, I. Lapidus, ed., Eden, ‘Studies in Urban Theory: The De re aedifica-
Development in Western Europe, Great Britain, and the Middle Eastern Cities (Berkeley 1969); L. Carl Brown, toria of Leon Battista Alberti,” Town Planning Review
Netherlands (New York 1971) and Urban Development ed., From Madina to Metropolis (Princeton 1973), with 19-20, 1943, 10-28; and M. Saura, “‘Architecture and
in Eastern Europe, Bulgaria, Romania, and the U.S.S.R. useful essays by P. English on Herat, J. Abu-Lughod on The Law in Early Renaissance Urban Life: Leon Battista
(New York 1972); P. Lavedan, Histoire de l’urbanisme, Cairo, and J. Dethier on French Morocco; G. H. Blake Alberti’s De re aedificatoria” (diss., Univ. of California,
Renaissance et temps modernes (Paris 1959); M. and R. I. Lawless, The Changing Middle Eastern City Berkeley 1987).
Girouard, Cities and People (New Haven/London (New York/London 1980); A. Raymond, The Great
1985); H. Carter, The Study of Urban Geography (3rd Arab Cities in the 16th-18th Centuries (New York/ On the planned picturesque, see W. L. Creese, The
ed., London 1981); J. E. Vance, Jr., This Scene of Man London 1984). Search for Environment (New Haven/London 1966); A.
(New York 1977); L. Mumford, The City in History M. Edwards, The Design of Suburbia (London 1981).
(New York/London 1961) and The Culture of Cities For China, the most current studies are those of N. S. The Olmsted bibliography is too extensive even to
(New York/London 1938); and L. Benevolo, Storia Steinhardt, in Journal of the Society of Architectural sample; the places to begin are A. Fein, Frederick Law
della citta (Bari 1976). Several others should also be Historians 45.4, Dec. 1986, and her book Chinese Olmsted and the American Environmental Tradition
mentioned: J. Stiibben, Der Stadtebau, first published in Imperial City Planning (Honolulu 1990). For earlier (New York 1969), And L. W. Roper, FLO: A Biography
1890 and in print through the Twenties, influential both studies, see G. Rozman, Urban Networks in Ch’ing of Frederick Law Olmsted (Baltimore/London 1973).
as history and planning manual; F. R. Hiorns, Town- China and Tokugawa Japan (Princeton 1973); G. W. On the American picturesque tradition, see R. G.
building in History (London 1956); E. Egli, Geschichte Skinner, ed., The City in Late Imperial China (Palo Alto Wilson, ‘Idealism and the Origin of the First American
des Stidtebaues, 1, Die alte Welt, 11, Das Mittelalter 1977), particularly A. Wright on the cosmology of the Suburb: Llewellyn Park, New Jersey,” American Art
(Ansbach 1959, 1962); and A. E. J. Morris, History of Chinese city, Sen-Dou Chang on walled capitals, and F. Journal, Oct. 1979, 79-90; K. T. Jackson, Crabgrass
Urban Form (London 1972). In addition, M. Morini’s W. Mote on rath-century Nanjing; and A. Schinz, Cities Frontier (New York/Oxford 1985), 73-102; D.
Atlante di storia dell’urbanistica (Milan 1963), newly in China (Berlin 1989). For Japan, besides Rozman (see Schuyler, The New Urban Landscape (Baltimore/
reissued, remains an invaluable pictorial source book. China above), see J. W. Hall, “The Castle Town and London 1986); and Architectural Design 51. 10-11,
The multivolume Storia dell’urbanistica published by Japan’s Modern Urbanization,” The Far Eastern Quar- 1981, a special issue on the Anglo-American suburb
Laterza of Bari through the Seventies and Eighties aims terly t5.1, Nov. 1955, 37-56. For India, see P. P. Karan, edited by R. A. M. Stern. See also R. S. Childs, “The
to be exhaustive; the most relevant volumes are V. F. “The Pattern of Indian Towns,” Journal of the First War Emergency Government Towns for Shipyard
Pardo, Storia dell’urbanistica dal Trecento al Quattro- American Institute of Planners 23, 1957, 70-75; and G. Workers,” Journal of the American Institute of Archi-
cento (1982); E. Guidoni and A. Marino, I! Cinquecento Breese, “Urban Development Problems in India,” tects 6, 1918, 237-51.
(1982) and Il Seicento (1979); P. Sica, Il Settecento Annals of the Association of American Geographers
53-3, Sept. 1963, 253ff. See also T. G. McGee, The On Garden Cities, see D. MacFadyen, Sir Ebenezer
(1979), L’Ottocento (1977), and I! Novecento (1978, Howard and the Town Planning Movement (1933;
1985). Southeast Asian City (New York 1967).
Manchester 1970); P. Batchelor, ““The Origin of the
For Central Europe, there exists a monumental urban Garden City Concept of Urban Form,” Journal of the
Period surveys include: (a) Antiquity—P. Lamp, Cities Society of Architectural Historians 28, 1969, 184-200;
and Planning in the Ancient Near East (New York/ history edited by W. Rausch, each volume organized as
a collection ofessays by various authors, beginning with A. Schollmeier, Gartenstdadte in Deutschland (Munster
London 1968); M. Hammond, The City in the Ancient 1988); and the June 1978 issue of The Architectural
World (Cambridge, Mass. 1972); J. B. Ward-Perkins, . the 12th-13th centuries: Beitrdge zur Geschichte der
Stadte Mitteleuropas (Linz 1963-84). Review devoted to the subject. Raymond Unwin’s
Cities of Ancient Greece and Italy (New York/London Town Planning in Practice, first published in 1909, is an
1974); and a series of articles in Town Planning Review essential primer, and there is a good recent biography of
on Egypt (vol. 20, 1949, 32-51), Mesopotamia (vol. 21, For Eastern Europe and the Soviet Union, besides
Gutkind (see general surveys above), see M. F. Hamm, him by F. Jackson, Sir Raymond Unwin: Architect,
1950, 98-115), the prehistoric Aegean (vol. 23, 1953; Planner and Visionary (London 1985). For the United
261-79); Greek cities (vol. 22, 1951, 102-21); Hellenistic ed., The City in Russian History (Lexington 1976), with
essays by F. W. Skinner on Odessa, B. M. Frolic on the States, see C. S. Stein, Toward New Towns for America
cities (vol. 22, 1951, 177-205), and Etruscan and early (Chicago/Liverpool 1951, 3rd ed. 1966).
Roman cities (vol. 26, 1955, 126-54). Sixties Moscow city plan and S. F. Starr on 2oth-century
(b) The Middle Ages—W. Braunfels, Mittelalterliche planning; R. A. French and F. E. lan Hamilton, The
Socialist City (Chichester 1979). On Camillo Sitte, see G. R. Collins and C. C. Collins,
Stadtbaukunst in der Toskana (Berlin 1953); E. Herzog, Camillo Sitte and the Birth of Modern City Planning
Die ottonische Stadt (Berlin 1964); E. Ennen, The (1965; repr. New York 1986). On Patrick Geddes: J.
Medieval Town (Amsterdam 1979); T. Hall, Mittel- For South America, see H. Wilhelmy and A. Borsdorf,
alterliche Stadtgrundrisse (Stockholm 1980). Die Stdadte Siidamerikas (Berlin/Stuttgart 1984), vol. 3 Tyrwhitt, ed., Patrick Geddes in India (London 1947),
of an excellent series called Urbanisierung der Erde and also H. Meller, Patrick Geddes (London 1990). For
(c) The modern period—L. Benevolo, The Origins of the Frankfurt housing estates by E. May, see among
edited by W. Tietze.
Modern Town Planning (London 1967); R. Ross andG.
BIBLIOGRAPHY - 341
others Ernst May und das Neue Frankfurt 1925-1930 Round (Seattle/London 1983) is a useful pictorial (New York 1911). On Le Notre, see among others B.
(Berlin 1986), and D. W. Dreysse, May—Siedlungen collection. Jeannel, Le Nétre (Paris 1985).
(Frankfurt 1987). For the essential biographical data on
Reichow, see W. Durth, Deutsche Architekten (3rd ed., On the round city of Baghdad, see Lassner (Ch.3 n.29), For coaches, see Ch.4 n.23, and now also P. Waddy,
Brunswick/Wiesbaden 1988); also W. Durth, “Ver- and also G. Le Strange, Baghdad during the Abbasid Seventeenth-Century Roman Palaces (New York 1990),
schwiegene Geschichte: Probleme der Kontinuitat in Caliphate (1900; New York 1972). 61-66.
der Stadtplanung, 1940-1960,” Die alte Stadt 14.1,
1987, 28-50. In addition to his magnum opus, Orga- For Filarete’s text, see the edition of J. R. Spencer, Haussmann’s planning of Paris is steadily being re-
nische Stadtbaukunst, organische Baukunst, organische Filarete’s Treatise on Architecture (New Haven 1965).
evaluated; see F. Loyer, Paris Nineteenth Century,
Kultur (Brunswick 1948), Reichow also wrote Die For the bastioned city, see L. Di Sopra, Palmanova Architecture and Urbanism (New York 1988), and also
autogerechte Stadt (Ravensburg 1959), commissioned (Milan 1983); and also H. de La Croix, “Military
D.H. Pinkney, Napoleon III and the Rebuilding ofParis
by the West German Ministry of Housing. Architecture and the Radial City Plan in the 16th (Princeton 1958); T. J. Clark, The Painting of Modern
Century,” Art Bulletin 42.4, 1960, 263-90, and his Life (Princeton/London 1984), 23-78; and D. Harvey,
On Team X: P. Eisenman, “‘From Golden Lane to Robin Military Considerations in City Planning (New York Consciousness and the Urban Experience (Baltimore/
Hood Gardens,” Oppositions 1, Sept. 1973, 27-563 G. 1972). On Vauban, see R. Borneque, La France de Oxford 1985), 63-220. On Hénard, see P. M. Wolf,
Candilis et al., “Recent Thoughts in Town Planning Vauban (Paris 1984), and the regional account Vauban Eugene Hénard and the Beginning of Urbanism in Paris
and Urban Design,” in D. Lewis, éd., The Pedestrian in et ses successeurs en Franche-Comté (Besangon 1981). (1968).
the City (Princeton 1966), 183-96.
On socialist utopias of the rgth century, see L. On the City Beautiful movement in the United States,
Benevolo, The Origins of Modern Town Planning see the contemporary publications cited in Ch.4
2. THE GRID nn.26, 28, 29 and also W. H. Wilson, “The Ideology,
(London 1967); and D. Hayden, Seven American
For Classical antiquity, see F. Castagnoli, Orthogonal Utopias (Cambridge, Mass./London 1976); also R. Aesthetics and Politics of the City Beautiful Move-
Town Planning in Antiquity (Cambridge, Mass./Lon- Lifchez, “Inspired Planning: Mormon and Fourierist ment,” in A. Sutcliffe, ed., The Rise of Modern Urban
don 1971); G. P. R. Métraux, Western Greek Land Use Communities in the 19th Century,” Landscape 20.3, Planning (London 1980), 165-98; R. E. Foglesohn,
and City-Planning in the Archaic Period (New York Spring 1976, 29-35. On Ledoux’s Chaux: A. Braham, Planning the Capitalist City (Princeton/Guildford
1978); and M. Coppa, Storia dell’urbanistica. Le eta The Architecture of the French Enlightenment (Lon- 1986); and M. Manieri-Elia in G. Ciucci et al., La citta
ellenistiche (Rome 1981); also F. Grew and B. Hobley, don/Berkeley and Los Angeles 1980), 180-84, and the americana (Bari 1973), 3-146.
Roman Urban Topography in Britain and the Western bibliography cited in his n.181.
Empire (London 1985), esp. P. Crummy on the plan of On the Socialist magistrale, see a series of articles in
Colchester; G. Tibiletti, “La struttura topografica
On “world capitals,” in addition to Andersen and
Deutsche Architektur by W. Weigel (on that of Frank-
antica di Pavia,” Atti del convegno di studio sul centro Hebrard’s scheme (Ch.3 n.44), see G. Gresleri and D. furt a.d. Oder, 5.10, 1956, 471-72), G. Funk (on
storico di Pavia (Pavia 1968), 41-58. Dresden’s, 3.6, 1954, 240-47), and H. Bachler (on
Matteoni, La citta mondiale (Venice 1982), esp. 21-45.
On Soleri, see Ch.3 n.z. On space cities, see T. A. Dresden’s, 9.4, 1960, 196-98).
On the Laws of the Indies and New Spain in general: G.
Heppenheimer, Colonies in Space (Harrisburg, Pa.,
Kubler, ““Mexican Urbanism in the Sixteenth Century,”
1977); and F. M. Branley, Space Colony (New York On Ricardo Bofill, T. Schuman, ‘Utopia spurned,”
Art Bulletin 24, 1942, 160-71, and his Mexican Archi- 1982). Journal of Architectural Education, 40.1, Fall 1986, 20-
tecture of the Sixteenth Century, | (New Haven 1948), 29; Domus, Jan. 1986, 1-7; and Architecture, Mouve-
68-102; D. P. Crouch et al., Spanish City Planning in ment, Continuité, Oct. 1983, 28-36 and Oct. 1984;
North America (Cambridge, Mass., 1982). 4. THE GRAND MANNER 32-43.
On medieval new towns in Europe: M. Beresford, New On Washington, D.C., see Ch.4 n.1. On Detroit, J.
Towns of the Middle Ages (London/New York 1967), Reps, “Planning in the Wilderness: Detroit, 1805—- 5. THE URBAN SKYLINE
still the classic account for France, England, and Wales; 1830,” Town Planning Review 25, 1954-55, 240-50. On There are no general surveys of the subject, except W.
A. Lauret et al., Bastides (Toulouse/Milan 1988); and Turin, see: A. Cavallari-Murat et al., Forma urbana e Attoe, Skylines (Chichester 1981).
D. Friedman, Florentine New Towns (New York/ architettura nella Torino barocca (Turin 1968); and
London 1988). also M. Pollak, “Turin 1564-1680: Urban Design, On city images and their artists, in addition to works
Military Culture and the Creation of an Absolutist cited in Ch.5 nn.9, 10, and 14, see also P. Lavedan,
On the American grid, see M. P. Conzen, ‘Morphology Capital” (diss., Univ. of Chicago 1989). On St. Peters- Représentation des villes dans l'art du Moyen Age
of Nineteenth-Century Cities,” in R. P. Schaedel et al., burg, J. Cracraft, The Petrine Revolution in Russian (Paris 1954); and J. Pahl, Die Stadt im Aufbruch der
Urbanization in the Americas from the Beginnings to Architecture (Chicago 1988); and also I. A. Egorov, The perspektivischen Welt (Frankfurt/Berlin 1963).
the Present (The Hague 1980); and works cited in Ch.2 Architectural Planning of St. Petersburg (Athens, Ohio,
nn.14, 29, 31, 48. On the National Survey, see H. B. 1969). On Berlin, J. P. Kleihues, ed., 750 Jahre The skyscraper literature is immense; for sources
Johnson, Order upon the Land (New York 1976); and Architektur und Stadtebau in Berlin (Berlin 1987), an dealing with skyline aspects, see Ch.5 nn.7, 32, 46, 57, 58
Kostof, America by Design (New York/Oxford 1987), exemplary exhibition catalogue which carries us to the and 61; also W. Taylor, “New York et lorigine du ,
292-304. On Savannah: S. Anderson, “The Plan of present; on Hitler’s Berlin, L. O. Larsson, Albert Speer, Skyline: la cite moderne comme forme et symbole,”
Savannah and Changes of Occupancy During Its Early Le plan de Berlin 1937-1943 (Brussels 1983, publ. Urbi 3, 1980, 3-21; M. Tafuri in G. Ciucci et al., La citta
Years,” Harvard Architecture Review 2, Spring 1981, in German 1978), and S. Helmer, Hitler’s Berlin: The americana (Bari 1973), 417-550; and Kostof, ‘‘The
60-67. Speer Plans for Reshaping the Central City (Ann Arbor Skyscraper City,” Design Quarterly 140, 1988, 32-47.
1985). See also C. Keim, Stadtebau in der Krise des For the debate in East Germany, see F. Bergmann,
A full Cerda bibliography is given in Ch.2 n.s9. On Absolutismus (Marburg 1990), for Kassel, Darmstadt “Zentrales Haus als Turmhochhaus oder Turm mit
Hobrecht’s plan of Berlin, see J. F. Geist, Das Berliner and Wiesbaden. hohem Haus,” Deutsche Architektur 6.12, 1956,
Mietshaus 1740-1862 (Munich 1980).
552-57.
The best account of the Grand Manner in Roman
3. THE CITY AS DIAGRAM antiquity is W. L. MacDonald, The Architecture of the On the New York zoning ordinance of 1916, see S. Toll,
Roman Empire, Il. An Urban Appraisal (New Haven/ Zoned America (New York 1969); H. Kantor, Modern
For a broad viewof ideal cities, including conceptions of London 1986); see also A. Pelletier, L’urbanisme romain Urban Planning in New York (diss., New York Univ,
painters, poets and writers, see I. Todd and M. Wheeler, sous l’Empire (Paris 1982). Baroque planning usually 1971), and C. Willis, “Zoning and Zeitgeist; the
Utopia (London 1978); and from astrict art historical concentrates on a number of exemplary documents. Of Skyscraper City in the 1920s,” Journal of the Society of
perspective, S. Lang, “The Ideal City from Plato to these, the Rome plan of Sixtus V is best discussed in S. Architectural Historians 45, 1986, 47-59.
Howard,” Architectural Review 112, Aug. 1952, 91- Giedion, Space, Time and Architecture (4th ed., Cam-
101, H. Rosenau’s Ideal Cities (London 1974, 1983), and bridge, Mass., 1963), 75ff., and L. Spezzaferro, “La On Bruno Taut, see Ch.5 nn.53 and 54; and also K.
W. Braunfels, Urban Design in Western Europe (Chi- Roma di Sisto V,” in Storia dell’arte italiana, 5.3 (Turin Junghanns, Bruno Taut 1880-1938 (2nd ed., Berlin
cago/London 1988), Ch.5. N. Johnston’s Cities in the 1983), 363-405; see also J. A. F. Orbaan, Sixtine Rome
1983), 34-52.
342 - BIBLIOGRAPHY
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS FOR ILLUSTRATIONS
Sources of photographs and locations of images illus- Courtauld Institute of Art (Conway Library) 236, (Witt 108, 109, 123, 125-129, 134, 138, 140-144, 160, 165, 166,
trated, in addition to those mentioned in the captions, Library) 258; Fine Art Society P1.34; Guildhall Library 168, 170, I71, 174-176, 180, 181, 194, 195, 213-215,
are as follows: 212; India Office Library 177; courtesy Italian State 231-233, 279, 280 — Muséo y Casa del Greco, Toledo
Tourist Office (E.N.L.T.) 227; Museum of London 274 — Musée Paul Dupuy, Toulouse 244 — USS.
ACL 275, 281 — Nezar AlSayyad 74 — Alinari 219 — in P1.38; Victoria and Albert Museum 179 — in Los Department of Commerce, Coast and Geodetic Survey
Amsterdam: Gemeentelijke Archiefdienst Pl.19; Rijks- Angeles: California Historical Society/Ticor Title toz — Varig Brazilian Airlines 178 — Historisches
museum 73; Stedelijk Museum 136 — Maryland State Insurance, Los Angeles. Dept. of Special Collections, Museum der Stadt Wien, Vienna 223, Pl.4—Loke Wan-
Archives, Annapolis, Marion E. Warren Photographic University of Southern California 290; Security Pacific Tho 172 — courtesy Derek Walker Associates (photo
Collection (MSA SC 1890-02-348) 217 — Arcaid/Ian Photographic Collection/Los Angeles Public Library 8 — John Donat) 154 — Library of Congress, Washington,
Lambot P1.39 — Instituto Municipal de Historia, Barce- Museo del Prado, Madrid (photo Mas) P1.6 — Mas PI1.6 — D.C. 21, 51, 137, 208, 209, 305 — Henry Wilson Pl.1 —
lona 152 — University of California at Berkeley (courtesy Georgina Masson 283 — Collection Carroll L.V. Meeks Andrew Wilton P1.36 — Windsor Castle, Royal Library.
The Bancroft Library) 105, (courtesy Environmental 299 — Middlesbrough Borough Council and Cleveland Reproduced by gracious permission of Her Majesty the
Simulation Laboratory) 291 — in Berlin: Berlin County Council 149 — Milton Keynes Development Queen 130 — Sam Winklebleck 23, 202, 296 — Mainfran-
Museum/Landesarchiv Berlin 253; Landesbildstelle Corporation 155 — From the American Geographical kisches Museum, Wirzburg 13 — ETH-Bibliothek,
261; Markisches Museum 241; Staatliche Museen zu Society Collection, University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee Zurich 298
Berlin 211 — Klaus G. Beyer 282 — Biblioteca dell’ Archi- Library 116 — Montreal, Collection Centre Canadien An Atlas of Old New Haven (New Haven 1924) 117 —
ginnasio, Bologna 267 — Lansdowne Library, Bourne- d’Architecture/Canadian Centre for Architecture 288 — Walter Bigges, A Summarie [and True Discourse] of Sir
mouth 80 — City of Bradford Metropolitan Council 169 Michael Moran 265 — Museo S. Martino, Naples (photo Francis Drakes Indian Voyages (London 1586) 115 —J.S.
— Werner Braun 156 — Béguinage, Bruges (photo ACL) Scala) Pl.; - NASA PI.8 —in New York: Museum of the Buckingham, National Evils and Practical Remedies
275 — Cameron & Company PI.23 — National Museum City of New York (The J. Clarence Davis Collection) (London 1849) 201 — Georges Candilis, Toulouse Le
of Wales, Cardiff (reconstruction by Alan Sorrell) 164 — 303, (photo Irving Underhill, The Underhill Collection) Mirail (Stuttgart 1975) 100 — Le Corbusier, Oeuvre
Greg Castillo 44, 92, 99, 121, 224, 264, 287, 311, 313, Pls. 308; courtesy, Mies van der Rohe Archive, The Museum Complete 1910-1929 (Zurich 1964) 310; Oeuvre Com-
27-30 — Thomas Jefferson Papers, Special Collections of Modern Art 292; courtesy The New-York Historical plete 1946-1952 (Zurich 1961) 153; Précisions sur un
Dept., Manuscripts Division, University of Virginia Society 118, Pl.15; New York Public Library (Manu- état present de l’architecture (Paris 1930) 234 — O.
Library, Charlottesville 198 — in Chicago: Chicago scripts and Archives Division) 304, (I.N. Phelps Stokes Dapper, Historische Beschryving der Stadt Amsterdam
Historical Society 250; Oriental Institute, University of Collection) 104; courtesy of the Rockefeller Archive (Amsterdam 1663) 136 —R.W. DeForest and L. Veiller,
Chicago (F.N. AE 676) 162 — Museum der Stadt Koln, Center 84 — Curators of the Bodleian Library, Oxford The Tenement House Problem (New York 1903) 150 —
Cologne (photo Rheinisches Bildarchiv) 273 — Ohio Pl.7—in Paris: Bibliotheque Nationale 90, 199, 225, 2.43, Gottfried Feder, Die neue Stadt (Berlin 1939) 96 — E.
State University Libraries, Columbus 132 — Compagnia 245, 2.48, 249; Caisse Nationale des Monuments Histor- Goldzamt, Architektura: zespolow srodmiejskichi i
Generale Ripreseaeree, Parma, Italy Pl.17 — Baker iques et des Sites/SPADEM 238; Institut Geographique problemy dziedzictwa (Warsaw 1956) 295 — Werner
Library, Dartmouth College 77 — Ray Delvert 112, 124, National 146 — Atwater Kent Museum, Philadelphia Hegemann, City Planning, housing (New York 1936) 98
Pl.r6 — courtesy of the Burton Historical Collection of 147 — Daniel Philippe 45 — courtesy David R. Phillips — Eugene Hénard, Etudes sur les transformations de
(Chicago Architectural Photography Co.) 307, 309 — Paris (Paris 1903-9) 191, 249 — Jan Jansson, Theatrum
the Detroit Public Library 216 — Kupferstichkabinett,
Auroville Planning Group, Pondicherry 206 — Staatliche exhibens illustriore principesque Germaniae supertoris
Dresden (photo Deutsche Fotothek Dresden) 218 — in civitates (Amsterdam 1657) 20 — Johannes Kip, Nou-
Florence: Archivio di Stato 60; Biblioteca Mediceo Schlosser und Garten Potsdam-Sanssouci 222, 252 —
Private Collection 259, 260 — Private Collection, Lon- veau Thédatre de la Grande-Bretagne (London 1720-40)
Laurenziana 61 — Fotocielo 76 — Stadtarchiv, Frankfurt 246 — Robert Owen, Report to the Committee for the
98 — copyright Georg Gerster, John Hillelson Agency don P1.33 — J.P. Protzen Pl.ro — Pubbli Aerfoto Pl.3 —
The Radburn Association, Fairlawn (N.J.) 85, 86 — Relief ofthe Manufacturing Poor (1817) 200 — Georges
Pl.9 — By courtesy of the Goodwood Trustees PI1.35 — Perrot and Charles Chipiez, Histoire de l'art dans
courtesy the Museum of Finnish Architecture, Helsinki Cervin Robinson 266 — in Rome: Fototeca Unione 110,
III, 131, 230, 256; Musei Vaticani, Archivio Fotogra- l’'antiquité (Paris 1884) 163 — Sebastiano Serlio, Archi-
189, 190 — Historic Urban Plans Ithaca (N.Y.) 119 — tettura (Venice 1551) 220, 221 — Simon Stevin, Materiae
Martin Hirlimann 262 —Illinois Department of Correc- fico 257, Pl.21 — in Rotterdam: Museum Boymans—van
Beuningen 271; Stichting Atlas Van Stolk 24 — Musei Politicae Burgerlicke Stoffen (Leyden 1649) 114 — after
tions 197 — Richard Ingersoll Pl.22 — Bildstelle der Stadt Kakichi Suzuki, Early Buddhist Architecture in Japan
Karlsruhe 186 — H.D. Keilor 278 — Kentuckiana Civici, San Gimignano (photo Scala) Pl.31 — Ediciones
Garcia Garrabella, Saragossa 286 —Scala 285, Pls. 5, 11, (Tokyo/New York 1980) 139 — Bruno Taut, Die
Historical Services 148 — Bundesarchiv, Koblenz 263 — Stadtkrone (Jena 1919) 301, 302 — Theatrum Statum
KLM Luchtfotografie 68 — Collection Spiro Kostof 7, 31—E. Schmidt, courtesy Mary Helen Schmidt Founda-
tion 182 — Werner Schumann Pl.14 — Sheffield City Regiae Celsitudinis Sabaudiae Ducis (Amsterdam 1682)
229 — Mirko Krizanovic 312 — Landslides, Copyright 255 — Town Planning Review (October 1910) 93 — J.B.
Alex S. Maclean 88, 207 —courtesy Emily Lane 113, 237, Museums Pl.37 — in Siena: Museo dell’Opera del
Duomo 75; Palazzo Pubblico 285 — courtesy Dr Soleri, Ward-Perkins, Cities of Ancient Greece and Italy:
268, Pls. 12, 24-26, 32 — First Garden City Heritage Planning in Classical Antiquity (New York/London
Museum, Letchworth 82, 226 — Nebraska State Histori- The Cosanti Foundation 157, 158 (photo Ivan Pintar) —
Spectrum Colour Library Pl.20 — courtesy lan Sutton 1974) 106, 107 — Frederick de Widt, Collection of
cal Society, Lincoln 306 — in London: Australian Remarkable Towns, Cittys and Forts in the Seaven
Overseas Information Service 192; British Architectural 276 — photo Swissair Pl.18 — courtesy Michael Tapscott
277 — Brian Brace Taylor Pl.13 — Richard Tobias 4-6, United Provinces (Amsterdam 1670(?)) 133.
Library 235,254, 300; the Trustees ofthe British Library
103, 151; the Trustees of the British Museum 136, 2395 9-12, 14-19, 27-43, 46-49, 52-59, 62-67, 70-72, 78,
344 - INDEX
Breydenbach, Bernhard von 285 central place theory 25 Cluny (France) 168
Brinckmann, Albert E. 9 Centula: see St. Riquier cluster plan 82
Brisbane, Albert 200 centuriation 38, 133, 133, 134, 142 coaches 231, 249, 251, 254
Bristol (England) 64, 251, 306 Cerda, Ildefonso 124, 151-53, 152 Coen, Jan Pieterszoon 12
Brodrick, Cuthbert 305 Cesariano, Cesare 185 Cohen, Stuart 330
Brouwershaven (Netherlands) r1o Chambers, Sir William 95 Colbert, Jean Baptiste 100, 268, 268
Bruges (Belgium) 286, 287, 290, 296 Chambord (France) 240 Colchester (England) 108
Brunelleschi, Filippo 292, 296, 312, 318, Pl.33 Chanchan (Peru) 30, 115 Collier, John 166
Bruni, Leonardo 183 : , Chandigarh (India) 102, 155-56, 155, 275 Collins, George 83
Brunswick (Braunschweig, Germany) 139 Chang’an (China) 33, 37, 99, 100, 140, 175, 175 Colmar (France) 91
Brunswick (Me.) 251 ; Charles I (of England) 251, 257 Cologne (Koln, Germany) 37, 110, 238, 239, 284,
Brussels (Belgium) 84, 84, 102, 252, 270 Charles II (of England) 218, 251, 251, 285 284-85, 286, 287, 290, 294, 322, 332
Bucharest (Romania) 275, 313 Charles V (Holy Roman Emperor) 190 colonial cities:
Buchman Village (Chester, Pa.) 79, 80 Charles VIII (of France) 231 American 217
Buckingham, James Silk 163, 201, 201 Charles X (of France) Pl.25 Assyrian 31
Budapest (Hungary) 4r Charles XII (of Sweden) 111 British 11, 46, 59, 62, 86, 96, 115, IIs, 116, 134,
Buenos Aires (Argentina) 113, 134 Carlo Emanuele I (of Savoy) 260 166, 176-78, 176, 177, 182, 216, 217, 228, 269,
building codes 63, 70, 82, 83, 90, 256, 258, 260, 262, Carlo Emanuele II (of Savoy) 222 270, Pl.28
294, 335. See also height limits Charleston (S.C.) 116, 232 Dutch 12, 148, 149
Bulfinch, Charles 296 Charleville (France) 30, 144 French 10; 46, 59, 71, 86, 100, 113, 125, 216, 217,
Buls, Charles 84, 92, 102 Charlottesville (Va.) 199 228
burgage plots 148, 149 Chartres (France) 291 Greek 12, 48, 99, 102, 104, 105, 106, 125, 127, 131,
Burgos (Spain) 252 Chatenay (France) 77 131, 139
Burnham, Daniel 11, 217, 218, 234, 234, 235, 259, Chaux (France) 189, 196, 197, 197, 199 Italian 217, 269
2775 320, 321, 328, 330 Chelmno (Poland) rro Portuguese 71, 144, 258
Burton, Decimus 72-73 Chester (England) 142 Roman 31, 48, 70, 106, 107, 108, 125, 136, 139, 142,
Butterfield, William 295 Chester (Pa.) 79 232, Pl.20
Chiattone, Mario 331 Spanish 71, 102, 113-15, I13, 114, 122, 123, 133,
Chicago (19th C.) 75, 124, 306, 311, 319, 321, 323-25, 182
330, Pl.rs5 Swedish r11
C (zoth C.) 154, 216, 217, 234, 259, 266, 281, 310,
312, 320, 321, 327, 327, 328, 329, 330
See also: new towns
column, commemorative: see monumental accents
Cabourg (France) 204 chimneys (factory): see smokestacks common lands 134
Cadman, Dr. S. Parkes 328 chowk 63, 87 communes, medieval 64, 280, 281, 296
Caen (France) 291 Christian IV (of Denmark) 111 Communist Party (East Germany) 313
Caerleon (Wales) 48, 166 Christina (of Sweden) 111 Como (Italy) 314
Cairo (Egypt) 36, 82, 286 Circleville (O.) 162, 163 company towns §2, 168, 169-71, I70, 196, 200, 200
Calais (France) 32 citadel: see fortifications concentration camps 166, 167, 167
Calcutta (India) 12, 62 city: definition of 37, 39-41 conservation 82, 84, 86, 87, 90, 91, 157, 266, 312, 316
Camaiore (Italy) 110 early form 34, 36, 37 Considérant, Victor 200
Camarina (Sicily) 104 extensions 46, 84, 85, 90, 99, 106, III, 112, 134-38, Constantinople: see Istanbul
Cambridge’ (England) 311 135, 136, 137, 148, 149, 151, ISI, 152, 154, 206, contextualism 82, 84, 86, 90
Cambridge (Mass.) 73, 134 207, 2UL, 2LO, 2322355 2395 249, 2525 250,257 Conzen, M. R. G. 25, 26
Camden (N.J.) 79 259, 259, 261, 262, 264, Pls.4, 19 Copenhagen (Denmark) 112, 215, 305
Cameron, Robert 314, P/.23 origins of 31-34 Coppa, Mario 214
Campanella, Tommaso 163 views 283-287, 314, 326 Cordoba (Spain) 37
Canaletto (Giovanni Antonio Canale) 285, 294, Pl.35 see also: Corfu (Greece) 285
canals 94, 96, III, 112, 136, 142, 167, 173, 233, 265 Aztec cities Corinth (Greece) 102, 104
Canberra (Australia) 12, 192, 193, 194, 216, 273, Pl.24 colonial cities Corona (Calif.) 162
Candia (Iraklion, Crete) 285 company towns Cosa (Italy) 106, 107, 139
Candilis and Woods 90, 91 dike-and-dam towns Costa, Lucio 102
Canton (China) 37 Garden Cities Cotati (Calif.) 162
cantonments 102 grachtenstad COUrS 249, 251, 251
Cape Town (S. Africa) 288 ideal cities courthouse squares 143, 143, 147, 163
capitalism 27, 29, 53, 121, 168, 169, 192, 224, 281, Inca cities Cracow (Poland) 99
industrial cities cross-axis 87, 139, 142, 143, 156, 169, 214, 232
309, 317, 323, 324-26,
335 cul-de-sac: see streets
Capodimonte (Italy) 221 linear cities
new towns Culemborg (Netherlands) 110, 135, 135
Carcassonne (France) 305
port cities Cullen, Gordon 9, 91, 92
cardo 142, 232
Carouge (Switzerland) 144 pre-industrial cities customs barriers 262, 268
radial cities Cuzco (Peru) 115
Carrere and Hastings 324
Carrollsburg (Va.) 209 railroad towns
Cartagena (Colombia) 114 socialist city
D
Carter, Harold 25, 32 City Beautiful movement 78, 102, 217, 218, 228, 233,
Caserta (Italy) 221, 236 234, 254, 325,328
Castagnoli, F. 43 Civitates Orbis Terrarum 32, 161, 285, 314
Claessens, P., the Elder 137 Dadu (Beijing, China) 34, 175
Castelfranco (Italy) 11, 128 Dahlberg, Eric 11, 112
Castellamonte, Carlo di 260, 26r Clairvaux (France) 168
clan associations 280, 281. See also: tribal groups daimyo 179, 180, 309
Castelsarrasin (France) 125 Dallas (Tex.) 307, 326, 328
Castelvecchio (Siena, Italy) 60, 61 Clark, Kenneth 295
class (social) 99, 105, 130, 149, 153, 160, 164, 165, Daman (India) 144
Catal Hiiytik (Turkey) 29, 29, 30 Damascus (Syria) 50, 142
Cataneo, Pietro 132, 139, 144, 145, 190 169, 172, 178, 179, 183, 184, 196, 199-201, 207,
230, 255, 263, 272, 274, 276, Pl.r9 Darabjerd (Iran) 183
Catherine the Great (of Russia) 12, 256, 262, 294, 310 De Gaulle, Charles 216
Ceaucescu, Nicolae 258 Clay, Grady 233
Clerville, Nicolas de 11 De Klerk, Michel 153
Cefalt (Sicily) 291 decentralization 195
clock towers: see towers
cemeteries, rural 73
INDEX + 345
Friedman, David 126, 128, 131, 183
decumanus 142, 232 ethnic segregation 75, 79. 90, 149, 160, 182, 185. See
defensive towers: see towers also apartheid Friedman, Yona 206
Deggendorf (Germany) 143 Evelyn, John 112, 218, 219, 221, 224, 240, 246, 256, Friedrich (of Wurttemberg) 187
Deir el-Bahri (Egypt) 226, 229 266, 315 Friedrich Wilhelm I (of Prussia) 262
Delbene, Bartolommeo 163, 163 Evry (France) 40 Friedrich Wilhelm III (of Prussia) 151
Delft (Netherlands) 284 Exeter (INJRE) 7a, 72 Friedrich Wilhelm (Elector of Brandenburg) 272
Delhi (India) 37, 46, 62-64, 176, 216. See also New expropriation 86, 220 Fry, E. Maxwell 315
Delhi Fujiwara-kyo (Japan) 33, 175
Delphi (Greece) 219, 219 Futurism 330, 331
Delson, Roberta Marx 258 Fuzhou (China) 290
demolition rr, 82, 83, 84, 86, 87, 90-92, 96, 150, 155,
220, 230, 231, 266, 267, 268, 280
F
G
density: see settlement density Fairfield (Conn.) 134
De Sanctis, Francesco 229 Falkenberg (Berlin, Germany) 84
Descartes, René 72 Fechhelm, Carl Friedrich 225
Desiderius (of Lombardy) 61 Falmouth (England) 31 Galva (Ill.) 124
Despradelle, Constant Désiré 321 Fano (Italy) 108 Galvez (La.) 114
Detroit (Mich.) 12, 154, 155, 216, 219, 220, 234 Fascist planning 17, 91, 231, 231, 258, 260, 312. See Ganda (tribe, Angola) 184
Deventer, Jacob van 284 also Nazi planning Garden Cities 16, 335 535 73> 75-80, 77) 85, 87, 89-91,
Devonport (England) 31 Federal Housing Administration 80, 80 103, 153, 154, 157s 194, 202, 203, 203, 217, 228,
diagonal: see streets Federigo da Montefeltro 315 277
Dickens, Charles 102 Feininger, Andreas 314 Garnier, Charles 262
dike towns 56, 56, 57 Ferdinand I (Holy Roman Emperor) 284 gates 48, 51, 70, 96, 98, 135, 139, 141, 142, 145, 161,
dike-and-dam towns 56, 136, 137 Ferdinand I (of Naples) 230 173, 174, 176, 185, 187, 190, 224, 233, 235, 238,
Diodorus 127 Ferdinand IV (of Naples) 196 239, 251, 262, 263, 264, 267, 268, 272, 273, 285,
Diré Daua (Ethiopia) 217 Ferrara (Italy) 11, 36, 46, 102, 136, 188, 256 295, 329. See also customs barriers; monumental
Disraeli, Benjamin 169 Ferriss, Hugh 315, 315 accents; triumphal arches
domes 199, 274, 281, 281, 283, 288, 290, 292, 292, Fez (Morocco) 217 Gdansk (Poland) 318
294-96, 309, 310, 310, 312, 314, 315, 318-21, 320, Fibonacci, Leonardo 130 Geddes, Patrick 16, 75, 86, 87, 93
321, 324, 330, 333, Pls.6, 33, 34, 36, 38 Field, William 153 Gemmei (Japanese empress) 175
Downing, Andrew Jackson 73, 75, 227 Filarete (Antonio Averlino) 12, 111, 131, 186-89, 186, Geneva (Switzerland) 148
Drancy (Paris, France) 77 197 Genoa (Italy) 286
Dresden (Germany) 15, 84, 91, 221, 221, 256, 258, Firenzuola (Italy) 128 geomancy 174, 175, 186
274, 313 Firuzabad: see Gur George V (of England) P/.28
Driesback, Daniel 163 Fischer, Theodor 321 Georgetown (Va.) 209
Duany & Plater-Zyberk 276, 277, 277 Fischer von Erlach, J. B. Pl.4 ghats 172, Pl.x
Dublin (Ireland) 86, 270, 271 Flagg, Ernest 327, 330 Ghent (Belgium) 296
Duccio di Buoninsegna 70 flak towers: see towers Giambologna (Giovanni da Bologna) 266, Pl.26
Dudok, W. M. 332 Flint (Wales) 126 Gibberd, Frederick 91
dumbbell tenement 150, 150 Florence (Italy): (Roman colony) 51, 142, 147 Gilbert, Cass 327, 328
Dunfermline (Scotland) 86 (u3th GC.) 110, 256, 280 Giotto di Bondone 296, P!.33
Dunkirk (France) 296 (r4th C. and after) rr, 38, 51, 51, 70, 108, 183, 215, Girouard, Mark 112
Dura Europos (Syria) 105, ro5 251, 287, 288, 292, 296, 312, 318, Pl.33 Giunti, Domenico 141
Durham (England) 314 Floris V (of Holland) 110 Giza (Egypt) 103
Dusseldorf (Germany) 252 Foglietta, Catervo 221 Glendale (O.) 74, 79, Pl.14
Fontana, Domenico 216, 218, 222, 267, 277, Pl.21 Gloeden, Eric 195
Forest Hills Gardens (N.Y.) 78, 80 Gloucester (England) 108
E
Forster, E. M. 292 Glover, E. S. ror
Forster, Kurt W. 26, 142 Goa (India) 71
fortifications 13, 27, 38, 189. See also: towers; feudal Godin, Jean-Baptiste 200
Ecbatana (Hamadan, Iran) 162, 164, 183 house; Roman camps Goerck, Casimir 121
Edinburgh (Scotland) 86, 288, 289 bastioned 28, 32, 111, 136, 139, 140, 144, 160, 161, Goering, Hermann 323
Edo (Tokyo, Japan) 179, 180, 309 174, 190, I9T, 226, 232, 238, 249, 252, 284, 287, Goldberger, Paul 334
Edo Shigenaga 180 306, PI.3 Gonzaga Colonna, Vespasiano 142
Edward I (of England) 12, 110, 128 citadel 57, 95, 96, 104, 115, 141 Goodhue, Bertrand 326, 326
Eidlitz, Leopold 305 outworks 190 gopuras 32, 172, 290, 318
Eiffel, Gustave 320 walls 48, 54, 58, 61, 70, 72, 96, 107, 109, 126-28, Gothenburg (Goteborg, Sweden) 112
Eisenhtittenstadt (Germany): see Stalinstadt 138, 139, 152, 175, 179, 183, 185, 190, 192, 238, Gothic Revival 72, 305
Eisenstein, Sergei 230 251, 260, 295, 305, 306, 307, 309, 314, 317, PI.33 Grabar, Oleg 12
Eiximenes, Francesco 99 forum; see Roman forums Gracanica (Yugoslavia) 292
Ekaterinoslav (Dnepropetrovsk, Ukraine) 262, 310 Foshay, Wilbur 327 Graham, Anderson, Probst and White 329
El Greco (Domenicos Theotocopulos) 285, 286 Foster Associates P/.39 grachtenstad 57 ‘
E] Lahun (Egypt) 34 Foucault, Michel 198 Grammichele (Sicily) 189
Elburg (Netherlands) 110 fountains: see monumental accents Grand Hornu (Belgium) 196
electric lighting 319, P/.39 Fourdrinier, P. 98 Grand Manner 209-77 passim
Ellicott, Andrew 209, 234 Fourier, Charles 199, 200, 200 and grids 210, 234, 234, 235
Engels, Friedrich 64 Fra Giocondo (Giovanni da Verona) 131, 131, 256 and landscape design 188, 226-28, 227, 240, 250
Environmental Simulation Laboratory (Berkeley, Francesco di Giorgio Martini 52, 189, 190, r90 as theater 222, 223, 224, 226, Pl.30
Gali isit2s gn Frangois I (of France) rr1 See also: streets ’
equestrian statues: see monumental accents Frankfurt (am Main, Germany) 89, 254, 287, 307, Grasse (France) 111
Erie (Pa.) 234 3325 3335 332-33 Greeley, Horace 328
Erlangen (Germany) 101 Franz Joseph (of Austria) 305
Esperandieu, Henri-Jacques 295 greenbelts 76, 80, 89, 194, 195, 203, 332
Frederick Il (Holy Roman Emperor) 110, 143 Greenbelt Towns 16, 80 “id
Essen (Germany) 84, 169 Freiburg-im-Breisgau (Germany) 110, 291, 332
Esslingen (Switzerland) 332 Greenwich (England) P/.36
Frejus (France) 232 ar Gregory XIII (pope) 256
Este, Ercole d’ 36, 102 Freudenstadt (Germany) 187, 187 Grenade sur Garonne (France) 128, 128, 129
346
- INDEX
Grenoble (France) 238
grid 9, 13, 15, 47, 48, 50, 95-155 passim
American 94, 102, 113, 115, I15, 121, 122, 134, 138,
Hénard, Eugéne 192, 193, 193, 254, 254
Henrichemont (France) 30
Henri IV (of France) 216, 240, 251, 270
J
Jackson (Miss.) 147
145, 234, 332, Pl.ry ; Henselmann, Hermann 225, 314 Jacobs, Jane 31
block pattern 10, 95, 96, 98, 105, 124, 127, 128, Herat (Afghanistan) 47-48, 47 Jahn, Helmut 334
130, 131, 133, 136, 139, 147-57, 235 Herod the Great 142 Jaipur (India) 154, 181, 182
Chinese 98, 99, 104, 141, 154, 175, 175, Pl.2 Herodotus 104, 162, 183 Jakarta (Indonesia) 12
closed rr5, 138-57 s Herrmann, W. 226 James, Henry 282, 324, 326
Dutch 100, rrr, 136 Hilbersheimer, Ludwig 90, 155 Jamestown (Va.) 116
Egyptian 103 Hildesheim (Germany) 87 Jayavarman VII 171
English ro8 Hippodamus of Miletus 11, 69, 105, 106, 111, 127 Jefferson, Thomas 11, 39, 102, 113, 116, 134, 135,
Finnish 102 Hitler, Adolf 217, 272, 323, 323 146, 199, 199, 209, 211
Greek 62, 99, 105, 105, 106, 127, 131, 13I, 142, 147 Hobrecht, James 151, 151, 152 Jeffersonville (Ind.) 146
Japanese 99, 140, 140, 141, 175 Hoefnagel, Georg 285 Jena (Germany) 313
Mannerist r4r, 142, Pl.17 Hogenberg, Franz 285; and see: Civitates Orbis Jenne-jeno (Djenne, Mali) 60
Mormon trot, ror, 168 Terrarum Jericho (Jordan) 29, 40
Open 121, 122, 123, 134 Holabird & Roche, 327, 327 Jerusalem (Israel) 171, 173, 283, 283, 285, 295, 309,
Roman 49, 50, 51, 51, 62, 70, 107, 107, 133, 139, Holyoke (Mass.) 28 310, 319
142, 147, 166, 214, 260 Hong Kong Pl.39 Johannesburg (S. Africa) 307
rural 133-35, 148 Honolulu (Hawaii) 311 Johnson, Philip 331
Spanish 11 Hood, Raymond 315 Jonkoping (Sweden) 112
speculative 121, 122, 122, 124 Hook, W. F. 295 Jumieges (France) 291
superblock 50, 62, 72, 76, 80, 153, 154, 156 Hooke, Robert 293 Jupaia (Brazil) 202, 202
supergrid 138, 157 housing reform 149, 150, 150, 153, Pl.19 Justinian (emperor) 292
Griffin, Walter Burley and Marion Mahoney 192, Howard, Ebenezer 16, 75, 76, 78, 80, 90, 157, 194,
194, 194 195, 198-200, 202-4, 203, 228
Howells and Hood 329
K
Guarini, Guarino 260, 293
Guastalla (Italy) 141 Hrabanus Maurus 110
Gubbio (Italy) 55, 108, Pl.rr
Guidoriccio da Fogliano 305, 306 Kaifeng (China) 175
Kairawan (Kairouan, Tunisia) 290
I
Guise (France) 200, 200
Gur (Firuzabad, Iran) 164, 165, 183, 184, 203 Kalinin (Tver, Russia) 236
Gustavus Adolphus II (of Sweden) rrr, 112 Kansas City (Mo.) 79, 233
Gutkind, E. A. 15, 100 Ibbitt, William P/.37 Karlsborg (Sweden) 112
Gwathmey, John 146 Ibn Khaldun 33 Karlshafen (Germany) 1o1
Idalion (Dhali, Cyprus) 54 Karlskrona (Sweden) 112
ideal cities 10, 90, III, 114, 126, 132, 144, 144, 159- Karlsruhe (Germany) 11, 188, 203, 211, 221, 273
203 passim, 186, 187 Karnak (Egypt) 307
INDEX + 347
L Louisburg (Ky.) 71
Lowen, Axel von 190
Minneapolis (Minn.) 154, 217, 233, 310, 327; 328
Mistra (Mistras, Greece) 292
Mitterand, Frangois 216
La Chaux-de-Fonds (Switzerland) 89 Loyer, Frangois 249, 252
Mobile (O.) 150
Ladislaus IV (of Poland) 270 Liibeck (Germany) 15, 37, 87; 126, 147, 287, 332
Lucca (Italy) rro, 252 Modernism 88, 89-92, 90, 102, 153-55, 155, 156, 157,
Ladislaus (of Hungary) 231
Lamontjoie (France) 141 Lucignano (Italy) 163 178, 179, 217; 254, 259, 260, 274, 275-77, 313, 314,
land division 38, 55, 57-59, 62, 76, 955 99, 103-5, 134, Lugo (Italy) 133 331-33, 332
175, 233. See also: surveys Lusaka (Zambia) 69, 217 mohallas 63
land economies 11, 27 Lutyens, Sir Edwin 176, 176, 177, 219, 240; 279, P1.28 Mohammed Ali (of Egypt267
land reform 100, 116 Luxor (Egypt) 307 Mohenjo Daro (Pakistan) 30, 34, 103
land speculation 11, 12, 64, 75-77, 82, 84, 95, 103, Lyautey, Marshal Hubert 86 Moholy-Nagy, Sibyl 195
2, 12 Tomo LAS. 4G) 152), 534 162.) 302), Lynch, Kevin 9, 15, 16, 40, 53, 192, 194 Mohring, Bruno 153
Lyon (France) 232, 252, 295, Pl.25 Moltke, Helmut von 83
316, 325, 334, 335 monasteries 167, 168, 168, 173
Landau on the Isar (Germany) 143
landscape design: see Grand Manner; parks Monchengladbach (Germany) 307
Monpazier (France) 126, 128
M
Landskrona (Sweden) 112
Laodicea (Turkey) 105 Montdauphin (France) 144
Laparelli, Francesco 12 Monteiro, José Xavier Machado 258
La Plata (Argentina) 146 MacDonald, William 214 Montemassi (Italy) 306
Lapp, Ralph 195, 195 Machu Picchu (Peru) 55, Pl.10 Montereggioni (Italy) 110
Las Vegas (Nev.) 233, 319 Madison (Wis.) 234, 238, 312 Montevarchi (Italy) 139
Laugier, Abbé 226, 227, 261, 262, 268 Madrid (Spain) 215, 251, 260 Montevego (Italy) 111
Lavedan, Pierre 43 Madurai (India) 32, 172, 290, 318 Montfort (Netherlands) 110
Laws ofthe Indies 113, 114, T14, 115, 122, 143, 182, Maechler, Martin 195 Montgomery, Sir Robert 12, 134
255, 258 Magdeburg (Germany) 270, 313 Montpellier (France) 276, Pl.30
Le Corbusier (Charles-Edouard Jeanneret) 11, 15, 89, malls 176, 199, 208, 251, 253, Pl.z5 Montreal (Canada) 113
90, 95, 102, 155, 156, 234, 234, 259, 260, 275, 276, Malraux, André 90 Montréal de Gers (France) 128
331, 332 Manasara 48, 104 monumental accents: commemorative columns 265—
Ledoux, Claude Nicolas 189, 196, 197, 197, 199 Manchester (England) 148, 305 67, 269-71, 271, 273, Pl.35
Leeds (England) 57, 58, 64, 148, 305 mandalas 179, 181, 182 equestrian statues 83, 210, 265-67, 270, 271, Pl.25
Leeuwarden (Netherlands) 164 Manila (Philippines) 217 fountains 230, 259, 266, 267, 325, Pl.26
Le Havre (France) 31, 136 Mannheim (Germany) 306 obelisks 83, 208, 216, 264-67, 271, 309, Pl.21
Le Mans (France) 238 Marchi, Francesco 190 statues 210, 213, 216, 222, 229, 261, 265, 267, 269,
Lemercier, Jacques 145, 236 Marcus Aurelius 265 270, 313, 325, 325, 326
L’Enfant, Pierre Charles 11, 99, 113, 121, 146, 209-11, Marcuse, Peter 121 triumphal arches 177, 216, 222, 224, 227, 249, 263,
BO, 21Os 274 220, W427i sia, 504 Mariana (Brazil) 258 263, 264, 266-69, 268, 269, 272, 273, 274, 315,
Le Notre, André 216, 226, 227, 236, 251, 251, 261 Maria Cristina (of Savoy) 260 Pls.20, 23, 28
Le Play, Frédéric 204 Marie de Médicis (of France) 251 Mordvinov, A. 275
Leiden (Netherlands) 57, 253 Mariembourg (Belgium) 190 More, Thomas 163
Leipzig (Germany) 91, 313, 330 Marietta (O.) 150 Mormons 101, 103
Leningrad (St. Petersburg, Russia) 15, 99, 211, 216, markets 31, 48, 60, 62, 63, 70, 105, III, 143, T55, 156, Morris, A. E. J. 14-15
224, 236, 239, 252, 256, 260, 265, 265, 274, 287, 185, 187, 192, 210, 264, 286. See also: agora Morris, William 321
290, 294, 305 Marne-la-Vallée (France) 40 Moscow (Russia) 192, 262, 274, 275, 275, 294, 307,
Lenné, Peter Joseph 151 Marrakesh (Morocco) 62, 290, 305 308; 312, 3135 316, $26, 3273 3195 33325550029
Leo X (pope) 235, 236 Marseille (France) 295 Moses, Robert 12
Leonardo da Vinci 132, 190 Martin, Camille 84 Mott, Seward 80
Leptis Magna (Labdah, Libya) 108, 264 Martini, Simone 305, 306 Mouans-Sartoux (France) 111
Letchworth (England) 76, 77, 77, 84, 228, 228 Massa Marittima (Italy) 108, 291 Mumford, Lewis 10, 15, 16, 37, 80, 103, 122
Levi-Strauss, Claude 165 Mausolos 213 Munich (Miinchen, Germany) 84, 85, 221, 270, 333
Lima (Peru) 69, 113 May, Ernst 89, 89 Murren (Switzerland) 295
Limbourg Brothers 285 Maymont, Paul 206 Murten (Switzerland) 110
Lincoln (England) ro8 Mazo, Juan Bautista del 283, P/.6 Mussolini, Benito 217, 220, 260, 267, 269
Lincoln (Neb.) 326, 326 Mecca (Saudi Arabia), 59, 171 Mycenae (Greece) 30
Lindos (Rhodes, Greece) 219, 219, 229 medinas 9, 46, 52, 90
linear cities 89 Megara Hyblaea (Sicily) ros
Little Rock (Ark.) 312 Megiddo (Israel) 104
Liverpool (England) 64, 72, 148
Llano del Rio (Calif.) 203
Lodz (Poland) 148, 149
Melbourne (Australia) 279
Merian, Conrad 287 N
Merida (Spain) 50, 51 Naarden (Netherlands) 44, 45, 110
London (16th C.) 286, 287, 311 Merv (Mary, Turkmeniya) 62 Nadelburg (Austria) 169
(17th C.) 112, 116, 145, 146, 215, 217, 278, 220, Meshhed (Mashhad, Iran) 260 Nahalal (Israel) rs8
221, 231, 240, 256, 266, 292, 293, 315 Mesopotamia (ancient) 55, 59, 60, 74, 104, 105, 255, Nakhon Pathom (Thailand) 40
(18th C.) 17, 253, 285, 294, Pl.35 279 Naniwa-kyo (Japan) 175
(roth C.)) 37, 72, 75, 254, 270, 295, 327, Pl.38 Messel, Alfred 153 Nanjing (China) 37
(20th C.) 76, 90, 195, 312, 326, 332, 333, PI.36 Metz (France) 90 ere (Italy) 54, 131, 137, 139, 230, 256, 284, 287,
Longquan Fu (Heilong Jiang, China) 175 Mexico City 133, 270
Longwy (France) 30 S
Miami (Fla.) 327 Napoleon Bonaparte 201, 216, 220, 249, 252, 268,
Lorenzetti, Ambrogio 306 Michelangelo 216, 229, 229, 264, 264, 265, 292
Lorient (France) 31 294, 315, Pls.3, 25
Middelburg (Netherlands) 56, 164 ; Napoleon III (of France) 216, 230
Los Angeles (Calif.) 12, 114, 123, 311, 311, 326, 331 Middlesbrough (England) r49
Loudon, John Claudius 73 aaa Nara: see Heijokyo
Miletus (Turkey) 11, 105, 106 Nash, John 72, 72
Louis IX (of France) 110 military settlements 32, 102, 105, 108, r15, 128, 139,
Louis XI (of France) ro9 National Land Survey of 1785 (U.S.A.) 39, 113, 116,
160, 161, T61, 165, 166, 180, 214, Pl.3
Louis XIV (of France) 34, 100, 189, 216, 260, Pl.25 Milton Keynes (England) 156, 156, 157
7 121, 134, 134, 135, 233
Louis, Victor 240 . nationalism 87, 294, 322
Milwaukee (Wis.) 234 : ‘ Nauvoo (Ill.) rz
Louis Philippe (of France) 238, 267 minarets: see towers Nazi planning 87, 88, 89, 91, 167, 260, 272-74, 274,
348 - INDEX
313» 322, 323
Nebuchadnezzar 104, 226, 272 1 Piranesi, Giovanni Battista 229
Pisa (Italy) 183, 292
neighborhood unit planning 154, 155 Paestum (Italy) 127, 142 Pisano, Giovanni 266
Nero 69 a Pagan (Arimaddana, Burma) 62, 172 Pisano, Nicola 266
Neuf-Brisach (France) 30, 133, 144 Page, Thomas S. 162 Pittsburgh (Pa.) 282, 327
Neumann, Balthazar 14 pagodas 290, 295, 305, 309, 318, 322 Pius IV (pope) 221, 264
Neustadt (Germany) 143 Palermo (Sicily) 37, 292 place d’armes 100, 226
New Caledonia 196 Palestrina: see Praeneste planning: campus 199
New Deal 80 Palladio, Andrea 222, 292 central 27
New Delhi (India) 46, 176-78, 176, 177, 219, 228, 240, pall mall grounds: see malls grid 9, 11, 47, 95-157 passim
269, 270, PI.28. See also Delhi Palm City (Fla.) 81 Hellenistic, 212-14, 213, 222, 255, 256, 263
New Harmony (Ind.) 201 Palmanova (Italy) 12, 160-62, I6T, 190, 195, 240, Pl.3 medieval 132, 142
New Haven (Ct.) 115, rr5, 116, 305 Palmyra (Syria) 142, 264, Pl.20 military 132, 144, 144, 161, 190
New Lanark (Scotland) 200 Panopticon 198, 198 modernist 88, 89, 89, 90, 155, 155, 156, 157, 217
New Orleans (La.) 10, 71, 99, 100, 113, 233, 233 Paramaribo (Surinam) 149 organic 10, 75, 82-93, 84, 85, 87-89
New Salisbury (Salisbury, England) 147, 288 — Paris 268, 269, Pl.23 picturesque 70-82, 72, 73, 74, 77; 785 79, 80, 81, 89,
new towns (medieval) ro, 12, 30, 31, 45, 99, 100, r08— (sth C.) 285, 310, 326 90, 91
i109, LHOs Lhe, ELA, 126, 128-31, £28, 129, (16th C.) 231, 238, 251, 256, 287 regional 195
130, 133, 135, 139, 139, 141, 142, 143, 148, Pl.16 (i7thiG.)airs. 224,236,250, 25st 256y 207, Renaissance 26, 52, 145, 185, 186, 190
(zoth C.) 40, 82, 91, 155, 156, 195 (18th C.) 211, 212, 216, 226, 227, 227, 240, 250, 260 See also City Beautiful movement; Fascist planning;
New Winchelsea (Winchelsea, England) 126 (x9th C.) 11, 64, 82, 83, 87, 92, 204, 220, 230, 232, Garden City; Grand Manner; ideal cities; Nazi
New York (19th C.) 73-75, 79, 94, 121, 122, 138, 150, 235, 238, 249, 252, 254, 259, 262, 265, 267, 268, planning; Socialist planning
M535 225, 232, 202, 323-25, 324 268, 269, 294, 295, 314, 319, 320, 328, 330, 3355 Plato 163, 183, 185
(zoth C.) 12, 28, 98, 150, 229, 252, 266, 278, 281, Pl.23 plazas: see squares
311, 314-16, 318, 327, 327, 328, 330, 331, 335, (zoth C.) 40, 77, 84, 150, 193, 254, 273, 276, 320, Plessis (Paris, France) 77
Pl.32 332, 332 Pliny 105, 267
Newburyport (Mass.) 251 Parker, Barry 76, 77, 77, 228 Polybius 108
Newcourt, Richard 112, 145 parks 52, 73, 78, 89, 90, 121, 145, 146, 155, 155, 156, Pompidou, Georges 216
Nice (France) 111 169, 188, 189, 195, 203, 217, 226, 227, 253, 254 Ponz, Abbé 262
Nichols, J. C. 79 parkways: see streets Poppelman, Matthaus Daniel 227
Nicholson, Francis 220, 221 Parma (Italy) rro population density 27, 147, 196
Nicias 36 Pattie, Piette 2m.) 212 port cities 61, 109, 111-14, III, 113, 137, 147, 253,
Niedermeyer, Oskar von 48 Paul III (pope) 235, 236 309
Nieuwpoort (Netherlands) 57 Pavia (Italy) 107, 108, 143, 169 Port Glasgow (Scotland) 31
Nijmegen (Netherlands) 56 Peacham, Henry 231 Port Sunlight (England) 72, 73, 76, 84, 169
Nikon (patriarch) 294 pedestrians 79, 80, 83, 84, 90, 156, 182, 215, 249, 254 porticoes 142, 214, 260
Nimes (France) 232, 233 Pei, I. M. Pl.39 Portland (Or.) 233
Nimrud (Qirba, Syria) 165, 165 Pelli, Cesar P1.36 Portoghesi, Paolo 261
Nordlingen (Germany) 11, 52, 87, 185 Pemberton, Robert 202 portolan charts 130, 130
Norwich (England) 9 Penn, William 44, 116, 134, 141, 144, 145, 145, 146, Posokhin, Mikhail V. Pl.z9
Noto (Sicily) 144 150, 2345 325 c Poston (Ariz.) 166
Nouguiere, Emile 320 Pergamon (Bergama, Turkey) 212-14, 213 Praeneste (Palestrina, Italy) 229
Novara (Italy) r10 Pereira Associates P/.27 Prague (Czechoslovakia) 8, 292, P/.12
Novgorod (Russia) 60, 62, 295 Perge (Turkey) 142 pre-industrial cities 28, 33, 60, 93, 182, 306, 322
Nowdushan (Iraq) Pl.9 Pericles 61 presidios 165
Noyen, Sebastian van 190 Périgord (France) 124 Priene (Turkey) 105, 125, 125, 139, 147, 219, 219, 263
Nuremberg (Germany) 75, 87, 288 perimeter block: see housing reform promenades: see streets
Perlach Garden Suburb (Munich, Germany) 84, 85 prospect: see vistas
Perry, Clarence A. 154 Prost, Henri 86
Perugia (Italy) 55, 266, 281 Prozorovska (Moscow, Russia) 78
Q
Odessa (Ukraine) 12, 230 Philadelphia (17th C.) 44, 116, 141, 144-46, 147, 150
office tower: see towers (18th and roth C.) 102, 290, 305, 320, 320, 325, 326
Oglethorpe, James 12 (zoth C.) 12, 150, 234, 319, 325, 328, 334
Philip II (of Spain) 114, 284 qanats 59
Olbia (Sardinia) 105 Quebec (Canada) 71, 113
Ollantaytambo (Peru) 115 Philip IV (of Spain) 283, P/.6
Philip V (of Spain) 95 Queensborough (England) 31
Olmsted, Frederick Law 11, 16, 73, 745 745 75> 76 78 Quentel, Peter 284
Philippeville (Belgium) 190, 191
80, 78, 227, 228, 254, 255 Phillips, Robert C. 74, Pl.14 Quercia, Jacopo della 266
Olynthus (Greece) 147 Quito (Ecuador) 113
Omaha (Neb.) 124 Phoenix (Ariz.) 159
photography 281, 311, 312, 326 Qum (Iran) 62
Onians, John 222
Ord, Lt. Edward 123 Piacentini, Marcello 277
Ordnance Survey (Great Britain) 57 piano regulatore 11
R
Osaka (Japan) 179 piazza: see squares
Ostia (Italy) 147 picturesque 16, 72~76, 78, 82, 84, 89, 90, 157, 224,
227, 262, 292, 324
Owen, Robert 198-201, 201 Rabat (Morocco) 216, Pl.13
Oxford (England) 44, 314 Pienza (Italy) 291
Pieper, Jan 172 Radburn (N.J.) 79, 80
Pietermaritzburg (S. Africa) 149 radial streets: see streets
Pietrasanta (Italy) r1o, 128 Radiant City (Ville Radieuse) 15, 332
Pillsbury, Richard 44 Radstadt (Austria) 143
Piraeus (Piraiévs, Greece) 105, 127, 315
railroad towns rf, 12, 40, 75, 78, 102, 103, 122, 124,
INDEX - 349
St. Clar (France) 141 Sitte, Camillo 9, 82-84, 84, 85, 91, 92, 102
140, 150, 306 Sixtus IV (pope) 315
Rambouillet (France) 295 Ste. Colombe (France) 100
Sixtus V (pope) 216, 218, 220, 221, 236, 267, 269,
ramps: see streets Ste. Foy-la-Grande (France) 128
St. Louis (Mo.) 100, 113 Pl.2zr
Rangoon (Burma) 290, 319 Sjoberg, Gideon 27, 33, 60, 182
Reading (Pa.) 234 St. Pastour (France) 126
St. Petersburg: see Leningrad skyscrapers 258-60, 266, 274, 275, 277, 278, 279, 280,
Rechteckplatz 143 281, 295, 309-13, 311, 312, 315-18, 315, 316, 320,
reconstruction, postwar 89, 91, 155, 230 St. Quentin (France) 296
St. Quentin-en-Yvelines (France) 40, 276 323-28, 325-27, 329, 350735 3320353 bis 7s
Reichow, Hans Bernhard 88, 89
Reims (France) 260, 291 St. Riquier (France) 173, 291 36, 39
Salisbury: see New Salisbury Sloten (Netherlands) 56, 57
religious orders: Benedictines 111, 173
Salt Lake City (U.) 11, 101, TOT, 150, 232
slums 64, 90, 148, 149, 152, 160, 295
Carthusians 168
Salt, Sir Titus 169-71 Smith, Joseph 11, ror, ror
Cistercians 12, 108, 168
Saltaire (Shipley, England) 169-71, 170 Smithson, Alison and Peter 90
Cluniacs 168
Franciscans 12 Salzgitter (Germany) 323 smokestacks 282, 282, 288, 306, 312, 324, PI.37
Jesuits 12, 115 Samarkand (Uzbekistan) 182, 204 Smyrna (Izmir, Turkey) 105
Teutonic Knights 12, rro, rro Samarra (Iraq) 36 Sobry, J.-F. 38
Rembrandt van Rijn 284 San Antonio (Tex.) 114 socialist planning 27, 28, 52, 78, 89, 168, 224, 225,
San Francisco (Calif.) 25, 99, 126, 126, 217, 233, 233, 226, 258, 263, 271, 274, 275, 322, 323
Remiremont (France) 238
Reps, John W. 71, 163 2.66, 314, 319, 328, 3345 335, PI.27 Socialist city 28, 52, 78, 274
residential squares 145, 145, 216, 251, 256, 270 San Gimignano (Italy) P/.31 Socialist Realism 226, 274, 275, 275, 313, 316, 317;
Reuwich, Erhard 285 San Giovanni (Italy) 11, 128, 139 330, Pl.29
revaluation, historical 220 San Gregorio da Sassola (Italy) 196 Sofia (Bulgaria) 29, 313
Rhodes (Rodhos, Greece) 127, 285, 315 San Jose (Calif.) 114 Soissons (France) 296
Richelieu (France) 133, 144, 145, 236 San Leucio (Naples, Italy) 196 Soleri, Paolo 15, 159, 160, 160, 206
Richmond (Duke of) 285 Sansovino, Jacopo 222, 223 Sophocles 37
Richmond (Va.) 121, 270 Sant’Elia, Antonio 331 Soufflot, Jacques Gabriel 294
Riehl, Wilhelm Heinrich 83 Santiago (Chile) 113, 114 Souza, Luis Antonio de 258
Rimini (Italy) 188 Santo Domingo (Dominican Republic) 71, 113, 113 Sparta (Greece) 102
ringroads: see streets Santos (Brazil) 258 Speckle, Daniel von 240
Rio de Janeiro (Brazil) 53, 71, 288, 320 Saragossa (Spain) 283, Pl.31 Speer, Albert 87, 217, 260, 270, 273, 274, 277, 313
Rio Negro (Brazil) 258 Sargon II (of Assyria) 34 Spindelform plan 135, 139, 139
LitUalymGn a 4s eto I2 71645 165, ET, 172—7.5 4 L775 Sassoforte (Italy) 306 squares (ancient) 142, 264
186, 231, 268, 272, Pls.1, 7 Sattler, Hubert P/.34 (medieval) 93, 100, 128, 139, 143, 147
Riverside (Calif.) rx Savannah (Ga.) 12, 96, 98, 103, 116, 133, 134, 145, (Renaissance and Baroque) 115, 136, 144, 145, I6I,
Riverside (Ill.) 74, 74, 78-80 146, 149 465; 187, 189, 205, 222, 2235 238, 2555 257s 259s
Riyadh (Saudi Arabia) 307 Sawai Jai Singh 182 260, 266, 270, 287, Pl.26
Roberto, Marcelo and Mauricio 194, 195 Scamozzi, Vincenzo ro, 132, 139, 144, 161, 190, 222 (x8th and roth C.) 8, 83, 84, 96, 122, 143, 145—47,
Robinson, Charles Mulford 218, 325 Scarperia (Italy) 128, 291 ZOL, 21Oy 227s ZAG Reson Zor EIS
Rochefort (France) 31 Scharoun, Hans 155, 321 (zoth C.) 227, 322, 325, 330, 331
Roman camps 102, 165, 166 Schauseite: see city, views See also: agora; courthouse squares; markets; place
Roman forums 48, 107, 142, 143, 215, 231, 267 Scheerbart, Paul 322 d’armes; residential squares
Rome (ancient) 11, 13, 13, 14, 27, 31, 37> 40, 60, 61, Scherpenheuvel (Netherlands) 173, 174 squatter settlements 29, 64, 69, Pl.13
69, 75; 925 251, 266, 269, 270, 285, 288, 309, 311, Schickhardt, Heinrich 187, 187 Sri Aurobindo 206, 207
314, 319 Schmitthemmer, Paul 85 Srirangam (India) 172, 172
(medieval) 13, 13, 235, 272 Schoonhoven (Netherlands) 57 Staaken Garden Suburb (Berlin, Germany) 84, 85
(Renaissance) 230, 231, 235, 236, 237, 264, 264, Schuyler, Montgomery 324, 328, 330 Stadtbild 279, 310
225 Pha Scott, Geoffrey 305, 334 Stadtkrone 274, 321-23, 323, 327
(Baroque) 214, 216, 221, 222, 229, 229, 236, 237, Scott, George Gilbert P/.38 stairs: see streets
256, 260, 265, 267, 281, 281, 284, 293, 293, 295, Scull, Nicholas, 234 Stalin, Joseph 217, 224, 226, 274, 275, 313
BOs} 22) Seaside (Fla.) 276, 277 Stalinstadt (Eisenhiittenstadt, Germany) 28, 313
(modern) 11, 231, 231, 252, 267, 270, 295 Seattle (Wash.) 233, 307, 334 Statesville (Ill.) r98
Romerstadt (Frankfurt-am-Main, Germany) 89, 89 Seld, Jorg 287 statues: see monumental accents
Romulus 61 Selestat (France) 238 steeples; see towers, steeples
rond-points 121, 192, 216, 226, 227, 234, 238, 240, Seleucia (Iraq) 105, 142 Stein, Clarence 79, 80
250, 269, 276 Seleucia Pieria (Samandag, Turkey) 105 Stella-Plage (France) 204
Root, John Wellborn 324 Seleucus I (of Macedonia) 105 Stephenson, George 198
Rossetti, Biagio 11, 102 Sellier, Henry 77 Stettin (Szczecin, Poland) 89
Rostock (Germany) 274 Semionoy, Vladimir A. 78 Stevenage (England) 333
Rostov (Russia) 292 Septimius Severus 108 Stevin, Simon rrr, 112
Rothenburg (Germany) 87 Serlio, Sebastiano 222, 223 Stieglitz, Alfred 281, 314
Rotterdam (Netherlands) 333 Sete (France) 31 Stockholm (Sweden) 112, 311
Rottweil (Germany) r1ro, 142 Settimo (Italy) 108 Stonehenge (England) 164
Rowe, Colin 92 settlement density 28, 37, 76, 148, 153 Strasbourg (France) 28, 238, 287
rowhouses 58, 147-50, 149, 150, 256, 256, 257 Sforza, Francesco 186 ne Strassendorf 168
Rudolf II (of Uesenberg) 143 : Sforzinda: see Filarete Strassenkreuz 142, 143
Russell Sage Foundation 154 Shang (Anyang, China) 30 Street, G. E. 295
Rykwert, Joseph 16 shantytowns: see squatter settlements street furniture 230
Sharp, Thomas 282 street improvements 252, 262, 265
Sheffield (England) 90, P/.37 street line 42, 70, 76, 82, 84, 86, 96, 1or, 148, 224,
350
- INDEX
avenues 211, 216, 225, 226, 227, 227, 232305, 239. clock towers 305, 310, P/.38 Vallauris (France) r11
249, 251, 252, 255, 266, 268, 269, 277, Pl.23 feudal tower-houses 49, 50, 280, 280, 281, Pl.31 Valletta (Malta) 12
boulevards 86, 203, 217, 224, 225, 226-28, 233, 238, flak towers 323 Valley Forge (Pa.) 201
249, 250, 25T, 252, 253, 254, 254, 255, 255, 259, international exposition towers 307, 319, 320, 321 Valparaiso (Chile) 54, 114
268, 274, 275, 316, 330 minarets 288, 290, 290, 306, 309, PI.34 Van Eyck, Hubert and Jan 283
bye-law 149, 149 steeples 282, 282, 286, 288, 288, 290-95, 291, 293, Van Leeuwen, Thomas 328
canal 233, 236, 252, 253 295, 305, 306, 308, 310-12, 315, 318, 321, 324, Vance, James.) |t 27,40
colonnaded 142, 263, Pl.20 Pl.35 Vancouver (Canada) 326
cul-de-sac 50, 63, 69, 76, 80, 155 telecommunication towers 307, 308, 309, 312, 314 Varanasi: see Benares
diagonal 13, 100, 112, 142, 146, 152, 192, 220, 221, water towers II0, 306, 307, 324, 329 Vasari, Giorgio 11
232-35, 234, 238, 276, Pls.2r, 27 See also skyscrapers; smokestacks Vastuvidya 104
magistrale (socialist) 224, 225, 226, 2745 2755 275 townscape 90, 91, 92 Vauban, Sébastien Le Prestre de 31, 100, 144, 191, 254
parkways 217, 228, 254, 255 ’ trade fairs 31, 31 Vaudoyer, Léon 295
promenades 122, 226, 249, 250, 251, 251, 252, 253 traffic 58, 80, 82, 87, 138, 141, 153, 154-56, 190, 192, Vaux, Calvert 74
radial 43, 89, 111, 112, 140, 161, 162, 177, 184, 185, HGS. 196,204, 2 272201232, 253A ewes IeOs Vaux-le-Vicomte (France) 236
187, 188, 189, 190, 190, T9T, 192, 194, 197, 199, 252, 254, 255 Velazquez, Diego PI.16
204, 211, 215, 216, 227, 234, 238, 238, 240, 262, Trajan 265 Venice (Italy) 15, 55, 61, 62, 222, 223, 285, 287, 292
Bice 23 trees: see street trees Venzone (Italy) 143
ringroads 89, 162, 6A; EZ, E72, E85, 192, 197, 202, Treppenstrassen: see streets, stairs and ramps Vermeer, Jan 284
225,239, ZAG, 262, 273, 316; 317, Pla tribal groups: Asante 184, Bororo 165, Nguni 165, Vernet, Claude Joseph 283, 287
stairs and ramps 229, 229, 230 Zulu 165 Verona (Italy) 107, 107, 108, 124, 143
straight 144, 215, 230-32, Pl.21 Trieb, Michael 9 Versailles (France) 11, 30, 34, 90, 189, 200, 211, 217,
Sttibben, Joseph 9, 238 Trier (Germany) 50, 51, 142 236, 237, 238, 251, 252
stupas 290 Tripoli (Libya) 269 Versoix (Switzerland) 144
Stuttgart (Germany) 307, 332 triumphal arches: see monumental accents Verulamium (St. Albans, England) 232
suburbs 16, 44, 57, 58, 64, 69, 72-76, 74, 78-84, 78- trivium 189, 215, 216, 218, 235, 236, 237, 238, 240, Vézelay (France) 42, 288
82, I12, 135, 136, 149, 165, 183, 192, 207, 226, 252, Unity ys IEG I), ig, 22 Vianen (Netherlands) rro
BGA 2 575 270s 277s SLA, 326, Pl.r4 Troy (Turkey) 54 Vicenza (Italy) 222
surveying 9, 51, 58, 59, 126-28, 127, 130-33, 130, 132 Troyes (France) 32, 108 Victoria: see Buckingham, James Silk
Suzhou (China) 37, 96, 97, 99, 141, 290 Tunbridge Wells (England) 251 Vienna (Austria) 83, 87, 151, 225, 259, 259, 270, 273,
synoecism 35, 59-62, 60, 104, 288 Tunis (Tunisia) 62, 228 294, 305, 323,Pl.4
Syracuse (Siracusa, Italy) 36, 104 Turin (Italy) 15, 99, 108, 133, 136, 136, 138, 222, 252, Vijayanagara (India) 290
260, 261, 261, 293, 320, 321 Villard de Honnecourt 128
Villefranche-du-Queyran (France) 126
Villeneuve-sur-Lot (France) 100, 126, Pl.16
T U
Villeréal (France) 44
Villeurbanne (France) 266
Tacitus 69 Villingen (Germany) 142
Tacoma (Wash.) 75 Uaxactun (Guatemala) 30 Vishvanatha 172
Takht-i Suleiman (Azerbaijan) 164, 164 Ulm (Germany) 287, 291, 332 VISAS. 72 GAy L575 DUEL Di DG Disa eon se
Tangiers (Tanger, Morocco) 217 Ulugh Bey 182 254, 261, 263-66, 269, 272, 273, 274, 275, 277; 2935
Tashkent (Uzbekistan) 204 Union Park Gardens (Wilmington, Del.) 79 Pl.27
Taut, Bruno 84, 322, 323, 323 Unwin, Raymond 76, 77, 77; 79, 89, 90, 195, 228, 277 Viterbo (Italy) 61
Team X 90 Ur (Iraq) 55, 92, 226 Vitruvius 114, 127, 131, 185, 186, 189, 213, 218, 222
Teilhard de Chardin, Pierre 206 Urban VIII (pope) 214 Vitry-le-Frangois (France) 111
telecommunication towers: see towers urban districts: administrative 61, 95, 96, 98, 99, 114, Vittoria (Italy) 110, 111
Temmu Tenno 175 145, 156, 179, 213, 255 Vladimir (Russia) 292
Tenochtitlan (Mexico City) 114, PI.7 commercial 35, 75, 127, 146, 150, 192, 195, 315, Voland, Frans de 12
Teotihuacan (Mexico) 38, 60 326, 332, PL36
Termessos (Turkey) 142 industrial 75, 89, 148
palace 35, 36, 58, 99, ITT, 141, 173, 174, 175, 176,
W
terpen 56, 57, 163
Terranuova (Italy) 128 182, 189, 237, Pl.2
Tessin, Nicodemus, the Younger 11, 112 religious 32, 35, 36, 51, 58-62, 99, 172, 226, 322
Thebes (Egypt) 34; 55, 92, 171, 279 residential 48, 49, 55, 59, 62, 63, 74, 755 79s 82, 86, Wagner, Martin 322
Theseus 60 89, 99, 127, 136, 146, 154, 172, 178, 182, 185, Wagner, Otto 151, 259, 259
Thessaloniki (Greece) 292 189, 195, 214, 254, 255 Wakefield (England) 148
Thomas Aquinas 110, 111 urban economy, surplus 31, 38 Waleys, Sir Henry le 12
Thucydides 37, 60 urban extension: see city, extension Walter, Thomas U. 294
Tikal (Guatemala) 30, 40 urban geography 25, 26 wards: see urban districts, administrative
urban hierarchy 25, 38 Warsaw (Poland) 91, 270, 274, 317, 318
Timgad (Thamugadi, Algeria) 106, 107, 139, 142, 263
Tokashima (Japan) 179 urban process 9, 11, 13, 13, 14, 25, 26, 48, 49, 50, 51, Washington, D.C. (18th C.) 11, 90, 99, 113, 121, 146,
Tokyo (Edo, Japan) 179, 180, 309 69, 90, TOI, 107, 147, 150, T52, 155 209-11, 210, 21T, 216, 220, 221, 234, 271, 273
Toledo (Spain) 285, 286 urban renewal 63, 90-92, 331, 333. See also (r9th C.) 149, 176
demolition; revaluation (zoth C.) 195, 208, 217, 312, 314
topography (compliance with) 10, 53-57; 54, 62, 745 Washington, George 209
Urbino (Italy) 315
87, 106, 107, 134, 142, 157, 162, 175, 190, 190, Urubupunga: see Jupaia water towers: see towers
192, 209, 211, 213, 218-21, 233, 288, 290, 295,
Utopia (O.) 168 Watkin, Sir Edward 321
Pls.r0o-12
utopias 163, 163, 196-207, 322, 323 Weber, Max 27
(disregard for) 95, 98, 107, 125, 126, 218-21 Weiss, Paul 53
Toronto (Canada) 307 Utrecht (Netherlands) 252
Welwyn Garden City (England) 76
Toulouse (France) 90, 91, 249, 250,252
Toulouse, Count of: see Alphonse de Poitiers
Toulouse-Le Mirail 90, 91 Vv Wheatley, Paul 32, 33
Whitehand, J. W. R. 26
Whitehaven (England) 31
Tournai (Belgium) 291, 291 Whitwell, Stedman 201
Tourny, Aubert de 249 wierden 56
Valbonne (France) 111
towers: belltowers 279, 290, 291, 296, 305, 306, 3095 Valenciennes (Belgium) 284 Willebrand, I. P. 82
310, 314, 317, 320
INDEX = 352
Yorktown (Va.) 116
William the Conqueror 291 Wright, Frank Lloyd 328
Yoruba cities 30, 38, 184
Williamsburg (Va.) 80, 116 Wright, Henry 79, 80, 154
Ypres (Belgium) 296, 305
Wilmington (Del.) 79 Wuhan (China) 307
Winchester (England) 147 Wurzburg (Germany) 14, 15
Wirth, L. 37 Wycherley, R. E. 105
ZL
Woensam, Anton 284, 284-85, 286, 287 Wyngaerde, Anton van der 284, 286
Wolf, Paul 153
Wolfsburg (Germany) 323
Woods, Shadrac 90, 91 Zernaki Tepe (Turkey) 124
Woodstock (Vt.) 71
Woodward, Augustus 12, 219, 220, 234
Y Zhengzhou (China) 30, 59
Zincirli (Som’al, Turkey) 213
Woolworth, Frank 327, 327 Yazd (Iran) 59 Zocher family 249
world expositions: see international expositions Yellow Springs (O.) 201 zoning I5, 53, 75, 83, 89, 157, 164, 194, 207, 311, 316,
Worms (Germany) 306 Yin (China) 30 331
Wren, Sir Christopher 112, 220, 221, 240, 292, 293, York (England) 256
294, Pl.35 Yorkship Village (Camden, N.J.) 79, 80
352 - INDEX
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“Fills a great void in the study of built form... exceptional.”— James S. Ackerman, Arthur Kingsley Porter
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Spiro Kostof (1936-1991) was Professor of Architectural History at the University of California at Berkeley, and also taught |
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On the cover: The center of Siena, showing the cathedral and the Campo. Photo Compagnia Generdle Ripreseaeree,
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