MuNa/projects/ecuador-museum/ref/Salingaros-Chapter-11-Two-Languages-for-Architecture.md

**NIKOS A. SALINGAROS**

**A THEORY OF ARCHITECTURE, Sustasis press, 2006, 2014.**

**Chapter 11 --- Two Languages for Architecture**

*Design in architecture and urbanism is guided by two distinct
complementary languages: a pattern language, and a form language. The
pattern language contains rules for how human beings interact with built
forms --- a pattern language codifies practical solutions developed over
millennia, which are appropriate to local customs, society, and climate.
A form language, on the other hand, consists of geometrical rules for
putting matter together. It is visual and tectonic, traditionally
arising from available materials and their human uses rather than from
images. Different form languages correspond to different architectural
traditions, or styles. The problem is that not all form languages are
adaptive to human sensibilities. Those that are not adaptive can never
connect to a pattern language. Every adaptive design method combines a
pattern language with a viable form language, otherwise it inevitably
creates alien environments.*

1\. Pattern Language and Form Language.

2\. Linking Pattern Language to Form Language.

3\. Antipatterns Do Not Define a Language.

4\. Analogies In Human Communication.

5\. The Internal Structure of Form Languages.

6\. The Transmission of a Style.

7\. Minimal Complexity and Life Processes.

8\. Architecture As a Living Process.

9\. A New Architecture.

*\* Seven Points That Guide Architectural Design.*

10\. Conclusion.

**1. Pattern language and form language**

Architectural design is a highly complex undertaking. Heretofore, the
processes at its base have not been made clear. There have been many
attempts to clarify the design process, yet we still don't have a design
method that can be used by students and novices to achieve practical,
meaningful, nourishing, human results. In the absence of a design method
and accompanying criteria for judging a design, things have become very
subjective, and therefore what is built today appears to be influenced
largely by fashion, forced tastes, and an individual's desire to garner
attention through novel and sometimes shocking expressions.

There exist invariant laws behind design in general, and architecture in
particular. This Chapter puts forward a theory of architecture and
urbanism based on two distinct languages: the *pattern language*, and
the *form language*. The *pattern language* codifies the interaction of
human beings with their environment, and determines how and where we
naturally prefer to walk, sit, sleep, enter and move through a building,
enjoy a room or open space, and feel at ease or not in our garden. The
*pattern language* is a set of inherited tried-and-true solutions that
optimize how the built environment promotes human life and sense of
well-being. It combines geometry and social behavior patterns into a set
of useful relationships, summarizing how built form can accommodate
human activities. The *form language*, on the other hand, is strictly
geometrical. It is defined by the elements of form as constituted by the
floors, the walls, the ceiling, the partitions, and all the
architectural components or articulations, which together represent a
particular form and style of building.

The importance of a *pattern language* for architecture was originally
proposed by Christopher Alexander and his associates (Alexander *et
al.*, 1977). A fairly general *pattern language* was discovered and
presented by Alexander, who emphasized that, while many if not most of
the patterns in his *pattern language* are indeed universal, there
actually exist an infinite number of individual patterns that can be
included in a *pattern language*. Each *pattern language* reflects
different modes of life, customs, and behavior, and is appropriate to
specific climates, geographies, cultures, and traditions. It is up to
the designer/architect to extract specific non-universal patterns as
needed, by examining the ways of life and tradition in a particular
setting, and then to apply them to that situation (Salingaros, 2000).

Living architecture is highly dependent on patterns, which shape
buildings and spaces accordingly. A pattern is a set of relationships,
which can be realized using different materials and geometries.
Architects, however, confuse patterns with their representation, i.e.,
what an arrangement looks like. The pattern is fundamentally human,
whereas its physical realization (representation) can occur in myriads
of slightly different ways. All those representations, some more and
others less successful, are what we experience first-hand as the
pattern. Even as structures get rebuilt so they may no longer represent
a pattern, the pattern itself persists in human memory because it is
independent of any particular representation. Patterns are not material,
though we experience them with our senses. It is far more difficult to
understand them intellectually, and almost impossible to grasp patterns
from within a world-view that focuses exclusively on materials.

One would think that designing an appropriate work environment would
take precedence in our civilization, which is driven by commerce and
industry. Yet that is hardly the case. A *pattern language* for work
environments can be put together by examining the components of
successful emotionally-comfortable work environments from different
cultures and periods around the world (Alexander, 2004; Alexander *et
al.*, 1977; Alexander *et al.*, 1987). A software developer today has
many requirements in common with one of our distant ancestors looking
for a comfortable place to sit and carve a bone or paint a piece of
pottery. Being able to work in an emotionally-supportive environment
boosts morale and productivity, and cuts down on workplace errors. For
several decades, however, architects and interior designers have
insisted on applying formal design rules to office environments. Such
rules tend to give a standard compromise that satisfies almost none of
the fundamental requirements for a good working environment. Their
occupants usually characterize them as ranging from sterile to
oppressive. Here is a fundamental disconnect between what architects
imagine office space should look like, and the characteristics of the
kind of space that users actually require to be productive in. This has
not gone unnoticed by companies, which have undertaken their own
*pattern language* development for office and work environments. A good
*pattern language* can generate a personalized work environment at no
extra cost. The trillion-dollar information and communications industry
has embraced *pattern languages*, even as all of this extensive work
remains outside today's architectural paradigm.

Alexander also uses the term *form language* to describe the geometrical
basis of an architectural expression (Alexander, 2004). It has been used
in this context by other architects, for example Robert Stern (1988). A
*form language* is a repertoire of forms and surface elements that can
be combined to build any building, and so it represents more than just a
superficial style. The *form language* depends on an inherited
vocabulary of all the components used in the assembly of a building;
rules for how they can be combined; and how different levels of scale
can arise from the smaller components. It is a particular and practical
conception of tectonic and surface geometry. One extremely successful
*form language*, the "Classical Language", relies on a wide range of
variations of the Classical style of building based on Greco-Roman
ancestry (Stern, 1988).

After centuries of Classical buildings, even with varied and successful
adaptations to local climates, conditions, and uses, the Classical *form
language* remains intact. Every traditional architecture has its own
*form language*. It has evolved from many different influences of
lifestyle, traditions, and practical concerns acting together to define
the geometry that structures take as the most natural visual expressions
of a particular culture. A *form language* is a set of evolved
geometries on many different scales (i.e., ornamental, building, urban)
that people of a particular culture identify with, and are comfortable
with. It is highly dependent on traditional and local materials --- at
least that was the case before the global introduction of nonspecific
industrial materials. Along with many other changes that came along with
the industrialization of the building process in the twentieth century,
traditional *form languages* around the world have been lost.

**2. Linking pattern language to form language**

Here, a general theory of design is proposed, which supports many of the
ideas of Alexander. Its essence is to link one *pattern language* to one
*form language* so as to create an adaptive design method. The process
may be summarized as follows, with details to be developed later in this
Chapter.

***Proposition: An adaptive design method arises out of a complementary
pair consisting of a pattern language and a form language (see Figure
11.1)**.*

![11.1.JPG](media/image1.jpeg){width="2.2792049431321084in"
height="2.6960050306211722in"}

*Figure (11.1) A pattern language links to a form language: Pattern
Language + Form Language = Adaptive Design Method.*

I have indicated very briefly what a *pattern language* and a *form
language* are; we still need to understand what an *adaptive design
method* refers to. Out of many contemporary approaches to design, there
are very few that result in structures and environments that are adapted
both to physical human use, as well as to human sensibilities. In the
past, the opposite was true. Human use is straightforward to understand:
the physical dimensions and geometry have to accommodate the human body
and its movement. By accommodating human sensibilities, I mean that
environments should make human beings feel at ease; make them feel
psychologically comfortable so that persons can carry out whatever
functions they have to unselfconsciously, without being disturbed by the
built environment in any way. This imposes a strong constraint on the
design process to adapt to the many factors (both known and unknown)
that will influence the user on many levels, including emotion. An
adaptive design method should accommodate all these criteria, and this
Chapter shows how this may be accomplished.

A major source of confusion is that a design method could adapt to a
style, but not to human use and sense of well-being. For example, it
might adapt to (conform to) a set of predetermined geometrical
prototypes, such as cubes and rectangular slabs. It takes on that
particular *form language*. Minimalist modernism has a clearly-defined
geometrical goal; i.e., its peculiar crystalline *form language*. It is
successful on its own terms while at the same time ignoring, or not
trying to accommodate, human patterns of use and the sensory response to
built form and surface. This is the reason why minimalist modernism is
incompatible with Alexander's *Pattern Language* (Alexander *et al.*,
1977). In this Chapter, I will use the term "adaptive" to refer strictly
to fitting the built environment to human beings, and not to abstract
ideas or geometries.

Since there exist an infinite number of patterns that can contribute to
a *pattern language*, and an infinite number of *form languages*, there
are of course an infinite number of adaptive design methods that combine
two languages. Each adaptive design method is unique. The crucial point
is that there are also an infinite number of design methods that act
against adaptive design by producing structures which are not suitable
to human needs. In the absence of an accepted term for design that
ignores human needs, I will call such actions "non-adaptive design".

Post-industrial design is not fundamentally adaptive. Its *form
language* (or rather, set of related *form languages*) produces
structures that are often hostile to human sensibilities. Studies by
environmental psychologists have confirmed physiological reactions such
as the onset of anxiety and signals of body stress in such environments
(see Chapter 4). I want to look for systemic causes of this
non-adaptivity. For reasons already discussed in Chapter 6, minimalism
effectively precludes the use of patterns, both visual and Alexandrine
patterns. That means that patterns of human activity cannot be
accommodated within its design canon, thus characterizing it as
non-adaptive. To proudly proclaim such a design method as "functional"
is a mockery of the term, but it is admittedly a remarkably effective
propaganda ploy that helps in its proliferation.

Architectural *form languages* survive because they often acquire
non-architectural meaning, after which they can ignore the need to be
adaptive to human needs. In that case, a *form language* is no longer
part of an adaptive design method; it becomes split from its
complementary *pattern language*. Instead of expressing an adaptive
tectonic culture, the *form language* becomes a set of visual symbols
that operate under the guise of moral principles (and thus become
emotionally loaded). Using that *form language* then becomes an end in
itself, detached from human life. This architecture has little to do
with buildings that accommodate human beings, or with tectonics, but is
a statement using a formal visual vocabulary. Such an architecture has
its own purpose, disguised with moral precepts that together define a
completely different world-view for those who accept them.

**3. Antipatterns do not define a language**

In the theory of *pattern languages* --- actually developed more
extensively in computer architecture than in buildings architecture ---
the concept of "antipattern" plays a central role (Salingaros, 2000). An
antipattern shows how to do the opposite of the required solution. An
ineffective solution is often repeated because the same forces that gave
rise to it in the first place recur in other similar situations.
Assuming that the futility and counterproductive nature of such a
solution is evident (which is not always the case), its occurrence can
be studied to see what went wrong. Documenting an antipattern can save
future designs from the same mistakes by identifying a problematic
solution before it is adopted. The problem is that some antipatterns
persist out of habit, causing a source of errors to become
institutionalized. As discussed in Chapter 10, repeated use makes an
error more acceptable, while institutional support from that point on
makes it decreasingly likely that an error will ever be identified as
such. Sometimes this knowledge can be helpful in order to avoid making
the same mistake repeatedly, but only after the mistake has been
recognized.

However, knowing the antipattern does not automatically indicate the
pattern, since the solution space is not one-dimensional (Salingaros,
2000). If there were only two possible choices, knowing which one is
wrong tells you which one is right. That simple situation almost never
occurs in practice. More often, there are immeasurably more wrong than
correct solutions. Doing the opposite of the antipattern will not give
the pattern, precisely because there can be many different "opposites"
going out in many different directions in the solution space.

Antipatterns do not comprise a *pattern language*, just as a collection
of mistakes do not comprise a coherent body of knowledge. It is
therefore not appropriate to talk of a language of antipatterns, but
simply a collection of antipatterns. Nevertheless, antipatterns could
(and often do) substitute for, and displace a genuine *pattern
language*, with very negative consequences. I have given rules for
distinguishing between a true *pattern language* and a collection of
antipatterns or non-language (Salingaros, 2000), based on their internal
consistency and their connectivity to external patterns (see Figure
11.2). As I discuss later in this Chapter, a true language --- be it
*pattern language*, *form language*, or spoken language --- has a
non-trivial internal complexity characterized by a high degree of
connectivity.

![11.2.JPG](media/image2.jpeg){width="1.8188746719160105in"
height="2.679472878390201in"}

*Figure (11.2) A true language possesses internal connectivity.*

My present aim is to be able to discern whether a *pattern language* is
genuine, so that it can be connected to a *form language* and thus
define an adaptive design method. It is imperative not to be fooled by a
collection of antipatterns, otherwise our resulting design process will
be non-adaptive, even though this may not be known at the beginning of
the process. We will eventually see it in the non-adaptivity of the
results, at which time it will be too late to do anything about it
(i.e., after an unnatural city such as EUR, Milton Keynes, or la Défense
has been built).

*Pattern languages* have evolved, and, as with all evolved systems, they
have developed an extraordinary degree of organized complexity. It is
not possible to understand all this complexity, let alone replace it by
a design method based on deliberately simplified rules. And yet, that
has been the basic assumption of twentieth-century architects: that we
can simply replace all the evolved architectural solutions of the past
with a few rules that someone has made up (and which don't even have the
benefit of experimental verification). The organized complexity encoded
in a *pattern language* is the end result of an evolutionary
development, and cannot simply be achieved all at once. A refusal to
apply traditional architectural solutions (patterns) leaves architects
only with antipatterns, by default. Really bad mistakes (in
architecture, politics, or software development) happen when several
things go wrong together. Therefore, sets of related antipatterns tend
to recur, each antipattern contributing to the failure of the situation.
The fact that they seem to go together is mistaken for the grouping of
cooperating patterns in a *pattern language*. Stubbornly re-using these
antipatterns merely recycles the same mistakes over and over again.

The analogous non-adaptive failure in a *form language* is more
difficult to define. Most of that research is indeed very recent, and
relies on mathematical properties (Alexander, 2004). A *form language*
that adapts to human beings contains and codifies certain very specific
geometrical properties such as fractal structure, connectivity,
coherence, and scaling (as discussed in the previous Chapters of this
book). Again, a *form language* that does not contain these mathematical
properties is not a language at all, because it is too sparse to define
a rich language of forms. I will call such a *form language* a
"primitive" *form language*, or "non-language" (Figure 11.2). There
exists a range of *form languages*, from non-languages, to primitive
*form languages*, increasing in complexity of combinatoric expression up
to genuine *form languages*.

The linguistic analogy makes it difficult to understand why a primitive
*form language* would ever survive. Why maintain a system in use that
severely limits one's expression? The reason we do this is that every
*form language* has extra-linguistic attributes that help in its
proliferation. Once invented, the limited visual vocabulary of a
primitive *form language* may be copied unthinkingly by more and more
persons. Unlike a true language, which survives through its linguistic
utility, a *form language* can survive strictly through its iconic
properties (and not its linguistic ones). Indeed, constant repetition
through visual copying is the key to its transmission, promotion, and
acceptance by an increasing number of architects. Familiarity makes
people overlook a *form language's* linguistic deficiencies. (One is
reminded of the collapse of literacy in the Middle Ages, when individual
letters were copied as "runes" and ascribed with magical meaning by
people ignorant of their original linguistic function).

An adaptive design method requires the union of a *pattern language*
with a *form language* (Figure 11.1). If either the *pattern language*
or the *form language* is flawed, then the design method will fail to
create adaptive structures (see Figure 11.3). For example, high-rise
towers set in vast open spaces satisfy neither a viable *form language*
nor a *pattern language* --- they are iconic design failures that get
repeated because architects make a lot of money building them. One may
claim to employ a *pattern language* together with a primitive *form
language* to create structures barely suitable for human habitation and
use, such as contemporary buildings that try to use Alexandrine
patterns. Those buildings may partially satisfy some functional
patterns, but the more they stick exclusively to a minimalist or
high-tech *form language*, they more they will feel dead and alienating,
so that their users are uncomfortable.

![11.3.JPG](media/image3.jpeg){width="2.351394356955381in"
height="2.1219706911636047in"}

*Figure (11.3) A non-language cannot link to a true language.*

Two instances of partial success come to mind. In the mixed example of
central Tel Aviv, an early modernist *form language* is tied to a
traditional European urban *pattern language*, as laid out by Sir
Patrick Geddes, with successful results. The buildings do not connect so
much on an architectural scale, yet they do connect well on the urban
scale to create a lively environment. Other illustrative examples with
mixed success include dwellings built by alternative "counterculture"
architects soon after the *Pattern Language* (Alexander *et al.*, 1977)
appeared. They satisfy all the patterns, but they look somewhat chaotic
and unbalanced --- far from satisfying Alexander's original intent of
ordered geometrical coherence (Alexander, 2004). The reason is that
their builders had no *form language* to draw upon. These buildings were
built within a culture that did not wish to refer to any tradition, and
did not have the capacity to create a new *form language* (the
multicolored "psychedelic" art of that culture was never applied to
architecture in a way that would help the geometry).

In the opposite instance, one can use antipatterns together with a *form
language* to damage both built and natural environments.
Twentieth-century buildings were built using a distorted version of the
Classical *form language* that are inhuman either because of scale,
megalomania, or the desire to intimidate. They may look nice from a
distance, but are hostile in actual use. This is a characteristic of
Fascist architecture. Some modernist architects were also very fond of
employing parts of a *form language* of rich, detailed materials, but to
intentionally create alien forms. The surfaces are adaptive in these
cases, but the geometry is not (sending a mixed message of attractive
materials in a hostile setting). Another failed example is found in
recent traditional-looking mansions isolated in American suburbia. They
use a *form language* (that happens to be irrelevant to the site) but no
urban *pattern language*, so those buildings remain disconnected. They
have a great image, but no functionality on the urban scale. It is only
the correct pairing of *pattern language* with *form language* that
results in an adaptive design.

The architecture of squatter settlements is an interesting case of
genuinely adaptive application. Those slum dwellers use a *form
language* that is determined by available scrap materials to build their
own houses. Residents are preoccupied with basic survival, and have no
wish to copy elements of a *form language* that was generated outside
their immediate circumstances. There are simply no resources available
to make an architectural "statement", although ornament and surface
decoration appear on the most modest structures because they are felt to
be essential. The human need to make a building adapt through form,
surface, and ornament is innate. Everyday people who own and build their
own homes definitely apply a *pattern language* (albeit unknowingly)
because they want their dwellings to be as comfortable as possible. Here
we have an adaptive design method, which, were it not for the miserable
conditions of life represented by the overcrowded slums of the world, is
an excellent example for architecture schools to study.

As the above examples make clear, an adaptive design method provides the
means of creation, but not the product. It gives one the framework and
tools for creative expression. It still requires a talented architect or
sensitive non-architect to use the language to design a building.
Working with a complete, richly-expressive language makes that task
immeasurably easier. Great architects can use an existing *form
language* in an innovative manner to create new architectural
expressions, or they can invent their own *form language*. (A *pattern
language*, however, cannot be invented: it has to be discovered). A
primitive *form language* severely reduces architectural expression.
With a flawed *form language*, new or old, even the greatest architect
has trouble making something useful and adaptive.

**4. Analogies in human communication**

Two complementary languages --- *pattern language* and *form language*
--- are necessary for the process of adaptive architectural design. I
can think of a parallel for this in pairing two entirely distinct types
of language to enable human communication. Spoken language is used
together with nonverbal emotional cues. These independent channels
usually interact when one is speaking face-to-face with another person,
and even on the telephone. Nonverbal communication gives a message of
friendliness, ease of interaction, emotional comfort, or hostility
independently of what the spoken language is communicating. Nonverbal
cues are the basis of a host of messages that are often more important
than verbal content.

Human beings developed verbal and nonverbal modes of communication, and
need both. Nonverbal cues carry through in telephone conversations
because one can hear emotional signals encoded in the speaker's tone of
voice and inflections. This is obviously not as effective as speaking in
front of one-another. A sequence of decreasing information content
corresponds to the gradual loss of the nonverbal language, and is
represented by regressing from face-to-face meeting, to videoconference,
to telephone, to handwritten letter, to e-mail, to typed memorandum. And
yet, the actual text could be the same. This loss of expressivity is
appreciated by the business world, where the value of serious
communication is reflected in the price (in money, time, and
inconvenience) that busy executives are willing to pay to arrange
face-to-face negotiations.

As both lovers and fighters know very well, one can rely almost entirely
on nonverbal language for rapid communication in certain situations.
Indeed, in those situations, one can communicate affections or "read"
cues without knowing the spoken language of the other party at all. It
is also sometimes the case that verbal language is used to decoy the
true feelings and intentions of the parties involved. Amateurs cannot
disguise their emotional language and so betray their true intentions.
Accomplished liars, on the other hand, lie on all informational levels
simultaneously: tone of voice, facial expressions, hand gestures, etc.
Psychopaths and hardened criminals learn to control their nonverbal cues
so that the (contrived) emotional message supports what they communicate
through verbal language, and thus succeed in deceiving their victims.

Here we are interested in building things rather than communicating a
verbal message. Still, as the linguistic analogy makes clear, a building
or urban setting conveys a wealth of information to human beings, and
those signals influence the structures' eventual use. The built
environment communicates complex messages on many different levels. An
architect may naively expect that his or her design communicates a
specific message in the most obvious aspects of its form, materials, and
surfaces. The built structure may communicate something else altogether:
a mixed, much more complex message, or the message could be strongly
negative. The architect might offer a verbal explanation of the
building's supposed message that totally contradicts what the structure
is actually communicating in a sensory, visceral manner. Unfortunately,
respected critics believe an architect's misleading words and ignore
their own sensory responses to a building, which leads to cognitive
dissonance for the public.

It is therefore imperative that we become aware that several different
design languages are actively contributing to the overall effect on
users. The language of building is necessary to express the building as
form, to implement and embody thoughts and needs about space and use.
The present model of two languages --- a *pattern language* and a *form
language* --- is a simplification of what is a more complex phenomenon,
yet it is a necessary first step to understanding the design process.

In addition to serving as a language for expressing architectural form,
a *form language* communicates the state of mind of a society, or at
least that of its ruling power elite. Corporate and totalitarian
architecture looks and feels aloof; often faceless. The sensitive
architectural historian can "read" messages such as power and authority,
or, alternatively, compassion and respect for the individual in an
architectural *form language*. However, such architectural messages are
often disguised by propaganda, also expressed in architectural terms
(Chapter 10). We are told by the architectural press that an obviously
hostile building whose form deliberately creates alarm is marvelous
because it is "innovative", thus deliberately confusing its
architectural message.

**5. The internal structure of form languages**

All human spoken languages are contained in a general "meta-language",
which has a grammatical or syntactical structure common to all known
languages (Maynard-Smith & Szathmáry, 1999). Human languages, even in
the most technologically primitive cultures known, are not themselves
"primitive". Independently of their technological achievements, all
groups of human beings have developed a richly complex spoken language.
Differences arise in specificities, in the breadth of vocabulary for
concepts important to that culture, and in their transition to a written
language, but those do not affect the general richness of the language.

This point is easy to explain from the mathematics of communication. In
order to describe and communicate complex human activities and
interactions, a spoken language itself has to have an extraordinary
capacity for encoding complexity. A natural language is an
externalization of the complexity of human thought, and has evolved
along with the human mind. Even an isolated, technologically primitive
tribe has developed complex activities and concepts over millennia, and
these are comparable in information content to the complex activities of
an urban dweller in the most advanced industrialized nations. For this
reason, both sets of people require, and have developed, their own
richly complex spoken languages.

An artificial primitive language, on the other hand, would not be
sufficient for verbal communication. It would consist of, say, six words
such as: yes, no, hot, cold, eat, drink (Figure 11.2). It is a primitive
language that an old model of computer would understand, or a person
stranded among others who spoke a different language. In this example of
a non-speaker amidst people speaking another language, however, he or
she will rapidly pick up the host language, facilitated by innate
meta-linguistic structures that define that person's own native
language.

What we conclude from the study of spoken and written languages is that,
whereas each language may appear totally distinct on the surface, its
level of complexity is equally high. Every language's internal structure
has to obey general principles that are common to all languages. A
primitive language or non-language, by contrast, is characterized by the
reduction or absence of such internal complexity and structure. The
complexity of human thought sets a rather high threshold for the
complexity that any language has to be able to express through
combinatoric groupings. It has been proposed that the transition from a
primitive language to a real language corresponds to the evolutionary
transition from the language of apes (and people brought up in
linguistic deprivation) to human language (Maynard-Smith & Szathmáry,
1999).

Turning now to architecture, a viable *form language* is also
characterized by its high degree of internal complexity. Furthermore,
the complexity of different *form languages* has to be comparable,
because each *form language* shares a commonality with other *form
languages* on a general meta-linguistic level (see Figure 11.4). A
primitive *form language* severely limits architectonic expression to
crude or inarticulate statements. So, while each *form language* may be
distinct in its components, it is not really a complete *form language*
unless it possesses a complex internal structure. The exact details of
this structure must necessarily parallel the internal structure of any
other fully-developed language, and in particular, that of a *pattern
language* (Salingaros, 2000). Roughly, these properties can be described
as combinatorial, connective, and hierarchical features, which we see in
our own written and spoken language.

![11.4.JPG](media/image4.jpeg){width="2.4803707349081363in"
height="2.050614610673666in"}

*Figure (11.4) Two viable form languages share common features.*

This argument is borne out by the enormous number of distinct *form
languages* developed independently by different peoples around the
world. It is reasonable to claim that for each spoken language, there is
also a *form language* that those people use to build and to shape their
environment. The means of verbal expression and accumulated culture
defining a literary tradition has a parallel in an ornamental tradition
and material culture, which includes a *form language* that is an
expression of inventiveness in geometry and tectonics. A traditional
*form language* has generated buildings the same way a spoken language
has generated stories and poems, and these express a culture's
complexity equally. The *form language* is stored in collective memory
and recorded in physical materials, and is older than writing. Each
traditional *form language* is distinct, yet possesses a comparably high
degree of organized complexity in terms of visual vocabulary and
combinatoric possibilities. Erasing a *form language* erases the culture
that created it. It is no different than erasing a culture's literature,
or its musical heritage.

It is only in recent years that the mathematical sophistication of
traditional *form languages* has begun to be documented. Mathematicians
and ethnologists are doing this work, while the architectural
establishment continues to ignore indigenous building cultures and the
human value of what they represent. For example, traditional building
and urban geometry in sub-Saharan Africa is now revealed to be
essentially fractal, thus revising our customary (and totally erroneous)
conception of those cultures as mathematically under-developed ---
fractals were re-discovered in the West only very recently. Loosely (and
deprecatingly) classed together as "vernacular architectures", this vast
body of diverse and complex styles, geometries, and ways of
understanding space and structure shames the poverty of contemporary
architectural styles. Traditional form languages are rich, complete, and
technically (not industrially) advanced. In terms of richness and
underlying substance, which are crucially important to life,
contemporary *form languages* promoted by the Western architectural
design magazines would seem to represent an evolutionary regression.

*Form languages* comprise evolved systems of human geometric expression.
Separate from preserving traditional *form languages* for their
informational and cultural value, the inevitable evolution of *form
languages* makes possible entirely innovative architectural expressions.
Such an evolution is possible only if a *form language* retains the high
level of its internal complexity. Traditional *form languages* around
the world were dismissed as "primitive" by Western colonial and economic
powers, and were replaced by variants of Neo-Classical or Beaux-Arts
*form languages*. Cultural colonialism in architecture comes about by
destroying languages that are thousands of years old, as an affirmation
of superiority and power.

Even so, colonial architecture had been complex enough to begin adapting
to local *pattern languages*, and thus to evolve adaptively towards the
local vernacular. Many older colonial buildings are now treasured, and
are included in a country's cultural heritage. When the West turned with
vehemence against its own traditional *form languages*, replacing them
with an impoverished set of primitive *form languages*, colonial
architecture was itself eventually replaced by non-adaptive
"International Style" buildings. Worse of all, those people whose *form
language* (and culture) had been erased were caught up in the same
deception (that this was necessary for economic progress and
prosperity), so they embraced the same industrial "look" after political
independence.

**6. The transmission of a style**

A *form language* governs the built form in all its expressions:
geometry, composition, structure, materials, surfaces, etc. When we
reduce all of this to simply an image, we call it an architectural
"style". I can now use the model of this Chapter to discuss and explain
some significant events in architectural history. To begin with, we are
faced with a serious contradiction. Why do some design styles
proliferate even though they are poorly adapted to human use and
sensibilities? (Such styles or design methods could be deficient because
they lack either the *pattern language*, or the *form language*, or
both). Even worse, it appears that the most damaging, least adaptive
styles actually proliferate with the greatest ease.

The answer is frightening in its implications for our civilization. The
most basic, primitive *form languages* spread the fastest in society
(see Chapter 10). That is simply because they encode (carry with them) a
minimum of information. The "style" as an informational unit that can be
transmitted among human minds in a population carries over better when
it is simplest. Flat sheer surfaces, transparent glass walls, pilotis,
shiny "industrial" materials such as polished steel, etc. define a
simplistic visual style, which offers an easily recognizable catchy
image. These images are simple because they are the homogeneous products
of synthetic materials. Never mind that the components of this primitive
*form language* do not define a true *form language*; the public accepts
them because of their visual simplicity encouraged by support from
respected authorities, i.e., star architects and critics (Chapter 10).

People traditionally developed and preserved adaptive design methods,
each containing a *pattern language* and a *form language*. An adaptive
design method was conceived as a whole, without splitting it into its
two distinct linguistic components. Indeed, it was itself part of
culture and religion, which together formed a complex body of inherited
knowledge and practices. The theoretical separation of design from
culture is useful for analysis, but does not correspond to the practical
reality of several millennia of human existence. Actual separation,
however, did occur in the post-industrial age. Adaptive design split
from culture (which had earlier split from religion), then the *form
language* split from the *pattern language*. Architects shed off
influence from tried-and-true solutions in order to seek individual
expressions.

Detached as it was for the first time from a much larger complex system,
a *form language* could evolve and propagate as an independent entity.
This released it from traditional constraints, while at the same time
giving a *form language* unprecedented channels and mechanisms for
transmission. We know of biological entities that split from more
complex organisms so as to propagate freely and with enormous success:
they are the viruses.

I wish to draw an analogy with the replication of viruses. Extending the
notion of image propagation further, we can look to recent events where
biological terrorists use viruses. Because of its nature, the virus can
exist in an inert, easily-transmittable form such as a powder. This is
possible because a virus is a biologically simple structure with very
low informational overhead. We know how the spread of a virus can be
accelerated, as part of the arsenal of biological terrorists. First,
disguise the pathogen in seemingly attractive substances, so as to have
the victims consume it voluntarily. This corresponds to the promise that
architecture and planning relying on primitive *form languages* solve
social problems and liberate oppressed classes (Chapter 10). The people
readily accept that. Second, artificially spread samples of the virus in
as many places as possible so that the maximum number of persons will
become infected. In the propagation of architectural images, the media
play a key role, showing and praising carefully selected structures and
urban projects (and ignoring everything else) (Chapter 10). Our
architectural schools and press have also done a very effective job of
promoting primitive *form languages* while unwittingly suppressing true
*form languages*.

Someone who has been raised in the twentieth century and has been taught
through association that "beautiful" objects have no hierarchical
organization will then apply this rule subconsciously to design a
building or a city. Even though people might find such environments
intellectually acceptable, they can never overcome the negative
sensations that such an architecture brings into play. The reason behind
this typology can be traced back to artistic and design trends in the
1920s. Design in art and architecture overturned all established rules
of treating three-dimensional forms and two-dimensional images. *Form
languages* that people had developed as part of their culture and
civilization were no longer valued or respected. Concepts such as
hierarchical scaling were inadvertently eliminated from design. They had
never been written down; they exist encoded in nature and as examples in
all traditional art and architecture. The new artificial objects:
paintings, sculptures, and buildings influenced the way we think. They
served as mental templates for conceptualization.

Why did this occur only at the beginning of the twentieth century and
not before? I believe that it had to do with radical social changes
spurred by population pressure and political oppression so that for the
first time, many people saw a chance of radical social improvement
through technology. They were willing to sacrifice adaptive design in
exchange for the (false) promise of a better future offered by
industrialization (Chapter 10). Prior to that, people on all
socioeconomic levels shaped their environment as far as they could to
provide physical comfort and emotional well-being.

Another contributing factor was the creation of a new communications
network formed by the convergence of telephone, telegraph, newspapers,
magazines, and film. The new media tied the world together as never
before, yet also made possible the rapid proliferation of advertising
and political propaganda. The spread of modernism, combining visually
simple images with the promise of a new utopian world, could never have
occurred were it not for the new media (Chapter 10). Advertising created
the desire for industrial products that we didn't really need. Just as
in the case of internet computer viruses, which could not exist before
the internet, primitive architectural *form languages* could spread only
through the first architectural picture magazines. At the same time,
advertising favors the transmission of simplistic messages, slogans,
images, and ideas.

As a result of its tremendous power to shape people's minds, advertising
quickly transformed from a medium for transmitting commercial
information to an instrument of social change and control. Its first
target was cultural traditions that blocked the consumption of inferior
new industrial products. These inhibitions were overcome by making
individuals ashamed of their instinctive preferences, labeling them as
"backward", and thereby opening up the public to market influence. Thus,
*form languages* that threatened the supremacy of the post-industrial
aesthetic of glass, steel, and concrete slabs were stigmatized by the
architectural critics. This style based on a specific industrial "look"
could not be sold to the world until traditional *form languages* were
eliminated. The way the built environment looked anywhere in the world
would henceforth be controlled by the advertising media; all traditional
*form languages* condemned to extinction in the interest of Western
industrial and ideological dominance.

**7. Minimal complexity and life processes**

An excursion into biology is helpful here. There is a direct analogy
between architecture and living processes. In examining how life arises,
the Physicist Freeman Dyson proposes that two distinct processes
characterize all living forms: metabolism, and replication (Dyson,
1999). Metabolism involves the physical interaction of an organism with
its environment in a way that portions of the environment --- i.e.,
nutrients --- enter and are processed chemically by the organism. There
is an interpenetration between the organism and the environment which
maintains the functions of the organism via a chemical engine.

The other component of life, replication, is the distinguishing
characteristic of forms that survive through copies. Although an
organism needs pieces of the environment as raw material to build a copy
of itself, the replicative process is fundamentally distinct from
metabolism. Replication is directly dependent upon coding the organism's
structure into a template (DNA), so that replication is theoretically
tied to information storage rather than to interaction with the
environment around it.

Perhaps the most important distinction between the two components of
living structure is their independence. This is better discussed in
terms of artificial life, as for example in entities generated by, and
residing in a computer. It is possible to create the analogue of a
metabolizing entity in the sense that it moves around on the screen and
is nourished by devouring other nearby entities. It does not, however,
have to reproduce. If one has played with the computer game "Sim City",
then one imagines how an internally complex entity can survive
indefinitely, and even grow in complexity as long as necessary
"nutrients" are inputted. It can carry on an existence independent of
other complex entities --- it only needs simple supplies.

On the other hand, it is also possible to create a computer virus whose
sole function is to replicate. Such an entity does not metabolize --- it
is simply a minimal piece of code (either computer, or genetic) that
uses the internal machinery of a far more complex entity in order to
make copies of itself. A pure replicator lacks the ability to
metabolize, and thus cannot carry out an independent existence --- it is
entirely dependent on more complex entities for its continued survival.
Without them, it lies dormant as an inanimate, disconnected piece of
information (i.e., a crystal). It comes to life --- in the sense of
getting ready to replicate --- only after it enters the living
environment of a host's body. This is the reason why biological viruses
are considered not to be really "alive", but to somehow occupy the
interface between inanimate crystals and living forms.

Therefore, despite architects' concerns about style and adaptation, they
missed an essential point that links the two. The high threshold for
organized visual complexity in traditional architecture (seen in all
evolved cultures) played a decisive role, by helping to maintain
adaptation in architecture. When humankind decided to abandon this
complexity threshold (under utopian promises of a better future through
industrialization), we opened the door to minimalist *form languages*
that had unbeatable transmission properties. Humankind had always
preserved adaptive design methods --- in which the *pattern language*
guaranteed a high complexity for the complementary *form language* ---
as whole (i.e., complete) culturally transmittable systems. By dropping
*pattern languages* from the design methods in use, the *form language*
could then be simplified as much as anyone wished, which is where we
find ourselves today.

**8. Architecture as a living process**

The above concepts from biology and computer science can be applied to
architecture to set up metabolic/genetic analogies. This is essential
for understanding design as a "living process" that accommodates and
coexists with human beings. I identify the metabolic (interactive)
aspect of living structure with the *pattern language*. After all, a
*pattern language* dictates how built form interacts with human
activities, which is the defining characteristic of a useful, adaptive
structure. A building is perceived as functionally "alive" when it
accommodates human functions in a positive and nurturing manner. The
essentials of biological metabolism: interpenetration, nourishment, and
repair have their direct analogue in a *pattern language*. Buildings
shelter and contain people, who in turn build them and maintain them.
Changes affected during repair enhance the adaptivity of the original
design.

Forms, spaces, and surfaces can also nourish people psychologically by
promoting a sense of well-being. This geometrical/visual aspect is to a
large part responsible for supporting human activities, though the
effect is much more subtle and is thus all too often ignored.
(Architectural theorists have dismissed this component of architecture
outright, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge psychological and medical
results on the effects of environments). The way something is built and
the way it looks (i.e., its *form language*) have a major impact in
whether humans feel comfortable or not inside and around such a
building. *Form language* affects human response directly. A building
that is built in a way that its visual appearance discourages or hinders
human activity can be said to be effectively "dead", since no-one wants
to use it (see Chapter 4).

Replication of a building style does not depend upon whether it is
useful or not, but on its *form language*. The *form language* is
therefore its genetic component (see Figure 11.5). A building replicates
if for some reason (logical or otherwise) an architect decides to use
the same design for another similar building somewhere else. We naively
imagine that this copying is due to a building's success in
accommodating human beings and their activities, but that is not
necessarily the case. A building replicates only because its *form
language* is used to build another building, and this decision is
independent of the original building's success in terms of its human
component. The principal factor behind architectural replication is the
ease of copying a particular *form language* (which becomes an
unbeatable advantage when dealing with a primitive *form language*). The
analogy of a building as a living being is useful in predicting positive
and negative effects on its users.

![11.5.JPG](media/image5.jpeg){width="2.4366130796150482in"
height="2.0031550743657043in"}

*Figure (11.5) Forms/patterns correspond to genetic/metabolic
structures.*

Other factors that influence the success of a particular *form language*
include sociopolitical forces that condemn one style while promoting
another style; the physical presence of numerous buildings in a
particular style around us makes it easy for that style to be copied by
everybody; the virtual presence of a particular style promoted in terms
of pervasive visual images currently fashionable in the media; etc.
Obviously, techniques of advertising and proselytizing can promote a
primitive *form language* and spread it in the environment, after which
its dominance and familiarity guarantee further spread.

To their credit, early modernist architects criticized the fact that
many traditional *form languages* were not used to work with, but were
being copied in the most superficial stylistic manner. For example,
columns are supposed to be made originally out of tree trunks, but not
out of hollow material. Falsifying a stone surface by means of paint
looks ridiculous up close and when the paint starts to peel. Formica
looks cheap and feels unpleasant to the touch. In recent years, people
use plastic or painted metal siding that has the superficial appearance
and texture of wooden planks. All of these falsifications are in fact a
testament to the persistence of traditional *form languages*, but
undermine and devalue the meaning of the original *form language*.
Falsified materials falsify the *form language*. Unfortunately, the
early discussion on the "honesty" of materials quickly took a wrong
turn, and turned into an unquestioning support and promotion of
industrial materials.

If the *form language* is too idiosyncratic, then the building, even
though it may be perfectly adapted to its uses, will not likely be used
as a model for another building. This helps to explain why certain very
successful buildings were never used as typological prototypes. For
example, Art Nouveau buildings did not take off like modernist buildings
did --- simply because their *form language* is not as easily copyable.
This is in part because their mathematically sophisticated *form
language* could not compete with the *form languages* of early modernism
(Chapter 10). Of the many competing *form languages* (including several
related ones loosely defining modernism) in existence in the early
twentieth century, the most simplistic ones had better survival
qualities. To use a literary metaphor, if Art Nouveau were a written
language, then it is perfectly suited for poetry, but less well-suited
for more mundane prose like a shopping list or a computer software
manual.

That said, poetry does nourish the human soul, which is the reason why
all human societies use their language to compose poems. It is often the
presence of emotionally-engaging poetry that helps to make everyday
tasks bearable and even pleasant. Such is the effect of Hector Guimard's
entrances to the Paris Metro stations (1900-1904), which provide a brief
moment of architectural poetry as one enters or exits from the
underground subway. For many people, they epitomize the dream of Paris.
They were ruthlessly destroyed up to the 1960s (because they didn't
conform to the drab minimalist aesthetic designated as orthodox by the
architectural establishment). The French government finally realized
that, in the eyes of the rest of the world, Paris would be
architecturally impoverished without those characteristically Art
Nouveau structures.

Other components of human expression are also codified in a traditional
*form language*: dark passions, archaic qualities and wildness, ranging
all the way to an almost savage intensity. These emotions are latent in
the human soul, and thus find their geometrical and ornamental analogues
in a particular culture's *form language*. Life itself is written in a
passionate language. This is a far cry from the insipid homogenization
of post-industrial architectural expression. In recent years, however,
violence against architectural form (and human sensibilities) has become
fashionable, but this trend must be strongly distinguished from what I
am talking about here. Normal individuals never confuse intensity of
feeling with actual violence, only psychopaths do so: those are driven
to derive sensual pleasure and satisfaction from sadistic acts of
destruction. A *form language* expresses optimist and creativity, never
nihilism.

A society that is forbidden to express life and sensuality in a visual
and tectonic medium turns out of frustration to perverse expressions of
negativity, such as death and violence. There is no silencing the human
spirit and its creative manifestations in material form; one can only
redirect its modes of expression into negative channels. When we cannot
express joy and wonder at the universe (because those who control
cultural expression have a monopoly on the language), we seek out its
opposite. The primitive and increasingly nihilistic *form languages* of
contemporary architecture do speak to us directly, even though their
message is not what their architects claim it to be. That's the reason
for so much empty theorizing in the architectural press: it's an effort
to disguise a fundamentally negative message.

Since a *form language* is one-half of the complementary pair *pattern
language + form language* that comprises an adaptive design method, a
*form language* must tie in seamlessly to a *pattern language*. Here is
where the crucial distinction is made between effective and ineffective
*form languages*, as far as human use is concerned. A primitive *form
language* can be enormously successful at replicating, but be totally
unsuited for human needs. The reason is that it cannot encode enough
complex information to generate structures that actively engage humans
in a positive way. *Form languages* that can be used adaptively have to
join mathematically with a *pattern language*, and the join is possible
only if the two languages share a comparable and compatible internal
structure (Figure 11.1).

The process of joining two languages does not appear to have a
linguistic parallel. We are used to translating from one language into
another, but here I am referring to the creation of an entity (a
building) that requires the cooperation of two distinct types of
languages. Perhaps the best analogy is found in music. In a Song (say,
where a poem is set to music), Opera, Oratorio, or Scripture presented
in a musical setting, sung text is married to music, thus combining two
linguistic expressions. The most glorious examples succeed in both
dimensions: literary as well as musical, and thereby transcend the
capabilities of each language alone. If religious text is used, it adds
a third, spiritual dimension.

Two abstract languages can interface only if they both share similar
structural characteristics (i.e., syntactical and linguistic).
Otherwise, they cannot be conceived as complementary. One of these
common characteristics is a hierarchical internal structure, while
another is an internal combinatorial structure. Just with these two
requirements as a criterion, we can exclude some styles as lacking the
fundamental basis of a *form language* that can join a *pattern
language*. Many modernist buildings are simply too plain in their
vocabulary of forms, and therefore lack hierarchical coherence (see
Chapter 3). Those that are more complex evidently have a greater range
of visual expression, and thus offer a greater chance for adaptivity.

At the other extreme, the deconstructivist style tells you how to take
forms apart, not how to put them together. Deconstruction has generated
its own primitive (hence easily-copyable) *form language*, consisting of
diagonal slashes, jagged lines, shiny high-tech materials, cantilevered
shapes, concrete and glass walls, acute angles, etc. This comprises a
large vocabulary of forms representing disordered visual complexity, but
it all lacks linguistic connectivity. There is no system for
synthesizing deconstructivist elements into coherent structures.
Deconstruction started out in the field of linguistics, with the stated
intention of disrupting the communication process (Salingaros, 2004).
Its intent from the very beginning was to sabotage language, thus making
it nihilistic. It is no wonder, then, that its architectural *form
language* is incapable of generating coherent form. It can only give
rise to fragmented structures whose purpose is to deny coherent
expression. Architectural deconstruction has commandeered systems and
resources (media, government, and academic support; architectural prizes
and commissions) in its bid to displace other *form languages*. Its mode
of propagation is therefore directly analogous to biological
competition, where one organism tries to exterminate another.

It follows that it is hopeless to try to satisfy a *pattern language*
using the *form language* of either minimalism, or deconstructivism.
Perhaps because of this perceived impossibility, Alexander's *pattern
language* (Alexander *et al.*, 1977) has been all but ignored by the
mainstream architectural profession. A major misunderstanding of the
value of patterns has led to the neglect of *pattern languages*, because
they were (correctly) seen to possess far more complex combinatoric
properties than contemporary *form languages* in use. The inability of a
primitive *form language* to join a *pattern language* should have
alerted architects to the deficiencies of that *form language*. What
happened instead is that the primitive *form language* was retained,
while the possibility of an adaptive design method (that combines a
*form language* with a *pattern language*) was abandoned. This decision,
crucial for the evolution of architecture, was influenced by forces
embedded very deeply in a culture shaped by advertising and ideology. A
society that runs largely on images values an iconic architecture above
all else, and is loath to re-attach it to something as abstract as a
*pattern language*. Adaptation to human needs is incompatible with an
image-driven architecture.

Architects have misinterpreted Alexander's *Pattern Language* as too
restrictive. They felt that their creative imagination should not be
fettered in trying to satisfy Alexandrine patterns. Perhaps they see
that the most innovative part of their design clashes with patterns, and
they certainly don't want to sacrifice it. I, on the other hand, propose
an architecture that is ruthlessly adaptive to human uses and
sensibilities: architecture that connects us to the world. If an
architectural "statement" makes people uncomfortable, it should not be
built. Review boards should not commission it, and juries should not
award it an architectural prize. The *pattern language* provides a
"reality check" for an architect's imagination. An architect that can
create nurturing environments can adapt an innovative idea to patterns;
it takes a secure and courageous one to do so.

**9. A new architecture**

*Form language* (actually, fairly primitive versions of a *form
language*) is what today's architects focus on, almost to the exclusion
of other design constituents. Architects are visually-oriented people,
used to thinking in visual terms. I believe that the present discussion
can help bring innovation through a new understanding of the complexity
of the design process. It is possible to list several insights as points
that can be used in practice.

***Table 11.1. Seven Points that Guide Architectural Design.***

1\. Great architecture can, and does result from following a
tried-and-true *form language* (in combination with a *pattern
language*).

2\. The more informationally-rich a *form language* is, the more adapted
the architecture could become to the human condition.

3\. Innovative architects have also developed their own *form language*
(e.g., Louis Sullivan, Antoni Gaudí, Victor Horta, Frank Lloyd Wright,
Erich Mendelsohn, etc.).

4\. Non-adaptive architecture results from following a primitive *form
language*, which does not have enough complexity to allow either
richness of architectural expression, or adaptivity to human uses and
sensibilities.

5\. Genuine architectural and urban adaptivity can follow only from
applying a *pattern language* that codifies human movement and
practices.

6\. An adaptive design method marries *form language* with *pattern
language*.

7\. If a *form language* is too primitive so that it cannot be married
to a *pattern language*, then that *form language* should not be used.

It is possible to begin implementing a program for a new architecture,
after we understand architectural forces as explained in this and
previous Chapters. These ideas and suggestions should appear as totally
practical to present-day architectural students, who have been trained
in an architecture of increasing complexity through the use of computer
visualization. They have an advantage over the previous generation of
architects, who were taught through empty images and forms. Architecture
depends on distinct complex languages. The basis for real, adaptive, and
sustainable architecture, which was outlined here, is not currently
taught in architecture schools, simply because the scientific results
are very recent. Education is very easy to change, by replacing the
teaching in leading institutions with a curriculum on how to design
buildings and cities for human use and having an increased sense of
well-being.

A priority for any architectural project today is to formulate or
rediscover a viable *form language*, otherwise one is forced to copy the
sterile styles around us. No shape or visual vocabulary should be used
just because some alleged authority said that it is "honest",
"liberating", or "fashionable". An architect who seeks an honest
expression in his or her architecture has to employ the nature of
materials to help decide on the *form language*. Preference should be
given to local indigenous building materials. One can also look to the
pre-industrial past for examples of appropriate forms and geometries.
The latest industrial materials will be used if they are useful in a
particular setting, but not because of ideology. Most of what we build
today relies on industrial materials, but these materials don't have to
express a modernist *form language*. There is a potential richness to
these materials that was not cultivated because of the dominance of the
modernist aesthetic.

An ornamental tradition often survives better in small-scale structure
and surface design. This can be transferred from other visual
expressions such an textiles or pottery back into architecture. Another
source of forgotten clues to a lost *form language* may be found in
regional historical furniture. This process of discovery should not be
misinterpreted as superficial historicizing. The rest of the language
must be invented by the architect, who needs to incorporate colors,
forms, spaces, and ornaments according to the principles revealed in
this book. The new *form language* should be richly expressive,
individual, and distinct. Nothing should be complex for complexity's
sake, nor should any forced simplicity be imposed.

The new architecture will, not surprisingly, look a lot like traditional
architecture (Krier, 1998). If it is successful in connecting to human
beings, it will certainly elicit the same feelings of naturalness as
those historical built regions still preserved around the world. Yet, as
Léon Krier emphasizes, we can build today urban environments that are
every bit as comfortable as the greatest examples built in the past. The
widely disseminated opinion that we cannot reproduce the best qualities
of the past for a multitude of reasons is only propaganda: Christopher
Alexander (2004), Léon Krier (1998), and many other humanist architects
have built new structures that are innovative, yet timeless in their
human adaptation. Those buildings are also more sustainable than
buildings that simply try to make an architectural "statement".

These ideas are rapidly coming together with scientific support for a
new architectural renaissance. We will see the inevitable turning away
from the present architectural system of focusing on idiosyncratic
expression, sooner or later, because of its irrelevance to human life.
It is time to begin training the young architects who will build the
future, and who will be asked to repair the wounds inflicted upon the
built environment over the past several decades. In all probability, the
demand will come from society itself. When that time comes, graduates of
today's institutions who know how to use these principles will thus be
more employable. Contemporary schools of architecture should be
re-oriented to consider more traditional ideas helping innovation, in
the way I have indicated here. This may well propel a re-structuring of
architectural pedagogy that allows students to look beyond contemporary
expressions for inspiration and knowledge. Young architects can once
again be creating a sustainable and rich built environment.

**10. Conclusion**

This Chapter has presented a theory of design based on the combination
of two types of language: a *pattern language*, and a *form language*.
The *pattern language* encodes elements of human interaction with
buildings, which are to be found throughout traditional architecture and
urbanism. The *form language*, on the other hand, corresponds to
whatever geometrical style the building or urban region has taken. In
principle, there is enormous freedom to choose a *form language* for a
new building today. Nevertheless, what is used in place of a *form
language* in our times lacks the complexity and connectivity to define a
true language. This often results in geometrically and informationally
impoverished environments that are unsuitable or unpleasant for human
use. Moreover, the adoption of an overly simplistic *form language*
precludes the necessary cooperation with a *pattern language*, thus
guaranteeing that human needs will never be satisfied via an adaptive
architecture.

Once these mechanisms at the basis of design are more widely known, it
would appear reasonable that the world could again learn to build its
cities in a way to accommodate human beings. Another factor, however,
comes into play: a *form language*, once it is split from a
complementary *pattern language*, spreads among the population of minds
according to how easy it is to copy. The characteristics of a successful
*form language* (successful in terms of being used for many buildings)
are the opposite of those of a *form language* required for adaptive
design. The fast-spreading one is too simplistic for human use, whereas
the useful one capable of adaptation spreads too slowly to compete. We
are fighting against a scientific phenomenon: adaptive design is complex
and thus difficult to spread, whereas pathological design spreads very
easily through the visual media. Thus, it is critically important that
students and teachers learn to recognize this phenomenon as it is
occurring.