Gentle landings: the best houses are faithful to the geology and culture of their surroundings

Residential Architect, March, 2004 by Cheryl Weber

james Cutler, FAIA, recalls a well-known client who wanted to build a Spanish-style house in the woods overlooking Puget Sound. As they walked the property, Cutler asked the client why he felt Spanish architecture would be appropriate. The man replied that he simply liked the look, and that the way to do it right would be to clear the vegetation, because he didn't like trees. "His needs and tastes were totally inconsistent with the land," says Cutler, Cutler Anderson Architects, Bainbridge Island, Wash. "I advised him to move to Arizona."

The tunnel vision of such clients is at odds with the highest artistic goals of an increasing number of architects. Certainly there is a moral mandate to build in an environmentally sensitive vein. But using the land to its greatest advantage, when there are easier ways of doing architecture, also conveys an intellectual rigor. Throughout history, the best buildings have demonstrated not dominance, but a harmony with their surroundings. Frank Lloyd Wright's Fallingwater comes to mind, as does Pritzker-winning Australian architect Glenn Murcutt's work, which has been described as complex, yet as practical as a bushman's hut. For many architects, a close reading of the land is essential to creating something authentic, a house that seems to fit perfectly in its place.

Cutler's client may be an anomaly, at least among architects known for eclectic, landscape-specific design. Because to begin to understand the character of a place, many architects logically start with the owners, who usually have a strong feel for their land. If the man had taken Curler's advice, he may well have run into Phoenix-based architect Will Bruder. "One of the first questions an architect should ask is what's important to the client about a site," says Bruder, AIA.

Take the Byrne residence in north Scottsdale, Ariz. While the desert can seem featureless to some, owners Bill and Carol Byrne had already identified the best views for their future home. The concept of their house as part of a metaphorical canyon also caught their fancy. "The property was at the top of a gentle wash, and you could see a canyon in the distance," Bruder explains. "The idea was that the topological contour of the land, sun, views, and sharp summits of the distant horizon were something you could build architecture around, a positive energy." Rather than flattening the site, as some other architects had proposed, Bruder created canyonlike walls out of sandblasted concrete masonry that angle in and out with the shifting terrain, and a roof that follows the grade of the hill.

Cutler and Peter Bohlin, FAIA, of Bohlin Cywinski Jackson, Wilkes-Barre, Pa., are two other architects who gauge the owners' loyalty to their land early on. "Initial understandings are very important," Bohlin says. "We try to document the site with the clients. They have their own strong views that may not be well founded, but often are." Adds Cutler: "The owners pick someplace they think is perfect. Sixty percent of the time, they're right about where to place the building in the landscape and, more importantly, how to connect to the land in an emotional way."

character studies

Architects describe the process of gleaning design ideas from a particular setting as a combination of intuition and the gathering of layer upon layer of cold hard data. Rather than hiring a surveyor to develop the topographical map, Cutler and a member of his staff scramble over the land with a transit level to spot trees and shoot grade--what he calls apprenticing the landscape. On a two-acre project halfway up the rim of the Columbia Gorge near Portland, Ore., for example, Cutler recently spent three hours documenting the character of each contour line, writing down tree types, and taking 58 photographs that record the view from each measured elevation. "When you physically engage in tripping over trees, climbing over things with transits and rods, you find the exact angle of a view, an interesting tree, a particular angle that makes the whole piece of land look more dramatic," he says. "The land is telling you stuff, but not in a mystical way. You learn things by physically engaging."

Doing site-sensitive architecture is like choreographing a dance, making the landscape a part of the visual experience of moving through a house. And while some parcels of land are rather simple to understand, others are complex and more subtle. "Often what you find is that looking at the site, you have a strong impression, but then you will begin to understand there are interesting questions," says Bohlin. "Often the best views are away from the sun, and depending where you are in the U.S. or overseas, the sun can be a great ally. If you're simplistic about that, you may not do the right thing."

The renovation of his own house presented that sort of conflict. Wilkes-Barre's chilly winters dictated a south-facing orientation for warmth and energy efficiency, but Bohlin's master bedroom looks north. "In the morning, light comes across the field one way; in the evening, another," he says. "Facing south, you're often looking at a silhouetted landscape; facing north, you're looking at a lit landscape. You try to have your cake and eat it, too--often in the same space."