Musicalizing the weather through landscape architecture

The idea of listening to a landscape – how to podcast a landscape, for instance – tends to be literally overlooked in favor of a site's visual impact or even its smell. When I was in Greece a few years ago, for instance, hiking toward an abandoned village on Tilos, every step I took crushed wild onions, herbs, and different flowers, and a temporary envelope of scent, picked up by breezes, floated all around me as I walked uphill. I may not remember every single detail of what that path *looked* like – but I do remember how it *smelled*.
It was like hiking through salad.
In any case, you don't often see people packing up the family car, or hopping onto a train, to tour Wales or the Green Mountains of Vermont so that they can listen to the hills – they'll go out to look at autumn leaf colors, sure, or take photographs of spring wildflowers. But to go all the way to Wales so they can hear a particular autumn wind storm howling through the gorges, a storm that only lasts two days of every year? Specifically going somewhere to *listen to the landscape*.
Seasonal weather events and their sonic after-effects. The Great November Moan.
All of which brings me to the idea of sound mirrors.


Musicalizing a weather system through landscape architecture.
BLDGBLOG here proposes a series of sound mirrors to be built in a landscape with regular, annual wind phenomena. A distant gully, moaning at 2am every second week in October due to northern winds from Canada, has its low, droning, cliff-created reverb carefully echoed back up a chain of sound mirrors to supply natural soundscapes for the sleeping residents of nearby towns.
Or a crevasse that actually makes no sound at all has a sound mirror built nearby, which then amplifies and redirects the ambient air movements, coaxing out a tone – but only for the first week of March. Annually.
Landscape as saxophone.


It's a question of interacting with the earth's atmosphere through human geotechnical constructions. Through sound mirrors.
What you'd need: 1) Detailed meteorological charts of a region's annual wind-flow patterns. 2) Sound mirrors. 3) A very large arts grant.
You could then musicalize the climate.
With exactly placed and arranged sound mirrors atop a mesa, for instance, deep inside a system of canyons – whether that's in the Peak District or Utah's Canyonlands National Park – or even in Rajasthan, or western Afghanistan – you could interact with the earth's atmosphere to create music for two weeks every year, amplifying the natural sounds of seasonal air patterns.
People would come, camp out, check into hotels, open all their windows – and just listen to the landscaped echoes.


A few questions arise: in this context, does Stonehenge make any sounds? What if – and this is just a question – it was built not as a prehistoric astronomical device but as a *landscape wind instrument*? You'd be out there wandering around the Cotswolds, thinking oh – christ, it's 5000 years ago and we're lost, but: what's that? I hear Stonehenge... And then you locate yourself.
Sonic landmark.
This raises the possibility of building smaller versions of these sound mirrors in urban neighborhoods so that, for instance, Berlin's Prenzlauer Berg sounds different than Mitte, which sounds different than Kreuzberg – which sounds different than South Kensington, which is different than Gramercy Park... Etc.
You'd always know which district of the city you were in – even which city you were in, full stop – based on what the wind sounded like.
(Which reminds me of another idea: that, to attract people to a city without much going for it, you could *flavor the water supply*: make it taste like Doritos, for instance, and then sell that on huge billboards: buy your new home in Detroit, the water tastes like Doritos... the water tastes like tofurky...).
Second: is there a sonic signature to the US occupation of Baghdad? And I don't mean rumbling Hummers and airplane engines, I mean what if all those Bremer walls –


– generate sounds during passing wind storms? All the American military bases of Iraq moaning at 3am as desert breezes pass by.
What does the occupation *sound like*?
A sonic taxonomy of architectural forms could begin...

Geomagnetic harddrive

In her recent biography of Sir Christopher Wren – whose towers, domes and steeples appear in the image above – Lisa Jardine describes how she discovered that the London Monument, designed in 1677 by Wren and Robert Hooke together, is actually "a unique, hugely ambitious, vastly oversized scientific instrument" that uses "strategically placed vents and vantage points" to function as a multi-purpose observation deck and lab for measuring atmospheric pressure.
While I was living in Berlin a few years ago, it struck me once that the U-Bahn system could pass, in its own way, for a different kind of "hugely ambitious, vastly oversized scientific instrument" – before I realized, of course, that the Tube, the Metro, the NY subway, etc. – the Beijing underground, Prague, Rome and so forth – all of them could pass for such "scientific instruments."
In other words, those buried urban routes, with all their circuits linked and cross-connected into electrically mechanized networks that passed through mineral deposits and solid bedrock – including the various branches of late-night service that maintained more or less perpetual motion, humming and soaring through manmade canyons beneath parks and plazas and apartment blocks, as if to imply that the global geotechnical industry had been taken over by Athanasius Kircher –


I realized that, in all that tumult of foundations and energy, you could, if you wanted to, listen for the subtle, cello-like moan of distant trains, with their echoes and their friction; and it occurred to me, then, that the whole system, the entirety of the Berlin U-Bahn, could pass for a working model of the universe.
A sonic model, at the very least, of the so-called Cosmic Microwave Background Radiation. A vaulted hum, reverbing back and through itself beneath the city.
Or – and this next idea is only slightly less ridiculous, for you cynics out there – it occurred to me that if the U-Bahn system could somehow be hooked up to massive, earth-anchored magnets, and made, therefore, to produce a magnetic field of its own, that you could transform all of Berlin into a geomagnetic harddrive.
As a sail traps the wind, a *planetary harddrive* would use geomagnetism.
Provided constant motion on behalf of the trains, I thought, and given absolutely gigantic magnets of the right polarity and location, Berlin could start producing its own magnetic field – which meant that any city with a subway could be transformed into a harddrive. Harddrive London. Harddrive Beijing.
Harddrive Moscow.
Of course, it's obvious even to me that you'd have to do quite a lot more than just bury some magnets underground in order to transform a city into a harddrive – you'd need a shovel, for instance, and perhaps some strong anti-manic drugs; but my point is that if Christopher Wren could build a tower that simultaneously memorialized the Great Fire of London even as it acted as a scientific device, then perhaps you could turn *urban infrastructure itself* into a kind of working scientific apparatus.
You could turn all of Berlin into a geomagnetic harddrive.

Posted

Lunar urbanism 3, or: the radically non-terrestrial

The housing bubble has become literally astronomical lately, as privately-owned plots – no less than *three and a half million* of them – have been auctioned off on the moon. Yes, the moon. That's America's moon.


In reality, however, such plots have been on the market for decades: there's "a loophole in the 1967 United Nations Outer Space Treaty. Although no country or government can lay claim to extraterrestrial land, it makes no mention of individual or corporate ownership. Plots have been put up for sale ever since."
So who else but the BBC has stepped into the property-rights fray this past Friday with some helpful lunar construction advice: first, search out "sites with a good supply of ilmenite... to extract oxygen, hydrogen and helium"; then "use lunar rocks as building supplies" because "it is so costly to lift even an extra kilo of steel into space"; finally, stay "on the far side of the moon" with your old Pink Floyd records and safely avoid unfiltered solar radiation.
Sound good? Then contact Dennis Hope, the "US entrepreneur" responsible for selling the 3.4 million private plots mentioned above – and the man behind text-messaging the moon. "Mr. Hope predicts [that there will be] moon-based colonies within 12 years, and [he] is a key investor in the TransOrbital project, which aims to launch the first private commercial flight to the Moon at the end of the year." That's less than 4 months from now, but hey...
Mr. Hope, I suppose, must hurry, because the moon is "open for business" (TransOrbital's actual slogan). Indeed, they've already got at least one rival: "the Kennedy II Project, a private venture to establish a permanent, self-supporting community by the end of the decade." Lunar urbanism redux.
And you can also buy a plot on Mars...
In this context, of at least passing relevance is the work of Constance Adams, one of National Geographic's 2005 Emerging Explorers, and a self-proclaimed "Space Architect." In a 2002 lecture Ms. Adams delivered at the Architectural League – entitled "Space Architecture After *2001*" – she discussed architectural life in zero g's.


Adams has been working on "[t]wo initiatives in recent years," to assist with life in deep space: "the Bio-Plex and TransHab projects." Both "have been undertaken with the express goal of solving... problems of metabolism and choreography in space habitats. The two projects are part of... a planned trip to Mars... During transit, the astronauts will live in the TransHab module. On Mars they will live in the robotically landed Bio-Plex habitation modules."
The biomimetic TransHab module "is revolutionary in two ways. The first is that it is the first spacecraft to feature an endoskeletal construction. The module consists of a layered Kevlar inflatable shell, which performs insulating and protective functions, supported by a robust yet lightweight structural 'skeleton.'"
As but one bio-structural example, NASA describes how microorganisms can grow cytoskeletons made from "filaments [that] meet in triangular structures resembling a geodesic dome – an example of tensegrity." (The pull-down menu on that last link has some *great* stuff on "tetrahedral spaceframe weaves" and "extended magnetic arrays," for starters).




[Those images are of tensegrity sculptures by the supremely talented Kenneth Snelson].
Elsewhere, Constance Adams explicitly alludes to the influence that skeletal evolution in living organisms has had on her architectural designs. She explains that "the big moment [in structural biology] is when the first creature develops an endoskeleton such as we have, thus separating the job of support from protection and permitting an almost infinite field of possibilities for variance and differentiation." This provides her with an architectural metaphor – and there you go.
But this "infinite field of possibilities for variance and differentiation" is therefore not just architecturally liberating – it is biologically generative. NASA, aware of this, already has a deep space biology program in place to study the chemical, genetic, and macro-anatomical structures of living organisms. Why? To learn who – or *what*, I suppose – might survive in radically non-terrestrial environments. This is the exuberantly named field of astrobiology.



[For an interestingly Warholian presentation of the famed Miller/Urey experiment – in which a lightning chamber was used to generate amino acids from a mixture of inorganic chemicals – see this article from Astrobiology Magazine].
To limit myself to questions of architecture and urbanism, however, I'll stop here and refer anyone who wants to know more about inhabiting other planets (specifically Mars) – or anyone who just wants to see cool, interactive animations – to the website Explore Mars Now – which also featured in nothing other than the second BLDGBLOG entry ever published (oh, those were the days...).