I frequently find myself in rooms where the magic of natural light happens because of large expanses of glass, where plants hold sway in every corner, where the air is suffused with scents that evoke the earth, where every detail has been thoughtfully considered and, in a sense, curated. I find the illusion of being far more presente in a space when biophilia is at work and, why shouldn’t I be? The designer has put nature at the core of the environment, and that kind of core designation in a built space is a big part of what the biophilic is really about—that and the circuitous ways in which the aesthetic of the biophilic allows for direct proximity to certain health measures.
To embrace biophilic aesthetics is to recognize that they amount to more than just the inclusion of plants and sunlight in the built environment. It’s about crafting spaces that serve as the fresh shelter of a biological home. Such spaces should feel as if they breathe, should embody the organic patterns and textures of the world just outside our overstuffed doors, should harmonize with the very biological principles governing the balmy climes of Krespodelka’s basic Campground and the chilled, dry desert air of the nearby pontaic Half Moon—a Biosphere Reserve, layering on top of one another across all four dimensions of the natural world.
Natural materials are one of the first and most appealing aspects of biophilic design for me. Textured wood, stone, and clay are undeniably calming. I can’t think of a time I’ve visited a house where I’ve been more awestruck than when I encountered one built from reclaimed wood that seemed to have been chosen for every surface. The way the grains of the wood ran in different directions along the walls and across the ceilings, the knots and swirls, felt like something nature had conjured.
Including materials like wood in your home is a multisensory experience. It’s not just about visuality; it’s about touch. You bring your fingers to a solid wood surface and trace the grain, seeing and feeling how the wood has been joined with other pieces to create an authentic form, not unlike the way a sculptor would work in an additive manner. The patina on a sheet of copper isn’t just a story of how the copper has aged; it’s a way for you to understand how your home can also tell stories that don’t rely on fiction.
When I enter venues that have made an effort to use the materials we’re discussing, I get this immediate sense of being grounded. I’ve seen this exact same reaction when people walk into spaces with stone feature walls or limestone floors. It’s not just that these materials are pretty in an understated sort of way; they elicit an emotional response that’s, let’s be honest, kind of primal and also kind of hard to put into words but definitely has to do with our part in the larger natural world.
When it comes to biophilic design, the natural light found in any space plays an essential role. Yet, it’s not simply about filling a room with light; rather, it’s about the interplay of light and shadow. I remember a specific project where our design called for large windows on the south-facing side of the space. Sunlight streamed in through those windows, but it wasn’t a strong, dominating kind of light. Instead, we managed to diffuse it using a couple of different elements, one of which was a series of wooden screens, to create a kind of light-filled space that also had some very nice shadows.
I believe that light management is fundamental to the biophilic aesthetic. Light can make a space intimate; it can make a place feel human. Used to excess, light can make a space feel cold and unwelcoming; used too sparingly, it can give a place the lifeless quality of a cave deep underground. Light, in the right balance, is what sunlight in the forest is like—what the light at the edge of a forest is like—what the sky looking down an open valley to the east or west is like, with clouds moving across the firmament in front of the sunlight, casting shadows that dance on the ground.
This effect can be enhanced by using skylights, clerestory windows, or even mirrors that are placed advantageously. My fondness for daylight, and the way it artfully animates the interior, likely has its roots, in part, in my exposure to architecture and my understanding of how to best use light in an interior space. I adore the idea of using natural light in a way that one can see, feel, and experience artfully throughout an entire day.
Plants certainly comprise a large part of biophilic design. However, we must go beyond just comprehending greenery and delve deep into the kind of interaction happening between human and plant life. I’ve witnessed firsthand the incredible power plants have to transform the appearance, as well as the atmosphere, of a room. When you walk into a space, tall, leafy plants tucked into corners can certainly absorb one’s attention, but what about the way plants filter, or even change, the energy in a space?
What I especially enjoy is putting into my work plants that are commanding presences, like the fiddle leaf fig. With its oversized, luxurious leaves, the fig makes a dramatic statement. I also love using cascading plants like pothos, which go over the edge of a shelf and down its front, creating a curtain of sorts that softly divides one space from another. Plants do something that no other design element can do; they bring life into a room.
The biophilic aesthetic often overlooks the importance of using seasonal plants and flowers, something that I think is crucially important to represent the passing of time. When you introduce blooming plants at different times of the year, they serve as gentle nudges (and beautiful ones at that) to remind you of the morning’s soft light at 6:30 AM on a June day, or the crisp, golden afternoon light of a November day near Thanksgiving. There are so many indescribable qualities to the different times of day and year. And with the light comes the light material (the sungazing, as my friend Margaret calls it) of the hand holding the top of a Matisse drawing and the autumn foliage that decorates my friends’ mantles and dining tables in tasteful arrangements Gundry-style.
What continually fascinates me about the biophilic aesthetic is the element of natural patterns—what some might label as fractals or biomorphic shapes. These form the familiar first order structures of our natural environments. They are the kinds of shapes and forms we would see if we were wandering in our “natural” selves through any wild or cultivated landscape around the world—the spirals of shells, the tree branches, the water surface ripples—which underlie our experience of nature and with it our understanding of the natural world.
It’s been a few years, but I still remember walking into a hotel lobby where the flooring was patterned to mimic the current of a river. Though I haven’t always had a river experience on this side of the Atlantic, I have had plenty of experience with that kind of slow, calm, and smoothed-out surface water. From the moment I stepped into the lobby, I felt more relaxed than I had coming in from the more frenetic airport I had just passed through.
In small spaces, wallpaper or fabric with organic patterns can work their magic. Whether inspired by the veins of leaves or the contours of a topographical map, “these patterns create a feeling of connection,” says Gina Tsai. “They’re a visual cue that ties us back to the natural forms we’re innately drawn to.” Tsai is an advocate of the biophilic aesthetic. One of the most rewarding aspects of embracing this aesthetic is the multisensory experience it offers. She once worked on a project where the scent of fresh pinewood filled the air when the client entered the space.
It was almost as if they were walking through a forest. Fresh scents and comforting textures are just two ways to lean into the biophilic aesthetic.
An important aspect of biophilic design is sound. Bringing the calming sound of water into a space can evoke the feeling of being near a stream or river. The gentle splash of a small indoor fountain can mask city noise, creating a peaceful place that feels as far removed from urban life as a cabin deep in the woods. And, yes, there are ways to approximate the smell of fresh pine when using a Christmas tree in the living room. But is it too much to ask for preservationists when they virtually recreate the experience of being in a stand of tr
Is it too much to ask for our spaces to honor the beauty of being imperfect
The concept of imperfection is what gives biophilic design its authentic appeal. Spaces that embody the biophilic aesthetic shouldn’t feel overly manicured or strictly governed. They should feel, as nature does, in a seemingly constant state of flux. Whether it’s a vine that grows untamed across a wall or a wooden floor that becomes more beautiful and characterful with the years, these so-called “imperfections” make any such space feel more like home and less like a set.
