Timing and Technology, A Pattern Language

One of my very favorite books is A Pattern Languageby Christopher Alexander, Sara Ishikawa, and Murray Silverstein. The book is ostensibly about architecture, detailing how to design and build the places we live, from the regional scale down to the nook in the corner of a child's room. It is a beautiful manifesto for simple, economical, ecological, human-centered design; I know of nothing better to have come out of the 70s. Inside this 1200 page book are about 250 patterns, each describing a principle, a pattern, that is essential to designing and building livable, humane spaces and communities.

But the beauty of The Pattern Language is that you quickly come to realize that the patterns being described are not limited to application in the world of architecture. Alexander says in his introduction that he hopes "that a great part of this language ... will be a core of any sensible human pattern language, which any person constructs for himself, in his own mind" (my emphasis). To read how Alexander lays out the pattern for the furniture in rooms (Pattern 185, Sitting Circle), or for the essential businesses in a town (88, Street Cafe, etc.), you get the idea very quickly that the patterns all assume that the reason for design is to accommodate life, not economic forces or engineering principles. The book has the effect (whether or not you are in a position to build your own home) of awakening an appreciation for community and humanity that has been somewhat dampened by the design of modern social spaces. The book is inspiring, and gives me a sense of expectation that good things can happen between people when technology doesn't get in the way.

Technology, by definition, is the application of scientific knowledge for the purpose of increasing efficiency in any practical endeavor. There is nothing wrong with technology in itself. Problems come when a technological solution is pursued blindly, hastily, and at the expense of the potential intuitive solutions that are much better suited to a local context. Technology is tied to efficiency, and efficiency is tied to questions of scale. It makes a certain economic sense to mass-produce formulaic solutions that can sell, or communicate, across cultures. Technology often provides the most efficient and economical solution. But, does it ever provide the best solution? Getting back to architecture, Alexander argues that normal people are fully able to discern, design, and build their own unique living and work spaces, and that they will do the best job of it for the least amount of money, too. Does that sound radical? Why should it? It wasn't that long ago when that was the way it was done. Today, we assume that anyone who builds their own home is either a licensed contractor or just quaint (think of people that gather for barn-raisings, all beards and buttons and suspenders). Alexander intends to provide "an alternative to technocratic and rigid ways of building that have become the legacy of the machine age and modern architecture" ... for normal people, not only contractors and the quaint.

I've been reading the book for three or four years (not unheard of with me and certain books) and I'm almost done. I recently came to a moment late in the book where I was stunned to realize just how serious Alexander is about providing alternatives to rigidity. This moment, spanning two patterns that come into play as a subject begins to build their house, perfectly expresses when and how to embrace technology.

In pattern 212 (Columns at the Corners), Alexander describes the standard architectural practice of hiring a draftsperson to create blueprints from a design and then turning them over to a contractor, who relies on the drawing to raise the house on-site. But, he says, this practice "cripples buildings". Not only does it force a kind of rigidity on a design and put too many technological barriers between design and construction, but it will be doomed to frequent revision as the builder encounters a multitude of problems on site not imagined when the design was committed to paper. Many trips back and forth between contractor and designer and client result. This scenario, which threatens to suck a property owner dry of enthusiasm and money, might be eliminated if the client could be both the designer and builder, and skip the whole blueprint stage entirely.

Oddly enough, the way I first learned about A Pattern Language was by reading the account of a writer who decided to build a small writing hut on his property. Odd because he falls into the very trap Alexander is preaching against. When the floor of his hut was laid, a mistake in measurement was discovered: the foundation was ever so slightly off-square, and it could not be easily or cheaply fixed. With horror, the author and his handyman realized that the whole building was now going to need customizing. Every subsequent piece of the building would need to be finished with a slight angle to fit the whole, a situation described as catastrophic. I guess this author failed to read or take seriously the part of Pattern Language where Alexander suggests that they could have scribbled the design on the back of an envelope, and then walked the site pounding in stakes where the corners felt right, with no concern for uneven lines or imperfect angles. In case you didn't get that: Alexander is really saying that precise blueprints are not necessary. In fact he would rather they be rejected: in the pattern language, the design process doesn't end until well after you mark out the corners of your building, with chalk or stakes or whatever. The beauty of this organic process, as it is described, is that the design grows around the realities of the environment ... and the concerns of the people who will live there. Stand in "the kitchen" and you'll realize that the wall with the window and sink will need to be bigger, and perhaps angled differently to take in that particular view ... no sweat: move the stakes. Change the size of rooms according to your experience of the site, and obsess ye not over right-angles. Amen.

But before the reader can swear on a stack of building codes never to step foot inside a house where design and construction are happening all at once, we move on to pattern 213 (Final Column Distribution). In this pattern the question is asked how the "spacing of columns" is effected by the size of rooms and number of stories, and the chapter is sensibly free of any organo-hippie vibe. Having just told you in 212 to put the corner columns wherever feels right to you, Alexander goes on in 213 to detail the complex technical formula for determining how to design a wall, with it's intermediate columns, to support the weight of a roof and additional upper-story rooms. And this technical, industry-standard formula comes just in time. It is important for walls to be able to support a roof - this will provide many holistic benefits to the occupants of a home, like not dying under a collapsed roof when you slam a door, or not dying under a collapsed roof when the wind blows, and so on. I believe it is axiomatic that one should not take shelter in a home where the compressive load-bearing capacity of its walls has been intuited organically.

If technology is the application of scientific knowledge for practical purposes, then there is a time and a place for it in all aspects of our lives. Technology can be a lifesaver. However, apply it too early in a design process and it cripples our products and projects, our homes and communities. They become cold and rigid--we fear any imperfection in them. They will be impersonal and homogeneous, ill-suited to our unique context or environment. You can see the results of an overly technological architecture everywhere you turn in suburbia: homes built according to some remote architect's bland, marketable standard of what a beautiful home should look like ... and when such "homes" are planted on a typical suburban half-lot, these mini-mansions look like part of a demonic plot to destroy a neighborhood. The best thing you can say about them is that they won't fall down in a storm ....

Let's adopt this as a (low) tech writer principle: let individual or community wisdom, forged-in-context, dictate the unique shape of your house, project, product, or organization. Take time to listen for, intuit, and live with the implications of the designs you are working on. Only after organically discerning the shape and scale of a new project should you consult outside "experts" (or formulas). These may aid in developing levels of structure efficiently, but such expert witnesses will seldom have your local, contextual perspective, and so should not under any circumstances be allowed to dictate design.

The Old Testament book of Proverbs 24:3 says, "By wisdom a house is built, and by understanding it is established; and by knowledge the rooms are filled with all precious and pleasant riches." This is the original idea of getting the order right in building. "Wisdom", it says elsewhere in Proverbs, is the product of a healthy reverence--awe--for God. In the biblical context, of course, this is referring to the need to listen to God before you start anything that bears The Name, whether a building or a military campaign. In other contexts, the same reverent attention to the names associated with a venture is called for: the name of the family that will dwell in a home; the name of a town where a business in starting up. How does the life of these communities, small and large, dictate the design of the structures that will serve them? The getting of wisdom has to come first in the building of anything, a home or a life. Later, once the foundation is understood and laid, it's gifts of a more intellectual kind (not less sacred) that come into play: the understanding of compressive load-bearing capacities that makes it possible to raise a structure, and the knowledge of the community that dictates the filling of the structure with the stuff that makes a place livable and pleasant. But wisdom is needed to determine the shape of a thing, not technology or intellectual precision. And wisdom comes from a reverence for the life that a thing is meant to serve.

A companion volume to A Pattern Language is The Timeless Way of Building.This book takes a higher-level view of the philosophy of building towns and buildings.

A Lost Art (One More on Dictionaries)

In addition to the mighty Oxford English Dictionary, Excessively Large Edition, I have the comparably tiny, Pocket Oxford Dictionary, which was written by the incomparable Fowler brothers, authors of the still-selling-a-century-later Modern English Usage and The King's English. I can't tell you how many times I've looked up a word in this little book and been delighted by the the definition. Alright. Even I know how weird that sounds, but just listen to this nugget--the beginning of the definition of "Time":

Time, n:

The successive states of the universe regarded as a whole whose every part or moment is before or after every other & position in which is defined in answer to the question, 'when?' ....

That, apart from being very slightly convoluted while at the same time slightly compressed to fit in such a short dictionary, is delightful. (And, you might benefit, as I did, by mentally adding the word "whose" before the word "position" ....)

The Fowlers wrote this dictionary, and it feels written, not compiled. It is possibly one of the last dictionaries to have just a couple authors instead of an editor and a legion of writers. The old dictionaries that are still read today even though their definitions may be obsolete are the ones that have the quality of great (or at least entertaining) writing (you can still enjoy Samuel Johnson's 300 year-old dictionary for this reason). In the Pocket Oxford dictionary, the definitions feel human and very much like something spoken in English (albeit by very smart Englishmen) rather than dryly recorded in a textbook.

Get the Fowler's The King's English new on Amazonor choose from several used copies for a buck each at AbeBooks (an online marketplace for real-world used bookstores). Tough choice, huh?

Old Atlases, Printed Maps

There is another book that I like to put on my music stand (see my previous post on old dictionaries): my old Times Atlas of the World, found in a used bookstore 10 years ago. It's old enough to show a divided Germany, Leningrad-in-the-USSR instead of St. Petersburg-in-Russia, and countless other geo-anachronisms, but oh, is it beautiful to look at. And really, do we care what the politicians say about where the borders are, or whose ego is institutionalized on the city masthead? Yes, ok, sometimes we do need to know such facts. But that's what Internet maps are good at. I am well aware of the other ways that computerized maps and atlases are superior to the soon-to-be obsolete printed variety: they are up-to-date (i.e. -to-the-minute), truly comprehensive, and augmented in infinite ways with personalized layers of meaning (see the history of natural disasters for the city you're visiting, or see where the coffee shops are).

Claims of comprehensiveness and currency in a printed atlas always assume you will buy the latest version, which, if you are buying a nice atlas, may run you a few hundred dollars. And why would you not buy a nice atlas? You can get ugly atlases online. So, my recommendation for the killer combination? A nice old Atlas (cheaper, probably prettier, and still 90% accurate) and the Internet to supplement your old beauty with the latest facts. The picture above, of Oban, in Scotland, is from my old Times atlas (be sure to click on the image to see a bigger version).

I love maps, and love studying maps of a place before, and after, visiting it for real. My introduction to maps was via the topographic maps produced by the United States Geological Survey, used by everyone from soldiers to miners to hikers for navigating in the wilderness. There was a USGS office in Menlo Park, a few miles from where I grew up, so we got to browse the beautiful, poster-sized, four-color maps whenever we wanted. On a trip to my wife's family home in Greece, I visited that country's equivalent of the USGS, the Greek Army Mapping Office. My brother-in-law and I were planning to climb Mt. Olympus, and I also had plans to camp out in the Peloponnese. When I asked for the maps that covered the westernmost finger of that peninsula, the army officer looked at me suspiciously. He fetched his commanding officer and they grilled me: "Why do you want to go there? There is no camping there! What is your business?" I tried to assure them (with the help of my Greek brother-in-law) that I was just going to find a place to put down my bag on the coast and enjoy the sea and stars. They never did give me that map. I forgot about the incident until I was awakened on my hillside perch near Koroni, overlooking the Mediterranean, by what sounded like bombs going off. What had sounded like bombs going off was in fact bombs going off .... Turns out the Greek Air Force likes to practice their aim on the little island of Skhiza, which was just about a mile south of my sleeping bag. I watched jets looping and dropping bombs for an hour. No wonder the army guy was suspicious.

Since I can't show the map with Skhiza on it (ahem) ... here is my Greek Army Map of Cape Tenaron, about 40 miles southwest of my camping spot near Koroni. Maybe nothing is as interesting as being woken up by jets dropping bombs at the foot of your sleeping bag, but the topo map below shows the tip of the Mani Peninsula, itself a very interesting place: in the cove near the southern end, surrounded by wind-torn, razor-sharp white rock and ancient ruins, is the cave of Tenaron, the mythical entrance to Hades.



Strangely, USGS topo maps were the thing that reignited my interest in computers, after many years of abstinence: in the mid-nineties, a San Francisco company, Wildflower Productions (now owned by National Geographic), was scanning all the topographic maps for the United States, in various scales, digitally stitching them together, and adding tools for searching and customizing. When I first got a look at their product on the shelves at REI where I worked, I called the company and asked them what I needed in my new computer (the one I didn't have yet) to run their product. At the time, I didn't care what else the computer could do.

I still have a soft spot for this product because it's based on pictures of real maps, made to be held in your hand. The computerized version allows me to look at topo maps for anywhere in the country, and of course you can't own that many printed maps. I understand how computers add value here. But I still say printed maps and atlases are so much more beautiful and satisfying to hold. And they provide much the same opportunity for serendipitous discovery that a printed dictionary does, as I detailed in my previous post. The maps in my world atlas are produced by the famous John Bartholomew & Son cartographers in the UK. Their maps, especially the old, hand-lettered ones, are so pretty to look at, and so clear. Am I repeating myself?



If you can afford the already-obsolete current edition of the Times World Atlas (obsolete, because world atlases go out-of-date about as fast as newspapers these days), here is a link to the Twelfth Edition of the Times Comprehensive Atlas of the World. But my strong recommendation is to search your local used bookstore for an older version, if only for the joy of the maps.

Old Dictionaries, Old Meanings

I use the dictionary on my laptop daily, usually to check whether I am using a word correctly. But I'm missing out when I don't use my bookshelf dictionaries. My favorites are the old Oxford dictionaries: I have several in various sizes. In 1990, I joined the Book of the Month Club for the sole purpose of getting a free copy of the two volume Compact Oxford English Dictionary, that miracle of mid 20th century publishing that shrunk 13 volumes containing all the words of the English language (at the time of the original publication, circa 1930)) down to two massive volumes. It had four of the original pages printed on each page, and it came with a magnifying glass. I often have one of these volumes on a music stand by my desk, where I can refer to it easily. The music stand is very strong.

I know that my OED is outdated. The latest version, the Second Edition of the OED, is twenty volumes and may be the last version to be printed: the English language is growing too fast, and somehow it's easier to admit such additions to the language as, "aerobicized", "celebutante", and "blog", if they will never be bound in a book. Yes, I will always use computers for research: there is just no way for any library to replicate what a computer can do, let alone a personal library. And yet, there is no way for any computer to fully replicate the experience of looking at a page in a book.

Some years ago, I was invited to co-teach a class on "Passion" in my church. I knew the reason my pastor had chosen the topic: to inspire excitement and commitment for the faith. One of the first things I did, even before looking at scripture, was to open my OED and look the word up. I was surprised (as was the group of people gathered for the class) to learn that the principal definition of the word, as listed in the OED, was "to suffer", and that the principal historical usage was specifically in reference to the suffering of Christ on the cross (Mel Gibson's movie had not yet come along to restore the context for the word). Suffering is an aspect of passion entirely lost in modernity.

Here is the first definition offered up when I type "passion" into my computer's dictionary:

passion |ˈpa sh ən|
noun
1 strong and barely controllable emotion : a man of impetuous passion. See note at emotion .
• a state or outburst of such emotion : oratory in which he gradually works himself up into a passion.
• intense sexual love : their all-consuming passion for each other | she nurses a passion for Thomas.
• an intense desire or enthusiasm for something : the English have a passion for gardens.
• a thing arousing enthusiasm : modern furniture is a particular passion of Bill's.

Barely controllable emotion? An outburst? Sex? Are the English really only passionate about gardens? These are the things that pass for passion in our anemic society. When we hear the word passion today, we mainly imagine the strong desires that precede and accompany sex. What a rip off. Not sex, mind you, just that the feelings associated with sex have become the marker for love between two people when in fact (and in history) the thing that really inspires love is when a person is willing to suffer (even die) for another. Am I worth suffering for? Can I inspire such abandon? Sex is not passion. Real passion, if you ever see it today, is a thing that can bring two people together and keep them together for a lifetime. Sex may result.

My computer dictionary fails me here. But my computer dictionary doesn't only fail in the way it defines the word; it fails by only telling me what it thinks I want to know. My OED, on the other hand reveals many more layers of meaning than I can grasp, simply because it's all there for discovering on the printed page. For all the hype around computer hypertext, links only work when someone thinks to include them. My computer dictionary only displays the definition of the word I typed in, and nothing else. On the other hand, when I looked up the entry for "passion" in the OED, I could see a whole community of words related to my original search, just by letting my eye wander. What did I discover? That the word "passive", just down the page, comes from the same Latin root as "passion" and has the same root meaning: to suffer. This opened up a whole world of meaning to me, and to the students in that class. Two kinds of suffering: one active, chosen, intentional, and accepted; another experienced because of a choice not to act. Beautiful. This is precisely the kind of thing that makes me love language. My daughter is coming under the influence also.



When I worked as the senior writer for a tech company (our first product was a search engine, launched around the same time Google launched theirs ... look up "bad timing" in the dictionary of your choice), the first thing I asked for was a dictionary for my empty bookshelf. None of the young, Internet-savvy executives understood why I wanted a book. I think I told them I preferred the feel of real paper to using my computer as a reference tool. I might also have made some attempt to convince them that the printed dictionary was superior, or at least that it was more reliable (in 1999) than the on-line lexicons. They might have reconsidered whether I was suited to working at an Internet company, but they bought me the dictionary. Years later, I smiled when I read that one of Google's first writers had the identical interaction with his bosses when he came to work: his insistence on using a printed dictionary; their disbelief that anyone still did. This may be the only thing my old company (now defunct) had in common with Google.

These days, it might make sense to describe me as passionate about the OED, about printed books, about old stuff. But I don't know. Am I willing to suffer or die for these things I'm writing about? Maybe not. It's closer to the truth to say that I don't want to suffer the result of passively embracing so-called technological advances that slowly erode the meaning of things.