What I really like about biophilic design is how it goes beyond interior spaces. It’s natural to think of biophilia in association with indoor plants and walls covered in green. Offices and living rooms with ample natural light are classic illustrations, but for me, these are pretty basic applications of biophilic principles. The true magic happens when exterior spaces are designed with biophilia in mind. Something really special occurs when the natural and built environments outside are blended, creating spaces that resonate with nature and urge us to engage more fully with the outside world.
I remember visiting a boutique hotel that was perched on the coastal hillside. I was instantly enchanted by the design of the exterior landscape. The architects and landscape designers had woven biophilic principles into every part of the outdoors. Instead of the typical, well-manicured lawn that is seen in the common coastal area, the hotel property had wild, native plantings that seemed to blend seamlessly with the coastal landscape. The choice was not merely an aesthetic one, however; it also appeared to be a means of helping guests connect with the surrounding ecosystem. The materials chosen for pathways—stone and reclaimed wood—felt as if they had just emerged organically from the landscape. And although the space went underutilized, the sheltered nook with a view of the ocean created a lovely opportunity to linger, sit, reflect, and feel a real connection with nature.
I have often applied analogous principles in my own work. When I’m asked to design an outdoor space, I’m inclined to look to the existing landscape for guidance. I seek ways to honor it and make it better—ways to bring a kind of order to it, without imposing a silly kind of order that would just be a fancy way of saying “don’t cross here” or “do walk here.” The temptation to do that exists, and it’s impressed upon us in many ways. But part of the invitation of biophilic design is to not give in to that temptation, to respect existing entities in a landscape, and to reflect in our designs the kind of imperfect beauty seen in natural ecosystems.
One project, in particular, remains close to my heart for its intense focus on creating a special environment. An urban courtyard, closed in by tall buildings, was transformed from a lifeless, barren space into a vibrant, lush retreat filled with a variety of immersive experiences. The “bring nature in” theme was the only part of the standard client-consultant interaction that I found potentially useful. Instead of merely adding plants to the space, I thought about how to create an experience that would offer peace to the residents living around the courtyard. Our team constructed a space with natural-feeling stone walkways, strategically placed water features, and plantings that would provide a constantly changing, 3-dimensional environment. While the design provided visual peace and sensory experiences, it also offered an encouragement to interact with the “nature” that was now in their urban environment.
Exterior biophilic design offers multiple opportunities for creating more than just aesthetically pleasing spaces. Designing these spaces in harmony with the natural world adds an extra layer of joy and meaning to our work. It allows people to experience beauty not just in the present but in the future, as the materials and living elements we choose age and develop in ways that enhance their appearance and value. We could do no less if we wished to truly serve the functional, as well as the emotional, needs of the people for whom we are designing.
Biophilic design for outdoor spaces should not view nature as just an elegant setting; it should treat nature as a dynamic presence in the design process. When we outdoor designers think about the spaces that will be designed, we too readily default to thinking about all the things that will “fill in” those spaces—gardens, patios, or even serving as a pathway to a trellis—that might “do” something when all we really want is for the things we’ve placed there to have an appearance of functioning (e.g., be a “piece” in a “functioning” or “musical” way, if we could also say the same about a painting).
Traditional Japanese gardens have long inspired me, but for this reason, they have always been a big influence. These gardens don’t merely copy nature; they are constructed to extol the very cycles from which nature derives its power and beauty: the cycles of growth, decay, and regeneration. In visiting the Katsura Imperial Villa in Kyoto, what struck me most was how the garden seemed to flow, almost of its own accord, from the surrounding environment. It was as if the garden’s very structure was an invitation to take in what lay beyond the immediate man-made forms—trees and shrubs positioned not just to maximize views of the structures (and those views are remarkable), but to send the eye wandering toward some of the most famous landscapes in Japan.
This experience impressed upon me the need to always contemplate the grander ecosystem when I create exterior spaces. In my projects, I strive to meld with the natural attributes of the landscape. Whether it calls for preserving a grouping of venerable oak trees, allowing a meandering stream to inform the design, or accommodating a slope rather than leveling it, my buildings make an attempt to respect nature’s blueprint. And one of the most satisfying aspects of this approach is the feedback loop that occurs when you honor the land—you earn its respect, and it shows you opportunities you might not have considered at first.
Two years prior, I worked on an interesting residential project. The house was located near a delicate wetland ecosystem. Our clients wanted us to create a garden that would mirror the local fragile ecosystem. They were concerned that we might damage the local environment in the process of building their backyard, so they pushed for some rather unique uses of space and materials… With restricted hardscaping and limited wetland-friendly plant varieties in the plans, we instead built a series of wooden walkways throughout the garden to provide the residents and their guests areas to explore without damaging either the local environment or the appearance of the garden itself. The walkways are clearly an ideal space for the family to navigate their way through the illusion of the wetland.
Another essential facet of outside biophilic architecture that I have come to depend on is the application of water. Not only is water a visual pleasure, but it also offers an auditory link to nature—one that is incredibly soothing. Even in urban surroundings, the gentle plash of water can transform an outdoor space from just that into a restorative retreat. A series of small, tumbling water features in a corporate rooftop garden have done just that. Call it an aural illusion, but with the water amping up the soundscape, it’s hard to tell just what the city is doing down there—this is no place for a Herculean throat to clear or a Goldman sax to squeak.
Water is one of the most powerful elements in exterior biophilic design, and for good reason. Humans have a long history of coexisting with bodies of water; indeed, we evolved in and around them. In many climates, our survival still depends on finding and preserving water. Whether it’s a rain garden, a stream, or a pond, the presence of water is a connection to the natural world. It takes something as simple as having a freshwater fish pond and elevates it to an experience of transformative power.
Beyond water, one of the biophilic principles that I really like to use is “prospect and refuge.” Human beings have an instinct to seek out places where they feel safe and can see what’s going on around them. Naturally, this calls to mind the kinds of spaces that are often designed for animals in zoos—not that I design those kinds of spaces for people, but there’s a reason that I was drawn to the principle of prospect and refuge. It applies not only in exterior design, where it often means creating a combination of openness and shelter in the kinds of public spaces where you want to inspire people to be able to enjoy both side-by-side and also to reflect a bit in a nudged-away kind of area, but also in residential design, where I’ve incorporated it into everything from sprawling public parks (that’s where the side-by-sides appear) to intimate backyard retreats.
Biophilic design is less a matter of beauty and function than a matter of nurturing our intrinsic connections to the natural world. At its best, biophilic design in outdoor settings pays homage both to natural beauty and to the beneficial effects that immersing ourselves in natural environments can have on our minds, our bodies, and our senses. Done well, biophilic design helps us feel what we are—to remind us that we’re not just humans, but humans who’s also a part of the natural, not just the built, world.
The thoughtful construction of biophilic design principles is often about making creative and innovative decisions. Successful biophilic designs balance beauty and usability. They are spaces where people can enjoy the kind of natural interactions we were all too recently deprived of. It’s easy to think about bringing water into designs as a way to conceptually connect to “natural.” And I certainly do consider that my days spent on a lake were probably the most enjoyable of my bathtub-living phase. But it’s not just water, as trees when I was young.
Biophilic design embraces temporal variability—how our environments may offer us something different over the seasons and, particularly, different in kind (even if all might be equally enjoyable) across the four seasons. I can imagine a very different space for each season (again, even if all four might be equally delightful).
In a project I worked on, a public park located in a temperate climate, we purposely chose plants that would present something beautiful to visitors every day of the year. In spring, the cherry trees adorned the park with their copious blossoms, and in summer, the tall grasses in our “wave garden” offered dynamic and calming visual effects. By fall, the trees turned our park into a veritable cornucopia of colors; and winter showed off the extraordinary architecture of the bare trees, not to mention the almost surreal quality of the park after a snowstorm. This kind of design—making beautiful what might be otherwise dismissed—seems to me one of the hallmarks of biophilia.
I’ve also seen it work well in residence projects to create outdoor spaces that are comfortable and usable in a variety of weather conditions. This typically involves designing features like covered patios, pergolas, or awnings that protect people from rain or direct sunshine but still allow them to experience the outdoors. On the other hand, if it’s just some mild, dry, or light coverage kind of weather that keeps people from wanting to be outside too much, then in a way, it’s probably just as much about creating comfortable spaces where people can “hang out” and enjoy what an evening, morning, or afternoon in nature, and then back inside, too, looks like and would feel like.
Plants are vital for biophilic design to be successful, especially native plants. For them, the basin and range of their biological diversity is an impressive olio of organisms. I can’t describe all of these organisms here, but will highlight just a few of the most impressive plants. Dark gorges and deep canyons carve the mountains. These humid habitats give rise to towering trees, like the Western red cedar, that provide long horizontal branches draped with soft moss and lichens. When the mist settles in, the plants look like the gentle waves of an ocean, which is how my mind’s eye sees the adorable coast when I go home to the West.
The garden morphed into an inviting place full of the life and colors that desert plants provide. It quickly became home to many local critters, making it even more enjoyable to the community that frequented it. The flowers that many desert plants provide are as showy and bright as any temperate flowering plant. I think the community would have enjoyed a tableau of the aboveground parts of many desert plants for their interior spaces. Instead, they settled for a cornucopia of edible plants that I passionately design and maintain in the public park for their use.
Merging Indoor and Outdoor Spaces
Another hallmark of biophilic exterior design—and a tenet that I consider fundamental—is the integration of indoor and outdoor spaces. This can be achieved quite simply (and effectively) with the use of large windows and/or sliding glass doors that open onto a terrace or garden—certainly the most basic form of blurring the lines between the indoor and outdoor evironments. However, I think there are many other, very creative ways, to achieve this… In a house designed by one of my favorites firms, Mithun, for a family in Idaho, the transition between the indoor kitchen and the outdoor dining area is achieved with a wall of glass that can be opened—as can the family—to warm, diverting breezes and the sounds of nature.
The generous windows, even on cool days, let natural light and the beauty of the garden pour into the interior, creating an easy blend with nature. In my experience, even a modest link to the outdoors—a window herb garden, for instance—can do wonders for a home’s sense of space and comfort. One of the more dramatic biophilic designs I’ve been involved with was at a city apartment that had very little outdoor space. We built a vertical garden on the balcony and placed a chair next to the floor-to-ceiling windows, giving the residents a vibrant indoor connection to the plants just outside their grasp.
Creating Community in Biophilic Spaces
The main aim of biophilic design is to promote individual well-being, but I am also committed to using these principles to create community spaces that serve the public good. And you don’t have to look far to find examples of biophilic design values promoting community in outdoor public spaces. Neighborhood parks can do it, for instance. They can be spaces where people in the vicinity congregate, socialize, and get to know one another. And they can do this much better, I think, if they aren’t designed much like neighborhood parks.
Winding paths, places to sit, and small clusters of trees edged the community garden with a feeling of privacy and seclusion. It really was a space that straddled the boundary between being public and private. I think that’s one of the reasons why the park became such a phenomenon: People of all ages found a way to use it. To some, it was a spot to gather with friends; to others, it was a place to be alone and recharge. And really, it was both. This project taught me that biophilic design is about making connections. It’s about connecting people to nature, yes, but also doing that in a way that connects people to each other.
Eco-Friendly Resources and Sustainable Materials
Lastly, we need to talk about sustainability. The materials we opt for, how we manage our resources, and the designs’ overall ecological impact are absolutely crucial to the creation of anything that can even be called a space, responsible in all senses of the word. I’ve always pushed for the use of sustainable materials, like reclaimed wood, natural stone, and recycled metal. These are the kinds of materials we should be using if we care about anything other than the design itself. Not that design isn’t important, but if you, as a designer or architect, really want to have an impact and be “eco” in any sense of the word, AIA’s Peter Hall once told me, “those are the kinds of materials you should be using.”
I am especially attracted to raw materials that can narrate their provenance—wood reclaimed from dilapidated structures, stones smoothed by millennia of weathering. When earth-haven structures are finished, I like to think that they embody a sense of connection to the land, a literal tethering to a spot. Biophilic design entails much more than a love of nature or affection for organic forms. One huge aspect of it is water management, and with the help of my structure-building team, I designed a rain garden for one such earth-haven project.
That served as a nudge that biophilic design is more than just the surface level—it is about collaborating with nature to forge sustainable, resilient spaces that prioritize the wellbeing of people and the Earth itself.
