An influential idea is taking shape, and I think of it as the “biophilic vector.” This is a direction, a pull, if you will, toward designing spaces that harmonize with the natural world. Biophilia is not a new concept; it has been around for a long time. But as a design vector, it feels fresh and contemporary. You could think of it as a corrective to the radically modernist impulse in architecture and design—to create structures and environments that slam shut the door to the natural world, as opposed to living in a kind of dialogue with it. One can only ally with this vector insofar as one can imagine—and, arguably, one has to do some pretty heavy lifting to evoke imagination on the far side of the natural world.
Although I didn’t work on it directly, one of my favorite projects is the Vertical Forest in Milan. This residential tower breaks the mold of what a high-rise can be. Its entire façade is animated by trees and plants. This is a forest in the sky. I’ve stood beneath it on hot summer days, viscerally experiencing the directionality of air movement (downward) and temperature (cool underneath, warm in the surrounding spaces). The air movement is a byproduct of the “microclimate” created in and around the stairwells and other “vertical” spaces in the building. In an urban environment, this does not merely obscure the building with greenery; it has a number of profound (and potentially seismic) effects on life in the city and on the edge of climate collapse. No place is this more evident than in the Vertical Forest.
The biophilic strategy does not apply only to large-scale architectural undertakings. In my own work, I have found that the most effective implementation of biophilic design principles often happens on a smaller and more intimate scale. Biophilia may be applied equally in both the grand and the subtle, in both projects and spaces. Personally, I am most drawn to how biophilic design holds the promise of making more places feel “alive” by employing natural light and ventilation as guiding principles in room and building design. Sunlight and the shadows it casts during the day hold an almost hypnotic sway over me. I am reminded of a house in Japan that I once visited. It was a simple dwelling deeply considered in its relationship to nature. The way sunlight moved through its interior had an almost musical quality to it.
I think focusing on natural light is one of the most accessible methods of engaging with biophilia. You don’t need an entire forest on your roof to experience the benefits of biophilic design. Even in urban apartments or office spaces, something as basic as maximizing natural light, using organic materials, or incorporating houseplants can make a huge difference. I’ve witnessed this even in my own workspaces. A desk by a window, a few plants near my work, and the occasional distant sound of birds—these have altered how I operate, making my environment feel more like a creative, living space and less like an office.
The biophilic vector is urging us to imbue our environments with nature to an even greater degree, and this is making me reflect on all the ways that such an impetus might be beneficial to us. It’s not just about how “green” or environmentally friendly a space is, although that’s certainly a plus. It’s also about what we feel when we’re even subtly surrounded by natural elements: the peace that comes when we’re seeing plants (if we’re not on a desert island, these should be “houseplants”) or hearing something like the wind in artificial leaves. But this feeling of well-being is not merely a soft issue; it’s a hard fact of our existence, given that we’re organisms with a long evolutionary history of making our domiciles in natural environments.
An excellent illustration of this can be seen in hospitals and healthcare environments that have adopted biophilic design. Consider the humble yet powerful healing garden. Research has shown that patients who have access to gardens or even views of nature recover faster, feel less pain, and have reduced medication needs. “The closest to nature one can get, in a hospital or healthcare environment, the better,” says Mardell. She recounts her visit to a hospital designed by an acclaimed awarded-based firm in Singapore that had a stunning rooftop garden with flowing water, verdant plant life, and shady nooks. The staff told her that more than a few patients came to find peace of mind in the garden, that they felt better mentally and emotionally—even if only temporarily—when in the space.
It’s fascinating to see how the biophilic concept is affecting our schools and educational institutions. By incorporating nature into all that they do, the tangible results show that our students and educators are benefiting. I think back on my visit to a school in Denmark where outdoor classrooms served as a regular feature. Every single student was part of a regular nature experience that enhanced their learning, made them more curious, and had them engaging with their world and environment in an even deeper way than they would if they were stuck in a traditional classroom. They held science classes outdoors, language arts classes in the “fresh air,” and were part of a curriculum that wove them in and out of nature in an incredibly seamless way.
Surely the biophilic vector encounters its own challenges, especially in the dense urban environments that seem to preclude the existence of spaciousness and make nature distant. But haven’t the constraints of space and a shortage of natural features led to some of the most ingenious designs in the Manhattan of today? Consider, for instance, the High Line: a sliver of a park that runs along a portion of a repurposed elevated railway. To me, the idea of “walking through a park” in that fantastically crowded part of New York embodies both the potential and the reach of the biophilic vector to make good design happen. And this is not to mention how, at the same time, the park manages to be remarkable revitalizing quite a few native plant species in a setting that feels like (but certainly doesn’t smell like) the forest primeval.
I frequently consider how the concept of biophilia can be transferred to smaller and more intimate spaces when I design schemes. A residential apartment, a small office, or even a retail setting can be profoundly affected by biophilic principles, and my best work has resulted when I’ve been able to apply those principles to the personal dimensions of a design problem.
One such problem was posed by a client who sought relief from the stress of an urban environment that, to them, felt confined and noisy. Their request was, essentially, that I find a way to render their city apartment into a nature-inspired retreat—without completely redoing the space and without overpowering it with nature-derived design elements. The result was a kind of urban sanctuary that introduced sound, texture, and selected plants into their space in a way that mimicked the outdoor environments I worked to present in their apartment, which was creatively reimagined in small and nuanced ways.
Delving deeper into the biophilic vector, one of the most exhilarating events is how design is being employed to amplify the presence of nature. Conventionally, the use of high tech was thought to be at odds with biophilia. However, in my experience, technology can and should work to elevate rather than diminish our connection to nature. Good high-tech biophilic design is about using technology in nature-serving ways. All of this leads me to assert that high tech and biophilia can indeed work hand in hand. It’s not an either/or proposition, in part because the spaces we inhabit play a crucial role in our ability to feel a connection to nature in the first place. When we’re indoors, we’re not always able to sense what it might be like in our natural surroundings. And that’s where biophilic design comes in.
One project I’ve followed very closely is Amazon’s headquarters right here in Seattle. It’s one of their most ambitious undertakings: three massive glass domes filled with thousands of plants, creating a verdant indoor rainforest. The way they have done this—for any number of reasons—may be the single best instance I’ve seen in the last couple of decades where technology and nature coexist. The plants, most of them exotic, are monitored by a temperature/humidity control system that keeps the space in the kind of conditions where those plants will thrive—and all without making the humans who work inside feel like they’re sweating buckets or being blasted by what a normal rainforest would throw at them in terms of humidity. You step inside, and for a moment, you forget you’re in the middle of bustling Seattle and not in a tropical paradise.
For me, the most compelling aspect of biophilic design isn’t its utility as a vector for the delivery of physical elements borrowed from nature, but rather the shift in environmental philosophy that it represents. Biophilic design is based on the premise that humankind is bound by ancient instinct to be close to nature. In this age of blurring urban-rural boundaries and rampant digitization, it envisions spaces that affirm the age-old ecological truth: that we’re not separate from nature, but an integral part of it. Architect Steven Bingler, of the New Orleans-based firm Concordia, has put it well: “Regenerative design goes beyond sustainability. It seeks to restore and replenish natural systems. Biophilic design is the next logical step.
A visit to the Australian Centre for Contemporary Art in Melbourne has left an impression on me that will last a lifetime. Surrounded by the wild beauty of native bushland, the museum’s rust-colored, angular walls mimic the landscape and blend seamlessly into the earth. The gallery’s spaces are awash with natural light, creating an interaction between the art, the viewer, and the museum’s wild, natural beauty. Even though I was indoors, I was acutely aware of the outdoors, as if the two were in a constant dialogue. It’s a by-product of the biophilia that thrives in the museum, a space that acknowledges art and design are at their best when they’re in nature’s service.
On a more personal note, I’ve found that my understanding of biophilic design has deepened over time. At first, I was focused on the aesthetics of biophilic design—the incorporation of natural elements like wood, stone, and plants into buildings to create visually pleasing spaces. Now, I understand that the real power of biophilic design extends far beyond mere visual appeal. Biophilic spaces have a profound, almost primal effect on how we feel in a given environment. Several of my clients have told me that the homes and offices where they live and work have been transformed by the principles of biophilic design. They describe these spaces as more “alive,” calming, and downright enjoyable to inhabit. It’s a hard feeling to quantify, but it translates into the kinds of spaces that humans want to be in for extended periods of time.
Biophilic design, which connects people to nature, is encountering a resistance, driven primarily by the vector of our urban lives. Cities are biotically impoverished; in many ways, they are also environmentally impoverished. The urban and suburban ponds, parks, yards, and green streets that must serve a combined human and nonhuman community can do so well only insofar as they serve a community that thrives in, with, and by nature. When we think about green design and biophilic design in particular, we must keep in mind that the park down the street, the green roof up above, or the giant banyan tree in the backyard is serving, also, an eco-conscious community of plants, animals, and microbes.
Ultimately, the biophilic vector transcends a mere design philosophy; it is a living ideology. It impels awareness of one’s immediate environment, and it nudges people to pursue nature with greater intent in their everyday lives—whether near the office or at home. It certainly bodes well for the environment and society to have design professionals and their clients embracing a future where built and natural worlds coexist with ease and grace.
