Arguably, the post-war period throughout the region saw a retreat from climatically responsive architecture in favour of an imposed, compromised and reductionist version of modernism until the vernacular revival of the 1970s and 1980s saw a revisiting of traditional climate strategies.
The point is that contemporary climate-responsive Southeast Asian architecture is part of an ongoing evolution, a constant conversation, and a continuing ‘negotiation between foreign architectural ideas and the local context which includes lifestyle and culture, the tropical climate and traditional architectural vocabularies’ (duangrit Bunnag, 2003: 10).
HOUSE AND HOME
Let’s look now at the notion of sustainability from a slightly different perspective—from that of the home.
A house is not necessarily a home. A look at the kinds of metaphors we use is a clue to that. We talk about ‘housing’ something, meaning to put something into a container, but without any implication as to the quality of that container. But when we talk about feeling ‘at home’, there is a clear sense that we are now in a place where we feel comfortable, a place which is right for us.
A house is a shelter, offering protection. But a home is much more than simply a physical shelter. It sustains us emotionally, spiritually and culturally. The question therefore arises: In what ways does a house do this and to what extent can the design of the house assist?
‘… architecture can certainly facilitate that feeling of being at home.’
The great dutch architect and urbanist Aldo van Eyck once remarked that ‘architecture must facilitate man’s homecoming’. A beautiful house is no guarantee that it will also be a home. Equally, a house that is poorly designed does not necessarily prevent it from being a true home for its inhabitants. But the architecture of the structure can certainly facilitate that feeling of being at home.
What, then, makes a house a home? this requires that we look at the various functions of a home.
Frank Lloyd Wright famously said that a home needed to offer refuge and prospect. Let’s consider refuge first. At one time, the home was considered a refuge from potentially threatening interlopers. Indeed, this is still the case, and throughout Southeast Asia there is a heightened sense of threat from intruders which has led architects to design houses which frequently turn their back on the street, both as a defensive posture and as a tactic not to reveal what may be attractive to thieves. But this, at least, has the virtue of creating some exciting arrival sequences.
But the home today is also a refuge from an increasingly noisy, busy and intrusive world. It is a place to retreat to, an escape from the hectic everyday world outside. For some of the houses in this book, location alone helps to provide this refuge. For others, the planning provides insulation from the hyperactivity just outside the front door.
But hiding away in a box is neither pleasant nor healthy. Human beings need to be connected with the world, both physically and emotionally, whether it be the macro world outside or the micro world they create for themselves inside. Hence, the need for prospect—to look out on to something bigger, more airy, and especially to connect with the natural word. Again, there are houses in this book which are privileged by their location and enjoy such wonderful prospect out to a natural world, including their own gardens, that they are effectively a part of that landscape. Others need to borrow landscape, with architects adopting the traditional Japanese aesthetic of carefully framing views to the outside to create the illusion of being a part of a landscape without intrusion from the neighbouring non-natural world. This is nowhere more urgent than in an apartment, and the Brookvale Apartment in Singapore (page 74), the only apartment included in this book, is a perfect example.
Turning one’s back on an urban environment may mean creating one’s own internal landscape. Hence, the prospect may be out to an internal garden courtyard. Equally, it may involve internal prospect where the interior of the house itself becomes a landscape and any sense of containment is ameliorated by views across and through different interior spaces. This is a crucial element of the modernist approach which has been absorbed into the Asian house, namely, a plan of free-flowing spaces where the spaces are functionally distinguished only by partial or very subtle separation. If Asian models have been modified by this International modernist strategy, the strategy itself is often modified by another adaptation from Japan, namely, an internal prospect which has glimpses of external prospect in the form of small or slot windows on to miniature garden courtyards, and sometimes not so miniature, or even external, courtyards as with the carphenie House on the outskirts of Kuala Lumpur (page 42).
External prospect, however, is increasingly becoming more than simply visual connection. More and more often, the connection is literally physical, with the house connected directly to the outside landscape. This serves an environmental purpose, of course, because verandahs, extended overhangs, free-flowing interior spaces and breezeways generate cross-ventilation. But the separation of inside and outside is also becoming blurred. More and more frequently, the house embraces the outside landscape as an essential part of healthy living, both in the physical and in the emotional sense. Living with the tropical climate has been extended to celebrating and enjoying the tropical landscape rather than keeping it at arm’s length.
Arguably, International modernism had its origins not with the usual suspects like Le Corbusier, Mies van der Rohe and the Bauhaus, but with the Arts and crafts movement which flourished through the second half of the nineteenth century and into the 1930s and was exported from Britain to Europe and Asia—which would support my argument here that current sustainable practices in Southeast Asian houses are part of an ongoing evolution and an aspect of a continuing conversation between differing traditions. The black-and-white houses in Singapore and their Malaysian variants are obvious examples where there was a meeting of the Indian bungalow, local vernacular forms and Arts and crafts influences. The black-and-white houses are now heritage-protected and are commonly subject to highly sensitive retrofitting and restoration for contemporary living. Moreover, their sustainable features, such as free-flowing spaces, wide verandahs, extended eaves, cross-ventilation and air vents, are being adopted in many newly built houses.
The master bedroom in Sacha Cotture’s home in Manila (page 168) is set back from the front façade and screened by treated bamboo.
‘The importance of well-being is reflected in the emphasis on fresh air, natural light and spatial variety to accommodate individual needs.’
Significantly, the Arts and crafts movement emphasized issues which perfectly encapsulate the strategies of the contemporary sustainable Asian house. For example, new architectural approaches involve the reinterpretation of vernacular practices with a growing interest in sustaining traditional crafts. Materials and construction techniques are taken from the local context. A degree of stylistic eclecticism is prominent. The importance of well-being is reflected in the emphasis on fresh air, natural light and spatial variety to accommodate individual needs. Designs also respond to climatic issues, such as orientation to the sun and prevailing winds.
This seems to be endorsed by Indian architect Rahul Mehrotra, who, when he speaks about the new Indian modern could be describing the entire region. Mehrotra notes that new Indian modern has ’evolved beyond its modernist roots to respond to the locale’, but in so doing recognizes a key aspect of modernism which is invariably overlooked, namely, its core strategy of renewing the tradition through critical reflection. Mehrotra says that these architects ‘recognize that modernism demands a respect