We typically think of architecture spatially, as something in three dimensions and not just two. We are also often aware of its impact on many of our senses. Light, in particular, has been a durable characteristic of interest. Less so, but equally worthwhile, have been explorations of touch and sound. Lisa Heschong's book Thermal Delight in Architecture has been particularly influential on moving our perception of architecture away from the strictly visual.
Of course, when we experience a building indirectly -- via words, drawings, photographs, or models -- we get none of this. We do not experience its spatial characteristics, nor its handling of light and shadow, nor its tactile and aural qualities. The lack of sensory and spatial information is most obvious when words are used. True, in some of the best descriptions one can be sensitively “led” through a building, but there is an editorial aspect to this tour with what one experiences curated by the author. An advantage to looking at a drawing is that we can sometimes see into the mind of the designer that drew it, but a drawing always displays some level of abstraction. This level of abstraction is sometimes helpful in determining intent, but is much less reliable in gauging final results. With the advent over the last few centuries of the photograph, a startlingly realistic image can now be captured and mistaken as a direct proxy for experience. Physical models, as well as the new technology of digital 3d models, also create the illusion of experiencing architecture. With a plan, some sections, some text, and plenty of images, many people -- including many architects -- feel they can experience architecture in absentia of the real thing.
I have found this not to be true. Several years ago, along with my classmates and under the guidance of my instructor Wilfried Wang, I went to Klippan, Sweden to study a church, St Petri, by Sigurd Lewerentz. We measured, analyzed, and experienced it at length for an intensive month, and produced this book at the end.
The thing is, the building was exceptionally simple in concept. (Pure might be the more correct way to put it, but simple works for my purposes here) The main religious space is primarily square in plan, with an ancillary square entry vestibule. Surrounding the building on two sides is an L-shaped administrative and community room wing. The entire structure is made out of brick. There is some steel too, and a metal roof, but uncut brick is the dominant material. There is a little more to it, including a belfry, but not much. If ever architecture could be comprehended with images and a plan and a model alone, this would be a strong candidate.
Yet I don't think it is possible. The rendering of St Petri by words is difficult, the descriptions tend to the banal. Photos capture only a fragment at any one time, but lose an awareness of adjacencies, and never do complete justice to the harmony of the entire composition. And of course no medium comes close to capturing the bright shafts of light against deep, deep shadows, the blindness one experiences on entrance, the cool dampness of the brick, the staleness of sequestered air, or the hushed echoes -- each of which can only be experienced in situ.
In this day and age where the architectural image is so prevalent, it is easy to see something that looks terrific and think you understand it. I suppose it may be a bit of a cliché to acknowledge that you can't, really, until you experience it. Still, it is true that we evaluate architecture remotely all the time. Some architecture we rejoice in before directly experiencing, and some we dismiss. But ultimately this praise or dismissal is a guess, and just that no matter how educated the guess. Architecture really does need to be experienced, with the best architecture needing to be experienced over multiple occasions. Only then will one get a sufficient glimpse. Architecture truly is phenomenological.