There’s something utterly captivating about the way nature relates a tale. A biophilic theme—for me, the heartbeat of any good design—takes a space from simply beautiful to meaningful. You feel it when you enter a room and recognize that its design has a role in making you feel more connected to the earth, its sky, and even to yourself. I’ve seen this all over the place, and in many kinds of manmade environments: residential homes that tell the tale of a wooded retreat, corporate offices that breathe life into an otherwise monotonous workday, and public buildings that act as shelters.
Still, these are the parts of a good biophilic design that I love best: when trees sprout inside a building, or a wall of windows frames a view of a gorgeous southern Utah desert alongside a meandering river. Biophilic design isn’t just about those moments. It’s also about creating a space that evokes the richness of natural environments and their components—even the sounds and smells that remind us of home.
The concept of biophilia might be most easily understood as directly relating to nature—things like trees, flowers, and water. But in the hands of skilled designers, the essence of biophilia can be translated into forms that go beyond the direct visual representation of nature. My experience at Gensler, and in particular my work with the firm’s cofounder, Art Gensler, has shown me a range of spaces that express biophilia in a way that engages all of our senses. One of the best examples is the ground-level lobby of the U.S. Embassy in London. The focal point is a vertically planted wall that rises to twice our height.
A trickle of water runs down the wall, and ambient sounds and scents draw us into the space in ways that effectively get under our skin. The use of natural materials—wood, stone, and metal—that look and feel like they could exist in a garden or beside a stream reinforces that sense of being amidst the biosphere.
I learned an essential lesson: biophilic design is successful when its natural themes are not forced and the design flows as naturally as ecosystems do in nature. Every design decision must be intentional and, quite literally, “natural.” One transformative approach I saw in the context of biophilic design was to a branch library in a metropolitan area (not typically associated with nature). The library’s interior design team rendered its main public space much more inviting. As patrons took a seat in a wayfinding area, the furniture in the reading space might have seemed too intimate to be “public,” almost as if it were hugging the patron instead of allowing for easy, discreet entry and exit.
But the effect was intentional. As individuals journey through the library, reading spaces become “clearings” filled with light (an effect achieved thanks to improvements in both the architecture and the furnishings). When patrons inhabit the reading space, they might want to return to the “sacred” experience of reading.
What fascinated me about this project was how it completely changed the way visitors interacted with the library space. They seemed to sink into the environment— to take more time, to take more breaths, to live more fully in the moment inside the library. The whispers might as well have been spoken in the ear of a shadowy figure in a corner. Even the most natural of sounds seemed to echo in the library. I wasn’t sure whether it was because fewer sounds were being made, or if it just felt that way due to the ambiance.
After all, a space that was once known for profound quiet had, thanks to this biophilic installation, taken a slight detour toward being a space of investment and genuine communication with one’s surroundings. Listening has a way of opening up a sense of space in an environment.
In a former job at a private home, I had clients who were enchanted by the seasons and the changing landscape that came with them. For four years, I worked on a private residence for a couple that was infatuated with the natural world, especially its seasonal transformations. We made a house that didn’t just look different across the seasons but felt different—an embodiment of the passage of time, much like nature itself. My clients and I imagined that a kind of copper roof—that is, a roof that actually patinae’d, changing color in rhythm with the seasons (or as close to that as we could get in Southern California).
Creating the Ideal Equilibrium: Sensory Integration in Biophilic Design
One of the most captivating aspects of biophilic design is that it elicits not just visual engagement but a full-bodied response from humans. I’ve realized this as I’ve proceeded in my projects—they all somehow lead back to the same truth: the ubiquity of the senses. In biophilic design, themes are often “successful” not because they wow with aesthetics but because they integrate sensory experiences into a harmonious whole that would be “natural” in any setting. Take sound, for example. We can easily overlook how profoundly sound can shape our space perception, but I think it’s safe to say that many of us find rooms with bad acoustics rather unpleasant.
Why put up with that when, with a little forethought, it’s so easy to create spaces that are acoustically comforting? Biophilic design accomplishes this in a few different ways, among which is to simply integrate the sounds of nature into space. Consider a serene hallway in a workspace, where the sound of falling water lulls you as you walk past. Or imagine a breakout space where that serve-and-return structure, oh-so-familiar in the sound of rustling grass, somehow wraps you in an auditory hug. Or take a more ingenious example: the use of sound in such a way that biophilic design reflects—quite literally—the sounds of nature.
In some biophilic spaces, sound from electronic devices is softened by the use of natural materials like wood and stone, which amplify and reflect sound in a way that feels more “organic.” And by “organic,” I mean in the way natural structures exist, without any discernable corners or edges (think canyons). Also consider the vibrations of the sounds you hear throughout a building or space: those can be calming, too.
To conclude, I would like to discuss what I believe is the most crucial aspect of this matter: the emotional effects of biophilic design. Biophilic spaces elicit strong emotional responses from the people who inhabit them—and for very good reasons. Humans are hardwired to respond positively when they connect with nature. In each of my architecture firm’s projects designed with biophilic principles, I’ve witnessed how well these spaces resonate with people on a variety of levels. In one healthcare building, for instance, we designed patient rooms to achieve the look and feel of a “healing garden.” Rather than a traditional vignette of flowerpots, though, we worked to create the sensation of being enveloped by nature.
When patients spent time in their rooms, they could look out large windows into a beautiful landscape; the room itself featured natural materials and forms; and soft, natural lighting mimicked sunshine and moonlight. The biophilic sensibility we infused into the space worked, and it’s powerful evidence for the notion that design can affect our well-being.
I have witnessed biophilic themes creating focus and creativity even in schools. For one educational project I worked on, we drew inspiration from the concept of growth, both in nature and in learning. We designed classrooms that were nearly flooded with natural light. Large green walls, filled with plants, provided a connection to the natural world. This was way more than just a nice way to decorate the hallways and classrooms. Classmates commented on how much it felt like we were actually living the natural experience since we were so close to nature. Teachers reported that we were way more focused and that the natural world had a calming effect on us.
Adaptability and Customization of Biophilic Themes
Biophilic themes can be adapted for almost any space. Whether it’s the energetic, group-work atmosphere of a corporate office, the quiet solitude of a home library, the sophisticated dining experience of a high-end restaurant, or the thoughtful display of art in a gallery, biophilic design can be molded to fit any type of space. Like Legos, one can stack the principles of biophilic design and come up with different permutations that work in different environments. One might think of the workplace and home as being on opposite ends of the spectrum, but they share an awful lot.
Both are places where one primarily spends time (should have short- and long-term productivity, comfort, and a decent level of aesthetic appeal), does a fair amount of thinking, and engages in a bunch of activities that definitely should have an element of performative ridiculousness to them if one stops and thinks for one second (like all of those nearly 10,000 things that one does in a day, as the saying goes).
Now compare that to a biophilic theme for a residential building. The commercial projects we undertake often have some kind of very grand, outbound statement to make, usually because these buildings are under public-bid contracts. You could say they’re a bit of a howl at the moon. Residential projects might ask us to sulk in a corner and whisper our musings less audibly. “Secret garden” is what came to mind when imagining a recent urban project. Right down to a wall feature that gives the illusion of trickling water to the ear. I took the liberty of making the bathroom part of the secluded space as well.
Your secret is safe.
Biophilic themes work very well in hospitality contexts. One of the projects I worked on that was most in line with this philosophy was for a hotel that wanted to base its whole experience around the concept of “forest bathing”—that is, imbuing the space with a similarly calming, immersive atmosphere. We used a variety of natural materials, including a lot of wood, to evoke the feeling of being in a forest. And we worked to design the public spaces to feel like natural clearings. More than anything, the experience was meant to be multisensory. The soft lighting was meant to mimic the way sunlight filters through leaves, and the smells and textures throughout the space were meant to make you feel like you’re in an actual forest.
Biophilic themes can evolve, just like ecosystems, and for the same reason: not being static. Whether it’s a school, office, or a place open to the public, the people using the space are themselves evolving. The biophilic theme has to evolve with them, to remain engaging and supportive of its occupants. The installation we were involved with, for instance, designed classrooms that used a “seasons of change” theme. They mirrored the natural world and its cycles of growth, decay, and renewal. But they did more than that. They used light, and the promise of light, as a change agent.
Clear key moments in the life of a plant—when a plant is a seed, when a plant is a bud, when a plant is in full flower, and when a plant’s part has become (and is about to become) a spectacular thing to see in the next season—were worked into the design.
The same can be applied to an office. I particularly like the project where we integrated biophilia into an office space that had the kind of layout and adjustability to allow many of the principles of biophilic design to be “tuned” to the needs of the company. The layout was modular, and the walls were moveable, which meant that if the company needed to adjust the space to the kind of work the team was doing, it could do so. The office was light, and the plants around the office subtly increased the level of oxygen. This is a great project to illustrate biophilia in a workspace.
The Biophilic Future Theme Will Be Created
Thinking about the future of biophilic design, we look onward and upward to the ways that technology can help us achieve this more. A biophilic smart home is an amazing idea, and in its most basic iteration, it could be envisioned as a technological upgrade to the aforementioned design principles. The biophilic smart home would change its temperature, lighting, and humidity levels to mimic forest, desert, or wetland conditions, responding to its inhabitants in the same manner as a home sans tech would do if its inhabitants were going to engage in a similar manner to the biophilic smart home.
I worked with a group on a prototype for a “smart garden room.” This room was wired with sensors to monitor both the indoor environment and the occupants’ stress levels. Based on this data, the smart room would adjust various settings—bringing in more natural light, for example, or releasing calming scents with essential oil diffusers, or even altering the soundscape to include more birdsong or water. This project was the kind of thing serious art schools do—a collaborative effort between artists and engineers to create a prototype for a room that not only replicates nature but actively supports an occupant’s health and well-being.
The practice of biophilia is even beginning to seep into the niche of urban planning. It is no longer just public health officials and lighting engineers who are taking biophilic principles into account when they are working on plans for our urban environments. Cities the world over have looked to those principles to guide them in creating public space design projects that are in dialogue with our natural ecosystems—from urban parks that mimic wetlands to pedestrian walkways that evoke riverbanks. These designs don’t just beautify the urban landscape; they improve air quality, reduce the urban heat island effect, and provide natural habitats for wildlife.
In conclusion, existing within the biophilic framework.
Ultimately, biophilic design aims to create space for the human connection to nature. The environments created through biophilic design aren’t simply places for people to work, live, or traverse; they’re places that nurture emotional well-being and foster creativity. Even more than that, biophilia is not merely a beautification scheme but is necessary as an antidote to the growing disconnectedness urbanized, technologized society imparts. Biophilic design is a reminder of our human need for nature.
Be it a straightforward home office awash with natural light and filled with air-purifying plants or a complex city park that injects a bit of untamed nature into the urban wilderness, biophilia exercises its potent pull in both simple and sophisticated configurations. Biophilic design is not just for tech companies or the wealthiest citizens, as evidenced by the many public libraries and other civic spaces sporting living walls and natural streams. Its appeal comes from its promise not only of better spaces—working, living, and visiting—but also of better outcomes.
The spaces might not house us well, inspire us, or help us thrive if they are not also good places, excellent in their acoustic, thermal, and visual comfort.
