The zoo beneath our feet: We’re only beginning to understand soil’s hidden world

The gardener has a long, touchy-feely relationship with the soil. As every good cultivator knows, you assess the earth by holding it. Is it dark and crumbly, is there an earthworm or beetle in there, is it moist, and when you smell it, are you getting that pleasant earthy aroma?

All these signs are reassuring, and have been through the ages, but they are mere indicators of something much greater and infinitely mysterious: a hidden universe beneath our feet.
This cosmos is only now revealing itself as a result of scientific discoveries based on better microscopic imaging and DNA analysis. There is much still to learn, but it boils down to this: Plants nurture a whole world of creatures in the soil that in return feed and protect the plants, including and especially trees. It is a subterranean community that includes worms, insects, mites, other arthropods you’ve never heard of, amoebas, and fellow protozoa. The dominant organisms are bacteria and fungi. All these players work together, sometimes by eating one another.

The awareness of this biosphere should change the way gardeners think about cultivating plants and heighten everyone’s understanding of the natural world. In other words, don’t ever call it “dirt” again.

The sheer vitality of it is mind-bending: A teaspoon of good loam may contain a billion bacteria, yards of fungal strands, several thousand protozoas and a few dozen nematodes, according to Jeff Lowenfels, a garden writer based in Anchorage and co-author of “Teaming With Microbes.”
This is, basically, how it works: Plants manufacture carbohydrates through photosynthesis, but not just for themselves. They release some of their carbon sugars into the soil, which causes the bacteria and fungi to show up to feed. The bacteria crowd around the root zone, and the fungi form vast networks of interlocking strands that often link one plant to another. The bacteria convert nitrogen and other nutrients into forms the plants can use, often by getting devoured by other microbes.

The fungal strands, the mycelium, effectively increase the root mass of its host plant by as much as a thousand times and transport a bevy of goodies to the host plants, including phosphorus, copper, calcium and zinc. There is also evidence that trees use this network to send signals to one another if, say, leaf-eating pests have arrived. In his Ted Talk, mycologist Paul Stamets referred to mycelium as “Earth’s natural Internet.”

Although some plant (and human) diseases are caused by soil-borne fungi and bacteria, most of these microbes are beneficial and keep the bad ones in check. The organisms assist in other ways, by increasing the size of soil particles, which improves the ability of the soil to hold water and air. Even in the middle of a city, the subterranean world is thriving.

Scientists took almost 600 soil samples from across New York’s Central Park and discovered a surprising diversity and richness. They identified more than 120,000 types of bacteria and more than 40,000 species of fungi, protozoa and arthropods. Among the unexpected findings: The microbial species were the same, more or less, as those found in parts of the world with dramatically different flora and climates from New York’s, including Antarctic cold deserts, tropical forests and grasslands.

There was a strong association between the diverse organisms in each sample. “Unravelling these relationships will be critical to building a more integrated understanding of below-ground ecology,” the researchers wrote in a paper published by the journal for the British Royal Society. “Our work highlights that most of the diversity found in soil remains undescribed.”

Enough is known, however, to create a 21st-century subset of farming known as regenerative agriculture. The farmers have discovered that if you foster this biosphere, you don’t need expensive fertilizers because the microbes repay the plants with nutrients. They also, for obvious reasons, avoid pesticides that would kill this soil life.

The farmers do as little soil digging as possible because traditional tillage destroys the fungal networks and the desirable soil structure. Cover crops keep the soil life happy between growing seasons.

Advocates of this low-impact farming say it can restore soil carbon lost by the historic conversion of forest and prairie to farmland and help to mitigate greenhouse gases. In the 1990s, an Agricultural Research Service scientist in Beltsville, Sara F. Wright, discovered a sticky coating to fungal threads named glomalin that, it turns out, is a major reservoir for carbon.

Lowenfels says it’s also time for gardeners to adopt practices that nurture the soil biosphere. To say he thinks deeply about this subterranean world is an understatement. In addition to “Teaming With Microbes,” he has written “Teaming With Nutrients.” His latest title is “Teaming With Fungi,” which dwells on the type of fungi that directly associate with plant roots. They are known as mycorrhizal fungi, and he’s a big fan of adding them to his plants when they are installed, either as a spray or in powdered form available from the garden center. “It works. My tomato plants are bigger than the control, they’ve got more fruit on them, the plants are so healthy,” he told me. “My carrots are unbelievable this year.”

Some gardeners turn to compost tea to build soil microbes. This is made by aerating sugars, compost and humic acids in non-chlorinated water and then spraying the brew on plants and soil. Others are not convinced that this is needed, though everyone agrees that the way to foster the soil food web is to top-dress growing beds and lawns with organic matter such as shredded leaves or finished compost.
James Nardi, a biologist at the University of Illinois in Urbana, offers this advice: “Work with your fellow non-human gardeners. I never use synthetic fertilizers, and I never use pesticides.” Nardi’s 2007 book, “Life in the Soil,” remains an excellent introduction to the subject.

In the fall, he mixes horse manure with fallen leaves, shreds the mixture and applies it as a mulch to his growing beds. “In the spring, I have this lovely, spongy soil,” he said. Lowenfels shreds autumn leaves on his lawn and lets the biosphere use them over the winter. The organic gardener’s mantra has never seemed more appropriate. Feed the soil, not the plant.

● Earthworms: Earthworms (and other worms) play an important role in the hidden biosphere. Most worm species in the garden were imported by Old World settlers, and some worms in certain regions have caused a problem by processing organic matter too efficiently. The latest culprit is a creature called the Japanese crazy worm (Amynthas agrestis), which multiplies like, er, crazy and damages the soil structure through mass feeding. It is long established in parts of the Southeast but has spread recently to Wisconsin and Illinois, where it is causing problems. But the European earthworms familiar to most gardeners are helpful.
Worms provide critical assistance to smaller organisms by breaking down and incorporating leaves into the soil, so all may eat. Worm castings are rich in nutrients, including calcium, nitrogen, phosphorus and potassium. The most famous observer of earthworms, Charles Darwin, estimated that they could add as much as 40 tons of casts per acre annually.

● Insects: Thousands of insects (and spiders) live in a patch of soil. Some are considered pests by humans — Japanese beetle grubs, termites and weevils, for example — but others are beloved or at least beguiling and include the larvae of lightning bugs and cicadas. Dung beetles convert animal waste into humus, a service we take for granted. Ants are the most abundant soil insect. Although some species are pests or nurture pests such as aphids, ants with their highly organized colonies are essential members of the soil biosphere. They assist in the conversion of litter to humus, move and mix large quantities of soil, and spread the seed of bulbs and other desirable plants.

● Other arthropods: The more conspicuous of these include millipedes and centipedes, as well as woodlice. Millipedes feed on plant debris and microbes; centipedes eat other arthropods. Woodlice, or sowbugs, are crustaceans that like soft plant debris and make quick work of green plant material and newly fallen leaves.

One of the most abundant, but barely visible, arthropods in the soil are springtails. They are named for a tail-like structure that allows them to jump when threatened. As many as a billion or more can live in an acre of soil. Depending on species, they cycle plant debris or feed on fungi, algae or other springtails.

Mites are generally regarded by gardeners as pests, and some are — sucking sap from plants and spreading disease. But the soil houses an immense community of non-pest species that are essential to the cycle of life. Half the known species of mites live in the soil, where they feed on decaying plant litter. Nardi writes that they “set the stage for smaller decomposers like bacteria and fungi to free most of the energy and nutrients stored in those leaves.” Some mites are predatory and attack nematodes and other small creatures.

● Nematodes: Nematodes are tiny wormlike creatures that have traditionally been viewed in agriculture as serious pests that harm plants by feeding on their roots. More recently, the view of nematodes has become more nuanced because some species are now commonly used (and purchased) as predators of garden pests such as slugs, vine weevils and white grubs, to name a few. In truth, the world of nematodes is much greater and can only be imagined. Experts believe there may be close to a million species, of which only a fraction have been described scientifically.
Some nematodes eat soil bacteria and fungi, while others prefer to consume other soil arthropods and protozoa. Their value to the garden is in converting nitrogen into a form that plants can use.

● Protozoa: Protozoa are microscopic creatures that live in vast numbers in the film of water between soil particles. The most well-known is the amoeba, but these microbes come in several forms, including species that move with a single flagellum or with hair like cilia.
They are the major predator of bacteria, and in consuming them they release nitrogen and other nutrients to plants. Protozoa, in turn, are eaten by nematodes and other small arthropods.

● Bacteria: Historically, bacteria have been associated with germs. Some of the nastiest human diseases — anthrax, typhoid, tuberculosis and syphilis, for example — are the result of bacterial infections. But we have come to know too that our guts are full of beneficial bacteria and essential to our health.

The soil is the same way — the bad actors are outnumbered and usually outwitted by the good ones. Healthy soil is loaded with bacteria, and because they’re not very mobile, they tend to hang out in vast numbers on and around the roots of plants, a zone known as the rhizosphere. There can be as much as 100 times more bacteria around plant roots than elsewhere in the soil, and with good reason. The plants feed them carbon sugars. The microbes give back nitrogen.

● Fungi: Fungi break down organic matter, which is why you will see mycelium strands in compost piles and under leaf litter. Two basic forms of fungi form a symbiotic relationship with plants. One exists in proximity to root tips and associates with hardwood trees and conifers. The other penetrates the cell wall of the roots and is found in plants of the domestic landscape — flowers, shrubs, grasses and vegetables.

The fungi grow tiny, fragile strands called hyphae. They are a tenth the thickness of human hair, but there are so many of them that they form a vast network, effectively extending the reach and efficiency of plant roots. In her book “The Soil Will Save Us,” science writer Kristin Ohlson says there can be as much as 320 miles of hyphae in a cubic foot of soil. At least 80 percent of the plants on Earth connect to these fungal partners.

“Gardeners need to know this stuff,” Lowenfels said. “A thinking gardener is a better gardener.”

https://www.washingtonpost.com/lifestyle/home/the-zoo-beneath-our-feet-were-only-beginning-to-understand-soils-hidden-world

Drinking Water Out of Thin Air

One Warka Water tower can supply more than 25 gallons of water throughout the course of a day.

 

In some parts of Ethiopia, finding potable water is a six-hour journey.

People in the region spend 40 billion hours a year trying to find and collect water, says a group called the Water Project. And even when they find it, the water is often not safe, collected from ponds or lakes teeming with infectious bacteria, contaminated with animal waste or other harmful substances.

The water scarcity issue—which affects nearly 1 billion people in Africa alone—has drawn the attention of big-name philanthropists like actor and Water.org co-founder Matt Damon and Microsoft co-founder Bill Gates, who, through their respective nonprofits, have poured millions of dollars into research and solutions, coming up with things like a system that converts toilet water to drinking water and a "Re-invent the Toilet Challenge," among others.

Critics, however, have their doubts about integrating such complex technologies in remote villages that don't even have access to a local repairman. Costs and maintenance could render many of these ideas impractical. "If the many failed development projects of the past 60 years have taught us anything," wrote one critic, Toilets for People founder Jason Kasshe, in a New York Times editorial, "it's that complicated, imported solutions do not work." Other low-tech inventions, like this life straw, aren't as complicated, but still rely on users to find a water source.

It was this dilemma—supplying drinking water in a way that's both practical and convenient—that served as the impetus for a new product called Warka Water, an inexpensive, easily-assembled structure that extracts gallons of fresh water from the air.

The invention from Arturo Vittori, an industrial designer, and his colleague Andreas Vogler doesn't involve complicated gadgetry or feats of engineering, but instead relies on basic elements like shape and material and the ways in which they work together. At first glance, the 30-foot-tall, vase-shaped towers, named after a fig tree native to Ethiopia, have the look and feel of a showy art installation. But every detail, from carefully-placed curves to unique materials, has a functional purpose.

The rigid outer housing of each tower is comprised of lightweight and elastic juncus stalks, woven in a pattern that offers stability in the face of strong wind gusts while still allowing air to flow through. A mesh net made of nylon or  polypropylene, which calls to mind a large Chinese lantern, hangs inside, collecting droplets of dew that form along the surface. As cold air condenses, the droplets roll down into a container at the bottom of the tower. The water in the container then passes through a tube that functions as a faucet, carrying the water to those waiting on the ground.
Using mesh to facilitate clean drinking water isn't an entirely new concept. A few years back, an MIT student designed a fog-harvesting device with the material. But Vittori's invention yields more water, at a lower cost, than some other concepts that came before it.

"[In Ethiopia], public infrastructures do not exist and building [something like] a well is not easy," Vittori says of the country. "To find water, you need to drill in the ground very deep, often as much as 1,600 feet.  So it's technically difficult and expensive. Moreover, pumps need electricity to run as well as access to spare parts in case the pump breaks down."

So how would Warka Water's low-tech design hold up in remote sub-Saharan villages? Internal field tests have shown that one Warka Water tower can supply more than 25 gallons of water throughout the course of a day, Vittori claims. He says because the most important factor in collecting condensation is the difference in temperature between nightfall and daybreak, the towers are proving successful even in the desert, where temperatures, in that time, can differ as much as 50 degrees Fahrenheit.

The structures, made from biodegradable materials, are easy to clean and can be erected without mechanical tools in less than a week. Plus, he says, "once locals have the necessary know-how, they will be able to teach other villages and communities to build the Warka."

In all, it costs about $500 to set up a tower—less than a quarter of the cost of something like the Gates toilet, which costs about $2,200 to install and more to maintain. If the tower is mass produced, the price would be even lower, Vittori says. His team hopes to install two Warka Towers in Ethiopia by next year and is currently searching for investors who may be interested in scaling the water harvesting technology across the region.

"It's not just illnesses that we're trying to address. Many Ethiopian children from rural villages spend several hours every day to fetch water, time they could invest for more productive activities and education," he says. "If we can give people something that lets them be more independent, they can free themselves from this cycle."

http://www.smithsonianmag.com/ist/?next=/innovation/this-tower-pulls-drinking-water-out-of-thin-air-180950399/#A2yubELeUqRiyUDG.99

Building Skin Developed That Could Cool Our Cities

© Harunori Noda

The urban heat island effect - the hot, overwhelming temperatures that a city’s concrete produces – has a huge impact on livability and comfort within the city. Now, an elegant cooling system has been designed that not only reduces energy usage, but – should it be installed on multiple buildings – could even lower the overall temperature of a city itself. Learn more, after the break.

Designed by Nikken Sekkei, The Sony City Osaki Building, which recently won the 2014 Tall Building Innovation Award from the Council on Tall Buildings and Urban Habitat (CTBUH), features an innovative new cooling system: a skin of water-filled ceramic pipes known as BioSkin. BioSkin reduces the surface temperature of a building up to 12°C, and can even lower the micro-climate surrounding the building 2°C. The CTBUH explains how:

“The simplicity of the system is elegant. The BioSkin tubes are made of extruded aluminum cores, with a highly water-retentive terra-cotta shell attached to the aluminum core using an elastic adhesive. When rainwater collects on the rooftop, it is then drained to a subsurface storage tank, where it is filtered and sterilized. This water is then pumped up and circulated through the pipes, which in the live test case were incorporated as balcony railings on a Tokyo office building, reminiscent of the horizontal screens seen throughout Japan and known as sudare. Rainwater penetrates outward through the porous ceramic, evaporating from the pipe’s surface, cooling the surrounding air. Excess water is then drained down to the soil of the premises to the extent possible, normalizing the water cycle and reducing the load on sewage infrastructure.”

 Cite: Galloway, Andrew. "Building Skin Developed That Could Cool Our Cities" 21 Jul 2014. ArchDaily. Accessed 11 Aug 2014. <http://www.archdaily.com/?p=529486>

Science for Designers: Complex Adaptive Systems

 

By: Nikos A. Salingaros  & Michael Mehaffy

Today the world of design is in a position to benefit enormously from advances in sciences, mathematics and particularly, geometry—probably not in a way that many designers think. As humans we are remarkably good at conceiving the world as a collection of objects, their geometric attributes, and the ways they can be taken apart and re-assembled to do spectacular things (either perform marvelous tasks for us, or provide an aesthetic spectacle, or both). This way of designing underlies much of our powerful technology—yet as modern science reminds us, it’s an incomplete way. Critical systemic effects have to be integrated into the process of design, without which we are likely to trigger operational failures and even disasters.

Today we are experiencing just these kinds of failures in large-scale systems like ecology. As designers (of any kind) we must learn to manage environments not just as collections of objects, but also as connected fields with essential features of geometric organization, extending dynamically through time as well as space. This is a key lesson from the relatively recent understanding of the dynamics of “complex adaptive systems,” and from applications in fields like biology and ecology. At issue is not just avoiding failures. Though our designs can certainly be impressive, nature’s “designs” routinely put us humans to shame. No aircraft can maneuver as nimbly as an eagle (or a fruit fly, for that matter), and no supercomputer can do what an ordinary human brain does. The sophistication and power of these designs lies in their complex geometric structures, and more particularly, in the processes by which those structures are evolved and transformed within groupings or systems.


The ecosystem of a coral reef requires continuous mutual adaptation of individuals and species, like Yolanda Reef in Ras Muhammad nature park, Sinai, Egypt. Photo: Mikhail Rogov, Wikimedia Commons. We can readily see that in the natural world forms arise as adaptive evolutions that solve specific kinds of problems—an eye gathers information about predators and prey, a wing or leg allows rapid movement, and so on. Anatomical forms do not arise within one large undifferentiated collection; they develop as specific groupings of systems and sub-systems. These systems in turn relate to and comprise other, larger systems. The structural dynamics of systems are consequences of interactions between parts and wholes. This is a new science built upon a previous generation of biologists recognizing the adaptive processes of form generation, and their characteristic geometries—what is now known as “morphogenesis”. Pioneers like D’Arcy Thompson saw that living structures had characteristic groupings that were intimately connected to the processes by which they grew. Crucially, these pioneers came to see that formal and aesthetic characteristics were not separate, but were systems-specific geometric attributes. Over evolutionary history, organisms had learned to identify such attributes, the better to respond effectively to their environments. Our own capacity to experience beauty is, from an evolutionary point of view, just such a biological recognition of what is most likely to promote our wellbeing.



Soap bubbles form a complex pattern as a result of their mutual adaptation. It was not put in. Photo: Timothy Pilgrim, Wikimedia Commons.

What does this mean for designers, in concrete terms? It means that all the parts have to be mutually adapted to each other to an adequate degree, through a process of some kind. So let’s consider a general procedure for adaptive design, one that uses these new insights from systems theory. First, we will need to decompose a design problem so that it actually represents fundamentally distinct yet overlapping subsystems. Second, we will employ several alternative decompositions of the system into more tractable subunits or components. As is known since the work of complexity theorist Herbert Simon, a hierarchical complex system has several inequivalent decompositions. Connectivity dictates how to perform each of the problem decompositions based upon one different aspect of the entire system: the designer has to discover and give equal weight to connective components as well as to the structural components. Relations among objects are just as important as the objects themselves, and system decomposition in terms of relations makes that clear.



Six distinct ways (among an infinite number of possibilities) of partitioning a disk to implement radial sectors, or concentric rings, or linear strips, etc. In an analogous manner, we can decompose a system according to distinct conceptualizations, for example to emphasize the distribution of interior spaces, or the path structure, or exterior urban spaces, etc. Drawing by Nikos Salingaros. For example, designing a building involves at least five distinct system decompositions. These could be concerned with: (i) harmonizing the building’s exterior with its environment and avoidance of geometrical conflict, which of course includes adaptation to climate, orientation to the local solar and weather patterns, etc., (ii) connecting the site to the circulation present in its environment, (iii) shaping public spaces, from a sidewalk to one or more open plazas, (iv) planning interior paths, (v) identifying the interior spaces in relationship to each other. There could be other systems as well, based upon individual needs, conditions, and uses. Each of these problems requires a system decomposition that defines a distinct type of subsystem of the entire design. And each has to be addressed separately, at least initially. Of course, eventually everything will have to be recombined, and a professional with experience will in practice handle all of the subsystems simultaneously. But since this method is unusual for today’s designers, we offer this artificial separation to make the point of alternative decompositions. Our task as designers is to optimize the functions of each subsystem so that those functions support the whole system in which they are embedded, but do not impede any alternative system decompositions.

We require adaptive selection criteria that guide the design to converge to an overall coherence (which we help along but do not dictate). The final configuration converges neither to an “approved” image, nor to some fixed initial abstraction, but rather towards an emergent quality of the system itself as it adapts to generate strong internal and external coherence. The operational secret for achieving a tight connection of a design to its environment is to make as many design decisions as possible on the site itself. In this initial conception, no overall form has yet been decided! The procedure described here was developed by Christopher Alexander, following a method used by humankind throughout the ages for vernacular building. Such a procedure simply cannot be performed in the office, because it is fundamentally contextual. The design method relies upon on-the-ground experience. Only after key decisions about the dimensions, positioning, and geometry of the various subsystems have been taken in the actual setting using one’s imagination aided by physical props, then, this information can be transferred to a scale model, sketch, and computer screen.

Adaptive design’s principal aim is to facilitate the different components of a particular subsystem so they assemble themselves into a coherent subsystem. For example, the conditions and uses require specific internal paths, but there is freedom in connecting them into a network — this must be done in a way consistent with all the other system decompositions. Here is where the real novelty lies: we let each distinct subsystem develop according to rules for adaptation, and our role as designers is merely that of facilitator. Namely, we are not going to dictate its design using any preconceived ideas or images (a shocking suggestion for contemporary practitioners), only search for the possibilities that satisfy the constraints of use, site, environment, etc. In this way, the components we have to work with will, in a real sense, “assemble themselves”. This phenomenon is called self-organization — a very important topic that we discuss extensively in our essay “Frontiers of Design Science: Self-Organization”.

The result should still have a degree of roughness, for reasons that will become clear later. This procedure is repeated for each distinct subsystem to give us several subsystems that are more-or-less coherent within themselves. In the end, we superimpose and combine all the different subsystems into a coherent whole. Crucially, the distinct subsystems will engage in a way that makes functional sense. Again, we don’t impose our will, but simply facilitate an intimate union of all the subsystems. In the case of a building as discussed above, there will be at least five subsystems, and these will need to merge together.



Non-adaptive versus adaptive plans for a group of buildings: Left, the plan is only a formal geometrical idea; right, the plan reflects typical adaptations to several distinct systems of human needs, such as complex spatial volumes, movement, definition of usable urban space, connectivity on a human scale, etc. Drawing by Nikos Salingaros.

The final design will be a structural compromise among all the alternative system decompositions, which compete with each other in design space. It is important to accept and handle this “conflictual” component of design, which arises from the need to accommodate several distinct systems, each one of which has its own optimum, but which could very easily degrade another subsystem’s functionality. Thus, the intertwining of the distinct subsystems can only be achieved through each of the subsystems compromising to some extent. This is how the larger whole achieves an optimum configuration. This description might sound exotic—but something like this goes on all the time in natural systems. It’s the process by which the mitochondria adapt to the cell nucleus and vice versa, or the organisms within a reef’s ecology mutually adapt to one another. At our best, we do the same thing—or we let the natural processes around us do this for us. We “copy nature,” or we go through an “optimization cycle,” for example. But as we noted earlier, too often, we humans tend to treat the products around us as separated things of very limited function that we can choose to isolate or recombine at our whim, with little consequence. This is, functionally speaking, a mistake.

According to a key principle from systems theory, we can only treat systems as closed up to a point. Ultimately we have to see the ways in which all systems are partly open and inter-connected. Biological and ecological systems—of which we humans are ultimately an inseparable part—are open systems. A key lesson for designers of all kinds follows: Product design can’t really be separated from environmental design. We are all, in some sense, environmental designers, working in the human environment. Since every system is only partially closed, we have to find ways to work on these systems as open systems — that is, as parts of larger, optimizing wholes. Routine failure to do so has led to our ecological misfortunes.



Human places are systems of room-like structures that span many scales — literal rooms indoors, and then more room-like outdoor spaces. These systems are made to adapt well to our activities and needs (especially our need for privacy) and to be adaptable by users — we can close doors and windows, draw curtains, etc. On the right, a composite example of a typical mixed-use London street, photos by Michael Mehaffy.

This means we must come to see (and work on) these systems of spaces where we live as a fabric of connections between partially open sub-systems of spaces with geometric characteristics. As designers, our job is to weave together parts of this fabric into more life-supportive, continuous structures. We discuss the details of this structure elsewhere (in what is known as “place network theory”); but for now, we can think of this structure as a network of room-like structures, each with a membrane-like connection to the other spaces around it. (Think of rooms with doors and windows, gardens with gates and hedges, etc.) An important aspect of adaptive evolution is afforded to users in such environments. They give us the capacity to control the degree of stimulation and variety, to explore intricate and varying layers of space, to locate rich geometrical structures that users might find interesting and beautiful. We might elaborate on these structures as a way of clarifying them and making them more legible—or even more beautiful.

It is the freedom to evolve our environment (in part), thereby vastly broadening its functionality, which is missing from the deterministic approach of most contemporary architecture. As we alluded to earlier, research in environmental psychology reveals that such aesthetic characteristics are essential attributes of human wellbeing—they are not separate from this cellular, systemic structure of the human environment. The boundaries of different spaces become identifiable borders. And the geometrical centers become identifiable points around which local temporal symmetries might regularly appear. We might see regular patterns of repetition or alternation, or other characteristic patterns of human use and movement that arise from the particular geometry. It seems we are hard-wired to find geometries that generate these patterns aesthetically interesting, and often very beautiful. (Elsewhere, we have discussed the fascinating and promising topic of biophilia in more detail.)



Two places in London, not far from one another, with opposite system characteristics: Left, a “place network” that is a well-articulated system of geometric spaces. Right, a place without a network — a jumble of poorly-articulated abstract parts, with little relation to human experience or need, photos by Michael Mehaffy.

This, then, is a key role of environmental designers: to facilitate such adaptive evolutions in both short and long (more permanent) time scales. It is essential to understand and apply the geometric properties of human space, particularly its patterns of connections. We, as urban designers, or as architects—as designers of any kind—have to take this problem seriously. The art of our work lies in the way we elaborate and elucidate these deeper realities of life. Understanding geometric systems within environments gives us a remarkably coherent way of approaching the problems of the human environment. The question at stake is whether we can actually design, in the deepest spatial sense—that is, harness the organizational power of evolutionary systems, to generate richer, more connected, more adapted, more alive human environments. We must contrast this approach with today’s dominant “business as usual” approach—a holdover from an earlier pre-modern industrial mode of design (indeed, of science).

Instead of creating and transforming mutually adapted systems, disconnected objects are created and assembled, and then aesthetic “packaging” is layered onto them. Someone creates the “guts” of the car, and then somebody else places a sleekly “styled” body on top. Or we create filing-cabinet-like buildings around prosaic “programs” and then we create razzle-dazzle aesthetic veneers, outside and perhaps inside—all package, no substance. Or we create filing-cabinet cities of superblocks and segregated zones, and then we “shrub them up” with various forms of landscaping and ecological gizmos. This last example often comes with a phony “sustainable” label. In the process, we leave a toxic planetary wreckage, the consequences of which, it is clear, we simply will not survive. This, too, is a necessary adaptation we must make—one that will challenge our orthodox thinking, about the very methods and aims of design.

http://www.metropolismag.com/Point-of-View/August-2012/Science-for-Designers-Complex-Adaptive-Systems/