Architecture and the Hierarchy of Design Knowledge
In Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, Robert M. Pirsig proposes an image of human knowledge as an enormous hierarchical structure, suggesting that the most general and abstract forms of thought occupy its highest levels—the “high country of the mind.”
The sentence goes as follows:
‘If all of human knowledge, everything that's known, is believed to be an enormous hierarchic structure, then the high country of the mind is found at the uppermost reaches of this structure in the most general, the most abstract considerations of all.’ ¹
Honestly, the context in which the sentence appears in the book is not of particular interest here at the moment. In fact, the sentence itself holds the potential for various interpretations and is somewhat complex. Therefore, the sentence can be broken down into two parts.
The first part starts with an assumption, accepting its own judgment as correct:
‘If all of human knowledge, everything that's known, is believed to be an enormous hierarchic structure…’
Actually, a sentence that harbors insecurities within itself. However, the primary goal here is not to analyze the sentence from a literary or philosophical perspective. It presents a simple way of understanding that the definition of human knowledge, or everything known throughout human history (ranging from the invention of the wheel to developing technology to walk on the moon), is a hierarchy of knowledge structures to make sense of things.
This applies to architecture as well. After all, the knowledge of a person who can design both basic shelters and skyscrapers evolves and grows in a hierarchical structure. Yet, it's also necessary to explain how each step of this hierarchy is created. There must be a hierarchy of importance.
In fact, if the hierarchical structure of knowledge is considered as the architect's design knowledge, what would the hierarchical structure of design knowledge shaped throughout history look like? The discussion starts from the premise that the author acknowledges the existence of such a hierarchical structure. Trying to confine this hierarchy to design history or architectural history wouldn't be accurate here.
When talking about design history, the only criterion for ordering is the date of construction of the artifact. It's sorted from old to new. In the issue of the hierarchy of design knowledge mentioned here, it's about stacking knowledge in order of importance. It's not about the dates of construction; it's about a hierarchy of importance. Therefore, an artifact produced before the Common Era can easily take its place above an artifact made today in this hierarchical structure.
So, how should this ranking be? Should the most beneficial for humanity come to the top? Or should a work that doesn't meet everyday needs but changes the direction of all this design knowledge in terms of aesthetics be at the top?
But to simplify, let's take the example of Hagia Sophia Mosque, which is widely known. It's indisputable that Hagia Sophia has an almost unattainable design and construction style according to the conditions of its era. Similarly, the Süleymaniye Mosque or Selimiye Mosque by Mimar Sinan can be considered in this category.
Although Hagia Sophia is a major source of inspiration for Sinan in producing this typology, ultimately Sinan, with the influence of Hagia Sophia, developed his existing design knowledge to create new design knowledge.² In fact, this somewhat makes him as important as Hagia Sophia. So, while the design knowledge that creates both works may be feeding off each other, in this hierarchical structure being discussed, they may not be stacked on top of each other but rather stand side by side, perhaps.
To define the ambiguity of this ranking, another example could be structures within the context of modernism. Modernism fundamentally rejects the existing body of design knowledge. Instead of building upon the current design knowledge, step by step, it creates an entirely independent column in the hierarchical structure by demolishing all steps. Despite initially rejecting this structure mentioned here, it holds a strong position within it.³
Perhaps this can be clarified with a Tetris analogy. Imagine aligning consecutive pieces in Tetris with minimal error, advancing 2 or 3 steps each time. This means placing each piece correctly as it descends from above. However, suppose something suddenly changes, and the rules of the game are disregarded by placing a long stick-shaped piece descending from above in a completely irrelevant position below, rather than where it should fit into an empty space. Now, the game must proceed based on this move made in the middle. This action of placing the stick in the middle inevitably shapes the rest of the game.
In a way, modernism, in this flowing game, disregards the rules of the game by placing and removing a completely irrelevant piece in the middle. This is not meant as a criticism of modernism. Although modernism itself rejects it, the result shows that it must occupy an important place in the hierarchy of design knowledge.
The topic can be taken further, although at least the discussion has begun around how the hierarchy of design knowledge might be defined as the hierarchy of human knowledge mentioned in the quoted sentence. It may seem like a bit of a stretch, but organizing design knowledge or architectural movements in a hierarchical manner using different parameters is actually an intriguing idea. The issue of determining which parameters to employ in this ranking is already a puzzle in itself.
Naturally, there is a need for organizing a ranking based on history; after all, as mentioned, one needs to somehow categorize thousands of movements and works, and history provides the most comprehensible and straightforward approach to that.
Moving on to the second part of the sentence quoted from the book, it actually puts forth a more assertive thesis. That is, it places a concept called the ‘high country of the mind,’ which it acknowledges as the essence of this acknowledged knowledge stack, at the top.
Here, the topic becomes even more complex. While there is still no clear answer to how this hierarchy should be ranked, the sentence defines the ground located at the top of this hierarchical structure—the high country of the mind. This is a very abstract definition, almost resembling Plato's world of ideals rather than mere abstraction.
At the top of the hierarchy of knowledge is the high country of the mind. This could perhaps be called the essence of knowledge, and if incorporated into this definition process, the flow can continue as the essence of design knowledge. In other words, there is a hierarchy of design knowledge, with layers stacked on top of each other and side by side, and at the top of this structure is a concept that constitutes the essence of design knowledge.
Two things come to mind here. The first, which those familiar with it can guess, is Charles Eisen's illustration ‘Primitive Hut.’⁴ It has a structure that points to the primitive human need for shelter and interestingly reflects this aspect.
Naturally, whenever this topic is brought up, it sparks a lot of debate. It has a naive structure, actually. Although the essence of the environment and materials may seem primitive, the resulting shelter, or whatever it may be called, refers to the ideal form in Plato's world of ideals, or, so to speak, the ideal shelter type, which is the controversial part of this bold claim.
Perhaps this example helps visualize the essence of design knowledge. Because if there is a hierarchy of design knowledge, then at the top of it must be an ideal design concept or a motivating factor that can lead to the branching out and development of all existing ideas. The need for shelter is actually a powerful source that motivates humans toward the fundamental act of designing and building.
The second thing that comes to mind actually supports this topic. It traces back to Heidegger's discussion of the roots of the German word ‘bauen,’ which means building. Heidegger says in many different ways that the root of this word refers to the human act of existence. He talks about how ‘bauen’ in German is a variation of the word ‘bin,’ ‘bist,’ ‘Ich bin, du bist,’ meaning ‘being.’⁵
Although the root of this word doesn't go there, it's already obvious that there is a direct relationship between the need for shelter and the act of building, with human existence.
A program featuring Teoman Duralı recently raised this question:
‘Ancient people used to stay in caves; there's no need to create something or build something. Can building be the cornerstone of existence in this regard, what do you think?’
He gave a good answer, actually. Even if one stays in a cave for shelter, humans transform the interior of that cave according to their lifestyle. For example, they draw pictures, create a more comfortable sleeping area for themselves, create a more comfortable eating area, and so on. They still build, they still design, in a way. This is somewhat the essence of interior design. So, in a way, it all comes back to building and inhabiting, as Heidegger said.
The sentence quoted can now be summarized to derive a coherent definition of architecture. To summarize, the discussion first addressed the existence of design knowledge, which has accumulated over time since the existence of humankind. Assuming this is in a hierarchical structure, a system was created.
At the top of this structure, the argument suggested that there is the essence of design knowledge. The need for sheltering and building was also mentioned as part of this essence. In essence, the main purpose is survival. So, it can be said that the essence of design knowledge, at the top of the hierarchy, is the need for survival and existence.
From this perspective and these assumptions, what is architecture?
Architecture can be described as an action that responds to human instincts for sheltering, survival, and existence. And during this action, all acquired knowledge evolves and develops in a hierarchical structure of design and construction knowledge. At the top of this hierarchy lies the essence of the architectural action, which is the instinct for sheltering, survival, and existence.
1. Robert M. Pirsig, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: An Inquiry into Values (New York: William Morrow, 1974), part 2, chap. 11.
2. Gülru Necipoğlu, “Challenging the Past: Sinan and the Competitive Discourse of Early Modern Islamic Architecture,” Muqarnas 10 (1993): 173–175.
3. Harry Francis Mallgrave, “Excursus on a Few of the Conceptual Foundations of Twentieth-Century German Modernism,” in Modern Architectural Theory: A Historical Survey, 1673–1968 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 195–203.
4. Marc-Antoine Laugier, An Essay on Architecture, trans. Wolfgang Herrmann and Anni Herrmann (Los Angeles: Hennessey & Ingalls, 1977), 11–12; originally published as Essai sur l’architecture (Paris: Duchesne, 1753; 2nd ed., 1755). The frontispiece to the 1755 edition was engraved by Jacques Aliamet after Charles Eisen.
5. Martin Heidegger, “Building Dwelling Thinking,” in Poetry, Language, Thought, trans. Albert Hofstadter (New York: Harper & Row, 1971), 145–161, esp. 146–147.