HEY BLOCKHEADS

Concrete block has always been the neglected stepchild of architecture. Even today, the humble material most us call “cinder block” still conjures up dreary images of warehouses, barracks and roadside motels.

Frank Lloyd Wright's Ennis House in Los Angeles
used his vaguely Mayan-looking "textile block" system.
(Courtesy Catherine M.  Austin, ASID)

A few architects have made noble attempts to change block’s image. In the 1920s, for example, Frank Lloyd Wright introduced a system he called “textile block”, in which custom-made blocks cast with various geometric designs were combined into a sort of tapestry in concrete, vaguely Mayan in appearance. A number of his better-known homes used the system, including the affordable-housing prototype “Usonian House”. Yet even Wright’s creative efforts failed to ignite the public’s interest in block.

Some years later, a lesser-known architect of the Prairie School, Alden Dow, devised a truly ingenious twist on the ubiquitous rectangular block: He designed it in the form of a parallelogram with equal sides—not just to be different, but so that he could build walls with perfect 45° angles as well as right angles. Dow built many intriguing homes using this method, but alas, the system passed away with him.

Back to the Sixties: An interesting use of screen block.

All right then, let’s face it: Outside of the Everglades, you won’t find many big fans of concrete block houses. Still, for do-yourself applications such as low garden walls, privacy screens, or foundations for outbuildings, block is unbeatable. It’s much less stressful to work with than poured concrete, since you can stop anytime you like—try that when you’ve got a dump trailer full of concrete starting to harden on you. And it’s actually lots of fun mixing and matching the umpteen patterns and colors of block that are available. Like Wright, you can weave a custom pattern of your own making. Here are a few concrete-block specifics:  

A split-face block, which is made by
extruding a single square block and literally
splitting it in half to produce a broken face.

•  Concrete block is technically referred to as CMU, for "concrete masonry unit". It isn’t cast, but is actually extruded through a die using a very dry concrete mix. The result is a masonry unit that’s relatively light, extremely strong and—let’s not forget—pretty darn cheap.

 Bond beam blocks used to strengthen a foundation.

• A standard concrete block is nominally 8” high by 8” wide by 16” long, so that when it’s laid up in a wall, the joints fall on the familiar 8” module.  However, 4” and 6” widths are also available, along with goodies such as end blocks, wall caps, and bond beams (special trough-shaped blocks that form a horizontal beam when filled with concrete, often used to strengthen walls or span openings).

Creativity makes a difference: This interesting combination
of block textures, colors, and sizes goes a long way
toward overcoming the usual concrete-block doldrums.

•  There are literally scores of different block types and colors available, so you needn’t load up on the usual dull gray variety. In addition to the familiar flat-faced block—available in a surprising range of colors—there are dozens of special types as well: Patterned block embossed with diamonds, triangles, or starbursts; screen block, which has variously shaped openings that form a pattern when laid up; and split-faced block, which imitates rustic quarried stone. Also available is slump block, a cousin of concrete block, whose bulges and irregularity are meant to imitate adobe.

•  Lastly, one caveat: Laying concrete block is a skill that’s not as easy as it looks, but can usually be picked up with a little perseverance. Before you go out and build that cinder-block Taj Mahal in your back yard, however, don’t forget that block walls must be reinforced with steel and then filled with a special thin mixture of concrete called grout. Leave out the rebar and grout, and you’re liable to end up with a lightweight pile of rubble.

GYPSUM BOARD MAKES "MASSIVE" WALLS EASY

Drywall makes it easy to produce massive-looking details
such as these arches. Note, however, that it's best not to mix
different styles of arches as has been done here.

Gypsum board—commonly known as "drywall" or "sheetrock"—has taken a lot of hits over the years, but despite its low-rent reputation, it's a marvelously adaptable interior finish. It’s relatively lightweight, easy to work, and lends itself to a variety of complex shapes.

With gypsum board, it's easy to create dramatic interior effects such as coffers, vaults and arches on even the tightest budget. All that’s required is furring (false framing) made from ordinary lumber, and a clear sense of the interior effect you’re after. To wit:

Wood furring or false framing is typically used to provide
a structure for attaching the gypsum board.
There are also many products that make it easier
to create arches and other details.

•  To make walls look more substantial, use furring and gypsum board to increase the “reveal” or thickness of the wall at openings such as archways. In many modern homes, the reveal is only about 4 1/2” (the thickness of a standard 2x4 partition)—one reason for the notoriously flimsy look of many postwar homes. Increasing this thickness to 8” or even 12” will produce a very dramatic effect of mass. Since your eye can only judge a wall’s thickness where it’s penetrated, you don’t necessarily have to furr the whole wall to achieve this illusion—just the area around the opening.

You can heighten the appearance of mass if you give openings a shape characteristic of masonry construction, such as flared sides or an arched top. Avoid designs using acute angles, since they’re seldom seen in masonry work. Also, to maintain the illusion of mass, be consistent—don’t have an archway passing through a supposedly massive wall that also has a skinny standard doorway in it.

Furring make these elliptical arches look massive.
Compare this example to the no-no at the bottom of the page.

•  If a streamlined or Modernistic look is more to your taste, capitalize on gypsum board’s ability to form curves. Curves are created either by slitting the back of the board, or by wetting it to make it more flexible.  Really tight curves usually require two layers of 1/4” gypsum board instead of a single layer of 1/2” board. Special rounded or “bullnose” corner beads are also available to complement the streamlined look.

•  Other effects such as tray ceilings, vaulted ceilings, niches, and complex archways are easy to achieve at modest expense. However, avoid fussy, overcomplicated details; bold, generous proportions usually produce the best results. If you’re unsure of your design, build a mock-up out of white cardboard before committing yourself.

A groin-vaulted ceiling using prefabricated furring
proves that almost anything is possible in gypsum board.
(Courtesy NH Drywall)

When combined with a smooth finish or veneer plastering (a thin plaster coat that yields an extremely flat surface), it’s not that expensive to get really impressive results.

Good results also depend on the accuracy of the furring underneath. Arches and the like must be carefully built up of wood to provide a solid backing for the gypsum board. Prefabricated furring pieces for creating arches and curves are available to simplify the job. Once the furring is complete, the gypsum board should be attached with drywall screws rather than nails—they’re less likely to disturb the position of the furring, and won’t pull out as easily.

Unless you’re experienced in gypsum board installation and tape-and-texture work, leave the creation of curves and special shapes to a professional.  A good tape-and-texture contractor can also help you figure out the most economical way of achieving the effect you’re after.  

To avoid a crackerbox look, don't put arched openings
in standard-thickness stud walls like this one.
Furr the walls out to make the arches more convincing.

ARCHITECTS AND C.A.D. DON'T ALWAYS COMPUTE

The sensual feel of a soft pencil gliding across clean vellum
has been replaced by a lot of clinical tapping.

Architecture, that most hidebound of professions, was long ago won over by the computer. CAD (Computer Aided Design), once the exclusive domain of huge architecture firms, is now virtually the rule in one person offices as well. 

In the main, CAD has been a blessing to the architectural profession. Having begun my practice in pre-computer days, I can testify that CAD has taken much of the now medieval-seeming drudgery out of architecture. By replacing paper and pencil with a computer screen, architects are no longer smudged with graphite by day’s end. Likewise, the hours of messy erasure once required to revise drawings is now a neat and simple matter of point and click. Powerful capabilities such as virtual reality are soon to come. 

Would architecture such as that of
William R. Yelland ever have
arisen on CAD....?
(Normandy Village,
Berkeley, California, begun 1926)

However, there's no denying that CAD has taken some of the romance out of architecture as well.   The sensual feel of a soft pencil gliding across clean vellum, leaving a crisp and charismatic hand-drawn line, has been replaced by the clinical tapping of keys and mouse buttons.               

Neither can the computer compensate for a lack of creativity. An architect who’s incompetent on paper is just as dangerous on a computer—his lines are straighter, that’s all. In fact, by concealing sloppy thinking in a tidy-looking presentation, computer drafting sometimes legitimizes a caliber of work that would otherwise not be passable. 

CAD contains booby traps even for accomplished architects. Too many are seduced by the easy flashiness of computer drawings, sometimes to the point where the process supersedes the product. For one thing, the tempting ability to copy and paste details with a computer can make an architect lazy, and it shows in some CAD-produced work. Details, and sometimes whole sections of buildings, become repetitive and rigid. 

...or Corbusier's Notre Dame du Haut at Ronchamps (1954)?

Operations that are difficult on a computer can influence designs as well. For example, drawing complex curves is quick and natural with a pencil, but relatively cumbersome with CAD. Hence, an architect may relent—consciously or not—to the simpler option of using straight lines instead. The idiom of the computer begins to dictate the idiom of the architect.  

In fact, it’s inconceivable that the fantastical, free-form Hansel-and-Gretel cottages of an architect like William R. Yelland—or even the sinuous carved details of Bernard Maybeck—could ever have arisen on CAD. The process is just too rational. Ditto for highly sculptural masterpieces like LeCorbusier’s soaring chapel at Ronchamps, which has scarcely a straight line or simple curve in it. This very shortcoming is, ironically, why an architect such as Frank Gehry requires a whole army of drafters using massive computing power to even approach the freedom of a hand-drawn design.

Ironically, it now takes a whole army of CAD technicians
to create a building that aims to look hand-drawn.
(Frank Gehry, Walt Disney Concert Hall, 2003)

Progress always brings tradeoffs, however. And as CAD programs continue to become more intuitive, designing on a computer may one day one day become almost as natural as drawing with a pencil.  

At the same time, though, we should recognize that architecture is closer to social science than rocket science. Architects must satisfy human beings, not just sets of numerical parameters. While computers can can help us sort out the cold-blooded logistics of door sizes and floor heights, they’re less useful in the creation of passionate architecture. They can never equal the power of a pencil in a sympathetic hand.

THE ZEN VIEW

The typical Western architect's way of dealing with a view:
Beat people over the head with it.

Western architects of the Modernist era customarily addressed exterior views with huge walls of glass.  This method of framing a view, known as a panorama, relied on the vastness and breadth of the view for impact. 

Western architects loved the panorama because it created a near-invisible transition between indoors and out.  The ultimate example of this concept is the house that architect Philip Johnson built for himself in New Canaan, Connecticutt in 1950: A rectangular box with walls made entirely of glass. Only the bathroom was concealed by solid walls. 

Architect Philip Johnson's famous—or infamous,
as you prefer—"Glass Box". The cylinder
inside contains the bathroom.

In recent decades, however, the traditionally Western concept of the panoramic view has been severely constrained by energy-efficiency regulations that limit glass area to a fraction of that commonly used in Modernist architecture. In effect, we’re no longer able to build glass walls to bring in the scenery.  

Fortunately, there’s another way to wring drama out of a view.

In the Orient, and particularly in Japanese architecture, a beautiful view has traditionally been treated as something to be savored in small quantities, not gorged upon. This concept, known as the vista (or, if you like, the “Zen view”) treats a beautiful view like a jewel, placing it in a carefully framed window that can be best appreciated from a particular spot, rather than from anywhere in the room. The designer thereby controls the exact viewing angle, allowing him to compose the view seen through the window exactly as an artist might compose a landscape painting.  

The controlled "Zen view" directs the eye
toward an intentionally composed scene.

Deliberately framing a beautiful view by concealing it from portions of the room has the effect of renewing our appreciation for it.  We’re not constantly exposed to the same scene, so we don’t become desensitized to it. It’s a more subtle way of treating a thing of beauty, just as a painting is more subtle than a wall mural.

Better yet, the vista concept dovetails nicely with today’s attitudes on energy conservation. Because windows lose heat about ten times faster than walls do, reducing their size reduces heat loss and cuts down fuel consumption.  Smaller windows help to conserve energy while still showcasing a good view.

In all, you have nothing to lose in aesthetics and much to gain in efficiency by designing with vistas rather than panoramas. Here are a few hints for capitalizing on vistas:

A comprehensive "view inventory" should be made
before you even begin planning.

•  Before committing a design to plans, make a careful “view inventory” of the site. Figure out the exact angles at which views are visible; don’t leave it to chance or count on moving windows later during construction.  There’s no reason that the location of a view window can’t be determined within a few inches of its final position before any plans are drawn. 

•  Conversely, determine the location of unattractive views (telephone poles, the neighbor’s garage roof, and the like) and arrange the windows so that these views are screened off by walls.  Or, if it’s imperative to have windows in areas with unattractive views, provide them with opaque glass, or hang translucent art-glass pieces in them.

•  Consider the “station point” or position from which people will most often glimpse the view.  The scene framed by the window should ideally be composed from this point in the room, so that it has an intentional impact on the viewer.    

THIS BLOCK SHOWS A LOT OF GLASS

Glass block used in a Streamline Moderne home, circa 1930:
As a residential style, it didn't catch on with Americans.

Glass block had its heyday in the Streamline Moderne architecture of the late 1930s, when architects were enchanted by its sleek lines and ability to form curves. After World War II, though, glass block suffered a steep decline in popularity—so much so that the big U.S. glass manufacturers such as Corning and PPG quit producing it altogether.  The last remaining dribble of glass block sales was given away to European glassmakers.

During the Eighties, however, glass block made a huge comeback. Hardly a month went by that some architecture magazine didn’t have a house with acres of glass block on the cover, and the U.S. glass companies once again cranked up their glass block production lines.

Glass block varieties. Note that many are special-order items.

Why did glass block disappear after the war? And why is it back?

Glass block first gained widespread popularity in Europe during the early 1900s. Originally used for factory windows, it was soon adopted in commercial and residential architecture as well. Its appeal among European architects only grew during the postwar rebuilding of Europe. In America, however, glass block didn’t really appear until well into the Art Deco period, and even then, it remained more popular in commercial rather than residential architecture.

Interesting glass block window
breaks out of the usual grid design.

One reason for this is that glass block didn’t really fit comfortably into any but the most radically modern U.S. home styles. It seemed jarringly foreign even in the most current homes styles of the era, such as the California Rancher.  Moreover, its unusual installation procedure was unfamiliar to most U.S. tract builders, who seemed to scrupulously avoid it.  Lastly, glass block’s effectiveness at diffusing light also turned out to be its biggest drawback: most U.S. homebuyers seemed to prefer windows they could see out of.

What brought glass block back to popularity almost fifty years later was, more than anything else, the huge self-indulgent master baths that came into vogue during the Eighties. With their giant whirlpool spas and showers, these rooms simultaneously demanded privacy and plenty of light, and glass block filled the bill perfectly. Of course, bathrooms have only gotten more pompous since then, so glass block is still very much a part of the luxury bathroom scene.

Bullnose end blocks provide a sleek edge.

It can be a standout material for countless other applications, though, including interior partitions, half-walls, columns, and of course windows of all shapes and sizes. Its modularity makes for almost limitless design potential—curves, stepped forms, and combinations of various block types and sizes are only a few possibilities.

Glass block’s ability to diffract light can be used to create spectacular effects. It's offered in 6x6, 4x8, 8x8, and 12x12-inch sizes and in a large range of face textures, from smooth to fluted to prismatic. Colored glass block is also available, although it usually must be special ordered. There's also a range of special blocks for creating square, chamfered, or bullnosed wall ends, as well as for forming curves of various radii.

 Radius blocks are available for tight curves:
larger radii can be accomplished with regular blocks.
(Courtesy Cincinnati Glass Block Co.)

Glass blocks are installed with mortar just like brick, and while they're very strong, they can’t be used to carry structural loads. Various accessories are available to provide uniform alignment, making installation a lot easer than in the past. However, like most masonry work, glass block is not a leading candidate for
DIY. I don't say this often, but this might be one job best left to a professional.

BORROWING AN OLD IDEA: LIGHT

In Victorian era homes, a "borrowed light"—
basically, a  normal window placed in an
interior wall—brought natural light
into landlocked rooms.

In the nineteenth century, before the coming of the gasolier and the incandescent lamp, natural light was a valuable commodity indeed. Victorian architects used great ingenuity to ensure that windowless interior spaces such as halls and service areas would be at least habitably lit. 

There were a number of ways to obtain natural light beside windows. Skylights and roof windows were used in many types of buildings, although they weren’t common in homes because of their expense and proclivity to leak.

Transoms were used to light hallways
and provide cross ventilation.

In Victorian factories, where good visibility was critical, ranks of north-facing clearstories were set in sawtooth roofs, or else monitors (narrow, glass-walled penthouses running along the roof ridges) were provided to admit light and air to work areas below. And in multistoried Victorian apartment and hotel buildings, central air shafts were used for both light and ventilation.  

In homes, however, the interior window or “borrowed light” was the most popular device for lighting deep interior areas. Some borrowed lights were simply standard windows installed in interior walls to transmit or “borrow” light from a bright room to one in which there were no windows—for example, between a kitchen and an interior pantry.  

Transom hardware
allowed the sash to be
opened without reaching.

Another form of borrowed light was the transom, an openable window installed above a doorway. Before the advent of electric light and mechanical ventilation, the transom served both to light and ventilate windowless interior spaces. Transoms were frequently installed above bedroom doors, where they could conveniently light an otherwise dark central hall while simultaneously providing cross ventilation in bedrooms. They were generally preferred over skylights, since they were less expensive and couldn’t leak.

Edison and the
incandescent lamp.

An even simpler and cheaper way to borrow light was to use French doors with opaque glass in bedrooms and baths. They allowed plenty of light into halls without compromising privacy.

In the late nineteenth century, multistory office buildings took the transom to its most extreme form: Many office partitions were built entirely of glass to allow light to penetrate into “landlocked’ interior spaces. Edison’s invention of the incandescent lamp in 1878 eventually reduced the need for  borrowed light. Nevertheless, natural light from openable windows remained more desirable—and less expensive—than artificial light.      

LED lighting: Efficient—but not
more efficient than natural light.

During the 1940s, however, the widespread introduction of the fluorescent lamp, which was three times more efficient Edison's incandescent bulb, made artificial light remarkably cheap. At the same time, the arrival of air conditioning eliminated the need for openable windows. This one-two punch made artificial lighting king for many decades. And although fluorescents had the greatest impact on commercial buildings, by the Sixties even home kitchens were awash in the glare of “luminous ceilings”.  
  

Borrowed lights: The idea is simple,
and the light is free.

Today's LED lighting technology is about twice as energy-efficient as the fluorescent lamps that preceded it, and about six times more efficient than incandescent bulbs—a phenomenal improvement, for sure. Yet it's important to recognize that, no matter how efficient artificial lighting becomes, it’s still cheaper, healthier, and better for the environment to use natural light whenever possible.  

All of the natural lighting devices that worked for the Victorians—skylights, roof windows, clearstories, monitors, and especially borrowed lights—are still excellent ways of bringing sunlight deep into interiors spaces. Try one of them at your house.  The idea is simple, and the light is free.  

THE CONTRACTOR’S LEXICON

With the possible exception of sailors, building contractors have the most colorful jargon around. Like Navy expressions, many of their gems can’t be repeated in polite company such as yourself. However, should you ever need to translate jobsite jargon, here are a few excerpts from the contractor’s lexicon:

A big mess of #4 bars.

Almost nothing on a construction site is called by its technical name, probably because no contractor has time to use such unwieldy terms. Instead, technical jargon is boiled down to monosyllables: reinforcing steel is “bar”; gypsum wallboard is “rock”; joint taping compound is “mud”.

The name-change game isn’t always logical, either.  For instance, I knew several contractors who were fond of replacing the names of objects with the word “puppy”.  Thus, a well-braced post might elicit a comment such as, “That puppy ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

Another contractor liked to describe framing of dubious strength as “flappin’ in the breeze”.  Such terms could also be combined in rather original ways. I once arrived at a job site to be told by a worried foreman:  “Check out the ridge beam.  That puppy is flappin’ in the breeze.”

A bucket of mud for taping rock.

Tools also possess unique names. A framer who needs to correct a misaligned wall does so by getting out the “persuader” or “micro adjuster”—that is, a sledge hammer.  If the wall refuses to respond despite vigorous micro adjustment, some wag will inevitably deadpan, “Don’t force it it—use a bigger hammer.”

Another type of framing hammer with a special knurled face is fondly known as a “meat tenderizer” in deference to its superior thumb-smashing ability. Then there’s the “blood blister”, a cast iron nail puller with a sliding weight notorious for pinching the web between your thumb and index finger.
There are even names for tools that don’t exist, most of them used to initiate naive young hires. Suppose, for example, that a young carpenter cuts an expensive piece of lumber a half-inch too short.

A room all rocked and mudded.

“No problem,” the foreman will tell him with dead earnestness.  “Just take it over to the board stretcher.”  The newcomer will ask at least a half-dozen sniggering coworkers for directions to the board stretcher before he gets the joke.  

In the contractor's lexicon, architects earn special nomenclature as well. I once overheard a foreman direct his carpenter to the blueprints with this phrase: “Go look in the Funny Papers.” And many a job foreman has this notice on his wall:

A "blood blister"—technically known as a
slide hammer. The handle portion at upper right
comes rocketing down the shank, usually onto
the web between your thumb and forefinger.

“An engineer is a person who knows a great deal about very little. An architect is a person who knows very little about a great deal. A contractor is a person who starts out knowing a great deal about almost everything, but through his contact with architects and engineers, ends up knowing almost nothing about anything.”

Finally, although both architects and contractors are often thought to be notoriously dull-witted businessmen, I once learned an invaluable estimating term from a contractor friend. We were reviewing a bid for a very indecisive and capricious client. The items were carefully tabulated— “Windows, $9,850, Countertops, $6,370” and so on.  However, below the subtotal was a cryptic entry that read: “I.F.—add 20%”

“What’s 'I.F.'?” I asked him.

“Irritation Factor,” he replied.