Nothing has been more than a profession—and more than a passion—for me—than biophilic design. It is something I proceed with and acknowledge deeply because I appreciate the beauty of nature and the complexity of nature. I remember the first time I found the word “biophilia.” It felt like a heavy term that clicked for me, even if I did not understand exactly how or why I was clicking with it. “Biophilia” is the love of life and all living things. My experience in this field of biophilic design spans years of experimentation and the joys of fieldwork. I have been profoundly shaped by the teachings of nature itself. And I have been affected in ways I can hardly quantify by a series of powerful quotes that have made me think and in some cases have also made me feel better. Today I share with you some of those quotes and some of the like.
A quote that is always in my head is from E.O. Wilson, the father of biophilia: “Nature holds the key to our aesthetic, intellectual, cognitive and even spiritual satisfaction.” These words, when I first heard them, opened up a profoundly different way of thinking about how we could—and should—approach our built environments. They set me on a path for almost every design of which I was in charge, and they may well be the reason why several of those designs have found favor. Instead of thinking about our buildings as sterile and disconnected, I remembered to think about them as being a part of our natural world—an extension, really, of our ecosystem—where our species can feel and think and even prosper in a way that is much more spiritually significant than what most of us associate with the word “prosperity.”
A few years ago, I remember working on a project for an urban library where I was given an initial design that was all about glass and steel—a cold and purely functional space. But as I worked on the project, I thought to myself: There’s got to be a better way to make this a more human, inviting place. And it’s not rocket science. I just drew upon what I know about using natural light and materials that connect humans with a space and with one another. So, I can’t help thinking, what if the designers of the space where this talk will happen had done similar things?
One quote that indelibly colored my outlook comes from Frank Lloyd Wright: “Study nature, love nature, stay close to nature. It will never fail you.” Wright was a pioneer in understanding the delicate balance that allows human beings to be truly comfortable, free, and at ease. He knew, as did many before him, that deep human satisfaction is inextricably linked to the richness of experience one can find in the natural world. I often find myself thinking of this quote when working on new residential projects. One particular collaboration with a family seeking just such a space stands out in my mind. They wanted not only a home but also a refuge, a place from which they could both observe the pace of life in the big city and somehow manage to live within it without losing their minds. Indeed, this residential project was both a design challenge and a wonderful opportunity to dream both on and off the drawing board.
My continued exploration into biophilic design brought me to the wisdom of deep thinkers who grasped the essential connection between people and the natural world. And as profound as the insights of these individuals were, I found that many of them stated, or at least implied, a simple truth: To understand the relationship between people and nature, look closely at nature. The easy-sounding idea that understanding comes from close observation has gotten me through many design conundrums that initially seemed to require architectural solutions and, instead, asked for more empathy, patience, and quietude than I usually muster.
One particular project comes to mind when I think about Einstein’s insight. It was a corporate office for a technology company that was trying to transition to a biophilic workspace. They had a very low level of employee burnout and a very high level of creativity—but that was on the verge of crumbling. It felt to me (and to them, I think) that the employees were burnt out and lurching toward a drop in creativity. I spent time in their office. I took the time to really understand not just the physical environment, but also the people who worked there and how they interacted with the environment.
The answer came from bringing natural patterns and variety into the workplace. We added elements of water that provided a subtle backdrop of sound—gurgling, lapping, or quiet moving water—that broke the silence in a soothing way. Light was brought in ways that counted—larger windows, and surfaces that in turn just reflected light back into the space. Biomorphic forms were used in furniture design; we went with curves and organic shapes to roughly contrast with desks and office tools that just had to be there and rigid. None of this was just a recipe for an environmental makeover. Employees ended up feeling more relaxed and engaged. Their creativity flowed again, not because of a new app or some shiny new corporate policy, but because they were in an environment that actually inspired them.
One of my favorite quotes is from landscape architect Ian McHarg, who said, “Design with nature.” This simple axiom reminds me that biophilic design is not about making nature conform to our needs but about allowing our needs to be met by an effectively designed natural system. On one occasion, when I was designing a community park in an urban area, it would have been simple enough to just plow everything under and start with a clean (and level) slate. Instead, McHarg’s philosophy encouraged me to do quite the opposite and forced me to consider what was already there and work with it. We kept the old (very much alive) oak trees, created paths that wound around these huge trunkified sculptures as if they were some kind of art installation, and designed “play” equipment that fit seamlessly into the landscape.
It was not just the beauty of the space that attracted the community but also its authenticity. They accepted it as an extension of their preexisting environment because it was genuine. I return often to a quote that I find particularly evocative. It comes from the Japanese concept of “Shinrin-yoku,” which means “forest bathing.” In this practice, one immerses oneself in the sights, sounds, and even smells of the forest. When I worked on the design of a wellness center located in a heavily populated part of the city, I took my cue from this idea. Could I create a space that offered the experience of a walk in the woods while still being a part of everyday urban life?
The hallways were purposely winding, so that visitors would move through the space like one would along a path in the woods, meandering and taking in the experience. I added layers of texture and materials to engage the senses: soft carpets that felt like moss (not concrete, as was the case in the old space), and walls covered with soft panels that looked like ferns. (Noermand). The very design of the place became a kind of mandate for urban escape and transformation. Visitors reported feeling as if they had entered an oasis, a shelter from the capacious and frantic urban life they had just left. And they had, in a way. These ideas have the power to transform not just the physical nature of spaces but also our experiences of them.
Biophilic design goes far beyond simply putting a plant in an environment. It cultivates a relationship between people and their habits—between people and the enigma of the environment—that even a child could see, if the right design principles are applied. When I think about biophilic design, I also think about lessons gleaned from nature. I find this concept beautifully encapsulated in the quote by John Muir, the father of the conservation movement and legendary not only for his life’s work but also for the poetic and incisive way he articulated ideas: “In every walk with nature, one receives far more than he seeks.” To my way of thinking, that means nature offers lessons that all of us—designers and otherwise—should take to heart.
This understanding has changed not only the way I approach design but also the way I think about sustainability and community well-being. One of the most transformative projects I’ve worked on was a community center built in an area that had experienced economic decline. This part of the community was surrounded by buildings that were either abandoned or in disrepair. Down the street, a nice-looking park sat mostly vacant. It was as if the whole area had thrown in the towel. Residents expressed a lack of connection to their public spaces. They were on the edge of a mental health precipice, filled with disillusionment and despair. This was the kind of community center that, to my mind, could serve more than just basic functional needs.
Some people spoke of the apple orchards—almost forgotten now—that used to fill the place with local pride. Others reminisced about the riverbank, where children used to play a short distance from the house, but which had become overgrown and neglected.
These conversations gave rise to a design that celebrated those almost-forgotten natural features. We took a section of the riverbank, tamed the wildness, and transformed it into a place of beauty that also serves as a natural flood defense. We brought the orchards back to life and filled them with ideas I could hardly mention out loud. In the design of the community center itself, I incorporated large outdoor terraces that overlook the river and the orchards, rendering the structure almost invisible as it merges with the natural surroundings.
I sourced the materials for the building from the local area, including wood from a nearby sawmill, so that the architecture might have an authentic connection to the place. I wanted to create classrooms that felt as if they were part of the outdoors—a lesson space where local plants and animals were literally right outside the windows and in the air, so that kids could learn about their local ecosystem. I wanted nature to be the active participant in this architectural project and the educational life of these children. When I look around at my “office”—this small evergreen forest—that’s what I see as the active participant in my life. I think of nature as my muse.
I have used this mode of thinking in several urban residential projects, especially those designed for vulnerable populations. One such project was an apartment building for seniors. My aim was to enrich the residents’ physical and emotional well-being by connecting them with nature. My team and I designed an extensive rooftop garden where the residents could tend to plants, grow flowers, and cultivate herbs and vegetables. The garden serves not just as a rooftop retreat, but also as an apartment-sized urban farm, with a strong sense of place to nourish the imagination and the Instagrammable opportunities that urbanites crave.
One of the loveliest things to see from that project was how the gardens became a social nexus. Residents who had always been reclusive suddenly found themselves daily among the raised beds, meeting with their co-laborers, sharing stories, more or less tuned to the seasonal cycle of the garden. One of my favorites walks is to accompany that well-nurtured daily sociality, to stop by the laid-out table at which the shared lunches of garden co-laborers are officially served.
Allow me to leave you with one more quote that truly gets at the heart of biophilic design: “The human spirit needs places where nature has not been rearranged by the hand of man.” This undated, unattributed sentiment could honestly have come from a number of individuals throughout history; it embodies that long-standing and deeply felt reverence for unmediated encounters with pure, untamed nature. For me, biophilic design is not about creating controlled or overly manicured environments. It’s about embracing true wildness and celebrating the beautiful, authentic forms of the natural world. I really feel that if we stick to this principle, we will find ourselves in many more nature-drenched places with unspoiled vistas—such as the one I now occupy—than had we not.
I once worked on a residential development where the initial plan called for obliterating a marshland outside the city. My job was to make sure the marsh didn’t suffer that fate, so I offered up my best arguments for why that plan was ecologically and socially misguided. I argued that the marsh was an accessible, wonderful, and unique ecosystem; that it supported a diverse and colorful array of plants and animals; that it was an excellent opportunity for teaching real, place-based lessons about ecology and ecosystems to neighborhood families, including their children; and that, marsh or no marsh, nature seeks to be and thrive in whatever topography it finds most fit. And then I reached for the even bigger picture and offered up the kinds of arguments that good landscape architects make: that this space, set aside for some kind of nature, was not just a serviceable and terrific thing for the kinds of creatures that inhabit marshlands.
After reflecting upon the experiences I have accumulated over the years, I now truly grasp what biophilic design is all about. At its essence, biophilic design is not a trend or a set of features that one could check off a list; instead, it’s a philosophy that recognizes our profound and biological need to be connected to the natural world. It’s about using the medium of design to heal, to inspire, and, most importantly, to connect us to the ecosystems of which we are a part. And not just a part of in the superficial sense we sometimes equate to being “eco-friendly.” These thinkers—Wilson, Wright, Carson, and others—take me deeper into the real meaning of that connection and remind me to consider something that intersects with all our lives: our profound moments of creativity and happiness.
These words and lessons accompany me when I work on a project. I attempt to create spaces for people that remind them of fundamental moments of the natural world: when the wind hits their faces; when they can hear the rustling of leaves; when they’re prancing about and can see the dancing sunlight. In these moments, I want them to understand the essence of biophilic design. Biophilic design is a movement, but it’s also an approach. It behoves us not only to think of the natural as something with which we’re merely functional but also to remember our biological and our deeper emotional connections to it. And for me, the moments above describe less a set of principles and more an invitation to remember who we are.
