As a designer, I have always been particularly intrigued by libraries. They are not merely structures containing a sizable number of tomes; they are the very crux of understanding, education, and contemplation. It has struck me that a library could be much more than that, an utter space within which one could encounter material in such an overhauled way that one might actually yearn to read, as one would yearn to visit a library. I’ve thought of a biophilic library, in which the environment itself would ecologically nourish and encourage the very kind of reflective learning for which a library should ideally serve.
What I appreciate most about biophilic design is that it can improve not just physical health and cognition. There’s solid evidence showing that even just the sight of nature can enhance a person’s ability to think and reason. We know that being around plants almost always helps us feel calmer, and that’s a good thing—especially in a library, where the idea is to be engaged with your intellect and not overtax it with anxiety.
The Tama Art University Library in Tokyo, designed by Toyo Ito, comes to mind as an instance of architecture that creates a meditative reading space. Abundant natural light and soaring, well-proportioned spaces suffused with an organic architectural language frame the library’s main reading room. Above the room’s honey-colored wooden ceiling, a bank of clerestory windows at the building’s perimeter pours in even more natural light to brighten the library’s upper reaches. Below, an interior garden offers the reader even more of a sense of peace and place within the Tama Art University Library that—once you step inside—it feels like you’ve entered a sanctum.
On one of my trips, I visited a library in a town by the sea. The structure had been designed so that the windows faced just the right way to frame the coastline. I could see the waves breaking as I sat in what they called a reading nook. To tell you the truth, I can’t remember how well I was able to read because my attention kept drifting. The waves were mesmerizing, and it felt so natural to let that “oceanic” experience wash over me. I couldn’t help but think how wonderful it would be to be able to use that kind of rhythmic, wave-like experience as the backdrop to my quotidian existence.
One of my favorite elements to put into a biophilic library design is the atrium. An atrium gives patrons the chance to experience the library as part of the natural world. The abundant natural light and a living wall can make the library feel like it is part of the environment. When people walk into a library, especially one with a green atrium, the first thing they tend to do is pause, take a breath, and look around. That moment of awe where you absorb the environment is exactly what a biophilic space is meant to elicit.
A living wall can give patrons texture, color, and a chance to organically connect with the environment. A living wall serves as a silent reminder that learning is not an isolated activity but something interwoven with the world around us.
The innovative design feature of the living wall has appeared in projects such as the Seattle Central Library and the Bibliotheca Alexandrina in Egypt. In these buildings, the designers have tried to reflect the duality of humanity’s past and future relationship with knowledge. Knowledge is power, but it can also feel like a burden. And that’s something I experienced first-hand when I visited the Central Library, a quiet and calm space despite its enormous size.
Designing a library with biophilic principles goes well beyond making it visually appealing. Multi-sensory experiences, especially those that activate the curiosity of patrons, are key to deeper engagement with content and library learning. It’s increasingly evident that sound, smell, and other sensations play a huge role in human cognition and memory, even if we might not always be conscious of the details at the moment. In a library ecosystem gently calibrated to trigger all senses, patrons can interact with the space more meaningfully. Hearing the soft splashing of water from a nearby fountain or the faint rustle of leaves from living plants can create a slightly heightened space that’s just right for reading, writing, or researching.
The experience gets even better when those sounds can be comfortably layered with the almost sacrosanct silence expected in a library.
A technique I suggest often is to add water features to the design, something rarely seen in libraries of the past. The sound of water is certainly soothing, but it does more than that: It helps diffuse stress, lowering it to a more manageable level, and it also helps with concentration and reading. If not an outright river or lake, how about adding a water wall or fountain or two? The Singapore National Library takes the idea a step further by incorporating green terraces and subtle water features. Immediately entering the National Library, you feel a rising calm, as if the slightest trickle of water at the entrance is helping clear the “mental space” for you to walk in.
On a more tactile level, I also appreciate library furniture and architecture made from natural materials. The use of wood, stone, and bamboo in this regard might well be an homage to the history of libraries, in which aesthetic layered meaning played a pivotal role. In my college town of Oberlin, Ohio, the architecture of the 5-story, 325,000-volume library expresses a profound stillness—a quality of being that is reinforced in what would have been the interior of the Edifice of the Unread, with its commanding order of books.
I take it as no small matter that both (1) the materials of modern institutional spaces and (2) their visual and tactile aesthetics are apt to affect the very seriousness with which those spaces are inhabited
Sensory engagement relies significantly on lighting. My top preference is natural light. It enhances mood and, according to recent studies, is a considerable factor in improving productivity and concentration. Libraries sometimes house and contain pocket dimensions that harness an abundance of natural light. Now, picture walking into a library, not just an ordinary one lined with long corridors of tall, self-shelving units and books, but a library in an older building whose character is enhanced by the artful use of limited space. When you first enter, you walk into a large foyer defined by a series of clerestories that let in copious amounts of sunlight.
The Vancouver Public Library’s Central Branch is a perfect example of biophilic lighting. This library features an enormous atrium with huge glass walls, through which sunlight pours and fills the space with the warm, golden tones one usually associates with sunshine. I have spent hours in the library, and every time I visit, I am struck by how the space manages to be both grand and intimate. I can well imagine becoming lost in a novel while sunlight dances across the pages and marks the time of day—the relentless passage of which serves as a gentle reminder that there’s a world outside the library’s walls.
Yet another significant facet of biophilic library design is the provision of open spaces that flow. I have often felt libraries—especially older ones—are almost suffocating, with their rigid lines, aisles, and corners. Even though the intention of library designers is to create cozy, private places for reading, the structural elements of a library can sometimes feel overdetermined, leaving precious little space for the imagination to roam. In contrast, a library with an open-plan design feels at once more dynamic and more alive. And a library that integrates biophilic elements—like plant life—feels healthier. To my way of thinking, the ideal library also provides different kinds of spaces for different kinds of reading and different kinds of readers.
Flexibility in the provision of space honors the great diversity of styles that describe contemporary life.
Libraries can now be more than mere book depositories; they can become centers for community interaction, personal reflection, and even healing. They can be biophilic spaces. The biophilic library is a beautiful thing. It is a well-designed thing. It offers patrons an opportunity to simply catch their breath, to ponder, to imagine. That is something we need more of in today’s digital world.
I recall a project where we created library spaces around the principles of biophilic design, which embraces natural forms and materials and connects people to nature. We rearranged furniture to allow for views through large windows to the green courtyards outside—courtyards we had, in part, to thank for the library’s new name: the Wylie Gardens—in which plants grow. What we observed was astonishing. Students came to the library more and more, not just to check out books but also to study, to gather, and to be in the calming environment we’d created. Time spent in the library had become an enjoyable, almost zen-like experience—especially for those students who found themselves close to a plant.
An appealing facet of biophilic library design is that it can change a library from simply being a structure to something akin to a natural habitat, a space where it is not just easy but also delightful to share communal experiences. A biome is a large region characterized by a specific type of atmosphere and climate. The most biophilic libraries are found in areas with milder climates, but the principles of biophilic design can be applied in any locale. Ideally, a library should be composed of a series of locations that allow visitors to circulate freely and serve as hubs for shared experiences in a multitude of ways, including auditory, visual, kinesthetic, and tactile.
Consider the Salt Lake City Public Library as a case in point. This library exemplifies how to create an environment where community and nature coalesce. Its walls of glass, open to the views of the nearby mountains, and its rooftop garden entice patrons and passers-by to partake in the natural world. When I first entered the library, I was impressed with how much the space, and the activities within, felt integrated with the surrounding environment. The design of the library does not seek to create a barrier between it and the outdoors. Instead, it strives for a greater intimacy.
One element of that is the appearance of “natural” wood, a wood that looks as if it came from trees in the nearby mountains. The library is draped in the kind of wood that might make for an impressive book in any tree’s bough.
The concept of a library as an ecosystem excites me. Just as ecosystems flourish through interactions among diverse species and components, libraries can flourish when they sustain a variety of human experiences—relaxation, socializing, even monastic silence. In this sense, our library can be a biophilic library: it is not just a static place for solitary reading; it is a dynamic environment in which one can experience a waterfall of sounds and sights in a form of “natural” acoustic and visual pleasure one might encounter even in a hammock strung between two trees.
The local environment connects the biophilic library and local community. I once worked on a project where we designed a public library in a rural region, aiming to mimic the landscape as much as possible. We employed an architect who specialized in such building types, and she secured the use of local materials—stone and wood—that not only linked the project to its site but also evoked the local vernacular. Large windows and a sunny reading patio help ensure that the library is a place where people want to be. I like to think that our design decision to use a green, cross-vaulted roof helps the building live up to its potential as a space where people can experience the kind of intimate, forested environment that is often a part of a person’s near-surface, everyday existence.
The essence of place is fundamentally important to biophilic design. The library in an urban setting, for example, might draw on natural elements that are completely different from those used in a more pastoral library. In the city, where nature might be hard to find, it is especially necessary for the library to provide an oasis of greenery. I’ve seen urban libraries that do this well. But when I visit the Central Library in Minneapolis, I see nature and life everywhere, from the indoor gardens and those on the rooftop to the verdant paws on which the library sits, just blocks from a river.
The example I admire most for biophilic design applied to an urban library is the Green Square Library and Plaza in Sydney, Australia. The library is mostly subterranean, yet natural light pours in thanks to a series of smartly placed skylights. The above-ground portion of the building is an outdoor plaza that features an amphitheater, seating, and trees, which turns this space into a community hub. It’s a library and a municipal building, but it’s also kind of like a park and a retreat. What I love about this design is how it artfully blurs the line between the built and natural environments; it returns the essence of a library to its proper place—elevated, natural, and serene.
Libraries that embrace biophilia can also model sustainability. When environmental concerns are at the fore, it is even more important for public buildings to be designed in ways that are beneficial to both people and the planet. Here is where public libraries can and do lead by example. They not only demonstrate how places can be made with both kinds of efficiency but also how those efficiencies can be intertwined with biophilic principles. In essence, what is good for humans can also be good for the Earth. And, as we will see, what is good for the Earth can also be good for humans.
An even more striking project in this regard is Yale University’s Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library. The building’s design cleverly stitches together sustainable practices like solar shading and natural ventilation. This enables it to not only harness, but also to economize on, a tremendous number of energy-free light sources. Almost the entire building relies on sunlight to light its many different types of spaces. Its use of translucent, oiled-marble walls lights the reading room in the interior. Despite the room’s lack of any kind of visible electric light fixture, the space is so well-lit with natural light that it almost feels as though the books and manuscripts themselves are the only sources of illumination.
Building biophilic libraries is about much more than simply creating spaces that reflect the natural world. It’s a space to create using nature’s principles—like sustainability, for example. An ethical issue, yes, but also a logical one. Why should the library be a space where we don’t even try to strive for environmentally conscious decisions? Why shouldn’t it be a space where we conserve energy, harvest water, and grow plants—on green roofs? Sustainable biophilic library design offers solutions to such questions—simultaneously and serendipitously, to issues regarding the state of both the library and the planet.
As we consider what lies ahead for library design, I envision biophilic principles leading us to something wondrous. Tomorrow’s libraries will be more than environments for the storage and retrieval of knowledge; they will be realms that integrate the natural world with the cognitive experience. These spaces will be commingled with both kinds of life: learning and living. Sustainability will permeate the design process, ensuring a more durable future. Libraries are a natural fit with biophilic design; it’s a way to envision their future in a plausible context.
