Emotional Architecture and the Human-Nature Connection

A comparative analysis of selected works by Alvar Aalto (1898-1976) and Luis Barragán (1902-1988), who uniquely approached architectural design with a heightened sensitivity towards human behavior, the natural environment and emotional awareness.

Functionalism and Alvar Aalto’s Paimio Sanatorium (1929-33)

We will begin with Aalto’s Paimio Sanatorium, which was designed and built concurrently with his early involvement with CIAM. Designed for the treatment of tuberculosis patients, for which exposure to the natural environment was deemed critical, the Sanatorium provided a rich testing ground for the translation of Aalto’s functionalist theories into built forms that responded to practical human needs.

At the macro level, the Sanatorium was carefully designed to maximize the natural properties of its site, a dense, uninhabited forest situated on the outskirts of Turku, a city in the southwest of Finland. At first glance, the complex seems to be a loosely defined collection of white, geometric forms, connected by an almost spine-like set of circulation corridors. However, each building was uniquely oriented based on its programmatic requirements. As Aalto explains: “The Sanatorium’s shape of plan derives from the attempt to handle separately each dissimilar part in this kind of establishment, so that similar rooms and spaces are grouped together to form a wing. The wings are then linked to each other by the central part of the building, where common functions, like stairs, lifts etc. are grouped. Each different wing has been given a special position in the landscape, according to the demands of the rooms...Consequently, the direction of each wing has been exactly defined” (Weston 53).

Located within the main wing, which is long and narrow in plan, are the patient recovery rooms. The rooms face southeast, with large windows to capture sunlight throughout the morning and most of the day. A slight bend in this form creates a separate but connected wing to the northeast, with open air terraces that face directly south, enveloped by views of the forest. On the most basic level, this orientation can be rationalized through clear functional logic. However, as Weston explains: “Facing the terraces due south is more symbolic of their dedication to the supposed healing powers of the sun than a strict functional necessity, and is used to explain a splay that serves several architectural purposes: it evokes the idea of the building as an organism that can respond to its environment - turning its head, as it were, to catch the sun; it reinforces the individuality of the two pieces, introducing a palpable tension between them; it suggests the capture of a section of the surrounding landscape where paths were arranged for the healthier patients to take exercise; and it provides a visual closure to a linear block and roof terrace that threatened to disappear disconcertingly off into infinity” (Weston 56). This interpretation underlines the fact that, even as Aalto embraced Functionalism, his application of these principles placed an emphasis not only on the achievement of utilitarian forms, but on the spiritual connection between the individual and nature, and on the importance of achieving visual and spatial interest.

Even at a much smaller scale, Aalto used the principles of Functionalism as a means of investigating and addressing the unique needs and conditions of patients. Within the patient rooms, every detail was intentionally designed to create a positive human experience. This started with the simple understanding that these patients would spend most of their time in bed, as Aalto explained, “The ordinary room is a room for a vertical person: a patient’s room is a room for a horizontal human being, and colors, lighting, heating, and so on must be designed with that in mind” (Schildt 102). Aalto custom-designed every detail with the “horizontal human” in mind. To name only a few, these included: light fixtures that were out of sight of the patients, softly reflecting around the room; ceiling-mounted heating panels that radiated towards the patients’ feet, providing warmth while allowing cooler air to breathe; special window openings that allowed fresh air to enter the room, passing through the double-glazing in such a way that it was warmed upon transition; and extra acoustical insulation within the wall that separated the rooms from the service corridor, reducing undesired noise for the patients (Weston 56-59).

This careful human consideration extended beyond the patient rooms as well. The communal building, which sits to the north of the patient wing, includes a sun-drenched dining room with tall ceilings and south-facing windows, a recreation room containing a small greenhouse, and a library and cinema extending along the north elevation. Each room is again oriented to maximize its intended function, while on the whole the building serves as a social center, fostering positive human interaction among the patients. Service facilities sit beyond this building, detached from the patient wing and community center so as not to detract from the human experience.

The communal building is connected to the patient wing by the main entrance building, forming an open courtyard between the three. Notable here is Aalto’s use of color, as Pallasmaa describes, “The canary yellow floor of the main stair and hallway evokes the experience of sunshine and warmth even during the dark winter months” (Aalto et al. 29). This tactic, of course, was not prescribed by the principles of Functionalism. Aalto’s use of color does serve a clear functional purpose, designating the primary pathways between the buildings as if using a yellow highlighter to diagram the building’s circulation. However, the same effect could be achieved with black paint on a white floor. Aalto chose yellow for its inherent emotional significance, hoping to brighten the spirits of the patients even on the darkest, coldest winter day in Finland.

At the Paimio Sanatorium, Aalto’s unique and thoughtful approach to Functionalism combined both utilitarian design and a keen focus on nurturing the human spirit. It is the latter that set him apart from his contemporaries, as Pallasmaa explains: “He did not seem to be concerned with the conceptual and geometric purity or with the organization of the design as presented graphically in the architectural drawing; his real interest was in the experiential and material encounter of the actual building” (Aalto et al. 31-32). While the functional, abstract ideas of the Bauhaus and L’Esprit Nouveau were being adopted rapidly throughout Europe, Aalto used only what was relevant to his ultimate goal of creating a uniquely humanized architecture, elevating the importance of human emotion and experience as central to his design concept.

Humanization and Alvar Aalto’s Villa Mairea (1938-41)

After demonstrating a deep understanding of the relationship between human needs and built form at the Paimio Sanatorium, Aalto’s personal design philosophy seemed to shift away from Functionalism towards an approach that fully embraced the humanization of the built environment. This new paradigm was manifested in full display less than a decade later at the Villa Mairea, where Aalto engaged in a deep exploration of the role that nature, materials and human emotion play in architecture.

Located in the town of Noormarkku, in a dense forest setting near the western coast of Finland and north of the city of Turku, the Mairea was commissioned as a summer house by Maire and Henry Gullichsen, wealthy business associates and friends of Aalto. The brief was rather straightforward, requiring a working library for Henry, an art studio for Maire, and a place to display their extensive art collection. Upon approval of the initial design concept (of which there were several iterations), they gave Aalto nearly complete freedom of expression and experimentation. (Weston 81)

As with most of his works, the Mairea exhibits a profound respect for the site and for nature, it’s U-shaped plan creating an enclosed courtyard that looks towards the forest, oriented southwest in order to allow natural light to penetrate the communal interior spaces equally. The house sits on the southeastern edge of the site, with the dining room, living room and an enclosed winter garden facing the courtyard on the first floor. Henry’s library is connected to the living area, with a set of hollow, movable walls that act as storage and rotating display surfaces for the art collection. A sliding glass wall in the living room allows the interior to be physically one with the exterior. On the second floor, Maire’s studio and a covered terrace face the courtyard, while the bedrooms are located on the exterior perimeter. A sauna and pool round out the built environment, located to the northwest and west of the courtyard, respectively. (Kries et al. 496)

In both the physical and metaphorical sense, Aalto’s ability to connect the built and natural environment extends beyond the Mairea’s respect for the forest landscape. In fact, he brings the experience of being in nature into the house, creating a naturalistic spatial rhythm and experience that provokes deep human emotion through a highly unique abstract representation of the forest. Weston describes, “Walking around the living room one experiences neither the containment of traditional interiors, nor the open ‘flowing space’ of Modern architecture, but something very much akin to the feeling of wandering through a forest in which spaces seem to form and re-form around you; in a forest, the individual feels himself to be the moving centre of its spaces” (Weston 88). For Aalto, the ability to capture natural experiences through built form was the true essence of organic architecture, and a critical means for humanizing the built environment and creating emotionally charged spaces.

As Aalto wrote in a description of the project in 1939: “The goal was to avoid artificial architectural rhythm in the building without giving up pure “form,” as long as it could be obtained in harmony with the structure or with an increased use of materials and surface treatments that are inherently pleasing to the senses” (Schildt 230). In order to create this experience, he employs various abstractions that mimic the forms and textures of the forest. The most obvious, perhaps, are the clusters of cylindrical wooden poles that allude to trees. We see these directly upon entering the house, stretching from the curved dividing half-wall up to the ceiling, visually separating the entrance space from the rest of the living area. They also appear as a screen for the stairs leading up to the second floor, with a natural rhythm achieved by the seemingly random order in which they are clustered. These poles blend somehow effortlessly with the black structural steel columns that dot the living space. Weston describes that the columns are “variously bound with rattan or partially clad with timber strips. The wrapping and cladding serves to ‘naturalize’ and ‘humanize’ the standard industrial products, rendering them richly tactile objects, but also evoke memories of classical and natural forms” (Weston 88).

Aalto also created a sequence of highly variable transitions throughout the first floor, employing a collage of forms and materials that effectively humanize the environment. A brief set of stairs lead up to the living area from the entrance foyer, with light wooden treads that contrast with two different types of red tile below and above. While the living room is open to the library, the boundary is distinguished by a curved transition from dark tile to light wood. The suspended pine board ceiling and the white walls, some of which are smooth white plasterboard and others lime-washed brickwork, are constants throughout the space, serving as a backdrop for the otherwise constantly changing space. The variety is seemingly endless, continuing not only through the rest of the home but to the exterior spaces as well, where a mix of modern and vernacular forms and materials suggest the random rhythm and sequence of nature and human life.

At the Villa Mairea, Aalto successfully achieves humanization of architecture by creating spaces full of visual and tactile interest, appealing to human senses, sensibility and sentiment in the process. Pallasmaa describes the way in which this work incites emotion in the same way that a painter captivates our attention on a canvas: “Aalto compiled motifs and textures as a painter adds dots of color, light, and shade on his paintings. The building is not unified by a single dominant architectural concept; instead, the conglomeration of ideas, impressions, and associations is held together by a sensuous atmosphere, in the same way that a great painting is integrated by the constancy of its light” (Aalto et al. 33). The Mairea captures Aalto at the height of his achievements, respected above all else as a complete embodiment of emotional architecture, a work of art that transcends stylistic labels.

Connection with nature and Luis Barragán’s Jardines del Pedregal de San Angel (1945-50)

As mentioned previously, the design approach that Barragán employed with his mature works starting in 1945 almost seems to pick up where Aalto left off with the Villa Mairea, which was completed only four years earlier. While there is no documented linkage between the two architects at the time, it is difficult to dismiss the similarities. Like Aalto, Barragán not only incorporated nature into his designs, but he contemplated the experience of the inhabitant at each moment in space, taking a very personal approach that is similar in process and spirit to Aalto’s humanization of architecture.

This approach was first exhibited by Barragán at the Jardines del Pedregal de San Angel. In the mid-1940s, he had purchased 865 acres of untouched landscape on the edge of Mexico City, working with a team of financiers and architects to develop an upscale residential community nestled among the rugged terrain of volcanic rock (Eggener, “Postwar Modernism in Mexico” 126). While hundreds of homes were eventually built into the landscape, most of them were designed and built by other architects who loosely followed the guidelines that Barragán had established. It is in Barragán’s initial model homes, in particular the home at 140 Avenida de las Fuentes (which he designed together with the architect Max Cetto), that we find most evidently his respect for nature’s profound impact on the human spirit as the driving force behind the design of the built environment. As he described himself during his Pritzker Prize acceptance speech in 1980: “Overwhelmed by the beauty of the landscape, I decided to create a series of gardens to humanize, without destroying, its magic” (Barragán, “Acceptance Speech”).

In his approach to integrating built form and natural environment at el Pedregal, Barragán took extreme care in preserving the raw qualities of the unique topography. One could argue that he was focused primarily on designing landscapes rather than houses. As Eggener explains, “The traditional relationship between building and garden was reversed; the gardens surrounded and permeated the buildings; instead of encompassing the gardens, the buildings grew out of the landscape...No longer manicured, enclosed, fragmentary, the garden here is rugged and irregular, punctuated by extensive lava outcroppings, made continuous with the larger environment beyond its walls, with the volcanoes visible in the distance” (Eggener, “Postwar Modernism in Mexico” 129-130). The building itself appeared on the exterior to be representative of the International Style, simple white geometric volumes contrasting with the black lava fields into which they were delicately placed. It was the extreme simplicity and resulting contrast of form that emphasized the complex geography of the landscape, elevating its importance relative to the whole composition.

In the interior of 140 Avenida de las Fuentes, Barragán continues the subtle balance of rational, geometric forms in contrast with nature. The organization was rather straightforward. The ground floor plan consisted of a large, double-height living room and a formal dining room, each with a large window looking out towards the gardens, and a small kitchen tucked in the back. The second floor benefitted from a larger footprint, with three bedrooms extending over the large adjacent rock formation. An additional bedroom and service spaces above the kitchen were also located on the second floor. The entire house was composed of straight lines and flat concrete surfaces. However, the walls were painted a variety of colors, a dramatic contrast that placed even further emphasis on the colors and textures of the exterior (Eggener, “Postwar Modernism in Mexico” 128-29).

Eggener describes the atmosphere that Barragán achieves as seen through photographs by Armando Salas Portugal: “One sees the project - its concentrated play of light, shadow, water, and wall; its rooms and patios sparsely accented by locally made handicrafts and furniture; its sometimes startling juxtapositions of elements old and new, man-made and natural, local and imported - as a series of stage sets for unspecified yet solemn rituals, thick with silence, time, and gravitas” (Eggener, “Postwar Modernism in Mexico” 139). As was to become common with his mature works, Barragán utilized simple geometric forms in order to enhance the dramatic effect of the surrounding landscape and recall personal associations related to traditional furnishings and nature. Perhaps the most powerful moment that we see captured in these photographs is the view towards the garden through the enormous, double-height window in the living room. The scale of the glass wall brings nature into the living space, with only the thin, red-painted muntin bars holding the glass in place, acting as boundary between interior and exterior.

In his address before the California Council of Architects in 1951, Barragán described why the preservation of this landscape was so important to the architectural concept he had envisioned: “One of the characteristics of modern man all around the world, in Mexico as well as here, is that he lives in public; the greater part of this time is taken up in living publicly...I ask myself at what time of the day the modern man that lives this kind of life can meditate and allow his imagination the development of creative spiritual ideas, and also I ask myself if this way of life permits one to find the peace and serenity that every man should have every day and especially in present times” (Barragán, “Jardines del Pedregal” 2). It is clear that Barragán was not motivated purely by a desire to preserve this precious, finite natural resource (although he certainly had aspirations to do so within the parameters that he could control). He realized the inherent value that such a place offered to the human spirit, an almost healing emotional connection between man and nature. His intention was to enhance the power of the landscape through the built environment, creating an atmosphere that fostered spiritual reflection and well-being.

The human spirit and Luis Barragán’s House at Tacubaya (1947)

It is in Barragán’s own house at Tacubaya in Mexico City that we see an even further emphasis on atmosphere and his desire to appeal to human emotions. Like at el Pedregal, the garden plays a critical role in the overall design concept of the house, but it is just one of several humanizing elements that Barragán employs to create a fully enveloping spiritual experience. We will explore in detail some of the other guiding principles that Barragán employed at Tacubaya, which he later described in his 1980 Pritzker Prize acceptance speech.

From the street, the house appears completely undifferentiated from its context, a gray concrete mass sandwiched between two neighboring facades, relieved only by a small door, a few punched windows and the open sky above. The original entrance to the house (which was later expanded to include administration and office space) leads to the main hall and stairway, with the kitchen and dining room located through separate doors straight ahead. The double-height living room and library are located through a door to the right, connected yet divided by a half-wall and flexible partition. In the living room, a large glass wall creates a framed view of the protected garden space, much like at el Pedregal. A double flight of stairs leads to bedrooms on the second floor, with Barragán’s looking out towards the garden, and a large, open terrace on the roof.

To describe the house in plan and section does not do justice to the spatial and emotional experience that Barragán so carefully designed, an experience that is best framed in the context of his guiding principles. Perhaps the best place to start is with the principles of Silence, Solitude and Serenity.

As Barragán described: “Silence. In the gardens and homes I have designed, I have always endeavored to allow for the placid murmur of silence. Solitude. Only through an intimate communion with solitude can man find himself. Serenity. Serenity is the great and true antidote to anguish and fear, and today, more than ever, it is the architect’s duty to make it a permanent guest in any home” (Barragán, “Acceptance Speech”). In order to understand how these principles are manifested at the house, we must either experience it in person or rely on second hand accounts. Felipe Leal describes his time in the house, waiting for an appointment with Barragán in the library (where it seems he frequently kept his guests waiting for a period of time): “The imposing monastic silence almost made my every movement seem irreverent. Something very powerful was inviting me to listen and respect the silence, to adopt a contemplative attitude in the face of what I was seeing” (Lacy et. al. 110). In this room, Barragán created a complex atmosphere of emotion. Expansive in scale with its white walls and high ceilings, yet intimate with its subdivisions and the familiar textures of wood and books, magnified by the cool afternoon light that filters through an east-facing window raised high above street level.

As a complement to the individual reflection offered by silence, solitude and serenity, Barragán relies on personal associations related to Religion, Myth and Nostalgia. He describes: “Religion and Myth. It is impossible to understand art and the glory of its history without avowing religious spirituality and the mythical roots that are the very raison d’etre of the artistic phenomenon. Nostalgia. Nostalgia is the poetic awareness of our personal past, and since the artist’s own past is the mainspring of his creative potential, the architect must listen to and heed his nostalgic revelations” (Barragán, “Acceptance Speech”). Throughout the house, Barragán employs religious cues and symbols of his past memories to create moments of contemplation that further dramatize the silence experienced in the space. In the living room, the large window that looks towards the garden serves as more than a connection between interior and exterior. Here, rather than the gridded window frame that we see at el Pedregal, the frame is reduced to only two members: “Set back in the walls, the window’s mullion and transom form a cross that accentuates the building’s mystic quality” (Rispa et. al. 113). While direct religious imagery can be found throughout the house, this more subtle reference is specifically intended to create a pause for reflection upon personal memories and emotions.

Lastly, we will explore Barragán’s principles of Beauty and The Art of Seeing: “Beauty. The invincible difficulty that the philosophers have in defining the meaning of this word is unequivocal proof of its ineffable mystery...Human life deprived of beauty is not worthy of being called so...The Art of Seeing. It is essential that an architect know how to see; I mean this in such a way that vision is never overpowered by rational analysis” (Barragán, “Acceptance Speech”). While these principles are manifested in various ways throughout the house, Barragán is perhaps most successful in his use of color, light and materials to humanize the built environment. We have already touched upon his use of natural materials and textures, mostly wood, neutral rugs and textiles that counterbalance the imposing white walls of the interior spaces. His use of color is less subtle although somehow similarly restrained. Loud painted surfaces mark strategic locations throughout the house. Bright pink covers a wall in the dining room and another at the second story landing, filtered light washing down into the space from a window above the stairs. Saturated yellow hides the wooden beams of the ceiling in one of the rooms, enhancing the warm quality of the natural light that comes in through the large window. Color and light work as one on the roof terrace, where towering monolithic walls enclose the space, the bold oranges and pinks of some contrasting with neutral grays and whites of others.

Barragán explains his approach to using color: “Color is a complement to architecture. It can be used to widen or enclose a space. It is also imperative for adding that touch of magic to an area. While I use color generously, I never think about it when I’m designing. Later, I continually visit the site I’m working on at different hours of the day and I begin to “imagine in color,” imagining the wildest and most incredible colors...Afterwards, I ask a painter to even the colors on a large piece of cardboard and to place them on the bare walls. I leave them there for several days and change them in contrast to the other walls. Finally, I decide on the color I like best” (Lacy et. al. 109). His was not a scientific approach to using color and texture. It was an intuitive approach, driven by his own senses and emotional reading of a space. Through this process at his house at Tacubaya and in many of his other works, he instilled emotion into architecture, latently waiting to be experienced on a unique and personal level.