Category: Architecture of Atlanta and the Southeast

The Background

This is the third in a series of articles written for The Atlanta Journal in 1890 and 1891 by W.W. Goodrich, an architect who practiced in Atlanta between 1889 and 1895.

The article’s title is misleading, as Goodrich provided no advice for builders here—they wouldn’t take it anyway.

Instead, this article delves into the design of doors, porticos, and other building entries, which allowed Goodrich to whip out such fancy architectural terms as “pronaos” and “antæ”. He obviously read Vitruvius at some point.

Goodrich’s writing style was overlong and overwrought, and you have to wonder how many people actually read this insufferably boring article when it was published—certainly not the newspaper’s editor or proofreader, as the article is chock full of typos and grammatical errors.

Given his grandiose ramblings on the subject, you’d think Goodrich was some genius of architecture, but if you look at the quality of his work, it’s clear he was nothing more than a run-of-the-mill designer with delusions of grandeur.

And that’s the nicest thing you’ll hear me say about him.

Hints To Builders,

A Chapter On Beautiful Entrances.

Houses That Speak to Beholders.

Tame, Flat and Uninteresting Building — Hospitable and Polite House –An An [sic] Article that will Prove Interesting to Journal Readers.

Written for the Journal.

Has anyone ever felt or been impressed by the character of an ignoble or imposing entrance. The insignificance and meanness of a narrow, cramped doorway is as certainly experienced as a sense of nobility and grandeur is awakened by the sight of a great cathedral. Not only, however, in edifices of public character such as these do we feel the influence of the entrance; we find that it impresses an important character on buildings of an official and private class. A small and insignificant entrance stamps the character on the building; in effect it says to every passer-by, “I am only intended for private use.” On the contrary, the wide doorway invites entrance, it proclaims to every observer free and unrestricted ingress, and it stamps the building with an hospitable character. No other feature of a building addresses itself more directly to the eye than the entrance. Every good architecture has a language of expression of its own; the modes by which it gives expressions are few, and may in a word be said to symbolize or represent corresponding qualities or emotions of the mind. Thus we can make a building look vapid and tame by flat treatment and want of vigorous features, or we can make it frown and strike terror to the beholder by massive treatment, bold projections, and overhanging cornices; we can give it an air of amusement and gloom by windowless walls and by severe details; and we can make a building hospitable and polite by harmonious arrangements of the features, wide apertures and ornamental details.

This phonetic quality of architecture is as universal and as easily learned as the qualities of musical composition, or the varieties of rythm [sic] and harmony which expresses the grave and sprightly, the solemn and the frivolous. It has been said that an overture without words can express nothing; but all who can appreciate fine musical competitions know how eloquent and impressive certain passages are in appealing to the emotions and heart. In architecture likewise, though the differences of expression may be few, they are clearly pronounced, and the modes by which they are produced appeal with equal power to even the unlearned and artistic person. Thus we need not inform the least observant the effect that is produced of an excess of a paucity of openings in a building. A wide open fenestration expresses life and liveliness, large apertureless wall spaces gloominess and dullness. The most illiterate and least artistic can appreciate the difference between these conditions of building. The large paned windows of the modern villas as certainly express sprightliness and vivacity as the massive unpierced walls of a goal do gloom and austerity.

The entrance doorway has always appeared to us to be an equally powerful means of obtaining character of a facade, making it inviting or hospitable, sullen or selfish, and it is worth while to consider it as a very important feature in design.

There are several varieties of entrance; the most generally known may be broadly classed under the simple doorway, the projecting entrance and the recessed entrance. Of the second class, the porch or portico is a representation, and of the third, the open vestibule. Each of these kinds admits of many varieties, according to the style chosen and the purpose of the building. The style rather than the purpose of the building has been chiefly taken by architects as the only rule in the matter, and thus it happens that a few conventional modes of treating the entrance continue to be used, in total forgetfulness or in ignorance of what is demanded by purpose and expression. Of all forms of entrance perhaps no more noble or majestic can be found than the classic portico or pro-style arrangement in front of the cella; no meaner than the ordinary doorway in a flat wall. The classic and Italian architect never produced a more impressive entrance than the arrangement known as “in antis,” in which the temple of the building is entered through a pronaos or outer open covered space between two columns and the doorway. In the large and more important temples columns were placed in front of the antae, making a deeper covered space or portico. What is in classical nomenclature known as the “pronaos,” is, in Italial [sic] architecture, a kind of screened vestibule, recessed from the front wall. But as in other inventions of the ancients, modern architects frequently travesty this feature. They make it too shallow to be of value, or make it so small as to become ridiculous. The opening occupied by the columns between the antæ should bar some proportion to the facade, the larger the more dignified and impressive, it should form a convenient shelter from the weather, and should therefore be proportionately deep.

To lay down any rules of size would be superfluous and misleading, for it is a feature that should be planned in conjunction with the internal walls of the vestibule or hall. In a public edifice, as a hall, size is of importance, though it would appear the dimensions of the portico is accounted a small matter, the subject being left to the accidents of planning rather than to destination. We often find public edifices with meagre entrances, and private villas with spacious porticos. If we look at mediæval [sic] edifices, we shall find the noblest of our cathedrals have imposing entrances. The grand triple portals of Amiens and Rheims [sic] are majestic works of sculptural architecture, depth being obtained partly be [sic] external projection, which is gabled, and partly by recess in the wall. The splay of the jambs and seried arch members filled with sculpture play a great part in giving apparent depth to the portal, a principle followed also by the mediæval architects, in diminishing the members, shafts and statues as they approached the plane of doorway. Height, too, was not sacrificed, the tympana are richly sculptured, and the apices of the outer arch mouldings reach to a full third of the height of facade. The entrances to our own cathedrals are less important features, but are largely obtained by recess in the thickness of the wall.

Projecting porticos and porches form a notable kind of entrance, and their chief use is in obtaining external shelter and protection from the weather. Projecting arrangements forcibly express entrance, and are probably of all forms the least tractable in the hands of the architect. In towns they require the setting back of the building, and are, therefore, rather wasteful of area. The chief failure in this mode of expressing the entrance is the want of connection with the building. Unless the porch is designed with special reference to the elevation, it has the appearance of a clapped on adjunct, and this is the common weakness of the porch. From all we have said there a few rules to be observed which may be enumerated. First, the entrance should accord with the purpose of the building in size; second, in its architectural treatment and decoration it should express its function of access and shelter clearly, and its lines should be made to unite with those of the facade; third, a half projecting and half recessed entrance is more pleasing and desirable than a flat doorway. To these, a fourth principle should be added–that the external entrance should correspond with the internal arrangement. A wide entrance or portico should always have an inner vestibule or hall of similar width and importance; and sense of disappointment is otherwise at once felt on passing the external entrance and find a narrow hall within. Yet this is a very common fault in entrance designing which has been studied in elevation and not in plan. We often see porticos and porches stuck on, having no reference whatever to the internal walls. The walls of entrance internally are suddenly reduced to the width of a corridor, and the visitor at once realizes the deception practiced upon him of a counterfeit portico–having no connection whatever with the hall inside. In short, the vestibule and hall should be a continuance of the entrance, and it is better, to enlarge than diminish its width and to increase rather than lessen its architectural embellishment. The object for any entrance hall should be to invite the visitor, not to repel him, as he passes the threshold. It is a feature upon which the ablest architects of all ages have exercised their highest skill, and its treatment, both architecturally and decoratively, ought to be to conduct the visitor to the apartments, instead of by meanness or ostentation to arrest his footsteps, or to disappoint his expectations of the interior.

W.W. Goodrich.¹

References

1. Goodrich, W.W. “Hints to Builders.” The Atlanta Journal, June 7, 1890, p. 10. ↩︎

The Background

This is the second in a series of articles written for The Atlanta Journal in 1890 and 1891 by W.W. Goodrich, an architect who practiced in Atlanta between 1889 and 1895.

In this article, Goodrich informed readers about the attributes of a qualified architect at a time when the building industry was almost entirely unregulated—particularly in the Southeast—and anyone could market themselves as an architect regardless of training or experience.

One of several Atlanta architects who publicly advocated for increased oversight of the profession, here he called for an examining body to register architects, which was not established in the state of Georgia until 1919.^{1 2 3 4}

Good Architecture,

And Its Scientific Requirements.
What Steps Are to Be Applied.
An Able and Comprehensive Paper on the Qualifications of an Architect–Buildings Without Claim to Architectural Merit.

Written for the Journal.

It would not be very easy to draw the line between a qualified and unqualified architect, because it is hard to say what the conditions of successful architecture are. There are many who have achieved a professional reputation by name, but whose buildings are not remarkable for any high quality, either as works of art or as successfully planned structures. There are others who are not known to fame whose works, though small, bear the impress of artistic ability. But the question still remains, what are the tests of good architecture, where should the scientific requirements end and the artistic begin? And until these points are decided it will be hard to apply a rule. The practice of architecture cannot be gauged like that of law or medicine by the number of briefs or patients, which are more or less accurately the measures of successful practice, as the fact that one man designs and carries out more buildings than another becomes no test of the artistic qualification. The oftener a physician prescribes or a surgeon operates, the more skillful he becomes–so in the practice of law; but it cannot be said of the architect’s work. There are hundreds of buildings eminently successful as works of skillful arrangement and construction, but which have little claim to architectural merit. Works of this class imply the profession of faculties of a high order and technical skill, all of which may be acquired without any art function. We have abundant examples of cleverly-arranged offices, schools and hospitals, which are without any of the qualities which render them artistic or even agreeable. Other buildings can be named that exhibit every attribute of artistic beauty, wholly wanting in the utilitarian requirements. Which of these two classes belongs to the architect? Those who make good building essential will answer that the first of these descriptions fulfill the object of architecture, and they will be found to include the largest number of people. Usefulness and sound construction are the tests. Publican criticism of architects’ work has generally proceeded on these grounds. Like the reputation of a great man, the merits of a building are of slow discovery. It is the public test of fitness which approves or otherwise. Not one in a thousand can see anything in a handsome, elegant, or picturesque building to put it in the balance against fitness and convenience. Those qualities on paper may gain it for the premium; but the public are the first to find fault with insufficient or awkward arrangements, bad lighting, ventilation, and so on. They may admire a handsome elevation, but they estimate its value at an exceedingly low price. Like good poetry, architecture is understood only by the very few–those, we mean, who take a real pleasure in ordered arrangements, in picturesque handling of masses, in light and shadow. The popular admiration is not worth much when it comes to payment or a question of rates; fine architecture, like high class music or entertainments, sinks rapidly, and the real measure of appreciation or discernment is found to be very small. Fine art, then, being an intangible quality, is undervalued, and those who have to live by it are very few compared with those who deal with the more practical requirements of building. It follows that the architect’s qualifications will be estimated accordingly, and that they must be governed by the public demand. Hence the only successful condition of the architect is that he can accommodate himself to the times, not be too sensitive an artist, nor exacting in his tastes, but be a compliant man of business, a scientific builder.

Our experience of the profession points to the necessity of making the architect primarily a skilled arranger and constructor. Skill in arrangement and construction, however, applies to a variety of buildings intended for a multiplicity of purposes, and one man can never have more than once or twice in his life the opportunity of designing any one special building. In short, the qualifications vary for almost every description of building, and an architect who has acquired skill as a house designer may have no aptitude for designing a school or church. We can only say that there is a certain knowledge and procedure necessarily common to both. How to set about a plan is the first step; for if a man knows how to proceed he can soon solve the problem of any new building that may be presented to him. The experienced architect of one class of work goes to work unconsciously upon a truly logical basis. He knows by heart the requirements, say of a school room–a large array of types or precedents are ready in his mind. His mind agrees on a few principles, as, for instance, the light must enter on the left, desks must be placed along this side, the proportion of the room is regulated by the desks, and he sketches out a plan jointly by the aid of these principles and the types he has stored in his memory. The inexperienced does not proceed in this manner. He seeks precedents, and sets to work copying or arranging something by their aid, but without reference to data. The work fails because it has not taken account of facts; precedents are useful, as they show deductions from facts, but useless unless the latter are known. From which considerations we gather that in planning we have first to discover all the requirements, about lighting and intercommunication, and then by a synthetic process from particulars to generals, to arrange a general form that shall satisfy those data. As the naturalist and scientific observer from observing particulars and their relations can deduce a law, so the architect, who has a new problem of arrangement to solve, formulates a plan. So the function of every room may be met and expressed.

How to design a plan is one of the things the architect has learned. It is included in the course of his training. The statistics of plans are considered one of the primary attainments of the architect. We mean, by “statistics”, all those particulars derived from experience bearing upon dimensions, cubic space, light, positions of doors and fireplaces, seating accommodations, etc. Thus, in the design of a church, the statistics would include the proper distance between the backs of seats, space to each person. In the construction of a theater or concert hall the ascertained distance in front of, and laterally from, the stage or platform at which the human voice can be heard, the proportion of stage to auditorium, the “setting-up” of sections or “sighting” of the various parts of the house, the raking or stepping of the seats and fronts of the “circle” to the inacoustic curve, are among the facts which experience has established, and which cannot be departed from to any extent. The qualities upon which successful hearing depends, the requirements for fire construction, heating, and good ventilation, are among the main essentials of truthful architecture, and these are the points which the public considers they have a right to look for in the building designed by an architect. Many subtle and conflicting questions of construction arise out of the theory of acoustics–for instance, there are proper “lines” and setting-out of the seating and ceiling, the influence of ventilation, or the movement and direction of currents of air upon sound, the proper materials for the reinforcement of sound. When the day comes for registering the architect, one of the main purposes of the examining body will be to secure to each member a modicum of such applied science, to guarantee to the employer qualification in his architect shall put him far above the builder, who has learned construction empirically.

In short, it is the scientifically-trained builder that the public expects. We hear a few say that the architectural tests will be of no avail, for the public will still employ the practical builder. Yes, very true. They will employ him if they cannot get one any better; but the object of future legislation will be to create an improved class of builders–men trained in science, and who are experts in its application to the practical wants of the day. It is for the coming architect to make himself one of these, first of all, so that he may hold his own against the untaught builder, who has only learned one way of doing his work–not always the best or the most economical in its results. Building, like all other trades, has fallen into a groove, out of which mere workshop influence will never raise it.

W.W. Goodrich⁵

References

1. “Better Education Bills Are Passed”. The Atlanta Constitution, August 7, 1919, p. 5. ↩︎
2. “Governor Appoints Board of Architects”. The Atlanta Constitution, September 28, 1919, p. 9. ↩︎
3. “State Architectss [sic] Are Named by Dorsey”. The Atlanta Journal, September 28, 1919, p. B7. ↩︎
4. Acts and Resolutions of the General Assembly of the State of Georgia 1919 [volume 1] ↩︎
5. Goodrich, W.W. “Good Architecture.” The Atlanta Journal, May 27, 1890, p. 6. ↩︎