As I look back on the journey that has led me to embrace the principles of biophilic architecture, I now realize it was less a matter of choice and more an inherent progression. From the moment I began my career in architecture—a field that all too often prizes the efficiency of technical systems above all else—I felt the tug of something that ignored convention and instead reached for the warmth of the sun, the coolness of the shade, the simplicity of a natural form, and the wonder of the colors, textures, and smells that surround us in the world. I didn’t just want to be an architect. I wanted to be a biophilic architect. Something in my very being told me, as it has told countless others before me, that I need to be with natural forms in spaces designed by me. But what was the line that mediated the biophilia of past societies, who built magnificent structures that echoed nature’s forms, with my desire to reach such architectural heights?
Connecting with the natural environment is beneficial to human health. A burgeoning body of scientific research affirms what many of us have long suspected: Our well-being improves when we spend time in, or even just look at, natural settings. The park that hugged the library was gorgeous. With the construction of the library, the park, and the nearby river, a delicate mosaic of ecosystems thrived. And yet the library’s very structure denied its inmates any connection to these life-giving natural systems. The biophilic redesign was an opportunity to make a direct course correction, to not only ensure that the library’s inhabitants had a connection to the park and its delicate ecosystems but also put them in resonance with the avifauna, the insect life, and the floral beauty of that space. Hanging plants, a waterfall, a river with a green wall, and half-dome shapes that parallel the rounded forms of so many natural structures across the spectrum of organic forms from cells to leaves and seeds make for a less “bookish,” more “biophilic” experience of the world.
The renovation of the library was a spectacular success. In the space of a summer, the library shifted from being a cold box full of books to a warm, inviting space. An art deco chandelier now hangs from the high ceiling and gives off quite a bit of light. Meanwhile, the design team added even more lighting fixtures (antique and modern) to the interior. Students now see the library as a pristine space to do work, and they don’t have to worry about light spilling onto the page and ruining their ability to read or write.
Biophilic architecture isn’t about decoration; rather, it’s about integration. This lesson was imparted to me by the library project, which is also a kind of biophilic design study. Too often, architecture that aspires to biophilia isn’t really achieving it. Plopping a few plants in a building’s corners doesn’t make it biophilic. Neither does it achieving the effect if you put a vertical garden on a building’s façade or call up a plant for that area in the building right behind the reception desk.
An essential principle of biophilic architecture is creating a sense of prospect and refuge. This concept is rooted in our evolutionary psychology—the balance of expansive views and feeling protected. In architectural terms, it means creating spaces that offer not just long vistas but also cozy nooks and crannies for the right kind of privacy. In a recent residential project, we literally placed the windows to look out onto an enormous backyard designed to be verdant and lush. But we didn’t stop there. We complemented those vistas with alcoves throughout the house that are filled with plush and cozy furniture meant for curling up and feeling safe and sound—far removed from the hustle and bustle of the main house. On the one hand, the residents feel deeply connected to the larger environment—turned towards the unbelievable beauty of the backyard. But at the same time, the design makes them feel profoundly secure.
Biophilic design has one core component known as biomimicry. This is where we take our inspiration from the forms, processes, and systems found in nature and adapt them to our built environment. The office building I worked on was inspired by the way leaves capture and diffuse sunlight. The design feature that accomplishes that inspiration was a canopy above the workspace that, in essence, is a large open weave of interlocking panels, each a slightly different size, shape, and angle, but all together very much like a mother nature-made canopy. Panels filter sunlight as if in two separate “forests”—one in front of the spaces where people work and another in back by the internal “streets.”
A good instance of biophilic architecture can be found in the Bosco Verticale in Milan, Italy. This pair of residential towers is completely covered, both top and bottom, with trees, shrubs, and other plants. The presence of these various forms of life provides a number of very good benefits to the residents of the towers and the nearby populace. The dramatic scene of nature that the duo of towers presents also serves as a potent symbol of what reintroducing nature into our daily lives can mean. One also wishes to see tangible evidence of how biophilic design can do its part for us. We put our trusted urban planning allies to work in service of those let us say very clear goals.
Biophilic architecture leverages the calming properties of water. At a wellness center we designed, a narrow stream ran through the central courtyard, wavering in the Arizona sun as it flowed over warm stones. Just beyond the lip of the courtyard, the water in the stream poured over a series of small dams and pools, producing the soft burbling and gurgling sounds that seem to emanate from the heart of every Zen garden. One of our first associative studies in biophilic design had been with the waterfall in the Koi pond at the Chicago Botanic Garden. There the path led through a series of spaces where the head and heart could be equally at ease. The inspiration for the central courtyard we created at the Salud Center (the name means “health” in Spanish) came from that experience of movement through calming spaces.
Materiality matters. Choosing natural materials above synthetic ones, as we did in our school design project, really connects a person to the essence of nature, which is hard to replicate with unnatural alternatives. Wood, for instance, has a tactile quality that no synthetic material can duplicate. Cobblestone or an adobe wall may not be perfect, but their warm imperfections speak to us in ways that reinforced concrete never could. In choosing to use timber from sustainable forests, reclaimed or otherwise, in our project, we did much more than merely connect our students to nature. We gave them an authentic experience and a building in which to inhabit a kind of living history.
The biophilic approach fosters a reconnection with the natural world. When transformed into a design, the biophilic principle first brings in light. Daylight, or the absence of it, has a profound impact on how we feel and function. Biophilic design won’t use artificial means to deliver light; rather, it maximizes the use of natural light. It works on the assumption that human beings are much more happy-healthy when they are in rhythms of being with light or dark. For the natural biographer, illuminating the built environment with light from the sun can only be done if one also allows for emerging shadows that will enhance the beauty of both the sun and the light itself.
Even with all its benefits, biophilic architecture encounters some obstacles. When I talk with colleagues, stakeholders, or developers, I hear their concerns repeatedly: cost, feasibility, and maintenance. And those concerns are based on a view that infusing our buildings with natural elements is just too expensive or impractical. In fact, it’s what a lot of people think. But here’s how I see it: the perception that biophilic design is somehow too costly tends to arise from an applied economic model that lacks a long-term vision. Yes, biophilic design can and may require a greater investment upfront, particularly when you compare it to conventional design and the kind of buildings that are pretty much designed to just get the job done.
Let me take a minute to tell you about one of my favorite projects. A big urban corporate headquarters came to us to create a new facility that broke the old mold of soulless office buildings. They weren’t looking for the same old, same old. They wanted something that felt good to work in and that also played well with the environment—something “biophilic,” as we say in the trade. So we started laying out the office spaces in a way that let natural light and airflow fill them. Then we enlivened the places where people could gather with a “living wall,” several indoor gardens (with high security), and a good deal of natural ventilation through the complex assembly of indoor and outdoor space that this big building turned out to be.
Another issue that frequently arises involves the upkeep of natural features in constructed environments. Living walls must be maintained, green roofs must be tended, and water features can require regular cleaning and balancing. It’s true that biophilic components demand constant vigilance, but it’s equally true that our recent technological advances make it easier than ever to give these elements the care they need. Automated irrigation systems, for instance, and advances in materials that promote plant health can dramatically reduce the need for human oversight. One project— a mixed-use community center—allowed me to work with a landscape architect and install a rainwater collection system that fed directly into the irrigation for a series of rooftop gardens. This system not only cut down on the amount of water used but also ensured that the plants in those gardens were largely self-sustaining. Instead of being a burden, the rooftop garden largely was an asset for the community.
The movement toward biophilic design feels like a cultural shift; it is exciting to see and to be a part of. I experience this in the work that finds its way to me, particularly these days when the explicit desire of so many clients—be they from the corporate or residential sector—is to once again embrace nature. The design profession is by no means deserting the concept of simple sustainability, but that old notion is feeling like a not-so-fashionable relic of the recent past. Nowadays, when I’m asked to design something, the desire is less for me to balance efficiency with aesthetics and more for me to reconcile the unfriendly relationship so many of us have with the natural world. What could that relationship look like if it were friendlier? What would urban environments, in particular, have to gain from it?
One thing that really gets me revved up is the use of biophilic principles in city planning. When biophilia really takes hold, you see something akin to what Singapore has done: not just a great and well-executed idea but also a lot of phenomenal opportunities along the way, a really rich child-friendly urban ecosystem. I mean, take a gander at my photos. The premise is simple: they have integrated nature into every nook and cranny of the space they use. Paradoxically (or perhaps not, given our curse of the modernist box), it’s ambient, discrete, and unobtrusive—nature even seems to happen in the context of a good urban design model.
Integrating nature into the city does more than prettify the place. It redefines urban living. It creates habitats. Corridors and networks of nature and green offer urban wildlife the space and resources it needs to live and thrive. Cities are set up to be extraordinarily stressful, but no matter how frantic the pace or how ill-mannered the passersby, there are always moments that offer the chance to step away, however briefly. Urban wildlife that has learning-involved intelligence (think squirrels, raccoons, or crows for a moment) knows how to confront urban danger; urban wildlife that does not have learning-involved intelligence (like small birds that a child might see hidden in park vegetation) does not know that it is stepping into a space where urban dangers abound.
The biophilic design holds limitless potential for the future. Advancing technology is vastly expanding our reach. We are using virtual and augmented reality to visualize how natural elements will interact with built spaces before we start to build them, ensuring a harmony between the two that was once difficult to predict. Emerging materials—biocomposites, for instance, or building blocks made of mycelium—are new possibilities for incorporating natural components into construction itself, further blending the boundaries between built and organic environments.
If we are to make biophilic architecture really and truly a part of the common experience, we must change both policy and education. The immediate and over-focused teaching of our profession must emphasize that the most profound leadership happens when we “think out of the box.” We must teach and lead citizens to be architects of the future, helping all of humanity to solve problems in a way that serves the immediate needs of a project while also considering the fundamental, ecological, and planetary health of both our current and remote descendants. Building codes and policies must incentivize this new paradigm; indeed, some building and fire codes as they now exist almost guarantee a negative outcome for building inhabitants and the future inhabitants of both buildings and surrounding neighborhoods.
At its essence, biophilic architecture is about creating places that people inhabit—where they feel like they have some connection with their lived environment and where they derive some sense of satisfaction and pleasure from things dense with experiences in contrast to places devoid of them. It is about not furnishings but form, not objects but atmospheres, and not inside but outside—with a long and unapologetic look at life, everywhere and always. When we look at the world biophysically, we see its shape and feel its interior spaces; when we look at the world in biophilic terms, we see the world’s full promise of what it can give to us.
