建築美學

建築美學 - 羅傑•斯克魯登著劉先覺譯

緒論：建築學的問題

美學這門學科和哲學同樣古老；但它從康德那裡取得了其現代形式，康德是提出下面這個概念的第一個哲學家，即美的概念是入類思想的一種獨特、自主的運用，它與倫理學和科學的認識相對應。康德把智力才能分成理論、實踐和美學三部分（或認識、實際思考與判斷），為後來的研究提供了起點，並且確文了美學在哲學中的中心地位。在19世紀的大部分時間裡，美學一直佔據著這個位置。如果不是建立了煩瑣哲學的話，它現在還會佔據這個位置。我在本將中所闡明的問題將會表現出康德的影響；但是我將試圖舉例說明：在實際思考和美學理解之間的區別：事實上是靠不住的，在重新建立起這兩者之間的聯繫之前，它們必然是沒有生氣的。

美學的首要任務，就在於對某種思想認識的正確理解，即對體驗和判斷能力的理解。因此，我將要在討論思想哲學的同時討論我們感興趣的建築價值和性質問題。現在，有必要將思想哲學和經驗主義的心理學區分開來。哲學家首先關心的是我們感興趣的建築性質，如果有時他像心理學家那樣談起它的起因的話，那麼，唯一的原因就是他認為這些起因是對美學體驗的啟示。對哲學家來說，問題並不在於什麼東西導致我們喜歡林肯教堂而不喜歡約克教堂，而是什麼是美學愛好？同時，這樣的偏愛對我們有什麼重要的意義？哲學家希望以最通用的術語來描述美學感受，從而發現它在人類恩想中的確地位，以及它與觀念、感情和判斷的連結。他認為這個任務是討論藝術的意義和價信的必要開端。例如，人們顯然比較喜歡光滑的石頭而不喜歡粗糙的，喜歡直線而不喜歡斜線，喜歡規則的而不喜歡不規則的形狀，這些都是和美學無關的心理現象，對這些偏愛的解釋，也與我們的研究無關。喜歡光滑而不喜歡粗糙可以根據克萊恩的心理學：（Kleinian Psy- chology）來解釋，喜歡規則形狀則可以根據視神經組織來解釋，這都沒有什麼關係。毫無疑問，那些事實對它們本身的研究是有興趣的；但是，為了對它們的正確理解，他們預先設想了這種研究結果，這正是我將要依靠的前提。雖然我在以後的章節中參考了心理假設的觀點，那是因為它們中的一部分與美學討論的性質和效果有著特殊的關係。

但現在有人會說，心理學不只是與它的起因有關，也和體驗的性質有關。那麼要怎樣將它和我將要研究的「思想哲學」區分開來呢？簡單的回答是：心理學研究的是事實，而哲學研究的是概念。但是，正如近來哲學家所指出的那樣，這個回答非常簡單。如果這意味著暗示其結論不影響事實的話，那麼，哲學並不僅僅是描述普通理解的概念，也不只是處理概念。事實上，對哲學來說，沒有其他問題會比它自己的性質問題更為麻煩，讀者必然會滿意這個不完整的回答。正如這幾頁所闡明的那樣，哲學試圖對運用哲學的觀象盡可能作最一般的描述。當我們涉及到某件事時，這種描述會很簡單地告訴我們，我們正在討論的是什麼。如果我們不知道我們討論的是什麼東西的話，那麼所有的科學研究都是毫無目的的。通常，我們所談論的知識是不言而喻的和不連貫的；而哲學的任務就是要將它清楚地表達出來。這可不是一件簡單的任務。正如我們將要了解的那樣，對建築藝術論題的許多作者既沒有能夠把它清楚地表達出來，甚至還沒有掌握討論對象的知識。

此外，哲學並不是對任何人的建築概念或美學概念問題都感興趣。哲學僅僅對有普遍意義的概念感興趣，哲學的目標還在於發現價值。對美學感受進行有趣的哲學解釋極為重要，這種解釋正是我所希望表達的。

我將要牽涉到下列問題：喜歡一棟建築是怎麼回事？從對建築的思考中能獲得什麼樣的體驗？什麼是愛好？是否存在著能夠掌握嗜好的規則？等等⋯⋯。當這些問題涉及心理現象時，理解、體驗、嗜好都可歸因於某種特殊的對象。現在，要孤立地從其對像中描述或理解一種心理狀況，這是不可能的：因此可以說，這個對像或至少是這個對象的某種概念，就是心理狀況的要素。例如，我們以嫉妒為例，不去研究妒忌的特殊對象的性質，而要描述嫉妒的性質，這是不可能的。一個人感到嫉妒感並不是那種瞬間即逝的概念；如果他感到嫉妒，那麼他是嫉妒某種事物——他的嫉妒是“有指向性的”，它有一個對象，卻不是一個起因。因此，嫉妒涉及其對象的某種特殊概念，要描述嫉妒就是要描述這個概念（正如人們可能提出「對手」的概念）。正是這樣，建築鑑賞的理論就不能是沒有適當對象的理論。然後，我們在各個關鍵部分都要去對建築的性質和意義進行探討。

根據上面所述，建築鑑賞理論往往注重於其物件而不是其形式，這是不足為奇的。它們試圖透過描述建築中我們感興趣的東西來說明什麼是建築鑑賞。功能主義作為一種理論，它宣稱讚賞形式符合功能。其他的理論則提出異議，認為應談讚賞對稱與和諧，裝飾與手法或體量。還有一種與弗蘭克爾（Frankl）及其追隨者作品有關的流行觀點，認為鑑賞的對像是空間或連續空間的作用。現在很清楚，如果我們象解決鑑賞性質那樣來：分析建築美學趣味的話，那麼我們必須考慮對此作盡可能廣泛的描述。我將要說明，在我提到的那些理論中，沒有哪一種理論：所作的論述能夠令人滿意，因為它們都忽略了建築的某種特點，這種特點既是有意圖的，又是有意義的。因此，他們聲稱要為批評判斷提供先驗的根據，這是不可信的。為了取代那些理論，我打算比較正規地來探討這個問題，用抽象的方法來集中鑑賞自己的對象。然後我會試著說明：這個物件應該是怎樣的？鑑賞是否具有我們所期望的那種意義。

按照我的想法，把建築美學和某些其他事物區分開來是非常重要的，這個其他事物人們往往把它稱之為建築理論。建築理論的意圖在於闡明準則、規律和規則，它們指導或應該指導建設者的實踐。例如柱式的古典理論，它們是在維特魯威（Vitruvius）、阿爾伯蒂（Alberti）、塞里奧（Serlio）和維尼奧拉：Vignola）的偉大著作中建立起來的，它為建築各部分的系統結合和建築部件的裝飾制定了許多規則，它們屬於建築理論。拉斯金（Ruskin）著的《威尼斯的石建築》和《建築七燈》中所包含的許多規則也屬於此範圍。這些規則設想著我們正在尋求得到的東西，使建築的成功不成問題，但問題是如何更好地取得這種成功。一種建築理論，只有當它聲明具有普遍效果時，才能對美學有所衝擊，因為那時它必須以取得建築美的本質為其目的，而不是偶然性。但是，這種理論，毫無疑問具有哲學性質，所以它必須有根據地加以判斷。我們希望知道它是否能透過對最抽象最普遍的對象的思考而成功地建立起一種先驗的要求。事實說明，從維特魯威到勒•柯比意都宣稱他們的法則具有普遍的效果，這已經成為建築理論家們的特徵了。沒有任何建築美學能不涉及這個要求的，維特魯威、阿爾伯蒂、拉斯金和勒•柯布西耶，他們都相信、他們喜歡的建築形式，只能符合理性的理解；所以它們不可能全部都正確。正如我們將要了解的那樣，他們對美學的理解都錯誤的。

或許仍然有人認為，與般美學相對比，建築美學是根本不存在的真正的主題。如果哲學像我所說的那樣抽象，那麼它是否就不該在完全普遍的情況下，在拋開偶然的外界影響的情況下來考慮美學感受呢？而這些外界影響是中特殊的藝術形式和成功的特殊概念所造成的。為什麼對建築哲學還存在著特殊的需要而不是暫時的？為什麼那麼多在從事建築的人對建築產生了誤解？是否在討論詩歌、音樂、繪畫和建築時沒有一個相同的美的概念呢？是否在鑑賞那些藝術時不存在同一種才智能力呢？一旦我們將建築美學和建築理論區分開來，對建築美學來說除了抽象的描述以外，似乎沒有留下任何東西。抽象的描述對建築師的實踐是沒有特殊用處的。誠然，哲學家已經開始研究：美學課題，好像美學只是在抽象的理解中才能表達出來，並且好像美學只能對各種獨立的藝術形式作些無關緊要的參考。

事實上，現在對任何有關美學的哲學理論來說，建築都是一個重要的問題。但是建築與其它藝術不同，由於它不是個人的作品而同時又有功能的性質，所以它似乎要求我們不僅對其創作而且對其欣賞都要抱有特殊的態度。對美學興趣的概括性理論，如康德和叔本華（Schopenhauer）等人都只對建築作很少的說明；而對這個問題態度比較嚴肅的那些哲學家，他們經常描述對建築的鑑賞，而對其他藝術形式則沒有作相當的說明，黑格爾也許是其中最突出的一個。黑格爾認為建築是只有一半表達力的手段，它不能完整地表達概念，因此，它被歸類為純象徵主義，但又必須同雕塑和裝飾的象徵主義區分開來。

要弄清楚黑格爾為什麼會這麼想，這並不困難。我們可以設想繪畫、戲劇、詩歌和雕塑這些具象藝術引起一種不同於由音樂和建築這類抽象藝術所引起的興趣，這是很自然的。但是，也可以設想音樂與具象藝術一樣具有可表現的，可認識的和激動人心的力量，這也是很自然的。只有建築似乎與它們有很大的不同，它通過一定的特徵區別於其它藝術。這些特徵並不妨礙我們決定對建築的態度，我將從這些特徵開始討論，因為它不以後的討論很有必要，而且它們將表明，我們過去所繼承的「藝術」這個概念是多麼的淺薄和片面。

在這些明顯的特徵之中，首先是實用功能。建築是人類生活、工作和進行禮拜的地方，同時，在決定某種形式之前，建築首先要滿足需要和願望。構思一段音樂卻不打算供人欣賞，這是不可能的；而設計一座建築物並不打算讓別人注意，這倒是很可能的。這裡的不打算，指的是創造一個美學趣味的對象。甚至當企圖在建築中應用美學標準的時候，我們仍然發現它與其它藝術形式有強烈的不一致現象。因為沒有什麼音樂或文字作品能夠具有我們所說的那些建築特徵，因為音樂或文學的功能不可避免地要求有自己的特徵。當然，像華爾茲、進行曲和有平德爾風格的詩歌（Pindar 是古希臘抒情詩人）那樣，一部音樂或文學作品可能具有某一功能。但是這些功能並非出於文學或音樂藝術的本質。一首有平德爾風格的詩，是出於某一用途的詩，而詩歌本身則只是偶然和這些用途有聯繫。

功能主義有許多類型。最常見的類型是美學的功能主義理論，即建築真正的美麗存在於與功能相適應的形式中。然而，為了有利於討論，我們必須重視典型未加工的功能主義理論，這種理論提出：因為建築最終基本上只是一種手段，我們就把建築當成手段來評價。也許建築的價值決定於它對功能的滿足程度，而不是決定於純粹的「美學」考慮。這種理論似乎可能很自然地得出這樣一個結論，即對建築的評價完全不同於對其它藝術形式的評價，這些藝術不是作為手段來衡量的，而是為了自身的緣故，當成目的。然而，要持這種觀點，就可能會造成模糊的概念，因為很難區分把某件事物是看作為手段還是看作為目的？即使我們對這種區別有一部分把握（為何把某件事看作為手段），但是我們肯定還是會對這種區別抱有極大的懷疑。將某件事看作為一種目的，又是怎麼回事呢？讓我們來看看一個著名的闡明概念的嘗試—-英國哲學家科林伍德（R.G.Collingwood）所作的嘗試。科林伍德從區分藝術和工藝開始探索藝術和美學。起先他將工匠的態度和藝術家的態度區分開來，因為工匠的目標在於一個明確的結果，並盡力去獲得它，而藝術家則只知道他正在幹什麼，似乎可以說，只有當作品完成時他才知道其結果，這似乎是很有道理的。但是，建築的情況恰好對這種區別造成了懷疑。因為不管建築在什麼情況下，按照科林伍德的概念，它肯定都是一種工藝。建築的實用性不是一種偶然的性質；它說明了建築師的意圖。保持藝術和工藝之間的這種明顯差別的觀點，就是忽視了建築的真實性——這不是因為建築是藝術和工藝的混合（因為科林伍德認為，這對任何美學活動都是正確的），而是因為建築是這兩者的綜合體，這個綜合體幾乎是無法描述的。建築功能的好壞，具有其本身的要素，它限定了建築師所承擔的每一個務。要單獨理解藝術的要素和工藝的要素，這是不可能的。由於這方面的困難，這兩個概念似乎突然變得不定形了，以致於它們在「純」藝術中的應用通常是含糊不清的。

此外，按照科林伍德的概念，把建築當作「藝術」的一種形式來對待，這種意圖包含著表現主義的傾向，也包含著人們趨向於用看待雕塑和繪畫的方式來看待建築，它作為一種可以表達的活動，是從特殊的藝術目標中獲得其性質和價值內。正是因為不可能存在可表達的“工藝” ，所以對科林伍德來識，「表達」是藝術的主要目的。就表達而言，不可能存在什麼像工匠所遵循的規律或程序，這些規律或程序則是具有觀點上的明確目標，以及實現其目標的手段。因此，只有透過「表達」的概念，他才弄清楚藝術和工藝之間的差別。柯林伍德用下面的方法提出了他的觀點：表達並不是為主觀感受尋找其象徵，正如我們所要了解的那樣，只是透過表達的體現，來了解什麼是感受。表達是對內在生活的部分體現，也就是使那些難以形容的、混淆不清的東西變得清楚一點。一個早就能夠認識這種表達感受的藝術家，實際上很可能是以工匠的精神，應用某個人的技巧來探討其作品的，這些技巧能告訴他，為了表達這種特殊的感受，他必須幹什麼。然而，他並不需要這些技術，因為如果他能夠認識這種感受的話，那麼他早就把它表達出來了。因此，表達不是在達到目的以前就能夠加以確定的活動；它不是一種能夠根據其目的和手段來描述的活動。所以，如果藝術是一種表達，那麼它不可能是工藝（儘管它的實現可能也包含許多次要的工藝因素）。

這些恩想是複雜的，我們將有意識地圍繞這些思想進行討論。但是很清楚，假定建築是一種用表現雕塑的方法：來作為「表達的」手段，或者假定藝術和工藝之間的區別應用於建築中是設想以純淨為標誌的話，這顯然是一種誤解。有些拙劣的功能主義理論非常荒謬，（有一種理論，正如西奧菲•戈非耶（TheophileGautier）曾經提出的那樣，認為盥洗室的完美就是整個建築立志要達到的完美），用這種理論看待建築是完全錯誤的。很簡單，一棟建築物的價值不可能不依賴它的實用性而被人們所理解。對建築持純粹的「雕塑」觀，這當然是可能的；但是，這就是要把建築作為形式來對待，而它的美學性質只是偶然地與某種功能相結合。質地、外表、形狀，象徵和表達，現在已開始佔有優勢，遠遠超過了那些通常被認為專門是建築的美學目的。建築的「裝飾」因素呈現出一種異常活躍的狀況，同時變得比任何純裝飾的活動都更有個性。例如，我們看到高第（Gaudi）設汁的位於聖科洛馬德塞維洛地方的科洛尼亞• 蓋爾教堂（The charel of the Colonia Guell, Sante Coloma de Servello））。這樣一棟建築物試圖把自己表現成不像建築的東西，它像樹生長的形狀，而不考慮與工程相適應。在這裡，它的奇特性是來自於某種企圖，那就是要將裝飾傳統轉用到結構原理中去。在16 世紀由卡新蒂奧（J.de Castilho》設計的葡萄牙式窗上，那種傳統的性質是很明顯的。從結構和建築的角度看，這種窗戶不是有機的產物，它的誘人之處就在於它裝飾成那種樣子。然而，對於高迪來說，這種偶然性已經變成了必然性，並且，那種號稱是建築的東西，不再能這樣理解了，而只能把它當作為一件從內部看的，而且是精心製作的表現主義雕塑。也許正是這種相同的建築雕塑觀，在埃及金字塔的光潔幾何體中找到了建築意義。實際上，正是金字塔，被黑格爾認為是建築的範例，因為它的紀念性格，它的穩定性，以及黑格爾認為是全然無用的東西使他看到了它的唯一功能就是象徵功能，它已脫離了任何實際的或可能的用途。現在，除了由高迪所做的那種眾所周知的作品以外，還有一些打破建築與雕塑區別的嘗試。如安德列•布勞克（Andri Bloc〉已建造了某種“可居住的雕塑”，設計這種雕塑是為了滿足傳統的用途，而這種用途只是遵循“雕塑”的組織原理。但是，這種雄心壯志卻標誌著思想的極端混亂。如果建築真的作為雕塑來理解，那麼它的完善和優美就必須依賴於所用形式的均衡和可表達性這些因素。成功並不和居住雕塑的效果或與感覺有什麼重大的聯繫，這種感覺是在其內部生活、飲食和工作的自然結果，而不是像人們逛私人博物館那樣穿過它的結果。換句話說，成功的標準不是根據建築學的因素；而結構的可居住性這個事實，將是一個奇怪的，並且是不相干的特徵，就像尼爾遜（Nelson）的柱子為鳥提供了一個方便的棲息之處那樣。如果要從二者中選擇的話，那麼們可能僅僅或主要是參考某些感受，來判斷一個雕塑的成功與否。這種感受乃是透過居住於其中或將其認為是居住場所而產生的。如果真是如此的話，那麼很清楚，我們對「雕塑」的反應將與我們對通常稱之為藝術作品的反應有很大的不同，而且，我們希望，遵循美學的法則，這並不會被轉變為雕塑美的標準。我們大概會發現，正如我們對高第的小札拜堂那種奇形怪狀的樹根似的東西感到不滿一樣，我們對布勞克的住所中那種粗糙的、起伏不平的牆面，同樣感到不滿。人們不知道某種東西到底是什麼，卻能夠或多或少抽像地判斷這個東西的美，除此以外，建築的雕塑觀還包含著一種錯誤概念；就好像我能夠為你提供一個物體：它也許是一塊石頭、一件雕塑、一個盒子、一個水果，甚至是一隻動物，希望你在知道它是什麼樣子以前告訴我它是否美。通常，我們可能會說—部分人反對那種確定的美學傳統（這種傳統在18世紀經驗主義的表現中可以找到，在康德的觀點中更為突出）－我們對個物體美的感覺總是取決於這種物體的概念，就像我們對人體美的感覺取決於人體本身的概念一樣。我們認為某些特徵在馬的身上是美的—發達的臀部，彎曲的背等等——但它如果放在人身上，我們則會認為是醜的，這種美學判斷也許是取決於我們的概念，即什麼是人，他們是如何活動的，透過活動，他們能得到什麼。同樣，在建築形式中，我們對美的概念不能與建築物的概念以及它們所體現的功能概念分開。

那麼，我們可以把功能主義看成是反對雕塑價值而重新斷言建築價值的這種觀點的一部分。就這點而論，它是試圖透過更微妙、更模糊的先決條件來擴大它的說服力。我們都知道，在建築中，形式「服從」或「表達」或「體現」其功能、構思的觀點，是與維歐列特•勒• 杜克（Viollet一Je—Duc）、沙利文的美國實用主義以及現代運動的某些面向相連結的。現在，還存在著更精緻的普金（Pugin）的功能主義及中古主義者們：根據這個觀點，作為一種愛好的標準或作為一種區分真正的裝飾和無用的廢棄物的手段，都必須對其功能進行判斷。用這樣的觀點解釋形式，功能主義就不再因為要有真實性而套框子了，實際上，直到我們對建築鑑賞的基本特徵有比絞多的了解以前，我們基至都不知道功能主義理論應該怎樣明確表達，更不用說怎樣才能被證實了。

建築更為明顯的特徵就是它的地區性。文學，音樂和繪畫藝術等作品都不受場合的限制，它們可以透過表演或流動展出，甚至在少數情況下，透過複製，在任何地方都能夠為人們所認知。但是也有少數例外，如壁畫和紀念性雕塑，其位置均變化需要注意在美學特徵上的不變，建築可不是這樣。建築物均成它們自己環境的重要特徵，就如它們的環境就是它們的重要特徵一樣。它們不能隨意複製，否則就會造成不合理的和災難性的後果。建築也會在很大程度上受環境變化的影響。因此，就像從泰晤土河的橋上看聖布賴德教堂（St Bride）尖塔的效果已被巴比堪碉堡（Barbican）的鋸齒狀邊緣所破壞一樣，由伯尼尼（Bernini）為聖彼得教堂廣場所作的建築處理手法已部分地被康西利阿松大街（Via Della Conciliazione）的開闢所破壞。我們知道許多建築物的效果有一部分取決於其位置，這是因為它們對空間問題作了很好的解答，如波洛米尼（Borromini）所作的聖卡羅教堂（S. Carlo alle Quttro Fantane ）；或是因為它們建造在吸引人或控制全局的位置上，這對建築物的影響是十分重要的，例如在西西里島的阿格里琴托（Agrigento in Sicily）地方的廟宇；也許是因為它們包含了籠罩整個環境這一偉大的構思，就像凡爾賽宮苑中的那種方式，勒•諾特（Le Notre）的花園對建築上的影響是雄心勃勃的。這並不是說建築是不可複製的。相反，有許多新古典的例子，如雅典的綜合性紀念建築，著名的聖潘克抗斯教堂（St Pancras）。然而，必須承認，複製建築的觀點，通常是不能與複製或拷貝繪畫的觀點相等同的，當然也不同於重新演奏同一段音樂的觀點。這是學究們所幹的事，對藝術作品的自然傳播和欣賞根本不起作用。事實上，對於用這種力法將世界上一個地區的建築引入到另一地區的這種企圖，我們常常會產生某種反感。我們希望建築師根據位置的概念來建造，而不是設計他自己的建築，不應該像許多現代建築那樣可以放在任何地方。的確，建築的天性可以在遊牧部落的住所中顯示自己，但是我們繼承下來的大多數優秀的建築遺產都應歸功於建立在場所概念上的動力；將一個神聖的殉難地點或位置作出標誌，建造一座紀念碑，教堂或地面標誌物。這是希望說明對這塊土地的所有權和統治權。在所有嚴肅的建築中都發現有這種動力，從古代的廟宇和殉教者墳墓，直到朗香教堂和悉尼歌劇院，正是這種動力導致我們很不願意將建築與自然環境割離開來。

這種場所的概念與建築一成不變的最後印象，迫使建造者在各方面進行工作。建築變成了一門整體藝術。對建築來說，至關重要的是它非常容易因周圍環境的變化而受到損害。建築和某些專業都具有這一特徵，例如室內裝飾、服裝以及服從於趣味觀念之下的半道德，半美學的許多活動。在整體中的趣味有一部分是和建築理論中所特別注意的風格與重複的形式有關的。所有嚴肅的建築，都以統一的效果為目標，而實際上，它正在吸引我們和叔本華（Schapenhauer）一樣，認為這種統一只不過是個風格的效果問題。因為引起我們對建築感興趣的和諧性的特殊概念不可能脫離我們對風格的概念來理解。另一方面，認為和諧等於風格的統一，這顯然是錯誤的。如果真是那樣的話，那麼聖馬可廣場的和諧性將是無法解釋的，而像巴黎的聖尤斯塔基教堂（St Eustache）特殊結構的統一性，也很難令人相信會成為古典與哥德部件的組合體。但是，至少我們看到了另一種方法，以這種方法，建築受到外部影響的限制。事物是相互連結的，建築師的雄心並非經常存在於形式的個性之中，而在於對一種秩序的維護，這種秩序在他自己的活動之前就已經存在了。其實，這並不意味著我們應該把建築說成是與城市規劃、造園、裝飾和家具分開的獨立藝術形式。再者，我們似乎已經發現了一個因素，這個因素可以引導我們脫離通常對藝術評價的態度，否則我們對建築的評價會受到許多限制。

建築的另一個特徵就是技術的特徵，在這裡也應該提一下。在建築中，什麼是可能的，這決定於人類能力的大小。在建築中，存在著許多變化、這些變化完全不依賴藝術認識的變化。各種風格的自然發展由於沒有發現美學根源和美學目標而被拋棄在一邊，或被打斷，或因之而突然改變。例如，我們看到鋼筋混凝土的發明以及馬雅（Maillart）把它運用於著名的橋中，這些橋在平面上呈曲線通過峽谷之間的上空，而在這些狹谷間，根本不可能採用直線的通道。這種技術發明的美學效果影響很大，沒有人曾設想過這種樣子，在以後的發展中也很少有人會如此設想。在音樂、文學和繪畫中，發展的概念比較接近於轉變對藝術的態度，也就是轉變藝術創作精神。的確，也可能有許多技術的發明，如鋼琴的發明，實際上就打破了美學意識的潮流（還有其它，如小提琴、單簧管、薩克管和華格納低音號等的發明，它們更自然地被看成是趣味改變的結果）；同時，還有一些工程技術的成就（如伯魯乃列斯基所作的穹頂），它們來自於對美的渴望，這些偶然的相似性只能說明建築和其它藝術之間有實際的區別。因此，人們必須以某種懷疑態度來看待那些評論家，這些評論家把現代運動讚美成是一種具有時代精神的建築形式的創作，就好像這些形式的變化只是藝術事業的產物，而不是工程技術的產物。

建築的公共性質為它提供了一個更重要的明顯特徵。一件建築作品要達到可能造成的樣子，不管每一個群眾是否注意這座建築，它都不讓一般人去進行自由選擇。也許根本不存在建築師藉以創造其公共性的真正意識。情況完全不同於音樂、文學和繪畫，它們是或已經變成自由批判選擇的對象。倒如詩歌和音樂已經確實變成有意識的「現代的」東西，因為在對「現代」的追求過程中，他們已經能夠為自己創造出新奇活潑的東西而獲得聽眾。很清楚，建築師能夠改變公眾的愛好，但是他要做到這一點，只有通過把自己置身於整個公眾之中，而不是僅置身於某些受過教育或受過一半教育的那部分人中。因此，建築中的「現代主義」產生了一個特殊問題，它不是受其它藝術形式的現代主義影嚮而產生的。

從這個觀點出發再回到難以捉摸的但卻是基本的「表達」概念上來，這是恰當的，因為這個概念是作為藝術的特徵，甚至是藝術的原則和目的。不管這個術語表示什麼意思（後面我將試圖較確切地說它所表示的意思），在像建築這種公共性的藝術中，「表達」不可能像詩歌，繪畫、音樂這些私人藝術那樣具有重要意義。私人藝術以其「個性」手法和特殊的魅力獲得了極大的表達特徵。據說：「萊西達斯」（Lycidas）表達了一種微妙的傷感：《飛行的荷蘭人》序曲表達了一種強烈的思念；這裡是以傳遞的行為作為參考的。當然我們不需要把這種感情歸因於米爾頓（Milton）或瓦格納（Wagner），但是，我們聽到他們的作品就像是親身感受的直接表達，就像我們聽到一段動人的詩歌那樣。建築的表達特徵，沒有也不可能具有這種私人的性質。它們寧可存在於風格和手法的客觀表達之中，存在於非個人的和非特殊的意義之中，這種意義就好像是從遠處用一種公共的聲音對我們說話。我們注意到的只是勞倫廷（Laurentian）圖書館前廳的動態，而不會考慮人們在它裡面的個人感受。如果我們也被建築與思想的聯繫而打動的話，那麼它將是一般的無個性的思想狀態，正如“時代精神”一樣，它已經深深地滲透到裝飾藝術的現代評論之中。

我已提到，現代主義在建築中所引起的問題是「私人」的藝術形式所不會引起的。因為現代主義在其他藝術中依賴某種認識的主觀能動性。關於這一點，我指的是現代主義既在有意識地追求觀眾，並且在它的表達目的上，肯定是有個性的。讓我們來考思一下勳伯格（Schoenberg）非凡的藝術，他指出他已提供了形式和結構的準則，這些準則來自於聽覺的觀點：這是與那些古典傳統相一致的。對於受過教育的耳朵來說，伯格的主題是可以理解的，就像莫札特（Mozart）的曲調一樣充滿了音樂含意的感染。甚至勳伯格主題中最美妙的旋律（如鋼琴協奏曲的開敞主題）達到了象理解莫札特樂曲一樣的水平，這一點人們當然是可以懷疑的，而且甚至人們還可以懷疑，人們是否應該聽到勳伯格的主旋律好像是古典樂曲手法的變化（就是說，向結尾的遞進）。如果是這樣的話，毋庸置疑，勳伯格面臨的音樂感受的轉變是自覺的，而建築感受通常則不可能採用這種方式。勳伯格認為，音樂以其自身的傳統獲得了延續性——現代風格正是由於依靠了這種傳統給自己作了解釋，並認為沒有傳統，「現代主義」就沒有恰當的意義—對於傳統的程序要用自覺轉變的方式。即使在聽眾中對於十二音（twelve-note）體系的規則沒有明確的理解，也會覺得以下觀點是正確的，即在某種意義上，聽眾不僅需要沉浸於音樂之中，而且還同時富有想像力地要改造這種傳統。勳伯格所認為的傳統也就是艾利歐特（T. S.Eliot）所認為的傳統，即一種被現代意識所重新發現的理想，而不是每個人都能獲得的，不管他的想像力處於什麼狀態。此外，我懷疑勳伯格的真正「現代」音樂的特殊理想能夠不借助於表達的主觀概念而為人們所理懈。由於考慮人們怎樣才可以理解表達的思想，（這一點對現代音樂的真正概念極為重要，）因此，古典風格再也不可能適應現代意識了，像貝多芬或布拉姆斯（Brahms）那樣作曲也是不可能了，儘管托維爵士（Sir Donald Tovey）在後來作了很大的努力。當然，這種想法也會要求人們去表現那些多少已衰竭的現存的音樂形式和方法。它們己經被廢止，這不是因為它們引起我們的厭煩（因為我們從來不會討厭莫札特），而是因為它們不可能讓現代作曲家表達他所希望的東西。它們不能適應現代意識的全部複雜性，也沒有透過自己來表達現代人的真實感覺。正是因為音樂、詩歌和繪畫至少有一部分是以這種表現主義的方式所為人們所了解，因而它們的自我意識的重新建立就變得很容易為人們所接受。藝術家的能力是要爭取觀眾，要求觀眾具有他們自己的現代化的永恆意識，這不僅是事業取得成功的先決條件，而月也是某種意圖的先決條件。正是用這種方法，甚至在文化的混沌狀況下，（在一種風格被成功地採用之前），透過發現任意選擇和任意約束的首要因素，才能使音樂、繪畫和文學繼續具有活力。

我很懷疑我們是否能自由地對建築也採取那樣一種前面提到過的態度。因為我懷疑把建築看作一種個人表現的形式，也懷疑建築只是為「現代意識」構思一種有意識的姿態。建築是公共性的，不管我們的希望和我們的印像是什麼，它都強迫自己要這樣做。而且它佔有空間：或者把以前存在的東西擠出去，或者試圖與它們融合和協調。正如拉斯金所強調的那樣，建築學是藝術中政治性最強的，因此它不依賴於任何個人意志而把人的觀察力和目標強加給那些生活在它裡面的人身上。當然，所有的藝術都已經並繼續為政治目的服務。但是，不管每個人的愛好和能力怎樣，當他被迫面臨周圍的建築物，並被迫從它們那裡接受它們所包含的不管什麼政治意義的時候，只有文學愛好者才會受到莎士比亞歷史眼光的影響，或受到幻想意識的影響。一座建築可以作為一個歷史發展的視覺標誌，或作為近來流行要求的信息。正如我們所知，建築正在遺棄其傳統形式的過程中，不可能在主觀意志下直接得到發展，就像音樂能得到發展那樣。建築學可以更新，但它不可能是應用新近西方音樂的那種「現代的」特殊概念。建築學透過創造新的期望而變得新穎，但通常需要對某種以前就存在的風格進行修改，（就像哥特式建築出現的情況那樣，休格《Abbot Suger》在聖丹尼斯教堂《St Denis》中的成就是仍然很有創意的）；另外也可以透過對以前某種成功的手法進行模仿而達到更新的目的。當然，每一種藝術形式都會復興，而在某方面看，18世紀“哥特” 風格的興起可以看作為受—-部分浪漫的中世紀主義的刺激所造成的，這種風格同時席捲了許多藝術。此外，像建築一樣，文學也有其周期性的“古典復興”；例如在法國戲劇和在奧古斯坦（Augustan）的諷刺文學中。但是，建築的復興傾向比這更為厲害。文學的「復興」是一種模仿，在模仿過程中，思想、感受和措辭都完全保持著現代性。確實，人們不能想在文學或音樂中，以斯特拉文斯基（Stravinsky）的新古典主義方式或以莫里斯（Morris）對中世紀崇拜的方式使其完餘返回到以前的風格中去，而這種風格的回歸不是某種方式的諷刺。另一方面，在建築上，人們在整個歷史中，偶然會遇到一些類似風格的復興，這些復興不僅完全存在於它們的目的之中，而且完全改變了建築發展的進程。實際上，這些復興的延續已經達到這樣的程度，以至於使「復興」這個詞幾乎是不適用了。在我們對待建築的態度中，提出尊重過去的特徵，並允許這樣的返回，而同時也保留相反做法的無罪，這種意見肯定不是沒有根據的。對嚴肅的建築師來說，過去不是作為一種適應「現代」意志的自覺行動而被人們所擁有的遺產，而是作為一件永久的事實，作為現在的擴大部分而存在的。從維特魯威，經過文藝復興到哥德復興，對建築的反應只有一個，它同時是實用的，又是向後看的。甚至列杜（Ledonx）所設想的未來建築也是以建築的象徵主義概念及建築細部的概念為基礎的，從其傾向來看，都是博學的古典主義者。這種尊重過去的廣為傳布已被最近試圖打破它那種歇斯底里的性質所證實。

但是，也許建築學最重要的特徵，即在我們生活的各個方面都為建築確立一個特殊地位和意義的特徵，就是建築和裝飾藝術的連續性，以及和這個目標相適應的多樣性。甚至當建築師有了一個確定的審美目的時，建築也不可能超出某種要求，這就是說，他們的作品應該「看起來合適」。正是因為用這種方法，桌子和椅子，桌子佈置的位置，餐巾的折疊方法，書本的佈置等，對於任何人來說也會「看起來正確」。建築主要是一種鄉土藝術：它首先或主要是作為佈置的過程而存在的，在佈置的過程中，每個普通的人對於他建造的和裝飾的房屋，或佈置的房間椰可以參加，而且確實是參加佈置。建築的目的，通常不是藝術史工作者所給於的那些“意思”，也不是有意識地把自己說成是藝術。它是一般人類活動的自然發展，不受任何限制，也沒有「藝術概念」的責任，也與浪漫主義的藝術願望或黑格爾的「概念」無關。

建築的鄉土性，在各處都有實例。我們絕不會因為發現一根支著酒桌的陶立克柱子，以及發現蛋和鏢的裝飾線放在衣櫃、哥特式衣帽架、包豪斯轉角櫃上而感到驚訝，也不會奇怪一個茶葉罐遵循黃金分割的規律。在運用「鄉土性」這個術語的過程中，我並不打算解釋這些流行形式的持久性。我也不會提出這樣的建議，即認為有一種鄉土風格可以推薦給建造者作為一種明確的目標，如約輸•薩默森爵士（Sir John Summerson）（就曾經極力主張與設想鄉土性是一個目標，而不是一個現實的縮影，把鄉土性看成是一個幻想。）但是，我卻要提出：建築鄉土性的存在和優勢是建築與其它藝術之間存在差距的必然結果，這種差距使建築與其它藝術相分離，也是因為建築藝術相對地缺乏真正藝術創作自由的結果，事實上，在大多數情況下，一個建造者必須使他的作品與某些預先存在著的、不可改變的形式相適應，在各方面都受到種種影響的限制，這些影響不允許他有太多的自覺的「藝術」目標。很簡單，建築是一種實用學科的概念，它要與人們日常生活中存在的各個事物相適應。有人可能會說，在提出建築美學的過程中，人們必然會提出，它至少是一種日常生活的美學。人們已經離開了高級藝術王國而走向普通實際的智慧領域。這裡，人們可能開始看到，對於描述正常人的正常的美學判斷來說，後浪漫主義的藝術思想是多麼的不合適，它的所有概念，如表達的概念，是多麼的含糊不清。

以這些差異為背景，我們必須認識到，要對建築學作任何清楚明確的評論存在著很大的困難。如果撇開文學甚至音樂評論的成就不管，實際上，建築評論的標準著作看起來確實是很粗淺的。偶然，當批評家準備評論建築的時候，例如宣稱某憧建築或某種風格是醜陋的或不成功的，他們就像普金和拉斯金以及功能主義者那樣，用一種特殊的教條主義，以及用一種無爭議的通則經常去懷疑它們的結論。判斷經常帶有無法評論的倫理主義的面具，它很難得把自己建立在對個別建築要個別對待的基礎上。而批判主義的觀念，近來卻得到了理查茲（I.A. Richards）和利維斯（F. R. Leavis）的大力支持—批判主義的觀念，作為個人反應的一種清楚表達和辯護，它不是孤立的「美學」衝動，而是一種感情的表達，這種感情與個人生活的中心緊密相聯——但是在建築評論中，批判主義的觀念很少有支持者。價值問題經常透過一種特殊的道德準則概念而在外界得到介紹，這種道德準則我們將在以後的章節中進行分析。價值問題也可能透過含混不清的和一般化的「意義」的概念而被介紹，這種概念可能毫無區別地應用於任何風格的建築中。通常，對某些沒有受過特教育的人來說，在口頭上表達建築的美麗幾乎是不可能的；如果象“比例”、“和諧”、“空間”和“氣氛”這樣的術語突然出現在人們腦子裡的話，這種術語不是作為一種準則，那是因為這些術語使人聯想到非常清楚的一般概念。亨利•沃賴爵士（Sir Henry Wotton）曾經把帕都亞地方的聖吉鳥斯蒂納教堂（Santa Giustina in Padua）描述為「一種非常好的藝術作品，在這座建築中，其材料只不過是普通的石頭，沒有任何雕刻作裝飾，而母鹿的造型卻透過比例的和諧而使參觀者入迷（但是他不知道是怎樣使人入迷的）」。當他描述這段話時，參觀者幾乎都在屏息靜聽。

我已用比較堅定的態度描述了建築的這些特徵，為的是要人們記住一個難點，否則就可能會被忽略。美學以審美的興趣和藝術的概念作為起點，通常不會停下來檢驗這兩種概念是否存在著任何意義的統一性。我所提出的這些想法，其實是非常需要的解釋。很清楚，與前面提到過的那些相似的特徵，有時也能在其他的藝術中發現。正如偶然的詩句和餐桌音樂也有其主導功能；壁畫不可能不喪失其特徵而總是移動，早期的教堂音樂也不可能以更微妙的方法在現代音樂廳裡保持其精神。和許多裝飾藝術起延續下來的繪畫，必然會表示出傾向於公共性，這點我己在建築特徵中闡明過了。此外，也經常可以發現有幾種不同的藝術形式，它們的各自特徵都直接統一在建築的公共性和實用性之中。另一方面，我們必須記住，哲學家常會認為好像可以用美學觀點來對待任何事物，不論它是一篇哲學文章，一則數學驗證，或是撿來的東西也好、因此，雖然我們可以有理由認為我們有時可以把建築作為美學對象來看待，但是卻並不是認為在對建築進行評論時，我們是從美學的角度上來鑑賞它們的。當我們從美學的觀點來檢查一項論證時，我們並不只是把它看作為數學，因為我們不考慮它的美學力量也完全能理解它的數學正確性。那麼，美學觀點可能只是在表面上與建築的藝術有關；情況可能是這樣：美學要求在建築師的實踐中，只是一個次要的刺激因素，而決不是其根本目的。當然，我們還不太知道這些「美學」的要求是什麼。但是，也許我們能夠獲得某些相反的認識，如果我們考慮剛才所預示的這種觀點，即：一座建築物主要是根據它的實用而為人們所了解，那麼要是可能的話，在建造者的事業中是根本不需要受美學限制的。

THE AESTHETICS OF ARCHITECTURE - ROGER SCRUTON

INTRODUCTION THE PROBLEM OF ARCHITECTURE

The subject of aesthetics is as old as philosophy; nevertheless, it takes its modern form from Kant, who was the first philosopher to suggest that the sense of beauty is a distinct and autonomous employment of the human mind comparable to moral and scientific understanding. Kant's division of the mental faculties, into theoretical, practical and aesthetic (or, as he put it, understanding, practical reason and judgement), provided the starting point for all later investigations, and gave to aesthetics the central position in philosophy which it occupied through much of the nineteenth century and would, but for established scholasticism, occupy even now. What I say in this book will show the influence of Kant; but I shall try to demonstrate that the division between practical reason and aesthetic understanding is in fact untenable, and that until the relation between the two is re-established they must both remain impoverished.

The first task of aesthetics must lie in the correct understanding of certain mental capacities - capacities for experience and judgement. I shall therefore be discussing questions in the philosophy of mind, and my concern will be to understand the nature and value of our interest in architecture. Now it is necessary to distinguish the philosophy of mind from empirical psychology. A philosopher's prime concern is with the nature of our interest in architecture, and if he sometimes talks, as a psychologist would, of its causes, then this is only because he thinks of these causes as casting light on the aesthetic experience. For the philosopher the question is not what causes us to prefer Lincoln cathedral to the minster of York, but rather, what is aesthetic preference - what is it, to prefer one cathedral to another? And what significance does such a preference have for us? The philosopher wishes to describe aesthetic experience in its most general terms, so as to discover its precise location in the human mind, its relation, for example, to sensation, to emotion and to judgement. This task he conceives of as a necessary preliminary to any discussion of the significance and value of art. Suppose, for example, that it were shown that people prefer smooth stone to rough, straight lines to squiggles, symmetrical to irregular forms. Those are psychological observations of no relevance to aesthetics. Nor are the explanations of those preferences relevant to our enquiry. It does not matter that the preference for smooth against rough can be 'explained' in terms of Kleinian psychology, or the preference for symmetrical forms in terms of the organisation of the optic nerves. Those facts are, no doubt, of some interest in themselves; but they presuppose, for their proper understanding,the kind of study that I shall be engaged in. If I refer to psychological hypotheses in the ensuing chapters, it will therefore only be because some of them have been thought to be especially relevant to the nature and validity of aesthetic argument.

But now, it will be said, psychology too is concerned with the nature of experience, and not only with its causes. How then is it to be distinguished from the 'philosophy of mind' that I shall be engaged in? A simple answer is this: psychology investigates facts, while philosophy studies concepts. But, as recent philosophers have shown, that answer is far too simple. Philosophy does not merely describe the concepts of the common understanding, nor does it deal only with concepts, if that is meant to imply that its conclusions are innocent of matters of fact. Indeed, there is no more troublesome question for philosophy than the question of its own nature, and the reader must necessarily rest content with a partial answer. Philosophy, as exemplified in these pages, attempts to give the most general description possible of the phenomena to which it is applied. Such a description tells us, quite simply, what we are talking about when we refer to something. If we do not know what we are talking about, then all scientific enquiry is pointless. Usually the knowledge of what we are talking about is tacit and unarticulated; the task of philosophy is to make it explicit. And that is not a simple task. As we shall see, many writers on the topic of architecture have either failed to make explicit, or failed even to possess, a knowledge of the thing which they purport to be discussing.

Furthermore, philosophy is not interested in any particular person's concept' of architecture, or of the aesthetic, or whatever. It is interested only in the concept to which it can ascribe a general significance. For philosophy also aims at the discovery of value. The only interesting philosophical account of aesthetic experience is the account which shows its importance, and this is the account that I wish to present.

I shall be concerned with such questions as the following: what is it to enjoy a building? What kind of experience is derived from the contemplation of architecture? What is taste? Are there rules which govern the exercise of taste? And so on. While those questions concern mental phenomena - understanding, experience, taste - they also impute to them a certain characteristic kind of object. Now it is impossible to describe or understand a mental state in isolation from its object: it might be said that the object, or at least a certain conception of the object, is of the essence of a mental state. Consider, for example, the emotion of jealousy. It would be impossible to describe the nature of jealousy without exploring the nature of its characteristic object. A person feels jealousy not as he would a fleeting sensation in his toe; if he is jealous, he is jealous of or about something - his jealousy is 'directed', it has an object and not just a cause. Jealousy, therefore, will involve some characteristic conception of its object,and to describe jealousy is to describe this conception (the conception, as one might put it, of a rival). In just such a way, a theory of architectural appreciation cannot stop short of giving a theory of its proper object. We shall then be led, at every juncture, into an enquiry into the nature and significance of architecture.

In the light of that, it is not surprising that theories of architectural appreciation have tended to concentrate not so much on its form as on its object. They attempt to say what architectural appreciation is by describing what we respond to in buildings. Functionalism, in one of its many forms, asserts that we appreciate the aptness of form to function. Other theories argue that we appreciate symmetry and harmony, ornament and execution, or mass. There is also the popular view, associated with the work of Frankl and his followers, that the object of appreciation is space, or the play of interlocking spaces. Now clearly, if we are to think of the analysis of the object of architectural interest as casting light on the nature of appreciation, then we must consider the object only under its widest possible description. As I shall show, none of the theories that I have mentioned provides a satisfactory description, since each ignores some feature of architecture that is both intentional and of the greatest architectural significance. Their claim to give a priori grounds for critical judgement is therefore unconvincing. In place of such theories, I shall try to approach the question more formally, concentrating on appreciation in itself, in abstraction from its object. I shall then try to say how that object must be, if appreciation is to have the significance we demand of it.

It is essential to distinguish architectural aesthetics, as I conceive it, from something else that sometimes goes by the same name, but which one might call, for clarity's sake, architectural theory. Architectural theory consists in the attempt to formulate the maxims, rules and precepts which govern, or ought to govern, the practice of the builder. For example, the classical theory of the Orders, as it is found in the great treatises of Vitruvius, Alberti, Serlio and Vignola, which lays down rules for the systematic combination and ornamentation of the parts of a building, belongs to architectural theory; so too do most of the precepts contained in Ruskin's The Stones of Venice and Seven Lamps. Such precepts assume that we already know what we are seeking to achieve: the nature of architectural success is not at issue; the question is, rather, how best to achieve it. A theory of architecture impinges on aesthetics only if it claims a universal validity, for then it must aim to capture the essence, and not the accidents, of architectural beauty. But such a theory is implicitly philosophical, and must be judged accordingly; we will wish to know whether it succeeds in establishing its claims a priori, by a consideration of the phenomena in their most abstract and universal guise. As a matter of fact it has been characteristic of architectural theorists, from Vitruvius to Le Corbusier, to claim this universal validity for their laws. And no architectural aesthetics can leave such claims untouched.

Vitruvius, Alberti, Ruskin and Le Corbusier cannot all be right in believing that their favoured form of architecture is uniquely authorised by the rational understanding. As we shall see, they are all wrong.

It may still be thought that there is no real subject of architectural, as opposed to general, aesthetics. If philosophy is to be as abstract as I claim it is, ought it not to consider the aesthetic experience in its full generality, in isolation from the accidental constraints imposed by particular art forms and particular conceptions of success? Why is there any special need for a philosophy of architecture, other than the purely ephemeral one, that architecture is misunderstood by so many of its present practitioners? Is there not one and the same concept of beauty employed in the discussion of poetry, music, painting and building, and is there not one single faculty involved in the appreciation of all those arts? Once we have made the distinction between architectural aesthetics and architectural theory it may seem that little remains to the former other than the delineation of abstractions that have no special application to the practise of the architect. And it is certainly true that philosophers have approached the subject of aesthetics as though it could find expression only in such comprehensive abstractions, and could make none but passing and inessential references to the individual forms of art.

Now as a matter of fact architecture presents an immediate problem for any such general philosophical theory of aesthetic interest. Through its impersonal and at the same time functional qualities architecture stands apart from the other arts, seeming to require quite peculiar attitudes, not only for its creation, but also for its enjoyment. Generalised theories of aesthetic interest, such as those of Kant and Schopenhauer, tend to give rather odd accounts of architecture, and those philosophers who have treated the problem seriously - among whom Hegel is perhaps the most prominent - have often described the appreciation of architecture in terms inappropriate to the other forms of art. For Hegel, for example, architecture was a medium only half articulate, unable to give full expression to the Idea, and hence relegated to the level of pure symbolism, from which it must be redeemed by statuary and ornament. It is not difficult to see why Hegel should have thought that. It is natural to suppose that representational arts, such as painting, drama, poetry and sculpture, give rise to an interest unlike the interest aroused by such abstract arts as music and architecture. But it is also natural to suppose that music has expressive, sensuous and dramatic powers in common with the representational arts. Only architecture seems to stand wholly apart from them, being distinguished from the other arts by certain features that cannot fail to determine our attitude towards it. I shall begin by discussing these features, since a grasp of them will be essential to understanding later arguments, and since they will show what a frail and fragmentary thing is this concept of 'art' that we have inherited.

First among these distinguishing features is utility or function. Buildings are places where human beings live, work and worship, and a certain form is imposed from the outset by the needs and desires that a building is designed to fulfil. While it is not possible to compose a piece of music without intending that it should be listened to and hence appreciated, it is certainly possible to design a building without intending that it should be looked at - without intending, that is, to create an object of aesthetic interest. Even when there is an attempt to apply 'aesthetic' standards in architecture, we still find a strong asymmetry with other forms of art. For no work of music or literature can have features of which we may say that, because of the function of music, or because of the function of literature, such features are unavoidable. Of course a work of music or literature may have a function, as do waltzes, marches and Pindaric odes. But these functions do not stem from the essence of literary or musical art. A Pindaric ode is poetry put to a use; and poetry in itself is connected only accidentally with such uses.

'Functionalism' has many forms. Its most popular form is the aesthetic theory that true beauty in architecture consists in the adapting of form to function. For the sake of argument, however, we might envisage a functionalist theory of exemplary crudeness, which argues that, since architecture is essentially a means to an end, we appreciate buildings as means. Hence the value of a building is determined by the extent to which it fulfils its function and not by any purely 'aesthetic' considerations. This theory might naturally seem to have the consequence that the appreciation of architecture is wholly unlike the appreciation of other forms of art, these being valued not as means, but for their own sakes, as ends. However, to put the point in that way is to risk obscurity - for what is the distinction between valuing something as a means and as an end? Even if we feel confident about one term of that distinction (about what it is to value something as a means), we must surely feel considerable doubt about the term with which it is contrasted. What is it to value something as an end? Consider one celebrated attempt to clarify the concept - that of the English philosopher R. G. Collingwood? Collingwood began his exploration of art and the aesthetic from a distinction between art and craft. Initially it seems quite reasonable to distinguish the attitude of the craftsman - who aims at a certain result and does what he can to achieve it - from that of the artist, who knows what he is doing, as it were, only when it is done. But it is precisely the case of architecture which casts doubt on that distinction. For whatever else it is, architecture is certainly, in Collingwood's sense, a craft. The utility of a building is not an accidental property; it defines the architect's endeavour. To maintain this sharp distinction between art and craft is simply to ignore the reality of architecture - not because architecture is a mixture of art and craft (for, as Collingwood recognised, that is true of all esthetic activity) but because architecture represents an almost indescribable synthesis of the two. The functional qualities of a building are of its essence, and qualify every task to which the architect addresses himself. It is impossible to understand the element of art and the element of craft independently, and in the light of this difficulty the two concepts seem suddenly to possess a formlessness that their application to the 'fine' arts serves generally to obscure.

Moreover, the attempt to treat architecture as a form of 'art' in Colling-wood's sense involves taking a step towards expressionism, towards seeing architecture in the way that one might see sculpture or painting, as an expressive activity, deriving its nature and value from a peculiarly artistic aim. For Collingwood 'expression' was the primary aim of art precisely because there could be no craft of expression. In the case of expression, there can be no rule or procedure, such as might be followed by a craftsman, with a clear end in view and a clear means to its fulfilment; it was therefore through the concept of 'expression' that he tried to clarify the distinction between art and craft. Collingwood put the point in the following way: expression is not so much a matter of finding the symbol for a subjective feeling, as of coming to know, through the act of expression, just what the feeling is. Expression is part of the realisation of the inner life, the making intelligible what is otherwise ineffable and confused. An artist who could already identify the feeling which he sought to express might indeed approach his work in the spirit of a craftsman, applying some body of techniques which tell him what he must do to express that particular feeling. But then he would not need those techniques, for if he can identify the feeling it is because he has already expressed it. Expression is not, therefore, an activity whose goal can be defined prior to its achievement; it is not an activity that can be described in terms of end and means. So if art is expression, it cannot be craft (although its realisation may also involve the mastery of many subsidiary crafts).

Those thoughts are complex, and we shall have cause to return to them. But clearly, it would be a gross distortion to assume that architecture is an 'expressive' medium in just the way that sculpture might be, or that the distinction between art and craft applies to architecture with the neatness which such a view supposes. Despite the absurdities of our crude functionalism (a theory which, as Théophile Gautier once pointed out, has the consequence that the perfection of the water closet is the perfection to which all architecture aspires), it is wrong to see architecture in such a way. The value of a building simply cannot be understood independently of its utility. It is of course possible to take a merely 'sculptural' view of architecture; but that is to treat buildings as forms whose aesthetic nature is conjoined only accidentally to a certain function. Texture, surface, form, representation and expression now begin to take precedence over those aesthetic aims which we would normally consider to be specifically architectural. The "decorative' aspect of architecture assumes an unwonted autonomy, and at the same time becomes something more personal than any act of mere decoration would be. Consider, for example, the Chapel of the Colonia Guëll, Santa Coloma de Cervelló, by Gaudì . Such a building tries to represent itself as something other than architecture, as a form of treelike growth rather than balanced engineering. The strangeness here comes from the attempt to translate a decorative tradition into a structural principle. In the sixteenth-century Portuguese window by J. de Castilho the nature of that tradition is apparent. Structurally and architecturally the window is not an organic growth; its charm lies in its being decked out like that. In Gaudì, however, the accidental has become the essential, and what purports to be architecture can no longer be understood as such, but only as a piece of elaborate expressionist sculpture seen from within. It is perhaps the same sculptural view of architecture which finds an architectural significance in the polished geometry of an Egyptian pyramid. It was indeed the pyramid which Hegel regarded as the paradigm of architecture, since its monumental quality, its solidity, and what he took to be its utter uselessness enabled him to see its sole function as a symbolic one, divorced from any actual or possible employment.

Now there have been attempts other than the spectacular one by Gaudì to break down the distinction between architecture and sculpture. André Bloc, for example, has built certain 'inhabitable sculptures', designed to answer to traditional uses while obeying only 'sculptural' principles of organisation. But such an enterprise is marked by a singular confusion of thought. If the building is really to be understood as sculpture, then its excellence and beauty must depend upon such factors as the balance and expressiveness of the forms employed. Success can bear no significant relation either to the effectiveness of the sculpture as a place of habitation, or to the feelings which are the natural consequence of living, eating and working in it, rather than strolling through it as one might through a private museum. In other words, the standard of success will not be architectural at all, and the fact of the structure's being inhabitable will be a curious but irrelevant feature, like the fact that Nelson's column provides a convenient roosting place for birds. Alternatively, we may judge the 'sculpture' successful only, or primarily, by reference to the feelings which arise from inhabiting it, or from thinking of it as a place of habitation. If that is so, then clearly our response to the 'sculpture' will be quite unlike our response to the works of art which normally go by that name, and we shall expect an obedience to aesthetic constraints which cannot be reduced to the sculptural canons of beauty. We are likely to find ourselves dissatisfied, for example, with the rough and undulating walls of Bloc's habitacle, just as with the strange root-like quality of Gaudì's chapel. The sculptural view of architecture involves the mistaken idea than one can somehow judge the beauty of a thing in abstracto, without knowing what kind of thing it is; as though I could present you with an object that might be a stone, a sculpture, a box, a fruit or even an animal, and expect you to tell me whether it is beautiful before knowing what it is. In general we might say - in partial opposition to a certain tradition in aesthetics (the tradition which finds expression in eighteenth-century empiricism, and more emphatically in Kant) - that our sense of the beauty of an object is always dependent on a conception of that object, just as our sense of the beauty of a human figure is dependent on a conception of that figure. Features that we would regard as beautiful in a horse - developed haunches, a curved back, and so on - we would regard as ugly in a man, and this aesthetic judgement would be determined by our conception of what men are, how they move, and what they achieve through their movements. In a similar way, our sense of the beauty in architectural forms cannot be divorced from our conception of buildings and of the functions that they fulfil.

Functionalism can be seen, then, as part of an attempt to reassert architectural against sculptural values. As such it has sought to extend its explanatory powers through more subtle, and more vague, presuppositions. We are told that in architecture form 'follows', 'expresses' or 'embodies' function, ideas associated with Viollet-le-Duc, with the American pragmatism of Sullivan, and with certain aspects of the modern movement. There is also the more subtle functionalism of Pugin and the medievalists; according to this view the reference to function is necessary as a standard of taste, a means of distinguishing genuine ornament from idle excrescence. In such diluted forms, functionalism no longer has the ring of necessary truth. Indeed, until we know a little more about the essential features of architectural appreciation we will not even know how the theory of functionalism should be formulated, let alone how it might be proved.

A further distinguishing feature of architecture is its highly localised quality. Works of literature, music and pictorial art can be realised in an infinite number of locations, either through being performed or moved, or even, in the limiting case, reproduced. With certain rare exceptions - frescoes, for example, and monumental sculpture - this change of place need involve no change in aesthetic character. The same cannot be true of architecture. Buildings constitute important features of their own environment, as their environment is an important feature of them; they cannot be reproduced at will without absurd and disastrous consequences. Buildings are also affected to an incalculable extent by changes in their surroundings. Thus the architectural coup de théâtre planned by Bernini for the piazza of St Peter's has been partially destroyed by the opening up of the Via Della Conciliazione, as the effect of the spire of St Bride's from the Thames bridges has been destroyed by the saw-like edges of the Barbican. We know of buildings whose effect depends in part on their location, either because they are ingenious solutions to problems of space - such as Borromini's church of S. Carlo alle Quattro Fontane - or because they are built in some striking or commanding position that is essential to their impact - such as the temple at Agrigento in Sicily - or because they involve a grandeur of conception that embraces a whole environment, in the manner of Versailles, where the architectural influence of Le Nôtre's garden is infinite in ambition. This is not to say that buildings cannot be reproduced - there are several neo-classica examples to the contrary, such as the composite souvenir of Athens known as St. Pancras' church. However, it must be acknowledged that the point of reproducing buildings is not generally comparable to the point of reproducing or copying paintings, and is certainly unlike the point of performing the same piece of music again. It is a scholarly exercise, playing no part in the natural distribution and enjoyment of a work of art. Indeed, we often feel a certain hostility towards the attempt to translate buildings, in this way, from one part of the world to another. We expect an architect to build in accordance with a sense of place, and not to design his building - as many a modern building is designed - so that it could be placed just anywhere. It is true that the architectural instinct can show itself even in the dwellings of nomadic tribes, but the impulse to which we owe most of the fine architecture that we have inherited is an impulse founded in the sense of place - the desire to mark a sacred spot or place of martyrdom, to build a monument, church or landmark, to claim possession and dominion of the land. This impulse is to be found in all serious architecture, from the antique temple and the martyrium, to the Chapel at Ronchamp and the Sydney Opera House, and it is an impulse which leads us to separate architecture from nature only with a certain considered reluctance.

This sense of place, and the consequent impression of the immovability of architecture, constrains the work of the builder in innumerable ways. Architecture becomes an art of the ensemble. It is intrinsic to architecture that it should be infinitely vulnerable to changes in its surroundings. This is a feature that architecture shares with such pursuits as interior decoration, dress, and the many quasi-moral, quasi-aesthetic activities that fall under the notion of taste. The interest in ensembles is partly responsible for the attention paid in architectural theory to style, and to repeatable form. All serious architecture aims at an effect of unity, and it is indeed tempting to think, with Schopenhauer, that this unity is nothing more than an effect of style. For the particular notion of harmony that informs our interest in buildings cannot be understood independently of our sense of style. On the other hand, it is clearly untrue to suggest that harmony amounts to nothing but stylistic unity. If this were so, then the harmoniousness of St Mark's square would be inexplicable, as would the particular structural unity of St Eustache in Paris, with its astonishing combination of classical and Gothic parts. But at least we see one further way in which architecture is constrained by external influences. Things have to fit together, and often the ambition of the architect resides not in individuality of form, but rather in the preservation of an order that pre-exists his own activity. In-deed, it does not seem to me that we should talk of architecture as though it were a self-dependent art-form, divorced from town planning, gardening, decoration and furniture. Once again we seem to have discovered a factor which leads away from the manner in which we are commonly held to appreciate art, imposing limits on our attitude to buildings.

A further feature of architecture should here be mentioned - the feature of technique. What is possible in architecture is determined by the extent of human competence. In architecture there are changes initiated quite independently of any change in artistic consciousness; the natural evolution of styles is cast aside, interrupted or sent off at a tangent by discoveries that have no aesthetic origin and no aesthetic aim. Consider, for example, the discovery of reinforced concrete, and Maillart's use of it in his well-known bridges, which curve through the air across ravines where no straight path would be apt or possible. The aesthetic consequences of that technical discovery have been enormous, and nobody could have envisaged them, still less intended them, in advance. In music, literature and painting evolution has followed more nearly a changing attitude to art, and hence a shifting spirit of artistic creation. And while it is true that here, too, there can be technical discoveries, such as that of the piano, which actually interrupt the flow of aesthetic consciousness (as well as others, such as those of the violin, the clarinet, the saxophone and the Wagner tuba, which are more naturally seen as consequences of a change in taste), there are also engineering achievements (like that of Brunelleschi's dome), which result from aesthetic aspiration. These passing similarities only serve to underline the real distinction between architecture and the other arts. One must greet with a certain scepticism, therefore, those critics who hail the modern movement as a creation of architectural forms more in keeping with the 'spirit of the age', as though the change in these forms were a product only of artistic enterprise, and not of engineering skill.

A more important distinguishing feature of architecture is provided by its character as a public object. A work of architecture imposes itself come what may, and removes from members of the public the free choice as to whether they are to observe or ignore it. Hence, there is no real sense in which architects create their public; the case is wholly unlike those of music, literature and painting, which are, or have become, objects of free critical choice. Poetry and music, for example, have become self-consciously 'modern' precisely because they have been able to create for themselves audiences attuned to novelty and active in the pursuit of it. Clearly, architects may change public taste, but they can do so only by addressing themselves to the whole public and not merely to some educated or half-educated part of it. 'Modernism' in architecture therefore raises a special problem which is not raised by modernism in the other forms of art.

It is pertinent to return at this point to the elusive but fundamental idea of 'expression' as a characteristic, or even principal, aim of art. Whatever this term means (and I shall later attempt to say more precisely what it does mean) expression cannot have the significance in such public arts as architecture as it may have in the private arts of poetry, painting and music. The private arts acquire much of their expressive character from the 'personal' manner in which we may approach them, from the ability of such arts to address themselves to a specific, and perhaps highly specialised, audience. Suppose it were said that 'Lycidas' expresses a tender grief, or the overture to The Flying Dutchman a demonic yearning; the reference here is to acts of communication. Of course we do not necessarily attribute the emotions to Milton or to Wagner; nevertheless, we hear their works as though these were direct expressions of personal feeling, as we might hear a piece of dramatic poetry. The expressive features of architecture are not, and cannot be, of this private kind. They consist rather in the objective representation of style and manner, in impersonal and unspecific meanings that speak to us as though from far away and with a public voice. It is the restlessness of the vestibule to the Laurentian Library that we notice, not the personal feeling which might be thought to underlie it. And if we are also struck by the building's relation to some state of mind, it will be a general, impersonal state, such as the 'spirit of the age' that has so invaded contemporary criticism of the decorative arts.

As I remarked, modernism in architecture raises questions that are not raised by the 'private' forms of art. For modernism in these other arts has depended upon a certain subjectivity of outlook. By which I mean that modernism has been both self-conscious in its pursuit of an audience, and determinedly individualistic in its expressive aims. Consider the remarkable art of Schoenberg, who argued that he had provided canons of form and structure which were from the auditory point of view equivalent to those of the classical tradition. To the educated ear, the Schoenbergian theme was to be as intelligible and as imbued with musical implications as a melody of Mozart. One can of course doubt that even the most melodious of Schoenberg's themes (for example, the opening theme of the piano concerto) achieves the immediate intelligibility of Mozart, and one might even doubt that one ought to hear a Schoenbergian theme as inflected in the manner of a classical melody (that is to say, as progressing towards a conclusion). Be that as it may, it certainly cannot be doubted that the transformation of musical experience which Schoenberg envisaged was a self-conscious affair, in a way that the experience of architecture cannot normally be. Music, for Schoenberg, achieves continuity with its own tradition - the tradition against which the modern style defines itself and without which no 'modernism' could be properly meaningful - by a self-conscious transformation of traditional procedures. This remains true, even if no intellectual understanding of the rules of the twelve-note system is presupposed in the listener. In some sense the listener has not merely to immerse himself in the music but also at the same time imaginatively to reconstruct the tradition which underlies it. Tradition was for Schoenberg what it was for T. S. Eliot, an ideal to be rediscovered by the modern consciousness, not a datum available to every person, whatever the state of his imaginative understanding. Moreover, I doubt that Schoenberg's particular ideal of a genuinely 'modern' music can be fully understood without recourse to the subjective notion of expression. For consider how one might formulate the thought - vital to the very conception of modern music - that the classical style is no longer available to the modern consciousness, that it is no longer possible to compose like Beethoven or like Brahms (despite Sir Donald Tovey's noble efforts in the latter direction). Surely this thought requires one to represent the existing musical forms and methods as somehow exhausted. They have fallen into desuetude, not because we are bored by them (for we will never be bored by Mozart), but because they do not allow the modern composer to express what he wishes. They are not adapted to the full complexity of the modern consciousness, and do not lend themselves to expressing the true feelings of a modern person. It is because music, poetry and painting are seen at least partly in this expressionistic way that their self-conscious reconstruction becomes intelligible. The artist's ability to create an audience, to demand of it a permanent sense of its own modernity, is a necessary precondition not only of the success of such an enterprise, but also of its attempt. It is in this way that music, painting and literature continue to survive, even in a state of cultural chaos, through the invention of what are at first (before the successful adoption of a style) arbitrary choices and arbitrary constraints.

Now I doubt that we could freely take up such an attitude to architecture as the one I have sketched. For I doubt that we could consistently view architecture either as a form of personal expression, or as a self-conscious gesture designed for the 'modern consciousness' alone. Architecture is public; it imposes itself whatever our desires and whatever our self-image. Moreover, it takes up space: either it crushes out of existence what has gone before, or else it attempts to blend and harmonise. Architecture, as Ruskin emphasised, is the most political of the arts, in that it imposes a vision of man and his aims independently of any personal agreement on the part of those who live with it. Of course, all the arts have served, and continue to serve, political purposes. But it is only lovers of literature who are exposed to the vision of Shakespeare's histories or to that of Illusions perdues, while all people, whatever their tastes and aptitudes, are forced to confront the surrounding buildings, and to absorb from them whatever they contain of political significance. A building may stand as the visible symbol of historical continuity, or equally as the enforced announcement of newfangled demands. As we have seen, architecture cannot, in abandoning its traditional forms, simply take refuge, as music has taken refuge, in a kind of complicitous subjectivity. Architecture can become new, but it cannot be 'modern' in the peculiar sense of that term which has been applied to recent Western music. Architecture becomes new by creating new expectations, and in general this requires the modification of some preexisting style (as happened in the case of the Gothic, however inventive was the achievement of Abbot Suger at St Denis), or else through the imitation of some previously successful manner. It is true, of course, that every form of art has its revivals, and looked at in one way the rise of the 'Gothick' style in the eighteenth century can be seen as part of a single impetus of romantic medievalism, which swept simultaneously through many of the arts. Moreover literature, like architecture, has had its periodic 'classical revivals': in the French theatre, for example, and in Augustan satire. But the proneness of architecture to revivals runs deeper than this. A 'revival' in literature is a species of imitation, in which thought, feeling and diction remain entirely modern. Indeed, one cannot envisage in either literature or music a total return to some previous style that is not in some way ironical, in the manner of Stravinsky's neo-classicism, or else precious, in the manner of Morris's cult of the Middle Ages. In architecture, on the other hand, one encounters throughout history comparable revivals that have been not only total in their intention, but which have also entirely changed the course of building. In fact, the continuousness of these revivals has been such as to make the word 'revival' seem almost inappropriate. It is surely not unwarranted to suggest that there is, in our attitude to building, a character of respect for the past that allows such returns while remaining innocent of irony. For the serious architect the past exists not as a legacy to be possessed through a self-conscious act of the 'modern' will, but as an enduring fact, an ineliminable part of an extended present. From Vitruvius through the Renaissance to the Gothic revival, responses to architecture have been at one and the same time practical and backward-looking. Even the architecture of the future envisaged by Ledoux was based on conceptions of architectural symbolism, and of architectural details, that are profoundly classicist in their inclinations. And the pervasiveness of this respect for the past is only confirmed by the frequently somewhat hysterical nature of recent attempts to break with it.

But perhaps the most important feature of architecture, the feature which serves most of all to give it a peculiar status and significance in our lives, is its continuity with the decorative arts, and the corresponding multiplicity of its aims. Even when architects have a definite aesthetic' purpose, it may not be more than a desire that their work should 'look right' in just the way that tables and chairs, the lay of places at a table, the folds in a napkin, an arrangement of books, may 'look right' to the casual observer. Architecture is primarily a vernacular art: it exists first and foremost as a process of arrangement in which every normal person may participate, and indeed does participate, to the extent that he builds, decorates or arranges his rooms. It does not normally aim at those 'meanings' ascribed to it by the practitioners of Kunstgeschichte, nor does it present itself self-consciously as art. It is a natural extension of common human activities, obeying no forced constraints, and no burden of an 'artistic conception', of anything that might correspond to the romantic's Kunstwollen, or to the Hegelian 'Idea'.

The architectural vernacular is exemplified everywhere, and we are never surprised to find a Doric column supporting a wine table, an egg and dart moulding on a wardrobe, a Gothic hat-stand, a Bauhaus corner-cupboard, or a tea-caddy obedient to the law of the Golden Section. In using the term "vernacular' I offer no explanation of the endurance of these popular forms; nor do I suggest that there is a vernacular style which might be proposed as a definite objective for the builder. (As Sir John Summerson has persuasively argued, conceived as an objective rather than as a summary of existing practices, the vernacular is a mere chimera.) But I do mean to suggest that the existence and predominance of an architectural vernacular is an inevitable consequence of the distance that separates architecture from the other arts, of the relative absence from the art of building of any true artistic autonomy, of the fact that, for the most part, builders have to fit their work into some pre-existing arrangement of unchangeable forms, being constrained at every point by influences which forbid them the luxury of a self-consciously artistic' aim. Architecture is simply one application of that sense of what 'fits' which governs every aspect of daily existence. One might say that, in proposing an aesthetics of architecture, the least one must be proposing is an aesthetics of everyday life. One has moved away from the realm of high art towards that of common practical wisdom. And here one might begin to see just how inappropriate is our post-romantic conception of art to the description of the normal aesthetic judgements of the normal person, and how obscure are all the concepts, such as the concept of expression, which have been used to elucidate it.

Against the background of these differences, we must recognise the immense difficulty that exists in giving any articulate criticism of architecture. Set beside the achievements of literary and even musical criticism, the standard works of architectural criticism look shallow indeed. On the rare occasions when critics have been prepared to make discriminations, to assert, for example, that a certain building or a certain style is ugly or unsuccessful, they have done so, like Pugin, Ruskin, and the functionalists, with a peculiar dogmatism, and with an unargued generality that has often served to discredit their conclusions. Judgement has often masked an uncritical moralism, and has rarely founded itself on individual understanding of individual buildings. That ideal of criticism recently upheld so forcefully by I. A. Richards and F. R. Leavis - the ideal of criticism as an articulation and justification of the individual response, not as an isolated 'aesthetic' impulse but as an expression of emotions that connect with the very centre of individual life - that ideal has had few advocates in the criticism of architecture. Questions of value are often introduced either extraneously, through a peculiar species of moralism which we will have cause to analyse in a later chapter, or else through vague and generalised notions of 'meaning' which could be applied indifferently to almost any building in a particular style. And for the most part, it is almost impossible for someone without a specialised education to express in words the beauties of architecture; if terms like 'proportion', 'harmony', 'space', and 'atmosphere' spring to mind, it is not as a rule because any very clear general idea is associated with them. The spectator is forced to that level of breathlessness recorded by Sir Henry Wotton, when he described Santa Giustina in Padua as in truth a sound piece of good Art, where the Materials being but ordinary stone, without any garnishment of sculpture, doe yet ravish the Beholder, (and he knowes not how), by a secret Harmony in the Proportions.'

I have described those features of architecture in an extreme and somewhat uncompromising way, for it is necessary to remember a difficulty that might otherwise be overlooked. Aesthetics begins with a notion of art, and of aesthetic interest, often without pausing to examine whether there is any significant unity in either notion. The considerations I have raised are in fact very much in need of interpretation. It is clear that features analogous to those I have mentioned can sometimes be found in the other arts. Tafelmusik has a dominant function, as does occasional verse; frescoes cannot always be moved without loss of character nor, in a more subtle way, can early Church music preserve its spirituality in a modern concert hall. And painting, being continuous with so many of the decorative arts, must necessarily show a tendency towards the publicity of aspect which I have discerned in architecture. Besides, it will always be possible to find respects in which the several art forms differ: simply to mention the publicity and utility of architecture is to give no proof of its distinctiveness. On the other hand, we must remember that philosophers often write as though it were possible to treat just anything aesthetically, whether it be a philosophical essay, a mathematical proof, or an objet trouvé. Hence, although we may have reason to think that we sometimes treat buildings as aesthetic objects, it does not follow that in appreciating them as buildings we are appreciating them aesthetically. When we regard a proof from the aesthetic point of view we do not consider it only as mathematics, and we can fully understand its mathematical validity without being concerned with its aesthetic power. The aesthetic attitude may, then, be connected only peripherally with the art of building; it may be that aesthetic requirements are a minor irritation in the practice of the architect, and in no sense fundamental to his aim. Of course, we do not yet know quite what these 'aesthetic' requirements are. But we can perhaps gain some negative understanding of them if we consider the view just adumbrated, the view that a building is to be understood primarily in terms of its utility, and that aesthetic constraints, while they are possible, are by no means necessary, in the builder's enterprise.