The price of progress

In Hubris and Hybrids, Hard and Jamison adopt a posture which on the face of it attempts to mediate between unbridled technological enthusiasm and reactionary distrust of science. The former, heroic view of science and technology is one which casts all advances in knowledge as inherently salubrious to humanity, while the latter sees all such knowledge as inherently exploitative. (In the mere space allotted one cannot put too fine a point on the distinctions between science and technology. One supposes that lumping them together is something akin to throwing playwrights and linguists together in the same boat. Convenient enough, but not too rigorous. At its heart, the reading’s argument rests on the nature of applied technical knowledge.) The authors are careful in treading a middle road, recognizing the important weaknesses of both arguments. (There are moments of careless naïveté, as when describing the Pug-wash conferences (p 256); one must assume that any Iron Curtain and many Western scientists attending were carefully controlled by their respective handlers.) There is a third agency at work in the relationship between society and science, one which the authors mention repeatedly but which, in our reading at least, fail to fully critique. That agency is currency.

The implication in Hubris and Hybrids is that government co-opts science, technology and commerce in order to exercise control and wield power. Take but a single example: the realignment of American policy in the face of Sputnik is recounted as a narrative in which US government policy sought to harness technological innovation in order to foster economic growth. But Sputnik was a startling development only to the lay public who bought the propaganda of the day. In fact, the nascent American space program, perched as it was atop existing Peenemündian military launch vehicles, was the victim of American technological superiority. The US had successfully miniaturized its nuclear arsenal, in order to be able to deliver powerful warheads farther with smaller rockets. The Soviets, on the other hand, lagged behind in miniaturization. As a result their rockets had to be more powerful, as their warheads far outmassed their American counterparts. This was of course well known and understood by military experts and space program managers on both sides. When it came time to launch a satellite (and later humans), the Soviets had a significant leg up; one has only to compare Sputnik with America’s small, grapefruit sized Explorer (the first Soviet satellite was 6 times more massive than America’s first). Arguably one result of Kennedy’s May 25, 1961 speech was the commitment of billions to the private sector for technological development:

“I believe that this nation should commit itself to achieving the goal, before this decade is out, of landing a man on the moon and returning him safely to the earth.”

It might be argued that much earlier than the 1970s “… trans¬national corporations and transnational organizations have taken over much of the responsibility for setting the policy agenda” (p. 247). Kennedy’s speech, as heroic and inspiring as it was, serves as an example of a tendency already in existence. Is it the case that such projects represent government acting through the private sector, or the private sector exercising policy through government?

“…there has been a noticeable shift during the past three decades to assigning the main authority and responsibility to the private sector and the commercial marketplace when it comes to the political appropriation of technology and science.” (p. 251)

One may as well strike “political”. One may also wonder whether the commercial appropriation of technology is really a late 20th century phenomenon. As early as 1600 for example the East India Company, a commercial concern based in technology (navigation), was responsible for colonization and resource exploitation as an extension of British imperial policy. It virtually ruled India. In England, the Industrial Revolution broadly appropriated scientific and technological developments for commercial gain. And steam and electrical communication were quickly appropriated by commercial interests in order to “tame” the American West—and develop it.

“… it seemed … insufficient to support scientific research and technological development if there was not attention given to … how new ideas were actually turned into new products.” (p. 257)

In other words, commerce is, and has been since there was capital, the de facto method of defusing science and technology.

The implications are twofold: science and technology are at the service of commerce, as is government. Secondly, and perhaps more disturbingly, users of science and technology are inextricably bound up in commerce. As users of technology, beneficiaries of science, and consumers, we are bound to and benefit from social organizations whose primary interests are commerce. It is not, as the Deep Ecologists might imply, a case of “us against them”.

It is us against us.

Who owns saving the world?

In Schatzberg’s critique of Lovins et al.’s Natural Capitalism (2002), the reviewer claims the authors are naïve in enthusiastically and uncritically embracing technology as the solution to environmental problems. This emphasis on technology seems contradictory to the thrust of Lovins’ argument in his 1992 paper (“Energy-Efficient Buildings: Institutional Barriers and Opportunities”, hereafter “EEB”, and which I've mentioned previously in this forum), which points to economic inherencies (fee structures, typical project financing, business models, and legal liabilities) as formalized barriers to environmentally sound buildings. Lovins’ eloquent and compelling narrative of the Tower of Babel that is the building design process identifies several inherent problems to the socio-economic context of building design, underscoring how that context disincentivizes energy efficiency. In “EEB”, Lovins points to almost everywhere but technology as the culprit, and therefore opportunity for improvement. Even in his criticism of the practice of mechanical engineering (the poor practitioner and his profession do seem to bear the brunt of the author’s grinding axe), the author underscores economic reasons (fees and legal exposure) for inappropriate design, seconded by unsound engineering practices (oversizing). It seems curious therefore that in the span of a decade he and his coauthors would devolve to a less sophisticated posture by the time of the writing of Natural Capitalism.

Nevertheless, in “EEB” Lovins outlines a solution for addressing the problem: create a non-linear or recursive building design process wherein a variety of design-stakeholders may participate; and eliminate or redirect economic structures which encourage short-term benefits for stakeholders individually, rather than long-term benefits for all stakeholders collectively. In short, the problem is that those who develop, design, and construct the built environment are not inhabiting and maintaining the structures they build. Under the present system the sower need never reap the bitter fruits of his labor. Building operations in 2004 accounted for 99.7 quads or 40% of the energy consumption in the United States (DOE Buildings Energy Data Book, Sept. 2006), and those figures are projected to rise. Put another way, American buildings are responsible for about ten percent of the world’s energy consumption. There is clearly a need for buildings to be far more energy-efficient.

Aside from technology, one way to achieve that efficiency is to let the market do it:

“To a theoretical economist … it is inconceivable that in a market economy, such large and profitable savings would remain untapped.” (“EEB”, p 6)

And yet as Nye and Tobey suggest, the market alone should be viewed with a measure of skepticism. Indeed, arguably the market has gotten us to this very predicament, as each player leverages the market for his own benefit; this is the crux of Lovins argument in “EEB”. Where then to look? Inevitably one looks to regulation. The Austin Climate Protection Plan seeks to step in where the market has thus far fallen down. As a matter of public policy, the stick and carrot of performance mandates and financial incentives can be implemented, provided technology and the business sector can keep pace (not always the case; witness California’s failed attempt to mandate that 10% of cars sold by 2003 be zero-emission). By 2020 will we see backsliding on the ACPP? Perhaps in some areas; regulations and tax incentives are the result of a political process, one that is buffeted by fickle winds.

Representatives of the fields of architecture, engineering, planning, business, public policy, and law characterize a broad if incomplete sampling of the stakeholders creating the built environment. And this is Lovins’ other point, perhaps a more profound one: progress can be made through a multidisciplinary, nonlinear approach to design. It is true that technology will solve (and create) some problems, just as regulation and market forces will. A synthetic approach which considers all those factors, one developed through cross-pollination across disparate fields, seems to hold more promise than blind faith in any one sector, or profession.

Water Quality and Development

The tap, it could be said, is where the environment meets the house. As the fundamental infrastructure of community (at any scale), water is the first requirement for habitation, prior even to shelter. Drainage is a primary concern of Vitruvius when siting a city. Poor sanitation and water quality was in the West and is now in the developing world the greatest cause of disease; decreases in infant mortality (indeed most mortality rates) due to proper sanitation far exceed mortality decreases due to medical advances. Yet this necessary infrastructure, like power, is typically taken for granted in developed countries.

Within the context of new suburban development, Butler and Karvonen argue for the efficiency of an integrated approach when designing for water supply, sewer, drainage, runoff, and quality (Butler, K.S. and Karvonen, A. Integrative Water managements and Conservation Development: Alternatives for the Central Texas Hill Country. The University of Texas at Austin. December, 2004). Intentionally or not, their report supports organic notions of community development outlined in Melosi, albeit on a much smaller, suburban scale than the urban context the latter frequently cites. This integrated approach is on the one hand necessarily mechanistic, in that it relies on engineered sanitary solutions with distinct components or systems, but it also somewhat biomimetic in its emphasis on the interrelation of those system components.

This is in marked contrast, for example, to legacy urban sanitation systems. For good cause, 20th century sanitary infrastructures treat water supply, drainage and runoff, and sewer as independent systems. But in a justifiable effort to avoid contamination of the water supply, opportunities to lessen the impact of gray water are missed. For example, in a region prone to flash-flooding and with considerable impervious cover concerns, the City of Austin generally does not allow impervious cover credits for rainwater harvesting systems. (This is likely due to the fact that impervious cover limits are in many cases zoning restrictions designed to control scale of development masquerading as water-quality ordinances.) Likewise, expensive detention and retention ponds are not systematically downsized in consideration of bio-retention measures. Outside of designs negotiated ad hoc with City officials, such integrated sanitation strategies are not currently codified in CoA regulations.

In considering infrastructural change, whether an integrated sanitary system or an environmentally-sensitive power distribution system, in most urban settings one inevitably must overcome the considerable inertia of legacy systems. Butler and Karvonen’s report arguably addresses a relatively tractable problem: how best to provide infrastructural water resources to a suburban Greenfield development. Faced with an installed urban infrastructure, however, the problem becomes far less tractable:

“…decisions made about sanitary systems in the nineteenth century had a profound impact on cities more than 100 years later.
“one of [W. Brian] Arthur’s concerns was that a decision will ‘lock in’ an inferior technology path … early decisions on the path affect immediate decisions limiting available … [and] future [options].
“In 1842 … Sir Edwin Chadwick took a bold stand on the need for an arterial system of pressurized water which would place house drainage, main drainage, paving, and street cleaning into a single sanitary process… this remarkable hydraulic system was never implemented …”

—Melosi, The Sanitary City, pp 11-13

How then to circumvent the path dependency of a current infrastructure? Is it best to rely on market forces? Citing the rural electrification of early 20th century America, Nye argues that contrary to popular American notions, such changes can only take place when legislatively mandated. Butler and Karvonen admit as much:

“Individual home owners are typically not able to directly influence the direction of new developments or housing products—to move them towards more sustainable futures in terms of water use and environmental impact.” (Part 1, p 13)

Yet they hesitate to challenge the common perception of the invisible hand as all-wise, with this rather unsubstantiated claim, contradicted somewhat in the paragraph just prior (second passage):

“It is increasingly clear to the public that there can be large differences in the costs of living among communities and individual residences.” (Part 2, p 7)

“developers … all agreed that their successes were not achieved by marketing their projects simply as ‘green developments’ ” (Part 2, p 6)

One is inclined to suspect that American consumers tend to make decisions based on short-term costs rather than long-term value. An integrated, environmental approach to infrastructure may just have to be mandated.

BIM presentation movie

Nemetschek NA has kindly posted a recording of my presentation I did at the AIA National Convention. You can view it here.

'And', not 'Either/Or'

I have argued elsewhere that Carter did the sustainability movement a great disservice, even with the best of intentions, when he admonished the American public to turn down the thermostat and put on a sweater. In so doing, he immediately framed the discussion of sustainability as one of choosing between comfort (or quality of life) and survival. The subtext was (and in some quarters still is): either sacrifice and save the world or be comfortable and the planet goes to hell.

But as an architect, my training and experience suggest another context. Design without constraints typically does not lead to stunning results. When designing a building, there are the constraints of site, climate, budget, structure, materials, the end-user's expectations, and even codes and ordinances. While some of those constraints are artificial, and many are inconvenient, in the end the synthetic solution to conflicting constraints is what good design is all about. A professor of mine whom I admire greatly, the late Richard Dodge, used to say, "Architecture is about eating your cake AND having it too."

From an architectural perspective, sustainability as a context for design goes wrong when it becomes the only context for the conversation called, let's design a building. The same holds true when any one constraint — the arbitrary nature of zoning ordinances; the cost of a project; the caprices of an owner or the willfulness of the designer; the dictates of a style police — holds absolute sway and drowns out the other voices in the conversation. The result is can be drab lifeless buildings with PV arrays stapled on.

But when sustainability and the energy a building consumes and generates adds its voice to the chorus, the result is a richer, deeper, more meaningful project. Another dimension has been added to building, another perspective now exists for its interpretation and use, another story has been added to its life and the lives of those inhabiting it. In other words, we become concerned with making our world a better place, and living richer lives in more beautiful places. Not either/or, but and.

Imagination

In Last Man on the Moon, Gene Cernan writes (page 344):

"Sometimes it seems that Apollo came before its time. President Kennedy reached far into the twenty-first century, grabbed a decade of time and slipped it neatly into the 1960s and 1970s ... after Mercury and Gemini, we should have proceeded to build the shuttle, then an orbiting space station, and only then sought the Moon. As it was, we accomplished the impossible, then started over again. It was as if our young nation had chosen never again to cross the Mississippi River after Lewis and Clark ... "

Roger Launius argues that Kennedy made the Moon a priority for purely geo-political and prestige reasons, not out of a personal conviction. According to Gerard DeGroot, Kennedy said to NASA Administrator James Webb:

"I don't really care about the moon. I know it's important; I know there are people who really want to go there, but I just want to beat the Russians."

That may be shocking to some, but more important than Kennedy's political cynicism is the power of imagination to achieve an impossible goal. Not Kennedy's imagination, but the imagination of the American people and the hundreds of thousand of workers, engineers and scientists who made Apollo possible. What did we get out of Apollo? Among many other things, tangible evidence of the power of imagination. As a designer, I can dig that.

Technology, place and community

Andrew Light argues convincingly that the foundation of environmentalism is a primary concern for one’s relationship to one’s fellow humans (“The Moral Journey of Environmentalism: From Wilderness to Place,” in Adaptive Design: Tools for Sustainability, Steven A. Moore, editor). That is, the context for concern for the environment is framed in relationships and human community. In the process, he casts serious doubts on the effectiveness if not validity of the experience of environmentalism as being a quasi-spiritual one, to the point of mocking them. I’ll not take issue with his position on Deep Ecology and its adherents. Of greater interest, particularly in the context of the other readings, is the relationship between environmentalism and community.

(Just using the word environmentalism makes my skin creep if not crawl. Light’s chapter helped me see why: the term marginalizes those with concern for our global health and puts them in the ghetto of reactionary discourse. Thankfully that’s changing, but it has seemed that that label hurt the cause of our common future by objectifying its adherents as extremists. I think I’ll stick to sustainability, as clichéd as that’s becoming).

Now let’s look at GIS (geographic information system; it is to geography and planning as CAD is to architecture), a technology that points to a fundamentally phenomenological understanding of place. The methodology of mapping abstract data in layers (or Themes) onto a digital model of geography has interesting implications. The first is that an abstract tabulation of data can capture the qualities of place. This is not so new: homogeneity or equivalency of space is a Cartesian precept that, as Eliade argued, characterizes the modern world-view as distinct from the tribal or primitive. The difference here is that the sheer quantity of data can produce quite nuanced mappings, as TMY2 data tables or information modeling for land development projects can easily attest. GIS implies that with enough layers, enough data, the unique characteristics of a place will be wholly defined. In that regard, it has the potential for objectifying place as being a thing outside one’s self or world. The notion that a place can be contained within a machine, even virtually, may add to that objectification.

Secondly and more profoundly, the very nature of GIS data, both in its collection and tabulation, implies human use. That is, we collect and organize data according to whether it is useful. One could, I suppose, create a sentimental layer in a GIS model, and as in Light’s village, map locales where marriage proposals have taken place, but that is hardly the common usage. Soil alkalinity, prevailing winds, demographic income levels, automotive traffic—these are the types of data we tend to map. There is therefore an inherent relationship of use in GIS.

Third, GIS allows, even excels, at filtering data. Place is not a singular place; it can be seen as topography, or vegetation, or climate, or fauna, or any of hundreds of data types. In fact, to view all data layers in a GIS model is overwhelming and renders it useless. Its power is in its abstraction (much as architectural drawings).

On these three points — homogenous space, data oriented to human use, and data filtering — GIS or more properly the perspective it implies is an inherently objectifying exercise. But go back to Light’s critique of first and second phase environmentalism. The problem with an individualistic basis for an environmental concern is that while it might appear at first blush to be subjective, that is framing the natural world as the subject of our concern, in an odd way it actually objectifies “nature”, as a personal and exclusive experience.

Because of its emphasis on community — at least potentially — the GIS-view allows for the subjective. We rely on data derived from actual experience (the foundation of phenomenology) in order to construct a graspable model of a geographic region. Furthermore, the GIS-view’s relating geography to human use ties human activity, human experience, human community to “nature”. That is not to say that one cannot use GIS to exploit and damage a geographical region. But by deepening our understanding of the relationship between these layers of data, there is a possibility of seeing our relationship to the physical world not as self and other (objective), but self and larger self (subjective). In practical terms, when we invite “nature” to join our human community, or see humans as part of the “natural” community, we improve the quality of life for systems as a whole, and their human and non-human components.