Biophilic style is not simply a fashionable term; it is a method of design that resonates with the age-old, fundamental human need to connect with nature. Biophilic principles have long guided designers and architects working in the biophilic space, and I am fortunate to have been able to work with many of them—their clients, too—over the years, and call the biophilic designs “decorated with nature.” Each project deeply enriched my understanding of the biophilic’s healing and inspiring potential. In this series of posts, I will share my experiences—stories intertwined with many diverse individuals—and the lessons learned while creating residential and commercial spaces that invoke the essence of nature and offer deeply felt connections with its principles.
My earliest project using a biophilic design approach was with a family that had just moved into a downtown apartment. They had been dealing with the less-than-ideal aspects of urban living and were reaching out to me for help in creating a feeling of peace within their concrete confines. The most urgent design issue we tackled was the matter of daylight.
The family’s floor plan, combined with the neighboring buildings that practically draped over them, made it seem as though the family had a perpetual eclipse going on. My first piece of advice was more of a recommendation to increase the volume of natural light that was expected to come through the apartment’s windows. “Get some curtains. Not just any curtains.”
It was as though the apartment drew its first breath, and our daughter took to hanging out by the windows even more, working on her school projects in sunlit spaces. That initial foray taught me that a biophilic style is much more than just adding a few plants. It’s about a more profound and more basic human impulse—the one that draws us to the natural world and its rhythms, transformations, and sheer variety. And then there’s biophilic light. With this new concept, I spend as much time thinking about the luminaires and their placement and the use of natural materials as I do about the positioning and kinds of plants to use. And the next two natural light levels to think about are the use of daylight and the use of human-made light.
The mother’s response to having the floors installed is crystal clear in my mind. She stepped out of her shoes and walked without them across the room. She said she could feel the warmth of the floors beneath her feet; she felt as though she were walking in some kind of forest, or other natural setting, where the elements—very earthly elements—are at play. She was really feeling the biophilic design here, which is a kind of direct connection to nature. But this was not just a floor-heating system connected to nature. Uh-uh. There was much more to it. Biophilia is not just about a direct connection to nature; it’s also about achieving a kind of immersive experience in a natural setting.
Careful selection of the plants was vital. Vast light differences created unique conditions for each side of the room. I wanted to use Peace Lilies and Snake Plants because of their form, but mostly because they’re resilient and they purify the air, which makes sense for a space like this. I cannot understate the importance of seeing the living part of the design as something that absolutely must thrive. The family was supposed to live in this space. They were supposed to retreat to the “green nook” and have it be a “natural” experience. That all part of the “greenery” requires some serious thought and almost a Mother Nature touch. The nook was supposed to be an intimate experience—more than that, it was supposed to be a totally sensible thing in biophilic design.
We crafted a custom bookshelf that curved in an organic way, much like a tree’s branches reach for the sky. This was a not solely an aesthetic decision, but also one that I made for my daughter’s well-being. I knew from past experience that shapes like this have a calming and mentally restorative effect, especially for children. When the daughter and I had completed her new bookshelf and it was ready for prime time, we both walked over to it for an inspection. The whole structure of the piece felt very special, as if it were some rare and sacred part of the forest. It didn’t really look like a traditional bookshelf, but I think it felt way better than one does, in a weird way. To me, that was a sign that we were making progress in this new design language that was evoking “natural” in the same way that “organic” can also mean “good.”
Incorporating a biophilic style into homes presents the seemingly insurmountable task of ensuring that nature, and all its disparate elements, coexists inside a structure in a coherent and harmonious way. “Forced” nature—think the strips of green in the atriums of certain Paul Rudolph designs—simply doesn’t cut it. Yet nature is everywhere, even in the projects that entail the toughest challenges. Consider the recent redesign of a retreat center for the Audubon Society. The clients wanted to create a setting that would allow even the most nature-averse urbanite to feel comfortable and connected to the outdoors.
We selected local stones to use for the fireplaces, picking out the ones that had the most color and texture to offer a variety of looks in the finished product and to mimic the surrounding hills and their variety. But this was not just an effort at achieving diversity and the appearance of randomness. Ostensibly, it was about really nailing the “grounded” look and feel of these cabins and their connection to the setting in which you’d find them. And beyond that, it was, and is, about the use of local, “naturally connected” materials and all that psychologically consistent structure can offer in terms of giving guests an experience of feeling “cradled by the land.”
In the biophilic style, one also has to engage the senses apart from sight and touch. Sound and smell have an important role to play, though this is often underappreciated when it comes to creating biophilic experiences. One memorable project brought me to an open office that—instead of working quietly—had coworkers sharing sound and, as a result, not nearly as much privacy as one would hope to feel in an office. The client asked us to help rethink the situation to lower stress and encourage creativity. Part of the solution called for the careful choice of what’s often called “nature sounds,” but are really staged soundscapes that complement different times of day. We used birds in the morning for a “Hi, nice to see you again” kind of sound, and in the afternoon we switched to river sounds, which help a person stay focused and begin to think in terms of a work product that will finish in about an hour or so.
The staff responded resoundingly positively. They reported feeling not only more relaxed but also less distracted and even more productive than usual. This shows how biophilic design can help different kinds of spaces relate to us better, and it isn’t solely a matter of visual appeal. Indeed, the effect on our bodies and minds is far more potent when we consider how we can make biophilic environments also be “fit for use” through a five-sensory experience. Of particular interest is how scent can radically shift our spatial awareness and emotional connection to an environment. It’s clear now that emotions and memories are very closely tied to our olfactory faculties, almost more so than our visual ones. I can already see how we might use this intelligence to play the baseline for serenity through design.
To illustrate, take the couple’s bedroom, which smelled of lavender and cedar, making one feel as if one were in a calming, serene forest at dusk. Amberol applied the same principles of nature-based, holistic scents to the couple’s communal spaces, living area, and kitchen. In those areas, we smelled the invigorating scent of eucalyptus. The combination was transformational for their new home. Amberol is now in a position to replicate this in numerous biophilic projects. He has amassed a kit of nature-based, holistic, essential oil-type scents that he works into his projects. From the very sensory basis of aromatherapy to lighting design, the duo is committed to deploying what they call an ‘esmothia,’ or the art and science of olfactory experience.
We achieved this by installing LED lighting systems that simulated the natural patterns of daylight. The fixtures brightened in the morning, reaching maximum intensity and color temperature very close to that of actual dawn, and warmed and dimmed in the evening to night-light levels, with a color temperature more like that of the setting sun than of electric light. These almost imperceptibly changes in light worked with the guests’ circadian rhythms to help them find a natural balance during their stay. Comments from guests suggested that the tranquility of their rooms and the nature-like ambiance of the spaces were conducive to some of the best sleep many of them had ever experienced.
The community wellness center project gave us an opportunity to work on a truly unique feature. Our team designed an indoor atrium that became the anchor for a small water wall. The soothing auditory backdrop provided by the gently trickling water goes a long way in helping to mask the artificially intensified sounds we make in such a space. But something that I find even more extraordinary about our water wall is the calming visual connection that it gives to flowing water. Most people do not realize this, but they are hardwired to respond in a calming manner—almost a meditative state—to the sight and sound of water. So, if a person working with the design of a space is thinking in a Biophilic way, they may dream up something like our water wall.
As I engage more and more with biophilic elements, I perceive biophilic design in a new light. It comes to me in positives and negatives like music, punctuated by the “porousness” of gradations between inside and outside. The magic of its performance lies in the illusion of nature that’s obtained without intending to recreate nature in a literal sense—a conversation I often hear in relation to the kind of magic that happens in interior design as well as in architecture. Although music is one of my first loves, I often see a stronger parallel between biophilic design and performance art (the more so since I’m an associate with Biophilic Design international). No one human being, performer or artist, can replicate life in all its natural forms. Yet we can certainly aspire to do so stylistically in a way that’s kind of like working with the vocabulary of improvisation.
Biophilic design, when fully understood and applied, becomes part of a space’s very essence, its reason for being. The space’s personality shines through when you walk into it—an energy that feels almost alive. This kind of care facility design naturally leans toward the tender and affectionate. The design team was comprised of masterful hands who were skilled in the art of creating beautiful, engaging environments. They carried out the vision with sensitive care, as if the design were being wrapped like a well-placed hug around the building’s residents. They turned a common area into a warm courtyard, a green space with a living wall, thoughtful low seating, and delightful “nature whiffs” to help the residents feel like they were getting fresh air.
I proposed assembling a variety of eye-catching plants—some that bloom with color, others that burst with texture—that could be easily experienced up close by the residents. To heighten this sensory experience, I had a dream-like, integrated scent-diffusion system set up to perfume the air with jasmine and lavender. I imagined it working quietly like a breeze through the space, carrying those scents to the residents and inviting them to partake of the dream. But the purpose of the drifting jasmine and lavender was two-fold. While we were hoping The Garden would serve as a new conversation starter for the residents, we knew a little olfactory memory might stir the hull of a forgotten past ever so gently.
One day, he said the space felt alive and reminded him of mornings on the farm when everything was fresh and full of promise. This, to me, is the essence of biophilic design—not just the rendering of a beautiful space but the cultivation of a meaningful, living experience that connects people to who they are and where they come from. There is also a highly social aspect to biophilic spaces. In many of the community-oriented projects I’ve worked on, like co-working spaces or public libraries, biophilic design has been a key factor in encouraging human interaction. People are drawn to the warmth of natural wood, the softness of ambient light, the “living” presence of plants.
The creation of a “forest lounge” at the mission’s co-working space was not achieved through actual trees, as one might think. The “lounge” was filled with tall plants that closely resembled trees. More than that, though, it was “the effect” that the designers were going for, a certain “feeling” that the plants, seating, and lighting worked together to create. Was work being done in the “forest lounge”? Yes. But the space was clearly being used for something else as well. Impromptu meetings, deep breathy sighs of relief, and near-casual conversation were all happening together inside this half-outdoor, half-breathable-space construct that managed to be a little bit of all three of those things at once.
Biophilic design has different ways of expressing itself, and textures can be a vital part of that. As I dabble in textures and unusual materials, I am learning their powers of persuasion. Something I like to do is to create spaces that feel rich to the senses. They don’t have to be overwhelming. I think about how each ingredient adds to the experience of the space and, more importantly, how it adds to the character of the design.
When I was working on a recent residential project, I had the chance to play with these ideas. I balanced the more “masculine” textures like rough stone and reclaimed wood with materials that are soft and subtle, making for a home that’s truly sensory-dependent but not sensory-saturated.
The weathered, irregular surface was a tactile delight, begging to be touched—that was the new bench in a home in New York City’s East Village, a presence that was not so much a “thing” as a “to be” on the roof of an old tenement. “You want to linger, not just touch and go,” said architect David T. McMahon, who built the bench and designed the roof-inhabitants’ respite over its winding staircase. “We worked with a texture that invites you to linger.”
You are—perhaps for the first time—considering how a more tactile architectural experience might open up your very human brain to virtual reality.
Screens, gadgets, and automation are everywhere in today’s smart homes, creating environments that seem cold and lifeless. The true art of integrating technology into these spaces, however, lies not in the biophilic elements and nature-inspired design motions of yesteryear but in truly enhancing and complementing our elemental human connection to nature and the natural world. One of our more notable recent projects was for a living room—that is, a space in which the speaker would actually “live” and not just exist—in which the smart tech was all but invisible, housed in forms that were, respectfully, more “evolutionarily” conducive to the spaces where we feel more at home.
The outcome was a room that provided not just the wow of modern tech but also the warm fuzzies of natural materials. The client gave us a standing ovation, both because the room looked knockout and because it didn’t feel like a high-tech showroom. It felt like a true living space—one that was techy in a way that let the residents be themselves, but also in a way that kept them in touch with the sublime aesthetics of nature. This, to me, is the future of biophilic design: a cozy blend of natural and unnatural elements, a tech-defined world that doesn’t obscure the human preoccupation with nature but instead foregrounds it.
In the end, adopting a biophilic style is about more than just changing the surroundings of the spaces we inhabit—it’s about changing our way of thinking. It makes us remember to be grateful for natural beauty—even in its most humble forms like the stick-on coolers that keep us comfortable indoors in summer. Seeing a biophilic shell is an opportunity to think about our individual and collective biophilia, the next step toward a healthier, more natural way of living. That prompt, I think, can lead to profound architectural experiences. And the same goes for all kinds of performative façades. But we’re not here just to exist under the auspices of performative architecture. We’re here to live. And the next best thing to screens that clean the air or cool the space they’re in is biophilia’s rearguard reminder to appreciate all natural elements, however small, and to think about what stylized naturalism might say about our relationship with natural ecosystems.
This is fundamentally why I feel so passionately about biophilic design. It is more than a choice; it is a philosophy, a way of life, and a return to the not-so-distant past when our society placed a higher value on good health and truly “living spaces.” Biophilic design is architecture that promotes well-being and integration, not isolation. It is anatomy that connects the body and spirit of a person living under that roof with the prosperity of the natural world. As I said before, I think it is the walk of life that should be embraced by more architects.
