The Evolution of “Acoustic” Architecture: Beyond the Visual
Architecture is often discussed in purely visual terms—façades, silhouettes, and how buildings interact with light. However, the real defining quality of architecture is the deeper, multisensory experience that spaces offer. At our practice, we frequently return to Le Corbusier’s concept of "acoustic" architecture, which shifts the conversation from what we see to how we experience space with the whole body. This idea opens up a richer dialogue, one that acknowledges the role of organic shapes, movement, sound, touch, and light in shaping our interaction with the built environment.
Le Corbusier’s use of the term "acoustic" goes beyond technical sound properties; instead, it refers to how space resonates emotionally and physically with those who inhabit it. In Le Poème de l'Angle Droit (The Poem of the Right Angle), Le Corbusier wrote about how his Chapel of Notre-Dame-du-Haut at Ronchamp, with its sweeping curves and dynamic forms, creates a dialogue with the landscape. He stated that architecture should act as an "acoustic receiver" of the hills, valleys, and sky surrounding the chapel (Le Corbusier, 1955). He spoke of a "phenomenon of visual acoustics" where the building was meant to capture and reflect the visual and emotional vibrations of the landscape itself. The landscape and chapel were designed to become one, creating a spiritual and sensory experience for visitors, much like how sound reverberates through a space. Light pours in at different angles, and shadows shift throughout the day, offering a dynamic interaction between the architecture and its surroundings. The design forces the occupant to experience the space beyond just visual observation—it must be moved through, felt, and sensed.
Similarly, we strive to create what we call "acoustic" spaces—spaces that move beyond the visual and engage the full spectrum of human perception. Whether working within the constraints of Victorian terraces or experimenting with more open, fluid forms, our goal is to challenge conventional orthogonality and introduce new layers of resonance into our work.
Image: Ronchamp Chapel, Dezeen
A bit of Neuroscience, why not?
The connection between architecture and the body is not just theoretical; it is grounded in the way our brains process space. Cognitive neuroscience tells us that the brain processes space through multiple sensory pathways, engaging vision, sound, touch, and proprioception (Graziano & Gross, 1998). The hippocampus, which plays a critical role in navigation and memory, works with the parahippocampal gyrus to help us understand where we are in space and how we move through it (Ekstrom et al., 2003). Additionally, the amygdala is involved in evaluating our emotional responses to our surroundings—whether we feel safe, comfortable, or anxious in a given environment (Phelps & LeDoux, 2005).
Research in cognitive science shows that humans respond more positively to organic, curvilinear forms than to sharp, rectilinear ones. This can be traced back to our evolutionary past when humans lived in environments filled with natural, irregular forms—trees, rivers, hills—where these shapes often indicated safety and refuge (Joye, 2007). In contrast, jagged edges and sharp angles are associated with danger (think of cliffs or thorny plants). Our brains are wired to interpret these forms differently, with curved spaces activating the brain’s reward systems, including the orbitofrontal cortex, which is responsible for aesthetic appreciation and pleasure (Vartanian et al., 2013). Studies using fMRI have shown that these areas of the brain are more engaged when people view curvilinear spaces instead of rectilinear environments.
However, the desire for clarity and orientation is equally important. Kevin Lynch, in his landmark study The Image of the City (1960), identified the importance of legibility in urban environments. Legibility refers to how easily people understand and navigate a city or space. Clarity and predictability in spatial layouts reduce cognitive load, making it easier to orient oneself and move comfortably through an environment. This is where orthogonal grids and rectilinear layouts come into play—they provide clarity and order in what might otherwise be chaotic or confusing spaces.
The Role of Orthogonal Spaces: Efficiency and Calm
Orthogonal spaces, like the grid systems found in Roman cities or the rectilinear layouts of Victorian terraced houses, offer a different kind of spatial experience. They are defined by clarity, predictability, and simplicity. Greek and Roman cities were laid out with orthogonal grids to facilitate navigation and enable efficient construction and urban planning (Rykwert, 1976). These layouts allowed for the easy division of land and the straightforward development of infrastructure, promoting a rational and ordered cityscape. The same principle can be found in the Victorian terraces of London—spaces that prioritised economy and efficiency.
The brain processes orthogonal layouts with ease, given their clear lines and simple geometry. In an increasingly overstimulating world, the simplicity of these layouts can offer a kind of psychological relief. Minimalist, rectilinear spaces are often associated with calmness, as their clear boundaries and comprehensible forms reduce the cognitive effort required to interpret the space (Ching, 2007). For many, the orthogonal layouts found in monastic architecture, for example, offer a sense of peace, providing a quiet, orderly retreat from the noise of modern life.
However, orthogonal spaces can also be limiting if they are not balanced with more dynamic elements. While clarity and predictability are essential for orientation, they don’t always engage the senses or emotions as organic, flowing forms do. This is where the tension between orthogonality and fluidity becomes critical. Architects often aim to balance the efficiency and simplicity of rectilinear spaces with the emotional richness of more complex, curvilinear forms.
Having studied and worked in Italy and Spain, this train of thought brings me back to several Spanish and Italian architects who have explored the balance between orthogonal clarity and organic fluidity in their work, often creating spaces that, like Le Corbusier’s, resonate emotionally with their inhabitants.
Antoni Coderch, a major figure in Catalan modernism, is known for his sensitivity to the lived experience of space. A great admirer of Gio Ponti, his Barceloneta apartment building is composed of a sequence of angled surfaces from the inside to the façade (Samper & Capitel, 1992). The architecture school building where I attended was originally a modernist slab building and then extended by Coderch with a sequence of curved spaces stepping down to adapt to the landscape.
Elias Torres and José Antonio Martínez Lapeña took a similar approach in their work, not only in public projects but also in private homes and apartment buildings. Their residential designs often feature non-orthogonal layouts and organic forms that enhance the sensory experience of the inhabitants (Torres & Martínez Lapeña, 1993). The subtle shifts in geometry make the spaces feel alive, constantly engaging the senses as people move through them. Their work demonstrates how manipulating form can transform even conventional residential buildings into deeply sensory and emotional experiences.
In the same generation as Elias Torres in Barcelona, architects like Josep Llinàs, Lluís Clotet, and Carme Ribas have also been experimenting with non-orthogonal solutions. Josep Llinàs has explored complex geometries in both public and private projects, creating spaces that challenge conventional perceptions of form and function (Llinàs, 2008). Lluís Clotet's work often incorporates irregular layouts and fluid forms, adding layers of richness to the architectural experience (Clotet & Tusquets, 1985). Carme Ribas focuses on how subtle deviations from orthogonality can create more engaging and humane spaces (Ribas, 2010). Collectively, these architects contribute to a tradition in Barcelona of pushing the boundaries of conventional design, exploring how non-orthogonal geometries can enhance the phenomenology of architecture.
Enric Miralles, another Catalan architect, took these ideas even further. His Scottish Parliament Building in Edinburgh and the Santa Caterina Market in Barcelona are both extreme experiments in the composition and construction of fluid, organic forms (Rowe, 2005). Miralles’ use of undulating lines and complex geometries creates a sense of movement and energy that makes the spaces feel dynamic, rich and joyful. These buildings act as landscapes and environments that change and evolve as people move through them, creating a constantly shifting experience.
In Italy, among others, Gio Ponti and Luigi Caccia Dominioni also explored how non-orthogonal layouts can create acoustic resonance in residential architecture. Ponti’s Villa Planchart in Caracas, for example, uses flowing interior spaces to create a seamless connection between the occupants and the surrounding landscape (Ponti, 1961). The curves guide movement through the house, making it feel as though the architecture is constantly responding to its environment. Luigi Caccia Dominioni delved deeply into the phenomenology of architecture, focusing on how non-orthogonal flat layouts can influence the lived experience. His research into the emotional and sensory impacts of spatial configurations highlights the importance of considering more than just functional efficiency in design (Irace, 2002).
Top: EMBT (Enric Miralles Benedetta Tagliabue), Mercado de Santa Caterina, Barcelona, 2004
Bottom Torres Lapeña, Casa Gili, Ibiza, 1987
Reconciling Orthogonality and Organic Form
In our practice, we often work within the constraints of pre-existing orthogonal layouts, particularly in Victorian terraces. These spaces are defined by their rectilinear grids, which offer clarity and efficiency but can also feel rigid and confining. We often feel the instinctive urge to test elements that challenge this rigidity, creating moments of fluidity and resonance that engage the senses more fully.
In the House for a Cellist, for instance, we reduced the orthogonal layout of the original Victorian structure to its minimum terms: two party walls and one façade. Within this clear constraint, we introduced geometric forms that break up the rigidity of the space. A triangular wooden prism encloses the stairs and service areas, creating a dynamic centre that contrasts with the straight lines of the surrounding rooms, and enveloping the sitting and rehearsal areas in an acoustic scenography. A circular roof light introduces natural light into the house's core, softening the rigidity of the acute angles. This combination of orthogonal clarity and curvilinear movement creates an "acoustic" resonance, making the space feel alive and responsive to its occupants.
Similarly, in The Sponge, we took a traditional terraced house and punctured its orthogonal layout with skylights and windows, allowing light to filter deep into the space. The long convex joinery walls guide movement through the house, creating a sense of flow and fluidity within the otherwise rigid structure. The angled joinery wall contains and hides the kitchen and all the other ground floor services. This balance between the clarity of the original structure and the dynamic nature of the interventions transforms the space into something far more engaging.
The Boat Pavilion is another example of how we apply “acoustic” principles. Here, the curved forms evoke the shape of a boat, while the pitched roof—cut at the top to allow light to filter in—expands the sense of space and openness.
Image, The Boat Pavilion
In The Tent on a Hill, we introduced a continuous curved ceiling that stretches the length of the open-plan space. This design choice not only expands the perceived volume of the room but also creates a subtle sense of movement that guides the eye and encourages flow through the space. The fluidity of the ceiling adds dynamism to what could otherwise be a static orthogonal structure, creating an interplay between clarity and acoustic resonance. This combination of fluidity and clarity reinforces the idea that even within rigid, rectilinear spaces, it is possible to introduce moments of sensory and emotional engagement that transform how the space is perceived and inhabited .
Our journey into "acoustic" architecture is an ongoing exploration. Each new project serves as both a challenge and an opportunity to deepen our understanding of how space can resonate with its occupants. We are not merely designing buildings; we are crafting experiences that engage the senses and emotions on multiple levels.
Our upcoming projects aim to push these concepts even further. By experimenting with new materials, forms, and spatial configurations, we hope to expand the vocabulary of acoustic architecture. These endeavors will not only enrich our portfolio but also contribute to a larger body of work that investigates the intersection of human perception and architectural form.
In time, this collection of projects will evolve into an extensive research library—a resource for both our team and the wider architectural community. By documenting our processes, successes, and even our missteps, we aspire to foster a deeper conversation about the role of sensory engagement in design. After all, architecture is not just about walls and roofs; it's about creating spaces that feel alive, dynamic, and responsive—a truly acoustic experience.
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