Allen Washatko is principal and co-founder, along with Tom Kubala, of The Kubala Washatko Architects, Inc. (TKWA) of Cedarburg, Wisconsin. TKWA embraces a design philosophy of “Wholeness,” where the built environment supports and enhances both human activity and natural living systems. The idea of sustainability is a natural extension of wholeness-based thinking and is integrated into every studio project. Current TKWA projects are located throughout the United States and in Costa Rica. In 2007, the Aldo Leopold Legacy Center achieved LEED® platinum and became the highest rated new building measured under the United States Green Building Council rating system. It is the first building certified by LEED as carbon neutral in operation.
What is your role as an architect?
On the surface, we just make buildings and places. Many of them are highly sustainable, such as the Aldo Leopold Legacy Center in Baraboo, Wisconsin. We used to strive to interweave architecture with the human and biotic community, but that presupposes a separation between the three, requiring a joining together. We later realized that a building, to be truly continuous with its surroundings, needed to organically unfold from its biotic and social context. This requires a subtle and accurate understanding of the context. Our success depends on careful perception of the building user’s needs, vision, and culture. At the same time, we must make sense of the physical setting in which the users’ actions will take place. The physical/social setting for the building forms an undivided whole, which we must carefully read. In other words, we need to accurately assess the wholeness from which the building unfolds.
What is “wholeness”?
Wholeness is a difficult concept to fully grasp, and has been a matter of debate for many centuries. Understanding wholeness relates to the way one sees the world, to different modes of consciousness. It is widely acknowledged today that, through the growth of the science of matter, the Western mind has become more and more removed from contact with the true nature of reality. We agree with contemporary thinkers such as Henri Bortoft, who argue that “In contrast [to wholeness], an intellectual approach to scientific education begins by seeing the phenomenon as an instance of general principles.” David Bohm is another contemporary writer who argues that “science itself is demanding a new, non-fragmentary world view, in the sense that the present approach of analysis of the world into independently existent parts does not work very well in modern physics.” Bohm’s central view is that an understanding of the undivided wholeness of the universe would “provide a much more orderly way of considering the general nature of reality.” In the world of architecture, this line of reasoning is best reflected in the work of architect and writer Christopher Alexander, who concludes, “The beauty of a building, its life, and its capacity to support all life come from the fact that it is working as a whole. A view of the building as a whole means that we see it as part of an extended and undivided continuum.”
How does the idea of wholeness relate to interpretation?
We had been developing our studio philosophy and approach for many years before coming into contact with the National Association for Interpretation. At the recommendation of a friend who works as an exhibit designer, we attended our first National Workshop several years ago. We were immediately surprised and excited to discover parallels between our own work and the ideas that form the intellectual framework for much of interpretation. In particular, we found that Freeman Tilden best expressed an interpretive understanding of the concept of wholeness. Tilden’s Fifth Principle states, “Interpretation shall aim to present a whole rather than a part, and must address itself to the whole man rather than any phase.” Tilden observed that “interpretation is the revelation of a larger truth that lies behind any statement of fact.” He also stated that, “true interpretation deals not with parts, but with a historical—and I would say spiritual—whole.” Now if Tilden had stopped merely at this point we would have had much in common. But he goes further and gets even closer to the heart of the matter. He states, “Since most people think of beauty as something perceivable through the eyes alone, here is a challenge for the interpreter. He must take the visitor into that larger sphere of the same quality, which we may call order….” After reading Tilden, we thought, “This is great. Here is a group of professional people who really get it.” Wholeness, in our view, is not merely a summation of parts or a totality. Wholeness equals beauty, meaning, and order. It is the interpreter’s job to understand, and then communicate, the wholeness of a place. We consider it our job as architects to first understand and then to reinforce, and even attempt to help rebuild, the wholeness that exists.
How can architecture support interpretation?
In setting out to develop an interpretive facility, the typical approach begins with a “program,” a document that identifies a list of rooms and spaces that accommodate the center’s needs. These needs are stated in very specific terms, and normally include: size, orientation, adjacencies, intended uses, electrical and mechanical needs, special equipment, furniture, storage, and required built-in accoutrements. The building design then becomes an artful assemblage of the component parts identified in the program as rooms.
We have been wary of this typical design process for many years now. It acts as a highly selective filter, leaving critical information behind. This “normal” way of programming a building excludes the social, spiritual, and intellectual pursuits undertaken by staff and visitors, how it heals a weak environmental fabric, how it allows staff to feel fully engaged and stimulated, how it maintains its stability as a place over a long period of time, etc. It is no wonder that so many of today’s new buildings seem somehow lifeless, leading us to believe that the true component “parts” of a building are not just a set of rooms, but something much more meaningful, accurate, rich, and alive.
In response, we have worked very hard on a concept called “pattern writing.” The idea of a pattern is quite old, emerging from the scientific work and writings of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. Goethe was critical of the way in which the scientific community of his time (1749–1832) observed the natural world. He decried the method of plucking organisms from their context, pulling them apart and cataloging the apparent pieces, using a predetermined vocabulary of terms. He preferred a disciplined method of observation that allowed one to see the organism as it was, in its context, as it lived and changed. What emerged from this kind of observation was an understanding of the real “parts” of the organism: patterns of relationships that described the morphology of the organism as an undivided whole. Aldo Leopold would be proud!
Goethe’s central ambition (according to L.L. Whyte) “was nothing less than to see all nature as one, to discover an objective principle of continuity running through the whole, from the geological rocks to the processes of aesthetic creation. Moreover, this discovery of the unity of nature implies the simultaneous self-discovery of man, since man could thereby come to understand himself better.”
Christopher Alexander has developed the idea of patterns even further, particularly in the area of “aesthetic creation.” His book A Pattern Language has revolutionized our way of seeing, designing, and constructing the built environment.
What, specifically, are patterns?
Patterns are an accurate representation of the essential constituent parts of both the natural and built environments. A pattern describes the necessary relationship between a set of events and an arrangement of space conducive to those events. The two aspects, events and spatial organization, are considered facets of the same undivided whole. One of the curious things about patterns is that they can’t exist in isolation. Their definition is recursive: a pattern is composed of other patterns at the same or smaller scales. And those patterns, in turn, are made of yet smaller patterns and so on. This nested, cooperative, and interwoven structure accounts for the organic nature of the world as we know it. It is a rather accurate reflection of the way the universe organizes itself.
The goal of developing patterns in the architectural realm is to gain a deeper understanding of how a building and its environment can be configured to support both human activity and natural processes in a harmonious way. Writing patterns can help identify the deeper spiritual and emotional values inherent in a place.
One of the great advantages of patterns is that they do not rely on the specialized language of the architect. They communicate information in very clear and simple language that is easily understood by a broad variety of people. A by-product of this clarity is that it helps gain consensus among all stakeholders when specific actions are required. This approach also encourages much better feedback from stakeholders, which is especially important if the process is intended to be an inclusive one where quality of feedback is critical.
How does pattern writing relate to interpretation?
For the typical interpretive facility, the building itself is usually seen as backdrop to the more important work carried out by traditional forms of interpretation, including exhibits, signage, and performances. The building provides basic functional needs of enclosure, circulation, public services, and administration. And most facilities attempt to offer superficial design elements that relate to the broader interpretive message, i.e. rustic lodge features for a wilderness-based center. But in many cases interpretive meaning is not considered carefully enough as an integral part of building and site design. In her book Interpretive Planning, Lisa Brochu notes that “interpretation is often an afterthought, considered only after the site or facility is fully constructed.” We believe that a building and the spaces around it must truly become a more integral part of telling the interpretive story. And we have concluded that the pattern writing process offers the best opportunity for allowing this integration to occur in a meaningful and comprehensive way.
While we have typically employed this process for the design of new buildings, pattern writing can also be a useful diagnostic tool for any type of interpretive center, whether it is a site-based visitor center or a collections-based urban cultural center. Even for an organization that is not contemplating a major facility expansion/renovation, the process of pattern writing can identify weaknesses in the way a building and site support the mission of the organization and offer solutions for making the place more alive, more functional, and more inviting to both staff and visitors.
What were your goals for the Aldo Leopold Legacy Center?
In creating a new facility, the Leopold Foundation hoped to achieve two primary objectives. At a basic level, they wanted more space to meet operational needs now and in the future. At a more fundamental level, however, the foundation wanted to create a facility that was a true expression of its mission. While this is often the stated goal for an organization when building a new facility, the Aldo Leopold Foundation was unique in its commitment to this core ideal.
The foundation’s mission is to advance Aldo Leopold’s concept of a “Land Ethic” as originally defined by the famed naturalist in his influential 1949 book A Sand County Almanac. Leopold’s “Land Ethic” has had significant impact on the modern conservation movement with his reasoning that “a land ethic…reflects the existence of an ecological conscience, and this in turn reflects a conviction of individual responsibility for the health of the land.” Our task as the design team for the Leopold Legacy Center was to create a place where visitors could come into more intimate contact with the land, and to begin to intuitively understand for themselves what Leopold meant by a land ethic.
The goal in designing the new Leopold Center, located near the original “Leopold Shack” on the site where Aldo Leopold died fighting a brush fire, was to create, in the words of Foundation Director Buddy Huffaker, a “high-intensity, low-volume experience” for visitors. By this, he meant a facility that would impart a deeper, more lasting visitor experience than typical nature or interpretive centers that serve large numbers of casual visitors. The Leopold experience, at its best, should instill in visitors a deeper understanding of earth processes and offer the stirring of a profound intellectual and emotional awareness of man’s relationship to the land.
