I am captivated by the dream of biophilic utopia—that deserted cities will be transformed into biophilic ones, full of an abundant intertwining of flora and fauna, right in the urban core, not just adjacent to it. I imagine spiral pleated gills of sea slugs, perfect in three-dimensional space and as a structure full of not-so-microscopic marine physics, virtually unfurling in the fabulous depths where we now occupy virtual stairwells, vast light wells, and even familiar elevators. This is my vertical city—one in which a filamentous fungus can easily thrive in the kind of dank spaces it is also likely to generate, suffused with sweet smells, overwritten with all kinds of fascinating acoustics, and teeming with complements for all kinds of endemic species of insects.
The Allure of a Biophilic Utopia
The biophilic utopia is compelling precisely because it offers an alternative to the separation of people and nature within urban life. The kind of functional beauty on display at Gardens by the Bay and in other local green spaces gestures toward the possibility that biophilic principles could become part of the everyday experiences of residents in Singapore and other cities that adopt these kinds of experimental architecture and practices. Logically, that would make nature feel less distant and more a part of life lived on the city streets. Hearing birds in the morning, walking past living walls, and otherwise enjoying the kinds of immersive experiences that promise proximity to nature would also figuratively increase the air of naturalness that individuals weave into their lives.
It’s not only the grand designs that matter in biophilic architecture; it’s also the simple, powerful gestures that create a significant connection to nature. On more than one occasion, I’ve had the opportunity to stay in a small hotel in the Costa Rican forest, where the architecture of the building blurred the line between inside and outside. In every room, there were enormous glass doors that opened onto a terrace filled with vegetation, making it feel like the jungle was an extension of your living space. At night, the forest’s sounds lulled me to sleep, creating a deep connection to my “natural” world. When I think of biophilic utopia, I think of this hotel room—not only because it makes me feel close to nature but also because it dares to imagine a kind of architecture unfettered from our current building paradigms.
In a sense, every biophilic space we design nudges us nearer to a utopian—if not a blue-sky—ideal. The biophilic shift, then, is about much more than merely green façades or even living walls, as spectacular as these might be. In the case of Bosco Verticale, the project doesn’t just forest the building but bonafide forests the city—with vertical greenery purifying air, with a noise-mitigating wall of plants, and with the kind of biodiversity that no city-dweller had dared dream of until now. Wouldn’t it be nice to have the kind of space in which the plants aren’t just for the sake of aesthetics? And wouldn’t it be nice if we could apply this model with abandon—dramatically and at the public scale—to every high-rise high-traffic condition of a biophilic city?
Rethinking public spaces is part of building a biophilic utopia. A prime example is New York City’s High Line. Once an elevated train track, it has been reimagined as a public linear park. The High Line is the perfect blend of design and experience. You walk through a narrow, winding space that soars above the streets; it gives you vertigo and an unexpected sense of intimacy with the world below. The park is filled with art—trees, boulders, and all. All of this makes the musty air on the park’s upper floors feel nice. Quiet, too. At the same time, the park offers a biophilic experience. Even as you walk parallel to the street and hear the hubbub of the city, you hear birds. They are everywhere. They were in the trees. They were in the boulders.
Certainly, a biophilic utopia requires much more than just greenery to be visible. One critical element of biophilic design often gets overlooked, though, and that is water. Water features bring a number of experiences that stimulate the senses—smell, sound, touch, and sometimes even sight if what you’re seeing is beyond the water’s surface—that pull us into the world of the biophilic. Just think about it: What’s more calming than the sound of flowing water? What’s more chilling (and I don’t mean this in a bad way) than the presence of a water feature in an otherwise warm environment? And wildlife? Forget about it: Fish! Frogs! Critters of all kinds!
Then there’s the issue of illumination—an element critical to biophilic design that is sometimes taken for granted. Daylight, especially when it enters a space indirectly, creates such spectacular effects. I think of offices that, like the one we’re currently in, integrate large windows with good sunshading—e.g., overhangs—that allow light to enter in a well-controlled manner. You can achieve something similar with perforated screens or brise-soleils. The quality of natural light is so much better than what you get from electric light sources. In an all-electric office, workers are more likely to experience headaches, sore eyes, and an overall feeling of malaise because of the lack of a natural light cycle. There’s so much research on this aspect of biophilic design and how light, or lack of light, affects our biology.
Another facet of the biophilic utopia that captivates me is urban farming. A biophilic city isn’t just verdant in appearance; it also fosters sustainability and food security. Rooftop farms, community gardens, and edible landscapes might not seem like they can produce a substantial food supply, but they do. What’s more, they bring food production into close proximity with urban dwellers and cultivate a relationship between them and the food they consume. One of the standout projects in this area is the Brooklyn Grange, which, I believe, is in two different buildings in Brooklyn. It’s one of the largest rooftop farms in the world and supplies fresh, local produce to residents of that borough and the rest of New York City.
The biophilic utopia is not easy to achieve. One primary obstacle is persuading the private-sector developers and public-sector city planners who build our world to adopt this vision, especially when it might seem to them that biophilic design is more expensive than traditional design. More and more, however, we are getting the word out that biophilic design truly costs less in so many ways that matter, from improved mental and physical health to increased economic value for properties. When we have these conversations, I like to remind stakeholders that biophilic design is not a “feel-good option.” It is, indeed, a very sound investment for the future.
Another hurdle to overcome is the accessibility of biophilic spaces for all people, not just those with ample bank accounts. I’ve seen some high-end eco-developments market themselves as “green,” but in truth, they’re often out of reach for the average person. A true biophilic utopia is equitable, offering access to a nature-rich environment for everyone. And I believe that public parks, affordable housing that’s rich in green space, and opportunities for contact with nature in underserved communities have a huge part to play in that.
Imagining a future biophilic utopia isn’t just about creative visioning; it’s about cultivating what endearingly might be called a “sense of place.” It’s about looking across disciplines—architecture, urban planning, ecology, social sciences, and others—to find common ground and work together toward the nature-centric designs that will help us focus on the “bigger picture” of human health, happiness, and longevity.
And while it may be easy to look across this disciplinary landscape and see only vast gulfs to be crossed, the future biophilic utopia excites me because it’s achievable with the knowledge, technology, and design tools we have at our disposal today.
I frequently contemplate the prospect of intelligent technology in giving the biophilic built environment a serious boost. A smart irrigation system, for instance, can maintain the health of a living wall with just the right amount of water (and no more), ensuring that such walls are as efficient and sustainable as they can possibly be. That’s an “intelligent” living wall, but do living walls even qualify as biophilic? The short answer is yes. The working relationship between humans and panels of plants is a great example of the symbiotic relationship that biophilia makes possible.
However far technology may advance, the essence of biophilic utopia is our association with nature. It hinges on rekindling a feeling of respect and maybe even a pinch of wonder for the environment, all of which is long overdue. In the past, urban planners might have worked on a project to connect a fragmented green space to a nearby park just to reduce the amount of pollution that might affect it. They wouldn’t have imagined the way that sort of project might “biophilically” improve a person’s emotional state or help them regain a memory of the last time they spotted a wild animal. “Look, I found a nest!” a child declares in a moment that any naturalist would know is ripe with all sorts of intellectual and emotional shenanigans.
One of the fundamental avenues of approach to biophilic utopia consists of making nature visible and encouraging people to interact with it. Consider our public spaces as opportunities to do that—our urban parks, our town squares, our public libraries and our transit stations. You could go into any of these spaces and find ways to make them interactive with nature. I remember visiting a small town in Scandinavia that had turned its city square into an interactive water feature. Children splashed around merrily in shallow pools, and a few brave souls who don’t mind wind chill skated on a frozen layer covering part of the feature. Nature in the city can take on many forms, and the key is that people experience those forms and interact with them.
What is more, biophilic utopia must be both inclusive and adaptable. As we think about the future, we must also think about the varied makeup of different communities, climates, and ecosystems. In desert conditions, for instance, you can have oases—xeriscapes that use droughttolerant plants—to create green spaces that don’t demand surplus water. I’ve seen some brilliant xeriscapes in desert towns, places with resilient plant life that shades and cools and gives off a sensation of being intimately tied to the local climate. “Waterwise” landscaping in California—where they have a similar need to cut back on water use—aims for the same sensation; we may be the next creek over on this idea of tempered, controlled nature.
Education is an essential part of the biophilic utopia, and I have seen its positive influence in schools that have tried to emulate the principles of this design concept. The vision behind biophilia is to create an inspiring, sustainable, and natural learning environment. When children study the natural world, they do it in half-outdoor classrooms that are filled with plants and natural light. When I visited a school in the Netherlands, every classroom I saw opened directly into an outdoor space. That school made an incredible effort to put the “out” into “outdoor education.” Their kids learn in such a way that they are directly involved with the life processes of plants and animals. They are taught with a hands-on curriculum where every student is a burgeoning naturalist.
I had a highly transformative moment when I visited Japan. While there, I experienced the concept of shinrin-yoku, known in English as forest bathing. It is the practice of immersing yourself in a forest and taking in all the sights, sounds, and smells of the trees to promote physical and mental health. I spent hours walking around a tranquil forest, and by the end of the day, I felt renewed. What struck me was how biophilic design seeks, at its core, to recreate such an experience in our everyday environments. It aims to create not just spaces that look like nature but spaces that evoke the same calm, clear, and restorative feelings you get from being in a forest or on the shore.
The biophilic utopia aims for a sustainability that eases human lives and keeps our planet thriving. Biophilic design is a long-term vision. As I often think of the biophilic city as a living organism—a city that grows, changes, and succeeds over time, adaptive to the needs of its inhabitants—I also think of each project within that city and its environments as something that must be built to last and to change when necessary. That is a sustainability both kinds of life can count on.
