A transformative decade in design, the 1970s left its unmistakable imprint on architecture and our relationship with nature. Drawing from my many years of working with biophilic design, the nostalgic warmth and unfathomable use of materials in 70s biophilic design spaces compel me to delve deep into the decade’s creative mind. Anyone who has walked into a biophilic Design space that pays homage to the decade surely felt the ecstatic wave of peace. For many, peace is what the 70s biophilic design movement paid heed to any time its architects and designers configured nature into our daily lives. The unblemished way in which the biophilic design movement challenged 1970s modernist environments to create spaces reminiscent of natures’ peace and warm embrace is something I think we can all look back at and advocate as a pioneering divergence from the sterile environments preceding it.
As the world moves toward urbanization, the designers of the built environment are addressing the negative impacts we experience from our disconnection with nature. A few years ago, TIME magazine published an article titled “Why You Should Take Your Plants to the Office.” The headline and the photo alone could have made the case for biophilic design. Ambiance—an atmosphere that feels good and is compatible with human flourishing—is something to be valued in design, and yet it is too often overlooked and made the butt of a joke when it is discussed in design criticism. That office atmosphere, with or without plants, is stages of poor health. Poor human health outcomes result from not including nature in our everyday lives. And so Tokyo-based architect and designer Maud Vantours creates office planters and area dividers that are more than office furnishings—they are preparatory forms for returning to our buildings a sense of breathing, of being alive and responsive to the rhythms of nature.
Natural Materials and Earthy Color Palettes
When we think of design from the 1970s, the first images that might come to mind would probably be those of orange-and-brown interiors, a great deal of macramé hanging from wall space, and pop art in frames. But what sustains those stereotypes? After all, 1970s design was more than just wood paneling, even if it is the era’s design signature. “Biophilic design”—our bond to the natural world expressed in interior and architectural design—was a big part of the design philosophy of the 1970s. Spaces featuring heavy wood (from trees abundant in North America due to mid-century forestry), stone, and terracotta were on the upswing in that decade. I “honed” that movement through materials and color palette in the first project I did after establishing myself as a designer.
These materials had a real effect on human nature—you couldn’t help but be drawn to several of the spaces and give them a full inspection. Wanting to and being allowed to are two sides of the same visual and tactile relationship that biophilic design has with its occupants. It’s almost as if the materials were meant to induce this behavior, to reenact some primordial form of making a space your own. Biophilic design is no hippy-dippy escapist venture; it taps robustly into our visual and tactile senses, with an elemental language that speaks to our inner child—that soft spot in our hearts for creativity and nature, whose duality is fundamental to any worthwhile existence. If you want to be a good biophilic designer, all you have to do is listen and look (‘Natural Exploits of Wood’).
One specific place where I worked used this palette to its fullest. We painted the room a dark olive green, with accents of burnt orange and wood paneling. Immediately, and with very few resources, the room was transformed. It felt like walking into a forest, with dappled light and textures that made the room feel relaxing and nurturing. I don’t think I’ve ever designed anything that felt as much like a retreat as that room. In the cozy embrace of those colors, clients said they could hear themselves think, even when they were on the brink of some big decision. And I was all in favor of that kind of atmosphere. End section: Insert code to make “complete” appear here Section 2: Indoor Gardens, Terrariums, and Bringing Nature Inside One of the things I really appreciate about biophilic design is how it can appeal to all of our senses. The realm of touch seems especially significant. We not only see and hear the natural world; we also experience it through our skin and, in a sense, by proxy. We are hypnotically drawn to the sights, the sounds, and especially the feels of nature.
It wasn’t merely a matter of placing a few plants on a shelf; people were constructing entire environments with their botanical choices. The push for indoor greenery was now in full swing. And I remember my own parents catching onto this trend with pride, showing off not just a few stalwart houseplants but a collection of hanging spider plants that cascaded down over our living room like green waterfalls. Intrigued, I watched the elaborate living displays my parents were constructing and did my desperate best to maintain the peace lily I had inherited as a child. When I think of biophilic design, I don’t picture just one houseplant: I picture my parents’ suffocatingly intimate, plant-filled abode.
A recent project that I think is really cool is the vintage-inspired living room we designed for an enthusiastic couple who love plants. They now enjoy not only huge, hanging pots (we used vintage macramé hangers to display their ferns and philodendrons) but also a variety of other green things (most living in wall-mounted planters at the moment) as part of their interior landscape. And why shouldn’t they? “Biophilia,” or love of nature, is an innate part of being human.
One of the elements of the 1970s that I hold dear is the terrarium. To me, there’s something intrinsically fascinating about having a living garden in your home that’s contained in glass. You can observe plant life in a miniature landscape, which feels like a self-sustaining universe. In one of my recent projects, we used jumbo terrariums as “walls” to divide two very different spaces—an oversized dining room and a strangely shaped lounge. The terrariums provide “visual separation,” which is designer-speak for the fact that you can see the two rooms, but the two rooms aren’t really one room. These oversized glass vessels are always filled with plants, and their presence has an effect I can’t quite articulate. There’s light and growth happening inside them. People seem to be drawn to the fact that the living gardens exist inside glass. There’s an element of curiosity and whimsy about these ecosystems.
Accepting both light and shadow: Why natural light matters
Another significant feature of 70s design was bringing in natural light. This was the decade when big windows, skylights, and solariums really took off in residential construction. The effort was to invite as much light as possible indoors, and just that much more if you were indoors with the windows open. And while, like everything else we’ve been talking about, this was not earnest and without some underlying agenda (see sky-god, above), this part of 70s design did align pretty well with the general trend toward less oppressive interiors—interiors that, for some, extended to spaces where they could actually live comfortably.
I once participated in a project that tore open a seventies house, bringing it into the 21st century, all the while staying true to the fundamental premise—and promise—of that Architecture: the promise of connecting with nature. The house had a central atrium, topped by a skylight that lit up the main living space in an ungodly magnificent way. Bad design was what doomed this house to the fate of a remodel. And yet, when we faced the tragic prospect of redesigning the atrium, I insisted that we maintain, if not intensify, the original vision. The homeowners were modernists. They played a kind of DeStijl on the original interior. They were not naturalists. Yet I had seen, and our designer-in-chief had seen, what a magnificent space this could be.
Experiences like this really highlight why biophilic design is about so much more than just looks. It’s really an environment concept that allows for and embraces change and evolution within spaces. Biophilic environments, for the most part, are attempts to bring back the missing elements of architecture that allow for a better connection to the passage of time and the natural rhythms of day to day life. We see it in architecture that doesn’t inflate ego but rather opts for humility, like the St. Nicholas Church at the World Trade Center site, where light filters in through the basement windows.
The Organic Form, Texture, and the Impact of the Artisan
The 1970s wasn’t merely a decade of different materials and plants; it was also a time of near-universal acclaim for organic forms and textures. Biophilic design in the ’70s could be counted on, to an almost laughable degree, for the absence of hard, linear forms. And if you did happen to find a right angle in a piece of ’70s furniture, chances were pretty good it was just an illusion, a cleverly disguised slope that allowed the design to pass biophilia’s not-so-subtle test of visual and tactile appeal.
One unforgettable project I was involved with centered around a family that wholeheartedly desired to integrate 1970s design into their newly constructed abode. We crafted a space that was not only inviting, but also one in which any and all types of human interaction felt natural. This was an area in which to be seen and, more importantly, to be heard in the act of conversation, whether one was on the elevated level in the sunken conversation pit or on the low, curvaceous stage of the set. These types of projects speak to a renewed interest among architects and interior designers for how to craft spaces that give off a sense of ease.
Another significant thread of biophilic design in the 1970s was textures. We were enveloped in macramé, rattan, and wicker: handmade articles that were tactile and rich with character. In many instances, these materials were a kind of rebellion against the kind of mass production and sleek minimalism that had ruled the previous decade. I remember entering a space that a colleague had designed, where almost every piece of furniture had been made from natural materials. Rattan chairs, a driftwood coffee table, wall hangings made from some kind of woven grass, and even a fireplace made from handmade bricks and stones were part of the just entryways to that room. Each element felt unique, carrying the touch of the human hand, which was a big part of the room’s image as alive and nurturing.
I am continually attracted to the ability to insert handcrafted features into my work. Mass production has replaced the custom shop, but homes and interiors still resonate with spaces rooted in history and intention. I am particularly keen on the elements that biophilic design trades in—that is, the interplay between natural materials and human creativity. These are features that architecture can be endowed with because they go beyond the prevailing surface of what looks good or seems to work better in some instances than other instances. With a client recently, we turned to vintage macramé as a way of warming a minimalist space to make it feel inviting and textured rather than stark and unyielding.
Communal Life in Nature: Bringing People Together in Open Spaces
An additional feature of biophilic design that emerged in the ’70s and has lasted is open-plan living. This era marked the movement away from individual rooms that were closed off and toward spaces that seemed to flow from one to the next, much like the open landscapes found in nature. However, it was not just about looking like nature; there was a reasonable basis for this shift.
Open spaces could promote social interaction among people who were sharing a living area, and they could lessen the feeling of being confined. Living rooms often opened into dining areas, which could open into gardens—interior spaces that seemed to connect directly with nature.
One project that embodies this ethos is a home inspired by 1970s design, which has an entire wall of sliding glass doors leading to a sumptuous garden. The house has an atmosphere and feeling that my clients love. They gather there with friends and family and swear that gatherings feel different when they can push open the doors and expand into the perfumed and vibrant garden. “Biophilia,” of course, is a term that describes nature’s essential role in human life. Whether or not you know the word (and you probably should), we all understand this concept because it’s encoded in our evolutionary biology. Our human ancestors didn’t just spend their lives in caves; they spent an enormous amount of time outside.
Patios and decks came into vogue in the 70s, and I love using them in my work, as they act as transition zones between the house and the garden. They are perfect for sitting outside in the evening or enjoying a weekend meal under the stars, surrounded by lush greenery. I am reminded of a project I worked on recently where we created this very idea, but with a much larger deck. We used wood for the structure and flooring, and potted ferns and grasses for our nature-immersed setting. This family now uses that deck almost year-round, describing the take on this 70s design in their home as their “favorite room.”
Another important event came about in the 1970s when people became aware of another very serious side of our ecological crisis: our climate. As the decade progressed, architectural theorists started not just looking to profit from the habitation of biophilic spaces but also to make strides toward upholding the tenets of the architecture of climate. The appearance of the passive solar design began to pop up here and there in stages. This part of the decade holds much grander ecological significance than it might seem on the surface, however.
In my profession, I find that a number of clients are attracted to biophilic design from the 1970s because of the natural sustainability emphasized in that work. One of my recent clients wanted to extend their home in the same spirit. With them, I looked to the precedents created in that era for guidance and inspiration. We did a few things that were suggested in the 70s and mixed in recommendations we make today. For instance, we used reclaimed wood for the framing. The windows in the addition face south. Inside the new space, you can find natural, low-VOC, water-based paints; however, it seems those beauty products were left behind in the 1970s.
I think this devotion to sustainability makes biophilic design of the ’70s so appealing. It is not a kind of visual nostalgia; it is a close-to-nature, how-to-be-good-to-the-earth style in which every decision is made with the intention of promoting a kind of relationship with the natural environment in practical, sensible ways. That sensibility remains crucial now, as we spend more time than ever in an urbanized, technology-worshipping world, and I believe its basic elements should guide us as we push hard against appearance-driven interiors that sport little in the way of real environmental or health benefits.
The allure of biophilic design from the 1970s goes more than skin deep. It’s not enough for living spaces to merely resemble nature. It’s vital for interiors to deeply express the era’s seductive warm earthy tones, rich textures, and abundant plant life, which are staples of the current 70s design revival. Yet the era is also important in how it models a living space that speaks to an enduring and all-consuming deep human need to connect—far more than just visually or through operable windows—with the natural world. After all, with life approaching an all-time high for living in a screen-dominated way, who doesn’t pine for the comfort, nurture, and reconnection to the earth so overtly or subtly offered in the 1970s?
Seventies biophilic design is about the environments we create. It’s about those spaces being alive with us and because of us, and it’s about them being as equally comforting as they are engagingly stimulating—perhaps even more so since the death knell tolled for postmodernism. Biophilic design seeks to balance the oft-thought-to-be oppositional forces of urbanism and naturalism, which isn’t to say it yields some bland midpoint. Biophilic design pursues a warmer modernism.
