The idea that nature, however we define it, is good for us and is the primary inspiration for design is not new. What is new is the study called biophilic design.
Biophilic design incorporates specific design attributes (like lighting, views, sense of shelter, and variety) and materials (like wood, plants, water, and stone) to stimulate and calm our nervous systems, as happens in the natural world.
This field was not necessary just a few generations ago when the population was largely rural, and people spent much of their time outdoors. As we’ve become predominantly urban and, according to the EPA, spend over 90% of our time indoors, we’re beginning to realize a nature deficit disorder due to our poor environments.
Our genes expect the natural world; our bodies and minds are getting drywall boxes, asphalt, concrete, and metal-dominated urban environments, bereft of the rich sensory input that can help keep us healthy in body and mind.
Since the 1980s, there have been numerous scientific studies quantifying the positive effects on humans:
There have been books and web resources summarizing these studies, and the Living Future Institute began a Biophilic Design Initiative, but to my mind, there has been a disconnect from theory to practical application: how do we as designers actually do it–how does architecture become biophilic?
In a recent project, we set out to create a framework for ourselves and other architects and designers to use as a guide. As we got into it, we realized that this practice is really an art, not something that can have a simple, prescriptive how-to guide.
It’s similar to learning good composition in painting or music: there are some general pointers, but many of the “rules” can be broken, and in the end, it has to be brought together as an organic whole. I find this exciting since it connects the aesthetic and the natural–it’s about creating certain types of experiences, more like a piece of music than a merely functional engineering diagram.
One challenge is understanding the “minimum effective dose.” How much nature is enough? I don’t think putting a few pieces of wood trim and a planter in an otherwise sterile environment will cut it; there has to be a paradigm shift that lets the design cross into the realm of unique, humane place-making.
Grant Hildebrand’s “The Wright Space” book was probably my best guide as an architect. Since I know (and love) Wright’s work so well, this book helped me see how Wright was intuiting biophilic principles, and how he shaped space and experience to create the impacts his buildings are famous for.
Hildebrand makes that case, as I interpret it, that probably the most important principle of biophilic design is “Prospect and Refuge,” the desire to find a place of vista with safety, a view to abundance from a place of security, perhaps with the ability to see without being seen. This experience should be created as the central goal of the design, the destination space or spaces, around which other elements form.
With this as the starting point, we developed what we’re calling the Five Elements of Biophilic Design:
This is the essence of place-making: creating the sense of orientation that allows us to feel safe and free at the same time through spatial characteristics that organize views, enclosure, circulation, and the main spaces of the building. The first step is to identify where on the site this can and should happen.
Refuge spaces will be lower, darker, more enclosed, with architecturally solid elements–for Frank Lloyd Wright, it was usually the hearth, but there are many options. Prospect spaces will be taller and brighter, with views ideally of a vista, including green space and water. It’s inspiring to see this happen in a ten-foot-square Japanese courtyard; it doesn’t necessarily have to be a lake view!
This principle encompasses views to nature, tactile experiences (natural materials), rhythmic and non-rhythmic sensory stimuli, sounds (water in a fountain, for instance), and smells (especially botanicals). These should be experienced from the places where the most time is spent and/or the most intimate connection can be had. Wood, stone, water, plants, animals, and the design of airflow can all have a role.
Natural and artificial light are varied as in a landscape, with emphasis on light from above, and light is used to signal pathways and goals. One strategy is to think of nature analogies: the forest edge is a great inspiration for light (also a prospect/refuge landscape moment of ancestral memory). Conversely, avoid ubiquitous lighting–if you were on the beach, you’d want an umbrella if you were going to spend any length of time there–all-over lighting is dull.
This is another principle straight from Hildebrand–the idea that the building has a perceptible order, but that order flowers into complexity. It is usually not a rigid, imposed geometry but flexible and responsive. Like an organic being, this allows integration of all systems (structure, circulation, thermal control) while responding to the site and allowing for variety. This is also where nature analogs come into play, incorporating design elements that reflect natural patterns (branching, fractals, growth spirals, etc.).
This is a fun one for the designer, as it’s about engaging the minds and imaginations of occupants, hitting their dopamine receptors. Having established the primary Prospect and Refuge space(s), entering and using the building is choreographed to provide the experience of discovery, finding the goal spaces suggested from outside–like finding a creek in the woods or a clearing around the next bend in the path. Again, Wright’s hearth projected the chimney as a signal of that space, but it can take many forms.
As mentioned above, this type of design is an integrative activity, an art of visualizing possibilities and orchestrating experiences. There is no one right way, and it will vary according to project type, site, and climate. We believe these five elements are a clear and simple starting point and guide for designers, as they have become for us. They also allow for a shared language so stakeholders beyond the design team can participate, as required for ILFI’s charrette process.
Keep in mind that these principles can be employed on renovations as well as new projects. While a new building can be a purer and more complete expression, subtle changes to older buildings can reshape the experience significantly.