Experiencing a university campus that has adopted biophilic design is something unique. From the moment you step onto such a campus, you can sense the immediate and vital link between natural features and human habitats. On a biophilic campus, the built and natural environments work together to create a space that is healthier for both the body and mind. Biophilic institutions take these benefits a step farther by also embracing the natural light, ventilation, and views—both inside and outside—that most biophilic designs feature. Because of this, a biophilic university also tends to be a kind of hub for community wellbeing.
One of my favorite instances of biophilic design at a university is Singapore’s School of the Arts (SOTA). From the moment you step inside, you feel as though you’ve entered a forest. Vertical gardens adorn the walls, and flora of all sorts grace the space, creating an unbroken connection between urbanity and nature. Open corridors bathed in natural light lead to quiet spaces with views of trees. SOTA’s internal arrangement and the materials used to construct it ensure that the peace and quiet one can enjoy within it are unbroken by the sound and fury of life outside. SOTA is a gorgeous building that is fully integrated with its surroundings, both architectural and natural. And what’s more, by being a modeling environment, it serves the even more important function of improving the students’ mood, focus, and cognitive abilities.
Biophilic design in universities is not confined to the tropics or to avant-garde architecture. A lovely case in point is Stanford University. Its open quads, generous walkways bordered by trees, and Spanish Revival buildings meld perfectly with the California landscape. When I visited, the smell of the nearby eucalyptus tree was a strong and pleasant olfactory signal. The natural elements on the Stanford campus become anchors in a mental map that is not only a pathway through the university but also a place where nature and academic spaces coexist.
It is captivating to observe that no matter the climate or location, universities can embody biophilic design. The appearance of the principles of biophilia in the architecture of an institution, like a university, serves as a powerful reminder that biophilic design is not about replicating Mother Nature in our buildings. It is about making a meaningful connection between people and the natural world in the places where they spend most of their time. It doesn’t take a plant wall, an indoor waterfall, or some other extravagant nature-centered architectural feature to achieve this. Indeed, Yale’s Beinecke Library, which embodies biophilic principles, has none of those (February 2020).
Biophilic design is not merely about making universities aesthetically pleasing; it has a deeper objective. And that is to enhance the lives and mental well-being of students living the “university experience.” The biophilic design is able to serve this purpose because it appreciably connects inhabitants of a space to the natural world—something humans are inextricably linked to and something that significantly influences our cognition and even our creativity. Studies have shown that when students are better connected to their environments, they perform at a much higher level. And when you consider that performing at the “next level” is one of the key reasons for attending university, then biophilic elements start to transcend mere appearance and move into the realm of comprehensible benefits.
Allow me to recount an experience that had a substantial effect on my comprehension of biophilic design and its influence on the well-being of students. I was once employed by a university that was wrestling with a very troubling trend—an upsurge in mental health issues among its students. The university’s administration, as well as its counseling staff, were working overtime to try to understand why so many young people were coming to them expressing feelings of intense anxiety, deep-seated depression, and numbers of students in the “high functioning but burned out” category. When the counselors and staff tried to better understand why so many students were feeling this way, they uncovered some pretty strong feelings of disconnection—not just from family and friends—but also from the students’ physical surroundings. Our campus, comprised mainly of monolithic concrete structures surrounded by very little greenery, felt like an institutional black hole.
We didn’t completely remodel the architecture, but we did strategically introduce natural components. Walkways were lined with native trees. Common areas had indoor plants. Outdoor classes were held in the nearby garden. You might call it a “green” transformation, but it was almost immediately evident in the students’ sense of wellness and comfort. The atmosphere was lighter and more vibrant. It reinforced for me how important these design and environmental shifts—small in some ways, but ambitious in others—can be.
A prevalent misunderstanding exists, asserting that biophilic design necessitates grand budgets and great upheavals of university infrastructure. In fact, some of the designs we studied made only small but significant changes to the learning environment. The University of British Columbia (UBC) understood the clear imperative to adapt their nearby gorgeous natural surroundings for use in the daily lives of their students. They were preceded, of course, by some other valiant (and very visible) efforts of biophilic design at nearby universities, particularly Stanford University’s Lewis Science Library, which integrates indoor waterfalls to great effect (à la Mr. Wright, again). What I love most about UBC’s campus, though, is that you can see both a real human interest in nature by members of the UBC community as well as the layouts and designs of spaces that engage students with the natural surroundings of the campus in an ongoing way.
Biophilic design doesn’t just improve student well-being; it also enhances community on university campuses. Bringing a touch of nature to university design can be just as effective as time spent in an academic library when it comes to remote studying. There are multiple ways to achieve such an effect on campus, but one of the simplest is through the use of green spaces—having them and using them. I’ve always admired the University of Edinburgh for how they’ve incorporated biophilic design into their academic precincts and for the nature touches they’ve added around their campus. The university is at the head of a deep valley, and the Edinburgh landscape looms above, so there are nature views to be had. But the U of E gives you the academic library space as well, which is a huge boost for your time spent on campus.
The concept of making gathering spaces isn’t solely about adding more seats. It is about designing spaces for purpose. When you make places that invite people to be outside, you inherently provoke them into contact with nature and each other. That is something I wish more universities would prioritize, especially as they continue to seek answers for the mental health crisis that’s washing over them. A tree with good placement, a bench subtly urging you to sit with your back towards a garden, or even a courtyard arranged to put a water feature in your line of sight can be the kind of space that sweetens a campus and makes it a home.
Biophilic university design has another aspect often neglected: it can be a tool of sustainability. When a university designs with nature in mind, it also reduces its impact on the environment. The University of Melbourne uses the principles of biophilic design to lessen its carbon footprint and improve its sustainability. Its buildings and landscaping incorporate many features of biophilic design. For instance, the campus has green roofs, green walls, and native landscaping, which improve not just the beauty but also the sustainability of the place. By not ignoring biophilia’s impact on sustainability, the University of Melbourne serves as a model for the future.
In my view, university biophilic design is not merely a passing fad; it is essential. When climate change, urbanization, and mental health crises beset us, the way forward demands that we create spaces promoting sustainability and well-being. Universities, as laboratories of knowledge and progress, surely have an immense mandate to model this movement. And what I have seen thus far suggests that the results are transformative—not just for students, but for whole communities of scholars and a world that needs all their expertise.
When I consider what the future holds for biophilic design in places of higher learning, I envision campuses that embrace not only the elements of nature but also the very essences of nature. I picture my own campus transformed by this as-yet-untapped design principle. The seasons would shape the spaces and guide the transitions between them, prompting student interaction at every level. These spaces would be adaptable, flexible, and alive, responding to the ecological cycles that govern our more-than-human world as well as to the diverse range of ritually performed human needs that define our semester-to-semester and day-to-day lives.
When the University of Washington is mentioned, the mind cannot help but explode with the possibilities of the great beauty of the campus and everything it has to offer. It is handily located next to one of the best arboretums around, which is a definite draw in and of itself. I have only once spent a small amount of time on the university’s campus, but it was a wonderful experience, far superior to my time at Northwest Missouri State University. I can only imagine how much better the experience gets with more than a handful of visits and more than just a handful of classes taken there at the university. As if the non-stop cherry blossoms in spring aren’t enough to cement it as a dream campus, there are also non-stop views of snow-capped mountains whenever the clouds part.
I have always found the concept of seasonal design fascinating. It is one of the most underutilized aspects of biophilic design, and I think it is powerful. It could transform how we relate to the spaces we live in and move through. Seasonality connects us more deeply with our environment and with one another. It speaks to how our lives are intertwined, not just in time but also in space. When we think about spaces, whether public or private, and how they might engage the people who move through them, this idea of design that changes with the seasons seems like a fantastic opportunity. It also connects with what so many people yearn for when they seek out a project that has to do with the (often romanticized) concept of nature.
I frequently contemplate how biophilic design at universities can extend beyond the physical campus. With the advent of online learning and hybrid education, there’s a growing necessity to infuse virtual spaces with the principles of biophilia. A major hurdle for remote education in recent years has been instilling a sense of connection for students who are studying in isolation, not only to their teachers and fellow learners but also to the larger environment. I contend that using biophilic design in the virtual classroom can create opportunities for the kinds of sensory experiences—visuals, sounds, and even scents—that are possible in the natural world. My most radical, yet entirely feasible, suggestion is that companies building the virtual classrooms of tomorrow should rethink their designs to incorporate opportunities for students to use their senses in ways that will fashion a цивмурма $1,800.00 from the pathway ofakses to the top of Montserrat.
A colleague and I recently had a very interesting talk about how biophilic design might further develop to meet the demands of a digitally connected world. We discussed the nature of educational apps (could they become more biophilic?), and “virtual study groups” that meet in digital environments designed to simulate natural settings. I’m excited by these prospects. They’re related to yet another frontier of biophilic design: one that concerns not just the “bricks and mortar” of the built environment, but also the “virtual spaces” we occupy in our increasingly online lives.
One idea that may point toward this future is “nature pods” being integrated into campuses. These are small, quiet spaces meant to simulate natural environments, complete with soundscapes and visual projections designed to give one the sensation of being outdoors. One university in the Netherlands, Wageningen University, has been experimenting with these pods. I had the chance to experience one during a visit, and the impact was something else. The sensation of being transported into an almost-real forest was astounding. I didn’t have a direct view of downtown Amsterdam, but I could still see through the pod to the CAMPUS environment, and WORKTIME scent and bird sounds and slightly more vigorous breeze than the one I was getting outside in downtown Amsterdam had me convinced I was within 20 miles of the nearest even partially forested area. For students who don’t have ready access to natural environments, this kind of innovation may well save their sanity.
I see biophilic design playing a vitally important role in an area where mental health is increasingly emphasized on our campuses. Mental health has, quite rightly, taken a much larger role in our discussions and policies over the last several years. It is no longer considered taboo to talk about. Everyone knows someone who has struggled with mental health in some way. We know that some of our students come to us in a fragile state of mind, and even the most brilliant, engaged, and invested students can sometimes feel overwhelmed. “Why am I here? What is the point of all this?” asks the student in the impasse. The terminal student—that much-anticipated plot twist in our nearly four-year saga of a committed relationship with a protagonist who has defeated the dragon.
