I always think back to a small cafe I found during a trip to a coastal town when reflecting on spaces that inject life into our everyday environments. The cafe wasn’t merely another charming coffee shop; it felt like a living being unto itself. Every niche pulsed with energy, and the air was redolent with sweet, seaside nothings. From what I could decipher, the seamless blend of the natural and built environments was the secret to this cafe’s vivaciousness. Its walls had what I can only describe as a biological serous membrane — living mosses; sunlight streaming in through large, floor-to-ceiling windows; and workings of art that mimicked nature in its most beautiful forms.
When we discuss biophilic design, we might be addressing what is best described as a simple concept: the blending of natural elements with the built environment. But biophilic design is so much more than that. It’s about the user experience, the moment-to-moment interaction between a person and the spaces they inhabit. It’s easy to conflate biophilic design with the integration of plants into the built environment. And while that’s certainly part of the equation, what we aim to achieve with biophilic design is far more expansive.
Consider, for example, a project I led in designing a corporate office with a forest theme. It would have been simple enough to throw in a few planters or hang some nature-themed pictures on the walls, but we knew that’s not what we wanted to do. We wanted to create an environment that felt like an oasis and made employees feel good the instant they crossed the threshold. We tapped into what we call “natural biophilia”; that is, the essence of nature integrated into the design in a way that felt seamless and authentic.
Our starting point was natural light. When it comes to “how” in a space, especially offices, light can seriously “make or break” the atmosphere. So we went big on daylight, maximizing the use of multiple skylights and big windows. Yet it isn’t merely about having more light; it’s also about the quality of the light. We arranged our office windows to capture the soft, pastel hues of morning and evening — a time both calm and nourishing to the human brain. This is light that’s as good (or better) for the 1000pm melatonin switch as the too-bright/too-white light in many workplaces.
Attention to detail in natural biophilic design is a given; it results from the careful consideration of the materials we choose for our spaces. In this regard, I have always preferred to specify materials that carry a strong tactile quality. Of these, wood — with an unfinished or reclaimed quality — is my first choice. Next, I would specify stone that, in a cut, shows its “other” side, with visible “flaws” that make it beautiful. Finally, concrete that employs a natural aggregate (exposed) would serve as my third choice. The beauty of these materials comes from their authenticity. To my mind, there is something grounding about these spaces and the textures, finishes, and colors of the materials that we choose.
A home I helped design at the edge of a forest really illuminated this for me. The homeowners wanted a space that reflected the wild, rugged beauty of their surroundings without sacrificing comfort. While we could have chosen sleek, modern finishes, we let the elements of nature lead. We left nearly all of the wood in the house exposed — from the beams (in which no one tried to hide knots or other “flaws”) to the rough, untreated wood of the floor (which was almost sensuously undulating). We used it (and the wild imperfections inherent in the wood) to amplify the design of the house, which, if “natural” is what someone wants in a design, is a much better approach than any attempt to make the house look anyway sleek or modern.
My particular affinity aside, there is no doubt that water is a powerful element of biophilic design. It appeals to multiple human senses — sight, sound, and even touch and temperature. This appeal is rooted in our biology and psychology; we are hardwired to be attracted to water in our environments, even when its presence seems improbable, as in a desert. Water serves not only aesthetic purposes but also functional ones in a design context. In a hotel lobby, for instance, it can act as a natural sound barrier, masking the kind of hubbub that one would rather not hear when entering a serene, close-to-nature space. In another project, we used an actual river as part of an outdoor classroom in a biophilic learning center. Whether it’s used in a river, pond, or fountain, water is impossible to resist, and the opportunity to play with it allows designers to create healthy spaces.
Natural biophilic design seeks to establish a balance between direct and indirect connections to nature. Our most immediate connections to the natural world come from direct experiences that might take place in a building: viewing a plant, natural material, or water feature, for instance. Yet what many might consider “nature-deficit” spaces can still be anchored in biophilia if their interiors include indirect experiences with nature. The author’s experience with fractals illustrates how a building can be sited in biophilic design without occupants having any real direct connection to nature. Fractals are repetitive patterns that occur in nature. Their use in design can create a sense of place that allows visual experiences of spaces — and work done within those spaces — to feel less “artificial.”
One more exemplary case of the importance of built-for-bisociation that I can give you is in the use of color. I am drawn to the softened, muted tones of nature: the greens of moss, the ochres of clay, the blues just before sunset. I cannot say precisely why, but I find these colors to be naturally soothing. I suspect they are because we are evolutionarily hardwired to associate them with places where we can rest and renew ourselves. But on what biophilic basis might I accuse the retreat that I found myself reimagining of having bad colors? A cleverly chosen color palette isn’t crucial to the success of a space, but it sure can transform it. I have seen firsthand the difference that a thoughtful color palette can make in a room. In one space that I had the honor of reimagining, we covered the walls in a sickly pale color, and a warm brown that I found so disgusting it made me sick to my stomach, and I was put in a place of such disrespect that I felt downright dehumanized.
Living systems can be integrated into biophilic design, and for me, that is one of the most thrilling parts. It’s not just that the systems might provide an adaptive-temperature sensation when you walk into a library; it’s that you couldn’t walk into that library and not have a kind of aesthetic experience. I mean, if this wall offers that much in terms of projects and sensory engagement, think of what a living (and growing) library community might do. And that’s just one part—evolutionary in its own right—of a larger exercise in creating static vs. dynamic public spaces.
Natural biophilic design is beautiful in its simplicity. Often, when people think of biophilic design, they might picture something complicated or even over-engineered. But some of the most impressive projects I’ve seen (and definitely the ones that have had the biggest impact on me) are the simplest. They’re spaces where nature is allowed to take center stage and speak for itself. A skylight that frames clouds drifting by, a window that opens to the sight and sound of swaying trees, a courtyard filled with the scent of jasmine. These are the biophilic connections that I can believe in.
For me, natural biophilic design is a hopeful concept. It doesn’t just look at how we can make the built environment better—it also looks at how we can make our lives better in that environment. And that’s a huge potential swing, because it really could change how a lot of us live. The premise feels simple: the more we can mimic the natural world in our indoor environments, the more we can also use design to melt away indoor stress and create concentrations of creativity and productivity. Of course, that doesn’t totally erase why some people have to work in an open office space, which is a specific kind of hell. But, on the whole, embracing these principles could serve to make more resilient, relaxed, and productive people in space.
Consider urban living, for example. As inhabitants of the city, we are often overwhelmed with noise, artificial lighting, and a rapid-fire lifestyle that disconnects us from the natural rhythms of life. But natural biophilic design has the power to heal that disconnection, even in the densest urban environments. I once visited, in the heart of a bustling city, a high-rise apartment that incorporated natural biophilic design in a way that I had not seen before. Despite being surrounded by concrete and glass, the apartment felt like an oasis. Everywhere you looked—inside the space and out—where you might expect to find something plastic or synthetic, you instead found something natural. Large windows opened onto a terrace filled with native plants, which had been carefully chosen for their ability to thrive in the local climate with little human intervention. Inside, the furniture was crafted from wood (far too many pieces to count) sourced from local trees, and the walls were textured with a natural clay that coated the entire space in something approximating an earthy hug.
The biophilic apartment got me thinking about the natural elements we can incorporate into our everyday lives. We don’t all have space for a living wall, but there are countless ways to bring nature indoors. One of my favorite tricks is to use mirrors to amplify outdoor greenery or sunlight into a space. I did this in a small apartment with virtually no natural light. By placing mirrors opposite the only window in the apartment, we not only brightened the room but also brought in a view of the trees from the park just across the street. The visual connection to nature was one that otherwise would have been missed, and it certainly does feel good to give the biophilic apartment that slight upgrade.
Textures are so important when it comes to making a space truly connect with nature. I have watched homeowners completely revamp their spaces by working with textiles of nature—materials like linen, wool, and cotton—that feel incredibly good to the touch and bring a sense of warmth and comfort to a room. One project that I worked on in particular comes to mind when I think of natural textiles. In that project, we used handwoven wool rugs, linen curtains, and wood furniture from reclaimed structures. Our work was much more than just an exercise in aesthetics. We were really trying to build a refuge for the senses. We wanted our clients to walk into the space, feel the textures, and way down deep in their skin understand that this was a space worth inhabiting.
A factor that I think is frequently neglected in the development of natural biophilic design is environmental fragrance. The olfactory sense is the most primal of the five senses. It is directly linked to our emotions and memories, making it an extraordinarily potent tool and untapped resource in the creation of natural biophilic environments. In my own work, I have taken fragrant environmental factors into account in a number of ways and to varying degrees. For an upscale spa, we infused the air with the relaxing scents of lavender and eucalyptus, creating what “guests” and “clients” have described as a “multisensory experience.” I imagine and hope the same can be said for the more potent natural biophilic environments you create.
Also critical is the aspect of sound. I recall a visit to a museum that had artfully blended birdsong and the sound of the wind into its exhibit spaces. It was a very simple effect that had a strong impact. It was soothing and made the experience of moving through the space one that was more akin to wandering through a forest than being in a sterile indoor environment. Sound is something I now take much more seriously in my own designs, whether through the inclusion of water features, wind chimes, or even just through better acoustic flow. There is something almost unnoticed that is happening between the aural and visual senses, binding them together to create a unified whole.
I’ve learned that the most important aspect of natural biophilic design is that it doesn’t aim for perfection. After all, nature is imperfect. Instead, these designs create an invitation to connect with the space on a sensory level. They make it feel as if what’s outside is, in fact, inside. One of my favorite aspects of a garden I helped design is its unpredictability. The plants grow in various unexpected directions, and the paths do anything but follow a straight line. If they were inside a building, you might think the architects of the space had lost their minds: no concurrent lines, no right angles. But that’s the kind of structure your life in nature has — at least if you think of life as more than just existing in a place filled with trees, grass, and the occasional wildlife.
Natural biophilic design is rooted in a profound respect for the world of nature. Its fundamental principle is quite simple: humans are as much a part of nature as any other life form on Earth and, as such, are deserving of environments that reflect and enhance their innate connection to the natural world. Biophilic design, therefore, embraces and extends that connection to make survival in the wild no longer our sole measure of success. With each project I undertake, I seek opportunities to innovate in ways that deepen my clients’ relationships with the natural world, working not only through visual and spatial means but using light, sound, texture, and scent to nurture the body, mind, and spirit of everyone who interacts with the spaces I create.
