I’d never heard of vernacular architecture, but here it is, from Ariana Zilliacus on ArchDaily:
“Vernacular architecture can be said to be ‘the architectural language of the people’ with its ethnic, regional and local ‘dialects,'” writes Paul Oliver, author of The Encyclopaedia of Vernacular Architecture of The World’. Unfortunately, there has been a growing disregard for traditional architectural language around the world due to modern building technology quickly spreading a “loss of identity and cultural vibrancy” through what the Architectural Review recently described as “a global pandemic of generic buildings.” People have come to see steel, concrete and glass as architecture of high quality, whereas a lot of vernacular methods including adobe, reed or peat moss are often associated with underdevelopment. Ironically, these local methods are far more sustainable and contextually aware than much contemporary architecture seen today, despite ongoing talks and debates about the importance of sustainability. As a result of these trends, a tremendous amount of architectural and cultural knowledge is being lost.
I’m sort of interested in more detail on why Ariana thinks vernacular architecture is more sustainable than modern architecture – that strikes me as an argument that requires a lot of support, given that many of the examples she cites later in her article were not developed in a context of high population densities – or simply high populations. For example, this:
Found in what is possibly the wettest human-inhabited place on earth, during monsoon season in Meghalaya the rivers grow to become far more violent and powerful than in the dry season. To cross, the Khasi tribes that lived in the region would build bamboo bridges, however they were not strong enough to last the monsoon. Around 180 years ago they experimented with a new technique, pulling the roots of a rubber tree across a river the slowly grew into a bridge that is now capable of sustaining the weight of 50 people. The living root bridges of Meghalaya take around 25-30 years to grow, and they only grow stronger with time. There are a few living bridges that have had enough time to grow into fully functioning structures, but over the last 25 years this practice has begun to die out. Waiting decades for a bridge to form is far too long in our modern day world, especially when a steel or concrete alternative can be constructed in a fraction of that time—although they certainly aren’t as magical.
That said, the many solutions to the problem of housing in the face of limited resources are fascinating, as are the stories that accompany them.
On the island of Læsø in northern Denmark there is a longstanding tradition for seaweed roofs, made using eelgrass. A successful salt industry on the island meant that most of the trees were used to power kilns for salt refinement, leaving residents with little to construct their homes. As a result, they used driftwood from shipwrecks and eelgrass from the ocean that were able to withstand decay for hundreds of years, thanks to the fact that they were impregnated with saltwater. Unfortunately a fungal disease wiped out over 200 of the existing buildings in the 1930s, leaving only 19.
Sort of like black mold, maybe.
