Archive for November, 2008

Eielson LEEDs by Example

By
Legacy
Published: November 24, 2008Posted in: Feature StoriesTags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

by Josh Becker

Photo by Josh Becker

Photo by Josh Becker

In the early spring of 1924, history was made on the sweeping tundra benches of Copper Mountain in then seven-year-old Mount McKinley National Park. A barnstorming pilot and pioneer by the name of Carl Ben Eielson from the town of Hatton, North Dakota, set out to prove the worth of the airplane to the Alaska Territory through an experimental airmail contract with the United States Postal Service. For an average of $1.75 per flight mile, Eielson was to make 10 flights in a government De Havilland plane from Fairbanks to McGrath, a distance of approximately 275 miles.

Along the way to convincing critics that the airplane could consistently do in three hours what took a team of sled dogs two long weeks, Eielson made the first airplane landing within the boundaries of the nascent national park, on the slopes of Copper Mountain, where a small community of miners and prospectors had sprung up and was anxious to receive correspondence from “outside.” A few short months later, while transporting a miner to his claim in this area, Eielson made a teeth-chattering landing on the coarse, glacially-carved gravel bar of the Thorofare River, quite possibly the first gravel bar landing in Alaska’s history.

In subsequent years, Eielson made his living further demonstrating the versatility of flight in the territory by ferrying passengers, medical supplies, and news to remote reaches of wilderness. As if this all weren’t enough to cement his place in the annals of Alaskan aviation history, Eielson earned the Congressional Medal of Honor in April of 1928 by becoming the first pilot to fly over the North Pole, from Point Barrow, Alaska, to Spitzbergen, Norway. Eielson’s final flight came on November 9, 1929, when the altimeter on his Hamilton plane failed him during a rescue mission through a dense curtain of fog, and his plane crashed in coastal Siberia.

Carl Ben Eielson pioneered Alaska bush aviation by landing the first plane inside the boundaries of Mt. McKinley National Park in 1924. Photo courtesy United States Air Force.

Carl Ben Eielson pioneered Alaska bush aviation by landing the first plane inside the boundaries of Mt. McKinley National Park in 1924. Photo courtesy United States Air Force.

Carl Ben Eielson took steps that seemed outrageous and extraordinary to his contemporaries. However, his collective efforts as a pioneer bush pilot helped create a culture of flight that many modern-day Alaskans view as the norm and integrate into their daily lives as pilots, passengers, or just people waiting for their mail.

Over the years, many names in the Eielson story have changed. The Alaska Territory is now our 49th state, Mount McKinley National Park has tripled in size to become Denali National Park and Preserve, and, through a U.S. Senate resolution in 1930 recognizing Eielson’s historic landings, Mount Eielson now replaces Copper Mountain on topographic maps.

Directly across the two-mile expanse of the Thorofare River bar, on a bluff blanketed with arctic willow, blueberry, and kinnikinnick, there is a lingering theme. The Eielson name remains in the vanguard, as the National Park Service’s newly redesigned Eielson Visitor Center has taken the lead in its own right.

The history of the Eielson Visitor Center is as long and winding as the 66 miles of Denali Park Road one must traverse to arrive there.

Though the single ribbon of road into the park did not extend to Mile 66 until 1932, the site of the current visitor center was on the radar of park officials for a few years prior. The first seven visitors made their way to Mount McKinley National Park in 1922, and by the late 1920s, the National Park Service was planning for a future of increased visitation. Much of the discussion centered around an appropriate location for the construction of a park hotel to accommodate visitors who wished to spend more than a single day experiencing the wilderness surrounding North America’s tallest mountain.

Mile 66 was up for consideration in part because it offers the first base to summit view of Mt. McKinley, but also due to the thinking that visitors wouldn’t necessarily want to travel all 89 miles of park road to an alternate site at Wonder Lake. In what must have been a raven’s nest of bureaucratic red tape, consideration of an appropriate site extended well into the 1930s, and the park concessioner took advantage of the indecision and obtained permission to establish a tent camp at the Mile 66 site. Camp Denali (later Camp Eielson) offered services for day trips and overnight stays and operated for 14 years from 1934 to 1948.

The identity crisis of the Mile 66 site was soon to be resolved with the unveiling of the National Park Service’s Mission 66 program, a plan designed to improve infrastructure at parks throughout the country. Ironically, the “66” had nothing to do with the site. Rather, it referred to the year by which Mission 66 projects would be completed, the 50th anniversary of the National Park Service.

In the first version of the park’s proposal, nothing was included for the Mile 66 site. After a major revision, though, the location was determined to be of the highest priority, and the new proposal read, “The superlative view of Mt. McKinley and other features of the area merit orientational and interpretational exhibits, and as the location is the midpoint of the concessioner bus tours, the area and building will be utilized heavily.”

Thus, the Eielson Visitor Center was born. Construction of a cinder-block building began in the summer of 1958, and the first visitors walked through the doors on July 28, 1960. In 2004, after serving the public for 44 successful seasons, park officials determined that visitation numbers had outgrown the original building, and funds were allocated to demolish and rebuild the facility. The goal was to create a building that accommodated a greater number of visitors while maintaining the wilderness values the park is mandated to protect.

Superintendent Paul Anderson addresses visitors and staff at the official dedication of the Eielson Visitor Center on August 12, 2008. Photo by Josh Becker.

Superintendent Paul Anderson addresses visitors and staff at the official dedication of the Eielson Visitor Center on August 12, 2008. Photo by Josh Becker.

The new and improved Eielson opened for business on June 8, 2008, and a visitor center that almost never was has become something no other National Park Service facility has ever been.

By the time this writing goes to print, the new Eielson Visitor Center in Denali National Park and Preserve will have been officially awarded a platinum certification under the Leadership in Energy and Environmental Design (LEED) Green Building Rating System. Platinum is the highest rating achievable, and Eielson is the first facility designed and funded by the National Park Service to reach this level.

The LEED Green Building Rating System is a program developed and administered by the U.S. Green Building Council, a non-profit organization composed of approximately 15,000 organizations from across the building industry that are committed to the expansion of sustainable building practices. As a national rating system, LEED is a practical tool for those involved in various types of construction to obtain measurable success toward the end of sustainable design. LEED hopefuls are scored based on achievement in six areas integral to environmental and human health: sustainable site development, water efficiency, energy efficiency and the atmosphere, materials selection, indoor environmental quality, and innovation in design. Based on the cumulative score, projects can be awarded a LEED rating of certified, silver, gold, or platinum.

So what exactly makes the Eielson Visitor Center worthy of the platinum plaque that will eventually grace the entrance of the facility? In the bland, impersonal terms of the LEED report card, Eielson aced its final exam. However, the sustainability initiatives undertaken at Eielson go beyond the quantifiable and involve themselves in the experience of the visitor.

For a visitor to Denali National Park and Preserve, the first view of the Eielson Visitor Center comes after a four-hour ride aboard the park’s visitor transportation system, an effort that earns LEED credits for serving as an efficient means of access to the site. All park visitors intending to travel more than 15 miles into the park must utilize this means of access. Upon rounding the final, dusty curve at the top of Thorofare Pass and being advised by the driver that the bus is approaching Eielson, a visitor might be inclined to ask, “Where?”

As part of selecting a sustainable site, the new Eielson is set into the hillside with an extremely low profile so that visitors arriving from the east are looking right over its tundra-covered roof at a breathtaking view of Mt. McKinley, 35 miles distant. The building’s southern aspect allows for the maximum capture of sunlight to assist in illuminating and heating the building, and natural insulation is provided by the surrounding earth and blanketing tundra vegetation.

Arriving at the bus parking area, our curious visitor might realize that he had too much coffee that morning and rush down the steps to the rest rooms. He would probably not notice that the porous gravel parking lot was left unpaved to allow water to percolate into the soil, reducing erosion and runoff at the site. He might be a bit impressed by the rest room, though. In earning water efficiency credits, Eielson utilizes low-flush toilets, low-flow faucets, and patented Sloan Waterfree Urinals. In the latter, a single unit can save 40,000 gallons of water per year.

Our intrepid visitor has now satisfied his basest needs and is ready to explore the visitor center proper. As he drifts around the room studying the exhibits that exude the stories of the wilderness of Denali, a silent story of sustainability is being told all around him.

Beneath his feet lie EcoSurfaces tiles composed of 100 percent post-consumer tire rubber. The Biofiber countertop he leans on is made of a rapidly renewable resource called wheat-straw and actually contributes negative amounts of greenhouse gases through the life of the product. The air he breathes remains fresh due to the incorporation of low-emitting sealants, paints, and other construction materials, consciously chosen and utilized by the design team. On a grander scale, the building he is exploring is producing the majority of its own power, energy equivalent to what it would take to power his and three other visitors’ homes through a combination of hydroelectric and solar sources.

According to Carol Harding, the interpretive planner responsible for developing the message of the new Eielson Visitor Center, the overarching theme of the interpretive product offered at Eielson is “Honoring the Spirit of Place by Understanding and Respecting its Wildness.” The interpretive signage and exhibits flirt with the subthemes of preservation of design, come explore, dynamic landscape, ecosystem connections, and people’s place in the wilderness. Harding refers to the struggles of creating effective interpretation within the confines of the LEED rating system, but in the end, the message gets through, and the building itself becomes a means of conveying that message.

As visitors spend time considering their visit to Denali, pieces of the sustainability story begin to reveal themselves, and it necessarily becomes the role of the park’s west district rangers to interpret the building. A thread of sustainability runs through the formal and informal contacts that park interpreters have with the public. Inside an innovative facility like Eielson, and with its flowing, open floor plan and aesthetics designed to mimic the surrounding landscape, the opportunities for honoring Denali’s spirit are plentiful. There is much less buffer between the visitor and the resources they have come to experience, and it is not an insurmountable task to bring a visitor to the point of understanding his or her place in a wilderness like Denali.

Resource advocacy should be the ultimate benchmark for successful interpretation, but admittedly, this can be a difficult prospect to attain. Ingrid Nixon, chief of interpretation at Denali National Park and Preserve, realizes this and is happy that her interpretive staff can use the Eielson Visitor Center as a tool for helping visitors reach the next step in their understanding of park resources. It is not lost on her that from the first conception of the idea of a new visitor center, a story about choices has been unfolding.

In 2006 the National Park Service made the commitment that any new construction taking place in national parks would certify at least at the LEED silver level. In paving the way for Park Service facilities by striving to attain the platinum rating, Nixon says, “We chose to create a building that not only serves the purpose but demonstrates choices that are more earth-friendly and therefore more compatible with the concept of protecting the surrounding landscape.”

In its first season of operation, approximately 70,000 visitors boarded shuttle buses bound for Eielson where they witnessed these choices firsthand. With the assistance of a committed staff of interpreters, a state-of-the-art facility, and 6.2 million inspirational acres of wilderness, many of these visitors took a look around and realized that choice is within their reach. With increasing evidence that collective small steps can go a long way in reducing the human contribution to global climate change, it is compelling to see the high-profile demonstration of choices that are more earth friendly.

In walking the walk of sustainability, the new Eielson Visitor Center has perpetuated the pioneer legacy of its barnstorming namesake by becoming the first of its kind to achieve a platinum LEED rating. And it has done so in spite of its extremely remote location. The choice is up to us as to whether design and construction like Eielson’s will become the norm in the places we continue to live and work.

Joshua Becker has spent three seasons in Denali as both a bus driver naturalist and a park ranger. He is a returned Peace Corps volunteer, having served in Fiji from 2005 to 2007. Contact Josh at joshua.becker.cb@gmail.com.

Rocky Mountain Green: Squamish Lil’wat Cultural Centre Cuts a Green Swath in British Columbia

By
Legacy
Published: November 16, 2008Posted in: Feature StoriesTags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

by Katherine McIntyre

Photo by Gary Fiegehen

Photo by Gary Fiegehen

With a backdrop of spectacular mountain peaks and anchored by massive  beams, the new Squamish Lil’wat Cultural Centre in Whistler, British Columbia, evokes the spirit of a Squamish longhouse and a Lil’wat istken (pit house). Designed by Native architect Alfred Waugh and in keeping with time-honored First Nations’ traditions, their building “treads lightly on the land, leaving behind a small footprint.”

Combining aboriginal respect for the present and future of the land and forest, the Cultural Centre was awarded a LEED certificate for environmentally sustainable design. But it was a long, slow journey to its recent opening in July 2008.

For thousands of years the Squamish and Lil’wat Nations co-existed peacefully as hunter-gatherers, fishing in the rivers and living their nomadic lifestyle in isolated wilderness around Whistler Valley. The Lil’wat roamed the area north of Whistler and the Squamish claimed as their traditional territory the land stretching from Greater Vancouver to the Squamish Valley. It was around Whistler that they lived peacefully in an overlapping land claim.

In the late 1890s, prospectors, miners, loggers, and trappers discovered this isolated valley rimmed by snow-capped mountains, its lakes filled with hungry fish. They named it Whistler after the shrill whistle of the western hoary marmot. It was the fishing that attracted Alex and Myrtle Philip to open a lodge in the early 1920s. Soon their valley became known as the best summer destination west of the Rockies. By the late 1960s, skiers had discovered the mountains. From modest beginnings with one gondola, a chair lift, and two T-bars, Whistler grew into an international favorite ski resort with world-famous ski runs, high-end hotels, trendy restaurants, and luxurious spas.

It was the Lil’wat Nation that first approached Resort Municipality of Whistler in 1997 to discuss how their Nation could become a tourism presence in growing and affluent Whistler. From these discussions, they hatched the idea of a world-class cultural center to showcase their time-honored and contemporary way of life.

“When we heard that the Vancouver bid for the 2010 Olympic and Paralympic Games would include our traditional territory,” Chief Janice George of the Squamish Nation reminisced, “we realized that our two Nations should come together. So as an alternative to describing our mutual land as an overlapping land claim, we renamed it shared territory. And we agreed that working in tandem would create more cultural and economic clout than working independently.” Partnering with Councilor Lois Joseph of the Lil’wat Nation, the two women joined as co-curators for the proposed new cultural center.

Welcome poles greet visitors outside the entrance. Photo by Katherine McIntyre.

Welcome poles greet visitors outside the entrance. Photo by Katherine McIntyre.

Between them, they produced a vigorous story line. “Instead of outlining historical facts, museum style,” said Councilor George, “we decided to describe our way of life through displays of our traditional arts: cedar bark weaving, wool weaving, wood and canoe carving, paddle making, drumming. And we would develop training programs to teach our people these skills.” When Vancouver 2010 Bid Corporation presented its final bid for the Olympic Games, it included a film documenting the Lil’wat and Squamish way of life, including a segment on their weaving skills.

The scramble for funds ended when additional money became available from the federal, provincial, and municipal governments and private sponsors for the long-delayed cultural center. Finally their dream had roots.

Alfred Waugh, originally from Canada’s Northwest Territories’ Chipewyan Tribe, came to their project with plenty of experience in design, green planning, and interpreting the needs of aboriginal clients. “I draw from their history, not mimic their past.” said Waugh. “I explore their roots and make use of design concepts that respect these roots.” Searching through historical documents he discovered pictures of Squamish tribes living in longhouses. Waugh described them as “long, rectangular, cedar plank family compounds, sometimes up to 100 feet long with a new section being added for each new family.”

When it was time to move, the house was dismantled, put on a skid, and towed by dogs to a new site. The Lil’wat were secretive earth people hiding themselves in nearly invisible, dark, circular istken pit houses, dug about eight feet into a warm hillside and covered by an earthen roof. It was Waugh’s challenge to represent each Nation fairly, to capture the heart of what a longhouse and a pit house represented. Plus, he had to work within modern-day environmental standards and comply with the LEED program.

The Municipality of Whistler donated 4.35 acres of Crown land in the heart of Upper Whistler Village, across from the Fairmont Chateau Whistler and the Four Seasons Resort Whistler. “It was a difficult piece to work with,” stated Waugh. “The best site for the building was on a heavily treed triangular outcrop of land, curving around a rocky incline. Bordered by Fitzsimmons Creek on one side and a road on the other, the site extended down into a three-acre forest. And,” he added, “we had to comply with a 90-foot setback from the creek.”

Fitting in with his philosophy of capturing the past but running with present-day environmental concerns, Waugh worked with the site to minimize its ecological impact. Whereas a longhouse in the old days was long and straight, his modified longhouse and roofline followed the natural curve of the land. By tucking the three-story building down the incline from its upper-level entrance, it avoided destructive site excavation, but it did displace a decadent second-growth hemlock forest. However, a tree survey of the site taken prior to building and site conservation strategies made sure that any areas disrupted by construction would be replanted with foliage indigenous to the area.

“Following our Native tradition to leave a small footprint, our building occupies only seven percent of the land and is a doorway to the forest,” commented Waugh. “That our building entrance faces east to let in the morning sun is another tradition.”

Drawing from each Nation’s culture and using their past for inspiration, Waugh’s longhouse and pit house are of glass, cedar, and stone anchored by massive Douglas fir beams and columns. Recently planted tough mountain foliage of tobacco, wild rose hips, red huckleberries, honeysuckle, and ferns, and rugged boulders bearing designs of mysterious pictographs, border the walkway. Two tall welcome poles, with mythic figures carved into each, guard its entrance. A masked man peers from one pole; from the other, the image of a bear appears on one side and a raven on the other. Continuing with the bear theme, master carver Johnny Abraham has created a lumbering bear with a salmon in its mouth on the heavy cedar entrance door.

The Great Hall explodes with light from its spectacular plank window, which echoes the horizontal wood planks of a longhouse. Encasing the whole north side, it ushers in spectacular forest and mountain views. Reproductions of historic wool and cedar weavings, banners, and canoes float suspended from a 22-foot ceiling.

A Squamish Lil’wat ambassador from a team of young Native guides trained to tour visitors around the center wears an intricately woven cedar strip headband. “Everyone asks me about my headband. It keeps out negativity and keeps the positive spirit in,” he explains. “They’re woven by Lil’wat women and are very popular in our gift shop. So are our cedar wristbands.”

He describes the polished, painted concrete floor inset with embedded pictures. “Their colors are symbolic of our life forces—land, river, and stone, and our connections to the earth. We remember them for the richness they bring to our lives. Rivers provide water for fish, stone for tools, and plants for food, shelter, and warmth.”

But what about the famous weavings hovering overhead? Vera Edmonds, a Lil’wat from the Mount Currie area and a master weaver, learned from her grandmother where and when to find the best grasses and roots and how to cut, peel, and dye them. She passed on this knowledge to her apprentices. Their handiwork, a 12-foot by 8-foot cedar mat in the fish-bone pattern, hangs close to the entrance, the largest cedar mat ever woven.

Suspended near the cedar mat is a giant spinning whorl carved from a piece of yellow cedar as well as an intricate blanket designed and woven by Chief Janice George and a team of Squamish women weavers. It is a modern reproduction of an ancient Squamish pattern. In the old days, Squamish women spun wool from mountain goats on a handmade wood whorl and wove its blankets on a primitive loom. When the Hudson Bay Trading Company entered the scene with their distinctive Hudson Bay blankets, they discovered that trading furs for a blanket was easier than spinning and weaving their own traditional blankets during the long winter nights. Their ancient art was nearly dead until Chief George and her husband Buddy Joseph revived their community’s interest in historical weaving.

The Squamish Lil’wat Cultural Centre in Whistler, British Columbia, features a Squamish saltwater canoe (foreground) and a Lil’wat river canoe. Photo by Katherine McIntyre.

The Squamish Lil’wat Cultural Centre in Whistler, British Columbia, features a Squamish saltwater canoe (foreground) and a Lil’wat river canoe. Photo by Katherine McIntyre.

For thousands of years the Squamish and Lil’wat Nations traveled the rivers in freight canoes for moving cargo and in smaller canoes for hunting, fishing, and berry picking. They honored the canoe builders for their ability to turn a hollowed cedar log into a sleek craft using only a hand adze, a stone maul, and bone, antler, or stone chisels. Suspended as if floating in air, at the far end of the Great Hall, master carvers with modern day tools have recreated a Lil’wat lake canoe. Beneath it, a narrow river craft often used by the women to go berry picking, and a 40-foot-long Squamish hunting canoe are reminiscent of those seen in historical pictures. All the canoes are carved, just as they were in the old days, from a single piece of red cedar by master carvers.

Life-size models wear blankets woven by Chief Janice George’s team of women using the same primitive looms as those used by their ancestors. They are exact copies of blankets worn by Squamish chiefs when they went to Britain in 1910 to discuss their treaty rights with King Edward VII. To date, their climate-controlled museum holds only a few historic items, some antique baskets weathered with age, arrowheads, photographs, and ceremonial clothing. They hope for cultural donations and tribal treasures lurking in other museums or in private collections.

In contrast to the Great Hall, adjoining Istken Hall, a cozy nine-sided circular, wood and glass building with a panoramic view, is anchored to a rocky outcrop. Douglas fir, cedar, frosted glass, and copper furnishings echo its mountain setting. It features a pit house-styled green roof, sprout dandelions, wild strawberries, and wild alpine flowers.

Planned as a restaurant and meeting room, Chef Scott Thomas Dolbee of the Four Seasons Resort Whistler consulted with award-winning Chef Andrew George, a specialist in first-nation cuisine, developed menus to meld gourmet flavor with traditional Native cooking. Their spectacular results appear as Squamish salmon chowder, Lil’wat venison chili with fry bread, smoked duck, grilled sturgeon, alder grilled steak, and wild blueberry cobbler. More unusual palate pleasers include pemmican, caribou jerky, quail eggs, salmon roe, and wild boar bacon. They plan to keep their meals light and simple, and to use local produce.

“Keeping the center within the LEED Green Building Rating System has resulted in plenty of energy savers.” said Terry Ward of Newhaven Construction, a Squamish Nation-owned company familiar with remote British Columbian projects. These energy savers include double-glazed, thermally broken, and low-emmissivity coated windows, a mix of non-incandescent lights and display lighting, and occupancy monitors in most of the rooms. The concrete floor has radiant heat from a boiler with the option of changing to ground-source heating at a future date. Special design pre-manufactured roof panels are used to reduce on-site costs. Finishes are kept to a minimum, emphasizing architectural features. Stone and wood were sourced from the surrounding territory. Natural ventilation for spring and fall is provided through operable windows. Water conservation is maximized through dual-flush toilets and moisture monitors in the planted areas. Land disturbed by construction was replanted with native plants. Steel for reinforcing rods, fly ash in concrete, and other recycled materials have been used. Recycling and waste management exceed LEED requirements. Existing trails in the forest were maintained and new paths will be kept to a minimum. The green roof on Istken Hall also replaces land damaged in construction.

Future plans include on-site demonstrations and workshops of traditional skills, actual reproductions of a Squamish longhouse, and an Istken pit house and herbal walks with experienced Native guides. For visitors to Whistler, they catch a glimpse of a nearly lost society. For the two Nations, there are jobs, leadership training, and guidance in the old skills. Best of all the Cultural Centre has created a resurgence of personal pride in members of both Nations.

Katherine McIntyre has been writing about world travel for many years and is now concentrating on the wonders of her own country of Canada.

Allen Washatko: Principal, The Kubala Washatko Architects, Inc.

By
Legacy
Published: November 8, 2008Posted in: InterviewsTags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

allen_washatkoAllen Washatko is principal and co-founder, along with Tom Kubala, of The Kubala Washatko Architects, Inc. (TKWA) of Cedarburg, Wisconsin. TKWA embraces a design philosophy of “Wholeness,” where the built environment supports and enhances both human activity and natural living systems. The idea of sustainability is a natural extension of wholeness-based thinking and is integrated into every studio project. Current TKWA projects are located throughout the United States and in Costa Rica. In 2007, the Aldo Leopold Legacy Center achieved LEED® platinum and became the highest rated new building measured under the United States Green Building Council rating system. It is the first building certified by LEED as carbon neutral in operation.

What is your role as an architect?
On the surface, we just make buildings and places. Many of them are highly sustainable, such as the Aldo Leopold Legacy Center in Baraboo, Wisconsin. We used to strive to interweave architecture with the human and biotic community, but that presupposes a separation between the three, requiring a joining together. We later realized that a building, to be truly continuous with its surroundings, needed to organically unfold from its biotic and social context. This requires a subtle and accurate understanding of the context. Our success depends on careful perception of the building user’s needs, vision, and culture. At the same time, we must make sense of the physical setting in which the users’ actions will take place. The physical/social setting for the building forms an undivided whole, which we must carefully read. In other words, we need to accurately assess the wholeness from which the building unfolds.

What is “wholeness”?
Wholeness is a difficult concept to fully grasp, and has been a matter of debate for many centuries. Understanding wholeness relates to the way one sees the world, to different modes of consciousness. It is widely acknowledged today that, through the growth of the science of matter, the Western mind has become more and more removed from contact with the true nature of reality. We agree with contemporary thinkers such as Henri Bortoft, who argue that “In contrast [to wholeness], an intellectual approach to scientific education begins by seeing the phenomenon as an instance of general principles.” David Bohm is another contemporary writer who argues that “science itself is demanding a new, non-fragmentary world view, in the sense that the present approach of analysis of the world into independently existent parts does not work very well in modern physics.” Bohm’s central view is that an understanding of the undivided wholeness of the universe would “provide a much more orderly way of considering the general nature of reality.” In the world of architecture, this line of reasoning is best reflected in the work of architect and writer Christopher Alexander, who concludes, “The beauty of a building, its life, and its capacity to support all life come from the fact that it is working as a whole. A view of the building as a whole means that we see it as part of an extended and undivided continuum.”

How does the idea of wholeness relate to interpretation?
We had been developing our studio philosophy and approach for many years before coming into contact with the National Association for Interpretation. At the recommendation of a friend who works as an exhibit designer, we attended our first National Workshop several years ago. We were immediately surprised and excited to discover parallels between our own work and the ideas that form the intellectual framework for much of interpretation. In particular, we found that Freeman Tilden best expressed an interpretive understanding of the concept of wholeness. Tilden’s Fifth Principle states, “Interpretation shall aim to present a whole rather than a part, and must address itself to the whole man rather than any phase.” Tilden observed that “interpretation is the revelation of a larger truth that lies behind any statement of fact.” He also stated that, “true interpretation deals not with parts, but with a historical—and I would say spiritual—whole.” Now if Tilden had stopped merely at this point we would have had much in common. But he goes further and gets even closer to the heart of the matter. He states, “Since most people think of beauty as something perceivable through the eyes alone, here is a challenge for the interpreter. He must take the visitor into that larger sphere of the same quality, which we may call order….” After reading Tilden, we thought, “This is great. Here is a group of professional people who really get it.” Wholeness, in our view, is not merely a summation of parts or a totality. Wholeness equals beauty, meaning, and order. It is the interpreter’s job to understand, and then communicate, the wholeness of a place. We consider it our job as architects to first understand and then to reinforce, and even attempt to help rebuild, the wholeness that exists.

How can architecture support interpretation?
In setting out to develop an interpretive facility, the typical approach begins with a “program,” a document that identifies a list of rooms and spaces that accommodate the center’s needs. These needs are stated in very specific terms, and normally include: size, orientation, adjacencies, intended uses, electrical and mechanical needs, special equipment, furniture, storage, and required built-in accoutrements. The building design then becomes an artful assemblage of the component parts identified in the program as rooms.

We have been wary of this typical design process for many years now. It acts as a highly selective filter, leaving critical information behind. This “normal” way of programming a building excludes the social, spiritual, and intellectual pursuits undertaken by staff and visitors, how it heals a weak environmental fabric, how it allows staff to feel fully engaged and stimulated, how it maintains its stability as a place over a long period of time, etc. It is no wonder that so many of today’s new buildings seem somehow lifeless, leading us to believe that the true component “parts” of a building are not just a set of rooms, but something much more meaningful, accurate, rich, and alive.

In response, we have worked very hard on a concept called “pattern writing.” The idea of a pattern is quite old, emerging from the scientific work and writings of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. Goethe was critical of the way in which the scientific community of his time (1749–1832) observed the natural world. He decried the method of plucking organisms from their context, pulling them apart and cataloging the apparent pieces, using a predetermined vocabulary of terms. He preferred a disciplined method of observation that allowed one to see the organism as it was, in its context, as it lived and changed. What emerged from this kind of observation was an understanding of the real “parts” of the organism: patterns of relationships that described the morphology of the organism as an undivided whole. Aldo Leopold would be proud!

Goethe’s central ambition (according to L.L. Whyte) “was nothing less than to see all nature as one, to discover an objective principle of continuity running through the whole, from the geological rocks to the processes of aesthetic creation. Moreover, this discovery of the unity of nature implies the simultaneous self-discovery of man, since man could thereby come to understand himself better.”

Christopher Alexander has developed the idea of patterns even further, particularly in the area of “aesthetic creation.” His book A Pattern Language has revolutionized our way of seeing, designing, and constructing the built environment.

What, specifically, are patterns?
Patterns are an accurate representation of the essential constituent parts of both the natural and built environments. A pattern describes the necessary relationship between a set of events and an arrangement of space conducive to those events. The two aspects, events and spatial organization, are considered facets of the same undivided whole. One of the curious things about patterns is that they can’t exist in isolation. Their definition is recursive: a pattern is composed of other patterns at the same or smaller scales. And those patterns, in turn, are made of yet smaller patterns and so on. This nested, cooperative, and interwoven structure accounts for the organic nature of the world as we know it. It is a rather accurate reflection of the way the universe organizes itself.

The goal of developing patterns in the architectural realm is to gain a deeper understanding of how a building and its environment can be configured to support both human activity and natural processes in a harmonious way. Writing patterns can help identify the deeper spiritual and emotional values inherent in a place.

One of the great advantages of patterns is that they do not rely on the specialized language of the architect. They communicate information in very clear and simple language that is easily understood by a broad variety of people. A by-product of this clarity is that it helps gain consensus among all stakeholders when specific actions are required. This approach also encourages much better feedback from stakeholders, which is especially important if the process is intended to be an inclusive one where quality of feedback is critical.

How does pattern writing relate to interpretation?
For the typical interpretive facility, the building itself is usually seen as backdrop to the more important work carried out by traditional forms of interpretation, including exhibits, signage, and performances. The building provides basic functional needs of enclosure, circulation, public services, and administration. And most facilities attempt to offer superficial design elements that relate to the broader interpretive message, i.e. rustic lodge features for a wilderness-based center. But in many cases interpretive meaning is not considered carefully enough as an integral part of building and site design. In her book Interpretive Planning, Lisa Brochu notes that “interpretation is often an afterthought, considered only after the site or facility is fully constructed.” We believe that a building and the spaces around it must truly become a more integral part of telling the interpretive story. And we have concluded that the pattern writing process offers the best opportunity for allowing this integration to occur in a meaningful and comprehensive way.

While we have typically employed this process for the design of new buildings, pattern writing can also be a useful diagnostic tool for any type of interpretive center, whether it is a site-based visitor center or a collections-based urban cultural center. Even for an organization that is not contemplating a major facility expansion/renovation, the process of pattern writing can identify weaknesses in the way a building and site support the mission of the organization and offer solutions for making the place more alive, more functional, and more inviting to both staff and visitors.

What were your goals for the Aldo Leopold Legacy Center?
In creating a new facility, the Leopold Foundation hoped to achieve two primary objectives. At a basic level, they wanted more space to meet operational needs now and in the future. At a more fundamental level, however, the foundation wanted to create a facility that was a true expression of its mission. While this is often the stated goal for an organization when building a new facility, the Aldo Leopold Foundation was unique in its commitment to this core ideal.

The foundation’s mission is to advance Aldo Leopold’s concept of a “Land Ethic” as originally defined by the famed naturalist in his influential 1949 book A Sand County Almanac. Leopold’s “Land Ethic” has had significant impact on the modern conservation movement with his reasoning that “a land ethic…reflects the existence of an ecological conscience, and this in turn reflects a conviction of individual responsibility for the health of the land.” Our task as the design team for the Leopold Legacy Center was to create a place where visitors could come into more intimate contact with the land, and to begin to intuitively understand for themselves what Leopold meant by a land ethic.

The goal in designing the new Leopold Center, located near the original “Leopold Shack” on the site where Aldo Leopold died fighting a brush fire, was to create, in the words of Foundation Director Buddy Huffaker, a “high-intensity, low-volume experience” for visitors. By this, he meant a facility that would impart a deeper, more lasting visitor experience than typical nature or interpretive centers that serve large numbers of casual visitors. The Leopold experience, at its best, should instill in visitors a deeper understanding of earth processes and offer the stirring of a profound intellectual and emotional awareness of man’s relationship to the land.

The Medium is the Message

By
Legacy
Published: November 1, 2008Posted in: From the EditorTags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

by Paul Caputo

legacy-novdec08When I first became involved with NAI back in 2002, I was struck by how fully the definition of interpretation could be applied to my chosen field of visual communications. The description of a “communication process that forges emotional and intellectual connections” can certainly be applied to graphic design in its many manifestations (print, web, multimedia, etc.). NAI defines interpretation as a mission-based communication process that forges emotional and intellectual connections between the interests of the audience and the meanings inherent in the resource.

When someone makes the mistake of asking me a question about graphic design, I compare the process to developing an interpretive program. I talk about starting with an overriding concept (or theme) and making sure that every subsequent decision supports that larger concept. In graphic design, this means that when one makes decisions about type, color, composition, format, and materials, there’s no room for computer defaults or “I just thought it looked nice.” Every decision must be meaningful.

In interpretation, individual interpreters develop programs based on themes. Decisions about what and how much information to include, what activities may be appropriate, and how the program is presented all relate to this larger message. Good interpretive sites or agencies also operate with a specific goal—a mission—in mind. Every decision about what sorts of interpretive media or programs should be featured, who should conduct and oversee those programs and exhibits, and what sort of facilities should play host to visitors should all relate to the site’s or agency’s mission.

This is where the tangential field of architecture comes into play in the world of interpretation. A visitor who steps into a nature center that is designed to reinforce the importance of conservation is well on her way to a meaningful experience before she encounters a single exhibit, brochure, or interpreter. A carefully planned and designed sustainable facility accomplishes the important task of reducing or eliminating environmental damage, but it also is part of a message. It is a source of meaning.

This issue of Legacy includes three feature stories that introduce readers to outstanding natural and cultural interpretive facilities that practice what they preach. Jay T. Schneider’s “The Land Ethic in the 21st Century” tells the story of the first building recognized by Leadership in Energy and Environmental Design (LEED) as carbon-neutral in operation—the Aldo Leopold Legacy Center in Baraboo, Wisconsin. The site honors the memory of Aldo Leopold and his ground-breaking work, A Sand County Almanac, not just by remembering him, but by endorsing and implementing his conservation ethic. “Eielson LEEDS by Example” by Joshua Becker introduces readers to the Eielson Visitor Center in Denali National Park and Preserve. The building is the first designed and funded by the National Park Service to achieve a platinum LEED rating, the highest achievable. In “Rocky Mountain Green” by Katherine McIntyre, readers will discover the Squamish Lil’wat Cultural Centre in Whistler, British Columbia. The center, also LEED-certified, does not simply house the treasures of two First Nations cultures, it was designed and conceived of by members of those Nations to reflect their values.

Also in this issue, you will find an interview with Allen Washatko of the firm The Kubala Washatko Architects, Inc., responsible for the design of the Aldo Leopold Legacy Center. A commentary by Tracey M. Lewis-Giggetts, a college professor, details the next generation’s self-imposed emphasis on sustainability. And finally, the Visitor’s View by Sonya Welter takes readers to Duluth, Minnesota, for a day at the Hartley Nature Center.

In his book Understanding Media, Marshall McLuhan says, “The medium is the message.” One of the graphic design decisions related to this magazine is that it is printed on recycled paper, not just because it’s a better choice for the environment, but because it reinforces NAI’s core value to support healthy environmental practices. The sites featured in this issue have made similar decisions about their “media”; their sustainable facilities are the canvases on which their messages of conservation are painted.

Paul Caputo, art and publications director for the National Association for Interpretation and co-author of Interpretation By Design: Graphic Design Basics for Heritage Interpreters, can be reached at pcaputo@interpnet.com. Send letters to the editor intended for publication to legacy@interpnet.com.